The Uncomplaining Corpses

by Brett Halliday

  While she held him with her eyes, Arnold Thrip rose from his desk and came forward. Behind the detective’s back he was saying, “Ah, Leora, I didn’t expect you in today. This is Mr. Shayne, my dear. Mrs. Thrip, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Shayne is a private detective, Leora.”

  Mrs. Leora Thrip nodded gently. A faint animation which lighted her whole face conveyed a message of cordial approval to the detective. “Mr. Shayne looks very competent, Arnold. It is a relief to know that the matter is being attended to.”

  Shayne didn’t get it. He would have sworn that she was not the type to connive with her husband on an insurance fraud, yet there was real warmth and relief in her voice.

  Arnold Thrip’s lower lip came forward again; his upper lip drew away from even white teeth. He brought them together to say, “That’s the difficulty, my dear. Mr. Shayne has refused to take the case.”

  Mrs. Thrip looked quickly from her husband to the detective. Color came into her smooth cheeks. She spoke with grave impulsiveness:

  “Oh, I do wish you’d reconsider, Mr. Shayne. I’ve had such a time persuading Arnold it was the thing to do. Perhaps he hasn’t fully explained all the circumstances to you.”

  “But I have, Leora. Mr. Shayne understands fully. He seems to have—er—a peculiarly distorted sense of ethics.”

  Mrs. Thrip was half turned away from her husband, again holding Shayne’s gaze, urgency replacing complacency. It seemed to him she was desperately trying to say something she did not want her husband to hear. With something of a shock Shayne realized that there was an inner tautness about this woman which gave the lie to her outward semblance of placidity.

  He still didn’t get it. His coarse red brows came down in a frown. He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thrip.” Curiously, he realized that he meant exactly what he said. “It isn’t the sort of thing I go in for, public opinion to the contrary.” He bowed slightly and turned away from a flicker of hurt or of fear in her eyes.

  Thrip bustled to the door with him, and before he could open it said in a low, querulous voice, “If you change your mind, Shayne, send a man out to my house at five so that I can talk the matter over with him. We’re on the beach, you know. I’ll be there to make all necessary arrangements.”

  Shayne went out without answering. He went through the reception room scowling, conscious of the guarded appeal in Leora Thrip’s eyes, angry at himself for wishing that he had agreed to help her.

  The scowl stayed on his face while he went down in the elevator and out into the bright afternoon sunlight on Flagler Street

  He turned east with his long, loose-limbed stride, reflecting wryly that Phyllis was going to be disillusioned when he returned from the interview with less than a big retainer and a couple of murders to solve.

  The other side of Northeast First Avenue, he fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and discovered his pack was empty. He turned in at the Cat’s Whiskers and stopped at the cigar counter at the end of a long bar.

  The bartender finished drawing a glass of beer and lifted his hand in greeting, then came to wait on Shayne. “How’s tricks, Mike?” He had loose lips which scarcely moved when he spoke.

  Shayne told him he needed some cigarettes and tossed change on the counter. The bartender handed him a pack and jerked his head toward the rear of the room where there was table service.

  “Friend of yours back there. He asked for you when he came in.”

  “That so?” Shayne tore a corner off the pack of cigarettes. “Who is it, Fred?”

  “Joe Darnell. He’s having it plenty rocky, Mike. Can’t you give him a hand? You know how it is when a kid’s been in stir and trying to play it straight.”

  Shayne took a cigarette from the pack and pulled the counter lighter over to fire it. He let smoke trail from his nostrils and nodded. “Sure, I know. Joe’s trying, huh?”

  “Honest to God. I don’t think he’s pulled a job since you had him do that work for you a couple months ago. He thinks you’re pretty near Almighty God and he says you told him it’s the smart thing to lay off.”

  Shayne grinned, “Joe’s opinion is somewhat at variance with the popular idea. The cops been riding him?”

  “You know how it is. Some parole officers think it’s up to them to ruin any chance a man has of holding an honest job. And Joe’s got his girl in a spot and they’re worried about that. She’s nothing but a chippy, but he’s nuts about her and they want to get married.”

  Shayne nodded somberly, “Tough. Give me a drink and I’ll talk to him.”

