The Uncomplaining Corpses

by Brett Halliday

  The man’s face was lined and weary. His deep-set eyes were haunted with tragedy. Shayne judged him to be about fifty. He was neatly dressed in flannels and a double-breasted coat with a soft shirt and a blue tie.

  He stood solidly outside the threshold without making any move to enter, as if politely awaiting an invitation. His eyes studied Mona, then flickered upward to Shayne’s face.

  He made no faintest show of recognition, but Shayne had a singular feeling of being recognized. The white-haired man carried a folded newspaper in his left hand, and as he looked at the detective he unobtrusively slid his right hand into the side pocket of his coat.

  Shayne’s wide mouth twisted into a sour grin. He gave Mona a little push that sent her away from him, and said, “Come on in. I’m just leaving.”

  The white-haired man said, “No, you’re not leaving,” scarcely moving his colorless lips but articulating with astonishing clarity. His right hand was bunched in his coat pocket and he leaned from the waist slightly, looking from Shayne to Mona and demanding:

  “What are you trying to pull, anyway? I guess I wouldn’t have known he had been here if I hadn’t happened to run into him.”

  “Well, what of it?” Mona Tabor’s voice was throaty with anger.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t try to—”

  “Look,” Shayne interrupted affably, “if you’re pimping for her, don’t get any wrong ideas. She’s not holding out.”

  “Keep your mouth out of this.” The man drew a short, big-muzzled gun from his pocket. He held it carelessly pointed at Shayne’s guts where it would do the most harm if it went off. His voice was gentle with that same absence of lip movement which Shayne had first noted, the words seeming to come from a point a foot or more in front of his mouth.

  Shayne’s eyes narrowed and he took a step backward. He knew that brand of talk. The bartender—at the Cat’s Whiskers on Flagler Street—Joe Darnell—when others might be listening. A clever stunt learned in stir when the screws don’t permit convicts to carry on conversation openly.

  Shayne decided that he wasn’t in as great a hurry to leave Mona Tabor’s apartment as he had first thought.

  Mona laughed scornfully behind Shayne. “Don’t mind Buell,” she advised him. “He has no strings on me. I do what I please and—”

  “Shut up,” said the white-haired man. He came through the door holding the pistol in front of him.

  Mona said, “Nuts,” and moved back to the divan, where she slumped down and reached for her glass of absinthe.

  Shayne kept his hands in sight and watched the man close the door firmly so that it latched. The folded newspaper which he carried was the latest edition of the Miami Daily News. Shayne had a hunch it carried the story he had given Timothy Rourke that morning.

  From the divan, Mona spoke in a voice that dripped venom, “I don’t know what you think it’s going to get you to push in here flashing a rod. I’ll put the cops on you and—”

  “You won’t put anybody on me any more than you maybe have already. I’m staying and this rod is staying until I find out what you’ve spilled to this copper.”

  Shayne backed up toward the window seat while the man advanced. Mona sat erect and mumbled, “Copper? I don’t believe—”

  “No? Didn’t you see this morning’s extra with his mug spread all over the front page? This guy is Michael Shayne. Take a gander at this story in the News”—he tossed the folded newspaper into her lap—“and see if you still think he just came here to give himself a good time!”

  He turned to Shayne. His face darkened when he said, “Looking for a fall guy to take the rap for you, huh? All right. Just so you don’t make the mistake of trying to make a sucker out of me.”

  Shayne backed up to the window seat and lowered himself onto it carefully, placing his hands on his knees. He nodded. “It’s your party, Renslow, but you’d better go easy on that trigger. Remember you’ve already done one long stretch for murder.”

  The change which came over the ex-convict’s face was sudden and terrifying. The prison gray appeared to cover the two months’ tan of Florida sunshine. There was a trapped-animal viciousness in his pale eyes, a dangerous red.

  “I’m not forgetting,” he gritted. “No smart dick is hanging the rap on me this time. Not if I have to mess up Mona’s rug with your guts to stay in the clear.”

