Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

The Cure by Carroll Mayers

My wife was a born matchmaker. But that was before she made her last rendezvous — with bullets and blood in the night.

It’s generally conceded that most women — wives especially — are inveterate matchmakers at heart. Certainly my bride Julie was no exception.

In the fourteen months since our marriage, our social contacts had gradually resolved into relationships with our own set, neglecting former associates as yet unattached, but every so often I’d have occasion to present, to Julie an eligible bachelor.

At such instances she would immediately flick through her mental file of ladies in waiting with, the surety of a high-speed computer, considering, rejecting, selecting, plotting a subsequent confrontation.

I’d just about given up trying to dissuade her, as had, indeed, her detective lieutenant brother. Fortunately, for him, Ed Talbot had been happily wed for some eight years.

All of which isn’t to suggest I wasn’t at least partially responsible for the frenetic events of that crisp October evening. I was. I took Bill Ashton home to dinner.

But it was Julie’s penchant for romantic promotion that really sparked the fuse.

It all started when I got back to town — I commute to Capitol City — and found my car wouldn’t be ready for another half hour. I’d left it at the garage that morning for a motor tune-up, but they were short-handed and had run into some trouble with the fuel pump. Whatever, to kill the time I visited a nearby bar — and ran into Ashton.

Bill Ashton and I had known each other in high school, but we’d never been particularly close friends. Ashton had been the complete extrovert, brash, self-confident. From high school we’d gone on to different colleges, and while we’d both made the usual periodic returns home, we hadn’t sought each other out.

After college, we’d settled into our respective careers — his, I’d heard, was public relations. I’d stayed on in town, subsequently marrying Julie; Ashton had sought a more cosmopolitan base. I hadn’t seen him for some years.

From the foregoing, you’ll likely believe there was no special reason for me to extend a dinner invitation, and you’re right. In point of fact, the suggestion wasn’t even in my mind when I first recognized Ashton, finishing a martini at the far end of the bar.

“Hi, fellow,” I said, taking an adjacent stool and holding out my hand. “Good to see you back.”

“Hello, Paul.” His smile was ready, his grip firm. “It’s just for the day; a personal matter. I’m catching the ten-ten express.”

I motioned the barkeep, indicating a refill for Ashton, a duplicate for myself. “Too bad you couldn’t stay over.”

His smile held.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, “but in my business they keep you running.”

Patronizing? To a degree, yes. Knowing Ashton, though, I tried to ignore a mild spurt of irritation. “Public relations, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Things really humming, eh?”

“Couldn’t be better.” He savored his drink. “What about you?”

“I’m in production control with Standard Ceramics,” I told him. I couldn’t help adding, “Doing pretty well.”

“Married?”

“Yes,” I said, “for over a year.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I think so. Julie Talbot. Her brother Ed’s on the police force.”

Ashton nodded, gaze a bit sardonic.

“It figures,” he told me.

“Eh?”

“You, married. I always pegged you for the domestic bit.”

My irritation burgeoned a mite.

“You’re not?” I countered.

“Nuh-uh. No time.”

I shook my head. “When the right girl comes along, you’ll make time.”

He drained his glass.

“Don’t bet on it,” he assured me. “A lone rider goes farthest.”

In sober truth, I suppose my unwitting dinner invitation was triggered at that point. At any event, I was abruptly conscious of an overwhelming desire to show Bill Ashton just how far I’d come: a nice suburban home, a pretty wife, our sundry acquisitions — in short, all the evidence of my ‘success.’

“You’re a cynic,” I remarked pleasantly, “but I won’t argue with you. You haven’t eaten?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Come on out to the house, meet Julie again and have dinner.”

He sobered somewhat. “Thanks, Paul, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You won’t be imposing; we’ll enjoy having you.” I finished my own drink. “My car’s being worked on, but it’ll be ready shortly. Order us another round while I phone Julie we’re coming.”

Ashton’s look remained sober for another moment; then his smile came back.

“All right,” he agreed, getting out his wallet to pay for the drinks I’d intended buying. “But they tell me wives don’t favor such short notice.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” I assured him. “Julie will understand.”

And she did — so readily, in fact, that I should have had an inkling of the truth before Ashton and I arrived some forty minutes later. As it was, still anticipating my rebuttal of Ashton’s cynicism, I gave no further thought to Julie’s prompt acquiescence until I tooled my car into the drive and recognized the yellow compact model drawn up ahead of me.

