Call for Michael Shayne [= Case of the Missing Twelve Days]

Chapter seven A corpse for the cops

The tropical June day had begun in earnest when Shayne parked in front of the rooming-house on Palmleaf Avenue, but the air was still cool with the lingering breath of the night breeze rustling the palm fronds arched overhead. Number 819 was one of a row of similar three-story frame houses built close to the sidewalk and close together with cupolas in front and dormer windows on the sides. No one was yet moving on the street, but from some of the open windows came the sound of radios as the occupants began to stir themselves for a new day.

Shayne yawned widely and relaxed behind the wheel. He was lighting a cigarette when a gray sedan turned into the block and stopped at the curb behind him. He spun the match away and stepped out onto the pavement, walked back to the open left-hand door of the sedan.

The Miami police chief was grunting sourly and heaving his heavy bulk from the seat. His broad, florid face, ordinarily good-humored, wore a heavy scowl. His eyes were murky and red-rimmed and he was unshaven.

“What’s this all about, Mike? Why the devil did you drag me out of bed?”

Shayne grinned. “I’m not sure, Will. If it’s a false alarm, I’ll take you back home and tuck you in myself.”

“Doesn’t seem to be any excitement around here,” grumbled Gentry as he walked stolidly beside Shayne. “If this is one of your little jokes, Mike—”

“It’s not a joke, Will. Here’s our number. We’ll soon find out.” Shayne went ahead of Gentry, turned the door knob, and they went into a small entry with stairs leading up directly ahead of them.

There was no sign of life, no sound from behind any of the closed doors. A card on the first one on the right held a small printed card that read Manager.

Shayne closed the door quietly and went up the stairs with Gentry following. The air seemed musty with the smell of yesterday’s food and with the stench of long-decayed human hopes.

A dim, dusty bulb lit the narrow hall on the third floor. When they reached 304, Shayne started to knock on the thin door panel, hesitated, then tried the knob.

The door opened. Enough light came through the one window to show the body of the dead man crumpled at the foot of the bed, just as Arthur Devlin had described it. Shayne reached a long arm in and switched the light on, stepped aside, and said politely, “It’s all yours, Will. I won’t have to take you home and tuck you in after all.”

Will Gentry’s rumpled lids rolled up like miniature Venetian blinds. All signs of sleepiness were gone from his eyes and he gave Shayne a sharp, questioning look, then moved slowly and solidly to stand over the dead man. He sighed almost plaintively and said, “All right, Mike. Give it to me.”

“I’ve already given it to you, Will.” Shayne made a thrusting motion with his hands and stepped up beside the chief. “Skid Munroe,” he muttered in a tone of mild surprise.

“Who did you expect to find lying here?”

“Frankly, I didn’t have the slightest idea.”

Gentry grunted. “Another one of your hunches?”

“Look, Will, can I help it if I have sources of information?”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d you know he was here?”

“If I didn’t keep my pipelines confidential I wouldn’t have any. You know how I operate.”

“Yeh. I know.” Gentry pushed his hat to the back of his head and scratched his heavy jowls. “Go down and wake the manager and phone Harry at Homicide. Bring the manager back with you.”

“Maybe you’d better phone Harry,” Shayne suggested. “He might get sore—”

“I’ll stay here while you do the phoning,” said Gentry without rancor. “You’ve probably been over everything already, but I couldn’t help that. Get Harry.”

“Okay. Okay, Will,” Shayne said soothingly. “But don’t forget who tipped you off — and let me in on whatever you find.” He turned and long-legged it out of the room and down the stairs.

When he returned a few minutes later he was accompanied by a wizened little bald-headed man who clutched a faded bathrobe around his shrunken middle and wheezed loudly through a long, sharp nose.

Gentry had been through the dead man’s pockets and had tossed a clip of bills and a key ring on the bed. He gestured toward them and growled, “That’s all he had on him. Eighteen bucks and some keys.”

Shayne said, “The squad boys are on their way. Harry is bringing the taxi driver I mentioned. He phoned in a few minutes ago.” Turning to the frightened, wheezing little man he said, “This is Mr. Erlang. I didn’t tell him anything, but he heard me phoning Homicide.”

“Come on in,” Gentry said brusquely. “Haven’t you ever seen a corpse before?”

“Not just — lying out like that,” he admitted through chattering teeth. He advanced a few cautious steps and peered nearsightedly at the body. “That’s him, all right. Signed the register George Moore. Just this afternoon. Paid me cash in advance. Said he was expecting someone to see him here tonight.”

“Who?” Gentry’s lids were rolled up and his eyes probed the little man’s steadily.

“Didn’t say who. Just some man. So when a man come at about ’leven and asked for my new roomer and sort of described him I told him 304 and he come up alone.”

“Didn’t he know Moore’s name?” Shayne cut in.

“Reckon not. Acted like he didn’t know, sure enough.”

“Describe the visitor,” Gentry ordered.

“Didn’t get a good look at him that time, but when he come down a couple hours later I saw him good. Tall he was, and mean-looking. Had his hat pulled low over his face and a look that scared me. Snarled something and went right past me and out the door like the devil was on his tail.”

