Brett Halliday - The Corpse Came Calling

Phyllis Shayne had installed a typewriter desk and a steel filing cabinet in the apartment that had been her husband’s bachelor quarters before they were married. Otherwise, the apartment remained the same as it had been when Michael Shayne lived there alone-with well-stocked liquor cabinet, comfortable chairs, and a day bed.

In the six months since Pearl Harbor there hadn’t been anything for Phyllis to write on the typewriter and the files were practically empty, but they did add a businesslike touch to the apartment; and Phyllis made it decorative with her warm smile of greeting, which was the first thing one saw when entering.

Michael Shayne always came to an abrupt stop and looked his young wife over approvingly when he came in, then solicitously inquired whether any new business had popped up during his absence.

For weeks he had been receiving a negative shake of his wife’s dark head, but this afternoon she glanced at a memorandum pad on her clean desk and said briskly:

“A phone call for Mike Shayne about twenty minutes ago. Very mysterious-I might even say sinister. A throaty whisper over the wire, quote: ‘Tell Mike it’s Jim Lacy. I’ve got to see him right away,’ unquote; and darned if he didn’t hang up before I could ask him any questions or tell him you mightn’t be in for hours and hours.”

Phyllis Shayne paused, her eyes bright with expectancy lifted to her husband’s gauntly expressionless face. “I might be mistaken, Mike. You’ve always warned me about letting my imagination run riot, but I think he was interrupted before he could finish. You know, I had the impression he intended to go on talking but someone or something stopped him.”

Shayne nodded, taking off his hat and rumpling coarse red hair with bony fingers. “Jim Lacy? I don’t-Yes, I do. I wonder if it could be-Hell, it has to be because that’s the only Jim Lacy I’ve ever known.” He tossed his hat toward a wall rack near the door and advanced upon his wife.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You make as much sense as usual. I wish you’d stop muttering in shorthand.”

Shayne grinned widely and tipped her shining head back to kiss her lips. “I keep in practice so you won’t learn too many of the darker details of the private detecting business. It was your idea to move down here and spend your days waiting for the telephone to ring.”

“But you needed a secretary.”

“I got along for years without one.”

She clung to the knobby fingers that touched her cheek. “Who is Jim Lacy? He sounded awfully queer over the telephone.”

Shayne shook his head. “Probably isn’t the bird I’m thinking of. Maybe you got the name wrong. Let’s wait and see.”

Phyllis wailed, “You make me so damn mad,” and Shayne said, “A drink will improve your disposition.” He pulled his fingers from hers and went across the room to the liquor cabinet, where he selected two wineglasses, a bottle of cognac, and a bottle of port wine.

Phyllis swiveled her chair to watch him while he set the glasses and bottles on a center table and went to the kitchenette. When his back was turned she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was hopelessly in love with her big redheaded husband, but when he came back carrying a brimming glass of ice water, she made a face at him and said, “There you go. Getting tanked up just when an important case is about to break.”

Shayne said, “One drink isn’t getting tanked up, and we don’t know it’s a case.” He filled one wineglass with cognac, the other with tawny wine. He arched a bushy eyebrow at his wife and asked, “Are you going to relax from your secretarial duties and join me, or are you going to have your refreshment while you remain militantly on duty?”

“Of course I’m going to stay at my desk. How would it look if a client came in and caught your secretary lounging on the boss’s lap encouraging him to get drunk?”

“I’m afraid they’d be envious and try to hire you away from me, angel.” Shayne brought her the glass of wine. He went back to the table and lifted his cognac. “Here’s to a continued dearth of clients. May they avoid my office-”

A shriek from Phyllis brought Shayne whirling around, slopping liquor over the rim of his glass.

A man stood in the doorway. He was hunched forward with arms akimbo, hands thrust in the pockets of a double-breasted serge coat, hugging the garment tightly to his concave belly. His eyes were glazed and they stared straight in front of him without seeing anything. He swayed in the doorway, took a short, uncertain step, then fell to one knee as Shayne leaped forward.

He toppled sideways on the carpet before the detective reached him. A gray froth dribbled out between his lips with widely spaced words that sounded as though he had been saving them up, concentrating on them, for a long time. He said, “They-didn’t-get-” before he died.

Shayne knelt beside him and turned him on his back. He unbuttoned the blue coat and threw it back, showing a tight vest of the same material. He ripped the vest open and put his ear to the man’s chest. Phyllis remained seated, hands flat on her desk, eyes wide and frightened.

Shayne lifted his head and shook it. Phyllis screamed and pointed at him. “Your face, Mike! It’s covered with blood.”

Michael Shayne nodded somberly. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped the dead man’s blood from his cheek. He said, “His chest is shot full of holes. God only knows how he held himself together to get here.”

He stood up and heeled the door shut.

“Michael! Is it Jim Lacy? The man who phoned?”

Shayne shook his head slowly. He stared down at the dead man and the lines of his face deepened into trenches. “I guess maybe it is Lacy. I can’t be sure. Haven’t see him for ten years. Ten tough years, if this is he.”

The features of the corpse were flaccid, the flesh shrunken so that cheek- and jawbones stood out in harsh relief.

Phyllis asked breathlessly, “How do you suppose-Michael! what do you suppose?”

He said, “How in hell do I know?” without looking at her. He tugged at the lobe of his left ear with right thumb and forefinger, then shrugged and turned to the table where he poured himself a drink to replace the one he had spilled.

Phyllis went swiftly to him. She gripped his arm. “Aren’t you going to do something? You can’t just leave him lying there.”

“Why not?” Shayne’s eyes were narrowed and hard.

“It isn’t decent.”

Shayne said, “He’s as comfortable there as he would be anywhere.” He tossed off his drink, then said more gently:

“Look, angel. You’d better hike upstairs to the apartment and settle down with your knitting. I’ve got to figure this thing out. He said, ‘They didn’t get-’ before he died. Who are they? What didn’t they get? Why was he killed on his way to my office?”

“Aren’t you going to call a doctor?” Phyllis tightened her fingers on his arm.

“What for?” Shayne looked at her in astonishment “He’s dead. No doctor can bring him back to life.”

“But the police! Shouldn’t you report it? The murderer may be escaping right now.”

Shayne put both his hands on her shoulders and steered her back to the day bed. “You’re mighty sweet, Phyl, and sometimes you show a glimmering of intelligence, but I’m still running my end of this business. I’ll call the police when I get ready, and I’ll have a story all fixed to tell them. You relax and meditate on the pleasure of being married to a guy who has dead men drop in unexpectedly.” He pushed her down, then patted her shoulder and turned away.