The Uncomplaining Corpses (6 page)

Chapter Seven:
MARKED WITH MURDER

THE AROMA OF HOT COFFEE came from the kitchen and Phyllis hurried out to meet him with outstretched arms and a smile courageously fixed on her lips. She didn’t say anything and neither did Shayne while she clung to him. Over the top of her head he saw a
Herald
crumpled up in one corner where she had evidently thrown it.

A smell of burning accompanied by thin smoke poured from the kitchen. Phyllis let go of him with a little gasp. He watched her with somber eyes until she disappeared through the door, then he stalked to the liquor cabinet and poured a four-ounce drink. He was washing it down with a glass of sherry when he went into the kitchen.

Phyllis had a fresh linen cloth on the table in the breakfast nook. Sunshine streamed through the windows onto a platter of scrambled eggs. She was anxiously bending over an electric waffle iron when he passed her to sit down.

“Damn this thing,” she raged, “it’s overheating again. It’s all stuck on both sides.” Her voice was throaty with a suggestion of tears.

Shayne patted her shoulder and slid onto the built-in seat. He said, “Chuck it out the window and I’ll buy you a new one.”

She scraped out the remnants of a burned waffle and spread fresh batter on the grill. Shayne finished his sherry while she poured him a mug of coffee and silently set it before him.

He sat with elbows hunched on the table, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Phyllis fussed with the waffle iron and the silence between them, continued until the pressure of unsaid things became more than Phyllis could endure. She said:

“A Mr. Gaston called just before you came in. He said you needn’t bother to keep your appointment with him today.”

Shayne said, “U-m-m.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the stream of sunshine.

With a little gasp of triumph Phyllis slid a crisp brown waffle on a plate in front of Michael. “He was—
Isn’t
he the man who had that important assignment he wanted you to take?”

“U-m-m.”
He spread butter on the hot waffle and watched it melt with outward symptoms of pleasure. He said, “I’ve had breakfast, angel, but I can’t resist this waffle. It’s perfect.” He dished fluffy scrambled eggs onto his plate. “It’s damned swell being married to you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. She turned to the sink and wiped viciously at the wetness with a tea towel. A second waffle was ruined when she got back to look at the iron. She swore at it under her breath and unplugged the iron. Long black lashes trembled down over her eyes.

Shayne laughed suddenly, and it was real laughter. He set his plate over for her, caught her and pulled her down on the bench opposite him.

“How can you laugh, Michael? Do you know what they’re saying about you in the morning paper?”

“I imagine I’m thoroughly drawn and quartered, tossed to the wolves, as it were. Does it make any difference to you,
Phyl
?”

“Mike! You know it doesn’t!” She spilled coffee on the white cloth.

“You’re not ashamed of a husband who is a murderer to all intents and purposes?”

“Don’t, Michael.” Tears glistened in her wide dark eyes but she met his gaze frankly. “I called up the
Herald
and told them what I thought about their nasty, lying insinuations.”

Shayne chuckled,
then
soberly reminded her, “There’s always that log cabin waiting for us in Colorado if I get run out of town.”

“You won’t,” she cried intensely. “You’ll stay right here and clear yourself.”

“It looks bad for the shock troops. I did send Joe Darnell out there, you know.”

“Then he didn’t do what you told him to do—not if he killed Mrs.
Thrip
.”

“What makes you so positive?”

“Because I know you.
You’re not—Oh, Michael!
you
don’t think he assaulted Mrs.
Thrip
, do you?”

“Of course not, angel.
I know that Darnell didn’t for the same reason you know that I wouldn’t have sent a killer out there.” He paused to empty his coffee mug,
then
told her about Joe and Dora while she refilled it.

“Joe was on the level,” he went on with a grimace. “He played outside the law but I would trust him further than many men who hide behind legal technicalities instead of using a gun to take what they want. Any man who honestly plans to marry a girl like Dora doesn’t go out and deliberately attack a middle-aged woman.”

“I knew it.” Gladness radiated from Phyllis. “Now all you have to do is prove how wrong they are about Joe.”

“That’s all,” Shayne agreed grimly. “The worst hurdle is explaining why Joe was in the room masked at that ungodly hour of the morning.”

