Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963

“Ninety if he’s a day. He came down from Georgia someplace and settled here way back when. Tried to find gold or the Fountain of Youth or something. But he hung onto his acres and I’ll bet Point Lomar is almost all his as far as the eye can see. With all the buildings gone up around there in the last ten years, the old boy must be worth a mint.”

“Why do they call him Hat?”

Timothy Rourke laughed. “It’s a bit of the Old South, Mike. He once shot the hat off a guy who didn’t take his lid off when he passed a lady. Became a legend up at Point Lomar. Hat Raymond’s first name was something like Ebenezer.”

“Gentleman of the old school, huh?”

“Hat Raymond is the old school, Mike.”

Shayne’s rangy body grew restive behind the wheel. The road was racing by as the car gobbled up miles. Hat Raymond’s strange call filled Shayne’s mind. His thoughts were full of oldtimers, Florida’s history and how the land had changed since the old man’s time. Modern buildings springing up all over the good green Florida soil; the population boom that had reached astronomical figures. Progress was rolling on, leaving the Hat Raymonds behind. Man, was indeed, not as permanent as concrete nor as durable as a palm tree.

Point Lomar sprawled ahead. Tall, white buildings formed on the horizon. As small as the area was, one had the impression of entering a vestpocket edition of a city. Before he reached the white billboards that proclaimed entrance, a fork in the highway proudly announced Point Lomar.

Shayne took the cut, finding a climbing road that left the Atlantic at his back. Through a mass of trees, he spied the house. It was a ranch type edifice set on a rise overlooking Point Lomar. Shayne shifted into low gear and cruised up to the sun-drenched lawn that bordered the place.

He realized how quiet everything was when he cut the engine. Silence settled over the scene. A hawk cried in the trees behind the house. Shayne dismounted and walked quickly toward the gate. There was no one in sight. He had rather expected the old man to be sitting on the portico in a wheel chair or a rocker, waiting for him.

There were screens on all the windows and the front door hung open. Shayne, vaguely curious, hurried his step.

He nearly stumbled over the old man’s body at the base of the steps leading up to the portico. He halted, his eyes taking in a quick survey of the scene.

Hat Raymond, if indeed it was he, was lying crumpled on the ground. A trickle of blood was coursing down the leathery old face.

But Hat Raymond was still breathing — and alive.

Mike Shayne bent over him quickly, his irritation dissolving into genuine anger.

II

The old man said feebly, “No, no doctors, Shayne,” when he finally came awake. Shayne’s first aid had consisted mainly of cold water, wrist-rubbing and moving Hat Raymond onto the portico where a lounge served as a place to lie down. “Cowards. Sneaking up on an old man and hitting him from behind. They’ll kill me yet.”

Shayne had not missed the broken section of portico railing. A splintered rail of wood dangled crazily. “Easy, Hat. It’s only a bump but don’t stir yourself.”

“You are Shayne?” Raymond rubbed his head, winced and cocked an eye at his rescuer. His face was as leathery and timeless as the Florida sands.

Shayne nodded, eyes surveying the portico.

“Tell me what you remember, Hat. If you don’t want a doctor, you must be up to questions. Did you see anything at all?”

“Ahhh!” The old man looked sour. “They can’t kill an old duffer like me. I was out here, waiting on you, figuring it was high time you showed and powie, something hit me.”

“Were you alone in the house?”

“Course I was. Didn’t I tell you Effie and Tod were coming back tonight from Tampa?”

“Sure you did,” Shayne said kindly. “Your granddaughter and her husband. Just checking! I see the broken railing but maybe you’d better get to your reason for wanting me to come. It looks like you might need some protection at that.”

The old man shuddered. “Should have had my hat on. That bump hurts some. Well, Shayne, I need you all right. What about a drink?”

“Later,” Shayne said patiently. “I want to hear your story first.”

“Impatient cuss, huh?” Hat Raymond chuckled. “I figured as much. Okay, here’s the picture. I made out a new will leaving all my money, and it’s considerable, to my granddaughter. That’s Effie. You’ll see her later, and that new husband of her’s. That’s Tod Bascom. Which is all right with me — I’m glad to see Effie married. But you see, Shayne, I started writing her about six months ago and then told her about the will.

“Before I knew it,” the old man was scowling, “she’d gotten married and came down here with her husband to live with me. I didn’t invite them — but I didn’t mind. I figured it would give me a chance to make up to my granddaughter for all the years we’ve been apart.” Hat Raymond paused, slightly crestfallen.

“Don’t stop now,” Shayne urged gently.