The Busy Body

by Donald E. Westlake

“My wife is correct, Mr. Engel,” said Kane. “You have made things impossible for yourself.”

  “Insurance,” said Engel. He didn’t have time yet to think about the mess he was in; he’d just figured things out and he was still involved with fitting all the pieces in place. “You’ll be insured to the hilt, and your wife collects. Your debts die with you, and your wife can sell the business. The two of you take off for anywhere, Brazil, Europe—”

  “The Caribbean,” said Kane.

  “And you’re set for life.”

  Kane smiled again. “For death,” he said softly. “Set for death.”

  “So,” said Engel, “your wife got close to Kurt Brock—”

  Kane’s smile soured a trifle. “Perhaps a bit too close,” he said, and directed his sour smile past Engel to his wife.

  “I did what I had to do,” she said. “This was your idea, Murray.”

  “What you had to wait for,” said Engel, “was a suitable body, a body loused up some way so there’d be no viewing. Then Brock stole the body, you put it in your factory and set fire to the place, and as far as anybody’s concerned Murray Kane is dead.”

  “As a doornail,” said Kane.

  “But Merriweather got suspicious somehow.”

  Kane’s smile twisted even more. “He eavesdropped. He overheard Brock and my wife talking. He tried to blackmail us, to cut himself in for a percentage.”

  Mrs. Kane said, “You were just going to talk to him, that’s all. You and your temper.”

  “He was too greedy,” said Kane. “A fool, and too greedy.”

  Mrs. Kane said, “If we’re going to talk, why don’t we all sit down?”

  “Of course,” said Kane. “Mr. Engel, forgive me. I didn’t mean to keep you standing. If you will be so good as to walk very slowly to that chair there, and sit down with no sudden or excitable moves, I would be most appreciative.”

  They all sat down in the living room, at a good distance from one another. Mrs. Kane said, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Murray went to see Mr. Merriweather, and I had the most awful premonition, so I followed him. I knew poor Kurt had been fired, for nuzzling with me behind the flowers, and when I saw you standing in the office, Mr. Engel, from behind, I thought you were Kurt, and I was terribly afraid you’d see Murray. You see, Kurt doesn’t know my husband’s alive.”

  Murray smiled again. “Kurt understands an entirely different plot,” he said, “culminating in his running off to Hawaii with Margo and half a million dollars.”

  “Poor Kurt,” said Mrs. Kane. “He’ll be so disappointed. At any rate, I saw you and thought you were Kurt, and so I said, ‘What are you doing here?’ because of course I knew you’d been fired. Then you turned around, and you weren’t Kurt, and Mr. Merriweather was dead, and it was too much for me, so I fainted.”

  Murray said, “My wife faints whenever things are too much for her, Mr. Engel.”

  “Then I woke up,” said Mrs. Kane, “and Murray was there. He’d been hiding on the cellar staircase. Well, the building was just full of policemen, so what was I to do?”

  Engel said, “You sicked them on me.”

  “Just so Murray could get away. Then things began to get complicated. I kept having to see you, to find out what you were doing, whether you were dangerous to us or not. And finally I had to get you in trouble with your boss, though I truly didn’t mean you to get in as much trouble as you did.”

  The husband said, “You should have let well enough alone, Engel. My wife went to the trouble of calling Rose and the others back, fixing things up for you again. You should have quit while you were ahead.”

  “I still had my job to do,” Engel said.

  Mrs. Kane got to her feet and said, “All right, now we’ve told you everything. Now will you, for the love of God, tell me something?”

  “You? Sure, what?”

  “What are you up to, Mr. Engel? What do you keep snooping around for?”

  “Charlie Brody. I was sent to get his body back.”

  “But why? How did you even know he was missing?”

  “I dug up his coffin and he wasn’t in it.”

  The Kanes looked at each other. Mrs. Kane said, “Mr. Engel, I’ve got to know why. What set you off?”

  “Charlie’s suit,” Engel said.

  “His suit?”

