Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

Blood on His Boots by Tedd Thomey

When Hranek got out of San Quentin, his soul held but one purpose — to get even with the man who had ruined his life, although this man was his brother!

He had not looked at himself in a mirror for a long, long time. But now Hranek walked slowly, deliberately, over to the silver-streaked mirror on the hotel room wall and stood in the spotlight of sun which came in the window.

He saw a face that was broken and misshapen, scarred and evil. He gazed at it hard and long — gazed at the old scar which, like a heavy weight, dragged down the left corner of his mouth, gazed at the flat, twisted nostrils, gazed at the deep crescent-shaped heel-gouges in his cheeks and chin.

Hranek felt the hatred for his brother rise fresh and new, stronger than ever. It was almost as if he could feel the pain again, feel his brother’s heels come down again and again.

Hranek let the hatred rise until he could taste it, acid and hot, full in his mouth. And though he wanted to pivot away from the mirror, he forced himself to stay, because, the longer he looked at himself, the easier it was to plan exactly what he would do during the next hour.

He did not recognise the expression in his eyes. Once they had been friendly eyes, full of good things like laughter and kindness and cheerfulness. Now they were deadly eyes, cold-blue and heartless. He filled his lungs with air, watched his big chest swell against the rough tweed of the suit they had given him at San Quentin. Then he let his breath out slowly, angrily, and turned finally away from the mirror.

Across the room, on the bed, lay a flat oblong parcel. Hranek’s large fingers were steady as he broke the string and unwrapped the brown paper. From the box he took a revolver. He turned it over in his hands, examining its blunt newness, rubbing a bit of lint from its oil-gleaming barrel.

Abruptly, he aimed it at the bureau and pulled the trigger three times, four times, hearing the crisp metallic sound of the hammer falling on empty chambers. For an instant, it was not the bureau he was aiming at. It was the ugly, fat figure of his brother, and he felt the hatred again, the hatred which had built up, layer upon layer, for four long years. He wanted to get it over with.

From the pocket of his coat, he drew six clean .38-caliber cartridges, which he slipped into the chambers. Opening his coat, he placed the revolver in the right rear pocket of his trousers, letting the butt protrude, so it would be within easy reach. He left the coat unbuttoned, so the bulging pocket would be less noticeable, then he walked toward the door.

Just before his fingers touched the knob, there was a rap on the door, short and nervous. Hranek halted.

“Sam?” called a woman’s voice. “Are you in there?”

It was Nina’s voice, gentle despite its urgency, and he felt a stab of panic, because he did not want to see her. He stood still, praying his silence would send her away.

She rapped again. “Sam?”

Then she turned the knob, and, before he thought to thrust his shoulder against the door, she came in.

“Sam,” she said, “I thought you were here. Why didn’t you...?”

She saw him then, got a good look at his face, but she controlled herself beautifully. Her large clear eyes widened, only for an instant, and then she went on talking, looking at him as if nothing had changed.

“It’s been a long four years,” she said. “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”

“Beat it!” Hranek said. He gave the words a convict’s toughness.

“Please, Sam.” She stepped closer, shutting the door behind her. “You’ve got it wrong. If you had just read my letters, you’d see that I didn’t have anything to do with it. I tried to—”

“Look at my face,” he said. “Handsome, isn’t it? And you’re as responsible for it as Julius is. It was your phone call that took me downstairs that morning, downstairs where Julius and his buddies were waiting to beat the living hell out of me.”

“No,” she said. “Julius told me to make the phone call. He didn’t tell me why. I never—”

“Shut up!” Hranek said. “Shut up and look at my face. Give it a good look, this time, and make yourself sick!”

She looked at him, unflinching, and he stood there, feeling big and powerless, wanting to hate her the way he hated Julius, but unable to do so. She was prettier, even, than she had been four years ago. She was twenty-eight now and more mature, but her figure was still small and perfect in her smartly-cut navy blue suit.

“Forget about your face, Sam.” she said. “It’s not so bad. A doctor, a plastic surgeon, could do wonders for you.”

He shook his head. “It’s easy for you to talk. You don’t have to live with it, you don’t feel the ridges and the dents every time you run your hand over it.”

