You Can't Kill a Corpse

by Louis Trimble

  “No,” Clane said, “I’m healthy but I don’t pay any life insurance premiums—they want too much.”

  “So this is a job with you. Do you marry every time?”

  Clane turned and looked at her. His eyes were amused but he kept his puffed lips straight. “I like to vary my technique.”

  “Are you going to stay in Dunlop?” she demanded. She was studying her cigarette now, flicking ashes into a vase. She didn’t look at him.

  “If Morgan is elected, yes. I’ll have a job.”

  “Political?”

  “You might call it that.”

  “You realize I don’t know a damned thing about you,” she said.

  “Mutual,” Clane reminded her.

  “I don’t want to quit work for a while.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “Are you marrying me or a switchboard?”

  “I’d feel funny as hell with a switchboard,” Clane said. “I might get all tangled up.”

  She dropped her cigarette into the vase. It hissed as it hit the water. “I’ll make the coffee,” she said abruptly.

  Clane finished the bacon, put the toast under the broiler, and put on the eggs. By the time the coffee was ready he had breakfast on the table. Marilyn added fruit juice. They sat down in silence; it remained until they had finished breakfast. Clane poured the last of the coffee into their cups.

  “Mind if I bum a cigarette?”

  She handed him the pack. He took one and pushed the pack back to her. She leaned toward him when he struck a match. Clane lit both cigarettes and then dropped the match into the vase. She stood up and got an ashtray from the other room.

  “I’ll have to train you,” she said. “I’m the only one who uses that vase. It’s a private habit.”

  Clane said, “Where do we go?”

  “The next county is forty-five minutes away; the state line is an hour’s drive. Take your choice.”

  “We’ll try the next state,” Clane said.

  She said nothing until she had finished her coffee. Then she dropped her cigarette butt into the vase again and rose. “I’ll get dressed.”

  “Bring my shoes when you come out,” Clane suggested. He went into the living room and opened the front door. “Where’s the morning paper?” he called.

  “They leave it in the lobby,” she answered.

  Clane went to the lobby in his stocking feet. He found a stack of morning papers and took one. When he reached the apartment again he heard water running. He sighed, wishing he could afford the time for a bath.

  He went into the kitchen and did a hasty job of stacking the breakfast dishes. Then he went back into the living room and sat down on the couch. He turned on the reading lamp and unfolded the paper. He went through it methodically. There was no news of Bob Morgan’s arrest, no news of J. B. Castle, nor of Watson. There was a rehash on the Wickett murder with a statement by the police that a sensational disclosure would be made soon.

  On the next to the last page Clane found a good-sized item. There was little print but the head was fairly large. The item announced that sometime during the night the Morgan residence had been visited by prowlers. According to Miss Edith Morgan, daughter of the candidate for mayor, her brother’s apartment over the garage had been ransacked. Until her brother returned from a visit with friends she would be unable to tell if anything had been stolen.

  “Visit with friends!” Clane snorted. He thought, “And isn’t she covering herself!”

  Marilyn came out of the bedroom. She wore a dull green suit with a thin line of fur trim. Her hat Clane regarded as outlandish and useless but he said nothing. Under one arm she carried a purse that faintly resembled her hat. In the other hand she held Clane’s shoes. She tossed them to him. He put them on, got his coat, topcoat, and hat, and led her out of the door.

  She directed and he drove. They rode the first few miles in silence; then Clane started to talk. Leaving out only a few instances, he gave her a detailed résumé of his actions since he had walked into town. She listened, saying nothing.

  Clane’s account took up the time until they arrived in the medium-sized county seat across the state line. They went into the license bureau and then before a justice of the peace. It took less than half an hour altogether. When they were through Clane escorted her to a jewelry store. He said, “Take your pick.” He did not seem overly cheerful.

  She looked oddly at him. There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes and her mouth trembled a little. She said, “I’m going to be a baby and I shouldn’t. I made a fool of myself with my eyes open.”