  The bartender reached under the counter and handed Shayne a bottle of cognac and a four-ounce glass. With the bottle dangling from his fingers, Shayne went toward the rear, nodding to a couple of men who called him by name. Joe Darnell was sitting at a spindly table with a girl in a floppy hat opposite him.

  The kid had a smooth, round face and guileless blue eyes. He looked up gloomily, then brightened when he recognized Shayne. He jumped up and pulled another chair to the table, exclaiming, “Jeez, am I glad to see you, Mike. Maybe you got a job for me, huh?”

  Shayne set his glass and bottle on the table beside two half-empty beer mugs. He flopped into the chair Joe pulled up and looked at the girl. A full-mouthed face was under the floppy hat. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and she blinked them rapidly when Joe introduced her to Shayne as Dora with a determined note of pride in his voice that was, somehow, pathetic to Shayne.

  Dora couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Her complexion had the swollen look of early pregnancy. Her chin was weak, and wobbled when she tried to speak, but she didn’t appear unhappy or ashamed when Joe explained:

  “Dora’s gonna have a baby, see? An’ we wanta get hitched. But, Jeez, I’m flatter’n a sucker’s bankroll after they take him over the hurdles at Hialeah.”

  Shayne nodded. He uncorked the cognac bottle and poured liquor into his glass. “Fred told me you’d been having it tough. Keeping your nose clean?”

  Dejection settled over Joe Darnell’s youthful face again. “Sure am, Mike, an’ what’s it gettin’ me? I ain’t so sure it’s smart.”

  “It is smart, Joe,” Dora said quickly. “Please don’t talk like that.”

  Both men looked at the girl in some surprise when she spoke so vehemently. She sounded more mature than she looked.

  Joe lifted his shoulders and eyebrows, spread out his hands, turning to Shayne. “That’s the way it is, see? Dora gets in a sweat if I mention pulling a job. But we’re flat. She ain’t gettin’ the right things to eat. It ain’t fair, Mike. Me tryin’ to stay honest and can’t take care of my girl—an’ the town’s full of chiselers ridin’ in limousines an’ drinkin’ champagne. Sometimes I wonder what the law’s for.”

  Shayne nodded. His face was sour. “It doesn’t make sense.” He warmed his glass of cognac in his big hands, lifted it, and drank slowly. Irrationally, he caught himself wondering if Arnold Thrip had a limousine and drank champagne.

  He placed the empty glass down gently. Dora put her hand on his arm and said low-voiced, “Joe’s told me lots about you, Mr. Shayne. He got a big kick out of helping you on that other case. Couldn’t you—find something for him—now?”

  Shayne’s brooding eyes held the girl’s for a moment, then he nodded abruptly. “I think maybe I can, Dora.” He turned to Joe, pushing back his chair. “We’d better talk this over in private, Joe.”

  Dora started to protest the desertion as Joe got up and Shayne silenced her by explaining, “A private detective’s business has to be private, Dora. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He and Joe strolled back to the men’s room, went in, and Shayne latched the door behind them.

  “You really got somethin’,” Joe asked eagerly, “or you just tryin’ to cheer Dora up by makin’ her think so?”

  “I’ve got something, Joe. I don’t know—” Shayne moved past a row of stalls to a frosted window which was lowered from the top for ventilation. He stared out thoughtfully at a refuse-li
ttered back alley. “Still got your tools?” he asked without turning around.

  “Yeh. They’re right where I cached ’em before I went up to Raiford.”

  “I know a guy,” Shayne explained carefully, “who’s figuring on pulling a fast one. He’s laying a grand on the line for a fake burglary. I’ve got no use for a bird like that and you need that grand worse than he does. He’ll leave it lying handy tonight if you want to go after it.”

  Behind him, Joe Darnell’s face registered amazement, then disbelief. “You mean—you’re puttin’ me onto pullin’ a job?”

  Shayne whirled on him savagely. His eyes were sultry. “Why not? The twerp had the nerve to ask me to do the job. He deserves to get his ears knocked down. And he’s expecting to get plenty for having it pulled. I wouldn’t lie awake nights worrying about it if that mistake cost him a grand. He’ll be waiting at five o’clock to explain the lay to you. Take him while he’s ripe for the pickings, Joe. There won’t be any danger. He and his wife are both in on it. He wants an empty jewel case snatched and a jimmied window to prove to the police it was an outside job.”