“I wondered about that.”

“I know why he was there,” Shayne told her. “But only one other man knows and I can’t expect Arnold
Thrip
to back up my story by admitting he was planning an insurance fraud.”

When Phyllis wrinkled her smooth brow in perplexity Shayne told her about his interview with the realtor the previous afternoon.

“He no doubt plans to use those threatening notes as his sole reason for asking me to assign a man to his house,” Shayne concluded. “Even his wife thought that’s what it was all about. He probably first got the idea from her insistence that she turn it over to a private detective. Now things have gone wrong and he has a perfect out.”

“Do you think
he
killed Joe?”

“I have no doubt of it,
In
perfect sincerity, probably. I’m willing to accept his story as the truth until it’s proved otherwise, but I question the conclusion he drew when he turned on the light and saw his wife strangled and Joe near her bed.”

“You think someone else killed her?”

“That’s the way it has to be. I know why Joe climbed in a window and sneaked up there masked. He must have heard something that made him suspicious—something that drew him into the bedroom—we’ll never know what. A dying
moan
, maybe, a convulsive movement of stiffening muscles. At any rate, Joe must have made the fatal mistake of stepping aside to investigate—which drew a bullet from the husband who sees his wife lying in bed murdered.”

“It’s horrible.” Phyllis shuddered. “With everybody thinking Joe did it they won’t look any further. And if Mr.
Thrip
doesn’t tell why Joe was upstairs no one will ever believe he didn’t break in expressly to attack poor Mrs.
Thrip
.”

“We might as well take it for granted that
Thrip
isn’t going to tell the truth. When his plan miscarried he even took the precaution of ditching the jewel box and the incriminating thousand-dollar bill inside of it. For which we can’t blame him,” he went on calmly. “Why should he admit the truth? He won’t have to pull the fake theft now. Coming into his wife’s fortune will put him beyond such a necessity in the future. His two youngsters can stop hating their stepmother and start spending her money.”

“What about Carl Meldrum?” Phyllis asked sharply. “Where was he last night?”

“Dorothy
Thrip
says he left nearly a half-hour before the murder took place.”

“Which murder?” Phyllis asked sharply. “If your version is right, Mrs.
Thrip
might have been killed any time before the moment that Mr.
Thrip
caught Joe Darnell in her bedroom and shot him.”

“Good for you, angel.
That’s putting your finger on what the newspapers would call the crux of the affair. With the present setup no one has bothered to check the times of death closely. Painter and his crew are assuming that they died practically simultaneously and that assumption suits Peter Painter right down to his little number seven boots. He’s got a ready-made victim unable to tell his own story—and it has the added virtue of putting me on the spot. I can’t expect any official help in proving that her death occurred before Joe’s.”

“But can’t you prove at least that Joe wasn’t working for you when it happened? That you just tipped him off about the money in the jewel box?” She paused reflectively, then added, “And there’s Dora—I feel terribly sorry for her—maybe her testimony about them needing the money so badly to get married—and the baby and all.”

“We’d better leave Dora out of it. She’d probably ball everything up if a lawyer got hold of her. I can tell my story,” he explained patiently, “but I haven’t an iota of proof to back it up.” His mouth tightened grimly; his eyes were sober. “Unless I can make
Thrip
admit his reason for calling me in yesterday,” he ended harshly.

He stood up, shaking his head while his wife scanned his face anxiously.

“You didn’t mean that about running away, did you, Michael? You’ll stay here and clear it up, won’t you? You always
have.”

Shayne grinned down at her. “I meant it for your sake, angel, I didn’t know how you were going to take it. If I can’t clear Joe it’s going to be all up with me as a private detective. I’ll have my license revoked and I’ll be on the black list of every state in the Union.”

“Then you’ll have to clear Joe.” Mrs. Michael Shayne summed the thing up simply and firmly.

“With every card in the deck stacked against me,” Shayne muttered. He turned into the living-room and Phyllis followed him, saying excitedly:

“I’d check up on Carl Meldrum, If Joe didn’t do it, he
must
have. Mrs.
Thrip
admitted she was afraid of him. He probably got mad because she didn’t pay off on his notes and killed her in a fit of rage. She said he had terrible rages at times, and he was there last night at about the right time.”

