The Corpse That Never Was

by Brett Halliday

  He hung up, still staring down at Joe Grogan’s picture. Then he called the number for James R. Norris and got a cheerful, youthful voice in reply.

  “This is Michael Shayne, Mr. Norris. I understand you know Paul Nathan quite well.”

  “The detective? Say, that was terrible last night, wasn’t it? I was the one who told Paul. Just ran into him by chance at a joint on the Beach, and he hadn’t even heard the news.”

  Shayne said, “I know. I think you also had a drink with him last evening after you left the office together?”

  “Let’s see. Yesterday? That’s right. There were two or three of us…”

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Shayne cut him off.

  “Well… I… Let’s see. It’s about four-thirty…”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” suggested Shayne. “I’ve got a couple of things to do. About six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock? Sure. Where can I meet you?”

  “How about the Red Cock? I’m having dinner there.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you at six.”

  “Ask the bartender. He knows me.”

  “Oh, I’ll recognize you, Mr. Shayne.” Norris sounded youthfully eager. “Your picture has been in the paper often enough.”

  Shayne hung up and called Lucy Hamilton to ask her to meet him for dinner at the Red Cock at six. She was delighted to accept the invitation, and he finished his drink and then had a fast shave and shower and changed into fresh clothes for the evening.

  It was a little after five when he drove out West Flagler Street beyond the F.E.C. railroad tracks and stopped in front of a dingy apartment building. He climbed up one flight and went to the rear of the building and knocked on a flimsy door behind which he could hear the muted sound of folk music.

  A thin-faced young man opened the door onto a large untidy studio room with windows along the entire north wall. He was in his shirtsleeves and was barefooted; his hair was awry and his white duck pants were smeared with daubs of paint. A couple of easels occupied prominent places in the room, and the walls of the studio were hung with paintings and prints, mostly of female nudes. He was one of the most successful free-lance commercial artists in the city and a friend of long standing.

  He exclaimed with pleasure, “Mike Shayne, the demon sleuth! Come in and rest your ass and I’ll dig up a drink. Burgundy, huh? The budget doesn’t run to cognac these days.”

  Shayne stepped inside and grimaced. “I’d have brought a bottle, Peter, if I’d thought about it.”

  Peter Holding went to a cupboard and rummaged inside, triumphantly turned around with a gallon jug half full of domestic burgundy and two water glasses. “This stuff goes farther than cognac.” He sloshed red wine into a glass and handed it to the redhead. “I see you’ve been in the headlines again.”

  “I’ve got a job for you, Peter.” Shayne got the photograph of Joe Grogan from his pocket and showed it to the artist. “Can you put a small, dark mustache on this guy and sketch in a pair of blue-tinted horn-rimmed glasses?”

  Holding studied it professionally. “I could do a better job if the face were blown up about twice that size.”

  “You can blow it up, can’t you?”

  “Sure. I do all my own photographic work here.” He drank wine from his glass and shot an intent glance at the detective. “Some miscreant trying to disguise himself?”

  “We may end up with a picture of the guy who blew his head off with a shotgun last night.”

  “That one?” Peter looked at the photo with new interest, then began shaking his head. “I don’t believe it. This guy likes life.”

  Shayne sighed. “It’s a wild shot in the dark,” he agreed. “I don’t know how you’ll work this, Peter, but what I’d like as an end result is an actual print of him wearing a mustache and glasses. So it isn’t clearly evident that it’s been painted on. That always throws a witness off. When they see it’s been doctored, they always start thinking what he looked like before it was doctored.” He gestured vaguely. “See what I mean?”

  “Sure. There’s nothing to it, Mike. I’ll first photograph the head from this and make an eight by ten. I’ll put the mustache and glasses on that print, and then rephotograph it and reduce it to about a normal four by six.”

  “How long will that take?” Shayne asked dubiously.

  “Couple of hours I can give you a finished print.”

  Shayne said, “It’s worth a hundred bucks if I can pick it up by eight.”

