You Can't Kill a Corpse

by Louis Trimble

  “What kind?” Clane prodded him softly.

  “The murdering kind!”

  Clane said, “Keep the voters thinking that way, huh?”

  Bob Morgan ducked quickly back under the car. “I’ll help all I can, Jim.”

  “As long as it doesn’t cross up your own ideas, kid. Sure. I hope you wise up before it’s too late.” Clane made his voice faintly indifferent.

  “Aw hell! What else can I tell you?”

  Cane said quietly, “How well did you know Natalie Thorne?”

  “I know who she is, who she was, that’s all.” One of Bob Morgan’s greasy hands reached out from under the car and grasped the running board. He rocked the chassis a little. He swore softly, as if he were wholly occupied with his job of the moment.

  Clane didn’t say, “You’re lying.” He straightened and dusted off the seat of his trousers. He did say, “She is Ed Thorne’s wife; she was a chorus girl. Wasn’t she?”

  “She was high class,” Bob Morgan said, and Clane could sense the heat in his voice. “Or so I’ve been told,” he added more quietly. “Top notch stuff.”

  “An artiste,” Clane said musingly. “The body beautiful and will the bald-headed gentlemen in the first row please remove their cigars….”

  “This isn’t solving a murder,” Bob Morgan said angrily.

  Part of Clane’s success was in knowing when and how to back down. He said apologetically, “Sorry. I’m too crude for most guys, I guess. And it isn’t solving the murder.”

  Bob Morgan was equally quick to apologize. “I didn’t mean to blow up, Jim. Only this thing has me down. It’s like …”

  “Sure,” Clane said when he hesitated. “It’s a tough racket for anyone.”

  Bob Morgan’s voice was cautious. “You think Mrs. Thorne is connected, Jim?”

  Clane said indifferently, “I just play all the angles, Bob. Well, I’ll see you.” He walked rapidly away and if Bob Morgan called to him he didn’t hear it. He walked on to the hotel and got his car from the garage. He drove to the Hill, to Wickett’s handsome house.

  It was even more prepossessing by daylight than at night. In the clear fall weather the white brick looked clean and handsome. Almost chaste, Clane thought humorlessly. He speculated idly on what the house would look like if the exterior reflected the interior as some humans did. White brick turning blood red and the curtained windows having the blank stare of death. Clane cursed his imagination and climbed the front steps.

  He rapped on the door. He looked at the black wreath hanging from the brass knocker, and he wondered what would happen to Wickett’s apparently considerable estate. He rapped again, using his fist so as not to disturb the wreath. After some time he heard quick footsteps.

  When the door opened Clane was facing a red-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, attractive enough in standard high school fashion. She had on a dark red, plain housedress and she wore no make-up. Her hair was quite dark and clustered in ringlets all over her head. The dress was cut without lines but it failed to hide an extremely mature figure.

  “You’re Mickey?” Clane smiled gently, in keeping with the wreath on the door.

  “Yes, sir.” She was subdued and a bit puzzled.

  “I’m a friend of Bob Morgan’s,” Clane said. Hé gave her his name. “May I come in?”

  The girl stood aside, wordless. Clane stepped in and removed his hat. He looked around. “You’re staying until the estate is settled?”

  “Yes, sir,” she repeated. She hesitated and then extended her hand for his hat. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Clane relinquished the hat. “Sit and wait for whom?”

  She looked nervous; Clane decided that without red eyes she would be exceptionally attractive. She said, “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I do,” Clane said. “Or your mother.”

  “She—the police asked her to headquarters.”

  “I’ll talk to you then,” Clane said. “What made you think I wanted to talk to you?”

  “You’re a detective, aren’t you?” The girl’s eyes were large and very dark. She fixed them questioningly on Clane and waited.

  “No,” he said. “I’m just a busybody. I’m a pal of Bob’s and he needs a lift. I’m trying to give him one.

  The breath slid out of her in a long gust as if she had been storing it up since Clane had come. “He’s in trouble?” Her eyes grew even wider and she put a hand quickly on Clane’s arm and her lips worked as if she might cry. It was no act; he could tell that.

