The Corpse That Walked

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  "Yes—if you've got that kind of a sense of humor."

  They reached the house, and Wayne Hamilton led Hartley upstairs. Alan greeted them at the head of stairway. Wayne Hamilton said, "This is Mr. Harrison. Lew. Mr. Harrison, Mr. Hartley."

  Lew Hartley and the man who had been made over to look like Lew Hartley clasped hands and gazed at one another, and, despite the tension, Hamilton was impressed all over again with the fantastic situation.

  There they were: of approximately the same height and weight and coloring. The face that looked at Hartley was Hartley's face: sharp black mustache, jagged scar over the left eye, hawklike nose, bone structure of the skull, color of eyes and hair, evenness of firm, white teeth.

  Hartley felt a sense of relief. It's amazing, he thought. They find this guy's body and nobody would ever suspect it wasn't me.

  There was a grim irony about it. Because Hartley did not look at all like Hartley. He looked like Charles B. Harrison or Joel Kent or Joe Doakes or anybody in the world except who he was. At the moment he looked to Alan like a pleasant, shrewd, confident, and able person who had been cast momentarily in the role of Good Samaritan. There was nothing forbidding about him.

  Wayne Hamilton was saying, "I've explained everything to Mr. Harrison, Lew. You can trust him implicitly. Tell him anything he wants to know. I'm leaving you two alone. I'll be back in an hour."

  He said good night to Lew Hartley and started down the steps. Alan followed. He whispered, "I want to get this straight, Mr. Hamilton. You say you've explained everything. Does that mean that he knows I'm not Lew Hartley?"

  "No. Certainly not. He thinks you are Lew. I simply meant that I told him about what happened here—just as you gave it to me."

  The front door closed behind Wayne Hamilton and a few seconds later Alan heard his car leaving the grounds. He turned and walked slowly upstairs. Lew Hartley was waiting for him at the top of the steps and Alan had the absurd impression that there was a light of amusement in the stranger's eyes. But he forgot that thought almost before it had time to register, and when he reached the hallway and stood facing the real Lew Hartley he was reassured by the quiet, steady voice.

  Hartley said, "Where shall we talk?"

  Alan jerked his head toward the door of Sunny's bedroom. "In there, I presume. I've been working over Miss Ralston."

  "Any luck?"

  "No. I'm worried. We ought to get a doctor right away."

  "That'll have to wait."

  Lew Hartley led the way into the room. He looked down at the white mound on the floor. "Williams?" he asked.

  "Yes. I knew I wasn't supposed to touch him, but I couldn't stand seeing him..."

  "Natural enough." Lew himself was just as pleased. He walked over to the bed and regarded Sunny critically. It was all very familiar: the room, the girl, even the pungent odor of the perfume that had spilled on the floor.

  Lew Hartley dropped into a chair near the decorative fireplace. His back was to the bed, so that he could focus all his attention on Alan Douglas, who drew up a chair and sat facing Hartley. Alan could see the bed from where he was sitting, and that was what he wanted. He couldn't shake off his concern about Sunny. He wanted to be there to help if she gave the slightest sign of consciousness. He drew up his chair to within a few feet of Hartley's and offered his visitor a cigarette from Lew Hartley's jewel-studded cigarette case.

  He said, "I hope you can help us out, Mr. Harrison."

  "I don't see why I shouldn't. If Hamilton gave me the straight dope, you acted strictly in self-defense. Any jury in the world would acquit you. I can understand, therefore, that you'd logically wish to keep it quiet."

  "Yes, naturally..."

  "I have a good many influential friends here, Mr. Hartley," said Hartley. "Whatever I do will be done legally. The authorities will have to know the truth, but still I believe they'll find a way to keep it covered up. That is the way you would wish it, isn't it?"

  "Of course. That would be perfect. There are reasons..."

  "I understand. And now there are a few questions I want to ask you." Lew Hartley was killing time. He was giving Wayne Hamilton opportunity to get to wherever he was going and to build up an alibi. "Of course Hamilton gave me his version, but that was secondhand. I want to be sure everything checks."

  "I'll tell you anything you want to know."

