The Uncomplaining Corpses Read online

  The clerk told him 614, and he went up. Loud knocking brought no response. He tried three keys on a well-loaded ring before the door opened.

  Enough of the day’s first light came in an east window to show him a bulky figure lying face down on the bed. He closed the door and stepped to the side of the bed. He was relieved to hear heavy breathing and to smell the stale odor of liquor roiling up as Meldrum breathed.

  Chapter Six: NO HEED FROM A HEEL

  THE ROOM WAS IN PERFECT ORDER, the bed made and smooth except for the rumples around the inert body. The windows were closed and the sodden air somehow managed to give the room an atmosphere of disorder.

  Shayne opened a window and stood for a moment looking down at Carl Meldrum. His eyelids were wrinkled and unhealthy-looking. His cheeks were puffed and florid. He wore a tuxedo and black tie, and his blunt chin rested against the bow.

  Carl Meldrum groaned fretfully and tried to get his face out of the way of Shayne’s hard palm the first time Shayne slapped him. Shayne slapped him on the other cheek, cursing in a low monotone. He dragged Meldrum from the bed and placed him in a deep hotel chair where he slumped laxly. He began to whimper and little bubbles oozed out between his lips.

  He seemed to be trying to open his eyes but wasn’t quite able to make it. A large vein throbbed in his forehead and the bubbles continued to form at the corners of his lax mouth.

  Shayne tried slapping him again, with no result. His condition was evidently not altogether alcoholic. Shayne was familiar with all the symptoms of an alcoholic stupor and was frankly puzzled by Meldrum’s sodden condition. He knew that if he could get the slightest response from a drunk he would be able to slap him into some semblance of sensibility, but Meldrum had been whimpering and jerking ever since Shayne began working on him and he was no nearer consciousness than before. Shayne shook his head worriedly and wiped sweat from his forehead. It was hot work trying to slap life back into this senseless hulk. There was no doubt of Meldrum’s being drugged in addition to being drunk. He went to the window and leaned his elbows on the sill, looking out over the shimmering blue of the Atlantic Ocean, which was now touched with a red glow from the rising sun.

  The Herald would be on the streets with Painter’s story by this time. Early risers were rubbing their eyes and reading the headlines—many with astonishment and others with satisfaction. Ten years in Miami had made him many enemies and few friends. A lot of people were going to nod sagely this morning and say to each other, “I see they got Shayne at last. He’s had it coming for a long time.”

  He didn’t mind so much except for Phyllis. It was going to be tough on her.

  He turned from the window with his face grim. Meldrum’s eyes were open. They focused imperfectly but there was life in them. They shifted in red sockets, bulging a little, as if the swollen sockets shoved them outward.

  Shayne said, “Okay, Meldrum, come out of your fog.”

  Meldrum’s thick lips moved in and out against his teeth but he didn’t speak. He lifted his right hand in a limp, despairing gesture, then let it drop. Wrinkled lids closed over his eyes again.

  Breathing heavily through flaring nostrils, Shayne tangled his fingers in Meldrum’s hair. He crooked his elbow and lifted the man’s dead weight by a handful of hair. He dragged him into the bathroom and slid him to a sitting position in the tub. He turned the cold-water tap for the shower and stepped back, a frown creasing three vertical lines in his forehead.

  Meldrum remained supine, lolling against the edge of the tub. Shayne tried the hot-water tap, holding his hand under the shower until it was too hot for him to endure.

  Muscles twitched in Meldrum’s thick calves but he made no other movement. Convinced that the man wasn’t faking, Shayne turned off the water and left him bent over the tub.

  He went into the bedroom and began ransacking it. At the end of half an hour he had a tiny address book for his work. The book had been lying in plain sight in the top bureau drawer on top of a pile of clean handkerchiefs. He took another look in the bathroom and grunted with disgust when he saw that Meldrum had not moved, then went back and sat down on the edge of the bed to thumb through the address book.