  Shayne paused. His nostrils flared widely. “He’s going to leave a thousand-dollar bill in the jewel case. Why not cross him up by leaving the case behind and not leaving any marks on the window? He’s dumb enough to believe you’re going to do the job according to specifications. When you go out there this evening get him to leave a window unlatched. Explain to him that a jimmy won’t open a locked window.” Shayne paused. His eyes were hard, like gray marble. “By God, I’d like to see him hoist on his own petard. If he tries to stash the jewel case after you leave it behind,” he went on hurriedly, “and puts up a holler that his wife’s jewels are missing, it’ll look like nothing but a plant to the cops and he’ll have plenty of explaining to do. Do you get the angle?”

  Joe’s eyes were very bright. He licked his lips all the way around. “I’ll say I do. That’s a hot one, Mike. He can’t squawk about it without givin’ the whole plant away.” Joe stared for a moment, dumbfounded, then doubled over with laughter. “That’s neat, Mike. Neat, I’ll say. And it ain’t like he didn’t ask for it.”

  Shayne smiled grimly. “Better not tell Dora,” he cautioned. “Women have funny notions sometimes. The name is Arnold Thrip. He’s got a place on Miami Beach. Be there at five if you want to take a crack at it.” He unlatched the door and they went out.

  At the table Dora welcomed their return with a hopeful smile. “Did you get something fixed, Joe?” she asked eagerly.

  “And how!” Joe was exultant. “We’ll get married tomorrow, honey. We’ll be in the money. Boy! What a setup!”

  Dora jumped up and planted a moist kiss on Shayne’s cheek before he could back away. “I knew you’d help Joe. I kept telling him—”

  “Sure, sure.” Shayne paused uncertainly, then shrugged his big shoulders. Half to himself and half to Joe he muttered argumentatively, “Hell, it can’t hurt anything.” He slapped Joe on the shoulder and wished him good luck, lifted his hat to Dora, and hurried out.

  It was a little after four o’clock when Michael Shayne sauntered back into the lobby of his hotel where he had kept his old bachelor apartment as an office when he moved up into the new apartment with his new wife.

  At the desk the clerk said, “There was a lady in here looking for you a few minutes ago, Mr. Shayne, She looked like class so I used my own judgment and asked her to wait in your new apartment instead of the old one.”

  Shayne thanked him and went up three floors in the elevator. Down the hall to his left he stopped in front of a door and turned the knob.

  He took a step forward and stopped on the threshold. His eyes widened in surprise. Phyllis and Mrs. Leora Thrip were sitting together at a coffee table chatting as though they had known each other for years.

  Chapter Three: AN AMAZING STORY

  PHYLLIS SHAYNE STOPPED POURING TEA when her husband entered the living-room. She set the silver teapot carefully on the coffee table beside her and looked up with unaffected gladness in time to catch a humorous questioning in his eyes just before he turned his back and closed the door.

  She wore a floor-length hostess gown of blue satin which made her cheeks look cool and gave dignity to her slim young body held primly erect. The sheen of her dark hair vied with the sheen of the gown and the illusion was of blue-black hair parted in the center, combed back in waves from a wide forehead. She wore a minimum of make-up. Phyllis Shayne was working hard at the job of being a suitable wife for her thirty-five-year-old husband, and when she remembered to be careful and not overexuberant, she looked almost her full age, which was twenty.

  In the presence of a client Phyllis remained sedate and seated while Michael walked across the room to the coffee table, but aside from this she made no pretense of hiding the fact that she had been married only a short time and was hopelessly in love.

  Shayne said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thrip,” as though he had expected her. He tossed his hat on a chair and went around the table to stand behind his wife’s chair.

  Phyllis tilted her head back and Shayne cupped long bony fingers under her chin. For an instant they looked into each other’s eyes, then Shayne kissed her lips, wrinkled his nose at the steam floating up from her teacup.

  “Good Lord, that smells like tea,” he exclaimed.

  “Of course it’s tea,” Phyllis caroled. “We always have tea at four-thirty,” she said to Mrs. Thrip, “and Michael always jokes about it. Why, in Cuba—”

  “Such a pleasant custom, my dear,” Mrs. Thrip agreed. She smiled. “It’s so seldom nowadays one actually has tea served when one is invited to tea.”

