You Can't Kill a Corpse Read online

  The inner door opened again and a stiff-backed, middle-aged woman with a prim, pulled back hairdo came into the room. She regarded Clane and his scowl coolly. “Mr. Wickett is busy. I’ll make an appointment for you.”

  Clane said gently, “You need a permanent and you’ll be beautiful,” and walked past her before she could close her mouth. She found her voice and ran after him.

  “Please!”

  Clane closed the door just before she would have entered. He found there was still another door to go through. He skirted the desk and opened the door without ceremony.

  Anthony Wickett was alone. He was scanning a newspaper whose damp ink was redolent in the room. He put down the paper when Clane shut the door hard. Then he stood up expectantly.

  He was taller and thinner than Clane remembered from his last glimpse of the man. But on second look Clane noticed that the thinness was deceptive. Wickett had broad shoulders and long arms. His hands were big for a man with such delicate features. His eyes were nicely set and a rich brown. His nose was straight and fairly long and there was a neatly etched black line of moustache above his well molded lips. From the first scrutiny Clane knew that here was a suave ladies’ man, but one with brains to back himself up.

  The furniture in the room was in bleached maple, giving Clane the sensation of being in a bedroom. The rug on the floor was a soft, pale blue, thick and springy beneath his feet. All of the chairs were well upholstered and comfortable-looking. Clane raised his eyebrows at a long low divan along one wall, done in blue to complement the rug. He looked briefly at the handsome oils on the walls and wondered if Wickett’s prim secretary was ever shocked at being in the same room with them.

  Clane finished his survey of the room and nodded to Wickett. The publisher was rubbing his knuckles reflectively. Clane said, “I didn’t come here to finish that, Wickett. You pack a punch for a man of your build.”

  “Get to the point,” Wickett said.

  “Don’t be such a peremptory bastard,” Clane told him. “I’m news right now.” He sat down in a soft but not too deep chair. He took a cigarette from a box on the desk. “Sit down,” he suggested.

  Wickett’s smile was thin but it was there. He sat down and watched Clane carefully. The telephone buzzed and he reached for it. He listened a moment and then he said, “No, don’t bother. He’s all right. No, of course there is no trouble.” His voice had a slight edge to it.

  Clane said, “Tell her that Thorne would spring me right away if she did call the cops.”

  Wickett cradled the phone. “And you want what?”

  “A job,” Clane said. He felt good. Things were looking up. He knew the type of people he was dealing with. So far his initial play had been very successful. He leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke. “I’m a handy man to have around, Wickett.”

  “A newspaper job?” Wickett retained his composure.

  “No,” Clane said. “Publicly I’m out to crucify your editorial opinions. And I don’t work office hours. I want a private job.”

  Wickett reached to the back of his desk and flipped open the lid of a carved wooden cigarette box. He selected a cigarette, making a ritual of it, and lit it carefully. “You want a private job from the man who knocked you down?” The idea put amusement in his voice.

  “I took that chance,” Clane said pleasantly. He was feeling so well set up that he almost smiled at Wickett. Wickett did not smile.

  “I would like to know your reasons for all of this.”

  “Ed Thorne….” Clane began.

  Wickett waved his hand. Clane shrugged and said, “Do you deny that this town is a political sewer?”

  “I’d hardly admit it,” Wickett said.

  Clane held up his right hand, his fingers extended. “Wide open gambling and prostitution. There are laws on the books against both of them. But you can find slot machines in the back room of every drugstore and every cigar clerk in town doubles as a bookie and a pimp.”

  It was Wickett’s turn to shrug. His handsome features had a hard set to them. “Isn’t that our private business, Clane? The voters are the ones to remedy that.”

  “The slaughtered lambs,” Clane said. “The voters put anti-vice laws on the books with the aid of the present administration, no doubt. That leaves an opportunity for graft. Legal vice reduces the cut the cops and the city officials get.” He waggled his head. “I’m no prude, Wickett. If people want to gamble and cat around that’s their business. But things should be in the open and recognized for what they are.”

