The Corpse Came Calling (5 page)

“No, sir.” The clerk shook his head emphatically. “They must have slipped in the side door and up the stairs.”

Shayne nodded. He stumbled away from the wall and made the distance to Phyllis. He pulled her robe together, and the clerk helped him loosen the tape binding her mouth and limbs while he clucked solicitously and asked anxious questions which Shayne did not answer.

Phyllis tried to laugh and drew Shayne’s battered head to her bosom when she was released. Through lips that were sore and swollen from removing the tape she cried, “Oh, Michael! I thought I’d die. Sitting here unable to move—”

Shayne muttered, “I was afraid I
wouldn’t”
He lifted his head and said over his shoulder to the clerk, “Thanks a hell of a lot, bud. I guess you’ve done about all you can do right now.”

The clerk stammered, “Yes—I guess I have, Mr. Shayne,” and went out hastily.

It was very quiet in the apartment. Shayne was on his knees with his arms around his wife, and he kept his head pressed against her for a long time. Then he drew away and said, “I’m getting your robe bloody, angel.” He got up, steadying himself with one hand on the table.

Phyllis covered her face with her hands and began crying.

Shayne said, “It’s all right, Phyl. Some good cognac spilled—that’s all the real damage. And we’ve learned something important. A while ago we were wondering whether the scrap of cardboard meant anything. We don’t have to wonder about that angle any more.”

Phyllis took her hands away from her face. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “C-Couldn’t you—have thought of an easier way to find out?”

Shayne fingered his swollen jaw, the lump on the side of his head, and his bleeding ear. “I’ve always done things the hard way. And,” his voice hardened, “I’ve never yet taken a beating that someone didn’t pay for later.” He leaned over and caught her face between his palms. “Don’t think those birds won’t pay for this.”

Phyllis shivered and caught his wrists. “Can’t you drop the case, Mike? Give the police that piece of cardboard—tell them the whole truth?”

Shayne stood up. He took a backward step and dragged air into his lungs. He asked, “Do you want me to quit, Phyl?”

She looked at him with tears still streaming down her face. His bare flesh was bruised and crimsoned with his own blood. Through her dimmed eyes she saw him as he had been when he inexorably stalked Leroy and the menace of his gun. It seemed to her that she could still hear the sound of his laughter ringing through the room. Terrible laughter. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

“Shouldn’t you—this time?” she pleaded. “You’re pitting yourself against the federal authorities, the police—and against those horrible thugs. If the G-men were after Lacy, don’t you suppose it was because of the piece of cardboard? Shouldn’t you co-operate—just this once?”

Shayne asked more gently, “Are you sure that’s what you want, Phyl?”

Against her will, she felt compelled to open her eyes. She saw his face, bruised and bloody, but still set in lines of grim determination. Her gaze wavered for a moment, then searched his eyes. Her tears stopped flowing and she shook her head slowly. A smile that had in it something of maternal anguish touched her lips briefly. She said:

“No, Michael. I don’t want you to quit—ever.”

He leaned over and kissed her lips. “Thanks, angel,” he said. “And now you’d better get the stickum from that tape washed off with alcohol. I’m going to the bathroom to see what cold water will do for my face.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE TELEPHONE RANG while Shayne was painfully getting into a clean shirt. Phyllis was in the tub having her long-delayed soaking, and Shayne sat on the edge of the bed to take the call.

Will Gentry said, “I’ve got some news for you, Mike. We’ve turned up a line on that Jim Lacy killing this afternoon.”

Shayne growled, “Painter won’t thank you if it takes the heat off me.”

Gentry made an uncomplimentary remark about the detective chief from Miami Beach. “A man and a woman appear to have witnessed the shooting,” Gentry explained. “They were driving across the County Causeway from the Beach about four o’clock when they saw a car ahead of them cut in sharply on another car headed this way, and force it to the guard rail. Two men jumped out of the first car and ran back to the one they had stopped. This couple drove past slowly and realized there was some sort of an argument going on, and they got the license number of the car with the two men, but didn’t stop. They didn’t want to get mixed up in anything because the woman is married, but not to her companion.”

