Give Up the Body

by Louis Trimble

  “The police will have to take that into consideration, even with Tim’s confession,” I said.

  “Even if it is Titus’ hat,” Mrs. Willow said comfortably, “it is ridiculous to connect him with it.”

  “Absurdities make good copy,” I told her.

  It worked. She came up off the bed as if I had jabbed her in her widest part with a hatpin. “You wouldn’t dare! You wouldn’t dare libel us, young woman!”

  “No,” I agreed sweetly. “I’d have proof first.” I knew I had no right to be talking this way, to be throwing accusations and innuendos around so carelessly. But she did irritate me so.

  “What do you mean?” she fairly screamed it at me. I had her going now. I pressed my advantage.

  “You have to admit,” I said, “it was a rather disconcerting scene for a father to stumble on yesterday—there by the river.”

  “You’re a fool, young woman. Mr. Willow understood perfectly. In fact, he was amused.” She was a little calmer now, but she was still shaking.

  “Amused at Frew’s misinterpretation?”

  Daisy was blushing delicately. Since her outburst she had sat quietly. She seemed oddly retiring today. Mrs. Willow said, “Yes. Yes.”

  “But Frew hasn’t seen the humor yet, has he?”

  “Arthur is such a child,” Daisy said unexpectedly. And just as unexpectedly she laid her head down on the vanity and began to cry. Her little fist beat on the glass top in rhythm to her sobs. Her mother rose quickly and went to her. She touched her shoulder. I couldn’t see either of their faces, Mrs. Willow’s broad back successfully blocked my view.

  “Now, baby …”

  Daisy did not move. “Go away,” she sobbed. “Haven’t you done enough? Go away. I don’t want you touching me again—ever.”

  “Baby …”

  It was a disturbing scene and very embarrassing. I felt as if I had uncovered the poor kid’s innermost thoughts. And that was something I had no right to do. Unless they were connected with this murder. And that hardly seemed plausible right now.

  Daisy got up suddenly, knocking over the vanity bench and stepping away from her mother’s touch. What happened next changed my mind about this being unrelated to what had already happened.

  Mrs. Willow’s mouth was back in severe lines, whatever expression it might have had when she was trying to comfort the girl. Daisy’s lips were quivering, her eyes red and swollen, and big tears streaked her cheeks.

  “I won’t have you running—and ruining my life,” she flung out. “I won’t. I won’t do it!”

  Mrs. Willow stepped forward and slapped her. Viciously. She hit so hard the girl stumbled backward and fell to the floor. Her mother stooped and picked her up as if she were nothing. And Daisy must have weighed about a hundred pounds.

  Mrs. Willow laid her on the bed. She turned coldly to me. “She has these bouts of hysteria.” Her face was white, drawn around the mouth. She was fighting to control her anger, and the effort was making her shake. “I have to slap her to bring her out of them.”

  Hard enough to knock her cold? I didn’t say it. “I think you had better go, Miss O’Hara,” she said.

  “Delhart’s death affects her a great deal, doesn’t it?” I commented. “Maybe Frew had a good cause for his—childishness.”

  But she was through letting me hit the target with my digs. “Will you go, please?” It was an imperious command. I took it because I knew I would get no more out of her now. And certainly not out of Daisy. The girl was coming out of it; I could see her frail body shaking. I hoped that by going I could save her further embarrassment. Being slapped publicly is hardly pleasant, no matter what the reason.

  I left without saying anything more. I closed the door behind me, walked down the hall a short distance and then tiptoed back. The deputy was watching me from Glory’s door. I paid no attention to him. He didn’t move even when I put my ear to the panel of Daisy’s door. He just grinned in a sneering way.

  I heard Mrs. Willow move to the door and click the lock. Her weight made the floorboards creak as she crossed the room again. There were voices, low and unintelligible but furious with anger. I heard a distinct slap. A few more followed it. Daisy cried out in a peculiar muffled fashion. I had a picture of Mrs. Willow hitting her with one hand and holding a hand over her mouth with the other. I felt ridiculous. This was hardly the middle ages.

  But to make sure, I rapped hard on the panel. Mrs. Willow flung the door open. I said, “Leave that child alone or I’ll call the police.” It was none of my business but my mother confessor complex had taken hold of me.

