The Corpse Came Calling ms-6 Page 11

  “And you let them walk out of here without telling them-” Rourke stopped and swallowed hard.

  “It would have been a sweet mess if I had told them,” Shayne argued.

  Rourke was just beginning to absorb the full impact of the girl’s identity, of her presence in the apartment wearing only a nightgown. His jaw sagged and his expression became uncertain. “Yeh,” he muttered. Then: “Gentle Jesus-that was her husband.”

  Shayne’s lips twitched away from his teeth. “That was her husband lying dead on the floor, Tim,” he finished for his friend. “Does that spell out any of the right words for you?”

  Rourke nodded. His uncertainty was swept away by a look of revulsion. “She did it, Mike. I wasn’t so far wrong in my theory about you not wasting two bullets when one would have done the job.”

  Shayne made a savage gesture of dismissal. “What difference does it make which one of us blasted him? Can you see my trying to explain this setup to Will Gentry? You know how he is about Phyl-how it would look to anybody. You’ve covered enough sex crimes in your time. This was, outwardly, the apex of all perfect sex crimes. Not a detail missing. Beautiful wife in another man’s bed with the outraged husband intent on avenging his honor. Hell, Tim, we’d both be locked up this minute if I let them get a gander at Helen.”

  Rourke shuddered and closed his eyes. He put both hands over his face. Helen leaned forward and started to speak, but Shayne kept her silent with a warning glance. He watched Rourke warily, sensing the struggle that was going on inside of him.

  After a time Rourke took his hands from his face. He was haggard, looked years older than when Shayne had opened the closet door and told Helen to come out. He wet his lips and began talking in a monotone without looking at Shayne.

  “I’ve known you a long time, Mike. I’ve admired you. I’ve liked your ability to pull yourself out of tight holes. I’ve played ball with you when things looked damned black-when I had to take you on faith.” He paused, wetting his lips again.

  “And you’ve never regretted it. You’ve had your headlines and they’ve been right,” Shayne reminded him.

  “No. I’ve never regretted it,” Rourke admitted. “I’ve watched you play fast and loose with the law and with every outward appearance of honesty and decency, and you’ve always come out on top. But this is different, Mike. This isn’t cops-and-robbers stuff. Every minute they waste trying to find this woman may be vitally important. You took advantage of Will Gentry’s friendship, of his faith in you, to get them out of here without seeing her — and you tried to get rid of me, too.”

  Shayne argued, “But you can see the spot I was in. If I shot Mace Morgan-an escaped convict-in self-defense-that was one thing. There won’t be any questions asked. But you know what would have happened if they had found her here. That changed everything. I’d never beat that rap, Tim.”

  “Maybe not,” Rourke agreed huskily. He took a long drink of cognac and went on. “But this is war. You’re one man, Mike. Do you think your personal problem is important when weighed against the lives of a nation? From the way Pearson told it, that’s how important those secret plans are to our country. Remember the troopship that was torpedoed last week? Twelve hundred men lost. Those plans may be the remedy to stop submarines. This thing is bigger than you or me, Mike. It’s bigger than any one man.” Rourke took another drink and continued his impassioned plea. “You can’t block it, Mike. You can’t hold out information that might help Pearson recover the plans so vital for our defense.”

  “Isn’t it about time to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner’?” Shayne asked wearily. “Phyl saved the words out of the paper last Sunday.”

  Rourke’s lean features hardened. “I know you’ve always pretended to laugh at such things, Mike. Patriotism, decency, honor. But I’ve always thought that was just a hard-boiled pose. I’ve always believed that, deep inside, you were decent and honorable.”

  “Now we should have a flag to wave,” Shayne said ironically.

  “Now, by God, I’m beginning to wonder if it was all a pose,” Rourke continued shakily. “It’s an ugly feeling, Mike. A nasty, crawling sensation inside of me that I’m ashamed to talk about. But-there it is.” Rourke finished off his drink and made a gesture of disgusted dismissal.

  Shayne’s gaunt and swollen features twitched. He dropped into a chair. “You’re taking a lot for granted, Tim, and you’re half drunk.”

