The Body Came Back

by Brett Halliday

  He heard a grunt and movement behind him and turned to see the Pontiac driver pushing himself up into a sitting position, cautiously feeling his jaw. Barkus came back and asked with interest, “You feel all right, feller?”

  “Bastard hit me,” the man said thickly. “When I wasn’t looking. Brass knucks, feels like.”

  “Oh, he’s a real tough hombre,” Barkus said happily, leaning down to take the man’s arm and help him to stand. “He carries a private detective’s license that he reckons gives him the right to go around beatin’ people up.”

  Shayne set his teeth together hard and turned his back on the two of them. Ernie was coming back from the Ford with a registration card in his hand, and he demanded suspiciously, “Where’d you get that car?”

  Before Shayne could reply, Barkus called out from behind him, “You know, Ernie? We got a li’l ole case of assault and battery here. This feller wants to swear out a warrant.”

  “Do tell. An’ maybe a li’l ole case of false registration on top of that. Whyn’t you say where you got your hands on that Ford, Mister?” Ernie demanded of Shayne.

  “Because you didn’t give me a chance.” Shayne’s voice was thick with barely suppressed anger. “I borrowed it. From a friend of mine.”

  “Name of Duclos, huh? George Duclos?” Ernie peered down at the card in his hand.

  “That’s right. Mine conked out and I was in a hurry to get some place. I’m still in a hurry,” he added. “Let’s cut out the clowning and get this over with. Call into headquarters, for Christ’s sake, and talk to your lieutenant on the traffic squad. Bemish. He’s a good friend of mine.”

  “I reckon I’ll call in all right, but I won’t be talking to Lieutenant Bemish,” Ernie told him with relish. “On account he’s on sick leave.”

  “Then call Chief Gentry,” grated Shayne. “He’ll vouch for me.”

  “Boy, you sure do toss them important names around,” said Ernie admiringly. He turned his head to spit down on the ground. “Scares hell out of just a plain cop like me. Hey, Barkus? You reckon we had oughtta apologize to Mister Shayne an’ shine his shoes for him?”

  “Get on the radio and call in,” grunted Barkus. “Have ’em call the owner of that car to come to headquarters and pick it up. We’ll be bookin’ Shayne, I reckon. Mr. Seymour, here, is ready to sign a complaint.”

  Shayne turned back with a sigh as Ernie went to the radio car. The owner of the Pontiac had lighted a cigar and was puffing on it furiously, leaning against the fender of his car. Shayne said placatingly, “I’m sorry this happened… Mr. Seymour, is it? It was purely a misunderstanding. I apologize, and I’ll pay for the damage to your car even though I don’t think it was legally my fault. Could anything be fairer than that? Let’s shake on it?” He took a step forward and held out his hand.

  “Damn well right you’ll pay for the damage,” muttered Seymour thickly. “Pulled right in front of me and then ’saulted me without pro…” He hiccoughed. “… provocation,” he finished. He folded his arms across his thick chest and pointedly disregarded Shayne’s outstretched hand.

  Shayne turned to Barkus and said to him in a furious undertone, “For God’s sake, Officer. Hasn’t this farce gone far enough? He hasn’t got a leg to stand on in court. He had the red light. I was going through the intersection about ten miles an hour when he hit my rear end. Then he came rushing around spoiling for a fight and threatened me. Goddamn it, you know I won’t stay at headquarters for ten minutes if you’re silly enough to take me in on a trumped-up charge like this. You must know Will Gentry and I have been friends for more years than you’ve been on the Force. You’re not going to get a medal for dragging me in.”

  “I reckon I’m not lookin’ for any medals,” Barkus told him coldly. “It’s my sworn duty to make an arrest if a citizen swears out a complaint.”

  Shayne drew in a deep breath, held it a long moment, and then exhaled slowly. He moved to Barkus’s side and took his arm and moved him away a few feet. In a low voice, he said, “I’m working on a hell of an important case and I can’t afford to go in to headquarters and straighten this up right now. I’ll come in in the morning, Goddamn it. Let me post a personal bond and get the hell away from here right now. How much?” In his hands he held the wallet which Ernie had given back to him after checking his license. He opened the bill-fold and began taking out bills, keeping his back to Seymour.

