Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

Will Gentry came in first. He was followed by Mr. Thrip and by Peter Painter, who was bowed over by the weight of an office model typewriter.

Arnold Thrip looked hot and nervous. His eyes sought Shayne’s worriedly. Renslow took a quick backward step when he saw Will Gentry. He frowned with sudden perplexity and fear when he recognized his dead sister’s husband. He darted forward to get out the door when Painter stepped inside.

Shayne casually got in his way and thrust him back. He grunted, “You’re not going anywhere, Renslow,” and locked the door, putting the key into his pocket.

Desperation flamed in Renslow’s eyes. He started a forward movement against Shayne, then sagged back limply against the wall. Almost soundlessly he intoned, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” and the phrase was not blasphemy.

Gentry and Thrip stopped a few feet inside the room, while Painter went on to the table, where he thumped the typewriter down and straightened up with his fingers pressed against the small of his back.

Shayne leaned his shoulder blades against the locked door and said, “Welcome, gentlemen. Will, I believe you and Mr. Thrip know Renslow, but Painter hasn’t met him. The mustache with the handsome man behind it is Peter Painter-our persevering chief of detectives from across the bay who still hopes to solve a case some day.”

Painter took a step forward and nodded with dignity. He caressed his threadlike mustache with his forefinger and did not deign to reply to the insult.

Renslow remained sagged back against the wall, his eyes darting from one to another of the trio in a frenzy of fearful speculation.

Mr. Thrip inclined his head and spoke in a tone of pompous irritation. “Perhaps I misunderstood you, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t-ah-realize there would be such a gathering here.”

“That’s quite all right. You can pay me off in the presence of these witnesses as well as though we were alone. Mr. Thrip,” Shayne gravely explained to the heads of the two detective bureaus, “has retained me on this case to solve his wife’s murder. On payment of a specified fee I have promised to deliver evidence into the hands of the police that will convict the murderer. I’ll take that six grand now, Mr. Thrip.”

Behind him Buell Renslow moaned faintly. “You dirty double-crosser! I might’ve known.”

No one paid any attention to Renslow’s laments. Painter and Gentry watched in silence while Mr. Thrip hesitantly offered Shayne a long sealed envelope. The detective tore it open and counted out six thousand-dollar bills with an expression of pleasure on his gaunt face. He nodded and thrust the bills into his pocket on top of the wad Renslow had passed over just previously.

He went past the three men to the center table, saying briskly, “I think we can finish up our business in short order.” He frowned down at the typewriter Painter had brought. “Is this Carl Meldrum’s machine?”

“Not his,” Painter explained. “It belongs to the Palace Hotel, but Meldrum often used it, In fact, the clerk definitely recalls that he used it just before noon yesterday.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m. To type the note I recovered after Renslow tore it up, I suppose. Also, to type the extortion notes, no doubt, if he authored them.”

He slid a sheet of paper in the roller and began punching keys aimlessly, suggesting to Painter and Gentry, “Let’s take a look at the notes and make some rough comparisons to see if the typing checks.”

Thrip’s eyes bulged when Gentry pulled out the sheet with strips of a typewritten message pasted on it. He shot an angry glance at Shayne. “But I thought-I understood the message was in your possession and you threatened to withhold it from the police unless I-ah-”

“Unless you paid off,” Shayne finished for him. He took the note from Gentry and held it so Thrip could not see the words. “Well, you wouldn’t have paid the six grand otherwise, would you?” he demanded, then turned to call to Renslow, who had slumped down into a chair behind them. “Better join us. You’ll be interested in the results of these comparisons.”

Renslow sighed abjectly. He looked ten years older than when he entered the room. He muttered, “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got me hooked. What do you want to fool around for?”

Shayne pulled his sheet of typing from the roller and laid it on the table beside the note he had forged. He stepped back to make way for the trio to compare the typing, saying pleasantly, “I don’t believe they check very well.”

Thrip’s eyes raced over the text of the note and his head jerked up and around at Shayne. “That isn’t it,” he exclaimed hotly. “That’s not at all what you led me to believe Meldrum had written.”

“Perhaps Meldrum didn’t write that one,” Shayne agreed. “How about it?” he asked the two detective chiefs.

Gentry shook his head negatively. “It doesn’t take an expert to tell that this wasn’t typed on this typewriter.”

“Check the extortion notes,” Shayne suggested to Painter.

Painter drew an envelope from his side coat pocket and extracted a number of folded sheets of paper. Shayne stepped back and poured himself a drink of cognac, red eyebrows lifted quizzically while they made the second comparison.

Again Will Gentry shook his head. “Not alike at all. What sort of game is this, Mike? What does all this stuff matter when we already know-”

“Here’s something you don’t know.” Shayne handed him the original pasted-together note written by Carl Meldrum and torn up by Renslow. “See how this one checks.”

Gentry grunted surprise when he read the note. Painter stiffened disbelievingly and turned toward Renslow like a bird dog on point. Thrip’s eyes bulged with pleasure and gratification as he read the accusing document.

“What the hell is this?” Gentry demanded roughly. “By God, Mike, what monkey business are you pulling this time?”

“Did Meldrum type it?” Shayne demanded.

After giving him a long moment of searching scrutiny, Gentry leaned forward and made the comparison. This time he nodded slowly. “No doubt about this one.” He straightened his burly shoulders with heavy dignity and looked sorrowfully at the private detective. “This is the real McCoy, isn’t it? This is exactly what I figured the note would be before you passed off a phony on us last night. It supplies the motive for Renslow to have killed Meldrum, and it clears Phyllis. Why in God’s name did you pull this shenanigan, Mike?”

“You made me. You tried to force my hand at Mona’s apartment last night. What would you have done if I’d handed it over to you then? You would have thrown the book at Renslow and he would have stayed locked up. That would have ruined my chance of making anything off him. Holding that note out on you was my only possible lever to jimmy some dough out of him.”

“I get it,” Gentry growled. “You saw a chance to chisel on the poor devil. You got him turned loose long enough to dig up some jack for you on your promise not to turn him in?”

“It was that simple,” Shayne gibed. “Those few hours I gained were worth five thousand of Renslow’s money. He paid it over just before you walked in.”

Gentry was breathing hard through set lips. A revulsion of disgust shook his heavy body. He said, “By God, that’s about the rottenest deal I ever saw cooked up.”

Shayne laughed. “You know me. Always smelling out a profit. Sometimes they stink a little, but I’m used to that.” He paused, then added casually, “On the other hand, if I’d told you the whole truth last night you would have grabbed Thrip right then, and I never would have got six grand out of him. Altogether, it was worth eleven thou-” He got no further before the significance of his casual words seeped through to the other four men in the room. Painter and Gentry exclaimed, “Thrip?” in disbelieving unison, while the real estate man straightened slowly and stared at Shayne in utter consternation. Hearing Shayne’s words but not quite daring to believe what he heard, Buell Renslow slowly began to rise from his chair as though propelled by a force outside his own volition.