“If it were so horrible,” she said, stepping closer to him, “would I—”

It happened very quickly. Her small hands reached up, she drew his face down and kissed him, and her lips stung him with their sweetness. Instinctively, he pulled her close, feeling the longing of four years, feeling the small softness of her. But he remembered she was his brother’s wife, and he felt the hatred again. He turned away from her, feeling his blood race.

After a moment he spoke. “Where’s Julius?” he demanded.

She did not reply.

“Where is he?” His voice rose sharply.

“At his office, over the Spin-A-Line game. But you won’t be able to get in.”

“Why not?”

“His men are with him. He knew you got out of San Quentin yesterday, and he’s taking no chances.”

“I’ll get in,” Hranek said. He walked back to her and placed his large hand hard on her shoulder. “Won’t I, Nina?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the best way to get in, Nina?” He increased the pressure of his fingers. “Will the boys be guarding the stairs?”

She tried to free herself, but he held her tighter.

“There are no stairs,” she said. “Julius had them taken out. There’s only the elevator, and the men will be guarding it.”

“But Julius is smart,” said Hranek. “He’s got another way in, or I don’t know Julius. Am I right?”

“You’re hurting me, Sam.”

He did not slacken the pressure. “Where it is?”

Twisting, she tried to escape, and he didn’t want to hurt her that much, but his hatred for Julius was stronger. He felt her flesh squeezing under his fingers.

“On the mezzanine!” She put her hand over his and tried to push it from her shoulder. “In the photo booth. Julius has a door there that leads to the elevator. Please. Sam!”

He released her, and she stepped back, sitting down on the bed and rubbing her shoulder.

She looked up at him. “What are you going to do?”

“None of your business. Just keep out of my way, that’s all I ask.”

She started to get up from the bed and her fingers brushed the flat open box. By the quick intake of her breath as she picked up the box, he could tell she had seen the imprint where the revolver had lain against the cardboard.

“Sam!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “What was in this box?”

Turning from her, he moved toward the door. She ran after him, catching his arm and trying to stop him.

“No, Sam!” she said. “No!”

He pushed her away, but she grasped his arm again. Her eyes, staring up at him, were round and tremendous, and there was terror in her voice.

“Listen to me, Sam! You’ll never get in! If you do, they’ll kill you!”

Her fingers dug into the tweed of his coat like small hooks, and he had to bend her wrist to dislodge her.

“Listen to me!” she cried. “Racine talked to the shipyard — your old job’s there waiting for you. That’s what I came here to tell you. You can be a shipwright again. So don’t be a fool, Sam! Don’t be a fool!”

Her words were sharp, but they could not pierce the shield of four years of waiting, four years of hating.

“I’ll get in,” he said, “and I won’t kill him right away.” He looked down at his heavy prison shoes.

He stepped quickly into the hotel hallway, slamming the door behind him to muffle the sounds of her crying. He walked down the carpeted steps and through the drab lobby, out to the sidewalk. Several cars were parked at the curb. Not until he passed it, did he realise one was an official city car. The driver’s door opened, and, from the edge of his eyes, he saw Racine, the District Attorney’s assistant, get out.

He speeded his steps, trying to lose himself in the afternoon shopping crowds, but Racine would not be shaken off.

“All right,” said Racine, catching up with him, “Let’s not make a gallop out of it. I want to talk to you, Hranek.”

“Get away from me,” Hranek said.

“Go on — act tough,” said Racine. “Act like a big ex-con.”

“You don’t scare me.” Hranek turned a corner, saw a cruising red-and-white cab and hailed it. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

“I can have you in a cell in five minutes on a weapons charge,” Racine said. “There’s a bulge in your hip pocket as big as a street-car. Now, do you slow down and talk, or do I call my assistant?”

Hranek stopped walking. As he faced Racine and looked into the hard, shrewd eyes, he felt a new burst of anger and frustration, and his hands became fists, hanging at his sides. He shook his head at the cab driver, and the cab pulled away from the curb.

“That’s more like it,” said Racine. “Did Nina tell you about the job at the shipyard?”

