The Corpse Came Calling ms-6

by Brett Halliday

  He walked aimlessly around the room, sipping the glass of cognac. After a time he got the Danube dinner check from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table. He drew his eyebrows down as he read Phyllis’s note again. He stood frowning at the piece of paper for a long time, then rummaged in a drawer for an airmail envelope.

  He sat down with a clean sheet of paper and wrote:

  Dear John: You should be able to bring out three sets of prints on the enclosed slip. They are mine, my wife’s, and those of a third party. Disregard mine (which are on file) and the lady’s prints. Wire me collect, immediately, anything you have on the third set.

  He signed the letter Michael Shayne and addressed the airmail envelope to John Bascom, Dept. of Identification, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

  He folded the dinner check carefully inside the letter and sealed them in the envelope, then finished his drink and went out

  He stopped at the desk and got a special-delivery stamp from the clerk, put it on the letter, and directed the clerk to send it out to the airport at once by messenger to catch the evening mail plane north.

  The clerk promised to attend to it, then asked Shayne, “Did I do all right when I brought the cops up to your apartment, Mr. Shayne? After that other man dying in your office this afternoon, I guess I was jumpy.”

  “You probably saved me from getting bumped off,” Shayne told him, and then asked curiously, “How about that dead man? You got me in plenty dutch when you told Painter he wasn’t wounded when he started upstairs.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shayne. I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t notice a thing when he stopped here and asked for your office. That is, he was hunched over and hugging himself and he looked sick, but I sure didn’t know he was practically dead. If you’d told me what to say, you know I’d have done it for you.”

  “Sure, I know you would. You didn’t tell them I was in, eh?”

  “No, sir. I knew that much, anyway. They asked me when I’d seen you last and I pretended I didn’t remember.”

  “You didn’t tell them about the girl you had sent up to my living-apartment?”

  “No, sir.” The clerk was emphatic. “You know I never tell anyone anything about your affairs. I’ve been here long enough to realize how important it is to keep my mouth shut.”

  Shayne told him that was swell, and not to neglect getting the special-delivery letter off.

  The clerk was calling a messenger when he left the lobby. Shayne drove across the bay again, stopped at the Tropical Hotel just a block beyond the eastern terminus of the causeway. He strode through the lobby to the elevators and went up to 416.

  He hesitated in front of the door when he saw it standing ajar. There was no light in the room. He knocked lightly but there was no response. He inched the door open and stretched a long arm inside, finding the wall switch.

  When the lights came on he pushed the door inward all the way against the wall, then stepped inside and looked around the empty hotel bedroom carefully.

  The room had the normal appearance of having been occupied by a man for several days, one who had gone out expecting to return soon. There were toilet articles in the bathroom, a folded newspaper on the bed, and an open Gladstone in one corner.

  The newspaper was the previous Sunday’s New York Mirror. It was folded back at page fourteen, and a portion of the page had been cut out. A piece two columns wide and about eight inches long.

  Shayne picked up the paper and studied it, seeking to find whether any portion of the cut-out item had been left to give a clue to the nature of the clipping. There was nothing to help him identify the portion that was gone, and he was laying the paper down when he heard a noise at the door of the room.

  He turned his head slowly, making no other movement.

  The blued muzzle of a service automatic showed in the crack. Then a hand and an arm became visible. Finally the figure of a man wearing a neat gray suit. He had steady gray eyes that looked at Shayne from beneath the brim of a Panama hat, and pleasant, strong features. He held the automatic in a firm grip as he stepped toward Shayne. He spoke pleasantly enough, though his features were set in hard, uncompromising lines.

  “Turn around slowly and put both your hands flat on the wall above your head,” he commanded.

  Shayne turned around slowly and put both his hands flat against the wall above his head. He said, “I don’t know who you are but I have a hunch we might get together if you’ll let me do some talking.”

  The man behind him said, “You can talk all you want to, but don’t make a move away from that position.”

  Shayne complained, “I hate to introduce myself to a man when he’s holding a gun on me.”

