The Uncomplaining Corpses Page 12

  “Your red toenails will be stood up along with the rest of you if you expect him to keep that date. Anyway, you’re supposed to be in mourning. Where’s your sense of decency?”

  Dorothy Thrip laughed. An angry laugh. “You sound like Father—ordering me not to meet Carl there tonight. Damn such hypocrisy.” She yawned and wriggled her red-tipped toenails. “That’ll do, Gertrude. You can lay out my things now. The sequin dinner gown.”

  Gertrude said, “Yes, ma’am,” and got to her feet. She went into an adjoining bedroom and closed the door without looking at the detective again.

  Shayne said, “If you insist on being a fool,” as if he made the statement for no reason except that he considered her one.

  Dorothy sat up straight and mashed out her cigarette with unnecessary force. “You’re the one who’s being stupid.”

  “The gal who’s putting the hooks into Carl right now is something to take his mind off a fox-faced brat like you,” he told her, “and don’t make any mistake.” Shayne’s voice was startlingly serious.

  Dorothy shot him a searching glance and said, “I know Carl Meldrum,” with all the confidence she could command. “Don’t think he has fooled me—but he won’t be running out on me from now on. Not with the money I’ll have to throw around.”

  “I’d still like to know where he might have gone with his new girl today,” Shayne persisted mildly.

  “And I still don’t believe he went anywhere with a girl today,” Dorothy retorted. “Carl’s a night owl. He sleeps days. If you want to see him you’d better hang around the Tally-Ho tonight. He’ll be there.” She stretched her arms and yawned in Shayne’s face. “I’ve got to dress.” She started to get up but Shayne put a big hand out to stop her.

  “Have you heard about what happened to your brother?”

  “That dope? Did he get his behind in a sling? Let me get up, you brute.” She clawed at Shayne’s wrist and he grabbed her hand. He growled:

  “I’ve got a bullet hole in my pants where Ernst shot me a couple of hours ago when he got the idea I was closing down on you for strangling your stepmother. You ought to have some appreciation for his brotherly interest.”

  Dorothy Thrip fell back in her chair and stared at Shayne. “You’ve got—what?” she faltered. “Ernst tried to shoot you?” Her voice was weak with fright and incredulity.

  Shayne let go of her wrist. “That’s right. He figures Carl detained him at the front door last night while you were up here finishing the job of strangling your stepmother.”

  Dorothy’s round eyes were bright and wild. “The fool!” she exclaimed. “The crazy fool!” Her voice softened to a moan when she gasped, “What—else—did he tell you?”

  “Plenty—before I finished with him,” Shayne told her. “With what he told me and what I’ve picked up here and there it’s about enough.” He paused, then demanded abruptly, “Did you know that Carl Meldrum was trying to blackmail your stepmother?”

  So far as Shayne could judge, her surprise was genuine. “Trying to blackmail—Leora?” she asked in a dazed voice. “Now you’re crazy too. I never heard anything so foolish in all my life. How could he blackmail Leora?”

  “Who else do you think was writing her those notes?”

  “God knows.” For an instant she considered, then said, “I suppose some nut who knew she had money.”

  Shayne was bent over, his chin resting in his hand, staring toward the fireplace where the log had been burning last night. At this early hour of the evening the room was warm.

  After a brief silence, Dorothy Thrip said, “Another came today, you know.”

  Shayne stiffened. “Another note?”

  “Sure. Didn’t you know? I thought you were a detective and found out everything.” Her round eyes were scornful.

  “What was it like? How did it come?”

  “Just like all the others. Typewritten and mailed from Miami. It was postmarked last night, so Dad says that explodes your silly theory that your operative was innocent and the writer of the notes killed her. Because if he’d planned to kill her and did kill her, he certainly would not have mailed another note to her last night. So, if it was Carl who was writing them,” she ended triumphantly, “that proves more than ever that he didn’t have anything to do with what happened last night.”

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” Shayne snapped, “except that whoever wrote the notes might try to use it as an out if he was caught. If you ask me, it’s the damnedest angle yet.” He sank back into his chair and stuck a cigarette in his mouth while he frowned at nothing across the room.

