Bodies Are Where You Find Them (6 page)

Shayne drew her back gently. “You’re crazy,” he said in a soft, indulgent voice. “You know the reason I’m not loving you to death. That’ll have to wait until later. We can keep our minds off of what we’re missing by talking about something else. Helen, for instance. She’s dopey, huh?”

“Sort of nuts,” she answered, snuggling against him. “I don’t get her at all. And the way I’ve seen the old man looking at her—
well!”

“Stallings?”

“The old goat.” Lucile pursed her lips resentfully. “If he gave me the eye like that—”

“You’d give it right back to him, I’ll bet,” Shayne told her cheerfully. “You can’t blame Stallings so much. Helen’s only his stepdaughter.”

“Sure. But you’d think with his wife sick and all—”

“I wonder if she is a hophead,” Shayne muttered. “That might be an angle.”

“There you go,” the girl complained. “I
knew
you were just after information. You don’t care a thing about me.”

“Give me a chance to show you. At two o’clock. You don’t think there’s actually anything going on between Helen and her stepfather, do you?’

“I wouldn’t know,” Lucile answered resentfully. “Their rooms are right next to each other. And it’s a cinch she doesn’t care much about the old lady. I haven’t caught her going in to see her mother once since they moved in. But let’s talk about you and me.”

The lights of an automobile crossing the bridge cut a white swath across the garden. Lucile jumped up with a startled cry. “I’ve got to get in before they find out. Two o’clock—across the bridge.”

She sped across the garden and through the hedge. Shayne followed more slowly. A limousine was pulling up behind his car. A chauffeur jumped out and ran around to open the door for the commanding figure of Burt Stallings. He got back in the limousine, backed up, and drove in the driveway while Stallings went up the walk.

Shayne waited behind the hedge until the car passed, then sprinted out to his car and got in. He started the motor while Stallings was opening the front door, roared around the circular drive and across the bridge.

SHAYNE STOPPED in front of a new and expensive apartment building on Miami Beach. He sat slouched behind the wheel for a time, morosely staring at nothing. His head throbbed with a dull, harassing ache that befuddled his brain. He was going around in circles without getting anywhere. The hell of it was that he had no idea where he should go. All he had succeeded in getting, thus far, was a beating and a few odd bits of information that added up to zero.

“Losing my punch,” he muttered savagely when he realized that much of his depression was due to the two-o’clock date with the amorous Lucile. He suddenly laughed aloud with the conviction that a pouty-lipped girl was the cause of the first fear he had ever experienced. He wondered, moodily, whether the Stallings maid possessed any worth-while information, and toyed with the idea of calling the whole thing off. There was a midnight train north. He could catch it and reach New York a few hours after Phyllis arrived. The thought of his young wife brought an acute sense of loneliness upon him. He needed her buoyant faith tonight, the cool, caressing touch of her hands, the pressure of her smooth cheek against his, the influx of strength from her passionate belief in him.

He was, he admitted, becoming increasingly dependent upon Phyllis. He, who had never been dependent upon any person or thing. The hard-boiled dick who had fought his way savagely to the top with a ruthless disregard for everything that stood in his path.

He laughed again, a mirthless laugh of mockery. He was slipping, all right, letting himself get pushed around. What the devil had he been doing all evening?

It wasn’t his case. As far as he could see, there wasn’t a dollar in it for him. There was the election, of course, but he had no real stake in it. He had no depth of personal feeling for Jim Marsh. He had, perversely, taken up the cudgels for Marsh after Peter Painter publicly backed Stallings. An instinctive and subconscious impulse had forced him to take a hand. He was more than ever convinced that there was something rotten behind Stallings’s candidacy, but hell! When had an election ever been pure and forthright?

He had been a fool to get into it, but he had to see Marsh elected. He sighed and shrugged his wide shoulders, unlatched the car door, and got out.

The apartment building was ultramodern, with faint light illumining an opaque glass front. Inside, a mirrored foyer led to a self-service elevator. He stepped into the cage and pushed the button opposite
3.
The elevator clicked, purred, and rose smoothly to stop at the third floor. He went down the hall to 342 and pressed the button.

Jim Marsh opened the door. He appeared surprised and not too pleased to see Shayne. The mayoralty candidate was a slender, wiry man with a hawklike face and uneasy eyes.

He said, “Oh, hello, Mike. I had an idea you were halfway to New York by now. Decided to stay over, eh? That’s fine. Did you talk to that girl?”

Shayne said, “Briefly.” He glanced inside the room, drew back when he saw there was a visitor. He stepped backward and jerked his head at Marsh. The candidate hesitated, then moved out, closing the visitor from sight.

“Do you know who the girl was?” Shayne demanded.

“No. She wouldn’t tell me her name over the phone. She sounded drunk.”

“She phoned you?”

“That’s right. She insisted that she could help us win. I thought you’d know better how to handle her.” Jim Marsh spread out his small hands expressively.

“But you knew I was leaving town.”

