Adventures of a Professional Corpse

by H. Bedford-Jones

  At eight o’clock that evening I walked into the Bon Ton again and found the party assembled. Once more there was a big table, with Nelly the only woman at it. Caffery had six of his men here now, all of the same type, and he had done the thing up proud, with flowers galore and silver wine-buckets and all the trimmings.

  I was the guest of honor, and he took a gleeful, chuckling pleasure in the irony of it. In the eyes of his companions, I fancied an ominous and sardonic suspense, as though they were watching and waiting; undoubtedly, Caffery had been talking about my attentions to his wife. He had not been talking to Nelly, however. She was bubbling over with high spirits, both kinds—the champagne flowed like water.

  Even when I was dancing, I could feel those deadly eyes drilling into the back of my head; it took a real effort to play my part with Nelly, but I played it according to my instructions. And she did not make it a bit hard for me, either. Knowing that she would get a scare out of the whole thing, and nothing worse. I had small hesitation in making my admiration for her quite evident.

  At the table, my seat was next to Caffery. Thus, under cover of the tablecloth, it was not difficult for him to slip a pistol into my lap. The touch of the thing startled me; I had for the moment forgotten our telephone conversation.

  “Oh, it’s not loaded,” and he was evidently amused by my repugnance. He spoke under his breath. “Stick it away and pull it when I jump you. It’ll look better.”

  “I hope you’re getting your money’s worth,” I retorted. He laughed.

  “I aim to get it, you bet!”

  Getting the pistol into a hip pocket and cursing its weight, I led Nelly out on the floor again. She must have caught some warning from one of the other men, for now she gave me a sharp admonition, not unmixed with alarm.

  “Watch your step, Mr. Leary! My husband doesn’t like free and easy ways.”

  I smiled down into her eyes. “What’s the harm, baby? I don’t make you sore, do I?”

  “You might, easy enough. Get wise; they’re watching us.”

  “Let ’em watch,” I said, and held her the more tightly. “You’re a swell dancer; come on, forget your troubles!”

  That was easy enough for her. When we came back to the table she was flushed and laughing, chattering away brightly; but under the watching, waiting eyes of those sleek men, I rather lost my confidence.

  It was just nine o’clock, and the dinner was hardly well under way, when a waiter brought a note to Caffery. He read it, and then shot a muttered order at his men. Two of them rose and went out. Even though I knew he had arranged it all, I had to admire the manner in which he handled the affair.

  “Sorry, folks,” he said to us, with a shrug and a smile. “I’ve got to pull out. Business. Mike, you stick around and enjoy yourself, and bring Nelly home later on. I’ll leave the car for you. Nelly, you see that Mike has a good time.”

  “No. I'll go with you,” she said quickly. Caffery rose, laughing.

  “Not much! I’m not going home. May not be back until late.”

  “Might as well have one more dance,” I said to Nelly.

  “Just one, then,” she assented. “We’ll finish dinner and go.”

  SO Caffery and his men said good-night, and Caffery paid for the party as he went out. There was no longer any point in my continuing with the act, so I did not try to prolong matters at all. Nelly was nervous and uneasy, and my lack of enthusiasm was not calculated to lift her sudden depression.

  “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” I demanded, as we danced. “You seem to be out of humor with everything, all at once.”

  “I am. Just wrought up, I guess—” She broke off abruptly, staring over my shoulder. Her eyes dilated. Her face went white. “Let’s get out of here, Mr. Leary. You don’t mind, do you? I’m tired of dancing.”

  “Oh, it’s all right with me,” I replied, searching for the cause of her agitation and failing to find it.

  We got off the crowded floor, came back to the table, and I persuaded her to take a swallow of wine before we left. She needed it, for some reason.

  We delayed only a moment or two, but all of a sudden she straightened up and looked at a man who was approaching our table. Her eyes flickered, and then steadied, as she pulled herself together.

  He was a short, heavy-set man in full evening dress. He was pale, with slick black hair, and there was an ugly twist to his lip. He paused at our table, gave me one swift and incurious glance, and then nodded amiably to Nelly.

