Give Up the Body

by Louis Trimble

  “No supposition,” Jeff said. “Fact. Willow and Hilton were jittery. They schemed together. Glory was getting wind of it but didn’t know for certain what it was. She was putting pressure on Hilton, we know that. Or maybe Delhart didn’t know at the time he was killed. But he was bound to find out as soon as the audit was made—if he had lived. Right?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. The word “audit” was enough to frighten me off. This was all Jeff’s show.

  “All right, O’Hara.” Jeff got off the bed gracelessly. He was all long limbs and joints. He picked a bottle from the top of his dresser and poured out two small drinks. He added soda and handed one to me. “To crime—without it you and I would never have met.”

  “How lucky I am,” I murmured.

  Jeff went back to the bed, holding his glass. He ruffled his hair some more as if agitating it would help him think. “Now,” he said, “you swipe some funds. You’re going to be caught. You see it coming so what do you do?”

  “I’ve never seen over fifty dollars at one time in my life,” I said, “But assuming all this, I’ll swipe some more and run like hell.” I looked brightly at Jeff. “Yes?”

  “No,” Jeff said. “You’d swipe some more to replace the first missing funds.”

  “You mean,” I interpreted, “that Willow and Hilton planned to dip into the coming donation to charity and fix the books with their cut?”

  “Exactly. Auditors don’t usually check amounts to date but to the end of the last fiscal period. Now I’ve noticed one thing,” Jeff said with a touch of smugness. “Delhart made all of his charity donations that last two weeks in December. By then he had a fair idea of how much he would have to donate to charity to throw himself into a lower income tax bracket and save himself some money.”

  “So,” he went on, “if Willow and Hilton could have got Delhart to make his donation now—in June rather than next December—they would have been able to cover their shortages through last December and fool the auditors. Simple, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said wearily.

  “I got wind of it,” Jeff rambled on, “because Delhart’s file had a semi-social clipping that Willow was entertained at the Teneskium ranch partly for discussing a proposed donation of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One quarter of a million skins, O’Hara!”

  “That much money is as incomprehensible to me as a light year,” I said.

  Jeff ignored me. “Then I noticed that all previous donations were made in December. Why was this one out of line then?”

  “So with that and little Glory’s questions you put this hocus-pocus together?”

  “It isn’t hocus-pocus,” Jeff said indignantly. “It’s irrefutable logic. What’s more, I’ll prove it to you.”

  “How, darling?” In the short time I had known him I had seen Jeff fumble over the complexity of tipping ten percent on a dinner check. I shuddered to think of his auditing someone’s books. Especially on the peek and run system. And Hilton certainly wasn’t going to hand them over to him. “How?” I asked again.

  Jeff’s smile was too sweet and guileless to suit me. “By investigating Mr. Willow’s domicile,” he said cheerfully. He’s safely ensconced in the County Seat. We have a wonderful opportunity.”

  “We have? I remember your last housebreaking job, Jeff. No, I’ll wait and treat your wounds when you return from the wars.”

  “I need you, O’Hara,” Jeff said. He tried to look pathetic. He flopped. “Anyway, the place is deserted. They have a daily maid-service flat. No regular servant. It’s across the river,” he added as if it were an inducement.

  “I don’t care if it’s on Mount Hood,” I wriggled in my chair, prepared for a stubborn argument.

  Jeff got up, grinned at me, and reached for his hat. “Keep the home fires burning, O’Hara.”

  I didn’t come out of my daze until the door was shut behind him. I felt awfully deflated then. He hadn’t argued a bit, really! I jumped up and opened the door and ran into the hall.

  “Jeff Cook, you come back here!” He stopped and I ran after him. “You wait until I get my hat and coat,” I said indignantly.

  Jeff looked politely and blankly at me. I ran back and got my things and joined him. He was still looking blank. We proceeded in silence to the garage where he had his car. It wasn’t until we crossed the river that he broke down.

  “O’Hara,” he said severely, “you need an object lesson.”

  “Yes, Jeff,” I said meekly.

