The Corpse Came Calling (9 page)

Shayne said, “For God’s sakes, listen to me,” but neither Morgan nor the girl noticed him.

Morgan said gutturally, “So—it wasn’t no gag.” He took a step toward Helen. His gun was lax in his hand, muzzle pointed toward the floor.

Helen’s body became rigid. Her right hand swept up and flame spouted from it. The explosion of a small cartridge was loud in the room.

The tiny bullet struck Mace Morgan in his open mouth. He swayed under the impact, ineffectually tried to close his mouth while a look of dismay swept over his face.

Helen fired again as Shayne leaped forward. A red spot appeared in Mace Morgan’s forehead. He went down limply and blood oozed from the red spot.

Helen pulled the trigger a third time as Shayne reached her. The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder.

Shayne grabbed the short barrel of the gun and wrested it from her fingers. Her eyes were distended like those of a sleepwalker. Her body remained rigidly erect.

Shayne dropped the revolver on the floor and gave her a shove into the bedroom. He turned and looked down at Morgan. The escaped convict lay on the floor, very still. There was that look of dismay, of reproach, congealed in his open eyes.

Helen ran from the bedroom and flung herself upon Shayne, clinging to him. He fended her off as she sobbed convulsively, “I had to. Oh, my God, he’s dead, isn’t he? I had to do it. He would have killed us both.”

Shayne grabbed the girl’s shoulders and shook her violently, then let go with one hand and slapped her. She jerked back, her eyes screwed up, peering at him like a frightened animal.

Through set teeth, Shayne pounded at her, “There’s no time for talk. The cops will be here any minute. We can’t get rid of him.”

“I don’t care. Let the cops come. I had to do it. I’ll plead self-defense. They can see he was armed. You saw him coming at me with his gun. You can swear he would have killed us both.”

“That’s fine. That’s wonderful. Self-defense. Sure.” Shayne laughed bitterly. “Headlines!
Wife Kills Enraged Husband Who Breaks Up Love Tryst.
You in a nightgown! God in heaven, why didn’t you stay in there and keep your mouth shut?”

“I recognized Mace’s voice. I knew he must have trailed me here. I was trying to save you.” Helen’s voice was humble. She pressed against Shayne again, shivering. “Don’t you worry. I’ll tell the cops—”

“You’ll tell them nothing,” he raged. “The truth would be the worst damn thing that could happen. You’ve got to hide—and stay hidden.” He shoved her into the bedroom again and toward the clothes closet near the door. “Get inside and close the door.”

“There’s no need for you to take the blame,” she cried wildly. “I’m willing to—”

A knock sounded on the living-room door.

“Shut up,” Shayne whispered fiercely, and shoved her inside among the hanging garments. He closed the closet door quietly, then went out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

There was a heavier, more impatient knock from outside. He stooped and picked up the .22 revolver by the trigger guard, let it dangle carelessly from his forefinger as he went to the door.

He opened it and stepped aside to admit Will Gentry and Pearson. Will Gentry stopped after four steps, looked down at Mace Morgan’s body, then turned to Shayne, and said:

“Well, I see you got rid of your visitor, Mike.”

Shayne chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeh. You’re just in time to take charge of the body for me, Will.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PEARSON NODDED TO SHAYNE when Gentry said he thought they had met before, then stood quietly with arms folded and let Gentry take the lead. Pearson’s air of unruffled competence remained despite the ugly swelling on his jaw where Shayne’s fist had connected. A thoughtfully furrowed forehead was Pearson’s only outward reaction to the presence of the dead man.

“Isn’t this pushing your luck a little bit?” Gentry queried in a deceptively mild tone.

Before Shayne could answer Gentry’s thrust, a rush of footsteps came from down the hall. The redhead swung on his heel and glowered uninvitingly as Tim Rourke hurried through the open door. Lean and swivel-hipped, a reporter for the Miami
News
and an old friend of Shayne’s, Rourke had profited by many scoops in the past by following the detective’s cases.

Rourke grinned, unabashed by Shayne’s manifest displeasure at his presence. He said, “I figured it was a hot tip when they told me down at the station—” He broke off as his gaze strayed past Gentry and Pearson to the corpse.

“Looks like another birdie. What’s par for this course, Mike? And with a little toy pistol, at that.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. Helen’s small weapon still hung carelessly by the trigger guard from his forefinger.

