You Can't Kill a Corpse Page 7

  “I’m telling this,” Thorne said. He opened the door. A bed light was on. The bed was wide. Natalie Thorne lay under the covers on the near side. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at Clane.

  Thorne said, “Clane, I want you to sleep here tonight.”

  NINE

  Natalie Thorne held her sleepy smile, but Clane could see that there was no heaviness to her eyes. In the low light they showed a deep, rich blue, and they were on him expectantly.

  Clane said, “With all due respect to your wife, shove it, Thorne.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. He went down the hall, his suitcase in his hand, down the stairs he had come up, and back into Thorne’s study. There he set down the suitcase and waited for Thorne to come.

  He could hear Thorne’s heavy tread, and in another moment Thorne came into the room. He scowled at Clane. Clane shook his head. Thorne shrugged. He sat down and faced Clane.

  “So you have to know the answers first?”

  “Thorne, maybe you don’t like me. Maybe you regret the bargain. That’s a swell way to get rid of me. Sucker Clane. He goes to bed with Ed Thorne’s lovely wife. Anything to oblige a pal. In the morning Thorne comes into the room and finds them together. Everyone knows how he feels about his wife. What the hell? They don’t blame him for shooting Clane. Especially Clane. Thorne almost deserves a medal.”

  “You’ve got a good imagination,” Thorne said. “If I wanted to get rid of you I’d do it with a lot less trouble.”

  “Probably,” Clane admitted. “You’re pretty blunt. Anyway, you look blunt.”

  “Thanks,” Thorne said. ‘Shall we have an academic discussion on it?

  Clane said, “I have all night.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “I wouldn’t touch the job.”

  “Because I’m crazy about Natalie?”

  “Mostly,” Clane admitted.

  Thorne said, “My word would be worthless to the cops in a case like this. So would yours. So would Natalie’s. But all three of them, and maybe a witness thrown in, could turn the trick.”

  Clane was beginning to wake up. “Who needs the alibi?” he asked.

  Thorne looked at him, his eyes shrewd through the cigar smoke. “Maybe you do, Clane.”

  Clane thought it over. It was simple; it was neat. There was no way the cops could push him around if everyone stuck to his story. And there was nothing he needed quite so much as an alibi. The idea dangled like a juicy steak before the questing nose of a dog.

  Clane said, “Thorne, what would you do if I had insomnia—Natalie too?”

  Thorne’s smile was narrow and mirthless. “Just what you figured I was planning to do.”

  “What caliber gun do you use, Thorne?” Clane asked.

  Thorne set down his wine glass. “I don’t like that one, Clane.”

  Clane said, “So? How did you know about the killing?”

  “Those things get around,” Thorne said easily. His anger was gone and he was heavily amiable. “It was on the twelve o’clock newscast.”

  Clane sat up, straighter. “What was said?”

  “They played it up as suicide; no reason known as yet. What did you expect them to say?”

  “Suicide?” Clane swallowed his sigh of relief. “Watson, then?”

  “Are we talking about different murders?” Thorne’s eyes were calculating.

  “I thought it was suicide,” Clane dodged.

  “Not Watson,” Thorne said. “I had him working for me too many years.”

  Clane said, “And your wife needs an alibi?”

  “Keep your mind to yourself, Clane,” Thorne said.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Clane said. “I’ll take the job—gratis.”

  “Go on up, then,” Thorne told him. He stayed in his chair, smoking. He watched Clane go to the door and then he said, “Clane, a healthy man is a man who gets his rest. Doctors have a lot to say for sleep, Clane.”

  “Don’t blame the silverware for letting a thief steal it,” Clane told him. He went on up the stairs.

  Natalie Thorne was still awake, very much awake. She sat up, propping herself with pillows, and lit a cigarette. She watched Clane flip open his bag and take out his toilet goods. He went into the bathroom and lined them in the medicine chest. He came back and took out his pajamas, robe, and slippers.

  She said, “That was a good act you put on.”