  “There was something in it my boss wanted.”

  They looked at each other again. Mrs. Kane said, “The suit. All the time, it wasn’t the body at all, it was the suit.”

  “We wanted the body suitable,” said Kane, “and he wanted the body’s suit.”

  Engel said, “What did you do with it?”

  Mrs. Kane shrugged. “I have no idea. Kurt took care of all that. I gave him one of Murray’s suits to dress it in.”

  “So Kurt would know where the suit is.”

  Kane said, “You understand, Mr. Engel, so far as you are concerned all this has become academic. It won’t be possible to let you live.”

  Mrs. Kane said, “Murray, I don’t like this at all. At first it was just a simple honest insurance swindle, but now it’s becoming criminal. You’ve already murdered one man in cold blood, and now you’re going to do it again. Murray, you can’t allow yourself to get into the habit of thinking of murder as the solution to all your problems.”

  “Don’t you lecture me,” Kane snapped. Then he composed his face again in the lines of pleasant humor, and said to Engel, “I’m sorry, Mr. Engel, I truly am. But I don’t dare leave anyone who knows I’m still alive.”

  “Sure,” said Engel. He was thinking. Jump through one of the tall windows? He’d never get there in time. No, wait and see what developed.

  Mrs. Kane was saying, “But how, Murray? What are we going to do with his body?” Abruptly, she giggled. “All at once we’ve got more bodies than we know what to do with.”

  “Oh, I know what to do with Mr. Engel,” Kane said. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Engel won’t be found, darling, don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

  “You know what to do with him?”

  “That I do.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  “I know a grave,” quoth Kane, “without a body. A casket and all, but no body.” He smiled upon Engel. “You won’t mind too awfully much, Mr. Engel,” he said, “if your headstone should read Brody?”

  22

  The nice thing about the trunk of a Lincoln Continental, it’s roomy. The bad thing about this particular Lincoln Continental was that Engel had to share it with a spade, a pick, a flashlight, a jack, a set of tire chains, and something small and round and cold and hard that kept sticking him in the small of the back.

  The condition of the streets of New York City are a disgrace, a real disgrace. Back around 1960 the city hired some men to go out and paint yellow lines around all the potholes for some reason, but other than that and since then the potholes have been left to themselves. Engel, riding to and across Brooklyn in the trunk of Kane’s car, devoted a number of thoughts to the municipal government of the City of New York.

  But all good things come to an end, and with a final jounce this ride did too. Engel waited, gripping the jack handle in the dark inside the trunk, thinking there was just a chance he’d be able to knock the gun out of Murray Kane’s hand as the trunk lid was being raised.

  But no such luck. It was Margo Kane who opened the trunk, while her husband stood well back and slightly to one side, where Engel couldn’t get at him but Margo didn’t block her husband’s aim.

  “Leave the jack there, Engel,” Kane said. “But do bring the pick and shovel and flashlight. Margo, get the blanket from the back seat.”

  It was the well-remembered path to the well-remembered grave, except that last time Willy Menchik had been along. Yes, and last time it was Willy Menchik who had been slated to go into the grave. Things were a bit different now.

  It was still early, only a little past nine, but the cemetery was as deserted as if it were three o’clock in the morning. They clink
ed and tinkled along the path to the still-raw grave, Margo spread the blanket for a groundcloth, and for the second time in three days Engel proceeded to dig up Charlie Brody’s grave.

  The job seemed to go quicker this time, probably because last time he was in a hurry to be done and this time he was in no hurry at all, and so both times ran wrong, with the usual perversity of life. In just minutes Engel was down to the coffin, his spade making a hollow sound as it hit the top of the box.

  Kane came over, saying, “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Open it.”

  “I can’t while I’m standing on it. I had this trouble last time, and I had to get out to do it.”

  Kane made an impatient gesture. “Then come up out of there.”

  Engel’s gesture signified helplessness. “I’ll need a pull.”

