The Kissed Corpse

by Brett Halliday

  Dwight hurried forward to take her arm, and the chauffeur set two traveling bags out on the concrete.

  “More stuff and such,” Laura exclaimed ecstatically. “The Widow Wore White would make a swell lead line.”

  “For a story you’re not going to write,” Burke growled.

  “But you don’t know what I can do with a sensational sex angle,” she cried with shining eyes. “It looks as though she’s moving in. Did Dwight kill her husband?”

  “That,” Burke told her, “is one of the things we don’t know … yet.” He paused, watching Dwight and Myra go in the front door together; went on in a different tone:

  “That story was good work. There’s nothing like publicity to smoke out a stink.”

  I looked at him in astonishment. “Did you know she was going to sell out to the Free Press?”

  Burke laughed. “I could see her itching to get to a typewriter last night … and I knew the Free Press would headline any story they could twist into a slam at me. But I intend to censor your next story,” he went on to Laura. “Where are the keys to your car?”

  “In the ignition. But you needn’t be afraid I’ll leave. I’ll stick around and see what happens.”

  “I know you won’t leave until you get a story,” Burke agreed. “But we can get along nicely without further publicity until we have Young’s murderer.” He went to Laura’s car and took her ignition keys, stalked away without a backward glance.

  Her red lips smiled after him. “What a masterful brute he turned out to be.” Her gaze strayed on to the shabby car with its Mexican license and she ceased smiling. “You didn’t tell me the O’Toole menace was here.”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  It was difficult to remain angry with her when she smiled with disarming frankness and said: “Let’s not be stuffy.”

  She put her hand on my arm and I let her lead me to a garden seat where we could see the red rim of the sun above the horizon.

  “Tell me what’s been happening,” she said as we sat down together.

  I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to her. She accepted, and leaned close for a light when I struck a match, her eyes fixed on mine.

  “You hate me, don’t you?”

  I said, “No,” and lit my cigarette.

  She sank back, with half-closed eyes contemplating the glowing tip of her cigarette. “We’re both after the same thing … material we can sell. Why do you begrudge me my share of the profits in a nice, juicy, murder?”

  The woman was always putting me on the defensive, and I didn’t relish it. “The Free Press is a muckraking sheet,” I told her heatedly. “They’ve been on Jerry Burke’s tail ever since he took the job of cleaning up El Paso.”

  “That’s exactly why I sold them my story. No other paper would have played it up so sensationally and brought Rodriguez, Hardiman and Dwight out in the open,” she came back irritably. “Aroused public opinion is going to make it difficult for them to put over a pirate deal.”

  “And the Free Press will use the issue as fuel to make another attempt to drive Burke out of town. I have a hunch that in cleaning up El Paso, Burke has cleaned out their pockets to a great extent … theirs and their henchmen’s.”

  She laughed softly. “From what I’ve seen of Burke, he gives the impression of not being very good at running. Besides, I dug through some old copies of the Free Press last night and checked up on some of his activities.”

  “The Free Press is no criterion for what Burke has done,” I told her. Then I went down the line on how the sheet had tried to hold him back … and also how Jelcoe, with his slapstick sleuthing had given Burke a lot of trouble.

  She laughed again when I finished. “Chief Jelcoe came to my apartment with a search warrant after lunch. He wouldn’t tell me what he was looking for, but he seemed awfully disappointed and stamped out after going through all my things and leaving them scattered all over the floor. He refused to discuss the case with me, but left the impression that he would like to pin it on Myra Young.”

  “He might have succeeded if Dwight hadn’t popped up with an alibi for her.”

  “What does the Mastermind think?”

  “You’ll be doing better than I can if you get an opinion out of Jerry Burke,” I answered gloomily. “The only definite statement he has made is that he’s convinced the anonymous telephone threat had a direct connection with Young’s death.”

