The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  Alan chose his words carefully. "A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Hamilton. Ordinarily a young man doesn't have the opportunity of earning that much without..." He hesitated. "Well, unless the person offering it..."

  Wayne Hamilton nodded. "I told you that your most important asset was your integrity, Douglas. Is it likely then that I'd approach you with any proposition that was not honorable?"

  "I suppose not."

  Wayne Hamilton asked deliberately. "Have you ever heard of Lewis Hartley?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you know about him?"

  "Nothing much except that he's a very wealthy man. A sort of promoter, I believe."

  Hamilton smiled. "Your description isn't exactly adequate. Hartley is worth many millions of dollars. He owns or controls dozens of large and small enterprises. But it's not surprising that you don't know more about him. I doubt whether he has more than three or four intimate friends in the world." He paused long enough to light a fresh cigarette from the stump of the one he was finishing. "Lew Hartley is my most important client. He is the man behind this offer."

  "Why?"

  "I'm coming to that. But about yourself, Mr. Douglas —let me state a few facts. I've been looking for you for many months. Oh, not you specifically, but for some young man who filled all the requirements. Finding you hasn't been easy. You're twenty-eight years old. You're a mining engineer, and your present job is quite all right, but it doesn't offer a very brilliant future. Your parents live in Ohio and are comfortably fixed, but far from wealthy. You have no brothers or sisters, and no financial responsibilities until, and if, you marry Miss Foster. Right so far?"

  "Check."

  "As to your personal life, it is what is conventionally called 'clean.' You take an occasional drink, but never get drunk. You smoke in moderation. You're slightly better than average at most sports. You won your baseball letter at college. You're studious, but not a stuffed shirt."

  "I could blush," laughed Alan. "But perhaps that would be out of line."

  "Now," said Hamilton sharply, "I'm going to give you a piece of information that will show clearly how implicitly we trust you—I and my client Mr. Hartley."

  "Go ahead."

  "With the world in its present state, you certainly understand the importance of manganese."

  "Naturally."

  "Well, what looks like an important new manganese deposit has been discovered in the interior of South America. Two companies, one European and one South American, are trying desperately to acquire control. The value runs high into the millions. Lew Hartley is also trying—and for the moment he's got the inside track. He knows things that the others do not know. Every move he makes is being watched by representatives of those other two firms. They're not sure how actively he may be interested."

  "So?"

  "As long as Hartley makes no definite move, their hands are tied. He's being watched. He proposes to go about his life in the customary way. That is to say, he wishes to open his place in Miami Beach this winter, and to spend there his usual three months of relaxation. These other firms, once they are sure he is doing that, will relax. They'll continue to grope for the information they need at its South American source, but they won't feel rushed. That will give Hartley more than sufficient time to clinch things his way. I won't bore you with details—they're financial rather than technical. Do you follow me so far?"

  "Fairly well, but I don't see where I fit into the picture. It can't be simply as a mining engineer, because they're a dime a dozen."

  "Right." Hamilton went off abruptly on a new tack. "Have you ever seen Lew Hartley?"

  "No."

  "You might be interested."

  "You mean he looks like me?"

  "Not at all. That's what makes this interesting. You see, Douglas, Lew Hartley wishes to spend the season in Miami, but he also wishes to spend it in South America."

  "That would seem to be rather difficult."

  "Yes." Wayne Hamilton spoke carefully. "Difficult. But not impossible. You see, a rather elaborate scheme has been concocted so that Lew Hartley's hands may be kept free. He knows and I know that the most perfect scheme in the world is fallible. We reduce the chance of error to a minimum by placing absolute trust in the man we engage to help us. So if you see flaws in the scheme, remember that we see the same flaws. We feel that we're simply taking a minimum of risk by trusting you. That's logical, isn't it?"

  "Very."

  "Now for some interesting dope. You've never seen Hartley, and even if you had, what I'm going to say would not have occurred to you—because normal people simply don't think that way. You're twenty-eight and he is forty-two. His appearance is utterly different from yours. But you are almost exactly his size and weight. You have the same color hair and eyes. The quality of your voice is amazingly like his. Your teeth would look the same to anybody but a dentist. But it happens that Lew has certain distinctive features that you haven't. One is the fact that he wears a mustache. Another is that he has a very noticeable scar about one and a half inches long over his left eye. This gives him a rather sinister appearance that I believe he rather likes. There is, furthermore, that difference between you that fourteen years of time can give. But the chief difference is in the most prominent feature of any man's face. The nose. Your nose has an exceedingly low bridge. Lew Hartley's nose is of the pronounced Roman type. On the other hand, the bone contour of your skulls is about the same."

  He stopped talking and Alan Douglas laughed. "This sounds like a lecture on anatomy," he said.

  "That's what it's intended to sound like. Because this is the point I'm driving at. Right now you look entirely different from Lew Hartley. But..." He paused impressively, and then spaced his words with care. "But, Douglas, your basic bone structure is so similar that a clever plastic surgeon could make you look so much like Hartley that nobody but his most intimate friends—and he has damned few of them—would ever see the difference."

  Alan said, "I believe I'm getting the idea, Mr. Hamilton. But it's so incredible..."