  Chapter Eleven: PORTRAITS FOR A FRAME-UP

  “SPILLING MY GUTS ON MONA’S RUG wouldn’t be such a smart way out for you,” Shayne told him. “Why don’t you put that gat away and start making sense?”

  “This gat makes sense to me.” Buell Renslow sat down on a chair facing both of them, balancing the heavy weapon across his thigh so the big bore covered the detective. His features were no longer twisted with anger but his blue eyes were those of a man goaded to desperation.

  Mona was rustling the late edition of the News which Renslow had tossed over to her. In a wondering voice she read aloud:

  “Private Detective Denies Darnell Guilt. In an exclusive interview with a representative of the Miami DAILY NEWS today, Michael Shayne, ace private investigator, struck back at his critics with a blanket denial that Joe Darnell was in any way responsible for the murder of Mrs. Leora Thrip early this morning.

  “Under fire by police authorities and civic leaders, facing the loss of his license and the charge of accessory before the fact in the brutal strangulation slaying of a prominent Miami Beach matron, Shayne threw a bombshell by publicly branding the charge merely a frame-up to disgrace him and cover police inefficiency and inability to solve the case and turn up the actual murderer.

  “‘The convenient death of Darnell at the hands of the outraged husband provided Peter Painter with a perfect victim and solution,’ the fiery detective Michael Shayne pointed out to this reporter today. ‘Peter Painter hasn’t looked further because he doesn’t want to turn up any evidence pointing to another murderer and absolving Darnell. For months he has been endeavoring to drive me out of Miami and he sees this case as the perfect setup to accomplish that purpose.

  “‘Only the thinnest thread of circumstantial evidence actually links Darnell with the murder of Mrs. Thrip,’ Shayne points out. ‘Undoubtedly, Darnell heard something suspicious in the upstairs bedroom and crept up to investigate. By an unfortunate coincidence, Mr. Thrip heard the same sound and investigated at the same time. Coming suddenly upon an intruder in his wife’s bedroom and seeing her lying dead, Thrip’s immediate and natural reaction was to mistake Darnell for the killer and shoot first before asking any questions.’

  “That, in substance, is Michael Shayne’s theory of what actually happened and he is determined to prove it by bringing the real murderer to justice.

  “Editorially, we are taking no sides in this controversy, but the NEWS is inclined to caution those persons and organizations demanding the immediate revocation of Mr. Shayne’s license to withhold judgment for a time at least to see what new facts may be brought to light to substantiate either Mr. Shayne’s story or that of the Miami Beach police authorities.

  “Michael Shayne holds an excellent record of solving difficult and tangled cases in the past and it appears that he may be in possession of clues overlooked by the police, who may, as Shayne bluntly charges, have been overwilling to call the case ‘closed’ without investigating closely.

  “The NEWS, at least, promises to follow Shayne’s private investigation with sympathy and interest, and to report the results to its readers without fear or favor.”

  Mona Tabor dropped the newspaper in her lap when she finished. She reached for her tiny glass of absinthe while her gaze went slowly to Shayne’s face. The passion behind her eyes had been replaced by a glint of fear.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a taut voice. “What did that stuff about Carl mean? Talk, damn you.”

  “So you didn’t know he was a dick?” Renslow put in smoothly. “He pulled the wool over your eyes, eh? What about Carl? I wondered, by
God—”

  “Shut up,” Mona hissed in his direction. “Shayne doesn’t know anything. He’s only guessing.”

  “Pretty good guessing,” Shayne put in lazily.

  “Maybe you won’t think it’s so good before you get out of here,” Mona shrilled. For the moment she reverted to type. Anger and alarm stripped away the veneer of respectability from the real Mona Tabor, who wasn’t so many years removed from the gutter. She drained the last drop of her absinthe from a glass which shook in her hand. Then she sank back against the divan.

  “Maybe you’re doing some damn good guessing,” Renslow amplified, his voice cold as ice. “Carl Meldrum’s been playing some screwy game of his own all this time. And don’t think I don’t know it. I never did quite figure that guy out, but when I first met him and he found out I was Leora’s brother and hated her, he got tight and spilled to me that he knew her and hated her too. That’s one reason I’ve been keeping track of him—one reason why I beat it up here today.”

