Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

Million Dollar Murder by W. L. Fieldhouse

Major Clifford Lansing of the CID was going back to America — but it was a sad homecoming for him. This time he was going to investigate the murder of his father!

Why didn’t I come home sooner? Major Clifford Lansing thought solemnly as the 747 touched down on the runway of the Detroit International Airport.

Lansing knew the answer. He’d been too involved with his job as a homicide investigator in the Criminal Investigation Department of USAEUR. Lansing hadn’t left West Germany since 1978, and he hadn’t had a vacation or an extended leave during that time. Once he’d taken a three day pass to Bonn to visit an old jump buddy from the days when Lansing was an Airborne Ranger in Vietnam. Even then, he’d encountered another homicide and another investigation.

Now, for the first time in four years, he had returned to America — on an emergency leave for personal reasons. Once again, a murder was involved.

He stared out the window of the plane and thought how all airports look alike just about anywhere in the world. This time he wasn’t being assigned to a case. Lansing was a military investigator and he had no authority in the civilian world. He had come to attend a funeral and visit his family...

At least that’s what he’d told General Clayton before he left.

Detective Captain Robert Winfield recognized Lansing immediately. His tall, lean figure, dressed in a Class A, green dress uniform with polished brass buttons and a gold oakleaf on each shoulder, stood out among the other passengers that deplaned from Flight 177. But Winfield would have known him anyway. Major Lansing looked like his father had twenty years ago.

“Cliff?” he called out.

Lansing emerged from the crowd. “Good to see you, Bob,” he said, taking the other man’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah,” Winfield, a stocky, balding man with a pleasant round face, replied. They shook hands warmly. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

The major nodded. “When’s the funeral?”

“In three days,” the cop said as they walked through the corridor toward the baggage department. “Your Aunt Glenda handled the arrangements. She wanted to give you and your brother enough time to get here. Dave’s an insurance salesman in San Diego, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” Lansing admitted. “Dave and I haven’t stayed in touch much.”

“My car’s in the lot. Traffic shouldn’t be too heavy if we hurry.”

“How did it happen, Bob?” Lansing asked.

Winfield sighed. “A goddamn burglar broke into your Dad’s house. The son of a bitch must have been going through the dresser drawers in the bedroom. When John woke up, the bastard let him have it with a .357 Magnum. The medical examiner says your father was dead almost as soon as the bullets hit him. It was quick, Cliff.”

“Did you catch the killer?”

“Not yet. But we will. We’ve got a list of the stuff he took and sooner or later it’ll show up in a pawnshop or someplace like that. We’ll get him.”

Major Lansing merely nodded in reply.

“Your father was awful proud of you, Cliff,” Winfield said. “Whenever I was over at John’s house, he showed me the scrap book with your pictures in it. He had all the newspaper clippings from The Stars and Stripes and The Overseas Weekly that told about all those homicides you’ve solved over in Europe. Really proud, Cliff.”

Lansing wiped a hand under his moist eyes. “We’d better go,” he said softly.

The late John C. Lansing had retired from the Detroit Police Department and lived the remaining years of his life at a small house in the town of Lottsville. It was the same house in which Clifford and David Lansing had been raised. Memories flooded the major’s mind and heart as he stepped across the threshold. He recalled his mother, who’d died in a car accident when he was eleven. He remembered watching his father strap on a gun before he left for work and wondering if he’d be an orphan the next day. Lansing remembered how happy John C. had been when he joined the force and how upset he’d been when Lansing decided to resign and enlist into the U.S. Army.

“Hello, Cliff,” a voice only vaguely familiar with the passing of time, greeted in a tone void of emotion.

A figure dressed in a conservative blue suit with a striped tie stood in the front room. He wasn’t as tall as the major and his middle revealed a slight bulge from inactivity in middle-age. His dark brown hair was longer than Lansing’s and it hadn’t grayed at the temples.

“David,” Clifford Lansing replied. He held out a hand. “How have you been?”

“Just selling insurance,” his brother replied, shaking hands without enthusiasm. “Haven’t caught a single killer yet.”