The compact belonged to Susan Shepard, a young woman who was the local representative of a national cosmetics concern. The products, both feminine and masculine grooming aids, were good and Julie welcomed Susan’s regular visitations and had become quite friendly with her. Of more import at the moment, however, was the fact that Susan Shepard was a Miss.

Right then, the script became all too familiar. Perhaps Julie had remembered Bill Ashton; perhaps she hadn’t. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that Susan Shepard had chanced to be making one of her periodic calls when I’d phoned, and Julie had casually suggested she stay on for dinner, thereby meeting Ashton who, hopefully, would match Susan’s marital status.

Julie lost no time in ascertaining that vital point. Highlights of excitement dancing in her hazel eyes, she maneuvered me into a whispered aside scant seconds after I’d introduced her guests to each other. “I thought I remembered him. He’s not married?”

What could I say?

“No, he’s not,” I muttered.

“I’m so glad; he seems nice.”

“For Pete’s sake, hon, not again—”

But Julie was beyond listening. A charming hostess in her private element, she graciously plied Ashton and Susan with smiles, small talk and pre-dinner martinis, an effusion of pleasant blandishment to put the pair at ease.

I’d have wagered a month’s pay that even Julie’s promotion would not have influenced wordly Bill Ashton; or, for that matter, self-sufficient Susan Shepard. But you never know. Within the hour, the two were exchanging glances and conversation which intimated more than polite interest. And following dinner, that interest patently grew.

“They like each other! I know it!” Gearing away the dishes, Julie expressed delight to me in the kitchen, her eyes dancing again. “Already, they’re beginning to ignore us!”

That, I felt, was a slight exaggeration. Still, I wasn’t too surprised when, shortly before nine, Ashton checked his watch, shot a sidewise look at Susan, then got to his feet.

“I’d better get started,” he told me. “I don’t want to miss my train.” He smiled at my radiant wife, added, “I really enjoyed the dinner, Julie. Thank you for having me.”

Momentarily, Julie’s face fell at the apparent termination of her plot. “But it’s so early; Paul said you were catching the ten-ten—”

She broke off, and I knew she too was no longer surprised. It was as though we both were bit players in a contrived playlet, feeding lines to the romantic leads. So confident was Julie of the script that she didn’t even glance at Susan as she told Ashton, “It was our pleasure. Paul will drive you to the station.”

Susan was no less deft in picking up her cue. “That won’t be necessary, Paul,” she assured me, “I can drop Mr. Ashton.”

She arose, collected her sample case.

“It was a lovely dinner, Julie,” she said. “I’m so glad you asked me to stay.” She turned to. Ashton.

“Ready?”

Ashton’s return look indicated he still was riding the script hard. His answer was a warm, “Ready.”

So that was that. After they had gone, I slumped on the sofa, drew a deep breath and regarded Julie soberly. “You’ll never stop, will you?”

She grinned impishly, settled beside me. “Why should I? You saw how taken they were with each other. That’s why they left early.”

“I know that.”

“Right now, with over an hour to spare, they’re probably having a drink at some intimate little place, really getting acquainted.”

“I know that too. But, damn it, hon—”

I sighed. “At ten-thirty you’ll probably phone Susan to learn what she really thought of the guy.”

Julie laughed. “I hadn’t considered it, but that’s an idea. Now, quit frowning.”

I don’t know whether or not Julie actually would have called Susan at her home. But at ten-forty-five our own phone rang, and from then on the point was academic.

When I answered, a woman’s voice queried, “Paul Phelan?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Phelan, this is Mrs. Strong at Mercy Hospital. I’m calling at the request of William Ashton. We don’t want to alarm you, but Mr. Ashton felt you should know a Miss Susan Shepard and himself have been brought here to Emergency.”

I stiffened, my scalp prickling Julie, catching my expression, de-up. “Paul, what is it?”

I sliced air to quiet her. “What happened, Mrs. Strong?”

“There was a mugging outside a tavern,” the woman said, then went on with a brief summary. “Mr. Ashton wanted us to inform you, particularly about Miss Shepard,” she repeated as she concluded.

I said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Strong. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Julie clutched my arm as I hung up. “Paul, what is it?”

