The Careless Corpse Page 4

These must be the Brats, Shayne realized, looking at them with a grin and wondering which was Edwin and which Edwina.

  They were dressed exactly alike in slacks and short-sleeved seersucker sport shirts, and they looked exactly identical at first glance with fair hair cut boyishly short and eager faces studying him with unabashed curiosity. They were about ten, he guessed, and whichever of the two was Edwina hadn’t yet developed sufficient feminine traits to distinguish her from her brother.

  “Hey,” one of them said to Freed. “Eddie says she heard Annette whisper to you that Mike Shayne was here. Is that right? Is this him?”

  “Are you Mike Shayne?” Eddie, who was evidently the sister, looked at the detective in some disappointment. “Where’s your gat, if you’re a detective?”

  “Aw, he doesn’t carry it out in sight, you nut,” said her brother in disgust. “But you don’t look so tough, either,” he added to Shayne. “All those newspaper stories are the bunk, I bet.”

  “Ed,” said Freed fretfully, “you and Eddie should be back at the table. I’m certain your father wouldn’t approve…”

  “Why not? Hey, Dad!” Ed turned and raised his voice in a shrill shout. “That detective’s in here. You gonna hire him to get back the bracelet?”

  Freed clamped his pouting lips together disapprovingly and turned away hurriedly to go back along the hallway, his plump hips wiggling behind him.

  Shayne sank back into his chair and grinned at the Brats. “Now you’ve upset him.”

  “Oh, him,” said Eddie airily. “He’s always upset. He’s just a nance.”

  “Hey,” exclaimed Ed, “why aren’t you guzzling cognac?”

  “For the simple reason,” said Shayne, “that no one has brought me any. Most inhospitable house I ever visited.”

  “Call yourself a detective?” giggled Eddie. She trotted around in front of Shayne, knelt before the smoking stand in front of his chair and pressed a button at the bottom. The front of the stand swung open showing a shelf holding a cut-glass decanter filled with amber liquid and six large snifters in a neat row. “Right under your nose all the time and you didn’t even know it.”

  Shayne grinned appreciatively as he reached a long arm for one of the snifters and held it for Eddie to splash cognac in the bottom. He was holding it to his nose, warming it with the palms of both hands, when they were interrupted by footsteps in the hall and an angry voice saying, “… told you a thousand times you’re not paid to do my thinking for me. I don’t care what the chief of detectives told you…”

  The footsteps stopped in the doorway and the voice softened somewhat: “You two youngsters run along now. Daddy has important business to discuss with Mr. Shayne.”

  “Aw, heck,” they moaned in unison. “Can’t we stay, Dad? Can’t we watch him detect?”

  Shayne took another deep inhalation of the fumes of ancient brandy and lowered the snifter to look at his millionaire host.

  Julio Peralta was very tall and very thin. He appeared to be about fifty, and had a gaunt face and black eyes beneath beetling brows. He glanced at Shayne with a brief nod as the detective rose, but spoke to the twins again, “Not this time. I’m sure Mr. Shayne will be glad to explain his methods to you later, but you’re to go in to Mother now.”

  They said, “Aw, heck,” again, and started to edge away unwillingly, their round eyes fixed on Shayne. “Aren’t you gonna drink it?” demanded Eddie sotto voce, and Shayne nodded solemnly and tipped up the snifter to empty the contents down his throat.

  “You go along with the children,” said Peralta to his secretary, who stood two paces behind him. “I won’t need your help with what I have to say to Shayne.”

  He stood just inside the door, waiting until the trio vanished, then sighed heavily and closed the door. He passed in front of the detective with a springy step for his years and said impatiently, “Sit down. Help yourself to the brandy, if you wish. And then explain why the devil you didn’t show up this afternoon.”

  Shayne said, “I was shanghaied.” He sat down and poured more brandy, asking with interest, “Why is Chief Painter so determined I shan’t see you?”

  “Painter? Is he really? I had no idea… Shanghaied, eh? Exactly what do you mean by that?”

