The Careless Corpse ms-41

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne said, “I can’t promise anything. I think you’ll have at least a couple of hours head-start.”

  “That should be sufficient.”

  Shayne pushed back his chair and stood up. “Let’s synchronize our watches. I have thirteen minutes to twelve.”

  The Cuban newspaperman glanced at his own watch. “We are within seconds.”

  Shayne said, “I’ll make my move at twelve-thirty exactly. If you’re not there…”

  “At twelve-thirty, Mr. Shayne.” Alvarez sat behind the table and watched the big redhead go out.

  FOURTEEN

  Michael Shayne entered Scotty’s Bar on Fifth Street at exactly four minutes before midnight. It was a brightly lighted, resolutely cheerful sort of place, with lots of bright chrome and imitation red leather on the bar stools.

  Shayne kept his hat-brim pulled low over his face as he went to the empty end of the bar near the door. There were eight persons seated at the bar, and two of the tables were occupied by couples. Behind Shayne, near the door, was a public telephone booth. He saw no other instrument behind the bar.

  A tall, sad-looking bartender came up to him, and Shayne ordered cognac with water on the side. In the mirror he could see the reflected faces of his fellow drinkers. At the far end a drunken blonde of indeterminate age was giggling loudly with the two men on either side of her. Removed from the trio by one stool sat a solitary drinker nursing a half-filled highball glass in which the ice cubes were melted. He was in his late twenties, wearing a plaid sport jacket, and had an exaggerated crew-cut that gave his face a square, stern appearance. He pushed back the cuff of his jacket and frowned at his watch as Shayne looked him over. He was a distinct possibility, the detective thought.

  Next to him sat an elderly bald man with the dregs of a mug of beer in front of him. He was slovenly dressed and had a faint stubble of gray beard on his face.

  Removed from him by one empty stool was a very young couple leaning forward with their arms about each others’ shoulders and their cheeks pressed amorously together. Shayne felt like a Peeping Tom as he glanced at their entranced faces in the mirror, and he shifted his attention swiftly to the last occupant of the bar, sitting three stools away from him.

  He was a young Cuban, with glistening black hair and pouting red lips. He had the sort of hairline black mustache that Shayne detested because it was so like Peter Painter’s, and his black, hooded eyes met Shayne’s in the mirror and held for a long moment with a look of arrogant challenge.

  The bartender put Shayne’s drink in front of him, with a chaser beside it, and moved back past the Cuban who spoke to him sibilantly, “Que hora es?”

  The bartender reached under his dirty, white apron and hauled out a thick, gold watch. “Right at twelve o’clock.” He yawned widely and went on down the bar to refill the beer mug in front of the bald-headed man.

  Shayne took a sip of cognac and let his gaze drift down to his own watch. The two hands were straight up and almost directly together. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the Cuban toss off the last of his drink nervously and put a cigarette between his lips. He turned slowly on his stool as he struck a match, and Shayne thought he was looking toward the telephone booth.

  At that moment it rang loudly.

  The match jerked slightly in the brown-skinned hand, and missed the tip of his cigarette. Then it steadied and he drew in fire as the phone rang a second time. Shayne looked alertly on down the row of faces reflected in the mirror.

  No one had changed position. No one appeared even remotely interested in the ringing of the telephone except the bartender who scowled and then circled around the end of the bar to trudge toward it.

  Shayne kept his back turned and continued to watch the faces in the mirror. The telephone rang six times before it stopped and the bartender’s voice was loud in the almost silent room, “Scotty’s Bar.”

  There was silence, and Shayne could discern only mild interest on any of the faces, the normal interest with which people pause to overhear a telephone conversation in such circumstances.

  The bartender said, “What’s that again? Hello?” and then there was a loud click as he hung up.

  He came back around the end of the bar still scowling, and made drinks for the trio at the end of the bar.

  The Cuban completed a half circle on the stool, slid off it and went swiftly to the Men’s Room in the rear.