  "Not when you analyze it. We will pay you twenty thousand dollars in cash now. We know you need that amount of money badly. It will settle a lot of problems for you. You tell Miss Foster that you've been engaged on an important job in the interior of South America. You make it clear to her that she will not hear from you for three to six months. You then board a ship for Valparaiso, Chile. But you don't go there. You get off in Havana, and fly back to Miami.

  "There will be someone with you, someone who knows the whole setup and whom we can trust. You will reach Miami on the afternoon of December twelfth. One of the finest plastic surgeons in the country will have fixed up a surgery in Lew Hartley's Miami home. He will operate on you. When it's over, you will look so much like Hartley that no one but a few insiders—all of whom will be in the know—would suspect anything.

  "You will then spend the winter in Miami, looking like Lew Hartley and acting like him. There will be a trusted man there to keep your foot from slipping. You'll do everything he would do in just the way he would do it. You will be kept away from people whom Hartley knew before. Meanwhile, these other two companies will be watching you, thinking that you're Hartley—and believing that you're allowing too much grass to grow under your feet. And all the time Lew will be working on the manganese proposition without their knowledge. When the deal is successfully concluded, you will receive the balance of eighty thousand dollars, and you will be given a second plastic operation that will make you look pretty much like yourself again."

  "What do you mean, pretty much?"

  "Your nose won't be the same. Technically, in order to build your nose up, they'll take a piece of bone from the leg. This will be transplanted to raise the bridge of your nose. They can reduce this afterward so that you'll have a pretty good nose, but certainly not the one you now have. Otherwise you'll be back where you started. You will then return to your charming Miss Foster."

  "She'll ask questions." />
  "Naturally, and by that time the deal will be all wrapped up and you can tell her the truth. How does it strike you?"

  Alan shook his head. "It seems to be full of bugs," he stated frankly.

  "How?"

  "First, no man can act exactly the way another man would act. It simply isn't possible."

  "That's partly true. It applies less to Lew Hartley than to any other man I know. As I mentioned before, he plays a lone hand. He has practically no intimates, and those few that he has will all be on the inside. The staff of servants will be recruited in Miami—none of them will ever have worked for him before. He's noted as an exceedingly gruff and unpleasant person; rather rude, in fact. Learning to conduct yourself that way might prove to be the most difficult part of your job. The chief danger to us would be a double cross, but that is a chance we are compelled to take. What else have you got on your mind?"

  Alan met the other's eyes squarely. "You must have felt sure I'd do this for a lot less than a hundred thousand. Why do you offer me that much?"

  "Two reasons. First, I wanted to make sure you'd be tempted to say yes. Second, as I said once before, there is an element of danger."

  "What sort of danger?"

  "There is the possibility that one of these other groups might feel much happier if you were out of the picture altogether."

  "In other words, they might take a pot shot at me?"

  "Frankly, yes. Mind you, I do not believe that's likely I d say the odds were a hundred to one against it. But it s one of the chances you're taking."

  Alan was thoughtful. "I appreciate your frankness," he said at length.

  Wayne Hamilton leaned forward. "And your answer is?”

  Alan Douglas said a single word. He said, "Yes."

  Chapter Three

  Looking at a floor plan of Gail Foster's apartment, you'd have said, "Small, isn't it?" and the answer would have to be yes. There was a single room that looked like a sitting room by day and was converted into a bedroom at night by the simple process of opening a door and dropping a bed down from the wall. There were two moderately adequate closets, and a cubicle that bore the elegant title of dressing room. There was a bath and a tiny but completely equipped kitchen.

  Gail was at work in the kitchen now, preparing an evening meal for two. She worked lightheartedly, wondering why the sound of Alan's voice on the telephone late that afternoon should have exhilarated her so much more than usual. He had spoken about a celebration, he had insisted that she prepare his favorite dishes as a reward for successful endeavor, he had demanded a mixed green salad such as only she knew how to mix, and he had done it all with an exuberance that had raised her own hopes beyond reasonable bounds.

  She moved back and forth between kitchen and living room, setting the table, and then—waiting for the sound of the buzzer—she stood back and surveyed her handiwork.

  But when the buzzer actually sounded, the summons startled her. Though she had been waiting impatiently for a half hour, she moved to the mirror and touched the tendrils of soft brown hair that seemed always about to escape. She gave a last critical scrutiny to her simple make-up. Then she moved swiftly across the room and flung open the door. She said, "Welcome, stranger," and stood back so that he might enter.

  He came in behind a long green box. "Which will you have first," he demanded, "the floral offering or the kiss?"

  He did not, however, wait for the answer, and for a few seconds she was lost against his big body. When she came up for air it was to take from him the dozen magnificent yellow chrysanthemums.

  He dropped into his favorite chair and watched her as she arranged the flowers and their accompanying autumn leaves in a tall vase.

  Occasionally as she worked she looked at him. He gave an impression of triumph, of accomplishment, and of a boyish pride in that accomplishment. That was one of the things she most loved about him. She knew that he had never really quite grown up and most likely never would.

  "Do you get it now," he asked suddenly, "or do we wait until after dinner?"