“Everybody can’t be a cop,” Lansing smiled.

“Father would say every Lansing should be one,” the younger man said dryly. “I’m glad you got the telegram Aunt Glenda sent you. It’s only right you should attend the funeral since you were his favorite son.”

“David...”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” David shook his head. “It’s ironic. Thirty years with the department and he never got a scratch. Then some punk burglarizes the place and blows him away.”

“A punk with a .357 Magnum,” Lansing commented. “That’s an expensive and good quality weapon.”

“I wouldn’t know,” his brother said. “I never shared your fondness for guns and karate or playing cops and robbers, Cliff.”

“Everybody has his own interests,” the major said. “How are Carol and the kids doing?”

“Okay,” David answered. “Do you still like being in the Army?”

“I like my MOS — Military Occupational Speciality. I guess that’s the same thing,” Lansing replied. “How about you?”

“The insurance business is nice steady work, but sales is dog eat dog — even if nobody’s shooting at you. At least we don’t have the godawful winters in San Diego we used to have here. I suppose Germany gets pretty cold.”

“It has its moments,” Lansing admitted. “How long will you be here?”

“I’ve got a plane back to California the night after the funeral.”

“We will get together before you leave, won’t we?” Lansing asked hopefully.

“If you like,” David said. “I’m staying at Glenda’s place. She let me borrow her car. Do you need a lift?”

“No, thanks,” the major replied. “I’ve rented the yellow Volkswagen Rabbit parked at the curb.”

“Let me know where you’re staying,” David said as he walked to the door.

Lansing watched his brother leave. It had been nearly six years since they’d last seen each other. We sound like casual acquaintances who happened to meet in a supermarket, Lansing thought. Certainly, after all this time, we should have more to talk about.

But he had no idea what that might be.

Then his eyes fell on the china closet in the dining room. The antique dinnerware his grandmother had given John Lansing on his wedding day was still there. He opened a drawer beneath the glass top. A genuine set of Sterling silverware gleamed back at him. Lansing slammed the drawer angrily.

He entered his father’s office and strode to a small metal desk by the window. Lansing jerked open the center drawer and saw a rat’s nest of papers within. He shut it and opened the others. A snubnosed .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver was in one drawer. A box of shells and a belt holster for the gun were in another. Lansing noticed three framed photographs on the desktop — his mother, he and David as children and a picture of Major Lansing in uniform. He hoped his brother hadn’t seen the pictures too.

Next, he inspected the drawers of a filing cabinet. He extracted a manilla folder and opened it to read a surveillance report about an individual suspected of arson. The investigation discovered he’d been hired by an unsuccessful business man who’d had his own store torched to collect the insurance. The folder was marked ELLISON CASE: CLOSED JULY 10, 1981.

Lansing found other records of similiar investigations up to January 1982. He shoved the last drawer shut. You were still at it, Father, he thought. You’d been a cop too long to give it up.

“Is that why somebody killed you?” he wondered aloud.

Captain winfield looked up from his desk with surprise when Major Lansing entered his office at the 63rd Precinct of the Detroit Police Department. Lansing wore civilian slacks and shirt with a dark green Army windbreaker, yet his expression was anything but casual.

“What do you know about my father’s activities after he left the force,” he asked, his tone almost issuing a command.

“I was afraid you’d find out about that, Cliff,” Winfield sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“He was doing investigations for private companies, wasn’t he?”

“From time to time,” the detective said. “He couldn’t get it out of his blood. Sixty-three-years-old and still had to keep tracking down the bad guys. Hell, I’m ready to retire tomorrow and sit on my ass for the rest of my life. But you wouldn’t understand that. You’ll be just like John when you get to be his age.”

“He must have stayed in touch with the department,” Lansing said. “What sort of information was he asking about?”

“Cliff,” Winfield began helplessly, “your father didn’t tell you or Dave he’d turned P.I. because he figured you’d worry. He asked me not to mention it to you in my letters.”

“I’ll find out one way or the other, Bob,” the major told him. “I used to be with the department myself, remember? You can tell me now or I’ll dig around until I get the answers later.”

