The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  Hamilton said, "That's better. You look almost like human being now."

  "I feel better." Alan moistened his lips. "The doctor... ?"

  "I haven't telephoned yet. We've got to talk."

  "But..."

  "Listen, son—and believe me when I say I'm right. Calling a doctor isn't going to help Chuck, and Sunny is O.K."

  "You're not a doctor," insisted Alan stubbornly.

  "I'm that much of a doctor. I found a lump on her head—not even a break in the skin. It adds up to concussion. She's liable to sleep that way for hours."

  Alan said, "It seems to me that we shouldn't wait. Not only a doctor, but the police..."

  "We'll do all that, son. But first I've got to find out where we stand."

  "It's simple enough."

  "No." Hamilton's voice was sharp. "You see, Alan, the man who just killed Chuck is not you, but Lew Hartley. Think that over."

  Alan nodded, but he looked straight at Sunny and at what had been Chuck Williams. Hamilton intercepted the glance and said, "Suppose you let me take over. Throw the responsibility on my shoulders."

  That seemed plausible enough, and Alan nodded again. He sat down and managed to turn his chair so that he couldn't see what was on the floor. It seemed horrible to leave Chuck there, but he remembered hearing that a body mustn't be touched before the arrival of the police.

  No matter what was happening inside Wayne Hamilton, he was outwardly calm, suave, and reassuring. His voice was steady. He said, "What happened, Alan?"

  "I'll try to piece it out for you." Alan was speaking carefully. "After you left the Cristobal tonight, we stuck around a while and then came home. Sunny and Chuck went inside and I walked down to the beach."

  "Why?"

  "No special reason."

  "How long did you stay there?"

  "I don't know. Things like that aren't important at the time, and you don't remember."

  "All right. Go ahead."

  "I decided to turn in. I walked up to my room. I heard voices in here."

  "Sunny and Chuck?"

  "Yes. They seemed to be quarreling. I only caught a few words, and the sound of the telephone dial. I think Sunny wanted to telephone somebody."

  "I see." Wayne Hamilton's keen brain was functioning capably. The pieces of jigsaw puzzle were beginning to fit into place. "And then?"

  "I heard Chuck say something, and then a blow. At any rate, I thought it was a blow."

  "You were obviously right."

  "I opened the door. Chuck was holding Sunny in his arms. Her eyes were closed. I saw a gun on the bed."

  "What did you do?"

  Alan shook his head. "That's where it begins to sound unreal. I remember what I did, without remembering why I did it. I saw Chuck look at me and then at the gun. I had a queer feeling..." His voice trailed off, and then he started again. "I suppose I've let myself get jittery, Mr. Hamilton, but here's how it was: I got a crazy hunch that Chuck meant to use that gun on me."

  "That's possible. He was in love with Sunny. He knew she had gone off the deep end about you."

  "Maybe. But I wasn't thinking at the time. Chuck dropped Sunny on the bed and grabbed for the gun. I got there at the same time. We started to fight."

  "And the gun?"

  "We both had hold of it. We kicked and butted and used our shoulders. He almost got loose. It was right after that that the gun went off. You came in a few seconds later." Alan lighted a cigarette with unsteady fingers. "It sounds wild, but that's how it was."

  The lawyer said, "I believe you. And now we've got to decide what to do."

  "Yes?"

  "At the moment you're Lew Hartley. The minute the police are called in on this, our whole scheme goes to pot."

  "That doesn't seem awfully important now."

  "It is, though."

  Alan was clearer now. He said, "Chuck has been killed?"

  "In self-defense. Don't forget that, Alan. He attacked Sunny. Perhaps he meant to kill her. You walked in. He definitely tried to kill you. By all rules of law and ethics, you were justified. There couldn't be a clearer case."

  "What are you driving at?"

  "Just this: We don't have to rush into anything. If it's possible to salvage something out of this mess, we're entitled to do it."

  Alan said, "I'll ride along part way, Mr. Hamilton. I realize that things have been messed up for Mr. Hartley. But it wasn't my fault."

