The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  Alan was on guard. Here was the sort of thing he'd been dreading. The man had walked confidently into the grounds, which indicated that he felt he had a right to be there. He had addressed him twice as "Mr. Hartley" and then as "Lew." Obviously it was somebody Alan— as Lew Hartley—was supposed to know. For the first time since arriving in Florida, Alan was sorry that Chuck Williams wasn't around. Chuck would know this man; he'd know how to handle the situation. But now Alan was on his own. He had to think—fast and right.

  The stranger stood off and eyed Alan critically. He had a warm, genial personality. Friendly as a pup. He said heartily, "You look good, Lew. Right in the pink. You musta been takin' good care of yourself." He put his hand on Alan's arm, as though to feel his biceps.

  Alan hesitated, but only for an instant. He did something that he loathed, but it was the only thing he could do under the circumstances.

  He jerked his arm away. "Take your hand off me."

  The stranger dropped his hand. His cheeks flushed. Then he laughed uncertainly. "Since when did you get to be a kidder, Mr. Hartley?"

  Alan said, "I'm not kidding."

  "But look..."

  Alan kept his words harsh: "Who invited you in, anyway?"

  The big man with the big shoulders shook his head. He was obviously bewildered. He said uncertainly, "I figured you'd be glad to see me, Mr. Hartley."

  "Well, I'm not. So get out."

  A mantle of dignity settled over the stranger's shoulders. Anger began to show in his level, honest eyes. He said, "I don't get it, Lew. I don't get it at all. And I don't like it."

  "I don't give a damn whether you like it or not."

  The stranger said, "And I'm tellin' you one more thing. Another crack outa you and I'm goin' to spread you all over this pretty lawn."

  Alan glowered at the stranger. He reminded himself that he'd become a pretty good glowerer these past few weeks. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so embarrassing. Then he realized that he couldn't just stand there staring at the compact, broad-shouldered man, who was getting madder by the minute. So Alan swung around and started for the house.

  The stranger followed. He said, "I don't savvy, Lew. And I'm repeating: I don't like it, either."

  Alan continued to walk away. Then he looked up and saw Chuck coming out of the front door. He breathed more easily because he realized that Chuck had caught enough to make him understand. He brushed by the dangerously quiet little bodyguard and said, "Get him away from me." Then he continued into the house.

  Chuck walked toward the other man. He said, "Hello, Jimmy."

  "'Lo." The big man was frowning and his fists were still clenched. He said, "What the hell goes on here?"

  Chuck took the other man's arm and turned him toward the gate. He said, "Lew's sore as hell this morning. Let's scram."

  The man called Jimmy fell into step beside Chuck. He was still boiling, and he didn't care who knew it. He said, "I never seen Lew act like that."

  "You wouldn't know him these days."

  "I'll say I wouldn't. We was friends, wasn't we? Sure, I always knew he was sour, but that never went for me. I never seen him act like that." There was the thought that seemed to stick. "I sure never did, Chuck. I never seen him act that way. Not to me."

  "He was all steamed up about something else."

  "Yeah? But it still looks funny, Lew tellin' me to get the hell away from him. It doesn't fit."

  Chuck made a gesture. "You never can tell about a guy like him, Jimmy. Nowadays he just goes around biting."

  "But not me, Chuck. He ain't got no call biting me. It don't seem like Lew at all."

  They were at the gate now. Chuck propelled the man named Jimmy toward his battered jalopy. He said, "Take it easy, Jimmy. Lew'll cool off." Chuck lighted a cigarette. "When did you roll in?"

  "Yesterday. I figured Lew would be glad to see me. So I come over."

  "How long you gonna be around Miami?"

  "Rest of the season, maybe. I'm staying at a little jernt in town." He gave the name of a third-rate hotel. He climbed in his car and sat there shaking his head.

  "It wasn't like Lew at all," he said. He stepped on the starter and drove off, still shaking his head.

  Chuck moved thoughtfully back toward the house. Alan was waiting for him inside. He said, "I feel lousy, Chuck. On the level, I do."

  Chuck said, "You must have slapped it to him hard."