  It seemed innocuous enough. There was nothing more incriminating than two or three dozen names and addresses scattered through it in alphabetical order. They were all feminine names, which was natural enough for a man of Meldrum’s type. Dorothy Thrip’s was next to the last name in the book. He slid the book into his breast pocket and his gray eyes roamed disconsolately around the room. An avid light gleamed in them when he espied a bottle of whisky on the bedside table. The top of it showed above the telephone.

  A few long strides took him within reach of the bottle. He uncorked it, sniffed the bouquet, held it up to the light and saw that it was a little more than half full. He tasted a few drops, washed it around in his mouth, nodded his head, and drank a long draught. His hand touched the telephone when he set it back on the table.

  Shayne lifted the receiver and asked for room service, then ordered two enormous breakfasts sent up to the room. He replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. He was surprised to find that he had spent nearly two hours working with Meldrum. He took another look in the bathroom. Meldrum had apparently not moved a muscle.

  Thirty minutes later two white-coated men brought a wheeled service table laden with food. Shayne said, “Mr. Meldrum is in the bathroom. Just leave everything covered and we’ll serve ourselves.” He took a card from one of the men and signed Carl Meldrum to the breakfast charge.

  Carefully arranging the table for two people, Shayne sat down and ate more than half of both breakfasts, his ears keen for a sound from the bathroom. When he finished, two sets of silverware had been used. He covered the table and wheeled it to the door, opened the door and peered out, and seeing no one in the hallway wheeled the table out.

  Back in the room he stood for a moment tugging at the lobe of his left ear, then went to the bathroom again. From a small ice-water spigot above the lavatory, he saturated a towel and slopped it over Carl Meldrum’s face; wet it again and wrung ice water over his hair and face. Meldrum moaned quietly and turned his head, but his eyes did not open. Shayne repeated the process for twenty minutes without effect.

  There was a knock on the door. Shayne dried his hands hurriedly and answered the knock. A postal messenger had a special delivery for Carl Meldrum.

  Shayne signed Carl Meldrum on the dotted line without hesitation, closed the door and locked it, and sat down on the bed with a blue envelope of heavy paper held gingerly in his hands.

  It was addressed in ink. The return address was M. Tabor, and a post office box number at the Little River Station. It had been mailed less than an hour before.

  Shayne opened it carefully to preserve any fingerprints and drew out a sheet of folded blue notepaper. He read:

  I have just seen the morning Herald and I would be dumber than I am if I couldn’t put two and two together. They add up to four and a tough lay for you. You should have come clean last night instead of lying to me. I’ve fixed it so you can say you were here from one o’clock on. Don’t try to beat me out of my split when the Thrip girl gets the money coming to her.

  Mona

  Shayne read it twice, then put the note in the envelope and slid it into an inside pocket.

  He took a last look in the bathroom and saw that Meldrum was inert in the tub. He shook his head, felt the man’s pulse to reassure himself, then shoved him down in the tub until his feet rested against the other end.

  Shayne didn’t bother to lock the door when he went out of the room. He drove along Fifth Street, where newsboys were getting rid of their morning Heralds in a hurry. Their raucous calls reached his ears faintly but he drove on to the causeway without stopping to buy a paper.

  In Miami he drove straight to the side entrance of his hotel, parked at the curb, and got out. He went in through a private entry and climbed the service stairway two flights to his old apartment, which
had been retained as an office.

  A thin-faced legman for the Herald was camped in front of his door. Shayne shouldered him aside and shook his head at the reporter’s questions. He put his key in the lock and went in, slamming the door shut behind him with unnecessary force. He went straight to the telephone and called Phyllis in their new apartment one flight up.

  When Phyllis answered, he said, “Hello, darling, I’ve been up to my neck in work. I’ll be home pretty quick.”

  “Thank goodness you still have a neck all in one piece,” she answered.

  “You’re not worried?” His voice was anxious.

  “Of course not. But hurry—I have breakfast ready.”

  Shayne grinned and said, “Okay,” and hung up. He looked at his watch. It was nine o’clock. He lifted the receiver and called the hotel desk clerk and asked if there were any messages.

  The clerk said, “A telegram came five minutes ago. I was just going to send it up.”