Gentry paused, and Shayne asked, “Lacy was in the second car?”

“There was one man in it, and their description of him fits Lacy to a T. After they had gone on about a hundred yards they thought they heard two or three shots behind them, but weren’t positive it wasn’t a car backfiring. A few minutes later Lacy passed them, hunched over the wheel and driving like hell. So they decided it must have been backfires instead of shots, and agreed not to make any report of the incident. But when they read about Lacy’s death they realized they must have actually witnessed the shooting without realizing it. So they came in and told their story. It sounds straight enough.”

“What about a description of the two men?”

“Very vague. One was heavy-built and one was slim. Not much there.”

Shayne didn’t tell him how well the sketchy description fitted his two late visitors. He asked, “Have you had time to check the license number?”

“Yep. But it’s no good. A rental car that had been reported stolen from Miami Beach a little before four o’clock. And it was picked up a short time ago on Flagler Street. No prints. It was probably just snatched to pull the Lacy job, then ditched.”

“Who reported it stolen?”

“Fellow who had it rented. Name of Gorstmann—headwaiter at the Danube Restaurant on the Beach. It was stolen from in front of the restaurant.”

Shayne said, “Thanks for tipping me off, Will.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have Clancy and Bates reported in on the call they made to my apartment a short time ago?”

“Not yet. Something important?”

“Not a bit. That’s the hell of it.” Shayne forced a laugh from his bruised lips. “Just a family brawl. Don’t pay any attention to their report—and, for God’s sake, don’t let the newsboys get hold of it. As a matter of fact, Phyl felt playful and bounced some chinaware at me. I got sore and tied her up in a chair until she cooled off. The phone was knocked over in the excitement and the desk clerk heard the goings-on and sent Clancy and Bates up. I hated to air my family troubles to a couple of harness bulls, so I gave them a song and dance about a couple of thugs escaping by the fire escape. The boys chased after them, but when they didn’t see anyone they got suspicious and came back to check up. I stuck to my story, but I don’t mind having you know the truth, Will.” Shayne laughed hollowly.

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the wire. Then Will Gentry sighed wearily. “More hocus-pocus. All right, Mike. I’ll kill the report if that’s what you want.”

“You sound,” Shayne complained, “as though you don’t believe me. You don’t know Phyl when she goes on a rampage. She’s got the damnedest temper.”

Gentry said, “Shut up,” and hung up.

Shayne replaced the telephone and looked up, startled. Phyllis was regarding him belligerently from the bathroom door. She wore an old kimono and a fresh-scrubbed look.

“Who were you talking to,” she demanded, “about my fierce temper?”

“It’s this way, Phyl. That was Will Gentry. I didn’t want any headlines about our playful visitors so I stalled him with a yarn about you getting sore and throwing things at me.”

“You—you lug. What will Mr. Gentry think of me when he sees you all battered up?”

“I don’t think it’ll change his opinion of you, angel. He didn’t sound completely convinced,” Shayne admitted ruefully. “Hurry and slide into some glad rags. We’ve got a dinner date.”

Phyllis’s expression softened. “Let’s have something sent up—or I can open a can. You look like the wrath of God even if you don’t realize it. If you’re going around telling people
I
did that to you, you’d better stay home until you heal up.”

Shayne grinned. “People are used to seeing me pasted together. I feel like going out for dinner.”

“You’ve got something up your sleeve,” Phyllis charged. “You never want to go out when
I
want to.”

Shayne poured a small drink from the decanter which had been refilled since the melée. He took a sip and explained. “I’ve got a hankering to take on a load of hasenpfeffer. You know how it is when you get a hankering for some special dish. Nothing else will do. And the only place they really know how to make it is at the Danube Restaurant on the Beach. Come on,” he cajoled. “Slip into something and let’s go.”

