The Uncomplaining Corpses (23 page)

“You should have peeped through the keyhole. That’s part of a detective’s business.” Shayne laughed lazily. “That’s the way it had to be.
Thrip
had the time figured to a gnat’s eyebrow, though he didn’t ever know you were in the bedroom. That was just an added complication which must have pleased our murderous friend, and it certainly gave me plenty to think about.”

Phyllis had no difficulty taking his languid arms from around her. She jumped up and said, “Let’s have a drink,” and hurried to the kitchen for ice water, stopped at the swinging bar to add a bottle of cognac to the ice water and two empty glasses which she carried to the coffee table. She drew the low table up to his chair, poured the drinks, and sat down in his lap again.

They sipped their drinks in silence,
then
Phyllis wrinkled her brow and asked, “What’s to become of that, poor girl Dora? Clearing Joe of murder will be a lot of satisfaction to her
but,
after all, she’s going to have a baby.”

“You keep an eye on her, angel,” Shayne advised. “See that she has what she wants. You don’t have to worry right away, because I sent her that thousand
Leora
Thrip
gave us. If Dora has a boy she might even let us adopt him.” Shayne was very relaxed. His mouth was grinning.

Phyllis turned on him instantly. “Why, the very idea of us
—adopting
a boy. You listen to me, Michael Shayne, if we want a baby boy, we’ll have one of our own.”

Shayne laughed until his arms fell aside weakly. Then he gathered her up and suddenly his arms were like iron clamps.

It was six o’clock when the telephone wakened them from deep sleep. Shayne fumbled for the phone beside the bed. He yapped, “Shayne speaking,” into the mouthpiece.

“Long-distance calling,” said a cheerful voice. “Just a minute, please. Go ahead, New York.”

Phyllis propped herself up on one elbow and yawned while her husband said, “Mike Shayne talking, Mr. Sorenson. Hold it a minute, please.” He laid the receiver down and sat up, poured himself a drink from the bedside decanter.

Phyllis’s eyes widened. “Who is it, Michael?”

“Just New York.”
He made a gesture of dismissal, took time to light a cigarette and settle back comfortably before lifting the telephone again. He said, “Go ahead,” and after listening for a time, “I understand, Mr. Sorenson, but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be quite that simple. I don’t mind saying I was deeply hurt when you jumped at the chance to break our contract yesterday. Cut to the quick, I might say. In the new contract you’d better double my annual retainer…”