The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  The doorman recognized Lew Hartley's car and cleared a path through the crowd. As Sunny moved from curb to doorway someone said, "I wish Santa Claus had brought me somethin' like that."

  The headwaiter was obsequious. Chuck edged close to Alan and whispered, "Slip him a sawbuck," and Alan nodded.

  Sunny swept across the floor to their ringside table. She was spectacular, dramatic. She was aware of the stir she created, and she loved it. She seemed to blank out the rest of the crowd, to stand out like a too garish ornament against the ornate decor.

  They reached their table. Alan stood while the head-waiter held Sunny's chair, and then helped her shrug a sable coat from voluptuous shoulders.

  The place was jammed. Alan looked around the room, remembering that he was Lew Hartley and that he must appear as though none of this meant a thing to him.

  It was a good thing that he was on guard. Because his eye came to rest on a table less than twenty feet away. A man and a woman were at that table.

  The woman was Gail Foster.

  The chap with her was pleasant-looking; a friendly, jolly sort, and apparently solicitous as hell. That part of it was all right. Alan didn't object to the fact that Gail was having a grand time—or a reasonable facsimile thereof—but it was tough being so close to her and having to play his role.

  Nor could he quite understand why she didn't seem worried any more. That day in the summerhouse... He must have played his part well. She must have been convinced that her hunch was wrong and that he really was Lew Hartley.

  But why then was she remaining in Miami? Why was she working as a reporter on a seasonal society sheet? Why wasn't she back at her desk in New York? I've been thinking in circles so long, he told himself, that I'm dizzy.

  There was still another element that annoyed him. Chuck, always clad in temperament, had been particularly nasty tonight. From the time they'd left the house, Chuck had been riding him. The pasty-faced young man could get more venom into a couple of monosyllables than Alan had ever encountered in all the rest of an average, friendly life. And he was helpless to do anything about it. Chuck's flat, toneless voice cut deeper and deeper; his attitude of studied insolence annoyed Alan even more than he realized. He wondered why Chuck carried things this far; wondered how he handled himself with the real Lew Hartley.

  He was grateful when Sunny, her body swaying to the soft, persuasive strains of a slow foxtrot, said, "You ain't a very good dancer, Lew, but how's about shoving me around the floor a bit?"

  He looked at Chuck. The smaller man said, "Don't be a fool," and instantly Alan rose. "Let's go," he said.

  Sunny's body was warm and eager. For a few seconds, he let himself go. Her husky voice warned him: "O.K. for home consumption, Alan, but you got to louse it up a little. You're supposed to have two left feet."

  It was fun trying to dance badly. The whole performance was silly, but it was better than wincing under Chuck's verbal barbs. He mixed himself up deliberately, and kept a straight face about it. Sunny was delighted. "You're doing swell. Even Lew couldn't be worse."

  He swung her around. She bumped hard into a woman. They both said, "Oh, sorry!" Both couples stopped dancing momentarily. Then Sunny said, "Oh, it's you!" and Gail Foster smiled and admitted that it was.

  Sunny said, "Lew, I want you to meet Miss Foster. She took some pictures of me the other day for Surf and Sunshine. Miss Foster, this is my friend Mr. Hartley."

  Gail held out her hand. Her eyes were level, her voice steady. She said, "How do you do, Mr. Hartley?"

  He grunted and dropped her hand. He was thinking about the two girls, as unlike each other as specimen orchid and a valley lily.

  Sunny was barging ahead. With Gail's assistance the men were introduced: "Mr. Hartley, Mr. Crawford." Vance was saying, "I live right heah in Miami, Mr. Hartley. I've seen you lots of times."

  "That so?"

  "Yes." Vance didn't like this fellow, and that made him try twice as hard to be cordial. "I bumped into you, so I owe you something. Let's have a drink at my table."

  "I don't want a drink." "Aw, come on."

  Sunny settled the matter by taking Vance's arm and starting off the floor. "I never say no, Mr. Crawford."

  "To a drink invitation?"

  "To anything."

