Death Has Three Lives

by Brett Halliday

  “An old boy friend of Lucy’s,” Shayne explained to Rourke with a shrug. “He never-strangled her, and she refuses to believe he’d go that far with any other woman.” He gathered up his and Rourke’s empty glasses, got an angry shake of her head from Lucy when he glanced at hers, and went into the kitchen for refills.

  Timothy Rourke dropped onto the divan beside her and covered one hand with his. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice, “pay too much attention to Mike. He’s sore and jealous, but when it comes to a showdown he’ll be riding out in front of you like a knight on a white charger.”

  Lucy smiled miserably at him. “I’ve got him in a horrible mess, Tim. You see, Jack did come here to hide from the police. And I didn’t tell Michael. I was afraid—”

  “Let me do the talking, angel,” Shayne cut in sharply from the kitchen doorway. He brought in fresh drinks for Rourke and himself, settled back on the divan, and warned the reporter, “Don’t go off half-cocked on any of this. Lucy hadn’t seen Bristow for years until he busted in on her a couple of hours ago with a slug hole in his stomach and a crazy story about being shot by a dead man and needing help. She didn’t know it was murder, but she did refuse to cover up for him, and tried to call me.”

  Shayne broke off to gesture at the telephone. “He jerked the cord loose when she tried to phone me, then locked himself in her bedroom. I showed up just then,” Shayne went on, improvising swiftly, “and before she could tell me about it, this Sergeant Loftus and his goon squad came charging in and got me sore. So I kicked them out without knowing Bristow had been here, and I admit I felt like a fool when Lucy told me a minute later that he was here. I broke down the door,” Shayne went on swiftly, “but it was too late anyhow. He’d got out the window and down the fire escape in the meantime. They were already onto him being in this building and I saw no reason to drag Lucy into it by telling her part when it was too late to do any good. That’s all there is to it.”

  Rourke’s black eyes were fever-bright. “But you did make that call in to give his name and description?”

  “Sure,” Shayne conceded readily. “It was too late to do anything else by that time. If the fool hadn’t dropped the slip of paper with Lucy’s name, she’d never have come into it. And by the time we knew about that, it was too late to start telling Will Gentry the truth.”

  “I can see all that.” Timothy Rourke sank back and took a long pull at his bourbon and water. Lucy avoided meeting Shayne’s eyes because she didn’t dare let him see the gratitude shining in hers for the way he had twisted the truth to cover up for her.

  “How badly was Bristow hurt, Lucy?” Rourke asked after a moment.

  “I honestly don’t know. It was in his side right here.” She indicated the spot beneath her ribs with a forefinger. “It wasn’t bleeding much outwardly and he seemed pretty good. He claimed a dead man had shot him,” she added with a shudder. “I don’t know what to think now. Is there any real evidence that he killed the girl on Eighteenth Street?”

  Rourke shook his head slowly. “Nothing definite, I guess. They don’t know much of anything yet. The girl in an adjoining room found Trixie’s body. Gladys Smith, she’d signed the register,” he added, “but the other girls call her Trixie. She’s new in Miami, and new to the racket, too, I guess. Looks about sixteen and—well, a girl has to be pretty new in it to get herself strangled. About Bristow. The only thing tying him to it thus far is the taxi driver who picked him up a block away at the right time and brought him here. That, and the paper with your address on the floor.”

  Shayne tossed off his cognac and got up to stride up and down the floor. “Will Gentry,” he argued, “said there wasn’t any blood in the room. No gun. Hardly looks like he was shot by the girl in self-defense.”

  “He could have carried the gun away with him after she plugged him,” parried Rourke. He finished his drink and yawned, then suggested casually, “Let’s quit telling fairy stories and get down to the truth. What did happen here tonight?”

  Lucy straightened up with a gasp of alarm but Shayne continued his pacing without breaking stride and declared flatly, “That’s all of it, Tim. Don’t blame Lucy too much. She thought the guy was still there in the bedroom, of course, when the cops came—and the cop at her door didn’t give her a chance to tell him anything. In fact,” Shayne went on with a twisted smile, “I sort of took the play away from her when the bastard tried to push in and got insulting.”

