by Unknown
“And yet,” her brother said in a stricken voice, “you went on with Clark. You let him take you aboard his boat. You fled into the jungle with him.”
“Did you evah ride along with a gun proddin’ you in the ribs?” the girl flashed.
“God knows,” Clark said, still markedly cheerful, “I hated to drag her along at the point of a gun. But what could I do? I couldn’t turn her loose. Not until we crossed Darien and I was in a position to make a clean break. Then I planned to turn her over to some friendly natives who’d get her back to Panama.”
Chuck Dean growled something deep in his throat and jabbed his paddle viciously into the water. Billie patted his shoulder, turned and looked up at McMain.
“And now, darlin’, do you suppose you could smile at me?” she asked softly. “Because you’re goin’ to marry me, you know, and it would be simply awful to go through life with a husband who never smiled.… You are goin’ to marry me, aren’t you? Because if—”
“Steady!” Bridges shouted. “There’s white water ahead.”
Benson Clark rose to his knees in the bow. “Look here, Bridges! I don’t like the idea of heading into that rapid with my hands cuffed. I’m a lousy swimmer and this dugout is overloaded. If it capsized I’d go to the bottom like a rock.”
“That’d be too damned bad,” Chuck Dean jeered. “I’d feel right sorry if you got drowned.”
Clark ignored the sally. “You men are all armed. I haven’t a weapon of any kind. You certainly can’t be afraid of me. If I’d wanted to fight, I’d have done it up the river. I gave in, without any resistance, because I figure I can beat this rap. For God’s sake, Bridges, take off these cuffs.”
A warning bell was ringing far in the back of McMain’s mind, but Billie Dean was leaning back against his knees and McMain’s heart was so full of happiness he barely heard it.
He did not protest when Bridges laid his paddle across the gunwale, took out a key and silently unlocked the handcuffs.
“Thanks,” Clark said. “You’re a right guy, Bridges, even if you are a dick.” He faced forward again.
They ran the short rapid without difficulty and came out near the right bank of the river, which was fully a hundred yards wide. Here the water ran deep and black and swift.
Benson Clark looked over his shoulder. Something in his eyes caught McMain’s attention, and the lieutenant’s heart started suddenly to pound. He dug his paddle in the water, shot the frail craft shoreward with all his strength.
Clark, leering at the men behind him, cried:
“I may be a sucker, but not so much of a sucker as you damned fools think!”
He caught the gunwales with both hands. He threw all the weight on his left arm and jerked upward with his right. The cayuco tilted and went over.
McMain heard Billie Dean screaming as the warm black water closed above her head. He knew Billie was a poor swimmer and he realized, as the swirling currents tugged at him, that only a good swimmer could get out of this mess without help.
Fighting to the surface, he shook the water out of his eyes and took in the situation.
Bridges had struck out for the near shore, swimming awkwardly but adequately. Chuck Dean had caught hold of the overturned dugout with one hand and was holding his sister with the other. And Benson Clark, swimming a neat crawl, was churning the water to foam as he headed straight across the river towards the left bank.
“Can you handle Billie?” McMain cried.
“We’re all right,” Chuck Dean puffed. “Boy, get goin’!”
McMain got going. Clark, by that time, had a lead of fifty feet. The navy man cut it to forty in the swift swim across the river. He saw Clark gain the bank, slip in the muddy slime and fall. The man was up in an instant. Catching hold of a trailing branch, he hauled himself up to firm ground.
Then McMain’s hands struck muddy bottom. He lurched erect in knee-deep water, steadied himself. Clark was leaping away into the jungle like a frightened deer.
It dawned upon McMain in a split second that Clark was escaping into the jungle on a trail he knew.
The man was thirty feet away, charging into the bush. McMain realized that in another second or two, he’d be out of sight. He clawed at his holster—and found it empty! His gun had slipped out when he was hurled into the river.
plashing through the shallows, McMain caught a branch and swung himself up the slippery riverbank. He found the trail, a dark tunnel plunging straight into the thick forest.
McMain raced on, stumbling over protruding roots, catching his arms and head in trailing lianas, sinking at times almost knee-deep in mud. The sound of Clark’s steps and his flounderings among the vines drew no closer.
