Brett Halliday - Bodies Are Where You Find Them

“By God,” said Painter softly, “this is a robe from the Patterson Sanitarium, all right. Must have been stuffed in there when he stripped it off her.”

“No — no,” Stallings argued in a choked voice. “I don’t know how that got there. It’s a frame-up. I’ve been framed, I tell you. That fender was all right an hour ago.”

“Framed, hell!” Shayne snorted. “Why, it had to be you, Stallings. You were the only one who knew the girl was going to my office. No one else could have done it.”

“That’s not true. I’m not the only one. He knew.” Stallings pointed a shaking finger at Arch Bugler. “I phoned Bugler and told him what Baldy said. He’s the one—”

“You dirty rat.” Bugler’s laboriously cultivated purr deserted him. He came out of his chair with a gun in his hand.

Whit Marlow had been sitting quiet throughout Shayne’s recital. His silence was more that of a man stunned by grief than by the revelations of the redheaded detective. He came to life like a snarling tiger and rushed Bugler with flailing fists.

“You doped her — you killed her! You killed Helen! You strangled my wife. Why didn’t you kill me, too? You had the opportunity when you doped me in your office.”

Bugler’s pistol was aimed at the young man’s heart, his finger on the trigger when two Miami Beach policemen caught his arms from behind and pinioned them to his side, disarming him with deft, strong hands. Another policeman was busy taking the handcuffs from Shayne’s wrists to shackle Bugler.

Marlow, taking advantage of Bugler’s helplessness, landed a right and left to his pudgy jaws, then fell back, sobbing. In a few minutes he went quietly from the room.

Stallings stopped his babbling to look on with grim satisfaction, then continued.

“Bugler got me into all of it. He suggested putting Helen in the asylum and substituting another girl who looked like her. He had some hold on Doctor Patterson and arranged with him to keep my wife drugged. I was crazy to agree to it, but I didn’t mean any real harm to Helen.”

Shayne interrupted harshly, “Not so fast, Doctor Patterson. You might cut yourself if you try to go through that window.”

Peter Painter echoed his words. “Not so fast, Doctor Patterson. Cover him there, you men.” With Bugler shackled, one of the officers stepped over to Patterson and shoved him back in his chair.

Stallings went on. “I meant to have Helen released after I had time to straighten out the estate. Then last night when I called Bugler he said for me not to worry, that he’d take care of everything. But, God! I didn’t know what he meant. I swear I didn’t. I thought he was just going to get hold of her and keep her quiet. I wrote that kidnap note thinking to take advantage of the situation and implicate Shayne as an election trick. But I’m not guilty of murder. I swear I’m not.” He sank into a chair, bereft of all his splendid dignity.

“I guess it was Bugler, all right.” Shayne turned to Painter. “That sanitarium Mother Hubbard could have got into his car a lot of ways. And I just happened to remember that I saw his chauffeur run into the bridge abutment this evening. He must’ve been drunk. You’ll probably find him sleeping it off now.”

Painter strutted forward and commanded, “Take Stallings and Patterson into custody along with Bugler.”

“One other thing,” Shayne said, turning to Stallings. “Your maid, Lucile. It might interest Mr. Painter to know he’ll find her in the padded cell recently vacated by the Duchess.”

Painter whirled to face Shayne. “Maid? Duchess?”

Shayne grinned widely. “I mean the padded cell occupied by Helen. Lucile had some information for me that I never got. Stallings and Bugler and Patterson saw to that.”

“Stop your clowning, Shamus, and talk straight,” Painter demanded.

“Doctor Patterson’s institution could stand an investigation by the Beach authorities,” Shayne said grimly. “You’ll find the Stallings maid, a perfectly sane girl, in a padded cell, and it wouldn’t surprise me any if he isn’t keeping some of the others nutty by feeding them dope.” Painter looked a long way up into the detective’s eyes with a glint of suspicion in his own snapping black ones. “Are you sure all this is on the level, Shamus?”

“There’s your case, all done up in tissue paper and ribbon.” Shayne chuckled.

Painter clicked his heels and whirled toward his men. “Take them out — all three of them,” he commanded.

When Rourke and Marsh and Shayne were alone, Jim Marsh sidled up to Shayne. The expression on his face was painful to behold.

“Even though Stallings isn’t the actual murderer,” he said, “this disgrace is sure to defeat him at the polls tomorrow. Do you realize what that means, Shayne?”

“Sure. It means I win five grand by backing you. Five grand of your own money, by the way.” Shayne hesitated, then demanded angrily, “What in hell got into you, anyway, Marsh? When I backed you for mayor I knew you weren’t any second Roosevelt, but I didn’t expect you to turn into a stinker who’d lose his nerve and bet money against himself — and then plan on withdrawing to make sure he won his bets. Hell, that’s the lousiest sort of thievery possible.”

Jim Marsh looked old and stricken. He avoided Shayne’s relentless, boring eyes. “I deserve everything you say. I deserve to lose that money I bet against myself. I haven’t told you this, but a week ago I received an anonymous death threat unless I withdrew from the race. I guess I just went crazy with worry. It seemed to me I’d be striking back by taking advantage of the situation to bet my money on Stallings. I realize now how dishonest it would have been. The men who’d have lost wouldn’t have been the ones who threatened me. It’s retributive justice that I should be the one to lose.” He squared his shoulders and faced Shayne with a look of new-found dignity.

“I’ll be cleaned out when I win tomorrow. I’ll start afresh, and I swear I’ll keep the slate clean.”

Shayne took his hand and pressed it hard. “I believe you will, Marsh. I knew I couldn’t be altogether wrong about you.” He turned to Tim Rourke and grunted, “You’d better start writing for the headlines. And I’ve got to catch a plane. I’m afraid Phyllis hasn’t been enjoying herself much in New York. And I could certainly stand a date with a live woman for a change.”

MANY OF MY READERS are familiar with the dramatic first meeting between myself and the man who was later to become the central figure in a series of mystery novels featuring a redheaded, fighting Irishman whom I call Michael Shayne. This first meeting occurred on the Tampico water front more than a quarter of a century ago. I was a youngster then, working as deck hand on a Pan American oil tanker, and on a stopover in Tampico a bunch of us spent the evening ashore in a tough water-front saloon.

I noticed him before the fight started, and was intrigued by him even then. A big, rangy redhead with deep lines already forming on his face. He sat at a table in the rear, surrounded by lights and music and girls. There was a bottle of tequila on the table in front of him, and two glasses. One of the glasses held ice water, and he was drinking straight Mexican liquor from the other.

I don’t remember how the fight started, but it turned into a beautiful brawl with half a dozen unarmed American sailors slugging it out on uneven terms with twice as many natives who seemed to be carrying knives or guns.

We were doing all right, as I remember, making what you might call a strategic retreat and almost out the door, when I got a crack on the head that sent me under a table.