  I was feeling a lot better after my spiel about the Free Press and Jelcoe. I relaxed, and Laura did too, over my way. Presently she said:

  “O’Toole will bear watching. I have an idea she can sprout claws on her little soft paws at will. And that hard-faced watchdog of hers looks capable of anything.”

  I agreed to that, recalling the dagger he wielded over me and the pistol he held in my ribs. Laura had not met Desta Dwight, and she listened interestedly while I described Desta and our interview with her.

  “She sounds like another good suspect,” she commented.

  I nodded. “Jerry and I agreed it lay between you and her.” I tried to make my voice sound joking but I’m afraid I wasn’t very successful.

  She asked in a low tone: “Do you believe me capable of murder?”

  I hesitated, then said: “Yes, damn it, I do.”

  She laughed and let her head lie back against my shoulder. “You and I are going to get along. And you’re right … I am perfectly capable of murder.” Her voice was as calm and steady as if she were discussing her ability at tennis or quoits.

  A faint chill came with the setting of the sun. Dwight’s chauffeur drove away toward the city and I remember wondering if he was going in to pick up Senor Rodriguez. That would bring all the actors in the life-drama together and I felt that the solution would be a relatively simple one of untangling the various motives and cross-motives of them all.

  It was very quiet on the lawn. Serene and peaceful after a hectic twenty-four hours. I had a feeling that it was all over … and I didn’t have half enough material for a book.

  An upstairs window was suddenly flung up behind us, and Laura and I turned on the garden seat as a woman’s scream of terror knifed through the soft mantle of twilight.

  Through the dim light we saw two women struggling on the ledge of an open window twenty feet above the ground.

  13

  The screaming was over by the time we reached the house and were running up the stairway, but we were led by the sound of scuffling and loud voices to a front bedroom where Desta Dwight was struggling in Burke’s arms to get at Myra, who was collapsed on the floor. Dwight and Marvin Moore were also there, and everyone was talking loudly and at the same time.

  Desta was pretty drunk. She writhed in Burke’s grip, spitting out non-juvenile epithets at the sobbing widow whose white dress no longer looked jaunty.

  Raymond Dwight was gently lifting Myra up from the floor, while Marvin sagged against a bedpost in an alcoholic stupor.

  Burke pushed Desta back into a chair and clapped a big hand over her mouth. The stopping of her shrill voice let us hear Dwight saying solicitously to Myra:

  “It’s all right, dear. Everything’s going to be all right. If anyone gets thrown out of this house it will be Desta, not you.”

  Myra sagged against him, sobbing. There were three ugly red marks on her cheek where Desta had slapped her, and one sleeve of her dress was torn.

  Standing in the doorway with me taking it all in, Laura giggled as Burke jerked his hand away from Desta’s mouth with an oath. Blood smeared his palm where she had bitten him.

  The girl’s hysteria had left her and she was in that cold unreasoning stage of drunkenness in which a vagrant idea becomes an obsession.

  Her obsession-of-the-moment was a violently murderous hatred of Myra Young.

  “I’m not going to stand for it. I’ll kill you first. Moving into my room just because it connects with Pops’! No bitch is going to put me out of my own room. Why don’t you move in with Pops and be done w
ith it?” Desta’s voice was controlled but her eyes were crazy.

  Dwight tenderly laid Myra back on the bed, then whirled on his daughter: “Shut your mouth, Desta. You’ve caused enough trouble.…”

  “Not as much as I’m going to cause.” She stood up and Burke stepped back, watching her narrowly.

  “I know what’s been going on around here. You haven’t been fooling me. I’m through keeping quiet and when I tell what I know …”

  Raymond Dwight moved swiftly for so heavy a man. Before anyone could stop him, he was across the room and his big hand struck his daughter a sweeping blow in the mouth. She sank back limply with a gurgle of fright.

  Burke shouldered Dwight aside and stood over the girl. “Go on and tell us what you know,” he commanded. “I’ll see that no one touches you.”