“You know where you can put that job,” Hranek said. “I’m not forgetting you’re the one who sent me up.”

“The jury went by the evidence,” said Racine. “All they had was your word that Julius framed you. You could have gotten worse than manslaughter.”

“Evidence!” Hranek said. “Phony evidence! Julius shot Shafton because Shafton was Number One. And Julius had to get me out of the way, because I wouldn’t play ball. So he got rid of two at once, setting it up so it looked like I shot Shafton. He testified he had to stomp me to get the gun away, but that was a lie. He stomped me, figuring I’d be so punchy afterward I’d never be able to testify. It was a fix, Racine, and you know it.”

“All right, it was a fix,” said Racine. “Forget it, and listen to me. You’ve heard Julius is Number One now? You’ve heard how he’s enlarged the Spin-A-Line operation?”

Hranek nodded.

“He’s paying off six of the councilmen,” said Racine. “That’s how he keeps the game open. We know he has records somewhere of those payments, because he uses those records to keep the councilmen in line. But we’ve never been able to get into his office to look for them. And that’s where you come in, Hranek.”

“I won’t do it,” said Hranek.

“Don’t be stubborn, Hranek. You don’t even know what I want you to do. Get those records for us, and we’ll wipe the slate clean — we’ll restore your citizenship and get you a pardon from the Governor.”

Hranek laughed a short bitter laugh. “Wipe the slate clean? Racine, who do you think you’re kidding? Wipe out four years of sitting in a stinking cell for something you didn’t do, four years of being an animal with a torn face, four years of walls that made me want to blow my top? No paper will wipe out those years, Racine! Now get out of my way!”

He shouldered Racine aside, feeling the hatred rise big again, not wanting to delay any longer, wanting to get to Julius and get it over with.

He dodged past people to the kerb, where another cab was pulling up.

“Wait!” called Racine.

Hranek opened the cab door, got in and told the driver to hurry. When they were out in the stream of traffic, he looked back and saw Racine standing angrily at the Kerb. He told the driver to take him to the amusement pier.

At the gaudy entrance to the pier, Hranek paid off the driver and walked rapidly along the plank sidewalk which led over the surf toward the great wooden hills and valleys of the roller coaster. He did not look around him at the break-the-balloon concessions, or the knife-throwing booths, or the popcorn-and-taffy booths.

When he drew near the broad red gates that led to the coaster box-office, he glanced up briefly at the weatherworn sign, Hranek’s Cyclone Racer, remembering the proud day his father had nailed it there. Then he crossed to the penny arcade.

From a position just outside the arcade, he could look through plate glass windows into the huge adjoining Spin-A-Line building. The Spin-A-Line lobby was thronged with people going in to gamble their quarters on the steel balls which tumbled into numbered slots. It took him nearly a minute of careful observation to find the guard.

He was a small, faded, blond man in a sports jacket, and he wasn’t stationed near the doors of the self-service elevator, because that would have been too obvious. Instead, he was leaning against a wall at approximately the middle of the lobby, In a position to intercept anyone moving toward the elevator.

Hranek entered the arcade and walked past rows of pinball machines and penny pitching stands, to the stairs at the rear. He wondered if there was a mezzanine entrance to the elevator as Nina had said. He wondered if Nina wasn’t setting him up for another trap.

The mezzanine was not crowded. He walked slowly among the amusement devices, stopping to play a baseball machine, working his way toward the Take it Yourself for 25 Cents photo booth against the rear wall. As far as he could tell, there was no one on the mezzanine who even faintly resembled one of Julius’ guards. But it did not pay to take chances.

He returned to the baseball machine and played another game. He felt calm, calmer than he had been all day. As the small metal figures behind the glass pitched batted and fielded the ball, he remembered the years long before, when he and Julius and the other kids of the concession-owners had played baseball on the beach beside the roller coaster. Julius had been too fat even then to play well, but he had been good-natured and fun to have around.

How quickly all that had changed, when they were still young men and the Old Man died. After he came from Poland to America, the Old Man had worked twenty years to build the coaster, and it had been his one wish that his sons would run it after he was gone. But Julius, the older, had taken control from the start, squeezed his brother out and sold the coaster for a song to open his first Spin-A-Line game.

