I remembered all Carter had said, and from what else I could gather, realized that Mrs. Petty was the sucker in the case. The trial was set over to September, which was three months away. The sucker was sure to lose. Tabitha and her law firm were utterly respectable, aristocratic, and practically saints; so upright they nearly fell over backward. Most lawyers, up against that firm, just hollered for help and paid up rather than risk themselves in court. But not Earl Carter.
“Like to meet Mrs. Petty?” Slausson said to me one afternoon. “She’s giving a dinner dance tonight at the country club. We might run out there. I’d be glad to give you a guest card, too, for the length of your stay.”
NATURALLY I assented, perceiving the hand of Earl Carter at work. This became quite certain with evening. Mrs. Petty not only was most gracious, but invited me to luncheon two days later. Little as I knew of society, this intimate invitation could only be explained in one way—Carter.
Mrs. Petty was pretty and light and useless as a bubble, with not enough brains to be anything but the leader of town society; just the right target for such a lawsuit. Her daughter Patricia—ah, that was different! The girl was something wonderful. There was a flame in her. She volunteered to teach me golf, and in another three days we were running around together like old friends.
I did not flatter myself that she had any personal interest in Arthur Sullivan. It was a hard job not to lose my head, what with her companionship and being invited to the house all the time by her mother, mingling with their friends and so forth. I was pretty much of a farm hand, and had sense enough to realize it, fortunately.
All this time, I had received not a word from Earl Carter, and had not seen him. I sent in my expense account each week to his office and received an envelope of cash, even to pocket money, by messenger, in return.
Then, one morning, Slausson telephoned me to come over to his office. I went. His girl attendant sent me into his private office, and he gave me a grin.
“Strip, Sullivan,” he said. “I want to give you the once-over.”
“What for?” I demanded, in surprise.
He cocked his head on one side and eyed me.
“Yours not to reason why, feller. Yours but to do and die. Do you get me? No names mentioned, either. I want to check up on you, that’s all.”
I assented with a shrug. When he applied his stethoscope to my right side instead of to my left, I knew instantly that he was working for Earl Carter; not another soul knew my secret. Evidently he was checking me over to be sure there were no mistakes, and he was thorough about it. When he got through, he gave me a bottle of liquid and a dropper.
“Complete directions on the bottle,” he said. “Whenever you feel like committing suicide, Sullivan, be sure and use this hematropine and cocaine first on your eyes. Follow the directions carefully; a drop every minute for five minutes—”
Still no word from Carter, no hint of what I was to do. The suspense began to get on my nerves. So did Patricia.
Why? Well, I must be honest about it; no one could be so intimately associated with that girl, and not react to it. We got on pretty well together. She was very frank and open, a good sport in all the term implies, and pretty as a picture. She had hair like red gold, and looked like Myrna Loy in the face; when she laughed, you could hear little silver bells tinkling in the air.
She was not in love with anyone, as I had discovered. We had not mentioned Carter, nor anything out of the way in our friendship.
I knew that she was devoted to her mother and hated her Aunt Tabitha like poison, as well she might, but we had never discussed the lawsuit, of course.
Then, without warning, everything broke at once. And what a break!
It was the middle of July, and hot weather. I did a round of golf with Patricia in the morning, and came back home for lunch with her and Mrs. Petty. There was one other guest; it was Earl Carter. I was introduced to him, quite formally, and then we had lunch served out in the sunken garden behind the huge house. It was cool there, beneath a big striped awning. Also, no one could overhear what was said.
When the things were cleared away and the servants dismissed, Pat and her mother went to look at the flowers, leaving me alone with Carter. He gave me a hard, straight look.
“Sullivan, this is Tuesday. On Friday afternoon, you ask Pat to marry you.”
It hit me like a bombshell. I stared at him for a moment, then got angry.
“Are you joking? No, you’re not. Well, I’ll do no such thing—”
“Part of the job,” he cut in, chewing on a cigar. “Come on, now; straight talk. You and I and Slausson know you’re going to die. These women don’t. They think you’re going to marry Pat, then the marriage will be annulled. You know all about the legal mess, and you’ve got to do the one thing that can save Mrs. Petty from the whole dirty net these swine have caught ’em in. The marriage, of course, is to be in name only.”
“Why not hire somebody else for that?” I said hotly. “And then have the marriage annulled?”
“Nope. Under the state law, the one thing that can clinch our business is for Pat to become a widow—quick. Otherwise, there’d be fraud charges and hell to pay. Pat comes into her money, is free of guardianship, this damned cat of a Tabitha is helpless and so are her lawyers. And there’s no shakedown. Get it?”
I grunted in dismay. “But I’ll be married, tied up all my life!”
Carter chuckled. “Sure, Arthur Sullivan will. He’ll be dead and buried, with a fine monument in the cemetery. You won’t. You’ll be James Bronson, another man.”
“Damn it, I don’t like it,” I said bluntly. “What about Pat? Wouldn’t she actually be tied up to me for life, if the truth of it ever leaked out? Isn’t a marriage under a pseudonym still a marriage?”
