Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

In the presence of a client Phyllis remained sedate and seated while Michael walked across the room to the coffee table, but aside from this she made no pretense of hiding the fact that she had been married only a short time and was hopelessly in love.

Shayne said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thrip,” as though he had expected her. He tossed his hat on a chair and went around the table to stand behind his wife’s chair.

Phyllis tilted her head back and Shayne cupped long bony fingers under her chin. For an instant they looked into each other’s eyes, then Shayne kissed her lips, wrinkled his nose at the steam floating up from her teacup.

“Good Lord, that smells like tea,” he exclaimed.

“Of course it’s tea,” Phyllis caroled. “We always have tea at four-thirty,” she said to Mrs. Thrip, “and Michael always jokes about it. Why, in Cuba-”

“Such a pleasant custom, my dear,” Mrs. Thrip agreed. She smiled. “It’s so seldom nowadays one actually has tea served when one is invited to tea.”

Phyllis said, “Excuse me a moment,” and took the squat silver teapot with her to the kitchen, explaining, “I’ll run some more boiling water over the leaves for Michael. He likes weak tea and that bitter taste you get from the used leaves.”

Shayne’s left eyebrow shot up apprehensively but he didn’t say anything. He sat down and took a cigarette from a pack on the table.

Mrs. Thrip wore the same carefully guarded mantle of placidity she had kept wrapped about her at the office. She wore the same somber dress. Against the gold-brocaded chair in which she sat, Shayne saw that it was dark blue. She took a sip of tea and appeared to relish it. She said, “My husband doesn’t know I’ve come to you, Mr. Shayne. He must not know.” She spaced the last four words evenly. Her gray eyes regarded him fixedly with that same intent quality of repose which he had noted earlier in the afternoon.

He said, “Of course not, Mrs. Thrip,” and lit his cigarette from a small lighter on the table, looking blandly across at Phyllis, who had tiptoed from the kitchen and, behind Mrs. Thrip’s back, stood before a built-in wall mirror which pivoted under her touch, revealing a compact and well-stocked bar on the other side. His gray eyes became languid as he watched her fill a teacup with amber liquid from a bottle and go quietly back to the kitchen.

Mrs. Thrip asked, “Did Arnold show you the notes, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne was turning the lighter between his fingers as if studying its efficiency. He pursed his lips and set it on the table with a quick jerk, expelled smoke from his nostrils, and shook his head. “Notes? No, he didn’t show them to me.”

“He probably didn’t have them at the office, then.”

“I suppose not.”

Phyllis emerged from the kitchen with the steaming teapot and a tray bearing a cup and saucer and a goblet of ice water. The cup was full to the brim of something that looked like weak tea. She set it before her husband and placed the glass of water beside it, explaining to Mrs. Thrip, “Michael insists on having ice water with his tea every afternoon. Silly, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Thrip sniffed, smiled, and said, “It is odd,” in a gentle voice.

Shayne looked up as she tightened a quirk of amusement around her mouth. He said, “It’s an old Mongolian custom. Tea just wouldn’t be tea without ice water on the side. The Chinese think it’s silly, you know, the way we put ice in hot tea to make it cold and lemon in it to make it sour and then put sugar in to-”

“Look, darling,” Phyllis interrupted, resuming her prim position in her chair, “Mrs. Thrip is here to discuss business. Mightn’t you-?”

“Of course,” Shayne said hastily. “Shall we go down to my offices on the next floor, Mrs. Thrip?”

A disappointed look was covering Phyllis’s face when Mrs. Thrip interposed quietly: “I’d like your wife to hear me, Mr. Shayne. She has been so charming and sympathetic. I believe I can say what must be said more easily with her present.”

“So there,” Phyllis said in an undertone. A toe of her shoe nudged one of Shayne’s number twelves.

Shayne took a sip of cognac from the teacup and agreed. “Wives do have their uses, Mrs. Thrip. You said something about-the notes?”

“Yes. The threats I’ve received recently. I feel that after you hear about-everything-you will reconsider and take the case.”

“You are under the impression that Mr. Thrip withheld some of the facts from me this afternoon?”

“He is in a difficult position, Mr. Shayne. There are certain things which a wife hesitates to confess. That’s why I came to you. I’m positive of the identity of the person who wrote those notes, while Arnold is under the impression that they are the work of a crank. I suppose he told you that.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m.”

Mrs. Thrip nodded as if in understanding. “I’m glad he finally decided to call in a detective. It has been a difficult situation for me.” There was a hint of a shudder in her shoulders. “Horribly difficult. At first Arnold wanted me to pay the money demanded. A man in Arnold’s position couldn’t afford such publicity, you understand. I suppose you’ll think me a coward, but I knew the first payment would only bring more demands. I couldn’t tell Arnold-without telling him everything.”

Shayne took another drink from his teacup and said casually, “I understand, Mrs. Thrip,” without even remotely knowing what he was supposed to understand. Over the rim of his cup he saw a flicker in her eyes. An alive, normal brightness which died away, leaving her face immobile. Her eyes were vague again. “To handle the case properly, you realize that I should know all the facts,” he added practically.

“I can’t tell you the agony I’ve suffered, Mr. Shayne,” she resumed. “The nights I’ve lain awake. I’m afraid to sleep, wondering.” Mrs. Thrip paused. Again she removed her protective armor of placidity and there was fear in her gray eyes.

“That man is a devil,” Mrs. Thrip broke out suddenly. “He’s capable of anything.” Her face was drained of all color, and Shayne had a fleeting impression of emeralds glinting between her lashes when she went on:

“Twice lately he has accompanied our daughter to her room after bringing her home late from God knows what evil places.”

“What man?” Shayne did not move from his lolling position. The low tone in which Mrs. Thrip spoke was evidence of a great inner turmoil, but when she did not continue her recital Shayne dragged his torso forward, took another puff on his cigarette, and ground it out in a little cut-glass ash tray on the coffee table-one of Phyllis’s domesticities, he reflected fleetingly. “Who is this man?” he prompted gently.

Sharp teeth indented Leora Thrip’s lower lip. “Carl Meldrum,” she whipped out. “I don’t know whether that’s his real name or not, but it’s the name he was using when I met him three years ago.” She leaned forward, fumbling nervously with her purse. “This is no time for false pride. I’m going to tell you everything.”

“False pride has no place anywhere,” Shayne encouraged her. The moralism gave him an inner amusement.

Leora Thrip moistened her lips twice before going on: “I was thirty-nine three years ago. Neither of you can know what that means to a woman in the position I was in. They say that the years between thirty and forty are the best of a woman’s life. I was nearing the end. I was hated in my home. Arnold didn’t really love me-not the way I want to be loved. His children distrusted me-and hated me. I would soon be forty.” She looked from Shayne to Phyllis as if to assure herself of understanding, then relaxed against the back of the chair. “There’s nothing-more tragic-than a woman who reaches forty without knowing love. It is the end. After forty-it is too late.”