Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

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Somewhere in that fear-wracked place a man lay hidden. A man who had killed and would kill again this night — unless Mike Shayne got him first...

The house was full of a darkness that was almost tangible. The killer had a feeling of swimming in darkness as if it had actual substance. Only the beam of the little pen-sized pocket flashlight punched a thin ray of light into the reluctant dark.

It was enough, and barely enough, to show the ancient, rusted japanned tin dispatch box in the recess behind the panel in the wall.

The killer’s hands grabbed the box and lifted it out. Old as it was, the metal was tough and the rusted lock resisted fumbling fingers. The killer turned. The box could be opened at leisure in a safer time and place. A screwdriver or chisel would turn the trick easily enough.

The beam of the little flash danced across the walls and floor of the incredibly cluttered room. It flicked the twisted face of the old man lying in his blood on the floor, and then moved on as if appalled at what it had revealed.

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