  Kane cocked his head to one side. “Is that so? Think to pull me in with you, wrest the gun away, get the upper hand, is that it? Margo.”

  She came forward.

  Kane handed her the gun. “Cover him. If he even starts to act up, shoot.”

  “All right, Murray,” she said, but she sounded doubtful. “It’s awful damn spooky here,” she said.

  “It didn’t bother you up to now,” he said.

  “Oh, Murray,” she said, and abruptly fainted, dropping the gun into the grave, where it bounced on the coffin.

  Engel had it in his hand before it could bounce twice, and had it trained on Murray Kane, who was poised in indecision, not quite in flight away from here and not quite diving on top of Engel. “Easy,” Engel said. “Take it easy, Kane.”

  “Engel, I can make it worth your—”

  “Don’t waste your breath, Kane. I’m not going to kill you. Why should I?”

  Kane gaped at him. On the ground his wife moaned.

  Engel said, “Don’t you get it? The faint was an act, a gamble. Either I got the gun and killed you, or you got the gun and killed me. She didn’t care which way it went. If you killed me, she’d have to figure another way to take care of you later.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s Brock she wants, not you. She doesn’t need you around to inherit.” Engel hefted the gun. “And this is her style, you got to admit it. This time, she sent me to do the job.”

  Kane started to growl.

  Margo Kane sat up, being bewildered and semi-conscious. “What—what happened?”

  “You conniving bitch!” shouted Kane.

  Margo hesitated, then flashed Engel a look of cold hate. “I won’t forget you!”

  “It’s mutual, honey,” said Engel.

  Kane had grabbed the pick, and was now advancing around the grave toward his wife. “You’ll pay,” he was growling, “this time you’ll pay, you—” And so on.

  She saw him coming, and scrambled to her feet. With a roar he came running around the grave, and with a yelp she fled into the darkness. Shouting, shrieking, bellowing, screaming, crashing around, the Kanes careened away across the tombstoned landscape, out of sight and—a minute or two later—out of hearing.

  Engel stuck the gun in his pocket and clambered out of the grave. He didn’t have either the patience or the inclination to fill it in yet again, so he just left it there.

  The key was in the ignition of the Continental, a car which did not, needless to say, have a standard shift. In addition, its front seat offered a much gentler and smoother ride than did its trunk. The trip back across Brooklyn was smooth as silk.

  A little after ten, on West 24th Street, Engel parked in front of the same fire hydrant Margo Kane had parked her Mercedes in front of yesterday. He crossed the street, rang Kurt Brock’s bell, and was rewarded by a buzzing sound which meant he could push open the downstairs door now.

  Brock was standing in his doorway upstairs. “You,” he said. “You told me you were a policeman.” He seemed indignant.

  “You’re lucky I’m not,” Engel told him. “It’s against the law to steal dead bodies. It’s a misdemeanor.” Engel pushed him back from the doorway, stepped in, and shut the door. “You could get thirty days,” he said.

  “What? What? I don’t know what—”

  “I’m talking about. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard that line before tonight.” Engel took out the gun, held it casually in his palm, and said, “Where do you suppose I got this? Guess who I got it from. Go on, guess.”

  Brock was staring at the gun. “What are you, what are you going to—?”

  “I won’t use it on you, don’t worry. Not unless I have to. You can’t guess where I got it? Then I’ll have to tell you. From Murray Kane.”

  “Murr—Murr—”

  “Yeah. Murray Kane. What kind of song and dance did his wife give you, anyway? What did you think that body was for?”

  “I—I really—please, I don’t—”

  “Cut it out, Brock. The stiff’s name was Charles Brody. Burned face, no viewing.”

  Brock was shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth, very monotonously.

  Engel said, “Brody was buried today in a grave marked Murray Kane. Where did you think Murray was? He’s alive, you know.”

  “No,” whispered Brock, still doing that metronome thing with his head, “no, he isn’t. He drowned.”

