The Uncomplaining Corpses (3 page)

Chapter Three:
AN AMAZING STORY

PHYLLIS SHAYNE STOPPED POURING TEA when her husband entered the living-room. She set the silver teapot carefully on the coffee table beside her and looked up with unaffected gladness in time to catch a humorous questioning in his eyes just before he turned his back and closed the door.

She wore a floor-length hostess gown of blue satin which made her cheeks look cool and gave dignity to her slim young body held primly erect. The sheen of her dark hair vied with the sheen of the gown and the illusion was of blue-black hair parted in the center, combed back in waves from a wide forehead. She wore a minimum of make-up. Phyllis Shayne was working hard at the job of being a suitable wife for her thirty-five-year-old husband, and when she remembered to be careful and not
overexuberant
, she looked almost her full age, which
was
twenty.

In the presence of a client Phyllis remained sedate and seated while Michael walked across the room to the coffee table, but aside from this she made no pretense of hiding the fact that she had been married only a short time and was hopelessly in love.

Shayne said, “Good afternoon, Mrs.
Thrip
,” as though he had expected her. He tossed his hat on a chair and went around the table to stand behind his wife’s chair.

Phyllis tilted her head back and Shayne cupped long bony fingers under her chin. For an instant they looked into each other’s eyes, then Shayne kissed her lips, wrinkled his nose at the steam floating up from her teacup.

“Good Lord, that smells like tea,” he exclaimed.

“Of course it’s tea,” Phyllis caroled. “We always have tea at four-thirty,” she said to Mrs.
Thrip
, “and Michael always jokes about it. Why, in Cuba—”

“Such a pleasant custom, my dear,” Mrs.
Thrip
agreed. She smiled. “It’s so seldom nowadays one actually has tea served when one is invited to tea.”

Phyllis said, “Excuse me a moment,” and took the squat silver teapot with her to the kitchen, explaining, “I’ll run some more boiling water over the leaves for Michael. He likes weak tea and that bitter taste you get from the used leaves.”

Shayne’s left eyebrow shot up apprehensively but he didn’t say anything. He sat down and took a cigarette from a pack on the table.

Mrs.
Thrip
wore the same carefully guarded mantle of placidity she had kept wrapped about her at the office. She wore the same somber dress. Against the gold-brocaded chair in which she sat, Shayne saw that it was dark blue. She took a sip of tea and appeared to relish it. She said, “My husband doesn’t know I’ve come to you, Mr. Shayne. He must not know.” She spaced the last four words evenly. Her gray eyes regarded him fixedly with that same intent quality of repose which he had noted earlier in the afternoon.

He said, “Of course not, Mrs.
Thrip
,” and lit his cigarette from a small lighter on the table, looking blandly across at Phyllis, who had tiptoed from the kitchen and, behind Mrs.
Thrip’s
back, stood before a built-in wall mirror which pivoted under her touch, revealing a compact and well-stocked bar on the other side. His gray eyes became languid as he watched her fill a teacup with amber liquid from a bottle and go quietly back to the kitchen.

Mrs.
Thrip
asked, “Did Arnold show you the notes, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne was turning the lighter between his fingers as if studying its efficiency. He pursed his lips and set it on the table with a quick jerk, expelled smoke from his nostrils, and shook his head.
“Notes?
No, he didn’t show them to me.”

“He probably didn’t have them at the office, then.”

“I suppose not.”

Phyllis emerged from the kitchen with the steaming teapot and a tray bearing a cup and saucer and a goblet of ice water. The cup was full to the brim of something that looked like weak tea. She set it before her husband and placed the glass of water beside it, explaining to Mrs.
Thrip
, “Michael insists on having ice water with his tea every afternoon. Silly, isn’t it?”

Mrs.
Thrip
sniffed, smiled, and said, “It is odd,” in a gentle voice.

Shayne looked up as she tightened a quirk of amusement around her mouth. He said, “It’s an old Mongolian custom. Tea just wouldn’t be tea without ice water on the side. The Chinese think
it’s
silly, you know, the way we put ice in hot tea to make it cold and lemon in it to make it sour and then put sugar in to—”

“Look, darling,” Phyllis interrupted, resuming her prim position in her chair, “Mrs.
Thrip
is here to discuss business. Mightn’t you—?”