  They walked ahead. Alan was afraid to look at Gail. She was lovely in her simple dinner gown with its minimum of adornment. She disturbed him. She looked too dog-gone much like—well, like Gail. He forced himself to growl, "I suppose we've got to," and they followed Vance and Sunny to the table.

  Vance worked like a Trojan to be pleasant to Lew Hartley, chiefly because he disliked the man so intensely. His soft Southern drawl kept the conversation moving; he refused to show that he was perturbed by Alan's gruffness. He did not suspect that Alan was considerably more interested in him than he was in Hartley.

  Alan remembered vaguely having heard Gail speak about a man named Vance Crawford. She had spoken affectionately, as one might mention a very dear friend. Yet at this moment Vance's attitude did not appear to be that of a friend. It wasn't anything you could put your finger on; it was a subtle, elusive something that disturbed Alan more than he realized.

  He liked Vance. The man was big and bluff and good-natured and very much of a gentleman. If he was in love with Gail, who was Alan to find that inexplicable? As for Gail—well, thank goodness, Sunny's chatter was taking all of Gail's attention. She was giving Gail the address of her own particular beauty parlor (Alan couldn't understand Gail's sudden keen interest in that sort of thing) and she was telling about a party she was planning at the Hartley place. She was insisting that Gail must come, and Gail was saying that she'd be glad to.

  Alan was sorry about that. It fitted in with the Hartley plan, all right. They wanted plenty of publicity so that the world would know that Lew Hartley was in Miami and not somewhere in South America trying to swing a tricky manganese deal. But the prospect of meeting Gail frequently, socially, was too dangerous; the part he must play in her presence was entirely too uncomfortable. He heard Sunny ask, "You'll be here all winter?" and was surprised to hear Gail say, "Yes, of course."

  Someone walked across the floor and stopped at Alan's shoulder. Sunny said, "Here's bad news," and Alan looked up into Chuck's fishlike eyes.

  Chuck said, "Mr. Hartley, don't forget you've got to be back home soon to get that phone call you're expecting."

  It was an order, and Alan knew it. He deliberately refrained from introducing Chuck, but he rose and spoke to Sunny. He said, "Come on."

  Sunny said good night to Gail and to Vance, and walked back toward their table. She said, "Mister, you're good. Too good."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I got as mad at you as I get with Lew sometimes."

  "I'm not supposed to mix intimately. You know that. My good nature might crop out."

  At the table they had just left, Gail asked for a cigarette, lighted it, and regarded her companion quizzically.

  "Well," she inquired, "what do you think of Alan?"

  Vance made a gesture of helplessness. He said, "Of all the obstinate, stubborn, pigheaded females I've ever been in love with..."

  She said, "I think he had a rather miserable twenty minutes."

  Vance sighed. "I'm not arguin' with you any more, Gail. I been seein' Lew Hartley heahabouts fo' three years or more. I know what he looks like and how he talks, and that fellow that just left us—Gail, that's Lew and nobody else. Besides, I thought he convinced you of that himself the other day."

  Gail said nothing for a moment as she opened her evening bag and drew out an envelope. She placed it on the table before Vance and said, "Here's something I want you to see. It's a letter from Alan."

  The letter had been sent to Gail's New York address and then forwarded to Miami. The postmark was Valparaiso, Chile.

  "You'll notice this is postmarked January seventh, the day the Tropicana arrived in Valparaiso. Alan describes the voyage in detail. He tells all about the
ports at which the ship stopped. It's a lovely, natural, affectionate letter."

  Vance stared at the envelope and then looked up at Gail. He said cannily, "I'm supposed to say that that proves you're wrong—that Alan really did go to Chile."

  "Yes, you're supposed to say that. And then I'll remind you that we both know he didn't. I saw his Cuban landing card, signed by him. I saw his signature in a Havana hotel register. I saw the customs declaration he signed in Miami."

  "What does it add up to, honey?"

  "Plenty." She was looking straight ahead. "Alan wrote that letter, all right. He had it mailed in Valparaiso in order to satisfy me—or to fool me—whichever way you choose to look at it." She replaced the letter in her bag. "It means that in spite of the way he behaved in his summerhouse the other day, in spite of what I believed then, I've got to swing back to my original hunch."