  "I had to. I never saw him before. Who was he?" Young Mr. Williams jerked his hand upward. "You acted O.K.," he said. "That was a guy used to work out private with Lew about four years ago. In New York. You know, come around and give him exercises and box with him and stuff like that."

  "I see. That was why he started off calling me Mr. Hartley and then shifted to Lew."

  "Sure. A man's personal trainer, he's different from anybody else in the world. He used to shove Lew around a lot: bark at him and make him do things. Well, that made him different. But he won't bother you any more. He's mad enough so he won't come back, and that's plenty all right by us."

  Alan shook his head as though to rid his mind of the thoroughly distasteful episode. He said, "What happens this morning, Chuck?"

  "I'm driving over to meet Wayne Hamilton. Alone."

  "That's clear enough. I'll stick around here."

  "But close. Don't let no more guys sneak up on you."

  "I'll try." Alan changed the subject. "How long will Mr. Hamilton be here?"

  "Long enough."

  "You mean you don't know, or you won't tell me?"

  "You figure it. Anyway, he's here in time for lunch. He'll start calling the shots then."

  Chuck drove off a few minutes later in the sedan. He was doing a lot of thinking, and he was still thinking when Wayne Hamilton stepped off the train in Miami. They got in the car together and started off. Hamilton-trim, distinguished-looking—started asking questions.

  "How's our boy scout, Chuck?"

  "O.K."

  "Things running smoothly?"

  "No."

  Hamilton cast a quick glance at the impassive face beside him. "What does that mean?"

  "It ain't as simple as you and Lew doped it. Things keep turning up."

  "What sort of things?"

  "You remember Jimmy Conley, guy who used to come around and give Lew workouts? Big guy, kinda nice?"

  "Yes, I remember."

  "Well," stated Chuck laconically, "he turned up this morning."

  "Where?"

  "At the house. Walked in the driveway. Douglas was there alone."

  "Where were you?"

  "Inside. And don't gimme that kind of a look. I can't be holding the guy's hand every minute."

  "All right, Chuck. What happened?"

  "Conley tries to be friendly. The kid don't know from nothing, so he plays smart. He damn near bites Jimmy's ear off. When I come out of the house, Conley is about to slug him."

  Wayne Hamilton smiled. "I'm glad to hear that Douglas came through all right."

  "He didn't," stated Chuck flatly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "He played his part. It just wasn't good enough." Wayne Hamilton waited.

  "This Conley, he used to shove Lew around. You get to know a guy pretty good that way. By the time I got him out of the grounds, he'd started thinking."

  "Thinking what?"

  "He was beginning to get ideas. Smart ideas. He was saying that he couldn't figure it, that Lew wasn't that sort of a tomato, that there was something funny about it. This Conley ain't no dumb bunny. Something didn't smell good to him. A bird like that starts thinking, you got to be careful."

  "You think he's likely to carry on from here?"

  "Could be. Conley doesn't take that sort of stuff lying down." Chuck tapped the steering wheel with his strong, slender fingers. "We don't want nobody thinking too much about Lew, Mr. Hamilton."

  "I suppose not."

  "So I've told you. From now on, it's your headache."

  "You think it'
s dangerous?"

  "It ain't good. What's more, Conley's sticking here for the rest of the season. He ain't gonna leave things lay."

  Wayne Hamilton was silent for a long time. Then he asked, "Do you know where Conley is living?"

  "Yeah."

  "Would he go out with you?"

  "Sure."

  "Could you make it look like an accident?"

  "Easy."

  Hamilton sighed. "I don't like it, Chuck. But that's how it seems to shape up. We can't take a chance."

  "Tonight?" questioned Chuck impassively.

  "The sooner the better. But be careful."

  "I'm always careful."

  Chapter Eighteen

  One afternoon in mid-February a telegram was delivered to Mr. Joel Kent, who lived in a trim little house in Westwood Village, California. The telegram was signed "Robert," and Mr. Kent recognized that as the code signature for Wayne Hamilton.

  Mr. Kent, who looked not at all like Lew Hartley, drove all the way to Pasadena to send his answer. And that answer, signed "Charley," notified Wayne Hamilton that their meeting would be at the Biltmore Hotel, Atlanta, Georgia, three days hence.

