Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

“It’s beginning to make sense,” Shayne admitted. “The jewel case will be empty, I suppose?”

“My wife’s maid will testify that all her jewels, which are conservatively appraised at two hundred thousand dollars, were in the case when she retired,” the broker told him blandly.

“Also insured for two hundred grand?”

“Why, yes. One naturally carries insurance on such costly articles.”

“Quite naturally,” Shayne murmured. “I gather you don’t plan to explain to the insurance company that you have removed the jewels before the empty case is stolen.”

“Not empty, Mr. Shayne. There will be a thousand-dollar bill in the bottom of the case.”

Shayne lit a fresh cigarette from the smoldering butt of his old one. In a conversational tone he said, “A lot of people don’t seem to think there’s anything crooked about cheating an insurance company-or a railroad company-or the government. That’s a peculiar side of human nature I’ve never quite been able to understand.”

“I think it’s natural, Mr. Shayne. It’s a sort of feeling of retaliation because we’ve been cheated by them. After paying exorbitant premiums to an insurance company for a number of years a man feels little compunction in endeavoring to collect dividends on his investment.”

Shayne nodded casually. He got up casually. “I won’t touch it, Thrip. I happen to be retained on a yearly contract as investigator for one of the large insurance companies to run down just such frauds as you’re planning, and I don’t bite the hand that feeds me. And I’m getting sick and tired of having men like you come to me with your crooked deals. It’s Painter’s fault, of course. I’m going to kick his rump up between his shoulder blades one of these days. Good afternoon.” He turned away, jamming his hat down hard on his head.

A door on Shayne’s right, leading into Thrip’s office from the corridor, came open while the detective was stalking away from the desk. He stopped, facing a woman with the most remarkably tranquil eyes he had ever seen. She turned them full upon him, holding his gaze with a quiet inner serenity which kept him from going past her and out the door.

Her gaze was incurious, yet held a warm regard that was not wholly impersonal. Meeting it, Shayne had a feeling of recognition though he was positive he had never seen the woman before. She was forty or more; a small-boned woman with regular delicate features and a fresh youthful complexion. Placidity clung to her like a tight-fitting garment; every graying hair was neatly in place, and she wore a modish dark dress which seemed to have been selected for its quality of self-effacement.

While she held him with her eyes, Arnold Thrip rose from his desk and came forward. Behind the detective’s back he was saying, “Ah, Leora, I didn’t expect you in today. This is Mr. Shayne, my dear. Mrs. Thrip, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Shayne is a private detective, Leora.”

Mrs. Leora Thrip nodded gently. A faint animation which lighted her whole face conveyed a message of cordial approval to the detective. “Mr. Shayne looks very competent, Arnold. It is a relief to know that the matter is being attended to.”

Shayne didn’t get it. He would have sworn that she was not the type to connive with her husband on an insurance fraud, yet there was real warmth and relief in her voice.

Arnold Thrip’s lower lip came forward again; his upper lip drew away from even white teeth. He brought them together to say, “That’s the difficulty, my dear. Mr. Shayne has refused to take the case.”

Mrs. Thrip looked quickly from her husband to the detective. Color came into her smooth cheeks. She spoke with grave impulsiveness:

“Oh, I do wish you’d reconsider, Mr. Shayne. I’ve had such a time persuading Arnold it was the thing to do. Perhaps he hasn’t fully explained all the circumstances to you.”

“But I have, Leora. Mr. Shayne understands fully. He seems to have-er-a peculiarly distorted sense of ethics.”

Mrs. Thrip was half turned away from her husband, again holding Shayne’s gaze, urgency replacing complacency. It seemed to him she was desperately trying to say something she did not want her husband to hear. With something of a shock Shayne realized that there was an inner tautness about this woman which gave the lie to her outward semblance of placidity.

He still didn’t get it. His coarse red brows came down in a frown. He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thrip.” Curiously, he realized that he meant exactly what he said. “It isn’t the sort of thing I go in for, public opinion to the contrary.” He bowed slightly and turned away from a flicker of hurt or of fear in her eyes.

Thrip bustled to the door with him, and before he could open it said in a low, querulous voice, “If you change your mind, Shayne, send a man out to my house at five so that I can talk the matter over with him. We’re on the beach, you know. I’ll be there to make all necessary arrangements.”

Shayne went out without answering. He went through the reception room scowling, conscious of the guarded appeal in Leora Thrip’s eyes, angry at himself for wishing that he had agreed to help her.

The scowl stayed on his face while he went down in the elevator and out into the bright afternoon sunlight on Flagler Street

He turned east with his long, loose-limbed stride, reflecting wryly that Phyllis was going to be disillusioned when he returned from the interview with less than a big retainer and a couple of murders to solve.

The other side of Northeast First Avenue, he fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and discovered his pack was empty. He turned in at the Cat’s Whiskers and stopped at the cigar counter at the end of a long bar.

The bartender finished drawing a glass of beer and lifted his hand in greeting, then came to wait on Shayne. “How’s tricks, Mike?” He had loose lips which scarcely moved when he spoke.

Shayne told him he needed some cigarettes and tossed change on the counter. The bartender handed him a pack and jerked his head toward the rear of the room where there was table service.

“Friend of yours back there. He asked for you when he came in.”

“That so?” Shayne tore a corner off the pack of cigarettes. “Who is it, Fred?”

“Joe Darnell. He’s having it plenty rocky, Mike. Can’t you give him a hand? You know how it is when a kid’s been in stir and trying to play it straight.”

Shayne took a cigarette from the pack and pulled the counter lighter over to fire it. He let smoke trail from his nostrils and nodded. “Sure, I know. Joe’s trying, huh?”

“Honest to God. I don’t think he’s pulled a job since you had him do that work for you a couple months ago. He thinks you’re pretty near Almighty God and he says you told him it’s the smart thing to lay off.”

Shayne grinned, “Joe’s opinion is somewhat at variance with the popular idea. The cops been riding him?”

“You know how it is. Some parole officers think it’s up to them to ruin any chance a man has of holding an honest job. And Joe’s got his girl in a spot and they’re worried about that. She’s nothing but a chippy, but he’s nuts about her and they want to get married.”

Shayne nodded somberly, “Tough. Give me a drink and I’ll talk to him.”

The bartender reached under the counter and handed Shayne a bottle of cognac and a four-ounce glass. With the bottle dangling from his fingers, Shayne went toward the rear, nodding to a couple of men who called him by name. Joe Darnell was sitting at a spindly table with a girl in a floppy hat opposite him.

The kid had a smooth, round face and guileless blue eyes. He looked up gloomily, then brightened when he recognized Shayne. He jumped up and pulled another chair to the table, exclaiming, “Jeez, am I glad to see you, Mike. Maybe you got a job for me, huh?”