The Uncomplaining Corpses Page 3

  “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.

  “Even though Dorothy has always hated me, I tried to save her from herself—and from Carl Meldrum. I warned her against him, telling her, of course, that my knowledge of his character had come to me indirectly. She—told me I was an old fool with sex repressions and had better read Freud.

  “I decided to have it out with Carl. I begged him to leave Dorothy alone. He laughed at me and hinted that he might be persuaded to do so—for a price. I don’t know what he has told Dorothy about me. I’m sure he has told her something—probably a distorted account of our former meeting.

  “Then the letters began coming. The letters my husband told you about this afternoon. Their vague hints were not clear enough to tell him what actually lay behind them, but I knew at onc
e they were from Carl.

  “Arnold wanted me to pay the money demanded in the letters. When I refused he was inclined to scoff at the entire matter. But I think he has become suspicious lately that there is more than he first thought. Perhaps Dorothy has told him something. I don’t know. I don’t know how much Dorothy knows. I don’t know how much my husband suspects.” She made a quick gesture of despair with her hands, clasped them together tightly.

  “I am deathly afraid Carl will carry out the threats in the letters. He is subject to violent moods—and three nights ago I heard him stop outside my door as he went away from Dorothy’s room. He stood there a long time—then went away.” The high note of hysteria in her voice broke off suddenly. She was staring down at her empty teacup.

  Phyllis refilled it without saying a word. Mrs. Thrip murmured, “Thank you,” and raised the cup to her lips.

  Shayne frowned, marveling at the stuff some women are made of. After her long recital she was sipping tea as though she enjoyed it, as though she had come for nothing more important! He took a gulp of cognac from his own cup and asked, “Did Carl Meldrum really love you in the beginning?”

  “I think he did. I—am afraid he still wants me, in one way anyhow—perhaps because I refused what he wanted most.” Red came up in her cheeks, but she looked at Shayne levelly.

  “Yet you think you’re in danger from him?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. You don’t know Carl Meldrum, Mr. Shayne. You wouldn’t understand him. No normal man could. He has a twisted mind. He would enjoy hurting the person he loves. You can see the daily torment I live in—and I know it is a source of exquisite pleasure for him to see me writhe when he looks at me with that smile of secrecy in the presence of my family. I must have help, Mr. Shayne. I—I’m afraid to go to sleep at night.”

  Shayne nodded reassuringly. He emptied his cup of cognac and stared across the pleasantly furnished living-room, catching together the threads of Mrs. Thrip’s story and balancing them against her husband’s story. It was evident that Mrs. Thrip knew nothing of her husband’s plan to pull a fake jewel theft.

  After a long moment of thought Shayne turned to Leora Thrip and said, “This does put a different complexion on the case. I’m interested. I don’t take cases unless I’m interested, Mrs. Thrip.”

  “Then you’ll take it?” Relief shone in the woman’s eyes. She glanced at Phyllis and Shayne caught a look of understanding, almost of triumph pass between them.

  “I’ll take it under consideration, Mrs. Thrip. I’ll need to check up on Carl Meldrum—” He paused, drumming his finger tips on the chair arm.

  Mrs. Thrip nodded. “I’m so relieved after telling you everything, Mr. Shayne. I feel sure you will know just what to do. It’s been such a horrible burden and it’s wonderful to shift it onto your shoulders.”

  Mrs. Thrip stood up. Again she was a placid, middle-aged woman with neat gray hair and tranquil eyes.

  Shayne stood up and told her not to worry. He went out of the apartment with her and to the elevator.

  Phyllis was sitting before the coffee table when he returned. Her chin was cupped in one hand and she looked frightened. While Shayne poured a drink, she said mournfully, “The poor dear, reaching out for life and love before she became forty—and finding only disillusionment. It’s pitiful.”

  “Tough,” Shayne agreed somberly. He stood behind her chair and rumpled her hair. “I’ve just been thinking—when you reach the dangerous age of thirty-nine I’ll be a decrepit fifty-four. You had no damn business marrying an old man, angel.”

  Phyllis laughed and sprang up. She put her hands on his wide shoulders and stood laughing. “Don’t say things—like that, Michael. When I’m old I’ll have—all this to look back on.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  He put an arm around her and led her to the divan where he carefully set his glass on an end table and pulled her down beside him. She snuggled close and said, “It’s grand that you can do something for a woman like that. I felt like crying when she first came and told me how you had refused to take the case.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette for each of them and put one between her lips. “And I suppose you promised to use your influence to get me to change my mind?”

  “Not only that,” Phyllis admitted gaily. “I promised her you would. In fact, I collected a retainer in advance.” She zipped her hostess gown open a few inches and took out a folded check.

