The Uncomplaining Corpses

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne nodded. “You’ve sized it up just right.”

  “I don’t see why you’re holding the note out on them. Turning me loose this way puts Carl’s death squarely up to your wife. If I didn’t, she must have. If you had showed Gentry that note she’d be here right now and I’d be behind the eight ball.”

  “Maybe I like your company better than I do hers,” Shayne suggested lazily.

  Renslow’s lips twisted into a scornful smile. “Don’t try to feed me that. You’re playing for keeps one way or the other.”

  “Yes,” Shayne admitted, “I am. I faked a note. I typed it and signed Meldrum’s name, then tore it up and pasted the pieces down to make it look right. Gentry has that note and I have the real one. In the note I forged, Meldrum admits he killed Mrs. Thrip and threatens to accuse you of hiring him to do the job unless you give him getaway money. He warns you not to try and kill him because he’s left a letter accusing you that will be opened after his death. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Plenty,” Renslow exulted. “That makes it look like a cinch that I didn’t bop him. That’s why they let me go. But I still don’t get your angle,” he muttered, his face clouding. “Why should you cover up for me with the cops and leave your wife to take the rap?”

  Shayne stretched out the palm of his hand and suggestively rubbed his thumb across the base of his fingers. “Only one possible reason, Renslow. Money.”

  “I get it. If I don’t pay off, you’ll spring the real note I got from Carl and that’s all they’ll need to slap two murder charges on me.”

  “You get the idea nicely.”

  “But I didn’t kill either of them,” Renslow protested frantically.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I swear to God I didn’t. It’s all a frame-up.”

  “But it’s practically airtight,” Shayne pointed out.

  “But it’s still a frame. I swear I didn’t.”

  “I’m not interested in that,” Shayne told him coldly. “The law isn’t going to be much interested either. You know how that goes. They’ll execute you first and begin to wonder if you were guilty afterward.”

  Renslow’s body tautened. He began to tremble. “Yeah,” he said huskily. “Yeah, that’s the way it’ll be. I won’t have a chance. I knew that as soon as I read the note. Everything went red when I saw how Carl was fixing to frame me. If I hadn’t torn that note up and then left it like a fool for you to grab—” He made a gesture of despair.

  “That’s the mistake that’s going to cost you,” Shayne agreed. “And cost you plenty.”

  Renslow slumped down and lifted his glass. Bourbon and soda trickled down his chin when his shaking hand tilted the glass to his lips. “I’m hooked. I know it. I’m not arguing. But I’m not carrying much folding money these days. I don’t know—”

  “Don’t try to chisel on me. Get it through your thick head that I’m not playing for marbles.” Shayne’s voice was remorseless. “Start figuring out how much your life is worth to you.”

  “It’s just how much I can raise,” Renslow protested. “All I’m getting from the estate is a lousy handout each month.”

  “Which is a hell of a lot more than you will get if you’re convicted of murdering your sister.”

  “I know, I know.” Renslow spread out his hands placatingly. “I’m not arguing my spot with you. With me innocent as a baby, I’ve not got a Chinaman’s chance if you spring that note. I’m just trying to tell you I’m not heeled with heavy dough.”

  “That’s liable to be your tough luck.” Shayne gestured toward the bourbon bottle. “Help yourself.”

  “I need it,” Renslow admitted. He filled his glass. “You can’t get blood from a turnip. Hell, I’ll come clean. I’ll fork over every damn cent I can rake up.”

  “How much can you raise? Fifty grand?”

  “Fifty gran—? Where do you think I can put my hands on that kind of money?”

  “Well, twenty-five?”

  Renslow was breathing heavily and there was a frown of incredulity on his face. “You’re nuts!” he exclaimed. “Pure nuts. I might scrape up twenty-five C’s—” He leaned forward to study his host’s face hopefully.

  “Pin money,” said Shayne with scorn. “I’ve got to get paid for letting my wife take the rap for you.”

