The Corpse Came Calling (11 page)

Shayne stood very still. “What’s on your mind?”

Rourke sighed. “I know Phyllis is here. Where is she? Under the bed? In the closet? You’ve got her hid out and I admit I don’t like it. Why, Mike? In the name of God,
why
were you afraid to have Pearson question her about Lacy?”

“That’s what you think?”

“What else can I think? You lied about her not being here.”

“What makes you think so?” Shayne’s voice remained dangerously even and low.

“Hell, I may not be a G-man but I’ve got eyes.” Rourke pointed to the open door leading into the bedroom. “I’ve been in and out of this apartment a lot since you and Phyllis were married. She’s one of the neatest housekeepers I’ve ever known. She’d never go out and leave the bed mussed and unmade. And I’ve never seen her clothes thrown over the back of a chair before, as many times as I’ve been around.”

“Maybe she went off in a hurry.” Shayne was wearily vicious.

“Yeh—she might. But I don’t believe she did.”

Shayne said, “That’s not much evidence to call a man a liar on.”

“All right.” Rourke made a gesture of disgust. He stood up and faced Shayne. “Here’s something else. Morgan was killed with a toy pistol. A twenty-two. That’s not your kind of a gun. It’s the kind a girl carries in her handbag.”

“Have you seen Phyl carrying one like it?”

“No. But if there was one like that around the place she’d be the one to use it—or some other dame.”

“You’re talking a lot without saying very much,” Shayne told his old friend.

“All right, think of an answer for this. Morgan had two bullets in his brain, Mike. I’ve been around with you plenty. You’re going to have to talk fast to make me believe you wasted bullet number two when number one killed the guy instantly.”

“So?”

“So it reads that you didn’t have hold of the gun at all. You’re covering up for Phyllis. There wasn’t time for her to get out of the apartment before Gentry arrived, so you told her to hide while you took the rap. Hell, Mike!” Rourke raved wildly, “I don’t blame you. The guy probably busted in while Phyl was in bed. She
had
to shoot him. I don’t doubt that at all. And you’d naturally want to keep her out of the picture. That’s all right, too. But you know me. If that’s the way it was, why not say so? I can pull the zipper on my mouth any old time.”

Shayne hesitated. He said, “You’re going to wish you had gone on and not played detective, Tim.”

Rourke shook his head stubbornly. “The only thing I don’t like is the way you lied to keep Pearson from questioning Phyl. I’d hate to go on thinking there was anything phony about that.”

Shayne’s face was bleak. He said, “I’m getting tired of being called a liar.”

He turned and strode to the closet inside the bedroom. He jerked it open and said, “You might as well come on out now, Helen,” and stepped aside to let Rourke see her emerge from her hiding-place, wearing Phyllis’s blue silk nightgown.

CHAPTER TWELVE

TIMOTHY ROURKE’S EYES bulged when he saw the girl. He took a quick backward step and opened and closed his mouth without saying anything.

Helen was evidently unaware of Shayne’s visitor. She flung herself against the detective, sobbing, “Oh, I’ve been so frightened. Is—is everything all right? Did they believe you about—about Mace?”

Shayne thrust her back against the closet door. “Put on a robe—or something,” he commanded.

“But, sweet,” she pleaded in a whimpering voice. “Why, you’re angry with me. You know I’m all yours—”

Shayne slapped her on the mouth. She cringed away from him, sobbing.

He said, “Come in the living-room when you put on a robe,” and strode away from her, slamming the bedroom door shut.

Rourke stood in the center of the room with his back to Shayne. He was pouring himself a drink. He didn’t turn his head when Shayne walked up behind him and said, “All right. Are you satisfied now?”

Rourke kept on pouring liquor in his glass. The glass ran over, but he kept on pouring.

Shayne grabbed the bottle. “Why don’t you say something?”

Rourke turned troubled eyes to his friend’s face. He shook his head with the tight-lipped explanation, “You wouldn’t want to hear anything I’ve got to say.”

“Go on, say it.” Shayne was breathing hard. “I’m a heel. A lecherous louse with naked women concealed all over the premises.”

Rourke lifted the brimming glass and held it to his lips until it was empty. He muttered, “There’s no use going into things. I’d better be going. I should have gone with Gentry and Pearson.” He took a step toward the door.

Shayne’s hand grabbed his shoulders. Between his teeth, the detective said, “No, you don’t, Tim. You can’t walk out now. You
did
stay, God damn it. Now you’re going to hear the whole story.”

