Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

Shayne stood over him breathing hard, then whirled and went out. This time he closed the door firmly and whistled a gay off-tune melody as he went through the outer office and past the curious stares of the Beach officers.

Outside, he got in his car and switched on the lights, swung about in a vicious U-turn, and drove away at high speed.

Shayne pushed his car hard to the north and east. At the Thrip home he pulled aside to let a long, cream-colored limousine come out of the drive in a hurry. A uniformed chauffeur was behind the wheel and Shayne caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Thrip, alone in the spacious tonneau. He felt sure the pudgy realtor had not seen him, for he was sitting pompously erect and staring straight ahead. Shayne scowled after the handsome car as it slid away, then swung his roadster into the palm-lined, curving driveway.

The horse-faced butler was at the front door, as stoic and solemn-eyed as on his last encounter. Upon recognizing Shayne, he tried to shut the door in his face, but Shayne’s shoe got in the way.

“Mr. Thrip is not in,” the butler protested. “He just left for Miami.”

“I saw him. He almost ran me down as I was turning in.” Shayne’s tone was sour. He pushed past the butler. “I want to see the boy and the girl, anyway.”

“You can’t see Mr. Ernst, sir. It was on his account that the master was called to Miami so hurriedly.”

“That so?” Shayne queried indifferently. “What happened to the young pantywaist?”

“It is not an occasion for slurring allusions, sir,” the butler protested severely. “Mr. Ernst is badly injured. He is in the hospital, unconscious, so the message revealed. At the point of death, I dare say.”

Shayne feigned astonishment. “Don’t tell me Ernst has got himself involved with the police.”

“In an innocent manner,” the butler assured him. “An officer discovered him in a brutally beaten condition in an alleyway. He was evidently attacked and robbed by ruthless ruffians.” There was a hint of relish in the butler’s suave voice.

Shayne muttered, “Good old Will,” to himself, then said aloud, “All right, I’ll tackle Dorothy if that’s all that’s left for me.”

“You can’t, sir,” the man said firmly. “Miss Dorothy is at present engaged with her personal maid.”

“To hell with that. I’ll take her and the maid in my stride.” He pushed forward impatiently and the butler drew back in silent reproach, then conceded:

“Very well, sir, if you insist. She’s in her upstairs sitting-room. I’ll have a maid show you-”

“I know the way.” Shayne’s long legs were already going up the stairs. He didn’t know how long Peter Painter was going to stay unconscious on his office floor undiscovered, but he did realize it wouldn’t be smart to waste too much time on this side of the bay.

He knocked on the sitting-room door, then turned the knob and walked in.

Dorothy Thrip was lounging on a chaise longue across the room and a short, square-bodied, and square-headed female was kneeling on the rug in front of her doing something to her feet. Dorothy wore a belted chenille bathrobe and she was languidly smoking a cigarette in a foot-long jeweled holder. The air was sweetish from its smoke. Her head lolled back and soft brown hair was spread out like a nimbus to frame her face. It curled up at the ends in big, loose ringlets.

Her eyes were as round as Shayne remembered them and they looked up at him without curiosity. She did not move from her relaxed position. She appeared to be enjoying herself greatly. In the strong light of a floor lamp her face appeared even more pointed and vixenish than it had that morning.

The broad-backed maid did not turn around when Shayne closed the door. Taffy-colored braids were twined around her head. She was bent forward, arduously concentrating.

Shayne moved toward them and saw that Dorothy Thrip’s toenails were being pedicured and tinted with carmine polish. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and grinned.

The girl flipped ashes onto the rug and demanded, “What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever seen a girl having her toes manicured?”

“No,” Shayne admitted, with a smile of genuine amusement, “that’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of life which has hitherto been denied me.” He dragged up a chair and sat down, adding pleasantly, “Don’t let me interrupt the gilding of the lily.”

“We won’t,” Dorothy assured him.

The maid looked up at the detective with an expression of bovine wonderment and Dorothy admonished her: “Don’t pay any attention to him, Gertrude. He’s a species of vermin that comes out of holes in the wood around this house.”

“That was clever when Dorothy Parker first tossed it off,” Shayne told her. He lit a cigarette and Dorothy Thrip made a face at him. The maid concentrated on her task of brushing carmine stain on her mistress’s toenails. There was silence in the sitting-room.

Shayne blew out smoke and asked, “Have you seen Carl today?”

“No.”

“Not since he called you last night from the Tally-Ho?”

“No. What do you know about his telephoning last night?” She twisted to let her round, agate-like eyes stare sullenly at her interrogator.

Shayne made a negligent gesture. “Just one of a detective’s specialties-tapping telephone wires and all that.”

He saw quick fear rush into her eyes. It was swiftly replaced by crafty speculation. She said, “Now I know you’re lying.”

“Uh-huh,” Shayne agreed with a wide grin, “because you know that if I had listened in to that early morning conversation I’d have the deadwood on Carl for your stepmother’s murder and wouldn’t be around here asking foolish questions. That’s using your head, mademoiselle. Where does Carl hang out in the daytime?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.” Her round eyes became slits when they lowered to observe Gertrude’s inquisitive blue ones looking up at Shayne. “Go on, Gertrude, and stop gawking. I haven’t got all night.”

“You don’t have to answer questions,” Shayne told her, “but you will. Where would Carl be likely to take a pickup and keep her all day?”

“What do you mean by that?” Dorothy pointed the long cigarette holder close to Shayne’s nose.

Shayne moved his head back a couple of inches. “Just what you’re afraid I mean.”

Dorothy scowled fleetingly, the crease between her eyes smoothing out with youthful resilience. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Carl wouldn’t-Why, I’ve got a date to meet him at the Tally-Ho tonight.”

“Your red toenails will be stood up along with the rest of you if you expect him to keep that date. Anyway, you’re supposed to be in mourning. Where’s your sense of decency?”

Dorothy Thrip laughed. An angry laugh. “You sound like Father-ordering me not to meet Carl there tonight. Damn such hypocrisy.” She yawned and wriggled her red-tipped toenails. “That’ll do, Gertrude. You can lay out my things now. The sequin dinner gown.”

Gertrude said, “Yes, ma’am,” and got to her feet. She went into an adjoining bedroom and closed the door without looking at the detective again.

Shayne said, “If you insist on being a fool,” as if he made the statement for no reason except that he considered her one.

Dorothy sat up straight and mashed out her cigarette with unnecessary force. “You’re the one who’s being stupid.”

“The gal who’s putting the hooks into Carl right now is something to take his mind off a fox-faced brat like you,” he told her, “and don’t make any mistake.” Shayne’s voice was startlingly serious.

Dorothy shot him a searching glance and said, “I know Carl Meldrum,” with all the confidence she could command. “Don’t think he has fooled me-but he won’t be running out on me from now on. Not with the money I’ll have to throw around.”