“You haven’t been married long enough to understand,” he called back. “Wait a few years and you’ll know more about that angle.”
“I’m already beginning to get a good inkling,” she told him viciously, but Shayne began running water in the lavatory and it was difficult to carry on a satisfactory quarrel with a man who couldn’t hear her scathing remarks.
Phyllis stepped out of a white silk slip and hung it with her office frock, then caught up a chenille dressing-gown and carried it across to a low bench in front of the dressing-table. She performed a simple gyration which resulted in the unhooking of her brassiere, then rolled down a flexible girdle and sat on the bench to unsnap hose from girdle supporters. She kicked off her slippers and rolled down hose and girdle to the floor. She stood up and posed before the mirror nude, vibrantly young and vibrantly aware of the beauty of her body, then slipped the chenille robe over her shoulders and belted it around her waist.
She sat down sedately before the mirror and began removing her make-up, keeping one ear cocked toward the sound of running water in the bathroom. The instant Shayne shut it off she cajoled through the open doorway:
“Tell me more about the girl, Michael. Did she have something to do with your phone call to New York-the information about the convict and the divorce and all?”
Shayne showed a lathered face in the doorway. He waved his razor and mumbled, “Tell you all about it later. You’re getting hot, though.”
“But, Michael-”
He withdrew his lathered face and she gave up trying to get any more information from him. She finished cleansing her face, then idly ran a comb through her black curls while she waited for her reticent husband to finish shaving.
She got up after a time and wandered over to the bedside table, got a cigarette and match from a metal box that stood between a French telephone and a decanter of cognac.
With the burning cigarette between her lips and the robe trailing out behind her slim figure, she went to the closet and selected a dinner gown of sea-foam green which she had lifted from its hanger. When she turned away from the closet she was less than two feet from the doorway leading into the living-room.
A man stood in the doorway. He held a revolver carelessly leveled at her waist.
Her lips emitted a startled, “Oh,” while she dropped the dinner gown and snatched her robe together in front.
Shayne’s voice came from the bathroom, “Are you getting impatient out there? Give me a couple more minutes and you can parboil yourself at leisure.”
The gunman’s eyes darted toward the bathroom. He jerked his head negatively at Phyllis and his finger tightened suggestively on the trigger of his cocked gun.
“It’s a-all r-right, Mike,” Phyllis managed to stammer. “Take all the time you want. Don’t you want to-to shower before you come out?”
The man with the gun nodded his approval. He had thin lips and sharp, pallid features. He wore a belted coat and white flannels, neither of which had been recently pressed.
“What occasions this sudden change of heart?” Shayne asked suspiciously from the bathroom. “What about these weeks on end when I haven’t been able to take a bath because I could never get the bathroom to myself long enough?”
“D-Don’t be silly,” Phyllis reproved him shakily. “Go ahead and take all the time you want. I’m going to smoke a cigarette in the living-room.”
The gunman moved backward out of the doorway, motioning Phyllis to follow him. She took a step forward, then threw herself sideways with a desperate grab for his gun hand.
He threw her off with a surprised oath, driving his left elbow against her chin. She cried out sharply as she reeled back against the door casing.
“What the devil goes on out there?” Shayne called. “Sounds like you’ve been into my cognac again. You know you’re too young to get the habit.”
The man was crouched before her with a warning snarl on his thin lips. Behind him Phyllis glimpsed another burly figure moving forward. She forced herself to laugh and called out:
“How do you know I’m not up to some of your tricks? I might be entertaining a couple of men friends while you’re all lathered up and can’t come out.”
Shayne’s appreciative laughter boomed from the bathroom. “Just so you don’t let me catch you at it, angel.”
The burly man circled Phyllis and put a hairy hand over her mouth. He swung her off her feet and carried her to a deep chair while his slighter companion pocketed his gun and followed, unwinding a roll of adhesive tape.
Phyllis tried to scream but it was too late now. She was thrust down into the chair, where she kicked and squirmed helplessly while her mouth was being efficiently taped shut, her wrists bound to the arms of the chair, and her bare ankles taped back securely to the legs.