  “Wait a little minute,” said Timothy Rourke wearily. “This is me. Remember? Not Will Gentry. Not the cops. I don’t mind covering up for you two nice people, but I’m waiting to hear you say which one bumped the guy.”

  It was Michael Shayne who reacted this time instead of Lucy, who didn’t catch the full import of the reporter’s words. He stopped abruptly and demanded, “What guy, Tim? What in hell are you talking about?”

  “The guy under Lucy’s bed,” said Rourke. “Jack Bristow at a guess, from the quick look I grabbed.”

  Lucy sank back with a little stricken cry, and Shayne slowly turned hotly questioning eyes on her. “Is Tim kidding, Lucy? Before God—”

  “How do I know?” she cried brokenly. “I’ve told you the truth. I left him lying on the bed. You’re the one who looked and said he’d slipped away down the fire escape.”

  Rourke was sitting erect, looking from one to the other with intense interest when Shayne whirled about and went back into the bedroom on hard heels. Lucy was on her feet at once, her face chalk-white, and Rourke caught her arm as she swayed. “Take it easy, Lucy. If you’re telling the truth—”

  “But—if it is Jack—” She was trembling violently, and Rourke supported her toward the open door through which they could see Shayne kneeling beside her bed with the blood-smeared towel still protecting the spread.

  The redhead rocked back on his heels and looked up at them grimly. “How’d you come to notice him lying here, Tim, when I didn’t?”

  “That’s one of the things,” said Rourke, “that I wondered about. You being a detective and all. I’m just a punk reporter, but when I see the sole of a man’s shoe sticking out from under a lady’s bed, I get curious and investigate.”

  Shayne shook his head disgustedly and leaned down to peer under the bed again. He muttered, “I was in a hurry, and when I saw the wire screen onto the fire escape ripped open and heard someone running away, I swallowd Lucy’s story whole and figured he’d beat it that way.” He lifted himself to his feet slowly and advised Lucy, “You’d better tell us all about it this time, angel. If you killed him in self-defense, it’ll be okay.”

  “But I didn’t,” she cried frantically. “I told you he was shot when he came here.” She gestured toward the towel on the bed. “See where he lay down? I told you I didn’t know how badly he was wounded. He must have crawled under the bed to hide and—and—”

  “This guy,” said Shayne grimly, “didn’t crawl under the bed. He was shoved there, Lucy. And he didn’t die of a bullet wound. His throat is slit all the way across.”

  Lucy’s eyes dilated and her knees buckled under her. Rourke held her tightly, shaking his head at Shayne and backing away with the almost unconscious girl.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he grated, “quit trying to scare Lucy to death and start your mind working. You say the door was bolted on the inside when you broke it down. How in hell could Lucy have done that if she cut his throat?”

  Rourke’s words brought Shayne to himself abruptly. The look of blank grimness on his face cleared and he strode forward muttering, “Sure. What in hell is eating on me? Sure. She could be telling the truth. That torn screen. Instead of him going out, someone else came in from the fire escape while the door was locked. I must have scared him off when I broke the door, and it was Bristow’s killer I heard running in the alley.”

  Rourke was easing Lucy down onto the divan. Color was coming back into her cheeks and her eyelids fluttered faintly. Rourke stood back from her and told Shayne flatly, “Get down on your kn
ees to her, you damned ox, and get her in shape to identify the corpse. If it is Jack Bristow, there’s going to be hell to pay if he’s found here now.”

  The lanky reporter turned on his heel and hurried into the kitchen, when he poured out a slug of cognac and carried it back.

  He found Lucy sitting up with Shayne’s arm about her shoulders and his face pressed against hers, and there was a look in Lucy’s brown eyes that made him clear his throat and turn his head away hastily. When he looked back, Shayne was grinning at him and Lucy was able to say, “It’s all right now, Tim. Give me just a sip of that and I’ll—tell you if it’s Jack or not.”

