You Can't Kill a Corpse

by Louis Trimble

  At twelve he left his car in front of the Regent Arms. He had found an all-night florist and now he carried a huge bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in a box under his arm. He went up the steps, trying to look like a floral delivery boy. There was no one in the lobby of the Regent Arms. It turned out to be a small, neat apartment building with an air of solidity and permanence. There was a self-service elevator and Clane took it to the fifth floor. He got off and walked down the hall until he came to 543. He knocked discreetly.

  The door opened and Marilyn stood there. She looked fresh and youthful, tall and slender, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. Her dark flowered housecoat showed her slim but good figure. Her eyes were big and, Clane decided again, one of her nicest features. Her broad mouth held a hint of laughter as she looked calmly at him. She smiled and stepped back.

  The apartment was like the building that housed it, small and neat and permanent-looking. The furniture was plainly not Marilyn’s; it lacked her quiet personality. But she had put touches of her own here and there that gave Clane the feeling that she had lived there for some time. There was a low, wide, well filled bookcase, a number of prints on the pastel-tinted paper walls, all of them familiar to Clane but none of them stereotyped subjects, and bits of bric-a-brac, all of which seemed to fit her.

  She took the box when Clane extended it to her and said, “Thank you. I can smell them, so I’ll get a vase.” She was perfectly natural and Clane was relieved. He was tired of coquetry and people who mixed their business with pleasure.

  She came back with the roses in a long, slender vase of creamy white clay. She set it on the radio. “They are lovely,” she said. Her rich voice was very warm. “I’ll bribe more easily after this,” she added with a slight laugh. She sat on the couch. Clane sat at the other end. He offered her a cigarette. She accepted it and bent toward him as he lighted a match.

  “I’m making some tea,” she told him. “It’s the strongest thing I have.”

  “Good enough,” Clane said. “What hours do you have on that board?”

  “Abrupt, aren’t you? Usually afternoons. But today I took over at nine this morning.” Clane’s eyebrows went up and she explained, “The other girl took sick and they couldn’t find the relief operator. They called me in. I had a little rest and I made it until eleven okay.”

  “A hard life,” Clane commented.

  “The hotel business.” She smiled again. “It has its points.”

  “Meaning Christmas presents?”

  Her eyes danced. “I’m not very subtle.” A hard whistling sound brought her upright. “Tea water’s ready.” She went into the kitchen. Clane relaxed, feeling completely at ease for the first time since he had walked into Dunlop. This place was restful, this girl was restful. He thought, not without amusement, that she made him feel at home. More, he realized, he had a sensation of safety here, as if it were a hideaway where no one could reach him. He stretched his legs in front of him and sighed deeply.

  When she came back she brought a tray with a teapot, two cups, sugar and cream, and a plate of cookies. She said, “They’re home-made—and good.”

  Clane ate a cookie and agreed with her. He told her so and asked for sugar in his tea. He leaned his head back. She passed him the tea. “You look done in,” she said sympathetically.

  “I’m doing fine now. I like this place.”

  “Strictly business,” she said. “We’re exchanging Christmas presents, remember.”

  Clane grinned half to himself. He said, “Then you have the register?”

  “I made a list off the telephone board and when the clerk was washing up at eleven I checked with the file. I’m pretty sure it’s all here.” She rose and took her purse from a desk near the door. She came back with a small notebook. She opened it and handed it to Clane. There were two pages, sixty lines, filled with names and room numbers.

  Clane said, “What kind of fur do you like?”

  “Rabbit would satisfy my simple tastes,” she said. She seemed amused.

  Clane ran his eye down the list. “Is this E. L. Pryor the mayor?”

  “Yes. He relaxes at the Met once in a while.”

  “In Ed Thorne’s hotel?”

  “Wickett kept a room there,” she said “Pryor uses it.” She shook her head. “And don’t go picking on Ed Thorne. We’re both working for him or I don’t think I’d be doing this. He’s a swell guy. Don’t forget that ours is the only decent hotel in town. No others are swank enough for the big boys.”