  Shayne said, “Send it up to my third-floor apartment. I’ll wait for it. Don’t send any messages to my living-apartment.”

  The clerk said, “Yes, Mr. Shayne,” and in two minutes a boy was at the door with the telegram.

  Shayne stared at the yellow envelope quizzically, then ripped it open.

  It was a telegram from Mr. Sorenson, an executive of a New York insurance firm which for three years had retained him on an annual basis as special investigator for their southern district. The message tersely quoted a clause in their contract and advised him that he was no longer connected with the firm as of that date.

  Shayne crumpled the yellow paper in his big fist and tossed it into the front drawer of his desk. He went out and up the one flight of stairs to his living-apartment.

  Chapter Seven: MARKED WITH MURDER

  THE AROMA OF HOT COFFEE came from the kitchen and Phyllis hurried out to meet him with outstretched arms and a smile courageously fixed on her lips. She didn’t say anything and neither did Shayne while she clung to him. Over the top of her head he saw a Herald crumpled up in one corner where she had evidently thrown it.

  A smell of burning accompanied by thin smoke poured from the kitchen. Phyllis let go of him with a little gasp. He watched her with somber eyes until she disappeared through the door, then he stalked to the liquor cabinet and poured a four-ounce drink. He was washing it down with a glass of sherry when he went into the kitchen.

  Phyllis had a fresh linen cloth on the table in the breakfast nook. Sunshine streamed through the windows onto a platter of scrambled eggs. She was anxiously bending over an electric waffle iron when he passed her to sit down.

  “Damn this thing,” she raged, “it’s overheating again. It’s all stuck on both sides.” Her voice was throaty with a suggestion of tears.

  Shayne patted her shoulder and slid onto the built-in seat. He said, “Chuck it out the window and I’ll buy you a new one.”

  She scraped out the remnants of a burned waffle and spread fresh batter on the grill. Shayne finished his sherry while she poured him a mug of coffee and silently set it before him.

  He sat with elbows hunched on the table, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Phyllis fussed with the waffle iron and the silence between them, continued until the pressure of unsaid things became more than Phyllis could endure. She said:

  “A Mr. Gaston called just before you came in. He said you needn’t bother to keep your appointment with him today.”

  Shayne said, “U-m-m.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the stream of sunshine.

  With a little gasp of triumph Phyllis slid a crisp brown waffle on a plate in front of Michael. “He was—Isn’t he the man who had that important assignment he wanted you to take?”

  “U-m-m.” He spread butter on the hot waffle and watched it melt with outward symptoms of pleasure. He said, “I’ve had breakfast, angel, but I can’t resist this waffle. It’s perfect.” He dished fluffy scrambled eggs onto his plate. “It’s damned swell being married to you.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. She turned to the sink and wiped viciously at the wetness with a tea towel. A second waffle was ruined when she got back to look at the iron. She swore at it under her breath and unplugged the iron. Long black lashes trembled down over her eyes.

  Shayne laughed suddenly, and it was real laughter. He set his plate over for her, caught her and pulled her down on the bench opposite him.

  “How can you laugh, Michael? Do you know what they’re saying about you in the morning paper?”

  “I imagine I’m thoroughly drawn and quartered, tossed to the wolves, as it were. Does it make any difference to you, Phyl?”

  “Mike! You know it doesn’t!” She spilled coffee on the white cloth.

  “You’re not ashamed of a husband who is a murderer to all intents and purposes?”

  “Don’t, Michael.” Tears glistened in her wide dark eyes but she met his gaze frankly. “I called up the Herald and told them what I thought about their nasty, lying insinuations.”

  Shayne chuckled, then soberly reminded her, “There’s always that log cabin waiting for us in Colorado if I get run out of town.”

  “You won’t,” she cried intensely. “You’ll stay right here and clear yourself.”

  “It looks bad for the shock troops. I did send Joe Darnell out there, you know.”

  “Then he didn’t do what you told him to do—not if he killed Mrs. Thrip.”

  “What makes you so positive?”

