The Corpse Came Calling (3 page)

She stopped, moistened her lips. Her eyes glittered strangely

“And then rub him out while I’m taking him to jail on the pretext that he tried to escape,” Shayne supplied for her evenly. “It has been done. You mean it, don’t you? Just like that?” He snapped his bony fingers. “The job you came here to see me about is having your husband murdered—in a nice quiet way so there won’t be any stink raised.”

Helen shuddered and averted her eyes from his searching gaze. “You make it sound so horrible. It wouldn’t be murder. Not really. No more than an official hanging is murder. He’s got it coming. It’s the only way to prevent him from wrecking two lives.”

“Women,” said Shayne angrily, “have the damnedest way of rationalizing the ugliest facts into something quite sweet and lovely. He’s your legal husband and you’re offering money to have him killed. Those are the facts. Why don’t you face them squarely?”

“All right,” Helen cried. “That
is
what I mean. Stop torturing me. Will you do it, or are you going to sit up here and pretend to be shocked? Everyone in Miami knows you’ve done worse. They say you’ve never touched a case that you didn’t frame somebody—sit back and pull the strings and watch men die—at a profit to you.”

Shayne’s lips came away from his teeth. “That,” he told her, “is an important point. At a profit. I always make death pay me dividends. The first question I ask about any case is what’s in it for me.”

“You needn’t worry about that.” Helen fumbled in her large leather handbag. She withdrew a roll of bills. “I’ve only a few hundred right now,” she faltered. “Take it as a sort of retainer. I can get more from Charles later. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars after we’re married.”

Shayne shook his head. He said, “Put your money away. I don’t want a retainer from you. At least, not yet.” He got up and went to the window, stood with his back to her, looking out.

The sun was low in the west and the haze of early twilight was cloaking the whitewashed houses and swaying palms. There was a clean smell of flowers and the salt tang of the sea in the air. Michael Shayne breathed it deeply into his lungs, gazing toward Biscayne Bay with brows deeply furrowed. This was one of the times he wished he had chosen another profession.

He turned back after a time and found Helen’s eyes pathetically intent upon him. He said, “Leave me your address and I’ll do some checking up. I’m not promising a thing, but I’ll see what I can work out.”

She gave him the address of an apartment on the Beach. He wrote it down, then took her by the arm and led her to the door, saying, “I’d rather you weren’t seen leaving here. Go down that hall to the stairs and out the side exit.”

She faced him in the doorway, put both her hands on his arm while her eyes searched him. “You won’t let me down,” she said simply, “I know you won’t.” She lifted herself on tiptoe and swiftly pressed her lips against his mouth, then turned out the door and hurried toward the stairway.

Shayne turned back into the room slowly. There was the lingering scent of heliotrope perfume in the air. He went into the bathroom and rubbed a trace of rouge from his mouth, then came back tweaking the lobe of his left ear.

He went out after a moment’s hesitation, walked to the end of the corridor and down the stairs to the ground floor and a private side entrance.

He let himself out onto the sidewalk, strode briskly to the front of the building. Two police cars and an ambulance were parked in front. One of the police cars was from Miami’s sister city across the bay, Miami Beach.

Shayne stalked into the lobby, whistling cheerily. The desk clerk tried to signal for his attention, but Shayne waved to him and went on to the elevators.

The elevator boy’s eyes bugged at him when he stepped into the car. He breathed, “Gee, Mr. Shayne, what d’yuh think? The cops’ve been lookin’ all over for you.”

Shayne grinned and said, “That’s nothing new, Henry.” He got out and strode down the hall toward the open door of his office.

Two harness cops stood outside. He frowned and asked them, “What the hell’s going on?”

One of the uniformed men said, “It’s Mr. Shayne himself,” and jerked his thumb toward the open door, muttering, “Watch your step, Mike. It’s Peter Painter inside and he’s on the warpath for sure.”

Shayne winked at him and strode in. He stopped just inside the door, staring down at the corpse of Jim Lacy which lay just where it had fallen.

In a pained voice, he asked, “Why doesn’t someone tell me these things?” He looked up and saw Phyllis pushing forward between a couple of Miami detectives, and he stepped over the body to gather her into his arms.

