The Body Came Back

by Brett Halliday

  “Can’t be helped. I won’t leave him wrapped up in it.” He took the blanket from her, shook it out so it was folded double, and carefully spread it across the body, covering it from head to toe. Then he knelt down and rolled the man over carefully so that he was enclosed like a cocoon in the blanket. The body was beginning to stiffen with rigor mortis, so it was quite easy to manipulate.

  Shayne stood up and checked his watch. It was exactly nine minutes since he had parted with John Russco in the hotel basement. “Time to get this show on the road,” he said casually and turned to her where she stood in the doorway watching him with fear-distended eyes.

  “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he told her quietly. “Just stay here and drink the rest of that Scotch and wait for Vicky to telephone you. Tell her to check out of wherever she is and come back here and pretend none of this happened. Go on about your normal routine. The wedding will be tomorrow. Act exactly as you would have acted if this hadn’t happened. You may read in the paper about an unidentified body being found in Miami. I hope he can’t be traced here. Even if the police come knocking at your door asking questions… you just don’t know the answers. There’s not even a drop of blood here on the rug where he’s lain. Deny everything. Don’t identify him even if they should force you to go to the morgue to look at him.

  “Good luck to you, Carla. And good luck to Vicky. I hope she has a long and happy marriage. Now… stand out of the way and open your door for me.”

  She stood there on the threshold of the sitting room gazing at him. “Will you be in touch with me, Mike? Will I see you again?”

  “Better not. Though I’d like to… under different circumstances.” He tossed her a wide smile. “In Hollywood, maybe. Next month… or next year? If you happen to run into Brett out there… tell him I’m still holding up my end in Miami… but this is one case I don’t think he’d better write up in a book.”

  He turned away from her, leaned over and picked up the blanket-wrapped bundle of stiffening flesh in his arms and turned back to the sitting room.

  She was waiting by the outside door with her hand on the knob. She smiled faintly as he approached, opened the door and leaned out to look up and down the hallway. Then she drew back and nodded reassuringly to indicate that the coast was clear, and drew to one side to let him pass through with his gruesome burden.

  He stepped out into the wide, well-lighted corridor and she silently drew the door shut behind him. He turned in the direction in which he had left the open elevator waiting for him, and walked swiftly toward it, praying that no late-comers would suddenly turn up around the corner.

  He reached the door numbered 804 and gazed blankly at the closed doors of the service elevator across from it. He had left them standing open, with the HOLD button pressed down to hold the cage at that floor.

  Now it was gone.

  6.

  He stood there in the lighted hallway awkwardly holding the blanketed burden of stiffening flesh in his arms, staring stupidly at the closed doors of the service elevator. It couldn’t be gone. He had pushed the right button to hold it, just as Russco had showed him.

  There was no indicator above the closed doors to show where the cage was now. There was an electric button in the frame beside the doors and he pushed it hard in the hope that it might, somehow, open the doors and show the cage waiting. But the doors remained obstinately closed and there was no sound to indicate that pressing the button had any effect on the mechanism at all.

  He couldn’t just stand there with a dead man in his arms waiting. Someone might turn up at any moment. And time was running out on him. He’d told Russco fifteen minutes.

  He’d better get the corpse back inside 810. Then he might get down in time to catch Russco… find out what had gone wrong with the elevator… start out all over again.

  He turned back with his burden, but was halted by the sound of voices just around the corner toward the regular elevators.

  People were coming. There was no time to make it to 810 unobserved. He whirled and deposited the corpse on the floor against the wall and beside the elevator door. Then he straightened and wiped sweat from his face, moved to place himself in front of the dead man and conceal him from view as best he could, just as a young couple came around the corner and started toward him.

  They were still about forty feet away, and he fumbled for a cigarette in his shirt pocket while he watched their somewhat erratic progress with narrowed eyes.