  I hadn’t been sure anything really had been happening. But I was now. I think that if Mrs. Willow had had a gun she would have shot me. I have never seen such fury on a woman’s face.

  The impact of Mrs. Willow’s anger was still shaking me as I went downstairs to the kitchen. The door was closed and there was no one in the hall and so I leaned against the wall until I had a little control over my nerves. Then I went into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Larson wasn’t around but Jeff Cook was there. He was on the phone, and he winked at me. I sat down and waited for him to finish dictating his story. He was nearly through and I didn’t hear anything new. He hung up at last.

  “Rotten stunt,” he remarked.

  “Mine or Little Swede’s?” I asked. I sat there listlessly, waiting for him to land on me for the trick I had used to get my lead in the paper.

  But Jeff’s grin was friendly. “Did you pull something too, O’Hara?”

  If he didn’t know I certainly wasn’t going to tell him yet. “Where is everybody?” I dodged.

  “Out getting evidence,” Jeff said. “Hilton is helping them and the Willow-Frew combine is in mourning at the living room bar.” He perched on the edge of the workbench and began stuffing his pipe. “It’s washed up, O’Hara. The gendarmes are packing. Most of our compatriots are heading back to town. They’ll cover from the county seat. It’s miles closer to Portland anyway.”

  “Is Tiffin really calling it closed?”

  “He is.” Jeff lit the pipe. It had a nice smell, strong of tobacco and without any fancy perfumery to it. “He’s taking Tim Larson with him.” Jeff grinned wryly. “So all our suspects will stay here until inquest time. But there will be a guard on Miss Martin.”

  “Tiffin is a darned fool,” I said angrily. “Tim Larson no more killed Delhart than I did. I’ve known him all my life and he’s a swell guy.” Just the thought of it made me want to bawl. “I don’t care how mad he got at anyone. Tim’s pure Scandinavian when it comes to a temper. It always did take him a month to work up a gripe at anyone. Tiffin’s crazy!”

  Jeff Cook looked surprised and then he surprised me. Instead of kidding me about my defense of Tim he nodded solemnly. “I agree. That’s why I’m hanging around. Tiffin has no case—but there is one here someplace. Want to help me find the answers, O’Hara?”

  “I’m halfway there,” I said. I could have kissed Jeff Cook right then. Here was an ally. I knew by reputation that he was a clever, even brilliant police reporter. A good one is over half bloodhound too. I jumped up and tossed a grin at him. “I want to see Mrs. Larson for a few minutes and then go to town. And I’ll trade you a few choice items for a dinner.”

  “In Teneskium?” he asked.

  I gave him a haughty look. “We have seven hundred people and two cafes,” I stated. “What’s more, there are six beer parlors.”

  His laugh followed me as I went out the back door. I wanted to skip like a kid. Jeff’s help made everything look different to me. It was like lifting the weight of centuries from my mind. I didn’t skip but I did trot as I followed the gravelled pathway from the house to the Larson’s quarters. Together with a lone maid they occupied a rambling log house near the big garage. The Larson family had the big north end and the maid used a room at the south. Mrs. Larson and Big Swede stayed all year but the maid came and went with Tim and Delhart.

  I knocked on the door and Big Sw
ede let me into their living room. It was comfortably filled with old overstuffed furniture. Photographs of Tim hung all over the walls and lined the mantel. There were pictures of Little Swede in various stages of growing up, in high school. In his football and baseball uniforms, in swimming trunks, in the army. These people lived in a world of Little Swede. It hurt to think of him as they must be: sitting abjectly in a jail cell or being bullied in an inhumanly public trial.

  “Damn them,” I said to Big Swede.

  “Now, Addy, Tim is all right.” His broad Scandinavian face smiled for me. “You’re like Ma. They’ll see it’s wrong before long.”

  “It’s stupid,” I said. “Can’t we find an alibi for him? I know he made that confession for Glory.”

  He patted my shoulder. “No alibi, Addy. He came in here just before nine and I asked him where he had been and he said, ‘Out to kill that …’ You know what, Addy.” He blushed a little at even hinting profanity to a woman. “And then,” he went on, “Tim said, ‘But someone beat me to it!’ He looked all upset. But he’s all right now. He’s only worried what they’ll do to Glory.”

