Adventures of a Professional Corpse

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “If we’re staying with your people, won’t they expect us to occupy a room together?”

  She gave me a quick, gay laugh. “Oh, you don’t know our farm! There’s room and to spare; that’s why my uncle lives with us. I had two brothers and a sister, and they’re gone now. The flu epidemic carried them off. I’ll take one room with the baby, and you can have another room next it; that’ll be quite all right. What worries me is whether you’ll be able to fool our old country doctor. He’s pretty shrewd.”

  I smiled. “I can stand any but the most simple test of all—a mirror to the nostrils. I can’t very well stop breathing, you know. But I’ll take care of that, all right.”

  We came to Lebanon in good time. It was a sleepy little town around a court­house square, and nothing to be proud of. As we passed the dingy hotel, I thought of Roesche holed up there, and chuckled.

  Then we were heading out into the country.

  Twenty minutes later, we were at our destination. And it astonished me.

  The farmhouse was large enough, truly; it was well painted, and everything about the place was neat as the proverbial pin. Having been brought up on a farm, I could appreciate the fine points of this one.

  “Here, hold the baby!” exclaimed Viola Dane. Then she was out of the car and dashing for the side door of the house. I held the baby and waited for the resultant explosion.

  There was none. Nothing happened for a long time; it seemed long to me, at least. At length the baby let out a wild squall, and this got action. Viola came out, and her mother with her; a handsome, muscu­lar woman of forty-five, with splendid stal­wart features and brave eyes. A fine, straightforward woman, who came to me and gave me a quick grip of the hand, a sweeping, searching look, and then turned to the baby.

  “Take your husband inside, Vi,” she said. “Give me that child—glory be, my own grandchild in my arms! I’ll go get your Uncle Ezra. He’s in the orchard. We’re having the spraying done, now, with a power sprayer. Welcome to you, son. Go right in.”

  No frills about her. She headed for the orchard, and Viola led me toward the house.

  “It worked, it worked!” she breathed excitedly. “I didn’t even have to show the forged wedding license; I don’t want to do that if I can help it.”

  I went in with her, and not a bit com­fortable about it either.

  Her father was a massive, stooped man of fifty, practically blind and much bro­ken; he seldom left his chair. Yet he had a remarkable face and a more remarkable personality. He gripped my hand, passed his fingers over my face, put an arm about his daughter, and tears crept out on his cheeks.

  “I’m glad you folks are here,” he said very simply. “It’s been a long time. Where’s the baby?”

  “Mother’s got him,” Viola replied. “She went to bring Uncle Ezra.”

  That was all; no dramatics, no religious sentiment, no Old Homestead stuff. Yet the man’s personality, strong and stark and dominant, was over the whole place. No reproaches to me. He talked about the homely things of the farm, the animals and crops and changes. He was the kind of man who does his praying behind closed doors; the strong kind. I began to sense that if the girl had gone a bit wrong it was probably her own fault—as she had admitted.

  Her mother came back with the uncle. He was a fine deep-eyed man, saying little but making himself felt. A younger man than Hartzell, he had the same quality of deep reserve; he was the one who kept up the farm nowadays.

  Mrs. Hartzell was different. She was brisk, always busy about something, always chirping out bright comments. Those straight, stalwart eyes of hers left you with the feeling that she knew a lot she didn’t care to say.

  There were no servants; just the three of them here, one crippled and done for, the other two running the place. They were homely, competent, calm. The whole place reflected the people in it. If Hartzell had money, as Viola had suggested, it was in the bank; things here in the house were not for display but for comfortable use.

  “Well, I guess you folks want to get settled,” Mrs. Hartzell said at length. “Fetch in your luggage and I’ll get the south room ready. Ain’t in much need ex­cept of airing.”

  Viola drew her mother aside, speaking quickly and softly, but the blind man’s ears caught the words.

  “What’s that? Heart trouble? Real sick?” he repeated, leaning forward. “Son, I’m sorry. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d call you by that name. I’ve come mighty close to cursing you; and now I’m glad your trouble ain’t to my door. Ma, you’d better telephone Doc Torrens to come and look him over. I got a lot o’ faith in Torrens.”