  “Should he be?” Clane asked softly. He saw the fear film her eyes and rush the blood from her face, leaving her white and shaken. He said in a different voice, “Can we go in the kitchen? I haven’t had anything to eat for quite a spell. Maybe I could bum you for a bite?”

  Sympathy touched her. “Yes, of course.”

  She led him down the hallway to the end and through a swinging door. The kitchen was white and big and shining. Clane sat at an enamel-topped work table and admired the deft way in which she corraled his request: coffee and doughnuts. He sat and smoked in silence until the coffee was made. She slid the doughnuts onto a plate and popped it in front of him. She poured one cup of coffee.

  “I can’t manage a whole pot,” Clane said. “Help me out.”

  She got another cup and cream and sugar and sat down. When she had relaxed a little, Clane said, “I’ll confess half the reason I’m here is to find if Bob was lying or not.”

  The same terror flooded her again, leaving pallor around her lips and in her cheeks. Her eyes struggled to meet his and then she slid them away. “Lying about what?” she asked faintly.

  He said, “Bob told me how cute you were. I had to find out.”

  Her laugh was brittle and he could feel the gusty relief in it. “Bob is silly.”

  Clane worked alternately on the coffee, the doughnuts, and the girl. By the time he was finishing his second cigarette he had her relaxed and without any sign of the fear of half an hour before.

  “How much do you like Bob?” he asked.

  “World,” she said. “I—he—well, we …”

  “Sure,” Clane said. “It gets us all. Only you two are lucky to find it so young.”

  She gave him a smile of understanding. Then she seemed reminded of the reason for Clane’s coming and her smile faded. “Is Bob in trouble, really?”

  “He’s holding out,” Clane said bluntly. “He’s trying to protect someone. If he doesn’t tell the truth there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “You mean about last night?”

  “Yes,” Clane said. “Last night—when he was here.”

  She put her hands together and studied them, her head bowed. Clane waited, not urging her, letting her get at things in her own way. He was relieved to find her fairly level-headed and a good deal more mature than her age would indicate.

  She said in a low voice, “I can trust you?”

  “I’m Bob’s friend; I’m yours too.”

  Without raising her head, she said, “What did Bob tell you?”

  Clane took a shot in the dark. “The story you two made up,” he said. “About you going to bed early.”

  She looked at him then. “It wasn’t early. It was after ten. We were in the small sitting room. It’s just off the library.” She gestured vaguely. “Bob and I were sitting there, in the dark, and Mr. Wickett came home.”

  “What time was this?” Clane wanted to know.

  “It was after ten,” she said. “Ten-ten. I remember because I made Bob look at his watch. Mr. Wickett was very strict with me on school nights. He insisted I get to bed by ten.”

  “I see,” Clane said. “And he went straight to his library.”

  “Yes. I whispered to Bob to be awfully still. I didn’t want to go to bed yet.”

  “Wickett was alone?”

  “Yes,” she said. She nodded for emphasis. “Because a few minutes afterward someone opened the French doors and came in. We could hear them moving around but we couldn’
t hear them talking. And—and that’s when Bob started acting so funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “He got up and went to the door that goes into Mr. Wickett’s library and bent down and looked through the keyhole. I tried to pull him away but he just pushed at me. After a minute he got up and pulled me through the room into the kitchen. We went through there to the back hall—that goes to the stairs that lead to Mother’s and my rooms. Bob turned the light on and he seemed so—so sort of crazy. It scared me.”

  “Do you know who it was with Wickett?”

  “No,” the girl said. “I wish I did. But I don’t.”

  Clane lit a third cigarette and said, “How do you mean, Bob seemed sort of crazy?”

  “His eyes were so wild like and he kept running his hands through his hair and he was all white and—well, scary. And he said the funniest things. He grabbed me and kissed me so hard it hurt.” She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing a little. “He said, ‘Do you love me?’ and I said I did. And he said, ‘Don’t ever try cheating on me, Mickey.’ He looked so wild and he put his hands around my neck and squeezed, just a little. ‘Don’t ever try cheating on me.’ He said that twice. I was scared sick. Just sick.” She was shivering and wide-eyed again at the memory.

