Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

By the time two hours and a half had passed and Shayne had smoked his last cigarette, he had achieved to a fair degree the philosophical mood he sought. Painter (if it were indeed Painter behind it) had him where the hair was short, and that was that. He couldn’t, Shayne thought, hold him in jail more than a few hours. Rourke would see to it that bond was forthcoming, and Shayne resolved to circumspectly keep his mouth shut after he was released until he could do some digging into the whys and wherefores. There was the matter of the bad manners of Hatchet-face and Geely to be disposed of, but that could well wait until later.

Michael Shayne was lying stretched out at full length on the iron bunk with a folded mattress under him when a turnkey opened the door of his cell at seven-thirty.

Shayne swung long legs over the edge of the bunk and sat up, rumpling his hair and grinning. “Got a cigarette on you, Bud?”

“I don’t smoke and my name ain’t Bud and front and center with you,” the turnkey said surlily, holding the cell door open.

Shayne went out and down the aisle to a small, brilliantly lighted room where Timothy Rourke was pacing nervously up and down, and a small, neat gentleman sat quietly on one of the wooden benches enjoying a cigar.

Rourke hurried to meet Shayne with a worried frown. “What in hell have you stepped into this time, Mike? Goddamn that black Irish temper of yours.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Give me a cigarette, Tim.”

“Sure. Keep the pack.” Rourke extended a battered pack and waved to the small, neat gentleman. “Mr. Belknap, Mike. He’s counsel for the News, and arranged your bond.”

“How much?” Shayne shook out a cigarette, lighted it and inhaled deeply.

“A thousand bucks. Everything is set for you to walk out, Mike, except Petey wants us in his office first.”

“Painter?” Shayne frowned down at his cigarette, then asked the lawyer complainingly, “If the bond is fixed, can’t I tell him to go fly a kite?”

“I don’t advise that course of action, Mr. Shayne.” Attorney Belknap had a surprisingly deep and resonant voice. He stood up and flicked ashes from his cigar. “This way, please.”

He turned and went sedately through a door and Shayne shrugged at Rourke with lifted eyebrows, then followed him. They went down another corridor to Peter Painter’s private office, where Belknap entered solemnly and sat in a chair near the door. Painter sat importantly at his desk in the center of the room flanked by Cleve Edwards of the Herald and another reporter whom Shayne knew slightly as a wire-man for one of the news services.

Painter was a slender, dark man who sat very erect behind a big desk. He had a pencil-thin black mustache and very black eyes which glittered as Shayne entered with Timothy Rourke.

He said swiftly, “I’ve asked these gentlemen of the press to be present, Shayne, so they’ll be able to report objectively that there is no personal animus whatever behind your arrest this afternoon.”

Shayne thrust his hands in his pockets, dragged deeply on his cigarette and said nothing.

“You are a mere citizen like any other man, Shayne,” said Painter severely. “We have laws here in our municipality and officers to enforce those laws. Your license as a private detective gives you no special privileges in Miami Beach. I want you to know, and I trust it will be fully noted in the public press, that I am officially commending officers Harris and Geely for courageous and impartial discharge of their duties in connection with your arrest this afternoon,”

“So Harris is the name of the guy who slapped me,” said Shayne, lazily. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

Blood came into Painter’s thin, dark features. He raised a small fist and thudded it lightly on the desk in front of him. “Officer Harris is especially commended for meeting with physical force your efforts to resist arrest.”

“If he’d sapped a defenseless man,” asked Shayne with interest, “would he have got a promotion?”

Painter half rose from his chair. His narrow shoulders were shaking with wrath and he pointed a trembling finger at Shayne: “You’re out on bail and I advise you to watch your step, Shamus. You know now that my men are incorruptible and not at all impressed by newspaper stories of your physical prowess. You will be well advised to steer clear of the honest indignation that has been aroused in the entire force here on the Beach by your brazen effort to buy your way free this afternoon. Think that over before you come across the Causeway again.” He sank back into his chair and waved a hand. “That’s all. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

Shayne said, “Quite clear, thanks.” He turned and strode out of the room on hard heels with Rourke trotting along beside him.

“What’s it all about, Mike?” demanded Rourke as they went out into the night air from a side exit. “What the devil has Petey got his tail up in the air about this time?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is what I’m going to try and find out. And God help Harris and Geely if they get in my way again.”

He stopped beside his parked car to draw in deep breaths of night air and drive away the last vestiges of murderous rage that still lingered after he had forced himself to accept Painter’s tongue-lashing in silence.

He leaned forward after a moment to see that his keys were still in the ignition, then asked Rourke: “Your car here?”

“No. Belknap drove me over.”

Shayne said, “Get in and I’ll drive you back.” He grinned crookedly as he got under the wheel and started the motor. “I’m over three hours late for my appointment with Peralta now, so another half hour shouldn’t matter.”

As he backed away, his grin widened when he noted another car backing out at the same time. In the rearview mirror he watched it pull into the street behind him and start following at about fifty feet distance, and he warned Rourke through set teeth, “Watch for traffic signs as we go along. We’ve got a tail and I want you for a witness this time that I’m not exceeding any limits.”

“Sure,” said Rourke, not quite understanding yet. “It’s twenty here. You’re only doing eighteen.”

Shayne’s face was set grimly as he tooled the car along at that speed toward 5th Street. A procession of other cars with impatient drivers sped past in the same direction doing from ten to twenty miles over the limit, but the sedan from the police station remained doggedly fifty feet to his rear.

After a few blocks of progress at the comparative snail’s pace, Rourke said diffidently, “You mean the whole thing this afternoon was a frame-up and you’re afraid they’ll pull it again if you go one mile over the limit?”

“They’ve got my license number,” Shayne told him moodily as he turned left on 5th toward the County Causeway. “Without a witness, I doubt if I’d have to go a mile over the limit to get pulled in again. That’s why I’m borrowing your heap as soon as we get to Miami,” he went on.

“If we ever get there,” groaned Rourke, settling himself in his corner while Shayne carefully hugged the right-hand lane and held the speedometer needle a couple of miles below the legal limit. “You think Painter’s going to all this trouble to keep you away from Peralta, Mike?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know any other reason. Relax and enjoy the scenery,” he went on cheerfully. “Those two cops behind us aren’t any happier than you about this. I’ll bet it’s the slowest they’ve driven since they put on uniforms.”

It was almost five o’clock, and Lucy Hamilton was preparing to close up the office and go home. To what? she asked herself as she placed a cover over the typewriter and tidied up her desk.