  "Of course it wasn't. That's the point I'm making. If you were in the slightest degree to blame, I wouldn't be talking this way. But since this was a justifiable homicide, and since the circumstances are so unusual, we're justified in protecting ourselves all we can."

  Hamilton hoisted his trim, compact figure out of the chair and walked up and down the room. He was thinking of a lot of things that Alan neither knew nor suspected. He was thinking of the real Lew Hartley, who at that moment was sitting alone in his suite at the Palmtree Hotel; he was remembering that this was no innocuous manganese deal, but a life-and-death-and-safety affair involving the freedom not only of Lew Hartley, but of himself as well. He was beginning to get a wild, fantastic idea. He stopped in front of Alan's chair and looked down at him.

  "There's no question of right and wrong in this, Alan. Any jury in the world would acquit you. You know that and I know it. I've been toying with the idea that perhaps this need never reach a jury."

  Alan said carefully, "Naturally, I'd prefer it that way. But I don't see how...?"

  "I have a friend in Miami," said Hamilton, "a really influential man. He holds a lot of important political reins. It's possible that if we could make him understand the truth, he might arrange things so that the world would merely believe that Chuck Williams had committed suicide."

  Alan Douglas was human. What was more, he trusted Wayne Hamilton. He said, "If something like that could be arranged decently and honestly..."

  "There's a chance." Hamilton was speaking more swiftly now that his idea was taking shape. "I'm going to see this man. I'll be gone an hour or more—depending. I'll bring him back with me, provided he's willing to take any part in it. And so you'll know everything is on the level, I'll leave the two of you alone. You can tell your story just as you told it to me. By seeing him alone you won't have the feeling that I talked either of you into anything. Does that sound reasonable?"

  "Yes, very. But..." He looked over his shoulder toward the bed. "Suppose you're wrong about Sunny? Suppose she's seriously hurt?"

  "She's not, Alan. Figure it out for yourself. I'm in on this part of it. Do you think I'd stick my own neck out unnecessarily?"

  "No, I suppose not. But make it as fast as you can."

  Wayne Hamilton promised. He went downstairs and to the garage. He whirled out of the driveway and into Collins Avenue and started for the Palmtree.

  He was thinking about Sunny. He believed that she had sustained a fractured skull. He believed that it was possible that she might die, and he hoped she would.

  But most of all he was thinking of Hartley. I'm tossing this right into Lew's lap, he reflected grimly. I'm sending the real Lew Hartley to see the man who looks like Lew-Hartley. Alan will think it's a kindly Miami helper. What happens then will be strictly up to Lew—and if I know him, plenty will happen.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lew Hartley listened patiently to Hamilton's story.

  Hartley's new face, skillfully provided by the deft surgery of Dr. Greer, remained impassive throughout the crisp, nervous recital. Only the eyes were those of the old Lew Hartley: cold, calculating, merciless. They followed the well-groomed figure of the distinguished attorney as he paced the sitting room of Lew's hotel suite. And when Hamilton finished talking. Lew still said nothing.

  Wayne Hamilton rubbed his chin with a nervous gesture. "I'm trying to think straight, Lew, but my nerves are shot. What I just saw wasn't pretty. At first I thought the applecart had been completely knocked over. Now I have a hunch that we couldn't have asked for a better break."

>   "Go ahead."

  "We were playing with dynamite. Sunny had fallen for Alan, and there's never any forecasting what a woman in love will do. Douglas evidently told this Foster girl some of the truth about himself. If she believed what he believes, we were safe—but only so long as nothing unusual happened. The minute anything happened to him..." Hamilton shrugged. "Curtains."

  "We agreed," murmured Hartley, "that Gail Foster was to be taken care of."

  "Sure. By Chuck. Chuck's dead."

  "It can still be done. There are men down here from New York..."

  "I'm not concerned about Foster now, Lew. She's a cinch. A couple of thousand dollars, and she can be put neatly out of the way. I'm not worried about turning that job over to someone else, because so far as anyone knows, she isn't mixed up with you or me and we'd never be thought of in connection with her death. But our problem is more immediate and serious than that. It's Alan Douglas and Sunny."