  The telephone rang stridently from its stand on his left. He turned his head to see his captor step forward and pick up the instrument.

  He was not more than two feet from Shayne, but he watched the detective coldly, the heavy-caliber automatic steady in his right hand. He said a crisp “Hello” into the mouthpiece, listened a moment, then said incisively:

  “Pearson talking. I’ve been watching Lacy’s room from across the hall and just caught a man ransacking it. I suggest that you send a man-”

  Shayne dropped his body low and to the left. His shoulder struck the speaker’s hips. The automatic went off once as Shayne’s big hand closed over it and prevented the recoil mechanism from closing. The two men went to the floor together and the telephone bounced off to one side.

  Shayne drove his left fist to the point of the man’s jaw. He got up with the automatic in his hand, and Pearson lay on the floor motionless.

  Shayne picked up the telephone and said, “Hello,” simulating Pearson’s curt tone as well as he could.

  He stiffened with surprise when Peter Painter’s voice nagged at him over the wire. “What the devil’s going on up there? Everything under control?”

  Shayne said, “Perfectly,” and waited to hear more.

  “It sounded like a struggle,” Painter’s voice was reproving, as though he didn’t care for struggles. “What were you saying about catching a man in Lacy’s room?”

  “Your stooge caught the wrong man,” said Shayne in disgust, resuming his normal voice. “Those dumb clucks of yours ought to know me by this time. He’s out cold, and I’ve got his gat.”

  “My-stooge?” There was horror in Painter’s tone. “My God! Is that you, Shayne? Have you knocked Pearson out?”

  “Why not? He walked in here and stuck a gun in my face without giving me a chance to explain.”

  “You fool,” panted Painter. “Now you have stuck your neck out, Shayne. That isn’t one of my men. That’s Mr. Pearson, special agent from Washington. You can’t knock the FBI around.”

  Shayne laughed angrily. He said, “This is a hell of a time to be telling me that.” He dropped the receiver onto its prongs and stood on wide-spread feet looking down at Pearson with a frown.

  He shook his head, worrying the lobe of his left ear. He glanced down at the automatic still gripped in his hand, then slid the clip out and ejected the loaded cartridge from the firing-chamber. He tossed the unloaded weapon on the bed, walked over to Jim Lacy’s suitcase in the corner, knelt down, and began pawing through it.

  Heavy feet trotted up to the door and stopped outside. Shayne straightened warily, then grinned at the worried face of the Tropical Hotel’s house detective.

  He said, “Hello, Bowman. Come in and join the party.”

  Bowman opened and closed his mouth twice before he was able to stammer, “Sounded like a shot from up here.”

  Shayne said, “It sounded like what it was.” He jerked his head toward the supine figure of Pearson. “That bird took a shot at me and I had to cool him off.” He turned the Gladstone upside down and shook its contents out on the floor.

  Over his shoulder, he suggested, “You might start pouring some water over him. But don’t try too hard to bring him to because I want to get finished here first.”

  CHAPTER
NINE

  House detective Bowman was a paunchy man with a sagging dewlap of flesh under his chin. His complexion had the mottled look of one who suffers from chronic liver sluggishness, and his thick lips showed a tendency to pout.

  He sighed mournfully and shook his head at Shayne’s back. “You shouldn’t do things like this, Mike. Honest to God, I don’t know what gets into you.”

  “Things like what?” Shayne was on his knees going through the contents of Lacy’s bag.

  “Like socking this guy in the puss. You know who he is?”

  “Should I?”

  “He’s a G-man. Straight from Washington.” Bowman went over and squatted down beside Pearson.

  “So?”

  “There’ll be hell to pay,” Bowman grunted. “You know how these government boys are-specially now with the war going on.”

  Shayne kept his back turned, disappointed by the negative result of his search. He asked absently, “How are they, Bowman?”

  “Damn it, Mike, you can’t push ’em around like you do the locals.”

  “Can’t I?” Shayne got up and turned away from the suitcase with a look of disgust on his face.

