The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  Here was luxury such as he had never before experienced. Temporarily, he was master of this beautiful estate, his every command was fulfilled, his every wish gratified. Despite the odd role he was playing, despite the fact that he was called upon to be a thoroughly unpleasant person in public, he was enjoying himself hugely. He touched his mustache, to which he had not yet become accustomed, and reflected that if it were not for one thing, he'd be supremely contented.

  In all this lovely ointment, there was only one fly. In a life more placid and calm and delightful than anything he'd ever known, there was only one worry. But that worry was growing with each passing day, and now—as always-the thought of it banished the smile from his lips.

  Gail Foster! He'd seen her again last night at the jai alai games, and all through the evening he'd felt her eyes boring into the back of his head. Nearly every day he saw her: at the races, the dog tracks, at night clubs, and in restaurants.

  Somehow, some way, she had come to suspect something. Here was the person who knew him best, and she obviously had set herself the task of breaking through his disguise.

  The necessity for fooling Gail made him unhappy and definitely uncomfortable. He hadn't the faintest idea how she'd happened to come to Miami in the first place, or what she was doing here now. He didn't know the identity of the affable and rather stout young gentleman in whose company he invariably saw her. He didn't know anything except that Gail suspected that he was not Lew Hartley.

  He realized now the soundness of Wayne Hamilton's original pronouncement that no scheme was infallible, that the most carefully laid plans were subject to disruption by the intrusion of things that could not possibly be foreseen. He understood now why Hamilton had insisted that the most important element in this fantastic deal was Alan's integrity. But it was tough to play this role in front of Gail, to be denied the right to set her mind at rest.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a light tap on the door leading to the adjoining room. Almost instantly the door opened and Sunny entered.

  Sunny's entrances were always dramatic, and this one was no exception. She wore a ridiculously abbreviated pair of swimming trunks and an intriguingly inadequate halter. Her beach robe was open. She carried a beach bag and a swimming cap in her hand as she walked into the room and said, "I thought we had a date to go swimming."

  "We did," said Alan. "And we still have."

  "Then what are we waiting for?"

  There was something refreshing about this incredible person. The whole setup continued to amaze him: The fact that the public regarded him as Lew Hartley and accepted Sunny as his personal property; the fact that she occupied a connecting room and that the door was never locked; the fact that Sunny seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from the situation.

  She was a gay person, and definitely on the pagan side. She had taken life the hard way, and made the most of her natural endowments. He'd never met anybody even approximately like her. She was hard and she was soft, tough and sentimental, unmoral rather than immoral. By certain left-handed standards she was a very splendid person.

  He slipped on a robe and went into his dressing room. A few seconds later he returned to the bedroom, clad in swimming trunks and sandals. Sunny eyed his tall, lithe, muscular figure with approval. She said, "You stack up well."

  "Thank you, madam."

  "And I'm not a madam." She fitted a cigarette into a too-long, too-dramatic ivory holder and puffed reflectively. "You're doing a pretty neat job," she commented. "Are you beginning to feel like Lew?"

  He shook his head. "I'm afraid I never will."

  "Not enough of the wolf in you, is there?"

  "I suppose not."

  She said, cryptically, "It'd be interesting if there was."

  "Meaning what?"

  She said, "They hired you because you were honest—not because you were dumb."

  "That has all the earmarks of a dirty crack."

  "Maybe it is."

  "I still don't get it."

  "You wouldn't. You're not the type." She got up and flung open the door that connected his room with hers. "There's a girl, isn't there?" she said sharply.

  "Yes."

  "And you figure what she doesn't know would still hurt her?"

  "Something like that."

  "And maybe I'm not your type anyway."

  He said, "Look, Sunny, you're plenty my type. But I'm playing this as I'm supposed to play it. I'm not really Lew Hartley, you know."

  She turned toward the door. "I'm finding that out. Let's go."

  Alan said, "You trot along. I'll join you on the beach." He closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and drew a deep breath. He thought, and there's another angle Mr. Wayne Hamilton didn't figure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gail Foster walked into Niki Thorpe's office. It was a tiny compartment in a chronic state of indescribable confusion.