  They sat that way for half an hour. Lew Hartley asked questions—logical, plausible questions—and Alan gave simple, unvarnished answers. In one way Lew was enjoying himself, in another way he was tense. He tried not to concentrate on his real purpose. Having sold himself on the idea that he was to kill Alan and Sunny before he left that room, it seemed better to take it in stride—to act when the moment came and not to think too much about it.

  He asked all the questions he could think of, and still the time set by Wayne Hamilton had not yet passed. Lew Hartley said gently, "You'll pardon my saying so, Mr. Hartley, but you're not at all what I expected you to be."

  "No?"

  "No. You have a reputation here in Miami for being a rather brusque person."

  Alan shook his head. "Under circumstances like these..."

  "I understand." Hartley was thinking, the lad is good. Hamilton's a smart picker.

  Harrison interested Alan, too. He was a reassuring person; he made Alan forget the urgency of the moment. And even if Alan had been less interested, he might not have noticed what was happening to Sunny Ralston.

  Sunny opened her eyes. She blinked into the light and closed them again. She felt dizzy, and her head ached atrociously. She looked again and saw Alan and a stranger. Her eyes traveled about the room. She saw a white huddle on the floor, a sheet, and then she marked the outline of a sprawled body beneath that sheet.

  The dizziness was disappearing. The headache was still there, sharp and stabbing, but Sunny started thinking. She thought back to the moment when she had tried to telephone the police. Chuck had attacked her, and then things had blanked out. She concentrated on the two men by the fireplace. She was thinking. Something happened. That thing on the floor... She couldn't see the face of the strange man who was facing Alan; only his back and a bit of his profile. Maybe he's a cop, she thought. Maybe Alan's in a jam.

  She closed her eyes again. It was easier to listen that way. They were talking about nothing important. Then a question of Alan's startled her. Alan asked, "Do you think you'll be able to fix things, Mr. Harrison?"

  "I'm pretty sure of it. Of course, when there's been a killing, even in self-defense..."

  Alan said, "The whole thing was so bewildering. All the time the fight was going on I was thinking about saving myself. It never occurred to me that Chuck would be killed."

  Chuck dead. Sunny began to fit the pieces together. She heard them discussing it, and she caught an important fragment here and there. It began to take shape rather clearly, but something worried her. She had an uncomfortable feeling.

  Alan said something and the man called Harrison leaned forward and answered him.

  Sunny choked back a gasp. The truth came to her with blinding, frightening clarity.

  Lew Hartley!

  She listened again. Now she understood why she had known instinctively that things weren't as they appeared to be. Through half-closed eyes she studied Alan's companion.

  The voice: that was Lew's voice, for all its calculated softness. The mannerisms: they could belong to nobody but Lew. She felt a tightness in her throat and a great fear because now there was no longer any doubt.

  The man was Lew Hartley and his presence there marked danger for Alan.

  That sort of thing wasn't easy to digest. There were too many angles to it. She heard them talking about Wayne Hamilton, and she learned that Wayne had engineered this meeting. That picked up another loose end, blended definitely into the pattern of danger.

  It was simpler to think after that. She knew Lew Hartley, knew how he lived and thought and acted. She knew that the keen brain of Wayne Hamilton had planned
this meeting. She knew that Chuck was dead. If Alan were dead, too... That was when she knew definitely.

  She was badly shaken by the impact of her own logical conclusions. And she knew that time was running short, that this amiable conversation was not without sinister purpose, that she must think of some way to warn Alan.

  But how? True, Hartley had his back turned toward her, but he never shifted his gaze from Alan. A single untoward move on Alan's part and she knew that Lew Hartley would act. And then it would be too late, because Alan was relaxed. He had no reason to suspect that his visitor was dangerous. She thought of calling out suddenly, "Be careful, Alan! That's Lew Hartley!" but she discarded that idea even before it took definite shape. It was worse than no good, and for several reasons. First, Alan would think that she was out of her head; second, even if that idea didn't strike him, he still wouldn't be able to grasp what she meant; and third—and most important—even if by some miracle he understood that this stranger was Lew Hartley, it would not signify danger. Alan had no reason personally to fear Lew Hartley. Alan didn't know that it had been in the cards for him to be killed. Sunny realized that almost anything she did would warn Lew and merely startle Alan.