Phyllis studied him a moment with compressed lips. “You’re still up to something,” she asserted. “But I may as well go along to pick up the pieces as to stay at home worrying myself sick.”

“You may as well,” he agreed cheerfully. The side of his face and jaw was swollen and the lobe of his ear was taped down with a bit of adhesive, but otherwise he felt pretty good. He sipped his cognac and waited until Phyllis was nearly ready, then fastened his soft collar and put on a tie, meekly let her persuade him to wear a double-breasted blue coat with his flannels, and they went down through the lobby and out into the springlike softness of Miami’s tropical night.

The perfume of flowers and of lush tropical foliage blew in from Bayfront Park as Shayne drove north on Biscayne Boulevard, and when he turned east on the winding causeway across the bay there was the tang of salt air to lift a man’s spirits and make him know it was good to be alive.

Sitting silent beside him, Phyllis shuddered and relaxed against the back of the seat with her cheek pressing against his shoulder. In a low voice she said, “Michael! I don’t think I’ll ever forget that horrible moment this afternoon when you kept going toward the man while he backed away threatening to shoot you. Why didn’t he pull the trigger?”

“He didn’t want to shoot me any more than I wanted him to,” Shayne scoffed. “He knew one shot would end the party—bring someone to investigate—and I wasn’t any good to him if I couldn’t talk.”

“This is the kind of case you’re crazy about, isn’t it?” Phyllis demanded after a moment of silence.

“It’s beginning to look interesting,” Shayne hedged. “I like to find out things as I go along—stay one jump ahead of the other fellow.”

“I mean the danger. The continued imminence of death. Pitting yourself against murderous forces. That’s what you really like about it, Michael.” She shuddered again.

He was thoughtfully silent for a time. “Maybe so, Phyl. I never put it into words before.” His voice roughened. “I’m sorry if it’s tough on you, but you knew my business before you married me.”

“I’m not kicking,” she disclaimed quickly. She sat up straighter, reached over, and got two cigarettes from a pack in his shirt pocket. She lit them both, inserted one between his lips. “Let it be a short life and a merry one,” she went on with mock bravado. “Only—it
is
fun being married to you, darling. I’d like to have it last another month or so.”

“I lasted a lot of years before I had you to worry about me. And you’d better be glad,” he went on, “that I’m not flying a bomber or riding a submarine tonight. Bucking a couple of New York gunsels isn’t half so dangerous as taking a whack at the Nazis.”

“That would be different. At least, I think it would,” Phyllis said slowly, seeking to rationalize a thought that wasn’t wholly rational. “It seems to me I wouldn’t mind that half as much.”

“A man is just as dead,” said Shayne sententiously, “from an enemy machine gun as from a sawed-off .45 in the hand of a hired torpedo.”

“Oh, I know.” Phyllis shivered and pressed against him. “War and death seem so far away. It’s sacrilege to think about such things on a night like this.”

That, Shayne realized with a sense of shock, was in line with what he had been thinking a short time before, only in an entirely different way. He remained silent, driving down the last incline off the causeway and turning abruptly south on the peninsula.

A few blocks more and he pulled up in front of the Danube Restaurant, a low, inconspicuous building facing Biscayne Bay.

There were not many cars in the large parking lot, and as they got out, Shayne explained casually. “The war has practically ruined Otto’s trade, I guess. He’s a nice, harmless old fellow but he had the misfortune to be born on the wrong side of the Atlantic.”

“It’s a shame,” Phyllis said warmly. “He’s an American citizen, isn’t he?”

Shayne said, “Yes. Otto’s naturalized, but he’s still a German to a lot of people who think in terms of headlines.”

He guided Phyllis through the entrance and gave his hat to a motherly
Frau
behind the check counter. A tall, heavy-shouldered man met them at the entrance to the dining-room. He had a long, horsy face and sad brown eyes. He wore dinner clothes and had a napkin neatly folded over his arm.

