Bodies Are Where You Find Them (7 page)

“Better than I do,” Shayne admitted ruefully. “But I’m going to try out a pair of knucks next time I meet him. No other messages—or visitors?”

“Nothing else. Gee, I’ll bet it was a whale of a fight.”

“Practically a butchering.” Shayne grinned. “The Parkview?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shayne returned to his car and drove north through the center of town. Rourke, he mused, had worked fast and with luck to locate Marlow’s hotel so soon. Shayne wasn’t at all sure that it would be any help, but it was a good omen. If his Irish luck started working, things were bound to begin straightening out.

He passed the Thirteenth Street entrance to the causeway and continued north along the boulevard. There was little traffic. A heavy car which had loitered behind him for several blocks suddenly darted ahead with a full-throated roar of sixteen cylinders.

Subconsciously he stiffened when the big car whirled into a U turn at a street intersection a few blocks ahead and roared back at high speed. Shayne couldn’t remember whether the Parkview Hotel was in that block or the next, and turned his eyes to search for a sign. When he looked back at the street the heavy, speeding car swerved as it came abreast of him. Then it was a lunging projectile of steel that smashed his aged car as though it was made of papier-mâché, lifting and twisting it in the air, driving it sideways against a lamppost that crackled at the base under the terrific impact.

Shayne was thrown free. He crashed into a low Australian-pine hedge on the other side of the sidewalk.

The big car careened over the curb on screaming tires, bounced back into the street, miraculously retaining an upright position. It shuddered to a standstill and a figure leaped out, ran to Shayne’s smashed car carrying a burden in his arms. The figure darted back to the waiting car and it sped away as Shayne shook himself and got groggily to his feet.

Staggering to the wreckage of his car, he stopped to stare stupidly down at the pallid face of a girl who lay crumpled against the curb as though she, too, had been thrown from his car.

Shaken and unnerved, he dropped to his knees beside her. Her flesh was cold to his touch, and in the illusive moonlight he saw that it was the body of Helen Stallings.

An approaching car was slowing, edging in cautiously toward the wreck.

He was going to have a hell of a time making anyone believe that the cold corpse had not been a passenger in his car when it was wrecked.

THE CAR WAS A BLOCK AWAY. Shayne’s emergency reflexes were swift and adequate. Before the headlights were upon him he gathered the stiff corpse in his arms, holding it vertically against his body, and darted across the sidewalk to the thick hedge against which he had been thrown. Lifting the corpse over the hedge, he held on to the dress until the legs touched the ground, then let it fall to the grass with a soft thud.

He scuttled crabwise to the curb beside his wrecked car and staggered to his feet as the first car arrived and an excited young couple jumped out.

Other cars began converging upon the scene and curious householders hurried out of near-by homes, attracted by the crash.

Shayne didn’t have to do much talking. Everyone else was doing it for him. He kept insisting that he was all right, and when a police car arrived he gave a terse report of the wreck, grimly insisting that it had not been an accidental crash.

“I was loafing along when this car swerved and rammed me.” He did not mention the significant fact that the limousine had been trailing him along the boulevard before it darted ahead and doubled back to get a good run at him.

“A black limousine, I think.” He gave the best description possible. “Looked as big as a fire truck and must have been just about as heavy to do this job to my car and get away under its own power.

“Hell, no. I didn’t get the license number,” he snapped in answer to the uniformed man who was taking notes. “I was busy getting my door open and trying to make a leap for it. It was all over before I knew it was happening. You’ll have to look for a black limousine with a smashed left fender and radiator grill.” He edged away from the officers and curious onlookers crowding the sidewalk, managing a disinterested glance at the hedge to see that the girl’s body was not in evidence.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief that the hedge was thick and matted, the fine soft needles of the pines forming a solid mass from the ground up to the level, clipped top.

Pushing through the throng, Shayne ambled up the street mopping his face with a handkerchief. The accident had been contrived with fiendish and perfect timing. If he had been injured or knocked unconscious for half a minute, no one would ever have believed his fantastic story—even with Rourke to back him up. Against them there would be Chief Gentry’s positive evidence that the girl was alive in his apartment at six o’clock. It would tie in with the kidnaping note, a perfect chain of circumstantial evidence with a noose dangling at the end of it.

He had seen other innocent men writhing ineffectually in the coils of circumstantial evidence, had helped some of them beat the rap. There was no one to help him. If he didn’t get the answer quickly—or if Helen Stallings’s corpse was discovered—

Perspiration streamed from his face. His handkerchief was soggy with sweat as he went over the setup. The Parkview Hotel was a block and a half beyond where his car had been wrecked, but Shayne felt that he had walked miles from the scene before reaching it.

He swung into the lobby and saw Timothy Rourke seated comfortably in a corner talking with the house detective. Rourke’s eyes brightened as he took in Shayne’s appearance. House Detective Cassidy removed the frayed butt of a cigar from his mouth and rumbled, “Looks like you’ve been in a rough game of tag, young fella.”

