The Uncomplaining Corpses (19 page)

“Hell, no.
I wouldn’t give it to you if I had it.”

“I’m going to see if you’ve got it before I go out of this room,” Gentry told him patiently. He took a step forward and the detective’s fists knotted up at the end of his long arms. He said softly:

“I’d hate like hell to hit an old man, but don’t come any closer, Will.”

Gentry stopped three feet from him. He hesitated,
then
turned to the door with a shrug.
“All right.
You’re bringing this on yourself.” He opened the door and spoke curtly to the men in the corridor: “Come in, sergeant. And you, Casey and
Rathbone
.”

A sergeant and two heavy-bodied patrolmen trooped into the hotel room and stolidly waited for further orders. Michael Shayne stood back against the wall with his weight resting lightly on the balls of his feet. He warned, “Somebody’s going to get hurt, Gentry.”

“That,” said Gentry, “is up to you.” To the waiting sergeant he growled, “Get your saps out and take him. He never carries a gun, but don’t let him get a swing or you’ll think dynamite’s hit you.”

The trio started to close in with blackjacks swinging ready. Shayne glared over their heads and directed one last appeal to his old friend in a strained voice: “Don’t do it, Will. You’re going to regret it. I’m telling you for the last time—”

He ducked a blackjack swinging toward his head in a violent arc and lunged forward with his fists going like pistons.
Rathbone
was driven back five feet by one blow, but the sergeant coolly sidestepped and sapped the raging redhead behind the right ear,

Shayne grunted and his flailing fists lost their power. Casey grappled with him and the sergeant got a cuff on his left wrist, deftly jerked that behind Shayne’s back, and snapped the other cuff on his right wrist.

“That’ll do,” Gentry told his men.
“Go on outside and wait for us.”

He threw his cigar savagely against the wall as they went out. “I hate this, Mike, but I’m going to search you. If that note isn’t on you I’m going to tear this room to little pieces looking for it.”

Shayne muttered, “Okay, Will,” with his hands pinioned behind him. He moved sideways on rubbery legs and slid down into a chair. “It’s in my inside coat pocket, and damn your soul for not letting me play this my own way.”

His chin dropped onto his chest while Gentry’s thick fingers rummaged inside his coat and pulled out the forged note. Peter Painter jumped up from his chair and came forward eagerly to read it over Gentry’s shoulder.

There was heavy silence while both men read the pasted strips of typewritten words that cleared Buell
Renslow
and left Carl Meldrum self-convicted of murdering Mrs.
Leora
Thrip
.

Will Gentry blew out his breath and stammered, “B-but—what the sweet hell, Mike—
This—
Why, this isn’t—it’s not what I thought—”

“You wouldn’t trust me to know what I was doing,” Shayne ground out bitterly. “No. You had to see the thing for yourself.
All right.
There it is. Are you satisfied? What does that do to your case against
Renslow
for killing Meldrum?”

“It—shoots it all to hell, Mike,” Gentry rumbled. “According to this, the last person in the world to kill Meldrum would be
Renslow
. If Meldrum did leave a letter accusing
Renslow
of hiring him to murder Mrs.
Thrip
, it’ll look damn bad for the ex-convict.”

“Where does that leave Phyllis?” Shayne grated. “This seems to prove that
Renslow
got there too late to prevent murder. It’ll make his story stand up—” Shayne’s voice broke. His chin sagged forward and he breathed with heavy, rasping irregularity.

“It’s—why, this completely upsets our case against Joe Darnell,” Painter exclaimed in a stricken voice. “Yet—you weren’t going to make it public even to clear yourself.”

“Don’t be a complete ass,” Gentry advised Painter acidly. “He wasn’t holding it out to make it easy on you. Hell! This practically cinches the case against his wife for bumping Meldrum. Why didn’t you give me some hint?” he muttered fiercely to Shayne.

“A hint?
All I’ve done all evening was
try
to stall you.
But no.
You wouldn’t take my word for it. You had to be smart and take it off me by force. All right
There
it is. What are you going to do with it?”

“Look,” Painter put in quickly. “Maybe we can cover this up. It’s as much to Shayne’s advantage—and you,
Will,
don’t you want to see Mrs. Shayne beat the charge? Why can’t we forget this ever happened?”

