The Uncomplaining Corpses Read online

  He stood up, shaking his head while his wife scanned his face anxiously.

  “You didn’t mean that about running away, did you, Michael? You’ll stay here and clear it up, won’t you? You always have.”

  Shayne grinned down at her. “I meant it for your sake, angel, I didn’t know how you were going to take it. If I can’t clear Joe it’s going to be all up with me as a private detective. I’ll have my license revoked and I’ll be on the black list of every state in the Union.”

  “Then you’ll have to clear Joe.” Mrs. Michael Shayne summed the thing up simply and firmly.

  “With every card in the deck stacked against me,” Shayne muttered. He turned into the living-room and Phyllis followed him, saying excitedly:

  “I’d check up on Carl Meldrum, If Joe didn’t do it, he must have. Mrs. Thrip admitted she was afraid of him. He probably got mad because she didn’t pay off on his notes and killed her in a fit of rage. She said he had terrible rages at times, and he was there last night at about the right time.”

  Shayne stopped near the door, rubbing his lean jaw with its red bristle of beard. He didn’t mention his visit to Meldrum at his hotel nor the special delivery from Mona. He said, “That isn’t much of a motive for murder. As long as she was alive he had reason to believe he might be able to blackmail her. With her dead, that opportunity is gone.”

  “But he’s got his clutches on Dorothy,” Phyllis reminded him. “She’ll come into money. Maybe he thought it would be easier to squeeze it from her than from her stepmother.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe.” He reached a long arm out for his hat and turned to kiss Phyllis good-by. She clung to him, then stepped back and gave him a little shove toward the door. “I’ll be betting on you, Detective Shayne, and I might even be able to help some.”

  Shayne was on the point of explaining just how much she had already helped when there was a light rap on the door. He put Phyllis aside and opened the door. He frowned when he saw Dora standing in the hall. Her eyes were enormous beneath the floppy brim of her hat, bloodshot and distended. She didn’t have any powder on her face and her cheeks had a scrubbed look. She wore a sleazy black dress that bulged in front, silk stockings with runs in them, and scuffed red slippers.

  She stared at Shayne as though she didn’t recognize him, stared past him at Phyllis.

  Shayne put a big hand on her elbow and drew her inside. Her fingers were clenched tightly in front of her on the clasp of a shabby patent leather bag.

  Shayne said, “This is Mrs. Darnell, darling.”

  Phyllis exclaimed, “Oh!” and started forward impulsively, holding out both her hands to the girl.

  Dora made no move to take her offered hand. She stood looking at Phyllis with the same tragic lack of expression that had greeted Shayne. She wet her lips and said tonelessly, “Your wife, huh?”

  “Yes. I’m Mrs. Shayne.” Phyllis caught her underlip between her teeth and glanced anxiously aside at Michael.

  He had taken a step back and was watching Dora intently. Getting no response from him, Phyllis took Dora’s arm and urged her toward the divan, saying solicitously:

  “Michael feels so terrible about Joe. And—oh, I’m so sorry. I—know how you must feel.”

  Dora said, “No, you don’t.” She sat down stiffly, staring straight in front of her with terrifying fixity. The knuckles of her hands were strained and white with their grip on her bag.

  “The reason you don’t know how I feel is because you’re married to him.” Dora nodded toward the detective. She sounded as though she was honestly trying to make Phyllis understand. She went on flatly: “Joe and me was goin’ to get married today.”

  Phyllis glanced down at the girl’s swollen body in quick comprehension. She sank to her knees and caught Dora’s hand in hers. “That’s—oh, that’s too terrible,” she breathed.

  Dora jerked her hand away with a violent gesture. “I ain’t—I’m not wanting your sympathy. That don’t help any. He sent Joe out there.” Again she nodded toward Shayne, who was still standing in the background.

  He moved forward while Phyllis sank back on the floor. He said, “That’s right, Dora. I sent Joe out there. I’m not likely to forget that. I’m doing my best to make it up to him.”

  “How can you make it up? What can you do? What can anybody do? Joe’s dead.”

  Shayne said, “I know. But you’re going to have his child. Don’t forget that, Dora.”