Hranek ran his fingers over his face, rubbing the thickened tissue at the corner of his mouth, and he felt the hatred rise again. He slammed the last ball into the foul zone, looked over the floor, saw it was deserted and walked straight to the photo booth.

Inside, he drew the canvas curtain shut and studied the booth wall where it was flush against the wall of the Spin-A-Line building. It took him half a minute to find the shallow finger-slot on the narrow sliding door. Then he removed the revolver from his trouser pocket and placed it in his coat pocket, where it would be more accessible.

The door slid back easily, revealing an opening in the wall nearly as high as a man was tall. Beside it was an ordinary elevator panel with a single button. He did not hesitate. He pressed the button, saw the steel cables move and heard an electric motor whir.

In a moment, the elevator stopped beside the opening in the wall. He unlatched the narrow elevator door, passed through it in a crouch and, from inside the elevator, closed the door behind him.

He pushed the No. 4, top floor button and placed his hand on the revolver in his coat pocket. The steel was hard and cold.

At the top floor the elevator came silently to a halt. Hranek stepped out into a hallway. It was panelled handsomely in oak, and the wall-to-wall rug was thick and spongy under his shoes as he walked along to the broad door on which, in conservatively small letters, were the words Julius L. Hranek, President.

Drawing the revolver from his pocket, he turned the heavy brass knob and then, with his shoe, nudged the door open.

The first things he saw were Julius’ feet up on the glass top of the desk, wearing the highly polished black cowboy boots he affected, to give himself extra height, boots with high sharp heels that could leave ridges and dents in a man’s face.

Julius’ great sloth-like body was supported by a swivel chair. His pink plump hand, holding a thin cigar, paused in mid air as he saw his brother.

Hranek glanced once around the office and saw the small gunman reclining on the leather couch behind Julius.

“Don’t move!” Hranek said. “Either of you.”

There was no expression in Julius’ pale blue eyes. “Now, Sam,” he said gently, “don’t be — hasty.”

“I told you it would come to this,” Hranek said through his teeth. “I told you the day I quit you to work in the shipyard. And I’m—”

The hand of the gunman moved fast, astonishingly fast, firing from beneath his coat. Death sang past Hranek’s shoulder and passed through the wall.

Hranek fired two bullets almost simultaneously, the new trigger of the revolver working stiffly, and saw them strike home in the gunman’s chest.

An expression of intense surprise came over the gunman’s face. Staring at Hranek’s revolver as if he didn’t understand why it had damaged him that way, he raised himself up on his elbows. Then his arms collapsed, and he fell forward, sliding off the leather couch to the floor, where he lay without moving.

Julius swivelled slowly around in his chair and looked at the fallen man. When he turned back to Hranek, the fat man’s forehead and round cheeks glistened with pinpoints of sudden perspiration.

“My gosh!” Julius murmured, unbelieving.

“Start praying,” Hranek said, “because where you’re going, you’ll need all the help you can get. You’re going to...”

Hranek heard something in the hall, the metallic click of the elevator doors closing. Still in the doorway, he pivoted and glanced down the hall in time to see the approach of the other gunman, the faded blond one who had been stationed downstairs. The blond man threw himself on the floor like an advancing soldier, and they fired together.

Hranek’s first bullet was high and instantly a long straight streak appeared in the green rug beyond the blond man. Hranek’s second bullet caught the man in the forehead, an inch below his blond widow’s peak. The man’s head tipped forward as if he were nodding, then he turned his cheek, cradling it against the rug, and became silent.

Hranek stepped back into the office. He strode around the desk, kicked the swivel chair, and it rolled away from the desk on its small wheels, carying Julius with it.

“Please, Sam!” Julius cried. “I’ll give you money, lots of money!”

“You’ll give me nothing!” Hranek said. Then he paused, remembering what Racine had asked for. “Except one thing. Where is it, Julius — the record you keep of your payments to the councilmen?”

“Of course, of course!” Julius got up from the chair and stood there, his fat body rocking on the high heels of the polished boots. “We’ll be partners again, Sam, won’t we — like we were before?”