CHAPTER THREE

“WHAT’S THIS ALL ABOUT, ANGEL?” Shayne had his arms tightly about Phyllis’s shaking shoulders. “Who’s the stiff messing up my office? Did you blast him? For God’s sake, Phyl, what
is
this?”

She relaxed against him, sobbing, pressing her face against his chest. He looked over the top of her head wonderingly at a group of detectives from the homicide squad, at the medical examiner who sat lazily in a deep chair with his physician’s bag beside him, and lastly at a slim, erect figure who strutted forward with an unpleasant gleam of triumph in his snapping black eyes.

This was Peter Painter, chief of detectives from Miami Beach, and Michael Shayne’s pet aversion in the form of a law-enforcement officer.

Painter stopped in front of the detective with both hands thrust deep into the slash pockets of a belted sport coat. The threadlike black mustache on his upper lip quivered exultantly as he said:

“It’s up to you to do the explaining this time, Shayne. You can’t kill a man and then just duck out—”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne carefully kept his voice to a normal level. He looked past Painter to a Miami detective and asked, “Where’s Will Gentry?”

“Gentry was out when the call came in. I left word for him to come up.”

Shayne growled, “What’s Painter horning in for?” continuing to ignore the spruce detective chief. “This isn’t his territory.”

The homicide man from Gentry’s office spread out his hands placatingly. “But it looks like it’s pretty much his case, Mike. He was in the office getting out a local pickup on the corpse when your wife phoned in.”

Shayne transferred his gaze to Painter. “You wanted this guy?” He jerked his head toward the corpse.

“For the FBI,” Painter told him with malicious relish. “I have a wire from J. Edgar Hoover saying that it’s a matter of supreme importance to detain him for questioning for a special agent who’s flying down from Washington.”

Shayne looked down at Jim Lacy with no show of recognition. He demanded, “Who the devil is he? What’s he doing here? Who shot him full of holes?”

“Those,” said Peter Painter precisely, “are the same questions we’ve been asking your wife. She has yet to give us a satisfactory explanation.”

Shayne drew in a deep breath. He held Phyllis away from him and looked into her eyes. “Give it to me, Phyl. The truth. I’ve got to know where I stand.”

Her eyes were frightened but she held her voice steady. “I’ve told them the truth, Michael. I was sitting here at my desk—” She stopped speaking as another man entered the room. It was Will Gentry, chief of the Miami Detective Bureau and a long-time warm friend of Shayne’s.

Gentry was a big, stolid man with a beefy face which concealed a keen intelligence. He glanced at the corpse casually, then at Shayne and the others. “I came up as soon as I got the report. What is this, Mike?”

“You know as much about it as I do. I just got here myself. Phyllis was starting to tell me about it. Go ahead, angel.”

“I was sitting here at my desk,” she began again, “when the door opened and this man stepped inside. He had his coat hugged about him and he looked—awful. Like a walking dead man, if you know what I mean. He—took one step and then fell to the floor.” She paused to shudder, then went on valiantly. “I unbuttoned his coat and vest and saw the blood. I knew—he was dead. So I called the police.”

Shayne said, “That’s all we need right now.” He steered her back to a seat on the day bed, gave her shoulder a pat, and said, “Sit tight while I straighten things out.”

As he turned back to the others, Painter was explaining to Will Gentry, “It simply doesn’t read the way she tells it. He has three wounds in his chest, and any one of them would be fatal. No man could walk around with those holes in him.”

Shayne stepped forward angrily. “If Phyllis said he did, then, by God, he did.”

Gentry shook his head soothingly at the redhead. “Keep out of it, Mike.” He asked Painter, “What’s your interest?”

“The FBI wanted this man for questioning,” Painter told him. “I was on the verge of picking him up when he was killed here in Shayne’s office.”

Shayne thrust his lean jaw out and started forward again, but Gentry interposed, “Let’s hear what the M.E. has to say about it. What’s your opinion, doc?” to the professional man who sat comfortably in his chair.

“Each of the three wounds would probably be fatal. They are small-caliber, not more than a .32. If you want a snap opinion, I don’t believe any man could walk a hundred feet with those three holes in his chest.”

“There you are,” Painter said. “And I’ve talked to the help here. Neither the clerk nor the elevator operator saw any sign of a wound when he came up.”