  “You know the bond won’t be more than fifty dollars if you drag me in,” he went on persuasively. “Make it a hundred… two hundred… to guarantee I’ll show up in the morning to answer any charges that are laid against me.”

  He held out a sheaf of twenty-dollar bills and the policeman’s big hand closed over them greedily. He crumpled them up into a wad and called over to his partner who was in the front seat of the cruiser operating the radio.

  “We got another charge against him, Ernie. A real good one this time. Attempting to bribe an officer. I got the evidence right here, by God.”

  “How much?” Ernie called back with interest.

  “Two hundred bucks.”

  “Cheap bastard deserves to be run in.” Ernie got out of the police car and approached them with a grin on his long-jawed face. “Headquarters says come on in. They’re callin’ Mr. Duclos to come down an’ pick up his Ford. Come on, you.” He grabbed Shayne officiously by the arm and turned him about. “I’ll ride in with you and my partner’ll follow.”

  Shayne hesitated and held back, looking about him wildly. The last thing in God’s world he wanted was to drive that Ford in to headquarters. He wasn’t worried about what would happen to him after he got there. He was on close personal terms with most of the higher-ranking officers of the Miami police force, and he knew he wouldn’t be held for more than a brief period no matter what fantastic charges these two stupid cops placed against him.

  But he was very much concerned about the Ford. He had… foolishly, he now realized… stated that it had been loaned to him by the owner… someone, apparently named George Duclos. Perhaps that was the name Al Donlin was using in Miami. Or it might be some friend of Al’s who had loaned him the car for the evening.

  No matter how it worked out, he was very definitely losing control of the Ford… with a corpse locked up in the trunk.

  Barkus had walked around in front of the Pontiac with Seymour and was helping him pull the crumpled fender away from the wheel so the car could be driven without damaging the tire. He was alone with Ernie for a moment, and was tempted to grab the police revolver from the man’s holster, slam him across the head with it and try his luck at making a get-away.

  But even if he succeeded, that wouldn’t change anything in the long run. They knew who he was. It was on the record that he had been driving the Ford when they took possession of it. The instant the body was discovered in the trunk, he would be held responsible.

  Better go along submissively, he decided, and simply hope for some sort of break. He slumped his shoulders and said in a defeated voice, “Okay, Ernie. Whatever you say. If you end up getting your ass kicked off the Force for this… don’t blame me.”

  “I’ll take my chances on that.” Ernie led him toward the Ford, wheezing happily, and shoved him roughly inside under the steering wheel. He slammed the door shut and leaned both elbows on it and told Shayne with a sadistic grin that showed yellow front teeth:

  “You know what I’m plumb hopin’, Mister? That you’ll try to make a run for it while I go around to get in on t’other side of you. I’d plain love to gut-shoot hell out of you… long as it was in the line of duty.”

  He hooked both thumbs in his pistol belt and strolled around the back of the car, humming a little tune happily. Shayne sat stiffly behind the wheel and waited for him to get in. The Pontiac moved out of the way behind him, turned into the one-way westbound street and moved away.

  Shayne started the motor and backed away from the curb, then followed the Pontiac toward the police station. The police car moved into line behin
d him and remained less than a hundred feet in the rear.

  Shayne didn’t look at Ernie and didn’t speak until he put the Ford into a space in the parking lot at headquarters. The police car moved in beside him as he turned off the ignition and lights, and Barkus leaned out to inform Ernie happily:

  “You know what, Buddy-boy? I reckon we done hit the jackpot this here time. Just come over my radio that Ford you’re ridin’ in is a stolen car.”

  8.

  Shayne’s belly muscles constricted when he heard the report. This just wasn’t his night, by God. How the hell could he have guessed that Al Donlin had stolen the car he parked at the Encanto Hotel? If he’d known it couldn’t be traced to the dead man it would have been far better to have left it in the hotel parking lot and used his own car for transporting the body.