The lieutenant lowered his head. With his arms close to his sides, his fists in front of his face to protect his eyes from the brush, he shot forward.
He did not know how far he went, nor how long. But at last when his breath came in sobbing gasps and his heart was beating like a riveting machine, he hurtled out of the bush into the dull gray light of a small clearing.
And there, not twenty paces away, was Benson Clark. The man stood in a half crouch, panting, waiting.
McMain dropped into a walk as he saw a knife gleaming in Clark’s hand. And yet he did not stop. Fighting for breath, he moved relentlessly towards the fugitive.
“Go back, you damned fool!” Clark snarled. “Do you want me to have to kill you?”
McMain plodded forward. “I’ll take a chance.”
“You can’t stop me,” Clark snapped. “Nobody can stop me. If you want me to slit your throat first, come and get it.”
The distance between the two men lessened until they were no more than three paces apart. Then Clark, nervous, screaming a curse that echoed through the forest, lunged at McMain.
As the lieutenant had hoped, and counted on, Clark misjudged his distance. McMain saw the knife coming. He knew what he must do and he had time to do it. Fancy footwork, in that jungle slime, was impossible. McMain threw his body to the left, falling on his hands with his right leg straight.
He felt a blow against his right calf and realized with a thrill, even before he heard the crash of Clark’s body, that his tactics had been successful. He was on his feet in a flash, whirling to where Clark had fallen headlong.
He leaped on him, caught his outthrust right arm at the wrist. He whipped it backward and over, viciously. The knife fell out of the hand. And all at once, as Clark screamed in agony, the bone snapped and the arm went limp.
McMain caught up the knife and rose. Clark did not stir. Flat on his face in the mud, his right arm twisted grotesquely across his back, he lay motionless.
McMain waited a moment, getting his breath. Still Clark did not move.
“Fainted,” the lieutenant muttered, and dropped to his knees. He tossed the knife into the jungle and reached out to roll Clark onto his back.
At that instant the man turned on McMain like a wounded jungle animal. He rolled onto his right side, oblivious of his broken arm. His left fist shot out with all the viciousness and inhuman power of desperation.
It caught McMain in the pit of the stomach; it struck him like a shot of high-voltage current. Flame danced before his eyes. Every muscle of his body was paralyzed. He knew he was on his back, his knees in the air. He knew he was helpless.
He saw Clark leap to his feet. He heard Clark curse. He knew what was coming but there was nothing he could do.
He saw Clark stand off a pace, like a place-kicker measuring the distance of the ball. He saw Clark’s useless right arm hanging limp. He saw the insane gleam of desperation, and of murder, in his eyes. And he saw Clark’s right foot go back, and then start towards his head.
Time slowed and all motion became slow motion. It seemed seconds that he lay there while Clark’s foot grew steadily larger. Then, summoning all his will, he jerked his head sidewise. He saw the boot go past his face, still in slow motion.
All at once his nerves began to function. Time sp
eeded up. He caught Clark’s foot, while the man was off balance. He gripped it tight and rolled sidewise.
Clark’s weight crashed on him. He felt the futile tattoo of Clark’s left fist against his ribs. Still holding the foot, ignoring the other’s blows, he lurched to his knees and finally worked himself to his feet.
He stood there, legs wide, Clark’s ankle under his right arm.
“I can break this leg as easily as I broke your arm.… Well, how about it?”
“Break it, damn you!” Clark cried.
McMain gripped the toe and started to twist, while Clark kicked at him futilely with his other foot. Then McMain heard the crashing of branches, a moment later voices. He dropped Clark’s leg and stood back.
“The jig’s up, guy,” he said quietly. “Why prolong the agony?”
Bridges and Chuck Dean came tumbling into the clearing.
“Got ’im, eh?” Chuck Dean cheered. “Nice goin’, fella.”
McMain grunted. “The next time you search a man, Bridges, look in his shoes. He had a knife.”
“Good Lord! Did he get you?”
“No, by the grace of God I got him.” McMain turned wearily towards the river. “Where’s Billie?”