  “You know damn well you can’t.” Bowman got up from beside Pearson. “He’ll be out of his dreams in a couple of minutes. What’s the angle on all this?”

  Shayne stood in the center of the room, punishing the lobe of his uninjured ear and frowning. “I wish I knew. Give me your end. Maybe if we started from both ends and worked toward the middle we’d get something.”

  “I haven’t got any end.” Bowman spread out thick hands. “Painter tipped me off that the feds were interested in this guy James and that this agent was coming over to check his room. That’s all I know.”

  “What’s your dope on James?”

  “Nothing. He checked in from New York a couple days ago. Been in and out, but that’s all. Damn it, Mike,” the worried house detective broke out explosively, “unbutton your lip and give me something to go on.”

  Shayne asked, “When did you see James last?”

  “He was in this afternoon. Until about four o’clock.”

  “Are you positive of the time?”

  “Yeh. Because he and some dame had an argument. I had to come and knock on the door to quiet ’em down. He went out pretty quick after that.”

  “And the dame?”

  Bowman shook his head. “I dunno,” he said evasively. “You know how it is here on the Beach. A man brings a skirt up for a drink or whatnot in his room. We don’t bother him as long as he keeps it quiet.”

  Shayne said, “Sure, I know. And if the guy doesn’t know where to find the girl you can steer him right. Don’t tell me you weren’t laying for her to collect your percentage when she left.”

  Bowman’s face became a mottled red. “She wasn’t a regular. Aw, Mike, you know I never-”

  “House dick or pimp,” Shayne snorted. “What’s the difference?” His eyes searched the room carefully, saw nothing that he had not seen at first. His gaze stopped on Pearson’s face. An eyelid was twitching and he was beginning to make gurgling noises with his breathing.

  Shayne stepped to the door, suggested, “Throw a glass of water in his face after I’ve scrammed.” He paused, grinning at the pained look on Bowman’s face. “You haven’t seen me,” he explained. “I’d beat it before you got here after hearing the shot. You don’t have to know anything.” He went out swiftly and down the corridor in long-legged strides.

  An elevator was stopping to let out passengers. Shayne trotted past and around the corner as Peter Painter and two plain-clothes men got off and started for 416. He kept on to the stairway, went down swiftly, crossed the lobby to the switchboard, and said, “Hi, toots,” to a green-eyed girl who was wearing earphones and manipulating the plugs.

  She started an impersonal smile in his direction, gave a start, and broadened her smile into the real thing. “For the love of Mike Shayne,” she caroled. “Look who’s here.”

  “I’ve got to have something fast, babe. A record of the calls from four-sixteen around four o’clock. Quick before the law catches up with me.”

  She said, “I might have guessed you were around when I saw the squad go trooping up a minute ago.” She consulted a large ruled sheet clipped to a board in front of her. “Four-sixteen? Here’s one to Miami at three fifty-seven. And-”

  “Do you have that number?”

  “Sure.” She gave him the telephone number of his hotel. “And there was a local call went out at four-oh-four. That was a couple of minutes after four-sixteen trotted through the lobby like he had to get somewhere fast. I noticed particularly, because I thought it was funny-”

  “You don’t keep a record of the numbers on local calls?”

  “No.”

  “Man or woman’s voice-the last call?”

  “Woman’s. I noticed that, too, because four-sixteen is single, and-”

  Shayne said, “Thanks, toots. That’s just what I wanted.”

  Shayne turned, glanced around the lobby, then went out to his car just as the elevator disgorged two harried-looking city detectives in plain clothes.

  He gunned his car hard getting across the causeway, relaxed and breathed a little easier when he crossed the line dividing the city limits of the two municipalities. There was no telling what fool thing Painter might have done if he had grabbed him before he got over the line-and for the time being Shayne greatly preferred to stay out of jail.

  In the lobby of his own hotel in Miami he lifted red brows as he strode up to the desk. The clerk turned and took a yellow envelope from Shayne’s box. “Here’s another telegram that just came for you. Business seems to be rushing tonight.”