“Hey, Phyl!” Shayne’s voice drifted into the living-room placatingly. “Where the devil have you hidden my clean undershirts? Here’s a dozen pairs of shorts but I can’t locate a single damned undershirt anywhere.”
The two intruders straightened up and moved silently toward the bedroom door. Phyllis’s eyes rolled after them but she was utterly helpless.
When he didn’t receive an immediate reply, Shayne complained, “I used to have plenty of undershirts.” His voice came closer to the doorway. “And don’t crack wise by reminding me I’m supposed to be a detective and should be able to find my own clothes. I used to do all right before you came along and started hiding my things.”
The men had separated to either side of the doorway. The thin-featured man drew his gun, and his burly companion pulled a short blackjack from his hip pocket.
Phyllis had to watch in silent agony while Shayne walked into the trap. He growled, “Why don’t you answer me, Phyl?” as he padded through the doorway naked except for a pair of shorts clinging to his narrow hips.
He stopped with a grunt of surprise when the muzzle of a. 45 was rammed into his belly. At the same instant, the blackjack chopped down viciously just behind and above his left ear.
He swayed and fell forward to his knees, getting the palms of his hands flat on the floor.
Both men stepped back and waited for him to go flat on his face. He didn’t. He remained bowed forward as though in silent genuflection, and his labored breathing was loud in the room.
His head began to come up in slow jerks, and the muscles beneath the bare skin of his back writhed as he fought to make them obey his will and lift his weight.
The man with the gun sucked in his breath and watched Shayne’s efforts to rise with professional interest. He said, “He’s tough, sure enough. Better sock ’im again, Joe.”
Joe leaned down and slammed his sap against the side of the redhead’s chin. This time Shayne went prone and stayed that way without moving.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shayne didn’t go into a complete blackout. He kept drifting away toward nothingness and jerking himself back from the abyss. The thought of Phyllis, gagged and bound in the chair as he had seen her when he entered the room, kept him from going completely under. He knew both the men were strangers. His one glimpse of their faces before the sap cut him down told him they were not members of any local mob. They looked like big-time boys. And that reminded him of Jim Lacy. His disconnected thoughts told him there must be a connection.
They were rolling him over, shaking him roughly. He kept his body limp and quiescent. His jaw felt as though it was broken, but he didn’t think it was. His head ached like hell but that didn’t worry him. It was a good tough head, and had weathered harder blows in the past.
Then they left him lying sprawled out with his face pressed down into the rug. He could hear voices and the scraping sound of furniture being moved about. As though they were searching for something.
The scrap of cardboard he had taken from Lacy’s clenched fingers!
That must be the answer. He wondered what would happen when they didn’t find it in the apartment. He held himself there on the floor without moving, si
mulating unconsciousness, waiting for strength to come back to his body.
There was a long period of that drifting away and returning to partial consciousness. Then, surprisingly clear and close, he heard a thin voice say, “No use wasting any more time looking. How hard did you sap this mug, Joe?” A toe nudged Shayne’s bare ribs.
“I guess I musta cold-cocked him that last time right,” a thicker voice admitted. “From what they say about him around here he’s easier handled that way than when he’s still on his feet.”
“He don’t look so tough now.” The toe went away from Shayne’s ribs, then came forward with careless force. He sucked in his breath sharply under the impact but made no movement to indicate he felt the kick.
“We got to get him out of his dope and make him talk,” the thin voice complained. “The paper said Lacy was still alive when he got to Shayne’s office.”
“Yeh.” Joe chuckled with malicious good humor. “An’ the cops can’t figure anything but that Shayne or his wife musta been in on the kill. That’s a hot one, hey, Leroy?”
“Let them keep on thinking that. If Lacy got to him alive, he spilled the whole lay. There wasn’t anything in the paper about the cops finding a funny-looking piece of cardboard on Lacy. That means Shayne stashed it before he called the cops-and he wouldn’t have done that ’less he knew why Lacy was carrying it. Let’s go to work on him and make him sing a song.”
