The Corpse Came Calling (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

“TURN YOUR HEAD and take a casual look at that girl for me,” Shayne directed his wife after they had topped off a heavy dinner with black coffee and thimble-like glasses of Otard Cognac. “I’d like to get into Otto’s office without her seeing me.”

Phyllis took a slow look in Helen Brinstead’s direction and reported, “She’s eating dinner and not paying any attention to anything else. She seems to have a remarkably good appetite for a woman with husband murder on her mind.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Feeding her nerves. You stay here while I see what Otto has on his mind. I won’t be long.” He turned sideways as he pushed back his chair, keeping his back to Helen. He sauntered out of the dining-room and turned to the right down a wide hall, pushed open a wooden door that stood slightly ajar.

Otto Phleugar sat behind a bare desk in a small, plainly furnished office. He got up when Shayne entered, bustled around the desk, and took the detective’s hand. “It is good that you come, mine friend. Sit here.” He drew up a straight chair and pressed Shayne into it, then tiptoed to the door with an incongruous show of caution, closed and latched it firmly. He returned to his chair and sat down, nervously wiping perspiration from his face.

Shayne watched him with narrowed eyes. “You act like the Gestapo was after you, Otto. What the hell is this all about?”

A shudder traveled from Otto’s three chins down to his protuberant stomach. “It is not good to make the joke.” He sighed, wagging his head from side to side mournfully. “I am on the—what you would call the spot.”

Shayne lit a cigarette very deliberately. “Gorstmann?”

Otto Phleugar gave a start of surprise, of fear. Beads of sweat began to form on his face again. “From how do you know about Herr Gorstmann?”

Shayne said, “I was guessing. He’s new here and—well, I don’t like the looks of his horse-face.”

The restaurant proprietor leaned close and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did he—was he seeing you when you came to my office?”

“I didn’t notice. Suppose he did? What’s this head-waiter got on you?”

“It is of the most difficult. You must try to understand. It is not good to make the laugh about the Gestapo. Herr Gorstmann is not only the headwaiter. He comes with authority from Berlin.”

Shayne’s expression hardened. “Authority from Berlin doesn’t mean a damned thing in the United States. You’re a fool if you’re trying to ride both sides of the fence, Otto. A dangerous fool if you’re playing that game.”

“That I understand so well,” Phleugar moaned. “To you I must talk. It is not what I wish. The good citizen I am want to be.”

Shayne leaned back comfortably. “You’d better tell me all about it. But I’m not promising a thing. You can’t play your silly Gestapo games in wartime without getting your fingers burned.”

“That I understand. Hate I have for myself in here.” Phleugar tapped his stomach. “This I cannot endure longer. I will tell it to you and you will the advice give.”

“Get started,” said Shayne evenly, “but don’t expect too much sympathy from me. Damn it, Otto,” he exploded, “you’ve had twenty years of good living in this country. You don’t owe Germany anything. If you give me any information I think should go to the authorities, that’s where it will go. Start talking.”

“It is well.” Otto mopped his fat face again. “Herr Gorstmann to my restaurant came three days ago. Business was bad as you see it tonight. Since the war people remember I am German and do not come to eat. This is not fair, but what can I do?”

Shayne said, “I admit it’s tough, but it’s no excuse for you to turn against the country, Otto.”

“That I tell myself. So I tell Herr Gorstmann when he tell me I must hire him in my restaurant so he will escape the eyes of the law. There would be money for me each month—money I need if I do not close the Danube.

“But I liked it not, Mr. Shayne. To Herr Gorstmann I say that I am the American citizen and I must not do this.

“Then he is with threats for me. The eyes of the Gestapo, he relates, are everywhere. I have cousins in Germany. Of my good wife, there is her mother in Hamburg. If I refused Herr Gorstmann there would be trouble—death for those so unfortunate who remain under the Nazis. Could I say no to Herr Gorstmann?” He spread out his hands appealingly.