  They were both apparently quite tipsy. The dinner-jacketed young man had his arm tightly about the girl’s slender waist and she had her face pressed against his shoulder and was giggling loudly while he half-supported her with his head bent over her blonde head.

  Shayne made himself lean nonchalantly back with his shoulder blades against the wall while he lighted his cigarette and waited tensely for them to notice him and start wondering what he was doing there with the queer bundle on the floor behind him.

  His luck held.

  They stopped at a room three doors down the corridor and the young man fumbled to get a key in the lock, got the door open and half-carried the girl inside. The door closed behind them and neither had so much as glanced in his direction.

  At that precise instant there was a whirring sound and a couple of metallic clicks behind the elevator doors and they slid open in front of him.

  A little gray-haired man almost fell out of the elevator. He was very drunk and his tie was askew and a pair of pince-nez dangled from his neck on a black ribbon and he blinked near-sightedly as he fumbled for his glasses, and demanded querulously, “Whas-a-matter here. Funny kin’ elevator f’r a swanky joint like this. Rode me righ’ down th’ cellar, thas what. Don’ wan’ cellar. Wan’ th’ lobby.”

  Shayne caught his arm and dragged him out into the corridor, turning him roughly so he faced away from the dead man. “You got the wrong elevator,” he explained cheerfully. “Down this way.” Half-carrying and half-pushing the little man, he rushed him down the carpeted hall and around the corner to the bank of guest elevators. He propped him against the wall and pushed the DOWN button, then trotted back around the corner hoping to God the empty cage would still be waiting for him this time.

  It was. He scooped up the body and dragged it inside, pushed the lower button with a B above it, and heaved a long, heart-felt sigh of relief as the doors closed and they started down. He looked at his watch and saw that almost seventeen minutes had elapsed since he had parted with Russco.

  When the cage stopped and the doors opened he saw John standing across from him with his hand on the doorknob frowning down at his watch. He looked up and said, “I’d just about given you up, Mike.”

  “Some drunk stole my elevator and took a free ride,” Shayne grated. “Car outside?”

  “Ready and waiting.” Russco opened the door and pretended to avert his face so he wouldn’t see what Shayne was carrying as the redhead went past him.

  Light from the doorway illuminated a late-model Ford standing outside with lights out, trunk standing open and motor throbbing softly.

  Shayne went up the short flight of stairs fast, around the back of the car where he unceremoniously dumped the body inside the trunk.

  Then he hurried back to Russco, hand extended. “Got those stockings? How’d they fit?”

  “Fine.” Russco pressed the wadded-up nylons into his hand. “First time I ever had my hands inside a lady’s hose.”

  Shayne grunted sourly and turned back to the driver’s side, straightening the stockings out and ramming his big hands down inside the flared tops.

  Russco shut the door at the foot of the stairs as he got behind the steering wheel, and the only light in the alley was that from the street light in front of him.

  He moved the lever to Drive, and the car went forward smoothly. He left the lights off and slowed cautiously as he approached the sidewalk, hesitated there to let one car go past and determine there were no others immediately behind it, then swung out int
o the street and flipped on the lights as he straightened out westward. So far as he could see there was no one about to observe the maneuver.

  It was a one-way street and there was little traffic at this past-midnight hour. He drove at moderate speed, getting the feel of the car, and began planning where he would go and how he would dispose of the body and the automobile. It would be best to separate the two, he thought. Get the body out of the trunk and unwrapped from the hotel blanket and, without attempting to conceal it, leave it some place where it would normally be discovered the next morning. Then drive the car a good distance away and leave it parked in some empty parking lot where it might easily remain for several days before attracting attention. This would tend to delay identification of Al Donlin and to obscure the trail leading back to Suite 810 of the Encanto Hotel.

  Actually, Michael Shayne had very few qualms about what he was doing. He felt cheerful and relaxed as he drove along. With a sort of warm glow inside him. Like a Boy Scout, by God, conscious of doing his good deed for the day.

