You Can't Kill a Corpse Page 2

  “Give,” the lieutenant said. He sounded weary. A desk-bound cop, Clane thought, was a man to pity. He wondered about the rest of the force. He had not been able to get much advance information on the men. But under a machine administration such as Pryor had here the police would be one of two things: work-horses doing their jobs, closing their eyes to conditions for the sake of those jobs; or corrupt officials, getting what they could while it lasted. Outside of Day, Clane did not see these men that way. The sergeant and the lieutenant were tired old men; their lives were a deadly, poorly paid routine.

  The lieutenant said again, “Give.”

  Clane said, “Thorne hired me to break up the party. I needed the dough. That’s all.” Clane looked the lieutenant in the eye. He didn’t change his dour expression. He wasn’t a man to smile much. He hoped the lieutenant accepted his story. He was following the plan he had always found most successful in doing jobs of that kind. Publicity, good or bad, getting his name before the big shots in a town. That was his best opening gambit. He accepted the fact that public sentiment would be against him at first. That couldn’t be helped. He could not work quietly; it wasn’t his way. He liked to put things in the open and then keep them there. He went on the theory that the opposition would expose itself swinging at him. And they couldn’t fight back if Clane hid his light.

  This was a dramatic move, attacking the mayor publicly and then placing the blame on Ed Thorne. Clane knew he was taking a big chance. His research on Ed Thorne told him the man was a gambler. That meant he was open to a new approach, and he was willing to take a chance. Now Clane had fixed it so Thorne had to take a chance on him or repudiate him and sit back and wonder if he hadn’t missed a good bet.

  One of the reporters said, “Thorne!”

  “Yeah,” Clane said. “Ed Thorne. Know him?”

  “Sure,” the lieutenant said heavily. “We’ll probably give you thirty days for this. But Thorne will have you sprung or killed before then.”

  They gave Clane back his cigarettes. He stood and smoked one, waiting for the lieutenant to make up his mind. Clane looked terrible and felt worse, and he kept his mind off himself by thinking about the future when he could get a crack at the red-faced cop, Day.

  “I always did object to cops using saps,” he told Day. “And to guys like the one who socked me with his fist.”

  “Wickett,” Day said. He grinned at Clane. “I like saps. Wickett likes to use his fists. Go on and object, punk.”

  Clane had his information, the name of the man who had hit him during the rally. Now he said, “What time is it?” He looked at the sergeant instead of Day.

  The lieutenant answered. “It’s night, Clane.”

  “Take your time about arraigning me,” Clane said. “I want some food and sleep.”

  The lieutenant grunted and shook his head tiredly. Then he waved Clane away. They took him back to his cell and after a while brought him a supper of stew and bread and coffee. He ate and smoked and fell into a doze. When he awoke he lay in the dimness thinking about the kid in the gas station and his two gallons of gas. He hoped Bob Morgan would be smart enough to keep out of this.

  In the next twelve hours Clane had three visitors. The first was the pudgy, pinkish mayor. He came into the cell during the morning.

  “Got a campaign cigar handy?” Clane asked amiably. He was feeling better after sleep and breakfast. He wondered if he could needle the mayor into threatening him. He didn’t doubt that the city machine would put pressure onto him, and he wanted a hint of their plans.

  Mayor Pryor glared at him. “I’m going to bring suit against you for slander,” he said.

  “You’re a damned fool if you do,” Clane told him. He touched his lips, finding that the swelling had gone down. His stomach felt good too. Breakfast had been a fair meal, no jailhouse slop. That, Clane decided, was due to Ed Thorne. He wondered how much weight Thorne really carried.

  “I could prove the charges I made if I had time,” Clane went on. “And if I had a clear field.”

  Mayor Pryor’s ruddy cheeks deepened in color. “I’ve had a satisfactory record for twenty years.”

  “You can buy those,” Clane said. “Now get the hell out. I want to think.”

  The mayor swelled in indignation. “I demand to know what is back of this unwarranted attack on me!”

  “Go away,” Clane said. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  “Clane,” the mayor said, “there are ways of making you talk.”

