Bodies Are Where You Find Them (17 page)

Rourke hesitated, then changed his mind about protesting and went out. Rourke had seen that ruthless look of driving intensity in Michael Shayne’s eyes before. It always preceded a feat of wizardry—and headlines.

Shayne was waiting by the curb when Rourke pulled up almost half an hour later. He jumped in beside the reporter. “Did you get it, Tim?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Alonzo Hiatt and Jim Sprague are waiting for you in your apartment. They’ve drunk all your whisky and started on the gin.”

“That’s not gin.” Shayne grinned. “It’s pure grain alcohol. Maybe they’ll get in a festive mood and invite the whole force up.”

“Where to now?” Rourke inquired.

“To the Beach.”

“The Beach? Damn you, Mike, Painter’s got the causeways blocked.”

“He’s not stopping cars going
to
the Beach.”

“Maybe not.” Rourke shrugged and turned the car southward. “It’s your neck.”

“I’ll hunch down in the back until you’ve passed the barricade,” Shayne said as the reporter turned onto the causeway. He climbed over the seat and folded his long body uncomfortably on the floor as Rourke sped onward, regretting that the human body was possessed of only two possible folding points.

He stayed there while Rourke slowed to a snail’s pace, then crawled back into the front seat when the reporter said, “Okay.”

Rourke chuckled happily as the police barricade was left behind them. “They had forty cars lined up waiting to be searched. I damned near exploded laughing when they waved me past. Would Petey’s face be red if he could see you blithely sneaking back into his trap!”

“Painter’s face will be red anyhow before this night is over,” Shayne asserted grimly. “Know where the Patterson Sanitarium is?”

“Sure. I was thinking about taking the cure there once. What do you want there?”

Shayne grinned. A relaxed grin of real mirth. He looked at Rourke and deliberately forced a look of cunning to his gray eyes. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said ominously. “But I have an operative planted in the sanitarium.”

“An operative?” Rourke took his eyes from the road for an instant to look wonderingly at Shayne, saw the look of sly cunning in his eyes. “By God, Mike, maybe I’m taking you where you belong.”

“S-h-h,” Shayne said. “It’s a dead secret, but I’ve got Sherlock Holmes in with me on this case.”

Rourke’s hands tensed on the wheel. “Now look here, Mike, you’ve let this thing go to your head.”

“The Duchess was murdered there last night,” Shayne went on in a low cautious tone. “I’ve got to get the details and report to the Duke. They’re going to try to pawn off a phony on the Duke.”

Rourke risked taking his eyes from the road once more to stare at the detective. He turned away with a shudder at what he saw.

Shayne chuckled crazily and sank back. He lapsed into silence until Rourke neared the sanitarium, then sat up and directed, “Pull around to the side or back. I’ve got to get in without being seen.”

Rourke’s teeth chattered when he said, “I’ve heard of breaking out of one of these dumps, but I never knew anyone who wanted to break in before. You’re still drunk, Mike.” He slowly circled around the block and stopped at the rear in the shadow of the thick hedge outside the ten-foot wall.

“Keep the kitty purring.” Shayne chuckled as he got out. “I’m liable to come back in one hell of a hurry.”

Rourke compressed his lips to hold back a protest, nodded silently, and let the motor idle.

Shayne worked his way through the intertwined limbs of the hedge with difficulty. When he was within ten feet of the wall he got a running start, leaped up, and grabbed the flat top and swung himself over.

Inside the grounds a floodlight showed some of the inmates circling about aimlessly in the cool evening air. Keeping in the shadows of palms and Australian pines, he stealthily groped his way toward the group, studying them hopefully.

It was difficult to distinguish features in the dim light, but he finally picked out the figure of a little man who looked familiar. He waited until the man wandered nearer to him, then hissed,
“Audentes fortuna juvat.”

The little man came to a sudden halt and jerked his head in Shayne’s direction, then casually detached himself from the others and moved aimlessly toward the crouching detective. An orderly who was supervising them paid no particular attention to the self-dubbed Sherlock Holmes.

He stopped in front of Shayne on his short legs and shook his head disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t have come so soon. It’s very dangerous.”