  Wickett said, in a rough imitation of Robert Morgan’s cold voice, “Taxes are being diverted from their rightful channels to enrich those in power.” He seemed amused again.

  “I agree,” Clane said. “Taxes are supposed to be for the people’s protection, not to injure them. Under the present set-up you have a heavy venereal disease rate, you have excessive slums, you have kids growing into delinquency because vice is easy to get at and it has the thrill of illegality.”

  “You’re quite a preacher, Clane.”

  “No,” Clane said. “You asked me where I stood. I’m telling you. Your city is antiquated. You’re a hangover from the days of Chicago and prohibition. The rest of this State is almost a decent place to live in.”

  “Maybe we like being an anachronism.”

  Clane stubbed out his cigarette and borrowed another one from Wickett’s box. He could see the pattern of Wickett now. It was not a case of money. Wickett would have plenty. It was power. Other men cut throats for money so they could get the power. Wickett already had the money and he would cut throats to keep the power. He ruled the city’s political clique. He had the power to turn them in whatever direction he wished. But he was suave and soft about it. Clane had more contempt for him than if he had been an uneducated hoodlum who had kicked himself to the top. Wickett didn’t care how the other fifty thousand and two people of Dunlop lived as long as he could have thing his own way.

  “I don’t like you,” Clane said frankly. “I don’t like your philosophy. But I still want that job.”

  Wickett was unperturbed. He said, “I’ll be home from ten to twelve tonight. Come through the French doors off the garden into my library.” He removed a fleck of tobacco from his tongue and turned his attention pointedly to the newspapers again.

  Clane got to his feet. At the door he turned. “I prefer straight whiskey if you have it, Wickett. I don’t like blended stuff.” He went through the door.

  The secretary was stitting rigidly at her desk. Clane nodded amiably. “He’s still in one piece. Don’t forget that permanent.”

  He offered another scowl to the receptionist on his way out.

  In the lobby he located a phone booth and looked up Venchetti. He found it was a tailor shop half a block from Main on Second. He walked that way.

  The heat was lessening as dark clouds scudded out of the north across the pale fall sky. Clane wondered if a storm would come and break the weather the right way. He liked his weather cool enough for a topcoat. And he liked a good howling wind with rain or snow on it. Something inside Clane found companionship in a storm. He crossed Main at the turn of the traffic light and went down Second.

  It was a neighborhood of small shops. Venchetti’s, he found, was half hidden by more imposing facades on either side of it. But inside, the silence, the thick carpet, and the quiet good taste of the surroundings impressed Clane.

  A small thin man with nondescript graying hair came forward to meet him. Clane took in the dark face and eyes of the man. He said, “I’m Clane.”

  “Venchetti,” the man said. “Ready made in the next room.”

  Clane said, “Ready made, hell. I want something tailored. A brown, a blue, and a tuxedo.”

  “You get one suit,” Venchetti said in a colorless voice. “Ready made. And fifty bucks.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “Is Thorne a sucker?”

  Clane followed Venchetti through a wide opening into a side room. He looked sourly at the racks of r
eady made suits and then took the envelope. Opening it, he found a fifty-dollar bill. He put the bill in his wallet. “No sucker,” he said.

  Venchetti said, “Pick out your suit.” He turned and walked away.

  Clane glared after him and then, shrugging, turned again to the suits. He picked out a dull blue, an apathetic-looking business suit. The trousers were too short on the one he chose and the coat too large in the next size up. He combined two suits, found the fit as good as he could expect, and left the suit on. He walked back into the other room, carrying his old clothes.

  “That’s a hell of a choice,” Venchetti told him.

  “I hide my light,” Clane said. “Now shoes, shirt, socks.”

  “You got fifty dollars; spend some of it.”

  “I still want those three suits,” Clane said.

  “Hundred apiece.”

  Clane said, “I’ll come for a fitting before election.” He went out, carrying his old suit over his arm.

  Back on Main, he looked for a shoe shop and a haberdashery. He found both nearby. When he was through buying he went into the rear of the haberdashery and changed his shirt and shoes. The old ones he handed to the salesman. “Which is Thorne’s hotel?”