  Dorothy was watching him with her head tilted slightly. Twice she started to speak but didn’t. Then she got up quietly and stepped past him. The detective appeared to have forgotten her entirely. She was halfway to her bedroom door when a telephone burred discreetly behind a painted screen near the fireplace.

  She paused, looking back over her shoulder. Shayne shook his head like a man emerging from an underwater swim. He looked at the screen and then at Dorothy as the telephone stopped ringing.

  He asked, “Is it an extension?” and Dorothy nodded. She said, “A maid will answer it downstairs,” and they both waited. The telephone didn’t ring again. After a few minutes there were light footsteps in the hall outside and a quick rap on the door.

  Dorothy said, “Yes,” and went toward it. Shayne sat relaxed watching her. The door opened and a maid said:

  “It was someone on the phone wanting to know if Mr. Shayne was here, Miss Dorothy. I told them I thought he was, and the man said he’d be right over and hung up.”

  Dorothy said, “You needn’t have bothered me with that,’” petulantly, and turned back into the room.

  Shayne eased himself erect and grinned at her. “I’ve got a hunch it’s the hounds of the Miami Beach law barking at my trail.” He lounged toward the door, adding casually, “See you at the Tally-Ho,” and went out.

  With unhurried swiftness he went downstairs and out to his car, pulled away, and drove over the Venetian Causeway to the Miami side of the bay, where he had an even chance of staying out of jail. But he was beginning to wonder whether that was going to help a hell of a lot in solving the Thrip and Darnell murder cases.

  Chapter Fifteen: ONE JUMP BEHIND DEATH

  SHAYNE STOPPED AT THE FIRST DRUGSTORE he came to on Biscayne Boulevard and called his hotel from a pay station. The clerk told him that Phyllis had neither returned nor phoned since the afternoon call which he had failed to receive. He hung up and used another nickel calling Miami police headquarters. He caught Will Gentry still in his office and the detective sounded worried.

  “What the hell’s getting into you, Mike? You knocking out everybody you meet? I’m willing to go a long way with you, but you can’t go around bouncing your fist off Peter’s chin.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hell’s bells, Mike, be reasonable!”

  “He’s been begging for that for a long time, Will. Did the little twerp tell you he was trying to lock me up in his stinking jail when it happened?”

  “Sure. But resisting arrest and assaulting an officer in pursuit of his duty is what makes it so bad, Mike. I’ll have to pick you up if you show your mug in Miami.”

  “All right, Will.” Shayne sounded weary and beaten. “I guess I do have a way of making it tough on my friends. You’ve gone the limit for me plenty of times and I know it. I’m calling from Twentieth and Biscayne if you want to send a car to pick me up.”

  “Aw, now, you know how it is, Mike. I’ve got a job of my own to look out for. I can’t just outright refuse to pinch a man because he happens to be a friend.”

  “I know it, Will. I’m a heel for expecting friendship to stretch that far.” Waiting tensely at his end of the line, Shayne heard a smothered curse come over the wire. His lips slowly twisted into a grin as Gentry spoke again:

  “You know I’d do anything within reason for you. Take the Thrip boy, for instance. Did you hear about him being picked u
p in an alley beat half to death by an unidentified mob—and robbed?”

  “Yeh. I heard about that, Will.” Shayne’s voice was warm. “That was white of you. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d grabbed me for that. I’m not squawking. I know when I get out of bounds. Come on and pick me up and get the credit for it. There’ll be plenty of credit. The morning papers will say I’ve gone berserk. Maybe I have. I just wanted to stay out of jail long enough to find Phyllis and bring her back home, but—I guess the cards are stacked against me this time.”

  “Phyllis? Your wife, you mean? What in God’s name has happened to her, Mike?”

  “I don’t know,” Shayne groaned hollowly. “A fate worse than death maybe. You know how impulsive she is. Well, she—but, hell! You can’t worry about that at a time like this.”

