Brett Halliday - Bodies Are Where You Find Them

“It was that Marlow fellow — from the Parkview Hotel,” Rourke told him after his wound was taped up and he had downed the promised swig. He felt of his head tenderly. “Damned if I know what he hit me with. I saw him swing at me, and that’s all I saw.”

“Looks like a pair of brass knucks. Good thing he hit you in the head instead of a vulnerable spot. How’d he get in here?”

“I let him in. The buzzer kept ringing and I trotted to the door half asleep. Always the perfect host,” he ended irritably.

“And nine-tenths drunk. I told you to lay off. What did the young fool want?”

“We didn’t get that sociable. He thought I was you and started cursing me the minute I opened the door. He acted half crazy and wouldn’t listen to me. Frothing at the mouth, by God. I backed away, trying to tell him my name wasn’t Shayne, but I guess I didn’t sound convincing.”

Shayne looked around the room speculatively. The drawer of the center table was pulled out and its contents dumped on the floor. He went into the bedroom and found bureau drawers rifled, his suits pulled down from hangers and thrown to the floor.

He ruffled his red hair angrily, strode to the phone, and called the Parkview Hotel. Getting Cassidy on the wire, he talked to the house detective briefly and then went back to the living-room.

Rourke was reclining in an easy chair with the almost empty whisky bottle dangling from his fingers. Shayne retrieved it and set it aside.

“Marlow was looking for me, all right. Cassidy gave him my address. Cassidy says Marlow came barging down from his room about an hour ago shouting that he had been robbed. To keep him quiet and save his own hide, Cassidy admitted that I had gone through his stuff and taken something out of the lining of his bag.”

“I owe this to Cassidy, then.” Rourke touched his bandaged head. “If he’d kept his mouth shut—”

“Can’t blame him too much. He’s just a dumb dick with a soft job he wants to keep. He said,” Shayne ended significantly, “that Marlow hadn’t been back to the hotel. He’ll call me if and when he does.”

Rourke glanced hopefully toward the whisky bottle. Shayne shook his head decisively and set it farther away. “If you hadn’t been pie-eyed you wouldn’t have been such easy pickings for a goon like Marlow.”

“How was I to know I’d be mistaken for you?” Rourke groaned. “If you’d stayed home instead of dating a wench it wouldn’t have happened. I hope you got what you went after,” he ended in disgust.

“She stood me up.” Shayne dragged up a chair and let his long frame down into it wearily.

“Good,” Rourke murmured. “By God, I’d like to have seen that. I’ll tell Phyllis she can quit worrying about you now.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and sucked on it moodily.

After a time Rourke asked, “What’s eating on young Marlow, anyhow? Why does he set such store by that damned wedding certificate? He can always get a duplicate.”

“Hell, it’s clear enough,” Shayne growled. “It’s not the document itself he’s worried about. He’s desperately trying to keep the marriage a secret. Don’t forget the terms of his wife’s inheritance. In the event of her marriage before her twenty-first birthday the estate reverts to her mother.”

Rourke said, “I’d forgot that angle. How about another swig?”

Shayne nodded absently and passed the bottle to him. Rourke emptied it and sighed deeply.

Shayne looked at his watch. The time was three-thirty. He got up and paced back and forth the length of the room. “We’ve got to get hold of Marlow,” he burst out. “You can help me on that, Tim. Call headquarters and make a complaint. Give his name and description and get out a pickup for him.”

“I should think you’d lay off Marlow,” Rourke said. “He can come back with a burglary complaint against you.”

Shayne laughed shortly. “I’ve got worse than that to worry about. I’ve got to know what the youngster did when he arrived in town yesterday. Whom he talked to, whether he saw his wife—” He came to an abrupt stop, compressing his lips. His eyes became very bright and he tugged at the lobe of his left ear, resumed his pacing. He mused aloud. “Marlow hits town about the time Helen Stallings leaves home in a fit of temper. I’m convinced she dropped in for a cocktail at the Bugle Inn and drank a Mickey Finn. Later in the evening Marlow gets a dose of the same at the same spot. Damn it, Tim, there has to be some connection! Get on the phone and make your complaint.”

Rourke staggered to his feet with a dismal groan. “All right. But don’t forget I was with you when we broke into his hotel room. Shall I report that, too?”

“Hell, no! You’re a reporter. Tell the cops you were nosing into Marlow’s affairs in connection with a news story and he attacked you without provocation.” Shayne patted him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the telephone in the bedroom. “Lay it on thick. Dangerous character at large. Homicidal maniac. You needn’t mention the Parkview Hotel. Cassidy’ll call us if he turns up there.”

Shayne poured himself a long drink of cognac while Rourke dialed the police. He sank into a chair and listened with a pleased grin while Rourke poured it on. He demanded the immediate arrest of one Whit Marlow. Shayne’s grin widened when Rourke came back to the living-room, complaining.

“The desk sergeant wasn’t impressed. He said he’d have to check the Florida statutes to see if there was a law about attacking a nosy newspaperman. I have to go down and swear out a formal complaint if they pick him up.”

“You’re doing all right.” Shayne gestured toward a built-in wall mirror which concealed a well-stocked bar. “I think there’s a virgin bottle of Scotch. Pour a snifter, but, for God’s sake, don’t hit it too hard. I’ve got more work for you first thing in the morning.”

“Whose case is this?” Rourke complained. He swung the mirror out and found the bottle of Scotch. “All I’ve got out of it so far is a headache.”

“There’s a head line in the offing,” Shayne reminded him.

“I’ve already passed up a couple of extras. Say, Mike, that’s an idea! Why don’t I discover the body where we planted it? The News could hit the streets with a special while the Herald is still wearing pajamas.”

Shayne considered the suggestion briefly. “It couldn’t hurt anything. But you’d better not discover the body. Let that come in the normal course. You could have the story all set up, though.”

“Sure. I’ll get over and write it now.” Rourke pulled a chair up to the table and dragged a wad of copy paper from his pocket. “Maybe I can slip a lad out there at daylight and get a shot of the body without being noticed. Let’s see — Helen Stallings, nee — what the hell was that name on the wedding certificate?”

“Devalon. But that marriage stuff can’t go in.”

“Sure not. I just want my facts straight. Strangled, eh? Been dead eight or ten hours. Disappeared from home yesterday noon. How is she dressed, Mike?”

Shayne wrinkled his forehead. “Wearing a silk dress. Blue, isn’t it?”

“Yeh. Sort of greenish blue. I remember noticing it when you carried her across the road. Short sleeves with white lace.” Rourke’s pencil was speeding across his copy paper.

“Hey! For God’s sake don’t say you saw me carrying her body across the street,” Shayne shouted.

Rourke grinned. “I turned back the cover for a look at her lying in the bed back there and I’m not putting that down.” The grin went from his face. He said gravely, “I can’t use the kidnap note nor the stuff about Stallings accusing you.”

“Not yet, but you will. I’d be just as happy to let that wait until Stallings decides to give it out. Besides, you’ve got to make your story sound as if you haven’t been lugging her body around half the night helping me dispose of it.”