“Yes,” Shayne growled. “If there was an ounce of guts in that fat body of yours you would have refused. You should have called me or the police as soon as Gorstmann came to you with his threats. Good God!” he pounded out, “your relatives in Germany will have to take their chances. We’re at war, Otto. You can’t sabotage a whole nation to protect a few individuals in Germany. If you had been a
real
American citizen you wouldn’t have hesitated one moment. You had no choice except to throw him out.”

Shayne ground his cigarette out savagely on the floor and thrust his gaunt face close to Otto’s. His voice was harsh and uncompromising.

“I thought you were on the square, Otto. I’ve even pitied you because you’ve had hard going with your restaurant. And you sit here and calmly admit you’re actually a traitor.”

Otto Phleugar got to his feet with trembling dignity. All the color had disappeared from his rosy cheeks. “Harsh words are those, Mr. Shayne. I have been sick with fear and hate for the thing I was doing. I know not what Herr Gorstmann does. He has American friends who come and talk. I tell you this for you to decide. At night I do not sleep—I am awake with what is inside me and from it there is no escape.” He sank back into his chair and covered his face with fat palms.

Shayne fumbled for another cigarette, staring down at the pathetic little man with his lined face tight and drawn. After a time, he muttered, “Hell, I guess I don’t blame you too much. I can see the spot you were in. There’s only one thing to decide. How can we grab Gorstmann and his friends without them knowing you turned them in?”

“I do not count now.” Otto took his hands away from his face. His round blue eyes met Shayne’s with courage. “I have been weak and afraid. Now I am strong. What you say, it will be done.”

“There’s no need for you to take the rap if it can be avoided,” Shayne argued. “After all, you have come clean before any real harm can have been done.”

“Ach, but it is good to say out loud to you what has weighed in my heart.”

“This Gorstmann—is he the top man?”

“He has, I think, the high authority. From Herr Hitler even perhaps.”

“Does he appear to head quite a gang?”

“That I do not think. I do not see many come here. Some are those of your own American underworld.”

Shayne rubbed his bony chin thoughtfully. He carefully described Leroy and Joe, the pair who had entered his apartment earlier that evening. “Have you seen those two here, Otto? Contacting Gorstmann?”

Otto nodded his head vigorously. “Those two I have seen often.”

“I’ll see about rounding the whole gang up,” Shayne promised. “On the whole, you may have done the country a real service by letting them establish themselves here. There’s no reason for you to show in the roundup at all. Just go on as before. Pretend you’re completely cowed. Don’t try to contact me or anyone else unless something very important turns up.”

“You are mine good friend.” Otto Phleugar stood up with Shayne. He appeared to have gained inches in stature since the interview began. His blue eyes were watery but he stood stiffly at attention. “In you, mine good friend, I will trust.”

Shayne took his hand. “You’re all right, Otto. It isn’t your fault that a mad dog is running things in Germany.”

Otto went to the door with him and unlatched it. Shayne went back to the dining-room and stopped short when he saw that Phyllis was gone from their table.

Gorstmann came up to him and bowed stiffly, held out the dinner check folded twice. “The lady asked me to give you this, sir,” he said.

Shayne took it, noting that Helen Brinstead had also left the dining-room. He unfolded the check and read Phyllis’s hurried scrawl:

That man Leroy came in and spoke to the heliotrope girl. They went out together. I’m following them in a taxi.

Shayne’s big hands shook a trifle as he read the terse note. He asked Gorstmann, “How long ago did my wife leave?”

“Not more than five minutes.”

Shayne took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Gorstmann. He directed, “Split what’s left from this with my waiter,” and slid the dinner check into his pocket. He got his hat and hurried outside.

There was no sign of either Helen or Phyllis outside the Danube Restaurant.

Shayne went to his car, swung out of the lot, and drove a block south. He parked in front of a two-story stucco apartment building and hurried into the small foyer. He had Helen’s apartment number, so he didn’t stop at the desk, but went up the stairway in long strides and down the hall to her apartment.

No light showed over the transom. He knocked and waited. There was no sound of movement beyond the closed door. Shayne knocked again, then got out a crowded key ring and began trying keys in the lock. The fourth one unlocked the door.