  Shayne released her and stood up as Rourke handed her the cognac. “You’re right about one thing, Tim. There’s going to be hell to pay if it ever gets out that a corpse was lying under Lucy’s bed all the time I was chasing the cops away and while Will Gentry was here questioning us about him.” He went back into the bedroom while Lucy sipped at the cognac, and reappeared in a moment nodding his red head grimly. “He’s got a hole in his side just like you said, Lucy. It’s pretty clear what happened. Someone knew he was headed here to hide out, and got in through the window from the fire escape to finish him off. Want to take a quick look, Lucy, so there won’t be any more mistakes?”

  She nodded and got to her feet. “I’m all right now. What’s another corpse in your bedroom when you work for Mike Shayne?” She went to him and took his arm tightly, whispered too low for Rourke to hear, “If I am still working for you, Mike. Remember, you said—”

  He patted her hand and turned her toward the bedroom. “I said and did a lot of crazy things, angel. Forget them all while we get to work on this.” He stood aside to let Lucy look down at the body of Jack Bristow which he had dragged from its temporary hiding place onto the rug beside her bed.

  Death had erased the tormented lines about Jack Bristow’s mouth. There was an ugly gash beneath his chin and a lot of blood which Lucy tried to ignore. His black eyes were open, vacant and staring at nothingness.

  Lucy drew in her breath sharply and said, “Yes. It’s Jack. Why didn’t he cry out, Michael, if someone came through the window and attacked him? I didn’t hear a sound from in here after I left him.”

  Shayne shrugged. “He may have passed out and been unconscious on the bed and never knew it happened. That’s all we need you for, Lucy. Go back to the living-room and finish your drink. Close the door behind her, Tim.”

  He knelt beside the body and began turning out the pockets of the dead man’s slacks. The side pockets yielded a couple of dollars in silver, but there was nothing else at all.

  Shayne rocked back on his heels, shaking his red head. “Not a damned thing to tell us anything. He must have been trailed here from Eighteenth Street by whoever shot him there.” He paused to scowl doubtfully. “Unless someone knew he would head for Lucy after being wounded. There was that slip of paper with her address which his sister must have given him—”

  He shook his head angrily. “Not a damned bit of good guessing at things like that right now. We’ve got to get him out, Tim. Not a cop in the world would believe us now if we told the exact truth. Not even Will Gentry. If he ever finds out this corpse was under Lucy’s bed while he was in the next room asking questions there’ll really be hell to pay.”

  Timothy Rourke grinned and muttered caustically, “Seems I’ve read about there being some law about not moving a dead body.”

  “I think maybe there is,” agreed Shayne mockingly. “And you and I are going to break that law into little pieces right now.” He went to the window with the ripped screen, leaned out to look down. He withdrew his head and nodded. “Nothing to it. The alley is quite dark. You go down the front way,” he told Rourke matter-of-factly, handing the reporter his car keys.

  “Drive my car through the alley once with the headlights on. If everything looks okay, come back with your lights turned out, and park below. I’ll bring him down.”

  “Just like that?” said Rourke moodily, eyeing the corpse with disfavor.

  “Just like that.” Shayne forced the keys into his hand and shoved him toward the living-room. Lucy was seated on the sofa, white-faced and anxious, and as Rourke went out Shayne told her reassuringly, “We’re taking care of Jack Bristow so he won’t embarrass you again. Soon as I carry him down the fire escape, you go in and check everything. Get rid of the towel and any traces that he’s been here. Lock your windows and your door and sit tight until you hear from me.”

  “I’ll be so frightened, Michael!” She jumped up and flung herself into his arms, sobbing, “I got you into it. I’ll never forgive myself. If I’d just told you right away—”

  “Take it easy, angel,” Shayne’s arms were tight about her trembling body. “You know my motto. Never look back. We all mess things up sometimes. And what the hell?” he went on cheerily. “Without you to shove me in the right direction, I wouldn’t be headed out right now to visit a good-looking girl in her cabin on the edge of town. Think how dull things were around Miami until you stirred them up.”

  He hesitated a moment, glancing around the room to make sure everything was in order, and his gaze was caught by the loose wire of the telephone. He hurried into the kitchen for a small screw driver, returned to pry the lid from the box attached to the baseboard and replace the wire, telling Lucy over his shoulder, “I may need to get hold of you and you’d never get a repairman here before morning.” He lifted the phone and tested it for a dial tone, nodded, and replaced it.