  “Not under your administration, Your Honor. It’s too clean.” Clane kept his eyes shut. The mayor waddled out of the cell, clanging the door behind him. Clane wondered which cop in the hall was choking on his laughter. He hadn’t received much information but he had succeeded in getting the mayor both angry and bewildered. That counted for something.

  Clane’s next visitor made him sit up. He even combed his hair. The girl was young, about twenty-three, he judged. She wore very little make-up, only soft lipstick and a touch of powder. Her skin was creamy and her hair a dull red-blonde in the harsh light. She wore a semi-tailored suit of gray. It half suppressed an obviously good figure. And that, Clane thought, was a shame.

  “I’m Edith Morgan,” she said. She had green eyes and she looked directly into Clane’s face. Candor overdone, was his first impression.

  “You’re not Bob Morgan’s mother?” he said without smiling. He rose. “Have my chair.”

  “I’ll share it with you,” she said. She had a nice voice, a little soft for the crispness she tried to put into it, but nice. She sat on the edge of the cot. Clane liked that about her. He took out his packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She shook her head and smiled a little when he discovered the package was empty. She opened her purse and handed him two full packs. “I brought these,” she said.

  “Why?” He took them.

  “Because Bob—he’s my brother—said to.”

  She was very pretty, Clane thought. Even in a suit she was pretty. Her mouth was too small, her nose a little too short. Her cheekbones were higher than they should be for beauty, but the ensemble pleased him. Except that she looked too guileless.

  “Tell Bob to hold the gas for me,” Clane said. He watched her with his dark eyes slightly closed. “Maybe Thorne sent you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Your brother?” he asked. “I hardly know him.”

  “No,” she said again. “I’m here on my own. I want to know just why you’re trying to ruin Dad’s chances in the election.”

  “I’m not ruining them,” Clane said. “I’m going to elect him.”

  Her eyes widened and then she laughed. A soft laugh, one to humor a child. “Thank you,” she said.

  Clane was annoyed with her. Partly because obviously she regarded him as either a fool or crazy, and partly because she had played the fool herself in coming there. He did not want himself to appear to be connected with the Morgan family. It would give the opposition too much to go on. Clane wondered if he could make her angry as he had the mayor. He knew a policeman was outside, listening.

  Clane said, “I’m telling the truth, Miss Morgan. I’ll tell you about it over cocktails when I get out.”

  “You make your dates a long time in advance,” she said. She sat straighter. “Now, just why did you make that preposterous statement about Ed Thorne?”

  “I’ll have to give you the same answers I would to the reporters or anyone else,” Clane said. “Ask Ed Thorne.” He saw her cheeks redden and he said bluntly, “And thanks for the cigarettes.”

  She stood up quickly. Clane congratulated himself. In her anger she looked less softly feminine and more in keeping with the suit she wore. “I think my brother misjudged you, Mr. Clane.”

  He let her go without answering. He listened to her footsteps on the hard corridor floor, annoyed because she had linked him with Bob Morgan in a definite manner. He wondered what she was doing in politics. She hardly looked the capable type. But he had been fooled before. />
  His third visitor moved into the cell and seemed to fill it. Clane had been relaxing and now he sat up and watched the man from sleepy eyes. He kept his indifferent look but inside he was tightening up. This was it, he thought; it couldn’t be anything else.

  The man was big all over, heavy in girth and tall, filled out. He was smooth-faced with a hawk-like nose and a mouth thinner than Clane’s. He wore expensive clothes without shouting about it. There was a big diamond on the middle finger of his right hand. Clane estimated it to be about five carats. He carried a black homburg and an overcoat and he tossed them on the bunk beside Clane.

  “Hello, Thorne,” Clane said. “I’ve been waiting a hell of a time.”

  The big man kept his pale eyes on Clane. “I’m here now,” he said. “You’ll have dinner at my place tonight, Clane, seven o’clock.

  “Formal?” Clane asked. He brushed his hand over his wrinkled and soiled suit.

  Thorne was casual. “Venchetti will take care of it.” He picked up his hat and coat and moved his bulk gently toward the door. “Seven o’clock.”