  “They’ll do plenty,” I told him. “Tiffin will. Big Swede, did you tell the police what Tim said?”

  “He made me promise not to.” Big Swede patted me again. “And don’t you worry none about Glory. I didn’t think much of her until lately. I guess I was wrong. She’s for Tim.”

  Even though I found myself liking Glory Martin I couldn’t make sense out of such people as the old-fashioned Larsons condoning Tim’s choice of Glory Martin. But this was no time to discuss the subject; I said:

  “Can I see Ma?”

  “She’s sleeping until I fix supper, Addy.”

  “I’ll trot off then,” I said. “I’ll be back though.” I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob. “Do you have any ideas? Did Tim say anything else or—well, just any ideas?”

  He was surprisingly voluble. “When Tim went to Portland to get the Willows he told me there’d be trouble. Delhart was all excited about their visit. That ain’t like him. Tim said there’d be lots of trouble. He said that young fellow, Frew, would cause trouble. Looks like he did.”

  “It’s a good bet,” I agreed. “What else?”

  Big Swede’s volubility disappeared. I knew he had something to say and yet he was cautious about saying it. “You know me better than to think I’d violate a confidence, Big Swede,” I said. “Especially if it would hurt you folks or Tim.”

  “I wouldn’t want this to get out,” he said slowly. “I mean I ain’t sure, and it might hurt someone. Only I was diggin’ up old bulbs around the house yesterday, there under the study window, and I couldn’t help hearing. I didn’t listen on purpose.”

  I nodded.

  He said, “It was that Mrs. Willow. I don’t like her much, Addy, but I wouldn’t want to be unfair and hurt her any. She and Delhart was in the library. She was carrying on.” He stopped, looking worried again. It was my turn to pat him. But since I couldn’t reach his shoulder I compromised on his arm.

  “She said, real mad-like, ‘You’ve forgot a lot, ain’t you?’ And he said, in that cold way he’s got, ‘? got the power now, Edna.’ ”

  I didn’t think that Delhart and Mrs. Willow would talk quite that way but I didn’t stop to correct Big Swede’s grammar.

  “Then,” he said, “Delhart shut the window. But I could hear them. She was talking loud and mad and he was quiet. I couldn’t get the words. I didn’t try.”

  “I wish you had,” I said. “But you tell Ma not to worry.”

  “You bet, Addy.” Big Swede seemed relieved now that the conversation was duly reported and in my hands. I opened the door and he said, “Say, if you see that Willow fellow before I do tell him I found that old hat he was raising Cain about. Only I lost it again.”

  I could only gape at him. He went on rapidly: “And I wish he’d bring back my chopping knife. I need it.”

  “Your what?”

  “Chopping knife, Addy. You know, a big, heavy cleaver. I use it to cut the pond weeds with here in the upper pond. Willow borrowed it the other day. Don’t know what for.”

  “Sure,” I managed to say. And I fled.

  XIII

  I DROVE NELLIE back to town. Jeff followed in his own car. I pushed Nellie along at a fair rate of speed. Evening was coming down and I was anxious to get away from the forest. I wondered if ever again the trees would be lovely and fragrant for me, and if the Teneskium would ever be anything but a reminder of my awful experience.

  I didn’t know how weary I was until I parked Nellie in front of my little house. Then the whole of the previous day and night and this dragged-out day hit me at once. I was glad to lean on Jeff when we went inside.

  When the door had closed he sauntered for the couch. I pointed toward the kitchen door. “In there is a bottle, lemons and such. Go mix us a drink.”

  He went obediently and I staggered into the bedroom. I stripped off my heavy wrinkled clothing and took a quick, hot shower. I followed it with a cold one. I was beginning to feel refreshed, a little lighter in spirit.

  I was selecting a dress when Jeff knocked at the door. I opened it a crack and thrust out a bare arm. Jeff put a pint beer mug into my hand. I withdrew my loot and took a grateful swallow. He had made the drink stout as well as big. And I certainly felt I had earned it.