  So the man who had been Lew Hartley until he became Joel Kent, and who was, for the purpose of this trip, traveling under the alias of Charles B. Harrison, flew east, checked in at the luxurious Atlanta hotel, and contacted his lawyer, who had preceded him. Lew went to Hamilton's room. Hamilton said, "It's still a miracle, Lew. You aren't you at all."

  Hartley nodded. "Greer did a good job."

  "You look ten years younger and entirely different. Maybe it's the fact that the scar has disappeared and you've shaved the mustache."

  "Greer says it's the nose."

  "And," finished Hamilton, "perhaps it's also your manner. Has cordiality been very hard to learn?"

  Lew Hartley looked down at the attorney, who had calmly appropriated the more comfortable of the two easy chairs. He said, "Let's get something straight before we begin. For years you've been riding me. Personally, I think it was a case of little dog barking at big dog. It has been your way of proving to yourself that you weren't afraid of me. I never liked it, but it did amuse me. Now it's not funny any more." His voice took on an edge. "So drop it!"

  Wayne Hamilton started to say something, then changed his mind.

  Hartley lighted a cigar and inhaled deeply. "What's wrong in Miami?"

  Hamilton said, "Plenty."

  "Little Rollo gumming up the works?"

  "No. We figured right on him. But there are other things. Important ones."

  Hartley waited. He'd tried to change himself since becoming Joel Kent, but he couldn't teach himself to waste words.

  Hamilton spoke. "You remember Jimmy Conley?"

  "Conley? Sure. Used to work out with me."

  "He showed up at the Beach the other day." Hamilton gave details of the visit. Lew Hartley listened impassively, his brain racing behind shrewd brown eyes. When the lawyer paused, he said, "Not so good."

  "Damn bad, Lew. It was one of those things that could not be foreseen. It happened once, and it could happen again."

  "Where's Conley now?"

  "Chuck took care of him. Neat job. The papers played it down. Said it looked like the work of a hit-and-run driver."

  Lew nodded. "Chuck's smart."

  "Yes. But I don't like the way things are going. There are bound to be other people like Conley, folks whom we couldn't possibly remember. And Chuck can't keep on killing them off."

  "Right." Hartley eyed the other shrewdly. "What else?" he asked.

  "Something. Maybe you won't like it. It's Sunny. She's fallen for Douglas."

  "Two-timing me?"

  "Maybe."

  Hartley smiled coldly. "What difference does it make? I've seen the last of her anyway. She doesn't know that, but it's true. She and Chuck are being adequately taken care of under my will. But they won't know where I am or what I look like. So if she wants to have her little fun..."

  Hamilton said, "It's more than that, Lew."

  "How much more?"

  "I don't believe Sunny is fooling. I-think she's really in love with our Rover Boy."

  Lew shook his head. "You don't know Sunny. She'll never really love anybody except herself. She's no softie."

  "I didn't say she was." Wayne Hamilton was talking crisply, as though it were very important for him to make his point. "In one way, Lew, she's tougher than you are. She didn't turn a hair when this scheme was cooked up. It was all right with her to be an accessory, provided she was protected. But somewhere under the Florida sunshine our young lady has commenced to sprout a heart. And there are other angles, too."

  "Let's have 'em."

  "Did you ever suspect that Chuck Williams was in love with Sunny?"

  "Chuck? Hell, no. I never thought of Chuck having any emotions." Hartley's cigar had gone out. He lighted it again with meticulous care. "Looks to me, Wayne, as though you've gone romantic all of a sudden. Sunny's in love with Alan Douglas. Chuck's in love with Sunny. Who are you in love with?"

  Hamilton shrugged. "Play dumb if you want, Lew. Maybe Greer lifted your brains as well as your face."

  "All right," Hartley said testily, "so Chuck's in love with Sunny. What could he do? Get mad and rub Douglas out?"

  "Yes."

  "Where do we lose on that? They'd still identify the body as Lew Hartley."