  “Hello,” he said carelessly. “Where’s Caffery?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “He left a while ago.”

  “All right. Tell him I was looking for him, will you?”

  With another careless nod, the man sauntered on. He joined two other men near the entrance, and they disappeared. Nelly was looking after him, and I saw that she was white once more, but her eyes were bright and eager and not in the least terrified.

  “What’s it all about?” I asked, as she rose. “Who was your friend?”

  “My God, don’t you read the papers?” she snapped at me. “That was Nick Rafello. I’ll get my wraps and put in a phone call, and meet you at the door.”

  Rafello, eh? If he had come a few minutes earlier—well, I had missed something, and was heartily glad of it. A burning anxiety gripped me to finish this business and get rid of the whole mess.

  And yet, even as I went to the men’s room and made my own preparations, I thrilled to a glimmer of realization, of sharp suspicion. When Caffery left, the woman had been disconcerted and dismayed. When Rafello had shown up, she was agitated and alarmed; then, the look she had exchanged with Rafello—

  How had Rafello known that Dion Caffery was going to be here? Had Nelly tipped him off?

  Well, it was none of my business. In another hour I would be done with the whole racketeer crowd, and for ever. Yet I could not forget the look those two had exchanged; eyes can speak more than tongues, at times. A look of understanding, of inquiry, of tacit comprehension. Anything further had been prevented by my presence at the table.

  Was I really on the edge of underworld drama? Or was the whole business a product of my fevered imagination? Hardly likely, I thought; I could read faces. However, I had to get to work before rejoining Nelly.

  It was a scant ten minutes ride from here to the Seneca Avenue apartment of Caffery, which was just the time margin I needed. In the privacy of the men’s room, I measured out my dose of the drug mixture which would make me dead to the world, and swallowed it. Then, a much slower matter, I put the drops of homatropine and cocaine into my eyes—the drops which would deaden the cornea to any reflex test, and enlarge the pupils to simulate the look of death.

  When I rejoined Nelly at the entrance, she was impatient.

  “You certainly took your time,” she snapped. “Look here, Mr. Leary. The car’s outside and I don’t need any escort—”

  “Nonsense!” I exclaimed jovially. “Your husband told me to escort you home, and I mean to do it. Besides, it’s only plain courtesy, Nelly. Come along.”

  We got into her limousine and were driven away, and a few minutes later halted before the apartment house.

  As we went inside, I noted that the flower shop on the street level was open and was doing a good business; it was a Saturday night, so this was to be expected. Inside, Nelly tried to dismiss me again, but I insisted on going up to the apartment with her. As I was no longer paying her any devoted attention, she assented with a shrug.

  We left the elevator and came to her apartment door. She inserted a key, threw open the door, and turned to me. The passage showed empty, and I wondered if Caffery were really here.

  “Good-night, Mr. Leary,” she said. “It’s been—”

  “Oh, let me come in for a minute anyhow,” I exclaimed. “I’d like to put in a phone call, if you don’t mind.”

  She hesitated. Just then a soft, hard laugh reached us, and she swung around. Caffery appeared in the passage.

 
“Yeah, come on in,” he said. I was startled to see that his look of good humor had vanished; he was acting his part, I thought. “Come on, come on, and shut the door! I want to see you—the both of you.”

  There was an ugly note in his voice. I shoved Nelly inside, followed her, and pulled the door shut. Then, behind Caffery, appeared several of his henchmen, watching us. He drew back and ordered us into the parlor. I obeyed.

  “What’s the big idea, Caffery?” I demanded belligerently. His attention was fastened on Nelly rather than on me, and there was a blaze in his eyes.

  “Oh, you!” He swung on me with a laugh—a harsh, grating laugh. If he was pretending, he was doing it ominously well. By this time, the drug was taking pretty full effect on me, while the stuff in my eyes left me nearly blind.

