Give Up the Body

by Louis Trimble

Jud was sniffing his whiskey and laughing at me. “Poor Tiffin! It’s a time he’ll never forget, tangling with you, Addy. ‘Do you want me to sleep naked?’ ” he mimicked. He stopped laughing suddenly. “Be careful or he will lock you up. Jocko can’t buck Tiffin too much.”

  I put the pajamas on my desk and held out my hand. “Give me your car keys, Jud. I’ll go and bother him some more.”

  He gave me the keys. “Nellie was heading in the direction of the ranch.” He paused, then said, “Nice fellow, that Cook.”

  “His pajamas are comfortable,” I said grandly, and picking up Bosco, I sailed out.

  Jud’s car was faster than Nellie, and much quieter. It took only a few minutes to make the trip. Leaving Bosco in the sun I got out by the bridge and went down to the little river beach. I scuffed out the remaining evidences of our fire of early morning and then took the path that led to the ponds. I halted and looked about as I reached the junction. I could see no one and so I followed the gravel toward the dam, paralleling the path but staying in the trees.

  When I reached the spot opposite the place where I had found the clothes I stopped and took the chopper from my purse. It was very still here in the forest. There was no wind. The quietness began to work on my nerves, and I was glad I held the weed chopper. The weight of it gave me a feeling of confidence. I was thinking that my name on the newspaper story denying Tim Larson’s guilt could easily mark me to the murderer.

  But I could not stand there holding the knife indefinitely. I had to get rid of it quickly. I glanced around me; I saw nothing. Shivering, I took a deep breath, grasped the chopper by the leather thong, and swung my arm. The knife sailed out in a smooth arc, turned end over end, flashing sunlight, splashed into the water.

  I held my breath. Had someone seen that flash? I waited tensely for something to happen. It did.

  There was a sharp crackling sound as of someone stepping in the dry ground cover. “That wasn’t very smart.”

  I turned around slowly. I could feel myself sweating, though it was a cool day. Arthur Frew stood not five feet away, looking sourly at me.

  “Not smart at all,” he said in his sullen voice. “The police are at the house.”

  It was like moving through heavy water to listen to him. He had such a dull nastiness in his speech. And, I thought, if he is the murderer he has seen me with the knife. He’ll think I know things … I said aloud, “What are you doing here, getting lost again?” It was a poor defense.

  He smiled nastily. “I’m looking out for myself and my friends.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. My mouth was so dry I was surprised I could talk. He looked bigger than I remembered him. “Only this is a funny place to be doing it.”

  He simply stood there. It was very still again. I could not help noticing the meanness of his eyes. A little breeze rose, rustling the treetops over us, and the noise made me start a little.

  He said then, “Come on. I want to talk to you.”

  His voice was not so ominous, but peremptory. Now I was beginning to be irritated. But when he turned in the direction of the river beach I followed. I had to go back there anyway, I excused myself.

  We stumbled over fallen logs and around thickets of brush and finally reached the path that angled from the ponds to the beach. He seemed to know his way around fairly well for a man who had been lost such a short time ago.

  He went to a log lying near the water and sat down. He lit a cigaret. Since he didn’t offer me one, I smoked my own. I didn’t say anything. This was his party. I felt better here with open sky around us, and the river white and swift and splashing in the sunshine. The car was not far away either.

  “Why did you throw that knife in the pond?”

  “To give the police something to hunt for.”

  “I was looking for it,” he said.

  “To give it back to Willow so he can return it to Big Swede?”

  His eyes appraised me. “You don’t know as much as you think you do.”

  I was over being frightened. I was literally out of the trees. Frew was no longer formidable; he was just the sulky young man I had despised from our first meeting. I had control of myself.

  “If you have something to say, say it,” I snapped.

  He flipped his cigaret butt into the river. “That was a nice scene you walked into the other day—here,” he said.

  “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Statement from Arthur Frew for the papers.” He was angry now and a dull flush was spreading over his sallow skin. “Delhart had it coming to him. If someone else hadn’t got there first I would have killed him myself.”