  Clane nodded his sympathy. “Then what happened?” he asked.

  “Then,” she said more calmly, “he told me to wait and he went back into the other room. He was gone, it seemed like hours. But it couldn’t have been only a few minutes. And when he came back he didn’t look wild any more, just scared like I was. While he was gone I heard the noise. I know now it was a shot.”

  Clane hoped the police wouldn’t get hold of the girl. And he hoped they would never find out what he thought was true. He could hear a smart D.A. taking Mickey and using her to put the noose around Bob Morgan’s neck. Clane said, “What time was this?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I know it was ten-thirty when I went upstairs. It wasn’t much before then.”

  “When Bob left you, did he say anything?”

  “He said, ‘Mickey, you go to bed. If anyone ever asks you say you went to bed at ten o’clock. Say I left you at ten o’clock. You don’t know anything. You don’t know when Wickett came home.’”

  She clasped her hands and looked down at them again. “He made me promise,” she said. “And I was so scared I said I would. But I had to tell you. I don’t want Bob to get into trouble. I know he didn’t do anything, Mr. Clane. I know he didn’t.”

  Clane said, “Sure now. We both know it. And call me Jim. We’re pals, the three of us.” She looked up at him and he gave her a quiet grin. “Keep this under your curls, honey. If the police question you tell them you went to bed at ten.”

  “I already did,” she said. “They didn’t ask me very much. They’re asking Mother about Mr. Wickett’s past, I suppose.” She flushed a little and then smiled, softly.

  “Did he have a past?” Clane demanded.

  “Mother always threatened to take me away if Mr. Wickett didn’t stop things.”

  Clane stood up. “Forget it and relax, Mickey. Bob will be okay. And when this blows over we’ll do the town, the three of us. Like that?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Clane said, “I’ll see you soon.” He went on out, not letting her follow. He was sweating a little by the time he had the car started. It had been rough seeing the fear for Bob Morgan in that girl’s eyes. Clane knew pretty well that she believed Bob to be more deeply implicated than Clane thought him.

  “Loyalty,” Clane said aloud. And she was loyal, he thought. She was sticking to Bob even though she suspected him. Clane wondered what he would do if he ever had a woman like that—one who didn’t question his actions.

  “Make a sucker out of her probably,” he decided.

  He turned the car down the Hill. His watch announced that it was nearly four. And time to meet J. B. Castle.

  The clerk at the desk told him there was a man waiting in his room. He had come in the back way but an elevator boy had spotted him. They had called the room and the man had said Mr. Clane had sent him up. Was that right?

  Clane said it was fine and gave the clerk five to split with the elevator boy. Some day a tip like that might save him a bullet or a beating with a rubber hose. Clane liked to have the little guys on his side. The minute cogs in the machine; they were his kind and he found them helpful almost without fail.

  He passed the switchboard on his way to the elevator. He glanced that way and the girl there crooked a finger at him. She was the same girl he had tried to date before. Now she seemed more friendly. She gave him a nice, wide-mouthed smile.

  “You must wear a shamrock, Clane.” She had her voice low and he leaned over her counter to hear her plainly.

  “Have them sewed onto my undervests,” Clane said. “Thirteen of them.”

  She laughed softly. Her laugh was as rich as her voice. “Mullen is looking for you. I heard a patrolman telling the hotel detective about it.” She nodded her head generally at the lobby. “We have a wonderful detective: he can go deaf, dumb and blind at will.”

  “What’s the name?” Clane asked.

  “Mullen. Detective Lieutenant Mullen, Homicide Department, Dunlop Police Force.”

  “No, yours.”

  “Anderson,” she said. “Marilyn Anderson.”

  “I like it,” Clane said. His eyes admired her figure, her dark hair held by the band of her telephone mouthpiece. “And you must like mine—why the tip?”

  She said flatly, “We work for Ed Thorne here, Mr. Clane.” She underlined the Mr. with her voice.