“Sure, I know, but we’re too smart for the Gestapo.” Shayne rose slowly until his face was level with that of the short, wizened man. He reached out and toyed with the zipper of the shapeless garment worn by him—identical with the attire of all the other inmates.

“I’ve been wondering how you get these things on and off. Do they pull all the way down?”

Shayne snapped the zipper down as he spoke.

The little man gave a shrill yelp, but Shayne’s big hands pinioned his shoulders, stripped the garment from his body and wadded it under his arm.

The orderly sensed the struggle in the shadow near the wall and came running, shouting loudly.

Shayne sprinted away, made a leap for the wall, and threw his lean body over the top. He crashed through the hedge and darted toward the waiting car, leaped in, and panted, “Go like hell, Tim.”

Rourke roared away.

When they were a few blocks away from the sanitarium Rourke asked shakily, “What in God’s name did you do in there?”

Shayne spread the purloined garment out on his knees, folded it up tightly. The words,
Patterson Sanitarium,
were stamped on the back.

He said, “I was just verifying a hunch I had. Those poor devils don’t wear anything under these nighties. I left Sherlock Holmes as naked as a jaybird in shedding time and howling his head off.”

“I’LL SWEAR TO GOD, MIKE, you’re drunk or gone nuts,” Rourke said bitterly. “What do you expect to prove by disrobing a crazy man and running off with his clothes?”

Shayne sank back with a sigh. “You ought to take a memory course with some reputable school, Tim. Seems you’ve forgotten the big black headlines I’ve handed you in the past.”

Rourke relaxed and asked, “What’s next on the program?”

“Know where Swordfish Island is?”

“Stallings’s place? Yeh.”

“That’s our next stop.” Shayne lit a cigarette and settled back. When they neared the bridge approach to the island, he directed, “Pull up on this side of the bridge. I’d rather not advertise my presence.”

Rourke got out with Shayne and followed him across the bridge. “Whom do we undress here?” he asked interestedly.

“No horsing around,” Shayne warned him sternly. “If you know how to pray you might ask God to preserve the Irish. We’re liable to need a special dispensation.”

He led the way along the winding road silently, turned into the shrubbery before coming in sight of the mansion. They slipped along behind the hedge which screened them from the house, reached a double garage in the rear without being observed.

The doors stood open, and Shayne nodded with satisfaction when he saw one empty stall and the other occupied by a long black sedan. He went to the front of the car and examined the radiator grill and left fender by the light of a flickering match. He shook his head disappointedly when he found them unmarred.

Observing him, Rourke said, “If this is the boat that crashed your car last night you could hardly expect it to still show the damage. They’ve got ways of fixing fenders as good as new in a couple of hours.”

“Yeh,” Shayne agreed. “I guess it was asking too much to hope that evidence would be sitting here waiting for us.” He moved back and opened the rear door of the sedan, leaned inside for a moment, then withdrew and closed the door gently. He muttered, “Let’s get out of here,” and led the way back behind the hedge to the road and Rourke’s parked car.

“Let’s find the closest telephone. There’s a filling-station a couple of blocks east.”

Rourke drove to the filling-station without asking any questions. It was clear that the redheaded detective was fiercely concentrating on some plan, plotting each move in his mind as an expert chess player visualizes the game far in advance of his plays, and Rourke was content to follow along and see what happened.

In the filling-station Shayne called the Stallings residence. A maid answered. He asked, “Is the chauffeur there?”

“Yes. Mr. Stallings drove the light car to his campaign headquarters.”

“Sure. I know that,” Shayne lied. “I’m calling for him. He’s had car trouble and wants the chauffeur to pick him up right away in the big car.”

The maid said, “I’ll give him the message at once.” Shayne hung up and trotted back to Rourke and directed, “Back to the bridge, quick.”

Upon reaching it, he ordered again, “Drive up on the bridge and stop. Cut your wheels so you block it to keep another car from passing.”

The headlights of the limousine were backing out of the Stallings garage when they reached the top of the arched bridge. Shayne jumped out and ran lightly down the other side while Rourke cut his wheels and parked his light sedan at an angle which effectually blocked the narrow passage.

The big black car came smoothly down the winding road, slowed as it approached the bridge. The driver stuck his head out the window and yelled at Rourke, “Hey, what’s the idea up there?”