  “I’ll learn you to play around with my wife,” he said viciously. “I’ll learn her a few things, too, but you first. Why, damn you, d’ye think I’m blind and dumb? You blasted cheating bastard—”

  I fumbled for the gun, could see nothing clearly, realized he was coming at me. Then something hit me over the head—something soft enough, but with a resounding thwack. I let the gun fall, and as I collapsed and lay quiet, heard Nelly scream. Then, before the drug blurred my brain, I heard something else.

  “You!” It was Caffery’s voice, hoarse now and filled with madness. “I’ve been too damned good to you, Nelly; you just took me for a sucker, eh? Well, I’ve got you dead to rights. Thought you’d bring Rafello in on me tonight and walk off with him after I was dead, eh? Shut up, damn you! I’ve got the proof of it—”

  She screamed again, uttering wild protest. Caffery’s voice reached me faintly. I could not stir; my brain was dulling out.

  “There’s your own letter to him, blast you! The woman I loved—why, good God! I’d have gone to hell for you, Nelly! And maybe I will, right now. Anyhow, you won’t play and jockey with the love of any other man—”

  There was the roaring explosion of a pistol above me, and everything was gone. I was out, and completely out.

  LATER, Roesche told me what happened there in the front room. Caffery stood as though paralyzed, staring down at the woman he had just shot; the front of her evening gown was blackened by powder. Then his men stirred and broke into action. One of them knelt beside me. They conferred briefly, Caffery standing the while and staring down like a wooden image.

  “Hey, Dion!” one of them exclaimed, and shook him by the shoulder. “Come out of it. What’ll we do about this Leary guy? You biffed him too hard; he’s croaked. Don’t matter about Nelly. We can all swear that it was suicide. Here, give me the gun—”

  He took the pistol from Caffery’s hand, wiped it with his handkerchief, and then stooped. He pressed the dead fingers of the woman about it, and rose.

  “Come on, Dion! Wake up! What about this guy?”

  Caffery came out of his stupor. His face, aged and drawn and contorted, bore a stamp of horror. Then, meeting the intent gaze of the men around, he pulled himself together.

  “Him? Leary?” A harsh cackle of mirthless laughter came from him. “Oh, to hell with him! Leave him to me; I’ll handle the matter later. Carry him into the back bedroom, two of you, and shut the door.”

  “But Dion—”

  “Do what I say, damn you!” he burst out, and they hastily obeyed. I was lifted and taken into the back room, where Roesche was hidden. And the minute we were alone together, he lost no time in fetching me back to life; not a quick job, unfortunately.

  When two of his men would have touched Nelly’s body, Caffery forbade them. Of course, his whole plan in regard to me was completely gone. There was no need of bringing in any doctor, or of bothering further with me.

  “Somebody get out there,” said Caffery, as a knock came at the door. “Some damned fools will be raising hell about the shot. Tell ’em it was an accident—anything at all. Tony! You go up and fetch Nelly’s brother down here.”

  “Her brother?”

  “Yeah,” and Caffery’s voice was grim. “He can certify to her death. She is dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  Caffery slumped, and he turned away. “All right,” he said. “Go on and do what I say. I’ll be back in no time. Keep her brother here, and keep him scared.”

  “Where you going?” one of the men asked.

  Caffery looked down at the still, dead figure of the girl. “I’m going downstairs to get some flowers,” he said gently, and his face changed and softened. “Roses. White roses. She always liked ’em best. Poor kid! She just got carried away; too much glitter. Yes, I’ll get enough white roses to cover her out of sight.”

  He looked up, met the eyes of his men, and his voice barked out at them.

  “Get busy. Round up everybody. As quick as I’ve attended to those roses, we go to work, understand? Tonight; here and now. Yes, Rafello’s got a glitter to him, damn him! There won’t be any glitter when I’m done with him. Get busy.”

  He went on out of the apartment.

  Meanwhile, Roesche had been working like a madman over me. He gave me a dangerously strong injection, for he knew what had happened out front, and was scared stiff; however, he kept his head.

  Caffery had shown him the way out. As soon as he had me half awake, he got me on my feet and rushed me out. I was dazed and groggy, of course; the descent of those back stairs of the apartment house was a nightmare. Roesche, with his arm around me, carried me part of the way, but the night air soon cleared my brain.