  Clane said, “Would the dazzle of a diamond close them? And then we might see if we can locate that fur coat.”

  “I have it picked out in Dunlop,” she said. She went to the counter of the store. Fifteen minutes later they left, Clane poorer, Marilyn’s finger richer by a matched set of rings. They walked back to the car.

  Clane drove back across the line before either of them spoke. She admired her rings, for the tenth time taking off her glove to look at them. Finally she said, “Jim, why else did you marry me?”

  Clane kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Darling, in about twelve hours the cops may be after me. So will all the political playboys of Dunlop. So will everyone else. I hope to raise a lot of hell, starting tonight.

  “You really want my help?”

  “Maybe,” Clane said. “The idea, more or less, is that as my wife you can’t be forced to testify against me.”

  She thought it over and then she said, “I won’t have time to testify now anyway. I’m late for work.”

  Clane took the hint and drove her to the hotel when they reached town. She went in, putting her rings in her purse at his suggestion. He drove his car to the garage and parked. Then he started down the street, his fingers tightly around the Ediphone record.

  Clane went to a small business college he located through the phone book. He told the manager, “I want to use an Ediphone machine—privately.”

  “Do you wish a girl to transcribe for you?” she asked.

  Clane said, “I don’t want to make a record. I have one. I’m silly about myself. I love the sound of my own voice.”

  It cost him fifteen minutes and five dollars but he got the room. He went into it, a cubicle at the back of the school, and shut the door. He fumbled with the machine until he had the record on and playing. He sat down to listen.

  Clane recognized a distorted Anthony Wickett. Hearing the voice gave him an eerie feeling. Wickett said, “Sit down, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I’ll stand.” Clane recognized the clipped, cold voice of Robert Morgan.

  Wickett said, “I’m rather busy tonight.”

  Morgan: “You’ll give me a minute. What I said this afternoon still holds, Wickett. I want you to leave Edith alone.”

  Wickett: “And if I don’t?”

  Morgan: “I’ll bring you into court.”

  Wickett: “On what count?”

  Morgan: “Damaging her reputation, damage to her health, to her nervous system.”

  Wickett: “You’ll make a fool of yourself. You can’t afford that now.”

  Morgan: “My daughter means more than the campaign.”

  Wickett: “Have you asked your daughter if she wants you to be so damned noble, Morgan?”

  Morgan: “I don’t have to.”

  Wickett: “You’d save a lot of trouble if you did. She happens to like me.”

  Morgan: “I happen to know that is a lie. You’re blackmailing her.”

  Wickett: “Now it’s my turn to sue. You’re a fool, Morgan. I suppose she told you that?”

  Morgan: “I have my own sources of information.”

  Wickett: “Then they should tell you that Blake Watson is the man for you to see, not me. Good night.”

  Morgan: “I won’t be put off …”

  The sound of a gunshot vibrated on the record. Clane jumped. Then he heard Morgan’s voice again: “Wickett!”

  There was a se
ries of noises Clane deciphered as running footsteps, a door closing, then silence. Clane shut off the record as it reached the end. He looked at it. “Corn!” he said.

  He put the record back in its carboard tube. “Corn that will hang Morgan,” he muttered. He left the building.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ed Thorne was in his library when Clane was ushered in for his six o’clock appointment. Clane had a moment in the hallway with Betty Castle when she took his hat and coat at the door. She was showing the effects of the meeting now.

  Clane had said, “I’ll meet you tomorrow at ten—in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m working,” she said in just the right tone.

  Clane was annoyed. “I’m not mashing. You’ll talk to me or to the cops.”

  “You can’t frighten me, Mr. Clane.”

  Clane said, “You’d prefer they knew that you went to the seventh floor of the Metropole with your father—the day he was killed?”

  She was silent until they reached the door to the library. The light was dim but there was enough of it for Clane to see the drawn, white face of the girl. She was not particularly attractive, Clane thought; she was far too slender for his taste. And now he decided she looked ghastly. He felt a surge of pity for her but he trampled it down. It was no time to start feeling sorry for anyone but Jim Clane.