“What time was that?”

“Short of two, I reckon. I’d been sitting up and waiting ’cause I didn’t hear him come down earlier and I figured maybe they was sneaking him in for the night. Two for the price of one, you see. They try that stunt on me a lot, but you can bet I watch out for it.” Mr. Erlang had backed away where he couldn’t see the corpse, and he cackled gleefully.

“You said you didn’t get a good look at the man when he came inquiring for his friend at eleven,” Shayne said. “Why not, if you directed him up here?”

“Didn’t open my door but a crack,” wheezed Erlang. “I was getting ready for bed and was naked as a jaybird in sheddin’ time. Talked to him through the crack and didn’t open the door until he started up the stairs. Saw his back. Same feller, all right. Same hat and all.”

The first contingent from Homicide arrived to take over the death room. Shayne and Gentry went out and down the stairs. As though through some telepathic medium, the tenants were aroused and people stood outside doors in night clothes and robes watching and listening, curiosity wiping the sleep from their eyes.

In the small entry on the first floor they met Sergeant Hopkins, who had in tow a heavy short man wearing a visored cap above wary eyes and a jutting jaw.

“This is Pete Bisto, Chief,” the sergeant greeted Gentry, “the cabby you sent out that call for.” He gave Shayne a slow wink to attest the fact that he hadn’t forgotten the detective’s telephoned inquiry about the Palmleaf address a short time earlier.

“Yeah,” said Bisto. “I was cruisin’ on the Boulevard when I heard it. You know how ’tis. Didn’t catch on first time I heard it. A man listens to them calls sorta without hearin’ ’em, you might say, and when somethin’ like that comes along—”

“I know,” said Gentry. “But you did remember the fare you picked up here. What time?”

“Ten minutes to two. I checked my book before I called in. I remember him because he wanted a ride to the Clairmount Apartments on the Beach and then didn’t have no money when we got there.”

Shayne stood unobtrusively aside and listened to the driver’s story. It differed in no major detail from the way Devlin himself had told it.

Will Gentry heard with patience the driver’s dramatic telling of the story, then turned to Shayne and growled, “Another one of your damned miracles, Mike. Some day you’re going to explain just how you pull stunts like this, but right now let’s get over to the Clairmount. Follow along with Bisto in your car,” he directed Sergeant Hopkins, “to identify this man Devlin. Stop at Miami Beach headquarters to pick up a man there to make it official. Mike and I’ll go straight to the Clairmount.”

The sergeant and the cabby went on ahead. When Shayne and Gentry reached Shayne’s car, the chief said, “Better ride along with me, Mike.”

“Thanks, Will, but I may need my hack over there. I’ll tail you.”

Gentry hesitated, started to speak, then went on solidly to his gray sedan and got in.

The sun was riding above the fluff of clouds on the horizon, sailing into a clear blue sky and promising a sweltering day. As the four-car caravan sped across the County Causeway, early fishing boats were putting out for Baker’s Haulover for a long day at sea, and the surface of Biscayne Bay was an unruffled turquoise blue in the fresh morning light.

The taxi and the sergeant’s car turned off when they reached the Beach and went on to police headquarters, but Gentry went straight ahead, with Shayne following him closely, to Collins Avenue and turned north to the Clairmount.

They parked out front, and Shayne waited for Gentry to join him before going up the steps and ringing the bell marked Manager. When the buzzer sounded, Gentry opened the door and they went into the office. Jack Adams was sitting at the desk reading a magazine.

Gentry showed his badge and demanded, “You got a Devlin here? Arthur Devlin?”

The young man’s eyes snapped and he said hastily, “Why, yes. Yes, sir. He just returned early this morning. Is anything — wrong?”

“Is he in his apartment now?” Gentry drawled.

“N-No, sir,” stammered the clerk. “That is, I’m quite sure he isn’t. He went out about two-thirty. I called a taxi for him and gave him change for a hundred-dollar bill.”

Shayne leaned negligently against the desk and let Gentry do the questioning. Again he heard Devlin’s own story confirmed in every particular, embellished a trifle, perhaps, as was the taxi driver’s, by imagination and a feeling of importance to be included in a police investigation.

Hopkins and the taxi driver and a local detective entered the lobby when Jack Adams pressed a button in response to their ring. Gentry stepped aside for a moment and joined them while the clerk looked up the two telephone numbers Devlin had called after going up to his room. Shayne took advantage of the opportunity to ask in a low, casual tone, “Did you smell liquor on Devlin’s breath when he came in earlier this morning?”

“Why — no, sir. That was a funny thing. He sure looked and acted like he’d been on a binge, but I remember thinking at the time it was strange I didn’t smell liquor on him. Mr. Devlin has been with us a good many years and I’m certain he’s not a drinking man — except maybe for a social drink sometimes.”

Gentry came back with the other three men pressing close behind him, took the slip of paper with the telephone numbers on them, and the clerk explained that one of them was the number, he felt certain, of the man who visited Devlin in his apartment shortly after Devlin returned.

