His mouth wasn’t dry any longer. At least he knew where Phyllis was. And, no matter what he had said to Gentry in anger, he knew the Miami police would make it as easy on her as they could.
He tilted the bottle again. He wasn’t cold any more. A fevered glow was spreading out from the pit of his stomach. His brain was beginning to work again. He wasn’t whipped yet—he still held a few trumps. Played right, he might start raking in a few tricks for a change.
Another drink would help him think things out. He took one, and it did.
Chapter Seventeen: A HELL OF A TIME FOR VISITING
SHAYNE ORDERED A POT OF PASTE and the hotel clerk sent it up at once. Taking a sheet of stationery from a scarred writing-table in one corner of his room, Shayne spread the torn strips of Meldrum’s note out on the bed and went to work putting them together. It went much faster this time because he knew the words and letter combinations to look for. After laying every strip in its proper place, he carefully pasted them on the sheet of hotel stationery.
He took another drink and studied the result approvingly. Completed, the note clearly read:
I saw you murder Mrs. Thrip. I’m willing to talk it over at midnight if you will meet me at 306 Terrace Apts. Otherwise I am going to the police.
Carl Meldrum.
There it was. A definite invitation to murder. Meldrum was clearly a fool, or still doped up, to have sent such a note. Or else he had woefully underestimated the man he sought to blackmail. He should have known that a man who had killed once would kill again to save himself.
Shayne shook his head fretfully. He wouldn’t have guessed that Meldrum was foolhardy enough to invite attack upon himself.
Still, as Mike recollected the man’s early-morning condition, his mind might not have been clear, in spite of the fact that he had gone out with Phyllis and appeared to be normal. And there was enough money involved for him to feel confident that the murderer would come across with plenty to silence the witness. After all, Renslow had mentioned a million to Shayne tonight. And with Mona Tabor on Meldrum’s trail checking up for her share in what he might get from the Thrip girl or elsewhere—maybe Meldrum risked a lot to pay Mona off and be free.
The detective lay back on the bed and clasped big-knuckled hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and went back over the facts in the light of what he had learned today.
Meldrum’s curious actions, which had appeared to be motivated by guilt, might be explained as well by this evidence that he had witnessed the crime. He must have been with Dorothy in her room, Shayne theorized, and in leaving had been attracted by the sounds of a death struggle in Mrs. Thrip’s bedroom. Hating the victim, he would not be likely to interfere, but must have watched unseen from the doorway, then hurried downstairs with a secret which he knew was worth plenty of money to him if the murderer went otherwise unsuspected. He had been hurried to the Tally-Ho and arranged with Mona to fix him an alibi for the crime he had seen committed; then he had telephoned Dorothy and told her what to testify about his movements.
Why hadn’t he been afraid Dorothy would suspect him of the crime? Probably he didn’t care what she thought. He knew how she hated her stepmother.
In the meantime, unsuspecting, Joe Darnell had entered through the library window on schedule and crept upstairs to grab the thousand dollars Thrip had put out for him. Unluckily, he must have stepped into the bedroom just in time to be caught by Mr. Thrip. It would be only natural for Joe to go close to the woman to make sure his eyes didn’t deceive him—that she was actually dead. Thrip would quite naturally shoot him down as the murderer of his wife without giving him an opportunity to explain.
Shayne moved restlessly and the bed creaked. He nodded his head slowly. It all hung together now. This pieced-together note was as good as a death warrant for Buell Renslow.
All he needed to do was to call Will Gentry and turn the note over to him. It would be a simple matter to get hold of the Tally-Ho callboy who had delivered it—and maybe some witnesses who had noticed Renslow’s reaction and seen him tear it up and hurry out—
The thing was cut and dried. Another closed case with Joe Darnell absolved—an ex-convict convicted of double murder by overwhelming weight of evidence and public opinion.
Shayne grinned suddenly, thinking of Phyllis. This would absolve her of any guilt. He felt immensely relieved, but he grinned again, thinking that a little time in jail would make her think twice hereafter before pulling any more impulsive stunts trying to help him out. And there was another pleasant angle. His revenge on Peter Painter would be sweet after that inconsequential jackass had shot off his mouth so freely to the public and the press on the subject of Darnell’s guilt.
