Brett Halliday - The Corpse That Never Was

“Yet you recommended that sort of a man to your daughter?” Shayne couldn’t prevent a caustic note from creeping into his voice.

“What sort of blasted nonsense are you talking, Shayne? One uses the tools at hand for the sort of job one wants done. I felt that Wentworth was the man for the job.”

“What you mean is, don’t you, that you felt Max might be persuaded to manufacture some evidence against Nathan if he couldn’t turn up anything?”

“I resent that imputation. I suggest this discussion be closed.”

Shayne said, “There’s one more point that may be very important. How well do you know Mona Bayliss?”

There was quite a long pause while he waited for an answer to this question. Then the old buccaneer repeated hesitantly, “Bayliss? Mona Bayliss? Is that the name of the young woman whom Paul jilted in order to marry my daughter?”

“I’m sure you know that’s who she is,” Shayne told him. “Max Wentworth made a full report on her when he checked into Nathan’s background for you. And you met her at that time, didn’t you? And offered her a large sum of money to sue Nathan for breach of promise in the hope of preventing your daughter’s marriage to him?”

Shayne held his breath as he waited for a reply to this completely unwarranted accusation. It was just the sort of thing he guessed the old man might have done under the circumstances. In this case the gamble paid off.

Eli said heavily, “I did talk to her, yes. And sounded her out somewhat along those lines. She was completely intransigent. She was apparently madly infatuated with the fellow and terribly hurt by his cavalier treatment of her, but blamed only herself for losing him and was childishly determined not to interfere with his marriage. It was impossible to reason with her.”

“Have you had any indication that she and Paul have been seeing each other recently?”

“N-no.”

“But when you and Elsa discussed her hiring a private detective, you did suggest to her that it might be worthwhile to check up on Mona Bayliss on the chance that they were seeing each other again?”

“Certainly not. I would have had no reason for doing that.”

“And you’re sure that you didn’t?”

“Of course, I’m sure. As a matter of fact, I’m positive that Elsa and I never discussed the woman at any time. So far as I know, my daughter was not aware of her existence. And now, if you’re quite through cross-examining me, Shayne…”

“There’s one other thing,” the detective said hastily. “A man named Norris who works in your organization. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”

“Jimmy Norris? Certainly. I’m sure he’s in the Miami telephone book. James R. Norris. The R stands for Roosevelt, but it isn’t the lad’s fault that he was born in the nineteen thirties to Democratic parents. He’s one of our bright young men.”

Shayne thanked him and hung up. He sat back and lit a cigarette, frowning thoughtfully at the bits of information he had got from the old man. Something had caused Elsa to be suspicious of Mona Bayliss and to direct Max Wentworth to investigate her current relationship with her husband. With both Elsa and Max now dead, there was no one to ask what that something was.

Shayne hesitated, glancing down at the pad in front of him on which he had written down the three names a short time before.

He opened the telephone book and looked for Norris, found a number of listings, but only one James R. He lived at a good address in the Northeastern section, and Shayne wrote the number down behind the man’s name on the pad in front of him.

Then he turned the pages to see if he would find Mona Bayliss listed also. He did find her, at the address on Hibiscus Road which Wentworth had given for her. Shayne wrote her telephone number down slowly, staring at each digit as he set it down behind her name.

Somehow, that number was vaguely familiar to him. He knew by God, he had heard it very recently. Where?

He narrowed his eyes at it, letting the digits run together in his mind, then closed his eyes completely and concentrated. It did no good. There was that haunting sense of familiarity… nothing more. He made his mind go back to the typewritten report Wentworth had prepared for Elsa Nathan. No. Her address had been there. 729 Hibiscus Road, but no telephone number. There was no reason why Wentworth should have given it, of course.

But somewhere… somehow… in some connection with the case at hand…

He shook his red head angrily and dribbled more cognac into his glass. In a case like this you never got anywhere by trying to force the memory to come to you. You pushed it completely out of your mind and pretended absolute disinterest in the subject. Eventually it would come to you… when least expected.

He sipped cognac and reached for the telephone, intent on calling Norris’s number and arranging to meet him.

His hand stopped in midair before it touched the instrument.

He reached in his pocket and got out the slip of paper on which he had jotted down the telephone numbers Robert Lambert had called from the apartment, although he did not really need to do so.

He already knew positively that Mona Bayliss was the other person whom Lambert had telephoned that first evening after renting the apartment in which he had died last night.

When he had looked up Mona’s number in the book it had been with the idea of calling to see if she was home and arranging to have a talk with her if possible.

This knowledge changed all that. He didn’t want to see Mona Bayliss quite yet. Not until he knew more about her relationship with Robert Lambert. Not until, goddamnit, he knew more about Robert Lambert himself.

He caught himself looking down at the photograph of Joe Grogan again, and was reminded of the promise he’d made Mrs. Grogan.

He called police headquarters and was connected with the Missing Persons Bureau, and was lucky enough to find a man he knew in charge.

“This is off the record for the moment,” he said after identifying himself. “I’ve got a missing guy named Joe Grogan. Since last evening.” He described Joe from the photo and from what Mrs. Grogan had told him, including the way he had been dressed when she last saw him.

“We’ve got nothing that fits that, Mr. Shayne. Unless,” he added hopefully, “you’re thinking about the stiff who blew his head off with a shotgun last night. Superficially…”

“Yeh. I’ve already thought about that angle,” Shayne growled. “If anything at all comes in let me know, huh?”

He hung up, still staring down at Joe Grogan’s picture. Then he called the number for James R. Norris and got a cheerful, youthful voice in reply.

“This is Michael Shayne, Mr. Norris. I understand you know Paul Nathan quite well.”

“The detective? Say, that was terrible last night, wasn’t it? I was the one who told Paul. Just ran into him by chance at a joint on the Beach, and he hadn’t even heard the news.”

Shayne said, “I know. I think you also had a drink with him last evening after you left the office together?”

“Let’s see. Yesterday? That’s right. There were two or three of us…”

“I’d like to talk to you,” Shayne cut him off.

“Well… I… Let’s see. It’s about four-thirty…”

“Let me buy you a drink,” suggested Shayne. “I’ve got a couple of things to do. About six o’clock?”

“Six o’clock? Sure. Where can I meet you?”

“How about the Red Cock? I’m having dinner there.”

“Fine. I’ll see you at six.”

“Ask the bartender. He knows me.”

“Oh, I’ll recognize you, Mr. Shayne.” Norris sounded youthfully eager. “Your picture has been in the paper often enough.”