The Uncomplaining Corpses (21 page)

He hesitated about going upstairs to the empty and silent apartment. There were too many things to remind him of Phyllis—and that she was spending the night in jail. He opened a window and stretched out on the couch in his office. He was sleeping soundly a minute after he lay down.

Chapter Twenty:
PHOTO FINISH

MICHAEL SHAYNE AWOKE AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK. He swung his legs over the edge of the lounge and sat hunched over for a moment, running knobby fingers through his stiff red hair. Only an hour until the blow-off and he still had several things to do.

He swiftly checked over his plans, and mentally
okayed
them. This promised to be the sort of photo finish he enjoyed—split-second timing with lives hanging in the balance while he sat back and pulled the strings.

He went into the bathroom and doused his face and head with cold water. Red bristles showed damply on his face when he came out of the bathroom, but his shaving-things were upstairs and he still wasn’t quite ready to face that empty apartment.

He called Peter Painter first and spoke to the Miami Beach detective chief concisely:

“Shayne talking, with no time to waste.
I’m cleaning up the
Thrip
and Meldrum cases in my office at noon sharp. I need those extortion notes received by Mrs.
Thrip
. And I want you to stop by the Palace Hotel and see if Meldrum had access to a typewriter there. Bring it with you if he did. Got that?”

“Of course.”
Painter sounded a trifle petulant. “Have you seen this morning’s
Herald?
In my statement I mentioned your splendid co-operation and—”

“I just woke up,” Shayne grunted. “I’m sure you fixed the headlines in a big way. I’ll have a
News
reporter here at noon to get the complete story. Don’t fail to be on hand so you can act as though you know what it’s all about.”

He hung
up,
grinning widely at Painter’s hurt protest that he was fully aware of what was taking place.

He called Will Gentry next. The chief of Miami detectives sounded tired and unsure of himself.
“When are you going to crack this thing, Mike?
I feel as though I’m sitting on a box of dynamite with this confession of Meldrum’s in my pocket.”

“Twelve o’clock sharp,” Shayne told him blithely. “Painter will meet us here at my apartment and we’ll clean the whole mess up in five minutes.”

“You sound as though you had something up your sleeve.”

Shayne said, “Maybe I have,” and hung up before Will Gentry could question him further.

His next call was to the Miami
Daily News,
where he got Timothy
Rourke
on the wire. He held the receiver inches away from his ear while the angry reporter bellowed:

“A hell of a pal you turned out to be, shamus! What’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold while the
Herald
cracks Painter’s admission that the
Thrip
case
ain’t
iced up? Damn it, Mike, I gave you what you wanted yesterday on your promise that we had the inside track. What are you holding out?”

“Headlines that’ll sell your afternoon papers,” Shayne told him calmly. “Keep your shirt on and shut up long enough to listen to me. I’ve always fixed the breaks so they go your way. All the
Herald
had this morning was a vague retraction from Painter. Be at my office at twelve-fifteen on the dot and you won’t squawk about what you get. And, Tim! Bring an AP man along. I want the story to hit the New York papers fast.”

“What’s coming off, Mike?
Our deadline is one o’clock.”

“That’s why I timed it as I did. Keep your front page clean for a bomb to explode.”

Shayne hung up and moved to the center of the floor where he rubbed his bristly jaw undecidedly. There was a gnawing in his stomach and he wondered if a small snifter would help. He decided not. Food was definitely indicated.

Shayne went down through the lobby, long-legged it to the hotel where he had registered for a brief interval last night. He had the room key in his pocket so he strode right past the desk and up to his room.

Inside, he turned the mattress back and felt inside the slit in the ticking. Carl Meldrum’s original note was where he had thrust it last night. He put it in his pocket and went downstairs, tossed his key on the desk as he went out.

He stopped at a small café on Flagler Street and wolfed down four scrambled eggs with crisp bacon on the side. The gnawing went away from his midriff. It was eleven-fifty when he finished his second cup of coffee.