“You Lansings are the most hard-headed bastards I ever met,” Winfield said wearily. “Okay. John had quite a reputation as an investigator in Michigan, just as you’ve got to be a living legend in USAEUR. He handled cases for insurance companies, worked with private security outfits, did a few jobs for industrial companies and for various firms, large and small.”

“Was he working on anything after January?”

“He’d asked for data the department had on a local low-life named Harrison Carter.”

“That sounds familiar,” Lansing frowned. “Didn’t Father bust Carter back in 1975 for receiving stolen goods?”

“That’s right,” the cop answered. “Carter was a small-time fence here in Detroit. The judge gave him a five-to-ten sentence and he served four years in the joint before they released him for good behavior. I guess that’s not too bad considering how easy they go on some of these clowns nowadays. Anyway, since ‘79 he’s been struggling along at various business ventures. None of them have done very well, but as far as we can tell, he’s kept his nose criminally clean. In 1981, Carter and another ex-con named Mike Sumter (who has a record for assault and battery)opened a shop that specializes in novelty items. They keep buying hula-hoops and skateboards by the gross, hoping they’ll hit a big fad and make a fortune. Right now, it looks like they’re heading for the financial toilet again.”

“They’re still in the city?”

“You can find them in the yellow pages if you’ve got a magnifying glass.”

“Was Dad interested in anybody else?”

“An old acquaintance of your’s, Cliff. Remember Fred Minton?”

Lansing grimaced. “Badge for sale. The whole department knew he was on the take, but nobody could prove anything. It was a lot of fun to work a stake-out with a guy when you knew there was a fifty-fifty chance he was on the pay roll of the crooks. Did you ever nail that son of a bitch?”

“No such luck,” The cop frowned. “But we sort of ‘encouraged’ him to resign a couple of years ago. He hired on to three security guard jobs and got fired from all of them. Drinking on duty twice and once for ‘unbecoming behavior.’ But Minton doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s self-employed and the skipper of his very own ship — a garbage scow up at Lexington Harbor.”

“Thanks for the information, Bob,” Lansing said.

“Cliff, neither of those two were ever into anything big — and it would have to be real big to make it worthwhile for somebody to have John C. Lansing killed. Half the department is trying to find the man who did it and the other half is standing in line for their turn at bat. A lousy burglar did it — not a washed-up fence or a has-been cop.”

“You’re probably right,” Lansing agreed, heading for the door.

“Cliff,” Winfield said sharply. “I don’t have to remind you that you aren’t in Germany working for the CID, do I? You don’t have any authority in Detroit. You aren’t a civilian cop anymore and you’re not Clint Eastwood riding off for revenge in the movies. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” the major assured him. “I’m just plain old Clifford Lansing.”

He left the office and closed the door.

“Yeah,” Winfield sighed. “John Lansing’s son.”

The legend Carter’s novelties had been painted with cheap red paint that had been partially worn by exposure to weather an and no one had bothered to touch up the letters. The sign above the small shop on the corner of Maple and Prescott Street was barely legible. Major Lansing parked the VW Rabbit on the curb and entered the building. Shelves with rubber spiders, magic tricks, “whoopie” cushions, squirting flowers and other trinkets, lined the walls.

Lansing found no one in the front room, so he moved to a side door that led to a combination garage/storage area. Boxes labeled “hula-hoops” and “frisbees” were stacked in the corners. A tractor-trailer rig had backed into the garage. Two men inspected the open rear of the truck. Lansing strolled closer and gazed inside to see the rig was literally stuffed with an enormous pile of thick netting.

“What the hell?” a short, shapr-faced man with a cigar-stub in his wide mouth exclaimed with alarm when he noticed the major. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m doing a survey on why businessmen fail,” Lansing replied. “From what I hear, you’re an excellent reference source, Carter.”

“Want me to throw this smart ass out, Harry?” the other man, a wide-faced black with a build like a mail box, inquired.

“Take it easy, Mike,” Carter replied. “I want to give him one more chance to answer my question.”

“My name’s Clifford Lansing and I want to have a chat with you about your current efforts to give the free enterprise system a bad name.”