Shayne stopped in front of them and glared at their complacent faces. “I could die a block away and neither of you’d stir off your rumps to say a prayer for me,” he complained.

Rourke sighed. “Praying for you would wear out a rosary a week. I might’ve known it was you when we heard the crash down the street. I’ve been waiting for you to wreck that jalopy ever since you took out junk insurance on it.”

Shayne sank down in a leather chair. He growled, “Phyllis will be happy about it. She’s been after me to buy a new one ever since we were married.”

“What’d you hit, a milk truck?” Rourke asked. “Sounded like two milk trucks.”

“It was a black sedan and it wasn’t an accident. They had something they wanted to unload on me, and it wasn’t milk.”

Rourke’s lean body twitched with apprehension. The grin faded from his face. “You don’t mean—”

“Yep.” Shayne forestalled further revelations in the presence of Cassidy. “I managed to ditch it for the time being,” he added cryptically. “We’ll have to attend to it later. How about Marlow? Did you locate him here?”

Rourke nodded. He looked wholly unhappy but he didn’t pursue the subject. “Whit Marlow,” he amplified. “Checked in from New York shortly after noon.”

“What have you got on Marlow?” Cassidy interposed. “Anything I ought to know, Mike?”

“I don’t know yet. Is he in his room?” Shayne looked at his watch. How long would it take the police to finish a report on the wreck and leave the scene?

Cassidy said, “Marlow went out right after he checked in and hasn’t showed again.”

“How about checking his room?”

“All right, if you say so. I’ll tell the clerk so he can ring us if Marlow pops up while we’re working.” Cassidy got up and lumbered to the desk.

Rourke leaned toward Shayne and whispered tensely, “What happened up the street? Do you mean we got her back?”

“I hope so.” Shayne groaned audibly. “This car smashed me and dumped her to make it look like she was riding with me. Come on, let’s check this lead and see what turns up.”

Cassidy was waiting for them at the elevator. As they got in, he warned the elevator boy, “We’re going into two-fourteen. Fellow named Marlow. If the clerk gives you the high sign, stall on bringing Marlow up till we can get clear.”

The operator nodded. Cassidy led the way to 214 and opened the door with a master key. They entered a bedroom which showed little sign of occupancy—an opened Gladstone on the bed, a closed leather grip in one corner.

Shayne went to the bed and began going through the Gladstone, laying articles of clothing out in a neat pile. The bag contained only the normal articles which a man might pack for a trip. Replacing the contents neatly, he went to the closed grip and unbuckled leather straps.

The grip, which was unlocked, was fitted with medium-priced toilet articles. There were shoes, a wad of soiled clothing and, among other things, a small flat scrapbook which Shayne seized upon eagerly. He rocked back on his heels and flipped the pages open, studied press clippings relating to the engagements of one Beany Baxter’s Band at various dance places and second-rate hotels throughout the New England states.

With Rourke and Cassidy peering over his shoulder Shayne pointed out a thin-faced boyish figure in a picture of Beany Baxter’s Swing Band. “That’s Marlow,” he said. “First saxophone.”

Disappointed, Cassidy declared, “There ain’t no law against tooting a sax that I know of. Hell, Mike, I don’t see anything wrong.”

“Neither do I,” Shayne said, and continued to turn the pages.

The last pasted entry was dated two months previous, from Northampton, Massachusetts. It was a brief item stating that the band had arrived to play a two weeks’ engagement at the Pavilion Royale in that city.

Shayne squatted on his heels and frowned at the clipping while Cassidy moved nervously around the room. Rourke read the item over Shayne’s shoulder, asking, “Is that what you’re looking for?”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m looking for something that’ll tie this sax player up with Arch Bugler.”

“Bugler?” Rourke’s interest quickened. “You haven’t told me anything,” he complained.

“You had a chance to go along with me and turned it down,” Shayne reminded him. He tugged meditatively at the lobe of his left ear, then closed the scrapbook and laid it on the pile of other articles taken from the grip. He rocked forward and explored the interior of the bag carefully, drawing the fitted toilet articles from their niches to be sure that nothing was concealed beneath them.

A sudden exclamation escaped his lips. He bent forward to examine a slit in the silk lining. The room telephone shrilled as he did so.

Cassidy leaped to answer it. “Yeh?” he barked, and then, “Okay.” He dropped the instrument into place, exclaiming, “Marlow’s on his way up!”

Shayne stubbornly remained on his knees beside the empty grip. His fingers were exploring behind the lining. With a grunt of satisfaction he drew out a folded sheet of heavy paper.

Cassidy was dancing up and down near the door in a fever of impatience, begging, “Hurry it, Mike. It’ll be worth my job if we get caught in here for no good reason.”

Shayne shoved the folded document into his pocket and dumped the contents of the grip back in a jumble. He closed the bag and buckled it swiftly, then darted for the door behind Rourke. The trio stepped out just as the elevator stopped at that floor.

The operator appeared to have trouble opening the elevator door. Cassidy had the door of 214 locked and was strolling leisurely down the hall behind Shayne and Rourke when Whit Marlow stepped out and turned toward them.