  "It isn't that simple, and you know it. We don't want anyone to know that Chuck's mixed up in your killing. Not that we give a particular hoot about him, but because they'd make it tough on him if he was picked up. Maybe he'd talk and maybe he wouldn't. You never know what a man will do under the third degree, you never know how much real guts a lad like Chuck Williams has got. When they crack, they crack wide open. Chuck's usually under control, but I'd lay twenty to one that when he loses control, he goes all out. Let him run into Douglas and Sunny at the wrong time, and he'd probably blast away and do his thinking in jail. You're an important man, Lew. The police would give your killer a pretty stiff going-over." Hamilton drew a long breath. "But even that isn't as important as the Sunny setup."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "Sunny knows that Douglas' number is up. Being in love with him, it's logical that she doesn't like it. A single word to the police would crab everything. We know that, and Sunny knows it, too. If she's as crazy about Douglas as I think she is, she might say that word."

  Lew lifted his long, muscular figure out of the chair and walked up and down the room. Then he settled down again opposite Wayne Hamilton. He said, "Things should be about ready in Miami anyway, shouldn't they?"

  "Just about. You've been seen everywhere. There wouldn't be any question that if Douglas were killed, the body would be identified as you."

  "Then what are we waiting for."

  "The right time. The right circumstances."

  "That would seem to be now. Tell Chuck to go ahead."

  Hamilton shrugged. "I'm not taking the responsibility."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It was always important for this to happen right. Now it's twice as important. I'm willing to cook up the scheme with Chuck, but I want your O.K. on it."

  "You've got something in mind?"

  "Yes. I want you to come down to Miami."

  Lew Hartley made no attempt to conceal his surprise. He said, "I don't get it."

  "It's simple enough. You show up down there, take a suite in a hotel, register as Charles B. Harrison, and stay in your rooms. Nobody will see you, and even if they did, there isn't a chance that you'd be recognized. You'll be right where I can put my finger on you. You've got a clear brain on this sort of thing. I trust you more than I trust myself, and certainly more than I trust Chuck. I won't give Chuck the word until you've said the scheme is solid. I'm sticking my neck out far enough as it is."

  "I see." Lew knew that there was no use arguing. He summed things up. "It's got to be soon. If you've guessed wrong, we don't lose anything. If you've
guessed right about Sunny, she still isn't a fool."

  "Meaning?"

  "Sunny might go a long way to keep Alan Douglas from being killed," stated Hartley. "But once he's dead, she'll keep her mouth shut." He stared at his lawyer. "You're sure this new face makes me safe?"

  "I wouldn't take the chance if I didn't think so."

  "Suppose Sunny saw me? Or Chuck?"

  "It wouldn't mean a thing. Besides, you're not leaving your suite. A guy named Harrison checks in, stays a few days, and checks out. While he's there Lew Hartley meets with an accidental death. There isn't any legal red tape because everybody knows it's Hartley."

  "Sounds safe enough."

  "It is. And don't get me wrong, Lew. I'm laying this thing right back in your lap. All this stuff I've been telling you happened recently. Before we ever get back to Miami, a lot more may have happened. I can't keep telephoning you about stuff like that. It's too dangerous. We can't take a single chance. That's why you've got to be on the spot. When we get things doped out, I outline 'em to you. If the scheme has bugs in it, you'll be more likely to see them than I will."

  Lew said thoughtfully, "The original idea we had is no good?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. We never figured on a Chuck who might lose his head or a Sunny who might get hysterical. You dope it out, Lew. From now on, it's your party."

  Hartley spoke. His voice was flat and emotionless.

  "All right. We go to Miami immediately. I'll register at the Palmtree as Harrison."

  Hamilton said, "You're being smart, Lew."

  "Maybe." Lew Hartley drew a deep breath. "I'm going down there for one reason. We've got to get Alan Douglas killed off in a hurry."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Guests circulated through the grounds and the downstairs of the Hartley home. They said to each other, "This is sure one wow of a party," and the person addressed invariably answered by lifting the right hand and touching the tip of the forefinger to the tip of the thumb so as to form a circle, indicating unqualified approval. It was that kind of party.

  The band, backed up against the patio wall, was filling the soft night with music. The clear, full moon tried futilely to compete with the lighting effects concocted by Sunny Ralston in collaboration with a decorating firm. There were two bars, six bartenders, and a cold buffet that looked like a Hollywood production. The guests—necessarily liberal in their views, since they were the friends of a young lady whose status in this menage was slightly left-handed—had never concerned themselves about the Social Register, but were having an elegant time just the same.