  Vance shrugged. "I'm not bein' tricked into any more debate." He looked "across the room. "Your friends are leaving."

  Alan had paid the check, tipped overgenerously, and was holding Sunny's wrap. Vance said, "Not bein' suggestive, Miss Foster, but what's the angle on this Ralston person?"

  Gail said, "What do you think?"

  "Well, if that's Lew Hartley, I know exactly what to think, and I'm not especially interested. But if it's Alan..." Vance shook his head. "That, I think, would be very interestin' indeed."

  Chapter Fifteen

  When they reached the Hartley place, Alan and Sunny got out and Chuck drove the car into the garage. Alan unlocked the front door, held out his hand to Sunny and said, "Good night—and thanks. It was a fine evening."

  "Mister, you said it. I like that Foster girl, don't you?"

  Alan laughed. "You like everybody. Now, on your way."

  She looked at him inquiringly. "And you?"

  "I'm staying downstairs for a good-night smoke. Alone," he finished significantly.

  She waved and was gone. He stood looking reflectively after her seductive figure as it swayed up the stairway. Then he moved into the living room and snapped on one of the reading lamps. He was standing there when Chuck Williams came in through the back door.

  Alan said, "I'd like to talk to you a few minutes, Chuck."

  Williams walked into the room. His face, as usual, was expressionless; his cheeks were without color, his eyes blank. He said, "All right. Talk."

  "Shall we sit down?"

  "I'll stand."

  Alan held out a cigarette case. "Smoke?"

  "No."

  Alan selected one for himself and lighted it. He looked straight at the slender, wiry young man and said, "Why do you dislike me so intensely, Chuck?"

  Chuck's eyes were level, but he said nothing, and so Alan went on, grimly determined to have it out.

  "I know you resent the position I hold here; playing the part of Lew Hartley, giving orders, acting like master of the house. But that's what I'm being paid to do, and I'm giving the best performance I'm capable of. Maybe I've been stepping on your toes. If I am, I'd like to know just how, so I can change. There seems to be no reason why we shouldn't at least be cordial."

  Chuck stood there. Then he asked coldly, "That all?"

  "Not quite. I'd like to know where you stand."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "Just a little matter of comfort, Chuck. I'd much prefer being friendly with you."

  "Things are O.K. the way they are."

  "You mean you won't try to change?"

  "Something like that."

  "I'm still asking why."

  Chuck came one step closer. His voice was tight. He said, "I'm paid to look after you. It ain't any part of my job to like you."

  "Granted. But there's no law against it either, is there?"

  "I mind my own business. You mind yours."

  A sense of humor came to Alan's rescue. He smiled with genuine amusement. "Are you really that tough, or is it an act?"

  Two tiny lights flashed in Chuck's eyes. He said, "I'm tough enough."

  "I suppose you are, or you wouldn't have been picked for this job. But honestly, you're not much fun to have around."

  "I'm here."

  Alan shrugged. "Have it your own way. I figured we might talk it out. I keep trying not to get sore at you, but you're not making it easy. All through the evening you've been riding me. But good. And without trying to start something, I still want you to understand that I don't like it."

  "That's just too bad. Because you're still going to take it."

  "I don't know whether I am or not." Alan's temper was commencing to boil. "I'm not accustomed to being shoved around. And I'm not a damned bit impressed by this hard-boiled attitude of yours. Maybe you can use that dead pan to frighten kids, but I don't scare that easy. I'd rather play pretty. But since you're not having any, I'm telling you now: Don't push me too hard."

  Chuck said, "I wouldn't get tough if I was you."

  "You're not me, Chuck. You're just a funny little man who's seen too many gangster pictures."

  "Better go slow, Douglas."

  "I'm still willing to be nice. This whole Florida episode could be lots of fun, if you'd let it. But just why you have to act like a bad dose of poison ivy when even Sunny is taking things in stride..."

  Alan stopped talking. Suddenly. He saw a brief, revealing flash in Chuck's eyes. For that fraction of an instant Chuck's guard was down. Alan said, "Well, I'll be damned!"

  The lips of the smaller man were dry. His eyes had narrowed dangerously. He said, "What about Sunny?"