  "And Chuck," suggested Lew Hartley. "We mustn't forget him."

  "I'm not forgetting anything." Wayne Hamilton's voice was edgy. "And I know that we haven't got a hell of lot of time to waste. Suppose Sunny snaps back to consciousness and starts talking?"

  "That wouldn't be so good. But you said..."

  "I think she's on the way out, Lew. I'd swear it's more than a simple concussion. But I'm not a doctor. If she comes to and starts explaining things to Alan..."

  "She couldn't prove anything."

  "So what? That isn't the way we want it. We want this thing to go through. That's why we took all thls trouble. If it slips, what happens? For one thing, your elaborate disguise and this whole Joel Kent setup makes it twice as sure that you'd spend at least twenty years in prison on the strength of what the state and federal D.A.'s already have on you. If they also want to be tough they can connect you up as an accessory in Chuck’s death, and—"

  "And you, Wayne, would not become the beneficiary of a trust that only becomes effective after the world believes me dead."

  Hamilton met the other man's eyes squarely. "I thought of that, too. But, believe it or not, it doesn't add up very much against murder and conspiracy. The idea of prison may not scare you silly, Lew, but it does me."

  "What do you propose to do?"

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm not in so deep that I can't get out. What happens from here on is your party."

  "You'd throw me overboard?"

  "If I were jeopardized, yes."

  "Thanks for telling me what I knew already. Now then, let's have your plan."

  "You can't let things ride like they are. You've got perfect setup at the house: Chuck dead, Sunny out like a light, young Douglas scared green because he killed man. I take you over there, introduce you to Dough and then I check out, I stay checked out."

  "You don't need to repeat that part of it."

  "You're a prominent Miamian. You talk things over with Douglas. Maybe you think of a smart scheme of your own. If you do, that's fine. The idea and responsibility will be yours."

  "And if I don't?"

  "If you don't..." Hamilton bent forward, and his voice snapped. "If you can't think of anything better, Lew, what's to prevent your killing Alan Douglas and then finishing Sunny Ralston off?"

  Lew Hartley blinked and straightened in his chair. He said, "That's a little tough to digest, Wayne, even for me."

  "Naturally." Hamilton became the advocate now, making his plea, hammering home his logic. "But if you've got the guts to go through with it, Lew, the setup couldn't be more perfect. You take a gun—you've got one, haven't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You take it with you. If you can't figure any other way out, you let Douglas and Sunny both have it. It'll be a cinch because Douglas won't be on guard against you. You wipe the fingerprints off the gun. You put it in Chuck's hand. You put Chuck's gun within reach of Douglas' hand. And what have you got?"

  "All right, what have I got?'

  "A perfect situation. More perfect than anything we could dream up in ten years of planning. We leave things that way. I stay away all night. I pick up friends somewhere and fix myself a hundred-per-cent alibi. In the morning one of the servants finds the mess and telephones the police."

  Hamilton had risen and he was talking now with desperate earnestness. "The cops can't miss. There's the whole story for them. Chuck Williams in the room of Lew Hartley's girl friend. Hartley comes in. There's a battle. The man who looks like Hartley is holding the gun with which Chuck Williams has been killed. The reverse is also true. That's all proven neatly by simple ballistics tests. They've battled over a woman, and all three have been killed in the mixup.

  "It's perfect, Lew, perfect. Then you're dead. There's nobody to question it. They even know how you died—what the reason was. Nobody else is dragged in, because the guy who killed you is also dead. Sunny—the only other person who knew anything—is dead, too. Joel Kent is the safest man in America."

  Lew Hartley said, "We mustn't forget Gail Foster. If f she knows that Douglas has been wearing my face..."

  "I know where to get the man we want," stated Hamilton. "I'll contact him the minute I hear from you that things are that way. We'll pay him any price. The Foster girl won't see ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

  Hartley was thoughtful. He said slowly, "I've never killed a man."

  Hamilton shrugged. "You've never actually pulled the trigger. That's the only difference."

  "Suppose when I get there, Sunny has already recovered consciousness?"

