Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

“This is my first and final offer. You have until noon Thursday.”

There was no signature to the letter. Shayne read it thoughtfully and in silence. When he finished and refolded it, he looked up to see the Cuban millionaire leaning forward watching him anxiously, chewing unhappily on his unlit cigar.

Shayne shrugged and shook his head. “You’ve let yourself get into a damned compromising position by letting three weeks pass before you announce the stolen bracelet was actually just a cheap imitation. Even if you do come out with a statement now, if a reporter like Rourke ever gets hold of the fact that it took a threatening letter like this to force your hand, you still won’t be in a good position. By slick maneuvering, you might avoid actual prosecution for attempted fraud, but there wouldn’t be much doubt in anyone’s mind that you did attempt it.

“Why, in the name of God,” Shayne burst out angrily, “did you show this letter to me? Far better if you’d kept your mouth shut and paid the man off. You can’t do that now that I’ve seen the letter. I’m only private and I cut corners sometimes, but I can’t go along with an insurance fraud.”

Julio Peralta’s face had slowly turned a sickly white as Shayne spoke. “But it’s not true,” he exclaimed in a horrified voice. “Good Lord, man, don’t you think I know the value of the bracelet? It was purchased at Tiffany’s in New York four years ago. Don’t you realize it was appraised by the insurance company?”

“I’m sure you bought it at Tiffany’s and it was carefully appraised,” said Shayne, wearily. “But none of that proves anything, if the one actually stolen is proved to be an imitation. Lots of rich people do a thing like that,” he went on, angrily. “Have imitations made for their wives to display in public. It’s common practice and nothing to be ashamed of. But, if the imitation is stolen, it isn’t ethical to pretend it was the original and try to collect insurance on it.”

“You’re insulting, Mr. Shayne. Some men may allow their wives to wear cheap imitations, but I consider it a tawdry thing to do.”

“All right. So it was the real thing. How do you explain this letter?”

“I don’t. I hoped you might.”

Shayne shrugged again and picked up his brandy. “If it’s a bluff and you know it’s a bluff… call it, of course. Simply tear it up and forget it. Or, better yet, fix up a decoy envelope and mail it. I’ll see that James Morgan is arrested when he calls for it at General Delivery.”

The financier from Cuba was silent for a long moment, fidgeting with the unlighted cigar in his hands and studying it as though he had never seen one before. Without raising his eyes to the detective, he asked in a low voice:

“Suppose the man has such an imitation? No matter how he got hold of it. What then?”

“Let’s understand each other,” said Shayne, slowly. “Do you suspect the bracelet may have been copied without your knowledge? And that you weren’t told of the substitution after it was stolen?”

“No. That’s impossible,” cried out Peralta. “Who could possibly have done that?”

As though in answer to his question, the door was pushed open without warning and Laura Peralta entered the library.

Neither her newspaper pictures nor the brief glimpse Shayne had caught of her at the candlelit dining table did Mrs. Peralta justice.

She was in her early thirties, he thought, and her figure was svelte rather than plump as the pictures had made it appear. Actually, she was quite tall for a woman, he realized, as she stood in the doorway teetering a trifle on very high heels. Tall enough to carry her full hips and prominent bosom with a faint swagger that was reminiscent of Mae West in one of her most seductive roles.

Her features were smooth and even, with a touch of arrogance in the slightly uptilted nose, but there was a hint of smouldering fire in the brown eyes that regarded Shayne from beneath heavy, dark lashes.

Her voice was a low contralto, carefully modulated and with a precise enunciation that indicated theatrical voice culture rather than an expensive finishing school in her youth.

“Who is this man, Julio?”

Michael Shayne got to his feet slowly. A faint grin twisted his lips as he met her eyes squarely and held her gaze across the twenty feet that separated them. From the chair beside him, he heard Peralta’s nervous voice explaining:

“A business associate, my dear. We’re endeavoring to have a quiet and private talk here,” he went on petulantly. “I’ll join you upstairs very soon.”

Shayne knew that Laura Peralta wasn’t actually listening to her husband. She doubtless heard the words as he spoke them, but her eyes were probing Shayne’s eyes, her mind was probing Shayne’s mind.

She shook her head slightly as though puzzled, moved toward him, swaying slightly at the hips and paying no attention at all to the older man in the room.

“The children say you are a detective. Why did you force your way in here tonight, Mr. Shayne? What hold have you over my husband that induced him to admit you?”

Shayne shrugged. “Hadn’t you better ask him that question?”

She was close to him now. He could smell her, and she smelled good. She stopped two feet away and had to tilt her head upward only slightly to look directly into his eyes. She said pleasantly, as though she were discussing an absent person in whom she had little interest:

“Julio is an awful fool at times. He thinks there’s only one place for women and they should stay there. What do you think, Michael Shayne?”

Her voice and the look she gave him were challenging and provocative. Shayne heard Peralta clearing his throat rather loudly, but he followed the woman’s lead by ignoring his host.

“I don’t believe this is exactly the best time or place to discuss my ideas about women, Mrs. Peralta. Some other time, perhaps?” He didn’t need to add “When we’re alone” because that was implicit in the way he spoke.

Her lips quirked faintly and she swung away from him to confront her husband, who had lighted his cigar and was now puffing on it nervously. Her voice took on an intonation of subtle mockery when she addressed him:

“Why do you sit there glowering, Julio? I thought you agreed this afternoon that it was up to the police and the insurance company to get back the bracelet. Why should you go around hiring private detectives to do their work?”

He said wearily, “I told you from the beginning, Laura. I feel a certain responsibility. After all, you are my wife.”

“Still harping on that?” she flung at him. “Just because I didn’t lock it up in the safe that one night. I never promised anyone I would. That’s a chance they take when they insure jewelry.”

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. It was clear to Shayne that this was an old, warmed-over quarrel between them, and that Laura Peralta fiercely resented having her actions questioned.

She put her hands on her hips now, and squared her shoulders belligerently at her husband.

“I don’t believe you, Julio.” There was anger and scorn in her voice. “You know Chief Painter told us this afternoon that it was practically in the bag and he certainly neither needed nor wanted outside help. I think you’ve some other reason for calling Mr. Shayne in, and I demand to know what it is.”

“What other reason can you think of?”

“I don’t know unless you have some silly idea of trying to put some restraints on my personal liberty as you threatened recently. Go ahead and hire a private eye to follow me around Miami in the evenings and report to you,” she stormed at him. “See if I care. There’ll be no grounds for divorce, I can assure you of that.” She turned to glare over her shoulder at Shayne who was listening with grim amusement. “If you’re starting your assignment this evening, I’ll make it easy for you. In half an hour or so, you’ll find me in the roulette room of the Green Jungle in North Miami. Know where it is?”