  He turned his head suspiciously. “Remember, O’Hara, the ceremony will have ‘love, honor, and obey’ in it.”

  “Yes, Jeff,” sweetly.

  “It’s better to get these little things straight beforehand.”

  “Yes, Jeff,” very sweetly.

  “O’Hara, are you sick?”

  “No, darling, why?”

  Jeff drove on, in silence again, but it was obviously a worried one this time. Before long he slowed, scanning house numbers. He found what he wanted, drove into dark shadows and waited. He slid around in the seat, studying me.

  “Ah, O’Hara, maybe I shouldn’t have left so hastily.”

  “No, Jeff,” I said softly.

  He gave it up then. I sat back smugly and listened to his plan of action for the evening. Everyone seemed satisfied, at least I was. It was nearing two-thirty and shortly daylight would come in. We wanted to get away before then.

  He talked for five minutes and then got out of the car. “All set?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. I gripped the flashlight he had given me.

  We walked back down the block a short way and stopped before a two-story building. “They have the upstairs,” Jeff explained. “Now go into your act. But give me time to get around back first.”

  I stood beneath a sweet-smelling tree and counted to one hundred. I was awfully glad that this was not Tiffin’s territory. What he could do to us made me shudder.

  Feeling none too happy, I went into the act Jeff had outlined for me. I walked boldly, staggering a little, to the porch of the building. I flashed my light waveringly on the cards by the door. The center door was the one of the three that I wanted. There was no bell, so I opened the door and walked loudly up the stairs. There was a bell at the top and I leaned on it. Then I banged the door. I counted to one hundred again and clattered back to the porch.

  There I punched the doorbell of one of the two downstairs flats. It took a few minutes but I got results. The door opened a crack.

  “What do you want?” a man’s voice demanded sleepily.

  “My pal Daisy,” I said, slurring my voice. “Where’s Daisy?”

  “Miss Willow is out of town, young lady.” The voice was rightfully indignant. Portland, despite its size, was notoriously full of home-loving and law-abiding citizens, and this one was no exception.

  “Who told you?” I asked. I smiled beautifully and weaved a little. “How’d ya know?”

  “Go home or I’ll call the police.”

  “Killjoy!” I turned and weaved away. I got back to the shadow of a tree before I relaxed. I felt awfully silly.

  A light blinked at me from an upstairs window. I blew a breath of relief and went around to the back of the building and up the service stairs. I moved quietly now, tiptoeing until I reached the thick rug of the living-room floor. Jeff was crouched over a secretary, picking the lock.

  “How was it?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Perfectly natural,” Jeff assured me. “You made enough noise so I could have chopped the back door out had I wanted to.” He picked industriously. “Ah, here it comes. O’Hara, go into the bathroom and try to find samples of Titus Willow’s hair and bath or shaving powder.”

  He gave me two blank envelopes. I found the bathroom easily enough, but it was occupied!

  XXIII

  I KNEW IT WAS the right bathroom because the room in which I stood was obviously male—Willow’s. Even if I hadn’t flashed my light around quickly there was that indefinable od
or of masculine occupant. And the room was without frills.

  I stood very still with one hand on the doorknob and the other gripping my flashlight club fashion. The door was locked on the inside; if I needed further proof that someone was there, I could hear slight rustlings like mice in a trunkful of taffeta.

  I couldn’t think of what to do so I knocked on the door. “Next,” I said in an off-key voice.

  Whoever was inside let out a gusty breath. I knocked again and I heard a frantic scrambling sound and the noise of a window being thrown up.

  “Jeff!” I bawled. He came fast enough. “They’re getting away,” I wailed. “In there.”

  Jeff tried the knob and then he relaxed. I could almost feel his grin. “I cased this joint,” he said. “It’s a slippery slate roof above and a straight drop down. No one’s getting away.”

  “Come on out,” he called invitingly. For all the silence we maintained now we might as well have got on the phone and called the police over.

