Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

Shayne said, “It sounded like what it was.” He jerked his head toward the supine figure of Pearson. “That bird took a shot at me and I had to cool him off.” He turned the Gladstone upside down and shook its contents out on the floor.

Over his shoulder, he suggested, “You might start pouring some water over him. But don’t try too hard to bring him to because I want to get finished here first.”

House detective Bowman was a paunchy man with a sagging dewlap of flesh under his chin. His complexion had the mottled look of one who suffers from chronic liver sluggishness, and his thick lips showed a tendency to pout.

He sighed mournfully and shook his head at Shayne’s back. “You shouldn’t do things like this, Mike. Honest to God, I don’t know what gets into you.”

“Things like what?” Shayne was on his knees going through the contents of Lacy’s bag.

“Like socking this guy in the puss. You know who he is?”

“Should I?”

“He’s a G-man. Straight from Washington.” Bowman went over and squatted down beside Pearson.

“So?”

“There’ll be hell to pay,” Bowman grunted. “You know how these government boys are-specially now with the war going on.”

Shayne kept his back turned, disappointed by the negative result of his search. He asked absently, “How are they, Bowman?”

“Damn it, Mike, you can’t push ’em around like you do the locals.”

“Can’t I?” Shayne got up and turned away from the suitcase with a look of disgust on his face.

“You know damn well you can’t.” Bowman got up from beside Pearson. “He’ll be out of his dreams in a couple of minutes. What’s the angle on all this?”

Shayne stood in the center of the room, punishing the lobe of his uninjured ear and frowning. “I wish I knew. Give me your end. Maybe if we started from both ends and worked toward the middle we’d get something.”

“I haven’t got any end.” Bowman spread out thick hands. “Painter tipped me off that the feds were interested in this guy James and that this agent was coming over to check his room. That’s all I know.”

“What’s your dope on James?”

“Nothing. He checked in from New York a couple days ago. Been in and out, but that’s all. Damn it, Mike,” the worried house detective broke out explosively, “unbutton your lip and give me something to go on.”

Shayne asked, “When did you see James last?”

“He was in this afternoon. Until about four o’clock.”

“Are you positive of the time?”

“Yeh. Because he and some dame had an argument. I had to come and knock on the door to quiet ’em down. He went out pretty quick after that.”

“And the dame?”

Bowman shook his head. “I dunno,” he said evasively. “You know how it is here on the Beach. A man brings a skirt up for a drink or whatnot in his room. We don’t bother him as long as he keeps it quiet.”

Shayne said, “Sure, I know. And if the guy doesn’t know where to find the girl you can steer him right. Don’t tell me you weren’t laying for her to collect your percentage when she left.”

Bowman’s face became a mottled red. “She wasn’t a regular. Aw, Mike, you know I never-”

“House dick or pimp,” Shayne snorted. “What’s the difference?” His eyes searched the room carefully, saw nothing that he had not seen at first. His gaze stopped on Pearson’s face. An eyelid was twitching and he was beginning to make gurgling noises with his breathing.

Shayne stepped to the door, suggested, “Throw a glass of water in his face after I’ve scrammed.” He paused, grinning at the pained look on Bowman’s face. “You haven’t seen me,” he explained. “I’d beat it before you got here after hearing the shot. You don’t have to know anything.” He went out swiftly and down the corridor in long-legged strides.

An elevator was stopping to let out passengers. Shayne trotted past and around the corner as Peter Painter and two plain-clothes men got off and started for 416. He kept on to the stairway, went down swiftly, crossed the lobby to the switchboard, and said, “Hi, toots,” to a green-eyed girl who was wearing earphones and manipulating the plugs.

She started an impersonal smile in his direction, gave a start, and broadened her smile into the real thing. “For the love of Mike Shayne,” she caroled. “Look who’s here.”

“I’ve got to have something fast, babe. A record of the calls from four-sixteen around four o’clock. Quick before the law catches up with me.”

She said, “I might have guessed you were around when I saw the squad go trooping up a minute ago.” She consulted a large ruled sheet clipped to a board in front of her. “Four-sixteen? Here’s one to Miami at three fifty-seven. And-”

“Do you have that number?”

“Sure.” She gave him the telephone number of his hotel. “And there was a local call went out at four-oh-four. That was a couple of minutes after four-sixteen trotted through the lobby like he had to get somewhere fast. I noticed particularly, because I thought it was funny-”

“You don’t keep a record of the numbers on local calls?”

“No.”

“Man or woman’s voice-the last call?”

“Woman’s. I noticed that, too, because four-sixteen is single, and-”

Shayne said, “Thanks, toots. That’s just what I wanted.”

Shayne turned, glanced around the lobby, then went out to his car just as the elevator disgorged two harried-looking city detectives in plain clothes.

He gunned his car hard getting across the causeway, relaxed and breathed a little easier when he crossed the line dividing the city limits of the two municipalities. There was no telling what fool thing Painter might have done if he had grabbed him before he got over the line-and for the time being Shayne greatly preferred to stay out of jail.

In the lobby of his own hotel in Miami he lifted red brows as he strode up to the desk. The clerk turned and took a yellow envelope from Shayne’s box. “Here’s another telegram that just came for you. Business seems to be rushing tonight.”

Shayne nodded absently, tapping the envelope on the desk. “Mrs. Shayne hasn’t come yet-or called?”

“Not yet, Mr. Shayne. Is anything wrong?”

The corner of Shayne’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid there is-afraid Phyl’s in trouble. Put a tracer on any calls that come in for me the moment you connect me,” he directed.

He stalked to the elevator, tearing the envelope open. It was a second message from Murphy in New York:

Mace Morgan now fugitive escaped Sing Sing last week doing five to eight rap for hundred grand holdup of Jim Lacy messenger for Gross Ernstine Gross and Barton Wall Street brokers. Morgan married to former Helen Dalhart Scandals thirty seven blonde with trimmings. Am working on her present whereabouts.

Shayne frowned over the import of the telegram as the elevator went up.

Lacy had been the bank messenger involved in the holdup for which Morgan was convicted. Helen hadn’t mentioned that point when he talked with her. Perhaps she had forgotten, or didn’t know about it, or thought it wasn’t important. Perhaps it wasn’t important. But it was a link between Lacy and Mace Morgan. It might serve to explain Lacy’s advice to her on how to get rid of her husband. Lacy had been a vindictive sort of cuss those years ago when Mike had known him in New York. If Lacy carried a grudge against Morgan for the stick-up, it was not surprising that he wanted to see the escaped con put on the spot.

But why the hell hadn’t Lacy taken the job himself? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation any to have tracked the fugitive to Miami and then been forced to kill him while making the arrest. Poetic justice, rather. It would have made headlines all over the country. But maybe Jim Lacy hadn’t wanted headlines. So he had steered Helen onto Shayne instead.