The Corpse Came Calling

CHAPTER THREE

“What’s this all about, angel?” Shayne had his arms tightly about Phyllis’s shaking shoulders. “Who’s the stiff messing up my office? Did you blast him? For God’s sake, Phyl, what is this?”

She relaxed against him, sobbing, pressing her face against his chest. He looked over the top of her head wonderingly at a group of detectives from the homicide squad, at the medical examiner who sat lazily in a deep chair with his physician’s bag beside him, and lastly at a slim, erect figure who strutted forward with an unpleasant gleam of triumph in his snapping black eyes.

This was Peter Painter, chief of detectives from Miami Beach, and Michael Shayne’s pet aversion in the form of a law-enforcement officer.

Painter stopped in front of the detective with both hands thrust deep into the slash pockets of a belted sport coat. The threadlike black mustache on his upper lip quivered exultantly as he said:

“It’s up to you to do the explaining this time, Shayne. You can’t kill a man and then just duck out-”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne carefully kept his voice to a normal level. He looked past Painter to a Miami detective and asked, “Where’s Will Gentry?”

“Gentry was out when the call came in. I left word for him to come up.”

Shayne growled, “What’s Painter horning in for?” continuing to ignore the spruce detective chief. “This isn’t his territory.”

The homicide man from Gentry’s office spread out his hands placatingly. “But it looks like it’s pretty much his case, Mike. He was in the office getting out a local pickup on the corpse when your wife phoned in.”

Shayne transferred his gaze to Painter. “You wanted this guy?” He jerked his head toward the corpse.

“For the FBI,” Painter told him with malicious relish. “I have a wire from J. Edgar Hoover saying that it’s a matter of supreme importance to detain him for questioning for a special agent who’s flying down from Washington.”

Shayne looked down at Jim Lacy with no show of recognition. He demanded, “Who the devil is he? What’s he doing here? Who shot him full of holes?”

“Those,” said Peter Painter precisely, “are the same questions we’ve been asking your wife. She has yet to give us a satisfactory explanation.”

Shayne drew in a deep breath. He held Phyllis away from him and looked into her eyes. “Give it to me, Phyl. The truth. I’ve got to know where I stand.”

Her eyes were frightened but she held her voice steady. “I’ve told them the truth, Michael. I was sitting here at my desk-” She stopped speaking as another man entered the room. It was Will Gentry, chief of the Miami Detective Bureau and a long-time warm friend of Shayne’s.

Gentry was a big, stolid man with a beefy face which concealed a keen intelligence. He glanced at the corpse casually, then at Shayne and the others. “I came up as soon as I got the report. What is this, Mike?”

“You know as much about it as I do. I just got here myself. Phyllis was starting to tell me about it. Go ahead, angel.”

“I was sitting here at my desk,” she began again, “when the door opened and this man stepped inside. He had his coat hugged about him and he looked-awful. Like a walking dead man, if you know what I mean. He-took one step and then fell to the floor.” She paused to shudder, then went on valiantly. “I unbuttoned his coat and vest and saw the blood. I knew-he was dead. So I called the police.”

Shayne said, “That’s all we need right now.” He steered her back to a seat on the day bed, gave her shoulder a pat, and said, “Sit tight while I straighten things out.”

As he turned back to the others, Painter was explaining to Will Gentry, “It simply doesn’t read the way she tells it. He has three wounds in his chest, and any one of them would be fatal. No man could walk around with those holes in him.”

Shayne stepped forward angrily. “If Phyllis said he did, then, by God, he did.”

Gentry shook his head soothingly at the redhead. “Keep out of it, Mike.” He asked Painter, “What’s your interest?”

“The FBI wanted this man for questioning,” Painter told him. “I was on the verge of picking him up when he was killed here in Shayne’s office.”

Shayne thrust his lean jaw out and started forward again, but Gentry interposed, “Let’s hear what the M.E. has to say about it. What’s your opinion, doc?” to the professional man who sat comfortably in his chair.

“Each of the three wounds would probably be fatal. They are small-caliber, not more than a. 32. If you want a snap opinion, I don’t believe any man could walk a hundred feet with those three holes in his chest.”