  Viola staved this off, somehow. We fetched in the bags and got settled, and the afternoon wore on. The more I saw of this house, the more I was impressed by its placid, steady strength; no other words could express the feeling.

  Dusk was gathering, and Mrs. Hartzell was bustling about her belated dinner, when Viola took the baby upstairs to get him down for the night. She asked me to come along. Her mother had got an old crib out of the attic, and she put the baby to bed in this. Then she turned to me. “Well, what’s your decision?”

  “Oh, that’s all settled,” I told her. “Go on with it, of course.”

  “And do you understand my reasons, the things I couldn’t explain?” She ges­tured toward the sleeping child. Her voice was soft but passionate. “Think what his life would be with me, an artificial life, with servants and money and all sorts of deviltry; and think of him here in this house, living this life, simple and fine and good, with these people—can you see that it’ll break my heart to give him up, and yet it’s the only thing, the only hope, for his whole life and future?”

  She made a mistake in asking me. After the brief contact with these people, I be­gan to see things with different eyes. I be­gan to feel that Roesche had been right about her. And I resented the idea of tricking these relatives of her.

  “You may be thinking of his future,” I said, “and you may be thinking of your own. It’s no affair of mine.”

  She flinched, as though I had struck her, but I went on downstairs and left her there. It was none of my business, after all; and I hate these sentimental women.

  My words must have got under her skin, for she was pretty distant all evening. I occupied a bedroom to myself, without in­cident, and in the morning got hold of her, alone. We had to settle on a pro­gram.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “Shall we say tomorrow afternoon, late?”

  “Good enough,” I replied. “Make it five o’clock? Then I’ll drive into town this morning, see Roesche, and make ar­rangements. What about the undertaker, the funeral, and so on? You’ve got to think about that angle.”

  “I have already,” she said. “Country people around here don’t go in for em­balming, much. The undertaker will bring a coffin from town tomorrow night, and you’ll be buried next day. I thought Dr. Roesche might come out and spend the night, and get you away. He could be a friend of mine from the city—though I hate to call him a friend,” she added spite­fully.

  “Then I’ll have him come out with your Doctor Torrens.”

  WHEN I announced that I was driving into town that morning, Uncle Ezra said he’d go with me and fetch back a sack of chemicals for the sprayer. There was nothing for it but to take him along, so right after breakfast the two of us got off.

  We were no sooner away from the farm than Ezra Hartzell ran a hand over his short, square beard, and made a remark that petrified me.

  “Viola’s a right smart girl,” he observed meditatively. “I wonder she ain’t scart that the real Felix Ascher might show up some day.”

  I turned and gave him a look, and what he read in my face brought a thin smile to his lips.

  “Ain’t no use in wasting a lot o’ talk,” he went on. “I don’t hold it against you, none. You’re her husband, and I guess you know the whole story. It was cute of you folks to come here this way and fix things up with her ma and pa. That ain’t my business; I’m gla
d of it.”

  “What makes you think I’m not Ascher?” I got out. He chuckled, and the chuckle sent a shiver through me.

  “Easy enough, son. After she left home that way, I left too. I follered this man Ascher clear out west, and caught up with him. And there ain’t no danger of him coming back. Not ever. I ain’t told a soul about it, not even her pa; he don’t hold with settling matters that way.”

  I was wordless before the implication of what he said; his silence was as grim as his hard straight eyes. The less talk the better, I thought. He had no intention of spoiling Viola’s little plan, took me to be her actual husband, and was satisfied with the whole affair. Talk was risky. So I changed the subject and he never referred to it again.

  We left the car before the antique hotel and separated. I found Roesche in one of the slatternly rooms, and he greeted me with relief. We lost no time in settling all the details of our business.

