The Careless Corpse Page 6

  “They believed and tried to prove that I was his willing accomplice,” she continued in the same dead tone. “But there was no proof. Legally, I was guilty of no more than a foolish indiscretion, though both my employer and the police persisted in believing I was as guilty as he. He was sentenced to twenty years in jail, and I was discharged under a cloud of suspicion.” She paused and viciously stabbed out her cigarette in an ashtray between them. Her blue eyes, still holding his steadily, had become pools of agony. Shayne asked gently, “Do the Peraltas know about this affair on Long Island?”

  “Of course not. Who would employ Marsha Elitzen if they knew? Who would trust that woman in their home… to care for their child? I came to Miami and I chose the name of Briggs. It seemed to me solid and substantial… and far removed from Elitzen. I faked some references with two friends who knew the truth and felt sorry for me. It wasn’t difficult. Few people today check a servant’s references carefully. Particularly people like the Peraltas with two children like the twins to be looked after. They were happy to employ me… after a succession of four other governesses in less than a year. So I have been happy and thinking I could make a new life under a new name… until this. Until the bracelet was stolen. And then I saw it as a recurrence… as a judgment on me. I have been waiting for the police to check more carefully into my background… to learn the truth about me.”

  Shayne thoughtfully pulled at his left earlobe between thumb and forefinger, and then finished his drink. He asked abruptly, “Is the situation today the same as it was on Long Island?”

  The question appeared to take her completely by surprise. She put both hands up to her cheeks and opened her mouth into an O and inhaled deeply.

  “You mean,” she faltered, “do I have another lover who may have betrayed me by stealing the bracelet? No! There is no one. I swear it. I have learned my lesson. I hate and despise all men.”

  Her heaving bosom and flashing eyes attested this. “There has been no man in Miami,” she declared vehemently. “But would that matter to the police if they knew? You know I would be judged guilty without a trial. I would be arrested and tried in the newspapers. They would say it cannot be coincidence.”

  Shayne looked down at the typewritten anonymous letter and tapped it with a blunt forefinger. “All right. I’ll take your word for that, Miss… Marsha. Now! Who wrote this letter to you?”

  For answer, she silently lifted the bar-bill and looked at the total, then took a bill from her purse and laid it atop the check. “I have paid your retainer,” she said composedly. “You will find out for me?”

  Shayne grinned at her spunk in so replying. He said, “With a little help from you, I’ll try. To begin with, how many people know who you are and that you have taken the name of Briggs?”

  “Only two… and those two I will swear by. They helped with my references, as I told you. I trust them both as I would my own mother.”

  Shayne said harshly, “That’s not good enough.” He tapped the letter again. “This wasn’t written by your mother.”

  “No.” Color suffused her cheeks. “That much I do admit.”

  “By whom?” urged Shayne. “You must have some idea. Some man who’s tried to make love to you and whom you’ve repulsed? Some man who knew you in the North and followed you down here? You must have some inkling to his identity.”

  “There has been no man in Miami, Mr. Shayne. I swear it. Except Mr. Freed.” Her lips curved in a faint gamine smile and merriment danced in her eyes.

  “Freed?” Shayne did a fast double-take, and shook his head flatly. “Even the twins have him tagged for a fairy. You’ll have to give me someone better than that.”

  She shook her head and pursed her lips in a small moue. “It is simple for a man like yourself to have a positive opinion about one with Nat’s physical appearance. But I am not so sure.”

  “You mean,” asked Shayne bluntly, “that he isn’t a homo?”

  “He may have such tendencies, but I can assure you he is at the very least, ambivalent. No, that is not the word I mean,” Marsha hurried on in embarrassment. “Ambidextrous, perhaps? I know that he and Felice were… intimate. And he has said things to me… small innuendos, with a sly suggestiveness in his voice, which I have pretended not to understand.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you think Nathaniel Freed may have written this note?”

  “I am telling you he is the only man I have met in Miami who could have written it,” she responded with spirit.

  “How about some man you knew in the North who has recognized you here?”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” she cried, despairingly. “None who might write a letter like that. There have been men who made love to me in the past,” she went on reflectively, “but I can’t think of any who might know I’m working for the Peraltas and using the name of Marsha Briggs.”

  “What do you intend to do about this telephone call at midnight?”

  Marsha looked down at the change the waiter had left beside her, and pushed it away. “I am your client now,” she told him composedly.

  “Make the phone call,” Shayne told her. “Say exactly what he says to say, and then hang up.” He made a mental note of the telephone number and shoved the letter back to her.

  “And… the assignation?”

  Shayne said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, tell me where the twins got hold of the cyanide they fed the Boxers?”

  The question took Marsha completely off base. She looked at him with round frightened eyes. “How do you know about the dogs?”

  Shayne said, “I’m a detective. One who detects. What about the poison?”

  “I don’t think the children did it, Mr. Shayne. Whoever told you they did, is…” She paused, searching for a word.

  Shayne asked, gently, “Didn’t they admit it?”