He stepped in and switched on the light, made a swift survey of the tiny two-room apartment without finding anyone at home. There was a man’s dirty shirt and underwear in the closet with Helen’s clothes, and the remains of a tray dinner was in the kitchenette sink.

Shayne went back to the living-room and switched off the light. He had hold of the knob when he heard footsteps stopping outside. He let go of the knob and stepped back softly.

A key turned the night latch, and the door opened. A hand fumbled along the wall for the light switch. When the light came on, Shayne said, “Hello,” to the man who was closing the door.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE MAN WHIRLED as Shayne spoke, his breath whistling explosively through a gap in his upper teeth. He was short, muscular, and dark, with close-cropped black hair growing low on his forehead. He backed away from Shayne, crouching a little, and his right hand crept upward toward the unbuttoned top of his sack coat.

He asked, “What are you doing here?” in a hoarse voice that quavered a trifle.

Shayne laughed shortly. “I was about to ask you the same question. And I’d like to know how you come to be entering Helen’s apartment with a key of your own.”

He watched incredulity, dismay, then bewilderment succeed each other on Mace Morgan’s face. The last emotion changed to relief as the escaped convict slowly took in the implication of Shayne’s words and his first fear that he had been tracked down as a fugitive began to leave him. He straightened out of his crouch and glanced down at the flat key in his hand as though surprised to see it there.

“You see,” Shayne went on equably, “I thought I had the only extra key to this dump. I didn’t know that Helen passed them out in wholesale quantities. But hell! A man never knows about a woman. They’re all chippies at heart, and what they give to one man they’ll generally give to another. Am I right?”

The paralyzing glitter of fear was leaving Mace Morgan’s eyes. He eagerly followed the lead offered him by Shayne.

“Yeh,” he said. “Yeh, I guess you just about hit it on the head, pal. I’m like you. I thought I had the only extra key. It’s funny, huh? Ha-ha. We’re both suckers.”

“Looks that way.” Shayne stepped backward, getting out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered it to Mace, took one himself, and lit them both with the same match.

“I just got back to town,” Shayne explained. “Thought Helen would be glad to see me and I came right over. But I guess she hasn’t been lonely while I was gone.”

“I hope you don’t blame me, pal,” Mace defended himself. “I didn’t know I was cutting in on anybody else.”

“That’s all right.” Shayne waved his hand amiably. “I always say a man’s a damned fool to get sore when some floozie throws him over for another guy. Hell, there’s plenty more.”

“Yeh,” Mace chimed in eagerly. “That’s what I say, too. What’s one got that another can’t give you?”

Shayne said, “I’m not complaining.” He let smoke trail lazily from both nostrils. “Where is Helen? She might be embarrassed if she walked in right now and found both of us waiting for her.”

“Not Helen,” Mace Morgan chuckled. “That gal would take anything in her stride. What do we do—flip to see which one of us stays?”

Shayne said, “To hell with that. I know when I’m getting cold-shouldered.”

“You’re all right,” Mace told him generously. “Yeh, you’re a right guy. I’m sorry I was jumpy when I walked in.”

“I don’t blame you.” Shayne laughed. He went to the door, saying, “You don’t need to say anything about this to Helen if you don’t want to. I won’t horn in again.”

He mopped sweat from his forehead as he went toward the stairs. It was a miracle that the escaped con hadn’t thrown lead first and then started asking questions.

Outside the apartment he got in his car and started back across the causeway to the mainland. Phyllis would probably be in when he got back, he told himself. He’d give her hell for walking out on him like that.

But he drove fast, with his eyes intent on the pavement, his thoughts puzzled by the connection between Leroy and Helen. What was the tie-up between them—between Gorstmann and Lacy? He knew that Lacy had never been choosy about the sort of cases he took—like the divorce racket Helen had worked with him—but it was difficult for Shayne to believe that Lacy would be mixed up in any subversive activities with his country at war. On the other hand, Lacy’s professional reputation was hardly the sort to tie him up with the FBI in combating such enemy activities.