  “I can’t get any more,” Renslow faltered. “I swear I’m leveling with you;”

  “That’s going to be your hard luck. I didn’t know I was wasting time on a piker. I should have left you lying in jail.”

  “God, but you’re tough,” Renslow breathed. “Can I help it if I can’t kick in with a fortune?”

  “Won’t your part of the estate add up to millions?”

  “Sure, but it may not be settled in court for a year. If you’re willing to wait until I collect—”

  Shayne’s harsh laughter drowned out the note of abject pleading in the ex-convict’s voice. “Cash on the barrelhead is the only thing I can use.” He frowned over Renslow’s head. A musing light came into his eyes. Renslow started to speak and he silenced him with upheld hand.

  “Wait a minute. I just thought of another angle. Maybe I can sell a bill of goods to someone else.” He laughed unpleasantly. “I was dumb not to see this angle before. If you’re convicted of murdering your sister, the whole estate will go to Thrip. That makes your conviction worth a few million to him, doesn’t it?”

  “God!” Renslow’s tone was awed. “You wouldn’t—sell me out to him? Like auctioning me off to the highest bidder?”

  “Why not?” Shayne smiled pleasantly, showing even rows of white teeth between lips that curled back and away from each other. He lounged to his feet, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet, nodding approbation for his own cleverness in solving the problem so neatly.

  “Why not?” he demanded again. “All you mean to me is a way to make some money. Thrip is a businessman. It won’t take him long to see that your conviction will be worth money to him. He’ll pay, by God. And that’ll be lots better all the way around,” he went on argumentatively. “Lots cleaner. By throwing you to the wolves I can collect from Thrip and clear Mrs. Shayne at the same time. Not bad. Not bad at all, even if I do say it as shouldn’t.” He lifted his glass in a toast to himself with wholehearted self-approval.

  “I believe you’d do it,” Renslow panted. “I believe you would.”

  “Why not? I told you and Mona in her apartment yesterday that I had to have a fall guy. I warned you I wasn’t going to give a damn who got hurt. Here, I’ve got a sweet pay-off and a fall guy.”

  “You’re crazy. You can’t get away with anything as raw as that.” Renslow came to his feet with a rush. The protesting words poured out like floodwaters bursting a dam. “I’m not going to sit on my pratt and let you frame me into the chair. Maybe you weren’t so smart when you held that note out. No one else knows about it. If I bump you, no one ever will.” He whirled and caught up a straight chair, turned threateningly while his eyes blazed hatred at the detective.

  Shayne laughed shortly. “Put that chair down. There’s been enough killing.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.” Renslow began to inch forward.

  Shayne stood his ground. “Don’t be any more of a damned fool than you can help,” he advised Renslow coldly. “You won’t be any better off with a broken neck than if you were squatting on the hot seat. I’m still open for bids,” he went on casually.

  Renslow stopped inching forward. His tense grip on the chair relaxed slightly. In a choked voice he said, “You know I won’t be able to meet Thrip’s bid. I’m out on a limb for cash.”

  Shayne said, “Let go of that chair and sit down.” After a moment’s hesitation, Renslow obeyed. Receding anger left him shaken and afraid.

  Shayne said, “That’s better. Now, look. Can’t you raise some cash on your prospects? A man who stands to inherit several million dollars ought to be able to raise a few grand if he tries har
d enough.”

  “Not as much as twenty-five,” Renslow faltered. “I don’t know where—”

  “That was just my asking price. Hell, I’m not a hard guy to deal with. In fact, I’m a damned softy about giving an ex-con a break. Double your offer and I’ll play ball with you.”

  “You mean—double twenty-five hundred?”

  “That’s right.” Shayne nodded encouragement. “Just five grand—enough to keep me in drinking-liquor a few months while I get the taste of this case washed out of my mouth. How about it?”

  Renslow emptied his bourbon glass and some of the color came back into his face. He nodded slowly. “I think maybe I could raise that much. Mona—she’s got some contacts with heavy dough.”

