The Corpse That Never Was by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online Page A

FIVE
     
    T he elongated reporter was slouched at his desk with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth, languidly tapping out copy with one nicotine-stained forefinger when Shayne pulled up a chair beside him. He stopped his typing and leaned back with a wide yawn.
    “Just the man I want to see. I’m finishing off the Armbruster story. You got anything new from last night?”
    “Is the News going to make it the Armbruster story? It was Mrs. Paul Nathan who died.”
    “Who’s Paul Nathan to our readers? Armbruster makes it front-page. Did you know the old goat is screaming it can’t be suicide. It’s gotta be murder. Any comment on that?”
    Shayne said, “Not for publication, Tim.” His gray eyes were alight with interest. “Who’s he screaming that to?”
    “City Editor. Had him on the phone at eight o’clock this morning to lay down exactly how he wanted the story handled… loaded with innuendos, mostly directed at his son-in-law.”
    “You handling it that way?”
    Rourke snorted his disgust. “There are libel laws in this country. I’m writing it just like you gave it to me last night… unless you’ve changed your mind this morning?”
    “I’ve changed it only to the extent that I can be influenced by a big fee.”
    Rourke sat up straighter and shook cigarette ash down the front of his jacket. “You mean the old man’s retained you to clear the smirch from the family name?”
    “Something like that. He’s hell-bent on hanging it on Paul Nathan somehow… anyhow, I guess.”
    “That’s an angle,” Rourke said alertly. “Real newsworthy. Let’s see…” He cleared his throat, frowning down at the half-typed sheet in front of him. “Displeased with the apathy displayed by the local police department in the investigation of his daughter’s unseemly demise, we are confidentially informed, as we go to press, that the grieving father has retained the famous private detective, Michael Shayne, to search for evidence proving that Elsa Armbruster did not take her own life last night. In an exclusive interview obtained by your reporter this morning, the redheaded private eye expressed his personal conviction…”
    Shayne said, “Cut it out, Tim. I haven’t got any personal convictions. Not at this point.”
    “So you’re not convinced it’s suicide,” said Rourke triumphantly. “That’ll do for a sub-head.”
    Shayne shook his head from side to side. “Nothing like that.” He hesitated, getting out a cigarette and narrowing his eyes, thinking it out as he spoke: “But it might stir something up if you’d drop in a simple statement at the end of your story to the effect that I have been retained by Armbruster to make an investigation, and that I will welcome any information about Lambert or the movements of any of the principals last evening.”
    “Including Paul Nathan,” suggested Rourke briskly.
    “Don’t stress it. If I get information that builds an alibi for him, I’ll be glad to have it.”
    “Papa won’t like.”
    “I don’t give a damn what papa likes,” said Shayne amiably. “I’m being paid to do a job. What do you know about Nathan?”
    “Not much. We may have some stuff in the morgue. He made news when he married Elsa Armbruster.”
    “Nothing since then? No rumors about marital rifts… infidelity on either side?”
    “The News,” said Rourke stiffly, “does not print rumors.”
    “I know. Nose around anyhow, huh, Tim? Society editor? I’d like to back-track the guy.”
    “Why not get it from the horse’s mouth?”
    “I will. First, I want to get a few things straight in my own mind before I tackle Nathan. Use your phone?” He stretched a long arm out for it and got a slip of paper from his pocket.
    Rourke said, “Sure,” and pushed a button that gave him an outside line. Shayne dialled a number while Rourke listened curiously. A man’s voice answered the ring, and Shayne asked, “Sergeant Deitch?”
    “Speaking.”
    “Mike Shayne,