The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  "All right, darling. I'll try not to worry any more." A sudden thought struck her. "But how did you manage to slip away to see me?"

  "Just walked out. Like a big boy."

  "No one followed you?"

  "Certainly not. And even if they had, what difference would it make?"

  Her voice had tightened up again. "I was trying to figure that," she said.

  He put his arm around her and drew her close. When she came up for air it was to say, "That was worth waiting for, darling," and then she got up as he rose to go. She said, "You'll be careful, won't you?"

  "I'll be whatever you want me to be."

  He smiled with Lew Hartley's face and waved good-by. The door closed behind him and she heard him walking down the hall.

  She waited. Then she left her apartment and walked the length of the public corridor so that she could see the street and get a final glimpse of him.

  She saw him leave the building and walk off down the street. And she saw something else.

  There was a car parked down the block. In it was a slender, pasty-faced man with cruel, agate eyes and an inscrutable expression. Chuck Williams.

  So Alan had been followed. She saw Chuck drive past the apartment house.

  Against all the dictates of logic and common sense, her fear returned.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Gail Foster spent a sleepless night. Her valiant efforts to rationalize things got her exactly nowhere.

  Now she knew the truth, and by all the rules of common sense she should be content. But she wasn't. She believed that Alan had told her the facts as he knew them, but somewhere within her a warning gong was sounding.

  She was even denied the satisfaction of telling Vance Crawford that she now knew she had been right. Alan had tied her hands. He had insisted that no one must know. And then a thought came to Gail just before the first gray finger of dawn crept across the Atlantic.

  She had promised Alan not to tell anyone, but it was logical to presume that she might discuss the thing with someone who already knew the truth.

  She caught a little sleep before her alarm clock buzzed at seven-thirty. She let the coffee percolate while she dressed, and felt better when she drank it. She was at the office of Surf and Sunshine before nine o'clock, banging out routine stuff on her typewriter, checking over dates for social functions that she had been assigned to cover. At ten o'clock she telephoned the Hartley home.

  Gail waited nervously until she heard Sunny's rich, sleepy voice. She said, as brightly as possible, "I hope I didn't wake you, Sunny."

  "Nobody can wake me this early. And anyway, I was already." Sunny took a deep drag on a cigarette. "What gives?" she asked.

  "Nothing important." Gail hoped her voice sounded casual. "I'm merely overcome by the yen to buy you a lunch."

  "Where, when, and is it fattening?"

  "Seaspray Club, twelve-thirty, and it isn't." Sunny said,

  "Check. I'll be there on time or slightly late."

  "Not too late. Don't forget I'm a woiking goil." At the Seaspray Club, Gail selected a table on the glass-enclosed veranda. From there she could see the wide stretch of beach and the sand dunes that edged it. Beyond the beach, the surf undulated gently, only occasionally achieving a white fringe before pounding into the shore. It was all very lovely and tranquil.

  Sunny, by some miracle, was on time. She sat down opposite Gail and said without preamble, "You look like hell."

  Gail really laughed. There was something refreshingly spontaneous about Sunny.

  "I didn't get an awful lot of sleep last night."

  "Miami getting under your skin?"

  "It isn't that." Gail pulled herself together. "Cocktail?"

  "Martini. Dry." They ordered the cocktails, and twin luncheons of chicken salad. "It's awfully good here," explained Sunny, "if you like tuna fish."

  They ate lightly and chatted about nothing in particular. Then the waiter cleared the table and brought a pot of coffee and two tiny cups. Sunny lighted her cigarette and relaxed. She said quietly, "All right, Gail, let's have it."

  Gail looked up in surprise. "Have what?"

  "Your reason for all this." Sunny was smiling, but her eyes were steady and shrewd. "You've got something on that nifty little bosom of yours."

  "Sunny Ralston..." Gail found herself sparring for time. "She sees all, knows all—"

  "And don't say nuttin' to nobody, no time."

  Gail gave an embarrassed little laugh. "This isn't easy, Sunny. And it's going to sound a bit sloppy."