  “I don’t give a damn where or how you get it. Noon today is the deadline though.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “It’s all you can have. This thing is so damn hot I’ve got to drop it by noon.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll do my best to raise it by then.”

  “You’d better succeed,” Shayne told him implacably. “Be here with the cash at noon or the real note goes into the hands of the cops.”

  “And if I do—?”

  “If you’re here with five grand at twelve o’clock you’ll be in the clear. I’ll guarantee you a long life out of jail.”

  “You won’t cross me up? You won’t go to Thrip and give him a chance to bid higher?”

  “To hell with it if you can’t trust me,” Shayne growled. “I’m not signing any affidavits, if that’s what you mean. I’m playing with fire to give you a break, and you’ll have to trust me—or else.”

  “Yeah,” Renslow agreed dismally, “I guess I will.” He sighed and got up. “I’ll raise that dough if I have to crack the First National Bank.”

  “Good.” Shayne flashed him a smile and stepped forward to slap him on the shoulder. “You won’t regret it.” He steered Renslow toward the door. “But I’ll make it my business to see that you do regret it if you’re not here.”

  He opened the door and watched Renslow go toward the elevator. He closed it softly, moved across the room to a window, and lifted a shade to see dawn lighting the sleeping city. He suddenly realized that he had not closed his eyes since the telephone got him out of bed more than twenty-four hours previously.

  He dropped the shade and went to the telephone, where he called the Thrip number. He waited a long time with the receiver to his ear before the butler’s sleepy voice answered.

  He asked for Mr. Thrip and the butler assured him it was quite out of the question to awaken his master at such an ungodly hour. The detective told the butler Mike Shayne was calling and it was pretty damned important. The butler grumbled and then acceded. Shayne waited a while longer and finally Thrip’s querulous voice came over the wire:

  “Mr. Shayne? I’m quite certain you have nothing to say that could not wait until a more decent hour.”

  Shayne said, “Don’t be too certain. Pinch yourself and wake up enough to understand what I say the first time I say it. I have in my possession a note from Carl Meldrum that was delivered to your brother-in-law at the Tally-Ho just before midnight. In it, Meldrum states that he was an eyewitness to your wife’s murder and demands hush money for keeping his testimony from the police. As you doubtless know, Carl Meldrum is now dead and the only tangible evidence against Renslow is this note. If I suppress it, Renslow will surely go free and be in a position to claim his half of the estate. If I turn it over to the police it will positively clinch the case against your wife’s murderer. Renslow has offered me five thousand dollars to destroy the note. Is it worth more than that to you to have the police see it?”

  “Why, this is shocking,” Thrip protested. “Definitely illegal. You can’t play fast and loose with murder evidence in that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Thrip echoed incredulously. “Because I refuse to countenance any such infamous proposal. I will most certainly report you to the police.”

  “Don’t be a complete fool. All I have to do is to destroy the note and deny this conversation—and that will cost you a few million and the satisfaction of seeing your wife’s murderer executed.”

  “See here,” blustered Thrip, “you can’t—”

  Shayne said, “Okay, pal,” and hung up.

  He went to the table and lit a cigarette. His telephone began ringing. He let it ring quite a while before stepping back and lifting the receiver. Mr. Thrip sounded distinctly harried this time.

  “Ah, Mr. Shayne. I may have been a trifle hasty—”

  Shayne growled, “You were.”

  “Yes. Ah—on second thought I realize you are unscrupulous enough to do exactly as you threatened. While I object to being the victim of coercion I most certainly am unwilling to see the murderer of my wife go unpunished. You—mentioned five thousand dollars?”

  “That’s right. That’s all Renslow can raise on the spur of the moment. I have a living to make, so I’m naturally anxious to get a higher offer.”

  “You are the most openly unscrupulous man I’ve ever encountered,” Mr. Thrip told him warmly. “Ah—suppose we say six thousand?”

  “That’s better than five,” Shayne agreed promptly. “Bring the cash—it’s better than a check in a delicate situation like this. Have it here at noon. Twelve o’clock sharp. Any later will be too late.” He gave Thrip the address and hung up.