“Lansing, eh?” Carter scratched his pointy jaw. “Must be related to Big John C. Sorry to hear he got wasted, but he made a lot of enemies.”

“Including you?”

“What?” the ex-con snorted with disgust. “You figure I’d wanta blast him ‘cause he sent me to the joint a few years ago? Hell, fella. He was a cop. That was part of his job. You don’t hold somethin’ like that against a guy.”

“Father didn’t tell me you two exchanged Christmas cards.”

“Look,” Carter removed the cigar stump and used it to point at the truck. “I’m a legitimate businessman. See? I got me about a ton of hammocks. It’s gonna be a big thing this year.”

“How can anyone get along without one,” Lansing commented dryly. “Considering your track record, I’m surprised you can afford that eighteen wheeler.”

“We manage, Lansing,” Mike Sumter stated with a surly stare. “I’ve driven it all over the country to get the best quality material available for our shop.”

“Things must be looking up for you two high-rollers,” the major smiled. “Or maybe you’ve got another source of income the IRS doesn’t know about.”

“You’re lucky I’m on parole, punk,” Mike hissed. “Otherwise, I’d bash your teeth in for that remark.”

“Shut up, Mike,” Carter said flatly. “This guy’s trying to dig up some dirt on us. Don’t hand him a goddamn shovel.”

“What sort of dirt might I find if I looked?” Lansing inquired. “The same thing my father was investigating?”

“I thought your old man retired a while back.”

“You didn’t know he still worked private investigations?”

“You’re joking,” Carter snorted. “He musta been old enough to collect social security, for crissake.”

“He was interested in your activities, Carter. Why?”

“Seems to me I recall one of Old Man Lansing’s brats used to be a cop before he got a patriotic hair up his ass and decided to join the Army,” Carter smiled. “You know what I think? I think you’re that tin soldier and that means I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”

“You heard the man,” Mike snarled. “You ain’t got no business here. Get out before we call the cops!”

“I wouldn’t want to make you do anything contrary to your nature,” Lansing replied dryly.

Carefully, Major Lansing turned the steel needle in the keyhole. He’d studied lock-picking from a former burglar who’d become the CID’s top advisor on the subject of breaking and entry. Lansing had used his ability on more than one occasion, although he’d never thought he’d be breaking into his own father’s home.

A dull click rewarded his efforts. Lansing turned the knob and opened the door. He entered the dark house, carrying a penlight in one hand and a brief case in the other. Flicking on the penlight, he cast the narrow beam across the interior until he found the office. Moving to the desk, he opened the center drawer and examined the papers with the diminutive light.

They were Xerox copies of newspaper and magazine articles. Although the publications varied, the subject remained the same. The articles concerned the American tuna boats that were seized by the Mexican coast guard south of Baja California in 1980 and 1981.

Lansing frowned. There didn’t seem to be any possibility the material could have any connection with a case his father was involved with in Detroit. However, after years of investigative work, Lansing had learned crimes were solved by deductions based on facts, not assumptions. He placed the Xerox copies in his brief case.

The sudden harsh ring of the telephone on the desk forced a gasp from the major. He hesitated for a moment, then decided he’d overdone the clandestine nature of inspecting his father’s house. After all, no one had denied him access to his former home. He picked up the receiver.

“Lansing?” a man’s voice asked anxiously.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I found out where they got them from,” the voice declared. “San Diego! Almost two million dollars worth!”

“What is it and who has it?” the major asked urgently.

“Huh?” the man paused. “You ain’t Lansing!”

“Wait!” the investigator urged. “I’m John Lansing’s—”

A sharp clang filled his ear, followed by a mournful whine. The mysterious caller had hung up.

Lansing cursed himself for handling the man too abruptly. He replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone and opened the side drawers of the desk. After putting his father’s S&W revolver, holster and box of .38 cartridges in the brief case, he closed it.

David Lansing entered the coffee shop and located his brother seated at a booth by the front window. He slid into the seat facing the major.

“Maybe six in the morning isn’t early for you guys in the Army, but I’ve barely got my eyes open,” David complained.