  “As if I could.” Her voice rose shrilly. “It’ll be tainted. Marked with murder—with a murder Joe didn’t do.” She was tensed and her eyes held a wild glitter in their depths. Thin white fingers played with the clasp on her bag. “Joe didn’t do it. He didn’t do what they say.”

  “Of course not,” Phyllis soothed her. She reached forward to touch Dora’s fingers. “Michael knows Joe didn’t. He just told me so. He’s after the real criminal right now. Everything will come out all right.”

  Dora blinked her eyes and looked down at Phyllis’s shining dark head as though just becoming aware of her presence.

  “He done it. It’s your man’s fault.” She spoke slowly, as though it was by painful effort. “Joe trusted him, you know. It was him that got Joe to go straight and that’s why he was—why we were so broke we couldn’t get married. Las’ night we were—happy, and thought everything was going to be just grand.” She was silent. A tear trickled out of her left eye and down her cheek.

  She blinked at the tear, staring down at Phyllis with feral intensity.

  “It ain’t right,” she said tonelessly. “It ain’t fair. Other people having everything and me with nothing. Not even Joe. Not even a father for my baby.” She threw Phyllis’s hand away suddenly and her fingers dived into her shabby black bag.

  Her hand came out clutching a tiny, stubby automatic and it was pointing upward at Shayne before he saw it.

  Phyllis gasped and threw herself against the girl’s legs as the automatic spurted flame. A bullet whizzed past the detective’s face and buried itself in the ceiling.

  Phyllis’s hand closed over Dora’s and she struggled with her for the weapon. Shayne stepped backward and watched them, amazement and pride fighting for precedence on his face.

  His lips twitched in a broad grin when Phyllis settled back with the pistol in her possession while Dora slumped down sobbing.

  “What are you grinning about?” Phyllis panted. “Why, you—she might have killed you.”

  “Not while I have such an able protector.” He held out his hand. “Better give me that toy before it does some damage.”

  Reluctantly, Phyllis dropped the .25 into his palm. Then she got up and bent over Dora, patting her shaking shoulders and comforting her with low words.

  Shayne went to a desk in the corner and dropped the pistol into a drawer. He went back and kissed Phyllis’s hair and muttered, “You’re pretty swell doings, angel. I’ll leave you two gals to fight it out.”

  Tears were rolling down Phyllis’s own cheeks when he went out and left them together.

  Chapter Eight: THE GHOST OF MURDER PAST

  A HORSE-FACED BUTLER WITH SOLEMN EYES opened the Thrip door for Shayne. Before the detective could speak he murmured, “I beg your pardon, sir, but you are not perhaps aware there has been an—ah—tragedy here and I don’t believe—”

  “I’m fully aware of it,” Shayne assured him pleasantly, pressing forward.

  The butler gave way reluctantly, protesting, “Mr. Thrip is indisposed and has given strict orders that no one is to be admitted.”

  “He’ll see me. But first I want to ask you a couple of questions about the man who was killed in your mistress’s room last night. Did you admit him at five when he first came?”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler’s long nose quivered and his watery eyes turned a paler blue. “I’ll never forgive myself for not sending him about his business as I was tempted to do. I judged him to be a low criminal type but I knew Mr. Thrip was expecting a detective and I guessed immediately t
hat the man belonged in that category. But my first impression proved correct, sir, and I shouldn’t have allowed—”

  “Exactly what did he say when he asked for Mr. Thrip?” Shayne broke in impatiently.

  “He said he had an appointment—that a man named Shayne had sent him. As I have already reported to the police—”

  “All right.” Shayne cut him off. “So you took him to Thrip. What then?”

  “I have no idea, sir. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean nor why these questions should be directed at me.” The man folded his arms with solemn dignity.

  “I’m trying to find out who killed Mrs. Thrip,” Shayne said bluntly. “If you’re interested in helping, you’ll answer my questions truthfully.”

  The butler’s jaw sagged. Anger turned his gaunt cheeks a rosy hue. “I don’t know who you are nor what right you have to question me.”