“There you are,” Painter said. “And I’ve talked to the help here. Neither the clerk nor the elevator operator saw any sign of a wound when he came up.”

Shayne jutted his lean jaw at the doctor. “I’m not an M.E., but I have had a speaking acquaintance with gunshot wounds. I’ve known guys carrying enough lead to sink a battleship who stayed on their feet for half an hour before keeling over.”

The doctor nodded. “It will require a P.M. to pass definite judgment.” He explained to Gentry, “A lot of factors enter into it-the exact course of the bullets after they entered the body, what vital organs were touched or missed. There have been some remarkable cases of auto-anesthesia in which mortally wounded men have even remained unaware of their own wounds.” He shrugged. “On that score, I can only say this is one for the record if yon cadaver ambled into this hotel and up here under his own power.”

Painter began, “You see, Gentry,” but Shayne cut him off savagely.

“Even the doc admits it could be possible. What are you trying to prove, Painter?”

Painter smoothed the thin line of silky mustache with his thumbnail. “I think you know a lot more about this man than you’re telling.”

Shayne said, “How can I? I just walked in here.”

“Where have you been during the last half hour?”

Shayne hesitated. He turned to Gentry. “Do I need an alibi, Will?”

Gentry said, “I don’t know, Mike. Haven’t you got one?”

Shayne said, “I’ll take that matter up when you get ready to make a charge against me. In the meantime, why don’t you have the corpse carried out? I’m fastidious about dead men cluttering up my office.”

“Wait a minute,” Painter said importantly. “Suppose you identify him for us first.”

“Am I supposed to know him?”

“Don’t you?” Painter shot at him.

Shayne took time to look at Jim Lacy’s body again. He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“That,” said Painter happily, “is what I expected you to say. Why lie about it?”

Shayne turned to Gentry. “Is it my fault that all dead men look alike to me? What’s the angle?”

Gentry said, “Remember, I just got here, too.” To his fellow detective chief he said, “Give it to us, Painter.”

“Do you think it was just coincidence that he was killed here in Shayne’s office?” Painter parried.

Gentry fended off Shayne’s angry rejoinder. “We haven’t any proof that he was killed here. Is that all you’ve got?”

“No. I’ve got plenty more. If he didn’t know Shayne, why did he telephone that he was coming up shortly before he arrived?”

Shayne’s lean face showed surprised interest. “Did he do that, for Christ’s sake?”

“Your wife says he did.”

Shayne rumpled his red hair and growled, “I never was any good at riddles.” He crossed to Phyllis’s side and sat down beside her. “You tell me, angel.”

“There was a telephone call,” she admitted. “About half an hour before- he came. A man’s voice said it was Jim Lacy and he had to see you at once. He was cut off before I could ask any questions or-anything.”

Shayne said, “Jim Lacy?” He furrowed his brow, tugged at the lobe of his ear, then brightened. “By God, is that Jim Lacy?” He jumped to his feet and strode forward to look down at the dead man.

“As if you didn’t know it all the time,” Painter scoffed.

Shayne swung on Gentry. In a weary tone, he said, “If you don’t stop that little twerp’s yapping I swear I’m going to muss up his pretty clothes.”

Gentry’s stolid face remained unruffled. “Who’s Jim Lacy?” he rumbled.

“I used to know a private op by that name. A long time ago. Ten years, I guess. We worked together for Countrywide in New York. Later I heard Jim had muscled into the racket on his own.”

“Is that him on the floor?”

Shayne said, “How do I know? After ten years. If it is, I give you my word, Will, today is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him since I quit Countrywide.”

“It’s Lacy, all right,” Painter told them. “We found his private license and other papers to identify him. What I want to know, Shayne, and what the G-men are going to want to know, is why he wanted so desperately to see you this afternoon.”

“It’s too damn bad,” Shayne said sourly, “that you can’t ask him.” He went back to sit by Phyllis.

Painter said, “I’m asking you.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and patted Phyllis’s hand. “Don’t pay any attention to our Petey, Phyl. Nobody else does.”

