Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

She returned to her car and drove back to town. She had coffee in Wolfie’s and thought of her own problem. She was certain she could handle Senor. Her body and her beauty could manage Senor, as they had managed so many others, excluding Bill Grant. Her approach to Senor must be one of outrage: he had doubted her when he should not have. She, of course, would know nothing of what had occurred. He would accuse, and she would quickly, openly, honestly defend.

Of course, she had been seeing Bill Grant. Love? Love affair? Don’t be silly. The poor guy was sick, impotent, on the verge of a nervous breakdown — there could be no love affair with Bill Grant. She had been as a mother to him, as a sister, as a nurse; the man was in the throes of a psychopathological melancholy; she had even stayed over with him on occasion, actually to prevent a suicide.

She would have to think it all out, think clearly, and she was far too upset and confused to think clearly now. She parked the car and ran up the stairs. She needed a drink. She needed a few drinks, badly. Then she would run a warm bath and rest and soak and try to relax and try to think. She opened the door, closed it behind her, switched on the lights, but she did not lock the door.

Instead, she stood silent, gaping, body rigid, mouth working, and the key slipped from limp fingers without a sound to the carpet.

Senor was there. He was seated, fat knees spread, in an armchair. The kinky hair was dishevelled. There were deep lines in the flushed face. Perspiration gleamed in globules in the sockets of the eyes. The mouth was tight. The nostrils were dilated, gleet on the upper lip. The protruding eyes were red and raging. The hands were encased in black silk gloves.

He rose, and he moved toward her, and she moved away, and he circled, moving toward her, and she backed away, all assurance drained from her. She knew now she could not handle him. He was beyond handling. His eyes were insane. His breathing was rapid and raucous. He moved toward her, black hands outstretched.

“No. Don’t,” she said. “No, please, Senor, don’t.”

He stopped, black hands outstretched. Thickly he said, “Yes, do, Senor. Do. Do.”

She had moved away from him step by step, until the back of her legs touched the liquor table. Her hands were behind her. Her right hand felt a bottle, crept stealthily to its neck, and grasped it.

“No!” she said. “No, Senor! I beg you! No!”

“Laugh, you little tramp! Laugh at Senor! Laugh, now! Laugh, till my hands come to you, and I choke out the laughter!”

“You’re drunk.”

“So what?”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“No mistake.”

“They’ll get you.”

“Who? Bill Grant?”

“Cops.”

“Never. I got no connection with you.”

“You have. They’ll get you.”

“Never. Nobody seen me come. Nobody’ll see me go. I choke until you’re dead. I leave you here and it’s finished. Another cheap broad gets knocked off. There’s a million of them. I got no connection. Now, laugh, tramp. Die laughing.”

“You’re drunk.” He moved. “No Wait!”

He moved forward. He was drunk. He stumbled.

She lashed out with all her strength. She was young, and strong. The bottle, weapon-held, came from behind in a high, swift, terrifying arc, descending full upon the left side of the head. The bottle burst, inundating the head and face with running, seeping, caustic-smelling whiskey, quickly mixed with blood; the kinky hair opened, mangled, to a fracture of the skull, blood bubbling from a deep fissure of splintered bone in a high geyser, splashing the face; the eyes were blinded with blood and whiskey; but still he did not fall.

From deep in his chest came a babble of gasping, retching profanity, and he moved, forward, slowly, blindly, black hands extended. And now she waited, crouched, sobbing, taut, right hand gripped to the broken, jagged, lethal bottle-neck, and as the hands touched her, she thrust it into his throat and tore sideways, and the red-purple jugular blood spurted streaming, staining her. And still he stood; and then the black hands dropped; and he sighed; and he fell; and she went down to her knees, almost upon him, fighting for consciousness.

So they remained, for minutes, in tableau, and then she straightened to her feet, dropped the bottle-neck, and stood looking down upon him, without pity, licking her lips, swallowing, thinking.

Abruptly she lifted her skirt and kneeled beside him. She removed the black silk gloves, folded them, and stuffed them into a pocket of his jacket. She drew a long deep breath, lowered her head, placed her mouth against the dead sunken mouth, and firmly rubbed her lips to his. She stood up, gaping, sucking air, crunching back nausea. Recovered, she looked down at the bloody face. Lipstick was a shapeless imprint on the mouth.