He swung Rourke back, gave him a shove that sent him down into a chair. The bedroom door opened and Helen came in. She was barefooted, wearing Phyllis’s chenille robe. Dried bloodstains showed on the robe where Phyllis had drawn Shayne’s head against her after the encounter with Leroy and Joe.

Shayne stepped back and said in a tight voice, “Let me present Mrs. Mace Morgan—Timothy Rourke.”

Rourke sagged back and stared at the blond widow. He repeated, “Mrs.—Mace—Morgan,” as though savoring the words and not enjoying the taste of them at all.

Helen stood silently in front of them with eyes downcast. Her face was reddened from Shayne’s sharp slap, yet a strange aura of dignity clung to her as she stood there.

Shayne said, “Sit down.” He rumpled his hair as she lowered herself into a chair and folded her hands in her lap. He got out a cigarette and stabbed it at his mouth with his gaze fixed on Rourke.

In a hushed tone, Rourke said, “Mace Morgan’s—wife.”

“Mace Morgan’s widow,” Shayne corrected. He got the cigarette between his lips and put fire to it, his brooding gaze still upon Rourke’s face.

“But she’s—Good God, Mike! Gentry and Pearson must be combing the town for her right now. She’s—she may be the key to the whole thing.”

Shayne nodded somberly. His nostrils widened and smoke trailed from them. He grunted, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the key to a lot of unpleasant things.”

“And you let them walk out of here without telling them—” Rourke stopped and swallowed hard.

“It would have been a sweet mess if I had told them,” Shayne argued.

Rourke was just beginning to absorb the full impact of the girl’s identity, of her presence in the apartment wearing only a nightgown. His jaw sagged and his expression became uncertain. “Yeh,” he muttered. Then: “Gentle Jesus—that was
her husband.”

Shayne’s lips twitched away from his teeth. “That was her husband lying dead on the floor, Tim,” he finished for his friend. “Does that spell out any of the right words for you?”

Rourke nodded. His uncertainty was swept away by a look of revulsion.
“She
did it, Mike. I wasn’t so far wrong in my theory about you not wasting two bullets when one would have done the job.”

Shayne made a savage gesture of dismissal. “What difference does it make which one of us blasted him? Can you see my trying to explain this setup to Will Gentry? You know how he is about Phyl—how it would look to anybody. You’ve covered enough sex crimes in your time. This was, outwardly, the apex of all perfect sex crimes. Not a detail missing. Beautiful wife in another man’s bed with the outraged husband intent on avenging his honor. Hell, Tim, we’d both be locked up this minute if I let them get a gander at Helen.”

Rourke shuddered and closed his eyes. He put both hands over his face. Helen leaned forward and started to speak, but Shayne kept her silent with a warning glance. He watched Rourke warily, sensing the struggle that was going on inside of him.

After a time Rourke took his hands from his face. He was haggard, looked years older than when Shayne had opened the closet door and told Helen to come out. He wet his lips and began talking in a monotone without looking at Shayne.

“I’ve known you a long time, Mike. I’ve admired you. I’ve liked your ability to pull yourself out of tight holes. I’ve played ball with you when things looked damned black—when I had to take you on faith.” He paused, wetting his lips again.

“And you’ve never regretted it. You’ve had your headlines and they’ve been right,” Shayne reminded him.

“No. I’ve never regretted it,” Rourke admitted. “I’ve watched you play fast and loose with the law and with every outward appearance of honesty and decency, and you’ve always come out on top. But this is different, Mike. This isn’t cops-and-robbers stuff. Every minute they waste trying to find this woman may be vitally important. You took advantage of Will Gentry’s friendship, of his faith in you, to get them out of here without seeing
her
—and you tried to get rid of me, too.”

Shayne argued, “But you can see the spot I was in. If I shot Mace Morgan—an escaped convict—in self-defense—that was one thing. There won’t be any questions asked. But you know what would have happened if they had found her here. That changed everything. I’d never beat that rap, Tim.”

“Maybe not,” Rourke agreed huskily. He took a long drink of cognac and went on. “But this is war. You’re one man, Mike. Do you think your personal problem is important when weighed against the lives of a nation? From the way Pearson told it, that’s how important those secret plans are to our country. Remember the troopship that was torpedoed last week? Twelve hundred men lost. Those plans may be the remedy to stop submarines. This thing is bigger than you or me, Mike. It’s bigger than any one man.” Rourke took another drink and continued his impassioned plea. “You can’t block it, Mike. You can’t hold out information that might help Pearson recover the plans so vital for our defense.”