  Clane put his finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the door. Emotion ran over her face and lingered in the blue eyes. She was scared of Thorne, Clane thought. He left her thinking about it and shut the bathroom door. When he came out he had his robe over his pajamas and his aged slippers on his feet. He carried his suit over his arm. He draped it neatly over a chair. Then he walked to the bed, went around to the far side, and flipped back the covers. Her pajamas were sheer. Clane shucked his robe and slipped into bed.

  Natalie Thorne murmured, “Shall I turn out the light, Clane?”

  “I sleep better in the dark,” he said. He lay on his back. The smoke from her cigarette was slightly perfumed. Clane yawned. He was tired until he ached. It hadn’t hit him until he felt the mattress beneath him. He was tired and he was hungry.

  Natalie stubbed out her cigarette and reached up to turn off the bedlight. Her nails, he saw, were a brilliant red. Then the darkness was heavy around them. He could hear her breathe and smell her subtle perfume. He was wishing there were easier ways to make a living. His kind of living.

  “Clane?” Her voice was very soft.

  Clane said, “What does Watson have to do with all this?”

  “All what?” she asked. Her voice was a little louder and petulant.

  Clane turned toward her. He put out one hand and caught the back of her head. He found her lips in the darkness. He kissed her hard and let loose abruptly. He turned on his back again. “With Wickett, with you and Thorne, with Morgan, with J. B. Castle.”

  “You get around,” she whispered. “I liked that, Clane.”

  “It was just to show you what I won’t do,” he said. “Let’s talk or let’s get some sleep.”

  “Don’t be a fish, Clane.”

  “Especially not a sucker.”

  “I can cause you a lot of trouble, Clane,” she told him. Her voice was cold and flat and angry.

  “Mutual,” Clane said. “By the way, who collects strip-tease photos in this town?”

  Silence.

  Clane said, “Shall we sleep, Natalie?”

  “You bastard!”

  Clane sighed in the darkness and turned with his back to her. He relaxed and went to sleep. His last conscious thought was that it had been one hell of a day. Much more that he had bargained for.

  The sound of the door opening woke him up. He sat straight up, wide awake, and looked into the bright daylight coming into the room. Natalie lay asleep, one hand flung out, her head resting on her arm. Her blond hair was loose, harsh in the bright light. Clane let his eyes go toward the door.

  It was Thorne; he wasn’t alone. He was talking. Clane heard him say: “Clane has been here, Robert. Naturally I accepted him as my guest. Now …” Clane thought Thorne did a fine job of expressing surprise. But it wasn’t amusing. The hardness that sat on his face was a little frightening. Nor did Clane appreciate Thorne’s choice of witnesses.

  Rober Morgan said, “I think we had better go, Thorne.”

  Thorne let out a breath. “Natalie!”

  “All right,” Clane said, “no one swiped your silverware. Morning, Morgan. Gentlemen, I’ll see you at breakfast.” He slipped out of bed, got his robe and slippers, and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door on Thorne’s booming demand that his wife awake.

  Clane showered and shaved and dressed leisurely.

  When he reached the dining room, Thorne was having coffee. Morgan was smoking a cigar that Clane eyed speculatively. Thorne looked amiable enough. Clane sat down.

  The maid appeared and served him fruit juice, coffee, and to
ast, Clane said, “Got any doughnuts?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “About a half-dozen and a couple of soft-boiled eggs. Nice and soft.”

  Thorne said, “Clane, you’re human.”

  “Sure,” Clane agreed. He sipped the fruit juice. It was a canned mix and not very good. He finished it off in a gulp. “Lots of people are,” he said. He tried the coffee. It was fine.

  “I should have told you,” Thorne went on, “Robert and I are both aware of Natalie’s—er—shortcoming. You should have been warned.”

  “As it was,” Clane added for him, “I wasn’t warned and I am human. Has anyone a morning paper?”

  Robert Morgan looked a little bewildered and, Clane thought, shocked. His thin lips were tightly compressed. He said, “Any particular news you want?”

  “Just keeping up with the world,” Clane said. “That’s a nice-smelling cigar, Morgan. Mind if 1 borrow one for after breakfast?” He saw Thorne’s eye steadily on him. He kept on looking at Morgan.

  Robert Morgan took a cigar from his pocket and passed it to Clane. There was no expression on his thin, cold face. Clane wondered if his daughter had carried the message.

