The Corpse Came Calling (7 page)

CHAPTER NINE

HOUSE DETECTIVE BOWMAN was a paunchy man with a sagging dewlap of flesh under his chin. His complexion had the mottled look of one who suffers from chronic liver sluggishness, and his thick lips showed a tendency to pout.

He sighed mournfully and shook his head at Shayne’s back. “You shouldn’t do things like this, Mike. Honest to God, I don’t know what gets into you.”

“Things like what?” Shayne was on his knees going through the contents of Lacy’s bag.

“Like socking this guy in the puss. You know who he is?”

“Should I?”

“He’s a G-man. Straight from Washington.” Bowman went over and squatted down beside Pearson.

“So?”

“There’ll be hell to pay,” Bowman grunted. “You know how these government boys are—specially now with the war going on.”

Shayne kept his back turned, disappointed by the negative result of his search. He asked absently, “How are they, Bowman?”

“Damn it, Mike, you can’t push ’em around like you do the locals.”

“Can’t I?” Shayne got up and turned away from the suitcase with a look of disgust on his face.

“You know damn well you can’t.” Bowman got up from beside Pearson. “He’ll be out of his dreams in a couple of minutes. What’s the angle on all this?”

Shayne stood in the center of the room, punishing the lobe of his uninjured ear and frowning. “I wish I knew. Give me your end. Maybe if we started from both ends and worked toward the middle we’d get something.”

“I haven’t got any end.” Bowman spread out thick hands. “Painter tipped me off that the feds were interested in this guy James and that this agent was coming over to check his room. That’s all I know.”

“What’s your dope on James?”

“Nothing. He checked in from New York a couple days ago. Been in and out, but that’s all. Damn it, Mike,” the worried house detective broke out explosively, “unbutton your lip and give me something to go on.”

Shayne asked, “When did you see James last?”

“He was in this afternoon. Until about four o’clock.”

“Are you positive of the time?”

“Yeh. Because he and some dame had an argument. I had to come and knock on the door to quiet ’em down. He went out pretty quick after that.”

“And the dame?”

Bowman shook his head. “I dunno,” he said evasively. “You know how it is here on the Beach. A man brings a skirt up for a drink or whatnot in his room. We don’t bother him as long as he keeps it quiet.”

Shayne said, “Sure, I know. And if the guy doesn’t know where to find the girl you can steer him right. Don’t tell me you weren’t laying for her to collect your percentage when she left.”

Bowman’s face became a mottled red. “She wasn’t a regular. Aw, Mike, you know I never—”

“House dick or pimp,” Shayne snorted. “What’s the difference?” His eyes searched the room carefully, saw nothing that he had not seen at first. His gaze stopped on Pearson’s face. An eyelid was twitching and he was beginning to make gurgling noises with his breathing.

Shayne stepped to the door, suggested, “Throw a glass of water in his face after I’ve scrammed.” He paused, grinning at the pained look on Bowman’s face. “You haven’t seen me,” he explained. “I’d beat it before you got here after hearing the shot. You don’t have to know anything.” He went out swiftly and down the corridor in long-legged strides.

An elevator was stopping to let out passengers. Shayne trotted past and around the corner as Peter Painter and two plain-clothes men got off and started for 416. He kept on to the stairway, went down swiftly, crossed the lobby to the switchboard, and said, “Hi, toots,” to a green-eyed girl who was wearing earphones and manipulating the plugs.

She started an impersonal smile in his direction, gave a start, and broadened her smile into the real thing. “For the love of Mike Shayne,” she caroled. “Look who’s here.”

“I’ve got to have something fast, babe. A record of the calls from four-sixteen around four o’clock. Quick before the law catches up with me.”

She said, “I might have guessed you were around when I saw the squad go trooping up a minute ago.” She consulted a large ruled sheet clipped to a board in front of her. “Four-sixteen? Here’s one to Miami at three fifty-seven. And—”

“Do you have that number?”

“Sure.” She gave him the telephone number of his hotel. “And there was a local call went out at four-oh-four. That was a couple of minutes after four-sixteen trotted through the lobby like he had to get somewhere fast. I noticed particularly, because I thought it was funny—”

“You don’t keep a record of the numbers on local calls?”