  “I’m Shayne,” the detective growled. “And don’t start accusing me of murder or I’ll slough you one. I’m tired of getting the run-around.”

  The butler pulled the door open and pointed outside. “If I may suggest—”

  “You may, and to hell with you.” Shayne set himself solidly with his jaw jutting. “You’ll either give me information or I’ll beat it out of you.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” The butler gulped. His Adam’s apple slid up and down rapidly.

  “Where did Thrip talk to Darnell—in which room?”

  “In the library, sir.”

  “Alone?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “And it was the library window that was found open later in the night?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Shayne said, “H-m-m.”

  “If I may say so, it is my theory that the criminal unlatched the window while he waited in there for Mr. Thrip to come down. I suggested that possibility to the police and they concurred heartily.”

  “You’re a big help,” Shayne muttered, “All right, let’s get on from there. Did they go out of the library after their conference? Together, I mean.”

  “If my memory serves me right, Mr. Thrip showed the fellow over the upstairs, probably in the belief that the man could fulfill his duties more efficiently if he was acquainted—”

  “Leave your conjectures out of it,” Shayne snapped. “Was Mrs. Thrip at home when the man was here?”

  “No, sir. She arrived some time later. She inquired about the man you were to send and appeared deeply gratified when I informed her the fellow had talked with Mr. Thrip earlier and had departed.”

  “Who locks up at night?”

  “It is one of my duties, but Mr. Thrip is often in the library late and he allows me to retire without closing up in there.”

  “Is that what happened last night?”

  “Yes, sir. Otherwise I would have tested all the windows and the tragedy might have been averted.”

  Shayne changed the subject abruptly, asking him about the other servants.

  There were, it appeared, two maids, a cook, and the chauffeur besides the butler employed in the Thrip mansion. They all slept on the third floor and the butler said they had all retired about 11:30. The butler explained that the corps of servants was quite inadequate to the duties to be performed, and that they were usually tired and retired early. The servants were aware of a strain upon the household and it was impossible for them not to learn of existing conditions by a word overheard here and there. They were a little on edge and nervous, but they had been given to understand that there was a private detective guarding the house and all of them had slept more soundly than on any night since Mrs. Thrip began receiving the threatening notes.

  After learning that Mr. Thrip had been left in the library, that Mrs. Thrip was in her bedroom, and that Dorothy and Ernst were out last night instead of “having a gang in the house,” Shayne demanded to be taken to Mr. Thrip.

  With a be-it-on-your-own-head look on his long face, the butler acquiesced and led Shayne up the stairs, past the closed door of the fatal room, and to a door standing ajar just beyond.

  The man started to rap, but Shayne caught his arm and pulled it back when he heard Thrip talking to someone inside. Pushing the butler aside after a gesture commanding perfect quiet, Shayne opened the door silently and walked into a living-room connecting two bedrooms, a duplicate of the one across the hall between Dorothy and Ernst’s rooms.

  Thrip was talking over the telephone. He sat in a low chair with his back to the door. He wore a dressing-gown of black satin with yellow piping. Smoke curled up from a partly smoked cigar in an elaborate smoking-stand beside the chair, Moving silently forward on the thick rug, Shayne saw that the French phone was a jade color ornamented with gold.

  “Why don’t you come out in the open so that I can know what I’m fighting?” Thrip was saying irritatedly. “Your veiled threats mean nothing to me. I won’t listen further to such nonsense. Reveal your identity and I’ll deal with you.”

  Shayne was standing behind Thrip when he clicked the instrument on its prongs and turned to pick up his cigar.

  It was as if Thrip felt rather than heard Shayne in the room. He turned, frowned, and demanded fretfully, “How did you get in and what do you mean by eavesdropping?”

  “I’m a detective,” Shayne’s wide mouth curved in a sardonic grin. “I didn’t want to interrupt your interesting conversation so I waited until you finished.”

  “You’re well supplied with brazen effrontery, Shayne,” the realtor observed bitingly. “After what took place in the next room last night I should think you’d hesitate to show your face in my house.”

  Shayne laughed shortly. He slouched down into a chair and ill a cigarette. “Granting that Darnell did choke your wife, you’re as much to blame as I am, Thrip.”

