The Corpse Without a Country

by Louis Trimble

  I had wanted a private talk with him, but I knew from his attitude that I would get no further than Maslin had. I said, “Since Reese says this is his boat, maybe he should answer that.”

  Maslin wasn’t interested in helping me with my feud with Reese Fuller. He turned his scowl on me. “If I remember right, you came here to pick up a report you’d stowed on board. Maybe you should answer it.”

  Fuller grinned with pure pleasure. “Durham will blame it on a mysterious blonde; that’s his answer for everything.”

  Maslin’s eyebrows went up. He jerked his thumb toward the deck.

  I went with him. He said, “Let’s have it about this blonde.”

  We were pretty good friends, and we’d remain good friends as long as I knew when not to hold out on him. I told him the whole story. His expression didn’t tell me how much of it he was buying.

  He said, “What was in that report of Harbin’s?”

  “Everyone says that there was nothing in it. But Tom’s in the hospital and I’ve been shot at. Add it up.”

  “Are you trying to tie Harbin’s being in the hospital with Fenney’s broken neck?”

  I said, “I just don’t know, Maslin. After all, Fenney was well known on Skidroad. If he showed down there dressed like he was and with a wad of bills, one of those winos could have tailed him here.”

  “He had only two dollars in his wallet,” Maslin murmured. Then he said, “But how many of those Skidroad characters know how to break a man’s neck with a jujitsu trick?”

  “Is that the way it happened?”

  “The doc says so.” Maslin started for the pilot house again. He stopped and looked back at me. “Anything more to tell me?”

  I spread my hands. “You know as much as I do.”

  He said flatly, “When you do have something more, remember my phone number.”

  The way he said it left no room for argument. I just nodded.

  VIII

  I HAD TO WAIT TO GET my car off the pier. The police sedans were still blocking the way. When Maslin left me. I just climbed in the heap and sat.

  After a few minutes, Jodi joined me. We sat together in the darkness. I could smell her perfume and I could feel the warmth of her nearness. Bushed as I was, my goosebumps began coming out again.

  I lit a cigarette and Jodi took it away from me. I lit another. She said, “Is it true that Arne hired Mike Fenney to work for him?”

  I said, “He’d be a fool to make up a story like that now.”

  “Peter, Arne’s been acting strangely ever since I came home in the spring.”

  “Maybe business is bad,” I suggested.

  “Hardly. I helped him set up the schedule for his boats this year: when they’d start fishing and where each one would go and when they’d come home. Business, from what I saw, has been good.”

  The police cars started leaving. I got my motor going. Jodi said, “Can I ride as far as my car? It’s outside the fence.”

  I said, “Sure,” and started backing. Reese Fuller stopped me.

  “Let’s go have a drink,” he said to Jodi. He wasn’t including me.

  “Not tonight, Reese. I’m awfully tired.”

  “Okay,” he said. “See you tomorrow.” He walked away.

  For an engaged couple, they sounded about as affectionate as two rival fishermen. Fuller didn’t even seem to mind the obvious brushoff she had given him.

  I wanted to talk to him and I wanted to talk to Arne, but I was in no shape to do it now. And I had the feeling that neither of them wanted to talk to me.

  I let Jodi off by her car, a wicked-looking sports car painted a bright red, waved good night, and bounced over the gravel and onto Canal Way. A quarter of a mile below Arne’s, the road branched, one piece going up the hill to the apartment houses on the Bluff, the other continuing along the canal to give access to the houses built at its edge. Between this lower road and the water were some of Puget City’s fanciest new homes. Jodi’s was one of them, and I envied her for it.

  But right now my apartment was going to look very good. I took the upper road and began the steep, twisting climb toward the summit of the Bluff. I had gone over halfway to the top when I noticed the headlights hanging about twenty yards behind me.

  If this was the blonde again, I wasn’t going to argue with her. Not this time. I reached down under the seat and got my hand on the gun I carried in a clip there. I laid the gun on the seat beside me.

