The Corpse Steps Out

by Craig Rice

  “Yes. Oscar called me this morning.”

  “Good. Just stick around and—well, be nice to her. That’s all you can do.”

  “I know she doesn’t love me,” Baby said, “but that doesn’t make any difference. I’d do anything. Anything, Jake.”

  “No, she doesn’t love you,” Jake said gently, “and she never will. She’s in love with a dream, and she always will be. Right now the dream happens to look like you. She means every word she says to you now. But someday the dream will change and look like somebody else. Maybe we all love only imaginary people, I don’t know. But certainly Nelle does. And when the change does come, you’re the one it’ll be tough on.”

  “No it won’t,” the young man said. “I can remember her, can’t I?”

  Jake shook his head pityingly.

  “You think I’ll get over it,” Baby said, “but I won’t.”

  “You’ll remember her,” Jake said, getting up. “But your own dream will change. Hell, what are we looking into the future for? The present is bad enough.” He sighed. “The truth is, the only person Nelle really loves is Tootz, strange as it seems.” He paused at the door. “Keep your mouth shut and try not to worry.”

  Baby nodded. “I will.”

  Down on the sidewalk, Jake glanced at his watch. There would be time to walk over to his hotel and change his clothes before he met Malone and Helene again. Not, he told himself, that he was getting dressed to get married. To think that would be to tempt providence. But sleeping in his clothes had not improved them any.

  Something had to be done about Baby. In the past, Nelle’s romances hadn’t bothered him. This wouldn’t, as far as Nelle herself was concerned. But sooner or later the young man was in for a blow. A bad blow. Perhaps if he talked firmly to Nelle, she’d ease Baby down and end the whole affair. Nelle wouldn’t want to hurt anybody if she could help it. Or perhaps he could convince Baby that his presence on the scene was harmful to Nelle and get him to go away. It had to be ended somehow.

  Hell’s bells, why was he wasting his time over it? As if he didn’t have enough on his mind anyway. Perhaps by his time Malone was getting Helen squared with the police. They would meet for dinner in a little while now, and he would be able to forget Nelle, Baby, the police, the murders, and everything else for a few hours.

  He walked into the lobby of his hotel. A tall, gangling young man rose from a chair near the door and came to meet him.

  “Thank God you got here,” Joe McIvers said. “I’ve been going nuts!”

  Chapter 29

  “You’re damn right. I’m not glad to see you,” Jake said crossly, ushering McIvers into his room and kicking the door shut. “Last Sunday I started out to get married. This is Thursday night and, between one cursed murder and another, I haven’t got around to it yet.”

  He lighted a cigarette and stared at McIvers. “How about a drink?”

  “Thanks,” McIvers said. “I guess I could use one.”

  “You look it,” Jake grunted. He dug the remains of a bottle of gin out of a dresser drawer and divided it with mathematical precision into two glasses. “I’m meeting my girl and my lawyer in just twenty-one minutes and possibly by the grace of God we’ll be able to get married tonight.”

  “Does it take a lawyer to get you married?” McIvers asked a little stupidly.

  “No,” Jake said, “he’s just getting my girl out of jail.” He pulled off his shirt and began searching for a clean one.

  “But Jake,” the agency man said unhappily, “everything is in such a mess.”

  “That statement has no news value whatsoever,” Jake told him. He looked at McIvers closely. “Something’s on your mind. You might as well tell me and get it over with.”

  “It’s about Paul March’s murder,” McIvers said. “You see, I was there.”

  An act of providence saved Jake from dropping the glass of gin.

  “I was there,” the agency man repeated. “And about the warehouse, you know. There’s a newspaper story about its burning down. If it burned down Paul March’s body should have been burned up in the fire, only how could it have been there if it was in St. John’s kitchen, and anyway, how did it get there?”

  Jake sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at him.

  “It gets sort of complicated,” McIvers said.

  “Let’s start this all over again,” Jake said very slowly and calmly. “How did you know Paul March’s body was in the warehouse?”

  “God damn it,” the agency man said wildly, “I put it there.”

