The Corpse Came Calling ms-6

by Brett Halliday

  “With the piece of cardboard?” Gorstmann asked.

  “Yes. It’ll be in my pocket. But I’ll be in the open with lots of people around and it won’t be healthy for you to get any funny ideas about taking it off me.”

  He paused for a moment, then went on persuasively. “Suppose I go down to the F.E.C. depot? That’ll be handy for you after I turn the piece of claim check over to you. I’ll leave a note in the apartment for Phyl giving her the number of one of the station pay telephones. I’ll be waiting at that booth, and the moment she phones to say she’s here, safe, with one grand in hand-then I’ll hand over what you want. You can have me covered while I wait at the depot for her call.”

  “That’s giving you all the breaks. How do I know you’ll come across after she calls?”

  “You don’t,” Shayne agreed promptly. “You’ve got to take that chance. But I’ll be where you can blast me if I don’t play ball.”

  He waited tensely while Gorstmann considered his proposition. Finally, the headwaiter said, “Don’t think you’ll keep on living if you try to pull anything. There’ll be a gun on you all the time.”

  “Sure. I expect that. Set your time.”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll leave here on my way to the East Coast depot at nine forty-five.” Shayne dropped the receiver on its prongs and sat for a long moment without moving. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette. His belly muscles were drawn up in a tight knot. He had expected more trouble from Gorstmann. Still, the man had little choice in the matter. As Helen had pointed out, Phyllis was actually worth nothing to her captors. On the other hand, Gorstmann knew that if he forced Shayne’s hand and the detective went to the authorities he would lose everything.

  He called Information after a time and got the telephone number of a pay phone at the station-the one nearest the baggage room.

  He jotted down the number and went into the living-room, intercepting a look of loathing on Rourke’s face as he passed the foot of the bed.

  Shayne got a sheet of paper and wrote:

  Phyl: Call this number as soon as you read this. I’ll be at the other end. Call me BEFORE you untie Tim Rourke or untape his mouth. Let him go as soon as you’ve called me.

  He signed the note and set it up in a conspicuous place on the table where it would be the first thing she would see upon entering the door.

  He still had a long time to wait before the curtain went up on the last act. He paced back and forth restlessly, filled with torturing doubts, now that the die was cast.

  If he was wrong-but he couldn’t be. There was only one definite pattern into which all the facts fitted. True, there were still a few facts missing. He could fill most of them in by guesswork. But there was one point he didn’t like to guess about. He needed a telegram from the fingerprint division of the FBI to reassure him on the one point of conjecture upon which his entire course of action was based.

  His tension increased minute by minute. He went in the kitchen and started another pot of water boiling. He then dropped six eggs into it and timed them for four minutes. He cracked them into a cereal bowl, dropped in a hunk of butter, then crumbled two slices of bread into them.

  Food eased some of the tension, but as the hands of his watch crawled toward 9:45, he was still pacing the floor and rumpling his hair fiercely. At 9:35 he grabbed his hat and went out. He couldn’t wait for the telegram any longer. There was no telling what Gorstmann might do if Shayne didn’t leave his hotel at the appointed time.

  He hurried down to his office on the next floor and took the small piece of cardboard from its hiding-place. It was 9:42 when he reached the lobby.

  He was striding toward the door when a Western Union messenger entered with a yellow envelope in his hand. Shayne stopped him and asked, “Could that be for Michael Shayne?”

  The boy said it was. Collect from Washington. Shayne told him to collect the charges from the desk, seized the envelope, and ripped it open. A glance at the message sent him out to his car fast. He couldn’t afford to mess things up now by being late.

  The fingerprints on Phyllis’s note which was handed to him by the headwaiter at the Danube Restaurant were identified by the FBI as those of Harry Houseman, wanted by the New York police. He didn’t have to depend on guesswork any longer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A coupe was parked across the street and up near the drawbridge when Shayne wheeled his car in a U-turn to go north. He saw two men in the coupe, slouched low in the seat with hatbrims pulled over their faces. As he straightened out after making the turn, a glance in the rearview mirror showed the coupe pulling away from the curb behind him.

  He drove north across Flagler Street at a moderate pace, then left on Northeast 3rd Street. The coupe trailed him a discreet half block away, made the turn behind him. He drove on to the Florida East Coast railway station and parked. The coupe stopped behind him, and the two men were getting out as he went into the station.