  Clane grimaced. But he said, “I won’t tip you. But I’ll save up until I can think of a nice present.”

  “Do that,” she said. “A fur coat. Winter’s coming.” The board buzzed and she turned to her work.

  Clane said, “Thanks—I mean it,” and went toward the elevator.

  He rode up thinking about the telephone girl. She was very nice to look at and that startled him, because she seemed as well put together inside her head as she was outside. He had to smile sourly when he thought of his completely abortive attempts to approach her in any but a businesslike way. That worried him because she had made it plain she was helping because of his connection with Ed Thorne. If Thorne got too sore—and he didn’t seem overly pleased with Clane now—then all this cooperation would stop. Clane knew he wouldn’t get far without the help of people like the clerk and the girl.

  When he got to his door he began thinking about the man in the room. He tried his door cautiously. It was unlocked and he eased it open slowly. He looked in. The blinds were drawn so that the room was in a dim light. He looked at J. B. Castle on the bed. He could smell liquor and he poked Castle hard in the ribs.

  Clane wished it hadn’t been Castle sprawled there. The man was dead.

  THIRTEEN

  Clane picked up the phone. “Get me headquarters,” he said. “No, wait. What was the name of that detective you mentioned to me a few minutes ago?”

  Marilyn Anderson’s rich voice said, “Mullen, Mr. Clane.” Her voice, totally impersonal, caught suddenly. “Is it—is something …”

  Clane said, “No. I mean don’t call Thorne. I can handle it.”

  “If you talk to Mullen you’ll need Ed Thorne,” she said almost caustically. “I’ll ring you back.”

  Clane grinned a little sourly and cradled the phone. He looked again at the body on the bed, but he was thinking of the service the hotel offered its guests. Mention the cops and someone seemed bound to run for Thorne. Trouble prevention, Clane thought.

  He mulled it over while he began a distasteful search of Castle’s pockets. The thin, wracked body was just so much wasted bone and flesh, huddled in the ragged clothes. That there was any warmth at all surprised Clane; it seemed to him that Castle’s life had been so tenuous that all signs of it would have gone with the first stopping of his heart.

  “I’m getting morbid as hell,” Cl
ane said aloud. He stood up and lit a cigarette, trying to shake the feeling from himself. It was no good and he began the search again. If there were any affidavits he wanted to get them before the police arrived.

  He found three Lincoln pennies and an Indian-head in one pocket and a wallet and soiled handkerchief in the other. Outside of a crumpled, empty cigarette package that was all he found. He looked into the wallet. It was old and sweat-stained with the stitching coming loose at the edges. Once, Clane saw, it had been fine leather. But it had become like its owner: old, tattered, and almost empty.

  He found nothing but a single dirty identification card. It read: “J. B. Castle. Morland Hotel, Dunlop. Main 4441. In case of accident notify Betty Castle, 44 West, The Hill Drive.”

  Clane looked that over for some time and it wasn’t until he was copying the information that the address made sense. Forty-four West, The Hill Drive, was Ed Thorne’s address. He remembered Ed Thorne saying to the maid, “I’ll take care of it, Betty.”

  So, Clane thought, Betty Castle must be Ed Thorne’s excitable servant. It was worth thinking about.

  The telephone rang and Clane picked up the re-receiver. Marilyn Anderson said, “Here is your party, Mr. Clane.”

  “Mullen speaking.”

  “Clane,” Clane said. “I’m at the Metropole. I have a dead man on my bed.”

  The voice at the other end of the wire was soft and well modulated and a little thoughtful. “What has that to do with Wickett?”

  “Do you want to know or do you want the whole damned town to know?” Clane demanded. “I can tell you or wait until you show up.”

  “I’ll show up,” the gentle voice said. Clane grunted and lowered the phone. A moment later he picked it up again and gave the number of the bail bondsman he had hired to free Castle. The operator called for him without comment.

  “Look,” Clane said when the connection was through, “when did you spring Castle?”

  “I didn’t,” the man said. “Your dough is waiting for you.”

  Clane said, “They let him walk out? I told you to hang onto him, damn it.”