  A look of cunning came over Desta’s face. She shook her head, seemingly sobered by her father’s slap. “I don’t know what I was going to say. I guess I just went sort of crazy when I found Pops installing that woman in my room without a word to me. I’m sorry I … caused so much trouble. If I could have a drink …” She looked around hopefully.

  With a snort of anger the oil man turned his back on his daughter and went back to Myra. Passing Marvin, he gave the youth a shove toward the door. “Get Desta out of here … and the rest of you might clear out, too.”

  Burke walked over to us with a grim smile on his face. “That seems to ring down the curtain. I think I could use a drink.”

  Marvin had hold of Desta’s arm and was urging her outside as we three went down the hall together. Laura’s eyes were very bright but her forehead was puckered with a frown.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” she said hopelessly. “I would have sworn Myra was in love with her husband.”

  “It hasn’t taken her long to get over it if she was,” Burke said, sardonically. “She’s making no bones about moving right in to the front bedroom connecting with Dwight’s.”

  The butler, two men-servants and a maid were grouped at the foot of the stairs, looking up fearfully.

  Burke paused and said: “If any of you mix the Dwight girl another drink tonight, make it plenty light.” He paused while they all nodded, then went on: “Where are the Mexican guests?”

  “They’re having a cocktail with Mr. Hardiman on the side lawn, sir,” the butler replied.

  “We’ll join them. Bring out some more cocktails, and the rest of you go on about your affairs. Everything’s all right upstairs.”

  We went out the front door and around on the flagged walk to the spot where we had first seen Desta and Marvin. It was that period of half-darkness when the last lingering light of day seems reluctant to give way to night. There were colored electric bulbs strung between the trees but it wasn’t dark enough for them to give off much light.

  Michaela and Hardiman were seated at a round metal table. In a cushioned chair a little back of them, Pasqual seemed more than ever the alert watchdog. A lowtoned conversation between man and girl ceased as Burke went up to them. Laura’s hand on my arm guided me to a garden seat ten feet away where we could see and hear everything.

  Stopping at the table, Burke said: “You folks seem to take attempted murder right in your stride.”

  The tall man stood up. He said coldly: “I don’t believe I’ve met you.”

  “I’m Jerry Burke, in charge of a murder investigation. You’re Hardiman, of course, of the State Department.”

  Hardiman inclined his head. “Miss O’Toole has just been telling me how a local newspaper has chosen to misinterpret my presence in El Paso.”

  “The Free Press has a habit of misinterpreting my presence here,” Burke said wearily. He sat down without waiting for an invitation. After a slight moment of hesitation, Hardiman also sat down. Michaela watched Burke with her head tilted a little, but did not say anything.

  “Dwight has sent his car in for Senor Rodriguez,” Burke told them. “When the Senor arrives I’m going to demand that all of you lay your cards on the table before me where I can count them.”

  “By what authority do you make such a demand?” Hardiman asked him.

  Burke’s fist struck the metal top of the table angrily. “I’m tired of getting the run-around. I’m only interested in murder. I’ve assured Dwight I shan’t dig into any other angle. If you’re using your official influence to force a settlement from the Mexican government in Dwight’s favor … that’s your dirty linen. No doubt he promised you a big enough cut to make it worth your while. My business is …”

  “That is a libelous accusation, Mr. Burke. I’ll ask you to make a full retraction.”

  The two men glared at each other in the dim light. Hardiman, coldly austere; Burke, hunched forward, his heavy jaw uncompromisingly squared.

  A servant came with a tray of cocktails. Burke relaxed and took one. The man brought the tray to us, and Laura took an Old-fashioned while I selected a Side-car from the assortment he offered.

  Burke filled his pipe and leaned back to sip his drink. Hardiman didn’t relax. He continued to lean forward stiffly:

  “I’m waiting for your retraction.”

  Burke sighed. “I’ve told you I’m not interested in anything except murder. What you and Rodriguez do or don’t do is your own affair … except as it concerns Leslie Young’s death.”

  “You haven’t intimated what possible connection you suspect there may be, Mr. Burke.”

