The Uncomplaining Corpses

by Brett Halliday

  He hung up and went out, leaving the door closed but unlatched. In the hall he shivered and went up the steps to his living-apartment and got a coat.

  In ten minutes he was on his way to Miami Beach.

  Chapter Thirteen: JAIL CAN WAIT

  AT THE PALACE HOTEL, Shayne asked at the desk for Carl Meldrum. The clerk was not the one who had been on duty when the detective called early that morning. He shook his head with disinterest and said that Meldrum had been out all day.

  Shayne questioned the clerk and listened grimly while he learned that a young lady had called for Meldrum before noon, had gone up to his room, and come down with him about an hour later. Meldrum had ordered his car brought around from the garage and they had driven away together.

  Again, as he had over the telephone, the clerk described the young lady who had gone out with Carl Meldrum. He had no idea what the girl’s name was. But Mike Shayne recognized Phyllis in his words.

  Further questioning produced no information beyond that which Gentry’s man had elicited. As far as the clerk knew, Meldrum was a typical wealthy tourist taking the Miami sun and avoiding boredom by spending much time at the hot spots in the company of various women. He primly informed Shayne that it was not the policy of the hotel management to inquire too closely into the private affairs of their guests, and admitted that it was not unusual for Meldrum to be absent from his room for a couple of days and nights at a time. He understood it was a police matter and was perfectly willing to co-operate, but he had no suggestion as to where to start searching for Meldrum. He was certain, however, that neither Meldrum nor the girl had taken any luggage.

  When Shayne turned away from the desk he spotted a Miami plain-clothes man seated unobtrusively in a corner of the lobby. He gave the man a wink as he strolled to the door and the cop joined him outside a moment later.

  He said, “Hi, Mike. I didn’t know whether you wanted me to make you in there or not.”

  Shayne frowned. “It wouldn’t have mattered a hell of a lot, Fred. Are you laying for Meldrum?”

  “Yep. He hasn’t shown yet”

  “I don’t think he will. But if he does, for God’s sake don’t lose him. You’ve seen my wife’s pictures in the paper, haven’t you, Fred?”

  “Yep. She’s a knockout, Mike. I don’t see how the hell you rated—”

  Wearily Shayne said, “Skip it. She’s the woman who went out with Meldrum.”

  The Miami detective’s eyes widened. “Your wife? Now, what the hell—”

  Again Shayne broke in. “She contacted him with some crazy idea of helping me out of the spot I’m in for the Thrip killing. If Meldrum finds out who she is—”

  He paused, his face sober in the deepening twilight. With an effort he shrugged his heavy shoulders. “If they come back together get her away from him, Fred. If he comes back alone, grab him and get him across the line to Miami before Painter can stop you.”

  “Sure,” Fred said awkwardly. “Say, I’m sorry as hell.”

  Shayne nodded. He turned up the collar of his belted trench coat and thrust his hands deep into slash pockets. He turned away, got in his roadster while the cop watched him anxiously, and drove straight to the Miami Beach police headquarters. There he parked and went in.

  A group of cops in the outer office scowled at him as he went by. He went on back to Peter Painter’s private office, turned the knob, and strode through the door. Painter looked up from some papers with a wispy smile on his thin lips. He tilted his swivel chair back and said unpleasantly, “Ah, Shayne. I wondered where you were hiding out.”

  Shayne hooked his toe under the rung of a straight chair and dragged it close to Painter’s desk. He sat down solidly and explained, “I’ve been too busy looking for Mrs. Thrip’s murderer to do any hiding out.”

  Peter Painter’s forefinger trembled while the tip of it caressed his silky black mustache. “Still determined to make an ass of yourself, eh?”

  “The same kind of an ass I’ve always been,” Shayne agreed shortly. He hunched forward with his elbows on Painter’s desk. “Do you know anything about a Carl Meldrum at the Palace Hotel?”

  Peter Painter shook his head impatiently. “Why should I?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Shayne agreed. “It merely appears that he’s the bird who strangled Mrs. Thrip.”

  Painter snorted his disgust. “That case is closed,” he said with sharp finality.