  He wondered if he couldn’t wangle an invitation to the wedding that was scheduled for that afternoon. It would be fun to take Lucy Hamilton without telling her why he was interested or that he felt a sort of proprietary interest in the ceremony. She would wonder what on earth had gotten into him, but would be pleased to go along.

  He continued driving west for several blocks before turning north and getting into a more sparsely settled section of the city where it would be easier to dispose of the corpse. He was approaching a north and south avenue that had a blinking yellow light at the intersection, and he slowed circumspectly when he saw a car coming from the right rather fast. True, that driver had a blinking red light which meant that he was required to come to a full stop before entering the crossing, but Shayne had no intention of insisting on the right-of-way tonight… not with the cargo he was carrying.

  He was going less than ten miles an hour and ready to put on the brakes when the other car squealed to a stop with its front wheels just across the white line. Shayne stepped on the gas and went on across.

  He was almost clear of the intersection when the other car leaped forward without warning and there was a rending crash in the stillness of the night as the other’s right front fender smashed into the right rear bumper of the slowly moving Ford.

  The impact threw Shayne against the steering wheel and slewed the Ford around, ramming the front end up against the curb with the bumper solidly against a palm tree.

  The other car came to a halt in the street with its rear end blocking the Ford’s left rear, and Shayne cut off the ignition, cursing angrily while he hoped to God the Ford hadn’t blown a tire.

  Because that would really do it. If he had to open up the trunk here on the street to get out the spare…

  He jerked the door open and got out, conscious of the ludicrous appearance of the stockings pulled over his hands, stripped them off and thrust them into his pocket as he made a fast circuit around the front of the car and then to the rear, kicking all four tires to assure himself they weren’t harmed.

  His right rear bumper was dented, but that was all the damage the Ford had sustained. The other car was a Pontiac, and had the front fender crushed in against the wheel, and it would have to be moved forward before Shayne could possibly back away from the palm tree and get the hell away from there… which was the one thing he wanted to do at that moment.

  The front door of the other car slammed shut as he stood there behind the two cars, fighting back his anger at the other driver’s stupidity and reminding himself to remain calm and take it easy and try to get the cars separated as fast as possible.

  A burly man came storming belligerently around the Pontiac, shouting, “Whyn’t you watch where you’re going, God-damnit? Running right in front of me like that?”

  He stopped spraddle-legged in front of Shayne and thrust a blunt jaw aggressively up into the redhead’s face, and Shayne got a strong smell of liquor on his breath.

  He stepped backward a pace and said calmly. “You had a flashing red light. It was up to you to stop.”

  “I did stop, b’God. Don’t you try’n say I didn’t. I come to a full stop and you pulled right in front of me. You wanta make sumpin of it?” His fists were doubled and he bared his teeth in the faint moonlight.

  Shayne took another wary step backward. “No. All I want is to move your car forward so I can get out. No use sticking around until some cops show up and keep us here all night. I’ve got insurance. Let the insurance companies fight it out. Help me give your car a little shove, huh?”

  He circled around the man to try and push the Pontiac forward.

  “Oh, no, you don’t! Don’t put your hand on my car.” The man shoved forward against him and put his hand against Shayne’s chest. “We’ll stay right here and settle it. You’re not drivin’ away from here…”

  Shayne sighed and stepped back one pace. This wasn’t the time nor place for an argument with a drunken fool. Poised on the balls of his feet, he swung his right fist in a looping uppercut that caught the blunt jaw of the man as he thrust it forward aggressively again.

  With all of Shayne’s weight behind the blow, he went down like an axed ox.

  Shayne left him lying there and hurried forward to lean inside the Pontiac and see that the brake was off and it was in neutral. Then he trotted back to try and shove the car forward, got his shoulder down against the rear end and braced himself for a shove when the one thing he had hoped to avoid happened.

  A police radio car came cruising leisurely toward the scene of the accident, red light gleaming and bright spotlight focusing on the two cars.

