Free The Corpse That Never Was by Brett Halliday Page B

bedroom. Garroway carried a bundle of clothing which he put down on the rug, and said, “I’ll take this suit he was wearing into the lab where I can do a thorough job. But I don’t expect to get anything, Shayne. This is all new, department store stuff. Been worn once and never washed. And another thing: I don’t think that bed linen has been disturbed for weeks… since it was made up fresh when he moved in. Certainly not for the purpose that couple were supposed to be using this apartment for. You know, there are always stains and indications you can test for.”
    “Maybe they did their romping on top of the bedspread,” Rourke suggested.
    “Maybe.” Garroway was a deadly serious young man. “But I ran tests on that, too, without getting anything.”
    “How about you, Sarge?” Shayne asked the fingerprint man.
    “I got some prints,” he said. “I can’t be positive until I run comparisons with the men who were up here last night, but I have a strong hunch they’ll all check out. One thing I can tell you: I didn’t find any of the woman’s prints to indicate she’d spent any time here. A few faint smudges a week or so old that might or might not be. Only clear prints of hers were on a little plastic slipper bag I found on the shelf in the closet.”
    “A container for those red slippers on the floor?”
    “They fit into it all right. The nightgown and peignoir have been worn by the way.”
    “What about Lambert’s glasses?” Shayne asked suddenly. “He always wore blue tinted ones. I haven’t seen a pair around.”
    “They’re at the lab,” Garroway told him. “We got them from on top the dresser in the bedroom last night. Took them in to see if they could be traced.”
    “Any luck?”
    “No. They aren’t prescription lenses. Could be picked up anywhere.”
    “And I suppose you took the shotgun in?”
    “Yes. Standard single-shot, twelve gauge. Hasn’t been used a great deal, but it’s ten or twelve years old. No chance to trace it either.”
    “That damned gun bothers me,” muttered Shayne. “What in the name of God was it doing here so conveniently? It isn’t exactly the sort of thing a man brings along with him to keep a hot date.”
    “But the suicide was planned for last night,” argued Rourke. “I understand the suicide note said so.”
    “It also said they’d planned to go out together with cyanide,” Shayne told him caustically. “He lost his nerve and spilled his drink, and had to do the job with the gun. He hadn’t planned that. So what was the gun doing here?”
    “That’s another one of those questions for which there is no logical answer,” Rourke told him pleasantly. He stood up and yawned. “Are we all through here?”
    “Yeh.” Shayne looked at the men. “When can I have a report?”
    “Couple of hours.”
    “Call my office,” Shayne directed. “Or my secretary, Lucy Hamilton, if the office doesn’t answer.” He gave them Lucy’s number and got up also, leaving half his drink still in the glass.
    Rourke waited and watched him as he went into the bedroom. The reporter grinned when he came back thrusting a small plastic container with the slippers into one side pocket, and ramming the flimsy red nightgown set into the other. “A present for Lucy?” he asked with a leer.
    Shayne said coldly, “I’m taking these home where they belong.”
    “For the bereaved husband? I’m sure he’ll love to have them as souvenirs.”
    Shayne shrugged; they went out together and he snapped the padlock on the outside of the door. “Let’s walk down a flight,” he suggested. “See if Lucy’s back from the office. I could use a decent drink to wash the taste of that stuff out of my mouth.”
    They walked down a flight, but a knock on Lucy’s door indicated that she hadn’t returned. They went down to the ground floor where Rourke announced that he was late keeping a date for a free lunch, and drove off hastily.
    Shayne drove back to a small restaurant on