  She faced him, one hand on the knob of the door. Her voice was low and dead. She asked, “Where shall I meet you?”

  Clane said, “The Park. I’ll drive by in my car and pick you up near the swimming pool.” It wasn’t original, but then he wasn’t too well acquainted with Dunlop.

  She nodded dully and opened the door. She said, “Mr. Clane.”

  Ed Thorne was sitting comfortably in an easy chair. He was smoking a good cigar and having fun with a brandy sniffer. He looked up at Clane and there was no smile on his hawk-like face. “That’s all, Betty,” he said.

  She shut the door and Clane walked forward. He chose a chair near Thorne so he could get a good view of the other man. He sat down and crossed his legs. “I’m late,” he stated.

  “Yes,” Thorne said. He took a pull at his cigar. “You missed a good dinner. Natalie was annoyed.”

  “Isn’t she here now? I’m still on exhibition,” Clane said.

  “She had a headache,” Thorne said. His words were heavy and emotionless. He looked steadily at Clane. “She would have had a headache at dinner too.”

  “Then I wasn’t the one who annoyed her,” Clane said.

  “No—I was. I don’t want you for competition, Clane. You’ll keep away from her from now on.” Thorne lifted his brandy glass and swiched the liquor about. He took a light sniff. He set the glass down. “Especially in my hotel suite.”

  “I don’t do things halfway,” Clane grinned. He said nastily, “Don’t be a fool, Thorne. I’m not interested in your wife.”

  Thorne’s thin mouth stretched taut. “I didn’t ask you here to trade insults, Clane.”

  “You had business with me?” Clane reminded him.

  “That’s done with,” Thorne said.

  “So?” Clane asked. “What else?”

  Thorne’s words dropped coldly into the room. “I’m firing you, Clane. You’re through from here on in.”

  Clane said, “So I don’t ride the Morgan gravy train?”

  “There won’t be any,” Thorne said. “I have information. Morgan will be indicted for murder.”

  Clane shrugged. “And that’s why you’re canning me?”

  “Naturally.”

  Clane’s laugh was brittle. “You’re a lousy liar, Thorne.”

  Ed Thorne put down his cigar. “Clane, you’ve had your nose in this too deep to suit me. Nothing happened until you hit town. Then Morgan’s opponents start dying off.”

  “Pudgy Pryor is still alive,” Clane remarked.

  Thorne waved his hand. “Pryor I There are a dozen Pryors to be had. I’m talking about Wickett and Watson and Castle.”

  “Now,” Clane said, “since when were Watson and Castle in on this?”

  Thorne picked up his cigar and puffed on it. He ignored Clane’s question and Clane for a full five minutes. Clane lifted his eyebrows at the silence but otherwise he did nothing. He was speculating about how things stood between himself and Thorne. Not good, he knew; but just how bad?

  Finally Thorne said, “I’ll make you an offer. If you’re out of town by this time tomorrow morning—twelve hours—I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Nice of you,” Clane murmured. “And what if I don’t go?”

  “Then,” Thorne said, “I’ll go to Mullen with the truth.”

  “But if I go you’ll keep quiet and let them ruin Morgan—is that it?”

  “Morgan will get clear in the long run,” Thorne said.

  “And just what is this you’ll take to the police?” Clane asked. “Was I bad when I was a boy? Did I swipe apples from the neighbors’ trees and steal aggies off little girls?”

  Thorne said, “I’ll blow that alibi I gave you sky high. And Natalie will back me up.”

  “They don’t believe it anyway,” Clane said cheerfully. “Do better than that.”

  Thorne said, “I’ll give them enough so they can prove you killed Wickett—and why.”

  “I know,” Clane said: “because he slugged me that first day.”

  “And Watson.”

  “Because he took me to a lousy beer parlor and it gave me indigestion.”

  “And Castle.”

  “Because he came to my room and let Hotel Moreland cooties on my nice Hotel Metropole bed,” Clane said.

