Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

Shayne strolled toward the baggage room without looking back, and glanced at the phone numbers in the booths until he located the one over which Phyllis was to call him.

It lacked three minutes of ten o’clock. He lounged in the open door of the booth and lit a cigarette. He hadn’t seen the faces of the men in the coupe, but was certain they were Leroy and Joe.

A man bought a newspaper and sauntered to a position twenty feet from Shayne’s right, ostentatiously holding the open paper in front of his face. He wore the same belted sport coat and wrinkled flannels that Leroy had worn the preceding afternoon when he visited Shayne’s apartment.

Shayne let smoke dribble from his nostrils while his incurious gaze drifted around the crowded waiting-room. A northbound train was due to leave soon, and there was a lot of bustle and movement.

There were two uniformed cops laughing together just outside the door leading to the men’s room. His gaze stopped and gauged half a dozen other men loitering about at what might be considered strategic points, but none of them were Leroy’s burly companion, nor did he see Gorstmann’s horsy face anywhere.

He glanced at his watch again. Thirty seconds to go. He took a last draw on his cigarette and dropped the butt to the floor. The telephone inside the booth rang sharply.

He stepped inside the cubicle and closed the door. Phyllis’s excited voice came through the receiver to him.

“Mike!”

“Yeh. Are you-”

“I’m all right, darling. I’m perfectly safe. But be careful, Michael, and-what about Tim? Why did you have to-”

“Untie him as soon as you hang up and tell him I’m at the depot,” Shayne cut her off. “Have you got the money?”

“Yes. A thousand dollars. Promise me you’ll be terribly careful and-”

“I’m always careful, angel. Keep the door locked and stay inside.”

He hung up. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his shirt collar as he opened the door.

Leroy stood in front of the door. His short-barreled. 45 was concealed by the folded newspaper in his hand. His pallid features twitched as Shayne stepped out. In a hoarse whisper he said, “Walk straight ahead to the can.”

Shayne started walking toward the men’s room. The two harness men were no longer laughing in front of the door.

Joe came around a corner and joined Leroy behind Shayne. Everything was perfectly casual and no interest was aroused in the little procession.

Gorstmann stood just inside the door of the men’s room. His eyes glittered with excitement but his long, bony face was emotionless. He said, “All right, shamus,” and held out his hand.

Shayne said, “It’s in my right-hand coat pocket. Shall I reach for it, or-”

Gorstmann grated, “Keep your hands in sight.” He stepped close, reached into Shayne’s pocket, and got the small piece of cardboard. Leroy and Joe stood close behind the detective.

Gorstmann breathed heavily as he retreated a pace. He muttered, “Everybody hold it while I check to see if this fits my pieces.”

He got two longer strips of cardboard and a small piece from his pocket and began fitting Shayne’s piece with them.

The swinging doors burst inward and erupted men with guns in their hands. The two uniformed cops were in the lead. Behind them, Shayne saw Will Gentry’s beefy face and Pearson calmly moving beside him with a. 45 automatic in his hand. Peter Painter was behind them.

Shayne dropped to the tiled floor as the shooting started. He saw Joe whirl with gun extended. A bullet in the burly man’s chest staggered him. A second slug in his chest cut him down.

Leroy found time to trigger his gun twice. Both bullets went wild as a slug tore away the back of his head and sent him to the floor on top of Joe.

Gorstmann had not moved. He stood against the wall as though held in position by invisible bonds. Both his hands were in front of him, holding the four pieces of cardboard for which the other men had died.

Shayne caught a glimpse of Pearson’s set face as he stepped forward with heavy automatic extended. The racketing echoes of gunshots were still loud in the room when Pearson’s automatic spoke twice.

Both bullets took Gorstmann in the pit of the stomach. He clamped his hands over the wounds and the four pieces of cardboard fluttered to the floor. A look of dismay spread over his face, then the strength went out of his legs, and he slid down to a sitting position. He tried to speak, but the shrewdly placed slugs had paralyzed a nerve center and all he managed was a low moan before his head sagged forward.

In the silence that followed the shooting, Shayne said, “Nice going, Pearson. Like shooting dummies at target practice.”

Pearson looked down at the detective with compressed lips. He said, “I wasn’t taking any chances,” and stepped around a pool of blood to pick up the torn pieces of claim check dropped by Gorstmann.

Shayne dragged himself to his feet. Will Gentry confronted him. He said, “You shouldn’t have tried to pull this off under our noses, Mike.”

Shayne shrugged. “You can’t shoot a man for trying.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.” Peter Painter edged forward as he spoke. “It’ll be a federal charge this time, Shayne.”

Gentry said quietly, “It’s up to the government. You’re under arrest, Mike.”

Shayne said, “I had to take my chance on that. How did you come to be here, Johnny-on-the-spot?”

“You can thank Painter for that,” Gentry rumbled. “He tipped us off that you were planning to pull a fast one.”

“Painter?” Shayne frowned at the slim detective chief from the Beach.

“That’s right.” Painter caressed his mustache. “I suspected all along that you knew more than you were telling, Shayne. Someone sent me a marked copy of this morning’s Herald and as soon as I saw the advertisement I knew what it meant. So Gentry had you tailed when you left your hotel.”

Shayne nodded. His face was expressionless. He said, “Anyhow, Phyllis is safe-and she’s got a grand to hire a lawyer with.”

“Who are these three men?” Gentry demanded. He looked at Pearson. “Is this the complete roundup?”

Shayne answered first. He nudged the bodies of Joe and Leroy. “These are just a couple of hired gunmen-the same pair who stopped Jim Lacy on the causeway yesterday, but failed to get his piece of the claim check. They were taking orders from him.” Shayne nodded toward the slumped body of Gorstmann. “He’s the headwaiter at the Danube Restaurant on the Beach. I guess he’s the man you were really after.” He turned to Pearson.

“I presume so.” Pearson made the statement cautiously. He held the four pieces of cardboard fitted together in his hands.

“I’ve had my eye on the Danube for some time,” Painter broke in. “I felt that Otto Phleugar would bear watching. I’ll have it raided at once.”

“No need for that,” Shayne protested. “Otto is perfectly harmless. Gorstmann bullied him with threats about the Gestapo, but Otto came clean with the whole story to me last night.”

“I would say this closes the case.” Pearson spoke with quiet assurance. “These pieces of the claim check fit together perfectly and the serial number is intact. Checked through from New York to Miami.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s a train leaving in ten minutes. If I can get those plans and catch the train-” He hurried out, leaving the sentence uncompleted.

Shayne said, “Let’s tag along and see how things work out, Will. I’ve gone through a lot to get a look at those plans.”

Gentry nodded. He gruffly ordered the two policemen, “Bring him along,” and strode out behind Painter.

Timothy Rourke came racing into the depot as they emerged from the men’s room. His face was pale, his clothing disarranged. He slid to a halt in front of Gentry, demanding, “Am I too late? Listen, Gentry-I’ve got plenty to tell.”