  Shayne strolled toward the baggage room without looking back, and glanced at the phone numbers in the booths until he located the one over which Phyllis was to call him.

  It lacked three minutes of ten o’clock. He lounged in the open door of the booth and lit a cigarette. He hadn’t seen the faces of the men in the coupe, but was certain they were Leroy and Joe.

  A man bought a newspaper and sauntered to a position twenty feet from Shayne’s right, ostentatiously holding the open paper in front of his face. He wore the same belted sport coat and wrinkled flannels that Leroy had worn the preceding afternoon when he visited Shayne’s apartment.

  Shayne let smoke dribble from his nostrils while his incurious gaze drifted around the crowded waiting-room. A northbound train was due to leave soon, and there was a lot of bustle and movement.

  There were two uniformed cops laughing together just outside the door leading to the men’s room. His gaze stopped and gauged half a dozen other men loitering about at what might be considered strategic points, but none of them were Leroy’s burly companion, nor did he see Gorstmann’s horsy face anywhere.

  He glanced at his watch again. Thirty seconds to go. He took a last draw on his cigarette and dropped the butt to the floor. The telephone inside the booth rang sharply.

  He stepped inside the cubicle and closed the door. Phyllis’s excited voice came through the receiver to him.

  “Mike!”

  “Yeh. Are you-”

  “I’m all right, darling. I’m perfectly safe. But be careful, Michael, and-what about Tim? Why did you have to-”

  “Untie him as soon as you hang up and tell him I’m at the depot,” Shayne cut her off. “Have you got the money?”

  “Yes. A thousand dollars. Promise me you’ll be terribly careful and-”

  “I’m always careful, angel. Keep the door locked and stay inside.”

  He hung up. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his shirt collar as he opened the door.

  Leroy stood in front of the door. His short-barreled. 45 was concealed by the folded newspaper in his hand. His pallid features twitched as Shayne stepped out. In a hoarse whisper he said, “Walk straight ahead to the can.”

  Shayne started walking toward the men’s room. The two harness men were no longer laughing in front of the door.

  Joe came around a corner and joined Leroy behind Shayne. Everything was perfectly casual and no interest was aroused in the little procession.

  Gorstmann stood just inside the door of the men’s room. His eyes glittered with excitement but his long, bony face was emotionless. He said, “All right, shamus,” and held out his hand.

  Shayne said, “It’s in my right-hand coat pocket. Shall I reach for it, or-”

  Gorstmann grated, “Keep your hands in sight.” He stepped close, reached into Shayne’s pocket, and got the small piece of cardboard. Leroy and Joe stood close behind the detective.

  Gorstmann breathed heavily as he retreated a pace. He muttered, “Everybody hold it while I check to see if this fits my piec
es.”

  He got two longer strips of cardboard and a small piece from his pocket and began fitting Shayne’s piece with them.

  The swinging doors burst inward and erupted men with guns in their hands. The two uniformed cops were in the lead. Behind them, Shayne saw Will Gentry’s beefy face and Pearson calmly moving beside him with a. 45 automatic in his hand. Peter Painter was behind them.

  Shayne dropped to the tiled floor as the shooting started. He saw Joe whirl with gun extended. A bullet in the burly man’s chest staggered him. A second slug in his chest cut him down.

  Leroy found time to trigger his gun twice. Both bullets went wild as a slug tore away the back of his head and sent him to the floor on top of Joe.

  Gorstmann had not moved. He stood against the wall as though held in position by invisible bonds. Both his hands were in front of him, holding the four pieces of cardboard for which the other men had died.

  Shayne caught a glimpse of Pearson’s set face as he stepped forward with heavy automatic extended. The racketing echoes of gunshots were still loud in the room when Pearson’s automatic spoke twice.

  Both bullets took Gorstmann in the pit of the stomach. He clamped his hands over the wounds and the four pieces of cardboard fluttered to the floor. A look of dismay spread over his face, then the strength went out of his legs, and he slid down to a sitting position. He tried to speak, but the shrewdly placed slugs had paralyzed a nerve center and all he managed was a low moan before his head sagged forward.

  In the silence that followed the shooting, Shayne said, “Nice going, Pearson. Like shooting dummies at target practice.”