“Sorry,” Lansing replied, looking down at his coffee cup. “This can’t wait.”

“That’s what you said on the phone,” the younger man nodded. “Now, what the hell did you want to talk to me about that couldn’t wait until nine o’clock and you can’t discuss in front of Aunt Glenda?”

Lansing glanced about the shop, looking at the plastic topped counter and the sad-faced woman behind it. A grill heated frozen sausage for another customer’s breakfast and glass pots of oily coffee sat on hotplates behind a case of doughnuts that had been removed from a box the night before.

“Do you remember when this place used to be an ice cream parlor?” the major mused. “We used to come here on the weekends when we were kids. We used to be pretty close once. What happened to us, Dave?”

“We grew up,” his brother replied flatly. “We became different kinds of people with different interests.”

Lansing looked at him. “Because we’re different means we can’t feel any closeness? Any love?”

“Jesus, Cliff,” David muttered. “You didn’t get me down here to tell me that, did you?”

“No,” the major admitted. “I didn’t.”

He told David about their father’s private investigation work. “I don’t believe Dad was killed by a burglar. A .357 Magnum isn’t the sort of weapon the average sneakthief carries. It’s a professional hitter’s gun or a cop’s. I used to carry one when I was with the department.”

“Maybe the burglar didn’t read the right crime magazines to know what he was supposed to take with him on the job,” David snorted.

“Our father was murdered,” Lansing said sharply. “And you don’t seem to give a damn!”

“Of course I do,” David snapped. “But I also remember when we were kids that we always knew he’d probably die violently. We learned to accept that. It was part of being a cop’s son. Right? I figure that’s why you’ve never been married, Cliff. Because you don’t want to put your wife and children through that same mess.”

“I can’t accept murder, Dave,” the senior brother insisted. “Especially father’s. The killer didn’t touch a three thousand dollar silver set in the dining room, but he ripped off a gold plated watch the department gave Dad when he retired. Does that make sense to you? I also suspect he removed some files from Father’s office. Dad had been investigating a couple of shady characters and there isn’t anything about them in his records.”

“Cliff,” David sighed, “you’re only going to be here for three days before you have to go back to Germany...”

“I’m not leaving until I’ve found Father’s killer,” the major said. “Last night I was going through his desk for clues when the phone rang. A man on the other end of the line said he’d discovered they’d gotten something worth almost two million dollars from San Diego.”

“Who was he? What was he talking about?”

“I don’t know. He hung up before I could get any answers, but I suspect he was one of Dad’s connections. A good cop makes a lot of contacts in a lot of different areas. Quite a few of them are involved in illegal deals themselves and they’re terrified of exposure. Unfortunately, I scared him off.”

“Have you gone to the police with this information?” David clucked his tongue with disgust. “Of course you haven’t. You want to solve this yourself, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any solid evidence to give to the police yet,” Lansing explained. “How much contact did you have with Father?”

“Not much.” The younger man shrugged. “He called once a year to wish Carol and the kids Merry Christmas. At least I gave him grandchildren, huh? Oh, and he never forgot to send a birthday card to anyone in the family.” David’s brow knitted. “Come to think of it, he called about two weeks ago to ask if my insurance firm had any branches in Canada.”

“Canada?”

“Yeah.” David shrugged again. “I told him we didn’t and I asked why he was interested. He said he wanted to get a contact up there. Then he added that he might ‘decide to do a little fishing’ and hung up.”

“That’s it?”

David nodded. Then his expression stiffened as he stared hard at Lansing. “You’re thinking that I’m from San Diego and the caller mentioned it too. You suspect I might have something to do with Father’s death, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that, David.”

“You didn’t have to,” the younger man hissed angrily. He rose from his seat. “See you at the funeral, brother.”

Lansing watched his brother storm out of the shop. He wanted to call him back and assure him that he believed in his innocence, but he couldn’t

David was right.

Major Lansing did suspect his own brother.

