The Body Came Back (4 page)

“But that was…” Shayne tried to cut in on the flow of words, but she rushed on:

“And another time there was the body in your secretary’s bedroom. You didn’t have any moral qualms about lugging his corpse down the fire escape and loading it into your car.”

“But Lucy was in deadly danger that time,” Shayne pointed out angrily. “If the cops had found the body there…”

“And it’s
my
little girl who’s in deadly danger this time,” she interrupted him. “It’s not your secretary… or you. It’s Vicky. I wish to God now I hadn’t ever telephoned you,” she went on viciously.
“I
could have done something. Thrown it out the window, maybe. Anything would be better than just to leave him lying there. But I’d listened to Brett telling all his stories about you and what a great guy you were, so now I’m stuck with you. I don’t suppose you’d even be willing right now to walk out of this room and forget you ever saw me,” she ended forlornly. “Let me try to figure out something for myself.” Shayne compressed his lips and got up and strode across the room and stopped in front of a mirror to look at his reflection curiously.

The hell of it was… there was so much truth in what she was saying. Certainly, justice would not be served by leaving the body in the bedroom and having Vicky and her mother crucified by the public press. He
had
taken matters in his own hands in the past without any inner qualms about the legality of his actions.

But, as she pointed out so scathingly, that had been when
he
was endangered… or someone close to him like Lucy.

Is that the kind of selfish guy you really are, he asked himself in the mirror. When the chips are really down, haven’t you got the guts to do for someone else what you wouldn’t hesitate to do for yourself? Have you been kidding yourself all these years? Kidding Brett and the public to the point that a woman like this thinks you will come to her help, and entrusts her daughter’s future to you… and you refuse because it’s too much trouble and might get you in bad with the cops?

Looking at himself in the mirror, he knew he wasn’t that kind of selfish guy. He had just got complacent and lazy these last few easy-going years. He’d been riding on his reputation and collecting big fees that involved no personal danger and little real difficulty.

He grinned at the mirror suddenly, and his reflection grinned back at him, looking a dozen years younger and a dozen years more reckless than he remembered himself looking for a long time.

A trace of the grin still lingered on his face as he turned back toward the sofa and said very gently, “You sit tight here for Vicky to call. If she does… tell
her
to sit tight wherever she is until I see if I can work an angle or two.”

“Do you mean…? Oh, thank God, Mike. You
are
going to help.” She came to her feet with a rush, her face transfigured with newborn hope, both hands outstretched.

He caught her hands and held them tightly. “I’m going to see what I can do. That’s all I can promise right now. If I hit it lucky and things work out right, we may be able to keep your daughter out of this mess. If she calls before I get back, just tell her to stay put and not do anything foolish until you call her.”

“I know you can do it,” she breathed. “I
know
everything will be all right.”

“Just leave everything as it is,” he told her, releasing her clinging hands. “Including that whiskey bottle,” he ended half jocosely and half seriously. “From the looks of it you’ve had plenty during the time you’ve been in this room.”

“It wasn’t full when I got here, Mike,” she defended herself. “He must have had a couple of drinks. And maybe Vicky had one or two while she was waiting for me. She does take a drink now and then.”

He shrugged and went to the coffee table to pick up the parking stub he had found in the dead man’s pocket, studied it a moment and then placed it in his own pocket. He picked up the four sheets of paper and folded them carefully while she watched him, and she exclaimed impulsively, “Can’t we tear her note up, Mike? Isn’t that dangerous evidence to have around? If anything does go wrong, I’d prefer to tell the police I killed him. It’s in her handwriting, and…”

Shayne said, “That’s why I intend to keep it… in case something does go wrong. I’m not going to destroy evidence in a homicide, Carla. I may tamper with it or twist it a little bit, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

He started to go out, then turned back slowly, looking down at his big hands and flexing them indecisively. Gloves were something men just didn’t have on tap in Miami. He said, “Would you let me have a pair of your stockings, Carla?”

“My stockings?” Instinctively she glanced down at her nylon-sheathed legs. “Do you mean…?”

“I mean a pair of stockings,” he told her patiently. “Old ones are all right.” He grinned faintly at the look of bewilderment on her face. “In the olden days the ladies used to give their knights a garter to wear when they went out to joust for them. I prefer a pair of nylons.”

She wet her lips and returned his grin with an uncertain smile. It was evident she hadn’t the faintest idea what he was driving at, but she turned obediently and knelt beside the closed overnight case on the floor. She unsnapped it and opened the lid, straightened up with a pair of fresh stockings still in the cellophane envelope in which they had been purchased. “Are these all right?”

“Just fine.” He shoved them into his pocket and patted her cheek.

He then turned to the door decisively. “I shouldn’t be long. Not more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in until I come. I’ll knock twice and then three times.” He went out without looking back at her.