“Some hood mugged Ashton as he and Susan got into her car outside a tavern,” I told her, suddenly aware the action could have been triggered by Ashton flashing the contents of his wallet inside the place, as he had earlier in my presence. “The hood had a gun; Ashton tried to resist and the man shot him in the stomach, then struck down Susan and escaped in her car.”

Julie’s knuckles bruised her lips. “Oh, no!”

“That was a woman from Mercy Hospital, probably the night supervisor,” I finished. “Susan’s unconscious with a concussion, but Ashton was able to talk, give them our name before they took him into emergency surgery.” I swung toward the coat closet. “I’m going over there.”

Julie said nothing, but was right on my heels. I checked her. “There’s no need for you to come.” I said simply. “You’re all upset now—”

“I’m going, Paul. Please, can’t we hurry?”

I’d anticipated as much, for all my attempted dissuasion, and said no more as I helped her into her coat. At that hour, traffic was light; we reached the hospital in ten minutes.

The nurse on duty at the lobby desk directed us to the proper wing, and we’d just come off the elevator, were seeking the floor supervisor, when we were spotted and quickly approached by a stocky man in civilian dress: Detective Lieutenant Ed Talbot, Julie’s brother.

“Hello, Sis; Paul.” Talbot’s greeting was somber. “Good of you to come.”

Julie’s query was strained, anxious. “Are they going to be all right, Ed?”

Talbot nodded tightly. He was some five years older than Julie, a well-built, well-groomed man with a keen mind. Ordinarily, I knew, he would have assigned an underling to follow through on the hospital’s report, but knowledge of Julie’s and my indirect involvement had brought him personally into the affair.

“We hope so,” he said. “The girl’s still unconscious. They’re taking pictures, holding her for tests. And Ashton’s wound is serious, but I understand the prognosis is favorable.” He shifted his gaze to me. “They both were your dinner guests?”

“That’s right,” I said. I went on, acquainted Talbot with the evening as it had evolved. I mentioned only my invitation to Bill Ashton, made no reference to Julie’s ploy with Susan, and if Talbot understood or suspected the latter, he gave no sign.

“I imagine they stopped at that tavern for a final drink,” I wound up, “and Ashton flashed his wallet too much, gave an idea to some punk with a gun.”

Talbot nodded again. “From what Talbot was able to say, he didn’t know the hood had followed them outside until he accosted them, demanded the money. The street’s badly lighted at that spot Ashton couldn’t even approximate a description.”

Julie had been listening attentively.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“For now, nothing specific unless we get a break,” Talbot said quietly. “The hood abandoned the girl’s car a dozen blocks from the tavern. Ashton couldn’t give the license number, but we know it’s the car from Miss Shepard’s identification in a sample case she’d left on the seat.”

The lieutenant paused reflectively. “The punk probably won’t risk holding on to what could be a murder weapon, will likely throw it down a sewer. But a wad of cash could be something else.”

Julie’s hazel eyes were intent. “You mean once he figures he’s clear, he’ll still have the rest of the night ahead of him?”

“Something like that,” Talbot conceded. “I’ve already got men checking all the bars within a six-block radius of where we located the girl’s car, but after I’m through here I figure to make the rounds myself, see if any barkeep’s spotted a late arrival with some excess money.”

Julie’s close look held. Abruptly, she said, “I’m going with you.”

I had a sudden notion that undercurrents of which I was not fully appreciative were at play, but, such suspicion aside, I didn’t relish the thought of Julie traipsing around strange bistros and taverns late at night, even in the company of her detective brother.

I said, “Now, wait a minute—”

Talbot interrupted me.

“Relax, Paul,” he said. “Julie isn’t going anywhere except home with you.”

Julie’s chin lifted. “You can both relax, because I’m doing nothing of the sort,” she declared firmly. “I know — neither of you have said as much, but you’re thinking I’m responsible for this awful affair. Well, perhaps I am in a way, having Susan meet Bill, but I certainly couldn’t have foreseen the rest.”

She stopped, eyes sparking. “And I’m not about to go quietly back home now.”

That vague notion of an unvoiced-motivation nibbled stronger, but I still couldn’t pin it down. So when Talbot made no direct rebuttal to his sister’s pronouncement, but only looked askance at me, I tucked Julie’s arm in mine, said, “I guess that makes two of us, Ed.”

Talbot made a final check with the doctors in charge, arranged for immediate reports on the outcome of Ashton’s surgery and Susan’s tests to be relayed to his office, and then we started out, riding in Talbot’s official car.