  Sunny leaned impulsively across the table and covered Gail's hand with hers. "You just go right ahead and slop, honey," she said warmly. "Whatever it is, I'm listening."

  "I figured we might talk straight," said Gail Foster steadily, "because we're both in love with Alan Douglas."

  Sunny was startled. "Wow! You sure hit hard."

  "I'm sorry. But that's how it is."

  "Maybe," Sunny said guardedly.

  Gail said, "I'm talking to you because I know you know. Alan came to see me yesterday morning. He figured the fairest thing was to trust me."

  "So you immediately talk to me?"

  Gail nodded. "That's one way of looking at it. I wish we could take our hair down, Sunny."

  "I'm trying to figure whether it would be smart."

  "It would help me."

  Sunny was tracing a pattern on the tablecloth with the tip of a crimson nail. "Where do you fit into the picture?" she asked abruptly.

  "I'm engaged to Alan."

  The eyes of the two girls met and held. Gail went on, "And that goes back to my first statement. I know I'm in love with him, and I believe you are."

  "What do you want from me?"

  Gail said steadily, "I believe that Allen told me the truth as he knows it. But I have a feeling that he doesn't know the whole story. You know whatever there is to know. Maybe it's nothing, but I think different."

  Sunny was toying with a jeweled cigarette holder. Her lovely face was inscrutable, her eyes shrouded. "Well, you called one shot right: I'm overboard about Alan."

  "I certainly can't blame you."

  Sunny's voice was edgy. "How does it hit you, knowing that? And knowing he and I have adjoining rooms?"

  "If you mean, am I jealous, the answer is no."

  "Why not?" Sunny was almost brutal in her directness. "You know where I stand in Lew Hartley's life. You know that Alan is wearing Lew's clothes and Lew's face. What's to prove that he isn't playing Lew Hartley straight across the board?"

  Gail said simply, "I'd never blame any man for liking you that much."

  Sunny was silent for a moment. Then she said, "I ought to hate your insides, but I don't. I like you."

  "That goes double."

  "I figure it does, though I don't know why. You've got class with a capital K. I'm a good-looking tramp. We don't even talk the same language. I'm in love with this guy and he won't give me a tumble by any rules." She made the statement without adornment. "And you, it's according to Hoyle, or else. But maybe..." she paused awkwardly.

  "You've hit it, Sunny. We feel the same way." Gail spread her hands, palm upward, on the table. "That's why I pay so much attention to my hunches. I feel that there's a lot more to this thing than Alan suspects. Don't ask me why I feel it. There isn't any sane reason."

  Sunny said, "You're a dope, Gail." But she wasn't thinking that. She was marveling at the intuition of this girl, and experiencing a new sense of shock at what the truth actually was.

  Somehow, Sunny never had paused to analyze things deeply. That might have been because she never had known that she could be soft or sentimental. Gail had made things look different. She had brought home to Sunny the significance of what actually had been planned for Alan Douglas.

  She saw herself reflected in Gail Foster's eyes. Gail had probed deeper than she knew. Sunny didn't like the feeling, either. She wasn't at all pleased at discovering that she wasn't as hard as she had believed. It was one thing to f
all for a guy like Alan, and quite something else to say to another person, "Yes, it's true. I love him." Because after you've put that into words, it becomes inescapable. No kidding yourself any more; no pretending that it doesn't matter a damn.

  Gail said suddenly, "I was right, wasn't I, Sunny?"

  "About what?"

  "There is more to it than Alan suspects, isn't there?"

  "No."

  Gail's gray eyes were level. She said, "You say no but you mean yes."

  "Have it your way."

  Gail went on: "Just the same, I feel better."

  "Why?"

  "Because I know you'll do whatever you can to help Alan."

  "You understand that I'll take Alan any way I can get him?"

  "Let's don't play that way, Sunny." Gail's voice was gentle. "I came to you because I figure that Alan is lucky if you're in love with him. I don't want to get hurt—naturally—but I'm not crazy about seeing you hurt, either."

  Sunny shoved her chair back from the table. She said abruptly and rather sharply, "I'm running along." She tried to smile as she walked out of the restaurant.