Shayne stopped near the door, rubbing his lean jaw with its red bristle of beard. He didn’t mention his visit to Meldrum at his hotel
nor
the special delivery from Mona. He said, “That isn’t much of a motive for murder. As long as she was alive he had reason to believe he might be able to blackmail her. With her dead, that opportunity is gone.”

“But he’s got his clutches on Dorothy,” Phyllis reminded him. “She’ll come into money. Maybe he thought it would be easier to squeeze it from her than from her stepmother.”

Shayne said, “Maybe.” He reached a long arm out for his hat and turned to kiss Phyllis good-by. She clung to him, then stepped back and gave him a little shove toward the door. “I’ll be betting on you, Detective Shayne, and I might even be able to help some.”

Shayne was on the point of explaining just how much she had already helped when there was a light rap on the door. He put Phyllis aside and opened the door. He frowned when he saw Dora standing in the hall. Her eyes were enormous beneath the floppy brim of her hat, bloodshot and distended. She didn’t have any powder on her face and her cheeks had a scrubbed look. She wore a sleazy black dress that bulged in front, silk stockings with runs in them, and scuffed red slippers.

She stared at Shayne as though she didn’t recognize him, stared past him at Phyllis.

Shayne put a big hand on her elbow and drew her inside. Her fingers were clenched tightly in front of her on the clasp of a shabby patent leather bag.

Shayne said, “This is Mrs. Darnell, darling.”

Phyllis exclaimed, “Oh!” and started forward impulsively, holding out both her hands to the girl.

Dora made no move to take her offered hand. She stood looking at Phyllis with the same tragic lack of expression that had greeted Shayne. She wet her lips and said tonelessly, “Your wife, huh?”

“Yes. I’m Mrs. Shayne.” Phyllis caught her
underlip
between her teeth and glanced anxiously aside at Michael.

He had taken a step back and was watching Dora intently. Getting no response from him, Phyllis took Dora’s arm and urged her toward the divan, saying solicitously:

“Michael feels so terrible about Joe. And—oh, I’m so sorry. I—know how you must feel.”

Dora said, “No, you don’t.” She sat down stiffly, staring straight in front of her with terrifying fixity. The knuckles of her hands were strained and white with their grip on her bag.

“The reason you don’t know how I feel is because you’re married to him.” Dora nodded toward the detective. She sounded as though she was honestly trying to make Phyllis understand. She went on flatly: “Joe and
me
was
goin
’ to get married today.”

Phyllis glanced down at the girl’s swollen body in quick comprehension. She sank to her knees and caught Dora’s hand in hers. “That’s—oh, that’s too terrible,” she breathed.

Dora jerked her hand away with a violent gesture. “I
ain’t
—
I’m not wanting
your sympathy.
That don’t
help any.
He
sent Joe out there.” Again she nodded toward Shayne, who was still standing in the background.

He moved forward while Phyllis sank back on the floor. He said, “That’s right, Dora. I sent Joe out there. I’m not likely to forget that. I’m doing my best to make it up to him.”

“How can you make it up? What can you do? What can anybody do? Joe’s dead.”

Shayne said, “I know. But you’re going to have his child. Don’t forget that, Dora.”

“As if I could.”
Her voice rose shrilly. “It’ll be tainted. Marked with murder—with a murder Joe didn’t do.” She was tensed and her eyes held a wild glitter in their depths. Thin white fingers played with the clasp on her bag. “Joe didn’t do it. He didn’t do what they say.”

“Of course not,” Phyllis soothed her. She reached forward to touch Dora’s fingers. “Michael knows Joe didn’t. He just told me so. He’s after the real criminal right now. Everything will come out all right.”

Dora blinked her eyes and looked down at Phyllis’s shining dark head as though just becoming aware of her presence.

“
He done
it. It’s your man’s fault.” She spoke slowly, as though it was by painful effort. “Joe trusted him, you know. It was him that got Joe to go straight and that’s why he was—why we were so broke we couldn’t get married. Las’ night we were—happy, and thought everything was going to be just grand.” She was silent. A tear trickled out of her left eye and down her cheek.