  He bent, grinning, to kiss her tear-wet cheek, set her aside to go into the bedroom where he got a clean blanket from a closet, spread it on the floor and rolled Jack Bristow’s corpse in it.

  He heard a car pass below in the alley, and carried the body to the fire escape to wait on the landing until Rourke returned with no lights.

  Then he carried his burden down swiftly, thrust it in the back seat, and got in beside the reporter.

  “Go on to the street without headlights,” he directed. “Turn them on and turn right to the Boulevard. Then north.”

  “Where we taking him, Mike?” Rourke asked with interest as he drove as directed.

  “There’s a girl in a motel out that way who was disappointed tonight when her husband didn’t meet her in front of a house on Eighteenth Street as he’d arranged to. If Jack is the man, she may as well know the worst now as later.”

  He settled back and lit a cigarette and related his meeting with the hungry girl who called herself Mrs. Peter Smith. “Jack must be the man she calls Pete,” he ended. “If we can hit her hard enough with his corpse, we should be able to get the whole story out of her.”

  Timothy Rourke divested himself of a noncommittal, “U-m-m,” drove on out the Boulevard at a moderate speed until Shayne gestured ahead to a tourist court that now stood dark and silent.

  “Cabin number six,” he directed. “You stay back and bring him in when I tell you to. Pull the blanket down from his face so she sees it before she has a chance to get set.”

  He got out and went to the door of the cabin and rapped lightly. The headlights behind him outlined his figure clearly, and he saw the girl’s face peering at him from behind the window after a moment. He knocked again, heard the key turning inside and the door opened a crack. The girl’s thin voice, expressing utter defeat, floated out to him through the crack.

  “All right. Give me a chance to get back in bed before you turn on the light.” Bare feet sped across the floor and the bedsprings creaked. Shayne pushed the door open and flipped the light switch. She cringed away from him in the bed with the covers pulled up tightly about her chin. There was a look of utter loathing on her face as she told him, “I guess I knew all the time you were too good to be true. What’ll you do if I scream?”

  “Slap some sense into you,” said Shayne flatly. “I’ve got your husband outside, damn it. You want to see him?”

  Tough as he thought he was, Michael Shayne hated himself for the look of wild delight that leape
d into the girl’s pinched face at his words. She flung the covers back and started to leap out of bed, showing her body clothed only in a white silk slip, and Shayne gestured her back, saying gruffly, “Wait right there. I’ll bring him in to you.”

  He turned in the doorway and nodded to Timothy Rourke, stepped aside to study the girl’s expression with fierce intensity when the reporter entered carrying the blanket-wrapped body with pallid face exposed to the bright overhead light.

  At the first moment, Shayne knew he had guessed wrong, and he had it in him to be almost glad that the corpse wasn’t her man even though it dashed his hopes for a fast conclusion to the case.

  The look of eager expectation on her face changed swiftly to revulsion the instant she saw Jack Bristow, and then to curiosity and terror as she sank back on the pillow stifling a moan and shaking her head wildly. “No! That’s not him. I never saw him before. Is he—dead?”

  Shayne shrugged and told her, “Sorry to bother you, but we hoped you could identify him, Look again, miss,” he urged. “Look at him carefully now you know he isn’t your husband. Will you swear you never saw him before? It may be very important.”

  “I don’t think so.” She wet her lips and forced her gaze to rest on Bristow’s features. She began shaking her head decidedly, then slowly a puzzled look crept into her eyes. She regarded him more intently, breathing, “He does look sort of familiar at that. I don’t know. I’d swear I never knew him in my life, but—I—don’t—just know. It’s funny. Maybe I’ve seen his picture somewhere.”

  “He’s from New Orleans,” Shayne helped her. “Does the name Jack Bristow mean anything to you?”

  Momentarily he thought it did. For just an instant, he thought he saw a flash of recognition, of comprehension, on her face. Then it was gone. If it had been there at all, she had swiftly gained control of herself and he knew he would get no more from her.