  “Sold! To the highest bidder,” said Peter Holding enthusiastically. “If you’re not going to drink that dago red, just set it down and I’ll get around to it later.”

  It still lacked a few minutes of six o’clock when Shayne entered the cocktail lounge at the Red Cock. He didn’t see Lucy at any of the tables, and went to the bar where the bartender nodded to him and set a double shotglass in front of him which he filled with cognac. He added a glass of ice water on the side and Shayne said, “No one asked for me, Ed?”

  “Not yet this evening, Mr. Shayne.”

  “I’m expecting Miss Hamilton and a fellow whom I don’t know to meet me here. Jim Norris.”

  “I don’t believe I know him by name.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll take my drink over to a table, and make a dinner reservation. If Miss Hamilton shows up, have her sit down and order a drink.”

  He carried the glasses over to a table in one corner, and then sauntered through a side door to the dining room entrance.

  The maitre was there with his reservation book, and he greeted the detective affably, “A table, Mr. Shayne?”

  “In about half an hour. For two, André.” Shayne waited until he made a notation in his book, and then asked, “Do you have a customer named Paul Nathan?”

  “You mean for dinner tonight, Mr. Shayne?”

  “Not necessarily. I mean, does he often eat here?”

  “Mr. Nathan? Once a week, perhaps. Last evening, I think.”

  “Would you see if he had a reservation?”

  André raised his eyebrows, but turned two pages back in his book. “At six-thirty. For two, Mr. Shayne.”

  “Do you remember the woman who was with him?”

  André considered this carefully. “She has accompanied him before, I think. Young and pretty. Quite petite.”

  Shayne nodded his thanks and turned back into the lounge. Lucy Hamilton was just seating herself at the table where he had left his drink, and Ed was hovering over her. Shayne went to the table and sat down and Lucy smiled at him expectantly, and said, “I stayed at the office until three, but you didn’t come back.”

  He said, “I’ve been busy all day,” and then looked up at a tall, handsome young man who was bearing down on him with a wide, white-toothed smile. “It is Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?”

  Shayne stood up and shook hands, receiving one of those offensively bone-crushing handclasps which he resented, particularly from athletic young men. He said, “Jim Norris?” and then, “My secretary, Miss Hamilton.”

  Norris sat down as Ed brought Lucy a Tom Collins, and ordered Dewar’s on the rocks. He said, “You wanted to talk to me about Paul Nathan, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne pulled his cognac and ice water in front of him. “I understand he was having an affair with a girl in the office,” he said bluntly.

  “Oh. You mean Suzie Conroy? Not really an affair, I think.” Norris shook his head condescendingly. “She’s a cute little thing. Only been with us a month or six weeks. I think Paul’s taken her out to dinner a couple of times. He’s… he was… pretty much married, you know. The old man’s daughter.” He smiled in a man-to-man way.

  “You mean he walked a straight line?”

  “Pretty much. At least that’s my impression. I only saw his wife once or twice at the office. Never socially. But Paul used to talk about having one night out a week.” His scotch came and he lifted his glass toward them. “Cheers.”

  “Is Paul Nathan left-handed?”

  “No.” Norris’s rep
ly was prompt and unequivocal.

  “You had a drink with him after work last night?”

  “Two or three of us went out to a bar. He didn’t stay long. I believe he did mention he was meeting Suzie for dinner and we kidded him a little. Said he’d better not let Elsa find out.” Norris winced as he spoke her name. “Seems queer now… after what happened last night. Do you suppose he… suspected what was going on?”

  “I was going to ask you that.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I wondered since… he never showed any interest in any of the girls at the office until just recently with Suzie.”

  “What sort of girl is she?”

  “Cute. Quite pretty. Flirtatious, I’d say, but not fast.”

  “Good figure?” Shayne spoke absently. “How tall?”

  “Nice. About… your size, Miss Hamilton.”

  They finished their drinks and Jim Norris talked nervously about Paul and what a shock it had been to break the news to him last night. He’d accompanied him to the morgue, he said, to identify Elsa, and it had been a gruesome experience. He’d offered to go on home with Paul and spend the night, but Paul had refused. It was a hell of a nasty thing to happen, he kept reiterating.