  But it was much too late for that sort of second-guessing. The car was right here at police headquarters and all anyone had to do was to decide to check inside the trunk. He shuddered and got out from under the wheel, waited docilely for Ernie to come around and lead him triumphantly inside the station.

  He’d have to play it very slow and cool. The most important thing was to get that Ford away from headquarters as fast as possible. And then get himself away. He’d already told one foolish lie about its having been loaned to him by the owner. He’d have to change that fast, and he began racking his brain for a plausible story that would explain his possession of a stolen car on the streets of Miami after midnight.

  After a bit of low-voiced conversation on the other side of the car, Ernie and Barkus parted and the heavier cop strode into the police station by a side door and Ernie came around to him with handcuffs dangling from his fist. “Jest hold out your hands an’ we’ll try these here bracelets on for fit,” he said happily. “My gosh, I jest re’lized we ain’t even shook you down yet.”

  “I’m not carrying anything,” Shayne told him. “You don’t need cuffs, for Christ’s sake. I want to get inside and get this over as much as you do.”

  “Put ’em on, Mister.” Ernie made his nasal voice harsh and uncompromising. He snapped first one steel cuff and then the other over Shayne’s wrists and gave him a little shove toward the door through which his partner had disappeared.

  Shayne walked ahead of him, inwardly seething but holding his head high. He supposed the damned fool was walking along behind covering him with a drawn gun. It was going to be a real triumphant entry for Ernie.

  A short corridor led into a large brightly lighted room with empty chairs lined around the walls and the Booking Desk at one side presided over by an elderly sergeant whom Shayne knew slightly. Barkus was leaning on the desk in front of him talking volubly. Two detectives and a young reporter from the Miami News covering the late police shift were in a group near Barkus and listening to him with interest. The reporter hurried toward Shayne, his eyes bugging with excitement at sight of the manacles, and he whipped a wad of copy paper from his coat pocket.

  “Are you really Michael Shayne? How about a statement, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne said, “Get Tim Rourke down here fast. I’ll give him a statement. Call him, damn it!” he added sharply, and the reporter sighed and nodded reluctantly, fully aware of the close friendship that existed between the detective and the News’ top reporter.

  Shayne moved on up to the desk, but Barkus turned and blocked his way, saying, “That feller Seymour ain’t showed up yet. You wait in here for a little minute.” He took Shayne’s arm and hustled him past the desk toward an open door on the right where he shoved the handcuffed redhead into a small room containing four straight chairs and nothing else. He pulled the door shut and Shayne was left alone.

  He was left alone in the small room with his thoughts for fifteen or twenty minutes. They weren’t pleasant thoughts. He kept visualizing the owner of the Ford arriving to pick up his stolen car and unlocking the trunk to check the spare. How the hell was Shayne going to explain that? A dozen or more improbable stories raced through his mind, but none of them made much sense even to him.

  When the door opened again three men walked into the room. In the lead was Detective-Sergeant Loomis whom Shayne knew casually. He was a sternfaced, middle-aged man in plain clothes, completely bald, with shrewd blue eyes and a reputation for stubborn honesty.

  Ernie was behind him, looking a trifle subdued now, and not nearly so pleased or sure of himself. Behind the two policemen was a squat, swarthy man with a bristling black mustache. He looked nervous and uneasy, as though he would have very much preferred to be home in bed instead of here at police headquarters.

  The sergeant nodded to Shayne without speaking, and turned his head to tell Ernie mildly, “You can unlock the cuffs now. I don’t think Shayne is going to make a break for it.”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t takin’ no chances, Sarge.” Ernie avoided Shayne’s eyes while he unlocked the handcuffs. “All these years I bin hearin’ stories how tough this guy is.”

  “All right.” The sergeant dismissed him with a jerk of his head toward the door. “You and Barkus get back on patrol.” When the door closed behind the traffic policeman, Loomis asked the swarthy man, “Have you ever seen this man before, Mr. Duclos?”

  “Never in my life. All I know is them cops say he stole my car. Standing right out in front of my house. By golly, it’s a pretty pass when detectives start stealing cars right on the city streets.”