  “You damn lying stoolie!” Mona’s voice was acid. “I mighta known an ex-convict would try something like that.”

  Shayne’s eyes had been shooting from Mona to Renslow as he maintained his position against the window, his big hands on his knees. He grinned inwardly and said, “Let’s get together on this.” His voice was cool, disinterested. “I don’t mind saying I’d like to know who really bumped your sister off. How about you, Renslow?”

  A crafty look came over Renslow’s face. He said, “I’m willing to let it lie the way it is.”

  “I’m not. I’m not letting Joe Darnell take the rap for it.” Shayne’s big shoulders rose, his body was hunched toward Renslow.

  “Maybe you’ll decide to,” Renslow suggested softly. “Maybe after we talk it over you’ll get smart.”

  “What’s eating you?” Shayne burst out. “I haven’t been barking up your tree. Suppose I do pin it on Carl Meldrum? What’s that to you? Nobody’s got anything to worry about,” he soothed, “except your sister’s murderer.”

  The lines on Buell Renslow’s face deepened and he jerked out harshly, “Look, shamus, I know the way you John Laws figure, see? I did one long stretch finding out all right. So I’m an ex-convict and whoever squeezed Leora’s white neck last night did a job that was worth plenty to me. If you don’t know that already you’re smart enough to dope it out pretty quick. So where does that put me? Don’t think I’m dumb enough to expect the truth to do me any good. Even if I wasn’t within a mile of that house last night you can buy witnesses that saw me going in the front door.”

  “You’re all fixed if you’ve got an alibi,” Shayne growled. “I’ve never railroaded a man in my life.”

  “Nuts! I listened to that once before and it got me plenty of years in the big house to think it over. My old man and the D.A. both gave me the same song and dance. Be honest—come clean—and get off light.”

  Buell Renslow was an embittered old man now, looking back over the wreckage which too many years behind bars had made of him. His hands shook and the cocked revolver shook with them. Shayne fervently hoped the gun had a strong trigger pull. He knew the symptoms of stir-fever and the lengths to which it will drive a man.

  “Yeah. They patted me on the back and told me to face it out,” Renslow went on in a tone of bitter disillusionment. “It was an accident. We were all drinking. Sure, the only disgrace would be in running away. Pay your debt to society, my boy!”

  He was deliberately reaching back to reopen the old wound, twisting the knife of recollection in his own bowels, bringing back into vivid focus those horror-filled days and endless nights which had seen him segregated from his fellow men like a beast behind bars. He spoke in a jerky monotone that was more terrible than a burst of violence:

  “All right. So I was a damned fool. That was when every Colorado mining town had its Boot Hill. The trial was going to be a farce with maybe a suspended sentence or six months at worst. Sure, I stood up and told my story to twelve men that hated my guts because I was Alonzo Renslow’s boy and he had taken millions out of the ground while they starved looking for a vein. So it was first degree and life—you rich man’s bastard. All right.

  “Here’s the rest of it if you want to know why I’ll kill you rather than take another chance. Did my old man stick by me? Did Miss Sniveling Leora play ball? What do you think? You know all the signals. How many of Alonzo Renslow’s millions would it have taken to pull me out of that hellhole? My old man didn’t spend them, did he? Why not? Do I have to tell you? Because Leora talked him out of it. She wasn’t satisfied with half. She wanted it all. As long as I wore stripes it was all hers. Yeah. And now it’s not hers any longer. Do you see now why I’ll gun you rather than take another chance of telling the truth in court?”

  “It seems to me,” said Shayne mildly, “that you’re only building up a case against yourself. You not only profited by your sister’s death, but you hated her.”

  “Sure I did. And what good will it do me to swear I was in bed when it happened? I’m whipped before I start. When you start them looking beyond that punk that Thrip killed they’ll end up by putting me in the hot seat and don’t think I can’t see it coming.”

  “You don’t think Joe Darnell killed your sister, do you?”

  “What I think about it doesn’t count. The bulls think so—now. Unless you start them thinking in another direction they’ll go right on thinking so.”