  “Damn it, you know I’m worried, Mike. I love that girl like she was my own. What are you covering up?”

  “Nothing, Will. She’s probably all right. You know how jittery a man gets.”

  “I never knew you to be jittery before.” Will Gentry’s voice was very stern. “If your wife’s in some trouble—”

  “She’s just a kid. Doesn’t know what the score is. Dumb enough to think her husband isn’t a murderer and to try and help him prove it. That’s why it’s going to hurt like hell while I lie up in Painter’s jail knowing that whatever happens to her will be on account of her being so lamebrained as to love a louse like me.”

  “Quit your stalling,” Gentry snapped impatiently. “If Phyllis is in any danger, let’s do something.”

  “Yeh. I’d better tell you before they lock me up so you can do what you can. She left me a note this morning saying she was going out to help me solve the Thrip case. She went straight to Carl Meldrum without knowing that he’s a maniac. She’s so damned innocent, Will—” Shayne’s voice faltered convincingly.

  “Meldrum? That’s the bird at the Palace Hotel on the Beach. I’ve got a man waiting to pick him up now.”

  “Yeh, but he and Phyllis went off together before your man got there and they haven’t come back. I think I know where I can find him tonight, but hell! that won’t do me any good if I’m in jail.”

  “You’re not in jail yet, you damned fool. I can’t arrest you if I can’t find you.”

  Shayne said, “Well—but—”

  “No buts about it. Duck out of there and forget you called me.”

  “You’ve got your job to think about,” Shayne reminded him, “and Painter will be riding you hard.”

  Will Gentry cursed him fervently, then ended with a snarl: “I was running this department when Painter was wearing a safety pin instead of a belt buckle. Just keep out of sight, Mike.”

  “Well, if you want to know where not to look,” Shayne suggested, “I’m on my way out to the Tally-Ho.”

  “Good. That’s outside the city limits. I don’t think the sheriff is looking for you yet.”

  Shayne said, “All I ask is a few hours, Will.” He hung up and hurried out to the curb, stepped in his car, and sped north on the boulevard.

  It was too early for much of a crowd to be at the Tally-Ho when Shayne turned off the boulevard to the right toward neon lights showing through lacy palm fronds. The night club was backed up against the western shore of the bay, alone and secluded in the midst of a palmetto-grown strip which had been subdivided during the boom, but never built up.

  The floodlighted parking-lot wasn’t more than a third full of cars and the dimly illumined tropical gardens surrounding the two-story stucco structure were deserted at this hour of the early evening.

  Inside the clubhouse, an air of subdued magnificence was calculated to overawe the unwary and loosen their purse strings to meet the high cost of the entertainment offered.

  Shayne traded his trench coat and hat for a check and a smile from a blonde behind the check counter, strolled to the door of the main downstairs dining-room for a quick gander inside, then went back through a well-lined bar to the gaming-rooms in the rear which were occupied mostly by croupiers and dealers waiting for the late play to begin.

  After a leisurely circuit of the rear he came back through the bar, went on to the dining-room without seeing a familiar face. He knew there were private rooms upstairs where anything could and did happen, but he saved an investigation of them until later when they were more likely to be in use.

  The headwaiter didn’t recognize the detective, but, his eyes lighted with recognition for the twenty-dollar bill in Shayne’s hand when Shayne asked:

  “Do you know Carl Meldrum by sight?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s one of our regular patrons. It’s a little early for him.”

  “Is Miss Thrip here?”

  “Miss Thrip? I don’t know the young lady by name, sir.”

  Shayne nodded shortly and moved toward a vacant table near the door, disregarding the waiter’s suggestion that he could arrange a ringside seat for the floor show which was soon to begin.

  Shayne said, “This will be all right,” and selected a chair backed against the wall where he could see every person who entered and survey the entire dining-room.

  A waitress, appropriately attired in a short red hunting-jacket, pink tights, and patent leather boots, approached his table at once to place the Tally-Ho’s menu sheet before him.

  Without glancing at the menu, Shayne said, “Four sidecars and a planked steak for two. Make it hot on both sides but not in the middle.”