  Pearson looked down at the detective with compressed lips. He said, “I wasn’t taking any chances,” and stepped around a pool of blood to pick up the torn pieces of claim check dropped by Gorstmann.

  Shayne dragged himself to his feet. Will Gentry confronted him. He said, “You shouldn’t have tried to pull this off under our noses, Mike.”

  Shayne shrugged. “You can’t shoot a man for trying.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that.” Peter Painter edged forward as he spoke. “It’ll be a federal charge this time, Shayne.”

  Gentry said quietly, “It’s up to the government. You’re under arrest, Mike.”

  Shayne said, “I had to take my chance on that. How did you come to be here, Johnny-on-the-spot?”

  “You can thank Painter for that,” Gentry rumbled. “He tipped us off that you were planning to pull a fast one.”

  “Painter?” Shayne frowned at the slim detective chief from the Beach.

  “That’s right.” Painter caressed his mustache. “I suspected all along that you knew more than you were telling, Shayne. Someone sent me a marked copy of this morning’s Herald and as soon as I saw the advertisement I knew what it meant. So Gentry had you tailed when you left your hotel.”

  Shayne nodded. His face was expressionless. He said, “Anyhow, Phyllis is safe-and she’s got a grand to hire a lawyer with.”

  “Who are these three men?” Gentry demanded. He looked at Pearson. “Is this the complete roundup?”

  Shayne answered first. He nudged the bodies of Joe and Leroy. “These are just a couple of hired gunmen-the same pair who stopped Jim Lacy on the causeway yesterday, but failed to get his piece of the claim check. They were taking orders from him.” Shayne nodded toward the slumped body of Gorstmann. “He’s the headwaiter at the Danube Restaurant on the Beach. I guess he’s the man you were really after.” He turned to Pearson.

  “I presume so.” Pearson made the statement cautiously. He held the four pieces of cardboard fitted together in his hands.

  “I’ve had my eye on the Danube for some time,” Painter broke in. “I felt that Otto Phleugar would bear watching. I’ll have it raided at once.”

  “No need for that,” Shayne protested. “Otto is perfectly harmless. Gorstmann bullied him with threats about the Gestapo, but Otto came clean with the whole story to me last night.”

  “I would say this closes the case.” Pearson spoke with quiet assurance. “These pieces of the claim check fit together perfectly and the serial number is intact. Checked through from New York to Miami.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s a train leaving in ten minutes. If I can get those plans and catch the train-” He hurried out, leaving the sentence uncompleted.

  Shayne said, “Let’s tag along and see how things work out, Will. I’ve gone through a lot to get a look at those plans.”

  Gentry nodded. He gruffly ordered the two policemen, “Bring him along,” and strode out behind Painter.

  Timothy Rourke came racing into the depot as they emerged from the men’s room. His face was pale, his clothing disarranged. He slid to a halt in front of Gentry, demanding, “Am I too late? Listen, Gentry-I’ve got plenty to tell.”

  “You’re in time to write the story as I promised your editor,” Shayne assured him. “I’m under arrest so you don’t have to worry about that angle, Tim.”

  Rourke set his teeth and checked a scathing reply. He caught Gentry’s arm and began talking fast in a low tone as they went toward the baggage room. Shayne and his two escorts brought up the rear.

  Pearson was waiting impatiently at the counter for reclaiming overdue baggage, glancing at his watch, and chewing his underlip. Outside the station a bell was ringing to warn late passengers that the train was about to depart.

  A baggage man came from a back room carrying a shiny pigskin suitcase. He heaved it onto the counter and consulted a slip in his hand. “There’s some storage charges on this bag. Let’s see-”

  Pearson grabbed the handle and swung around. “Take care of it for me,” he directed Gentry. “There’s not a moment to be lost getting this to Washington.”

  Gentry said, “Sure,” but Shayne cut in:

  “This is a lousy climax. How do you know the plans are in that suitcase?”

  “Of course they are. They must be.” Pearson was hurrying to catch the train.

  Shayne raised his voice. “Hold it, Barton.”

  Pearson’s stride faltered. He half turned his head in response, then caught himself, and jerked forward in a trot.

  Shayne said, “That does it.” He lunged away from the perfunctory grip of his guards, made a football tackle that brought Pearson and the suitcase down on top of him.

