Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

I saw you murder Mrs. Thrip. I’m willing to talk it over at midnight if you will meet me at 306 Terrace Apts. Otherwise I am going to the police.

Carl Meldrum.

There it was. A definite invitation to murder. Meldrum was clearly a fool, or still doped up, to have sent such a note. Or else he had woefully underestimated the man he sought to blackmail. He should have known that a man who had killed once would kill again to save himself.

Shayne shook his head fretfully. He wouldn’t have guessed that Meldrum was foolhardy enough to invite attack upon himself.

Still, as Mike recollected the man’s early-morning condition, his mind might not have been clear, in spite of the fact that he had gone out with Phyllis and appeared to be normal. And there was enough money involved for him to feel confident that the murderer would come across with plenty to silence the witness. After all, Renslow had mentioned a million to Shayne tonight. And with Mona Tabor on Meldrum’s trail checking up for her share in what he might get from the Thrip girl or elsewhere-maybe Meldrum risked a lot to pay Mona off and be free.

The detective lay back on the bed and clasped big-knuckled hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and went back over the facts in the light of what he had learned today.

Meldrum’s curious actions, which had appeared to be motivated by guilt, might be explained as well by this evidence that he had witnessed the crime. He must have been with Dorothy in her room, Shayne theorized, and in leaving had been attracted by the sounds of a death struggle in Mrs. Thrip’s bedroom. Hating the victim, he would not be likely to interfere, but must have watched unseen from the doorway, then hurried downstairs with a secret which he knew was worth plenty of money to him if the murderer went otherwise unsuspected. He had been hurried to the Tally-Ho and arranged with Mona to fix him an alibi for the crime he had seen committed; then he had telephoned Dorothy and told her what to testify about his movements.

Why hadn’t he been afraid Dorothy would suspect him of the crime? Probably he didn’t care what she thought. He knew how she hated her stepmother.

In the meantime, unsuspecting, Joe Darnell had entered through the library window on schedule and crept upstairs to grab the thousand dollars Thrip had put out for him. Unluckily, he must have stepped into the bedroom just in time to be caught by Mr. Thrip. It would be only natural for Joe to go close to the woman to make sure his eyes didn’t deceive him-that she was actually dead. Thrip would quite naturally shoot him down as the murderer of his wife without giving him an opportunity to explain.

Shayne moved restlessly and the bed creaked. He nodded his head slowly. It all hung together now. This pieced-together note was as good as a death warrant for Buell Renslow.

All he needed to do was to call Will Gentry and turn the note over to him. It would be a simple matter to get hold of the Tally-Ho callboy who had delivered it-and maybe some witnesses who had noticed Renslow’s reaction and seen him tear it up and hurry out The thing was cut and dried. Another closed case with Joe Darnell absolved-an ex-convict convicted of double murder by overwhelming weight of evidence and public opinion.

Shayne grinned suddenly, thinking of Phyllis. This would absolve her of any guilt. He felt immensely relieved, but he grinned again, thinking that a little time in jail would make her think twice hereafter before pulling any more impulsive stunts trying to help him out. And there was another pleasant angle. His revenge on Peter Painter would be sweet after that inconsequential jackass had shot off his mouth so freely to the public and the press on the subject of Darnell’s guilt.

But revenge didn’t pay dividends, no matter how sweet it might be, and Michael Shayne had taken upon himself the obligations of a family man. What was there in the case for him? The taxpayers didn’t pay him a salary for sitting on his butt and letting another man solve crimes for him, as they did to Peter Painter.

He shook his head worriedly, rubbing his chin and staring down blankly at the incriminating message. Hell! there had to be a cash angle if he could just see it. It was too simple this way. Nothing to get a man’s teeth into. Shayne was accustomed to taking cases in his two hands and wringing them until some cash popped out. He couldn’t rid himself of the thought of that million Renslow would pay to beat the rap. It seemed a damned shame to throw that away-to let Renslow’s half of the estate revert to Arnold Thrip and his pair of no-good youngsters.

Shayne lit a cigarette and lay back on the creaking bed again to close his eyes and pass the whole thing in review. There had to be cash angle. His pride belligerently demanded that there be something in it for Mike Shayne.

He lay flat on his back for a long time, closing his eyes between puffs on his cigarette. The ashes fell off and dropped on his neck and chin. There was still that aching void inside his belly that had come when Gentry turned against him. He was sorry it had to be that way, but since it was Suddenly he heaved himself up, his eyes wide and bright. He paced back and forth excitedly in the narrow confines of the hotel room while minute details clicked into place.

Through, was he? Washed up in Miami? Maybe. But he didn’t think so. Not yet, by God.

He went out of his room and downstairs to the lobby. He woke the sleeping clerk and explained that he had to type an important message. The clerk yawned and pointed out a typewriter in the inner office.

Shayne went in and sat down at the desk, rolled a sheet of hotel paper in the typewriter, and wrote:

Angel:

I’m afraid to try to call you or come to the apartment because I’ve got a hunch Painter is laying for me. If you receive this all right, try to slip away and come to me here. I’m registered as Horatio Ramsey. Don’t let them follow you.

Love, Mike,

He slid the sheet of paper into an envelope and addressed it with ink to Mrs. Michael Shayne at their hotel. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the clerk was dozing again, found a plain sheet of paper with no letterhead, and rolled it into the machine. On this sheet he typed:

That damn private dick is finding out too much about last night. I’m going to have to skip without collecting from the girl. You’ll make plenty off it and it’s up to you to come across. If you don’t give me getaway money and a split on the rest I’ll swear you hired me to choke her. And don’t try any rough stuff because I’m leaving a letter to be opened in case of my death telling how you planned it all and forced me to do it. Meet me at 306 Terrace Apartments at midnight.

Shayne rolled this out of the typewriter and slid it into his pocket. He went out to the clerk with the sealed envelope in his hand and the clerk called a dozing bellboy. Shayne gave him the envelope with a dollar bill and explicit instructions to deliver the note to Mrs. Shayne at the address written there, and to no one else.

He then hurried back to his room and went to work swiftly. He still had Meldrum’s address book with samples of the dead man’s handwriting. With that open before him, and with the patched-up signature on the authentic note, he forged Meldrum’s name to the message he had just typed. He then tore it into strips, pasting each strip in sequence on a sheet of hotel paper.

When that was accomplished, he folded it carefully and placed it in his inside coat pocket. He rolled the mattress back and cut a slit in the bottom of the ticking and secreted the real note from Meldrum accusing Renslow of murder. Smoothing back the covers, he tilted a straight-backed chair against the wall and settled to await the results of his maneuverings.

He didn’t have to wait long. A slow grin spread over his face when he heard the heavy tramp of feet in the corridor outside his room.