The Corpse Next Door

by John Farris

  Roxy laughed again. “Well, doctor. Am I fond of you? No. But once you liked me well enough. When the girl died.”

  “I can’t be blamed for that. You knew what she had tried to do before you sent her to me. She was dying already. I didn’t know, not until I saw the mess in her uterus.”

  “But you can be blamed for not reporting her death,” Roxy said softly. There was a repetitive sound, as if his heel was hitting the side panel of his desk.

  The doctor’s voice was a dirge. “I needed the money. You knew I needed the money. I wish I had given it back.”

  I looked over my shoulder, saw no one in the foyer below. I didn’t move.

  Roxy’s voice lashed. “When did you start wishing that? The same time you started thinking about stealing the bottle?”

  “I never should have given it to you in the first place!”

  “And if you could steal it back?”

  “I’d throw it away. Destroy it. Why do you want it? What good is it going to do you?”

  “What good did it do me when that girl died in your office, doctor?”

  “She wasn’t important. She was just a—”

  “Tramp? What a noble attitude.”

  “I’m sick,” the doctor whimpered. “I’ve been so sick because of it. One mistake. Just one.”

  “How long have you been brooding like this, doctor? It’s not good for you. You might take to drink.”

  “Look, you can quit toying with me. You can put your gun away. I’m not going to do anything foolish.”

  “No, you’ve been foolish enough for one day. But I won’t put the gun away yet. I like to point it at you, doctor. I like to see the look on your face. I want to see what happens when I do this.”

  A hammer was cocked.

  “Oh,” Roxy said gleefully. “You should see yourself, doctor. You really look like you need a drink. But I forgot. You’re not a drinking man.” There was a sound, of metal striking lightly on glass. “This little cocktail is made to order for you, doctor. Your first drink and your last.”

  A drawer slid open. “I’m putting the bottle here, doctor,” Roxy said. “It’s never locked. The bottle will be here. If it isn’t here some time, I’ll know who took it.”

  “May I go?”

  “I want you to forget this, doctor,” Roxy said. “I want you to forget the girl and what you’ve tried to do today. I don’t want you to think about it. It’s not good for you. It’s not good for your soul.” Roxy chuckled. “Your soul. Tell me about your soul, doctor. Everybody is supposed to have one. Is it round or kidney-shaped? Is it alabaster, or black with sin? Where is it? Behind the liver? In your scrotum? That would be the place for mine, if I had one.”

  “I’m quite sure you don’t,” the doctor said.

  “Get out of here, doctor,” Roxy said wearily.

  I locked the door, retreated down the thickly carpeted steps three at a time. I was standing in front of the bar entrance frowning at the closed sign when Dr. Einhorn came down the stairs, slowly. I could see his reflection in the glass squares of the door. He was a medium-tall man wearing a light gray suit and string tie. He walked with a sort of labored dignity, as if he were being taunted by street urchins and couldn’t quite ignore them. There were dim reflections of hell in his sad eyes.

  Thirty seconds after he had driven away I went up the stairs again and knocked on Roxy’s door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Bill.”

  “Oh. Come on in.” He opened the door.

  In his office, Roxy took a stand in front of the two windows that afforded a view of the courtyard. There was a trace of sunlight on his face. He sniffed once, and freckles jiggled on his nose. He turned and looked at me, his face serene. But he seemed tired, drained of energy and emotion. The mouse had died, and it wasn’t fun to pull his tail any more.

  “You look rough,” he said. “Who dug at you?”

  “I never could handle my women,” I said stiffly.

  “Liquor either,” Roxy said critically. He sat down behind the desk, picked up a .32 revolver, the hammer cocked. He punched the cylinder from the frame, took out one of the cartridges, clicked the cylinder into place and pulled the trigger. He put the gun in a drawer.

  “Social call?” he asked.

  “Nah. A little private business. I’m looking for Nathan Fisher.”

  A tiny crease appeared between Roxy’s eyes. “He’s missing?”

  “His sister says he hasn’t been home all night. She knows him well enough to think he might be tied up with a dame somewhere. He throws a shoe every now and then.”

  Roxy nodded, the frown deepening. He picked up the brass cartridge, held it meditatively with two fingers. “I know the boy. I think a lot of him.”

  “He told me once that he knew you. His sister is worried sick. A bad press would finish him in this state.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Roxy said, almost worriedly. “I told him to stay out of trouble.” He glanced at me for enlightenment. “What is it with the talented kids like him? They’ve got all the chance in the world and they can’t stay off liquor.”

  “He’s got troubles of some kind. He can’t forget his wife.”