  When she went away, Shayne leaned back and lit a cigarette, began a careful study of the half hundred or more couples at the tables next to the roped-off square where the floor show would be held.

  He had finished less than half of his keen survey of faces when a girl glided up to his table. She had black, square-cut bangs and a white-toothed smile. She was sheathed in a tight evening gown of emerald green biased by darker stripes which reminded Shayne of garden snakes. Its V-front ended alarmingly close to her navel.

  The girl asked, “Waiting for someone, big boy?” and started to pull out a chair.

  Shayne said, “Yes,” and she hesitated, then cajoled:

  “No use being lonesome while you’re waiting. How’d you like to buy me a drink?”

  Shayne said gently, “Go sell your bill of goods to some sucker, sister.”

  The waitress brought Shayne’s sidecars and ranged them in front of him just as the ceiling lights dimmed, leaving only the dim bulbs of cleverly designed coconut-shell lamps glowing on individual tables.

  The orchestra struck up a two-four time medley and twin floodlights covered two short flights of steps down which a bevy of nude young girls tripped in a rhythmic dance.

  Shayne gulped down half of one sidecar and settled back with his left arm crooked over the back of the chair, holding the glass in his right hand. From a distance and in the soft glow of varicolored sprays of the spotlights, the girls were alluring, claiming his attention. They appeared entirely nude except for silk triangles apparently held in place by nothing at all.

  They paraded around the square, dancing, holding out their arms, coyly inclining their heads to flirt with the males whose tables crowded close to the ropes.

  Shayne looked on through half-closed eyes for a time, then swore to himself because the lights were too dim to see the faces of the couples who entered the dining-room and were led to tables by waiters.

  The girls were trooping back toward the twin flights of steps. The leaders swerved, and instead of dancing up the stairs to the dressing-rooms, tripped up side steps leading out among the tables scattered all over the room.

  Shayne straightened, drank the last of the sidecar, and sat with his arms folded on the table. The dancing girls moved toward the outer tables, moving their arms snakily, flirting as they passed along.

  When they passed his way, he could have reached out and touched them. But he didn’t. At close range he saw that a puttylike substance covered their full breasts, lifting them high, and that the putty was beginning to crack. A vivid brunet
te paused briefly at his table, cocked her head coyly, and moved her arms as if to encircle his neck.

  Shayne looked up and grinned. “Wash that damn stuff off and you’ll have something, baby,” he muttered.

  He turned his entire attention to the three sidecars in front of him, pouring down two-thirds of the second one as the waitress approached with his steak. She set it before him and waited while he pierced it with a sharp knife. A rich red color showed between the browned sides of the thick slab of meat and Shayne nodded his satisfaction.

  He detained the waitress when she started away: “Is Mona busy right now?”

  “Mona Tabor? I don’t think she’s here yet. I’ll find out.”

  Shayne said, “I wish you would.”

  He started on the third sidecar, and in less than a minute the waitress came back to report, “Mona hasn’t come yet. She phoned that she’d be late. I can get one of the other hostesses,” she offered with an obliging smile.

  Shayne told her not to bother and attacked his steak after draining the third sidecar glass.

  The orchestra tuned up again with swing music. A G-stringed girl and a man in top hat and evening clothes came onto the dance floor and got in the groove. In spite of the music, Shayne was interested in the eccentric dance.

  He tossed off his fourth sidecar and came to the morose conclusion that he was getting old.

  Dorothy Thrip came in between floor-show acts when the ceiling lights were on. Her black sequin dinner gown glittered and there were rhinestone clips in her hair. She stopped just inside the doorway and asked the headwaiter a question. He shook his head and said something, nodding toward Michael Shayne,

  Dorothy turned her head slowly to look at him. Shayne had just sopped up the last drop of hot blood on a piece of bread. He waved it at her, then stuck it in his big mouth.

  She didn’t return his greeting. She followed the head-waiter down the aisle to a vacant table which also commanded a view of the entrance, and sat down alone.