GIVE UP THE BODY
by LOUIS TRIMBLE
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
The Characters …
ADELINE O’HARA, ex-WAC and reporter for the Teneskium (Oregon) Pioneer, also country correspondent for the Portland Press, who tells the story. She is young, red-headed, and Irish. She meets
TITUS WILLOW, the pudgy passionate professional philanthropist, who is a badly frightened man. He is visiting
CARSON DELHART, the Portland millionaire, who dislikes giving interviews, and who wants to marry Titus Willow’s daughter
DAISY WILLOW, small and babyish, with a penchant for suicide. She is engaged to
ARTHUR FREW, Titus Willow’s assistant, a very sullen young man who dislikes everyone and everything. He causes Adeline a lot of trouble. Also involved is
GLORY MARTIN, beautiful ice-blonde ward of Carson Delhart. She is rumored to be his mistress, and has definite tendencies toward dipsomania and nymphomania. Watching out for her is
POTTER HILTON, Delhart’s extremely efficient secretary, who is cold and precise and at times very frightening. He introduces Adeline to
MRS. EDNA WILLOW, Titus’ wife, who has a very bad disposition. She is concerned with making a good marriage for Daisy until murder intervenes. Suspected by police is
TIM LARSON, a high school friend of Adeline’s and now Delhart’s chauffeur. He is in love with Glory Martin. He lives with
MRS. LARSON, his Irish mother, and
MR. LARSON, called Big Swede, although he is half a head shorter than his son, Tim. Along with everyone else, they dislike
GODFREY TIFFIN, the assistant county prosecutor, who was Adeline’s first suitor, whom she rejected. He has never forgiven her and causes her a great deal of trouble even though
JOCKO BEDFORD, the sheriff, is on her side most of the time. Then there is
JEFF COOK, the star reporter for the Portland Press, who is sent to Teneskium to help Adeline cover the murder, and is involved while helping her try to prove Tim Larson’s innocence. He becomes a good friend of
JUD ARGYLE, Adeline’s boss, owner of the Weekly Teneskium Pioneer, who smells his liquor instead of drinking it,
and
BOSCO, the cat who saves Adeline’s honor, and who has a tremendous appetite for newsprint, string, and shoelaces,
and
NELLIE, Adeline’s ancient jalopy, whose death causes Titus Willow a lot of grief later on. She is one of Adeline’s problems, along with the missing felt hat, the body in the river, and Jeff Cook.
Adeline becomes more and more involved with Godfrey Tiffin, who wants to put her in jail (especially after he finds Jeff Cook’s pajamas in her dresser) until her midnight swim in her lingerie and an attempted suicide help point out the solution.
Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
Also Available
Copyright
I
YOU WOULDN’T THINK that anything as beautiful as Mt. Hood could look down on violent, agonizing murder and yet continue to smile so serenely. Nor that the firs along the lovely Teneskium River could keep their soft, sweet murmur with blood flowing darkly red into the ground by their roots.
The Oregon countryside lay under the balm of a soft summer sun, and the river sparkled through a land of peace. It was one of those rare, perfect periods when even the forest is gentle and friendly. And suddenly it was gone. Suddenly terror stalked that Teneskium forest, and stayed, brooding and menacing, until the river and Carson Delhart’s fish ponds yielded their secrets.
I had no way of knowing then how important the battered felt hat and the cast off suit of clothes would become, any more than I could know I was inviting myself to murder when I maneuvered Carson Delhart into promising me an interview.
At first, I didn’t give myself a chance of an interview with Delhart. I simply got into my car and drove toward his estate, hoping I might see him, but with the excuse that I wanted to get a story from one of his guests, Mr. Titus Willow.
I had no real problem when I pushed my gas thieving jalopy through the cool forest. I cursed the pitted gravel road in a ladylike fashion, but all the time I was gratefully absorbing the dapples of sunshine that slipped through the canopy of trees. We had just completed six weeks of almost steady drizzle and that sun was a true friend now.
I was enjoying myself, singing “Darling Nellie Grey” in honor of the jalopy when that absurd little man stepped through a gap in the flowering scotch broom lining the road and forced me to stab for the brake.
“Whoa, Nellie!” I said.
The car obligingly bucked, skidded, slowed, and stopped. Her motor panted twice at me and expired.
“Damn!” I wanted to cry.
The man bounced up at me. He looked something like a rubber ball with a beard and smile attached. He was short and round and actually wore plus fours! They were a hideous henna color and not at all attractive against the glorious yellow of the scotch broom.
“Ah,” he said. “Could you direct me to Mr. Delhart’s estate?”
“I could,” I admitted. “I’m going there.” I waved toward the car door. “If you want a lift …” I really wanted to push him into the river with a prayer that he would hit one of the numerous potholes. But the motto of our country is to help the stranger. I knew he was a stranger; I was acquainted with everyone in and around Teneskium and had been for my total of twenty-four years. I felt I really should recognize him but it was one of those things that stayed just out of reach. I motioned to the door again.
He reached for it, pulled it open and started to get in. “Don’t sit on Bosco!” I warned.