  “Well, well,” Jake said after a while. He began changing his socks. “You didn’t shoot him, by any chance?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. He was dead when I got there. Jake, you’ve got to believe me.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, “I believe you. I’ve formed a society for believing people who say they didn’t shoot Paul March. But his murder seems to have been one of the major social events of the season. Hell’s bells, everybody was there.” He paused and added, “In fact, I was there myself.”

  “It was because of the script,” McIvers said miserably. “I know I shouldn’t have done it, but what else could I do?”

  Jake gave up all attempts at dressing, and said, “Getting information out of you is like getting an eyewitness story out of a disaster survivor. Do you want to tell me what happened, or do I have to hypnotize you to get it out?”

  McIvers frowned. “It’s sort of complicated.”

  “You said that before,” Jake reminded him. “What’s this about the script and what did you do that you shouldn’t have done because there was nothing else to do?”

  “Nelle had written some letters to Paul March,” McIvers said, “and he was threatening to send them to Goldman, so I moved the body.”

  Jake looked at him for fifteen seconds, picked up the telephone, and told room service to send up more gin, and said, “Any more of this and I’ll land in the paper-doll department, cutting up. You moved Paul March’s body?”

  “Of course,” McIvers said. “What else could I do? It’s not just that I like Nelle. Have you any idea how much commission I make off that show?”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” Jake said. “Go on.”

  “Nelle’s script,” McIvers said. “Just before the show I got to looking through it to see about a change that should have been made. And look, Jake, here’s how I figure what happened. She must have stuck the note between the pages of the script and it was written in pencil and the pencil came off on the script paper. It was in reverse, but I could read it.”

  Before Jake had time to wrestle with that, the gin arrived. “So it was you stole the script?” he said, unwrapping the bottle.

  “I was afraid someone else would find it,” McIvers said. He took the glass Jake handed him. “Thanks for the gin. And then I was afraid Nelle would go over there between broadcasts and I got to worrying, so I went over to Paul March’s apartment and he was dead.” He paused long enough to gulp the gin. “Jake, why did she do it?”

  “Maybe she didn’t,” Jake said. “But go on. You found him dead, and you did what?”

  “I supposed of course she’d shot him. And I had no idea how many people might know she’d gone to his apartment between shows. Or how many people might know about the blackmail note. Or anything. And my God, Jake, imagine what would happen if Nelle was arrested for murder.”

  Jake said, “I’ve been imagining it for several days. So you moved the body, huh?”

  McIvers jumped up and began pacing the floor. “Damn it, Jake, I had to do something. There was the program to consider. It’s the major part of my income. The contract was up for signing again. And anyway, there was Nelle. Suppose—” He paused, gulped. “Good God, suppose poor Tootz heard anything about it! It would drive him crazy!” He paused and turned pale. “I mean—”

  “Never mind,” Jake said. “I know what you mean.”

  “I moved the body,” McIvers said. “I remembered the warehouse and the refrigerating ch
amber. It seemed like a perfect place. I drove my car around to the alley and carried Paul March down the stairs and out the back way, and went up and washed the kitchen floor, and took his body to the warehouse. It was locked, of course, but I didn’t have any trouble getting in. Then I went back to the rebroadcast, but I was late, and I just caught the tag end of it out in the lobby. Nelle sounded all right.” He stopped and stared at Jake. “You’re sure she didn’t shoot him?”

  “Well,” Jake said, “she says she didn’t.”

  McIvers nodded as though that settled everything. “Then the next day I began worrying about it. I was afraid March’s disappearance would make some stink. So I send a note to his landlady with some dough, asking her to send his things to him at Honolulu, and signed his name.”

  “Why Honolulu?” Jake asked.

  “It was the farthest away place I could think of.”

  “Australia’s farther,” Jake said. “But that might have been overdoing it.”

  “But,” McIvers said anxiously, “somebody must have discovered the body and taken it up to St. John’s kitchen.”

  “Yes,” Jake agreed, “somebody must have.”