“Isn’t it about time to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner’?” Shayne asked wearily. “Phyl saved the words out of the paper last Sunday.”

Rourke’s lean features hardened. “I know you’ve always pretended to laugh at such things, Mike. Patriotism, decency, honor. But I’ve always thought that was just a hard-boiled pose. I’ve always believed that, deep inside, you were decent and honorable.”

“Now we should have a flag to wave,” Shayne said ironically.

“Now, by God, I’m beginning to wonder if it
was
all a pose,” Rourke continued shakily. “It’s an ugly feeling, Mike. A nasty, crawling sensation inside of me that I’m ashamed to talk about. But—there it is.” Rourke finished off his drink and made a gesture of disgusted dismissal.

Shayne’s gaunt and swollen features twitched. He dropped into a chair. “You’re taking a lot for granted, Tim, and you’re half drunk.”

“What?” Rourke lifted himself from his chair by pushing on the arms, then settled back.

“The importance of the stolen plans,” Shayne said. “All we have, actually, is Pearson’s unsupported word. Isn’t it possible that he’s exaggerating the whole thing—subconsciously perhaps—just to make
himself
appear important?”

“You’ve always sneered at the FBI. A lot of people have. Called them rah-rah boys. But it’s an unfair prejudice. Personally, I was impressed by Pearson.”

Shayne nodded. “All right. Granting the importance of the stolen plans—how do you know this woman is important to the investigation? You’re taking it for granted that she was working with Morgan—had his piece of the claim check in her possession. I admit I don’t know. But we can find out.”

He swung to his feet and brushed past Helen into the bedroom. She turned her head to watch him. Both men had been acting as if she were not there, had treated her as though she were an inanimate object to be discussed with strict impersonality.

Shayne came back carrying the clothes she had taken off. He dumped them on the floor in front of the reporter. “Go through her stuff yourself. If the thing is there I won’t lift a finger to stop you from telephoning Gentry.”

Rourke shook out the dress and underthings. He examined her slippers as he had seen Pearson examine Morgan’s shoes, then tossed them all down with an oath. “All right. It isn’t here.”

Shayne said, “There you are.” He nudged the pile of clothing toward Helen with his toe. “Go into the bedroom and get dressed.” He turned back to Rourke as the girl started to speak. She compressed her lips and gathered up her clothes, went into the bedroom, and closed the door.

“Does that save me from being branded a traitor?” Shayne asked. He reached for the bottle and held it over Rourke’s glass.

“You haven’t proved anything,” Rourke argued. “She probably knows where it’s hidden. At least she could take the police to Morgan’s hide-out.”

“All right.” Shayne nodded affably. “As soon as she gets dressed we’ll take her down to headquarters and let Gentry and Pearson go to work on her. I’m not trying to throw a monkey wrench into the works,” he went on earnestly. “All in God’s world I wanted was to get that girl dressed and out of this apartment before I had a murder rap hung around my neck.”

Rourke mumbled, “Maybe I was too quick on the trigger. But it burned me up to think you’d hold out a clue on the sort of thing Pearson is trying to run down.” He hesitated, then asked awkwardly, “What’s the real dope on your tie-up with it? What was Morgan’s wife doing here—in a nightgown?”

Shayne grimaced. “That was her idea. She was trying to talk me into doing something I didn’t like, and she had an idea she could be a lot more persuasive in bed.”

“What was she after, Mike?”

The bedroom door opened behind Shayne. He pretended not to notice Helen’s entrance. “She wanted me to get rid of her husband for her.”

Rourke choked over his drink. He rounded his eyes at Helen. “I don’t get it,” he ejaculated.

“That was before I’d heard Pearson’s story on the FBI angle,” Shayne explained. “She was here when Gentry phoned and I told her to get into the bedroom and stay out of sight.” He continued to ignore Helen, went on as though he didn’t know she was listening.

“When she undressed and got in bed I thought maybe it was a simple symptom of nymphomania. Now, I don’t know. The way Morgan turned up on the dot and caught her looks as though she might have planned it that way. It certainly worked if she did plan it. Morgan’s dead—and I’m officially marked down as his killer. She’s rid of her husband—and in the clear.”