That settled the question that had been bothering Shayne. His mind was alert now, hitting on all cylinders. He listened carefully for a further clue to the enigma of Jim Lacy’s death.
But Joe sidetracked the conversation. “What about the dame, Leroy?” His voice held a hopeful leer. “It’d be lots more fun workin’ on her than on him. She ain’t wearing nothing under that fancy robe.”
Leroy snarled. “Lay off the dame. She’s just right like she is with her mouth taped shut. Dames ain’t got any sense. She’d start screeching her tonsils out if we took that tape off.”
“Yeah. Reckon you’re right, Leroy.” Joe sounded disappointed. He insisted, “But it would be fun.”
“We’re not here to have fun. Help me turn this mug over so we can go to work on him. He’s been around. He’ll know better than to start anything-as long as we’ve got his frail tied up where we can make passes at her.”
“That’s an angle,” Joe exulted. “We wake him up and make him watch us go after her while she’s tied up. Sure, that’ll snap him out of it.”
Four hands got hold of Shayne and rolled him over on his back. He kept himself limp, eyes closed. A beer and garlic breath flowed into his nostrils. Close to his face, Joe muttered doubtfully, “I dunno, Leroy. Sometimes I don’t know my own stren’th when I swing a sap.”
“He’s still breathing,” Leroy said crisply.
They drew aside and held a whispered conversation. Shayne braced himself for whatever was coming. They were afraid to question Phyllis, and as long as they thought he was unconscious they’d probably leave her alone. But there’d be hell to pay if they once got his eyes open.
He heard stealthy movement beside him, then a glass of cold water was unexpectedly dashed in his face.
“That did it,” Leroy chuckled. “I swear I saw him jump. He’s playing dead. I know how to fix that.”
Shayne heard the scratch of a match. Heat came close to his left eyelid, unbearably close, singeing his shaggy brows. His head jerked involuntarily. He sat up and opened his eyes.
Leroy stepped backward and produced his. 45. The barrel was sawed off close to the cylinder, making it a handy and deadly pocket gun. Leroy’s eyes were ruthless, the eyes of a killer who delights in his work. He surveyed Shayne coldly and said, “I don’t want to use this. I won’t unless you make me.”
Shayne turned his head to look at Phyllis. She had stopped struggling to free herself. Her black eyes were dilated, luminous with encouragement. The top part of her robe had spread apart, revealing her smooth throat and the beginning swell of young breasts.
Shayne wrenched his eyes away from hers. Joe stood close beside him with a grin on his brutal face. He swung a short, leather-covered blackjack suggestively.
Shayne said, “All right. It looks like your party, boys. What the hell do you want?”
Leroy smiled thinly. “That’s using your head for something besides a target for Joe’s sap. All we want is what Jim Lacy handed you this afternoon.”
Shayne waggled his aching head and tenderly felt the lump on the side of his jaw. He muttered, “My brains still feel like hash. How’s for a drink to straighten me out? There’s a bottle on the table-and have one yourselves.”
“Sure. Pour him a drink,” Leroy directed. “But you lay off the stuff, Joe. This mug’s supposed to be pretty smart and we don’t want to make any more mistakes.” He moved back a pace and settled himself in a chair, balancing his baby cannon carefully on one knee and not taking his eyes off Shayne for an instant.
Joe went to the table and picked up the bottle of cognac. He scowled at the label and said, “Maybe there is a trick to it, Leroy. This ain’t no drinking liquor I ever heard of. Says cog-nack on the bottle.”
“That’s stuff the Frenchies make out of wine,” Leroy explained. “Pour him a slug of it.”
Shayne took the glassful Joe offered him and drank it down gratefully. He hunched forward and drew his feet up under him, sat cross-legged. He said, “A cigarette is all I need right now.”
Leroy nodded. “We’re not bad guys if you play it smart. Light him a cig, Joe.”
Joe gave him a lighted cigarette. Shayne inhaled deeply. Smoke trailed thinly from his nostrils as he said, “I haven’t seen you boys around before.”
“No,” Leroy agreed. “I guess you haven’t.”
