Rourke, behind the wheel, glanced sideways at Shayne. A look of defeat settled over the detective’s gaunt features. For a moment his defenses were down and he looked old and weary.
The expression on Shayne’s face shocked Timothy Rourke out of his flippant mood. Deprived of his aura of invincibility, Michael Shayne was no different from lesser men, and Rourke averted his eyes quickly, ashamed that he had witnessed the change. He felt as low as if he had peeped through a keyhole and watched a beautiful and glamorous woman become haggard with the removal of her make-up.
With as much cheerfulness as he could muster, Rourke said, “We’re jumping to conclusions, Mike. We don’t know that it’s Helen Stallings. Might be some other unidentified body.”
“Yeh,” Shayne agreed tonelessly. “Might be. Drive down the boulevard and we’ll see what’s happened. If she has been found there — that close to my car — I’m sunk.” He put a cigarette between his puffed lips and struck two matches before getting a light.
Rourke drove forward slowly. The crowd of spectators had disappeared from the scene of the wreck. A wrecking-car had hauled away the twisted ruins of Shayne’s car, and the only evidence in sight as they rolled slowly past was the glitter of splintered glass and the broken lamppost.
“I don’t see a damned thing,” Rourke muttered. “Can you tell if she’s still there?”
“Christ! You didn’t think I’d leave her where she’d show from the street?” Shayne’s voice came to life again. “Turn left, down this side street.”
Rourke swung to the left on a shadowed residential street. Shayne directed, “Pull in to the curb. I’ve got to go back and see what’s up.”
“You’re liable to walk into a trap,” Rourke warned. “The tail end of that call we heard — it must have been directing a patrol car to the spot. Probably some passer-by saw her lying there and phoned in.”
Shayne conquered an upheaval under his ribs and said, “I’ve got to find out,” and jumped from the light sedan. “Maybe I can get to her before the cops get here. If anything happens,” he went on harshly, “get the hell out in a hurry.” He ran swiftly across the street and dodged into the shadow cast by trees on the corner. He found an opening in the hedge where the alley ran through. Bending down to hide his upper body, he crept along the hedge toward the front.
There was no sound except the beating of his own heart and the night wind soughing through the palm fronds. He could see nothing in the black shadow behind the hedge, now that the street light was gone.
He began to think that the body had been removed — that this was not the right house — or the right hedge, when a black shadow moved in the darkness ahead. There was a faint rustling of the grass, an intangible something that caused him to freeze in his tracks. An automobile cruised lazily past. That would be the patrol car checking on the call. No, it was cruising on without slackening speed.
He could discern the dark shape on the grass now, not more than fifteen feet ahead, and suddenly there was the horrible glint of yellow eyes in the darkness just beyond the still body.
As Shayne lunged forward, a lean gray cat leaped aside with a defiant mew, sped away across the lawn lashing her tail angrily.
Bending over the rigid body of the girl, he lifted her up. There was no challenge from the darkness, no outraged outcry from a near-by householder.
As he reached the opening into the alley and started toward the street, another car was stopping. Shayne dropped back into the shadow of the hedge as the lights on the car went out. Then he heard footsteps coming toward him and Rourke’s loud whisper, “Mike, where are you? I brought the car over to this side.”
“Here.” Shayne leaped forward, and Rourke jerked the rear door open, Shayne awkwardly crammed the body inside, and Rourke looked on, shaking his head in disapproval. He muttered, “She looks like country come to town for fair. First time I ever realized how indecent a gal could look without make-up. Hair stringing down around her face and no nail polish—” He shuddered and averted his face.
“Don’t forget she’s been hitting a fast pace since she was murdered,” Shayne growled. “You can’t expect her to be in the best of trim.” He slammed the door shut, swore when her dress caught in the hinge and wouldn’t let it latch. He leaned in to throw the hem back out of the way, and Rourke whistled shrilly.
“Lookit! That dress is all she’s got on. Not even any pants.”
“This,” said Shayne, “is a hell of a time to get technical about a thing like that.” He slammed the door shut again and shoved Rourke under the wheel, ran around to jump in beside him. “Get moving,” he panted. “As far as the bay, then south.”
The short-wave radio came to life again as the car surged forward. Both men bent their heads to listen.
“Calling car sixty-three. Car sixty-three. Go back to your position. Disregard previous instructions. Disregard previous instructions. Body of young woman floating in the bay has been cared for. Emergency ambulance answered call. That is all.”
Shayne sat erect and emitted an explosive sigh. Rourke laughed shakily. “God! What a coincidence. I needed a diaper while I was waiting for you back there.”
Shayne said musingly, “I wonder if Phyl will like me with gray hair. By God, I can’t—”
“Careful of your language, there,” Rourke interposed. “We have a lady with us.” Then his bravado cracked. “I can’t stand much more of this, Mike.”
“We’ll get rid of her quick,” Shayne promised. “But we don’t want to leave her too close to where my car was wrecked. Why don’t you cut back across the boulevard and drive out into the residential section? We’ll find a nice quiet lawn where corpses are a novelty and deposit her there.”
Rourke turned east across the boulevard, forcing himself to hold the car to a speed within traffic restrictions.
After he had driven some twenty blocks Shayne suggested, “This looks like a respectable neighborhood where people have sense enough to go to bed early. There’s not a single light showing and not a car in sight.”
“Sure,” Rourke grunted sourly. “These people lead drab lives. Everybody is entitled to some excitement.” He slowed in the middle of the next block at a point where the corner street lamps did not interfere, edged to the curb, and stopped in front of a row of small stucco houses.
Shayne leaped out and took the mortal remains of Helen Stallings from the rear seat and deposited her gently on a damp green lawn.
When he returned to the car Timothy Rourke had moved out of the driver’s seat. “You take over, Mike. I’ll come unhinged if I try to drive another foot.”
“We could both use a drink and some quiet meditation,” Shayne decided. “Home is just the place for that, and we’ll hope no more bodies have popped up during our absence.”
EIGHT
“WHY,” ASKED TIMOTHY ROURKE for the fifth time, “did the killer first snatch the body out of your possession and then stage a public wreck to give it back to you?”
“When we know the answer to that we’ll have something.” Mike sat relaxed in a deep chair in the luxurious corner apartment which he had taken after his marriage to Phyllis. Rourke was sprawled out on the lounge across from him. A low coffee table was between them, bearing up under an array of ash trays, a cognac bottle, a heavily depleted quart of Scotch, a siphon bottle, and a large bowl of ice cubes. They had been sitting thus for more than an hour, and Rourke had put a lot of Scotch inside of him. Shayne, tormented by his two-o’clock appointment with Lucile, had been more sparing with the cognac.