  I went over the summit with the headlights still twenty yards back. I swung around a curve and then turned sharply to the right, into the parking area behind the apartment house. I rolled the heap into my slot and cut the motor. The headlights crested the rise and then swung to the right.

  Jodi’s red sports car darted to a stop beside me. She cut the switch and the snarl of its motor faded. I got out of the heap. She joined me. As she jumped out, her rose-colored skirt swirled aside. She had terrific legs.

  “I want to talk to you, Peter.”

  I said, “I’m going to take a bath.”

  “You’re just as rude as you were fifteen years ago,” she said. And added, “Some of the time.”

  I didn’t answer but started for the door of the building. It was six stories and constructed on a steep hillside so that the rear entrance was actually on the third floor. All I had to do was walk into the hall, turn to my left, and go to the front corner and I was home. I was eager to get there and into a shower. The sticky feeling of the dirty canal water was still on my skin.

  I was so eager that I almost closed the door on Jodi tagging at my heels. I stepped inside and let her in. “Speaking of people being the same as they were,” I said, “you still get in my way.”

  Jodi had my wet suit in her arms. I had forgotten all about it. She dropped it onto my hardwood floor. “You could at least offer me a drink.”

  I pointed to the cellerette across the room. “Help yourself.” I scooped up the damp clothes and went into the bedroom. I shut the door on the clink of ice dropping into a glass.

  I stripped off the clothes Arne had lent me and got under the shower. I lathered three times before I felt clean. I gave my hair two good soapings and then sluiced off the suds with a sharp, hot spray. I got the water too hot. I could feel what energy I had left draining out of me. I reached for the tap and turned on the cold.

  When I got out to towel myself I was wide awake. In Puget City, the cold tap water runs at about forty degrees. I went into the bedroom, my teeth chattering a little.

  I had a clean pair of shorts on and was debating which shirt to wear when the bedroom door opened. Jodi came in, carrying a drink in each hand.

  “I fixed you rye and water,” she said. “There’s more rye than anything else, so I guess you’ll like it.”

  I suddenly wanted that drink badly. I said, “Thanks. Now go away.”

  She put the drink in my hand, stepped back and examined me with a critical eye. “You’re heavier than you used to be. In the chest,” she added.

  I said, “If you came to talk, then talk.” I was surprised to hear myself add, “If you came for a seduction, go somewhere else.”

  Jodi laughed and perched on the edge of my bed. She juggled her drink while she lit a cigarette. “Go ahead and get dressed. I won’t bother you.”

  I began to feel uncomfortable again. I took a deep pull of my drink. It tasted fine. I finished it and set down the glass. I took a shirt from the closet and started to put it on.

  Jodi said, “What are you going to do, Peter?”

  I got out a pair of slacks and put them on. “Think,” I said.

  “I want to help.” The lightness had gone from her voice. “I didn’t follow you to tease you, honest, Peter.”

  I must have looked skeptical because she said, “I’m not thirteen years old any longer, remember. And I didn’t come here to admire your broad shoulders. I got over my crush long ago.”

  I said, “There’s nothing you can do. This is a case for the police.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t mean about that,” she said. “I mean about the fires. Arne’s terribly worried. And then there’s Tom Harbin … and, well, I just want to help you.”

  I remembered her saying she had been associated with Arne’s business earlier in the summer. And she had been on Corning Island when the fires broke out on the boats. I wondered if perhaps she could help.

  I said, “I don’t know much more about the case than you do. Maybe not as much.”

  “Then I can help!” She sounded eager, like the thirteen-year-old brat I had known.

  I said, “Maybe you can answer some questions.”

  Jodi wriggled her bottom to settle herself on the bed. I sat on the occasional chair and put on a pair of shoes. She said, “Shoot, Hawkshaw.”

  “First, the fires,” I said. “You were on Corning when they happened?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t know about them, of course. I can’t see Boundary from my place. But Reese told me.” She made a face. “He spent half the summer coming up and bothering me when I was trying to work.”

