Brett Halliday: Bodies Are Where You Find Them

“And he’s the man who always claimed he worked best with a couple of pints in him.”

Rourke’s keen eyes bored into Shayne’s slumped body. “Funny thing is,” he said slowly, “he always has.” A note of speculation sounded in the newshound’s voice. “If he was going on a bat I’d have thought he’d wait until the election returns were in. He’s got a heavy stake in Marsh’s winning.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a damn,” Gentry put in sourly. He started toward the kitchen with a heavy tread. “I’ll take a look around before I go.”

Shayne’s head came up with a violent jerk. “Hey! Whatcha want in there? I’ll fix a drink if thass what you want.” He came to his feet waveringly, steadying himself with one hand on the table.

“Save the drinks for yourself,” Gentry growled, continuing into the kitchen. “I just want to make sure you haven’t slapped Phyllis down. When a guy like you gets drunk there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

A cunning leer spread over Shayne’s rugged, unhandsome features. He mumbled, “Wheresh your shearch warrant? You can’t shearch a man’s housh ’thout shearch warrant. ’Shnot legal. Man’s housh hish cashtle.”

Gentry deigned no reply as he emerged from the kitchen. He glanced into the bathroom on his way to the bedroom door.

Shayne staggered forward and got in his way before he reached the door. He put a bony hand on Gentry’s chest with his weight behind it. “’Shnot legal,” he reiterated. “Man’s private affairs hish own bishness.”

“Get out of my way,” Gentry roared. Thoroughly angered, the chief knocked Shayne’s restraining hand aside. He opened the door of the bedroom and looked in, then drew back with a black scowl on his heavy face. He turned a look of loathing on the redhead and muttered, “So, that’s what the score is.”

Shayne grinned and waggled his head from side to side. “Tol’ you not to — not to look in.”

Rourke’s long legs brought him to the door hastily. “What is the score, Will?” He stopped in the doorway and whistled shrilly, sniffing the cognac-laden air and grimacing. “You certainly didn’t lose any time after getting rid of Phyl.”

“Shesh nish gal,” Shayne protested. “’Shnot what you think.”

“By God, this breaks it,” Gentry roared angrily. “I’ve stood up for you in a lot of tough places, Mike, but it was because I thought you had a streak of decency in you. I thought marrying a girl like Phyllis would bring it out. Damn it, I even encouraged her to marry you.” He thumped a big fist into his beefy palm and turned away. “And you can’t wait for her to get on the train before you have another woman in your bed.”

“Don’ be shore at me,” Shayne pleaded, his voice catching in his throat. “You know I love Phyl better’n anything. What she don’ know won’t hurt ’er”

Gentry stopped in the outer doorway and turned, planting both hands on his hips.

“Get this straight, Mike,” he rumbled. “If you’re not too drunk for it to sink in. I hate the guts of a man who two-times a swell wife like Phyllis. Your morals aren’t my affair, but from now on don’t look for any favors from me. I won’t tell her, if that’s what you’re afraid of, but I’ll never be able to look that girl in the eye again. God damn it, you lug, that girl loves you. The next time you meet a skunk get down on your belly and shake hands. You both smell the same to me.”

He went out, slamming the door behind him with a bang.

Shayne stood very still, staring at the closed door. He took one step forward to follow Gentry, but checked himself. His back was turned to Rourke and the reporter couldn’t see his face. In a stifled voice, Shayne said, “I suppose you feel the same way, Tim?”

“Sort of,” Rourke admitted wearily. “I don’t know your wife as well as Gentry does, but hell! You know what all the boys think about her. Nobody thought anything about it when you had a different floosie in your bed every night before you married Phyl, but this is different. It stinks.” Rourke lit a cigarette, and Shayne dropped heavily into the chair at the desk.

“It just goes to show,” Rourke went on, “what damn fools we all are when we pretend to be so tough. You and Phyllis were a symbol of some Goddamned thing or other around this man’s town. While you stayed straight it proved to all of us that the love of a decent girl meant something — and that was good for us. Every man needs to believe that down inside.” Rourke was talking to himself now, arguing aloud a premise which his cynicism rejected.

“That’s what distinguishes a man from a beast. It’s what we all cling to. There’s the inward conviction that it isn’t quite real — that it doesn’t mean anything — that we’re marking time until the real thing comes along — like Phyllis came along for you. And when that illusion is shattered before your very eyes — like with you today — it’s ugly, Mike. It’s a shock. It doesn’t laugh off easily.”

Shayne sat slumped with his chin resting on his chest. Rourke did not look at him to see the laugh crinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes or the way he clamped his big mouth shut. When Shayne said nothing, Rourke burst out, “Hell! I ought to rent a pulpit. Well, sorry to have interrupted your merry twosome.” He ground out his cigarette and started for the door.

Shayne’s sudden laughter filled the room. He jumped up from his chair and caught Rourke’s arm. His laughter went as abruptly as it had come. He said solemnly, “You’re not running out on me, Tim. I’m in one hell of a spot.” Rourke whirled to face him. “You’ve sobered up in a hurry,” he said wonderingly.

“Hell, I haven’t been drunk, Tim. I was never soberer in my life.”

“By God, I believe you.” He hesitated, then said slowly, “I get it. You were putting on an act for Gentry. You knew he’d find that girl in your bed and you hoped he wouldn’t blame you so much if he thought you were cockeyed.”

“Yeh,” Shayne said tonelessly. “I knew he’d find that girl in my bed. What was the tip-off that brought you and Gentry here?”

“One of the neighbors heard a struggle and a scream. He said he tried the door and it was locked, then he called in. We came right up because we both thought you’d left for New York with Phyllis and maybe somebody had taken advantage of your absence to do a murder here. With the election day after tomorrow it would be swell publicity to defeat Marsh.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is what I’m thinking, too.” He gestured toward the bedroom. “Take a good look at the girl. Don’t be afraid of waking her up. She won’t.”

Rourke stared at him for half a minute, then swung on his heel and went to the bedroom. He lowered the window shades and snapped on the bright ceiling lights. When he reappeared in a few minutes, Shayne did not look at him, but sat with hunched shoulders and closed eyes.

Rourke went to the liquor cabinet and took down a bottle of Scotch and a glass. He brought them to the desk and poured four fingers in the glass. He drank it off, set the glass down, and shivered.

“Why in Christ’s name didn’t you tell Gentry? You let him go out of here hating your guts. You know he’s almost like a father to Phyllis.”

“Gentry’s a cop,” Shayne reminded the reporter patiently. “A cop is required to go through a certain routine when he discovers a murder.”

“But he’d listen to you. He’d give you a break.” Rourke flung his lean body into a chair and ran nervous fingers through his black hair.

“Sure. He’d listen to my story. He’d probably even believe it. But that wouldn’t change the routine, Tim. Gentry is still a cop. And the election is day after tomorrow.”