The Corpse That Never Was (5 page)

He left police headquarters by a side door, glancing at his watch as he went to his parked car at the curb. Not quite eleven o’clock. The
News
was an afternoon paper and Timothy Rourke might be at his desk in the City Room.

And he hadn’t yet telephoned Deitch at home to enlist the fingerprint expert for the job that had to be done. He’d call him from Rourke’s office. And then he had to get hold of Robert Lambert’s signature from the apartment house manager…

T
he elongated reporter was slouched at his desk with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth, languidly tapping out copy with one nicotine-stained forefinger when Shayne pulled up a chair beside him. He stopped his typing and leaned back with a wide yawn.

“Just the man I want to see. I’m finishing off the Armbruster story. You got anything new from last night?”

“Is the
News
going to make it the Armbruster story? It was Mrs. Paul Nathan who died.”

“Who’s Paul Nathan to our readers? Armbruster makes it front-page. Did you know the old goat is screaming it can’t be suicide. It’s gotta be murder. Any comment on that?”

Shayne said, “Not for publication, Tim.” His gray eyes were alight with interest. “Who’s he screaming that to?”

“City Editor. Had him on the phone at eight o’clock this morning to lay down exactly how he wanted the story handled… loaded with innuendos, mostly directed at his son-in-law.”

“You handling it that way?”

Rourke snorted his disgust. “There are libel laws in this country. I’m writing it just like you gave it to me last night… unless you’ve changed your mind this morning?”

“I’ve changed it only to the extent that I can be influenced by a big fee.”

Rourke sat up straighter and shook cigarette ash down the front of his jacket. “You mean the old man’s retained you to clear the smirch from the family name?”

“Something like that. He’s hell-bent on hanging it on Paul Nathan somehow… anyhow, I guess.”

“That’s an angle,” Rourke said alertly. “Real newsworthy. Let’s see…” He cleared his throat, frowning down at the half-typed sheet in front of him. “Displeased with the apathy displayed by the local police department in the investigation of his daughter’s unseemly demise, we are confidentially informed, as we go to press, that the grieving father has retained the famous private detective, Michael Shayne, to search for evidence proving that Elsa Armbruster did
not
take her own life last night. In an exclusive interview obtained by your reporter this morning, the redheaded private eye expressed his personal conviction…”

Shayne said, “Cut it out, Tim. I haven’t got any personal convictions. Not at this point.”

“So you’re
not
convinced it’s suicide,” said Rourke triumphantly. “That’ll do for a sub-head.”

Shayne shook his head from side to side. “Nothing like that.” He hesitated, getting out a cigarette and narrowing his eyes, thinking it out as he spoke: “But it might stir something up if you’d drop in a simple statement at the end of your story to the effect that I have been retained by Armbruster to make an investigation, and that I will welcome any information about Lambert or the movements of any of the principals last evening.”

“Including Paul Nathan,” suggested Rourke briskly.

“Don’t stress it. If I get information that builds an alibi for him, I’ll be glad to have it.”

“Papa won’t like.”

“I don’t give a damn what papa likes,” said Shayne amiably. “I’m being paid to do a job. What do you know about Nathan?”

“Not much. We may have some stuff in the morgue. He made news when he married Elsa Armbruster.”

“Nothing since then? No rumors about marital rifts… infidelity on either side?”

“The
News,”
said Rourke stiffly, “does not print rumors.”

“I know. Nose around anyhow, huh, Tim? Society editor? I’d like to back-track the guy.”

“Why not get it from the horse’s mouth?”

“I will. First, I want to get a few things straight in my own mind before I tackle Nathan. Use your phone?” He stretched a long arm out for it and got a slip of paper from his pocket.

Rourke said, “Sure,” and pushed a button that gave him an outside line. Shayne dialled a number while Rourke listened curiously. A man’s voice answered the ring, and Shayne asked, “Sergeant Deitch?”

“Speaking.”

“Mike Shayne, Sergeant. I was up at that apartment last night…”

“I remember. You found them, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. I’ve just come from Will Gentry’s office, Sergeant, and he said okay if I asked you for some off-the-record help.”

“What kind of help?”

“A complete and thorough fingerprint job on the apartment for one thing. I’ve got a client who’ll pay for your expert help. Can you meet me there about twelve-thirty?”