But revenge didn’t pay dividends, no matter how sweet it might be, and Michael Shayne had taken upon himself the obligations of a family man. What was there in the case for him? The taxpayers didn’t pay him a salary for sitting on his butt and letting another man solve crimes for him, as they did to Peter Painter.
He shook his head worriedly, rubbing his chin and staring down blankly at the incriminating message. Hell! there had to be a cash angle if he could just see it. It was too simple this way. Nothing to get a man’s teeth into. Shayne was accustomed to taking cases in his two hands and wringing them until some cash popped out. He couldn’t rid himself of the thought of that million Renslow would pay to beat the rap. It seemed a damned shame to throw that away—to let Renslow’s half of the estate revert to Arnold Thrip and his pair of no-good youngsters.
Shayne lit a cigarette and lay back on the creaking bed again to close his eyes and pass the whole thing in review. There had to be cash angle. His pride belligerently demanded that there be something in it for Mike Shayne.
He lay flat on his back for a long time, closing his eyes between puffs on his cigarette. The ashes fell off and dropped on his neck and chin. There was still that aching void inside his belly that had come when Gentry turned against him. He was sorry it had to be that way, but since it was—
Suddenly he heaved himself up, his eyes wide and bright. He paced back and forth excitedly in the narrow confines of the hotel room while minute details clicked into place.
Through, was he? Washed up in Miami? Maybe. But he didn’t think so. Not yet, by God.
He went out of his room and downstairs to the lobby. He woke the sleeping clerk and explained that he had to type an important message. The clerk yawned and pointed out a typewriter in the inner office.
Shayne went in and sat down at the desk, rolled a sheet of hotel paper in the typewriter, and wrote:
Angel:
I’m afraid to try to call you or come to the apartment because I’ve got a hunch Painter is laying for me. If you receive this all right, try to slip away and come to me here. I’m registered as Horatio Ramsey. Don’t let them follow you.
Love, Mike,
He slid the sheet of paper into an envelope and addressed it with ink to Mrs. Michael Shayne at their hotel. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the clerk was dozing again, found a plain sheet of paper with no letterhead, and rolled it into the machine. On this sheet he typed:
That damn private dick is finding out too much about last night. I’m going to have to skip without collecting from the girl. You’ll make plenty off it and it’s up to you to come across. If you don’t give me getaway money and a split on the rest I’ll swear you hired me to choke her. And don’t try any rough stuff because I’m leaving a letter to be opened in case of my death telling how you planned it all and forced me to do it. Meet me at 306 Terrace Apartments at midnight.
Shayne rolled this out of the typewriter and slid it into his pocket. He went out to the clerk with the sealed envelope in his hand and the clerk called a dozing bellboy. Shayne gave him the envelope with a dollar bill and explicit instructions to deliver the note to Mrs. Shayne at the address written there, and to no one else.
He then hurried back to his room and went to work swiftly. He still had Meldrum’s address book w
ith samples of the dead man’s handwriting. With that open before him, and with the patched-up signature on the authentic note, he forged Meldrum’s name to the message he had just typed. He then tore it into strips, pasting each strip in sequence on a sheet of hotel paper.
When that was accomplished, he folded it carefully and placed it in his inside coat pocket. He rolled the mattress back and cut a slit in the bottom of the ticking and secreted the real note from Meldrum accusing Renslow of murder. Smoothing back the covers, he tilted a straight-backed chair against the wall and settled to await the results of his maneuverings.
He didn’t have to wait long. A slow grin spread over his face when he heard the heavy tramp of feet in the corridor outside his room.
He turned the cognac bottle up and took a short drink while men stopped outside his door and held a whispered consultation. Then there was a loud, authoritative knock, and Shayne leisurely lit a cigarette.
The knocking came again, amplified by a gruff order: “Open up in there.”