  Clane said, “What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock,” Thorne told him.

  Clane nodded absently. His eggs came, and the doughnuts. He broke a doughnut in half and dipped one end into the egg. He ate with relish, quietly and steadily. When he was through the girl brought him more coffee. He relaxed and lit Morgan’s cigar.

  After two slow puffs he put it down. “Too strong for me,” he said. “I’ll stick to cigarettes.” He caught Thorne staring at him again.

  Thorne’s deep voice dropped into the heavy quiet. “They found Wickett’s body this morning.”

  Clane looked up from his coffee cup. “You mean Watson? I thought they had him last night.”

  “I mean Wickett,” Thorne said. “Anthony Wickett.”

  “Did he kill himself too?” Clane asked.

  Robert Morgan’s thin face tautened and his voice came like cold rain over Clane. “There is no need to beat around the bush. This is a serious matter.”

  Clane said, “Your integrity is unquestioned, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then,” Clane said, “you know where I was last night. I could have had nothing to do with Wickett. He socked me. I wish I could have repaid him. Unfortunately, you can’t kill a corpse, so Mr. Wickett remains unsocked. Mrs. Thorne’s nymphomania is providence. An indisputable alibi—for Clane.”

  Thorne worked his mouth. “Clane, you’re through. Our deal is off!”

  “No,” Clane said, “not until this is settled.” He looked briefly at Thorne and then turned to Morgan. “Why don’t you have someone give you a cigar case for Christmas, Morgan? Then you won’t crush your stogies.”

  Clane saw a flicker of emotion in Morgan’s eyes. Clane was surprised.

  Before Morgan could answer the maid came quickly into the room. Clane saw that she was trembling slightly, as if she were suppressing excitement.

  “Mr. Thorne, the reporters and some policemen are coming up the walk!”

  Clane stood up. “I’ll blow,” he said. “And don’t try to back out on me, Thorne.”

  “No,” Thorne said. He drummed his fingertips on the table meditatively. “I’ll take care of it, Betty,” he said in a calm voice. “You get Mr. Clane’s suitcase down.”

  The girl hurried out, moving jerkily. Clane wondered why she was excited.

  TEN

  Clane went out the back way, following Thorne’s directions in cutting through a frost-browned flower garden and onto the next street. He paused by a hedge long enough to catch a glimpse of Thorne’s latest guests as they came up the winding driveway. He recognized the drab-looking Driggs and Day, the red-faced cop who had sapped him. The others he didn’t know, but he suspected the slim, rather wistful-appearing man in the lead was a detective.

  When he was on the rear street Clane shifted his suitcase to his left hand and fumbled for his cigarettes with his right. He walked down the winding street at a brisk clip. The air was clear now and chilly. It picked up his spirits so that he nearly felt like humming by the time he reached the foot of the hill and a cab.

  He clambered in. “Hotel Metropole,” he said, and wondered how long he could keep from tangling with Ed Thorne.

  He went into the hotel as he had come out, through the alley and up the freight elevator to six, his floor. He found his room looking much the same as he had left it. Then he started unpacking his bag and he noticed the difference. Someone had been in and made a search. A good search, he had to admit. There were only one or two things out of place. His extra socks and undershirt had changed places in the drawers they occupied. Clane had formed the habit of noticing the little things, the way he placed his clothes in a drawer, for instance, and occasionally it paid off.

  He went into the bathroom, and again he admired the technique of the searcher. Even the soap in his shaving bowl had been lifted out and replaced. He always carried both a tube of latherless shaving cream and a bowl, and now he took the tube from his suit case and put it back in the medicine chest over the washbowl. The next time they would probably squeeze that, he thought without humor. He wondered if the bowl wouldn’t be a good place to hide something now.

  The identity of the searcher did not trouble Clane. He presumed it to be the police or Ed Thorne or both. He did not much care. He rather expected the police to call on him before very long, and he felt that if he had been in Thorne’s place he would have taken the same precautions against Clane.

  He left it at that and went to the telephone. He ordered up a morning paper, coffee, and any messages that might have come in for him.

