“A body came in to International,” Shayne said. “It was picked up by some of your people.”
“Yes,” DuPree nodded.
“Your hearse was involved in an accident coming here from the airport.”
“Yes, there was an accident, but—”
“Three guys heisted the stiff.”
DuPree took a few seconds to adjust his vest. Then he turned on an expression of pained patience. “Mr. Shayne, I sincerely wish I could help you but—”
“I’ve got your corpse,” Shayne broke in.
DuPree’s fat lips twitched and his eyes took on a sudden gleam, but he remained silent as he fiddled with the vest.
“And I’ll deliver it for a price.”
DuPree said, “I do believe, my dear man, that I must call the police.”
“Okay.”
DuPree frowned.
Shayne turned to the desk, snatched up the phone receiver, began to dial.
DuPree said sharply, “What are you doing?”
“Calling the cops. I know the number.”
“Fine.”
Shayne did not dial the last digit. He had expected DuPree to make a move, snap a finger down on the receiver button, break the connection. But DuPree seemed to be waiting. He looked upset, but he appeared content to allow the call to be completed.
Shayne put the phone together. The ploy hadn’t worked. And he didn’t need cops. Not yet. He’d take Will Gentry when Gentry got back in town. Until then...
DuPree stared at him, then turned on an expression that very closely resembled a smirk. He said, “Please go, Mr. Shayne.”
His tone had softened. He looked sympathetic, as if he might be looking on a deceased.
Shayne walked out of the funeral home. No one accompanied or trailed him. He knew he had his teeth in something. But what? Why wasn’t DuPree admitting to having a corpse stolen?
Maybe if he found the two men who had been transporting the stiff from International to the funeral home, they’d talk. One had been slugged, the other kneed. But what the hell, they had to be DuPree boys. Both, Shayne figured, would stand before him with split lips and say they’d fallen against door knobs.
He got into the rented car, rolled, keeping a sharp eye in the rear view mirror, watching for a tail to pop to life. None did and his scowl deepened. He felt frustrated. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for Gentry. Maybe he should wheel across town to Jerry Smith’s ice factory, collect his stiff and deposit it at the City Morgue, be finished with the whole damn thing, write the two hundred off to a bad decision.
There was still another avenue...
IV
Mike Shayne drove into the city’s jungle. All of the animals were out. It was early afternoon of a nice day. The sidewalks were busy. Cruising, no one could believe that this was one of Miami’s festers. Everything looked calm, reasonably clean. The city sparkled. Rapists, burglars, arsonists, thieves, murderers, informers all lived in other cities. Other cities had problems. Not here.
None of these brightly clothed boys and girls walking and lolling on the sidewalks of the fester area were rapists, burglars, arsonists, thieves, murderers or would know anything about body snatchers.
Yet a corpse had been shipped into the city. The corpse had been snatched from a funeral home by three unnamed gunsels. The funeral home was not admitting the snatch or the loss. The gunsels were dead. Nobody would or could talk. But the gunsels had had a reason for snatching a stiff. And the funeral home had a reason for not admitting to a loss.
The cops had not been officially informed of the snatch. Why wasn’t some family screaming? Was there no family to scream, had the stiff been a loner in every sense of the word? Somebody had stolen from somebody. And informers heard about thefts. It wasn’t every day that somebody stole a corpse. This, of course, would up the ante of any information but then, what the hell, some types of information was worth more.
Shayne cruised, looking over the brightly clad boys and girls. He was in no particular hurry now. He was looking for the half dozen specials, the professional informers. The cops had their planted people, the Syndicate had theirs, and then there were the self-styled people with big ears. But he knew of only six pay-me-cash-now-professionals.
And he also knew that if he cruised long enough, inventoried enough streets he would be spotted. Thus, instead of the seeker, he would become the sought, from someone who had straight information.
Beady found him.
And Beady pleased Shayne. Because Beady was a pro.
It was early evening now. The detective had killed the entire afternoon exploring and allowing himself to be seen, asking a pointed question here and there, giving the word time to sift in and out of crannies. It had been a boring, inactive afternoon, but now it was about to pay off. He pushed change across the bar, and Beady ordered a beer.
“Mike,” the toothless, ferret-type man nodded. “How’s things?”
“Dead.”
Beady grunted a chuckle, drank beer, throwing his head far back, tipping the bottle high with long, gnarled fingers. Once those fingers had been deft, quick as an eyeblink. Once Beady had been an expert pickpocket. Then age and arthritis had set in.
“Yuh gotta look under the surface, Mike. Just because something is dead, that don’t make it worthless.”
“Tell me.”
Beady chuckled again. “Wish I could.”
Shayne put a fifty dollar bill on the bar. Beady shot him a glance. Shayne got out another bill, but Beady shook his head. “I ain’t got that much, Mike. A kid named Bird, that’s all.”
The fifty disappeared from the bar into Beady’s short pocket.
“A youngster,” the informer continued. “A kid coming up. He ain’t been hooked to nobody I know of. Just trying to pick up a buck here and there. Kinda on the loose, like you was this afternoon. A kid cruising here and there, asking about somebody that’s dead. Seems like this dead guy’s disappeared. That’s a hot one, ain’t it? A dead guy disappearing.”
“It could be, Beady.”
“Yeah, well, like I say, this kid Bird’s nosing ’round, wanting to know of anybody has a body for sale.”
“And?”
Beady shrugged. “That’s it. I told you it wasn’t much.”
“The kid’s unattached?”
“Always has been.”
“Has he got ready cash?”
“Doubtful.”
“If he hasn’t got cash and he isn’t working for somebody, how does he buy back a body?”
“He’s got a problem, ain’t he?”
“He’s been hired,” Shayne said bluntly.
“It’d figure,” Beady agreed.
“You heard of anybody new floating around, trying to make it big? Maybe somebody from out of town?”
“Nope.”
“Three guns were hit out along Dixie last night. They weren’t locals.”
“If you say so, Mike.”
Shayne gave the informer a side glance. “You know something about them?”
“Nope,” Beady said with a sly grin. “But you do. You said they weren’t locals. How’d you know that?”
“One of Gentry’s people mentioned it, I think.”
Beady grunted. “The cops don’t know who they are, but my sources tell me they’ve come up with a good Denver lead.”
Shayne digested the information and then said, “How do I find this kid, Beady?”
The ferret was silent for a few seconds, fiddled with the empty beer bottle, then took one of Shayne’s dimes from the bar and went to a phone booth. When he returned, Shayne had a fresh bottle of beer on the bar. Beady drank from it, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“You got a meet in twenty minutes. You sit in that heap you’re driving right where it’s parked. Bird says he’ll find you.”