  Shayne finished his drink and got a bill from his wallet. The bartender saw him and came to pick it up, and Shayne asked casually, “Wrong number?”

  “I guess maybe. Some damn fool dame said her name was somethin’ or other an’ then hung up. You get all kinds in a place like this.” He rang the cash register and put change in front of the detective.

  Shayne said, “I guess you do.” He wasted one more speculative look down the length of the mirror, and then slid off the stool and went out of the bar with long strides.

  A sense of driving urgency coursed through his big, rangy body as he broke into a trot outside, reached the parked coupe swiftly and slid under the wheel. He pulled away fast toward Collins, and then northward.

  Scotty’s Bar had been the last stop where he could hope to pick up any further information or verification of his several hunches. From now on, he was committed. If he had guessed wrong…!

  Well, damn it! you had to guess sometimes in this business, he told himself savagely. You couldn’t just sit back and play it safe and wait it out.

  Not if you were Mike Shayne, you couldn’t. Not if the stakes were big and you had used up your last lead.

  He kept his big foot hard on the gas as he raced up the nearly deserted street. He had cut the time mighty damn thin for what was left to be done. By this time Will Gentry would be in telephone conference with Chief Painter about the Felice Perrin murder, and they would be arguing about procedure.

  For once Shayne was glad Painter was such a stubborn bastard. He would require a lot of convincing before he took any action. At least, Shayne fervently hoped he would.

  He turned a corner on protesting tires, and braked as he approached the Peralta residence. He slowed in front of the stone gateposts enough to note that dim light still showed through the ground and third-floor windows, but did not turn into the driveway. Instead, he cut his lights and pulled past, and off the pavement in front of the locked front gates next door.

  The night was very still as he strode back to the Peralta driveway. There were no cars parked in front of the house this time, nor was there any welcoming front light on.

  Shayne mounted the porch and put his finger hard on the electric button and held it there.

  He didn’t release the button until the door opened a cautious crack and Nathaniel Freed peered out at him. He blinked disapprovingly and said, “Mr. Shayne. It’s very late and…”

  Shayne said angrily, “It’s not too late for some talk, Freed,” pushed the door back and shoved by the secretary into the wide hallway. “Peralta in?”

  “No. Mr. Peralta is… out. You are not welcome here, Shayne, and I don’t propose…”

  “Where’s Marsha?” Shayne cut him off curtly.

  “She… went up to her room a few minutes ago. I warn you, Mr. Shayne…”

  “Did she make a telephone call before going up?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Freed, sulkily. “I have been in the study for the last half hour. Really, Mr. Shayne…”

  The detective swung away from the agitated man and went to the foot of the stairway. He lifted his voice so it vibrated through the three-story house, “Marsha! Marsha!”

  “I shall call the police, Mr. Shayne,” said Freed in a nervous voice behind him. “I really cannot countenance…”

  Shayne turned fiercely and held up a big hand to shut him up as Marsha’s voice responded faintly and fearfully from above them:

  “Who is it?”

  “Mike Shayne,” he bellowed back at the unseen governess. “Come down here as fast as you can.”

/>   He whirled about again, and told Freed, “Keep your mouth shut. You can call the cops after I get through here… if you really want to,” he ended wolfishly.

  He turned to look up at Marsha Elitzen hurrying down the stairs, a frightened look on her face. He said soothingly, “It’s all right, Marsha, except I’m in a hell of a hurry. Did you make that phone call?”

  “Yes. I said it and hung up.”

  “What phone did you use?”

  “In the library.” She pressed her trembling body close against Shayne and pointed. “There is no upstairs extension I could use except in Laura’s sitting room.”

  “And Freed was in the study when you called?” Shayne put his left arm about her shrinking body and held her comfortingly close to him while he looked down into her eyes. “With an extension telephone in there?” he ended grimly.

  “Yes… there is an extension…” Marsha caught in her breath and her eyes rounded as they looked up into Shayne’s.