Shayne came from the side of the road where he had been waiting. The chauffeur’s head sticking from the window made a perfect target for his lead-weighted fist. He struck a light blow at the back of the head where it joined the neck. The chauffeur went limp without knowing what hit him.

Shayne dragged him out and across the road to the shadow of a palm. He hurried back to the limousine and got in, backed away a distance of twenty feet from the bridge, then rolled forward in low gear. Approaching the concrete abutment, he twirled the wheel and let the weight of the car crumple the left fender and radiator grill against the concrete.

He then backed away and maneuvered the heavy car about, drove to the concrete driveway and back into the garage. He slid out of the seat and trotted back to the bridge where Rourke patiently waited for him.

The reporter flashed him a quizzical smile as Shayne got in beside him. “Neatly engineered,” he approved. “If you can’t find the evidence you need, just manufacture it.”

“Your brain is beginning to function,” Shayne said with marked flattery. “Let’s get back to that telephone booth.”

Rourke backed off the bridge and headed for the service station. Inside the phone booth, Shayne laid out four nickels. He called the Stallings campaign headquarters first. When a voice said Mr. Stallings was there, Shayne said, “Give him this message. Doctor Patterson calling. It’s imperative that Mr. Stallings return home at once. Absolutely imperative.”

Shayne hung up and called the Patterson Sanitarium. “Mr. Burt Stallings,” he said crisply. “Have Doctor Patterson come immediately. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.” He hung up before any questions could be asked and called the Bugle Inn.

He got Arch Bugler on the wire and said, “Mike Shayne talking.”

“Haven’t they hung you yet?” a voice purred in Shayne’s ear.

“Not yet,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “I’m out at the Stallings place having a little conference with Burt and Doctor Patterson. We’ve about decided to hang the rap on you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Arch Bugler’s voice reverted back to that of other days.

Shayne’s laugh was harsh and taunting. “As if you didn’t know. Hell, Bugler, you knew they’d crack under pressure—and you should have known I was just the boy to put the pressure on. Personally, I’m against making you the goat. I’d much rather hang it on Stallings—and win the election for Marsh. That’s why I’m calling you. We might fix something up if you’ll play ball with me.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Arch Bugler said gruffly.

Shayne called Jim Marsh’s apartment. The mayoralty candidate answered the phone. Shayne said cheerfully, “I’ve got everything fixed, Jim. Nothing to worry about now. I’m out here at Stallings’s house and he’s preparing to make a statement withdrawing from the race in your favor.”

“Good Lord, Shayne! What—But I thought—Do you mean that about Stallings?”

“Sure. It was the only way you could possibly win. After that newspaper story accusing me of murder you were sunk unless Stallings stepped out. So—I fixed it for you.”

“Wait, Shayne.” Marsh’s voice was panicky. “Wait until I can see you and talk it over.”

“I’ve got five grand invested in you,” Shayne reminded him.

“Yes, I know. That’s what I mean. I’ll take care of that so you won’t lose. Let me have a chance to talk with you privately.”

“Come on out, then, but make it snappy. We’ll hold off until you get here.”

Shayne emerged from the booth and grinned at Timothy Rourke. “It’s your turn now,” he said. “Call Painter and tell him I’ve just slipped across to Swordfish Island with murderous intent. Tell him to throw a cordon around the island so I can’t get away. And have him bring Whit Marlow along if he knows where the lad is.”

“I hope,” said Rourke, “you know what you’re doing.”

“So,” said Shayne gravely, “do I.” He gave Rourke a shove toward the phone booth. “Get in there and do your stuff. You can explain that your friendship with me stops at being an accomplice to murder.”

Rourke nodded when he came out of the booth. “He’ll have the island surrounded in ten minutes.”

“Come on. We’ve got to get over the bridge before the police get here. Wouldn’t do to disappoint Petey.”

They drove across the bridge, and Rourke parked in front of the house. They withdrew to the shelter of some shrubbery instead of entering the house at once, and watched while the procession began to arrive.

Dr. Patterson came first, with Burt Stallings right behind him. Arch Bugler was next, followed in a few minutes by Jim Marsh.

As Marsh went up the walk, Shayne nudged Rourke and grinned. “Time we were getting in on this. It ought to be good about now.”