Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

“But he warns me specifically,” reminded Peralta, “that the imitation bracelet will go to this man Rourke on the newspaper if we do anything like that.”

“We’ll try to prevent his carrying out that threat. If we fail, I think I can guarantee Rourke’s silence until we know exactly where we stand. In the meantime,” he added, recalling Rourke’s description of the governess, “I’d like to have a talk with Miss Briggs, if I may. And I’ll want the address of the maid, who was here the night of the theft.”

“Yes. Miss Briggs can give you that, I am sure. But I’m afraid she isn’t here just now. She mentioned at the dinner table that she was going out for the evening immediately after dinner.”

Shayne said with real regret, “That’s too bad. I look forward to interviewing Miss Briggs. I’ll be here to see her first thing in the morning.”

He got up and held out his hand to the millionaire. “Try not to worry too much about all this. And I advise you to tell no one about the letter. No even your alter ego, Freed.”

“I agree,” said Peralta, hastily. “Ah… about a retainer, Mr. Shayne?”

“We can discuss that in the morning… after I’ve a better idea what I may be able to do for you.” Shayne turned away, in a hurry to get back to Miami and to the Green Jungle before Laura Peralta lost all her money and got tired of waiting for him to show up.

The little maid popped up in the hallway as he strode from the library, and scurried ahead of him to open the front door. He thanked her and went out.

The cream convertible was gone from the driveway, but the dark limousine was still parked in front of Rourke’s old coupe.

Shayne went down the flagged walk and circled the limousine to open the left-hand door of the coupe. Cigarette smoke came out into the night air, and mingled with it was the delicate scent of a good perfume.

Shayne could see only a blurred outline of the occupant of the coupe as he slid under the wheel. She was far over on the right side of the seat, and when he slammed his door shut, she told him calmly, “I’ve been waiting long enough. Let’s get away from here before someone comes out and sees me.”

Shayne started his motor and backed a little so he could circle around the limousine and out the drive. The voice sounded young and cultured and calm. Looking straight ahead as he turned onto Alton Road, Shayne asked, “Why are you afraid someone will see you?”

“I prefer they don’t know I’m having this private talk with you, Mr. Shayne. You are Mr. Shayne, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And you’re Miss Briggs?”

“Marsha Briggs.” The governess sitting on the far side of the seat rolled down the window and spun her cigarette out. “Tell me one thing honestly.” There was a faint tremor in her nice voice. “Has Mr. Peralta retained you to recover the bracelet?”

“More or less. I’m looking into it before I decide to take the case or not.”

“Could we stop for a drink? I won’t detain you long, and will take a taxi back to the house.”

Shayne said, “Of course. A drink is exactly what I need.”

He slowed Timothy Rourke’s coupe as they approached the neon lights of a cocktail lounge, pulled into a parking spot and turned off the motor and lights. Only then did he turn to look at his passenger.

Marsha Briggs looked back at him searchingly. She wore a blue silk scarf over her head, tied tightly with a bow-knot beneath her firm chin. It framed a piquant, heart-shaped face with nice coloring and delicate bone structure. Her eyes were blue and probing. Her lips were lightly touched with red and slightly parted. She looked about twenty-five, and Shayne surmised she might be in her mid-thirties. His first impression was of a strong and self-reliant young woman who had been carefully reared but had learned to cope with life on its own terms.

She said, “I know. I don’t look like a governess. I’m much too pretty and too young and too sexy to spend the rest of my life cooped up in the Peralta house with a couple of brats. I should be eagerly grasping at life and love with both hands while there is yet time.”

Shayne chuckled happily and opened his car door. “You’ve been talking to a newspaper reporter named Timothy Rourke.”

“Do you know Mr. Rourke?”

“Very well.” Shayne went around to open her door. “This is his car I’m driving. Would you be interested to know how he described you to me this afternoon?”

“I don’t… think so.” She stepped out and stood close beside him and he saw she was wearing a severely tailored suit of raw white silk which was molded to her slenderly lithe body in a way that vividly brought back Rourke’s parting words in the City Room that afternoon. The top of her blue-scarfed head came just above his left shoulder, and the scent of her perfume was heady in the warm stillness of the tropical air.

Shayne put his hand lightly under her elbow and they went into the dimly lighted lounge and found a vacant booth near the door. She settled herself across from him and he lifted his ragged, red brows inquiringly when a white-jacketed waiter soft-footed up to the booth.

She said, “A daiquiri please. A little on the dry side.”

And Shayne said, “And a sidecar, also light on the cointreau.”

Marsha opened a soft, white leather handbag and got out a pack of flip-top cigarettes. Shayne put one of his own in his mouth, struck a match and held it to hers and then to his. She inhaled deeply and let thin smoke trail from her nostrils and asked quietly, “Does Mr. Peralta want you to find the bracelet… or is he hiring you to get in the way of the police to prevent them from recovering it?” She put a very slight emphasis on the word “find,” and Shayne wrinkled his brow thoughtfully at the question.

“Why do you ask a thing like that?”

“A conversation I overheard between Julio and Nat this afternoon. Nathaniel Freed,” she added with a faint lift of her upper lip.

“And it gave you the impression that Peralta isn’t anxious to have the bracelet found?”

“That seemed to be Nat’s impression. I can’t imagine why. But it appears that Chief Painter is positive he’ll crack the case in a day or so and looks on you as a hindrance rather than a help.”

The waiter brought their cocktails. Shayne sipped his thoughtfully and found it good. He said, “Painter is always overly optimistic about his own ability, and resents a private detective being called in. Can you or Freed think of any reason in the world why Peralta wouldn’t want the bracelet back?”

“I don’t know what Nat Freed thinks, and certainly haven’t discussed it with him,” she replied somewhat acidly. “The only reason I can think of is that he wants to teach Laura a lesson. Punish her for her negligence by having the bracelet stay lost.”

“A rather expensive lesson,” suggested Shayne.

Marsha Briggs shrugged. “It was insured. And you have no idea how her carelessness with money and jewelry irks him.”

“Does she complain about not having enough actual cash to spend?”

“Not specifically. Just in a general way.”

“Has there been any occasion during the past few years when she might have needed a large sum in cash? Some crisis that she didn’t want to go to her husband about?”

“I’ve been with them only two months.” Marsha finished her cocktail and set the empty glass down decisively. “Aren’t you interested to know why I slipped out of the house and waylaid you tonight?”

Shayne grinned cheerfully and said, “I hoped it was on account of my sex appeal.”

She looked at him with candid, appraising eyes and said, “There is that… after being cooped up in the same house with Nat Freed for a couple of months. But I didn’t know it at the time. I just caught the merest glimpse of you as you passed the dining room.”