  He hesitated about going upstairs to the empty and silent apartment. There were too many things to remind him of Phyllis—and that she was spending the night in jail. He opened a window and stretched out on the couch in his office. He was sleeping soundly a minute after he lay down.

  Chapter Twenty: PHOTO FINISH

  MICHAEL SHAYNE AWOKE AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK. He swung his legs over the edge of the lounge and sat hunched over for a moment, running knobby fingers through his stiff red hair. Only an hour until the blow-off and he still had several things to do.

  He swiftly checked over his plans, and mentally okayed them. This promised to be the sort of photo finish he enjoyed—split-second timing with lives hanging in the balance while he sat back and pulled the strings.

  He went into the bathroom and doused his face and head with cold water. Red bristles showed damply on his face when he came out of the bathroom, but his shaving-things were upstairs and he still wasn’t quite ready to face that empty apartment.

  He called Peter Painter first and spoke to the Miami Beach detective chief concisely:

  “Shayne talking, with no time to waste. I’m cleaning up the Thrip and Meldrum cases in my office at noon sharp. I need those extortion notes received by Mrs. Thrip. And I want you to stop by the Palace Hotel and see if Meldrum had access to a typewriter there. Bring it with you if he did. Got that?”

  “Of course.” Painter sounded a trifle petulant. “Have you seen this morning’s Herald? In my statement I mentioned your splendid co-operation and—”

  “I just woke up,” Shayne grunted. “I’m sure you fixed the headlines in a big way. I’ll have a News reporter here at noon to get the complete story. Don’t fail to be on hand so you can act as though you know what it’s all about.”

  He hung up, grinning widely at Painter’s hurt protest that he was fully aware of what was taking place.

  He called Will Gentry next. The chief of Miami detectives sounded tired and unsure of himself. “When are you going to crack this thing, Mike? I feel as though I’m sitting on a box of dynamite with this confession of Meldrum’s in my pocket.”

  “Twelve o’clock sharp,” Shayne told him blithely. “Painter will meet us here at my apartment and we’ll clean the whole mess up in five minutes.”

  “You sound as though you had something up your sleeve.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe I have,” and hung up before Will Gentry could question him further.

  His next call was to the Miami Daily News, where he got Timothy Rourke on the wire. He held the receiver inch
es away from his ear while the angry reporter bellowed:

  “A hell of a pal you turned out to be, shamus! What’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold while the Herald cracks Painter’s admission that the Thrip case ain’t iced up? Damn it, Mike, I gave you what you wanted yesterday on your promise that we had the inside track. What are you holding out?”

  “Headlines that’ll sell your afternoon papers,” Shayne told him calmly. “Keep your shirt on and shut up long enough to listen to me. I’ve always fixed the breaks so they go your way. All the Herald had this morning was a vague retraction from Painter. Be at my office at twelve-fifteen on the dot and you won’t squawk about what you get. And, Tim! Bring an AP man along. I want the story to hit the New York papers fast.”

  “What’s coming off, Mike? Our deadline is one o’clock.”

  “That’s why I timed it as I did. Keep your front page clean for a bomb to explode.”

  Shayne hung up and moved to the center of the floor where he rubbed his bristly jaw undecidedly. There was a gnawing in his stomach and he wondered if a small snifter would help. He decided not. Food was definitely indicated.

  Shayne went down through the lobby, long-legged it to the hotel where he had registered for a brief interval last night. He had the room key in his pocket so he strode right past the desk and up to his room.

  Inside, he turned the mattress back and felt inside the slit in the ticking. Carl Meldrum’s original note was where he had thrust it last night. He put it in his pocket and went downstairs, tossed his key on the desk as he went out.

  He stopped at a small café on Flagler Street and wolfed down four scrambled eggs with crisp bacon on the side. The gnawing went away from his midriff. It was eleven-fifty when he finished his second cup of coffee.

  It was eleven-fifty-eight when he got out of his hotel elevator on the third floor.