Shayne jutted his lean jaw at the doctor. “I’m not an M.E., but I have had a speaking acquaintance with gunshot wounds. I’ve known guys carrying enough lead to sink a battleship who stayed on their feet for half an hour before keeling over.”

The doctor nodded. “It will require a P.M. to pass definite judgment.” He explained to Gentry, “A lot of factors enter into it—the exact course of the bullets after they entered the body, what vital organs were touched or missed. There have been some remarkable cases of auto-anesthesia in which mortally wounded men have even remained unaware of their own wounds.” He shrugged. “On that score, I can only say this is one for the record if yon cadaver ambled into this hotel and up here under his own power.”

Painter began, “You see, Gentry,” but Shayne cut him off savagely.

“Even the doc admits it could be possible. What are you trying to prove, Painter?”

Painter smoothed the thin line of silky mustache with his thumbnail. “I think you know a lot more about this man than you’re telling.”

Shayne said, “How can I? I just walked in here.”

“Where have you been during the last half hour?”

Shayne hesitated. He turned to Gentry. “Do I need an alibi, Will?”

Gentry said, “I don’t know, Mike. Haven’t you got one?”

Shayne said, “I’ll take that matter up when you get ready to make a charge against me. In the meantime, why don’t you have the corpse carried out? I’m fastidious about dead men cluttering up my office.”

“Wait a minute,” Painter said importantly. “Suppose you identify him for us first.”

“Am I supposed to know him?”

“Don’t you?” Painter shot at him.

Shayne took time to look at Jim Lacy’s body again. He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“That,” said Painter happily, “is what I expected you to say. Why lie about it?”

Shayne turned to Gentry. “Is it my fault that all dead men look alike to me? What’s the angle?”

Gentry said, “Remember, I just got here, too.” To his fellow detective chief he said, “Give it to us, Painter.”

“Do you think it was just coincidence that he was killed here in Shayne’s office?” Painter parried.

Gentry fended off Shayne’s angry rejoinder. “We haven’t any proof that he was killed here. Is that all you’ve got?”

“No. I’ve got plenty more. If he didn’t know Shayne, why did he telephone that he was coming up shortly before he arrived?”

Shayne’s lean face showed surprised interest. “Did he do that, for Christ’s sake?”

“Your wife says he did.”

Shayne rumpled his red hair and growled, “I never was any good at riddles.” He crossed to Phyllis’s side and sat down beside her. “You tell me, angel.”

“There was a telephone call,” she admitted. “About half an hour before—
he
came. A man’s voice said it was Jim Lacy and he had to see you at once. He was cut off before I could ask any questions or—anything.”

Shayne said, “Jim Lacy?” He furrowed his brow, tugged at the lobe of his ear, then brightened. “By God, is
that
Jim Lacy?” He jumped to his feet and strode forward to look down at the dead man.

“As if you didn’t know it all the time,” Painter scoffed.

Shayne swung on Gentry. In a weary tone, he said, “If you don’t stop that little twerp’s yapping I swear I’m going to muss up his pretty clothes.”

Gentry’s stolid face remained unruffled. “Who’s Jim Lacy?” he rumbled.

“I used to know a private op by that name. A long time ago. Ten years, I guess. We worked together for Countrywide in New York. Later I heard Jim had muscled into the racket on his own.”

“Is that him on the floor?”

Shayne said, “How do I know? After ten years. If it is, I give you my word, Will, today is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him since I quit Countrywide.”

“It’s Lacy, all right,” Painter told them. “We found his private license and other papers to identify him. What I want to know, Shayne, and what the G-men are going to want to know, is why he wanted so desperately to see you this afternoon.”

“It’s too damn bad,” Shayne said sourly, “that you can’t ask him.” He went back to sit by Phyllis.

Painter said, “I’m asking
you.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and patted Phyllis’s hand. “Don’t pay any attention to our Petey, Phyl. Nobody else does.”

Will Gentry sighed and elbowed Painter back. For years he had been acting as buffer between the redheaded private detective and his co-worker from the other side of the bay, and for years it had been a nerve-racking task. He addressed the officer in charge of the homicide detail.

“Have you got everything you need here, lieutenant? Prints, pix, everything?”

The lieutenant nodded. “We’ve got everything there is, chief.”