Gentry thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and, chewing solemnly on a fat cigar, strolled forward to survey the dead man. He shook his head and said, “I hope you’re not going to feed us another story about this one just wandering in and dropping dead, too, Mike.”

Shayne’s upper lip twitched. He said, “You’ll get the truth—as you always have, Will. Here’s the gun that killed him. You should have heard the shots while you were coming up. He came in asking for it,” he went on explosively. “I tried to stall him until you got here, but you can see by that gun in his hand that it was self-defense.”

Will Gentry sighed and stepped back from the body. He held out his hand and took the small revolver from Shayne by its two-inch barrel. He frowned at it. “A twenty-two, Mike. Where did you get this relic? They haven’t manufactured these since the Civil War.”

Shayne said, “I picked it up somewhere for Phyl. In my business you never can tell when she’ll need one. You know I never carry a rod. But it was lucky that thing was around here when he started throwing his weight around.”

From long habit as a homicide man, Gentry got out a handkerchief and folded the obsolete weapon in it so the fingerprints would not be spoiled. Shayne laughed shortly and protested, “You’ve got me cold, Will. I’m not going to deny I blasted him.”

Gentry shrugged and slid the gun in his pocket. “Two in one day is more than even your rep will stand, Mike. You’d better start coming clean.”

“What do you mean—two in one day?” Shayne demanded hotly. “You know damn well Lacy was a dead man when he reached my office.”

“But it looked bad,” Gentry complained. “Hell, we’ll have to set up a private shuttle system between your place and the morgue if this keeps up.” He sank into a chair and added, “Pour me a drink.”

Shayne went to the cabinet. With his hand on a glass he turned inquiringly to Rourke and Pearson. “Either of you join us?”

Pearson shook his head. There was a speculative light in his calm gray eyes, as though his thoughts were remote, totally withdrawn from the actual scene before him. He had not moved or spoken since entering the apartment.

Rourke nodded fervently and said, “Lord, yes. I can do with a stimulant, Mike.”

Shayne poured two drinks and handed them to Gentry and the reporter. He faced Pearson and hesitated, then said, “I suppose I should be sorry for what happened over in Lacy’s hotel room. If you’d told me who you were first—”

Pearson inclined his head soberly. “I quite understand that you’re the impulsive type, Shayne. That’s behind us now. No real harm done,” he ended genially.

In a wondering tone, Shayne said, “Hell, you’re not a bad guy after all.” He sat down near Gentry and asked, “Are we going to turn this into a wake?”

Gentry rumbled, “You’d better give out on this killing before we start anything else. I’ve got to decide what the charges are to be.”

Shayne snorted. “Charges? When a fugitive from the pen breaks into a man’s home and flashes a gat, hasn’t the householder a perfect right to protect himself?”

“A fugitive?” Gentry raised grizzled brows.

Shayne gestured toward the dead man. “His name is Mace Morgan. Recently escaped from the New York pen. I don’t know any more about it than you do,” he went on angrily. “He pushed in here and raved about me turning over something he seemed to think I’d got from Jim Lacy this afternoon. When I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, he pulled that gun and threatened me. Well,” Shayne shrugged wide shoulders, covertly watching Pearson, “there he lies.”

Gentry’s heavy features became less morose. “An escaped con? Why didn’t you say so? I guess that puts you in the clear this time.”

Pearson turned his head. He spoke in a voice that was pleasant but held a ring of authority. “I’m glad to verify Mr. Shayne’s statement. The man is Mace Morgan. I rather expected him to turn up in Miami after we traced Lacy here.” He sauntered forward as he spoke and knelt beside the dead convict.

He unbuttoned Morgan’s coat and began methodically going through his pockets and clothing. The other three men watched him silently, with Shayne and Gentry evidencing professional approval for the thorough manner in which he made the search.

Pearson rolled the dead man over with no more show of feeling than he would have rolled a straw dummy, tested the lining of his coat, painstakingly covered every inch of the body, the inner waistband of his trousers, and finally removed the corpse’s shoes, examined the inner lining and the soles. He rocked back on his heels when he finished and turned his head to frown at Shayne. In a deeply worried voice he asked, “Did you take anything off him before we got here?”

Shayne set his glass down with a thump. He growled, “I’m tired of being accused of corpse robbing. First Jim Lacy and now Morgan. What’s missing?”