  “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” said Nathaniel Freed in a thin voice behind them. “For the last time, Mr. Shayne, I demand…”

  Shayne smiled down at the governess and put her away from him gently. He turned on Freed and said in a curiously calm voice, “You stinking little hunk of pseudo-masculinity. Where is that clipping about Marsha?”

  “What do you mean?” Freed shrank away from him. “I don’t understand…”

  “You understand well enough,” growled Shayne. He took one step forward and struck the fat-butted secretary with a sweeping back-handed slap that sent him reeling across the hallway and crashing into the wall. “So you craved her fair, white, young body?” raged Shayne. He stood over Freed, glaring down at him implacably. “Where’d you get hold of the clipping from the New York Mirror?”

  Freed cowered on the floor beneath him and began to sob. “When I checked her references. I knew there was something. And I checked back and I finally remembered. I didn’t mean to…”

  Shayne swung away from him on his heel. He told Marsha, “You needn’t worry about the clipping. Everything is coming apart at the seams anyhow. The bracelet isn’t important any more. He didn’t steal it. He just seized the opportunity the theft presented.”

  “When I made the telephone call…?” faltered Marsha.

  “It was just the number of a bar he selected at random. All he had to do was pick up the extension a few seconds after midnight and hear you say ‘yes.’” Shayne looked at his watch. It was eighteen minutes past the hour. “Is Laura upstairs?”

  “Yes. She’s… I’m afraid she’s not in very good condition to receive company.”

  “She’ll receive me,” said Shayne grimly. He took a firm grip on Marsha’s elbow and started up the stairs with her, leaving Freed groveling in the hallway behind them. “Show me her room.”

  Marsha climbed the stairs beside him, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “When I think about him writing that note…”

  “Forget it,” Shayne advised her. “The twins are going to be needing you after tonight more than ever.”

  They reached the second-floor landing and Marsha turned to the left and stopped in front of a closed door. “This is her sitting room. I’m afraid you’ll find her…”

  “Passed out?” said Shayne cheerfully. “I hope not.” He pushed Marsha aside and knocked peremptorily on the door, and then opened it without waiting for a response.

  It was a very feminine room, with two lighted boudoir lamps on either side of it. It was empty as Shayne strode in, but a door on the left was open into a dark room which he guessed was Laura’s bedchamber, and an alcohol-thickened voice came through it faintly, “Julio?”

  Shayne walked to the threshold and felt inside the door for a wall switch. He didn’t find one, but as he groped, a pink-shaded bedlamp came on in the room, and he saw a bare, rounded arm and the lace of a black nightgown, and Laura Peralta’s face on a white pillow with her eyes burningly fixed on his.

  She didn’t move as her eyes focused on his face and he knew she recognized him. The tip of her tongue came out to wet her lips, and she said wonderingly, “Mike Shayne. I thought you were… never coming to me.” She closed both her eyes and freed her other bare arm from beneath the cover and lifted them both toward him embracingly.

  “You mean… you thought I was… dead,” said Shayne brutally. He walked into the room and stopped beside the bed and looked down at her outstretched arms and her closed eyes dispassionately. “You’re not that drunk, Laura. Cut it out.” His voice was savagely incisive.

  Her eyes opened slowly and her bare arms dropped back to her sides. Two tears ran slowly down her cheeks. Her full lips opened and she pleaded in a blurred voice, “Kiss me, Mike.”

  He said angrily, “I kissed you once before tonight. Tell me, Laura. Who told you to send me to Las Putas Buenas?”

  She closed her eyes sadly before his intent gaze. “Mr. Tatum.”

  “Who in hell is Mr. Tatum?” demanded Shayne fiercely.

  She kept her eyes closed and moved her head slowly from side to side on the pillow. “Don’t you know Mr. Tatum, Mike? He’s Julio’s… friend. His… I don’t know, Michael. He frightens me. He came here tonight after you left.” Her voice rolled on like that of a mechanical doll that had been wound up and could not stop. Listless and devoid of emotion. As though she were in a mild state of hypnotism and knew not what she said.

