The Careless Corpse ms-41

by Brett Halliday

  “There it is, Mike,” Will Gentry said flatly. “Laid right out in front of you. I know you don’t want to help the Commies any more than any of the rest of us.”

  “Hell, Will!” Shayne burst out. “Just because a guy has a little revolutionary blood in his veins doesn’t mean he’s a Commie. I know a lot of damn fine Cuban patriots who are for Castro but who aren’t Commies. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced that Castro himself is really a Communist.”

  “I’m afraid you’re one of those deluded liberals who cause us a great deal of difficulty in this country, Mr. Shayne.” Erskine spoke with more vehemence than he had shown before. “Well-meaning, but deluded,” he added sternly.

  “At least I don’t see a Communist lurking behind every beard,” Shayne was stung to retort. “I know what the conditions were in Cuba before Castro’s regime.”

  “That may well be, but I don’t believe you have the faintest idea what conditions are in your own country today. I think there is only one question right now, Shayne. Are you prepared to cooperate with your government or not?”

  “By dropping the Peralta case?”

  “By staying completely out of it for a few days while we close in on them. One wrong move at this point might stampede them so that months of patient undercover work on our part would be nullified.”

  “Good God, Mike! There’s Lucy to think about, too,” interjected Gentry.

  Shayne nodded grimly. “I’m thinking about Lucy.”

  “This recent attempt on your life in Las Putas Buenas… if your version of the affair is to be believed… should convince you how desperate they are.”

  “What do you mean… if my version is to be believed?”

  Erskine smiled thinly and took off his glasses to polish them on a handkerchief. “None of us is completely credulous, Mr. Shayne. Don’t you think it is an insult to our intelligence to pretend that you dropped into that particular bar on this particular night and were singled out for attack? Nonsense.” He replaced his glasses firmly. “I suggest you were following some lead when you went there… that you were expected or were followed, and were then attacked.”

  “It does sound awful damned coincidental,” Will Gentry agreed.

  “Are you going to arrest me for it, Will?”

  “Not if you give me your word to stay out of it from now on.

  “Suppose I don’t, Will? Suppose I decide for myself what’s best for Lucy and for me?”

  “And for the United States?” said Mr. Erskine stiffly.

  Shayne gave him a baleful glance. “I’ve sat here and listened to you,” he burst out. “How do I know there’s a word of truth in what you’re saying? How do I know you didn’t steal the damned bracelet and figured out this hocus-pocus to keep the heat off?”

  “That doesn’t make very much sense, Mike,” said Gentry reprovingly.

  “Doesn’t it? That ‘paltry emerald bracelet,’ as he describes it, happens to be insured for a hundred and ten thousand dollars. He pointed out that it was probably lifted by someone on the inside, who knew the situation and had reason to believe Peralta wouldn’t even report it. Now, here he is putting pressure on Painter and me to drop the whole thing. I don’t know what the State Department pays its communist-hunters, but I don’t think his salary is big enough to keep him from being tempted by a quick hundred grand.”

  “You are insulting, Mr. Shayne.” Erskine’s voice trembled and he rose to his feet slowly.

  “Am I? How well do you know Felice Perrin?”

  “I recognize the name from reports I have read. The former maid in the Peralta household. What has she to do with this?”

  “Or Marsha Elitzen?” Shayne shot at him.

  “I don’t know whom you mean.”

  “What about her fair, white, young body?” Shayne taunted him.

  “I think you’re going over the line, Mike.” Will Gentry got up to stand beside Erskine. “What in hell has got into you?” he went on angrily. “I’ve backed you up lots of times in the past, but I’ll be damned if I like the way you’re talking now.”

  “So, you don’t like the way I’m talking, Will?” Shayne grinned infuriatingly at his old friend. “Have we still got freedom of speech in this country, or haven’t we?”

  “All right then. I don’t like the way you’re acting, Mike.” Will Gentry shook his head slowly. “You can’t always be right… and everyone else wrong.”

  “In my opinion,” said Mr. Erskine precisely, “you should put Mr. Shayne under arrest, Chief Gentry.”