  “How did Reese take the fires?”

  “He didn’t act concerned by the first one,” she said. “But after the second he seemed a little worried.”

  “I should think so,” I said. “He’s the kind of guy who’d set those fires just to make more salvage business for himself and raise his gross income.”

  “Peter!” She up-ended her glass. “Just what is the trouble between you and Reese?”

  I ran a comb through my hair and started for the living room. Jodi jumped up and followed. I said, “We don’t get along. We didn’t get along the first time we met. I was investigating a request for extended coverage Reese put in to the insurance company. I caught him cutting a few corners on safety equipment. He tried to make me out a liar. No-body’d buy that so then he hinted I could make a little side money if I closed my eyes now and then. I gave him a fat lip.”

  “Reese should have known better,” Jodi said. She didn’t sound as if she cared very much.

  I went to the bar and replenished our drinks. “Speaking of Reese, has he any theories on the fires?”

  “He suggested sabotage,” she said. “But he can’t imagine who would sabotage Arne, or why.”

  I said, “I can’t either.” We thought about it for a while.

  Jodi said suddenly, “Do you think that blonde killed Mike Fenney?”

  I said, “She wanted the report badly enough to shoot at me, but she wasn’t shooting to kill. Anyway, why should she come back? As far as she knew, I had the report when I jumped into the water.”

  Jodi nodded. I said, “Let’s get back before the blonde. Did you hear anything the night I brought Tom to Corning? Or the day before?”

  “I was busy painting both days,” she said promptly.

  I couldn’t put my finger on any one thing—tone of voice or choice of words or expression—and say, “Jodi, you just let me know you’re lying,” but I knew she was. And I wondered if there might be more to her tagging after me than just wanting to help.

  I thought, after all, Arne is her father. And Arne was scared. And Reese was her fiancée. And maybe Jodi wanted to pump me for them.

  I said, “It was just a hope—that you’d seen Tom or the blonde or their boats.” She shook her head. I tried another angle. “Did you get over to Boundary much this summer?”

  She was lifting her drink to her mouth. There was an instant’s hesitation, a slight break in the motion, and then she got the glass to her lips and took a swallow. She said, “Quite a bit. It’s a wonderful place for seascapes.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual? Especially this past month?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t seem to be much help, do I?”

  She was lying again. I tried not to let her see that I knew as I studied her profile. It was lovely and composed. Then she turned and gave me a front view. The wicked, impish grin had come back. I became very conscious of how kissable her mouth was. I moved quickly to the window and looked down at the lights scattered along the canal.

  She said, “What are you going to do now, Peter?”

  “I’m going to try to find out just how the blonde knew I had Tom’s report.”

  “Maybe she bugged your office,” Jodi said. She sounded serious.

  I started to laugh and then stopped. “Maybe not bugged!”

  I said. I was excited. “But something close to it. Emily Calvin, our secretary, to be exact. Because that blonde tailed me from the Pad, right after I left Emily there.”

  “You went to the Pad?” Jodi exclaimed. “Now you do need me. I know all about it.”

  I said, “I was just outside; I didn’t go in. How did you get tangled up with the place?”

  “I put two of my paintings there on exhibit,” she said. “And the people amuse me. They care so much about not caring for anything.”

  I said, “Let’s go introduce me around. I want to talk to Emily.”

  “I know her,” Jodi said. “She’s Ridley Trillian’s latest.” She paused and added in a deadly serious tone, “Don’t underestimate him, Peter, because he’s only a poet. He can be dangerous.”

  IX

  I HAD VISIONS OF A poet with the name of Ridley Trillian getting rough by slapping my wrist with the tips of his fingers. The thought gave me the first good laugh I’d had for quite a while.