  “Because I know you. You’re not—Oh, Michael! you don’t think he assaulted Mrs. Thrip, do you?”

  “Of course not, angel. I know that Darnell didn’t for the same reason you know that I wouldn’t have sent a killer out there.” He paused to empty his coffee mug, then told her about Joe and Dora while she refilled it.

  “Joe was on the level,” he went on with a grimace. “He played outside the law but I would trust him further than many men who hide behind legal technicalities instead of using a gun to take what they want. Any man who honestly plans to marry a girl like Dora doesn’t go out and deliberately attack a middle-aged woman.”

  “I knew it.” Gladness radiated from Phyllis. “Now all you have to do is prove how wrong they are about Joe.”

  “That’s all,” Shayne agreed grimly. “The worst hurdle is explaining why Joe was in the room masked at that ungodly hour of the morning.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “I know why he was there,” Shayne told her. “But only one other man knows and I can’t expect Arnold Thrip to back up my story by admitting he was planning an insurance fraud.”

  When Phyllis wrinkled her smooth brow in perplexity Shayne told her about his interview with the realtor the previous afternoon.

  “He no doubt plans to use those threatening notes as his sole reason for asking me to assign a man to his house,” Shayne concluded. “Even his wife thought that’s what it was all about. He probably first got the idea from her insistence that she turn it over to a private detective. Now things have gone wrong and he has a perfect out.”

  “Do you think he killed Joe?”

  “I have no doubt of it, In perfect sincerity, probably. I’m willing to accept his story as the truth until it’s proved otherwise, but I question the conclusion he drew when he turned on the light and saw his wife strangled and Joe near her bed.”

  “You think someone else killed her?”

  “That’s the way it has to be. I know why Joe climbed in a window and sneaked up there masked. He must have heard something that made him suspicious—something that drew him into the bedroom—we’ll never know what. A dying moan, maybe, a convulsive movement of stiffening muscles. At any rate, Joe must have made the fatal mistake of stepping aside to investigate—which drew a bullet from the husband who sees his wife lying in bed murdered.”

  “It’s horrible.” Phyllis shuddered. “With everybody thinking Joe did it they won’t look any further. And if Mr. Thrip doesn’t tell why Joe was upstairs no one will ever believe he
didn’t break in expressly to attack poor Mrs. Thrip.”

  “We might as well take it for granted that Thrip isn’t going to tell the truth. When his plan miscarried he even took the precaution of ditching the jewel box and the incriminating thousand-dollar bill inside of it. For which we can’t blame him,” he went on calmly. “Why should he admit the truth? He won’t have to pull the fake theft now. Coming into his wife’s fortune will put him beyond such a necessity in the future. His two youngsters can stop hating their stepmother and start spending her money.”

  “What about Carl Meldrum?” Phyllis asked sharply. “Where was he last night?”

  “Dorothy Thrip says he left nearly a half-hour before the murder took place.”

  “Which murder?” Phyllis asked sharply. “If your version is right, Mrs. Thrip might have been killed any time before the moment that Mr. Thrip caught Joe Darnell in her bedroom and shot him.”

  “Good for you, angel. That’s putting your finger on what the newspapers would call the crux of the affair. With the present setup no one has bothered to check the times of death closely. Painter and his crew are assuming that they died practically simultaneously and that assumption suits Peter Painter right down to his little number seven boots. He’s got a ready-made victim unable to tell his own story—and it has the added virtue of putting me on the spot. I can’t expect any official help in proving that her death occurred before Joe’s.”

  “But can’t you prove at least that Joe wasn’t working for you when it happened? That you just tipped him off about the money in the jewel box?” She paused reflectively, then added, “And there’s Dora—I feel terribly sorry for her—maybe her testimony about them needing the money so badly to get married—and the baby and all.”

  “We’d better leave Dora out of it. She’d probably ball everything up if a lawyer got hold of her. I can tell my story,” he explained patiently, “but I haven’t an iota of proof to back it up.” His mouth tightened grimly; his eyes were sober. “Unless I can make Thrip admit his reason for calling me in yesterday,” he ended harshly.