Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

“But, sweet,” she pleaded in a whimpering voice. “Why, you’re angry with me. You know I’m all yours-”

Shayne slapped her on the mouth. She cringed away from him, sobbing.

He said, “Come in the living-room when you put on a robe,” and strode away from her, slamming the bedroom door shut.

Rourke stood in the center of the room with his back to Shayne. He was pouring himself a drink. He didn’t turn his head when Shayne walked up behind him and said, “All right. Are you satisfied now?”

Rourke kept on pouring liquor in his glass. The glass ran over, but he kept on pouring.

Shayne grabbed the bottle. “Why don’t you say something?”

Rourke turned troubled eyes to his friend’s face. He shook his head with the tight-lipped explanation, “You wouldn’t want to hear anything I’ve got to say.”

“Go on, say it.” Shayne was breathing hard. “I’m a heel. A lecherous louse with naked women concealed all over the premises.”

Rourke lifted the brimming glass and held it to his lips until it was empty. He muttered, “There’s no use going into things. I’d better be going. I should have gone with Gentry and Pearson.” He took a step toward the door.

Shayne’s hand grabbed his shoulders. Between his teeth, the detective said, “No, you don’t, Tim. You can’t walk out now. You did stay, God damn it. Now you’re going to hear the whole story.”

He swung Rourke back, gave him a shove that sent him down into a chair. The bedroom door opened and Helen came in. She was barefooted, wearing Phyllis’s chenille robe. Dried bloodstains showed on the robe where Phyllis had drawn Shayne’s head against her after the encounter with Leroy and Joe.

Shayne stepped back and said in a tight voice, “Let me present Mrs. Mace Morgan-Timothy Rourke.”

Rourke sagged back and stared at the blond widow. He repeated, “Mrs.-Mace-Morgan,” as though savoring the words and not enjoying the taste of them at all.

Helen stood silently in front of them with eyes downcast. Her face was reddened from Shayne’s sharp slap, yet a strange aura of dignity clung to her as she stood there.

Shayne said, “Sit down.” He rumpled his hair as she lowered herself into a chair and folded her hands in her lap. He got out a cigarette and stabbed it at his mouth with his gaze fixed on Rourke.

In a hushed tone, Rourke said, “Mace Morgan’s-wife.”

“Mace Morgan’s widow,” Shayne corrected. He got the cigarette between his lips and put fire to it, his brooding gaze still upon Rourke’s face.

“But she’s-Good God, Mike! Gentry and Pearson must be combing the town for her right now. She’s-she may be the key to the whole thing.”

Shayne nodded somberly. His nostrils widened and smoke trailed from them. He grunted, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the key to a lot of unpleasant things.”

“And you let them walk out of here without telling them-” Rourke stopped and swallowed hard.

“It would have been a sweet mess if I had told them,” Shayne argued.

Rourke was just beginning to absorb the full impact of the girl’s identity, of her presence in the apartment wearing only a nightgown. His jaw sagged and his expression became uncertain. “Yeh,” he muttered. Then: “Gentle Jesus-that was her husband.”

Shayne’s lips twitched away from his teeth. “That was her husband lying dead on the floor, Tim,” he finished for his friend. “Does that spell out any of the right words for you?”

Rourke nodded. His uncertainty was swept away by a look of revulsion. “She did it, Mike. I wasn’t so far wrong in my theory about you not wasting two bullets when one would have done the job.”

Shayne made a savage gesture of dismissal. “What difference does it make which one of us blasted him? Can you see my trying to explain this setup to Will Gentry? You know how he is about Phyl-how it would look to anybody. You’ve covered enough sex crimes in your time. This was, outwardly, the apex of all perfect sex crimes. Not a detail missing. Beautiful wife in another man’s bed with the outraged husband intent on avenging his honor. Hell, Tim, we’d both be locked up this minute if I let them get a gander at Helen.”

Rourke shuddered and closed his eyes. He put both hands over his face. Helen leaned forward and started to speak, but Shayne kept her silent with a warning glance. He watched Rourke warily, sensing the struggle that was going on inside of him.

After a time Rourke took his hands from his face. He was haggard, looked years older than when Shayne had opened the closet door and told Helen to come out. He wet his lips and began talking in a monotone without looking at Shayne.

“I’ve known you a long time, Mike. I’ve admired you. I’ve liked your ability to pull yourself out of tight holes. I’ve played ball with you when things looked damned black-when I had to take you on faith.” He paused, wetting his lips again.

“And you’ve never regretted it. You’ve had your headlines and they’ve been right,” Shayne reminded him.

“No. I’ve never regretted it,” Rourke admitted. “I’ve watched you play fast and loose with the law and with every outward appearance of honesty and decency, and you’ve always come out on top. But this is different, Mike. This isn’t cops-and-robbers stuff. Every minute they waste trying to find this woman may be vitally important. You took advantage of Will Gentry’s friendship, of his faith in you, to get them out of here without seeing her — and you tried to get rid of me, too.”

Shayne argued, “But you can see the spot I was in. If I shot Mace Morgan-an escaped convict-in self-defense-that was one thing. There won’t be any questions asked. But you know what would have happened if they had found her here. That changed everything. I’d never beat that rap, Tim.”

“Maybe not,” Rourke agreed huskily. He took a long drink of cognac and went on. “But this is war. You’re one man, Mike. Do you think your personal problem is important when weighed against the lives of a nation? From the way Pearson told it, that’s how important those secret plans are to our country. Remember the troopship that was torpedoed last week? Twelve hundred men lost. Those plans may be the remedy to stop submarines. This thing is bigger than you or me, Mike. It’s bigger than any one man.” Rourke took another drink and continued his impassioned plea. “You can’t block it, Mike. You can’t hold out information that might help Pearson recover the plans so vital for our defense.”

“Isn’t it about time to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner’?” Shayne asked wearily. “Phyl saved the words out of the paper last Sunday.”

Rourke’s lean features hardened. “I know you’ve always pretended to laugh at such things, Mike. Patriotism, decency, honor. But I’ve always thought that was just a hard-boiled pose. I’ve always believed that, deep inside, you were decent and honorable.”

“Now we should have a flag to wave,” Shayne said ironically.

“Now, by God, I’m beginning to wonder if it was all a pose,” Rourke continued shakily. “It’s an ugly feeling, Mike. A nasty, crawling sensation inside of me that I’m ashamed to talk about. But-there it is.” Rourke finished off his drink and made a gesture of disgusted dismissal.

Shayne’s gaunt and swollen features twitched. He dropped into a chair. “You’re taking a lot for granted, Tim, and you’re half drunk.”

“What?” Rourke lifted himself from his chair by pushing on the arms, then settled back.

“The importance of the stolen plans,” Shayne said. “All we have, actually, is Pearson’s unsupported word. Isn’t it possible that he’s exaggerating the whole thing-subconsciously perhaps-just to make himself appear important?”