Shayne got only a glimpse of the object that had been hurled through the window, but he jumped and caught it almost before it hit the floor.
It was a black forty-five Colt’s. His own gun.
He had it levelled at Millie Love before she could recover enough to swing her own gun back in his direction.
She saw the look on the big man’s face. She dropped her gun to the floor.
“Whoever you are out there, come in,” Shayne said. “And thanks.”
The face of Tom Rumbo appeared at the window. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Shayne,” the little man said. “Us detectives has got to stick together.”
An hour later Rumbo and Shayne were back in Chief Will Gentry’s office and the brandy bottle was on the desk.
“I couldn’t let Mr. Shayne go into danger like that,” Tom Rumbo was explaining. “Between one detective and another it wouldn’t be ethical. Besides I remembered something else I had to tell him.
“When Miss Lucy had to go to the washroom I took her car keys and slipped out. Mr. Shayne had told us where he was to meet the man so I went there. I saw the woman capture him and I listened to what they said. Then I followed them to Julio’s house in Miss Lucy’s car and listened outside. When I saw she was going to shoot Mr. Shayne, I had to do something.”
“Why didn’t you shoot instead of throwing in the gun?” Gentry asked.
“Chief,” the little man said, “I never handled one of them guns before. I didn’t know how to take the safety off.”
Both big men roared with laughter. Then Shayne said: “You did fine, Tom. But what was the thing you had to tell me that was so important?”
“I kept thinking,” Rumbo said. “You were after Big Hans. Well it suddenly come to me that Sam Willison didn’t always talk so clear. You hadn’t found no Hans, but could it have been Big Hands he said all along? H-A-N-D-S? Hands?”
Shayne and Gentry looked at each other. “That character you put in the prison ward at the hospital sure has the biggest hands I ever saw on a human being,” Gentry said.
“Tom,” Mike Shayne said to the little old man. “You’re a real detective. You think like one. Have another snort. You earned it this day.”
The Critic
by Richard Deming
She had said my murder plot wouldn’t work. I’d soon show her — in a most final, deadly way...
Ellen and I were still newlyweds when I wrote my first mystery novel. I proofread it aloud to her evenings each time I finished a chapter. She listened with rapt attention, and every time I came to the end of a chapter, she would throw her arms about my heck and say, “Tom, it’s absolutely wonderful!”
The night Tread her the last chapter, instead of throwing her arms about my neck, she sat staring at me with an expression of awe on her face.
Finally she said in a tone of absolute conviction, “Tom, it’s better than any mystery novel I ever read.”
Then she threw her arms about my neck.
Her good judgment as a literary critic is a matter of literary history. MY FAVORITE MONSTER, by Thomas Gannon, won the annual Edgar Award that year from the Mystery Writers of America for Best First Mystery Novel of the Year.
Except for a few well-known mystery writers, there is not as much money in the mystery field as the general public seems to think. The rueful motto of the Mystery Writers of America, an organization dedicated to the betterment of the poor mystery writer’s condition, is: “Crime does not pay — enough.” MY FAVORITE MONSTER earned $4,000 the first year, and its eventual total earnings, including translations into twelve different languages, came to just over $9,000, spread over a period of five years.
The initial publisher’s advance against royalties of $3,000 made us envision vast wealth, however, and on the basis of the advance I quit my accounting job to devote full time to writing.
Six months after publication of the book our vision of wealth dissolved when the first semi-annual royalty statement came in. The book had so far earned $3,500 in royalties, which, after the deduction of the $3,000 advance against royalties, brought us a check for $500.
Nevertheless my switch of careers turned out to be economically wise. By writing three books a year I managed to earn more than I ever had as an accountant. None of my subsequent books over the next ten years earned as much as the first, but they all did fairly well, their total incomes amounting to anywhere from $5,000 to $8,000. My annual income consistently hovered somewhere around the $20,000 mark.
There was always the chance of the big break, too, which added some zest to life. Twice we came close. A major slick magazine considered running one of my books as a serial, at a buying price of $.20,000, then finally decided not to. A Hollywood producer bought an option on movie rights on another book for $1,000, with the understanding that if he exercised the option, he would pay an additional $49,000. Then he let the option lapse.
We lived pretty well, though. We had a $40,000 home on the beach, belonged to a country club, and bought a new car every two years.
And we were happy. After ten years of marriage we were still in love, a matter that seemed to surprise some of our friends because we spent so much time together. As Ellen didn’t work and we had no children, she devoted a lot of attention to me. Our friends seemed to think that ought to make us sick of each other, but we both thrived on it.
Ellen’s mother seemed even more surprised than our friends at how well we got along, although her surprise wasn’t based on the amount of time we spent together. She just thought all marriages were eventually doomed because all men were rats. Ellen’s father had deserted her mother when Ellen was quite small, and I gathered that Mother Bellman’s reasoning was that if a man would desert as fine a person as her, no woman was safe from male treachery.
Mother Bellman never understood why Ellen had permitted me to quit a perfectly good job for anything as speculative as writing. I think she was actually pleased when things started to go wrong with my career. And her crowing I-told-you-so attitude certainly did nothing to help.
Things first started to go wrong with my sixteenth book, SENTIMENAL KILLER, the first one for which Ellen failed to show her usual unbridled enthusiasm. I always proofread my books aloud to her, and up until SENTIMENTAL KILLER she was my number one fan.
For instance, the evening I read to her the last chapter of my second book, HEY, MR. MURDERER! she sat staring at me with that same expression of awe on her face she had worn when I finished the first book.
Just before throwing her arms about my neck, she said, “Tom, it’s as good as MY FAVORITE MONSTER!”
Her critical judgement proved right again. HEY, MR. MURDERER! won no awards, but it drew good reviews and had a pretty fair sale. It eventually made us $7,500.
She was just as enthusiastic about all my other books during the first ten years of my writing career — up until SENTIMENTAL KILLER. She was particularly enthusiastic about the two that nearly hit the jackpot, which seemed to indicate, to me at least, that the intensity of her reaction was directly proportional to the eventual success of my books. Over the years I developed a strong reliance on her critical judgment.
When I began work on my sixteenth mystery novel, as usual I read chapters to her each evening as I finished them. For the first half of SENTIMENTAL KILLER she listened as raptly as she always had, and her reactions were as enthusiastic as usual. But the evening I passed the midway point of the book, I sensed a subtle difference in her reaction.
“It’s really good, Tom,” she said, but her enthusiasm sounded forced.