Gentry said, “No.” His brow was furrowed and his heavy jaw was set like a bulldog’s.

Shayne smiled thinly, showing his teeth. “It’s no go, Painter.
Gentry’s hell on duty.
You’re in for a nice slap in the face when this all comes out in the papers.”

“I didn’t mean actually to suppress this note as evidence,” Painter defended himself. “I thought we might keep it quiet between the three of us for a little while—twenty-four hours would be enough. That would give me time to make a statement that I wasn’t—” Painter massaged his purplish bruises in deep contemplation; his black eyes flashed as if he were thinking up something entirely original—“and I haven’t been entirely satisfied with the case as it stood. I’ll announce a reopening of investigations.” He paused, nervously wetting his upper lip. His eyes were harried and he looked yellow around the purple spots on his cheek. “Of course, I’ll rescind my telegram to the governor and explain that I acted too hastily.”

Shayne nodded soberly. “We might prevail on Will to hold off making this note public for a few hours,” Shayne agreed. “His conscience should be elastic enough to stretch that far. It would give me a chance to go over
Phyl’s
case with a lawyer—and see what kind of defense we can work up.
How about it, Will?”

Gentry sat down on the bed and slowly reread the note which he held in both hands. Without looking up, he said, “I reckon that couldn’t hurt very much. But I won’t hold
Renslow
in jail for no good reason while you fellows are fixing your fences. I’ll order his release at once, with a statement that I have evidence of his entire innocence.” He got up heavily, avoiding Shayne’s eyes.

Gentry went to the door and opened it, ordered the sergeant to take off Shayne’s cuffs, then told him to take his men away.

When the men were gone, Shayne wriggled his fingers and flexed his arm muscles, then asked, “How about letting me have Meldrum’s note?”

“I can’t do that, Mike,” Gentry said. He folded the note and put it in his pocket, hesitated, and added awkwardly, “I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

Shayne said, “You might have trusted me to know what I was doing, Will.”

“Yeah, I might. But it still wouldn’t have been right.” Gentry turned and went out the door, closing it.

Shayne expelled a long breath as the door closed. He turned to Painter and said, “You’d better be getting a statement ready for the morning
Herald.”

“Of course,” Painter said briskly. “How shall I phrase it? Will it be all right if I say I’ve been working closely with you? How would it be to intimate that my assertion concerning Darnell’s guilt was merely a smoke screen to lull the real criminal into a feeling of false security so he could be more readily trapped?”

“That ought to get you a lot of applause. Go ahead, but leave me out of it. You can have all the credit for clearing the mess up. All I ask is that you don’t even hint the identity of the real criminal—not until I give the word. I think I see a way to pick up a few dimes if things work out just right.”

Painter shook his head wonderingly. “I don’t see how you can think about money while your wife is in jail charged with murder.”

“She isn’t charged—yet,” Shayne reminded him blithely. “You never can tell when something will pop up.”

He picked up the nearly empty cognac bottle and poured the remaining liquid down his throat. Then he draped his coat over his arm, jammed his hat down on his head, and stalked out.

Chapter Nineteen:
PLAYING FOR KEEPS

SHAYNE WALKED INTO GENTRY’S OFFICE a few minutes after Buell
Renslow
had been brought in from the skyscraper jail across Flagler Street. The ex-convict looked pallid but composed as he stood by Gentry’s desk and heard the chief say he was being released. His gaze flickered to Shayne’s face when the detective entered, but he didn’t speak. Will Gentry raised his eyebrows in Shayne’s direction, but went on with what he was saying to
Renslow
:

“… and I’ve never kept a man locked up a minute after I was convinced of his innocence.” He paused to take a cigar from his mouth and spit in the direction of a brass spittoon. “You’ll be called as a witness in the
Thrip
case to identify Meldrum’s note, of course. You’re just damned lucky Shayne had sense enough to gather up the pieces at the Tally-Ho after you left. Without that note you’d be in a tough spot.”

Renslow’s
body became rigid. He darted a perplexed look behind him at the detective but remained discreetly silent.