  “Now,” I called out to him, “Call Jud at 214 and ask him how Bosco is getting along.”

  He didn’t answer but I heard him at the phone. Finally I yelled, “Well?”

  In a minute he called back, “Jud says your kid ate three ice cream cones and drank a can of milk and is doing fine.” There was a pause and then an explosive, “What!” I heard a chair crash over. “Hey, O’Hara, she caught two mice!”

  I collapsed on the bed, nearly spilling my drink. I was shaking so with laughter my sides hurt. When I could talk again I got up and leaned against the door and gasped at him, “Bosco is a cat!”

  There was an eloquent silence from the living room. But in a moment I heard him talking chummily with Jud. I went back to my dressing.

  The shower and the drink and the laughter set me up. I began to think again. I rejected anything frilly in the way of clothing. I had an idea this night might not yet be over. But I was tired of bulky trousers and shoes and a heavy shirt. I compromised.

  I chose a soft green dress I had bought since my discharge. It highlighted my hair so I took special pains with that. And with my makeup as well. With green suede pumps, sheer hose, and my grey topcoat and hat to match I felt better and better. And I decided I looked darned nice. To play safe I tucked my old slacks, shirt, and shoes into a zippered beach bag and took it into the living room.

  Jeff had finished his conversation and was working on his drink. “Nice guy, that Jud,” he commented. “Knew my father from his old Portland days.” He finished his drink and grinned sheepishly. “You had me going on that Bosco thing,” he admitted. “I thought it was your child.”

  “As far as I know,” I said, “I haven’t any. I’m unheralded, unsung, and unwed.” Jeff looked at me but kept silent. I was getting madder by the minute. “Shall we go?” I demanded icily.

  He glanced at me with masculine uncomprehension. “Sure,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

  We reached the door before I broke down. “Damn it, don’t I look different?”

  A smile of understanding hit his face. “Why, O’Hara, I hardly recognized you. Left me breathless.” He stood back and surveyed me critically. “You look swell. Good enough to kiss.” And he kissed me, bouncing out of reach before I could do anything.

  I felt better and better.

  We went to the Chinaman’s. He ran a laundry and for some reason known only to himself had added a cafe to it. The cafe was a good deal better than the laundry; people came from as far as Salem and Oregon City to eat there but I had never heard of anyone out of town bringing their wash to Teneskium.

  I explained this to Jeff. He seemed ske
ptical of our local eateries and had some absurd idea of driving twenty miles away to a steak house. He was such an indifferent creature that I had a desire to impress him with the town as well as with myself. And the cafe came through. Jeff stuffed himself on pork and rice, fried shrimp and chicken almond, and then condescended to notice me again.

  “All right, O’Hara,” he said, “where do we go from here?” He offered me a cigaret, lit it for me, and then filled his pipe for himself.

  “Back to the ranch,” I said firmly. “I have to show Tiffin up—and soon.”

  Jeff lifted his eyebrows at my vehemence. Hoping it was true that a man is more tractable with a full stomach, I confessed what I had done.

  “So,” I said into a steady silence, “that story lead will come out under your by-line.”

  “I could call you names, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “Or make a passable attempt at cutting your throat.” He paused to smile pleasantly at me. “But I’ll save it—a more fitting punishment will come in time.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. I was relieved he had taken it no worse than this. “But I am right, Jeff. Listen to this!” And I told him all I had learned from Glory and Mrs. Willow and Daisy. And from Big Swede as well. Jeff’s eyes began to glow a little as I talked. His nostrils flared like a bloodhound on the scent.

  “This weed chopper. Do you think Delhart was cut with it?”

  “Don’t you?”

  He nodded. Taking a sheaf of copy paper from his pocket he waved it at me. “And here, my dear, is a condensed version of the police proceedings as given us by our obliging Tiffin. Statements and all.”

  “Gimme,” I said.

  “I’ll read them to you,” he said. “Here’s the summary first.”

  The doctor, Jeff stated, put the time of death at about nine-thirty at night. From the type of wound it seemed that Delhart had lived perhaps an hour after being struck. Surely, not much more. So the police put the time of attack at approximately eight-thirty. They traced Delhart’s evening so as to come as close to this time as possible.