  Shayne shrugged. “Your secretary tried to get rid of me by saying you made other arrangements after I failed to show up.”

  “Nathaniel sometimes takes too much on himself.” Peralta sank into a deep chair near Shayne and produced a leather cigar-pouch. He started to extend it to the detective, noticed the lighted cigarette between his fingers, and selected a cigar for himself. “I was irritated when you didn’t turn up. Naturally. I spoke of the possibility of getting another detective, and, without instructions, my secretary telephoned Chief Painter for a recommendation.”

  “Painter already knew you had called me in, I presume,” said Shayne easily.

  “What’s that? Why, yes. He came here around three o’clock to ask if I had some idea of hiring you, and was most offensive in warning me against doing so. It appears he doesn’t think highly of your abilities or trustworthiness.”

  Shayne grinned and took a long sip of warm cognac. “Why does he care if you call in outside help?”

  “There was a lot of talk,” said Peralta indifferently, “about your connections among the criminal elements and your reputation for arranging deals in cases like this where the thief is offered immunity and a certain sum of money for the return of stolen goods. Chief Painter is too ethical to countenance any such arrangements and threatens to arrest you as accessory if you make any such attempt.

  “But all this is beside the point, Mr. Shayne,” Peralta went on impatiently. “The bracelet was completely insured and I am not particularly interested in whether it is recovered or not. I pointed out to Painter that certainly I had no interest in paying out money for its recovery. That is entirely up to the insurance people.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Shayne drily. “So, why did you want to see me?”

  “Because of a letter I received this morning.” Peralta took an envelope from his inner breast pocket, studied it for a moment, then leaned forward to hand it to Shayne. “Luckily Nathaniel was otherwise occupied this morning when the mail came, and I opened this first. No one else has seen it, Mr. Shayne.”

  It was a plain, stamped envelope with no return address. Julio Peralta’s name and address were neatly printed in ink on the front. It was postmarked Miami, Florida, 4:30 the preceding afternoon. Shayne set his brandy down and took a single sheet of plain letter-size paper from the envelope.

  There was no heading or date at the top. It was neatly printed, like the envelope:

  “Dear Mr. Peralta:

  “I’ve got your so-called ‘emerald’ bracelet. I mean the one stolen from your wife recently, which they say is insured for $110,000.

  “You can have it back and no one the wiser on payment of one-half the insurance. As a business man, I think you’ll agree this is a bargain.

  “Put $55,000 in old, twenty-dollar bills in a plain 9x12 manila envelope, securely sealed and address to James Morgan, General Delivery, Miami, Florida, and mail to me at the main post office in Miami before 12:00 noon on Thursday, the 14th.

  “If you do this and don’t try to trace the receiver of the money, your bracelet will be returned to you by registered mail within a few days. Then you can keep the imitation and go ahead and collect the insurance money.

  “If you are too greedy to share equally with me, or if anything at all goes wrong, the imitation emerald bracelet will be sent to Mr. Timothy Rourke, feature writer for the Miami News, with a full explanation of your attempt to collect $110,000 insurance on an imitation worth a few hundred dollars. I know Mr. Rourke will enjoy printing the story and exposing you for the crook I, alone, now know you to be.

  “This is my first and final offer. You have until noon Thursday.”

  There was no signature to the letter. Shayne read it thoughtfully and in silence. When he finished and
refolded it, he looked up to see the Cuban millionaire leaning forward watching him anxiously, chewing unhappily on his unlit cigar.

  Shayne shrugged and shook his head. “You’ve let yourself get into a damned compromising position by letting three weeks pass before you announce the stolen bracelet was actually just a cheap imitation. Even if you do come out with a statement now, if a reporter like Rourke ever gets hold of the fact that it took a threatening letter like this to force your hand, you still won’t be in a good position. By slick maneuvering, you might avoid actual prosecution for attempted fraud, but there wouldn’t be much doubt in anyone’s mind that you did attempt it.

  “Why, in the name of God,” Shayne burst out angrily, “did you show this letter to me? Far better if you’d kept your mouth shut and paid the man off. You can’t do that now that I’ve seen the letter. I’m only private and I cut corners sometimes, but I can’t go along with an insurance fraud.”

