Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

“I’m already beginning to get a good inkling,” she told him viciously, but Shayne began running water in the lavatory and it was difficult to carry on a satisfactory quarrel with a man who couldn’t hear her scathing remarks.

Phyllis stepped out of a white silk slip and hung it with her office frock, then caught up a chenille dressing-gown and carried it across to a low bench in front of the dressing-table. She performed a simple gyration which resulted in the unhooking of her brassiere, then rolled down a flexible girdle and sat on the bench to unsnap hose from girdle supporters. She kicked off her slippers and rolled down hose and girdle to the floor. She stood up and posed before the mirror nude, vibrantly young and vibrantly aware of the beauty of her body, then slipped the chenille robe over her shoulders and belted it around her waist.

She sat down sedately before the mirror and began removing her make-up, keeping one ear cocked toward the sound of running water in the bathroom. The instant Shayne shut it off she cajoled through the open doorway:

“Tell me more about the girl, Michael. Did she have something to do with your phone call to New York-the information about the convict and the divorce and all?”

Shayne showed a lathered face in the doorway. He waved his razor and mumbled, “Tell you all about it later. You’re getting hot, though.”

“But, Michael-”

He withdrew his lathered face and she gave up trying to get any more information from him. She finished cleansing her face, then idly ran a comb through her black curls while she waited for her reticent husband to finish shaving.

She got up after a time and wandered over to the bedside table, got a cigarette and match from a metal box that stood between a French telephone and a decanter of cognac.

With the burning cigarette between her lips and the robe trailing out behind her slim figure, she went to the closet and selected a dinner gown of sea-foam green which she had lifted from its hanger. When she turned away from the closet she was less than two feet from the doorway leading into the living-room.

A man stood in the doorway. He held a revolver carelessly leveled at her waist.

Her lips emitted a startled, “Oh,” while she dropped the dinner gown and snatched her robe together in front.

Shayne’s voice came from the bathroom, “Are you getting impatient out there? Give me a couple more minutes and you can parboil yourself at leisure.”

The gunman’s eyes darted toward the bathroom. He jerked his head negatively at Phyllis and his finger tightened suggestively on the trigger of his cocked gun.

“It’s a-all r-right, Mike,” Phyllis managed to stammer. “Take all the time you want. Don’t you want to-to shower before you come out?”

The man with the gun nodded his approval. He had thin lips and sharp, pallid features. He wore a belted coat and white flannels, neither of which had been recently pressed.

“What occasions this sudden change of heart?” Shayne asked suspiciously from the bathroom. “What about these weeks on end when I haven’t been able to take a bath because I could never get the bathroom to myself long enough?”

“D-Don’t be silly,” Phyllis reproved him shakily. “Go ahead and take all the time you want. I’m going to smoke a cigarette in the living-room.”

The gunman moved backward out of the doorway, motioning Phyllis to follow him. She took a step forward, then threw herself sideways with a desperate grab for his gun hand.

He threw her off with a surprised oath, driving his left elbow against her chin. She cried out sharply as she reeled back against the door casing.

“What the devil goes on out there?” Shayne called. “Sounds like you’ve been into my cognac again. You know you’re too young to get the habit.”

The man was crouched before her with a warning snarl on his thin lips. Behind him Phyllis glimpsed another burly figure moving forward. She forced herself to laugh and called out:

“How do you know I’m not up to some of your tricks? I might be entertaining a couple of men friends while you’re all lathered up and can’t come out.”

Shayne’s appreciative laughter boomed from the bathroom. “Just so you don’t let me catch you at it, angel.”

The burly man circled Phyllis and put a hairy hand over her mouth. He swung her off her feet and carried her to a deep chair while his slighter companion pocketed his gun and followed, unwinding a roll of adhesive tape.

Phyllis tried to scream but it was too late now. She was thrust down into the chair, where she kicked and squirmed helplessly while her mouth was being efficiently taped shut, her wrists bound to the arms of the chair, and her bare ankles taped back securely to the legs.

“Hey, Phyl!” Shayne’s voice drifted into the living-room placatingly. “Where the devil have you hidden my clean undershirts? Here’s a dozen pairs of shorts but I can’t locate a single damned undershirt anywhere.”

The two intruders straightened up and moved silently toward the bedroom door. Phyllis’s eyes rolled after them but she was utterly helpless.

When he didn’t receive an immediate reply, Shayne complained, “I used to have plenty of undershirts.” His voice came closer to the doorway. “And don’t crack wise by reminding me I’m supposed to be a detective and should be able to find my own clothes. I used to do all right before you came along and started hiding my things.”

The men had separated to either side of the doorway. The thin-featured man drew his gun, and his burly companion pulled a short blackjack from his hip pocket.

Phyllis had to watch in silent agony while Shayne walked into the trap. He growled, “Why don’t you answer me, Phyl?” as he padded through the doorway naked except for a pair of shorts clinging to his narrow hips.

He stopped with a grunt of surprise when the muzzle of a. 45 was rammed into his belly. At the same instant, the blackjack chopped down viciously just behind and above his left ear.

He swayed and fell forward to his knees, getting the palms of his hands flat on the floor.

Both men stepped back and waited for him to go flat on his face. He didn’t. He remained bowed forward as though in silent genuflection, and his labored breathing was loud in the room.

His head began to come up in slow jerks, and the muscles beneath the bare skin of his back writhed as he fought to make them obey his will and lift his weight.

The man with the gun sucked in his breath and watched Shayne’s efforts to rise with professional interest. He said, “He’s tough, sure enough. Better sock ’im again, Joe.”

Joe leaned down and slammed his sap against the side of the redhead’s chin. This time Shayne went prone and stayed that way without moving.

Shayne didn’t go into a complete blackout. He kept drifting away toward nothingness and jerking himself back from the abyss. The thought of Phyllis, gagged and bound in the chair as he had seen her when he entered the room, kept him from going completely under. He knew both the men were strangers. His one glimpse of their faces before the sap cut him down told him they were not members of any local mob. They looked like big-time boys. And that reminded him of Jim Lacy. His disconnected thoughts told him there must be a connection.

They were rolling him over, shaking him roughly. He kept his body limp and quiescent. His jaw felt as though it was broken, but he didn’t think it was. His head ached like hell but that didn’t worry him. It was a good tough head, and had weathered harder blows in the past.

Then they left him lying sprawled out with his face pressed down into the rug. He could hear voices and the scraping sound of furniture being moved about. As though they were searching for something.