  Then matters came easier. Once out of that accursed place, the feeling of relief was overwhelming. We went on down, and now the alley was before us, with only another short flight of steps to cover.

  At this moment, a sound like a shot came from the street. Roesche laughed shakily.

  “Backfire, eh? Gave me a start, though—”

  Half a dozen more sounded, almost in a bunch.

  “Backfire, hell!” I exclaimed. “That’s shooting. Let’s get away from here.”

  I was able to walk fairly well now. We drifted down the alley, came out on a street, and in another five minutes were in a taxi and on the way to the hotel.

  “Well, we’re out of it,” and Roesche drew a long breath.

  “Was it a dream?” I demanded. “Did he shoot her, or did I imagine it?”

  “You imagined nothing,” Roesche said grimly, and told me what had happened.

  “Good lord!” I exclaimed. “Let’s pack and clear out by the first train—anywhere.” And we did it.

  Morning found us reaching a city three hundred miles distant. We were breakfasting in the diner, before leaving the train, when the morning papers were brought aboard. Roesche got hold of one, glanced at the headlines, and then, without a word, laid it in front of me. We read it together.

  As we descended those back stairs, the previous night, Caffery had been killed. We had heard the shots. He had been shot down as he stood in his flower shop, shot down by “parties unknown.”

  At the moment, he had been ordering white roses.

  4.

  The Affair of the Shuteye Medium

  IN RECOUNTING the singular affair of the shuteye medium, and my final appearance as a professional corpse, I desire to make it clear that I have no belief in ghosts or in the occult powers of any professional spirit guide. This understood, on with the tale!

  Doctor Roesch and I dropped into a thriving western city, got settled comfortably in a small hotel, and ran our usual ad in the local papers:

  PERSONAL: It is possible to simulate death, as I can demonstrate to interested parties. Endorsement of medical profession, absolute discretion. All work confidential but must be legal and subject to closest investigation. News Box B543.

  Our determination to stick to legal, ethical work was real. We had run close to the edge in the case of the miraculous healer’s daughter, and wanted no more of it.

  Roesch had developed many improvements in our technique. My peculiar physical attributes, having my heart on the ri
ght side in combination with a barrel chest and a very slow pulse, were not enough to trick any careful examiner into thinking me dead; but by a judicious combination of drugs that put me to sleep, Roesch was able to induce all the symptoms of death. The one thing he could not get around was the mirror test for breathing.

  However, he could manage this by being in charge of the act himself, as he must be. I would trust no one else to administer the injection that brought me out of the trance.

  Our advertisement brought the usual run of answers from curiosity seekers and crooks, which I discarded. Then came one of a different sort. It read:

  Gentlemen:

  I believe you can fit into my plans, which are entirely legal. In fact, they are philanthropic. You can assist me in saving unfortunate people from the trickery of a scoundrel. If you can convince me that you can do as you boast, and are honest, suppose we get together.

  Yours truly,

  John McWhirt.

  I tossed this letter over to Roesch.

  “Sounds interesting, Bronson,” he said when he had read it. “But when a Scotchman claims to be a philanthropist, you want to keep your eye peeled!”

  “Look him up,” I said, “and get him here this afternoon if he’s on the level. Tell him our price first.”

  Our price was high, naturally; I was not risking my life in any piker’s game. Roesch disappeared, and did not return until lunch time. When we settled down over our meal, he disgorged his information.

  “McWhirt’s coming around to look us over, Bronson. Canny is the word for him, too; but he’s straight as a string, financially good, and not a local man. He’s about fifty and was a manufacturer of chemical goods in Chicago. Now he’s retired.”

  All this whetted my curiosity, for our prospect had done little talking. When McWhirt was brought up to our hotel room an hour later, he was still slow to talk. He was a brisk, red-haired, hard-eyed man, cautious but to my notion extremely honest.

  “Gentlemen, prove to me that you can do as you say,” he told us. “Then I’ll put my cards on the table; not before.”