Brett Halliday - Bodies Are Where You Find Them

Shayne nodded cheerfully. “I see what you’re driving at. But I’m on the inside, too, Joe. Don’t believe everything you hear. Thanks for tipping me, but my bet stands.”

“Don’t be a schlemiel,” Joe groaned. “You been around enough to know that when the owner lays heavy sugar on another horse he’s pretty sure his ain’t going to run.”

“So,” said Shayne thoughtfully, “it’s that way?”

Parkis wriggled in his chair and mopped his face. “All right, so you’ve got the picture. Now will you lay off?”

“How much has Marsh bet against himself?”

“Plenty. That’s what knocked the odds down yesterday. Damn it, Mike, I ain’t got no right to spill this.”

“It won’t go any farther.” Shayne leaned forward, his eyes boring into Joe’s. “That funny stuff last night — about no bets being off if Marsh withdrew — that was his idea, too? Eh?”

“That’s right. His jack has to be covered that way. And that gives him a cinch, Mike. I don’t like that kind of business, but hell, the suckers’ll get took anyway. Only I hate to see you ride with the suckers.”

“I never have,” Shayne said harshly. “I’ll change my bet, Joe. Make it five grand.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Joe looked completely unhappy. “But I’m telling you flat Marsh stands to lose fifty thousand by winning the election. No man’s going to cut his own throat. All he has to do is withdraw.”

Shayne smiled. “I get the angle without your drawing me a picture. Marsh is going to stay in and he’s going to win. And my five grand will be that much sweeter coming from him on his double cross.” He stood up. “Want me to sign something?”

“You know that ain’t necessary.” Joe looked up at him reproachfully. “I was just trying—”

“And I appreciate it,” Shayne told him. The smile on his gaunt features grew broader. “You’ve cleaned up the last angle that had me worried. So long. Just hold my winnings for me. But — do this, Joe. Call Marsh right away and tell him I’ve increased my bet to five grand and tell him I said I’d break his neck if he withdrew and caused me to lose — and that I mean it. He still has time to cover some of his money.”

On his way out Shayne stopped at a telephone booth and called Timothy Rourke at the Miami News.

Rourke sounded worried. “I was just starting down to headquarters to sign the complaint against Marlow. They picked him up a little while ago.”

“Good. How about the Stallings maid?”

“Nothing on her, Mike. I’ve tried every agency. None of them supplied servants for the Stallings ménage. That looks like a blind alley.”

“Okay, Tim,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “The accusation against me hasn’t broken yet, eh?”

“Guess not. We’re ready with another extra as soon as Stallings and Painter make the kidnap note public.”

“Meet me at the Miami Beach police station as fast as you can make it,” Shayne suggested casually.

“What’s up?”

“Fireworks,” Shayne told him succinctly. “I’m about to give myself up.”

“What the hell? Are you kidding?”

“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” Shayne hung up before Rourke could ask any more questions and strolled out of the booth. He killed ten minutes drinking two beers.

Timothy Rourke was just jumping out of his car in front of the Beach headquarters when Shayne rolled up in his rented car. The lean-faced reporter hurried to meet him, panting.

“Is this a gag, Mike?”

“Not at all. As a reputable citizen my conscience forces me to appear voluntarily.” Shayne grinned and got out. He took Rourke’s arm and led him into the outer office, where he leaned on the counter and asked the desk sergeant, “Painter in?”

“Yeh, but he’s busy right now. Mr. Stallings is in his office.”

“Okay. We’ll make it a foursome,” Shayne answered and strolled back to a private office in the rear. He pushed the door open, and the two men entered.

Painter was sitting behind his desk and Burt Stallings sat in a chair near him. A plain-clothes man was using a typewriter in the rear of the office.

Painter and Stallings came to their feet when Shayne and Rourke entered. There was an expression of loathing on Stallings’s face, a look of exuberant triumph on Painter’s.

“This is pretty nice,” the chief of detectives crowed. “Mr. Stallings is just swearing out a warrant for your arrest. Sit down until he signs it and we’ll serve it right here.”

Shayne said, “Sure,” and sat down. The typist rolled a printed form from his machine and laid it in front of the chief. Painter glanced at it, then passed it to Stallings. “Sign right here,” he directed.

Stallings shot a glance at Shayne, then affixed his signature.

Peter Painter leaned back with his black eyes snapping happily. In a formal tone, he pronounced, “You’re under arrest, Michael Shayne — charged with the murder of one Helen Stallings.”

Shayne looked at Rourke. “I want you to witness this. False arrest on a fraudulent charge made knowingly and maliciously.”

“Fraudulent charge?” Painter choked. “You’ll have a hard time making that stick. We’ve got enough evidence to hang you.”

“For the murder of Helen Stallings?” Shayne asked gently.

“Of course. You know damned well—”

Shayne turned to Tim Rourke who was sniffing in the conversation with a look of dazed incredulity on his face. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Shayne demanded. “There’s one of the headlines I’ve been promising you.”

Rourke sprang past Painter to a telephone on the rear desk. He snatched it up and gave the number of his office, got the city desk, and ordered, “Let that extra go. Michael Shayne arrested for murder of Helen Stallings on warrant sworn out by her stepfather. I just saw it happen. Shayne gave himself up in the office of Peter Painter. And keep the presses open. I’ve got a hunch there’s another story making.”

Rourke pronged the instrument and came back to stand beside Shayne. The detective grinned up into his concerned face.

“How long will that be hitting the streets?”

“Two minutes. They were printed and loaded on trucks waiting for the word.”

Shayne said, “Good. Then I don’t need to hold out any longer. I wanted to be sure people actually had a chance to read the charges against me. Defamation of character and so forth.”

“What are you kidding about?” Painter demanded. “We’ve got you dead to rights.”

“First you’ll have to prove that Helen Stallings is dead,” said Shayne. “The corpus delicti, you know.”

Stallings’s face suddenly went ashen. He sank back into his chair breathing heavily.

“You’re crazy,” Painter snapped. “The body was found this morning where you’d ditched it. We’ve got her safe enough. And if you’re figuring on pulling a fast one by snatching the body, you’d better start thinking again.”

“Why, no,” Shayne disclaimed pleasantly, “I wouldn’t snatch the body for anything. That corpse will bust your case wide open. It just happens that the body is not that of Helen Stallings at all.”

MICHAEL SHAYNE’S FLAT STATEMENT that the body of the murdered girl was not that of Helen Stallings brought a moment of stunned silence to Peter Painter’s private office.

Then Burt Stallings blustered, “The man is mad. Stark, raving insane. Of course the girl is Helen. There can’t be the slightest doubt.”

Timothy Rourke also was staring at his friend with a dazed look of incomprehension on his hard-bitten face.

Painter, however, reacted differently. His slender body shivered with wrath. He caressed his tiny black mustache with a trembling forefinger, and baffled fear spread over his features. His voice held a squeaky note of hysteria when he counseled, “Wait, Stallings. Shayne may be up to one of his hellish tricks again. He has a way of pulling elephants out of a thimble when you least expect it. If she isn’t Helen Stallings—”