  “What’s that?” Gentry turned and regarded him wonderingly.

  “A matter of protective custody,” explained Erskine. “I get the impression that he is much too volatile… much too concerned with his own prestige and his own reputation as a very tough guy… to be trusted to act in the larger interest of his country.”

  Will Gentry frowned and spoke slowly, formulating each word and enunciating it carefully, “I’ve known Mike Shayne a lot longer than I’ve known you, Mr. Erskine. I’m going to leave him to act according to his own conscience.”

  He started heavily toward the door, speaking over his shoulder to the reporter who had not spoken once since the interview started, “You coming, Tim?”

  Timothy Rourke was relaxed in his chair with his eyes closed. He opened them to observe the half-emptied glass in his hand. “I’ll stick around and finish this drink, Will.”

  Erskine turned to follow the chief of police, saying plaintively, “I do hope you understand what you’re doing, Chief Gentry. I must say that my next report to Washington will emphasize the fact that Chief Painter on the Beach was much more cognizant of our national peril, and much more cooperative.”

  Will Gentry opened the door and paused with his hand on the knob for Erskine to precede him out of the room.

  He said, “You do that, Mr. Erskine. In the meantime, I’ll run the Miami Police Department the way I see fit.”

  He waited until Erskine passed him out into the corridor, then turned his head and said softly, “Take it easy, Mike.”

  He went out and closed the door firmly behind him.

  ELEVEN

  “You do have a hell of a way of putting your friends on the spot,” Timothy Rourke told the redhead dispassionately.

  Shayne glared at him. “If you feel that you’re on the spot by continuing to associate with me, finish up your drink and beat it.” He angrily poured himself more cognac.

  “Not me, Mike. Will Gentry. That’s pretty heavy pressure he had on him tonight.”

  “Ahh!” Shayne exclaimed disgustedly. “Those fancy-pants boys from Washington trying to throw their weight around.”

  “I wouldn’t call Mr. Erskine a boy, nor were his pants very fancy,” said Rourke acidly.

  “You know what I mean.” Shayne drank half his cognac and set the glass down hard. He swung to his feet and started to stride up and down the room, rumpling his bristly, red hair fiercely. “What do they know about internal conditions in Cuba? My God, for years they sat back approvingly and let a rotten, murderous dictatorship rape the island of its resources and keep the great mass of the population in virtual slavery. Now, they start crying Communism… and smear everyone who sees any good in the revolution.”

  “That’s quite a hunk of campaign oratory, Mike,” said Rourke cynically. “Know what you’re doing?”

  Shayne stopped at the end of the room to glare at his old friend. “I’m stating some simple facts. What do you think I’m doing?”

  “You’re working yourself up to a point where you’ll eventually decide it’s perfectly proper for you to disregard Erskine’s warning and move in on Peralta. Just because they’ve got Lucy Hamilton.”

  “Just because?” Shayne walked forward slowly and stopped in front of Rourke’s chair. “What do you expect me to do? Go to bed and forget about her?”

  “No,” agreed Rourke moodily. “Not Mike Shayne. But look,” he went on persuasively. “Your whole argument about Castro and Communism
is full of holes. All right, so you suspect Peralta may be a real Cuban patriot, who wants only to do what is best for his country… with no strings attached from Moscow. Suppose you’re right and Erskine is wrong, and you go bulling into the situation to try and rescue Lucy, and thus force the issue prematurely? How will that help the downtrodden Cubans your big heart bleeds for?”

  Shayne hesitated, softly pounding his clenched right fist into his open palm. He swung away and said harshly, “I don’t know whether Peralta is a patriot or not. From his whole past record, I’d say he’s probably been a Batista man all along. You know how most of those rich Cubans made their money. He ducked out with his fortune intact. I’d like to know a lot more about his activities here before I decide which side he’s on.”

  “Mike, Mike,” pleaded Timothy Rourke. “Don’t you see you’re just grasping at straws, trying to find some way to justify yourself for going after Lucy?”

