Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

Shayne opened the door on his side and stepped out. Timothy Rourke groaned dismally as he slid under the wheel. “The things you talk me into, Mike…”

Shayne chuckled. “How often do they add up to headlines? You should complain.”

He crossed the street and walked swiftly southward to circle back to the Boulevard and north a block to the open restaurant.

He was standing at the end of the bar enjoying a slug of cognac when Rourke came in six or eight minutes later. The reporter nodded as he moved up beside him at the bar. Shayne told the bartender, “Bourbon and water,” and Rourke told him, “It’s those two, all right. Harris and Geely. I made them show me their identification before I could be persuaded not to call on Felice Perrin.”

Shayne said happily, “I’ve got it all worked out, Tim. Take your time with your drink. I’ll beat it. In exactly three minutes, go in that phone booth behind you and call Police Headquarters. Be excited and don’t identify yourself. Just say that a couple of drunks are having a hell of a fight down the street, and they better send a patrol car. Then hang up fast and come walking on down to the Perrin address. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

The bartender brought Rourke’s drink and Shayne laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. He said in a low voice, “I’ve got a date with a lady, Mister. Will that pay for a pint I can take with me. You know how it is,” he added with a conspiratorial wink. “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker… and you don’t have any candy for sale here anyhow.”

“We sure don’t.” The bartender winked back at him and palmed the bill. He turned away and returned in a moment with a pint of brandy in a small paper sack which he slid over the counter to Shayne.

As the detective slid it into his pocket, Rourke asked sadly, “What in hell are you going to do, Mike?”

“Make a couple of punk detectives named Geely and Harris wish to God they’d stayed out of my way this afternoon. Three minutes, Tim.”

Shayne strode out blithely, and Rourke checked his watch and sipped his drink, getting a dime ready to make the telephone call to the police.

Outside, Shayne hesitated when he saw that Rourke had parked his coupe directly in front of the bar headed south. He walked over to the right-hand door, opened it and got the reloaded automatic out of the glove compartment and put it in his hip pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to use it in taking care of the Beach detectives, but its weight was comforting at his hip. On this side of the Bay, Miami Beach cops had no more legal rights than any ordinary citizen, and Shayne’s pistol permit was just as good as theirs.

He went swiftly up the sidewalk toward the parked car with the two Beach detectives in the front seat. He tugged the brim of his hat low as he approached, stepped out into the street just behind the car and strode around to the right-hand side.

The big, paunchy man named Geely was on that side, half-turned in the seat toward his hatchet-faced companion so that his back partially rested against the closed door. Shayne turned the handle and jerked the door open before either of the men were quite aware of his presence.

Geely grunted and slid partly out, and Shayne’s left arm snaked in around his neck to help him, while he set himself solidly on the roadway and swung his right fist to the big, gum-chewing jaw before Geely could straighten up.

Shayne stepped back to let him slump to the ground, and then dived over him through the open door into Harris who was cursing loudly and trying to drag a gun from a shoulder holster, somewhat impeded by the steering wheel.

Shayne locked his big hands around Harris’ thin neck and dragged him out over the seat into the roadway. He hit him once on the sharp point of his chin and felt the body go limp. He dropped him into the street a couple of feet away from Geely’s recumbent figure and stared down at both of them for a moment before kicking the big man lightly in the side. He didn’t stir. They were both breathing heavily, out cold, and Shayne didn’t think either of them had recognized him or could describe him.

He got the pint of liquor out of his pocket and unscrewed the top, sprinkled the pungent stuff liberally over both men, and tossed the open bottle in on the front seat.

He turned, then, to look toward the lighted Boulevard, and saw Rourke’s tall, emaciated figure come out of the lounge and hurriedly start to angle across the street toward the opposite side. Shayne strolled across to intercept the reporter in front of the two-story house where Felice Perrin lived, and asked casually, “Get the police okay?”

“Sure. Said they’d have a patrol car here fast. Let’s get inside. What happened with you?”

“Why the two damned fools got all excited when they saw the bottle, and knocked each other out cold,” Shayne said good-humoredly. “They’ll have fun explaining that to the Miami cops. Got no business over here on a stake-out anyway.”

They went up onto a front porch and into a small hallway where a dim bulb burned high in the ceiling. A row of mailboxes along the wall had numbers and names on them. Shayne found one marked PERRIN 2-A.

The stairway on the right was dark, but there was a wall-switch at the bottom which lighted another dim bulb at the top, and they went up.

There were two front rooms, both dark behind their transoms, and there was no sound or light in the entire house to indicate that any of the occupants were awake.

2-A was on the right in front. Shayne knocked gently, and then more loudly. He waited twenty seconds before rapping hard with his knuckles, and he got out his key ring and studied the lock while he waited another brief time. A police siren sounded on Biscayne Boulevard from the south, and Rourke said nervously, “There’s the cops, Mike. If they find us here…”

“Why should they look for us here?” Shayne’s first key entered the lock, but wouldn’t turn it. The second one opened the lock with a protesting creak.

The wail of the siren keened down to a low moan and then to silence as the patrol car pulled opposite the house, its red light flashing eerily through an open window.

Shayne hesitated on the threshold with his hand on the switch beside the door. In the pulsing red glow from the window he saw the outline of a figure lying in the middle of the floor in front of him.

He said hoarsely to Rourke over his shoulder, “Stay right here and don’t turn on the light until I pull the shade.” He skirted around the figure, stumbling over an overturned chair and a cushion on the floor, lowered the shade and turned with his back to it, and said, “Switch on the light.”

A chandelier in the ceiling sprang into brightness. The girl lying in the middle of the floor between the two men wore a white cotton dress and her eyes were closed, and at first glance she appeared peacefully asleep. But her head was twisted at an awkward angle and there were angry bruises on her neck.

“Mother of God,” breathed Rourke from the doorway. “Is that the gal we’ve come visiting?” He closed the door firmly behind him.

“Didn’t you see Felice after the robbery?”

“Yeh. Just briefly before Peralta chased me out. I guess that’s her, all right. They always look different dead,” he added plaintively.

The single front room had been thoroughly torn to pieces, giving every indication that a hasty, but complete search of the premises had been made. Bureau drawers gaped open and clothing was strewn on the floor, the sofa-bed was denuded with cushions and bed-clothing on the floor. Two framed pictures had been taken from the wall and the cardboard backing on both of them ripped off.

“Someone looking for an emerald bracelet?” hazarded