  “And that’s for publication?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a little rash,” I said. “Daisy’s honor isn’t worth it.” His anger was rising and I pressed my point. “After all, not even her parents could make her marry Delhart. Not without her cooperation.”

  I waited. He seemed to be waiting too. I wondered if he was not making the statement hoping the very boldness of his admission would turn suspicion from him. I wondered how far I could go in riling him. I said, “If she used a cheap method to try and get him, that’s her business.”

  “Damn you!” he exploded all at once. He jumped to his feet. “She isn’t cheap—and she couldn’t help it. I won’t have you printing insinuations like that about her.”

  “I haven’t printed it yet,” I said. “But you spend your time being nasty and suspicious and fighting with her about it. If you don’t believe she’s at fault, why act that way?”

  Frew was silent for a while. “She was infatuated with him for a while,” he admitted in a surly voice.

  “You’re too contradictory to be good copy,” I said. “Run along and tell Tiffin what you saw me do. I’m going to be busy.”

  He turned sly now. “I’ll save that. I may need it sometime.”

  “That’s your business,” I said. I was trying hard to sound indifferent.

  “I think we can trade,” he said. He was still being sly. He nauseated me. “You get my statement printed and I’ll keep quiet.”

  He stepped back and took a pose as if he were about to orate. “Tim Larson didn’t kill Delhart.” He paused to get the effect.

  “I know that,” I said. I was beginning to wonder at my fear of Frew.

  “The police think Glory Martin made him do it,” he proclaimed. “They’re crazy.”

  He shifted his position for greater dramatic effect. I wondered if he had ever taken a course in public speaking. “Glory Martin made Hilton do it,” he added. “I know!”

  “Is that all?” I asked. He had stopped. “What evidence is there against Hilton? You can’t accuse a man just because you dislike him.”

  “He’s half crazy—that woman made him that way. Haven’t I seen it?” Frew sounded like an outraged Ladies Aider discoursing on someone’s virtue. I wondered what his reason for telling this to me could be. Certainly he didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart.

  “There’s no proof,” I said, taunting him.

  “Then what were they doing talking together not an hour ago-right here?”

  XIX

  THAT WAS BETTER NEWS. Here was something I could get my teeth into. This was something more than the wishful thinking of a warped mind. And I was convinced that Frew’s mind was definitely warped.

  “What were they talking about?”

  Frew looked like a little boy thrilling at playing detective. “I followed him from the house,” he said. “I’ve been suspecting him all along.”

  I sat down on the log and lit a cigaret. He was using gestures now and I thought I might be in for a long session of ham acting. But he surprised me.

  “He came straight here,” Frew said rapidly. “She came a minute later—from downstream. I was back there a little.” He pointed up the path. “I couldn’t hear what they said but she was mad and he was pleading. He kissed her and she let him and when he tried again she pushed hi
m away. He got mad then. He shouted at her and I could hear him.” He broke off, holding his suspense.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Frew seemed satisfied and went on: “ ‘I won’t do it again! You do your own dirty work from now on!’ That’s what he said.”

  “Won’t do what?” I said. “It could be anything. Maybe he came to smuggle her a bottle—and wanted payment.”

  “I’m not through,” Frew informed me. “She started walking away from him. Hilton was where we are. She ended up down there.” He pointed, indicating the narrow end of the beach downstream. “They were both shouting now. ‘You’ll do it and like it,’ she said. ‘You can’t prove anything,’ he yelled back at her. She went into the trees and he yelled again, ‘Don’t push me too far.’ He sounded crazy. And when he turned around and started up the path he looked as if he would like to kill her. I was behind a tree and he didn’t see me.” Frew smiled weakly. “It was a good thing.”

  “And you want me to print all of this?”

  “Yes, say you heard it from an anonymous observer.”

  “Why not take it to the police?” I asked logically.

  “No,” he said. He looked sulky again. “I don’t want my name on it. Only that first statement I gave you.”