“No.”

“Man or woman’s voice—the last call?”

“Woman’s. I noticed that, too, because four-sixteen is single, and—”

Shayne said, “Thanks, toots. That’s just what I wanted.”

Shayne turned, glanced around the lobby, then went out to his car just as the elevator disgorged two harried-looking city detectives in plain clothes.

He gunned his car hard getting across the causeway, relaxed and breathed a little easier when he crossed the line dividing the city limits of the two municipalities. There was no telling what fool thing Painter might have done if he had grabbed him before he got over the line—and for the time being Shayne greatly preferred to stay out of jail.

In the lobby of his own hotel in Miami he lifted red brows as he strode up to the desk. The clerk turned and took a yellow envelope from Shayne’s box. “Here’s another telegram that just came for you. Business seems to be rushing tonight.”

Shayne nodded absently, tapping the envelope on the desk. “Mrs. Shayne hasn’t come yet—or called?”

“Not yet, Mr. Shayne. Is anything wrong?”

The corner of Shayne’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid there is—afraid Phyl’s in trouble. Put a tracer on any calls that come in for me the moment you connect me,” he directed.

He stalked to the elevator, tearing the envelope open. It was a second message from Murphy in New York:

Mace Morgan now fugitive escaped Sing Sing last week doing five to eight rap for hundred grand holdup of Jim Lacy messenger for Gross Ernstine Gross and Barton Wall Street brokers. Morgan married to former Helen Dalhart Scandals thirty seven blonde with trimmings. Am working on her present whereabouts.

Shayne frowned over the import of the telegram as the elevator went up.

Lacy had been the bank messenger involved in the holdup for which Morgan was convicted. Helen hadn’t mentioned that point when he talked with her. Perhaps she had forgotten, or didn’t know about it, or thought it wasn’t important. Perhaps it wasn’t important. But it was a link between Lacy and Mace Morgan. It might serve to explain Lacy’s advice to her on how to get rid of her husband. Lacy had been a vindictive sort of cuss those years ago when Mike had known him in New York. If Lacy carried a grudge against Morgan for the stick-up, it was not surprising that he wanted to see the escaped con put on the spot.

But why the hell hadn’t Lacy taken the job himself? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation any to have tracked the fugitive to Miami and then been forced to kill him while making the arrest. Poetic justice, rather. It would have made headlines all over the country. But maybe Jim Lacy hadn’t wanted headlines. So he had steered Helen onto Shayne instead.

Shayne shrugged and put the telegram into his pocket as the elevator stopped. He went down the corridor to his door, selecting a key as he approached.

There was a rush of movement from around the corner as he inserted his key.

Helen Brinstead ran up to him, caught hold of his arm with both hands. Her face was taut and white, her blue eyes round and imploring. Pressing against him, she cried brokenly, “I’ve been waiting—hoping to God you’d come.”

Shayne pushed the door open, broke her grip with a shrug of his wide shoulders, and gave her a shove into the room. He entered behind her and switched on the light, his gaunt face expressionless.

Helen whirled to face him. She wore the same dress of dove-gray silk, but she no longer looked either cool or poised. Her full lips were tight, drawn apart, and thinned against her teeth. She said, “I’m frightened,” without separating her teeth, imparting a hard, nasal quality to her voice.

Shayne said, “I think you have plenty reason to be scared, sister.” He studied her for a moment, noting that the illusion of extreme youth and naïveté had disappeared under the impact of fear. Her flesh appeared less firm, and even the shimmering luster of her hair seemed dimmed. Her gloveless fingers nervously clutched a large leather handbag while her eyes searched his for some sign of pity or understanding.

He turned to the liquor cabinet and got a glass. When he came back to the table she had dropped into a chair, and again he noted that her legs were very nice. She leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair with both hands, wetting tight lips with the darting tip of her tongue.

“You’ve got to help me, Mr. Shayne. I don’t know where else to turn. I know that Jim trusted you.”

Shayne laughed shortly. He poured cognac in both glasses and handed her one. She took it, her eyes rounded with terror, holding his as if spellbound.

He said, “But Jim Lacy is dead.”

“That’s it. As soon as I read about it, I knew—” She stopped abruptly and clamped her lips together.

