You Can't Kill a Corpse

by Louis Trimble

  “Because Blake knew too damned much,” she said. “He worked for Grando and he had enough to upset the whole thing. He knew Paul Grando made a deal with Ed and he went to Wickett with it.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  She was buttoning her blouse. Now she turned around. “He didn’t get far,” she said. “He told Ed he would throw Morgan the election if they played ball.”

  “And I suppose he killed Castle because of some old affidavits threatening to ruin Mayor Pryor. That’s a sweet fairy story.”

  “Castle had no useful affidavits,” she snapped. “Castle had a grudge against Ed. That’s all.”

  “I know that story. But he wasn’t trying to sell a grudge—the day you walked in on him with Bob Morgan.”

  “Castle was selling stale information,” she said.

  “And got killed for it?”

  She worked her way into a tailored skirt. “Because J. B. Castle was seen at Watson’s too damned often. Because J. B. Castle was at Watson’s when Grando killed him.”

  “Like hell!”

  Natalie went to the dressing table and sat down. She picked up a comb and attacked her hair. “He was in the dark room. He was Watson’s boss once, remember.”

  “You know a lot.”

  “I know plenty. I know enough that if Grando was taken care of they would hang the murders on his corpse.”

  Clane jerked his head in her direction. He swung his feet to the floor and got up. “Sweetheart I” he said. He walked to her. She was still facing the mirror. He bent, put his hand under her chin and tilted her head back. “What an idea!”

  She parted her lips for a kiss. She closed her eyes. Clane removed his hand and swung the other one. His fist caught her chin. Her head snapped and she went limp. He caught her and carried her to the bed. His lips were set and grim as he worked. He used the sheets, tearing them into strips. When he was through she was gagged and spread-eagled on the bed. He shook her head. “Brother! What an idea!” He reached for her telephone. He called Marilyn.

  “Darling,” he said, “get this quickly. Tip Thorne I’ve gone to see Paul Grando. When he’s alone. Then, if he ducks out of there, tip Mullen. Got that? Tell them separately. Make it sound real. And pray for me, honey. Pray for me!”

  • • •

  Clane wheeled his car openly along the main road past the desolate Super-Service station, following the route Natalie had taken that night they had gone to Grando’s. He forgot completely about the dragnet out for him until he saw a pair of prowl cars, one on either side of the road and at the city limit sign. He slammed on the brakes and took the turn into a dirt road off to his left. The old sedan rocked and swayed and then bounced down hard on the muddy tracks of the dirt.

  Clane kept on going, following the road past a farmhouse and circling left. He wasn’t surprised when he found himself back on the highway, heading into town. He kept on until he was in the Park and then he tried to remember the route that Ellen had taken earlier that morning. He became hopelessly lost and couldn’t get oriented until he saw a signpost pointing to a side road which would take him onto the highway east of town. He took the road, cautiously, so that when he saw a police car ahead he had time to back around and return the way he had come.

  By now Clane was getting edgy. He knew there was a way to Grando’s without leaving the city limits. Or he thought there should be. And it seemed as if he would have to find it to get to the steakhouse. Evidently Mullen wasn’t fooling around. Thorne had thrown his weight on to the police department and the dragnet was the result.

  Clane drove openly back to the hotel, mulling over the problem and wondering whom he could find to guide him. Marilyn, of course, but for him to go to her now would be suspicious, and then he hardly had the time. He could feel the urgency pressing like thick fog against his mind. He had set the stage and he couldn’t make a bust of the play by not acting in it.

  He cursed luridly as he drove around the Metropole. A taxi swung around in a U-turn and pulled to the curb at the side entrance. Clane yelled:

  “Kravitky!”

  He backed up until he was alongside the cab. The driver was a stranger. Clane leaned out of the car window. “Hey, where can I find Anton Kravitky?”

  “Off duty now.”

  “I know,” Clane said impatiently. “I want to get hold of him.”

  “I don’t know,” the driver said. He scratched his head with a methodical motion that made Clane want to tear the man’s hair off.