“Wait a minute, Shayne.” Deitch’s voice was harshly defensive. “I dusted for prints last night. The Chief’s got my report. If you think I slipped on the job…”

“I don’t think you slipped at all,” Shayne said patiently. “I wouldn’t be asking you now if I didn’t know you’re the best man in Miami. You got what the lieutenant wanted last night. But I want everything… proof, if we can get it, that no one except those two were in that place last night.”

Deitch said cheerfully, “Okay. I don’t mind picking up an extra buck. Twelve-thirty?”

“See you there.” Shayne hung up with satisfaction and stood up. Timothy Rourke leaned back in his chair grinning up at him. “Mind if I join you at twelve-thirty? See how a real, honest-to-God detective works?”

Shayne said, “Come along. Bring anything you can get on Nathan, huh?” He went out through the City Room and down to his car.

The building in which Lucy Hamilton lived was a short distance from the newspaper office. Shayne parked in front where he had parked many times in the past, went into the small foyer and found a button “Manager. Gnd. Flr.” He pushed the button and in a moment the front door release clicked. He opened it and went across a bare, unoccupied lobby toward the self-service elevator which he never used when visiting Lucy in her second-floor apartment, and found a sign that said “Manager” with an arrow pointing down a narrow corridor to the left.

There was an open door at the end of the hall showing a rather plump girl wearing horn-rimmed glasses busily typing in front of a small switchboard which she could handle without moving out of her chair.

She looked up to greet him with a pleasant smile, and he asked, “Is the manager in?”

“Certainly.” She nodded her head toward a closed door on her right. “Go right in. I don’t think Mr. Barstow is particularly busy.”

Shayne thanked her and opened the door she had indicated. It was a large, pleasant office with sunlight streaming in a wide window, and with a bald-headed, chubby-faced man leaning back in a swivel chair behind the clean desk and caught square in the middle of a wide yawn by Shayne’s unannounced entrance.

He cut off the yawn in mid-stride, wriggled himself erect in the chair and put on an eager smile. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m a detective, Mr. Barstow… is it?” Shayne sat in front of the desk and lit a cigarette.

“A detective? I see. In regard to that most unfortunate affair upstairs last night, no doubt.” Barstow frowned portentously and rubbed his pink, bald scalp with a pink palm. “A terrible thing.
Most
unfortunate. I talked to a lieutenant last night, you know. I’m afraid I wasn’t very much help because, you see, I scarcely knew the tenant. Lambert? Yes. A self-effacing sort, I remember thinking at the time he rented the apartment. Quiet and conservatively dressed. The type of renter one
hopes
to get for a bachelor apartment. With a man like that one doesn’t expect difficulties, you see. The sort of thing… ah… exactly the sort of thing that
did
occur last night. I consider myself a fair judge of human nature, and I simply never would have
dreamed
that Lambert was the sort to have an affair with a married woman.”

“You never can tell by appearances,” Shayne agreed sympathetically. “Speaking of appearances, Mr. Barstow, what do you recall about the man? I know you described him last night, but I thought perhaps you’d given the matter further thought and could add something to your description this morning.”

“Indeed I have given it further thought. Yes, indeed. My gracious, it’s the first time anything like this has ever occurred in a building under my management. On the other hand, I’m afraid there’s not much I can add to the description I gave your lieutenant last night. Just sort of
medium.”
He spread out both his plump palms in exasperation. “I did remember noticing that he signed the rental agreement with his left hand. The lieutenant said that might be very important.”

“And it probably is,” Shayne told him. “You see, our handwriting expert says the suicide notes were written by a left-handed man. He had a dark mustache, I believe, and wore tinted glasses.”

“Lightly tinted. Blue. So light the color was scarcely noticeable.”

“And he just dropped in cold, looking for an apartment? No one referred him to you?”

“In answer to an advertisement. He was very easily pleased and appeared satisfied with the price, remarking that he would not be occupying the apartment a great deal and would require no maid service. I do recall that he particularly required a telephone and was delighted that our transient apartments have telephones served by a switchboard.”

Shayne nodded thoughtfully. This was the first time he had known the building had its own telephones. Lucy, of course, had her own private line, but that was on a year’s lease…

He said, “I understand he gave you a home address in Jacksonville?”