The long corridor was empty, and he stood there for a moment, looking up and down the length of it and tugging gently at his left ear-lobe. It ended in a doorway on his right about twenty feet away, plainly lettered EXIT. That would be the stairway. Eight flights of stairs down. He grimaced and turned to the left, strode down the hall and around the corner to the bank of passenger elevators.

The car was empty when it stopped for him. It went down to the lobby without stopping and he stepped out into the large, brightly-lighted room still busy with the coming and going of guests even at this late hour.

Shayne moved among them and made a careful circuit of the room, glancing casually at the face of every man he encountered who was standing or sitting alone, and worked his way around to the entrance to the cocktail lounge without seeing a familiar countenance.

The bar stools were half-filled and most of the small tables were occupied, with two white-coated waiters serving drinks, and Shayne moved slowly toward the unoccupied portion of the bar, blinking his eyes to accustom them to the dim light in such strong contrast to the lobby.

One man sat alone at the extreme end of the bar nursing a tall glass of beer. There were at least a dozen empty stools between him and the next customer, and Shayne paused only a moment before moving over and sliding onto the stool beside him.

He was a stocky man with regular, good-natured features, wearing a dark suit, white shirt and black bow-tie. He glanced aside curiously as the rangy redhead sat beside him, and a smile spread over his big face and he said heartily, “Mike Shayne, himself. Buy you a drink?”

He lifted a finger to beckon the bartender before Shayne could reply, and told him genially, “Set out a bottle of cognac for my friend, Jack. It’s on the house. What are you drinking these days, Mike? Is it still Martel?”

“Martel is fine,” Shayne agreed. “Cordon Bleu, if it’s handy.”

“Well, now,” said John Russco, pretending to hesitate and be taken aback. “I did say it was on the house, but that stuff runs into money. Okay, Jack,” he ended resignedly to the waiting bartender. “Nothing is too good for Mike Shayne.”

“Call it a bribe, John,” Shayne told him in a low voice. “I may be just about to do you and the hotel a hell of a big favor.”

“Like what?” Russco’s voice matched his so that their words couldn’t be heard more than three stools away.

Shayne waited until an open bottle of Cordon Bleu and a pot-bellied brandy snifter stood in front of him and the bartender had gone back to his other customers. He poured the glass half-full and held it between his two big hands for a moment, and then said, “Like maybe you’re careless about leaving corpses scattered around in your hotel rooms. Bad publicity.” He lifted the glass and drank deeply. “One less for the cops to find wouldn’t hurt, I guess?”

“God, no,” the security officer breathed fervently. “You mean to say we got that kind of trouble?”

“The less you know about it the better it’ll be all the way around. Let’s keep this discussion purely hypothetical, huh?”

“You bet, Mike. Hypothetical as hell.”

“On that basis,” said Shayne, “and knowing your way around the joint as you do, how would you go about getting a body down from one of the upper floors and away from the hotel without any fuss or muss?”

“Simple enough,” John Russco told him. “There’s a service elevator that’s hardly ever used this time of night. It goes down to the basement, mostly for refuse removal, into an empty room with a door opening directly out into the alley. Park a car just outside…” He paused, watching Shayne expectantly.

Shayne nodded, drinking again. “Sounds good. Show me, huh?”

“You bet. Want a little more of that melted gold out of the bottle first? We’re picking up the tab,” he reminded him generously.

Shayne shook his head and drained the snifter. “Another time, John. Right now, let’s explore the basement.”

They both slid off their stools and Russco led the way back through the lounge and past the rest rooms to a corridor with a closed wooden door at the end. He opened it with a key and pushed a wall switch to light a concrete stairway leading down. The big hotel boiler-room was at the bottom of the stairway, steamy and warm, with overhead pipes leading in all directions. Russco led the way past hissing valves to a narrow, white-painted hallway and down it past closed doors on both sides to a small square room lined with empty refuse cans.

He turned on the overhead light and indicated a small self-service elevator with sliding doors standing open. “This goes all the way up, Mike. Just push the button for any floor you want. What number did you say it was?”

“I didn’t say. We’re keeping this hypothetical,” Shayne reminded him with a grin. “This the door to the alley?” He nodded to a closed door across from the elevator.

“Yeh.” John Russco went to the door and pulled it open, showing four brick stairs leading up to ground level. “It automatically locks behind you,” he warned as he went out into the warm, Miami night air.

Shayne followed him, leaving the door ajar. There was a narrow alley with a two-story building on the other side of it. There was a street light some sixty feet away, and Russco pointed to it. “That’s the street at the back of the hotel. None of the stores are open there at this time of night. A car driving out of the alley that way wouldn’t be noticed.”

“Unless a cop happened to be cruising by,” Shayne grunted.

“That’s right. But you could park a car right here in the dark and be pretty safe.”

Shayne nodded and agreed, “It looks good, John.” He went back down the stairs and across to the open elevator and stepped inside. “How does this thing operate?”

