The Corpse That Never Was

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Shayne said, “Not for publication, Tim.”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, Sergeant. I was up at that apartment last night…”

“I remember. You found them, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. I’ve just come from Will Gentry’s office, Sergeant, and he said okay if I asked you for some off- the-record help.”

“What kind of help?”

“A complete and thorough fingerprint job on the apartment for one thing. I’ve got a client who’ll pay for your expert help. Can you meet me there about twelve-thirty?”

“Wait a minute, Shayne.” Deitch’s voice was harshly defensive. “I dusted for prints last night. The Chief’s got my report. If you think I slipped on the job…”

“I don’t think you slipped at all,” Shayne said patiently. “I wouldn’t be asking you now if I didn’t know you’re the best man in Miami. You got what the lieutenant wanted last night. But I want everything… proof, if we can get it, that no one except those two were in that place last night.”

Deitch said cheerfully, “Okay. I don’t mind picking up an extra buck. Twelve-thirty?”

“See you there.” Shayne hung up with satisfaction and stood up. Timothy Rourke leaned back in his chair grinning up at him. “Mind if I join you at twelve-thirty? See how a real, honest-to-God detective works?”

Shayne said, “Come along. Bring anything you can get on Nathan, huh?” He went out through the City Room and down to his car.

The building in which Lucy Hamilton lived was a short distance from the newspaper office. Shayne parked in front where he had parked many times in the past, went into the small foyer and found a button “Manager. Gnd. Flr.” He pushed the button and in a moment the front door release clicked. He opened it and went across a bare, unoccupied lobby toward the self-service elevator which he never used when visiting Lucy in her second-floor apartment, and found a sign that said “Manager” with an arrow pointing down a narrow corridor to the left.

There was an open door at the end of the hall showing a rather plump girl wearing horn-rimmed glasses busily typing in front of a small switchboard which she could handle without moving out of her chair.

She looked up to greet him with a pleasant smile, and he asked, “Is the manager in?”

“Certainly.” She nodded her head toward a closed door on her right. “Go right in. I don’t think Mr. Barstow is particularly busy.”

Shayne thanked her and opened the door she had indicated. It was a large, pleasant office with sunlight streaming in a wide window, and with a bald-headed, chubby-faced man leaning back in a swivel chair behind the clean desk and caught square in the middle of a wide yawn by Shayne’s unannounced entrance.

He cut off the yawn in mid-stride, wriggled himself erect in the chair and put on an eager smile. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m a detective, Mr. Barstow… is it?” Shayne sat in front of the desk and lit a cigarette.

“A detective? I see. In regard to that most unfortunate affair upstairs last night, no doubt.” Barstow frowned portentously and rubbed his pink, bald scalp with a pink palm. “A terrible thing. Most unfortunate. I talked to a lieutenant last night, you know. I’m afraid I wasn’t very much help because, you see, I scarcely knew the tenant. Lambert? Yes. A self-effacing sort, I remember thinking at the time he rented the apartment. Quiet and conservatively dressed. The type of renter one hopes to get for a bachelor apartment. With a man like that one doesn’t expect difficulties, you see. The sort of thing… ah… exactly the sort of thing that did occur last night. I consider myself a fair judge of human nature, and I simply never would have dreamed that Lambert was the sort to have an affair with a married woman.”

“You never can tell by appearances,” Shayne agreed sympathetically. “Speaking of appearances, Mr. Barstow, what do you recall about the man? I know you described him last night, but I thought perhaps you’d given the matter further thought and could add something to your description this morning.”

“Indeed I have given it further thought. Yes, indeed. My gracious, it’s the first time anything like this has ever occurred in a building under my management. On the other hand, I’m afraid there’s not much I can add to the description I gave your lieutenant last night. Just sort of medium.” He spread out both his plump palms in exasperation. “I did remember noticing that he signed the rental agreement with his left hand. The lieutenant said that might be very important.”

“And it probably is,” Shayne told him. “You see, our handwriting expert says the suicide notes were written by a left-handed man. He had a dark mustache, I believe, and wore tinted glasses.”

“Lightly tinted. Blue. So light the color was scarcely noticeable.”

“And he just dropped in cold, looking for an apartment? No one referred him to you?”

“In answer to an advertisement. He was very easily pleased and appeared satisfied with the price, remarking