“Yes. I gave it to the lieutenant. He explained that his home office was there, but that he was trying to build up this territory and would be in Miami possibly two or three days each week.”

“The Jacksonville address was a phony,” Shayne told him. “Non-existent.”

“Dear me. Then do you suppose…?”

“Right now,” said Shayne evenly, “it looks as though he used your building simply as a trysting place. We don’t even know if Lambert was his name. You didn’t ask for references, I suppose?”

“N-no. Not in the case of a month-to-month rental. He paid the first month in advance, you see.”

“In cash, I understand?” Shayne made his voice hard and raised ragged, red eyebrows in disapproval. “Didn’t you think that was quite unusual? Don’t most tenants pay by check?”

“They do, of course,” the manager agreed stiffly. “On the other hand, he said something about not wanting to ask me to take an out-of-town check since he desired immediate occupancy.”

“That was less than a month ago?”

“Three weeks ago yesterday. I checked the date this morning. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, but I must reiterate that I saw the man only that one time. He had his own key to the front door and we have a self-service elevator. We try not to intrude on our tenants’ privacy so long as they give us no reason for doing so.”

“This company he worked for? He said he was a salesman?”

“Yes. That is, I believe it was definitely implied. He mentioned his territory being enlarged recently to include Miami.”

“Did he mention the name of the company? What sort of product he handled?”

“I don’t… believe… I, I’m just not sure. It may have been mentioned casually, but I simply don’t recollect.”

“Could it have been something to do with photography? Photographic supplies?”

Barstow blinked rapidly and then pressed fingertips to his eyes in an attitude of deep thought. His face brightened when he removed them. “I do believe that was it. I do, indeed. Is that important?”

“It may be. Now, I understand he signed some sort of rental agreement? I’d like to take that with me, Mr. Barstow.”

“It’s a very simple form. Miss Mayhew will get it for you. Ah… I understand the police put a padlock on the door after it was broken in last night. Do you know when they will be through… when his possessions will be removed? I understand it will require a thorough cleaning before it will be available for rental again.”

“It will require that,” Shayne agreed somberly. “A couple of days, I imagine. I’m going up now to make another check. I’m expecting a couple of men from headquarters in about half an hour. Will you see they are let in the front?”

“Certainly.” Barstow got to his feet as Shayne did, and came around the desk. “I’ll speak to Miss Mayhew.”

Shayne stood aside and followed him out of the office where he spoke to the typist and she twisted around in her chair to pull out a drawer of a filing cabinet and find a cardboard folder which she opened and laid before him. It contained only a single page of fine print, headed RENTAL AGREEMENT at the top and signed at the bottom, “Robert Lambert,” in what appeared to Shayne to be the same handwriting as the suicide notes in his pocket.

He took it from the folder and folded it up with the other papers Gentry had given him, and told Barstow, “You can have this back after we’ve compared signatures.”

“No hurry at all. I’m sorry I haven’t been of more assistance.”

Shayne smiled and shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve done your best. I assume you’ve discussed Lambert with Miss Mayhew and she has nothing to add to your description?”

She said, “I was at home ill the day he rented the apartment. So far as I know I didn’t even see him at all.”

Shayne was about to turn away when he had a sudden thought. He turned back and asked, “The telephone. Are tenants charged for their calls?”

Mr. Barstow and Miss Mayhew nodded in unison. Barstow said, “They are billed at the end of each month.”

“Then you keep track of each apartment,” Shayne said to the girl.

“On the outgoing calls, yes. It’s twenty cents for each call. I simply make a notation on each card.”

“And don’t keep a record of the numbers,” Shayne guessed.

“Not on local calls. On long distance, of course.” She turned to her desk and a circular index file. She flipped it expertly to the letter L, and Shayne leaned over her shoulder to look at the card headed, LAMBERT, Robert.

The first date on the card was that same Friday, three weeks before, on which Lambert had rented the apartment. He had made a call to Miami Beach at 9:20 p.m. and the number was written down. Beneath that in a lightly penciled scrawl was jotted down a local telephone number.

Shayne put his finger beneath it, saying, “I thought you didn’t list local numbers.”

“We don’t normally. That number was probably busy, and Nina wrote it down and told the party she would keep trying.”