  “What?” Rourke lifted himself from his chair by pushing on the arms, then settled back.

  “The importance of the stolen plans,” Shayne said. “All we have, actually, is Pearson’s unsupported word. Isn’t it possible that he’s exaggerating the whole thing-subconsciously perhaps-just to make himself appear important?”

  “You’ve always sneered at the FBI. A lot of people have. Called them rah-rah boys. But it’s an unfair prejudice. Personally, I was impressed by Pearson.”

  Shayne nodded. “All right. Granting the importance of the stolen plans-how do you know this woman is important to the investigation? You’re taking it for granted that she was working with Morgan-had his piece of the claim check in her possession. I admit I don’t know. But we can find out.”

  He swung to his feet and brushed past Helen into the bedroom. She turned her head to watch him. Both men had been acting as if she were not there, had treated her as though she were an inanimate object to be discussed with strict impersonality.

  Shayne came back carrying the clothes she had taken off. He dumped them on the floor in front of the reporter. “Go through her stuff yourself. If the thing is there I won’t lift a finger to stop you from telephoning Gentry.”

  Rourke shook out the dress and underthings. He examined her slippers as he had seen Pearson examine Morgan’s shoes, then tossed them all down with an oath. “All right. It isn’t here.”

  Shayne said, “There you are.” He nudged the pile of clothing toward Helen with his toe. “Go into the bedroom and get dressed.” He turned back to Rourke as the girl started to speak. She compressed her lips and gathered up her clothes, went into the bedroom, and closed the door.

  “Does that save me from being branded a traitor?” Shayne asked. He reached for the bottle and held it over Rourke’s glass.

  “You haven’t proved anything,” Rourke argued. “She probably knows where it’s hidden. At least she could take the police to Morgan’s hide-out.”

  “All right.” Shayne nodded affably. “As soon as she gets dressed we’ll take her down to headquarters and let Gentry and Pearson go to work on her. I’m not trying to throw a monkey wrench into the works,” he went on earnestly. “All in God’s world I wanted was to get that girl dressed and out of this apartment before I had a murder rap hung around my neck.”

  Rourke mumbled, “Maybe I was too quick on the trigger. But it burned me up to think you’d hold out a clue on the sort of thing Pearson is trying to run down.” He hesitated, then asked awkwardly, “What’s the real dope on your tie-up with it? What was Morgan’s wife doing here-in a nightgown?”

  Shayne grimaced. “That was her idea. She was trying to talk me into doing something I didn’t like, and she had an idea she could be a lot more persuasive in bed.”

  “What was she after, Mike?”

  The bedroom door opened behind Shayne. He pretended not to notice Helen’s entrance. “She wanted me to get rid of her husband for her.”

  Rourke choked over his drink. He rounded his eyes at Helen. “I don’t get it,” he ejaculated.

  “That was before I’d heard Pearson’s story on the FBI angle,” Shayne explained. “She was here when Gentry phoned and I told her to get into the bedroom and stay out of sight.” He continued to ignore Helen, went on as though he didn’t know she was listening.

  “When she undressed and got in bed I thought maybe it was a simple symptom of nymphomania. Now, I don’t know. The way Morgan turned up on the dot and caught her looks as though she might have planned it that way. It certainly worked if she did plan it. Morga
n’s dead-and I’m officially marked down as his killer. She’s rid of her husband-and in the clear.”

  “You beast! To even think such things!” Helen took a long step to the side of his chair and spat out the words. Her hands were curved into claws, long nails reaching for his face.

  Shayne laughed shortly and caught both her wrists in one big hand. “Don’t waste time pretending to be shocked. You could have planned it that way. You wanted Mace out of the way badly enough.”

  She struggled to free herself, sobbing with rage. He gave her a shove that sent her reeling back, and remarked to Rourke, “I’m always suspicious of a floozie who crawls into a man’s bed without an invitation.”

  Rourke nodded. He said, “We’re wasting time. We ought to turn her over to Gentry and Pearson. They’ll sweat the truth out of her.”