Pearson stood up and carefully dusted off his knees. In his precise, unruffled voice, he said, “I think I’ll ask you for that drink now.”

Shayne got another glass of cognac and handed it to Pearson. Pearson thanked him, sniffed the bouquet approvingly, and tasted it with a further nod of approval. He remained standing before the three seated men, and there was a hint of accustomed authority in his voice when he spoke directly to Will Gentry.

“I haven’t been introduced to this man yet.” He nodded toward Timothy Rourke.

“Tim Rourke,” Gentry said, “reporter for the Miami
News.
Mr. Pearson of the FBI, Tim. And Tim’s a right guy. Go ahead with what you’ve got to say.”

“It must be understood that my name cannot be mentioned in the press,” Pearson said. “You realize, Mr. Rourke, that our work requires the utmost secrecy. So I must ask you to leave us.”

Rourke scowled and hunched his shoulders forward. “If you chase me out of here now I’ll make up a story to fit the few facts I’ve picked up. Remember that beautiful word ‘alleged,’ Mr. Pearson? I guarantee my story’ll be a honey.”

Pearson’s deceptively mild features tightened. “I’ll have to demand your promise that you’ll print nothing—not a single word—about any of this.”

Rourke’s scowl deepened. “You can demand and be damned. We’ve still got a free press in this country.” He got up and started for the door.

Gentry restrained him. He warned Pearson as Rourke stopped, “You won’t get very far trying to push Rourke around.”

Pearson’s lips were compressed in a thin line. He said, “Your point about the free press is excellently made. But let me point out that one of the reasons it has remained free is because our newspapers have gladly co-operated with the government by accepting voluntary censorship over news that might be of value to the enemy.”

Rourke turned back to his chair. “Co-operation—now that’s a word I like. Hell, I’ll play ball if you quit treating me like a child who can’t be trusted with a secret.”

Pearson glanced inquiringly at Will Gentry. The detective chief nodded. “I’ve known Rourke a long time. He’s never printed anything I asked him to hold back.”

“Very well,” Pearson said. “I’m perfectly willing to accept your judgment.” He sat down and took a long, slim cigar from his breast pocket while Rourke resumed his seat. “It’s a rather long and complicated story,” he began, “with many points on which my information is somewhat sketchy.”

When he paused to light his cigar, Gentry got up and went toward the bedroom. “The phone is in here, isn’t it?”

Shayne nodded. His features tightened and his eyes were worried while Gentry opened the door. He relaxed when the bedroom lights came on and nothing happened. He got up and walked to the bedroom door. The door of the clothes closet stood open about an inch. Evidently Helen had decided to obey him and stay out of sight this time.

Gentry dialed a number and ordered the coroner and an ambulance around to pick up Morgan’s body. Shayne waited at the door, and when Gentry came out, leaving the door open, Shayne did not close it. Returning to their chairs, Gentry said, “I never feel good with bodies lying around.” He sat down and Pearson began talking in his quiet voice which made his words more impressive than if he had delivered an oration.

“Our country is at war, gentlemen, and as you know, the Federal Bureau of Investigation is devoting most of its time and personnel to the task of combating the activities of spies and foreign agents in our midst. It is a tremendous job, and one which we have, thus far, carried out with a great deal of success.”

He paused to frown at the glowing tip of his slim cigar. “I’m giving you this preamble to impress upon you the tremendous gravity of the present situation involving Jim Lacy and Mace Morgan. Lack of success on my part may prove more costly to our country than the loss of an entire battle, of a great military campaign.”

Pearson paused again to let his words have their full effect. Shayne lifted the cognac bottle and looked inquiringly at the others. Gentry and Rourke shook their heads. Pearson’s eyes were half closed, apparently in deep thought, and he did not notice the gestures of the others. Shayne set the bottle back.

Pearson went on. “A few months ago the plans of a new and secret military weapon were stolen from a government research plant in New Jersey. I cannot tell you what the weapon was. In fact, I know only this much—it was an epochal discovery. Something, I am told, that will revolutionize all the basic precepts of defensive naval action against enemy submarines.

“By dint of perseverance and painstaking investigation, it was eventually established that the actual theft had been accomplished by two men, a New York private detective named Jim Lacy and a petty gangster named Mace Morgan. Both of these men are American citizens. Both are traitors to their country. Actuated by the basest motive known to man—a willingness to betray their homeland for a few filthy pieces of silver.”