  “Metropole,” the man answered.

  “Send this stuff there. Jim Clane.”

  “What room?”

  “I don’t know,” Clane said. “I haven’t registered yet.”

  He walked onto the street, feeling set up again. The suit fitted pretty well and his build and complexion did things for it that not even the color and style could squelch. He felt like whistling.

  He stepped into a drugstore and telephoned the Metropole. “Jim Clane,” he said. “I want a room high up with bath. A package is coming for me. Accept it, will you?”

  “Have you a reservation?” the clerk inquired.

  “Didn’t Thorne make one for me?”

  “Oh, that Clane!”

  Clane hung up, feeling better and better.

  FOUR

  Clane parked his car in the basement garage of the hotel and with his suitcase took the elevator to the lobby. A bellhop relieved him of the suitcase and Clane went to the front desk to register.

  The Metropole had a big lobby with dark wood paneling on the walls and darkly upholstered furniture scattered over the carpeted floor. The place looked comfortable without being shoddy or cheap. There was a fireplace at the far end of the lobby with large logs burning gently and throwing shadows into the darkened corners. The desk and cigar stand were at the other end, nearest the door. Clane found the clerk to be a small, dapper man, thin-lipped and stiffly impersonal. Clane gave him his name and then turned his attention elsewhere. His main interest would not be the clerks but others who could be more useful to him. Most bellboys, he had found, were ready to try anything if there was a big enough tip attached to it. They usually heard things they weren’t supposed to. So did telephone operators, and Clane glanced at the switchboard now.

  He thought, I’ll have to work hard here. The girl was young, about twenty-five. Even seated as she was he could tell that she was tall with a slim but good figure. Her hair was dark and she wore it loose about her shoulders. She returned his stare politely but without interest. Her eyes, he decided, were her nicest feature. They were large and dark and, like her broad mouth, looked as if she laughed a lot.

  She did not look prim but she gave him the impression of being conscientious and sure of herself in her job. He hoped he was wrong, because a girl like that would be hard to get information from.

  The clerk spoke to Clane. “We put you on six, Mr. Clane.” He gave the bellboy a key. “Your package has been sent up.”

  “Fine,” Clane said absently. He looked at the bellboy. “I’ll be along in a minute.” He walked around the desk to the opening alongside the switchboard. The girl was busy with a call and Clane lounged there, waiting. When she was done she loosened her headpiece and glanced inquiringly at him.

  “I want to make a call,” Clane said.

  She nodded her head at a row of booths behind him. “Take booth one, please.” Her voice was rich but impersonal.

  “To the telephone operator at the Hotel Metropole, Dunlop,” Clane went on.

  “That’s been done before.”

  “I suppose so,” Clane said. “But I’m a stranger in town.”

  “There’s a Lonely Hearts Club on Main and Fourth,” the girl said. She turned aside as the board buzzed. Clane watched her fingers work nimbly for a moment. When she leaned back, he said:

  “I’m Clane.”

  “I know,” she said without smiling. “We’ve all been watching for you.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “You don’t,” she said, and smiled a little at him.

  Clane grinned sourly. “I’ll put the call through my room.” She didn’t answer and so he turned toward the elevators. He felt silly using such a shoddy approach with the girl, but it had brought him to her attention and that was enough for the time being. He went on up to his room.

  Clane liked the Metropole. His room was big and comfortable, and the bellboy had found a bottle of straight bourbon for him. It had been surprisingly easy to get the liquor despite it being sold only in state stores. It was, he reflected, another example of Dunlop’s smoothly running rackets.

  Clane’s suitcase had yielded his motheaten dressing gown and slippers and now, after a hot, soaking tub, he was stretched on the bed with the bourbon and the latest newspaper. He let the paper lie in his lap while he watched the rain sluice down.

  It was a hard, pelting rain. The air had cooled off and Clane was feeling better. He looked down at the newspaper. “Crucify me, Wickett,” he said cheerfully. He hoped Ed Thorne was reading the article.

