Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

He hadn’t been conning her as to his need for her in the deal. He needed her all right. He needed help, needed her to front for him, so he wouldn’t have to look around on his own and arouse curiosity when he asked questions of strangers. That part was straight enough.

But, all along, he had believed what Mike told him about Helen — that she was a good-looking doll, the kind of dame you read about in the paperback books. He had coked himself up on the idea of finding the dough and going away with her, of having a real ball.

Well, that part was out.

He made a face in the darkness as he remembered the clammy fat of her, the wheezing and the panting and the clutching. No, he couldn’t take much more of that. But he had had to go through with it, it was part of the plan. He needed her on his side, and that was the best way to keep her in line.

But now he’d have to decide on the next move. If they found the dough, how could he be sure of her, once they made the split? He didn’t want to be tied to this kitchen mechanic, and there had to be a way.

“Darling, are you awake?”

Her voice! And calling him “darling.” He shuddered, then controlled himself.

“Yeah.” He doused the cigarette in an ash tray.

“Do you feel like talking now?”

“Sure.”

“I thought maybe we’d better make plans.”

“That’s what I like, a practical dame.” He forced a smile into his voice. “You’re right, baby. The sooner we get to work the better.” He sat up and turned to her. “Let’s start at the beginning — with what Mike told me, before he died. He said they’d never find the money, they couldn’t — because Pete still had it.”

For a moment Helen Krauss was silent. Then she said, “Is that all?”

“All? What more do you want? It’s plain as the nose on your face, isn’t it? The dough is hidden with Pete Taylor’s body.”

He could feel Helen’s breath on his shoulder. “Never mind the nose on my face,” she said. “I know where that is. But for two years, all the cops in the county haven’t been able to find Pete Taylor’s body.” She sighed. “I thought you really had something, but I guess I was wrong. I should of known.”

Rusty grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t talk like that! We’ve got the answer we need. All we got to do now is figure where to look.”

“Sure. Real easy!” Her tone dripped sarcasm.

“Think back, now. Where did the cops look?”

“Well, they searched our place, of course. We were living in a rented house, but that didn’t stop them. They tore up the whole joint, including the cellar. No dice there.”

“Where else?”

“The sheriff’s department had men out for a month, searching the woods around Norton’s Center. They covered all the old barns and deserted farmhouses too, places like that. They even dragged the lake. Pete Taylor was a bachelor — he had a little shack in town and one out at the lake, too. They ripped them both apart. Nothing doing.”

Rusty was silent. “How much time did Mike have between picking up Pete and coming back home again?”

“About three hours.”

“Hell, then he couldn’t have gone very far, could he? The body must be hid near town.”

“That’s just how the police figured. I tell you, they did a job. They dug up the ditches, drained the quarry. It was no use.”

“Well, there’s got to be an answer somewhere. Let’s try another angle. Pete Taylor and your husband were pals, right?”

“Yes. Ever since we got married, Mike was thick with him. They got along great together.”

“What did they do? I mean, did they drink, play cards or what?”

“Mike wasn’t much on the sauce. Mostly, they just hunted and fished. Like I say, Pete Taylor had this shack out at the lake.”

“Is that near Norton’s Center?”

“About three miles out.” Helen sounded impatient. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s no good. I tell you, they dug things up all around there. They even ripped out the floorboards and stuff like that.”

“What about sheds, boathouses?”

“Pete Taylor didn’t have anything else on his property. When Mike and him went fishing, they borrowed a boat from the neighbors down the line.” She sighed again. “Don’t think I haven’t tried to figure it out. For two years, I’ve figured, and there just isn’t any answer.”

Rusty found another cigarette and lit it. “For fifty-six grand, there’s got to be an answer,” he said. “What happened the day Pete Taylor was killed? Maybe there’s something you forgot about.”

“I don’t know what happened, really. I was at home, and Mike had the day off, so he went downtown to bum around.”

“Did he say anything before he left? Was he nervous? Did he act funny?”

“No — I don’t think he had anything planned, if that’s what you mean. I think it was just one of those things — he found himself in the car with Pete Taylor and all this money, and he just decided to do it.

“Well, they figured it was all planned in advance. They said he knew it was payroll day, and how Pete always went to the bank in his car and got the money in cash. Old Man Huggins at the factory was a queer duck, and he liked to pay that way. Anyway, they say Pete went into the bank, and Mike must have been waiting in the parking lot behind.

“They think he sneaked over and stole Pete’s car keys, so, when he came out with the guard, Pete couldn’t get started. Mike waited until the guard left, then walked over and noticed Pete, as if it was an accident he happened to be there, and asked what the trouble was.

“Something like that must have happened, because the guy in the parking lot said they talked, and then Pete got into Mike’s car and they drove off together. That’s all they know, until Mike came home alone almost three hours later.”

Rusty nodded. “He came home to you, in the car, alone. What did he say?”

“Nothing much. There wasn’t time, I guess. Because the squad car pulled up about two minutes after he got in the house.”

“So fast? Who tipped them off?”

“Well, naturally the factory got worried when Pete never showed with the payroll. So Old Man Huggins called the bank, and the bank checked with the cashier and the guard, and somebody went out and asked around in the parking lot. The attendant told about how Pete had left in Mike’s car. So they came around here, looking for him.”

“Did he put up any struggle?”

“No. He never even said a word. They just took him away. He was in the bathroom, washing up.”

“Much dirt on him?” Rusty asked.

“Just his hands, is all. They never found anything they could check up on in their laboratories, or whatever. His shoes were muddy, I think. There was a big fuss because his gun was missing. That was the worst part, his taking the gun with him. They never found it, of course, but they knew he’d owned one, and it was gone. He said he’d lost it months beforehand but they didn’t believe him.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, he had a cut on his hand. It was bleeding a little when he came in. I noticed it and asked him about it. He was halfway upstairs, and he said something about rats. Later, in court, he told them he’d caught his hand in the window-glass, and that’s why there was blood in the car. One of the windows was cracked. They analyzed the blood, and it wasn’t his type. It checked with Pete Taylor’s blood-type record.”

Rusty took a deep drag. “But he didn’t tell you that when he came home. He said a rat bit him.”

“No — he just said something about rats, I couldn’t make out what. In court, the doctor testified he’d gone upstairs and cut his hand open with a razor. They found his razor on the wash-stand, and it was bloody.”