  “It was a crazy thing to do.”

  “All of that,” Jake said with feeling. “But now what?”

  “Now Goldman wants to see both of us—you and me—at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” McIvers said anxiously. “Everything was rosy when we came back from Brule. We had a wonderful time fishing, and made all the plans for signing the contract after the show. And then all of a sudden he wants to see both of us tomorrow morning.”

  “Probably doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Jake said, buttoning his shirt. “You’re just a little haywire because of what’s happened, that’s all.”

  “If he had the faintest notion Nelle was involved in the murders, he wouldn’t sign.”

  “He doesn’t have any such notion. He can’t have. And forget it.”

  “But if the police are looking for her,” McIvers began desperately.

  Jake spun around. “What are you talking about?”

  “The police,” McIvers repeated. “Haven’t you seen the papers?”

  “Not since morning.”

  McIvers drew a folded paper from his pocket, Jake grabbed it.

  WHO WAS BLOND GIRL

  IN RADIO ACTOR’S LIFE?

  He read the story hastily. The police had learned of a mysterious and reputedly beautiful blond woman who had visited Paul March frequently during the winter. It was hinted that she might have more to do with his murder than met the eye. No clue to her identity had been disclosed, but Von Flanagan had stated he had a good idea who she was, and that he would have her brought in for questioning before the day was through.

  “It means Nelle,” McIvers said in a tone that indicated it also meant ruin.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this at the beginning?”

  “I didn’t think of it,” the agency man said miserably.

  Jake tied his tie with a savage jerk, muttered that he hoped he might be married by Christmas, and said, “For the love of God, Joe, keep your mouth shut about all of this. No matter what happens and no matter what is said, deny everything. Leave Nelle to me, leave the police to Malone, and leave the rest to God.”

  “But if it is Nelle,” McIvers said, “if it is, and if they do pick her up for questioning, and if Goldman does hear about it, and if—”

  “If all that happens,” Jake said, reaching for his hat, “then we’ll all go to Australia and raise mink.”

  Chapter 30

  Malone and Helene were waiting for him. She was still wearing the black wig. It was now slightly askew.

  “Your wig is a little woppijawed,” he told her. Adding, “So Malone couldn’t get it fixed up for you.”

  “He got it fixed up all right,” she said. “I’ve even got the car back. But I’ve grown so attached to this wig that I won’t give it up.”

  “All right,” he said. “But I’m damned if I’ll marry you while you’ve got it on. I have a feeling it wouldn’t be legal.”

  He told them McIvers’ story on the way to the Erie Street building. Malone listened silently.

  “I have a feeling just like Von Flanagan,” he grunted at last. “All this is being done just to make life hard for me. So McIvers moved Paul March’s body to the warehouse. Then who burned down the warehouse?”

  “The man or woman who murdered Paul March,” Jake said.

  “How did he or she know Paul March’s body had been moved to the warehouse?” Malone asked.

  After a long pause Helene said, “The murderer’s maternal grandmother was a Welshwoman, and he or she has second sight.”

  Molly Coppins was waiting for them in the lobby. “Jake, the building has been full of policemen all afternoon.”

  Jake nodded. “I know.”

  “It’s about Paul March, poor devil.” She sighed. “To think of my packing all his things and sending them to Honolulu, and all the time he was lying somewhere, dead. Who killed him, Jake?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said.

  Malone sat down on a corner of the desk. “What did they want to know about him—the police, I mean?”

  “Oh, everything. Who his friends were, and what he did, and all about him. I didn’t know much to tell. He was a sort of unsociable cuss, always kept a little to himself. I don’t like people to be like that.” She beamed affectionately at Helene.

  Helene sighed and said, “Well, I’m glad they’ve stopped looking for me, anyway.”

  They went upstairs to Helene’s apartment. Jake looked at his watch.

  “If we left now,” he began, “there ought to be just enough time to drive to—”

  “Don’t say it!” Helene begged. “I have a feeling that the minute you mention Crown Point, hell will pop somewhere else.” She laid the wig on the table, shook out her long, straw-colored hair, and began combing it.