  Niki looked up and waved a greeting. Gail perched on the desk and swung one shapely leg as she talked. She said, "How'm I doing, Niki?"

  "Fine." The efficient Mrs. Thorpe grinned infectiously. "But why you took this job at this salary is something I can't figure."

  Gail shrugged. "Maybe I'm simply allergic to New York winters."

  "Maybe. But that isn't the whole story."

  "It's enough, isn't it?"

  "Sure it is, Gail. But miracles like this don't often happen. You fit right into this screwy outfit and your copy is good. We pay you less than half what you're worth, so we're happy. But you still act like a gal with a mission."

  "I didn't think I was that obvious."

  "You are." Niki was a direct little person. She said, "Slap me down if this is none of my business, but I thought maybe it was Vance Crawford."

  Gail shook her head. "I almost wish you were right."

  "Why the 'almost'? Vance is overboard about you."

  "Which makes me feel like a heel. I don't know a finer, more loyal person than he is."

  "Enough!" Niki raised a restraining hand. "When a girl talks that way about a man, she isn't in love with him. I'm sorry. I hoped maybe we'd add you to the permanent Miami colony." She shuffled through some proofs. "What gives this morning, Gail?"

  "I'm going out with Mac for some pictures, if the idea hits you right."

  "Who?"

  "Fay Ralston."

  "Sunny?" Niki nodded approval. "She's our meat. Photogenic as the devil, and popular with our advertisers. We can give her a nice spread. Tell Mac not to forget that we want plenty of the human form divine."

  Gail said, "I thought perhaps I might get a couple of shots of Lew Hartley, too."

  "Think again. Hartley never lets himself be photographed. And if you try it without permission, Mac is liable to lose a nice new camera."

  "Hartley doesn't seem to mind pictures of Sunny or of his estate."

  "Those are things he owns. But if you're smart, you'll keep away from him."

  Gail lighted a cigarette. "You've known Hartley for several years, haven't you?"

  "Nope. Nobody knows him. We see him, that's all."

  "Have you noticed him this year?"

  "Sure. Why?"

  "Does he look the same as he always did?"

  "Just as bad. Two good looks at that diabolic pan of his and I wake up screaming." The telephone rang and Niki waved her hand. "Get going, female. Remind Mac that he knows what we want."

  Driving northward on Collins Avenue with the dour little photographer, Gail made an effort to get herself under control.

  She hadn't slept well the night before. There were too many things to think about, now that the appointment with Sunny was definite. Cold logic told her that she was crazy: that Lew Hartley was Lew Hartley, and that was that. Then instinct got in its inevitable licks and she started thinking of him again in terms of Alan Douglas.

  If it were Alan, she wanted to see where and how he was living. Inside the grounds of the Hartley estate. Perhaps she'd see something that might furnish the clue to the mystery.
She might even see him with Sunny Ralston.

  It was odd how Sunny kept flashing through her thoughts. She turned abruptly to the man at her side.

  "Mac," she asked, "do I look completely crazy?"

  "No," he answered. "Not completely."

  A few minutes later Mac swung to the right of the avenue and parked. Gail could just barely see over the stone wall surrounding the Hartley place. She thought, Alan or Lew, whoever it is, he's getting a break.

  The entrance gate was locked, and they rang the bell. A stocky young Negro in chauffeur's uniform answered the summons. Gail said, "We're from Surf and Sunshine. We have an appointment with Miss Ralston."

  "Yes, ma'am." The chauffeur touched the visor of his cap and opened the gate. "She told me she was espectin' you. Just foller me in, please."

  They follered him in. The gardens were in full and brilliant blossom; the lawn was velvety in texture and emerald in hue. The royal palms were impressive.

  Sunny came out to greet them. She was radiant and beautiful. She loved this sort of thing: her pictures in what she regarded as a society magazine. The Lady of the Manor, she was, and if her status was a trifle on the unconventional side, that did not disturb her in the slightest degree. She came forward and held out her hand. "I'm Sunny Ralston," she said.