  “Twelve hours,” Thorne told him. “Call me long distance when you get as far as you can.” He looked at his watch. “If you don’t call me by eight-thirty tomorrow morning I’m ringing Mullen.”

  Clane stood up. “Thanks for the tip, Thorne.”

  Ed Thorne smiled for the first time that evening. He took a satisfied pull on his cigar and leaned back in his chair. “You’re just too zealous, Clane. But you were well paid.”

  “Sure,” Clane said, “only I still have another five thousand coming—if Morgan is elected.” He went to the door. “Keep your offer.” He opened the door, went through, and closed it behind him.

  Betty Castle came unobtrusively into the hall. She got Clane’s hat and topcoat for him. Ed Thorne opened the library door. His voice was low but it carried to Clane.

  “Twelve hours.”

  Clane said, “Ten o’clock, Miss Castle.” His voice didn’t carry.

  She looked at him. Clane said, “All women think I’m a heel until they get to know me.”

  “I won’t change my opinion,” she said stiffly. She held the door open. Clane nodded and stepped outside.

  The rain had a soggy feeling as he walked toward his car. He looked at his coat sleeve as he passed under a street light. The rain had turned to mush, on its way to being snow. Clane pulled up his coat collar and walked a little faster. He liked snow but if he had to move in a hurry it wasn’t going to help him.

  He drove from the Hill onto Main Street. He followed Main to Second and went two blocks toward the river. He pulled up across the street from the lighted city hall. He went in by the basement entrance. A neon sign over it said, “Central Station.”

  The hall was lined with glass-fronted doors. Clane noticed that most of the cops were off for the night. The lights behind their doors were out. But when he struck, “Homicide, Lieutenant Mullen,” the light was on. He opened the door.

  Mullen was at a desk. He looked up and blinked. He stood up. “Clane! What kind of a gag is this?”

  “No gag,” Clane said. “I came to chew the fat. Incidentally, I figured you would be hungry.”

  “I was waiting for a report before I went out,” Mullen said. He sat down again. “Day and the sergeant are at the Metropole looking for you.”

  “Invite them too,” Clane said. “The supper is on me.”

  Mullen said, “I had an anonymous phone
call five minutes ago that you were trying to skip town. I sent them up there.”

  Clane paused with a cigarette halfway to his lips. “Man or woman?” he inquired.

  “Woman,” Mullen said.

  “Know her?”

  “No.”

  Clane shrugged and lit the cigarette. “I have an idea,” he said. He thought of Betty Castle. “So why should I skip town?”

  “I asked her that,” Mullen said. “The answer was: ‘Because he knows who killed Wickett.’ So I said, ‘Who did?’ She hung up on me.”

  Clane shook his head. “Maybe I do know who killed Wickett. Some people think I did.”

  “Some might,” Mullen admitted cautiously. “I might if it weren’t for the kid.”

  “You have no case,” Clane said. “All you’ve got is a confession. And that stinks.”

  Mullen spread his hands. “Can you do better?”

  Clane had to grin. There seemed to be an advantage in Mullen’s knowing just why he was in town. It kept Mullen from being the hard-boiled, know-it-all cop. He doubted if Mullen really was the type but he had tried the act on Clane before.

  Clane said, “I can. Give me a break and I’ll dump your party in this room in twenty-four hours.”

  Mullen shook his head.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mullen was eating weenies and kraut. Clane was dunking chocolate-covered doughnuts in coffee thick with cream. The sight made Mullen a little sick. He came up for air and tucked a stray bit of kraut into his mouth.

  Clane said, “Turn the kid loose? If I don’t hand you a solution in twenty-four hours, I’ll hand him back to you and smear it all over the papers myself.”

  “That will elect Morgan for fair.”

  Clane shrugged. “It’s my chance. I’ll take it.”

  Mullen sighed and reached for his coffee. “No, Clane. I’ll give it to you.” He blew on his coffee. Then he raised his eyes and looked toward the front of the restaurant. “Ah, company.”