The young man’s face was a sickly white. He wavered past them toward his room without looking at the three men.

Cassidy sighed when they entered the elevator. “That was a close shave,” he said.

Shayne’s short laugh was sardonic. “That was once over light, Cassidy. I’ve had closer shaves in my own bathroom.”

“And what did you get for your trouble?” Cassidy asked anxiously when they reached the lobby.

“I don’t know. He had it stashed away as though it might be the secret plans for our bomb.” Shayne stepped to a secluded corner and took the paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and then swore with disgust. A pair of cupids frolicked together at the top of the sheet beneath a pink wedding bell. An ornate scroll proclaimed to all and sundry that the Reverend J. Hammond Fitzhugh of Endicott, Connecticut, had united in holy wedlock one Whit Marlow and Helen Devalon on the 14th day of April.

Rourke chuckled at the expression on Shayne’s face. “Maybe it’s a code,” he suggested sweetly. “Secret Agent X is pleased to report—” He ducked Shayne’s swing while Cassidy wrinkled his forehead at the document.

“Do you mean you think this Marlow is one of those fifth columnists and this is not a wedding certificate but some sort of devilish spying code?”

“I’ve quit thinking,” Shayne growled. “Damn a sentimental sax player who hides a wedding certificate as if it was something important. Come on, Tim. Let’s get out of here.” He strode to the door, and Rourke followed, still chuckling over Shayne’s discomfiture.

“Where’s your buggy parked?” Shayne demanded when they were outside.

“Right up the street.” Rourke stopped abruptly. “Wait! What are you after? What about the corpse?”

“By the grace of God I had time to get her out of sight before anyone got there. But we’ve got to move her. She’s bound to be discovered if—”

“Not me,” Rourke demurred stoutly. “Not in my car, either. Damn it, Mike, rent a hearse if you insist on ghouling around with cadavers.”

“Come on,” Shayne growled. He caught the reporter’s arm and urged him on, occasionally turning his head and straining his eyes to see whether the wreck scene was deserted. “It may be too late already.”

“That’s my one fervent hope,” said Rourke. “What’s it all about? Why should someone snatch her from your room and then stage a wreck to toss her back in your lap? It doesn’t make sense.”

Shayne didn’t reply. When they reached Rourke’s car muffled sounds were emanating from the short-wave radio which the reporter had left turned on. Shayne jerked the door open and got in, turned the dial up just in time to hear the words, “… body of unidentified young woman. That is all.”

Rourke, behind the wheel, glanced sideways at Shayne. A look of defeat settled over the detective’s gaunt features. For a moment his defenses were down and he looked old and weary.

The expression on Shayne’s face shocked Timothy Rourke out of his flippant mood. Deprived of his aura of invincibility, Michael Shayne was no different from lesser men, and Rourke averted his eyes quickly, ashamed that he had witnessed the change. He felt as low as if he had peeped through a keyhole and watched a beautiful and glamorous woman become haggard with the removal of her make-up.

With as much cheerfulness as he could muster, Rourke said, “We’re jumping to conclusions, Mike. We don’t know that it’s Helen Stallings. Might be some other unidentified body.”

“Yeh,” Shayne agreed tonelessly. “Might be. Drive down the boulevard and we’ll see what’s happened. If she has been found there—that close to my car—I’m sunk.” He put a cigarette between his puffed lips and struck two matches before getting a light.

Rourke drove forward slowly. The crowd of spectators had disappeared from the scene of the wreck. A wrecking-car had hauled away the twisted ruins of Shayne’s car, and the only evidence in sight as they rolled slowly past was the glitter of splintered glass and the broken lamppost.

“I don’t see a damned thing,” Rourke muttered. “Can you tell if she’s still there?”

“Christ! You didn’t think I’d leave her where she’d show from the street?” Shayne’s voice came to life again. “Turn left, down this side street.”

Rourke swung to the left on a shadowed residential street. Shayne directed, “Pull in to the curb. I’ve got to go back and see what’s up.”

“You’re liable to walk into a trap,” Rourke warned. “The tail end of that call we heard—it must have been directing a patrol car to the spot. Probably some passer-by saw her lying there and phoned in.”

Shayne conquered an upheaval under his ribs and said, “I’ve got to find out,” and jumped from the light sedan. “Maybe I can get to her before the cops get here. If anything happens,” he went on harshly, “get the hell out in a hurry.” He ran swiftly across the street and dodged into the shadow cast by trees on the corner. He found an opening in the hedge where the alley ran through. Bending down to hide his upper body, he crept along the hedge toward the front.

There was no sound except the beating of his own heart and the night wind soughing through the palm fronds. He could see nothing in the black shadow behind the hedge, now that the street light was gone.

He began to think that the body had been removed—that this was not the right house—or the right hedge, when a black shadow moved in the darkness ahead. There was a faint rustling of the grass, an intangible something that caused him to freeze in his tracks. An automobile cruised lazily past. That would be the patrol car checking on the call. No, it was cruising on without slackening speed.