Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

Grimes sighed. “That’s him all right. We tried to get him to get a haircut down at the jail and he threatened to sue.” He stared at his notebook for a second. “All right. I’ll go through this again. I’ll have him down at City Hall at nine in the morning.” He looked at her. “You can formally identify him.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

“I gotta tell you, Ma’am, Mr. Matson isn’t a shrinking violet. He’s got lots of power behind him.”

“I am not the least bit afraid of him, Sergeant. His son is mentally sick and should be treated accordingly. Doesn’t the boy work or go to school?”

“No Ma’am. He dropped out of high school a couple of years ago and hasn’t done anything since.”

“Except get involved in drugs and steal my purse,” she snapped. “Why in the world do you allow, people like that to roam the streets?”

Grimes started to answer the question, then evidently realizing that he had no good answer, merely nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. In fact, I’ll pick you up if you like. About ten of nine?”

“Fine.”

He stood up, smiled briefly and left.

Vivian went over to the tank, pulled the cover aside and looked in at George who was stretching himself on a rock. “George,” she said, “I have the feeling that we aren’t going to get anywhere in this Matson thing.”

George who was voiceless, seemed to understand. His antenna quivered a bit, seemingly sending out the timeless message; you can’t fight City Hall.

Greg Matson at nineteen, did indeed resemble a rat with black, curly hair that sprang out of his head in all directions. His last haircut was at the age of twelve. He had a thin, tight, sharp-featured face that could be menacing or innocent looking. He was wearing the uniform of the night people — dungarees, dirty shirt and bare feet.

Vivian, completely composed and sharply dressed in a brown outfit, sat down in the interrogation room and pointed a steady finger at a young Matson. “That is the person who took my purse last night.”

Matson, who was standing between his father and Grimes, wore an expression of injured innocence. “I did not,” he whined. “I was home watching TV.” He looked pleadingly at his father. “Wasn’t I Dad?”

“Certainly!” exclaimed the older Matson, a broad, puffy-looking man with a large featured face and full head of gray hair. He looked severely at Vivian. “I’m sick and tired of my son being blamed for every crime in the city.”

“That is the person who took my purse last night.” Her words were almost spelled out.

Matson, who had pushed, shoved, connived his way through the years to a pretty good job in the city government, was taken aback by this slip of an old lady who apparently was unimpressed by his position in life. He tried again. “Madam, I am a lawyer, and my enemies will tell you that I’m a tiger in the courtroom. I am convinced that, my son had nothing to do with the loss of your purse — if, indeed you did lose your purse.”

“I did,” she said coolly. “Your precious son took it.”

He eyed her grimly. “Are you sure you’re not a member of the opposition party trying to discredit me? As you probably know, I’m running for Supervisor in the coming election.”

“I’m not going to vote for you,” she said. “And I’m not in politics.”

“We’re ready for him, George.”

She spent the rest of the day rereading one of Tom’s early detective novels.

After supper, she sat down next to the telephone and sipped a cup of tea. George made himself comfortable on a pile of dirt. They waited.

The telephone rang at eight-thirty. She flipped the recorder switch to ON position and pressed the RECORD button, then picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hey ole lady,” came the sneering voice. “You’re wasting your time calling the cops. My ole man’ll take care of them, you—”

She listened calmly to the parade of obscenity that followed, her eyes on the turning tape and the blinking red light on the recorder.

“Why,” she interrupted, “are you doing this to me, Matson?”

“I don’t like you. Maybe for a hundred bucks, I’d like you.”

“Not on your life. I wouldn’t give you a penny.”

“You—! you better not walk around the streets after dark, ole lady! I’ll—”

She let him record for a few minutes longer, then hung up. She played back the recording and found it to be a perfect reproduction.

The telephone rang again. She picked up the receiver and heard Matson’s voice again. After putting the recorder on RECORD again, she smiled. “Hello, Matson.”

She recorded his tirade for a few minutes, then hung up. She then called Grimes. The recorder was still recording.

“Grimes, I have a recording of young Matson’s phone calls, two of them. I’d like you to listen to them — and you might get his father to listen too.”

“You sure now?”

“Yes. Will nine in the morning at the police station be all right?”

“Yes,” he sighed.