He got to his feet and went to the door. He turned the key and the knob, stepped back in simulated astonishment when he saw Will Gentry and Peter Painter in the corridor, accompanied by a squad of policemen.
Shayne exclaimed, “What the hell?” with his jaw dropping slackly, then seemed to regain control of himself and stepped aside. “This is a hell of a time to come visiting.”
Chapter Eighteen: SEIZURE AND SEARCH
GENTRY STRODE HEAVILY PAST SHAYNE and sat down on the edge of the bed, without looking at the detective.
Painter strutted in, whirled on Shayne angrily. The Miami Beach chief didn’t look his usual dapper self. There was an ugly bruise on the side of his jaw where Shayne’s fist had connected, and he appeared nervous and unstrung. Words tumbled from him in a staccato flood:
“It wasn’t smart to knock me out, Shayne. Not by a damn sight. You can’t turn mad dog and not be treated like one. Didn’t you know you’d be tracked down with no chance to escape? Do you think you can flout every law in the land without paying for it?”
Shayne closed the door.
“I’ve done all right up to now,” he rumbled. “I’m sorry I hit you—so easy. I should have broken your neck while I was about it.” His gaze went past the angry little man to Will Gentry. “How’d you find me here?”
“Painter gets the credit. It was dumb of you to send that note, Mike. He’s had a man planted there all evening hoping you’d do something like that.” Gentry paused, eying Shayne steadily. “Didn’t you know we had picked Phyllis up?”
Shayne said, “How would I know?”
“A hell of a mess you’ve got her into,” Painter proclaimed. “If you were half a man you’d keep your women in the clear.”
Shayne didn’t look at him. He stood near the door with heavy shoulders hunched forward as though they bore a heavy burden. He stared hard at Gentry and asked, “What did Phyllis say about the Meldrum murder?”
Gentry glanced at Painter and said, “Sit down, Pete, and take it easy. You’ve got Shayne where you want him and he’s not going to slug you again. I’m going to find out some things before we leave this room.”
Painter backed toward a straight chair and perched on the very edge of it. “The only way you’ll get the truth out of him is with a leaded hose,” he snapped. “Give me thirty minutes with him and—”
“No.” Gentry was unruffled. “You’re still on my side of the bay, Painter. We’ll go at this my way over here. And I’ve got a hunch you’re going to drop the accessory to murder charge against Shayne before we get through. Eh, Mike?”
Shayne said, “I don’t know, Will,” in a voice that stubbornly refused to respond to friendly overtures. He sat down on the only other chair in the room.
“You’ll have to prove it to me,” Painter crackled. “Joe Darnell is still a murderer from where I sit. And if you do prove differently, there’s still a charge of assault with intent to kill an officer of the law against this ape.”
Shayne grinned. “No jury would ever believe that I meant to kill you and didn’t.”
“We’ll go into that later,” Gentry said sharply. “Right now I’m anxious to hear what Shayne has done on the Thrip case.”
Shayne leaned back easily. “I’m not ready to give out yet, Will.”
“The hell you’re not!” Muscles knotted in Gentry’s pudgy cheeks. He struggled for control, then growled, “Maybe you think Phyllis isn’t on the spot. You’d better get that idea out of your head. Unless we turn up a motive for Renslow to kill Meldrum, Phyllis is headed for the chair.”
Shayne was apparently unmoved, “Maybe it’ll cure her of helping to detect,” Shayne said ironically. “Besides, Phyllis is old enough to take care of herself.”
“Damn it, Mike!” Gentry leaned forward and pounded his right fist into his open palm. “This is no time for one of your trick plays. Forget that Renslow will pay plenty for suppression of the evidence you’ve got against him. I know you’re tough and mercenary, but you’re not that tough.”
“So you’ve changed your mind from a while ago?”
“You know I didn’t mean it then. I was just—well, you forced me to say it.”
“Why fool with him?” Painter broke in. “I don’t believe he’s got any evidence. I don’t think there is any evidence. He’s been trying to stay out of jail to plant some—that’s all.”
