Brett Halliday: Bodies Are Where You Find Them

MICHAEL SHAYNE BREATHED a low-toned “Shayne talking” into the telephone. He snuggled the receiver closer to his ear and listened without further comment. A scowl creased his forehead. His angular features became tight and hard. His gray eyes gazed anxiously through the open bedroom door, and the scowl maneuvered itself into a grin when he saw Phyllis watching him.

Placing his mouth close to the instrument he interrupted the flow of words coming over the wires. “Hold it. I’ll go down to my office and get the rest. Tell the operator to switch you downstairs.” He wiped beads of sweat from his corrugated brow as he gently cradled the telephone, then hesitated for the briefest instant before turning on his heel and striding through the bedroom door.

Phyllis Shayne stood in the midst of an array of packed luggage in the living-room. Her own dressing-case and hatbox were closed, but Shayne’s Gladstones gaped open, waiting for the force of his weight to close them.

Phyllis was flushed and panting from her exertions and from the hot, humid breeze blowing through the east windows at the end of a long sunny August day in the semitropics. She wore a gray tailored traveling-outfit, and moist ringlets of black hair framed her expectant young face. The dancing happiness in her dark eyes changed to an expression of wary speculation when her husband entered the room meditatively massaging the lobe of his left ear between right thumb and forefinger.

“Who was it, Michael? Not anything that will interfere?”

Shayne shook his head with a grin that was intended to be reassuring. “I have to go down to my office for a minute. There’s nothing to get upset about, angel.”

“Then why are you tugging at your ear?” She moved swiftly to stand between Shayne and the door. “Don’t you dare get mixed up in anything. You promised me—”

“Sure, I promised you.” He put both his big hands on her shoulders, and the grin stayed on his lips, but his eyes were bleak, and they looked past her. “It’ll only take a minute, Phyl. You get everything ready and be all set for the take-off.”

“Michael! I’ll die if anything happens now to spoil our trip.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes were frightened.

“What can happen?” Shayne asked cheerily. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he bent his head swiftly to brush his lips across her damp forehead. He released her with a little shove and made for the door in long, swinging strides.

“The train leaves in fifty minutes.” The words came with a rush from behind him. “No matter who or what it is, Michael, you say no.”

“Sure, Phyl.” He closed the door without looking back and went hurriedly down the hall past the elevators to a rear stairway and down one flight. Halfway up the hall below he stopped and unlocked the door to the suite which had served him as bachelor quarters before his marriage to Phyllis Brighton. He maintained the small apartment now for conducting official business.

There was a preoccupied expression on the detective’s face as he went directly through the living-room to a tiny kitchenette where he put ice cubes in a tall glass, filled it from the faucet. He came back and set the glass near the telephone which was insistently ringing. He let it ring while he went to a wall cabinet and took down a bottle of cognac and a wineglass.

He filled the glass as he stood in front of the desk, emptied it slowly and pleasurably. Refilling it, he sat down and lifted the telephone.

He said, “Hello. Yeh… I’m in my office now. I couldn’t talk freely upstairs. Now, what the hell are you trying to tell me, Marsh?”

His right hand reached out to encircle the slender glass as he again listened. He took a sip of cognac, washed it down with ice water, then said harshly, “Damn it, Marsh, you’ll have to pull your own chestnuts out of the fire. My train leaves for New York in forty minutes, and I’m going to be on it.”

He listened further, then exploded. “What the hell? Are you going into hysterics over a rumor? Sure, Stallings is liable to pull a fast one. You knew what you were up against when you went into this election.”

He emptied the cognac glass while the voice went on, then interrupted angrily. “Of course I want you to win the election. Not that I think you’re any better than Stallings, but because I’d hate to see Peter Painter go in as police chief on the Beach. God knows he causes me enough trouble as chief of detectives, but I don’t see what I can do by staying here.”

Shayne paused, scowling at the wall before him. “No. I’ve been promising my wife this trip for months. We’ve made reservations—”

He let himself be interrupted again while Jim Marsh’s voice droned on persuasively.

“I’d stay over a day if there was anything you could put your finger on,” Shayne said with finality. “I don’t run away from trouble. Hell, Jim, there’s nothing I can do now. The chips are down and the voters go to the polls day after tomorrow. This mysterious information of yours doesn’t mean a damn thing. I’ll hear the results in New York.”

Shayne listened again, then barked, “What? She’s already on her way over here? That’s just too bad, because I won’t be here to listen to her story.”

He pressed the instrument down, cutting off Marsh’s final words. The telephone rang immediately. Shayne scowled, hesitated, then lifted the receiver to his ear.

The perturbed voice of the clerk downstairs said, “There’s a girl on her way up to see you, Mr. Shayne. She’s — well, she acted very queer. Drunk, I guess. Thought I’d better warn you.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and dropped the phone. He strode to the door and out just as the elevator door clanged shut. He darted a glance in that direction as he started to turn toward the stairway. He stopped in mid-stride and stared at the wavering figure of the girl who had got off the elevator.

She was young and slim and expensively gowned, but wore no hat over a wealth of honey-colored hair that was mussed and fell forward, obscuring her features as she bent forward. Her knees appeared to be rubbery, and she swayed against the wall for support, putting out both hands and groping, as though she had suddenly gone blind.

She staggered and went to her knees while Shayne watched in deep perplexity. She lifted herself with great effort and managed three more uncertain steps which brought her close to Shayne’s door.

Shayne reached out a long arm to catch her when she started to fall again. She clung to his forearm with both hands and steadied herself, lifted her head slowly so that the disheveled hair parted and fell back to reveal an imploring face which should have been beautiful but was not.

Her complexion was grayish except for ghastly blobs of carmine rouge. Her forehead was tightly wrinkled into a questioning grimace and her lower jaw sagged open. Her eyes were greenish, dull and unfocused, and she blinked wrinkled lids up and down slowly, as though she marshaled all her waning strength and intelligence to force vision to her vacant orbs.

Watching her futile efforts, Shayne gave first aid by slapping her hard on the cheek. Her head jerked sideways, then turned slowly back. The pasty flesh of her cheek held the colorless outline of his fingers.

A spark of life came into the greenish eyes. The girl closed her mouth awkwardly, then mumbled, “’Re you — Mist’ Shayne?”

Shayne said, “Yeh.” He jerked his arm from her lax fingers and caught her by both shoulders and shook her violently when she would have fallen.

Her head bobbed back and forth lifelessly. When he stopped shaking her she cringed away from him, ducking her head to avoid another blow.