  “You wish it was,” Shayne corrected him. “Have you got those extortion notes Thrip gave you?”

  “Yes. And I’m keeping them.”

  “Mind letting me have a look?”

  “I do, certainly.” Painter’s voice was thin, wrathy. You’ve done your last messing into the affairs of the Miami Beach police department, Shayne. You stand discredited, with no official standing whatever.”

  “The notes don’t matter, of course,” Shayne said with a wave of his big hand in dismissal. “It merely happens that I have an idea we’ll find the murderer when we find the writer.”

  Peter Painter’s eyes bulged slightly. He ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip, leaned toward Shayne, and started to speak, but Shayne cut him off by saying:

  “Have you received an answer to the telegram you sent the governor?” His voice was gentle, his eyes guileless.

  Painter’s face took on a purplish tinge. He pounded his desk with a smooth, small fist. “Not yet. But I think an arrest as accessory before the fact will cook your goose to a fine turn. I’m swearing out a warrant.”

  Shayne said, “Don’t do it, Painter.”

  “Why not? There’s sufficient evidence to convict you. I shan’t be swayed by any personal considerations.”

  “But it will make you look considerably smaller than your five-feet-eight if I solve this case locked up in your jail. And I have a ball rolling that can wind it up tight—in jail or out.”

  Their eyes locked for an instant. Painter began to smile. “You don’t relish the thought of jail, do you? You’ve reached the end of your rope and it doesn’t feel so good. After you cool your heels in a cell—”

  “While Mrs. Thrip’s real murderer is going free,” Shayne reminded him. “Don’t go out on a limb all the way and make me saw it off. I can do it. I’ve done it before.” His gray eyes narrowed, gleaming through slits. “I’m pushing them all against the wall. I’ve got them coming to me. Another few hours will end it. It’ll be better, of course, if I’m free to follow up the stuff I’m smoking out.”

  Painter laughed harshly. He slid thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest and strutted sitting down. “I have no right to make an exception in your case. My duty to the law-abiding citizens of this city demands that you be treated like any other criminal.”

  “If you lock me up in your stinking jail tonight,” Shayne told him deliberately, “you’ll be abetting the escape of one murderer and possibly contribute materially to another one. You can’t do it, Painter.” Sweat was beginning to stand out on Shayne’s face. His bluff wasn’t going over. Phyllis was still missing. He dragged out a pack of cigarettes and put one between his lips without taking his eyes off Painter’s face.

  Viciously Painter taunted him: “Can’t I? I think it’s time you learned that I am running Miami Beach. I know you’re running around desperately trying to cook up some sort of frame to clear Darnell and yourself. You’re through planting crooked evidence, Shayne. You’re through, by God, as an obstructor of justice. You’ve given your last lying headline to the Miami News. It was nice of you to walk in here to have the warrant served on you.” He stuck out a finger to poke a button on his desk,

  Shayne brushed the finger away from the button. “No, Painter. Hell, I’m asking you as man to man. My wife’s in danger. She started out with some idea of helping me—and she has disappeared. She—God knows how badly she needs me.”

  “Isn’t that too bad! Just too sweet and husbandly. For a tough Mick who takes them where he finds them and leaves them where he lays them, you’re conside
rably softened.”

  Muscles were standing out like cords on either side of Shayne’s lean jaw, “All right. So maybe I’m tough. Phyllis is—hell, Painter, you know what Phyllis is—and she’s my wife,” he ended doggedly.

  “Sure, I know. A rattlebrained gal with lots of money and not enough sense to pick a better man than you.”

  “All right.” The words came from Shayne’s stiff lips freighted with warning. “She’s my wife,” he repeated. His fingers contracted involuntarily into huge fists.

  “So what? Lots of men have wives. Lots of men that I arrest for one thing or another. If I listened to all their sob stories I’d never make an arrest.”

  “This is different.” Shayne pounded out the words. “Phyllis has deliberately mixed herself up in this murder racket. She’s out right now with the man who either killed Mrs. Thrip or knows who did kill her. If he finds out Phyllis is my wife and sees the stuff I had in the News today, God knows what he’ll do.”

