Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

After glancing through the next few issues to assure himself that the promise of “an early arrest” had borne no further fruit, Shayne closed the file and went out past the lady with her knitting, leaving a cheerful, “Thanks, mom,” behind him.

As he strolled out, he asked Grange, “Any report from Tim yet?” and received a blasphemous negative reply.

“And if you see that double-jointed no-good,” Grange bellowed, “tell him he’d better turn in a story before we go to press-and not one about pink elephants and mauve lizards.”

“I’ll probably run into him,” Shayne said with a wide grin. “And I’ll deliver your message if he’s in any condition to listen to it.”

He went out, took the elevator to the ground floor, and got into his car as the first faint streaks of crimson on the horizon preceded the rising sun.

Shayne stopped on the corner of Flagler Street and bought a newly printed Herald from a yawning newsboy. He drove on to his hotel and went into the lobby, pausing to fold the newspaper back to the advertising section.

His advertisement was near the bottom of a short row of Personals. He tugged at the lobe of his left ear as he read the printed words. With his fountain pen he made a conspicuous ring around the one-line advertisement, then went to the desk and got a large envelope. He put the Herald inside, leaving it folded open at the marked advertisement, printed an address on the envelope, and gave it to the clerk with instructions to call a messenger and have it delivered at once.

Upstairs, he hesitated just inside the door of his apartment, listening for sounds from the bedroom. While he heard nothing from Rourke, he crossed the room and stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Timothy Rourke lay twisted up at the foot of the bed in a position which showed he had been unsuccessfully trying to make his finger tips reach the cord binding his feet to the bedpost. His eyes glared up at Shayne with a blaze of frustrated fury. His throat muscles worked spasmodically, but only a faint mumble was audible past the efficient taping job Shayne had done on his mouth.

Shayne took off his hat and angrily ruffled his red hair. He said, “God damn it, Tim, why do you make me do this to you? If you’ll agree to listen to reason I’ll let you up from there.”

Rourke shook his head violently.

“You’re a stubborn fool,” Shayne expostulated in a reasonable tone. “I’ve just been talking to Grange. He’s pretty sore because you haven’t showed up on the job.”

Rourke lay back and stared at him. He was breathing heavily through distended nostrils.

“I told Grange you were working with me on an important story,” Shayne went on cheerfully. “I fixed it with him so I don’t believe he’ll fire you this time.”

He stepped forward to sit on the edge of the bed, complaining, “Quit looking at me like that. It’s giving me the jumps. Damn it, Tim, if you’ll promise to listen to me-give me a chance to explain-”

Again Rourke shook his head violently.

“All right,” said Shayne, “even if you have decided I’m a complete heel and you won’t throw in with me-there’s no need for you to stay tied up like this. The whole thing will be over in a few hours-one way or another. All you have to do is give me your word you won’t interfere while I handle it my own way. I’ll untie you and we’ll have a drink together like a couple of rational human beings. Don’t be a sap,” he went on violently while Rourke continued to shake his head negatively. “You can’t do anything to stop me. It’s going to happen my way whether you like it or not. You might as well be comfortable while it’s happening.”

When Rourke’s headshaking became more rapid and determined, the detective sighed and got up. “All right. Go on and be a martyr. I’m going to have a drink-and some coffee.”

He examined the tape and cord on Rourke’s feet and hands, then went out of the bedroom without looking back at him. Daylight was streaming in the east window, making the electric light look yellow by comparison, giving the littered room an unhealthy appearance.

Shayne crossed to the table and emptied the cognac bottle into a glass. He tasted it and grimaced, walked to the window with the glass in his hand, and looked out over the mouth of the Miami River and Biscayne Bay.

The lush green of tropical shrubbery and the shimmery blue of placid bay water were as beautiful in the morning light as they had ever been, but Shayne found something repugnant in the scene he had hitherto admired. He took another sip of the evil-tasting liquor and fretfully wondered what was the matter with him. A feeling of revulsion and of craving was queerly blended inside him.

He had been content here in Miami for a good many years. Now, irrationally, he knew it could no longer be. It was not easy to analyze the sensation, quite impossible to justify it, but he recognized a recurrence of an inward urge that had kept him on the move during an adventurous past-an urge that was stronger than reason, that had kept him jumping from one job to another while he sought something that always eluded him.

He had believed that phase was ended after he settled down to a private practice in Miami-and after meeting Phyllis Brighton. Here was what he had been seeking, reason told him, a niche into which he fitted at last. His practice in Miami had given him the danger and action he had to have, with a sense of satisfaction each time a particularly difficult case was written off the books on the profit side.

Now he knew he had been a fool to think that his restlessness was a passing phase, to hope it could ever end for him. He had been determined that marriage should change him, but now he knew nothing could change him.

He moodily emptied his glass and found the taste of cognac good again. The round red rim of the sun was rising above the tiled rooftops of Miami Beach and the long night was ended.

He turned away from the window and went into the kitchen, drew a pot of hot water and put it on to boil, dumped a lot of coffee in the drip pot, and sauntered back into the living-room, consciously refraining from looking into the bedroom in order to avoid Tim Rourke’s accusing eyes.

He whistled a tuneless melody as he gathered up the empty liquor bottle and soiled glasses, emptied overflowing ash trays, setting the room in order for Phyllis’s return.

He heard the water boiling and went into the kitchen to pour it over the coffee in the dripolator. He took down an oversized china mug from a shelf and waited until the water gurgled through, then filled it to the brim with strong, clear coffee.

He settled himself in the living-room with the cup of coffee on the arm of his chair. All sense of unease had left him. He felt alert, yet emotionless. It wouldn’t be much longer. The blue chips were down and he had made his draw. He could do nothing except wait for the message that would mean the showdown had come.

He lit a cigarette and drank his coffee with complete enjoyment, his long frame relaxed and comfortable.

The mug was almost empty when the telephone rang. He went into the bedroom without haste, sat on the edge of the bed, and lifted the telephone without looking at Rourke. He said, “Shayne talking.”

A voice on the wire complained, “Why do you make things tough on yourself, shamus?”

Shayne said, “That’s the way I like things.”

“Well-on your wife, then? You can’t dig an extra grand. We trade even-or not at all.”

Shayne said, “Then we don’t trade.” He replaced the instrument and stood up. His only outward sign of strain was the sweat streaming from his furrowed forehead. He stalked into the living-room and picked up the empty mug, refilled it in the kitchen. The telephone rang again as he carried the full mug into the living-room.