Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1. September 1956
Full Cycle-New Birth
With publication of this first issue of Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine, my Miami character completes the full cycle in print. At the moment, I cannot think of any other publication medium through which Mike can reach readers in the United States, or in the ten foreign countries where his cases have been translated for many years.
I am both proud and gratified that my long-time and valued friend, Leo Margulies, is the publisher and sole owner of this magazine. It is a project that both Leo and I have held in our minds and hearts for many years. But we have waited patiently for the exact moment when the signs were right, when the many and varied elements essential to the production and distribution of a truly fine mystery magazine coincided to make the project feasible.
We are glad, now, that we waited for this moment. I sincerely believe that Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine is the finest periodical of its kind available to the American reader today. I believe, also, that the stories between its covers are a fair sample of what you, the reader, may expect in future issues. We hope to make this the sort of magazine that the millions of Mike Shayne fans throughout the world want to read. Whether you feel that we have achieved our purpose or have fallen short, it is our hope that you will help us by writing a letter to tell us what you like or dislike about this first issue.
Mike has sold more than 14,000,000 copies in the United States. We don’t expect 14,000,000 letters, or even 14,000 — but, for myself, I hope you break the mailman’s back.
Bring Back a Corpse!
by Brett Halliday
Shayne didn’t want to take on the job of finding Homer Wilde’s vanishing business manager. But Lucy Hamilton was one of the great TV star’s adoring fans. So, within fourteen hours, the redheaded detective found himself winging his way to New York on a Super-Constellation. Assignment—
I
Michael Shayne had never seen his secretary look so happily flustered. She sat in her desk chair beyond the low railing, smiling at the telephone mouthpiece. She was saying, “But it’s too early. Mr. Shayne never gets in before ten in the morning and I—”
Her head was pulled sharply around at his abrupt entrance. She swallowed hard and stuttered, “Just a moment, please. Mr. Shayne just came in,” then cupped her hand over the phone and said in a small, awed voice, “It’s Homer Wilde, Michael. Take it in your office quick.”
Shayne crossed to the railing in two unhurried strides and leaned an elbow on it, grinning indulgently down at Lucy. “You talk to him, Angel. You seemed to be doing all right when I interrupted.”
“Please, Michael,” she begged. “Don’t you understand? It’s Homer Wilde himself. He wants to see you.”
“For what?” Shayne shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack and stuck it between his lips.
“I don’t know. But it must be awfully important for him to call you so early. He wants you over at his hotel on the Beach right after his broadcast tonight.”
Shayne yawned and put fire to his cigarette and said, “The hell he does. Tell him to hunt up another errand boy.”
Lucy Hamilton’s brown eyes blazed at Shayne. Gurgling sounds were coming from the phone, and she removed her hand to say in a dulcet tone, “Yes, Mr. Wilde. I’m terribly sorry, but Mr. Shayne is tied up just for the moment. I’ll have him call you right back, if you’ll give me your number.”
She listened to more gurgling sounds, biting her lower lip anxiously. “I see,” she said. “Of course. Just one second.”
Again she covered the mouthpiece and turned her head to glare up at her red-headed employer. “He doesn’t want you to call him. He just wants you to get over there before midnight.”
Smoke wreathed from Shayne’s nostrils and the irritating grin remained on his rugged face. “Tell him to go jump in the ocean,” he said pleasantly.
“Michael, if you don’t...” Lucy gritted her teeth and turned back, uncovered the phone to say, “Yes, Mr. Wilde. Mr. Shayne will be delighted. Suite Six forty-two? He’ll be there.” She slammed the instrument down and stood up to confront Shayne defiantly.
“Mike, I’ll never, never forgive you if you don’t even go over to see what Mr. Wilde wants. Maybe... I could even meet him in person, if he retains you.”
Shayne’s grin faded slowly, to be replaced by a baffled expression. “I never knew you were like that, Lucy. My God! Wilde is nothing but—”
“Nothing but the most important and best-loved television personality in the country,” she interrupted, bitingly. “That’s all he is. Every girl I know would gladly give her right arm to meet him. That’s all!”
Shayne said, “I’ll be triple-damned.” He clawed strong fingers through his coarse red hair, shaking his head in perplexity. “I never thought—”
“You just never think, period!” she interrupted again, more violently. “Well, I’m a female human being even if you don’t realize it, Michael Shayne. If you don’t go over to the White Sapphire Hotel tonight I’ll never speak to you again in my life.”
Shayne grinned again, this time with real mirth. He straightened his tall frame and leaned over the railing to crook his forefinger beneath Lucy’s firm chin.
“The White Sapphire it is, angel. Shall I bring you his autograph?”
“You can tell him I’m one of his greatest fans and am dying to meet him,” she responded promptly. “I do hope it’ll be a long assignment.”
Shayne shrugged and said, “Relax, Lucy. I’ll go. Now, let’s forget about Homer Wilde and get to work.” But strangely enough, as the day went on, the detective found it difficult to keep Wilde out of his thoughts. He had never seen the television performer because he didn’t even own a set, but he knew who Homer Wilde was, of course.
No one who read a newspaper could fail to know something about him — especially in Miami, where the star broadcast his nationwide shows several times during each winter season.
But he didn’t know what to expect when he entered the Miami Beach hotel suite at five minutes past midnight, though it certainly wasn’t what he found on the other side of the door — a short, slender, curly-haired man with an engaging awkwardness of gesture and a face whose normal night club pallor was masked by a blistering red sunburn.
He gripped Shayne’s hand firmly and lowered long lashes over his eyes with an odd, self-conscious coyness as he exclaimed. “This is simply great of you, Shayne. It’s Mike, isn’t it? I know all about you, Mike. Read every one of those excellent books your friend Halliday writes about your cases. Great stuff. Say, now...” Stepping back to look up appreciatively at the rangy redhead, “How’d you like to appear as a guest on my show next week in New York, Mike? You’d kill the people. You’d really be a natural. How about it?”
Shayne shook his head and said, “Sorry, fellow. You stick to your last, and I’ll stick to mine.” His voice hardened. “That isn’t why you got me over here, is it?”
“As a matter of fact — no. It struck me just now when I got a look at you.” Wilde turned and strode up and down the thick carpet, thrusting hands deep into the pockets of his cream-colored slacks.
“I’m in a jam, Mike. My business manager is missing. Ben Felton. Been with me for years. Just disappeared into the blue. You got to find him quick.”