Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

The bartender put Shayne’s drink in front of him, with a chaser beside it, and moved back past the Cuban who spoke to him sibilantly, “Que hora es?”

The bartender reached under his dirty, white apron and hauled out a thick, gold watch. “Right at twelve o’clock.” He yawned widely and went on down the bar to refill the beer mug in front of the bald-headed man.

Shayne took a sip of cognac and let his gaze drift down to his own watch. The two hands were straight up and almost directly together. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the Cuban toss off the last of his drink nervously and put a cigarette between his lips. He turned slowly on his stool as he struck a match, and Shayne thought he was looking toward the telephone booth.

At that moment it rang loudly.

The match jerked slightly in the brown-skinned hand, and missed the tip of his cigarette. Then it steadied and he drew in fire as the phone rang a second time. Shayne looked alertly on down the row of faces reflected in the mirror.

No one had changed position. No one appeared even remotely interested in the ringing of the telephone except the bartender who scowled and then circled around the end of the bar to trudge toward it.

Shayne kept his back turned and continued to watch the faces in the mirror. The telephone rang six times before it stopped and the bartender’s voice was loud in the almost silent room, “Scotty’s Bar.”

There was silence, and Shayne could discern only mild interest on any of the faces, the normal interest with which people pause to overhear a telephone conversation in such circumstances.

The bartender said, “What’s that again? Hello?” and then there was a loud click as he hung up.

He came back around the end of the bar still scowling, and made drinks for the trio at the end of the bar.

The Cuban completed a half circle on the stool, slid off it and went swiftly to the Men’s Room in the rear.

Shayne finished his drink and got a bill from his wallet. The bartender saw him and came to pick it up, and Shayne asked casually, “Wrong number?”

“I guess maybe. Some damn fool dame said her name was somethin’ or other an’ then hung up. You get all kinds in a place like this.” He rang the cash register and put change in front of the detective.

Shayne said, “I guess you do.” He wasted one more speculative look down the length of the mirror, and then slid off the stool and went out of the bar with long strides.

A sense of driving urgency coursed through his big, rangy body as he broke into a trot outside, reached the parked coupe swiftly and slid under the wheel. He pulled away fast toward Collins, and then northward.

Scotty’s Bar had been the last stop where he could hope to pick up any further information or verification of his several hunches. From now on, he was committed. If he had guessed wrong…!

Well, damn it! you had to guess sometimes in this business, he told himself savagely. You couldn’t just sit back and play it safe and wait it out.

Not if you were Mike Shayne, you couldn’t. Not if the stakes were big and you had used up your last lead.

He kept his big foot hard on the gas as he raced up the nearly deserted street. He had cut the time mighty damn thin for what was left to be done. By this time Will Gentry would be in telephone conference with Chief Painter about the Felice Perrin murder, and they would be arguing about procedure.

For once Shayne was glad Painter was such a stubborn bastard. He would require a lot of convincing before he took any action. At least, Shayne fervently hoped he would.

He turned a corner on protesting tires, and braked as he approached the Peralta residence. He slowed in front of the stone gateposts enough to note that dim light still showed through the ground and third-floor windows, but did not turn into the driveway. Instead, he cut his lights and pulled past, and off the pavement in front of the locked front gates next door.

The night was very still as he strode back to the Peralta driveway. There were no cars parked in front of the house this time, nor was there any welcoming front light on.

Shayne mounted the porch and put his finger hard on the electric button and held it there.

He didn’t release the button until the door opened a cautious crack and Nathaniel Freed peered out at him. He blinked disapprovingly and said, “Mr. Shayne. It’s very late and…”

Shayne said angrily, “It’s not too late for some talk, Freed,” pushed the door back and shoved by the secretary into the wide hallway. “Peralta in?”

“No. Mr. Peralta is… out. You are not welcome here, Shayne, and I don’t propose…”

“Where’s Marsha?” Shayne cut him off curtly.

“She… went up to her room a few minutes ago. I warn you, Mr. Shayne…”

“Did she make a telephone call before going up?”

“I really don’t know,” said Freed, sulkily. “I have been in the study for the last half hour. Really, Mr. Shayne…”

The detective swung away from the agitated man and went to the foot of the stairway. He lifted his voice so it vibrated through the three-story house, “Marsha! Marsha!”

“I shall call the police, Mr. Shayne,” said Freed in a nervous voice behind him. “I really cannot countenance…”

Shayne turned fiercely and held up a big hand to shut him up as Marsha’s voice responded faintly and fearfully from above them:

“Who is it?”

“Mike Shayne,” he bellowed back at the unseen governess. “Come down here as fast as you can.”

He whirled about again, and told Freed, “Keep your mouth shut. You can call the cops after I get through here… if you really want to,” he ended wolfishly.

He turned to look up at Marsha Elitzen hurrying down the stairs, a frightened look on her face. He said soothingly, “It’s all right, Marsha, except I’m in a hell of a hurry. Did you make that phone call?”

“Yes. I said it and hung up.”

“What phone did you use?”

“In the library.” She pressed her trembling body close against Shayne and pointed. “There is no upstairs extension I could use except in Laura’s sitting room.”

“And Freed was in the study when you called?” Shayne put his left arm about her shrinking body and held her comfortingly close to him while he looked down into her eyes. “With an extension telephone in there?” he ended grimly.

“Yes… there is an extension…” Marsha caught in her breath and her eyes rounded as they looked up into Shayne’s.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” said Nathaniel Freed in a thin voice behind them. “For the last time, Mr. Shayne, I demand…”

Shayne smiled down at the governess and put her away from him gently. He turned on Freed and said in a curiously calm voice, “You stinking little hunk of pseudo-masculinity. Where is that clipping about Marsha?”

“What do you mean?” Freed shrank away from him. “I don’t understand…”

“You understand well enough,” growled Shayne. He took one step forward and struck the fat-butted secretary with a sweeping back-handed slap that sent him reeling across the hallway and crashing into the wall. “So you craved her fair, white, young body?” raged Shayne. He stood over Freed, glaring down at him implacably. “Where’d you get hold of the clipping from the New York Mirror?”

Freed cowered on the floor beneath him and began to sob. “When I checked her references. I knew there was something. And I checked back and I finally remembered. I didn’t mean to…”

Shayne swung away from him on his heel. He told Marsha, “You needn’t worry about the clipping. Everything is coming apart at the seams anyhow. The bracelet isn’t important any more. He didn’t steal it. He just seized the opportunity the theft presented.”