  Shayne nodded absently, tapping the envelope on the desk. “Mrs. Shayne hasn’t come yet-or called?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Shayne. Is anything wrong?”

  The corner of Shayne’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid there is-afraid Phyl’s in trouble. Put a tracer on any calls that come in for me the moment you connect me,” he directed.

  He stalked to the elevator, tearing the envelope open. It was a second message from Murphy in New York:

  Mace Morgan now fugitive escaped Sing Sing last week doing five to eight rap for hundred grand holdup of Jim Lacy messenger for Gross Ernstine Gross and Barton Wall Street brokers. Morgan married to former Helen Dalhart Scandals thirty seven blonde with trimmings. Am working on her present whereabouts.

  Shayne frowned over the import of the telegram as the elevator went up.

  Lacy had been the bank messenger involved in the holdup for which Morgan was convicted. Helen hadn’t mentioned that point when he talked with her. Perhaps she had forgotten, or didn’t know about it, or thought it wasn’t important. Perhaps it wasn’t important. But it was a link between Lacy and Mace Morgan. It might serve to explain Lacy’s advice to her on how to get rid of her husband. Lacy had been a vindictive sort of cuss those years ago when Mike had known him in New York. If Lacy carried a grudge against Morgan for the stick-up, it was not surprising that he wanted to see the escaped con put on the spot.

  But why the hell hadn’t Lacy taken the job himself? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation any to have tracked the fugitive to Miami and then been forced to kill him while making the arrest. Poetic justice, rather. It would have made headlines all over the country. But maybe Jim Lacy hadn’t wanted headlines. So he had steered Helen onto Shayne instead.

  Shayne shrugged and put the telegram into his pocket as the elevator stopped. He went down the corridor to his door, selecting a key as he approached.

  There was a rush of movement from around the corner as he inserted his key.

  Helen Brinstead ran up to him, caught hold of his arm with both hands. Her face was taut and white, her blue eyes round and imploring. Pressing against him, she cried brokenly, “I’ve been waiting-hoping to God you’d come.”

  Shayne pushed the door open, broke her grip with a shrug of his wide shoulders, and gave her a shove
into the room. He entered behind her and switched on the light, his gaunt face expressionless.

  Helen whirled to face him. She wore the same dress of dove-gray silk, but she no longer looked either cool or poised. Her full lips were tight, drawn apart, and thinned against her teeth. She said, “I’m frightened,” without separating her teeth, imparting a hard, nasal quality to her voice.

  Shayne said, “I think you have plenty reason to be scared, sister.” He studied her for a moment, noting that the illusion of extreme youth and naivete had disappeared under the impact of fear. Her flesh appeared less firm, and even the shimmering luster of her hair seemed dimmed. Her gloveless fingers nervously clutched a large leather handbag while her eyes searched his for some sign of pity or understanding.

  He turned to the liquor cabinet and got a glass. When he came back to the table she had dropped into a chair, and again he noted that her legs were very nice. She leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair with both hands, wetting tight lips with the darting tip of her tongue.

  “You’ve got to help me, Mr. Shayne. I don’t know where else to turn. I know that Jim trusted you.”

  Shayne laughed shortly. He poured cognac in both glasses and handed her one. She took it, her eyes rounded with terror, holding his as if spellbound.

  He said, “But Jim Lacy is dead.”

  “That’s it. As soon as I read about it, I knew-” She stopped abruptly and clamped her lips together.

  Shayne leaned over her. “What did you know?”

  She shook her head slowly, keeping her lips together tightly, avoiding his gaze by lowering her eyelids.

  He put both hands on her shoulders. His thumbs found the soft hollows of flesh beneath her collarbone. “What did you know?” he demanded with grim urgency.

  She sighed and her taut body went lax. She stared up at him, parting her lips to wet them with her tongue again. His grim face was only a few inches from hers.

  “Stop,” she cried. “You’re hurting me-my shoulders.”

  Shayne snorted and put more pressure on his thumbs.

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “I knew Mace must have found out-what Jim and I planned. I knew-I was likely to be next.”