Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982
- Автор: Холлидэй Бретт, Moore Arthur
- Год: 1982
- Язык: английский
- Год: Renown Publications
- ISBN: 0026-3621
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982». Краткое содержание книги:
The gun fell and Sumter’s foot sent it sliding outside. Lansing’s left hand shot out, slamming the heel of his palm into his opponent’s mouth. He broke Sumter’s hold and swung a horizontal empi blow to the black thug’s jaw. The elbow smash knocked Sumter to the floor. One of his hands touched Jake’s discarded stevedore hook.
The heavy curved steel lashed out at the major’s legs. Lansing jumped out of range as Sumter scrambled to his feet. A murderous gleam filled the hood’s eyes. He slashed the hook at his adversary, narrowly missing the agile Major Lansing. When Sumter swung an overhead stroke, Lansing feinted with his hands and quickly launched a karate side-kick to the other man’s kneecap.
Cartilage crunched. Sumter screamed as his knee broke at the joint. Lansing grabbed the wrist behind the hook and twisted his opponent’s arm. Then he executed another side-kick, the edge of his foot striking the sensitive nerve center located in Sumter’s armpit. The thug trembled from the blow, then he slumped senseless to the floor.
Lansing sighed with relief. Three down, two to go. He stepped from the warehouse. A thickly built shadow stood amid the fog, arms raised, both hands holding a big, black revolver with a ribbed barrel.
The major threw himself forward as the gunman opened fire. Flame spat from the muzzle and the pistol roared. A high velocity bullet splintered wood from the doorframe of the warehouse. Lansing caught a glimpse of Fred Minton’s face as the ex-cop’s arms rose with the recoil of his revolver.
A .357 Magnum! Lansing thought, scrambling to the discarded .38 that lay between the unconscious forms of Jake and Sol. Minton swung his gun toward the major as Lansing’s hand scooped up the snub-nosed revolver.
Lansing rolled across the harbor floorboards and the Magnum exploded a second round. A powerful .357 slug bit into the wooden surface where the major had been a second before. Lansing held the S&W in a two-handed Weaver’s grip and fired his father’s gun from a prone position. Minton’s body weaved as a .38 round struck his chest. Lansing squeezed off two more shots and his father’s murderer crashed to the pier — dead.
Aware the shots would alert Harrimon Carter, Lansing moved on, the S&W held ready. He didn’t know if Carter was still on board the scow, or if the man was armed, but the boat was the logical place to look for him. As he approached the edge of the dock, the major saw two figures struggling on the deck of the garbage scow.
Due to the dense fog, he didn’t recognize Carter’s opponent until he drew closer. David Lansing threw a punch at the Detroit crook, who ducked under it and rammed a fist into the other man’s stomach. Carter’s appearance belied his toughness. He’d learned more than one trick about dirty fighting while he’d been in prison. Grabbing David’s forelock, he slammed a hard upper-cut to the taller man’s face.
David staggered backward as Carter launched another punch. The fist bounced off David’s shoulder and he countered with a blow under the thug’s ribs. Carter folded at the middle and David whipped a knee into his face. The ex-con stumbled back into the rail. David hit him again. The blow knocked Carter over the rail. With a scream, the man fell overboard. A great splash announced his arrival at the water below.
David Lansing walked unsteadily from the boat to join his brother. “You get the rest of them?” he asked breathlessly.
“As soon as we fish Carter out of the drink we’ll have them all,” the major replied. “I thought I told you to call the police?”
“I did,” David grinned. “But you didn’t say what I should do afterward. And I think I did pretty well for an insurance salesman.”
“Not bad at all,” Lansing agreed. “Now we’ll just have to hold these guys until the cops arrive and explain the situation to them.”
“You’ll have some explaining to do,” the younger man sighed. “Especially about that gun.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Lansing said. “What matters now is the fact we caught the men who murdered our father.”
“Yeah,” David agreed. “You know, for the first time in my life I feel like a real Lansing,” he smiled. “I finally caught a killer.”
Kemidov’s Treasure
by James M. Reasoner
It was a crazy notion — and yet, was it possible The Black Bird had finally come to roost?
It had been a slow day, and Nicholas Lake was at the bookshelves, trying to decide on something to read. He was reaching for The Simple Art of Murder when the door to the outer office opened and Florence stuck her head in.
“There’s a man here I think you’ll want to see, Nicky.”
“Then send him in,” Lake replied. “And don’t call me Nicky.”
He sat down lazily behind the big desk as Florence ushered in the visitor. She said, “This is Mr. Kemidov. Mr. Kemidov, Mr. Lake.” Kemidov was a short, dapper young man in his mid-twenties. His hand, when Lake shook it briefly, was soft and moist. Shiny dark hair curled around his ears. There was an air about him that Lake didn’t care for.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Lake. You come highly recommended. But...”
Lake laughed shortly. “But I don’t look like a private detective? Don’t worry; everyone says that. The world visualizes private detectives as either sleazy little men in trenchcoats or Humphrey Bogart. I’m neither one.”
Lake was a tall man with dark blond hair and a thin moustache. He had a fondness for Panama hats and white suits, and he didn’t mind in the least the fact that he looked like an anachronism.
Kemidov continued, “I would like to engage your services, Mr. Lake. I am a stranger to your city, and there is a delicate matter that must be attended to.”
“A delicate matter involving what?”
“Stolen property.”
Lake smiled slightly but said nothing.
“Perhaps I should give you the background?”
“By all means.”
“My full name is Victor Morris Kemidov. I am of Russian ancestry. My great-grandfather was General Boris Alexivitch Kemidov. He was forced to leave Russia in 1921 because of a misunderstanding with Lenin. He relocated in Istanbul, which was then known as Constantinople, of course.”
“Of course.”
“During his distinguished military career, my great-grandfather accumulated a great deal of wealth. After his move to Constantinople, he began to use that wealth to satisfy a lifelong passion of his. He gradually acquired one of the finest collections of antique jewelry in all of Europe.”
“And now it’s been stolen.”
“Yes. But that’s jumping ahead quite a bit.”
“Sorry.”
“My great-grandfather foiled the attempts of many thieves to steal his treasure. He left Constantinople in 1932 and came to this country. Keeping his collection a secret, he settled in California and married an American woman. He did not tell even her what was in the large trunk that he kept in the attic of their house. They had one son, and just before he died, the General passed on the secret to him. Since that time, the secret of the Kemidov treasure has passed down from father to son, and the Kemidov women have known nothing of it.”
“Sort of chauvinistic, don’t you think?”
“Mr. Lake, we Russians respect tradition. And the so-called Women’s Liberation is something my great-grandfather never heard of. He would have spat upon it if he had.”
“No offense meant. Where’s the trunk now?”