It was eleven-fifty-eight when he got out of his hotel elevator on the third floor.

A man was rapping on the door of his office. Buell
Renslow
turned to face him as he came up the corridor. Relief twitched over the ex-con’s pallid face. “I’m a little early,” he said huskily, “but I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t wait if I wasn’t.”

“This is just perfect,” Shayne assured him. He unlocked the door and stepped in, held his hand out to
Renslow
. “Got it on you?”

“Yes, I—I got it.”
Renslow
dug a roll of bills out of his pocket and pressed them into the detective’s hand. He tensed and swung toward the door when he heard the tramp of feet sounding in the hallway.

Shayne unconcernedly thrust the roll in his pocket without counting it, reached out, and pulled the door open.

Will Gentry came in first. He was followed by Mr.
Thrip
and by Peter Painter, who was bowed over by the weight of an office model typewriter.

Arnold
Thrip
looked hot and nervous. His eyes sought Shayne’s worriedly.
Renslow
took a quick backward step when he saw Will Gentry. He frowned with sudden perplexity and fear when he recognized his dead sister’s husband. He darted forward to get out the door when Painter stepped inside.

Shayne casually got in his way and thrust him back. He grunted, “You’re not going anywhere,
Renslow
,” and locked the door, putting the key into his pocket.

Desperation flamed in
Renslow’s
eyes. He started a forward movement against Shayne,
then
sagged back limply against the wall. Almost soundlessly he intoned, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” and the phrase was not blasphemy.

Gentry and
Thrip
stopped a few feet inside the room, while Painter went on to the table, where he thumped the typewriter down and straightened up with his fingers pressed against the small of his back.

Shayne leaned his shoulder blades against the locked door and said, “Welcome, gentlemen. Will, I believe you and Mr.
Thrip
know
Renslow
, but Painter hasn’t met him. The mustache with the handsome man behind it is Peter Painter—our persevering chief of detectives from across the bay who
still
hopes to solve a case some day.”

Painter took a step forward and nodded with dignity. He caressed his threadlike mustache with his forefinger and did not deign to reply to the insult.

Renslow
remained sagged back against the wall, his eyes darting from one to another of the trio in a frenzy of fearful speculation.

Mr.
Thrip
inclined his head and spoke in a tone of pompous irritation. “Perhaps I misunderstood you, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t—ah—realize there would be such a gathering here.”

“That’s quite all right. You can pay me off in the presence of these witnesses as well as though we were alone. Mr.
Thrip
,” Shayne gravely explained to the heads of the two detective bureaus, “has retained me on this case to solve his wife’s murder. On payment of a specified fee I have promised to deliver evidence into the hands of the police that will convict the murderer. I’ll take that six grand now, Mr.
Thrip
.”

Behind him Buell
Renslow
moaned faintly. “You dirty double-crosser! I might’ve known.”

No one paid any attention to
Renslow’s
laments. Painter and Gentry watched in silence while Mr.
Thrip
hesitantly offered Shayne a long sealed envelope. The detective tore it open and counted out six thousand-dollar bills with an expression of pleasure on his gaunt face. He nodded and thrust the bills into his pocket on top of the wad
Renslow
had passed over just previously.

He went past the three men to the center table, saying briskly, “I think we can finish up our business in short order.” He frowned down at the typewriter Painter had brought. “Is this Carl Meldrum’s machine?”

“Not his,” Painter explained. “It belongs to the Palace Hotel, but Meldrum often used it, In fact, the clerk definitely recalls that he used it just before noon yesterday.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m. To type the note I recovered after
Renslow
tore it up, I suppose. Also, to type the extortion notes, no doubt, if he authored them.”

He slid a sheet of paper in the roller and began punching keys aimlessly, suggesting to Painter and Gentry, “Let’s take a look at the notes and make some rough comparisons to see if the typing checks.”