  Shayne stood at the center table with his back to the reporter and angrily tossed off the rest of his cognac. In a flat voice and without turning his head, he said, “Maybe that is what I’m doing, Tim. No matter what my real motive is, I’d like to have a talk with that Cuban friend of yours I met about a month ago.”

  “Alvarez?” asked Rourke alertly.

  “Yeh. The newspaper guy. You’ll agree he’s no Communist, won’t you?”

  “Yeh. That I will vouch for.”

  “Think you could get hold of him this time of night?”

  “I can try.” Rourke dug into his coat pocket for a badly worn address book. “I’ve got a couple of numbers here where I might reach him.”

  While he was thumbing through the book, Shayne lifted the telephone and asked the switchboard for the Miami Beach telephone number he had memorized from Marsha’s anonymous letter a few hours earlier.

  He heard six rings before a background of jukebox music came over the wire and a voice said, “Scotty’s Bar.”

  “What is your address there? I’m to meet a guy and I don’t know where it is.”

  He was given a street number on Fifth Street near the ocean, and he hung up and wrote it down.

  Then he turned the telephone over to Rourke, and went into the bedroom to change his slippers for dry socks and shoes. Rourke was talking on the phone when he came back. “About an hour, eh? Are you positive?” He listened a moment and then said, “Hold it.” He turned his head and said, “Alvarez will definitely be in a back room at the Jai Alai Club on South Beach within an hour. Want to try and meet him there?”

  Shayne looked at his watch. That wasn’t too far from Fifth Street, and should allow him to make Scotty’s Bar by midnight. He said with satisfaction, “That’s fine, Tim. I’ll be there.”

  Rourke confirmed the appointment over the phone and hung up. “I don’t know what you’re getting into, Mike,” he said unhappily. “I hope to Christ…”

  Shayne said briskly, “Grab another drink if you want it. We’ve got one other call to make before I meet Alvarez.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s out in the Northeast section. Have you got my car here?”

  “It’s parked in front.” Rourke hastily slopped whiskey into his glass on top of half-melted ice cubes.

  “I’d better keep on driving yours,” Shayne decided, “because I’ll be going on over to the Beach. I can drop you back here to pick mine up.” He went to a closet to get a light jacket, and took his hat from beside the door. Timothy Rourke gulped down the whiskey hastily and joined him, asking, “Who are we going to call on in the Northeast section?”

  “A lady. That is, maybe not too much of a lady. At least, I want to find out whether she’s home yet or not.” He opened the door and followed Rourke out.

  In Rourke’s car, Shayne drove east to Biscayne Boulevard and north toward Felice Perrin’s address which had been given to him by the Peralta governess. As he drove, he filled in Timothy Rourke briefly on the events of the evening after leaving the reporter to go to the Peralta house, and on his own surmises.

  “I want to be in Scotty’s Bar at midnight when Marsha makes her phone call there,” he ended grimly. “I don’t know whether that threatening letter of hers has anything to do with this situation or not, but I want to see who takes the call.”

  “This deal at Las Putas Buenas where the two knifemen jumped you,” said Rourke with interest, “that sounds like it was set up with malice aforethought by the luscious Mrs. Peralta, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” Shayne grunted sourly, still able to taste her mouth on his in the Green Jungle parking lot. “That story of hers about an unsigned note directing her to be there tonight sounds completely phony. If it was designed to put me on the spot, it would have to have been written before Peralta ever called me in on the case.”

  “Do you think Laura did have the counterfeit bracelet made without her husband’s knowledge?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I think her husband strongly suspects so, and that’s why he called me in on the thing in direct defiance of his confederates… and almost certainly without telling them why he was doing so. Isn’t this Felice’s street?” Shayne asked, peering ahead at the partially obscured street sign.

  Rourke could see it better out the right-hand side, and he said, “Yes. Turn to the left, I think, for that number you gave me. Not more than a block or so.”

  Shayne got in the left-hand lane and cut across the Boulevard divider. There was a small, neon-lighted restaurant and cocktail lounge on the southeast corner of the intersection as he turned into the quiet, palm-lined street where most of the houses on both sides were older two-story mansions, now cut up into furnished rooms and housekeeping apartments.