  “A private detective, Mr. Duclos. All right. We’ve got your statement and you’ve got your car. No real harm done. We’ll call on you if anything else comes up. You may as well go home now.”

  “What I want to know is… does he get away with it? Stealing my car! If that’s not a crime…”

  “We’ll take care of that.” Sergeant Loomis turned him firmly toward the door and patted him on the shoulder. Then he turned back to the redhead and studied him a moment, the very faintest suggestion of a smile quirking one corner of his mouth. “What in hell is this all about, Shamus?”

  “Naturally, I didn’t know the damned car was stolen,” Shayne told him fervently. He spread out his hands. “I just got conned, that’s all. I was driving up Third Street about twelve o’clock when my car sputtered and quit on me. I was late for an appointment as it was…” He looked at his watch ruefully. “And I’m a hell of a lot later right now. So I went into a bar there… East of Miami Avenue. I was going to call a cab, but a guy was sitting there at the end of the bar and he called me by name. He was pretty tight and weaving on the stool. ‘Hey, Mike. Howsa boy?’ or something like that. I know him, Sarge. Damn it. I know I’ve run into him somewhere. Some kind of cheap chiseler, but I’ll be damned if I can place his name.” He screwed up his face in intense concentration, then shook his head dismally. “I’ve been trying to remember it ever since I found out it was a stolen car. Right then it didn’t seem to matter. I just told him my car had conked out and I had to call a taxi and he pulled out some keys and said why didn’t I borrow his Ford parked right outside.

  “Who in hell would have thought the guy was offering me a hot car like that? Maybe he was just drunk enough to think it was funny. How the hell do I know what he thought? I was in a hurry and I just wasn’t looking any gift horse in the mouth. So I grabbed the keys and went out, thinking I’d remember his name in the morning and get it back to him. I’ll certainly tell you his name when I do remember it.”

  “You do that,” said Loomis drily. “You don’t expect me to believe that story, do you?”

  “Would you rather believe I deliberately stole a car parked in front of somebody’s house?” demanded Shayne hotly.

  “No. I don’t believe that either. All right. So you had a crack-up and cold-cocked the man who drove into you?”

  “He asked for it,” Shayne defended himself. “If he’s got the guts to come in and make a charge against me, I’ll make him wish he hadn’t.”

  “It appears that Mr. Seymour had second thoughts about that. He hasn’t showed up yet. So that leaves a little mat
ter of attempted bribery, Shayne.”

  “That was stupid,” Shayne told him flatly. “Even if I didn’t intend it as a bribe. I should have realized it could be so misconstrued, but all I wanted was for that cop to put it up as a bond for my appearance tomorrow morning. I was worried about being late for my appointment, and those two goons were enjoying pushing me around. I should have known better, but… I just wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “Is this your money?” The sergeant put his hand in his pocket and drew out some folded bills. Shayne took them and counted five twenties. He started to protest that there had been ten twenties originally, but he checked himself. This was no time to stir up a fuss about a hundred bucks.

  He said, “I haven’t got the serial numbers, of course. But they were twenties that I gave that cop named Barkus. Look here, Sergeant,” he hurried on persuasively. “Let me call Chief Gentry at home. You tell him what the situation is. I’ve still got to keep that damned appointment somehow.”

  Loomis shook his head. “Why, no. I wouldn’t want to bother the chief this time of night. I know perfectly well what he’d say. So, beat it, Shayne. We know where to reach you. I hope she hasn’t got tired of waiting.”

  Shayne grinned tiredly and appreciatively. “So do I. Thanks, Sergeant.”

  He went out the door fast and was intercepted down the hall by a reporter from the Herald and Timothy Rourke of the News. The Herald man grabbed his arm and said happily, “We’ve been hearing all sorts of stories, Shayne. What’s the lowdown? You got your license jerked?”

  Shayne pulled away and growled at him, “Talk to Sergeant Loomis. You got your heap, Tim?”

  The saturnine reporter nodded with a grin. “Just so you won’t be forced to steal any more transportation tonight. Down this way, Mike.”