Thrip’s
eyes bulged when Gentry pulled out the sheet with strips of a typewritten message pasted on it. He shot an angry glance at Shayne. “But I thought—I understood the message was in your possession and you threatened to withhold it from the police unless I—ah—”

“Unless you paid off,” Shayne finished for him. He took the note from Gentry and held it so
Thrip
could not see the words. “Well, you wouldn’t have paid the six grand otherwise, would you?” he demanded,
then
turned to call to
Renslow
, who had slumped down into a chair behind them. “Better join us. You’ll be interested in the results of these comparisons.”

Renslow
sighed abjectly. He looked ten years older than when he entered the room. He muttered, “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got me hooked. What do you want to fool around for?”

Shayne pulled his sheet of typing from the roller and laid it on the table beside the note he had forged. He stepped back to make way for the trio to compare the typing, saying pleasantly,
“
I don’t believe they check very well.”

Thrip’s
eyes raced over the text of the note and his head jerked up and around at Shayne. “That isn’t it,” he exclaimed hotly. “That’s not at all what you led me to believe Meldrum had written.”

“Perhaps Meldrum didn’t write that one,” Shayne agreed. “How about it?” he asked the two detective chiefs.

Gentry shook his head negatively. “It doesn’t take an expert to tell that this wasn’t typed on this typewriter.”

“Check the extortion notes,” Shayne suggested to Painter.

Painter drew an envelope from his side coat pocket and extracted a number of folded sheets of paper. Shayne stepped back and poured himself a drink of cognac, red eyebrows lifted quizzically while they made the second comparison.

Again Will Gentry shook his head. “Not alike at all. What sort of game is this, Mike? What does all this stuff matter when we already know—
”

“Here’s something you don’t know.” Shayne handed him the original pasted-together note written by Carl Meldrum and torn up by
Renslow
. “See how
this
one checks.”

Gentry grunted surprise when he read the note. Painter stiffened disbelievingly and turned toward
Renslow
like a bird dog on point.
Thrip’s
eyes bulged with pleasure and gratification as he read the accusing document.

“What the hell is this?” Gentry demanded roughly. “By God, Mike, what monkey business are you pulling this time?”

“Did Meldrum type it?” Shayne demanded.

After giving him a long moment of searching scrutiny, Gentry leaned forward and made the comparison. This time he nodded slowly. “No doubt about this one.” He straightened his burly shoulders with heavy dignity and looked sorrowfully at the private detective. “This is the real McCoy, isn’t it? This is exactly what I figured the note would be before you passed off a phony on us last night. It supplies the motive for
Renslow
to have killed Meldrum, and it clears Phyllis. Why in God’s name did you pull this shenanigan, Mike?”

“You made me. You tried to force my hand at Mona’s apartment last night. What would you have done if I’d handed it over to you then? You would have thrown the book at
Renslow
and he would have stayed locked up. That would have ruined my chance of making anything off him. Holding that note out on you was my only possible lever to jimmy some dough out of him.”

“I get it,” Gentry growled. “You saw a chance to chisel on the poor devil. You got him turned loose long enough to dig up some jack for you on your promise not to turn him in?”

“It was that simple,” Shayne gibed. “Those few hours I gained were worth five thousand of
Renslow’s
money. He paid it over just before you walked in.”

Gentry was
breathing hard through set lips.
A revulsion
of disgust shook his heavy body. He said, “By God, that’s about the rottenest deal I ever saw cooked up.”

Shayne laughed. “You know me.
Always smelling out a profit.
Sometimes they stink a little, but I’m used to that.” He paused,
then
added casually, “On the other hand, if I’d told you the whole truth last night you would have grabbed
Thrip
right then, and I never would have got six grand out of
him.
Altogether, it was worth eleven thou—” He got no further before the significance of his casual words seeped through to the other four men in the room. Painter and Gentry exclaimed, “
Thrip
?” in disbelieving unison, while the real estate man straightened slowly and stared at Shayne in utter consternation. Hearing Shayne’s words but not quite daring to believe what he heard, Buell
Renslow
slowly began to rise from his chair as though propelled by a force outside his own volition.