“I’ve never believed in hounding a man because he’s made a mistake in the past,” Gentry went on. “I understand you’ve done your time and that puts you in the clear as far as I’m concerned. Don’t try to leave the city, and you’ll get a square deal from me.”

Renslow
said, “Thanks, chief.” He wet his lips and waited.

“That’s all,” Gentry told him. “You can go now.”

Turning away from the chief’s desk,
Renslow
met Shayne’s hard gaze. The detective said, “Wait out in the hall for me,” and went past him toward Gentry.

Renslow
went out and closed the door. Gentry leaned back and grunted, “I suppose you want to see Phyllis?”

“Why—no.”
Shayne groped for words. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. I—hell, Will, I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

Gentry nodded his understanding. “I phoned the matron a few minutes ago and she said Phyllis was sleeping like a baby. It would be just as well not to disturb her tonight. She’s not worried, you know. She expects you to pull a miracle out of the hat any time it’s needed.” He pursed his lips and sighed, avoiding Shayne’s eyes.

Shayne said, “
Yeh
, I know.” He hesitated over further words, then clamped his lips together tightly, turned, and walked out.

Renslow
was waiting for him in the hall. They walked silently to a side door and went out into the early morning coolness of the deserted side street.

Buell
Renslow
drew in a long, deep breath and let it out
raspingly
. He said, “It tastes good.”

They turned the corner onto Southwest First Street and he added, “The air, I mean.”

Shayne nodded.
“
Yeh
.
I figured that was what you meant.”

“It tastes different when you breathe it behind bars,”
Renslow
told him with passionate conviction. “A man can’t know what I’m talking about unless he’s spent a lot of years behind them like I have.”

“I suppose not,” Shayne agreed.

They walked on together, their heels thumping the sidewalk loudly in the morning stillness. The thin arc of the moon was paling before the coming of early dawn. A milk truck lumbered past and a scarred alley cat slunk away between two buildings as they approached. They were alone in the sleeping city except for a policeman on his beat who turned and watched them over his shoulder as far as he could see them.

A block beyond Miami Avenue
Renslow
broke the silence nervously: “I don’t get this at all. What the chief said back there in his office just didn’t make sense. If you grabbed the pieces of that note and put them together, I don’t see why they didn’t put me under their jail.”

“Gentry
hasn’t
seen the note you got from Carl Meldrum,” Shayne explained.

“Wait a minute.”
Renslow
stopped and grabbed his arm. “He talked like he knew all about it.”

“He thinks he does.” Shayne shook off
Renslow’s
arm. “We’ll go up to my place while I explain the setup to you.”

He led the way to the side entrance of his hotel, where they went down concrete steps and through a door into a square vestibule, then up two flights to his old bachelor quarters which now served him as an office.

The living-room of his apartment was in pretty much of a mess, just as the fracas with Ernst had left it. Shayne went around and methodically straightened up chairs while
Renslow
watched silently. When he was through he motioned to the wall liquor cabinet and asked, “What’ll you drink?”

Renslow
eyed the array of bottles avidly. He went over and selected a bottle of bourbon. Shayne got some cognac and glasses, a seltzer bottle for his
guest,
and the inevitable ice water for himself.

They settled themselves at the center table and both had a drink. Then they lit cigarettes and Shayne leaned back comfortably with one leg dangling off the padded arm of his chair. His face wore an inscrutable mask of hardness. He didn’t appear in any hurry to get on with the business that had brought them together.

Renslow
took a long pull on his cigarette, then leaned forward and jerked out, “I heard them talking, there at the jail and all—and they picked up the dame that killed Carl, huh?”

“They picked up the girl you saw in Mona’s apartment—after Meldrum was dead.”

“And she was—well,
hell,
some of them say she turned out to be your wife.”

Shayne said, “That’s right.” He shifted his leg an inch to a more comfortable position.

“I don’t get it,”
Renslow
exclaimed hoarsely. “Damned if I do. Just between you and me, you know how that note reads. It looks like I beat it over there and bumped Carl to keep him from blabbing on me for killing my sister. Whether I killed either one of them or not wouldn’t make any difference to the law if they saw that note. I’d burn, so help me.”