Brett Halliday - The Corpse That Never Was

“I love you more blissfully each passing day and can scarcely wait to hold you in my arms again.

“Your own

“Bobbie-Boy”

Shayne put the letter down and demanded, “Where the devil did you get this?”

“In a zippered side compartment inside Mrs. Nathan’s purse, along with a couple of credit cards. And here are the two suicide notes.”

“Did you show this letter to Eli Armbruster this morning?”

“No,” Gentry admitted sourly. “I hated to hit him with that, too. He’s so damned certain that his daughter couldn’t have been carrying on that sort of affair. This clinches it, seems to me.”

Shayne shrugged. “I’ve still been paid to do a job. He’ll never be happy until he has absolute proof that Paul Nathan couldn’t have had anything to do with it. That’s why I’m going to go over his alibi with a finetoothed comb.”

Gentry exhaled a long breath and nodded slowly, rubbing his chin with the back of his left hand. “Guys like Armbruster rub me the wrong way,” he rumbled. “Just because it’s his daughter. An Armbruster, by God. Like I said before… if it was Mrs. John Smith…”

“The basic difference is,” Shayne told him cheerfully, “that Mrs. John Smith’s daddy couldn’t afford to write a check the size Armbruster wrote this morning.” He got to his feet slowly, folding the papers in his big hands. “Can I get into the apartment?”

“No reason why you can’t. See Lieutenant Hawkins down the hall. He’s got the keys and all the dope. Keep me up-to-date, huh?”

Shayne said, “Sure,” and went out with a wave of his big hand, and down the hall to the office of Homicide Lieutenant Hawkins where he was given the key to the apartment above Lucy Hamilton’s. He also ascertained that Sergeant Deitch, the department fingerprint expert, who had answered the call the night before, was off duty until four o’clock that afternoon, and got his telephone number at home. Garroway, the lab technician, who had accompanied the Homicide Squad, was on duty in the police laboratory at the end of the hall, and Shayne found him alone and idle when he walked in a few minutes later.

Garroway was young and alert and serious and college-trained. He knew the redheaded private detective by sight, and got to his feet quickly. “It’s Michael Shayne, isn’t it? I saw you at that apartment last night.” He studied Shayne with frank curiosity from behind thick-lensed, horn-rimmed glasses.

Shayne nodded casually. “When do you go off duty?”

“At noon.”

“Want to do a little job for me? Over-time rates,” Shayne added with a grin.

“Sure. What is it?”

“A follow-up on that suicide last night. I know you gave it a superficial once-over last night, but I want the works.”

A faint flush crept into the young man’s cheeks and he answered guardedly, “I think we checked it out pretty well. It was perfectly obvious…”

“Let’s forget the obvious. Did you analyze, for instance, that wet spot on the carpet near the kitchen door beside the empty cocktail glass?”

“No. But the glass contained traces of the same poison mixture as the other glass beside the woman. Potassium ferricyanide. The second suicide note explained clearly…”

Shayne shook his head with a grin that was intended to take the sting out of his words. “That’s the sort of thing I mean. I know the lieutenant pushed you through last night, but this time I want everything. Could you meet me there with your equipment about twelve-thirty? I’ll have Deitch, too. A hundred bucks for an hour’s work.”

“Well… sure. But you don’t need to pay me. That is… if you think I overlooked anything…”

Shayne said, “My client can afford to pay you. Fine. Twelve-thirty.”

He left police headquarters by a side door, glancing at his watch as he went to his parked car at the curb. Not quite eleven o’clock. The News was an afternoon paper and Timothy Rourke might be at his desk in the City Room.

And he hadn’t yet telephoned Deitch at home to enlist the fingerprint expert for the job that had to be done. He’d call him from Rourke’s office. And then he had to get hold of Robert Lambert’s signature from the apartment house manager…

The elongated reporter was slouched at his desk with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth, languidly tapping out copy with one nicotine-stained forefinger when Shayne pulled up a chair beside him. He stopped his typing and leaned back with a wide yawn.

“Just the man I want to see. I’m finishing off the Armbruster story. You got anything new from last night?”

“Is the News going to make it the Armbruster story? It was Mrs. Paul Nathan who died.”

“Who’s Paul Nathan to our readers? Armbruster makes it front-page. Did you know the old goat is screaming it can’t be suicide. It’s gotta be murder. Any comment on that?”

Shayne said, “Not for publication, Tim.” His gray eyes were alight with interest. “Who’s he screaming that to?”

“City Editor. Had him on the phone at eight o’clock this morning to lay down exactly how he wanted the story handled… loaded with innuendos, mostly directed at his son-in-law.”

“You handling it that way?”

Rourke snorted his disgust. “There are libel laws in this country. I’m writing it just like you gave it to me last night… unless you’ve changed your mind this morning?”

“I’ve changed it only to the extent that I can be influenced by a big fee.”

Rourke sat up straighter and shook cigarette ash down the front of his jacket. “You mean the old man’s retained you to clear the smirch from the family name?”

“Something like that. He’s hell-bent on hanging it on Paul Nathan somehow… anyhow, I guess.”

“That’s an angle,” Rourke said alertly. “Real newsworthy. Let’s see…” He cleared his throat, frowning down at the half-typed sheet in front of him. “Displeased with the apathy displayed by the local police department in the investigation of his daughter’s unseemly demise, we are confidentially informed, as we go to press, that the grieving father has retained the famous private detective, Michael Shayne, to search for evidence proving that Elsa Armbruster did not take her own life last night. In an exclusive interview obtained by your reporter this morning, the redheaded private eye expressed his personal conviction…”

Shayne said, “Cut it out, Tim. I haven’t got any personal convictions. Not at this point.”

“So you’re not convinced it’s suicide,” said Rourke triumphantly. “That’ll do for a sub-head.”

Shayne shook his head from side to side. “Nothing like that.” He hesitated, getting out a cigarette and narrowing his eyes, thinking it out as he spoke: “But it might stir something up if you’d drop in a simple statement at the end of your story to the effect that I have been retained by Armbruster to make an investigation, and that I will welcome any information about Lambert or the movements of any of the principals last evening.”

“Including Paul Nathan,” suggested Rourke briskly.

“Don’t stress it. If I get information that builds an alibi for him, I’ll be glad to have it.”

“Papa won’t like.”

“I don’t give a damn what papa likes,” said Shayne amiably. “I’m being paid to do a job. What do you know about Nathan?”

“Not much. We may have some stuff in the morgue. He made news when he married Elsa Armbruster.”

“Nothing since then? No rumors about marital rifts… infidelity on either side?”

“The News,” said Rourke stiffly, “does not print rumors.”

“I know. Nose around anyhow, huh, Tim? Society editor? I’d like to back-track the guy.”