  Shayne politely waited until Norris had finished his drink before thanking him for meeting them there and saying it was time he and Lucy were going in for dinner.

  Norris assured him it had been a pleasure, that he’d be glad to help any way he could because he certainly did feel sorry for Paul, and they left him in the bar ordering another drink for himself while they went in to a secluded corner table which André had reserved for them.

  Shayne ordered sidecars for them both this time, and Lucy propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands and said sweetly, “All right, Michael. You’re just bursting to talk about it, I can tell. What have you found out today?”

  He grinned ruefully, gave her a cigarette and took one for himself, lit them both and blew out a double stream of smoke from his nostrils.

  “Bits and pieces, Angel. One contradiction piled on top of another. You’re right about my wanting to talk about it. Maybe something will clarify itself if I put it in order and say it out loud.”

  The waiter brought their drinks and menus, and when he went away Shayne began talking slowly and thoughtfully, giving Lucy a complete and concise fill-in on his movements during the day while they each had another drink, ordered and ate a delicious dinner.

  They were dawdling with after-dinner coffee and cognac when he reached the end of his interview with Peter Holding, glanced at his watch and finished, “As soon as we’re finished here, we’ll stop by at Peter’s studio and pick up the picture he’ll have for us.”

  “Then you think Joe Grogan is actually Robert Lambert?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense at the moment. We’ll go to your place and see if the manager and Mrs. Conrad identify the picture with a mustache and glasses.”

  “But how can he be, Michael? You know he was at work on the Beach those two preceding Friday nights when Lambert was entertaining Mrs. Nathan in that apartment above me.”

  “I told you there were contradictions. But I’ve been thinking about that and I’ll have to check with the Hacienda. It’s my impression those croupiers work short shifts. Maybe only four hours. In that case, he may not go on until midnight.”

  “But Mrs. Conrad says they stayed in that room together until after midnight.”

  “She says the outer door remained closed and no one came out until after midnight each night.” Shayne hesitated, scowling. “There’s another way out. Down the fire escape.”

  “But why would anybody…?”

  “I haven’t gotten to the whys yet,” he said morosely. He paused. “I don’t even know whether Joe Grogan is left-handed or not. I’ll have to ask his wife.”

  “Who killed Max Wentworth?” she asked helplessly. “You said a left-handed man. But Lambert is already dead.”

  “I’m not too sure he is,” Shayne told her slowly.

  “Then who… was that you found?”

  “Maybe it was Joe Grogan lying there with his head blown off.”

  “You’re talking in circles, Michael.”

  “I’m thinking in circles,” he agreed with a wry smile. “I told you there were contradictions piled on top of contradictions. But somebody killed Wentworth, even if that was a legitimate suicide pact last night.”

  “It doesn’t have to be anyone connected with them. You said yourself that Max had lots of enemies.”

  “Sure. And Grogan may have just gone off on a binge and is still sleeping it off. But I’m on the edge of a hunch, Lucy. A crazy irrational hunch that won’t come straight.”

  “What’s bothering you, Michael,” she told him severely, “is that huge sum of money that Mr. Armbruster offered you to prove his son-in-law guilty. That’s why you refuse to accept the obvious.”

  He paid no heed to her. “Those notes,” he muttered angrily. “The wording of them. They don’t sound like a man named Joe Grogan… not one married to the woman I met this afternoon.”

  “Then he can’t have been Lambert,” Lucy pointed out patiently. “His signature on the rent receipt proves he wrote them.”

  Shayne said slowly, “Y-e-a-h. You’re right, Angel. Maybe you put your finger on something. Let’s drink up and get that picture from Peter.”

  Lucy had taken a taxi to the restaurant, so Shayne drove her to the studio on West Flagler Street and got out. “Do you mind waiting? If I take you up, Peter will insist that you drink some lousy burgundy while he makes passes at you.”