  Someone walked to the door and then hesitated. “We’ve got you covered,” Jeff said, shifting his flashlight. The person inside made a familiar whimpering sound. I said:

  “Come on out, Glory.”

  She opened the door. I was right. It was Glory and she was drunk again. In the light of Jeff’s flash her face showed all twisted. She was on the verge of a crying jag.

  “Why didn’t you say it was you?” she demanded.

  I took her arm and led her to the bed. She sat down. Jeff snapped on the bathroom light and I could see her quite plainly. She was going to be a mess. Through the bathroom door I noticed an empty bottle, a fifth, I thought, and a pair of shoes and one bobby sock. The rest of my clothing she still had on; it looked a little crumpled.

  Jeff went into the bath and rummaged around. He brought the shoes and the sock and the empty bottle and gave them to me for the two envelopes. Glory sat and snuffled exasperatingly. I put the sock and the two shoes on her.

  Jeff finished his work and came out, shaking his head. “She’s stinko,” he said. “There’s another door connecting the bath and she didn’t even try to get out that way. Ready, O’Hara?”

  “Are we through?”

  “We’ve made enough noise for one night,” he said. “All I could find was his bank balance. I copied entries.”

  “Did you expect him to leave a transcript for you?”

  “Sure,” Jeff said. He touched my arm. “This time dear Glory doesn’t get away from us.”

  “And I get a story,” I said. Jeff made a final check to see that nothing looked too disturbed. Glory was being amazingly docile. It worried me. But she walked quietly with us and sat quietly in the car and went without protest to my room in the hotel. Fortunately the lobby was deserted so there was no one there to ask us questions.

  Daylight was coming along nicely by the time we were settled. Glory looked worse than either of us, and we were both hollow-eyed for sleep. I was hungry besides. And I was a little peeved. My slack suit looked very well on Glory but she had managed to put liquor stains on the blouse and jacket.

  “Now,” Jeff said, “how about a drink?” He took the empty fifth I still had and dropped it in my wastebasket. “Adds to your reputation, O’Hara,” he said. He smiled brightly at me.

  Glory said her first words since we had taken her from the bathroom. “Yes,” she said. “A drink.” Her slowly running tears dried up amazingly.

  Jeff went across the hall and came back with his bottle. Glory had a good big shot, not bothering with a glass. “Thanks,” she said. “I was scared stiff.” She hiccoughed and patted her lips and giggled. She never slurred her speech when she was drunk but she had a way of prolonging her words so that her “I was scared stiff,” came out like, “I wa-as sca-ared sti-iff.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “Thought it was Titwillow himself. Chubby old Titus come home.” She giggled again. “Another minute and I would have been in the bathtub. Shocked Titus. Never would have got away.”

  “You didn’t anyway,” I told her. “What were you doing there?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Sh-h. Secret.”

  “Tell for a drink?” Jeff asked craftily.

  “Ye-es.” He gave her the drink. She smiled slyly. “I went in there to take a bath.”

  I turned to Jeff. He looked so completely disgusted with himself I had to swallow hard to keep from laughing. He didn’t know much about women, that was obvious. Glory would have done that trick, drunk or sober.

  “I’ll get some coffee,” he said wearily. “There’s a Night Owl around the corner.”

  While he was gone I turned persuasively and managed to work a little information out of Glory. I started by suggesting that she owed me something for the use of the slack suit. She had herself peeled to my own fancy underthings before I could stop her. I was glad I had not started this with Jeff around.

  I got her back into the slack suit without too much trouble and reminded her that she had also borrowed Nellie.

  “Give you my station wagon,” she said handsomely.

  “It’s wrecked,” I objected.

  She thought this over. “Nellie isn’t much of a car.”

  “She runs,” I said. I didn’t confuse the issue by doing battle over Nellie’s merits, but I had to restrain myself to keep from doing it.

  Glory thought a little while longer and decided she owed me something. So I got a little information. She had passed most of the day in the woods, going to the ranch and into Larson’s house in the afternoon. It amused me to think that she had slipped in under the noses of Tiffin and his men. And it amused me a lot more when I heard she had ridden to the county seat on the floor of Larson’s station wagon and had taken a bus to Portland from there. Wouldn’t Tiffin howl at that!