  Malone had pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket and was drawing squares and triangles in the corners.

  “Jake,” he began slowly, “the Nelle Brown Revue came off the air at nine o’clock—right? And the rebroadcast went on the air at eleven?”

  “Right both times,” Jake said promptly.

  “In between broadcasts—” The lawyer paused, scowled. “Nelle left the studios right after the broadcast. She would have had time to get here while the shot-and-shell program was going on. But we’ll assume for the time being that March was already dead when she arrived. In that case, she must have just missed meeting the murderer on his way out.”

  “And just missed meeting Baby on his way in,” Jake said.

  “Then,” Malone said, “you horsed around trying to figure out where Nelle was, and finally ended up here. After looking the situation over, you beat it back to the studio, with only a few minutes before the rebroadcast. Meanwhile McIvers thought things over, and was the next arrival on the scene. Did McIvers get back to the rebroadcast?”

  “No,” Jake said.

  Malone scowled at the notes he had made on the envelope, finally crumpled it up, and threw it into a corner. “It all fits in two hours,” he announced. “But why did McIvers take so long to get over here?”

  “I can tell you that one,” Jake said. “The first thing Joe did after the broadcast was to go phone Goldman, the sponsor. Knowing Goldman, I’d say that probably took some time. And Joe’s anxiety over what Goldman had thought of the show would keep his mind pretty well occupied for a spell. That happens every week. After he’d phoned Goldman and settled back to normal again, he began to worry about Nelle Brown and the blackmail note, and eventually got over here.”

  Malone nodded. “Givvus sent five hundred bucks to Paul March,” he said thoughtfully. “Paul March was murdered by persons unknown. McIvers played boy scout and moved the remains. Givvus came here for an audition and somebody shot him. Finally, St. John was killed—with the same gun that killed Paul March, but not the gun that killed Givvus.”

>   Jake picked it up from there. “If St. John and Paul March were shot with the same gun, I’d hazard a guess that St. John didn’t kill Paul March. There was more than five hundred bucks in Paul March’s pants. So possibly St. John bought the Nelle Brown letters from Paul March.”

  “And where are they now?” Malone asked. “Who wanted them enough to murder St. John for them?”

  “You’re asking the questions,” Jake said. “You can answer them.”

  “One more question,” Malone said. “Do we want to find the murderer?”

  “What do you mean?” Jake asked angrily. “If we don’t find him, how are we going to get the letters back and get Nelle Brown out of this mess?”

  “The problem is this,” Malone said. “Suppose the murderer is someone we don’t want to find. Grant that St. John is well out of the way. Grant that Paul March is, too. Mr. Givvus seems to have been a perfect nonentity, no one mourns him. How far do you want to go to get Nelle Brown out of a mess?”

  “You mean,” Jake said, “the murderer may be someone we sympathize with, someone who was perfectly justified in killing.”

  Malone didn’t answer.

  “But Malone,” Helene said, “murder isn’t ever justified.”

  “Isn’t it?” the lawyer said very quietly.

  No one answered for a long time.

  “The point is this,” Malone said at last, “if it’s possible to sit tight and do nothing—devote ourselves to making sure that Nelle’s place in this picture doesn’t become known either by Tootz or Goldman or by the general public—then that’s the course of action. Eventually someone else will be murdered somewhere and somehow, and everyone will forget this, maybe even Von Flanagan.”

  He was interrupted by the door opening suddenly. They turned, and saw Nelle Brown standing in the doorway, big-eyed, breathless, and very pale.

  “Jake,” she said, her voice strangely flat. “Jake, the police.”

  Malone bounded up, shut the door, and led her to a chair.

  “They came up to the apartment,” Nelle went on. “Lucky Tootz didn’t hear. Bigges went to the door and they said who they were. Bigges heard me duck in my room and he thought quick and said they’d find me at the studio. So they asked him a lot of questions and went away. But they’ll find out I’m not at the studio and go back. Oh Jake, what shall I do?”