  Thrip’s face turned darkly florid. His underlip trembled like a pendulum gone out of control. “You’d better leave, Shayne. I don’t propose to listen to your insults.”

  “I’m staying, and you’ll listen to what I have to say.” He crossed his long legs and settled his left arm comfortably. He took a deep puff from his cigarette, emitted smoke slowly, and said, “Don’t forget that I know why Darnell was here—why he jimmied the window and—the reason for his coming upstairs at an early hour in the morning.”

  Thrip tucked his cigar into the pouch of his thick lips, took a deep puff before replying. “I’ve explained to the police and they’re satisfied. You sent him in response to my request for a guard because of the threatening notes my wife had been receiving lately.”

  Shayne simulated amazement. “Is that the story you cooked up? I wondered how you were going to get around the truth.”

  “You will make matters very difficult for yourself if you contradict my story. You have no proof to the contrary and the police have the threatening notes.” Thrip leaned back in the low chair. A long breath wheezed through his nostrils.

  “You mean there actually were some notes?” Shayne leaned forward attentively.

  “Of course. As I am prepared to take oath, I explained to you yesterday afternoon.”

  Their eyes met briefly. Thrip’s were calmly triumphant.

  Shayne’s bushy red brows came down over half-closed gray eyes. He wondered whether Thrip knew of his wife’s visit to his apartment yesterday.

  “I begin to see your game,” Shayne said slowly. “I suppose not even your wife knew the true reason for Darnell’s presence here last night?”

  “Naturally not.” Thrip spoke with irritation. “A matter like that cannot be conducted without the utmost secrecy. Do you suppose my wife would have agreed to converting her jewels into cash? Not Leora. It made no difference to her that I needed a large sum of money desperately to swing a big deal.”

  Shayne leaned back comfortably and changed the position of his legs. “I’m just beginning to realize what a scoundrel you are, Thrip. You not only planned to defraud the insurance company, but also to steal your wife’s jewels and make her think the robbery genuine. By God, I’m beginning t
o think you did have a perfect crime planned. Too bad an accident had to upset it.”

  “My wife,” said Thrip coldly, “was mean and tyrannical. Since our marriage she has derived the most intense pleasure from being in a position to force me and my children to go to her for any sum of money beyond the inadequate allowances she grudgingly doled out. Not only was I refused the appointment as administrator of her deceased father’s estate, but she humiliated me by keeping control of every dollar of the income in her own hands.”

  “It was her money,” Shayne snapped.

  Thrip sat back in his chair looking straight ahead.

  Shayne studied his pudgy face. He could clearly imagine the obsession the man had built up through the years into a persecution complex. Thrip honestly felt he had grounds for righteous indignation at being refused control of his wife’s property. To such a man, Shayne cogitated, and with such a grievance, a plan to defraud both his wife and an insurance company would appear both reasonable and just.

  Shayne lit another cigarette and nodded as if in response to his deductions. “All right,” he said, “I get the picture. I don’t know that I blame you for taking steps. And I don’t blame you for keeping the truth concealed when things turned out as they did. As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t help my position any if it came out that I was conniving with you to pull a fake robbery of your wife’s jewels. Don’t worry about me talking out of turn. But what about those threatening notes you mention? Where are they?”

  “I turned them over to Mr. Painter this morning. There were three of them, threatening bodily harm to Leora unless she agreed to pay a hundred thousand dollars to the writer.”

  “Anonymous?” Shayne asked casually.

  “They were unsigned. She was directed to indicate her willingness to pay the sum demanded by placing an advertisement in the personal column of a newspaper.”

  “And she didn’t do this?”

  “She refused. As I have explained, my wife was not one to part with money easily. She pretended to dismiss the notes as the work of a harmless crank at first. Later she admitted she was worried and suggested we place the matter in the hands of a private detective. I confess my nervousness yesterday when she came to my office unexpectedly, but fortunately she spoke in such vague terms that you remained deceived.” There was a note of gratification in Thrip’s voice as though he preened himself on his cleverness in deception.