  “Drowned? Oh, is that what she told you?” Engel laughed. “She’s good, Margo is. I can hear the spiel now. She’s killed Murray because she loves you, but his body’s at the bottom of the lake and there’s no way to prove he’s dead, so the inheritance will be tied up and all, so the thing to do is get another body and fix it so it’ll look like Murray and arrange for Murray to die all over again.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Because Murray’s alive. It was the insurance swindle. Margo double-crossed you.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.”

  “You’re running away to Hawaii together.”

  “Yes!”

  “She told me that’s what you thought.”

  “Thought?” The truth, all at once, was beginning to seep into Brock. “Thought? She never meant to—She wasn’t going to—”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Where—?”

  “I don’t know exactly. The last I saw her, Murray was chasing her through a cemetery with a pick in his hands. But she’s pretty fast, she might get away from him. If she does, she might come here, but if I were you I wouldn’t let her in. Murray’s liable to come here too, looking for her, and it probably wouldn’t be smart to let him in either.”

  “Murray …”

  “Murray thinks his wife went a bit overboard getting your co-operation.”

  Brock automatically glanced toward the zebra-stripe couch, and licked his lips nervously. “I got to get out of here,” he said. “I got to clear out before they get here.”

  Engel stood blocking the door. “One small thing,” he said, “and then you can go.”

  “No, really, I got to—”

  “One question,” Engel told him. “Stand still a second and listen to me. One question, and then you can take off wherever you want.”

  Brock controlled himself with an obvious effort. “What? I’ll tell you, anything you want, what is it?”

  “The suit,” Engel said.

  “Suit?”

  “Brody was wearing a suit,” Engel said. “A blue suit.”

  Brock shook his head. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “What?”

  “He was wearing a brown suit.”

  “A brown suit.”

  “Sure. I cremated it.”

  “You did what?”

  “Mr. Merriweather had his own crematorium out back, and I burned it up in there. It might have been evidence.”

  “And it was a brown suit, not a blue suit. A brown suit, you’re sure of that.”

  “Oh, yes. I noticed he had on a brown suit and black shoes. You’re not supposed to do that, you know.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Can I go now?”


  Engel grinned at him. “Yeah,” he said. “You can go.”

  “I don’t know what you want with Brody’s suit,” Brock said earnestly, “but I can guarantee the suit he wore at Mr. Merri-weather’s was brown.”

  “I believe you,” Engel told him. “Oh, I believe you.”

  Brock headed for the door, and Engel said, “One thing more.”

  “Now what?”

  “If anybody else ever asks you about that suit, you tell them it was the blue one and you burned it. You got that? The blue one, and you burned it. If you say that, you won’t get into any trouble.”

  “Then I’ll say it,” Brock promised.

  “Good,” said Engel, and laughed out loud.

  He followed Brock downstairs to the street, chuckling and shaking his head.

  23

  Once again he went down the fire escape and through the window and across the black bedroom to the light switch, but this time when he turned on the light he remained alone.

  He hadn’t expected to find her here, and he was right. She was gone, taking nothing with her. On the kitchen table, where he’d left his note, there was a new note in its place. It read:

  Dear Mister Engel,

  I don’t know if you will ever get this note but if you do I want you to know I appreciate everything you have done for me and the memory of my former husband Charles Brody.

  I have gone away as I guess by now you know why and intend to begin a new life for myself somewhere very far away. A girl does not get any younger and I really did not feel it best for me to go back to work for Archie Freihofer after all.

  I have ironed your underwear and left it for you on the living room sofa.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Bobbi Bounds Brody

  It was there all right, clean and glimmering and without a wrinkle. The socks were even rolled in a ball.

  That girl, Engel reflected, was going to make some guy in some far-off clime a hell of a wife. Cook and wash and sew for him, take care of him just fine in the bedroom, devote herself to him day and night. And what a dowry: a quarter of a million bucks in uncut heroin!

  “She deserves to keep it,” Engel told himself aloud, “and Nick Rovito, that faithless friend, deserves not to get it.”