  “They boasted of it.” Her nice lips curved in a curious, contemplative smile. “They are queer ones, those twins. So old in some ways, and yet…” She paused, shaking her head earnestly. “Sometimes I think I will never understand them. Their rearing in a foreign country with no mother. Only nurses and native maids for companionship. And a father who is…” She paused again, compressing her lips.

  “What sort of man is Julio Peralta?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. A curious mixture of soft idealism and harsh parental authority. It is all mixed up somehow with the political situation in Cuba. I don’t understand that. People coming and going at night, and secret conferences.”

  “What’s that got to do with the poisoning of two dogs?”

  “Nothing, probably. Yet, perhaps everything. They were Laura’s dogs,” she explained. “He hated them. I think she insisted on keeping them because he did hate them. I think the twins made up their story of poisoning them just to infuriate her more… and perhaps to please their father.”

  “What sort of story did they tell?”

  “That they got the cyanide from the house next door… where they are forbidden to go. It is closed for the season with only a caretaker. And yet I see lights sometimes late at night, and boats docking there from the Inland Waterway. This is a forbidden subject at the Peralta house. I think it has some connection with his political activities. He was furiously angry once when he learned that Felice had been seeing the caretaker at night. He would have discharged her, but Laura would not allow it.”

  “Felice is the maid who was fired after the bracelet was stolen? I want her address from you, by the way. Mr. Peralta said you would have it.”

  “Yes. It is here in my bag.” She started to open her handbag, but Shayne intervened. “What sort of investigation was made into the poisoning of the dogs?”

  “None. Laura was furious and wanted to call the police, but Mr. Peralta refused. Perhaps he believed the twins did do it, and kept it quiet on that account.”

  “But you don’t?” persisted Shayne.

  Marsha sighed wearily and twisted her hands together on the table in fr
ont of her. “I told you I think I will never understand what goes on in those young minds. When it happened, I had the impression that their father encouraged them, at least, to make up their story of poisoning the dogs.”

  “At least?” Shayne asked alertly.

  She gave him a tired smile. “I know it’s all mixed up and confused. If Mr. Peralta learns I’ve discussed it with you, I’m sure he’ll fire me at once.” She looked at her watch. “I must be getting back to them.”

  “One thing before you go.” Shayne put his hand on her arm. “This caretaker next door whom Felice used to see? You think he poisoned the dogs, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. I think he may have even given the poison to the twins and told them how to do it. He is an evil man.”

  Shayne settled back and got out a notebook. “Let’s not forget Felice’s address.”

  “No.” She opened her bag. “It is in Miami.” She found a small address book and thumbed through it, and read out a street address in the Northeast section. “Felice Perrin,” she told him.

  She hesitated while he wrote it down, then said impulsively, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but… I don’t think you’ll find her at home until much later tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you how she was friendly with the caretaker of the empty house next door. Brad his first name is. I don’t know the other.”

  Shayne nodded. “And that Peralta disapproved strenuously of her seeing him.”

  “He was terribly angry and forbade her ever to see the man again. My room is on the top floor, Mr. Shayne, overlooking the house next door. That is why I have noticed lights late at night and boats coming up to the dock. There is a high, stone wall around the entire estate, with iron gates in front that are kept padlocked. On the other side of the grounds is a smaller side entrance that is also kept locked, but is used by Brad when he goes in or out. Felice had a key to that entrance. She showed it to me one night.”

  Marsha paused, dropping her eyes demurely from Shayne’s intent gaze. “Felice is not bad,” she said, as though trying to convince herself of the fact. “She is young and light-hearted, and sex to her is a natural instinct or function.”

  Shayne nodded. “You mentioned that Freed had been her lover.”

  “Hardly her lover, Mr. Shayne. That was before she met Brad. He was no more than a… convenience, I would say.”

  Shayne brought her back to the immediate subject. “You say Felice had a key to the side entrance.”

  “Yes. From my room, the high wall cuts off the view from the other side of the entrance, but through the trees I can see a small part of the walk in from the gate. At dusk tonight, just before real darkness, I heard a car drive up beyond the side gate and stop. I watched out my window idly, and in a few moments saw Brad hurry out the walk to the gate. It opened before he quite reached it, and a woman hurried in. She stumbled and he caught her in his arms and supported her up the path out of my sight. I could not see her face, but she was young and slender and I had a quick impression it was Felice. The car drove away almost at once. A taxi, perhaps. I did not see it.”

  “So you think Felice has kept the key and continues to visit the caretaker at night?”

  “There is one other small reason I think it was she. She had been drinking with Brad the night she showed me the key, and she boasted of the exciting time they had together. He is supposed to live in the servants’ quarters over the boathouse, but, for their lovemaking, he took her to the master bedroom in the big house and brought up champagne from the cellar. That bedroom is on the second-floor with windows on my side.”

  “And?” Shayne pressed her when she stopped.

  “Tonight, soon after the brief scene at the gate, lights came on in that room behind drawn shades. They remained on until I went downstairs to dinner. That is why I think Felice will be late reaching home tonight.”