  Shayne said, “Sure. Let’s take her down to headquarters. We’ll think up a story about how we managed to get hold of her so fast. Just say she came here looking for Mace. That’ll sound okay.”

  “What about her? If she tells them the truth-”

  “That’s the last thing she will tell,” Shayne said scornfully. “With Mace dead-”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. He got up and opened it to admit a uniformed Western Union messenger. The lad asked, “Mr. Shayne?” looking from him to Rourke.

  The redhead said, “I’m Shayne.” He took a plain white envelope from the boy’s hand. He got between the boy and the door as he ripped the envelope open and took out a folded sheet of paper.

  The message was typed. There was no salutation or signature. It said:

  We’ve got your wife where we want her. We’ll trade for the strip of cardboard she says you got from Jim Lacy. We’re not fooling and you’d better not if you want to see her alive again. Put a personal ad in the morning HERALD saying “Okay. M.S.” and you’ll hear from us again.

  Shayne read the message without change of expression. He caught the messenger’s arm and demanded, “Where did you get this?”

  “Fellow stopped me on Flagler. Gave me a buck to bring it up to this here apartment.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t even get a good look at him,” the lad said, frightened by Shayne’s harsh interrogation. “He was inside the arcade where it was dark and he called to me as I was passing by.”

  Shayne let go of his arm and stood aside. The boy went away.

  Shayne closed the door and stood staring at it, the typewritten threat hanging lax in his fingers. Rourke came over and took the paper from his fingers while Shayne went on gazing at the door, staring fixedly, as though he were seeing through and far beyond the wooden barrier.

  Rourke read the note and whistled shrilly. He crumpled it in his hand and began cursing Shayne in a low tone of fury.

  Shayne turned his head and looked at Rourke as if he looked at a complete stranger.

  Rourke panted, “This washes you up, Mike. You lied from the beginning. You’ve got Lacy’s piece of the claim check.”

  Shayne nodded and said dully, “Yeh, I’ve got it.”

  Rourke stood before him on wide-spread legs. “I’m not going to dirty my mouth with what I think of you,” he told the detective bitterly. “Get out of my way. I don’t want to be defiled by touching you as I go out.”

  Shayne lifted shaggy red eyebrows. “Aren’t you being a trifle melodramatic?”

  “Melodramatic?” Rourke’s voice trembled. “You’d play ball with the devil himself if you smelled a cent of profit in the transaction. I’m through listening to your lies. Get out of my way.”

  Shayne didn’t move from the door. He asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To Pearson.”

  Shayne wet his lips. “Did you read that note?”

  “I read it.”

  “Do you realize what it means? They’ve got Phyllis.”

  “And you’ve got the one piece of cardboard that’s between a foreign spy ring and the plans of an important American military secret.”

  Shayne nodded. “I’ve got what they have to have. It’s my only ace. Phyllis will be safe as long as I keep it. If you tell Pearson and I’m forced to give it up-” Shayne left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

  Rourke was breathing hard. He said, “Phyllis wouldn’t want to pay that price to keep on living. She’d hate you forever, Mike, if you bargained with those rats.”

  Shayne said, “You don’t know what you’re saying, Tim. We’re talking about Phyllis. My wife.”

  “She’s one woman,” Rourke told him quietly. “One woman who happens to be married to you. Other wives are dying tonight. All over the world. Being blown to bits by bombs. The husbands and the sons of other women are dying by thousands. If you think Phyl would appreciate-”

  “I’m not thinking about Phyl,” Shayne interrupted gruffly. “I’m thinking about myself.”

  Rourke’s lip curled upward. “Get out of my way.”

  Shayne stood solidly in front of the door. “Can’t I say anything to change your mind?”

  “Nothing. I’ve heard enough lies. I wouldn’t be able to believe a word you said now. I’m going to Pearson.”

  Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Tim.” He sighed and stepped aside. “If you won’t listen to reason-”

  Rourke said, “None of your reasons interest me.” He started through the door.