“What is his name?” Gentry demanded.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered, and without being interrogated gave a description of Doctor Thompson. “He’s a friend of Mr. Devlin’s and has visited him a few times,” he ended, his eyes flashing from Gentry to Sergeant Hopkins and on to the uniformed Beach police officer, coming to rest on the surly taxi driver who had come in with Devlin to get the money for the fare.

Gentry then asked Pete Bisto and Jack Adams a couple of questions together. Adams answered quietly, verifying Bisto’s former statement, and when Bisto began to dramatically recreate the scene the chief raised a heavy hand and said, “Thanks. Keep in touch with Sergeant Hopkins in case we need you later.”

The Beach detective was named Brooks, a tall, tight-featured man and an ardent admirer of his chief, Peter Painter, and by the same token a fervid hater of Michael Shayne, who had clashed often with the Beach detective force in the past. Now, as they turned from the desk, Brooks thrust his sharp jaw out and demanded of Gentry, “What’s this shamus doing with you, Chief? You know how Painter feels about these private dicks operating in his territory.”

“I know all about Painter,” Gentry agreed. He handed Sergeant Hopkins the telephone numbers the clerk had given him. “Check these numbers and get names and addresses to fit them. And I think we’d better go up and check over Devlin’s apartment,” he added to Brooks. “Right now I have fairly direct evidence linking him to a murder in Miami last night.” He turned back to the clerk and said, “Let’s have a pass key to Devlin’s apartment.”

Jack Adams had it in his hand. “Here you are, sir. I thought you’d be wanting it.”

“I don’t mind co-operating with you,” Brooks told Gentry coldly. “But Shayne is another matter. Every time he sticks his nose into one of our cases he messes everything up.”

“This isn’t a Beach case,” Gentry reminded him stolidly. “Shayne is in on this whether you or Painter like it or not.”

They started toward the elevator. “Wait a minute, Will,” Shayne said and broke into an infuriating grin at Brooks. “Thanks for everything, but as far as I’m concerned this is your baby.” He made motions of washing his big hands of the whole affair and turned toward the entrance door.

“Nuts,” said Gentry sharply, stopping in his tracks and turning to Shayne. “I want you around when we interview Devlin’s early-morning caller. Hopkins will have the address in a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” said Shayne stiffly, “but I don’t care to stick around here and be insulted further by one of Petey Painter’s twirps.” He stalked out of the lobby, leaving Brooks looking after him with a smirk of self-approbation on his pinched face while Will Gentry regarded his exit in suspicious consternation.

In his car Shayne was still grinning to himself. Now that he had established his status in the case as that of merely doing a favor for Will Gentry, he was free to work fast without interference from Painter. He had no doubt that Brooks would hastily report his actions to Painter.

He was speeding up Collins Avenue, swearing under his breath at the closed filling-stations. He figured he had only a very few minutes to spare.

Swinging into the first open station he came to, he flung himself out and trotted into the office before the sleepy attendant could come out. “Telephone book,” he said tersely. “Sorry, but that’s all I need.”

The attendant pointed to the corner and Shayne snatched up the directory, riffled through to the T’s, and ran a long forefinger down until he came to Thompson, Ronald W., Physician. The address was in one of the newer Beach residential sections near 79th Street.

He trotted out, leaving a mutter of thanks floating behind him, got in and gunned his motor and headed northward.

Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a neat bungalow set in a square of freshly planted lawn shadowed with palm fronds. He leaped out and went up the walk to the small porch. A bronze sign beside the door read Dr. Ronald Thompson, M.D. Office hours 10:00 A.M. — 2:00 P.M. Enter and Ring Bell.

He put his finger on the electric bell and held it there. He could hear it ringing inside and had a queer sensation that it was ringing on emptiness — that its summons would not be answered.

He removed his finger and stopped the ringing after a full minute. He tried the door knob. The door was locked. He glanced at the front windows. Venetian blinds were tightly drawn.

Turning, he hurried down the steps and trotted around the side of the house across fresh sod to the rear door.

The screen door was closed, but the wooden door was wide open. He hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled the screen door open and entered a small rear hall where there was a large, gleaming refrigerator. On his left an open door led into a small modern kitchen, its cleanliness attesting Doctor Thompson’s precise bachelor habits.

A swinging door led out of the kitchen. Shayne pushed it open and saw a small shadowed room which appeared to be a combination office and private study. He stood in the doorway with his right hand holding the door open, appalled by the evidence of destructive violence that met his eyes. Drawers were pulled out from the desk and from two filing-cabinets. Papers and cardboard folders littered the floor in torn and crumpled disorder. Two straight chairs were overturned and the room was filled with the heavy, sweetish odor of some anesthetic which had apparently spilled from one of the broken bottles beside an overturned cabinet in the far corner.

He took a step forward and let the door swing shut behind him. He sensed movement to the right and rear of him and swung around to meet the crushing impact of a blow high on his cheekbone. He went down without knowing what struck him.