  "Don't be a fool!"

  "I'm asking."

  "And I'm explaining to you that she's being sensible. She's saddled with me for a few months, and she's trying to have a little fun."

  "How much fun?"

  "Your mind is always in the gutter, isn't it, Chuck?"

  "I said, 'How much fun?' "

  Alan was thoroughly angry. "Get this straight," he said. "Maybe it answers your question. I'm not Lew Hartley. I know I'm not. So does Sunny."

  "How do I know?"

  "There's no way you could. You'll have to take my word."

  "I don't take any man's word where dames are concerned."

  "That's all right with me, too. But don't you think that this is Lew Hartley's worry, not yours?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  Chuck made no answer, and so Alan went on. He said, "If you like Sunny that much, that's your business. I'm not asking any questions. Neither am I poaching."

  Chuck's voice was flat. He said, "I think you're a liar."

  Alan's reaction was instinctive. He took one step forward and his fists clenched. Chuck's right hand moved to a spot just under his left armpit. He said coldly, "You're a liar by the clock, Douglas. You're two-timing Hartley."

  Alan moved forward. Chuck's fingers tightened on the automatic he carried in the shoulder holster. He said, "Come and get it, sucker."

  Neither of them had heard a sound from the hallway. Neither knew that Sunny, clad in a white hostess gown of velvet, had come down the stairs and was moving into the room. They didn't know she was there until her voice came, hard and sharp:

  "Chuck! Lay off!"

  Chuck stood still. He said, "This guy's been asking for it."

  There was terror in Sunny's eyes. She moved swiftly between the two men and faced Chuck. "Scram," she snapped. "Get out."

  "I'm staying."

  She turned to Alan. "Then you beat it, will you?" She was tense and frightened. "Don't you see what this is building up to? Look, Alan, this guy ain't fooling."

  Alan looked at Sunny, and then across her shoulder at the rigid figure of Chuck Williams. His position was, at the moment, inglorious; but common sense was coming to his rescue.

  Alan said, "There are a few things that seem to need straightening out, Sunny. But I suppose this isn't the time or the place. I'll go upstairs."

  He walked out of the room. He was more disturbed than he cared to admit. This was an unexpected angle. Nothing had bee
n solved. It all came under the head of unfinished business.

  And Alan was too sensible to kid himself. He'd laughed at Chuck, accused him of being a funny little man who had seen too many gangster pictures. But those were mere words. They didn't mean anything. Alan recognized danger when he saw it. And he had seen it in the cold, unwavering eyes of Chuck Williams.

  He went to his room, considerably shaken. Downstairs Sunny was taking over. She said, "You poor damn fool! Another twenty seconds and you'd have killed him."

  "I'll do it sooner or later. Why not now?"

  She put her hands on his shoulders. She said, "It ain't in the cards that way, Chuck."

  "His number is up, ain't it?"

  "Yes, but Lew wants it to look like an accident—not murder."

  "I don't figure the difference."

  "Why should you take a rap if you don't have to? Why you should get all hopped up is more than I can figure."

  "Is it?"

  She said, "You're jealous."

  "Yes." He did not equivocate. "What goes on between vou and Lew is out of my zone. That was the setup when I came in. But this guy..."

  "There's nothing going on."

  "There could be. You've fallen for him."

  She felt uncomfortable, so she tried to laugh it off. "You get the damnedest ideas. Can I help it if I've got to act up when we're out in public together? Be yourself, Chuck. Where do you figure me on this?"

  "You tell me."

  "I know Alan is on the way out. I know you're the lad who does the job. Maybe I'm even a little sorry for him—he's not a bad guy. But it's not making any difference in what I do. I know where we all stand?especially me."

  "You're like all other dames. You fall for a guy and mess things up."

  "You're figuring Lew's a fool?"

  "Meaning what?"

  "He knows me better than you do. I don't let myself go too far—in any direction."

  "What's the play, then?"

  "Be sensible. If you go messing up Lew's house and start the cops swarming about—not to mention newspapermen—Lew will be sore as a goat. Your play is to take it easy. If Alan steps on your toes, let him step. You've got the last line, haven't you?"