  Clane lay back and smoked some more after Thorne had gone. He got up and blew smoke around the cell, trying to efface the effects of Thorne’s heavy masculine cologne. Clane didn’t like it. He didn’t think he would like Ed Thorne too well.

  The police sergeant who had been in the night before came to the cell. “All right, Clane,” he said disgustedly. “We could have saved our time.”

  “And the taxpayers’ money,” Clane said. He didn’t move. “I want lunch first. I like the meals here.”

  The sergeant’s mildness went away for the first time. “You’ll want hell,” he said. “Get out of here.”

  At the desk Clane received his valuables. He was strapping on his wristwatch when he saw the same two reporters of the night before coming down the corridor. He picked his wallet up from the desk and looked inside. He said loudly, “Where’s the thirty bucks I had in here?”

  The sergeant said, “To hell with Thorne. Throw this guy out of here.”

  Clane put on a fine show, making the most noise as he was hustled past the reporters. They had stopped and were watching the action. They turned and fell into line as he was shoved down the corridor. The older of the men helped Clane to his feet at the bottom of the outside steps.

  “I make fine copy,” Clane said pointedly.

  The younger man, who looked about fifty, said, “What’s this about stolen money?”

  Clane asked, “Which paper do you work for?”

  “Clarion—evening. I’m Driggs.”

  The older man looked more like a newspaperman; Clane caught a little cynicism in his eyes that the other man lacked. He said now, “I’m Watson. Morning Call. We work together.” He was half smiling at Clane.

  “Who owns which paper?” Clane asked him.

  “Wickett,” Watson said. “Both of them. He’s the one who knocked you down at the riot.”

  “It’s a riot now, is it?” Clane said. “Any other papers in town?”

  “No,” Driggs said impatiently. “What’s this about stolen money, Clane?”

  Watson gave him a disgusted look and then grinned. Clane said, “Don’t you guys ever eat? It’s past noon, isn’t it?”

  “All right,” Watson said. “You cover for a while, Driggs. I’ll feed Clane. On the Call,” he added.

  Driggs went off. Looking relieved, Clane thought. He said to Watson, “What kind of a newspaperman is that guy?”

  “A Wickett man,” Watson said. “He writes nice words. If he made nice figures he would be a bookkeeper.”

  “Let’s eat where we can have a beer,” Clane said. They started walking down Main. “You weren’t trained on Wickett’s sheets?” Clane asked.

  “I worked for the opposition when his old man was alive,” Watson said. “When he died Wickett bought up the opposition. I went with it.”

  “Who ran that paper?”

  “Thorne owned it. A man named Castle managed it. He’s slipped since then.” Clane sensed bitterness in Watson’s voice.

  “I’d make a good reporter,” Clane said. “I’ve got all the answers now. How does it feel to be interviewed?”

  “I’m trading,” Watson said. “And I’m finding out what you don’t know.” His grin was humorless. “I’m an old workhorse, Clane, and damned near sixty. You don’t run rings around me.”

  “We might play together,” Clane said.

  They went into a restaurant on Main Street a half-block toward Bob Morgan’s Super-Service from First Street. It was a small place, cool and dim inside. They sat in an isolated booth.

  Watson said to the girl who came up, “This is the infamous Clane, Nettie. He wants a beer.”

  “And a hamburger steak with onions, well done, and a half dozen doughnuts and coffee,” Clane said.

  The girl blinked and look at Watson. “Yours, Blake?”

  “I ate,” Watson said. “No, make it beer. Wickett won’t be smelling my breath today.”

  Clane watched the girl move off. Then he looked again at Watson. He was a thick-set man, his gray hair thinning. His face was beginning to sag at the jowls with the weight of his age. His pale eyes kept bothering Clane because of the way he kept sliding them to one side as he talked. He was well dressed in a conservative gray business suit. An incongruous note was the leather camera case slung by a strap from his shoulder. Clane presumed it held a camera.

  Watson touched the case with his fingers. “How about a picture in exchange for the lunch?”

  “After I eat.”

  “Naturally. Now, what’s the racket, Clane?”

  “I want to eat in peace,” Clane told him.