  Shayne drove westward from the Boulevard slowly, letting Rourke crane his head out the window and watch for street numbers. A single automobile was parked half-way up the block on the left-hand side. Shayne noted idly that it carried Miami Beach license plates as he approached, and then saw the flare of a match in the front seat as they passed, indicating that it was occupied.

  He turned to see the briefly-illumed faces of two men in the parked car just as Rourke said, “It’s the next house, Mike. On the right.”

  Instead of pulling into the curb, Shayne increased his speed slightly to the corner where he swung left. He went around the corner and parked, turning off his lights and motor.

  “I told you, Mike,” said Rourke in an aggrieved voice. “It was back there…”

  Shayne said, “I know it was, Tim.” His voice was chilling and cold. “Did you see the car parked across the street?”

  “I didn’t notice it. I was watching for numbers…”

  “It has a Beach license, Tim. Two men in the front seat. I got a quick look at their faces as we went past. Unless I’m crazy as hell, they’re two of Painter’s dicks. A couple named Harris and Geely. Those names mean anything to you?”

  “Wait a minute, Mike. In Painter’s office this evening…”

  Shayne nodded grimly. “The pair whom Petey is officially commending for slapping me around and pulling me in.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  “A stake-out, I suppose. On Felice Perrin. Maybe with specific orders to see that I don’t make contact with her. I’m not positive, Tim. I may be wrong. I’ll slide out and walk around the block back to the cocktail lounge on Biscayne. You drive on and circle back and pull up beside them parked there. You’re a reporter, and you’re looking for Miss Perrin to interview her. Make them show their hands. If they are Beach cops on a stake-out, they’ll admit it to a reporter. They’ve got no official standing on this side of the Bay. As soon as you find out if they are Geely and Harris, come on around to the lounge where I’ll be waiting.”

  Shayne opened the door on his side and stepped out. Timothy Rourke groaned dismally as he slid under the wheel. “The things you talk me into, Mike…”

  Shayne chuckled. “How often do they add up to headlines? You should complain.”

  He crossed the street
and walked swiftly southward to circle back to the Boulevard and north a block to the open restaurant.

  He was standing at the end of the bar enjoying a slug of cognac when Rourke came in six or eight minutes later. The reporter nodded as he moved up beside him at the bar. Shayne told the bartender, “Bourbon and water,” and Rourke told him, “It’s those two, all right. Harris and Geely. I made them show me their identification before I could be persuaded not to call on Felice Perrin.”

  Shayne said happily, “I’ve got it all worked out, Tim. Take your time with your drink. I’ll beat it. In exactly three minutes, go in that phone booth behind you and call Police Headquarters. Be excited and don’t identify yourself. Just say that a couple of drunks are having a hell of a fight down the street, and they better send a patrol car. Then hang up fast and come walking on down to the Perrin address. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

  The bartender brought Rourke’s drink and Shayne laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. He said in a low voice, “I’ve got a date with a lady, Mister. Will that pay for a pint I can take with me. You know how it is,” he added with a conspiratorial wink. “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker… and you don’t have any candy for sale here anyhow.”

  “We sure don’t.” The bartender winked back at him and palmed the bill. He turned away and returned in a moment with a pint of brandy in a small paper sack which he slid over the counter to Shayne.

  As the detective slid it into his pocket, Rourke asked sadly, “What in hell are you going to do, Mike?”

  “Make a couple of punk detectives named Geely and Harris wish to God they’d stayed out of my way this afternoon. Three minutes, Tim.”

  Shayne strode out blithely, and Rourke checked his watch and sipped his drink, getting a dime ready to make the telephone call to the police.

  Outside, Shayne hesitated when he saw that Rourke had parked his coupe directly in front of the bar headed south. He walked over to the right-hand door, opened it and got the reloaded automatic out of the glove compartment and put it in his hip pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to use it in taking care of the Beach detectives, but its weight was comforting at his hip. On this side of the Bay, Miami Beach cops had no more legal rights than any ordinary citizen, and Shayne’s pistol permit was just as good as theirs.