  She opened her eyes and stared at Alan, trying to attract his attention. He was talking to Hartley when he felt the pull of her gaze. He looked over at the bed and his eyes widened.

  Sunny was looking straight at him. But that wasn't all. The forefinger of her right hand was pressed against her lips. It was a plea for silence, a gesture of warning, and the light in her eyes made it imperative. With that little gesture she was saying, "Be quiet. Be careful."

  The man whom he knew as Charles Harrison was staring at him. He followed the direction of Alan's gaze and turned his own head quickly. Sunny's hand had dropped from her lips. She was lying as she had lain before, right arm at her side, eyes closed. That was the clincher for Alan. Her gesture had been studied, and he was too much on edge to ignore it.

  She had started him thinking and given him warning. But he couldn't imagine what it was she was warning him against. He knew now that she was faking—that she was conscious, that she had expected Harrison to look at her, and that for some reason she had wanted him to believe that she was still unconscious.

  Alan tried to add it up, but the answer came out different every time. He saw her eyes flutter open again and realized that she was pleading mutely with him. He was tight inside, feeling that there was something important she was trying to tell him, something that she desperately wished him to understand.

  He couldn't figure it out, but Sunny realized from his altered expression that she had succeeded in making him realize that things were not entirely as he believed them to be.

  But that wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. The initiative still lay with Hartley. A hundred crazy schemes flashed through her mind. And then she got her idea.

  Inch by inch she moved her hand across the bed until rested on the ornate little bedside table. On that tab was a crystal ash tray. It was hexagonal in shape, and heavy. Sunny knew that when she acted it must be in such a way that Lew Hartley would betray himself; she realized that her task was to startle Lew more than she startled Alan.

  Her fingers groped for the ash tray. She prayed that when she made her move she would not be dizzy. Right now she was thinking clearly and seeing straight. She caught an occasional puzzled glance from Alan, which was reassuring, because it proved that he was alert.

  And then, suddenly and unexpectedly, she acted. Her red-tipped fingers closed on the heavy crystal ash tray. She picked it up and swung herself sideways off the bed. She drew back her right arm and flung the ash tray straight at the back of Lew Hartley's head.

  Lew saw Alan's eyes open wide with astonishment. He saw Alan start up from his chair. And then Hartley felt the impact of the heavy ash tray against the back of his neck. It wasn't the target at which Sunny had been aiming, but it was enough to shatter Lew's well-ordered plan.

  Acting instinctively, Hartley leaped to his feet—half stunned by the missile Sunny had thrown, but still capable of clear thought and quick action. He whipped the gun from his coat pocket. But he did one thing wrong.

  He turned in the direction from which the attack had come.

  Sunny screamed, "Get him, Alan!" but the shrill warning was not necessary. Alan had grasped the significant of the gun in the stranger's hand. There was no time then for debating whys or wherefores. The picture that Hartley presented was one of instant and immediate danger.

  For that split second Lew Hartley had been startle into forgetfulness of Alan, and then Alan was on him. His shoulder crashed into Lew's half-turned figure, football style, and he wrapped his powerful arms around him.

  The battle was brief and dreadful. Alan had learned a great deal from Chuck Williams. Things like rules were completely forgotten.

  He had the advantage and he held it. The other man had been surprised and hurt. They swayed toward the fireplace. Alan saw the bronze fire set that fitted into the picture as a bit of decoration. He didn't hesitate.

  He grabbed the poker and swung it. He swung it hard. It caught the other man on the head, and Lew Hartley dropped, unconscious.

  Alan turned. Sunny Ralston was standing near the foot of the bed, shaking. Alan said, "What is all this?"

  Her voice was far from steady.

  "You saved your own life, Alan. That man is Lew Hartley—the real Lew Hartley."

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Gail Foster stirred restlessly. She was dreaming about a fantastic automobile with a flat tire that was banging along a wide tree-lined thoroughfare. In the dream it seemed perfectly natural that the loose, flapping tire should make a great deal of noise for a little while, and then no noise at all.