“How can it be if the husband’s dead?” Carter snapped. He reddened a bit; my question had hit him in a tender place. “Never mind all that; I’m running this business, not you. Here they come. Remember, now—it’s to be annulled! That’s all they know.”
We rose, as the ladies returned. Carter explained that he had put the whole thing before me and I had agreed. It would all be very simple. Mrs. Petty would be able to have the marriage annulled and there would be no trouble.
“Oh, it all seems so terrible!” Mrs. Petty’s nerves were shaky. “What if anything went wrong?”
Carter gave me a grim look. “Nothing will go wrong. There’s not a loophole.”
“But there is.” Patricia flashed me a quick smile. “If Arthur were crooked, things might go frightfully wrong; but he’s not. Your opinion of him, Mr. Carter, is correct, and I know him pretty well. You will help us, Arthur?”
“I suppose so, yes,” I said, hesitant. “Only—”
“Only, it’s a business proposition,” said Pat, with a nod. “Right.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to go through with it,” her mother declared resignedly.
“You will,” Carter assured her. “And when you’re tempted to back out, just think how Aunt Tabitha is going to foam at the mouth! Now, you young folks, get things straight. You propose on Friday afternoon, Sullivan. Pat says yes. The two of you leave for a drive in Pat’s car on Saturday morning. Drive on across the state line to Cedarville; you can get a license and be married there on Saturday afternoon, which you can’t do in this state. Thus there can be no court interference until Monday, when it’s too late. Cedarville is a big place. Take a suite at the Hotel Cedar and stay until Monday. Then drive on clear to St. Louis, and come back here the end of the week. All set?”
It was all set. Before leaving, however, Carter had a last word with me alone.
“Sullivan, you’ll pull the death act on the following Monday, at a luncheon here. I’ll have just the people I want, for guests, and I’ll be here as well. That evening, I’ll get you out of town. Go far and stay. Shave off your mustache or grow a beard, either one. I’ll give you a ring here—you and Pat will come back to this house—on Sunday evening and make
sure everything’s jake.”
So everything was shaped up, and once I was in for the business, I could admire the ingenuity of Carter’s plan.
Just the same, I was frightfully awkward when with Patricia, during the next two days. A thousand problems bothered me.
I did not know what to say or do. At length she got right down to cases with me, while we were dancing at the country club Thursday evening.
“Arthur, for heavens’ sake come back to earth and be sensible! Stop flushing every time you look at me. I’m the one who ought to be embarrassed and all in a stew.”
“That’s the trouble,” I said. “You’re not. And—and I think a lot of you.”
Her face got cold. “You’re not jumping the gun, are you?”
“No, confound it,” I said. Just then someone cut in, and we did not refer to it again.
Friday afternoon, at the country club, we played around five holes and I could not get up to the point of proposing. Business or not, I evaded it. At the sixth hole, Pat told me to get a move on. I had gone into a bunker, and the caddies were watching.
“Just what we want, Art,” she said briskly. “When they see us kiss, those boys will spread the news, and—”
“All right, damn it, will you marry me?” I blurted out desperately.
She laughed. “Yes! In spite of all the world, my hero!”
So I kissed her, and she kissed me; then she drew back, a little red.
“You don’t need to show too much enthusiasm,” she snapped. “Remember, this is business only. Come on, finish the match and pretend you don’t see those caddies snickering.”
So I did.
Next morning I met Pat downtown, climbed into her car, and we were off. She said her mother was pretty near hysterical over the affair, but would come out of it all right. Pat was nervous herself, and so was I. Even in a business proposition, people have feelings.
We got to Cedarville, crossed the state line, and at the courthouse got our marriage license. This part of it was all right. We hunted up a justice of the peace and that was all right, too, until he went to work on us. Then I began to feel uneasy. When he slammed his book and pronounced us man and wife, Pat was white and shaky and I was red as a beet.
“Well, get busy and kiss the bride!” cackled the justice.
I did it, and Pat clung to me for a moment. Her kiss was sweet, and it was like fire; it went through every vein of me.
“Two dollars,” said the justice. “Business is business, folks.”
“A good motto to remember,” Pat said to me, and I nodded dumbly.
We went to the hotel and got a suite. Pat went up with the bags, to freshen up a bit, and I got rid of the car. She met me in the lobby, and we went out to a picture show, which is the best sedative for disordered nerves. It was going to be an awkward moment when we got back to the hotel for the night, and I think we both wanted to put it off as long as possible.
However, the movie put us into humor for joking over the marriage state, and we hunted up a good place where we could dine and dance.
“What about wine?” said Pat, after we had ordered. She gave me her bright and flashing smile; there was a sparkle in her eyes. “Don’t you ever celebrate your weddings with champagne, Art?”
I thought of her kiss, that afternoon, and knew perfectly well that we were on dangerous ground; I certainly was, and I more than suspected she was. All right, be damned to caution, I thought with a burst of feeling. After all, this is my wife. We are legally married. Champagne, and a big one!
So we dined and danced. Pat loved to dance, and with her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she looked divine. When I held her close to me and brushed my lips against her face, she looked up at me and laughed.
“There’s something bewitching about it all, isn’t there?” she breathed. “About being alone, in a perfectly strange city, and—and—”
“And being old married folks,” I said. “Yes, there is. Did you write your mother?”