Gulls soared above Lake Huron as lansing parked the Volkswagen Rabbit near the Lexington Harbor. He walked along the pier, glancing at a craft, similar to a small Princess Ship, that cruised along the blue-green water. Most of the boats were in dock — small, professional rigs that performed unromantic and often unpleasant tasks. A vile stench assualted his nostrils as he approached a tin roofed building. The smoke stack of a diesel-engine jutted from the cabin of a diminutive flatboat docked beside the structure. Dead fish, rotten vegetables and organic garbage was piled on the dreary little craft.

Two large, muscle bound men shoveled the foul conglomeration from the pile and dumped it into large metal barrels. A third man, only slightly smaller than his workers, supervised the chore from the pier. Although ten years had passed since Lansing had seen Fred Minton, he recognized the ex-cop immediately. Minton had gained at least twenty pounds and his paunch formed a hump under his Navy blue turtle-neck sweater. A gray-black beard decorated his face and he wore a battered sea captain’s cap with a cracked plastic bill.

“If you can’t get it all into those four barrels, we’ve got more in the warehouse,” Minton told his laborers. “Don’t stuff those things too full or we won’t be able to seal the lids on tight.”

“We know what we’re doin’, Captain,” one of the men, a hard-faced stevedore with a shaggy brown beard, replied gruffly.

“Just make sure you do it right, Sol,” Minton growled. “And don’t spill any of that crap over the side. The EPA inspectors love to catch petty violations like that.”

“My, my,” Lansing commented as he strolled closer. “From Flatfoot to Captain Bligh. How you’ve come up in the world, Minton.”

The ex-cop turned sharply. A puzzled expression dominated his face until his mind recalled a name to suit the major’s face. “Clifford Lansing? Jesus, I thought you’d been killed in Vietnam or something.”

“And I thought you would have been jailed for taking bribes from every loan shark and dope-dealer in Detroit,” Lansing replied with a sneer. “But I see you still can’t help associating with garbage of one kind or another.”

“Didn’t they teach you any manners in the Army, Lansing?” Minton muttered. “I suppose you came back for your father’s funeral. Read about that. Sorry your Dad bought it. He was a good cop.”

“I’m surprised you’d recognize one.”

“That snotty talk can get you a busted head,” the ex-cop warned. “Especially around here. But I can understand you being upset, so just get the hell outta here before I have Jake and Sol tear you apart like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.”

“It must feel good to be able to tell somebody what to do after taking orders from hoods for so many years, eh, Fred?”

“You want something, Lansing?” Minton snorted. “Or did you just come here to admire the view?”

“My father was interested in your current occupation,” the major replied. “I thought I’d see what you were up to that’s so fascinating.”

“John C. was looking into my business?” Minton chuckled. “I’m a seafaring garbage man, Lansing. I go all over Lake Huron to pick up fish rejects from nets and slop from the diners and ships’ crews. Why would your dad want to know about that?”

“Maybe he suspected you might be hauling around more than one kind of junk.”

“Drugs?” Minton smiled. “You know me better than that, Lansing. Look, I’ll level with you. Sure I was on the take. With the lousy salaries we got for risking our lives in a zoo like Detroit, who wouldn’t be?”

“Any good police officer,” Lansing answered.

“An overgrown boy scout like you,” Minton scoffed. “But I never got involved deep enough to get caught. I’m not stupid, Lansing — and only an idiot would try to run drugs in a garbage scow. Since the Canadian government is bent outta shape about marijuana coming from the States, the narcotics boys are sniffing around the docks constantly. The goddamn Environmental Protection Agency checks me out any time they feel like it too. Besides, I know the local fuzz were told about my under-the-table deals in Detroit. Lexington’s finest are keeping an eye on me as well. No way I’m going to deal in dope, gun-running or anything else.”

“You’ll just keep making your living as an honest shipping magnate,” Lansing shook his head. “You couldn’t stay clean as a cop and I doubt that you’ve turned over a new leaf, Minton.”

“You don’t like me,” the scow captain frowned. “Well, that just breaks my heart, Lansing. But you haven’t been with the police department for a long time. So unless the United States Army wants me for something, you’d better get off my back and keep your mouth shut. There’s laws against slander and libel, and I’ll sue your ass off if you give me any more trouble.”