  She stepped into her car and swung violently onto the main highway. Her eyes were hot, her body tense.

  Damn Gail! What right had she to seek her help?

  Sunny's lips set in a hard, straight line. How could she help? What could she do?

  Things had gone too far. Too much was involved. They’ve got him," she said bitterly. "They've got Alan so tight nobody can get him loose."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  That same afternoon two gentlemen arrived in Miami. They traveled separately and gave no indication of knowing one another.

  The taller of the two, a man who might have been anywhere between thirty and forty, taxied to the Palmtree Hotel, demanded a suite without inquiring the daily tariff, and registered as Charles B. Harrison of Chicago. He tipped the bellboys nicely enough to earn their good will, but not so lavishly as to attract attention to himself. He ordered two packs of playing cards—for solitaire—a box of fine cigars, a dozen magazines, and several popular novels, and settled himself for a stay of indefinite duration.

  This was the man who had been born Lew Hartley and face-lifted into the role of Joel Kent.

  The second of the two men arriving in Miami that day was Wayne Hamilton: immaculate, well-groomed, distinguished-looking, and slightly nervous under a calm exterior. Mr. Hamilton went immediately to the home of Lew Hartley in Miami Beach, where he was greeted by Chuck Williams, who said, with more than usual emotion, "Jeez! Am I glad to see you!"

  Chuck followed Hamilton up to his room, closed the door, and stood regarding the iron-gray attorney with lackluster eyes. Wayne Hamilton, never entirely comfortable in Chuck's presence, seated himself and asked, "Why are you so glad to see me?"

  Chuck never wasted words. "Hell's busted loose," he said.

  "Let's have it."

  Chuck talked. He talked flatly and impersonally, but with a tenseness that he did not customarily display. He told of the brief excursion on the Blue Gull and of the girl who had smuggled herself aboard.

  "Who was she?" inquired Hamilton.

  "Some babe who works for a magazine here. She and Sunny have been pretty thick."

  "Do you know her name?"

  "Yeah. I met her a coupla times. It's Gail Foster."

  Wayne Hamilton winced, but his voice remained steady. "You say you've met this girl a couple of times?"

  "Yeah."

  "Where—and how?"

  "Night clubs. Parties. Like I said, she and Sunny seem to go for each other."

  "Would you say," asked Hamilton carefully, "that she has been cultivating Sunny deliberately?"

  "I wouldn't know. They been together. That's all I know."

  "Has Douglas been present at any of their meetings?"

  "Yes."

  "How did he act?"

  "O.K." Chuck made the statement grudgingly. "He was all right."

  "How did you find out she was on the yacht?"

  "Douglas. He let out a yip for Swanson. Him and me both showed up. Douglas said she busted into his cabin and we should turn around and set her ashore."

  "He was still playing his part?"

  "Oh, sure."

  "And how did she act?"

  "She didn't. Just sat there." Chuck leaned forward. "Where does she fit in?"

  Wayne Hamilton said, "She's Alan Douglas' fiancee."

  For an instant Chuck's face looked almost human. He whistled softly and said, "That's a hot one." Then his opaque eyes narrowed to slits. "Does Sunny know that?"

  "No. We never figured the Foster girl in, so we didn't mention the name to either you or Sunny." Hamilton did some intensive thinking. "Queer setup, that. Gail Foster working for a Miami Beach magazine, cultivating Sunny's friendship when they're as far apart as the poles, chasing Alan on board the yacht. It spells trouble."

  "I think," stated Chuck softly, "that she's got the low-down by now."

  "What gives you that idea?"

  "Yesterday Douglas slipped off from here. I tailed him. He went to this Foster dame's apartment and stayed there about an hour."

  The lawyer lighted a cigar with a hand that wasn't quite steady. He said, "How soon can you put Douglas out of the way?"

  "What do you mean, how soon?"

  "I mean just exactly that. Time is important. Can you do it tonight?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not. I ain't figuring to stick my neck out. I was supposed to get plenty of notice when you got ready to have the job done."

  "You'll have to take some sort of chance or the whole thing will blow up in our faces. Can't you get him to go somewhere with you? Any sort of excuse..."