“You’re still here. How about it? Did she have something important?”

“I don’t know. She’s dead.”

“Dead?” Marsh retreated a step. “Good Lord, Mike!”

“The girl,” said Shayne tonelessly, “was Helen Stallings. Her body disappeared from my room and I don’t know where it is. It’s going to be tough on me if you’ve told anybody you sent her to me.”

“I haven’t told a soul. But—dead?” Jim Marsh shuddered. “Let’s drop it, Mike. Everything. The election. I’m beaten anyway. I haven’t a chance.”

Shayne shook his head angrily. “To hell with that. We’re not whipped yet.” He stepped past Marsh and pushed the door open and nodded curtly to a large, hook-nosed man who sat across the room. He asked, “How are things shaping up, Naylor?”

Jim Marsh’s campaign manager shifted a cigar to the other side of his mouth and assured him with false heartiness, “Fine. Swell. It’s in the bag, Shayne.”

A curious silence followed his words. Naylor glanced past Shayne at Marsh, arching oddly bushed brows which crowded his eyelids. He then lifted a highball glass and drank from it, studiously avoiding Shayne’s gaze.

Jim Marsh closed the door and asked, “What happened to your face, Mike?”

“Campaign argument.” Shayne stalked to an overstuffed sofa and carefully lowered his lanky body. “I could do with a drink.”

“Sure. I’ll get it.” Marsh spoke quickly and effusively. “No cognac, though.”

“Rye will do. Lots of rye and not much soda.”

“Coming right up,” Marsh said and went through a swinging door into the kitchen.

The instant he was out of the room Naylor leaned forward and asked in a low voice, “What’s got into the chief? Has something come up that I don’t know about?”

Shayne said mildly, “You’re his campaign manager.”

“That’s just it,” Naylor responded, drawing his odd brows together to form a single matted line. “I’ve worked my head off and got the votes lined up—and now he talks about taking a runout powder—giving up before the votes are counted.”

Shayne frowned his disbelief. “First I knew about it.”

“He has been worried for weeks about the way things are going,” Naylor confided. “He’s new in politics, see? He doesn’t know the inside. He’s been cutting down on expense money, and you can’t win an election that way. I didn’t know we were backing a quitter.”

“Neither did I,” said Shayne slowly.

Naylor settled back with his cigar and highball as Marsh re-entered the living-room. “Here you are, Mike.” He handed a brimming glass to Shayne. “Lots of rye and not much soda.”

Shayne nodded and reached for the glass. “Naylor tells me you’re putting your tail between your legs, Marsh.”

Marsh shot his campaign manager a disapproving glance. He set his thin lips in a tight line and went back to a deep chair where his drink and pipe awaited him. “It looks utterly hopeless to me,” he said with finality. “I’ve been getting discouraging reports for weeks, and if the trend continues I’ll be a laughingstock when the votes are counted.”

“You’re crazy,” Naylor fumed. “Hell, I’m in close touch with every precinct worker. We’ll roll up a two-to-one majority day after tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid you’re fooling yourself. I believe in looking facts in the face. As I see it, I have two choices. I can go on and take a terrific beating and lose all my prestige, or I can make the manly gesture of withdrawing tomorrow and conceding the election to Stallings.”

“Manly gesture?” snorted Naylor. “What about all of us who have worked so hard for you, and all the poor devils who have bet heavy odds in your favor?”

“All my campaign workers have been well paid,” Marsh retorted sharply. “I’ve done nothing but hand out money since the campaign started. As for the men who have bet on me—they stand to lose in any event.”

“You talk about losing prestige,” Naylor argued. “You flatter yourself if you think the public will remember for very long that you were defeated. But if you back down—take your name off the ticket because you’re afraid of defeat—well, they’ll never forget
that.”
Naylor turned to Shayne and pleaded, “Can’t you do something with him, Shayne?”

The detective was sitting laxly, staring into his glass. He lifted it and drank deeply, then moved his head slowly from side to side. “Why should I bother? A yellow-bellied mayor won’t do Miami Beach much good.”

“That’s not a fair attitude,” Marsh protested. “You can’t censure me—neither of you—for using my own best judgment and acting accordingly.”

Shayne’s laugh was short and ugly. He touched his bruised cheek and lips lightly with his finger tips. “And I took this for you. Talk about someone being laughed out of town! Where will I be if you withdraw?”

“We’ve tried hard,” Marsh insisted, avoiding the eyes of his visitors. “There’s no shame in fighting the good fight and losing.”

“That’s what I pointed out,” Naylor interposed hastily. “Lose if you must—but quit?”

Shayne finished his drink. He hurled the glass across the room and shattered it against the wall. He said bitterly,

“Thank God I haven’t got any prestige to lose. You’re not running out on me, Marsh. Not by a damn sight. You’re going to stay in this election and win whether you like it or not.”

Marsh set his lips stubbornly. “Further discussion is useless. My mind is made up.”