“Don’t be so touchy, Fred,” Lansing said. “I won’t take up any more of your time. You can get back to your stink now.”

The motel room was small and spartanly furnished, but it served Major Lansing’s needs. He closed and locked the door and pulled the drapes before he removed his windbreaker. The snubnose .38 was holstered high on his right hip. Lansing stripped off his belt to remove the revolver. Tucking the S&W under the pillow on his bed, Lansing placed the briefcase on a desk and popped it open.

A knock at the door drew his attention. “It’s me, Cliff,” David Lansing’s voice announced. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” the major replied, unlocking the door for his brother. “I’m glad you came.”

“I had to talk to you after I blew my stack today,” David explained, entering the room.

“Forget it,” Lansing said as he shut the door. “It probably seemed like I was giving you the third degree.”

“Father and I weren’t very close, Cliff,” the younger man admitted. “But I would never have done anything to harm him.”

“I don’t really know you anymore, Dave,” Lansing confessed. “But I don’t believe you’d participate in killing our father.”

“But the guy on the phone mentioned San Diego and something worth two million dollars,” David said, sinking into a chair. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

The major sat on the edge of the bed. “The first things that come to mind are items like heroin, stolen jewels, art objects and such. Harrimon Carter, one of the suspects, used to be a fence in Detroit but he was a small-timer and I doubt he’d be able to handle anything on that level. If he had some big connections, he wouldn’t be running a two-bit novelty shop. Besides, both Carter and the other suspect, Minton, are under constant surveillance by the authorities. They’d have to be crazy to smuggle in anything from California that would arouse suspicion.”

“I want to help if I can, Cliff,” David said.

“Well,” his brother sighed. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got so far — although some of it may have nothing to do with the case.”

He told David what he knew about the two main suspects and extracted the Xerox copies of the news articles from his brief case. “And I found these in Father’s desk.”

David frowned as he examined them. “Tuna boats? What the hell could this have... Cliff! There are tuna boats along the San Diego coast!”

“Maybe Father wasn’t interested in the boats seized by the Mexicans. Perhaps it’s something taken from vessels still in the States.”

“Those big rigs are worth a fortune, Cliff,” David replied. “But I don’t see how anybody could disassemble a tuna boat and transfer it across the country to Michigan.”

“Just a minute, Dave,” Lansing began, shuffling through the copies. “Did your insurance company ever do business with the tuna industry?”

“Sure,” his brother replied.

“Maybe the thieves didn’t have to steal an entire boat to get something worth a fortune,” the major mused. He found the article he wanted and gave it to David. “Notice the list of materials taken by the Mexican coast guard when they grabbed the tuna boats?”

“What am I supposed to notice?”

“The ‘costly and valuable nets’ confiscated.”

“Of course!” David snapped his fingers. “They insure those damn things for almost half a million each!”

“If somebody managed to steal four tuna nets, they’d have nearly two million dollars worth,” Lansing concluded. “After they transported the nets from the coastal area, they’d run little risk by bringing them to Detroit. Who’d suspect a bunch of nets to be worth that kind of money?”

“But what could Carter do with them?” David asked. “He could hardly sell tuna nets on the street comer. Who’d be willing to pay millions for fish nets in Detroit?”

“What if the buyers aren’t in Detroit?” Lansing mused. “Everything makes sense now.”

“Not to me,” David confessed.

Lansing reached under the pillow and produced the holstered S&W. David gasped as he watched his brother slip on his belt to secure the revolver to his hip.

“Cliff, you can’t run around with a gun on!” the younger man exclaimed.

“I can’t let those bastards get away with murdering our father either,” the major replied, counting the extra .38 cartridges before putting them in his pocket.

“You don’t have a permit for that thing.”

“The hell with a permit,” Lansing said flatly.

“Call the police and let them handle it,” David urged.

“What will we tell them? We don’t know anything for certain. We don’t have any proof — yet.” The major donned his windbreaker. “And I suspect the evidence is going to disappear soon. There isn’t time to waste with department red tape and search warrants.”

