Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

Shayne said, “Don’t be too certain. Pinch yourself and wake up enough to understand what I say the first time I say it. I have in my possession a note from Carl Meldrum that was delivered to your brother-in-law at the Tally-Ho just before midnight. In it, Meldrum states that he was an eyewitness to your wife’s murder and demands hush money for keeping his testimony from the police. As you doubtless know, Carl Meldrum is now dead and the only tangible evidence against Renslow is this note. If I suppress it, Renslow will surely go free and be in a position to claim his half of the estate. If I turn it over to the police it will positively clinch the case against your wife’s murderer. Renslow has offered me five thousand dollars to destroy the note. Is it worth more than that to you to have the police see it?”

“Why, this is shocking,” Thrip protested. “Definitely illegal. You can’t play fast and loose with murder evidence in that way.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Thrip echoed incredulously. “Because I refuse to countenance any such infamous proposal. I will most certainly report you to the police.”

“Don’t be a complete fool. All I have to do is to destroy the note and deny this conversation-and that will cost you a few million and the satisfaction of seeing your wife’s murderer executed.”

“See here,” blustered Thrip, “you can’t-”

Shayne said, “Okay, pal,” and hung up.

He went to the table and lit a cigarette. His telephone began ringing. He let it ring quite a while before stepping back and lifting the receiver. Mr. Thrip sounded distinctly harried this time.

“Ah, Mr. Shayne. I may have been a trifle hasty-”

Shayne growled, “You were.”

“Yes. Ah-on second thought I realize you are unscrupulous enough to do exactly as you threatened. While I object to being the victim of coercion I most certainly am unwilling to see the murderer of my wife go unpunished. You-mentioned five thousand dollars?”

“That’s right. That’s all Renslow can raise on the spur of the moment. I have a living to make, so I’m naturally anxious to get a higher offer.”

“You are the most openly unscrupulous man I’ve ever encountered,” Mr. Thrip told him warmly. “Ah-suppose we say six thousand?”

“That’s better than five,” Shayne agreed promptly. “Bring the cash-it’s better than a check in a delicate situation like this. Have it here at noon. Twelve o’clock sharp. Any later will be too late.” He gave Thrip the address and hung up.

He hesitated about going upstairs to the empty and silent apartment. There were too many things to remind him of Phyllis-and that she was spending the night in jail. He opened a window and stretched out on the couch in his office. He was sleeping soundly a minute after he lay down.

Michael Shayne awoke at eleven o’clock. He swung his legs over the edge of the lounge and sat hunched over for a moment, running knobby fingers through his stiff red hair. Only an hour until the blow-off and he still had several things to do.

He swiftly checked over his plans, and mentally okayed them. This promised to be the sort of photo finish he enjoyed-split-second timing with lives hanging in the balance while he sat back and pulled the strings.

He went into the bathroom and doused his face and head with cold water. Red bristles showed damply on his face when he came out of the bathroom, but his shaving-things were upstairs and he still wasn’t quite ready to face that empty apartment.

He called Peter Painter first and spoke to the Miami Beach detective chief concisely:

“Shayne talking, with no time to waste. I’m cleaning up the Thrip and Meldrum cases in my office at noon sharp. I need those extortion notes received by Mrs. Thrip. And I want you to stop by the Palace Hotel and see if Meldrum had access to a typewriter there. Bring it with you if he did. Got that?”

“Of course.” Painter sounded a trifle petulant. “Have you seen this morning’s Herald? In my statement I mentioned your splendid co-operation and-”

“I just woke up,” Shayne grunted. “I’m sure you fixed the headlines in a big way. I’ll have a News reporter here at noon to get the complete story. Don’t fail to be on hand so you can act as though you know what it’s all about.”

He hung up, grinning widely at Painter’s hurt protest that he was fully aware of what was taking place.

He called Will Gentry next. The chief of Miami detectives sounded tired and unsure of himself. “When are you going to crack this thing, Mike? I feel as though I’m sitting on a box of dynamite with this confession of Meldrum’s in my pocket.”

“Twelve o’clock sharp,” Shayne told him blithely. “Painter will meet us here at my apartment and we’ll clean the whole mess up in five minutes.”

“You sound as though you had something up your sleeve.”

Shayne said, “Maybe I have,” and hung up before Will Gentry could question him further.

His next call was to the Miami Daily News, where he got Timothy Rourke on the wire. He held the receiver inches away from his ear while the angry reporter bellowed:

“A hell of a pal you turned out to be, shamus! What’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold while the Herald cracks Painter’s admission that the Thrip case ain’t iced up? Damn it, Mike, I gave you what you wanted yesterday on your promise that we had the inside track. What are you holding out?”

“Headlines that’ll sell your afternoon papers,” Shayne told him calmly. “Keep your shirt on and shut up long enough to listen to me. I’ve always fixed the breaks so they go your way. All the Herald had this morning was a vague retraction from Painter. Be at my office at twelve-fifteen on the dot and you won’t squawk about what you get. And, Tim! Bring an AP man along. I want the story to hit the New York papers fast.”

“What’s coming off, Mike? Our deadline is one o’clock.”

“That’s why I timed it as I did. Keep your front page clean for a bomb to explode.”

Shayne hung up and moved to the center of the floor where he rubbed his bristly jaw undecidedly. There was a gnawing in his stomach and he wondered if a small snifter would help. He decided not. Food was definitely indicated.

Shayne went down through the lobby, long-legged it to the hotel where he had registered for a brief interval last night. He had the room key in his pocket so he strode right past the desk and up to his room.

Inside, he turned the mattress back and felt inside the slit in the ticking. Carl Meldrum’s original note was where he had thrust it last night. He put it in his pocket and went downstairs, tossed his key on the desk as he went out.

He stopped at a small cafe on Flagler Street and wolfed down four scrambled eggs with crisp bacon on the side. The gnawing went away from his midriff. It was eleven-fifty when he finished his second cup of coffee.

It was eleven-fifty-eight when he got out of his hotel elevator on the third floor.

A man was rapping on the door of his office. Buell Renslow turned to face him as he came up the corridor. Relief twitched over the ex-con’s pallid face. “I’m a little early,” he said huskily, “but I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t wait if I wasn’t.”

“This is just perfect,” Shayne assured him. He unlocked the door and stepped in, held his hand out to Renslow. “Got it on you?”

“Yes, I–I got it.” Renslow dug a roll of bills out of his pocket and pressed them into the detective’s hand. He tensed and swung toward the door when he heard the tramp of feet sounding in the hallway.

Shayne unconcernedly thrust the roll in his pocket without counting it, reached out, and pulled the door open.