  "I'm Gail Foster." The two girls clasped hands. Blue eyes looked straight into gray ones. Gail was thinking. She's breath-taking! and in Sunny's mind there was the thought, she's pretty. And she's got class!

  Gail said, "I was the one who telephoned you. This is Mr. McKinney. We'd like to get a few informal shots."

  "The more the merrier."

  "Good. Now if we could start here, using the house as a background..."

  "You call 'em, Miss Foster. How's my outfit?"

  Gail said it was fine, and she wasn't exaggerating. It was a sports ensemble in white flannel edged with the faintest of yellows. Mac got several shots there, and then at Sunny's suggestion she changed into yachting costume and they walked across Collins Avenue to the private dock where Hartley's seventy-five footer was moored.

  Sunny was bright and vivacious. She had a gay, sharp wit that delighted the other girl, and Gail found herself liking Sunny in spite of herself. Here was a woman of incredible beauty, with a keen brain and a sense of humor. And if, behind those big blue eyes, Gail detected a flintlike hardness, that seemed to her to be only natural.

  The yachting pictures finished, Mac grunted, "This is all trimmings. What we want is the beach stuff."

  Gail made the suggestion and found Sunny enthusiastically co-operative. Mac announced that he'd go on down to the beach and pick his angles. Sunny suggested that Gail come upstairs with her while she changed, but Gail said she'd take a look around the grounds. She gave no hint of what she really wanted, which was—if possible—to find the man who called himself Lew Hartley.

  And so she was left alone. She drifted toward a vine-covered little summerhouse in which she fancied she had detected the figure of a man. It might be Hartley, she thought; it might be anybody. But it was worth a chance.

  She made no sound as she crossed the velvety lawn. And then she stepped under an archway of roses.

  The man had his back turned. He was clad in gray flannel slacks and a white sports shirt. He was reading. She saw his body stiffen as she said, "Mr. Hartley?"

  For an instant neither of them moved. Then she saw the man put down his book and get slowly to his feet. He turned toward her, and here, at close and intimate range, the sense of shock was greater than ever before.

  The face, with its sinister scar over the left eye, the mustache, which made the mouth look cruel, the hawklike beak—these features blotted out all the other familiar details of figure and gesture. It was a powerful, ruthless, repellent face, and the voice that emerged from it was harsh and unpleasant.

  The man said, "What the hell are you doing here?" She drew in her breath sharply. Anger sent the color flying to her cheeks. At that moment there was no thought of Alan. This was merely an arrogant, boorish individual who made her flesh crawl.

  But her intelligence came to her rescue. Here was the opportunity for which she had been praying; here was perhaps her chance to establish once and for all whether this really could be the man to whom she was engaged. And so she made her voice gentle.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize..."

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Gail Foster. I'm here for Surf and Sunshine, getting some pictures of Miss Ralston."

  "All right. Get 'em. But let me alone."

  She was trembling. She said, "You're Mr. Hartley, aren't you?"

  "Yes. Now, get away."

  "I'd like to take a couple of pictures..."

  "What kind of damn fools do you work for? They ought to know that I don't go for that stuff."

  Gail's anger was mounting in spite of herself. This man was grossly and inexcusably offensive. Her own eyes were flashing and Alan Douglas understood the symptoms and was glad.

  He knew that this was the only armor he successfully could have worn. He knew what had brought Gail here, he knew why she had sought him.

  This was tough on her, but it was tough on him, too. He was goading her into fury, because if she happened to be gentle and natural, he was afraid that he might break down. He hoped to play his unpleasant role so well that she would be convinced.

  He took one step toward her. His voice seemed harsher and more hostile. He said, "That's the trouble with you newspaper people. Too damned nosy."

