Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

A few long strides took him within reach of the bottle. He uncorked it, sniffed the bouquet, held it up to the light and saw that it was a little more than half full. He tasted a few drops, washed it around in his mouth, nodded his head, and drank a long draught. His hand touched the telephone when he set it back on the table.

Shayne lifted the receiver and asked for room service, then ordered two enormous breakfasts sent up to the room. He replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. He was surprised to find that he had spent nearly two hours working with Meldrum. He took another look in the bathroom. Meldrum had apparently not moved a muscle.

Thirty minutes later two white-coated men brought a wheeled service table laden with food. Shayne said, “Mr. Meldrum is in the bathroom. Just leave everything covered and we’ll serve ourselves.” He took a card from one of the men and signed Carl Meldrum to the breakfast charge.

Carefully arranging the table for two people, Shayne sat down and ate more than half of both breakfasts, his ears keen for a sound from the bathroom. When he finished, two sets of silverware had been used. He covered the table and wheeled it to the door, opened the door and peered out, and seeing no one in the hallway wheeled the table out.

Back in the room he stood for a moment tugging at the lobe of his left ear, then went to the bathroom again. From a small ice-water spigot above the lavatory, he saturated a towel and slopped it over Carl Meldrum’s face; wet it again and wrung ice water over his hair and face. Meldrum moaned quietly and turned his head, but his eyes did not open. Shayne repeated the process for twenty minutes without effect.

There was a knock on the door. Shayne dried his hands hurriedly and answered the knock. A postal messenger had a special delivery for Carl Meldrum.

Shayne signed Carl Meldrum on the dotted line without hesitation, closed the door and locked it, and sat down on the bed with a blue envelope of heavy paper held gingerly in his hands.

It was addressed in ink. The return address was M. Tabor, and a post office box number at the Little River Station. It had been mailed less than an hour before.

Shayne opened it carefully to preserve any fingerprints and drew out a sheet of folded blue notepaper. He read:

I have just seen the morning Herald and I would be dumber than I am if I couldn’t put two and two together. They add up to four and a tough lay for you. You should have come clean last night instead of lying to me. I’ve fixed it so you can say you were here from one o’clock on. Don’t try to beat me out of my split when the Thrip girl gets the money coming to her.

Mona

Shayne read it twice, then put the note in the envelope and slid it into an inside pocket.

He took a last look in the bathroom and saw that Meldrum was inert in the tub. He shook his head, felt the man’s pulse to reassure himself, then shoved him down in the tub until his feet rested against the other end.

Shayne didn’t bother to lock the door when he went out of the room. He drove along Fifth Street, where newsboys were getting rid of their morning Heralds in a hurry. Their raucous calls reached his ears faintly but he drove on to the causeway without stopping to buy a paper.

In Miami he drove straight to the side entrance of his hotel, parked at the curb, and got out. He went in through a private entry and climbed the service stairway two flights to his old apartment, which had been retained as an office.

A thin-faced legman for the Herald was camped in front of his door. Shayne shouldered him aside and shook his head at the reporter’s questions. He put his key in the lock and went in, slamming the door shut behind him with unnecessary force. He went straight to the telephone and called Phyllis in their new apartment one flight up.

When Phyllis answered, he said, “Hello, darling, I’ve been up to my neck in work. I’ll be home pretty quick.”

“Thank goodness you still have a neck all in one piece,” she answered.

“You’re not worried?” His voice was anxious.

“Of course not. But hurry-I have breakfast ready.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Okay,” and hung up. He looked at his watch. It was nine o’clock. He lifted the receiver and called the hotel desk clerk and asked if there were any messages.

The clerk said, “A telegram came five minutes ago. I was just going to send it up.”

Shayne said, “Send it up to my third-floor apartment. I’ll wait for it. Don’t send any messages to my living-apartment.”

The clerk said, “Yes, Mr. Shayne,” and in two minutes a boy was at the door with the telegram.

Shayne stared at the yellow envelope quizzically, then ripped it open.

It was a telegram from Mr. Sorenson, an executive of a New York insurance firm which for three years had retained him on an annual basis as special investigator for their southern district. The message tersely quoted a clause in their contract and advised him that he was no longer connected with the firm as of that date.

Shayne crumpled the yellow paper in his big fist and tossed it into the front drawer of his desk. He went out and up the one flight of stairs to his living-apartment.

The aroma of hot coffee came from the kitchen and Phyllis hurried out to meet him with outstretched arms and a smile courageously fixed on her lips. She didn’t say anything and neither did Shayne while she clung to him. Over the top of her head he saw a Herald crumpled up in one corner where she had evidently thrown it.

A smell of burning accompanied by thin smoke poured from the kitchen. Phyllis let go of him with a little gasp. He watched her with somber eyes until she disappeared through the door, then he stalked to the liquor cabinet and poured a four-ounce drink. He was washing it down with a glass of sherry when he went into the kitchen.

Phyllis had a fresh linen cloth on the table in the breakfast nook. Sunshine streamed through the windows onto a platter of scrambled eggs. She was anxiously bending over an electric waffle iron when he passed her to sit down.

“Damn this thing,” she raged, “it’s overheating again. It’s all stuck on both sides.” Her voice was throaty with a suggestion of tears.

Shayne patted her shoulder and slid onto the built-in seat. He said, “Chuck it out the window and I’ll buy you a new one.”

She scraped out the remnants of a burned waffle and spread fresh batter on the grill. Shayne finished his sherry while she poured him a mug of coffee and silently set it before him.

He sat with elbows hunched on the table, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Phyllis fussed with the waffle iron and the silence between them, continued until the pressure of unsaid things became more than Phyllis could endure. She said:

“A Mr. Gaston called just before you came in. He said you needn’t bother to keep your appointment with him today.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the stream of sunshine.

With a little gasp of triumph Phyllis slid a crisp brown waffle on a plate in front of Michael. “He was-Isn’t he the man who had that important assignment he wanted you to take?”

“U-m-m.” He spread butter on the hot waffle and watched it melt with outward symptoms of pleasure. He said, “I’ve had breakfast, angel, but I can’t resist this waffle. It’s perfect.” He dished fluffy scrambled eggs onto his plate. “It’s damned swell being married to you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. She turned to the sink and wiped viciously at the wetness with a tea towel. A second waffle was ruined when she got back to look at the iron. She swore at it under her breath and unplugged the iron. Long black lashes trembled down over her eyes.