  “If it gets into print the police will come down on me and make me tell them where I got this,” I said. “Nothing doing. I’ll put your name on it or you’ll tell it yourself.” I wasn’t going to take any chances, not with Tiffin just aching to get a crack at me. Besides, I couldn’t quite see the precise Mr. Hilton screaming like a fishwife. I could visualize him in a cold rage easily enough, though.

  Frew was sallower than ever while he thought it over. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s impossible.”

  “Frightened? Of Hilton?”

  He sneered at me. “You can’t goad me that way. And I’m not frightened.” He tried to look adult. “It’s for business reasons.”

  That was logical enough, I had to admit. But I wondered if it were the entire truth. It might be a little fear and a little business. And, I thought, it might be a lot of caution. A statement like that was certain to bring the police down fast. There could be a lot of things Frew would not care to have known. So far they hadn’t questioned him too thoroughly. Just how close an investigation could he stand?

  Whatever his reasons it was obvious that Daisy hadn’t drawn much in the way of a knight errant.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” I said disgustedly. I walked off then, climbing back to the road to the car.

  I couldn’t see him after I reached the road but I could hear him as he walked away. I got into the car and did some thinking. Bosco sharpened her claws on my thigh and I slapped her for it. She jumped to the floor and began gnawing my shoelace.

  I left her happily at it and got out my typed copy of Jeff’s notes. It was about time, I decided, to study Tim Larson’s statement.

  His first interview with the police was very brief. He had eaten his dinner early and since Delhart had dismissed him for the evening he didn’t stay around. His father suggested that he look at the supports of the bridge that crossed the creek between the two ponds and he had done so. Then he strolled around, following the paths through the woods.

  This form of recreation struck Tiffin as suspicious and Tim explained he preferred the country to the city and was enjoying it while he could. He had seen nothing out of the way and so had walked back home. He was listening to the radio when Hilton called him out to search for Delhart.

  So far, fine, I thought. And he might have got away with it if his relationship with Glory hadn’t been dragged in and his conscience hadn’t caught up with him.

  After his first statement there followed a few notes on other members of the party. In typing my copy I had done so automatically and had paid no attention to these notes. Now I found them very interesting. Willow’s questioning formed the pattern for them all.

  Tiffin: What was your relationship with Mr. Delhart?

  Willow: Amicable.

  Tiffin: Can you think of any reason for the tragedy to have occurred?

  Willow: No. Mr. Delhart was a charitable man.

  Tiffin: Just why were you here?

  Willow: Mr. Delhart invited me and my family down for a brief holiday. There was a matter of business as well. A contribution he planned to make to charity.

  Tiffin: That would be to your advantage?

  Willow: It is my task to aid the poor in receiving contributions from the wealthy. I was gratified to hear Mr. Delhart’s decision, naturally.

  Tiffin: It wouldn’t be that Mr. Delhart changed his mind about this donation? (The usual Tiffin tact, I thought.)

  Willow: I resent your insinuation!

  Jocko: Touchy, isn’t he?

  I digested this and wondered if something lay in Willow’s guarded answers that I hadn’t quite got. Glory’s questions that Jeff and I were supposed to find answers for hinted at as much. But now I was beginning to wonder just how far I could trust Glory Martin.

  Mrs. Willow came next and her statement was almost a repetition of Willow’s. Frew followed and he disclosed two interesting items. His relationship with the Willow family was dual. He was Daisy’s official fiance and he was also Willow’s assistant—without pay. And he volunteered the information that Glory and Potter Hilton were more to each other than simply members of the same household. He refused to expand his suggestion, claiming that it was simply personal observation.

  Frew continued to nauseate me, and I wondered how Daisy, even Daisy, could stand him. Her statement followed his and though she admitted she had found Delhart pleasant company she reminded the police that she was engaged to Frew. She had no further information to offer. In fact, no one so far, but Frew, had even hinted at a possible motive for murder. But I had to take into consideration that they were people trained in making careful public statements.