  Julio Peralta’s face had slowly turned a sickly white as Shayne spoke. “But it’s not true,” he exclaimed in a horrified voice. “Good Lord, man, don’t you think I know the value of the bracelet? It was purchased at Tiffany’s in New York four years ago. Don’t you realize it was appraised by the insurance company?”

  “I’m sure you bought it at Tiffany’s and it was carefully appraised,” said Shayne, wearily. “But none of that proves anything, if the one actually stolen is proved to be an imitation. Lots of rich people do a thing like that,” he went on, angrily. “Have imitations made for their wives to display in public. It’s common practice and nothing to be ashamed of. But, if the imitation is stolen, it isn’t ethical to pretend it was the original and try to collect insurance on it.”

  “You’re insulting, Mr. Shayne. Some men may allow their wives to wear cheap imitations, but I consider it a tawdry thing to do.”

  “All right. So it was the real thing. How do you explain this letter?”

  “I don’t. I hoped you might.”

  Shayne shrugged again and picked up his brandy. “If it’s a bluff and you know it’s a bluff… call it, of course. Simply tear it up and forget it. Or, better yet, fix up a decoy envelope and mail it. I’ll see that James Morgan is arrested when he calls for it at General Delivery.”

  The financier from Cuba was silent for a long moment, fidgeting with the unlighted cigar in his hands and studying it as though he had never seen one before. Without raising his eyes to the detective, he asked in a low voice:

  “Suppose the man has such an imitation? No matter how he got hold of it. What then?”

  “Let’s understand each other,” said Shayne, slowly. “Do you suspect the bracelet may have been copied without your knowledge? And that you weren’t told of the substitution after it was stolen?”

  “No. That’s impossible,” cried out Peralta. “Who could possibly have done that?”

  As though in answer to his question, the door was pushed open without warning and Laura Peralta entered the library.

  FIVE

  Neither her newspaper pictures nor the brief glimpse Shayne had caught of her at the candlelit dining table did Mrs. Peralta justice.

  She was in her early thirties, he thought, and her figure was svelte rather than plump as the pictures had made it appear. Actually, she was quite tall for a woman, he realized, as she stood in the doorway teetering a trifle on very high heels. Tall enough to carry her full hips and prominent bosom with a faint swagger that was reminiscent of Mae West in one of her most seductive roles.

  Her features were smooth and even, with a touch of arrogance in the slightly uptilted nose, but there was a hint of smouldering fire in the brown eyes that regarded Shayne from beneath heavy, dark lashes.

  Her voice was a low contralto, carefully modulated and with a precise enunciation that indicated theatrical voice culture rather than an expensive finishing school in her youth.

  “Who is this man, Julio?”

  Michael Shayne got to his feet slowly. A faint grin twisted his lips as he met her eyes squarely and held her gaze across the twenty feet that separated them. From the chair beside him, he heard Peralta’s nervous voice explaining:

  “A business associate, my dear. We’re endeavoring to have a quiet and private talk here,” he went on petulantly. “I’ll join you upstairs very soon.”

  Shayne knew that Laura Peralta wasn’t actually listening to her husband. She doubtless heard the words as he spoke them, but her eyes were probing Shayne’s eyes, her mind was probing Shayne’s mind.

  She shook her head slightly as though puzzled, moved toward him, swaying slightly at the hips and paying no attention at all to the older man in the room.

  “The children say you are a detective. Why did you force your way in here tonight, Mr. Shayne? What hold have you over my husband that induced him to admit you?”

  Shayne shrugged. “Hadn’t you better ask him that question?”

  She was close to him now. He could smell her, and she smelled good. She stopped two feet away and had to tilt her head upward only slightly to look directly into his eyes. She said pleasantly, as though she were discussing an absent person in whom she had little interest:

  “Julio is an awful fool at times. He thinks there’s only one place for women and they should stay there. What do you think, Michael Shayne?”