He hadn’t reached any conclusion by the time he reached the mainland and turned into Biscayne Boulevard. He couldn’t reach any conclusion until he learned more about the scrap of cardboard he had taken from Lacy. He was quite sure that Gorstmann had sent Leroy and Joe after Lacy that afternoon to secure the piece of cardboard, and the pair had muffed the assignment somehow when they stopped Lacy on the causeway. Perhaps they had trailed him to Shayne’s apartment, expecting him to die at any moment and Lacy had foiled them by making the superhuman effort that took him to his destination before he died.

Shayne shrugged off all the questions that were bothering him as he reached his apartment hotel. The important thing right now was Phyllis’s safety.

The clerk said he had not seen Mrs. Shayne come back, and handed him a telegram that had just been delivered. Shayne read it as he went up in the elevator. It was from Murphy in New York, and read:

Lacy at Tropical Hotel Miami Beach registered as Albert James. On vacation as near as can learn.

Shayne thrust the message into his pocket and unlocked his apartment. It was dark and empty. He went into the bedroom and got the Tropical Hotel on the telephone. He was informed that Albert James was registered in room 416, but he did not answer the telephone when the operator tried his room.

Shayne went back into the living-room and moodily poured himself a drink. “You’d think,” he said aloud into the silence, “that Phyllis would have learned better last time.”

The subdued sound of evening traffic coming in the open window was his only answer.

He walked aimlessly around the room, sipping the glass of cognac. After a time he got the Danube dinner check from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table. He drew his eyebrows down as he read Phyllis’s note again. He stood frowning at the piece of paper for a long time, then rummaged in a drawer for an airmail envelope.

He sat down with a clean sheet of paper and wrote:

Dear John: You should be able to bring out three sets of prints on the enclosed slip. They are mine, my wife’s, and those of a third party. Disregard mine (which are on file) and the lady’s prints. Wire me collect, immediately, anything you have on the third set.

He signed the letter
Michael Shayne
and addressed the airmail envelope to
John Bascom, Dept. of Identification, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

He folded the dinner check carefully inside the letter and sealed them in the envelope, then finished his drink and went out

He stopped at the desk and got a special-delivery stamp from the clerk, put it on the letter, and directed the clerk to send it out to the airport at once by messenger to catch the evening mail plane north.

The clerk promised to attend to it, then asked Shayne, “Did I do all right when I brought the cops up to your apartment, Mr. Shayne? After that other man dying in your office this afternoon, I guess I was jumpy.”

“You probably saved me from getting bumped off,” Shayne told him, and then asked curiously, “How about that dead man? You got me in plenty dutch when you told Painter he wasn’t wounded when he started upstairs.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shayne. I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t notice a thing when he stopped here and asked for your office. That is, he was hunched over and hugging himself and he looked sick, but I sure didn’t know he was practically dead. If you’d
told
me what to say, you know I’d have done it for you.”

“Sure, I know you would. You didn’t tell them I was in, eh?”

“No, sir. I knew that much, anyway. They asked me when I’d seen you last and I pretended I didn’t remember.”

“You didn’t tell them about the girl you had sent up to my living-apartment?”

“No, sir.” The clerk was emphatic. “You know I never tell anyone anything about your affairs. I’ve been here long enough to realize how important it is to keep my mouth shut.”

Shayne told him that was swell, and not to neglect getting the special-delivery letter off.

The clerk was calling a messenger when he left the lobby. Shayne drove across the bay again, stopped at the Tropical Hotel just a block beyond the eastern terminus of the causeway. He strode through the lobby to the elevators and went up to 416.

He hesitated in front of the door when he saw it standing ajar. There was no light in the room. He knocked lightly but there was no response. He inched the door open and stretched a long arm inside, finding the wall switch.

When the lights came on he pushed the door inward all the way against the wall, then stepped inside and looked around the empty hotel bedroom carefully.

The room had the normal appearance of having been occupied by a man for several days, one who had gone out expecting to return soon. There were toilet articles in the bathroom, a folded newspaper on the bed, and an open Gladstone in one corner.