“She’s somewhere behind us. We got the cayuco righted and came after you.”
Billie appeared at that moment, her yellow slicker hanging in ribbons, her hair awry, her face scratched and bleeding.
“Larry, are you all right?” she cried as she ran towards him.
“I guess I’ll do now.” He grinned and put his arm around her.
She didn’t draw away. She snuggled closer. “Me too, Larry—if I can stay this way.”
Arm in arm they walked back to the river, slipping between the branches and creepers, plowing through the mud. It would have been much easier if they had gone single file, sanely. Somehow they didn’t seem to think of that.
The Corpse Didn’t Kick
Milton K. Ozaki
MILTON K. OZAKI (1913–1989) was born in Racine, Wisconsin, and lived much of his life in Kenosha, setting many of his books in Stillwell, a faintly disguised version of that city. His other books were set in Chicago, where he also lived for many years. Born of a Japanese father and Caucasian mother, he is probably the first American mystery writer of Japanese heritage. He lost a leg in a childhood accident, yet worked as a journalist, tax accountant, and owner of a beauty parlor on Chicago’s Gold Coast, though he claimed he mostly earned his living by playing bridge for money. His books were written in the smart-aleck school of private-eye or cop novel prevalent in the 1940s and 1950s. His first two books were set in Chicago and featured Professor Androcles Caldwell, head of the psychology department at North University, his young assistant, Bendy Brinks, and Lieutenant Percy Phelan of Homicide, who worked together in The Cuckoo Clock (1946), A Friend in Need (1947), and, a bit later, The Dummy Murder Case (1951). More than half of Ozaki’s twenty-five novels were written under the pseudonym Robert O. Saber (a pun on his name, as zaki in Japanese can be translated as “saber”), several featuring private eye Carl Good. Fast-paced and frequently sexy, the novels were also often humorous, though not always intentionally, as his mixed metaphors and peculiar similes were the subject of several pages in Bill Pronzini’s Son of Gun in Cheek (1987), an affectionate study of mystery fiction’s worst writing.
“The Corpse Didn’t Kick” was published in the November 1949 issue.
The Corpse Didn’t Kick
Milton K. Ozaki
Slay-happy Henry put his wife in a triangle—to prove he was on the square.
HENRY EBBETT HAD SPENT WEEKS perfecting his plan. He had considered it from every possible angle, and there was absolutely no flaw in it. It was complicated, of course, but the reward was worth all the trouble and patience required. Everything fitted together beautifully—and the timing was perfect.
It was too bad he had to kill Joe Carson, but Joe was the keystone of the whole idea. There had to be a fall guy—or Henry hadn’t a hope of getting away with the money. So Joe was the fall guy. It was as simple as that.
Henry soaped his hands carefully and rinsed them under the faucet. Removing his horn-rimmed glasses for a moment, he polished them thoughtfully, then replaced them on his small pudgy nose. They gave him an owlish look, but without them he would hardly have been able to see himself in the mirror over the washbasin.
“Contact lenses, that’s what I’ll get,” he thought fleetingly. “In some other town, I’ll get rid of these glasses and make a fresh start. A man can do anything with $20,000.”
The thought of the money brought a smile to his lips. He had the money—all of it!—and no one would ever figure out where it had gone.
For weeks, he’d been purchasing traveler’s checks at various banks under a fictitious name. They were waiting for him in a distant city, mailed there in care of general delivery. When everything was settled here, he’d pick them up and cash them at his convenience. He chuckled as he dried his hands. “This will fix Bertha, too,” he thought, “once and for all. No matter what she says, no one will believe her!”
Bertha, of course, was his wife.…
He walked from the bathroom to the bedroom, then went slowly into the living-room, pausing in the doorway like a stage designer inspecting a new arrangement. The lamp, the table, the chair—everything was perfect, even to the convenient ashtray, the bottle of bourbon, and the highball glass. Joe liked his bourbon with plain water. The glass and fixings were there, utterly devoid of fingerprints, waiting for him.
