Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

Renslow said, “Thanks, chief.” He wet his lips and waited.

“That’s all,” Gentry told him. “You can go now.”

Turning away from the chief’s desk, Renslow met Shayne’s hard gaze. The detective said, “Wait out in the hall for me,” and went past him toward Gentry.

Renslow went out and closed the door. Gentry leaned back and grunted, “I suppose you want to see Phyllis?”

“Why-no.” Shayne groped for words. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. I-hell, Will, I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

Gentry nodded his understanding. “I phoned the matron a few minutes ago and she said Phyllis was sleeping like a baby. It would be just as well not to disturb her tonight. She’s not worried, you know. She expects you to pull a miracle out of the hat any time it’s needed.” He pursed his lips and sighed, avoiding Shayne’s eyes.

Shayne said, “Yeh, I know.” He hesitated over further words, then clamped his lips together tightly, turned, and walked out.

Renslow was waiting for him in the hall. They walked silently to a side door and went out into the early morning coolness of the deserted side street.

Buell Renslow drew in a long, deep breath and let it out raspingly. He said, “It tastes good.”

They turned the corner onto Southwest First Street and he added, “The air, I mean.”

Shayne nodded. “Yeh. I figured that was what you meant.”

“It tastes different when you breathe it behind bars,” Renslow told him with passionate conviction. “A man can’t know what I’m talking about unless he’s spent a lot of years behind them like I have.”

“I suppose not,” Shayne agreed.

They walked on together, their heels thumping the sidewalk loudly in the morning stillness. The thin arc of the moon was paling before the coming of early dawn. A milk truck lumbered past and a scarred alley cat slunk away between two buildings as they approached. They were alone in the sleeping city except for a policeman on his beat who turned and watched them over his shoulder as far as he could see them.

A block beyond Miami Avenue Renslow broke the silence nervously: “I don’t get this at all. What the chief said back there in his office just didn’t make sense. If you grabbed the pieces of that note and put them together, I don’t see why they didn’t put me under their jail.”

“Gentry hasn’t seen the note you got from Carl Meldrum,” Shayne explained.

“Wait a minute.” Renslow stopped and grabbed his arm. “He talked like he knew all about it.”

“He thinks he does.” Shayne shook off Renslow’s arm. “We’ll go up to my place while I explain the setup to you.”

He led the way to the side entrance of his hotel, where they went down concrete steps and through a door into a square vestibule, then up two flights to his old bachelor quarters which now served him as an office.

The living-room of his apartment was in pretty much of a mess, just as the fracas with Ernst had left it. Shayne went around and methodically straightened up chairs while Renslow watched silently. When he was through he motioned to the wall liquor cabinet and asked, “What’ll you drink?”

Renslow eyed the array of bottles avidly. He went over and selected a bottle of bourbon. Shayne got some cognac and glasses, a seltzer bottle for his guest, and the inevitable ice water for himself.

They settled themselves at the center table and both had a drink. Then they lit cigarettes and Shayne leaned back comfortably with one leg dangling off the padded arm of his chair. His face wore an inscrutable mask of hardness. He didn’t appear in any hurry to get on with the business that had brought them together.

Renslow took a long pull on his cigarette, then leaned forward and jerked out, “I heard them talking, there at the jail and all-and they picked up the dame that killed Carl, huh?”

“They picked up the girl you saw in Mona’s apartment-after Meldrum was dead.”

“And she was-well, hell, some of them say she turned out to be your wife.”

Shayne said, “That’s right.” He shifted his leg an inch to a more comfortable position.

“I don’t get it,” Renslow exclaimed hoarsely. “Damned if I do. Just between you and me, you know how that note reads. It looks like I beat it over there and bumped Carl to keep him from blabbing on me for killing my sister. Whether I killed either one of them or not wouldn’t make any difference to the law if they saw that note. I’d burn, so help me.”

Shayne nodded. “You’ve sized it up just right.”

“I don’t see why you’re holding the note out on them. Turning me loose this way puts Carl’s death squarely up to your wife. If I didn’t, she must have. If you had showed Gentry that note she’d be here right now and I’d be behind the eight ball.”

“Maybe I like your company better than I do hers,” Shayne suggested lazily.

Renslow’s lips twisted into a scornful smile. “Don’t try to feed me that. You’re playing for keeps one way or the other.”

“Yes,” Shayne admitted, “I am. I faked a note. I typed it and signed Meldrum’s name, then tore it up and pasted the pieces down to make it look right. Gentry has that note and I have the real one. In the note I forged, Meldrum admits he killed Mrs. Thrip and threatens to accuse you of hiring him to do the job unless you give him getaway money. He warns you not to try and kill him because he’s left a letter accusing you that will be opened after his death. Does that make sense to you?”

“Plenty,” Renslow exulted. “That makes it look like a cinch that I didn’t bop him. That’s why they let me go. But I still don’t get your angle,” he muttered, his face clouding. “Why should you cover up for me with the cops and leave your wife to take the rap?”

Shayne stretched out the palm of his hand and suggestively rubbed his thumb across the base of his fingers. “Only one possible reason, Renslow. Money.”

“I get it. If I don’t pay off, you’ll spring the real note I got from Carl and that’s all they’ll need to slap two murder charges on me.”

“You get the idea nicely.”

“But I didn’t kill either of them,” Renslow protested frantically.

“Didn’t you?”

“I swear to God I didn’t. It’s all a frame-up.”

“But it’s practically airtight,” Shayne pointed out.

“But it’s still a frame. I swear I didn’t.”

“I’m not interested in that,” Shayne told him coldly. “The law isn’t going to be much interested either. You know how that goes. They’ll execute you first and begin to wonder if you were guilty afterward.”

Renslow’s body tautened. He began to tremble. “Yeah,” he said huskily. “Yeah, that’s the way it’ll be. I won’t have a chance. I knew that as soon as I read the note. Everything went red when I saw how Carl was fixing to frame me. If I hadn’t torn that note up and then left it like a fool for you to grab-” He made a gesture of despair.

“That’s the mistake that’s going to cost you,” Shayne agreed. “And cost you plenty.”

Renslow slumped down and lifted his glass. Bourbon and soda trickled down his chin when his shaking hand tilted the glass to his lips. “I’m hooked. I know it. I’m not arguing. But I’m not carrying much folding money these days. I don’t know-”

“Don’t try to chisel on me. Get it through your thick head that I’m not playing for marbles.” Shayne’s voice was remorseless. “Start figuring out how much your life is worth to you.”

“It’s just how much I can raise,” Renslow protested. “All I’m getting from the estate is a lousy handout each month.”

“Which is a hell of a lot more than you will get if you’re convicted of murdering your sister.”