The Uncomplaining Corpses

Chapter Fourteen: ONE JUMP AHEAD OF THE LAW

Shayne pushed his car hard to the north and east. At the Thrip home he pulled aside to let a long, cream-colored limousine come out of the drive in a hurry. A uniformed chauffeur was behind the wheel and Shayne caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Thrip, alone in the spacious tonneau. He felt sure the pudgy realtor had not seen him, for he was sitting pompously erect and staring straight ahead. Shayne scowled after the handsome car as it slid away, then swung his roadster into the palm-lined, curving driveway.

The horse-faced butler was at the front door, as stoic and solemn-eyed as on his last encounter. Upon recognizing Shayne, he tried to shut the door in his face, but Shayne’s shoe got in the way.

“Mr. Thrip is not in,” the butler protested. “He just left for Miami.”

“I saw him. He almost ran me down as I was turning in.” Shayne’s tone was sour. He pushed past the butler. “I want to see the boy and the girl, anyway.”

“You can’t see Mr. Ernst, sir. It was on his account that the master was called to Miami so hurriedly.”

“That so?” Shayne queried indifferently. “What happened to the young pantywaist?”

“It is not an occasion for slurring allusions, sir,” the butler protested severely. “Mr. Ernst is badly injured. He is in the hospital, unconscious, so the message revealed. At the point of death, I dare say.”

Shayne feigned astonishment. “Don’t tell me Ernst has got himself involved with the police.”

“In an innocent manner,” the butler assured him. “An officer discovered him in a brutally beaten condition in an alleyway. He was evidently attacked and robbed by ruthless ruffians.” There was a hint of relish in the butler’s suave voice.

Shayne muttered, “Good old Will,” to himself, then said aloud, “All right, I’ll tackle Dorothy if that’s all that’s left for me.”

“You can’t, sir,” the man said firmly. “Miss Dorothy is at present engaged with her personal maid.”

“To hell with that. I’ll take her and the maid in my stride.” He pushed forward impatiently and the butler drew back in silent reproach, then conceded:

“Very well, sir, if you insist. She’s in her upstairs sitting-room. I’ll have a maid show you-”

“I know the way.” Shayne’s long legs were already going up the stairs. He didn’t know how long Peter Painter was going to stay unconscious on his office floor undiscovered, but he did realize it wouldn’t be smart to waste too much time on this side of the bay.

He knocked on the sitting-room door, then turned the knob and walked in.

Dorothy Thrip was lounging on a chaise longue across the room and a short, square-bodied, and square-headed female was kneeling on the rug in front of her doing something to her feet. Dorothy wore a belted chenille bathrobe and she was languidly smoking a cigarette in a foot-long jeweled holder. The air was sweetish from its smoke. Her head lolled back and soft brown hair was spread out like a nimbus to frame her face. It curled up at the ends in big, loose ringlets.

Her eyes were as round as Shayne remembered them and they looked up at him without curiosity. She did not move from her relaxed position. She appeared to be enjoying herself greatly. In the strong light of a floor lamp her face appeared even more pointed and vixenish than it had that morning.

The broad-backed maid did not turn around when Shayne closed the door. Taffy-colored braids were twined around her head. She was bent forward, arduously concentrating.

Shayne moved toward them and saw that Dorothy Thrip’s toenails were being pedicured and tinted with carmine polish. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and grinned.

The girl flipped ashes onto the rug and demanded, “What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever seen a girl having her toes manicured?”

“No,” Shayne admitted, with a smile of genuine amusement, “that’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of life which has hitherto been denied me.” He dragged up a chair and sat down, adding pleasantly, “Don’t let me interrupt the gilding of the lily.”

“We won’t,” Dorothy assured him.

The maid looked up at the detective with an expression of bovine wonderment and Dorothy admonished her: “Don’t pay any attention to him, Gertrude. He’s a species of vermin that comes out of holes in the wood around this house.”

“That was clever when Dorothy Parker first tossed it off,” Shayne told her. He lit a cigarette and Dorothy Thrip made a face at him. The maid concentrated on her task of brushing carmine stain on her mistress’s toenails. There was silence in the sitting-room.

Shayne blew out smoke and asked, “Have you seen Carl today?”

“No.”

“Not since he called you last night from the Tally-Ho?”

“No. What do you know about his telephoning last night?” She twisted to let her round, agate-like eyes stare sullenly at her interrogator.

Shayne made a negligent gesture. “Just one of a detective’s specialties-tapping telephone wires and all that.”

He saw quick fear rush into her eyes. It was swiftly replaced by crafty speculation. She said, “Now I know you’re lying.”

“Uh-huh,” Shayne agreed with a wide grin, “because you know that if I had listened in to that early morning conversation I’d have the deadwood on Carl for your stepmother’s murder and wouldn’t be around here asking foolish questions. That’s using your head, mademoiselle. Where does Carl hang out in the daytime?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.” Her round eyes became slits when they lowered to observe Gertrude’s inquisitive blue ones looking up at Shayne. “Go on, Gertrude, and stop gawking. I haven’t got all night.”

“You don’t have to answer questions,” Shayne told her, “but you will. Where would Carl be likely to take a pickup and keep her all day?”

“What do you mean by that?” Dorothy pointed the long cigarette holder close to Shayne’s nose.

Shayne moved his head back a couple of inches. “Just what you’re afraid I mean.”

Dorothy scowled fleetingly, the crease between her eyes smoothing out with youthful resilience. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Carl wouldn’t-Why, I’ve got a date to meet him at the Tally-Ho tonight.”