She nodded. “This afternoon. And I lied beautifully so she could show the letter. I said we were married, and how happy we were, and how fine you are—”
“Was it all a lie, Pat?”
Her eyes met mine, and her arm tightened about my shoulders.
“Maybe not all, Art,” she murmured, just as the dance ended and the crowd streamed back to the tables.
IT WAS late, when our taxi dropped us at the hotel. I got the room key and we went up; and to be quite honest about it, I had quite forgotten that motto the justice of the peace had quoted to us. Pat was a glorious creature, and I knew that she did like me, and she was my wife. That was enough to make anyone forget anything else.
We had a suite of two rooms with bath between. I unlocked one door and we went in, and switched on the lights. The room was empty.
“I had all the bags put in my room,” said Pat, leading the way. “Come along and pick yours out. It’s been a perfectly scrumptious time, Art; I’ve never enjoyed champagne so much in my life!”
And now it was ended. She did not say the words, but I could sense them—and I could sense the regret in them.
We went on through to her room. I picked up my bags, and then set them down again. A lump came into my throat when I looked at her, when I met her eyes.
“Pat!” I stammered. “Pat, dear—”
She dropped her cloak on the bed, rumpled up her short hair, and turned to me with a half smile.
“Yes? Not a compliment, surely?”
“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” I said awkwardly, and reached out and touched her. Her eyes were radiant, as she came to me.
“Just for that, my dear, you might kiss me good-night,” she said.
I held her for a moment, until she pushed me away, but not completely.
“The proper thing, Art, for an old married couple to do, would be to smoke a good-night cigarette together,” she said gaily. “Take your bags over, then—”
What I read in her eyes made my heart pound. I kissed her once more, quickly.
“Right,” I said.
Picking up my bags, I carried them over into my own room. And when I got there, I stopped dead. Sitting in a chair, calmly regarding me, was a perfectly strange man in a chauffeur’s whipcord uniform.
“Who are you?” I snapped. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”
“Jim Brady, of the Gallup Detective Agency, Mr. Sullivan. My job is to drive your car from here on, and to spend every night sleeping right with you.”
For an instant I was speechless. Then I burst out hotly. He cut me short.
“Listen, Mister, it’s no use talking. I’m here, and my partner’s got the room across the hall with the transom open. We stick closer’n burrs until you folks get back home. And if you kick up any fuss, you get slugged and thrown into jail.”
Pat, who had heard the voices, came in and stood staring. I was in a blether of rage. I thought Carter must have done this, but I was wrong. Brady was frank.
“Nope. I’m hired by Mrs. Petty, see? Now, folks, I’m mighty sorry to stop the fun, but that’s my orders. You got to decide whether you want to raise hell or take it easy. I’ll accommodate you either way.”
I looked at Pat, and she had gone dead cold.
“Nothing to be said about it, I suppose,” she observed. “It would knock everything in the head, Art, if we tried to fight—”
That was true, and I settled into a miserable resignation, and cursed Mrs. Petty with all my heart. We were married, yes, but we were up against two thugs—and publicity would upset the applecart.
And, believe it or not, that man Brady was with me closer than a burr, as he had put it, until we got back home the end of the week.
By that time, the budding dream was gone. My relations with Pat had settled down to a cool business basis. When we were ensconced in her own gorgeous home, I put in a devilish two days—congratulations on all sides, happiness to the newlyweds, gifts and so forth. And it was all a lie, ha
d people but known it.
I gathered that Aunt Tabitha was gritting her teeth and preparing for action.
On Sunday night Carter telephoned me on the last details. Monday noon came, and with it a formal luncheon. The old family doctor was there, among others. I complained of feeling ill, left the party long enough to put the hematropine in my eyes and take a dose of the liquid from the gourd bottle, and rejoined the company. I did not care particularly whether I stayed dead or not. The whole business had rather sickened me; I had not yet become used to such things.
At the luncheon table, I went to sleep. The old family doctor took one look at my eye, felt my pulse, tried for my heart—and the fat was in the fire. Doctor Slausson was hurriedly summoned, but no use. I was dead and no mistake.
Nor did I make a pretty corpse, with my pallor, bluish lips and so forth. Carter told me as much that night, after he had revived me and taken me out of town in his car.
“You looked like the devil,” he said. “Good thing I was warned about the mirror test! Watch out for it in future, if you spring this stunt, again. Luckily, Slausson took care of it; held a mirror to your lips and pronounced it blank.”
He handed me my money and turned me loose with his blessing.
“Feel all right? Good. Clear out, and don’t you ever came back to this town!”
“But how’ll you manage the funeral?”
I demanded curiously.
“Never mind. That’s all fixed, and no last views of the corpse either.” He grinned at me and started up his engine. “Arthur Sullivan is dead, understand?”
It really is a beautiful tomb. I went through the city last year and stopped over just to see it. A lovely shaft of granite raised to the memory of Arthur Sullivan. And I found it had been erected by Pat’s “second husband.”
I’ve often wondered what sort of a yarn she told him about her first honeymoon!
Adventures of a Professional Corpse Page 2