  Burke motioned to Michaela. “Ask her.”

  “What does the man mean?” Hardiman demanded of the Mexican girl.

  Michaela shrugged her shoulders with Latin expressiveness. She spoke for the first time since Burke had joined them.

  “I will tell you nothing.”

  Laura’s elbow nudged me. “There’ll be fireworks for sure if your friend ever mixes with that gal.”

  The American diplomat’s fingertips were drumming on the table. “It appears to me you are taking a great deal for granted, Mr. Burke.”

  “You have to in my business.” His voice remained unperturbed. “Do you know why Miss O’Toole invited Leslie Young to the hacienda the same night she was expecting you and Dwight?”

  Hardiman glanced aside at the girl’s enigmatic features. “All this talk about Leslie Young is absurd,” he protested. “I don’t even know the man.”

  “I’m quite sure he was murdered to prevent him from keeping that appointment.”

  It was dark, and the overhead globes lighted the faces of the trio clearly. It was like having the front seat at an absorbing play.

  “There’s some mystery here,” Hardiman exclaimed impatiently.

  Jerry Burke laughed shortly and knocked out his pipe. “That makes two of us, Mr. Hardiman. You might clear up one angle by explaining how you were able to sit here unconcernedly while a woman was screaming bloody murder out an upstairs window.”

  “We were assured by a servant that it was a family affair and there was nothing we could do,” Hardiman told him stiffly.

  “It’s a screwy household,” Burke muttered. “Perhaps after I’ve been around a few days I won’t pay any attention to such minor matters either.”

  Michaela smiled. She looked more like a naive child than an adventuress when she smiled. “It is nice that we will be protected by a policeman. But I am bored with too much talk and I think I will go inside where there is not so much protection.”

  She got up and glanced at Pasqual. He followed her into the house as though she had ordered him to heel. Burke looked after them, shaking his head.

  Hardiman leaned forward and asked: “How long is this farce going to continue?”

  “Until I learn why Michaela O’Toole invited Leslie Young to meet with you and Dwight at the Hacienda del Torro. You could help by telling me why you and Dwight were there.”

  “So far as I know the meeting was arranged simply to provide a place for us to meet Senor Rodriguez without causing public comment.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I leave
that to your imagination,” Hardiman countered urbanely.

  There was the purr of a powerful motor climbing the concrete drive to the house. Burke stood up.

  “That will be Dwight’s limousine bringing Senor Rodriguez safely away from a patriotic Mexican mob. You’re playing with fire when you connive at what they regard as treachery. Mexicans take their politics lots more seriously than you in Washington are accustomed to. The deal you and Rodriguez are cooking up contains enough dynamite to cause a dozen murders. Think that over while pulling your dollar diplomacy coups.” He got up and strolled toward the house.

  Hardiman followed him after a moment of indecision.

  Laura set her empty glass down. “Jerry Burke is going to have plenty of trouble digging any facts out of this gang.”

  “You haven’t been such a hell of a big help,” I reminded her. “You were the last person to see Young alive. Exactly what did he tell you about Michaela’s letter … and about the telephoned threat?”

  “Not very much.” She appeared to be honestly striving to remember. “He just laughed at the threat. You didn’t know Leslie, did you? He was the perfect fictional soldier of fortune. He’d been shot at so often that one more threat against his life meant less than nothing to him. The only way he could explain the note was the possible connection between the writer and his old buddy, Mike O’Toole, of Mexico and points south.”

  “Michaela’s father, according to Burke’s information.”

  She nodded, frowning. “That’s what doesn’t add up at all. The Mike O’Toole Leslie used to know was an out and out Communist. His daughter is supposed to have followed along in his footsteps, yet here she is conniving with a couple of political scavengers to put one over on her own country. Her connection with this oil fix simply doesn’t make sense.”

  “There’s enough money involved to make sense out of anything.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Laura told me quickly. “It’s impossible for an idealist like you to be convincingly cynical.”