“My dear, my poor little bird,” said Maserac. His arms closed around her. “Try to forget, Furilla. To-night — tomorrow — this will be a world in which Harald does not exist.” He put her firmly from him, looked for a long time into her eyes, then slowly turned to the door.
“Maserac, Maserac, what are you going to do?”
“Do?” He smiled gently. “Surely there is only one thing to do. How could there be a choice?”
He left her.
In the morning, they found Harold’s tattered body slumped in his cabin. And Maserac, dear Maserac — his fury had crushed, not only Harald, but his own great heart, his dear, dear heart. He lay in an open field, his slack hand still on the horsewhip, his unseeing eyes turned to the sunrise, and Furilla knew that her name lay silent on his dead lips.
“Yeah,” whispered deMarcopolo. The sound was like sighing. “That was the way the thing came out in the book.”
Everything came out for Furilla. All the world loved Furilla, because things always happened the way they should for Furilla.
“Yeah,” he said again, still in a whisper.
Furilla, he reflected, never did anything to make things come her way. She did it just by being soft little, sweet little, innocent little Furilla — being Furilla beyond all flexibility, beyond all belief.
The ’phone rang.
“Yes, Joe.”
Joe said, “I don’t know just what details you want about Brill. There’s a good deal that wasn’t in the papers, though. He went on a wing-ding and disappeared for two days. They shovelled him up out of a doorway down in the waterfront district. He was full of white lightning, but whether that killed him or his pump was due to quit, anyhow, is a toss-up. That what you wanted?”
“Close. What about the other one?”
“Took a little digging. Now Hennigar — Hobart Hennigar, thirty-seven, instructor in English Lit., and creative writing at some Eastern college, thrown out three years ago for making a pass at a housemaid. Fast talker, good-looker, fairly harmless. One of these literate bums. Knocked around, one job to another, wound up out at the lake, caretaker on a big estate. Ties in with MacIver, in a way, Lance — MacIver had a place out there, too, little lodge. Used to hole up there once in a while.”
“Was he out there during his drunk?”
“If he was, no one could prove it. Off season, pretty lonesome out there. Anyway, this Hennigar got himself plugged through the head. Police report says it was a twenty-five target-type bullet.”
“Fight?”
“No! Back of the head, from a window in his cabin. He never knew what hit him, not a clue. Lance—”
“Mm?”
“You got a lead on that killing?”
DeMarcopolo looked slowly around the room. The telephone said, “Lance?” and he held it away from him and looked at it as if he had never seen it before.
Then he brought it back and said, “No, I haven’t got a lead on that killing. Joe, do something for me?”
“Shucks.”
“You covering that thing of mine?”
“Statement at the airport, kissin’ picture? Couldn’t keep me away.”
“I... won’t be there,” said deMarcopolo. “Tell her for me, will you?”
“Lance! What’s hap—”
“Thanks, Joe. ’Bye.” He hung up very quietly.
After a time he crossed to the small pile of things by the door and picked up the note she had left him and his picture. He tore up the note and took out the picture and tore it in two. He folded the frame over the torn paper and tossed it over the string marked THROW OUT. That left the new box marked WIP staring at him.
He recoiled from it with horror and went on out. Shutting the door, he said conversationally, “How innocent can you get?” He said it to MacIver, to Hennigar, to Eloise Michaud, and to Lancelot deMarcopolo. But nobody had an answer for him.
Who Shot the Duke? by Brett Halliday. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Nov 1956
To Anita — with Murder by Vic Rodell. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Nov 1956
Sunday’s Slaughter by Jonathan Craig. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Jan 1957
Blood on His Boots by Tedd Thomey. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Oct 1956
A Long Time Dying by Will Cotton. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Jan 1957
A Dress for Mary Lou by Jay Carroll. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Feb 1957
You Wash, and I’ll Dry by Charles Irving. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Sep 1956
The Deadly Innocent by Theodore Sturgeon & Don Ward. First published in Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine Nov 1956