“Of course,” Shayne said hastily. “Shall we go down to my offices on the next floor, Mrs.
Thrip
?”

A disappointed look was covering Phyllis’s face when Mrs.
Thrip
interposed quietly: “I’d like your wife to hear me, Mr. Shayne. She has been so charming and sympathetic. I believe I can say what must be said more easily with her present.”

“So there,” Phyllis said in an undertone. A toe of her shoe nudged one of Shayne’s number
twelves
.

Shayne took a sip of cognac from the teacup and agreed. “Wives do have their uses, Mrs.
Thrip
. You said something about—the notes?”

“Yes. The threats I’ve received recently. I feel that after you hear about—everything—you will reconsider and take the case.”

“You are under the impression that Mr.
Thrip
withheld some of the facts from me this afternoon?”

“He is in a difficult position, Mr. Shayne. There are certain things which a wife hesitates to confess. That’s why I came to you. I’m positive of the identity of the person who wrote those notes, while Arnold is under the impression that they are the work of a crank. I suppose he told you that.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m.”

Mrs.
Thrip
nodded as if in understanding. “I’m glad he finally decided to call in a detective. It has been a difficult situation for me.” There was a hint of a shudder in her shoulders.
“Horribly difficult.
At first Arnold wanted me to pay the money demanded. A man in Arnold’s position couldn’t afford such publicity, you understand. I suppose you’ll think me a coward, but I
knew
the first payment would only bring more demands. I couldn’t tell Arnold—without telling him everything.”

Shayne took another drink from his teacup and said casually, “I understand, Mrs.
Thrip
,” without even remotely knowing what he was supposed to understand. Over the rim of his cup he saw a flicker in her eyes. An alive, normal brightness which died away, leaving her face immobile. Her eyes were vague again. “To handle the case properly, you realize that I should know all the facts,” he added practically.

“I can’t tell you the agony I’ve suffered, Mr. Shayne,” she resumed. “The nights I’ve lain awake. I’m afraid to sleep, wondering.” Mrs.
Thrip
paused. Again she removed her protective armor of placidity and there was fear in her gray eyes.

“That man is a devil,” Mrs.
Thrip
broke out suddenly. “He’s capable of anything.” Her face was drained of all color, and Shayne had a fleeting impression of emeralds glinting between her lashes when she went on:

“Twice lately he has accompanied our daughter to her room after bringing her home late from God knows what evil places.”

“What man?” Shayne did not move from his lolling position. The low tone in which Mrs.
Thrip
spoke was evidence of a great inner turmoil, but when she did not continue her recital Shayne dragged his torso forward, took another puff on his cigarette, and ground it out in a little cut-glass ash tray on the coffee table—one of Phyllis’s domesticities, he reflected fleetingly. “Who is this man?” he prompted gently.

Sharp teeth indented
Leora
Thrip’s
lower lip. “Carl Meldrum,” she whipped out. “I don’t know whether that’s his real name or not, but it’s the name he was using when I met him three years ago.” She leaned forward, fumbling nervously with her purse. “This is no time for false pride. I’m going to tell you everything.”

“False pride has no place anywhere,” Shayne encouraged her. The
moralism
gave him an inner amusement.

Leora
Thrip
moistened her lips twice before going on: “I was thirty-nine three years ago. Neither of you can know what that means to a woman in the position I was in. They say that the years between thirty and forty are the best of a woman’s life. I was nearing the end. I was hated in my home. Arnold didn’t really love me—not the way I want to be loved. His children distrusted me—and hated me. I would soon be forty.” She looked from Shayne to Phyllis as if to assure herself of understanding, then relaxed against the back of the chair. “There’s nothing—more tragic—than a woman who reaches forty without knowing love. It is the end. After forty—it is too late.”

When
Leora
Thrip
stopped talking, Shayne waited patiently for her to begin again. He gave his entire attention to lighting a fresh cigarette. Phyllis shifted her position, crossed her knees, rested an elbow on them and cupped her chin in her hand. Her eyes were a little wetter, enhancing the pity in their depths. The silence was becoming embarrassing. Shayne took up his teacup in both hands, took a deep sip. Over the rim of the cup he saw the woman’s hands relax and lie limp in her lap, and she continued:

“I’ve tried not to blame Arnold during the years we’ve been married. I’ve stifled the bitterness I couldn’t help feeling. I won’t say he doesn’t love me—in his way. It’s difficult to tell about a man who doesn’t—who is impotent. I was young when I married him. Whatever happened to him was not his fault, for he was the father of two children when I married him. I wanted to mother them, but they’ve hated me since the day I came into their home.