  "Is it worth waiting for?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then we'll wait."

  She broiled the steak to perfection, charred on the outside and rare within, and the balance of the dinner was attuned to its excellence. He helped her to clear the table and wash the dishes. They brought coffee and seated themselves side by side on the big, comfortable lounge. She touched his hand and said, "You may fire when ready, Gridley."

  "O.K." He smiled at her. "You won't mind if I do it the dramatic way, will you?"

  "I promise."

  He took an envelope from his pocket, and from it he extracted an oblong bit of greenish paper. Gravely he handed it to her.

  There wasn't anything elaborate about it. It was a check—a certified check. It was made out to the order of Gail Foster, and it was for the amount of twenty thousand dollars.

  She held it in her slender fingers and stared at it. She moistened her lips. Twice she started to say something and changed her mind. And then she asked, quite simply, "What does it mean, Alan?"

  His huge hand closed over her tiny one. "It means just what it says, honey."

  "But it can't!"

  "It does, though." Then, gently, "Perhaps you'd like to telephone your father."

  Something caught in her throat and her eyes felt hot. She said, "Things like this don't happen." But she knew that they did happen, that they were happening right now. She did not know the whys or the wherefores, she only knew that the impossible had been accomplished and that Alan Douglas had done it. And so she acted in a manner that was most unusual for her. She broke down and cried; not hysterically, but softly and terribly and briefly. And then she dabbed at her eyes and apologized for being so very feminine and telephoned to her father—rather incoherently, perhaps, but certainly so that he understood that he might sleep this night. And it wasn't until long after that, long after she had settled herself on the couch beside Alan, with his arm about her, that she asked any questions. They were that way, these two. Even the incredible was not to be wondered at; there could be no doubt even where doubt was logical.

  He was feeling very happy. She had reacted pretty much as he had known she would. Like a thoroughbred. He watched her take hold of herself, snap herself back to normalcy. She said, "How did it all happen, sweetheart?"

  He laughed. "I'm not entirely sure myself. It came from nowhere and slapped me down. Somebody offered me a job. I got twenty thousand dollars in advance. It isn't sensible, but it's certainly simple."

  She said, "You're a grand young engineer, mister-but even I didn't suspect you were that good."

  His eyes became serious. "I'm not."

  "And yet..."

  "Look, honey, this thing has angles to it. I'm doing half and you're doing the other half. Your half is to accept what I tell you without too many questions."

  She quoted Alice. "Curiouser and curiouser."

  "There's one part of it I hope you won't like." He looked away for a moment. "I've got to go away."

  "Where?"

  "South America."

  "How long?"

  "From three to six months. Probably closer to six than to three. And that isn't all. You won't be hearing from me during that time."

  "Why?"

  "There are reasons... only one of which might be said to be the inadequacy of the mail service."

  She was fighting against a feeling of apprehension that she couldn't understand. But she waited for him to go on.

  "It's this way, Gail. There's something brewing down there. I can't give you details, but it's important and it involves a heap of money. They're paying me an average wage for being an adequate mining engineer and a great deal extra for being trustworthy. So trustworthy, in fact, that I can't even tell you any more than that."

  She stared at the tip of one tiny foot. "Would you have accepted the job if I hadn't been in a jam?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Probably. But I can't say for sure. All I do know
is that I'm doing it because I want to and because it'll make me even happier than it makes you."

  She edged closer to him. "I'm all choked up, Alan. Mind?"

  "Not a bit," he answered, and so for a few minutes they were just two young people, very much in love.

  "You see," he explained later, "I've given my word to say nothing. All I can tell you is that I’m sailing on a ship called the Tropicana at eleven o'clock on the night of December eighth. I can't even tell you precisely where I'm going, except that my getting-off point is Valparaiso, Chile. You'll get a letter from me there, and not another until I'm practically home."

  "Six months is an awful long time," she said.

  "It isn't, really. I won't be worried about you, and—"

  "I'll be worried about you."

  There was a tense undertone in her voice that surprised both of them. He looked at her sharply. "What makes you say that?"

  "I don't know. I just have a sort of odd feeling... Oh, don't misunderstand me, Alan. It almost sounds as though I didn't think you were worth that much money for six months' work, and that isn't what I mean. It's just that it seems out of line. It seems to indicate..." Her voice trailed off.

  "It indicates what, honey?"

  "Something I can't pin down. Danger, perhaps."

  He laughed shortly. "The whole world is dangerous these days, isn't it?"

  "I suppose so. And I suppose I'm foolish and ungrateful." Her fingers tightened on his. "I'd be hit pretty hard if anything happened to you, Alan."

  "Forget it, A bit of hardship will do me good. And between now and sailing night I want you to fill me up with pleasant memories."

  She faced him. She was smiling with her lips but there were tears in her eyes—tears that she could neither understand nor control.

  “I’ll try, she promised. Beginning right now.”

  Chapter Four

  Lewis Hartley stood at the window staring down at the lights of Central Park. He had been that way for ten minutes now: solid, immobile, powerful. Wayne Hamilton, his attorney, leaned back in a comfortable club chair and puffed calmly on a fragrant Havana cigar.