  “The blowoff comes at five tomorrow afternoon,” I told him. “And at five o’clock, you be talking with this Doctor Torrens, see? When the telephone call comes, you run out to the farm with him. You’re a friend of Viola’s from the city. I’m afraid of these country doctors; they’re shrewd, as a rule. I want you to make the mirror test yourself.”

  Roesche chuckled. “Sure; leave that to me. I’ll get ahead of him with the mirror, all right. How about the funeral arrange­ments?”

  I explained Viola’s plan. As he would be at the house, he might arrange to tele­phone the undertaker; thus he could insure getting a solid top coffin. The effects of the drug would last several hours, and during the night he could replace me with a couple of weighted bags and screw down the lid hard and fast. Once we got this done, I could make my getaway and all was jake. That Roesche could steer every­thing properly was certain. We were ac­customed by this time to be ready for any emergency that might arise. On one occa­sion Roesche had even helped sit up all night with the corpse.

  So I drove back with Uncle Ezra and his sack of chemicals, and we talked farm on the way home.

  All this day and the next, I hung around the place. The Hartzell’s pretended no affection, but treated me with a homely politeness; Uncle Ezra really took a shine to me, thinking that he had pierced my secret, and rather respecting me for the part he thought I was playing.

  Viola put sunshine into the house, and her parents were insane about their grand­child. At first I was tempted to think they would have forgiven everything if she had just shown up with the baby; but I soon perceived otherwise. That father of hers, under the surface, was like grim death. Legitimacy meant everything to him; a matter of principle. Viola had figured things out very correctly after all, and her apparently fantastic scheme was the only one to have gained the end in view.

  During these two days, I was astonished at my own changing viewpoint of every­thing in life—a temporary change to be sure, due to the influence of these people around me, but a very definite change. All the old standards of life and living seemed false, unreal, far away. If I could feel this so strongly, Viola Dane, who was emotion­ally stirred besides, must have felt it even more acutely.

  So far as her child was concerned, this was the ideal place for him. No doubt about that.

  WEDNESDAY afternoon drew on. It was four o’clock; in another hour we would put on the act. I was on the front porch, talking with Hartzell, who sat in his chair drinking in the afternoon warmth. Viola was helping her mother in the kitchen. The telephone rang, and Mrs. Hartzell answered, and then came to the door.

  “It’s a friend of yours from the city, son,” she said to me. “A Doctor Some­thing—I couldn’t get the name. Why don’t you ask him to come out for dinner?”

  “Thanks, I will,” and I made a jump for the room inside. Something was wrong, or Roesche would never be ringing me.

  “Hello!” I said. “This is a surprise; glad to hear from you! So you’re in Lebanon? The folks would like you to come out to the house for dinner. You will? Fine!”

  “I’m not the only one,” came the voice of Roesche, more sardonic than usual. “Pin your ears back, Jim! That fellow Wilson was just here—yeah, the paint and varnish playboy. He was asking how to get to Viola’s place. He’s on the way there now, and burn­ing up the road. If there’s any hitch in the program, give me a ring back. If not, I’ll stick to the outline.”

  “Fine,” I said, and rang off. “He’ll be out, Mrs. Hartzell,” I said. “Viola, let’s take a walk down the road—what say?”

  She knew something was up, and whisked off her apron. We sauntered away from the house, and once we were out of sight, I halted and told her about Wilson. She went white as a sheet.

  “Oh!” she said. “Then—then he must have found that I went away with a man. He’s frightfully jealous. And he’s come—”

  “He sure has,” I said, as she paused. “Looks like his dust down the road now. That’s why I got you out here. Whatever play you make, make it here, away from the house. Going to tip him off to the game?”

  Her head came up. She gave me one look, and in this moment I caught a flash of her mother in her face.

  “I am not,” she said quietly. Then she turned away, looking down the road at the approaching dust, in silence. It was none of my business, but I was curious to see how she would handle her marrying friend.

  It was a big car, a roadster, and Wilson was in it. He was nothing to write home about; a flabby-faced man with hot, in­tolerant, arrogant eyes. He brought the car to a halt and stared at us, without get­ting out.