  Clane said, “I’ll remember it. So Pryor was on seven today.” He read on. Then he said in an odd voice, “Rabbit isn’t enough. How about Persian lamb?”

  “It costs too much,” she said.

  “Pick out the one you want tomorrow,” Clane told her.

  She looked at him, her eyes huge, her smiling mouth parted. “You aren’t kidding? Are you sure this list is all you want?”

  Clane had to grin. The girl was quick. “You make fine cookies. I might marry you too.”

  “For a Persian lamb coat you wouldn’t have to,” she said, laughing. “Almost.”

  Clane was staring at the list. “Grando had a room on seven. And so did Bob Morgan, Junior!”

  SEVENTEEN

  Marilyn Anderson was regarding Clane curiously. Her eyes were two shades of brown, a dark background with light, almost tan flecks in them. She looked so steadily at him that he finally turned to her.

  He said,” I always talk to myself that way.” He drank appreciatively of his tea and relaxed again. “Just what are your ideas on Wickett’s murder?”

  “Why pick on me?” she asked.

  “You’re a working person, maybe an average voter—if that isn’t too insulting. You’re fairly close to some things, working in Thorne’s hotel.”

  She shook her head, smiling slightly. “Most of what I hear on the phone goes in one side and out the other. I can’t help you much. Unless …” She paused and regarded him thoughtfully. Clane waited, his teacup poised halfway up from the coffee table. She was silent now, seemingly drawn within herself. Then she shook her head again.

  “You wouldn’t feel so good if you thought the telephone girl shot off her mouth, would you?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry unless I knew that a lot of interested guys—interested in Jim Clane—had the price of a fur coat.”

  She took it the way it was meant and grinned at him. “That isn’t the point. There’s such a thing as a confidence, and friendship.”

  “Any specific friendship?”

  “Please don’t try to trap me. I’m not even an amateur at this business.”

  Clane said, “Anyway, you can give me your opinion on the murder.”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Anthony Wickett was a heel. That’s public opinion. But he had money, too. That made him a gold-plated heel—and people don’t mind them so much.”

  “They just can’t do anything about them,” Clane corrected her.

  “Whichever way,” she said, “Wickett got away with a lot. He was a woman chaser. He played his politics hard and dirty. That’s common knowledge.”

  “Gossip?”

  “Sure, but hotel gossip has a way of being close to right. Lots of things happen in hotels.”

  “You know your politics?” Clane asked her.

  “The Metropole is a convention hotel,” she said.

  “Then correct me if I’m wrong,” Clane told her. He finished his tea and waved aside another cup. “Wickett was backing Pryor just as his father did for almost twenty years. Paul Grando and Pryor played ball and Grando threw him the factory section and the slum votes.” He paused, searching for more of the information he had stored before coming to Dunlop.

  “You learn fast,” she said.

  He went on: “A few years back Ed Thorne owned a paper as well as a hotel. He threw his weight against Wickett and Pryor and lost. He forfeited the paper in that deal.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “He went in up to his
neck. Wickett outfoxed him.”

  “Then Thorne isn’t an old-timer in politics?”

  “No more than any business man,” she said. “He inherited the paper.”

  “Like Wickett did?”

  “No,” she answered. “From his first wife.”

  Clane said, “For God’s sake! People do keep their mouths shut in this town. I thought Natalie was his first.”

  Marilyn Anderson smiled at his outburst. “No, the second. They’ve only been married three years. Thorne’s first wife died and left the paper to him. She had never run it—an uncle had passed it on to her. Castle had always run it while she was alive.”

  “Oh,” Clane said. “Castle again.”

  She nodded. “Castle was the first Mrs. Thorne’s half-brother.”

  Clane said, “Keep talking.”

  “And,” she added, “when the paper went to Thorne, Castle figured on going on as he had been.”

  Clane finished for her: “Thorne took it over and shot it to pieces” against Wickett.”

  “That’s about it.”

  Clane said, “And now Castle’s daughter works for Thorne as a maid.”