  Phyllis said, “Excuse me a moment,” and took the squat silver teapot with her to the kitchen, explaining, “I’ll run some more boiling water over the leaves for Michael. He likes weak tea and that bitter taste you get from the used leaves.”

  Shayne’s left eyebrow shot up apprehensively but he didn’t say anything. He sat down and took a cigarette from a pack on the table.

  Mrs. Thrip wore the same carefully guarded mantle of placidity she had kept wrapped about her at the office. She wore the same somber dress. Against the gold-brocaded chair in which she sat, Shayne saw that it was dark blue. She took a sip of tea and appeared to relish it. She said, “My husband doesn’t know I’ve come to you, Mr. Shayne. He must not know.” She spaced the last four words evenly. Her gray eyes regarded him fixedly with that same intent quality of repose which he had noted earlier in the afternoon.

  He said, “Of course not, Mrs. Thrip,” and lit his cigarette from a small lighter on the table, looking blandly across at Phyllis, who had tiptoed from the kitchen and, behind Mrs. Thrip’s back, stood before a built-in wall mirror which pivoted under her touch, revealing a compact and well-stocked bar on the other side. His gray eyes became languid as he watched her fill a teacup with amber liquid from a bottle and go quietly back to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Thrip asked, “Did Arnold show you the notes, Mr. Shayne?”

  Shayne was turning the lighter between his fingers as if studying its efficiency. He pursed his lips and set it on the table with a quick jerk, expelled smoke from his nostrils, and shook his head. “Notes? No, he didn’t show them to me.”

  “He probably didn’t have them at the office, then.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Phyllis emerged from the kitchen with the steaming teapot and a tray bearing a cup and saucer and a goblet of ice water. The cup was full to the brim of something that looked like weak tea. She set it before her husband and placed the glass of water beside it, explaining to Mrs. Thrip, “Michael insists on having ice water with his tea every afternoon. Silly, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Thrip sniffed, smiled, and said, “It is odd,” in a gentle voice.

  Shayne looked up as she tightened a quirk of amusement around her mouth. He said, “It’s an old Mongolian custom. Tea just wouldn’t be tea without ice water on the side. The Chinese think it’s silly, you know
, the way we put ice in hot tea to make it cold and lemon in it to make it sour and then put sugar in to—”

  “Look, darling,” Phyllis interrupted, resuming her prim position in her chair, “Mrs. Thrip is here to discuss business. Mightn’t you—?”

  “Of course,” Shayne said hastily. “Shall we go down to my offices on the next floor, Mrs. Thrip?”

  A disappointed look was covering Phyllis’s face when Mrs. Thrip interposed quietly: “I’d like your wife to hear me, Mr. Shayne. She has been so charming and sympathetic. I believe I can say what must be said more easily with her present.”

  “So there,” Phyllis said in an undertone. A toe of her shoe nudged one of Shayne’s number twelves.

  Shayne took a sip of cognac from the teacup and agreed. “Wives do have their uses, Mrs. Thrip. You said something about—the notes?”

  “Yes. The threats I’ve received recently. I feel that after you hear about—everything—you will reconsider and take the case.”

  “You are under the impression that Mr. Thrip withheld some of the facts from me this afternoon?”

  “He is in a difficult position, Mr. Shayne. There are certain things which a wife hesitates to confess. That’s why I came to you. I’m positive of the identity of the person who wrote those notes, while Arnold is under the impression that they are the work of a crank. I suppose he told you that.”

  Shayne said, “U-m-m.”

  Mrs. Thrip nodded as if in understanding. “I’m glad he finally decided to call in a detective. It has been a difficult situation for me.” There was a hint of a shudder in her shoulders. “Horribly difficult. At first Arnold wanted me to pay the money demanded. A man in Arnold’s position couldn’t afford such publicity, you understand. I suppose you’ll think me a coward, but I knew the first payment would only bring more demands. I couldn’t tell Arnold—without telling him everything.”

  Shayne took another drink from his teacup and said casually, “I understand, Mrs. Thrip,” without even remotely knowing what he was supposed to understand. Over the rim of his cup he saw a flicker in her eyes. An alive, normal brightness which died away, leaving her face immobile. Her eyes were vague again. “To handle the case properly, you realize that I should know all the facts,” he added practically.