Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

“The others were old, had meager incomes from the government. I know how this is going to sound, but I was very much afraid to give them a loan. At their age it was unlikely they could manage the payments. They just might up and die at any moment.”

“But you did approve the loans?”

Fredrickson sighed. “Yes. My humanitarian instincts got the better of my common sense. Well, not entirely. The three were deadbeats, really. So that being the case, I suggested, as a protection for myself and the company, that they take out policies from International Underwriters. Insurance is not written out to dying people, Mr. Hunter. Insurance companies are a solid business. I knew that if they approved the clients, then I wasn’t taking such a big chance. I chose International Underwriters because of its reputation.”

“But why sign the policies over to you?”

“More security for my company. If they should die, well, I wouldn’t be left holding the bag, now would I? American General would be sure to get its money.”

“In triplicate,” I said.

“Mr. Hunter, you’re looking at this through a knothole.” And with that he made with the expansive gesture again and nearly clobbered the roach spray as before. This time he put the bottle in his bottom desk drawer. He continued as if nothing had happened. “None of these people had any family to speak of, so I doubt if I deprived any loved ones of funds. It was just a business transaction, nothing more.”

“But they all turned up dead shortly thereafter, and all within a few blocks of each other.”

“That is indeed an incredible coincidence, Mr. Hunter, but I can hardly be held responsible for that, now can I?”

“I wonder,” I said. “I don’t suppose you would allow me to look at your files on the three.”

“They are confidential, but in a case like this, of course, you’re welcome. I’ve nothing to hide.”

“May I see them then?”

“Certainly, certainly,” he said, flashing teeth all over the place. “They’re in the front office. Ask Miss Little for them on your way out. I’ll dial into the front office and have her accommodate you.” He did just that. “Sure you won’t have a cup of coffee? It’s hot.” He waved a hand at a Mr. Coffee perched on a small table to his left.

I got up and went to the door. “Fredrickson.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you use some of that insurance money to remodel this joint?”

“Now, Mr. Hunter,” he whined. “That’s no way...”

I went out with him still talking. Miss Little gave me the files and breathed chocolate mint breath down the back of my neck all the while I was examining them. The files didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Fredrickson had made notations about them being credit risks and about his suggestion that they take out policies from International Underwriters to assure American General of their steadfastness. The loans American General

had granted to the three were all for a thousand dollars or little over. Everything seemed in order.

I gave the files back to Miss Little, told her not to take any wooden chocolates and got out there before she could throw her desk at me.

That night as I lay back on the couch watching John Wayne single-handedly decimate the Japanese army, I managed to slip the nagging events of the day from my mind. At least until the commercial, and damn if it wasn’t a commercial for Bug Off and that brought to mind Fredrickson again and gave me a headache. I knew that clown was guilty as sure as I knew my name was Leif Hunter. But how to prove it? It looked as if Fredrickson had literally gotten away with murder. And then again, maybe it was all coincidence.

The commercial did nothing for my headache. A fellow dressed like a headhunter pleaded, “It blows roaches away!” With that the pseudo head-hunter put a blowgun to his lips and dispatched a silverfish the size of a horse.

An insult to the intelligence, I thought, and the termination of that commercial seemed like a good place to call it a night. The movie would go on without me. I got up, turned off the tube, took a couple of aspirin for my aching head and went to bed.

About three in the morning I woke up with the answer.

Eleven a.m. found me in the office of American General

with two plainclothes detectives at my side. One was James Harrison, a friend of mine from when I had been on the force, the other a recently-promoted detective named Jacobs.

The cops flashed their badges at Miss Little, then herded her with the rest of us into Fredrickson’s office for a little chat.

Fredrickson said, “What’s the meaning of this? Miss Little, I specifically...”

“Oh, shut up, Charlie,” Miss Little snapped. “It’s the cops.”

“Listen here,” Fredrickson said to James, “you have no right to intrude. What is the meaning of all this?”

“Mr. Hunter tells it so well,” said James, “we’ll just let him tell you.”

“Tell what?” Fredrickson asked.

“Tell how you killed those three deadbeats, as you call them,” I said.