  She sat up straight. “Don’t jump on Ed Thorne. He’s a swell guy. He made a mistake, is all.”

  “Sure,” Clane said. “Thorne’s my boss, too. But back to politics: Thorne took a second flyer and came up with Morgan. Wickett outfoxed him once and it looks like his corpse is doing it the second time. What is Thorne after?”

  She said, “A chance to break Wickett and Pryor. Wickett is defunct but Pryor is still there. Now Grando can step in and push the works around. He can handle Pryor and he can handle Driggs.”

  “Why Driggs?”

  “He’s the man to step into Wickett’s shoes—for a while, anyway. He knew all the policies.”

  “What about Watson?” Clane asked. “The suicide boy.”

  “Watson,” she said quickly, “was a Thorne man. He was biding his time—and this election meant that he went back on top with Thorne and Morgan or he went bust. He didn’t hide his feelings very well recently.”

  Clane said,” I heard Watson worked for Paul Grando.”

  Her eyebrows went up. She said thoughtfully, “From whom?”

  “Sorry,” Clane said. “But it sounded like the goods.”

  She leaned back on the couch, her eyes closed, her mouth a tight line of concentration. Finally she stirred and looked at Clane. “Funny,” she said, “how you hear things and forget them and then they pop out at you when you can’t duck.” She stood up, pushing herself lithely away from the divan. “I think a brandy would be in order now.”

  Clane said, “Nothing stronger than tea in the house?”

  She laughed. “I wanted to see what you were after before I broke out the stimulant. Mind?”

  “No,” he said. “And I’ll take the brandy.”

  Clane waited until she came back into the room with two small glasses and a bottle of brandy. When his glass was in his hand he said, “Who do you think killed Wickett?”

  She sat down carefully, smoothing her housecoat with her free hand. “For a while I thought like everyone else—Morgan.”

  “For a while?”

  She sniffed her brandy. “Let that pass. Just say, Morgan.”

  Clane repeated, “Like everybody else—Morgan. Nice thought. Why the opinion?”

  “Morgan has two interests in life,” she said. “His oil business and his daughter. He’s a cold fish of a man, you know that. When Bob was born his wife died. He turned to the girl and raised the boy only because he felt a moral compulsion.”

  “You get around,” Clane remarked.

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” she explained. “You learn a lot in twenty-six years—if your ears are clean.”

  Clane said, “You’re trying to tell me that Morgan killed Wickett because of his daughter?”

  “I said Wickett was a heel and a woman chaser.”

  “I’ll concede,” he said. “What about Watson?”

  “Wasn’t that a suicide?” she asked quietly. She was looking into her glass.

  Clane stood up, emptying the brandy into his mouth and taking it in one swallow. “Thank for everything, Marilyn. You hit the hay now—and don’t forget your coat tomorrow.”

  She rose and followed him to the door. She was quite tall and he had only to tilt his head a slight bit to look into her face. She was smiling at him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hand out too much,” she said. “But I have a guilty conscience over that list of names already.”

  Clane said, “I’ve got it in my head. You burn the list.” He opened the door and then turned and bent his head. Her lips came willingly to meet his. He kept the kiss on a friendly level.

  He raised his head. “Good night, Marilyn.”

  “Come again, Jim Clane,” she said to him. “You laid yourself open doing that. Twenty-six years is a long time to wait for a guy.”

  Clane closed the door on her.

  He took the quickest way back to the hotel. It was a half-mile drive. Main was darkening when he came to it, and the hotel itself was the brightest light in Dunlop.

  Clane went through the lobby, stopped for his key, and then turned toward the elevator. He slowed halfway to it, watching the man who was coming rapidly toward him. It was Paul Grando. He turned so that by the time Clane had reached the elevator he was side by side with him. Clane reached out to push the button.

  Grando said, “You have lots of acquaintances for a stranger, Clane.”

  “I make friends fast,” Clane said quietly. “But I’m choosy.”

  Paul Grando tossed his cigar butt into a sand jar. “Sometimes that pays—being choosy. It might even be a good idea to be more that way for a while.”