It was a slow, methodical business. I found myself doubting the validity of the town fathers’ constant lament over lack of funds; the liquor licenses alone, it struck me, should have had the coffers overflowing. Bars, taverns, cafes, clubs — I’d never suspected their multiplicity.

In each, Ed Talbot’s procedure was the same: a sharp survey, unobtrusive but penetrating, of the patrons, a quiet questioning of barkeep or manager.

Results, however, continued negative and I began to doubt the wisdom or ultimate success of Talbot’s action. It seemed very much a needle-in-haystack gambit, with the added handicap of no knowledge of our quarry’s description or, for that matter, any assurance he’d continued on-the-town following his crime.

Talbot, though, continued his visitations. Further, in the more pretentious spots which featured cloakrooms he began to not only speak with the hatcheck girl but also to inspect the cloakroom itself. Pondering such a maneuver, I suddenly recalled Julie had managed a few personal words with her brother.

“What’s with the cloakroom bit?” I asked her as Talbot maintained such an inspection at a particularly flashy club. “Did you tell Ed something?”

She assented. “I made a suggestion.”

“What sort of suggestion?”

“About the man we’re looking for,” Julie said.

Abruptly, the notion which had nagged me recurred; Julies “suggestion,” I now knew, had been her true motivation from the beginning. I sighed, said, “Maybe you’d care to tell me—”

I broke off. Ed Talbot had emerged from the confines of the cloakroom carrying a brown topcoat, was talking with the girl in attendance, his features tight, expectant. The girl nodded, looked over the club’s patrons hesitatingly for a moment, then pointed toward the bar.

Talbot turned, began purposefully threading his way through the assemblage. After a moment, his quarry became evident: a sharp-featured character in an off-the-rack brown suit, occupying a stool at the center of the bar.

The man was at ease, nursing a drink, idly surveying the crowd. His casual gaze flicked over Talbot, then did a double-take, hardened. Due to the risk of shooting an innocent customer, Talbot had not drawn his service revolver, but the grim expression on his face, his evident intent both shouted his identity to the hood. Decision flared in the man’s eyes; as Talbot had surmised, he had disposed of his own gun, but he abruptly used his shot glass as a weapon, flung it hard at Talbot’s head.

What followed has only one word: Pandemonium. Women screamed, men shouted as the hood leaped from his stool, attempted to fight his way through the crowd.

He almost made it. Talbot had ducked the shot glass, but still was six feet from the bar when the hood bolted.

Talbot whirled, lunged after the man. The hood was bulling clear. And then he struck a chair, stumbled, went down. Talbot collared him and that was it—

“Suppose he’d sat tight, tried to brazen it out?” I mused after a patrol wagon had answered Talbot’s summons and we were leaving the scene in the lieutenant’s car.

“He read me and panicked,” Talbot said, “but even if he hadn’t, the stuff that was in his topcoat pockets would have tied him in.”

In the excitement, I’d forgotten the cloakroom business. I glanced at Julie, then back at Talbot.

“All right,” I conceded, “what stuff?”

Talbot relaxed at the wheel.

“That’s your cue, Sis,” he told Julie.

Now that it was all over, Julie was regaining a bit of her normal spirits.

“Sample tubes of hair dressing and shaving cream from Susan’s selling case,” Julie informed me simply. “When Ed told us she’d left her case on the seat of her car, I figured that mugger would find it, ransack it and likely pocket what he could use. That’s why I suggested Ed’s checking cloakrooms, then questioning the attendant if he came up with anything.”

Elementary, Watson? I suppose so. But only Julie had thought of it. Not her keen-minded detective brother. And certainly not her tag-along husband.

Ed Talbot chuckled briefly as he caught my comprehension, then sobered. “Sis,” he said, “I’d like to bring up a point you sort of touched on before.” He hesitated, then went ahead. “Both Paul and I have discussed it with you Lord knows how often, and while I grant you weren’t responsible for everything that happened tonight, it just proves how unpredictable your doggoned matchmaking can be.”

In the glow from the dash, Julie’s eyes were big and round and very earnest.

“I know,” she answered gravely, “and I promise. From now on — never again.”

The declaration was nice to hear, but in the shadows Julie’s hands were concealed in the folds of her coat. Her fingers might have been uncrossed, but I wouldn’t bet on it.