Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

Shayne sagged into a chair, clenching his fists and pounding the cushions helplessly. God help Phyllis if she was in the hands of Leroy and Joe. Why in the name of God had he played smart that afternoon and refused to give them the torn scrap of cardboard he had taken from Lacy? The gangsters were convinced that it was in his possession and they had shown clearly that they would stop at nothing to get hold of it Why the devil was he hanging onto it? If he had given it to them-

But no. He was tough. Too tough to be intimidated. A throaty snarl belched through his grim lips. He heaved himself forward and poured another drink. The stuff had no more taste than water as it trickled down his dry throat.

No. He was Mike Shayne. A tough shamus on the make. Too tough to be pushed around. So they had Phyllis-and he, by God, still had the scrap of cardboard. He had sacrificed his wife for something that might not be worth an ersatz mark.

Besides, he was bucking the local law and the FBI to keep possession of it, sticking his rough neck out all over the place-all because of a hunch. And because he didn’t like the idea of people getting shot on their way to his office.

Hell, Lacy’s death hadn’t actually meant much to him. He had known Lacy. Sure. Ten years ago. And they hadn’t really been friends. He couldn’t justify his conduct on the grounds that he owed Lacy anything. It was his damned stubbornness. Nothing else. And Phyllis was having to pay for it.

Michael Shayne sprang up from the chair and began pacing the floor again, lashing his thoughts away from his wife and her probable plight. Conversely, he lashed Phyllis with his tormented mind. The next time he had a case, by God, he’d lock her in a sanitarium for the duration.

His pacing took him close to the bedroom door. He stopped and listened intently, then jerked it open to see if Helen had obeyed his instructions and hidden herself safely.

He turned on the lights and a grunt of surprise jerked from his lips when he saw the outline of a body curled up beneath the bedcovers. He strode over with his jaw jutted and angrily demanded:

“Will you tell me what the living hell you mean by this stunt?”

Helen turned her blond head slightly. One eye came open and peered up at him. “I thought this was a swell idea,” she purred. “I’ll keep the covers up like this and you can tell them your wife is in bed with a headache, and if they’re gentlemen they won’t look too closely. Anyway, they don’t have to come in here, do they?”

Standing at the foot of the bed, Shayne saw her clothes carelessly tossed over the back of a chair. Sedately parked beneath the bed where they showed beneath the edge of the spread were her shoes with a neatly rolled stocking nestled in each.

Shayne put his hands on his hips and grated, “It was a bitchy idea. If I had time I’d roll you out of there and kick your naked pelt out my door.”

“But, Mr. Shayne. I’m not naked. What an idea!” She pushed the covers back to show him she had appropriated one of Phyllis’s silk nightgowns. She was laughing at him now, shakily triumphant over the success of her stratagem. “I thought you’d like me this way,” she pouted. “You will when you get used to the idea. You wanted a reason for helping me get rid of Mace. Well-I thought I’d give you one.”

He growled, “I told you to get under the bed, not in it.”

“But this is so much more comfortable.” She stretched out her bare arms and pretended to yawn. “Don’t you like me-even a little bit?”

“I’d like to choke you,” Shayne grunted. “If they see you here-like this-” He choked over the words.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about your reputation. From what I’ve heard-”

“I’m married,” he said stiffly.

“Sure. Lots of men are. But that doesn’t keep them from-still being men.”

“I happen to be in love with my wife.”

She was frightened now. She tried to form her stiff lips into a contemptuous smile, but it was ineffectual.

A knock sounded on the outside door. He turned away and muttered, “Cover yourself up and keep covered up and quiet.”

He went out and closed the door firmly, then crossed the room to answer the knock. He stepped back with a sour grin and started to say, “Come in, Will,” but the grin faded away.

Mace Morgan walked through the door holding a gun in his right hand. His low forehead was wrinkled and his upper lip was drawn back to show the gap in his front teeth.

A look of incredulity, then of understanding flickered over Morgan’s face when he saw Shayne. He muttered, “So, it’s you again, huh? That was just a gag about Helen to cover up your snooping.” He paused, nudged Shayne with the muzzle of his gun. “Turn around slow while I frisk you.”

Shayne said, “Sure.” He turned around slowly, lifted his arms, and let Morgan feel over him for a weapon. “What do you mean by a gag about Helen?”

“That you was there to see her in her apartment. I might’ve known you were a lousy flatfoot. All right. I guess you’re clean. Walk on ahead of me and don’t get no funny ideas. I won’t trigger this gat if you don’t make me.”

Shayne walked on into the room. Morgan heeled the door shut and followed. Shayne swung around with a placating grin. “Sure, it was just a gag about Helen. What the hell? I had to think of something when you walked in on me. Nothing to get jealous about.”

“Skip that. Where’s Lacy’s hunk stashed?”

“Lacy’s hunk? Of what?”

“Don’t give me none of that. I know you got it. I know you had it here in this room not more’n ten minutes ago. It’s still here.”

A slight rustle of sound from the side of the room drew the quick attention of both men. Mace Morgan sucked in his breath sharply when he saw his wife standing in the bedroom doorway, her hair disordered, her body sheathed in a filmy blue nightgown. Her right arm was pressed tightly against her side, her hand hidden by a fold of silk. The knuckles of her left hand were pressed against her teeth. She said, “Mace!” in a frightened whisper that echoed in the silence.

Shayne said, “For God’s sakes, listen to me,” but neither Morgan nor the girl noticed him.

Morgan said gutturally, “So-it wasn’t no gag.” He took a step toward Helen. His gun was lax in his hand, muzzle pointed toward the floor.

Helen’s body became rigid. Her right hand swept up and flame spouted from it. The explosion of a small cartridge was loud in the room.

The tiny bullet struck Mace Morgan in his open mouth. He swayed under the impact, ineffectually tried to close his mouth while a look of dismay swept over his face.

Helen fired again as Shayne leaped forward. A red spot appeared in Mace Morgan’s forehead. He went down limply and blood oozed from the red spot.

Helen pulled the trigger a third time as Shayne reached her. The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder.

Shayne grabbed the short barrel of the gun and wrested it from her fingers. Her eyes were distended like those of a sleepwalker. Her body remained rigidly erect.

Shayne dropped the revolver on the floor and gave her a shove into the bedroom. He turned and looked down at Morgan. The escaped convict lay on the floor, very still. There was that look of dismay, of reproach, congealed in his open eyes.

Helen ran from the bedroom and flung herself upon Shayne, clinging to him. He fended her off as she sobbed convulsively, “I had to. Oh, my God, he’s dead, isn’t he? I had to do it. He would have killed us both.”

Shayne grabbed the girl’s shoulders and shook her violently, then let go with one hand and slapped her. She jerked back, her eyes screwed up, peering at him like a frightened animal.

Through set teeth, Shayne pounded at her, “There’s no time for talk. The cops will be here any minute. We can’t get rid of him.”