  “Which is your fault for putting such bilge in the News. Let it be a lesson to you. As far as your wife’s being in danger and needing you to help her, that’s just bilge too. We have police to protect citizens from harm. To hear you talk, one would think the world would come to an end if you were put out of circulation for a night or two. I don’t think it would. Really I don’t, Shayne. You’re not that important.”

  Painter reached forward again to touch the button that would bring men in to arrest Michael Shayne. This time the redheaded detective lunged out of his chair and shoved Painter back.

  “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m staying out of jail tonight, Painter. I practically killed a man an hour ago when he got in my way. I’d just as leave kill a chief of detectives as anybody.”

  Painter put up a hand to ward off a blow as the big detective towered over him. “Don’t touch me,” he panted. “You’re crazy, Shayne. You can’t—you can’t get away with this right here in my office.”

  “I am getting away with it.” Shayne held his big hands in front of him, moving forward deliberately while Painter frantically shoved his wheeled swivel chair back. “I’ll break your neck,” Shayne went on menacingly. His tone bore out his threat.

  “No, no.” Backed against the wall, Painter cowered down in his chair. “I’m not going to arrest you. Don’t you know I wouldn’t arrest you when your wife’s in trouble? Can’t you take a little kidding?”

  Shayne stood over him, his hands a few inches from Painter’s throat. He said, “I don’t like your way of joking.” Then he relaxed slowly, straightened up. “Will you give me your word of honor to let me walk out of here unmolested? Will you swear to hold that warrant in abeyance until tomorrow morning?” Shayne sounded like a high official administering an oath to a lesser official.

  “Yes, of course,” Painter chattered. His perfect teeth showed between his dashing little mustache and trembling lower lip in an attempted smile. “I didn’t mean it at all. I know how you must feel about your wife. If there’s anything I can do—”

  “There isn’t. Except to leave me alone.”

  Shayne turned his back on the detective chief and strode to the door. He opened it and went out, closing it softly behind him. Then, without releasing the knob he jerked it open again.

  Painter was leaning over his desk reaching for the button with a look of crafty triumph on his sleek face.

  Shayne rushed him in five quick long strides. Painter yelped just before he was knocked back five feet by the impact of Shayne’s furious fist. Painter made no move as he relaxed on the rug.

  Shayne stood over him breathing hard, then whirled and went out. This time he closed the door firmly and whistled a gay off-tune melody as he went through the outer office and past the curious stares of the Beach officers.

  Outside, he got in his car and switched on the lights, swung about in a vicious U-turn, and drove away at high speed.

  Chapter Fourteen: ONE JUMP AHEAD OF THE LAW

  SHAYNE PUSHED HIS CAR HARD to the north and east. At the Thrip home he pulled aside to let a long, cream-colored limousine come out of the drive in a hurry. A uniformed chauffeur was behind the wheel and Shayne caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Thrip, alone in the spacious tonneau. He felt sure the pudgy realtor had not seen him, for he was sitting pompously erect and staring straight ahead. Shayne scowled after the handsome car as it slid away, then swung his roadster into the palm-lined, curving driveway.

  The horse-faced butler was at the front door, as stoic and solemn-eyed as on his last encounter. Upon recognizing Shayne, he tried to shut the door in his face, but Shayne’s shoe got in the way.

  “Mr. Thrip is not in,” the butler protested. “He just left for Miami.”

  “I saw him. He almost ran me down as I was turning in.” Shayne’s tone was sour. He pushed past the butler. “I want to see the boy and the girl, anyway.”

  “You can’t see Mr. Ernst, sir. It was on his account that the master was called to Miami so hurriedly.”

  “That so?” Shayne queried indifferently. “What happened to the young pantywaist?”

  “It is not an occasion for slurring allusions, sir,” the butler protested severely. “Mr. Ernst is badly injured. He is in the hospital, unconscious, so the message revealed. At the point of death, I dare say.”

  Shayne feigned astonishment. “Don’t tell me Ernst has got himself involved with the police.”

