Gentry was not back in the city. He’d been fogged in Washington. No one knew when he was going to return. Shayne asked for Jeff Collier and got another shake of the head.
“He’s getting some shut-eye, Mike,” the detective named Reynolds said. “He was here all night. What’s with you? What do you want?”
Shayne thumbed his hat to the back of his head. He saw the suspicion in Reynolds’ eyes and the redhead debated. He wanted to ask about a missing corpse. On the other hand, he had a hunch Reynolds nor any of the other cops had heard about the stiff. Reynolds didn’t seem to be busy, for one thing. And the other cops still were jabbering about the bomber.
Shayne lighted a cigarette. “I heard three guns were found in a smashed car out along South Dixie last night,” he said.
“So?” Reynolds said, his suspicions deepening.
“I was wondering about them,” Shayne replied with a shrug. “Who are they? The guy on the radio didn’t say. Not locals, huh?”
“Don’t know. And I still want to know why you’re interested, Mike,” Reynolds said thoughtfully. He hesitated for a few seconds before he looked Shayne square in the eyes. “You didn’t happen to be out around International early last evening, did you?”
Shayne smelled the curve but he decided to play ball with Reynolds for a few moments, to see where it would lead. “As a matter of fact, I was.”
“What time was that? Roughly.”
“A friend of mine had been in town and—”
“This Benjamin Ames? From Chicago?”
“Yeah, and I took—”
“You and this Ames, you’re finished with—”
“Lieutenant, if you’ll quit interrupting I’ll fill you in. Ben was here looking for a runaway girl. We finally found her dancing naked in a two-bit house. Case closed. Ben went back to Chicago last night. I took him to International to catch the plane. It was an 8:15 flight, and it was on time.”
“How’d you come back into the city? What street?”
“LeJeune to the East-West Expressway.”
“You took the Expressway, huh?”
“Lieutenant—”
“A hearse hit a palm tree on LeJeune along about 8:30 or so last night,” Reynolds cut in. “I thought you might have seen it. But the accident happened south of the Expressway.”
“And if I had seen it?” the redhead asked.
Reynolds looked straight at Shayne, remained silent. He seemed to be thinking hard, attempting to fit pieces of a puzzle. The redhead pondered. Should he tell Reynolds about the chase, the corpse he had stashed? There didn’t seem to be any logical reason why he should not. On the other hand, if he gave up the corpse to the cops he could kiss two hundred bucks good-bye. The city wasn’t going to reimburse him for keeping a stiff overnight for them, but a funeral home might, if for no other reason than silence. Funeral home people probably wouldn’t relish publicity about losing a body. It could be bad for future business.
Reynolds shifted suddenly in his chair, picked up a pencil and dropped it on his desk. “Aw, hell, Mike, it’s too wild.”
“What’s too wild?” the rednead snapped, every sense abruptly alert.
Reynolds wore a crooked grin now as he flipped a hand over his hair.
“These three guns,” he said. “We figure two of them died in the crackup of their car. But the third guy, the guy in the back seat, well, a slug had opened his skull, and there were several bullet holes in the heap. It looks like these three boys were chased out of town, shot up, and—”
Reynolds let the words hang again as he fiddled with the pencil. Then he shook his head.
“Naw,” he said to himself. “Naw, it’s just too wild.” He looked up, fixed Shayne with a stare. “Mike, I’m trying to put a two and two together. But I keep coming up with six.” He hesitated. “Look, the Accident boys got a call to the hearse on LeJeune last night. The driver hit a palm, mashed up his front end a little. He was able to wheel the hearse away under its own power. Still, the Accident boys say some people out there at the wreck site were mumbling about hearing gun shots and seeing a stiff hijacked from the hearse.
“The Accident boys jumped on the hearse driver, naturally, but he said the people were crazy, just excited. He didn’t hear any gunshots and nobody had stolen a stiff from him.
“To make it short: The Accident boys said the people at the wreck claimed to have seen four guys haul off the corpse, but the hearse driver claimed he hadn’t lost a corpse. We checked with the funeral home later, Palm Acres Funeral Home, and they hadn’t lost a body.
“But I was thinking — well, you come in here this morning asking about three guns found dead along the road. Maybe those people at Palm Acres lied to us. God only knows why they would lie, but maybe they really did lose a body last night. And maybe those witnesses out at the wreck site were a little mixed up. Maybe they didn’t see four guys snatch a body. Maybe they saw three do the snatching and one chasing. LeJeune runs into Dixie. The chase could’ve gone that way, but — hell, Mike, see? It’s sure too wild to think about. Two and two make six. Get the hell out of here. We’ve got enough problems with a nut bomber.”
Shayne stood. He could level with Reynolds, lay it all out. He would with Gentry sooner or later. But maybe, just for the moment, he should find out why a funeral home had lied to the cops. Maybe such a discovery could be profitable to a private detective.
He said, “You got your bomber, huh?”
“Yeah, we got him,” Reynolds said sourly. “A nut. Just a damned nut who doesn’t like cops. He doesn’t even have an arrest record.”
Shayne drove to International Airport and asked about a corpse that had arrived on a Monday night flight. He didn’t get any good answers until he slid a twenty dollar bill under a sheet of paper. A young guy who liked twenties looked in a file. A casket had arrived from Lima, Peru. Destination: Palm Acres Funeral Home, Miami.
“Consignor?” Shayne asked.
The young guy turned on a smirk. “Second looks cost—”
“You want to keep your job or be out in the street?” Shayne growled. “I’ve already got you hanging, pal. All I’ve got to do is call a supervisor.”
The young guy hurriedly looked in the file again. “Shipped by Eternal Haven, Lima.”
Shayne drove to Palm Acres Funeral Home. It was a palatial layout with a long, U-shaped drive out front and a subdued air that reeked of riches taken from the dead. Inside, he got a sleek woman of forty who wore black-rimmed glasses, dark hair in a conservative bun, and a black dress that did subtle justice to a good figure. She also smelled good. Tiptoeing through the caskets, she probably was smooth-flowing sympathy, the detective thought.
“Yes?” she said, posing behind the tiny polished desk.
“Michael Shayne.”
She didn’t flicker a muscle. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for a body.”
She poised a new, needle-sharp pencil over a new, small pad of yellow paper. “The name of the deceased?”
“I don’t know his name.”
The new pencil dropped slightly and a penciled eyebrow went up, appearing over the black rim of the glasses.
“You people lost a stiff last night,” Shayne said bluntly. “I’ve got it.”
The polished woman winced slightly. Then a shudder ran through her entire body and she popped to her feet. Composure and efficiency were gone. Eyes darted. She looked as if she might like to run. Anywhere.
The redhead turned on a crooked grin. “Maybe you’d better give me a head man, honey.”
She produced an enormously fat man in his fifties who said his name was Forrest DuPree, a powdered and slick man who wore a worried look in spite of the slickness.
“Last night you people lost a stiff.”
DuPree was aghast. “I beg your pardon.”