  He drank his beer, letting the first few sips take the dryness out of his throat, and then finishing the glass at a gulp. He was silent until he was well into his second cup of coffee. “I like to eat,” he said then. “I like my meals regularly. Does that explain anything?”

  “For a guy with thirty dollars when he hit town—no,” Watson said dryly.

  “All right,” Clane said, “then quote me this way: Mayor Pryor is through in Dunlop. Twenty years of a grafting administration is more than enough. It is about time that the people had a competent mayor who can organize a civic group in line with other fine cities of the country. Dunlop is known as the political sinkhole of the Middle West. We must follow the lead of Kansas City, Terre Haute, Milwaukee, and other reformed metropolises and provide our future generations with a clean city to live in.” He swung his arm wide and struck a pose. “You take it from there, Watson.”

  “Wickett would kill every line of that crap,” Watson said. “Damn it.”

  “Basically it’s true, isn’t it?”

  Watson shrugged. “Where were you raised, Clane?”

  “My father parked me in the cloakroom of Tammany Hall until I was big enough to sit in myself,” Clane said.

  “That explains it,” Watson said. “I’ll make a story out of this.” He waited until Clane had drained his coffee cup. Then he said, “Ready for that picture?”

  “Any time,” Clane said. He followed Watson to his feet and outside. Watson wasted no time. He squinted at the bright sun, moved Clane to a position, stepped back and unlimbered his camera. Before Clane could note that it was a nice Leica, Watson had taken three shots, moving expertly between each one.

  “You’re good at it,” Clane said.

  “It’s a sideline,” Watson said. “It means extra money.”

  Clane thought he was probably a man who needed extra money now and then. For all of the conservativeness of his clothing Watson didn’t give the impression of a man who had netted himself a comfortable bank account against the future. There was a restlessness in his movement and in his speech.

  Watson said, “Where are you headed?” He was fitting the camera back into its case.

  Clane said, “Thanks for the lunch. Right now I’m going to see Wickett and ask him for a job.”

  THREE

  C
lane found the Clarion-Call building the highest and most imposing in town. The lobby was so ornate he had difficulty in finding the directory. When he did locate it he saw that the editorial offices of the Clarion were on the tenth floor, those of the Call on the twelfth, and the office of Anthony Wickett, publisher, on the eleventh. The top floor, he noticed, was occupied by the Wickett Broadcasting Company.

  “Which,” Clane muttered as he headed for the elevator, “neatly sews up public opinion for Mr. Wickett.” He was slightly surprised at Wickett’s lack of modesty. Few men would have the nerve to wave their power so flagrantly in public. The least Wickett could have done, Clane thought, was to make a pretense of letting someone else own something.

  Clane was let off at eleven. He scowled at the brunette receptionist tastefully decorating Anthony Wickett’s modernistically ornate front office.

  “Clane to see Wickett,” he said.

  Her eyes widened, so he guessed she read the newspapers. He kept his scowl while she plugged in on the switchboard. “Mr. Clane to see Mr. Wickett,” she said. She looked at Clane and dropped he eyes. She added, “Perhaps you had better come out.”

  “I won’t bite him,” Clane said loudly.

  The inner door opened while Clane was speaking and a man, walking stiffly erect, came into the reception room. He stared openly at Clane, and Clane returned the stare bluntly.

  Clane noted a resemblance to someone he had seen. He caught it in the pale eyes, the blond hair turning gray, in the fullness of the lips set in a thin face.

  Because the man looked so much like Bob and Edith Morgan, Clane said, “Did I interrupt you, Mr. Morgan?”

  “I heard your voice,” the man said coldly. “I wanted to see this Clane for myself. I’ll thank you,” he added, “to let me handle my campaign as I see fit. And to keep out of my affairs.”

  “Advice received,” Clane said cheerfully. “Also given. My suggestion is that you see Wickett in the dark. Letting people know you’re dealing with the enemy can raise a stink.”

  Angry color touched Morgan’s cheeks for an instant. He set his mouth in a firm line and strode wordlessly past Clane and out the door. Clane said, “Warm as an icebox! He’ll freeze the votes out of them. What a babe in the woods.”