The newspaper was the previous Sunday’s New York
Mirror.
It was folded back at page fourteen, and a portion of the page had been cut out. A piece two columns wide and about eight inches long.

Shayne picked up the paper and studied it, seeking to find whether any portion of the cut-out item had been left to give a clue to the nature of the clipping. There was nothing to help him identify the portion that was gone, and he was laying the paper down when he heard a noise at the door of the room.

He turned his head slowly, making no other movement.

The blued muzzle of a service automatic showed in the crack. Then a hand and an arm became visible. Finally the figure of a man wearing a neat gray suit. He had steady gray eyes that looked at Shayne from beneath the brim of a Panama hat, and pleasant, strong features. He held the automatic in a firm grip as he stepped toward Shayne. He spoke pleasantly enough, though his features were set in hard, uncompromising lines.

“Turn around slowly and put both your hands flat on the wall above your head,” he commanded.

Shayne turned around slowly and put both his hands flat against the wall above his head. He said, “I don’t know who you are but I have a hunch we might get together if you’ll let me do some talking.”

The man behind him said, “You can talk all you want to, but don’t make a move away from that position.”

Shayne complained, “I hate to introduce myself to a man when he’s holding a gun on me.”

The telephone rang stridently from its stand on his left. He turned his head to see his captor step forward and pick up the instrument.

He was not more than two feet from Shayne, but he watched the detective coldly, the heavy-caliber automatic steady in his right hand. He said a crisp “Hello” into the mouthpiece, listened a moment, then said incisively:

“Pearson talking. I’ve been watching Lacy’s room from across the hall and just caught a man ransacking it. I suggest that you send a man—”

Shayne dropped his body low and to the left. His shoulder struck the speaker’s hips. The automatic went off once as Shayne’s big hand closed over it and prevented the recoil mechanism from closing. The two men went to the floor together and the telephone bounced off to one side.

Shayne drove his left fist to the point of the man’s jaw. He got up with the automatic in his hand, and Pearson lay on the floor motionless.

Shayne picked up the telephone and said, “Hello,” simulating Pearson’s curt tone as well as he could.

He stiffened with surprise when Peter Painter’s voice nagged at him over the wire. “What the devil’s going on up there? Everything under control?”

Shayne said, “Perfectly,” and waited to hear more.

“It sounded like a struggle,” Painter’s voice was reproving, as though he didn’t care for struggles. “What were you saying about catching a man in Lacy’s room?”

“Your stooge caught the wrong man,” said Shayne in disgust, resuming his normal voice. “Those dumb clucks of yours ought to know me by this time. He’s out cold, and I’ve got his gat.”

“My—stooge?” There was horror in Painter’s tone. “My God! Is that you, Shayne? Have you knocked Pearson out?”

“Why not? He walked in here and stuck a gun in my face without giving me a chance to explain.”

“You fool,” panted Painter. “Now you have stuck your neck out, Shayne. That isn’t one of
my
men. That’s Mr. Pearson, special agent from Washington. You can’t knock the FBI around.”

Shayne laughed angrily. He said, “This is a hell of a time to be telling me that.” He dropped the receiver onto its prongs and stood on wide-spread feet looking down at Pearson with a frown.

He shook his head, worrying the lobe of his left ear. He glanced down at the automatic still gripped in his hand, then slid the clip out and ejected the loaded cartridge from the firing-chamber. He tossed the unloaded weapon on the bed, walked over to Jim Lacy’s suitcase in the corner, knelt down, and began pawing through it.

Heavy feet trotted up to the door and stopped outside. Shayne straightened warily, then grinned at the worried face of the Tropical Hotel’s house detective.

He said, “Hello, Bowman. Come in and join the party.”

Bowman opened and closed his mouth twice before he was able to stammer, “Sounded like a shot from up here.”

Shayne said, “It sounded like what it was.” He jerked his head toward the supine figure of Pearson. “That bird took a shot at me and I had to cool him off.” He turned the Gladstone upside down and shook its contents out on the floor.

Over his shoulder, he suggested, “You might start pouring some water over him. But don’t try too hard to bring him to because I want to get finished here first.”