  “But it’s my rump if they hang it on Darnell,” Shayne argued good-naturedly. “My license will be revoked and I’ll be up a dirty creek without a paddle.”

  “So what? You’ll still be alive and free. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Not enough.”

  “You sure about that?” Buell Renslow spoke very gently.

  Shayne nodded. “I’m positive. Don’t be a fool, Renslow. I don’t bluff, and killing me won’t get you anywhere. If you’re clean on last night, play it that way. If not, you’d better back out of here and start running like hell.”

  “And leave a million dollars behind? Oh, no!” Renslow was beginning to shake again. He gnawed at the inner walls of his cheeks, then burst out, “If I take it on the lam I’ll be sure you’re fixed so you can’t start chasing me.”

  Mona sat up, glassy-eyed, shaking her head in disgust. “You’re not doing yourselves any good glaring at each other. From what I’ve heard about Mike Shayne, Buell, he’s always looking for a chance to feather his nest. Why not feather it for him?”

  “Y-e-a-h.” Renslow nodded slowly. His eyes brightened. “You’re not so dumb at that, Mona. Maybe we can get together on a little deal, Shayne.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe.”

  “What’s it worth to you to drop the whole thing? Let it lie the way it is. Everybody’s happy that way.”

  Shayne tugged at the lobe of his ear, then rubbed his angular chin. “I’ve turned down a lot of pay-offs in my time,” he warned Renslow. “This’ll have to be good to interest me.”

  “Hell! It’s not as if you really had anything on me.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No,” Renslow emphasized savagely. “Not a damned thing.”

  “Darnell didn’t kill Leora Thrip, you know.”

  Renslow stared at Shayne a long time. Shayne stared back. Mona broke the silence by saying cheerily, “Let’s all us menfolks have a drink.” She stood up steadily and reached for the absinthe bottle.

  With his gaze still boring at the ex-convict, Shayne said, “That’s a good idea. But that green stuff will drive you nuts. I’ve got something better in my coat pocket. I’m going to pull it out, Renslow.”

  He slid a hand slowly into his coat pocket and drew out the bottle of cognac. Mona made a wry face and asked, “How many calls for my special?”

  “None,” Renslow answered, his eyes fixed avidly on the bottle in Shayne’s hand. He pocketed his short gun and took the bottle from the detective. He took a long drink and handed it back, nodding approval.

  Mona
poured her own drink and sat down on the divan. Shayne took a drink and set the bottle on the floor where Renslow could reach it. He settled back and lit a cigarette and said:

  “All we need now is someone to take the rap for Joe Darnell.”

  “To hell with that.” Renslow made a violent gesture. “When the estate’s divided I’ll put more dough in your pocket than you could pick up in your lousy racket the rest of your life.”

  Shayne shook his head. “I’m stubborn,” he admitted. “Maybe there’s a fool streak of pride left in me. I’ll never give Peter Painter the satisfaction of seeing me run out of town.”

  “Hell, you’ll have enough jack to buy and sell Painter,” Renslow scoffed. He reached for the bottle and took a swig.

  Shayne shook his head angrily. “There’s more to it than that. You ought to know what I’m talking about. You beat a life rap because you wouldn’t let your sister get away with what you figured was a raw deal.”

  “All right, why not frame one of the Thrip kids?” said Renslow generously. “They were both there last night. They both hated Leora because she held out on them. Maybe one of them did do it,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Maybe,” Shayne agreed. “But it’d be damn hard to prove.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him and thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets. His lips pursed into a whistle and he frowned in perplexity.

  Mona shuddered at him over her absinthe. “Good Lord! I never saw anything like this in my life—you two sitting there—planning who to frame for a murder as calmly as if you were deciding what to order for supper.”

  Shayne’s frown deepened. He paid no attention to her. “We’ve got to have somebody with a motive and opportunity,” he announced. He looked at Renslow suddenly and asked, “How about those notes you wrote your sister? Any chance of their being traced back to you?”

  Renslow’s jaw sagged, his eyes keenly defensive. “What notes?”

  “I thought we were through playing round the mulberry bush. We’re going to have to get together if we put this thing over right.”