  "I'll be with you. You'll stay out of the picture until I look things over. You won't meet Douglas at all until I'm sure that Sunny is just like I left her."

  "You think of everything, don't you, Wayne?"

  "I'm thinking of my own skin," snapped Hamilton, "and the money that's in it for me. Next I'm thinking of you."

  "Thanks. Now one other question: Why not hire someone to do this job for us? If you're willing to arrange about Gail Foster, why not this?"

  Hamilton said impatiently, "Don't be a damned fool, Lew. Foster means nothing. But where am I putting myself if I go to one of those torpedoes and pay him to kill you? Of course, I could give this new guy the complete picture, but I don't believe you'd like that."

  "I wouldn't."

  "Then what's the answer?"

  Lew Hartley walked into the bedroom and unlocked one of his suitcases. He took out an automatic, examined it, and put it in his pocket.

  "I might as well get it over with as soon as possible," he said. "Let's go."

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  For a long time after Wayne Hamilton left, Alan tried to keep his eyes away from the gray figure sprawled out on the floor. He knew police rules—that a body mustn't be touched when the death has been the result of violence—but there seemed something grotesquely inhuman in just letting Chuck lie there. Finally he went to the linen closet in the hall and returned with a sheet, which he placed gently over the body.

  Then he tried working over Sunny, hoping to restore her to consciousness. He bent over the bed and put his ear near Sunny's lips. The breathing was regular and even. He lifted her hand. It was warm and alive. He felt her pulse and found it strong and therefore reassuring. That made it easier to mark time.

  Wayne Hamilton probably knew what he was talking about. The attorney seemed to have a great deal of knowledge about many things, and so Alan accepted his medical verdict on Sunny—chiefly because there was nothing else he could do about it.

  Except to worry. Sunny looked as though she were sleeping, but he knew better. He moved back and forth from bathroom to bedside, soaking towels in cold water and pressing them against her forehead and wrists, but nothing he did seemed to have any effect.

  Time dragged. It was almost three in the morning now, and Alan's ears were strained for some break in the quiet of the night. The sound of each passing automobile brought him to his feet in the hope that this might be Wayne Hamilton.

  He found it impossible to relax, even for an instant. The
atmosphere within the room was depressing and sinister. His nerves were twitching. He made a futile attempt to keep from thinking, because when he thought he seemed to get nowhere at all,

  Once or twice he left the room and tried walking up and down the hallway, but that was no good. He was afraid that Sunny might recover consciousness, and he knew that if she did he must be there to help, to explain, to shield her from too great a shock. He glanced at wrist watch for the hundredth time, wondering where Wayne Hamilton might be.

  And at that minute Hamilton was driving back toward the Hartley home. Beside him was a tall, rather pleasant looking man, whose hard eyes stared straight ahead.

  Lew Hartley was headed toward his own winter home. His nerves were amazingly steady, considering that was a man with a purpose, and that purpose was double murder.

  Oddly enough, it was Wayne Hamilton who was most jittery. Nervousness made his speaking voice slightly higher than normal. He said, "You might as well be introduced as Charles B. Harrison. You're using it at hotel and it'll be easier to remember."

  Hartley nodded. "It doesn't make much difference. Douglas won't remember the name long."

  Hamilton's lips were dry. He said, "I wish to hell I’d never got into this mess."

  "You're in it, Wayne."

  "But I'm not getting in any deeper." He took his eyes off the road to emphasize his point. "I'm telling straight, Lew, you've got to give me at least three quarters of an hour after I leave you alone with Douglas. I’ve got to have time to set up an alibi. If you double-cross me on that, I'm telling you, I'll protect my own neck, no matter what it costs you. Is that clear?"

  "It's clear. And not unexpected."

  "And I'm not making another move until I hear from you that this job is finished."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I'm not talking to anyone about taking care of Foster. When you've cleaned up your end of things, then I'll take the chance."

  Lew Hartley asked, "How will you know?"

  "I'll phone you at the hotel. You can tip me off."

  The taller man shrugged. "All right. I'll give plenty of time to get away from the house. The interview with Douglas should be rather amusing."