Will Gentry sighed and elbowed Painter back. For years he had been acting as buffer between the redheaded private detective and his co-worker from the other side of the bay, and for years it had been a nerve-racking task. He addressed the officer in charge of the homicide detail.

“Have you got everything you need here, lieutenant? Prints, pix, everything?”

The lieutenant nodded. “We’ve got everything there is, chief.”

“Okay. You boys can beat it. Send some men up for the body. And-doc, I want an autopsy right away. You know what I want-and how important it is.”

The M.E. said cheerfully, “You’ll get it, Will,” and followed the detectives out.

When only the two detective chiefs were left in the room with Shayne and his wife, Gentry said in a reasonable tone, “Let’s all have a drink and get down to cases.”

Shayne said, “That’s the first sensible remark I’ve heard since walking in here.” He got up and went to the cabinet for a glass, glancing over his shoulder at Painter, who remained stiffly erect in the center of the floor. “Are you joining us menfolks in a snifter?”

Painter said, “You know I never drink while on duty.”

“Yeh,” Shayne mused, “you always were hell on duty.” He went to the table and picked up the bottle of cognac, poured himself and Gentry a drink.

Gentry accepted the glass with a nod and lowered his bulky frame into a deep chair. Shayne went back to sit beside Phyllis. Painter remained obdurately standing.

“If you boys,” said Gentry, “would forget you hate each other we might be able to straighten this thing out.”

Shayne said, “Look, Will. Is it my fault that a guy whom I haven’t seen for ten years gets a sudden yen to look me up? Can I help it if he gets bumped on his way to my office and just makes it to the door before he falls flat?”

“But why?” snapped Painter. “If that is what happened, why was it so desperately necessary that someone prevent him from reaching you? You were cooking up something together. He was another fly-cop like yourself.”

Shayne turned his glass around in his big hands, regarding it morosely. He spoke to Gentry without lifting his head.

“I don’t know any more about those things than you do, but I intend to find out. Hell,” he went on irritably, “do you think I like the idea of a man being killed while he’s on his way to my office? It’s lousy publicity. And by the way, can we keep this thing out of the papers until I have a chance to check some angles?”

Gentry began, “I’ll see what I can do-”

But Painter took a step forward to interrupt. “It’s too late for that. A News reporter came up with us. He dashed out with the story to make the final edition. It’s probably on the street now.”

Shayne nodded. “With Painter’s name in headlines. All right, you have to do something once in a while to kid the City Fathers into thinking you’re earning your keep.”

Gentry said wearily, “You just can’t lay off riding him, can you, Mike?”

“Why should I? He rides me every chance he gets. That’s not so bad. I can take it. But I don’t like him starting on my wife, too.”

“I haven’t been riding her.” Painter’s voice became almost shrill with anger. “I simply said-”

“That she was lying about our visitor,” Shayne cut him off.

“You heard the doctor’s opinion.”

“Yes and, by God, you heard Phyllis’s story.” Shayne swung to his feet.

Painter faced him with equal anger. “Don’t bluster at me, Shayne. This isn’t a local matter, you know. Our country is at war and if your friend Lacy was mixed up in some scheme that interests the federal authorities, you had better give us any information in your possession.”

Shayne grinned infuriatingly. “So you’re going to sick Mr. Hoover’s boys on my trail? All right. I’ll do my talking to them, Painter. Drop back in to see me when you have a couple of special agents to back you up. In the meantime, get out. I’m tired of restraining myself and I’m sick of listening to you.”

He swung toward Gentry. “And for you, Will, I’ll give you this. I did know Jim Lacy ten years ago in New York. I haven’t seen him since-until I looked at him lying dead here in my office. I haven’t heard from him nor of him-until Phyllis received the telephone call while I was out. I don’t know why he wanted to see me today-nor who didn’t want him to see me.”

“Be sure you’re not holding out anything, Mike,” Gentry advised. “No fast stuff on this one. If the FBI is interested it must be too hot to handle locally. With the nation at war, the public isn’t going to stand for any monkey business along that line.”