He jumped back, alarm on his pink face. “Bosco?” He looked where I pointed. “Oh,” he said.
Bosco sat up, stretched, and yawned. She looked the short gentleman over thoroughly and stuck out her tongue. Then she curled into a grey-brown ball and slept again.
“She’s a well behaved kitten,” I said, “but she hates to be sat on.”
“Naturally,” he agreed.
I pulled Bosco against me. She replied by testing the tightest part of my green skirt with her claws. “Before you get in,” I said chummily, “I may as well admit that Nellie died.”
“Nellie?” The stranger’s pinkish face suddenly went quite white. “Nellie?” He nearly screeched it. He put his hands on the door and held on until his knuckles were as white as his face.
“The car,” I explained hastily. “It has to be cranked.” I put on what I hoped was a helpless-female look. “It’s a terrible bother.”
“Oh,” he said. “The car.” The pinkish color came back into his face and he let loose of the door. “I’m afraid I …” He smiled again, weakly, and his lips showed surprisingly red through his brown and grey beard.
I had met with this hesitancy on the part of men before. “The crank,” I said, and handed it to him. “You just put it through the hole in front and twist. Hard,” I added firmly.
“Just twist,” I repeated as he held back. I changed the helpless look to the winning smile. “I’m so stupid mechanically,” I murmured.
Fortunately, I was sitti
ng and he couldn’t see that I’m hardly the helpless type. Not that I’m big and buxom, but I stand five feet six and am what is known as athletically built. Trim enough, fore and aft, as a Wave pal of mine once remarked. But hardly the willowy female.
He stepped gingerly around to Nellie’s front and poked at her with the crank. “Give it a spin.” I called encouragingly.
He jerked. Luckily, Nellie bleated, coughed, and then, as I manipulated the foot feed and choke wildly, she settled to a steady clatter. The man came back looking masculinely triumphant. He slid cautiously into the seat and laid the crank on the floor. I started Nellie forward.
I felt a little guilty when I saw him looking in dismay at his greasy hands, so pink and pudgy. After all, I could take Nellie apart blindfolded. But I detested cranking.
“There’s a rag in back of the seat,” I yelled.
He turned and got it. When his hands were wiped he seemed to feel better. “Is it far?”
“About a mile,” I said over Nellie’s chortlings. “We have to cross the bridge first. Have you an appointment? Mr. Delhart is fussy that way.”
I kept my eyes on the road but I knew he was ogling my legs. It’s impossible for a woman to drive and keep her skirt down, but for some reason men always seem perturbed by it. I find no fault with my legs unless there is too much of them up and down but I didn’t care to have him stare at them.
He finally answered me. “An appointment? I’m staying there, you know.” He raised his eye level a few feet. “Are you a guest, Miss …”
“O’Hara,” I said. “Adeline O’Hara. No, I’m going on business.” I was trying to place this man as a guest of Delhart’s. And suddenly his true identity came to me and I felt very foolish indeed. I wanted to crawl into the river and hide.
“You’re Mr. Willow,” I said. “Mr. Titus Willow.”
I glanced from the corner of my eye and saw that he was expanding. “I admit it,” he said coyly.
“Gee!”
Titus Willow blossomed. I said, “Are you in a hurry, Mr. Willow?”
He was looking at my legs again. “No, Miss O’Hara. Certainly not.”
I smiled sweetly and drove on until we reached the turn in the road. I took it, crossing the lovely, mossy old covered bridge that spans the Teneskium. The car rattled over the planking and dipped downward on the other side. There was a cleared space along the road here and I pulled Nellie into it, her nose downgrade for easy starting. I set the brake and cut the engine. The silence was like weight in my ears. Nellie is not one of your noiseless automobiles.
Trees and brush and steep banks hid the river except where it broke from the forest just before it went under the bridge. With Nellie quiet I could hear the sounds of the water going over rocks and around the pilings of the bridge. It was a lovely place and one I did not particularly care to share with Mr. Willow. It held memories for me—swimming, as a kid, when I was foolish enough to dare the treacherous potholes and undercurrents of the river.
But as much as I disliked stopping here I could do nothing else. There was no other turnout short of Mr. Delhart’s estate. I was afraid to take Mr. Willow all the way there for fear I would be requested to leave before I could get an interview. Mr. Delhart was notoriously unkind to reporters, even the small town variety.
Mr. Willow wriggled around in the seat. Bosco tested my skirt again to see what made it tight in that particular place. I smacked her paws and she went amiably back to sleep. Mr. Willow said, “Well?”
I gave my skirt a slight tug and half turned toward him. “I’m on the staff of the Teneskium Pioneer,” I said. “I came out to interview you.” I smiled hopefully and trustingly. “It’s so seldom we have a celebrity out here in the country, Mr. Willow,” I burbled.
“I’m happy to help you.”
I had had no worry about getting a story from Willow, providing I could contact him. I knew he would give out—I had heard he was a glory hunter. He was politely known as a professional philanthropist. As such, his business depended a good deal on publicity.