  Shayne swung his right fist in a looping uppercut. It struck the point of Rourke’s chin. The reporter tottered backward and went down to the floor.

  Shayne stepped over him and went into the bedroom. He called the want-ad desk of the Miami Herald and ordered a personal advertisement inserted in the morning paper: Okay. Plus one grand. M.S.

  He came back to the living-room and poured a drink. He did not look at Helen or at the unconscious figure of Timothy Rourke lying in front of the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Helen started to speak, but he shut her up with an angry, “You got me into this mess. Keep your mouth shut while I think my way out.”

  She bit her lip and subsided into silence. Shayne sat without moving for a long time, then sighed and took Murphy’s second telegram from his pocket. He smoothed it out and read it again, seeking some new significance in the light of the story he had just heard from Pearson.

  Pearson hadn’t mentioned that Jim Lacy was the victim in the holdup that had sent Mace Morgan to prison. Perhaps he didn’t know-or thought it an unimportant detail.

  But it seemed terrifically important to Shayne. If Lacy and Morgan had worked together stealing a government secret only a couple of days before the robbery-why had Morgan turned on his partner immediately afterward?

  To Shayne, a more plausible explanation was that Morgan had not turned on Lacy-that the holdup had been another partnership deal between the two men. It wasn’t a new wrinkle in the annals of crime. There were plenty cases of collusion between a crooked messenger carrying a large sum of money and a confederate who pretended to hold him up. In fact, when the sum of money was particularly large as in this case, there had to be a tip-off somewhere along the line.

  But this holdup had backfired. Instead of getting away with the swag, Morgan had been caught and sentenced. Shayne wondered whether Lacy had testified at the trial-whether he had identified Morgan on the witness stand. The answer to that might be the answer to a lot of things.

  The telephone called him into the bedroom while he was still musing over a lot of diverse possibilities.

  The desk clerk reported the arrival of a telegram. Shayne told him to send it up. He went to the door and tipped the boy who brought it. This was another message from the energetic Murphy in New York:

  Charles Worthing reputed wealthy. Divorce case pending New York. Adultery with girl named Helen Brinstead named corespondent. Worthing and Brinstead being seen together openly. For picture of both and full details see page fourteen last Sunday MIRROR photo taken at Stork Club Saturday night.

  Shayne folded this telegram with the
other one and put them both into his pocket. As he sauntered back to his chair, Helen stamped her foot and demanded:

  “Isn’t it time you started telling me something about what’s going on?”

  He looked at her with a show of mild surprise. “Why should I?”

  “Do you think I’m not half crazy with curiosity? Do you think I’m made of wood? You haven’t told me anything.”

  “I didn’t think you were interested in anything-except getting Mace Morgan bumped off. You got that. What the hell more do you want?”

  “I want to know what all this mystery is about. Who were those men that came while I was hiding in the closet? Who’s he?” She indicated Rourke lying on the floor. “What did you two mean when you talked about the law wanting me? What were you looking for when you searched my clothing?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know anything.” She stamped her foot again. “You sit here like a bump on a log acting as if you thought I was deaf and dumb.”

  “Didn’t you hear what was said out here while you were in the closet?”

  “Only a mumble-jumble that I couldn’t understand. What was in that letter you got from the messenger? Why did your friend go haywire after reading it, and what did he mean by Lacy’s piece of the claim check? What claim check? What’s all this mysterious stuff about the war and spies and stuff?”

  Shayne leaned back and crossed his legs in a more comfortable position. “You’re putting on a pretty good act. Are you sure you didn’t do some dramatic bits when you were in the Scandals? You couldn’t get that good just by showing your legs in the chorus.”

  “What do you mean by an act?”

  “The whole thing,” Shayne growled. “The story you handed me this afternoon.”

  Helen’s jaw sagged. The luster went out of her eyes. “You mean about-Charles Worthing?”

  “And Helen Brinstead.” Shayne nodded. “That was a gag you and Lacy figured out together over in his hotel room-to provide a logical reason for coming here and persuading me to gun Morgan.”

  “What makes you think it was a gag?”