Brett Halliday: Bodies Are Where You Find Them

“Who is she? What’s it all about?”

“You guess awhile,” he answered wearily. “I found her like that when I got back from putting Phyl on the train.” In a few words he gave Rourke the facts in his possession.

“I threw her on the bed after she passed out,” he concluded grimly. “I figured she’d have important information when she woke up — something about Burt Stallings.”

“And somebody else figured the same thing,” Rourke guessed, his nostrils flaring with the scent of headlines, his slate-colored eyes gleaming oddly. “Somebody who didn’t want that information to get out.”

“Looks that way. Murdering her in my office was a nice stunt any way you look at it. The scandal would defeat Marsh at the polls.”

Rourke poured himself more Scotch. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know yet.” He straightened in the swivel chair and swung around to face Rourke squarely. His eyes were pin points of gray steel. “You’re not a cop, Tim,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?” Rourke leaned forward.

“We’ve been good friends a long time,” Shayne said softly.

Rourke said steadily, ““You know where I stand.” His eyes were alert, suspicious.

Shayne exhaled a deep breath. “Yeh. You won’t lose anything, Tim. You’ll get the real story instead of this phony.”

Rourke filled his glass again. “I’ve never lost anything playing ball with you, Mike.” They touched glasses and drank.

Shayne stretched out his long legs and lit a cigarette. He shifted his position, swinging the chair slightly off center with Rourke’s probing eyes. “All we know about the girl is that she was close enough to Stallings to get wind of something that stunk — something Marsh could use against him. That’s not much to go on.”

“We’re one up on them this way,” Rourke pointed out. “They must know the murder was overheard and reported. They’ll be sitting on the edge of their chairs waiting for the story to break. When it doesn’t they’ll be worried.”

Rourke’s enthusiasm brought involuntary relaxation to Shayne’s edgy nerves. “In the meantime,” he grunted, “we’ve got to get her out of my apartment. As soon as the killer finds out this tip went awry he’ll see that Gentry gets another tip — one that can’t be ignored.”

“What,” asked Rourke lightly, “is the maximum penalty for carting dead bodies around?”

Shayne grinned. “I don’t know. We’ll look it up after some disposition is made of her. What we need most is fingerprints, a complete description. If we can identify her we’ll have a start.”

Rourke reached for the whisky bottle as Shayne got up. “That’s your job,” Rourke said happily. “I’ll have a small one while you do your ghouling. Cadavers give me the creeps.”

“There’s another angle we’re overlooking.” Shayne hesitated, frowning. “She was drugged when she came here this afternoon. Too nearly passed out to talk. No one else can know that. Can’t know, that is, how much talking she did before she went to bed. That’s another trump we hold, Tim. Someone’s going to do a lot of worrying before this is over.”

The telephone rang. Shayne reached a long arm past Rourke to pick it up. He said, “Shayne talking.”

The clerk in the lobby said, “There’s a Mr. Stallings here to see you. That Miami Beach detective is with him — Mr. Painter.”

Shayne repeated, “Stallings?” aloud and grinned at Rourke. “Stallings and Painter, eh? Well, I’m receiving this afternoon. Send them up. Wait! Jack, did you mention the girl who visited me earlier?”

“Not a word. You know I never—”

“Sure, Jack. That’s swell. Forget you saw her and send the gentlemen up — but stall them off a couple of minutes.” He dropped the phone and grabbed Rourke’s shoulder, hauled him to his feet. “Stallings and Painter! Something’s up.” He propelled the reporter backward. “They’d better not see you here. Leave the bedroom door open a crack so you can hear what they say.”

“In there? With her?” Rourke struggled against Shayne’s powerful strength, his face a mask of horror. “Not in there, Mike! The kitchen — or the bathroom.”

“The bedroom is the only safe place. There’s no door to the kitchen and you never can tell—” Shayne dragged him inexorably toward the bedroom door and shoved him in. “She won’t mind,” he said, and closed the door lightly, leaving a half-inch opening.

“I’m not worrying about her feelings,” Rourke panted through the crack, “but I tell you I get the galloping creeps—”

“Shut up. They’ll be here in a minute. You’re sitting on top of the biggest story in your career. Don’t muff it.”

Shayne whirled, went to the wall cabinet, and took out two fresh glasses and set them on the desk beside the bottles of Scotch and cognac. The chair on which Rourke had been sitting he shoved against the wall and drew up two others. Then he shoved the desk forward to cover the wet splotches on the rug and by the time he had paced the length of the office and back again he answered the knock on the outer door.

Gravely he said, “Come in, gentlemen; this is an unexpected honor,” in a voice which brought a suspicious gleam to the small black eyes of Peter Painter.

BURT STALLINGS WAS a tall, commanding figure. Middle-aged, he wore his silvery-white shock of hair long, in the manner attributed to Southern senators. It framed a handsome, leonine face with arresting distinction, giving him an air of romantic grace attractive to women of all ages. Coupled with his good looks, the man possessed a magnetic personality which made him a favorite with men, too. A forceful orator and a successful, hardheaded businessman, this mayoralty campaign was his first foray into politics. The campaign had proved him as well adapted to vote-getting as to money-making.

Stallings entered the detective’s office with a firm, assured stride. He nodded to Shayne, but neither spoke nor offered his hand.

Behind him, Peter Painter entered aggressively. He always carried himself with an assertive air to compensate his lack of physical stature. He was a slender, small-boned man, meticulously groomed. He slanted glittering black eyes upward at Shayne as he passed into the office.

Shayne closed the door and said, “This is a surprise. Sit down and I’ll pour a libation.”

Both men remained standing. Stallings arched thick iron-gray brows at the detective and said dryly, “I imagine you expected us — or me, at least.”

“Not exactly.” Shayne moved to a corner of his desk and lowered one hip to it, swinging his foot casually.

“Why else would you put off your proposed trip?” Painter snapped. He caressed a threadlike black mustache with the tip of his forefinger. “You can’t get away with this, you know. Mr. Stallings is not a man to be intimidated by threats.”

Shayne queried, “No?” His gray eyes glinted mockingly. No flicker of expression indicated that he had not the faintest idea what Painter was talking about.

“No,” said Stallings forcefully. He moved backward and seated himself precisely erect in a chair. Painter remained standing. Always conscious of his slight stature, he was more at ease in that position while others were sitting.

“I have conducted a clean, hard-hitting campaign,” Burt Stallings began resonantly. “My slogan from the first has been ‘Let the best man win.’ I am prepared to abide by a free expression of the voters at the polls, but I demand that they shall be allowed that right. It is an inherent attribute of our democratic processes.”

Shayne held up a big knobby hand and grinned. “Save your stump speech. I don’t even vote in Miami Beach.”