“Sure you’re not making a mistake by barging in this way and getting rough?” Shayne persisted.
“We’re not making any mistake, shamus. You’ll be making a bad one if you don’t fork over that hicky Lacy gave you this afternoon.”
Shayne shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You better find out pretty quick.”
Shayne said, “Lacy was dead when he reached my office.”
“We won’t argue that angle. Maybe he was. Then you took it off him before the cops got there.”
Shayne shook his head again. “The cops got to him before I did. Read the papers.”
“Don’t stall us,” Leroy advised him with cold ferocity. “The cops found less than ten bucks on him. We know he was carrying folding money. Whoever lifted the jack lifted something else at the same time. We don’t give a damn about the money. We want that something else.”
“What?” asked Shayne with interest. Bare-legged and bare-torsoed, he looked peculiarly mild and harmless as he sat on the floor hunched forward, squinting at Leroy, but Leroy’s gun did not relax its vigilance for an instant. “What,” Shayne repeated, “did Jim Lacy have on him that you boys want so badly?”
“You know damn well,” Joe broke in heatedly. “We want his part of-”
“Shut up,” Leroy snarled. “If Shayne’s got it, he knows what it is we’re after. If he hasn’t got it, there’s no good in wising him up.”
“Try the cops,” Shayne suggested. “They’re the ones who went over Lacy and cleaned him.”
“The paper didn’t say anything about them finding what we want.”
Shayne laughed in Leroy’s face. “And the paper reported he had only about ten bucks on him, too,” he jeered. “Hell! get wise. Just because a man wears a uniform doesn’t mean he hasn’t got sticky fingers.”
“Maybe so,” objected Joe. “But the cops wouldn’t of known-”
“Shut up,” Leroy snarled again at his burly companion. “We didn’t come here for an argument,” he told Shayne. “Maybe you didn’t get to Jim Lacy first. Maybe you don’t know what we’re after.” He got up slowly, holding his gun level. “But we’re not leaving here till we’ve found out for certain. Stand behind h
im, Joe, and let him have it if he makes a move or lets out a yelp. Easy, though. I don’t want him passed out this time. I want him to keep his eyes open and see this.”
Joe took a spread-legged stance behind Shayne, his eyes glittering humidly as Leroy moved around behind Phyllis’s chair. Shayne’s head pivoted slowly, his eyes following the gunman’s movements.
Phyllis’s eyes were wide and staring. They implored her redheaded husband to remain calm and not consider her.
“She’s a cute little trick,” said Leroy softly. He patted Phyllis under the chin, then tweaked the top of her robe into a wider V.
“Mighty nice stuff for a lousy private dick to stake out all for himself,” he went on in a dangerously soft voice. “Why not divvy up with your pals, shamus? Maybe that’s what you’re going to do, huh? Joe and me, now, we don’t get a look at anything this nice very often.”
Sweat streamed from Shayne’s rocklike face. He remained hunched forward, motionless, but muscles writhed beneath the bare skin of his back like a litter of snakes in the hot sun. He could hear Joe breathing loudly behind him with a sharp, slobbering sound. Phyllis’s eyes held his. Without speaking, she was crying out to him that she didn’t matter, that they couldn’t hurt her.
“Watch him, Joe,” Leroy counseled sharply. “He’s not going to take much more of this. How about it, Shayne? Do you talk, or do I untie this gal’s belt and really give Joe a look? Joe’s funny. He’s not like you and me that can take a woman or leave her alone. Once Joe gets started-”
Shayne’s body lunged forward. Joe’s blackjack was a split second slow. It thudded against his shoulder as he whirled and drove a fist into Joe’s face. Joe stumbled backward, and Shayne swung toward Leroy.
The gunman stepped from behind Phyllis’s chair, crouched with the. 45 in front of him. “Don’t do it, Shamus,” he panted. “I’ll blast you, so help me.”
Shayne’s lips came back from his teeth in a grin that was more animal than human. He took a step forward and his eyes were mad. “You’ll have to blast me, Leroy. There’s no other out.”
The Corpse Came Calling ms-6 Page 4