  Clane said irritably, “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

  The elevator came down and the doors slid open. Grando looked at Clane, his small black eyes without humor. But his lips smiled. “The Morgans are nice people, especially the girl. Very nice.”

  “And so is Mrs. Thorne,” Clane said.

  “I was thinking of her, too,” Grando answered.

  They stepped into the elevator. Clane said, “Six.” To Grando he said, “Anyone else?”

  “Not off-hand.” He was silent until the elevator stopped at six. As Clane started to get out, Grando touched his arm. “Free advice is sometimes worth a lot.”

  Clane said, “Quote to Grando, ‘Shove it.’ Unquote.” He walked down the hall.

  He could see the light under his door before he reached it. So he went quietly along the carpeted floor. He was still sore at Grando, at his cheap theatricals, but it didn’t stop him from being cautious. Clane put out a hand and turned the knob slowly. The door was locked. He put his key in, softly. He held his breath, listening before he turned the key.

  A soft, deep snore reached his ears. He turned the key in the lock with as little noise as possible and pushed the door inward. He shut the door behind him, his mouth open as he looked at the armchair.

  Lieutenant Mullen was sitting there, his feet stretched out, his eyes heavy with sleep. Clane’s noise, slight as it was, seemed to have waked him. He yawned, smiled apologetically, and looked his usual wistful self.

  Clane said, “The bed is softer.”

  Lieutenant Mullen shook his head. “I’m on duty—no luxuries. You keep late hours, Clane.”

  “Damn it,” Clane said, “don’t you start hen-pecking me, too. Twice in one night is enough. Twice in five minutes is too much.”

  “I just came to apologize,” the lieutenant said softly.

  Clane sat on the edge of the bed and started to unlace his shoes. “For what?” he asked.

  Mullen watched, fascinated, until the first shoe hit the floor. Then he said, “For accusing you of killing Wickett. I didn’t want you to lose any sleep over it, so I brought the news.”

  “Before the papers get it, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” Mullen said. “In fact, this is q.t. fo
r now.”

  “And you bring it to me?”

  Mullen smiled. “I’m a nice guy.”

  “All right,” Clane said. “Who did you pinch?”

  “Bob Morgan,” Mullen said.

  “You dumb bastards!”

  “Bob Morgan, Junior,” Mullen amended.

  Clane put his head down and went to work on his other shoe.

  EIGHTEEN

  After a moment, Clane said, “Apologize, hell! What do you want to know, Mullen?”

  Lieutenant Mullen looked more wistful than ever. “You and the kid were thick, Clane. I thought you might want to help him.”

  “Not when you’ve got him sewed in your clink,” Clane said. “Did you pin Castle on him, too?”

  “That first,” Mullen said. “It led right to Wickett.”

  “And to Watson, I suppose?”

  “That was suicide,” Mullen said.

  Clane deliberately dropped the second shoe. Then he stood up and went into the bathroom. He came back and got his pajamas and robe from the closet. He shut the door. In five minutes he was back, his suit over his arm. He hung it carefully in the closet, draping his tie over the coat-hanger that held his shirt. He shut the closet door and went back to the bed. He took a cigarette from a pack on the night stand. He lit and watched Mullen.

  Mullen said, “I want the answer to one question, Clane.”

  “Shoot.” Clane yawned widely and loudly.

  “What did you find out at Wickett’s today?”

  “At Wickett’s?”

  “From Mickey—the maid.”

  Clane said. “She told me she and Bob parked in the back sitting-room and necked—kid stuff. Then at ten he shooed her off to bed. One of Wickett’s rules. He escorted her to her side of the house, said good night, and she went upstairs. She presumed he went home. Didn’t he?”

  “Did he?”

  “That,” Clane said, “you’ll have to get Bob to tell you. I don’t know. Good night, Mullen.”

  “By God,” Mullen said, “if …”

  He stopped and looked wistful again. Clane said, “If—what?”

  Mullen pulled a telegram out his pocket. “They delivered this tonight. I think it’s yours.”