  “This is important,” Clane said violently. “Where in hell is he? Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know,” the driver said. He scratched some more and then he lifted himself in the seat and dug into his hip pocket. With Clane watching and swallowing curses, the man took out a billfold and went through it deliberately. He came up with a thin black book of the type used for addresses. He thumbed it, wetting his finger for each tiny page. Clane was sweating.

  “I got his phone number,” the driver said.

  “Fine,” Clane managed.

  “How much is it worth to you?”

  Clane said, “Aw, Christ!” and dug for five dollars. The driver gave Clane the number in exchange for the bill. Clane swung his car away from the taxi and gunned up the street. He stopped at the nearest drugstore and half ran inside. He saw a booth near the door and he plunged for it.

  Anton Kravitky was asleep. It took Clane about three minutes for his identity to register. Clane said, “Give me your address and I’ll come out there.”

  “Where you now?”

  Clane looked at an advertising poster in the booth. “Sunnyside Drugstore.”

  Anton Kravitky said cheerfully, “I’m upstairs. I got me a room here. You go round back outside and come on up. First door left side of hall.”

  Clane slammed the receiver down and walked quickly outside and to the rear of the building. He was wondering just how much he could take before he blew himself all over the streets from sheer steam pressure. He took the steps two at a time and pounded on the first door at the left side of the hall.

  It was an old building, a typical shoddy neighborhood rooming place. The smell of many ancient and poorly cooked foods hung on greasy, stale air. The rubber matting on the hall floor was worn through to catch the first unwary heel. The whole place had a blowsy feel to it. But nothing registered on Clane. He was too busy hammering at the door.

  Kravitky opened it and stuck his homely face out. “What’s the gag, boss? Oh, I remember you. Couldn’t make it out right on the phone.” He was in loose flannel pajamas and a dirty robe.

  Clane said, “How much to drive me to Grando’s steakhouse by the rear door?” He elbowed his way into the room and pushed the door shut with his back. He looked at Kravitky’s gaping face and said, “The cops have a dragnet at the city limits. I can’t find my way to Grando’s without going outside the city. It’s worth fifty bucks to me.”

  “My cab …”

  “My car’s outside.”

  “I saw you give it to Pryor at the riot that day,” Kravitky said reminiscently. “That was the nuts.”

  “How much?” Clane asked wearily.

  “It aint’ the dough. Hell, lemme get dressed.”

  There was nothing Clane could do about that. Except try to impress Kravitky with the need to hurry. He wasn’t disappointed. The taxi driver driver dressed with the speed of a fireman. Inside of five minutes they were in Clane’s car and heading toward the river.

  “You gonna put the finger on Grando?”

  “I hope so,” Clane said. “If he isn’t dead of old age by the time I get there.”

  “Boss,” Kravitky said aggrievedly, “this bus only goes so fast.”

  He stopped talking and settled to his driving. Clane found himself going through a maze of unfamiliar streets. Factories and then tenement houses pushed right to the sidewalks. There was the odor of poverty in the neighborhood, and when they came to a dirt track running along the river Clane could smell sewage.


  The dirt road turned into a gravel quarry and Clane grabbed for the door handle to hold on as the old sedan bit hard at deep chuckholes. They jounced across what seemed a roadless desert of gravel, swung around a mound of the stuff and then Clane saw the steakhouse ahead and below them. It was a low gear road down from the gravel, but Kravitky disdained it, letting the car roll in high.

  Clane was sweating hard when they parked in Grando’s big lot. Telling Kravitky to wait, he walked around to the side door. The same thick-set pug met him. Clane said, “Hello, AI. Tell the boss I’m down here.”

  Al whistled softly through his teeth. “Ain’t that nice,” he said. He nodded and started up the stairs. Clane followed him, close on his heels.

  Grando was in his office, behind his desk. Clane took in the room and the visitor. He cursed disgustedly, keeping it under his breath.

  Finally he said, “I thought you were at home, Bob.”

  Bob Morgan tried to grin. He wasn’t having much luck with it. He looked scared, and a little relieved at the sight of Clane. He said, “I’m still trying to clean up this mess, Jim.”

