Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

Verner looked at the door. It had the key turned in the lock, and a safety chain fastened so that the door could be opened only so far. On the door was a large bolt, whose end fit not into the usual type of thin metal fixture but into the curve of a heavy U-shaped rod of steel set into the wood itself.

The sheriff said drily, “That door is locked.”

Verner examined it closely, to see a slight gouge in the wood, where the bolt passed through the steel U. He slid the bolt back and forth, and it hissed lightly against the steel but didn’t touch the wood.

The door was painted a light cream color, and was old-fashioned, very plain, with thicker sections of wood between the panels. These thicker sections crossed the door from one side to the other, like the rungs of a ladder, and were square-edged, without trim or beveling of any kind.

“This door,” said Verner, “is an inside door, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That came from a house that was torn down when they put the new highway through. You see, with that highway, we expected tourists. Grove bought the doors and windows from the house and used them when he built the cabins.”

“This is lighter than a regular outside door?”

“It’s lighter weight. To do justice to that bolt, Grove should have had a solid oak door. But, that door wasn’t broken down. It tells us nothing.”

Verner shook his head. “Look at the dent in that wood just back of the place where the bolt slides into the U.”

The sheriff bent to study the spot, slid the bolt carefully back and forth, and straightened up, frowning.

Outside, there was a crunch of tires on gravel.

The sheriff murmured, “A tourist, probably. I’ll go out, and—”

Outside, there was the rapid click of a parking brake, then the slam of a car door. A rough male voice shouted, “Anybody home?” There was the sound of heels on gravel, a brief silence, and then a hammering on the other door of the cabin.

The sheriff growled under his breath, reached out to unbolt the door, but Verner stopped him, to speak in a whisper.

“Grove’s cousin?”

“Himself. How did you know?”

“If what I think is true, two minutes alone in here will give him the perfect crime. But the only safe way for him to get in is to come when you’re here, and decoy you outside.”

“You want him kept out?”

“No. Don’t tell him anyone else is here. Let him in by the other door, and give him time to get into this side of the cabin. Then come back in and shout to him to come out.”

Outside, there was a jaunty whistle, a crunch of heels on gravel, then a shout. “I want to get out of the road here and park. I’ll be right back.”

There was the roar of an engine, a whine of tires and a rattle of gravel, then the metallic bang-crash of one car slamming into another.

“Damn!” cried the voice. “You were in my way!”

The sheriff swore under his breath. “Can’t even drive and he wants to be sheriff.” He walked toward the, other side of the cabin.

Verner followed into the dimly lighted bathroom, stepped into the shower cabinet and pulled the plastic curtain along its rod so that nearly all of the shower was visible except where he stood. Then he waited.

From outside came a loud complaining voice. “You were parked crooked!”

“Crooked?” came the sheriff’s voice, thick with anger. “Do you think this is a parking lot? Can’t you watch where you’re going? Where did you hit it?”

“Doesn’t look like there’s any damage done! Or if there is, I’m good for it. You check her over. I’ve got to get some stuff Ellen wants.”

There was the sound of the cabin door opening, then rapidly approaching heavy footsteps, the sound of hoarse breathing just behind Verner, then the opposite side of the shower stall lit up briefly as a light shone quickly around the bathroom. The sheriff called from outside, “Where are you?”

There was a brief grunt, then the heavy footsteps went into Grove’s room.

There was a moment’s quiet.

Verner stepped softly out, to glance into the room.

At the front door of the cabin, he saw a squat figure in a worn hunting jacket at the door’s lower edge.

Silently, Verner stepped into the room behind him.

In the other end of the cabin, the sheriff called angrily, “Come out of there!” The sheriff’s purposeful stride grew suddenly loud.

Verner watched as a small hammer disappeared into the hunting jacket. From the rough figure came a little chuckle, a quick “Yes, sir!” and then the man shot back the bolt, twisted the key in the lock, and snapped the chain free.

Verner blocked the bathroom door with his foot, and threw his weight against it, holding it shut despite the other man’s advantage in leverage. There was a rough intake of breath, and Verner was looking into a pair of eyes that glinted with cunning.

Across the room, the sheriff shouted, “Hold it! What’s this?”

The squat figure gave a sudden powerful wrench at the door, jerked it partly open, leaned outside, and then abruptly he was back in the room, glaring triumphantly.

“If I want, I’ll go out! All right, who are you? What are you doing here?”