  Hilton had something to say, and though he was cautious, he managed to get over his point.

  Tiffin: What was Mr. Delhart’s decision as to this charity bequest?

  Hilton: He wished to investigate further.

  Tiffin: Did he call his lawyer in regard to this?

  Hilton: I don’t know.

  Tiffin: Wasn’t it your business to know such things and help Mr. Delhart?

  Hilton: He frequently did things on his own accord.

  Tiffin: Then you can’t say if Mr. Delhart’s decision was disturbing to Mr. Willow?

  Hilton: It was, naturally.

  Tiffin: Was there any animosity between them?

  Hilton: If there was, they didn’t show it.

  Tiffin: Was there any between you and Mr. Delhart?

  Hilton: Certainly not.

  Tiffin: Not even when your—er relationship to Miss Martin became more than casual?

  Hilton: We were friends, that’s all.

  Tiffin: I’ve been led to believe otherwise.

  Hilton: By Larson? He’s jealous.

  Tiffin: You mean to imply that Larson and Miss Martin are more than friends?

  Hilton: I don’t believe it is my place to discuss it.

  Tiffin: But it could give Larson a motive for killing Mr. Delhart?

  Hilton: From previous observation I would say it would give Mr. Delhart a motive for killing Larson.

  And with that back-handed trick Hilton stopped talking. But Tiffin had given him an opening and he had used it to turn their interest back on Tim Larson. I could imagine Hilton’s smugness if he were, as Frew claimed, interested in Glory. Re-reading his statement, I saw how obscure most of his answers were, and I wondered if that very obscureness didn’t point up the fact that he was definitely hiding himself. It just might be a good idea for Jeff and me to do a little investigating on those very questions Tiffin had asked.

  Tim was re-questioned following the interview with Hilton. And here Tiffin got in some nifty footwork. He came up with Tim’s confession, a masterpiece of understatement.

>   “I was talking to Glory when Mr. Delhart came along. He was insulting and I knocked him down. Glory ran off, angry with me. I followed her. She tried to hit me. I threw her in the lake to cool off. Delhart came up again. It was dark and I thought it was Hilton. Glory had told me Hilton was bothering her. I thought I had hit Delhart too hard for him to be awake already. When he tried to hit me this time I knocked him into the weeds. He drew a gun. I had Dad’s weed chopper and I slashed him with it. I got scared and threw the chopper in the water and ran. I thought he was dead.”

  I stopped reading, dazed. I couldn’t believe that Tiffin would use that obviously false statement to try his case with. Its very falseness frightened me. Tiffin must have something else, something none of us knew about.

  My job right now was to clear Tim. So far I had won most of my rounds against Tiffin. But it looked as if he were the one who had the Sunday punch tucked away.

  XX

  WHEN I REACHED the ranch house the police were inside. I marched straight up to Tiffin, ignoring his poisonous look.

  “I thought you were going to drag the pond,” I said. “Or are you afraid you’ll find something?”

  Tiffin colored. He said, “I have no statement.”

  I looked at Jocko. “Tim Larson’s confession is worthless. He doesn’t say when he did this killing. Nor when—in fact, not much of anything. Maybe Godfrey knows that and is afraid he’ll find too much evidence in the pond.”

  “There’s enough evidence for now,” Jocko said patiently. “You run along, Addy.”

  “You’ll get your story at the inquest,” Tiffin told me.

  “So will you,” I said angrily. His smugness made me want to hit him. “I can blast Tim’s confession wide open and I’ll do it. You’re making a fool of yourself, Godfrey, trying to be a big man and solve your case quickly.”

  “If you’re concealing evidence, Adeline …”

  “Not at all,” I said. I put on the gay touch. “Only I happen to know that Tim Larson couldn’t have done it with the weed chopper. Because Mr. Titus Willow had it. Now give that to your coroner’s jury.”

  Tiffin and Jocko looked at each other and then at me. Tiffin said, “Who told you that?”