  He straightened up and fought back an impulse to run from the scene… leave the Ford standing there with the corpse locked in the trunk.

  But it was too late for that. There was no place of concealment to run to. The spotlight was on him and he knew the officers would not hesitate to start shooting if they saw a man running away in the night leaving another one lying on the ground behind him.

  He’d have to stay and bluff it out. If he was lucky, at least one of the policemen in the cruiser would be a member of the force who knew him and would take his word for what had happened.

  He turned and walked slowly toward them as the police car pulled to a stop.

  7.

  At that point Michael Shayne’s luck ran out. He didn’t recognize either one of the policemen in the cruiser. The one who got out first was tall and lanky and slightly stooped, with the characteristic lantern jaw and sallow complexion of those back country Georgia Crackers who swarmed into Miami in the Thirties and infested the police force. Pin a badge on one of them, and strap a big revolver on his hip, and he became immediately transformed from a meek and inoffensive man who had been kicked around by life into a blustering loudmouth who asserted his authority by kicking everyone else around.

  He walked forward now, glaring officiously at the two cars and at Shayne standing in the spotlight, and demanded in a nasal whine, “What’s goin’ on here, huh? Only two cars in miles of here and you-uns have to crack each other up, huh?”

  Shayne shrugged and didn’t bother to reply. He turned hopefully to the driver as he got out, and saw a burly, low-browed man wearing the uniform of a police officer and looking as though he carried a permanent chip on each shoulder. He scowled as he came around into the headlights, looked past Shayne at the body of the other driver lying on the ground and demanded, “He hurt bad?”

  “He just needs to sleep it off,” Shayne said lightly.

  “Drunk?” The burly man knelt down beside him.

  “That’s his Pontiac,” Shayne said. “You can see for yourself that he ran the red light and slammed into my rear end.”

  “Nobody’s ast you to say how it happened,” the other cop broke in. “That’s for us to figure out. Got a driver’s license?”

  Shayne got out his wallet, flipped it open at his driver’s license in a celluloid compartment and extended it w
ordlessly.

  The cop got up from beside the driver and asked with interest, “What’d you hit him with?”

  Shayne said, “He came staggering at me looking for a fight and I gave him a shove. Look, Officer,” he went on persuasively. “Do we have to make a big thing out of this? You can see there’s no real damage done. I’m fully insured. If we could move his car about a foot, I could back my Ford out and get going. How about it?”

  The big cop looked him up and down coldly. “What’s your hurry, Buster? We got to make out a report on this. His license okay, Ernie?” he called to his partner who had moved back with Shayne’s wallet to stand under the spotlight where he was laboriously writing down the number, name and address in a notebook.

  “Looks okay,” Ernie replied reluctantly, as though the admission disappointed him. “Name of Michael Shayne, huh? Hey, Barkus. Ain’t that the tinhorn private dick that’s allus gettin’ writ up in the papers?”

  “Yeah,” said Barkus slowly. “You’re Mike Shayne, huh? Whyn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “No one asked me,” Shayne told him. “Now that you’ve got it straight, how about dropping the whole thing?”

  “Not so dang fast! Being a private eye don’t rate you no special favors… not with the law in Miami, it don’t.”

  “I’m not asking for special favors.” With a great effort Shayne held onto his rapidly thinning patience. “I’m a citizen. I live here the year around. I’m not going to run away, for Christ’s sake. Do we have to stand here all night?”

  “We ain’t in no hurry,” Barkus said happily. “Are we, Ernie? Check out his car registration.” Two other cars had come along the street and pulled up curiously at the scene, and he moved out to wave them on and clear the intersection.

  Shayne hesitated while Ernie went around to the Ford and opened the front door. He started to explain that it wasn’t his car. That he’d borrowed it for the evening, but realized he didn’t know what name it was registered in, and decided to wait for the questions to be asked him.