“Two, sir?” He did not bow, but there was servility in his tone.

Shayne said, “You’re new here,” as they followed him into the large dining-room where less than a dozen diners sat.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been here only a short time.” He spoke without a trace of foreign accent. “Will this be suitable, sir?” He led them to a table near the wall.

Shayne said, “This will do.” The headwaiter drew out Phyllis’s chair, then snapped his fingers loudly for a waiter.

Shayne ordered two sidecars and inquired about the hasenpfeffer. The moon-faced waiter beamed delightedly and assured him it was of the most delectable.

Phyllis leaned close to her husband when the waiter went away. “Now will you tell me why you insisted on coming here tonight?”

He told her, “I wanted to get a look at the head-waiter.”

She craned her head around to look at the sad-eyed man. “What about him?”

Shayne admitted he didn’t know. He gave her a brief résumé of his talk over the telephone with Will Gentry. “It’s an old dodge,” he concluded, “reporting one’s car stolen while it is being used to commit a crime. So old,” he added ruefully, “that few of our better crooks use it except as a last resort. But it’s the only angle that’s turned up yet and I didn’t want to pass up any bets.”

The waiter brought the sidecars. As Shayne lifted his glass he turned his head slightly and saw Helen Brinstead following the headwaiter to a table for two against the opposite wall. She was alone and she still wore the dove-gray dress he had seen that afternoon. He set his cocktail down and said, “Don’t look now, but I think I smell heliotrope perfume.”

Phyllis sniffed unconsciously. Her eyes widened and she glanced aside in the direction of his gaze where Helen was sitting down. Shayne hunched his chair around so that his back was partially toward the girl.

Phyllis breathed, “She’s—beautiful, Michael.”

He nodded and lifted his glass again. “Maybe that’s why she’s bored with her husband.”

“Michael! Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? She doesn’t look like that sort of girl.”

Shayne said, “Most of them don’t, angel. Take you, for example. Now who would think you were a dish-throwing female?”

Phyllis grimaced. “You knew she would be here for dinner,” she challenged. “That’s why you came.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’d have come alone if I’d been sure. But it isn’t strange that she’s here,” he added. “Her apartment is only a block away and this is the only decent restaurant in this vicinity.”

As they finished their drinks, the waiter approached proudly bearing aloft a tray holding huge bowls of the German dish prepared as only the Danube cook could prepare it. A short little man waddled in the wake of the waiter. He was almost as wide as he was tall. Deep lines of worry were etched in a moonlike face that was normally placid and beaming. Otto Phleugar’s round blue eyes held a hurt look of bewilderment like that of a child who has been unfairly punished by his parents.

He stopped beside Shayne’s chair and put a fat, moist hand on Shayne’s shoulder. “It is good to see you ordering the hasenpfeffer, mine friend. It is for wonder you do not fear so German a dish would be poisoned by the Nazi ideals.”

Shayne smiled up at the proprietor. “Is it really getting that bad, Otto?”

“Worse nor that,” he declared. “Those who were my friends in past years have declared the boycott. For yourself, you can see.” He waved a pudgy hand toward the almost deserted dining-room.

Shayne said, “It’s just the backwash of war hysteria. It will pass, Otto—if you keep on serving the same kind of food you have been.”

“I am sure of nothing,” sighed Otto Phleugar. “In America I have lived for twenty years yet, and now I am hated and threatened because once I lived in a land that is now at war with us.”

He hesitated, then ventured timidly, “Could I in my office see you after the dinner is ended, Mr. Shayne? There is somethings for talk in private that I your advice would ask.”

“Sure, Otto. You can’t drag me away from this dinner, but as soon as I’m full to the chin I’ll be in.”

“It is with the greatest thanks,” the rotund man said. He bowed from his enormous belly to Phyllis and turned away.

“Poor little fat man,” she breathed. “He looks so lost and heartsick, Michael I do hope you can help him.”