  The bellhop who brought the paper and the coffee handed Clane a plain envelope. Clane tipped the boy and shut the door on him. He ripped open the envelope. It was a telephone message, asking him to call Main 6655. Clane thought, “This joint is efficient.” It pleased him, the putting of phone messages into envelopes. One of Thorne’s ideas, he supposed.

  He put the call through. He wasn’t surprised when he heard, “Good morning. Super-Service station.”

  Clane said hollowly, “Drop that body!”

  “Jeez! Jim, where have you been?”

  “What’s the trouble, kid?” Clane demanded.

  “It’s Edith,” Bob Morgan said. “She’s been trying to get you for the last six hours. She got me out of bed at four o’clock. It’s got me worried.”

  Clane began to see how closely knit the Morgan family was. It made him wonder again why Bob Morgan was working for his father’s business rival. He said now, “Where do I meet her?”

  “Take a cab to the Park,” Bob Morgan directed. “She’ll come by in my heap and pick you up.” Clane could feel the strong relief in the boy’s voice.

  “Why the mystery?” Clane demanded. “What’s she done—murder?”

  “Don’t joke, Jim,” Bob Morgan said earnestly.

  “Give me an hour,” Clane said. He hung up and stared a moment at the telephone. So now Edith Morgan was calling on him. It was getting better and better. He picked up the paper to see if he could find a reason for her change of mind.

  He read the banner announcing Wickett’s death. It was a late edition, evidently an extra, since the story stated that Wickett had not been found until nearly eight a.m. Clane read on, amused at the repeated assurance of Mayor Pryor’s surprise and innocence.

  He read: “The mayor and Mr. Wickett were close friends…. The mayor is profoundly shocked and has gone into retirement for the day…. The police are working quickly to apprehend the murderer.”

  Clane snorted and scanned the paper for the story on Blake Watson. He found it on page one, near the bottom. Watson, it appeared, had shot himself sometime between ten-thirty and eleven the previous night. A neighbor, hearing his radio blaring too loudly, had knocked at his door. Receiving no answer, the neighbor had pushed the door ope
n and gone inside, finding Watson’s body. The story made no mention of the missing gun, nor suggested any possibility other than suicide.

  Clane yawned. The widow, he read, had not been notified. He turned the page, looking for some news about himself. He found nothing, but a small item on page seven caught his interest.

  It stated: “J. B. Castle has been sentenced to thirty days in jail by Judge Lewes for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace. This is Castle’s fourth arrest this year.”

  Clane tossed the paper aside and picked up the telephone. He told the switchboard girl, “Get me a good bail bondsman.”

  When he had his party, he said, “I want J. B. Castle sprung this afternoon. I’ll be at your place in five minutes. Get started on it now but have him held until four o’clock.”

  He gave his name and found it was well enough known. A heavily accented voice promised him action provided he made his appearance, and gave him the address. Clane cradled the telephone, swallowed his half cold coffee at a gulp, and picked up his hat and topcoat.

  As he went past the desk Clane noticed the small sleek man who had stood there the previous night. Paul Grando. Grando was smoking a slim cigar, and Clane wondered what it would taste like.

  He caught a cab by the front door and gave the address of the bail bondsman. After finishing his business there Clane ordered the driver to take him to the Park. The Park, he discovered, across town from the Hill, was a long, narrow island of green along the river. The city pressed against it from two sides. Factories came to its very edge on the side of the business district and slum houses were directly across the river from it. Clane told the driver to stop when he came to the swimming pool.

  “They ain’t swimming.”

  “I want to see what it’s made of with the water drained out,” Clane said. When the cab stopped Clane got out and paid off. The cab drove off and Clane looked around. He was in a concession section. Besides the now deserted and empty pool, he saw a few closed hamburger stands, a merry-go-round, and the usual assortment of wild rides and skill games. They were all shuttered tightly, nothing was open, and the only person Clane could see was an old man in a white uniform. The old man was going along with a sack and a paper picker. Now and then he would stab a piece of paper and drop it into the sack slung over his shoulder. The whole place was desolate and forlorn under the raw October sky and Clane set off quickly, feeling depressed.