  It started again, but this time it was louder, more insistent. Gail turned over sleepily and opened her eyes for just a second. It was then that she realized that there was no automobile, no flat tire.

  Someone was knocking at the door of her tiny apartment. Knocking firmly but gently, so that the denizens of adjoining apartments would not be disturbed.

  She stretched her slender figure and rubbed some of the sleep from her eyes. Through the cracks of the venetian blinds she could see a dull grayness that marked the first touch of dawn. The rapping came again and she slipped her feet into a pair of gray mules and struggle her figure into a gray and white robe. She walked sleepily across the floor and said, "Who is it?"

  A man's voice, deep, but with a soft Southern draw said, "Miss Foster?"

  "Yes."

  "I have a message for you. It's impawtant."

  Gail cracked the door and peered into the gloomy corridor. She saw a big man with a kindly face. He said, "Can I speak to you a minute, Miss Foster?"

  Sleep had been effectually banished. She asked, "What about?" and he answered, "It ain't nothin' to get worried about, Miss Foster. Just a little talk."

  He extended a huge hand toward her and she saw in the calloused palm a silver shield.

  "Police?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am. Sorry to wake you so early, but..."

  "What's wrong?"

  The detective smiled reassuringly. "Now, don't you go gittin' excited. Like I said, it ain't nothin' to worry about. S'pose you git dressed so we can talk better."

  Gail said, "Certainly. It'll only take a minute."

  She dressed swiftly. And with each tick of the clock she experienced a new worry. She did not know what this visit portended, but she was certain that it had something to do with Alan. The kindliness of the big man in the hall did not fool her. Detectives don't go calling socially at (she glanced at the clock) six in the morning unless it's pretty serious.

  Within ten minutes she opened the door again, eyes bright and clear, every sense on the alert, every nerve tense. She said, "Won't you come in?"

  "No, ma'am." The detective seemed a trifle embarrassed. "I was wonderin' if you'd be good enough to take a little ride with me."

  "Where?"


  "I ain't supposed to say nothin', ma'am. Just fetch you."

  She decided not to ask any questions—then. But it was a thoroughly frightened young lady who wrapped a simple turban around a well-shaped head, who picked up her bag from the dresser and then tried to smile.

  He took her arm courteously as he led her down the long hallway and out of the front door. He helped her into the waiting automobile, and wedged himself under the wheel.

  Day had not yet come, and in the half-light the neighborhood looked unreal: white buildings wraithlike in the grayness, flowers only partly visible, palm trees stretching gauntly into the gloom. She caught a glimpse of the sea, grayish-looking sand, white lines of surf. On the horizon she could see a single orange finger that indicated that soon the gloom would be dispelled and another glorious Florida morning would have come.

  The detective headed north. They approached a drive-in stand and he slowed down. "You a coffee drinker, ma'am?"

  She looked at him gratefully. "Yes. If we have time."

  "Sure we have. There ain't that much hurry."

  A heavy-eyed boy took their order: two cups of coffee. Gail took three scalding sips, burning the tip of her tongue. Then she lighted a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and said, "You don't know how much that helps."

  He chuckled. "I sho' do, ma'am. I ain't no good at all in the mawnin' until after that first cup of coffee."

  The beverage had relaxed her nerves and cleared her brain. He started the motor again and they continued north. The Lew Hartley place was in that direction. Alan was in that direction. She said, "I suppose there's no use asking where we're going?"

  He smiled down at her. "I sho' like that, ma'am—find-in' a real sensible young lady that don't go firin' a lot of questions a feller ain't allowed to answer."

  Gail said, "I believe I know where we're going."

  "Yes'm. I reckon maybe you do."

  And beyond that he vouchsafed no information. He was ready to talk about the weather, about the dawn, which was momentarily becoming more radiantly beautiful, about himself, even; but he had a placid, quiet efficiency that warned her that she'd gain nothing by trying to pump him. Once sold on that idea, Gail exerted herself to make him like her. She didn't know what she was running into, and she felt that a friend—even so casual a well-wisher—might prove valuable.