  Shayne took it and spread it out on his knee, staring in open amazement at a check payable to Michael Shayne in the sum of one thousand dollars, signed by Leora Thrip.

  “I told her your services came high but were worth it,” Phyllis explained guilelessly. “You can’t say I’m not starting out being helpful.”

  “Yeh, a big help,” he muttered. He got up suddenly. “I’ve got to do some telephoning, angel.”

  In the bedroom he called several numbers and asked for Joe Darnell. After half an hour without success, he stalked back into the living-room with a strange, set look on his face. He shook his head in response to Phyllis’s anxious queries and said dully, “We’ll keep our fingers crossed, angel. That’s all we can do now.”

  Chapter Four: TWO DIE VIOLENTLY

  PHYLLIS AWOKE TO HEAR RAIN coming down softly outside the open window and the telephone ringing on the little table on her husband’s side of the bed. She nudged him and waited with a chill shivering through her as he groped for the phone. She sat up, urging him to hurry. It was the first night call that had come since their marriage.

  It was like being a doctor’s wife, she thought confusedly, only worse. A doctor’s wife knew that an urgent call wasn’t taking her husband into danger, while a private detective never knew.

  Shayne was saying, “Yep, Shayne talking,” then listened a full two minutes.

  Phyllis could faintly hear a rasping voice that sounded excited, but Shayne finally ended the conversation by growling, “All right. Sure, I’ll be out but I don’t see what good I can do.” He clicked the phone down and Phyllis grabbed his arm.

  “What is it, Michael? Do you have to go? It’s raining and you sounded hoarse this evening.”

  Shayne patted her hand, then pulled the cord on a bed lamp. “It’s nothing important, angel. Mr. Painter just hates to think of me sleeping soundly while he’s out chasing down clues.” He yawned and flexed the muscles of his arms, threw the covers back, and grinned down at the absurdly little-girl features of his wife. “Nice of you to remind me of the danger of catching cold. Shows the true wifely instinct. To keep you from worrying I’ll fortify myself against the rainy night.”

  He swung his pajama-clad legs over the edge of the bed and uncorked a cut-glass decanter by the telephone. He poured a glass full and half emptied it, filled it to the brim again, and got up to pad across the room in his bare feet and close the window. He turned back toward the bed and took another drink, set the glass down, and tugged at the lobe of his left ear with right thumb and forefinger.

  “It’s important, Michael, and you are worried,” Phyllis accused. “You always pull at your ear when—”

  Shayne took the glass up and emptied it, sat down on the edge of the bed, and shook a cigarette from a pack on the table. Phyllis lay back and snuggled under the covers, one hand reaching for a cigarette. Shayne lit both from the same match, stood up, and unbuttoned his pajama coat. Shrugging it from his big frame, he said over his shoulder, “Huh. Worried about going out in the cold and leaving my warm bed and ditto wife.”

  Phyllis said severely, “You’re just trying to put me off the track with your compliments. You can’t fool me, Michael Shayne. You are worried.”

  “You’ve got nutty ideas about the life of a private detective,” he growled as he got dressed. “We don’t deal exclusively in bloodshed and murder, you know. Nine-tenths of a private dick’s work is stuff like—well, checking on hubby to see if he’s stepping out, or finding out why little Johnny played hooky from school yesterday, or digging up sister’s sui
tor’s dead past.”

  “You’re not fooling me a bit, darling.” Phyllis’s voice was honeyed. “You know you turn down routine stuff like that.” She kicked back the covers. “I’m going with you and—”

  Shayne whirled away from the mirror where he was knotting his tie. “Get back in bed or get spanked, angel.”

  “I won’t sleep a wink,” she warned him defiantly. “I’ll be pacing the floor thinking about those times you got yourself all beaten to a pulp.”

  “Be sure to pace before the mirror,” he chuckled. “You look good enough to eat in those red pajamas. Besides, speaking as a bridegroom, I promise not to get my handsome face scarred.”

  He turned back to the mirror to finish knotting his tie and Phyllis wrinkled her nose at his reflection in the mirror. When he turned around she was out of bed and standing directly before him.

  “Is it a new case?” she wheedled. She touched his tie with a pretense of straightening it.

  “Sort of.” He kissed her black hair and put her aside and went to the bedside table for his watch. The time was 2:21.

  “It had better be a case,” she warned him. “It’s immoral for a married man to go out at two in the morning for anything except business.”

  He went to a closet for his hat and belted raincoat, grinning out of the side of his mouth at her. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, angel. What’s left of me after being married to you for two weeks couldn’t be anything but strictly business.”

  He jammed a felt hat down on his coarse red hair and reached her in two long strides. Swinging her clear of the floor he kissed her hard, then dumped her on the bed. She held him fast with hands clasped about his neck and whispered, “Promise you’ll be careful.”