“Arnold loves me in so far as he’s capable. He’s too passive for hate, but from the first he has resented my having all the money I wanted of my own, and he has resented the terms of my father’s estate. My father’s will positively forbade the turning over of my estate or money to the man I married. I couldn’t have helped Arnold—even if I had wanted to.”

Phyllis took advantage of a brief pause in the woman’s story and turned on the dim light of a lamp in a far corner of the room. She dragged her chair a little closer to Shayne’s when she came back. Shayne moved heavily, sat up with both hands gripping the chair arms. He started to speak, but sank back again when
Leora
Thrip
shuddered and said:

“Arnold
Thrip
is a good man.” There was an unmistakable emphasis of repugnance on the adjective. “I believe more
good
men have sent women’s souls to hell than all the criminals in existence.” Her eyes were raised defiantly, nickering from Shayne to Phyllis.

“Why, it would be better if he beat you occasionally,” Phyllis burst out impulsively, and when her words fell upon heavy silence, she added hastily, “I mean if he were normal—and all.”

The sun was sinking and darkness coming on. A humid breeze poured in from the east windows. Clouds were banked against the sky. Mrs.
Thrip
stared out the window for a moment,
then
resumed her story briskly:

“It all began three years ago, when I was thirty-nine. Thirty-nine wasted years behind me and nothing before me.”

During the brief pause in which Mrs.
Thrip
apparently carefully considered the continuity of her story, Shayne glanced aside at Phyllis. Her eyes were very bright. Shayne grinned and Mrs.
Thrip
said:

“I met Carl Meldrum in Atlantic City at a house party. Carl’s first gesture was—well, he touched my hair as if he thought it beautiful. After that he—he flattered me—made love to me. I accepted his attentions gratefully and I felt innocent of any wrongdoing. What Carl wanted of me was something that Arnold had never wanted. Something he hadn’t—well, the power to possess. I couldn’t feel any guilt over the thought of giving Carl what Arnold neither wanted nor had the—” She caught her lip as if conscious of the repetition.

Shayne straightened. Phyllis reached her hand out and rested it on his knobby knee. He put his big hand over hers and squeezed it.

“Carl was fascinating in so many little ways. He made me feel young again. I was swept off my feet. There was so little time left for love.”

For an instant her face was transformed into a miracle of youthfulness. She lowered her eyes shyly when a flush spread over her cheeks. Then her mouth drooped and she went on in an undertone which Phyllis and Shayne strained forward to hear:

“I went into the affair with Carl deliberately. I didn’t believe I could hurt Arnold. I respected Arnold, but—” She checked herself again. Her voice was sharper when she went on:

“But I soon discovered that Carl was evil. You—understand what I mean. What began as a glorious adventure ended in—in shame, before anything irrevocable had
happened.
I broke with Carl and did not see him until two months ago. Dorothy—our daughter—brought him to our home one evening and introduced him to her father and me. He’s living at the Palace Hotel on the beach.”

Mrs.
Thrip
rested her head on the back of the gold chair as if her story was finished. Shayne emptied his cup of cognac and looked into her tortured eyes. Phyllis got up quietly, turned the light up, and brought the bottle of cognac from the bar. She refilled Michael’s cup.
Leora
Thrip
was staring out the window, her hands folded in her lap.

“A remarkable story,” Shayne said. “You were braver than any woman I know to have told it, Mrs.
Thrip
.”

“It was necessary to make you understand,” she said quietly. She straightened, caressed her purse with the palm of her hand. “But there’s more. Dorothy—that’s Arnold’s daughter—is twenty-five years old. I don’t understand her, though I’ve tried since Arnold and I were first married. How does a trapped animal feel? I was trapped. I’m not sure that Carl knew I was Dorothy’s stepmother before he met me at the house. He hadn’t known me as Mrs.
Thrip
in Atlantic City. But I think he knew. I think he had found out who I was and deliberately set himself to get his hands on Dorothy. You see, Carl hated me too, in the end, because I refused to be compromised and give him an advantage over me—and my money.