  Her voice and the look she gave him were challenging and provocative. Shayne heard Peralta clearing his throat rather loudly, but he followed the woman’s lead by ignoring his host.

  “I don’t believe this is exactly the best time or place to discuss my ideas about women, Mrs. Peralta. Some other time, perhaps?” He didn’t need to add “When we’re alone” because that was implicit in the way he spoke.

  Her lips quirked faintly and she swung away from him to confront her husband, who had lighted his cigar and was now puffing on it nervously. Her voice took on an intonation of subtle mockery when she addressed him:

  “Why do you sit there glowering, Julio? I thought you agreed this afternoon that it was up to the police and the insurance company to get back the bracelet. Why should you go around hiring private detectives to do their work?”

  He said wearily, “I told you from the beginning, Laura. I feel a certain responsibility. After all, you are my wife.”

  “Still harping on that?” she flung at him. “Just because I didn’t lock it up in the safe that one night. I never promised anyone I would. That’s a chance they take when they insure jewelry.”

  He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. It was clear to Shayne that this was an old, warmed-over quarrel between them, and that Laura Peralta fiercely resented having her actions questioned.

  She put her hands on her hips now, and squared her shoulders belligerently at her husband.

  “I don’t believe you, Julio.” There was anger and scorn in her voice. “You know Chief Painter told us this afternoon that it was practically in the bag and he certainly neither needed nor wanted outside help. I think you’ve some other reason for calling Mr. Shayne in, and I demand to know what it is.”

  “What other reason can you think of?”

  “I don’t know unless you have some silly idea of trying to put some restraints on my personal liberty as you threatened recently. Go ahead and hire a private eye to follow me around Miami in the evenings and report to you,” she stormed at him. “See if I care. There’ll be no grounds for divorce, I can assure you of that.” She turned to glare over her shoulder at Shayne who was listening with grim amusement. “If you’re starting your assignment this evening, I’ll make it easy for you. In half an hour or so, you’ll find me in the roulette room of the Green Jungle in North Miami. Know where it is?”

  Shayne nodded.

  “I’ll be there all evening if I win,” she told him with a toss of her head. “Or the length of time it takes me to lose the five hundred my husband allows me to spend on entertainment each evening. If I’m unlucky, perhaps you’ll buy me a drink after I go broke.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Sh
ayne agreed pleasantly.

  She turned away haughtily and swept out of the room, swinging her buttocks just enough to indicate she was aware two males were watching her exit—one of whom was married to her.

  Julio Peralta shook his head and sighed despondently when the door closed behind his wife. “I don’t understand Laura,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I simply don’t understand American women at all. I realize she is young and high-spirited, and that this household may seem dull to her. But she is my wife. I ask only that she keep that fact in mind and do nothing to disgrace the name. In the name of all that is holy, Mr. Shayne, is that too much to ask?”

  Shayne shrugged and resumed his seat. He said drily, “We were discussing the possibility that a cheap imitation of the emerald bracelet might have been substituted for the genuine without your knowledge before the robbery occurred. How many people were in a position to have accomplished that?

  Peralta puffed on his cigar nervously. “Yesterday I would have said it was an utter impossibility. But since this letter arrived, I’ve been trying to see how it could have been done. How long would it take,” he demanded anxiously, “to make up a convincing substitute of imitation gems?”

  “We’d have to ask a jeweler that. A few days would be enough, I should think.”

  “And it would be a good enough imitation so it mightn’t be noticed by anyone except an expert?”

  “I think so. Depends what you mean by an expert, I guess.” Shayne paused, then went on somewhat harshly because he did not like saying this to the older man: “I’ve been told by jewelers that it is almost impossible to foist off even an extremely good imitation on the owner of a particular piece who loves jewelry and has owned that piece for any length of time. I can’t vouch for this personally, but the experts claim there is a sort of aura about the real thing that can never be duplicated except to the casual observer.”

  “What you are saying,” said Peralta impatiently and with a bite in his voice, “is that it is unlikely such a substitution could have been made without Mrs. Peralta’s knowledge.”