  Paul Grando’s cold eyes were fixed on Clane. “Did you send this snotty brat out here?”

  Clane ignored him. “Did they rough you, kid?”

  Bob Morgan shook his head. Paul Grando said, “Somebody will, one of these days. He’s been sitting here blowing his top about Wickett’s killing. He tells me I’m mixed up in it.”

  Clane said conversationally, “That’s what Natalie Thorne thinks. She’s even got you pegged for the murders, Grando. You bumped off Watson and Castle too. I can even spiel the motives if you want to listen. Your little girl friend, Edith, is in the same boat by now. Popular opinion will put you in the chair, Grando.”

  Clane lit a cigarette. Grando examined his nails. “I’ve had some of the boys out looking for you, Clane,” he said. “I like your stories. And then you never did keep that appointment with me. I don’t care to be kept waiting—by anyone.” He smiled without warmth. “Now tell me a few more stories. Only I’ll ask the questions.”

  Al stood up from behind Grando’s desk, moved in back of Clane, and put his hands on Clane’s shoulders. He pushed and Clane sat down suddenly. Bob Morgan started up. Clane shook his head at him and stared steadily at Paul Grando.

  “Tell your ape to keep his hands off me,” he said levelly. “And stop going to movies. You’re getting melodramatic as hell. What do you do if I don’t talk, pour acid on me?”

  Grando said, “You’ll answer my questions. Al will see that you answer my question.”

  Clane grunted rudely. Grando went on: “I want to know a few things, Clane. Who you are, why you’re here, when you’re leaving?”

  “I’m a salesman,” Clane said flippantly. “I sell rat poison. Want a free sample?”

  Al reached a ham-like fist over Clane’s shoulder and hit him on the mouth. Clane put his fingers to his lips. He said, “Tell your ape to lay off.”

  Bob Morgan stood up and made a wild dive for AI. Clane thought they were nice heroics but not well timed. He winced when Al’s fist chopped against the boy’s chin. Bob went down, sprawling to one side of the room. Clane didn’t move.

  Grando said, “Now answer the questions, Clane.”

  Clane took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Childishly he made overly much noise. Al swung another fist. Clane grabbed it. He hooked his fingers in Al’s wrist and threw his weight forward. The chair went over, sending Al over Clane’s head. Clane swung his body from the knees and came down on top of Al. He chopped viciously with the side of his hand, catching Al at the throat. Al gagged and made futile motions with his hands. Clane took a knee in his belly and then drove his fist deliberately into Al’s groin. He rolled off and got to his feet.

  Grando had lost his imperturbability. He was standing behind his desk. Clane looked into the muzzle of a peewee gun.

  The sound of the door opening came from behind Clane. He made a dive for the desk. A gun cracked. Clane hit the desk top with his chest and grabbed for Grando’s wrist. It faded from his range. He bent his knees and stopped his forward momentum. He lay belly down, looking stupidly at Paul Grando’s body. Grando was on his back and there was a small round hole in the center of his face.

  Clane heard Ed Thorne say, “My God, what a mess!”

  Then Clane pushed himself all the way over the desk and came down on top of Grando. The gun he hooked with his fingers was a twenty-five. He righted himself and stood up. He glared across the room at Ed Thorne, bulking in the doorway.

  Thorne shot again. The bullet made a raw crease along the top of the desk.

  “You crazy sonafabitch,” Clane yelled. He raised the gun and shot Thorne between the eyes. He fired twice after that, sending the bullets into Thorne’s body as it toppled and fell to the floor.

  Clane said, “Jesus!” and turned and vomited on the rug behind the desk.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clane looked at Lieutenant Mullen. He dunked half a doughnut, chewed and swallowed it before he spoke. He dunked the other half. Marilyn opened her mouth and Clane pushed the doughnut in. He grinned.

  “Okay,” he said. “It was self-defense. The big boy blew a hole in Grando and he tried to blow one in me. I didn’t want to kill him. I was a little shaky and my aim was too good. If I’d had my way I would have winged him so you could have taken him in. It’s good for the voters to see a public heel like that crucified in court once in a while.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “that’s why Thorne came to Grando’s—to kill him. Ballistics prove the gun Thorne carried was the one that killed Wickett, Watson, and Castle.”