“Will you at least explain this business to me on our way to where ever the hell we’re going?” David asked as he rose from his chair.

“What are you talking about?” Lansing frowned. “You aren’t trained to handle investigations or to tangle with criminals.”

“I’m going with you, Cliff,” his brother insisted. “They killed our father, remember?”

“All right,” the major agreed reluctantly. “But do exactly what I say and don’t take any foolish chances. These guys have already killed once and they won’t hesitate to do it again.”

The headlights of the tractor-trailer rig sliced through the fog that surrounded the Lexington Harbor that night. Clifford and David Lansing watched the truck U-turn to back into the pier loading section. Three figures waited for the vehicle.

“Carter’s truck,” the major told his brother as they hid behind the Octopus Inn near the lot. “And there’s Minton and his boys ready to meet it.”

Harrimon Carter and Mike Sumter emerged from the tractor and joined the other men at the rear of the truck. They opened it and all five hauled out an enormous bundle of netting from the trailer.

“You guessed right, Cliff,” David whispered. “Carter’s driver brought the nets from California, claiming they were hammocks. Now he’s brought them to Minton.”

“Yeah,” Lansing rasped. “Then Fred loads the nets on his garbage scow, cruises up Lake Huron to Canada and sells them to his connection up there.”

“That’s why Dad wanted to know if my company had a Canadian branch.”

The major nodded. “He hoped to get in touch with a Canadian insurance investigator. Minton and Carter plan to sell the nets to some shady operators with the Canadian fishing industry. The Maple Leaf boys will pay a bundle for the gear and still spend less than they would if they purchased it through a legitimate dealer.”

“Those nets are big, Cliff,” Dave remarked. “Real big. They couldn’t haul more that one of them in that truck.”

“That means they’ve either sold one or more to the Canadians or they have the others waiting for pick up with their confederates in California,” Lansing said. “Either way, they aren’t going to get away with their scheme. Find a telephone and call the police.”

“What are you going to do?” his brother demanded.

“I’ll make certain those bastards don’t leave before the cavalry arrives,” the major replied, drawing the .38 from its holster.

“Cliff...” David’s voice revealed his concern.

“I’ll be alright,” Lansing assured him. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, the younger man left.

Minton, Carter and their three henchmen loaded the net on the deck of the garbage scow. While the boat’s skipper showed Carter a map and explained the route they’d take to the Canadian coast, Sol and Jake walked to the warehouse.

“If nobody’s going to get wise to us hauling those nets up to Manitoulin Island,” Jake growled. “Why do we have to cover them up with dead fish and other crap?”

“No need in takin’ chances,” the bearded Sol shrugged. “A garbage scow full of garbage don’t look like much. So we’ll just...”

He didn’t complete the sentence as he stared at the warehouse. The heavy door had been pushed back.

“You didn’t open that sucker, did you?” Sol asked.

Jake shook his head. “It was closed before we went out to the truck. Maybe that black guy with Carter did it.”

“And maybe somebody else did,” Sol rasped, drawing a long bladed knife from a belt sheath.

“Yeah,” the other man agreed. He stared at the shadows within the warehouse as he knelt to pick up a stevedore’s hook.

His back was turned to Lansing when the major appeared from the corner of the building. His arm swung quickly and clubbed the walnut butt of the S&W revolver into the mastoid bone behind Jake’s ear. The big man fell with a grunt, his hook slipping from his grasp to skid across the floorboards within the warehouse.

Sol glimpsed the tall figure of Clifford Lansing a moment before the major snap-kicked him in the groin. The stevedore gasped in agony and doubled up. Lansing chopped the gun butt into the point of Sol’s bearded chin and knocked the man unconscious.

Suddenly, a large form sprang from the fog behind Lansing. He whirled as the heavy body collided into him. Both men stumbled across the threshold of the warehouse. A hard fist slammed into the side of Lansing’s head. Through a crimson blur, the major saw Mike Sumter’s white teeth grind together in concentration amid his ebony face. Sumter twisted the S&W out of the major’s grasp.

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.”