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

The rest of the room matched. Over the fireplace mantel the heads of an elk, a moose and a mountain sheep hung in a row as if they watched the rest of the room.

“You could have something there,” Shayne said.

“I’ve run into some squirrelly types since I joined the force,” McCloskey assured him, “but I think this guy Wingren was the champion packrat of the lot. From the looks of it, he never threw anything away in the whole of his life.”

“What’s chances the killer got away with whatever treasure there was?” Shayne asked.

“I’ve got no crystal ball,” the sergeant said. “In this job there’s times I wish I had. In a clutter like this, it’s hard to tell, but I’ve got an educated hunch he didn’t have time to make much of a search. Besides Doc said the body was still warm when he got here. Couldn’t have been dead more than thirty minutes or so. That wouldn’t give the killer much chance to look around — unless he did it before he killed, that is.”

“How come you people got here so fast?” Shayne asked.

“The killer set a fire,” McCloskey said. “No doubt at all it was arson. Probably meant to burn up the whole shebang so it’d seem old Wingren died in the fire.”

“He’d burn the treasure too,” Shayne objected.

“Maybe there wasn’t any treasure, or he didn’t know about it,” the sergeant said. “Maybe he already had it. Maybe he just killed out of hate or some other motive. Or took a few bucks and a bottle of whiskey for a treasure. Men have been rubbed out for less in this town. Anyway, he set the fire. The old candle trick.”

“I guess,” Shayne said.

“We know,” the sergeant said. “With a little luck this whole shebang would have gone up like a torch. Only this guy passing saw the fire and called the hose and ladder boys. They found the corpse and called us. Just luck.”

“Who was this lucky passer-by?” the redhead asked.

“Guy by the name of Smulka. Jerry Smulka. Lives about four blocks on down the street. He was on his way home from the bus stop and saw the flames reflected through the front windows. The fire was in the hall toward the back. He ran back to the pay phone booth on the corner and called.”

“What was this Smulka doing out at that time of night?”

“He’s a security guard and was on his way home after finishing his shift. I’ll give you his address, and you can ask him yourself.”

“I will. What do the neighbors say?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” McCloskey said. “Nobody saw or heard anything till the fire truck came. They just clam up and look like they want to spit on old John’s grave.”

III

The Wingren house sat on the corner in the middle of a plot of ground that had originally comprised four lots, or approximately a half acre. Unlike many old places it was not overgrown with brush, and the ornamental plants that run wild in the moist tropic climate. Old John had kept his land relatively clear. However, the place was shaded by big old mango and avocado trees. Particularly at night it would have been hard to see anyone prowling around the place.

It was by far the largest home on the block. This was only natural. Wingren had originally owned a couple of full city blocks and had built and sold smaller houses around his own place.

The neighboring home was an old frame stucco, now peeling green paint which had long needed renewal. It was a one-story house, considerably run down in spite of a neat flower bed fronting the street.

The door was opened as soon as Mike Shayne knocked.

“I already told you bums all I can,” a female voice said, and the detective saw an elderly, white-haired woman peering out at him.

“You haven’t told me a thing,” Shayne said. “I don’t even know what sort of a bum I’m supposed to be.”

“You’re another of them cops, ain’t you?” she snapped. “Sure you are. I can smell you bums as far as I can see you.”

“I’m not on the force,” Mike Shayne assured her. “I’m a private investigator.”

She stood there and stared up at him. Her old face was wrinkled with the lines of time and suspicion.

“You are here about the killing anyway?”

He nodded.

“Then I suppose Anna put you up to it. She’d be the one, wouldn’t she?”

Shayne was silent.

“Well then, mister, how you expect me to talk if you ain’t frank with me?” She made to slam the door, but the big man put his foot in the crack.

“Suppose I am working for Anna Wingren?” he said. “Just suppose that’s it. Why would it make any difference to you?”

“I didn’t say it would.”

“How do you know about Anna?”

“You are new around here, ain’t you?” she asked. “Who else would know about that family in the big house but old Jane Mullen? Sure, I know Anna since she were a snot-nosed kid playing under them trees there. Even if I ain’t seen her since she and old John had their falling out. She’s the only one in the world would care that he got his comeuppance.”

“How do you know so much about it, Mrs. Mullen?”