Impatient now that the critical moment was almost upon him, Henry walked to the window and looked down the deserted street. The cold had taken a sudden drop and the weather was freezing, but, fortunately, there hadn’t been much snow. He wouldn’t have to worry about footprints on the carpets, the back stairs, or the rear sidewalk. No one had seen him come in. No one knew he was here—except Joe Carson.
Inside the room, the steam radiator hissed cheerfully, spreading its warmth. Henry was anemic and he liked it warm.
“If Bertha were here,” he thought, “she’d have the heat turned off and the window open.” Involuntarily, he shivered at the idea. “As long as I pay the rent, I’m entitled to heat. This is the way I like it, and this is the way it’s going to be—from now on.”
As though in answer to his wish that Joe hurry up, a tall man in a heavy brown overcoat turned the corner and, his face lowered into the cold wind, made his way slowly toward the building. Henry nodded approvingly. Joe was on time. Everything was working out exactly as he had planned.
A moment later the downstairs door banged and Joe’s heavy feet ascended the stairs. Henry’s heart did an excited little dance as he waited for Joe to reach the landing. Then, moving soundlessly across the room, he unlocked the door and opened it. The smile he managed was perfect—pleasant, friendly, a little abstracted.
“Hi, Joe. Pretty cold, eh?”
“Sure is!” Joe came into the room, puffing a little and slapping his hands together. “That wind must have come straight from Alaska! You’ve got it nice and warm in here, though.”
“Throw your coat on the couch, Joe. Make yourself at home.”
Unconsciously, Henry kept his voice low, moving softly about the room in his old felt slippers so Mrs. Pettigrew, downstairs, wouldn’t hear two pairs of feet above her. She undoubtedly was sitting out in front on her glass-enclosed porch, watching the goings and comings of her neighbors, but there was no sense taking chances. Henry liked things to be perfect.
Waving Joe toward the chair beside the table, Henry said: “Pour yourself a drink, Joe. I knew you’d be needing one, so I got the fixings ready.”
“Thanks, Henry.” Joe sighed and stretched his legs comfortably. “Bertha get to the train all right?”
“You know Bertha. Always ready and always on time. This is the first time she’s been away in a coon’s age.”
“Uh-huh. You’re a lucky guy, Henry, having a wife like Bertha.”
“Don’t I know it?”
Once again, Henry surveyed the room. No, everything was perfect. The stage was set for death. With a confident smile, he went quietly into the bedroom and put on his overcoat, muffler, and hat. He buttoned the coat, drew on a pair of light flannel gloves, then went to his dresser and, removing two guns from a drawer, slid them into his coat pocket—the revolver on the right, the automatic on the left. Bending carefully, he picked up a pair of black oxfords from the floor and tucked them under his arm.
When he walked into the living-room, Joe was smoking a cigarette and sipping a highball. He raised one eyebrow in surprise as he saw Henry dressed to go out.
“Hey, going some place?” he asked. He set down his drink and started to get up, but Henry waved him back.
“Need a few things from the grocery,” Henry explained briefly, “and I want to drop these shoes at the repair shop before it closes. Won’t take a minute. Sit still and make like a guest, Joe.”
“Glad to go for you, Henry, if—”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
Henry wondered if Joe would notice he was wearing his felt slippers. Even if he did notice, of course, it wouldn’t make any difference. But Joe wouldn’t notice—and he didn’t.
As smoothly as an actor going through a well-practiced role, Henry walked to the door, snapped his fingers to show he’d remembered something, and came back. With one gloved hand, he picked up the telephone and dialed Mrs. Pettigrew’s number. The phone buzzed repeatedly, indicating that the phone was ringing. When it had buzzed four times, he set the receiver back onto its cradle. Mrs. Pettigrew would be on her way to answer it—and the phone was in the rear of her flat.
“No one home,” Henry said cryptically. He shrugged and started for the door again.
This time he opened the door and went quietly downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, he sat down, removed the slippers and put on the oxfords. In a matter of seconds, he opened the front door, stepped onto the porch, and closed the door. He stamped his feet loudly on the boards of the porch, opened the door, banged it shut, shuffled his feet in the hallway. Hesitating only an instant, he rapped on Mrs. Pettigrew’s door.