  Shayne looked at his watch and said easily, “I have another stop to make first anyway.”

  “I know,” she said composedly, without amplifying what she knew. “No matter how late you call on Felice,” she went on with a twinkle in her eyes, “I am very sure she will be most welcoming.”

  Shayne had risen and pulled the end of the table back so she could slip out more easily. He paused, looking down at her. “Just what do you mean by that crack?”

  “It is not a crack,” she told him sweetly. “It is a fact of life. I think you will have rapport with Felice.” She stood up and tilted her head back to smile at him challengingly. “I like being your client, Michael Shayne,” she announced seriously and surprisingly.

  “You’ll make that phone call tonight?”

  “Yes. And now I will take a taxi back and you can hurry to the Green Jungle.”

  Shayne was taken aback for a moment. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “I saw Laura when she looked at you from the dining-table… and when she came back from talking with you.”

  Shayne took Marsha’s arm and led her toward the door.

  “The Green Jungle can wait. I’ll drive you back.”

  He led her firmly to Tim Rourke’s coupe and helped her in.

  SEVEN

  Shayne pulled to the side of the road in front of the stone gateposts marking the entrance to the Peralta house. A hundred feet beyond, he could see the high stone wall separating the Peralta grounds from its neighbor, and the second story of the big house beyond the wall.

  “The bedroom windows are dark now,” Marsha Elitzen said. “Perhaps Brad has taken her home earlier than I thought.”

  Shayne said, “Perhaps.”

  She opened the door on her side and slid out. She held the door open and told him, “If you could answer that telephone at midnight, Michael Shayne, it would be much easier for me to say ‘yes.’” She closed the door and walked up the driveway before Shayne could reply.

  He sat very still for a moment, and then moved the car forward slowly, keeping to the edge of the road and passing the corner of the ten-foot stone wall Marsha had mentioned. He slowed to a complete stop in front of the big iron gates at the main entrance, and pondered the situation for a moment, then drove on very slowly to the other corner of the wall which led straight back from the street to the bank of a canal connecting with the Inland Waterway. Beyond the closed estate was a large vacant area grown up with scrub pines and underbrush, and leading off the street outside the wall was a narrow pair of ruts which Shayne knew must lead to the service entrance described by Marsha.

  He turned into the ruts, leaving his headlights on, and half-way down the wall came to a graveled turn-around with wooden gates barring an archway leading into the estate.

  He cut off the motor and took time out to light a cigarette, making himself relax and getting the feel of the place.

  He could see nothing beyond the high wall at his left, and could hear nothing inside the grounds. Indeed, the night silence all around him was pervasive, and somehow threatening.

  The redhead took three, long, contemplative drags at his cigarette before leaning forward and opening the glove compartment where Timothy Rourke always carried an automatic pistol. He took it out and drew back the slide, saw the firing chamber was empty, pulled the slide back the rest of the way to insert a cartridge, and thumbed the safety into place.

  He left the headlights burning, directed straight forward along the wall where the entrance road ended, got out of the car and closed the door firmly, not slamming it but making no attempt to muffle the sound which was loud in the silence.

  He slid the loaded automatic into his hip pocket and walked briskly to the solid, wooden gates which were on hinges and met snugly in the middle. There was a Yale lock set flush with the surface near the edge of the right-hand gate, and when he pressed hard against it the gates did not budge a fraction, indicating the presence of a heavy and well-fitted latch.

  The headlights from the coupe behind him gave enough light for Shayne to see an electric button set in a wooden fra
me on the left.

  He hesitated a long moment before pressing the button, glancing up at the top of the gates, which were just above his head, and at the clear space above them beneath the stone arch. It would be simple enough to swing himself up and over the gates and inside the grounds without announcing his presence—if there were, indeed, anyone inside.

  Did he want to meet Brad just now? If the caretaker was amorously engaged with Felice, it wasn’t likely he would enjoy the interruption.

  But Shayne did want to talk to Felice, and, if she were here spending the evening surreptitiously, as Marsha suspected, the element of surprise at being caught in a compromising situation might bring more answers from her than he would get by a more conventional approach.

  At this point in his thinking, he hesitated no longer. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and toed it out, then put his forefinger firmly on the electric button and held it there for a dozen seconds.

  He could hear no sound of a bell inside to indicate that it was connected, but Marsha’s description of the arrival of Brad’s visitor that evening indicated that he must have been summoned to the gate by some means before it was unlocked.

  He waited for at least two full minutes, then put his finger on the button again and held it down for at least sixty seconds.

  Again, he waited a long time without getting any response whatever. He studied the tops of the gates once more and debated whether it would be wise to enter that way, and reluctantly decided against it. If Brad had taken Felice away (as Marsha somewhat naively surmised) then nothing much would be gained by entering the vacant grounds. If, on the other hand, the caretaker were inside the wall, he would be fully alerted by the ringing of the bell, and Shayne’s legal position would be indefensible if he swung himself over the gate.

  He turned away instead, and made his way down the path of the headlight beams alongside the wall toward the bank of the canal about a hundred feet away.