Neither Gentry nor Shayne appeared to hear Painter. Shayne was looking steadily at Gentry. “What makes you think I can supply a motive for Renslow?”
“Because of what you first said when you knew Phyllis was in it up to her neck—before you had time to wonder how many dollars you might make out of Renslow. And I’ve done some checking at the Tally-Ho too.”
“That so? What did you find out?”
“A lot,” Gentry shot back. “First, that Renslow didn’t leave at eleven-thirty-eight as you said. His parking-ticket was stamped out at eleven-forty-four. The riot call came in at eleven-fifty. That seems to back up his story that he got there after it happened—which doesn’t help Phyllis any.”
“Clocks differ,” Shayne snorted. “Besides, I can drive it in five minutes.”
“I know. But was Renslow under enough pressure to hit that speed? Not if he was just rolling over to see his sweetie as he claims.”
“I see.” Shayne’s eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. “What else did you find out?” he asked abruptly.
“I’ve got the boy who delivered a note to Renslow at your table. I’ve got a waitress who saw him go white and tear it up—and who saw you piece it together after Renslow rushed out—and who saw you rush out as soon as you put the pieces together. I’ve got Mona Tabor, who swears Renslow said he was being framed and wouldn’t stand for it. Where are those pieces of that note?”
Shayne spread out his hands blandly. “I haven’t admitted the existence of any note.”
“What did it say?” Gentry’s voice was husky. He was leaning far forward, searching Shayne’s face with worried eyes. “You’ve got to tell us, Mike. You’ll have to produce it eventually to clear Phyllis. You can’t hold it over Renslow’s head for a blackmail weapon.”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne said. “What is your case against Phyllis? Have you traced the pistol?”
“Yes. To Joe Darnell’s moll. She claims you took it off her in your apartment today, and Phyllis admitted taking it with her when she went to see Meldrum.”
Shayne nodded. “I was afraid she wouldn’t think fast enough.” His voice and face were placid. “What else did Phyllis have to say?”
“It isn’t very good,” Gentry warned him. “She went to his hotel to worm information out of him to help you on the Thrip case. She admits cuddling up to him and spending the afternoon banging around drinking joints, keeping him hot and bothered by intimating that—ahem—there would be more coming later. She went to the Tabor apartment with him at eleven and he was pretty tight. He seems to have got wise that she was giving him the runaround and he
tried to lay her by force. She claims she threatened him with the .25 and he went into the living-room and shut the door and she stayed in the bedroom. She says she heard someone come and heard Meldrum talking to him. She said there was a hellish argument and then perfect silence.
“When she got up enough nerve she eased out into the living-room and ran into Renslow standing over Meldrum. She says she was scared half to death and when Renslow got the gun away from her she ran out of the room and down the back stairs. That’s her story and it’s pretty damn thin unless we can produce some motive for Renslow to have killed Meldrum. A jury will think Phyllis had a hell of a good motive for killing him.”
“She did,” said Shayne unruffled. “They won’t convict a woman in Florida for defending her virtue. What are you worried about?”
Gentry’s face was darkly red and he stared at Shayne with disbelieving eyes. His whole attitude was one of patience held in check with an effort. “I don’t believe you, Mike. You can’t sit there and claim you don’t mind letting your wife be dragged into court to tell such a story—that she teased him and led him on—and then killed the poor devil because he tried to hold her to her promises—at least what he considered promises. Don’t tell me you could do that.”
“She knew the kind of guy she was marrying,” Shayne grunted.
“No, she didn’t, Mike,” Gentry said soberly, almost sorrowfully. “That kid thinks you’re some sort of god. You can’t let her down, Mike; it would break her heart. She’s just a kid. She doesn’t know there are men who think more of money than of their wives’ honor.”
Shayne’s lean face was a mask of cynicism. “After it’s all over she could buy herself lots of diamonds with a million dollars.”
There was a long silence inside the stuffy little hotel room. Gentry drew back, baffled and angry. He got a cigar out of his vest pocket and managed to get it lighted after three shaky tries.
The Uncomplaining Corpses Page 15