“Your red toenails will be stood up along with the rest of you if you expect him to keep that date. Anyway, you’re supposed to be in mourning. Where’s your sense of decency?”

Dorothy Thrip laughed. An angry laugh. “You sound like Father-ordering me not to meet Carl there tonight. Damn such hypocrisy.” She yawned and wriggled her red-tipped toenails. “That’ll do, Gertrude. You can lay out my things now. The sequin dinner gown.”

Gertrude said, “Yes, ma’am,” and got to her feet. She went into an adjoining bedroom and closed the door without looking at the detective again.

Shayne said, “If you insist on being a fool,” as if he made the statement for no reason except that he considered her one.

Dorothy sat up straight and mashed out her cigarette with unnecessary force. “You’re the one who’s being stupid.”

“The gal who’s putting the hooks into Carl right now is something to take his mind off a fox-faced brat like you,” he told her, “and don’t make any mistake.” Shayne’s voice was startlingly serious.

Dorothy shot him a searching glance and said, “I know Carl Meldrum,” with all the confidence she could command. “Don’t think he has fooled me-but he won’t be running out on me from now on. Not with the money I’ll have to throw around.”

“I’d still like to know where he might have gone with his new girl today,” Shayne persisted mildly.

“And I still don’t believe he went anywhere with a girl today,” Dorothy retorted. “Carl’s a night owl. He sleeps days. If you want to see him you’d better hang around the Tally-Ho tonight. He’ll be there.” She stretched her arms and yawned in Shayne’s face. “I’ve got to dress.” She started to get up but Shayne put a big hand out to stop her.

“Have you heard about what happened to your brother?”

“That dope? Did he get his behind in a sling? Let me get up, you brute.” She clawed at Shayne’s wrist and he grabbed her hand. He growled:

“I’ve got a bullet hole in my pants where Ernst shot me a couple of hours ago when he got the idea I was closing down on you for strangling your stepmother. You ought to have some appreciation for his brotherly interest.”

Dorothy Thrip fell back in her chair and stared at Shayne. “You’ve got-what?” she faltered. “Ernst tried to shoot you?” Her voice was weak with fright and incredulity.

Shayne let go of her wrist. “That’s right. He figures Carl detained him at the front door last night while you were up here finishing the job of strangling your stepmother.”

Dorothy’s round eyes were bright and wild. “The fool!” she exclaimed. “The crazy fool!” Her voice softened to a moan when she gasped, “What-else-did he tell you?”

“Plenty-before I finished with him,” Shayne told her. “With what he told me and what I’ve picked up here and there it’s about enough.” He paused, then demanded abruptly, “Did you know that Carl Meldrum was trying to blackmail your stepmother?”

So far as Shayne could judge, her surprise was genuine. “Trying to blackmail-Leora?” she asked in a dazed voice. “Now you’re crazy too. I never heard anything so foolish in all my life. How could he blackmail Leora?”

“Who else do you think was writing her those notes?”

“God knows.” For an instant she considered, then said, “I suppose some nut who knew she had money.”

Shayne was bent over, his chin resting in his hand, staring toward the fireplace where the log had been burning last night. At this early hour of the evening the room was warm.

After a brief silence, Dorothy Thrip said, “Another came today, you know.”

Shayne stiffened. “Another note?”

“Sure. Didn’t you know? I thought you were a detective and found out everything.” Her round eyes were scornful.

“What was it like? How did it come?”

“Just like all the others. Typewritten and mailed from Miami. It was postmarked last night, so Dad says that explodes your silly theory that your operative was innocent and the writer of the notes killed her. Because if he’d planned to kill her and did kill her, he certainly would not have mailed another note to her last night. So, if it was Carl who was writing them,” she ended triumphantly, “that proves more than ever that he didn’t have anything to do with what happened last night.”

“It doesn’t prove anything,” Shayne snapped, “except that whoever wrote the notes might try to use it as an out if he was caught. If you ask me, it’s the damnedest angle yet.” He sank back into his chair and stuck a cigarette in his mouth while he frowned at nothing across the room.

Dorothy was watching him with her head tilted slightly. Twice she started to speak but didn’t. Then she got up quietly and stepped past him. The detective appeared to have forgotten her entirely. She was halfway to her bedroom door when a telephone burred discreetly behind a painted screen near the fireplace.

She paused, looking back over her shoulder. Shayne shook his head like a man emerging from an underwater swim. He looked at the screen and then at Dorothy as the telephone stopped ringing.

He asked, “Is it an extension?” and Dorothy nodded. She said, “A maid will answer it downstairs,” and they both waited. The telephone didn’t ring again. After a few minutes there were light footsteps in the hall outside and a quick rap on the door.

Dorothy said, “Yes,” and went toward it. Shayne sat relaxed watching her. The door opened and a maid said:

“It was someone on the phone wanting to know if Mr. Shayne was here, Miss Dorothy. I told them I thought he was, and the man said he’d be right over and hung up.”

Dorothy said, “You needn’t have bothered me with that,’” petulantly, and turned back into the room.

Shayne eased himself erect and grinned at her. “I’ve got a hunch it’s the hounds of the Miami Beach law barking at my trail.” He lounged toward the door, adding casually, “See you at the Tally-Ho,” and went out.

With unhurried swiftness he went downstairs and out to his car, pulled away, and drove over the Venetian Causeway to the Miami side of the bay, where he had an even chance of staying out of jail. But he was beginning to wonder whether that was going to help a hell of a lot in solving the Thrip and Darnell murder cases.