  As we started down creaking stairs, Jodi said again, “Be careful.” But now she was referring to the stairs, not what we might find at the bottom. They were dark. The cement walls on either side were painted black and so was the cement floor at the end. The big room where the poetry-reciting and dulcimer-playing rites were held was hidden behind a black cloth curtain. The light that we had came from a twenty-five watt bulb high overhead and most of it was absorbed before it ever reached the steps.

  The over-all effect on reaching the big room was one of exhausted relief. As depressing as it was, at least I could almost see again. Here the floor was painted black; the walls were draped with a dull black cloth; the light came from single candles placed on each of the large, round tables scattered about the barnlike place. The atmosphere was chill and damp, and the air had the stale, sour smell of an unwashed, moldy storage bin overlaid with that pungent odor rats and mice leave when they haunt a place.

  I said, “It stinks.”

  Jodi said, “We’re being examined, Peter. Don’t talk that way.”

  I couldn’t see anyone at first but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I finally made out half a dozen persons. They were all around one table placed in a far corner where there was almost no light at all. They watched us with an unwinking immobility that was disconcerting. I had been forced into interviews with hoodlums where I felt more comfortable. Right now I had the sensation of being the lone Christian at a Black Mass. I began to get irritated.

  I took Jodi’s arm and steered her to a table facing the occupied one. We sat down. Nobody moved. Nobody said a word.

  I got tired of it. “What do they have here that won’t dope us?”

  Jodi’s voice held a smothered giggle. “The coffee’s good.”

  I looked at the occupied table and located Emily Calvin. She was wearing the same getup she had earlier. But she wasn’t looking soppy-eyed at me now. We weren’t in an elevator. Or maybe the difference was the stocky character in a sweatshirt next to her.

  He had pale blonde curly hair and rugged chopped features that reminded me of a punchy fighter I’d once known. He was willing to look at me even if Emily wasn’t. He had a terrific scowl.

  A chair scraped back and a tall character wearing a blouselike shirt with a black ascot tie and loose-cut Dutch trousers stood up. He looked big through the chest and hips and wore his hair roached.

  “Two coffees?”

  I said, “Black,” as if we hadn’t had to pass inspection before getting service.

  He moved away. As he passed close to a lighted candle, his torso was momentarily in silhouette. I saw that I’d made a mistake. Under
the loose blouse, “he” was definitely she.

  I said to Jodi, “Which one is that?”

  She frowned warningly at me. “Willie. She’s the proprietress.”

  “She is!” I said in a mincing voice. The man behind Emily deepened his scowl. I said, leaning toward him, “Are you Trillian?”

  “It’s your quarter, Dad.”

  I said, “Let’s talk grown-up talk.”

  His voice was flat, without intonation. “What’d you come here for?”

  “I came to see the exhibit,” I said.

  I could have meant the art exhibit. Only I didn’t, and he knew it. He came up out of his chair. I hauled myself to my feet. The top of his head was level with the muscle jumping in my cheek. His bulk pulled against the seams of his sweatshirt when he moved his arms. He moved them very fast. His left caught me under the breastbone and his right chopped the side of my jaw.

  I took the left but managed to backpedal away from the full power of the right. He came at me, light on his feet like a boxer. I decided that I had the wrong slant on poets. This character was fast and he hit hard.

  I swung a left of my own. He sneered and leaned away from it. He lifted a foot and brought it down on my instep. I blew out a yowl of pain.

  He stepped up to me, rough-knuckled fists ready to use on my face. I couldn’t shake the pain in my foot long enough to do anything about him. I thought, Durham is going to get chopped up by a dulcimer player.

  He started his swing. Then his mouth came open. His complexion went a faint green. He doubled over like a man with a sudden cramp. The back of his neck was there, waiting for me. I hooked my hands into one big fist and smashed it down where his neck and hairline fit into his sweatshirt. The sound of his face kissing the black cement floor was dulcimer music to my ears.

  Jodi regarded the toe of her shoe that had just buried itself in his groin. She said admiringly, “Nice teamwork.” She was Arne’s daughter, all right.