  “Sure,” Mullen said, digging into kraut, “only you carried that gun. You took it away from Edith Morgan the night she visited your hotel room.”

  “Sure I took it away from her,” Clane said. “But, like I told you, I left it at the depot. After Castle was killed I went to the locker. It was still there. But Thorne had taken it once and put it back then. He got the key from my pocket the night I stayed with dear Natalie. You found the duplicate key in his pocket, didn’t you?”

  Mullen said, “Yes.”

  “Thorne,” Clane went on, “took it again to use on Grando. Haven’t you broken Natalie down yet?”

  Mullen said, “No.”

  Clane shrugged. “You won’t have to. That rigmarole she gave me on Paul Grando and his motives was exactly right. Except that it applied to Ed Thorne and not Grando. I went up there and shot off about Thorne being the murderer just to get her steamed up. She steamed all right—good and hot. You’ll never be able to prove blackmail but you can hook her as an accomplice or an accessory.”

  “You nearly fixed that, killing Thorne,” Mullen said.

  Clane grunted at him. “You would have got him. He was a smart boy but not too smart to keep clear forever. He almost had you believing I was the murderer. But you did wise up to him before it was over.”

  “But not before it was too late—for Thorne,” Mullen said.

  “He was trying to keep from leaving enough evidence for a jury to put him away,” Clane said. “And he was shot for the same reason a rabid dog is shot. He was crazy and he was walling to bite all he could to get where he wanted. He saw his chances for power and he went after them. Who knows, maybe he had visions of being Governor or going to the senate.

  “He made deals with Pryor, with Grando, and used Watson’s picture-taking ability to try and skewer Wickett on a blackmail sword. He didn’t give a damn about Castle’s affidavits except that they might start me thinking. What he really worried about was Castle’s closeness to Watson. Castle knew who took pictures. Castle knew plenty—he made it his business. He cadged his drinks and his flops on a penny ante blackmail system. You can make Betty Castle admit to you that Thorne paid her to keep her mouth shut about her visit to the hotel. She was scared sick of both the Thornes.”

  Marilyn poured Clane a cup of coffee as he stopped for breath. She got up and took more
kraut from the stove and put it on Mullen’s plate. She sat down again.

  “When did you start thinking of Thorne, Jim?” she asked.

  Clane sipped the coffee gratefully. “When he wanted me to go to bed with his wife,” he said. “Thorne knew damned well the alibi would never work but he was playing safe. If it backfired and Thorne was shown to be hooked up in the mess then he could turn the heat from himself to his wife. She was at Wickett’s and she could have been at Watson’s in time to kill him. That fake alibi was to make her look guilty—and it did.”

  Mullen said, “But I thought Pryor talked you out of suspecting Thorne?”

  Clane grinned. “So did Edith, so did her father. Marilyn here almost did, unwittingly. Edith and her father were trying so hard to ring in Bob that I started sniffing around them.”

  “They weren’t trying to get the kid in a jam,” Mullen said. “They were trying to get him out of one. They thought he was in deeper than he really was, and they were willing to have him in jail to keep him from getting snoopy and getting shot.”

  “Bob was secretive because he was working with me—for the governor,” Clane said. “He’s just a kid and he got too worked up after things began to happen. It was a pretty hard place to stay on an even keel.”

  “I know,” Mullen said. “He deserved credit for doing as well as he did.” He made a wry face. “That tabloid that was supposed to crucify Edith was hard for him to take calmly. It would have been for anyone.”

  He paused and filled his mouth with kraut. When it was chewed, he said, “Thorne cooked that tabloid up, by the way. We gathered that much evidence before the case broke. It was to be used to put pressure on Morgan if it looked like he would win the election. Watson did the work, of course.”

  Clane nodded. “We each learned a little, Mullen. And with that evidence you would have tumbled in time. My killing Thorne only hurried matters.” He said ruefully, “Hurried them too much. The voters needed the impact of a court trial to make them see the rot in the foundations of their city government.”