  He dropped the paper to the floor and rolled onto his side, reaching for the bourbon bottle on the bedstand. He poured himself a short drink, lit a cigarette and turned onto his back again. He was wondering about Thorne.

  When Clane was instructed on the job he had been told to watch Thorne and Paul Grando. Thorne, Clane understood, was by far the more subtle. From all reports, Grando fancied himself as a supercharged racketeer even though he was still old-fashioned enough to try the protection business.

  He turned his mind to Thorne again. He would be a hard man to handle. Suave and smart, and he looked determined enough to push aside anything he thought could become interference. Clane looked at his watch. Nearly seven. He finished the bourbon, stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.

  At seven he was at Thorne’s house. He found it to be a big, sprawling place on the low knoll that Dunlop called its hill. Clane had pushed the car to make it on time. It had been easy enough getting the few blocks from the hotel to the foot of the hill, but once he started climbing he found a maze of short, twisting streets, running with no apparent pattern. It was obvious that most of the well-to-do citizens lived there, getting their privacy with high fences or brick walls with a good deal of ground around their expensive houses.

  Thorne had a nice expanse of manicured ground, drowned by the rain now, a garage as big as the average house, and the mansion itself. It was of frame and native stone, painted white. Clane thought he might like it on a sunny day, but it looked a gloomy pile in the rain.

  He parked under a portico and walked to the front door. His ring was answered at once by a uniformed maid. She took his coat and hat and hung them in a small closet off the foyer. Clane looked the girl over but she was too drab for his taste. And a little too thin. She looked about twenty-two, and he couldn’t decide whether she looked frightened because she was pop-eyed or looked pop-eyed because she was frightened. He wondered what kind of man Thorne was with the ladies.

  Then he met Thorne’s wife, Natalie. She was an ice blonde; a slick, well groomed forty, he estimated. He saw signs of the chorus years but he admitted she could have passed for thirty even in hard daylight. Her almost patrician features would have been more effective with less vivid make-up
, but the gold cloth gown she had poured herself into held his eyes more than her features. She was a tall woman and she carried herself as if the gown were part of her. Watching Thorne look at her, Clane could see the man’s weakness lying openly on his face and in his hard eyes. He would have no thought for any woman but his wife.

  Thorne said, “We’ll have cocktails and then eat.”

  “So you’re Clane,” Natalie Thorne said. Her contralto voice held speculation. “You don’t look like Dunlop.”

  “I’m not the only one,” Clane said. His brooding eyes took in the luxuriously furnished living room. It was defiantly modern, a decor such as he would have expected of Natalie Thorne. And it was bright and warm after the gloom of outside.

  “I like small puddles,” Thorne said.

  “So do I,” Clane agreed. “But I don’t try to take all the water.”

  “That’s a good way to be,” Thorne told him.

  Clane had two cocktails and there was a smooth sauterne with the pheasant at dinner. Natalie Thorne led the conversation, chatting easily with Clane and her husband. She asked Clane’s opinion of the town and the weather, but there was nothing Clane heard that had any bearing on why he had been invited. He was beginning to feel anxious when Thorne rose from the table.

  “We’ll have our brandy in the library, Clane.”

  “Don’t let Ed shoot dice with you,” Natalie said throatily. Clane caught her eyes. They were sultry. He took a second look, a long one. He turned away, following Thorne. He felt uncomfortable. Thorne was a man of strength and violence, and a man who worshipped his sleek wife. And Clane knew that she had deliberately made him feel a physical pull toward her. He wondered what kind of wrench she would throw into the situation.

  Thorne seated himself in a leather chair and waited for Clane to do the same. He poured brandy for them both and offered Clane a cigar. Clane refused, taking a cigarette for himself. He looked around the room a moment. It was dark and heavily masculine. The walls were lined with books and for the most part they looked well read. Thorne’s furniture was utilitarian rather than made for eye appeal. There was a fireplace with a brisk fire going. Clane decided that Thorne liked fireplaces.