  I got quite a reaction when I mentioned her talk with Hilton. “It’s a dirty lie,” she said stridently. “Don’t believe him. Pansypuss is a liar. I didn’t say it.”

  “Didn’t say what?”

  “What he said I said,” she answered slyly.

  “Then what did you really say?”

  Glory hiccoughed gently. “All I said was he’d do it again. And he would.”

  “Sure,” I said. “He would. Do what again?”

  “What he did before.” Glory closed her eyes and leaned back. I was so mad I felt like slapping her. Evidently I didn’t know much more about women than Jeff.

  He came in then, carrying a quart milk bottle filled with coffee.

  “Pour it over her head,” I said disgustedly. “I’m tired.”

  He looked at his watch. “Five o’clock,” he said. “You take my room and nap for two hours.”

  “And let you swipe my story?”

  “Swear I won’t.”

  “Not only that,” I said pointedly.

  “Swear I won’t,” he said. I was so tired I left the field to him and staggered across the hall. I kicked off my shoes and fell on the bed and that was all.

  Seven o’clock came around too quickly, but enough cold water on my face brought me around. Jeff finished waking me and then went back to my room. After a quick job with make-up and a quicker one with my hair I joined him.

  He looked terrible. He had his coat off and his shirt open at the throat and his collar was all wilted. He had taken his typewriter from his room and put it on a little table. He had a goodly pile of notes. His face was weary, his hair all rumpled, and there was the start of a beard of his chin. But Glory looked worse.

  She looked like a hangover without even the benefits of sleep. She showed her age and more this morning, and without fresh make-up she had a hard haggardness about her. She sat sullenly on the bed, glaring at Jeff.

  I lit a cigaret and leaned against the door and watched the process. Jeff said in a weary tone, “Now just what have you got on Hilton, Glory?”

  “That’s my business.” But there was no snap to it. She closed her eyes and looked as if she were asleep. Jeff got up, grinning apologetically at me.
He went to the washbowl and came back with a wet towel. He rubbed it vigorously over her face. She came up cursing and sputtering.

  “Want me to call the cops?” he asked. He looked at me. “Been going on and on. I’ve got most of the answers but not that one. Come on, Glory,” he urged.

  “Go to hell.”

  “No talkie, no sleepie,” Jeff said.

  “Ask Hilton.”

  Jeff sighed. “O’Hara, order up breakfast. For two, huh? Phone number is on the wall in my room. Place called the Night Owl.”

  “What about Glory?” “Glory won’t play.”

  I left and made the call. I ordered everything I could think of and the mere thought of it made my salivary glands start working. It was tough on Glory, I thought. I wondered what a real third degree was like. I didn’t care much for Jeff’s sample.

  By the time I had finished my call, he came in. He shut the door and peeled off his shirt. He went into the bathroom and did things about shaving. I stood in the doorway and watched him, fascinated by the sound of the razor cutting his whiskers.

  “Was all that necessary?”

  “She’s scared of the cops,” he said. He pulled the skin of his face taut and made a stroke with the razor. Then he went on, “And she’s holding out plenty. The answers will help a lot.” He put some more lather on his face. “I got enough so she was of some use. She blows Tim Larson’s confession all to pieces. But she’s still holding back.”

  “She’s sleeping now?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I told her I’d call the clerk and pay for the room and she can sleep all day and all night if she wants to. I advised her to grab a bus to your place when she wakes up.” He turned and smiled sourly at me through the lather. “Soft hearted Jeff,” he said. “I got to thinking how sleepy I was and I couldn’t do the job. I’d make a hell of a cop.”

  “If doing that is being a cop,” I said, “I’d rather have you be a good husband.”

  “Swear I will,” Jeff said. He went back to his shaving.

  By the time a boy came up with breakfast, Jeff was through and into a clean shirt. He looked a good deal better. He paid the boy and tipped him and shooed him out.