Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his legs dangling in free space, his fingers gripping the edge of the I-beam as he precariously balanced his weight. He eased back his head, looked up.
The trap door was there, just inches above his head. He lifted his right arm slowly, testing the door. It moved, let in light. He let the door down in a moment of relief, and then shoved it open in a sudden surge of strength that accompanied the victory.
He reached up, grasped the edges of the opening and heaved himself out on to the roof, where he stumbled and fell. When he rolled on to his back and looked up, he was staring straight into the muzzle of his .45. It was held by the hood named Pope.
But all Pope did was gasp and suddenly throw his arms wide. The .45 disappeared. And then Pope seemed to go up on his toes, pause momentarily, and then crash down, smothering the detective.
The sound of the gunshot followed him.
Shayne heaved with palms and knees, flipped Pope from his body. He sat up fast. He was surrounded by silent and unmoving men. All were staring at him as if they had never seen a bloodied, bruised, barefooted, stretched man in tattered clothing.
Len Sturgis came into view. He carried a gun. He squatted beside Pope, who was leaking blood from his ear, wrist and the back of his left leg. Sturgis looked at Shayne head on. “You okay?”
“I’ll live,” growled the detective.
“This one too,” said Sturgis. “A few holes in him, but he isn’t going to die.”
Shayne leaped to his feet. “You find the mayor?”
Sturgis nodded. “Gentry is with him. He has a nasty shoulder wound and a few days in the hospital will put him behind his desk as good as new.”
“There’s two kids down this shaft,” said the redhead, looking down into the darkness. “In fish nets. They—”
“The boys are already on it,” interrupted Sturgis. “We found the elevator doors. We’ll fish them out. You ready to go someplace and clean up a bit? Man, you’re a mess!”
Two hours later, Shayne, Sturgis and Gentry sat in the police chiefs office. They had it all pieced together now. Pope had talked, filling in the gaps. They had the plot, and they knew how the two boys had died. Both by accident: Littrel by a too-heavy blow, Caulkins in an escape attempt, as Shayne had figured it.
“So if it’s done, how come I’m sitting here?” growled Shayne. He was fatigued and grouchy.
Gentry snapped a hard look at him, then snorted and reached into a filing cabinet drawer behind him, brought out a new bottle of Hennessey’s, put it on his desk.
“A little tonic for the nerve ends, Mike?”
Shayne grinned suddenly. The world already looked brighter.
The Incessant Voice
by Eleanor Robins
Lavinia couldn’t eat, or sleep, or even answer the phone without Hubert’s sly, insistent voice criticizing, advising…
Hubert talked constantly. His voice was the first one Lavinia heard when she was jolted awake in the morning and the last one she heard as she drifted off to sleep at night. Frequently Lavinia felt she’d scream if she heard Hubert utter another word.
She’d tried going into a distant room to get away from him, and once she’d even stuffed cotton in her ears, but all to no avail. As much as she hated Hubert’s chattering, she couldn’t bear the suspense of not knowing what he was saying. At times, though, she wished she had the strength to destroy him.
In retrospect Lavinia wondered why she’d been foolish enough to share her home with Hubert and why she’d ever referred to him affectionately as Dear Hubert. She’d been happy living alone, but she hadn’t realized it until after Hubert arrived.
Before Hubert dominated her life, Lavinia had enjoyed the companionship of devoted friends, few though they were. But her devotion to Hubert had driven them away. She’d doted on his every word and expression. She’d been so eager to ex-toll his virtues that she’d bored her friends with lavish praise of the new addition to her life.
When they visited in her home, Lavinia found it difficult to concentrate on what they were saying because her attention was torn between them and Hubert’s loud voice. If her friends tried to convey the latest community gossip to her, Hubert almost always butted in with news of a more shocking nature.
Finally Lavinia’s friends became disgusted with Hubert’s domineering intrusions into their conversations — their visits abruptly ceased.
Lavinia had been thrilled over the prospect of spending every afternoon alone with Hubert. She’d been enthralled both by his never-ending problems and his many inept attempts to solve them. Lavinia realized he never got one problem solved before he had another to agonize over. Eventually Lavinia had become both bored and irritated, and it was then that she realized how much the loss of her friends meant to her.
Gradually Hubert made Lavinia feel she was a very dull-witted person. Until he entered her life, Lavinia had considered herself an intelligent and knowledgeable person. She’d envisioned herself as a dedicated citizen who concerned herself with current events.
She’d enjoyed listening to the President because she pretended he was speaking only to her. But she could no longer relish even that small pleasure. Hubert had ruined it for her. He pounced on the President’s every inflection and expression, and he gave Lavinia an explanation and instant analysis of every word the President spoke as though she were too stupid to comprehend without his help.
Hubert delighted in telling Lavinia not only how to prepare her meals but also what items to cook. At Hubert’s insistence she’d bought the most expensive foods at the grocery store. Foods she’d never even thought of buying before. Hubert persisted in mentioning food until she felt compelled to go into the kitchen.
Sometimes she could prepare a meal in only a few minutes, but at other times Hubert’s suggested menus required an hour or more to cook. But no matter how much or how little time Lavinia spent preparing the meal, Hubert always spoiled it for her.
He waited until she had the first bite almost to her mouth, and then he ruined her appetite by describing a fiery accident on the interstate or an explosion at a chemical plant. She was certain Hubert deliberately saved the gory details until it was her mealtime. Finally Lavinia stopped preparing elaborate meals, and it wasn’t long before she quit noticing how loosely her frayed and dingy clothing hung on her shriveled body.
Lavinia was no longer the impeccable dresser and immaculate housekeeper she’d once been. That also was Hubert’s fault. Whenever she’d started to wash her clothes with her dependable detergent or to shine the furniture with her favorite polish or to scour the floors with her special cleanser, Hubert’s shrilly voice told her there was a better brand to use.
Hubert always knew a better method of doing everything, so soon Lavinia quit trying to do anything.
She just sat in her chair and rocked and rocked and rocked with her pale blue eyes fixed on Hubert as though mesmerized by his voice.
Unkempt wisps of gray hair fell over Lavinia’s wizened face, as an overpowering hatred for Hubert began to mount within her and demand satisfaction. Her glassy eyes darted from Hubert to the dusty furniture to the filthy floor and finally to the fireplace. Her eyes became riveted on the fire set.
The deadly poker seemed to beckon to her, and she had a compelling urge to seize it.