“You aren’t a bit like your pictures,” I said. “They don’t do you justice.”
And he ate it up! I gave him some more along the same line and then, feeling he was sufficiently softened, started asking the routine questions: What was he doing here? What were his future plans? Was it true he was going to handle a large charity donation for Mr. Delhart? How did he like our countryside? What did he think of the government?
He answered mechanically. After a while, he said, “Where is your notebook, Miss O’Hara?”
I tapped the place where my red hair blossomed from under my green suede skullcap. “I have one of those funny memories,” I said. “I can go back to the office and write this down word for word.”
“Amazing,” he said. “Such extraordinary talent seems wasted in a small town.”
Now it was his turn to give me the business. I put on my small town look. “I hope to do better some day,” I said confidently.
Mr. Willow edged closer. I tried frantically to think of a way to get back to the interview; I wanted more information on the rumored donation Delhart might give to charity. But Mr. Willow was giving me no chance. His pink features were moist and he kept wriggling toward me. I began to wish I had made arrangements for a third party at this interview.
I used my first line of defense. I kept my eyes on his face and at the same time surreptitiously turned Bosco around. She awoke and looked up. His plus fours were fascinating and irresistible. Bosco reacted.
Mr. Willow’s progress came to an abrupt halt. I said, “Bosco!” I picked her up and smiled sweetly. “She’s awfully naughty. Now, Mr. Willow, is it true that Mr. Delhart’s charity donation will be to a boy’s home?” His answer to my first tentative question had been the usual, “I am not at liberty to say.”
Mr. Willow was rubbing himself on the leg. “Ah—er, perhaps Miss O’Hara, we could discuss it some other time. I really should get back to the house.” He brightened suddenly. “I may have some real information later. Say at your office tomorrow evening?”
Bosco had stalled him and the interview as well. I did not relish the way he said “evening” but I could only agree.
“It would help me so,” I murmured.
He reached out and patted my hand. He kept patting it. “I am always glad to help someone get a start.”
His hand stiffened halfway down toward mine. There was a crashing in the underbrush near us. A man’s voice yelled:
“Damn your black soul to hell!”
II
MR. WILLOW’S REACTION to the violent curse was even more startling than it had been to my casual remark that Nellie died.
His pink face went pallid again. He opened and shut his little red mouth and made no sound beyond a slight choking noise. At first I thought he would faint and then I was sure he would strangle. He put out a trembling hand, opened the car door, and stumbled out. I could only sit rigidly, watching him.
Titus Willow turned in the direction of the voice and then a woman shrieked, “No, Arthur!” There was a lot of fear in her tone. The kind of fear that makes little jarring shocks run up and down your spine like electric currents in a wire.
“My God!” Titus Willow gasped. He turned a tortured, panting face over his shoulder and looked appealingly at me. Then he pushed his pudgy body into the underbrush and crackled out of sight.
I simply stared at the dent Willow had made in the flowering scotch broom. It had all come too suddenly for me to absorb. And not until a faintly familiar, deep voice said, “Don’t be a fool, young man,” did I come out of it. I recognized the timbre and the complete coolness of that voice in the midst of all this hysteria. Here was a story and I sat as motionless as Nellie.
I left her and Bosco, throwing open the door on my side and jumping to the roadbed. I remember feeling pleased because I had worn my stout brogans and irked because I had turned up my nose at a slack suit in favor of a deliberately tight green skirt.
; I dashed through the slight opening Titus Willow had made in the scotch broom. I stumbled and went head first over an embankment. A salmon berry bush stopped my progress very suddenly, and I lay so completely wrong side up I could feel a steady draft where my skirt should have been. Worse, my breath was jarred out of me and I could not even make observations on the character of the Oregon forest growth.
But I found my breath and footing soon enough when that familiar, deep voice said sarcastically, “Women seem bent on exhibitionism today.”
I could feel my face flaming as I got up and jerked my skirt into place. The first voice said, “You aren’t funny,” in a tone more sullen than wildly angry now.
I took my bearings. I had rolled right into a wow of a scene. It was a little sandy beach, one of the few that are scattered along the usually precipitate banks of the Teneskium. It was encircled by trees and more trees and the old covered bridge hid it effectively from the road. It had always been one of my favorite swimming holes. And someone had evidently come here for the same purpose.
Of the group of four, three were dressed and on the beach. The fourth was neck deep in crystal clear water. I saw that the owner of the sullen voice was a violent-looking young man who had struck an outraged pose. He was a stranger to me. And I saw our local celebrity, Carson Delhart, as cool and immaculate and severe looking as ever. Mr. Willow stood between the two men, pink again but still not calm.
Added to that was a puddle of brightly colored feminine garments with a pair of adorable pink scanties uppermost, and a blushing but defiant young lady in the river. She was obviously the cause of the ruckus. And despite the fact that she stood up to her neck in the water, it was equally obvious that she had gone in au natural. The glass-like clarity of the water made the section of her beneath the surface shimmer whitely. It was a picture that would have appealed greatly to a painter or a photographer, but it affected the young man quite differently.
Give Up the Body Page 1