  He turned on his heel and strode from the summer-house. Gail, staring after him, was too shaken with fury to remember her doubts. Actually, Alan had succeeded better than he could have hoped. Because she was thinking, Vance was right. It is Hartley, after all. Even if Alan were playing a part, he couldn't be that way. Not Alan!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alan's white tie and tails had been carefully laid out for him by his valet. He whistled while he dressed. Aside from his worries about Gail, he was frankly and unblushingly having a grand time. The experience was turning out to be more bizarre and exciting than he had anticipated. There were drawbacks, of course. He despised the necessity of making an unpleasant spectacle of himself in public, he hated the fact that he must act the role of a man who had been generally—and deservedly—disliked by everyone who knew him. But it was exciting and somewhat intoxicating to be, however anomalously, the master of this lovely estate, to be waited upon by a staff of servants, to hear a buzz of conjecture whenever he appeared in public.

  Chuck Williams was always at hand to see that he did things in a large way. He loathed the ostentation demanded of him: ten-dollar tips to headwaiters for ringside tables, huge bets at race tracks, jai alai games, and gambling houses. But he realized that he would have been less than human had he failed to enjoy this new feeling of affluence.

  Sunny Ralston, for instance. He'd never known a girl like Sunny. He knew that underneath she was hard as nails and utterly without any sense of moral values, but the Sunny with whom he came in daily contact was a gay, delightful person, as well as a startlingly beautiful one.

  As Alan Douglas he might have felt a certain sense of embarrassment about appearing in public with so vivid a person as Sunny. Everything about her screamed for attention—and got it. Every so often he'd feel a surge of embarrassment, and then a quick glance into the nearest mirror would show him the face of another man on his body, and that made it easier to act as he had been taught this other man would act. Alan was only human: He confessed that he'd be having rather an elegant time if it weren't for the worry in the eyes of Gail Foster when he saw her in public—which was very often indeed.

  He walked downstairs. Chuck Williams, clad in dinner clothes, was waiting at the foot of the stairway. Chuck's colorless eyes took him in from head to foot. The stare was insolently impersonal, as one would regard a clothes dummy. Alan felt just a trifle uncomfortable and tried to turn it off lightly. He said, "Do I pass muster, Chuck?"

>   The pasty-faced man stared straight at him. Then he took out a cigarette, lighted it, and walked away. No word. No gesture of recognition. Alan said, "I'm glad to see you in such a happy mood tonight, Chuck."

  He saw the wiry figure stiffen, but Williams made no move, no sign to indicate that he had heard, or that the barb had struck. Alan's face flushed, then he laughed it off. Queer egg, this Williams. Seemed to be always playing the role of toughie. Nobody could be that hard-boiled, Alan figured. Or that unpleasant.

  Sunny came downstairs, her splendid body gleaming in a sheath of sequins. Even Alan, as accustomed as he had become to the dramatic nature of her gowns, was startled. He said, "Wow!" and Sunny laughed delightedly.

  "Like it?" she inquired.

  "As soon as my eyes get accustomed to the glare."

  "I like people to notice me."

  "Then you'll be happy tonight. You're really gorgeous."

  Chuck Williams spoke without turning. His cold, flat voice said, "Come on, you two."

  Alan took Sunny's arm. "I think somebody ate up all his porridge."

  The chauffeur had driven the car up to the front door. Chuck Williams said, "Get out. I'm driving."

  The chauffeur's eyes glowed happily. "You mean I can have the evenin' off, Mr. Williams?"

  "I don't give a damn what you have," Chuck snapped.

  Alan leaned forward. "You're off for the night, Philip."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Hartley. Thank you, sir."

  With Chuck at the wheel and Sunny and Alan in back, they rolled out of the driveway and into Collins Avenue. They were aware that the flat gray eyes could see them through the rear-view mirror, but they tried not to let Chuck's ill humor put a damper on what promised to be a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

  They were headed for the new Cristobal Club, which modestly proclaimed itself to be the swankest night spot south of Manhattan. There was no mistaking the exact location of the Cristobal once you got within a half mile of it. A leaf had been borrowed from the book of Hollywood. Four searchlights fingered the sky; the front of the place was brilliant.