“Then you’re going to unmake it.” Shayne got to his feet. He strode forward and stopped in front of Marsh on widespread legs. “No man is going to pull a fade-out on me. I always finish what I start.”

“It can’t matter particularly to you,” Marsh protested. “You have no money invested in my campaign. I’m the loser.”

Shayne studied him out of bleak gray eyes. Marsh’s wiry energy appeared completely dissipated. Except for the grim set of his thin jaw and the sullen determination of his elongated eyes, he was a picture of defeatism.

“I’ve got something invested in this election that means the same thing as money,” Shayne said harshly. “My reputation for knowing my way around. Do you think I’ll let a weak-livered punk take that away from me?”

“I refuse to be intimidated. It’s my decision and nothing can change it.”

“I’ll see about that.” Shayne turned on his heel and went to the telephone, dialed a number.

He said, “Hello, Joe? Mike Shayne talking. Are you making book on the local election? Fine! I’ve got a little two-to-one money on Marsh.”

Out of the corner of his eye Shayne saw Jim Marsh’s face go ashen. The man jumped to his feet, ejaculating in a choked voice, “You mustn’t do that, Shayne. I warn you
not
to.”

Disregarding him, Shayne said, “Is that so, Joe? You’ve got so much Stallings money that the odds have dropped to even money? So much the better. Mark me down for a couple of grand.”

Marsh made a gesture of resignation and sank back into his chair.

Shayne listened a moment, frowning, then said, “No, Joe. I hadn’t heard that rumor. Sure. My bet stands on that basis. Two grand. And you’ll get a certified check in the morning.” He cradled the phone and turned casually to Naylor.

“You’d better grab some of that even money, too. Looks like a good thing to me.”

Turning his attention to Marsh, Shayne said, “There’s the pay-off. Now I
have
got money invested. The Stallings crowd is insisting that all bets will have to be paid even if you decide to withdraw for any reason. So I’m out on a limb on you for two grand. Saw it off if you’ve got the guts.”

He stalked out of the apartment. Naylor was behind him when he opened the elevator door. A triumphant smile wreathed his dark face, and he mopped sweat from it with a shaking hand.

“That was fast work, Shayne. By God, that was wonderful.”

Shayne shrugged off the compliment. He growled, “I still think he’s got better than an even chance to win. He must have let it slip that he was thinking of backing out and that’s brought a rush of Stallings money to knock the odds down.”

Shayne pushed a button, and they descended. “I don’t know what’s come over him,” Naylor complained. “I knew he was getting jittery about losing, but I’ve tried all along to tell him it’s in the bag.”

“He acts,” Shayne mused, “like a man that’s scared half out of his wits,” as the elevator reached the ground floor and they stepped into the foyer.

“That’s it. That’s exactly the impression I got,” Naylor agreed excitedly. He stretched his legs to keep pace with Shayne’s strides. “Do you suppose he has had some threat—something he hasn’t told us about?”

“I don’t know. Anyhow, I’ve bet two grand he’ll stay in line. Now it’s up to you to do your stuff.”

“You can depend on me,” Naylor assured him when they stood for a moment outside the apartment house. “I’ll have it tied up in a knot tomorrow night.”

Shayne nodded and crossed the sidewalk to his car. He got in and headed back across the County Causeway over Biscayne Bay, scowling angrily at the bright paths of moonlight on the rippling gray waters, cursing himself for letting anger get the best of him in Marsh’s apartment.

Making that bet had been a damn-fool trick. Why hadn’t he washed his hands of Marsh and let him quit? That would have fixed everything. He could have caught that midnight train for New York—and Phyllis.

No. He had to be a stubborn ass and stick his neck out and bray into a telephone. There couldn’t be any backing out now. Not with two thousand dollars on the line.

Even as he cursed himself, Shayne was conscious of a faint inward glow of satisfaction. The pressure was on, and that’s the way he worked best. A girl had been murdered in his apartment and a kidnap note sent implicating him. Painter and Stallings had promised him until noon tomorrow to see that Helen Stallings was returned. He had that much time in which to clear up the murder and the mystery surrounding it. And he didn’t even know where the body was.

He pressed down the accelerator and stuck his head out the window to let the cool bay breeze blow the muggles from his mind. His thoughts revolved around Arch Bugler, around the hot-lipped maid at the Stallings residence, around the young man whose name was Marlow, and the mysteriously missing body of a strangled young girl.

A few vagrant pieces of the larger puzzle—and none of them appeared to fit together. He had only a few hours in which to find enough more pieces to form some design. He forgot the discomfort of his swollen lips and puckered them to whistle a carefree tune. Inside him was a driving eagerness to begin the search for some of those missing pieces.

Arriving at his hotel, the clerk beckoned to him when he entered the lobby. “Telephone message, Mr. Shayne. A Mr. Rourke called from the Parkview Hotel. He’s waiting for you there and wants you to join him at once.” The clerk stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on Shayne’s face. “Gosh,” he breathed, “what does the other fellow look like?”