Shayne leaned over her. “What did you know?”

She shook her head slowly, keeping her lips together tightly, avoiding his gaze by lowering her eyelids.

He put both hands on her shoulders. His thumbs found the soft hollows of flesh beneath her collarbone. “What did you know?” he demanded with grim urgency.

She sighed and her taut body went lax. She stared up at him, parting her lips to wet them with her tongue again. His grim face was only a few inches from hers.

“Stop,” she cried. “You’re hurting me—my shoulders.”

Shayne snorted and put more pressure on his thumbs.

She drew in a shuddering breath. “I knew Mace must have found out—what Jim and I planned. I knew—I was likely to be next.”

“Do you think Mace Morgan killed Lacy?”

“He must have. Don’t you see? It must have been Mace. Who else would have done it?”

Shayne straightened up and took his hands from her shoulders. He said, “Drink that liquor,” and stepped back to pick up his own glass.

She sipped the cognac, watching him fearfully over the brim of her glass.

“And you’re afraid you’re next on your husband’s list?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m sure of it. If he found out—” She stopped abruptly.

“That you and Jim Lacy were planning a way to get him bumped off,” Shayne finished for her lightly. “Yes. That is an angle. Some men are funny about things like that.” He emptied his glass and set it down, stretched his lean length in a chair, and took out a cigarette. Without looking at Helen, he asked:

“How could Morgan have found out what you had in mind?”

“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I don’t understand. He may have friends here—underworld contacts. Perhaps Jim spilled our plan to someone.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m.” He shifted his gaze to her through a cloud of expelled smoke. “Where did you go after you left the Danube Restaurant?”

She set her glass down so hard that some of the liquor slopped over the edge. “Wh-at?”

“After you finished dinner tonight,” he amplified.

She said, “Then he
was
one of your men?”

“Who?” Shayne’s eyes became very bright.

“The man at the restaurant. The one who said you wanted to see me.”

Shayne settled back. “Tell me all about it,” he directed. “Everything.”

She hesitated for only a second, then began rapidly. “A man came to my table as I was finishing dinner. I had never seen him before but he said he was one of your operatives and he was to take me to you at once. He had a car outside, and when he drove away he took great precautions to keep from being followed.

“He was disturbed and angry when a taxi swung in behind us. He drove around several side streets and wouldn’t tell me anything except that he had to get rid of whoever was trailing us in the cab. I—somehow it seemed to me that he acted very strangely, and I found myself beginning to doubt that he really was one of your men. I got scared. He finally stopped along a deserted street. The cab stopped half a block behind us and he got out and went back to intercept it, telling me to sit tight and wait for him.

“I was sure there was something wrong by that time. He acted more like a gangster than a detective. As soon as he left, I jumped out and ran up the street. I found a cruising taxi about half a block away and I came straight here. I’ve been waiting for you to come—hiding around the corner and watching your door.” She looked at Shayne with wide-open eyes as she ended.
“Had
you sent him to get me?”

Shayne shook his head. Her story sounded straight enough, and it tied in with Phyllis’s note. He asked, “You didn’t see who was in the cab behind you—nor what happened when your driver went back?”

“No. I didn’t look back. I was terrified. I don’t know why exactly, but there was something sinister about that man.” She shuddered. “Was he working for you?”

Shayne said, “Describe him.”

She described Leroy. Not too exactly, but with enough detail so that there could be no mistake.

Shayne rubbed his uninjured jaw thoughtfully. Helen waited for him to speak. After a moment he asked, “What about Gorstmann?”

Her look of bewilderment was good enough to convince Shayne that she had never heard the name before. “Who?”

He shrugged irritably. “Never mind.”

He got up and began prowling up and down the room. The girl sat relaxed, not looking at him. The bottom of her tight skirt had crawled above her knees and she didn’t seem to know or care.

She emptied her glass, and Shayne refilled it silently. Tonight, he noted, she wasn’t making any fuss about downing the hundred-proof cognac without a chaser.

He stopped near her chair and studied her for a moment, then asked, “Why did you come here tonight?”

She rounded her eyes at him. “To find out whether you had sent for me—and to get you to protect me from Mace.”

“I didn’t send for you.”