  “Hello, Vi!” he exclaimed. “Hope I’m not intruding on your rural felicity?”

  “You are,” she said in a curt voice. It sounded, somehow, like her father.

  “Oh, come now!” Wilson lost his sneer. “What do you mean, running off like this without a word to anybody? I came along to meet the family, Vi—”

  “Well, you have your wish,” she said. “Mr. Wilson, this is my husband, Felix Ascher.”

  Her words hit out like a blow. I was dumbfounded; Wilson sat there with his jaw hanging. Then he straightened up.

  “My God!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “You mean—is this the man—”

  “This is the man,” cut in Viola steadily, calmly. “And we’re married. If you hadn’t come here with a sneer on your lips, I’d have told you in another manner; but you’ve asked for it and you can have it straight.”

  Wilson never uttered another word. He blinked at me, looked at Viola, then leaned forward, started his engine again, and drove away.

  “Whew!” I drew a deep breath. “There goes a lot of money, Viola. You certainly didn’t use much tact in the way you broke the news.”

  “Tact? To hell with tact!” She whirled on me savagely, angrily, her voice lashing out at me. “I’m sick and tired of your taunts and disbeliefs. You’ve thought all the time that I just wanted to be free to go marry that man. Well, maybe I did, among other things, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to stay right here with my baby, understand? That’s all there is to it. Now come on back to the house and do what I’ve paid you to do, and I never want to see you again.”

  She flounced away toward the house. When I got over my amazement, I fol­lowed her, and chuckled to myself. She had certainly put a final and complete spoke in Roesche’s argument and in our half suspicions of her!

  And I was glad. All the fine things I had sensed in her at our first meeting, were now confirmed.

  Our program went off like clockwork. I put the drops in my eyes, took the dose of the drug that would put me to sleep, and as Roesche had timed the mixture and dosage accurately, there was absolutely no mistake.

  At five o’clock, Viola telephoned to Dr. Torrens in Lebanon. Roesche was in his office, and came out to the farm with him, took care of the mirror test the first thing, and assisted to certify that I was dead as a doornail.

  I DO not wish to convey any sense of jaunty smartness on my own part. I was only too poignantly aware of the grief and shock that this business must bri
ng to the good people around. This is one aspect of my singular profession from which I always shrink.

  It is the only form of harm I have ever knowingly done anyone, and is not nice to think about even now.

  Roesche did his work, as always, with the perfect timing and aplomb of a vaude­ville artist. That night he brought me back to life; and before departing in the darkness, I helped him screw down the lid on my own weighted coffin. We had no chance to talk of other matters, how­ever.

  Not until he joined me in the city, two days later, could he ask me what had be­come of the paint and varnish playboy. I told him, and he whistled softly.

  “So I was wrong! And that explains it, too—the change in her. Well, I have to hand it to that girl after all.”

  Six months later, we were in the City of The Saints, deeply involved in a ticklish job which made us a pile of money but can never be put into print. One morning, Roesche came into my room, wearing an expression of cynical exultation.

  “Say! Remember that girl back east—that strip dancer, Viola Dane? Well, cast your headlights on this, and then tell me how wrong I am!”

  He put before me the rotogravure sheet of a Sunday supplement, which carried a lovely photo of Viola Dane, pretty much in the nude. Beneath it was the caption:

  THE SCREEN’S NEWEST RECRUIT

  Beautiful Viola Dane, Acclaimed By Critics

  As Having The Most Beautiful Figure

  in Hollywood

  “How’s that?” exclaimed Roesche. “Am I right, eh? Am I right?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re wrong, and you were always wrong about her. She just weakened, that’s all.”

  Which was probably the case. Some of these days I’ll ring her up and ask her.

  3.

  The Wife of the Humorous Gangster

  THE ability to counterfeit death—

  Yes, many’s the handsome corpse I’ve made, but never under my real name. James F. Bronson is inscribed on no tombstone. Once I learned how to earn legitimate money, and big money, I went seriously to work at it. My physical abnormality, combined with the proper drugs, helped practice make perfect.