Shayne shrugged. He said, “I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”

“Yeh.” Gentry got up, setting his empty glass down. “Be sure you can this time, Mike.”

Shayne said, “I’ll manage.” He turned back to sit by Phyllis again, put his arm around her waist. “Suppose you two birds get on about your detecting. My wife is still upset from having a corpse calling on her.”

“Come on,” Gentry advised Painter. “We’ll get nothing more out of Mike right now.”

Phyllis turned a frightened face to Shayne when the door closed behind the two detective chiefs. “Are you making a mistake, Michael? With the G-men coming-”

He laughed and ruffled her lustrous black hair. “I’ve made mistakes before-and paid for them.” He went to the desk and rummaged in a drawer, drew out a small memorandum book and rifled through it.

“Get long-distance, angel. I’ve got to talk to New York.”

He found the number he wanted and gave it to her when she got the operator. He drew a chair up to the desk and took the telephone when the connection was ready. He said:

“Hello… Murphy. How’s the boy? That’s good. This is Mike Shayne calling from Miami, Florida. I’ve got a couple of jobs for you and I want them fast. Get hold of a pencil and take this down: First, Jim Lacy. New York private license-in Miami at present on a job. Find out what job, his Miami address-anything else pertinent. Next: Check on one Mace Morgan. Sent up the river a few months ago from your town. I want Morgan’s present status-the dope on his conviction, whether he’s married, to whom, when, his wife, if any-her description, everything about her. That’s number two. Number three is Charles Worthing. Supposed to be wealthy, divorce action pending in New York. Get the facts on him and the divorce-corespondent if any; all the dope on her, any rumors about his present love life. That’s all, Murph… Sure, I know it’s a hell of a big order. Wire me on each one as you get anything. That’s it-and the bill comes to me. Start jumping.”

He hung up and smiled when he saw the perplexed expression on Phyllis’s face. “Don’t ask me any questions, angel. I’ve got to move fast to stay ahead of Mr. Hoover’s lads.”

“But I don’t understand any of it,” she wailed.

“Neither do I-yet.” The grin faded from Shayne’s face. He reached in his pocket for the irregularly shaped piece of cardboard he had removed from Jim Lacy’s stiffening fingers. “This least of all,” he muttered, laying it on the desk. “Take a gander at it and see what you see.”

It was little more than an inch square, with ragged edges showing it had been torn on both sides and the bottom.

At the top of the strip, in printed letters, was part of a word without beginning or end: NSYLVA, and directly below was a W and YOR. Below that were rubber-stamped single letters and fragments of words which seemed completely meaningless. At the very bottom, just above where it had been torn, were two large figures, block-printed in red ink, an 8, and a 2.

“It looks like-” Phyllis began, but broke off, shaking her head. “It looks like part of something, but I don’t know what. If there were only a little more of it I have a feeling I’d know.”

Shayne nodded. “Exactly. It strikes some chord in my memory but doesn’t come clear. The other side isn’t any more helpful,” he added, turning the torn scrap over.

He read fragments of printed words aloud:… ice to pa… o avoid pay… ge it shoul… tely on arr… all ord… He stopped, shaking his head. “To hell with it. If it’s a code, I still wouldn’t know. Maybe Lacy just collected such small items as a hobby, treasured them even in death. All we can do right now is to treasure this one as though we intended to start a screwy collection of our own.”

He hesitated with the scrap of cardboard in his hand, frowning in deep concentration. “Wait a minute. I know what this thing is. It’s a piece torn from the middle of a baggage receipt-a railway or express claim check. Both sides and the bottom have been torn off this fragment. But that still doesn’t tell us why Lacy was treasuring it unto death.” He leaned forward and tilted the typewriter up, lifted a corner of the sponge-rubber pad, and deposited the bit of cardboard underneath.

He caught Phyllis’s arm and lifted her from her chair. “We’re stymied until I get a reply from Murphy. Let’s go up to the apartment and change to go out for dinner. And remind me to send this rug to the cleaners,” he ended as they went out. “That splotch of fresh blood might not make a favorable impression on new clients.”