“Just like any self-service elevator.” Russco followed him in and pointed to the bank of buttons.

“They’re numbered for each floor. And see this one marked HOLD. See, it’s pushed in now. That holds the cage at any floor with the doors open until someone steps inside and presses another button. Otherwise the doors will close behind you and it can be taken away by anyone pushing a button on any floor. Not likely this time of night, but don’t forget the HOLD button if you want it to stay in one place. As soon as you get inside and push another button no one can stop you from where you want to go.”

“All right.” Shayne stepped out and got the dead man’s parking stub from his pocket. He held it out to the hotel dick with a grin. “Here’s your part in this hypothetical maneuver. Get this car out of your parking lot. You can do it easier than I… and no questions asked. Drive it around here in the alley and leave it outside the door with the lights off. Unlock and open the trunk and leave the keys in the ignition. Now. How much likelihood that someone will drop in here and be in the way if I should come down in the elevator with a hypothetical corpse?”

“Almost none.” Russco accepted the ticket with a frown. “However, if you want I can hang around and send anyone packing if they do happen to show.”

Shayne said, “Thanks.” He looked at his watch. “How long to get the car set outside?”

“Ten minutes.” Russco looked at his watch.

“Get going then. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, drive the car down the street and park it some place where it won’t be noticed until morning. Then get back and forget you saw me tonight.”

“All right, Mike.” Russco started to say something else, but checked himself and headed back for the boiler-room with a wave of his hand.

He was disappearing from view when Shayne remembered the pair of stockings in his pocket. He called, “Wait, John,” and went toward him.

Russco turned back and Shayne said, “You don’t happen to have a pair of gloves you can put your hands on quick?”

“Gloves? Christ, no.”

“That car you’re going to pick up,” explained the redhead. “You and I’ll have fewer questions to answer if our fingerprints aren’t found on it when it’s picked up tomorrow. Here. Try these on for size.” He pulled the cellophaned stockings from his pocket and held them out to the hotel detective.

Russco took them dubiously. “Am I stealing a car, too?”

“Just giving it back to the owner,” Shayne told him with a grin. “Slide your mitts into these before you get into it. And keep them handy for me to put on when I meet you down here later.”

Russco took them with a nod of understanding and turned away again.

Shayne watched him go out of sight, then turned back and got into the elevator and pressed the button numbered 8. The doors slid shut silently and the cage began to move upward. When it stopped at the eighth floor and the doors opened, Shayne carefully pushed the HOLD button, and checked to see that it stayed down.

Then he stepped out into the wide corridor and looked at the room number across from him to orient himself. It was 804. By the grace of God and with an assist from the Shayne luck, the room he sought was only three doors down the hall. He knocked twice and waited a moment, and then three times.

The door opened instantly. He grinned reassuringly as he stepped past her, and asked, “Has your daughter phoned?”

“No. I’m getting scared, Mike. She should have before this. Do you suppose…?”

“I suspect she’s holed up somewhere trying to get up her nerve to lift the telephone receiver and call this number. Remember… she hasn’t the faintest idea whether you or the police will answer the phone. Look,” he said firmly, taking her by both arms and looking into her frightened face. “Stop worrying. Everything is going to be okay. All you have to do is be here when she calls. Then tell her to come on back… and have a damned good story made up and ready to tell her to explain who Al Donlin was and why he came here looking for you tonight. Do you understand?” He gave her a little shake to emphasize his words.

Tears swam into her eyes. “Oh, Mike,” she breathed. “You are going to…?”

“I’m going to give a girl a break on the eve of her wedding day,” he told her lightly. He released her arms and stepped back, glancing at his watch. “I’ll have to take a blanket or something to roll him up in.”

She followed him to the door of the bedroom, asking shakily, “Is there anything I can do… to help?”

“I don’t think so.” He stood inside the door looking down at the corpse. “Can that pistol be traced to you… or your daughter?”

“No. I’m positive it can’t.” She laughed nervously. “Actually, I got it from an actor who had lifted it off the set of a movie… one of the prop guns.”

Shayne muttered, “There might be fingerprints,” and reached down to pick it up and rub it between his big palms much as she had done an hour previously. Then he slid it into the man’s coat pocket and said, “Let the police try to figure out why he’s carrying the gun that killed him.” He straightened up and glanced around the room. “I wonder if there’s an extra blanket or anything.”

She hurried past him toward the closet door, murmuring, “There often is… on a shelf.” She opened the door and stood on tiptoes, then turned back with a folded blanket in her arms. “It has the name of the hotel on it.”

“Can’t be helped. I won’t leave him wrapped up in it.” He took the blanket from her, shook it out so it was folded double, and carefully spread it across the body, covering it from head to toe. Then he knelt down and rolled the man over carefully so that he was enclosed like a cocoon in the blanket. The body was beginning to stiffen with
rigor mortis,
so it was quite easy to manipulate.