  "I said it once: Maybe. But I ain't asking for any murder rap. Working quick, I got no time to make it look like an accident. Lew Hartley ain't no Jimmy Conley, you know. They find Hartley dead, they're gonna ask questions. So it's murder, and they ask who. Well, I got to be damned sure I got an alibi."

  "What's on for tonight?"

  "Usual stuff. Dinner out. Couple jernts afterward. Doesn't look like any chance to get the guy off by himself."

  "Tomorrow night?"

  "That's different. Gives me time to angle my way out."

  Hamilton's voice was sharp. "Getting squeamish?"

  "You know better. I'm playing safe, that's all."

  The lawyer couldn't say what he was thinking. He was thinking that he didn't particularly care whether Chuck was safe or not. But he couldn't tell the bodyguard that. He couldn't do anything except argue him into quick action, because time was pressing in on them.

  He asked sharply, "You're not figuring to back out, are you, Chuck?"

  An expression that was part sardonic, part amused flashed across Chuck's face. "Finishing that guy off suits me fine."

  "You say it like you mean it."

  "I mean it. It ain't just a job. It's a pleasure." He was thinking of Sunny.

  Almost as though he read the thought, Hamilton asked, "What will Sunny do?"

  "Squawk her head off."

  "Nothing more?"

  "Not after he's out of the way. She'll be in up to her neck then, and she'll have sense enough to know it wouldn't do him any good. Beforehand—that's different."

  "Then speed is absolutely essential."

  "I know all that. But I'm looking out for number one." Chuck walked to the window and stood motionless, looking with icy eyes across the blue expanse of ocean. "We got something else to think about, too."

  "What?"

  "This Foster girl. If Douglas spilled, and I think he did, then she'll yell when she hears something has happened to him."

  Hamilton's eyes were cold. He said, "That figures out to be another job for you, Chuck."

  "You mean I got to take care of her, too?"

  "Certainly. Douglas gets his first. Then you fix Gail Foster."

  Chuck Williams shrugged. "O.K. Inside thirty-six hours I'll have them both out of the way."

  Chapter
Twenty-three

  Dinner that night at the Cristobal Club was a bizarre affair emotionally.

  At a ringside table sat Alan Douglas, Sunny Ralston, Chuck Williams, and Wayne Hamilton. Of the four, Alan was the only one who actually was enjoying himself, and of the four he was the one who had the least justification.

  Glancing at him across the table, Wayne Hamilton was moved to reflect upon the soundness of ancient proverbs: Ignorance is bliss, for example. Accustomed to acting the role of Lew Hartley in public, no longer worried about Gail Foster, Alan actually was having a good time. The atmosphere of the club was gay, the food and service were excellent, the music was good, and the floor show was definitely fine. Hamilton wondered what would happen if Alan had the faintest suspicion that this would probably be the last floor show he would ever see, the last dinner he would ever eat. The handsome attorney tried to extract a sardonic amusement from the situation, but he knew that he wasn't quite getting away with it. Frankly, he was nervous. Having helped astutely to plan what was going to happen, he now found himself entirely too intimately and dangerously involved. Only the fact that the real Lew Hartley was close at hand to assume ultimate responsibility made the evening bearable.

  Chuck was no different from his usual self. He was no more laconic than usual, and no less. By not so much as a single word or gesture did he betray what he might be thinking or feeling.

  As for Sunny, she was too gay, too bright, too scintillant. She had selected from her lavish wardrobe the most daring gown she possessed. Her voice was a trifle higher than usual, her eyes brighter, her laughter so gay that a keen observer might detect more than a trace of hysteria.

  At ten o'clock Wayne Hamilton said, "I've got to leave you," and Sunny said, "Give her my regards," but it didn't seem very funny. As a matter of fact, Wayne Hamilton didn't even hear her. He was thinking. Tonight would be better than tomorrow night. I'd better get away so I won't crab Chuck's style if he thinks of something.

  After he'd gone, Alan asked for suggestions. To his astonishment Sunny said, "How's about going home? I'm weary."