  Pearson had his gun almost out of an underarm holster and they threshed around on the floor with Shayne getting a grip on his gun hand and another arm around his neck. He kept twisting and tossing, rolling about so that Pearson was first on top and then underneath. Hands grabbed at them and he heard Gentry shouting for someone to let him have a sap.

  Then he heard the chuffing of the locomotive outside and knew the train was pulling away. He heaved himself on top of Pearson and wrenched the man’s gun away from his hand, ducked to avoid the vicious swing of a blackjack, and shouted hoarsely.

  “Lay off, you fools!” He threw the gun away from him with a jerk of his wrist, reeled to his feet, and confronted Chief Gentry, who was boiling with anger for the first time since Shayne had known him.

  “Put the cuffs on him,” Gentry ordered curtly. Then: “God damn you, Mike. I won’t lift a finger if they court-martial you for this. You’ve made Pearson miss his train with your grandstand play.”

  “Not Pearson,” Shayne corrected, holding out his wrists for the handcuffs. He glanced aside and saw Pearson covertly edging toward the door.

  “If you don’t grab him now,” Shayne said wearily, “it’s your own fault. His name is Barton and-”

  The pseudo G-man leaped for the door as Shayne spoke. For once, Will Gentry acted before asking questions. He drew his own service revolver and bellowed, “Stop.”

  Barton glanced over his shoulder at the leveled. 38 and stopped running. He shrugged and came back, saying, “Washington will hear about this, Chief Gentry.”

  Shayne said, “I don’t think Washington will be interested. But the New York police are going to be interested in the contents of
that suitcase.”

  Gentry sighed and asked, “What are you up to, Mike?” and soothed Barton by saying, “Your train has gone now. No use getting in a dither.”

  “Don’t waste time being polite to him,” Shayne growled. “He’s no more a G-man than I am. His name is J. Winthrop Barton, junior member of the brokerage firm of Gross, Ernstine, Gross, and Barton, who helped Jim Lacy and Mace Morgan steal a hundred grand from his own firm. If the evidence isn’t in that suitcase I’ll turn in my license.”

  “Not a fed?” Gentry expostulated. “But Painter sent him over to me.” He turned slowly toward Peter Painter, whose face showed an agony of indecision and doubt.

  “Of course he’s a G-man,” Painter sputtered. “I don’t know what Shayne’s up to, but it won’t get him anywhere.”

  Shayne laughed happily. He asked, “Did Mr. Barton show you any credentials to prove he was Pearson of the FBI?”

  “N-No. But I had that official wire from Hoover saying he was sending a special agent named Pearson.”

  Shayne laughed again. He turned to Gentry. “Painter had a wire from Hoover,” he explained witheringly. “That is, he received a telegram from Washington signed J. Edgar Hoover. I admit I don’t know how Barton worked it, but he sent that telegram. And Painter fell for it. As if Hoover were sending personal wires around to punk detective chiefs. Hell, the FBI has a branch office in Miami. If they’d wanted Lacy picked up they would have communicated with their local office.”

  Gentry’s face was purple. He demanded, “Is that right, Painter? Good God! Did you introduce him to me as a G-man with nothing more than such a telegram to go on?”

  “But the telegram must have been authentic. It carried the official government designation-and you know no telegraph office in Washington would accept such a wire from just anyone.”

  Shayne laughed at the plaintive note in Painter’s voice. Before Pearson could speak, he cut in. “You should have been an actor, Barton. You played your role so well I would have been taken in if I hadn’t known the telegram was a forgery.”

  The Wall Street broker smiled with pleasure. “I’ve always had a desire to go on the stage.” He caught himself up with a jerk as he realized the admission his vanity had trapped him into making, then shrugged and continued urbanely. “It seems useless to deny it now. No, Mr. Painter, I filed that telegram myself. It cost me exactly one hundred dollars to convince the telegraph operator it was a harmless hoax and to have it sent as an official message. Though I must confess I expected I would be called upon to produce credentials when I reached Miami, but I had to take that chance and it was the only way I could think of to stop Lacy from getting this suitcase. When you took me at face value and vouched for me to Chief Gentry, I could do no less than take advantage of the situation. It was what I hoped for, of course.”