  “They had a terrible scene, he and Julio. And he came to my car as I was driving away… when I knew you would meet me at the Green Jungle, Mike. He frightened me. He said Julio had lost his senses and you must be… ‘taken care of.’ He said you would take me to a place called Las Putas Buenas if I told you the story about an anonymous letter. And so I did.” Her voice became low and dreamy and Shayne had to lower his ear close to her lips to make out the words. “But you went there alone, Mike. And I… got frightened and… came home. Now… kiss me again.” The final words were throaty and very low, and she turned her head slowly so her lips touched his and held hotly against them.

  He didn’t think Laura Peralta was quite as drunk as she pretended to be. He straightened up and walked out of the bedroom, and didn’t look back as he strode through the sitting-room to the hallway where Marsha waited for him.

  The front doorbell was ringing downstairs as he closed the door firmly behind him and Marsha seized his arm. He turned her toward the stairway and looked at his watch. It was just seven minutes since he had checked the time last. Five minutes until twelve-thirty. They started down the stairs and heard Nathaniel Freed’s voice saying petulantly at the front door, “Yes, I do remember you, but I don’t care whether you’re a reporter or not. Mr. Peralta is not at home, and it is far too late at night…”

  “Tim!” shouted Shayne, going down the stairs two at a time and leaving Marsha behind him. “It isn’t too late at all. Just in time as a matter of fact.”

  FIFTEEN

  He ran through the hall and shoved Freed aside at the front door, pushing Timothy Rourke out onto the porch in front of him. His own car was parked there, but he led the reporter past it and down the driveway, saying urgently, “We’ve only got a few minutes, Tim. Talk while we’re moving.”

  “That’s what I came out to tell you. There isn’t any rush. Painter refused to move until tomorrow morning.”

  “Good for Painter.” Still holding Rourke’s arm tightly, Shayne pulled him impatiently down the street past the reporter’s own coupe parked in front of the iron gates.

  “Will had quite an argument with him,” panted Rourke as he was rushed along, “but Painter absolutely refused to do anything until he could get hold of Erskine and give the State Department a chance to step in first if they want. Neither Will nor Painter knows you’re on the personal rampage, Mike. Though I think Will suspects it all right.”

  They rounded the corner of the stone wall toward the service entrance, and Shayne looked at his watch. It was one minute until twelve-thirty. From the rear of the estate came the muf
fled sound of a gasoline-powered launch approaching on the canal.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mike,” Rourke said desperately as they stopped in front of the locked wooden gates under the archway, “but I wish to God you’d hold off.”

  Shayne said, “It’s too late for that.” He let go of Rourke’s arm and said calmly, “I’m going over the gate and I’ll try to unlock it from the inside to let you in. Go back to your car and get out of here if you want,” he continued roughly, “but you’ll pass up a headline story if you do.”

  He reached up with both hands and got a firm grip on the top of the gate, swung his body up and scrambled over, dropping to the ground on the inside.

  He fumbled with the lock in the darkness, found a knurled knob which released the catch, and shoved the door outward just as the sounds of a melee came from the boathouse at the rear.

  Rourke moved in, muttering hoarsely, “What the hell?” and lights came on in the rear and suddenly they were bathed in the beams of a bright searchlight mounted on the big house in front of them.

  Shayne darted forward toward the dark hulk of the house with Rourke following a few paces behind. There were shouts from the rear and the loud sound of splintering wood, and they were suddenly at the kitchen door which opened when Shayne turned the knob.

  The floodlight from outside gave enough light through the windows for Shayne to cross the floor and locate a switch on the opposite wall. He pushed it and ran through a butler’s pantry into a wide hallway beyond where he found another light switch that showed a curving stairway leading to the second floor.

  Shayne pounded up the stairway with Rourke panting at his heels. From outside and to the rear there came the sound of a single pistol shot, no louder than the popping of a champagne cork inside the thick walls of the house.

  At the top of the stairs, Shayne hesitated a moment, facing three closed doors on the side toward the Peralta house.