  “In an innocent manner,” the butler assured him. “An officer discovered him in a brutally beaten condition in an alleyway. He was evidently attacked and robbed by ruthless ruffians.” There was a hint of relish in the butler’s suave voice.

  Shayne muttered, “Good old Will,” to himself, then said aloud, “All right, I’ll tackle Dorothy if that’s all that’s left for me.”

  “You can’t, sir,” the man said firmly. “Miss Dorothy is at present engaged with her personal maid.”

  “To hell with that. I’ll take her and the maid in my stride.” He pushed forward impatiently and the butler drew back in silent reproach, then conceded:

  “Very well, sir, if you insist. She’s in her upstairs sitting-room. I’ll have a maid show you—”

  “I know the way.” Shayne’s long legs were already going up the stairs. He didn’t know how long Peter Painter was going to stay unconscious on his office floor undiscovered, but he did realize it wouldn’t be smart to waste too much time on this side of the bay.

  He knocked on the sitting-room door, then turned the knob and walked in.

  Dorothy Thrip was lounging on a chaise longue across the room and a short, square-bodied, and square-headed female was kneeling on the rug in front of her doing something to her feet. Dorothy wore a belted chenille bathrobe and she was languidly smoking a cigarette in a foot-long jeweled holder. The air was sweetish from its smoke. Her head lolled back and soft brown hair was spread out like a nimbus to frame her face. It curled up at the ends in big, loose ringlets.

  Her eyes were as round as Shayne remembered them and they looked up at him without curiosity. She did not move from her relaxed position. She appeared to be enjoying herself greatly. In the strong light of a floor lamp her face appeared even more pointed and vixenish than it had that morning.

  The broad-backed maid did not turn around when Shayne closed the door. Taffy-colored braids were twined around her head. She was bent forward, arduously concentrating.

  Shayne moved toward them and saw that Dorothy Thrip’s toenails were being pedicured and tinted with carmine polish. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and grinned.

  The girl flipped ashes onto the rug and demanded, “What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever seen a girl having her toes manicured?”

  “No,” Shayne admitted, with a smile of genuine amusement, “that’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of life which has hitherto been denied me.” He dragged up a chair and sat down, adding pleasantly, “Don’t let me interrupt the gilding of the lily.”

  “We won’t,” Dorothy assured him.


  The maid looked up at the detective with an expression of bovine wonderment and Dorothy admonished her: “Don’t pay any attention to him, Gertrude. He’s a species of vermin that comes out of holes in the wood around this house.”

  “That was clever when Dorothy Parker first tossed it off,” Shayne told her. He lit a cigarette and Dorothy Thrip made a face at him. The maid concentrated on her task of brushing carmine stain on her mistress’s toenails. There was silence in the sitting-room.

  Shayne blew out smoke and asked, “Have you seen Carl today?”

  “No.”

  “Not since he called you last night from the Tally-Ho?”

  “No. What do you know about his telephoning last night?” She twisted to let her round, agate-like eyes stare sullenly at her interrogator.

  Shayne made a negligent gesture. “Just one of a detective’s specialties—tapping telephone wires and all that.”

  He saw quick fear rush into her eyes. It was swiftly replaced by crafty speculation. She said, “Now I know you’re lying.”

  “Uh-huh,” Shayne agreed with a wide grin, “because you know that if I had listened in to that early morning conversation I’d have the deadwood on Carl for your stepmother’s murder and wouldn’t be around here asking foolish questions. That’s using your head, mademoiselle. Where does Carl hang out in the daytime?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.” Her round eyes became slits when they lowered to observe Gertrude’s inquisitive blue ones looking up at Shayne. “Go on, Gertrude, and stop gawking. I haven’t got all night.”

  “You don’t have to answer questions,” Shayne told her, “but you will. Where would Carl be likely to take a pickup and keep her all day?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Dorothy pointed the long cigarette holder close to Shayne’s nose.

  Shayne moved his head back a couple of inches. “Just what you’re afraid I mean.”

  Dorothy scowled fleetingly, the crease between her eyes smoothing out with youthful resilience. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Carl wouldn’t—Why, I’ve got a date to meet him at the Tally-Ho tonight.”