“Okay. You boys can beat it. Send some men up for the body. And—doc, I want an autopsy right away. You know what I want—and how important it is.”

The M.E. said cheerfully, “You’ll get it, Will,” and followed the detectives out.

When only the two detective chiefs were left in the room with Shayne and his wife, Gentry said in a reasonable tone, “Let’s all have a drink and get down to cases.”

Shayne said, “That’s the first sensible remark I’ve heard since walking in here.” He got up and went to the cabinet for a glass, glancing over his shoulder at Painter, who remained stiffly erect in the center of the floor. “Are you joining us menfolks in a snifter?”

Painter said, “You know I never drink while on duty.”

“Yeh,” Shayne mused, “you always were hell on duty.” He went to the table and picked up the bottle of cognac, poured himself and Gentry a drink.

Gentry accepted the glass with a nod and lowered his bulky frame into a deep chair. Shayne went back to sit beside Phyllis. Painter remained obdurately standing.

“If you boys,” said Gentry, “would forget you hate each other we might be able to straighten this thing out.”

Shayne said, “Look, Will. Is it my fault that a guy whom I haven’t seen for ten years gets a sudden yen to look me up? Can I help it if he gets bumped on his way to my office and just makes it to the door before he falls flat?”

“But
why?”
snapped Painter. “If that is what happened, why was it so desperately necessary that someone prevent him from reaching you? You were cooking up something together. He was another fly-cop like yourself.”

Shayne turned his glass around in his big hands, regarding it morosely. He spoke to Gentry without lifting his head.

“I don’t know any more about those things than you do, but I intend to find out. Hell,” he went on irritably, “do you think I like the idea of a man being killed while he’s on his way to my office? It’s lousy publicity. And by the way, can we keep this thing out of the papers until I have a chance to check some angles?”

Gentry began, “I’ll see what I can do—”

But Painter took a step forward to interrupt. “It’s too late for that. A
News
reporter came up with us. He dashed out with the story to make the final edition. It’s probably on the street now.”

Shayne nodded. “With Painter’s name in headlines. All right, you have to do something once in a while to kid the City Fathers into thinking you’re earning your keep.”

Gentry said wearily, “You just can’t lay off riding him, can you, Mike?”

“Why should I? He rides me every chance he gets. That’s not so bad. I can take it. But I don’t like him starting on my wife, too.”

“I haven’t been riding her.” Painter’s voice became almost shrill with anger. “I simply said—”

“That she was lying about our visitor,” Shayne cut him off.

“You heard the doctor’s opinion.”

“Yes and, by God, you heard Phyllis’s story.” Shayne swung to his feet.

Painter faced him with equal anger. “Don’t bluster at me, Shayne. This isn’t a local matter, you know. Our country is at war and if your friend Lacy was mixed up in some scheme that interests the federal authorities, you had better give us any information in your possession.”

Shayne grinned infuriatingly. “So you’re going to sick Mr. Hoover’s boys on my trail? All right. I’ll do my talking to them, Painter. Drop back in to see me when you have a couple of special agents to back you up. In the meantime, get out. I’m tired of restraining myself and I’m sick of listening to you.”

He swung toward Gentry. “And for you, Will, I’ll give you this. I did know Jim Lacy ten years ago in New York. I haven’t seen him since—until I looked at him lying dead here in my office. I haven’t heard from him nor of him—until Phyllis received the telephone call while I was out. I don’t know why he wanted to see me today—nor who
didn’t
want him to see me.”

“Be sure you’re not holding out anything, Mike,” Gentry advised. “No fast stuff on this one. If the FBI is interested it must be too hot to handle locally. With the nation at war, the public isn’t going to stand for any monkey business along that line.”

Shayne shrugged. He said, “I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”

“Yeh.” Gentry got up, setting his empty glass down. “Be sure you can this time, Mike.”

Shayne said, “I’ll manage.” He turned back to sit by Phyllis again, put his arm around her waist. “Suppose you two birds get on about your detecting. My wife is still upset from having a corpse calling on her.”

“Come on,” Gentry advised Painter. “We’ll get nothing more out of Mike right now.”

Phyllis turned a frightened face to Shayne when the door closed behind the two detective chiefs. “Are you making a mistake, Michael? With the G-men coming—”