  She laughed and said, “I’ll wait,” and Shayne hurried inside. He emerged within five minutes and got under the steering wheel. He handed Lucy a still-damp 4x6 print, exulting, “He did a terrific job.”

  She held the picture to the light of a street lamp as he pulled away. “It certainly looks like an actual photograph. You’d never guess it had been tampered with.”

  When they stopped in front of Lucy’s apartment building and went in, Shayne asked her, “Does the manager live here?”

  “Mr. Barstow? Yes. He has the ground-floor apartment just to the right of the elevator.”

  Shayne said, “You go on up. I’ll try this on him and then be right with you. There’s another angle I want to figure out before we tackle Mrs. Conrad.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lucy had left her door ajar for him and Shayne had the photo in his hand when he entered five minutes later. He laid it down with a grimace, and answered her questioning look by reporting, “Your Mr. Barstow is a very cautious soul. Maybe… and maybe not. It could be Lambert, all right. But on the other hand…”

  “He only saw the man once, Michael.”

  Shayne growled, “I know. Let’s hope Mrs. Conrad does better.” He paused for a moment, rubbing his chin and regarding Lucy thoughtfully. “Let’s see if we can kill two birds with one stone. Suppose you come up the stairs with me, Lucy? We’ll peek and see if she’s in her room with the door open. If so, you stay back out of sight and take your high-heeled shoes off. I’ll go in her door and close it behind me and distract her attention by showing her the picture. You take this key to the Lambert apartment.”

  He produced the padlock key from his pocket and handed it to her. “As soon as I close her door, you go up quietly and unlock the door. You’ll find Mrs. Nathan’s wide black hat still lying on the table by the door where she put it last night. Get it and close the door and go back for your shoes. Put the hat on, pulling the brim down on the left side to conceal your face and let your heels go clackity-clack up the corridor. I’ll open her door so she can get a good look at you. Have you got that?”

  “I guess so,” she said uncertainly. “But I don’t see…”

  “It’s just an experiment,” he said hurriedly, “which may prove one thing I’d like to know. Come on.”

  He led her firmly out the door and up the flight of stairs, and at the top he peered down
the corridor and nodded with satisfaction when he saw Mrs. Conrad’s door standing open a foot or more and heard music coming out of her room.

  He squeezed Lucy’s arm and nodded reassuringly, left her standing there on the third step from the top taking off her shoes, while he strode down the hall; through the open door he saw Mrs. Conrad sitting inside her room in a strategic position where she had a clear view of the hallway.

  She recognized the detective and got to her feet as he paused at the open door, and he stepped quickly inside and pushed it shut behind him, saying, “I’m so glad to find you in, Mrs. Conrad. You can be a great help to me if you’re willing to.”

  “Of course, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been wondering and wondering…”

  “It’s this picture, Mrs. Conrad,” Shayne stayed between her and the closed door, extending the print. “I wish you’d look at it very carefully and see if you recognize it.”

  She took the picture from him and glanced at it, then nodded her head and spoke firmly and positively. “That’s him all right. That’s Mr. Lambert.”

  “You couldn’t be mistaken?”

  “I’ve got eyes in my head, haven’t I? I looked right at him across the hall there… not once but three times. How could I be mistaken?”

  “You may have to swear to it on the witness stand, Mrs. Conrad,” Shayne warned her gravely. “With a lawyer cross-questioning you and trying to get you confused. I want you to be very positive.”

  “I am. I’ve got a memory for faces. Oh, I’ll testify on the witness stand, all right.”

  Shayne said, “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Conrad. You’ll be a very important witness.” He took the print back from her and slid it into his coat pocket, then turned and reopened the door and glanced out into the corridor to see that it was clear and the door across the hall was properly closed.

  “Not many people using this hall tonight I guess.” At the end of the hall he saw a slender figure wearing a droopy black hat suddenly materialize from the stairway and start toward them. He stepped back to stand beside Mrs. Conrad so she could have a clear view through the open door, and heard the clack of high heels nearing them briskly.