“You’re all through.” Hranek said. “Where is it?”

“Sure, Sam.” Julius reached inside his coat and brought out a yellow leather wallet. From it his trembling fingers extracted a small address book, which he handed to Hranek.

“There it is, Sam. It’s all in there, everything!”

Hranek fanned through the pages, saw the councilmen’s names, the dates and the amounts paid.

“All right,” he said. “Now look at me, Julius.”

Their eyes locked and Hranek, seeing the smooth, unmarred skin on his brother’s fat face, felt the hatred bigger than ever, strong and overpowering.

“Look at it,” he said. “Look at this mess I carry for a face and remember how you did it, how you stood over me and smashed me with your boots!”

Julius backed away, his eyes fixed on Hranek, his great mass of chins quivering.

“I’m going to smash your face.” Hranek said.

“When your face is numb — then I’m going to kill you!”

“No!” Julius said.

Hranek hit him hard on the cheek with the revolver, and Julius went down. Julius lay on his back, stiff with fear, a red stream emerging from the wound on his cheek.

Hranek leaned over him, raising the revolver to strike again.

He looked at the blood, and, abruptly, he remembered again the baseball games they had played on the beach, back in those years when everything had been all right between them. He remembered the day he had been struck by the ball, struck on the cheek. Julius had wiped the blood away and then run for their father.

He remembered other times — the morning he had managed to grab Julius’ swim trunks and drag him to safety in the surf by the pier — and the day they had fought back to back against the attacking West Side kids.

He couldn’t do it.

He raised the revolver and tried to strike again, but he could not force himself to do it. Gone was the hatred, replaced by a sickness deep inside, which protested the evil thing their lives had become when they grew up.

Hranek lowered the revolver and turned away from Julius. Weak, nauseated with himself, he sat down heavily in the swivel chair and looked at the floor.

He heard the elevator doors slam, heard someone running down the hall, but he did not look up until Nina came into the office.

“Sam!” She ran to his side.

“Couldn’t do it.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t do it!”

He watched Julius get slowly to his feet but he didn’t realise what was happening until Julius snatched the incriminating address book from his fingers and went out the door. Despite his weight and the awkward western heels, Julius moved very fast down the hall.

Hranek pushed Nina aside and went after him. He was only two steps behind when Julius got to the elevator doors and slammed them open.

The elevator wasn’t there.

Julius could not halt the momentum of his huge body in time. He tried to grasp the doors as he fell.

There were two screams — Julius’ and Nina’s.

Hranek dived, sliding on the floor toward the opening, and his fingers caught the gabardine of Julius’ trousers. The cloth burned his fingertips as it ripped. He made a last grab and his fingers clamped on Julius’ foot.

Hranek held on, with all the strength that was in him. The shock, as Julius cartwheeled and hung head downward, almost tore his arm from its joint. His arm had never known such pressure. Julius’ two hundred and forty pounds thrashed and flailed, pulling Hranek into the opening until his shoulder wedged against the door jamb. He tried to tighten the grip of his fingers, but he could not, and he felt the leather slipping.

He tried for just an ounce more of grip but Julius’ foot slipped from the boot, and he screamed all the way down, four stories down, the scream reverberating in the elevator shaft. The shaft vibrated with the final, crashing impact, and the scream was cut off as if a swift door had closed below.

Slowly Hranek withdrew his arm. He looked at the black polished boot, which was still in his hand, and then he looked at Nina, who knelt beside him, her eyes wide and round.

He did not speak for a long moment. “It was the boot,” he said finally. “He_ slipped.”

“I know,” said Nina softly. She paused. “Racine was following me here. He must’ve pressed the button for the elevator.” She paused again. “I’m glad it happened, in a way.”

“But he was your husband.”

She shook her head. “I divorced him after what he did to you. He knew I loved you — that’s why he stomped you. If you had only read my letters...” She bent forward, and her lips brushed his forehead. “I waited for you, Sam.”

“But my face,” he said. “You can’t—”

“Yes, I can,” she said. “Your face will be no problem for the right doctor, don’t you realise that, Sam?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said.

He looked down at the boot, with its sharp heel.