  Roxy nodded, put out a hand to his phone. “If he’d been to any of my places I’d know about it.” He let the hand rest indecisively on the desk.

  “You been backing him?” I said.

  “Some. I think he has promise.” A swift intuitive gleam in his eye. There are other mice. “Do you want me to see if I can find him?”

  “That’s why I came to you. You can do it ten times faster than me. I think it’s important to track him quick.”

  Roxy shook his head, as if he doubted his ability. “I’ll see what I can do. If I find out where he is, will you put him to bed?”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe you ought to give him a good spanking first,” Roxy said disgustedly. “Where can I reach you, Bill? It might take a while.”

  “My place.”

  He drew his little finger across the small mustache on his lip and reached for the phone, his eyes fixed with thought.

  I WENT HOME. KARIS HAD CLEARED UP MOST OF THE MESS I had made. I told her Roxy was looking. She mentioned that she had heard of Roxy from Nathan. I explained that Roxy’s connections were better than mine and that he would call me.

  “I hope we don’t have to wait long,” she said without conviction. She toyed with a black heart-shaped button on her dress. It was a white dress, imprinted with large playing cards, the royalty of the deck depicted in caricature. She went into the bath to comb her crisp dark hair.

  In the kitchen I made myself a light drink, took one sip and poured the rest in the sink. I settled down on the sofa with a bottle of ale, which I didn’t really want either, and thought about Roxy. I had clues to him, through association, through others familiar with him. He was a good friend to many. He hated only those who dismissed him as insignificant because of his size and boyish look. His hatred could be deadly. Maybe it was the great motivating force in his personality. His strength was based on the weaknesses of others. I was his friend. I knew him only to be wary of him.

  Roxy tended bar for Old Man Cluney down around the railroad yards once, before the flush years, before I came to Cheyney. I knew, from a good source, that he hadn’t changed much since those days. He was quiet, and minded his own business, and had the smile for everyone, the wide dimpled smile that said nothing.

  There was a fight in the place one night. Old Man Cluney was the throw-’em-out-on-their-cans roughhouse type. He was grappling with one of the drunks, and Roxy had a billy. Apparently, he hit the wrong man. It’s easy to make that kind of mistake in a brawl. Anyway, Roxy admitted nothing and there were no witnesses. Old Man Cluney died, raving, three days later, with the back of his skull shattered. Roxy bought the place cheap from the widow. Roxy was lucky at poker, too.

  Karis came out of the bath and sat down beside me. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” she told me.
“You said Jimmy Herne didn’t kill Smithell. You said Gulliver wouldn’t listen to you.”

  I nodded bitterly. “You might as well know the whole story.” I explained briefly about Leland Smithell and the money and about Jimmy Herne. I didn’t try to make myself look any better or worse than I was. I didn’t mention Stella.

  Karis had a hard time believing it at first. She talked about Smithell for a time, about the many evenings she and Nathan had spent at his house. She seemed dismayed that he had fooled people so completely. She decided that she couldn’t dislike him as much as she should. “He was—well—sweet. A little gruff, maybe, but kind to everyone and sort of lonely.” She put her hands over her face in resignation. “I’ll never be able to see him as you do, Bill.”

  She tucked her long legs beneath her on the sofa. “I’m sorry, Bill,” she said then. “I’m sorry for you.”

  That made two girls sorry for me.

  “Because I made a mistake about Jimmy?”

  “I don’t think that was your fault. I’m sorry because you were suspended for trying to make Gulliver understand. Why can’t he admit he was wrong?”

  “I’m not enough of a psychologist to unravel that. Maybe to admit he could make so terrible a mistake would—well—destroy him. At least in his own eyes.”

  “What is he doing to you, Bill?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you get drunk?”

  “I don’t know. It was a crazy thing.”

  “Do you get drunk often?”

  “Who can afford it?”

  “That’s what I mean. It was no ordinary drunk. Not with the windows closed and the shades pulled—you were frightened, I think. Are you afraid of Gulliver?”

  “Miss Freud, I presume. Or is it Adler, or Jung?”

  “All right. I’ll stop analyzing. But it’s only that I’m afraid too.” Her nose crinkled as she grinned. Her brat grin. “What are you going to do, Bill?” she said in a lonely voice. “What are either of us going to do?”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “That’s the strange part. I don’t know. These deaths next door—my brother, maybe—I just don’t know!”

  Looking at her, I remembered what a man named Eliot had said, about private terrors and particular shadows. Her hand clasped mine almost desperately, as if she were in danger of being carried away by her wild fleet thoughts.

  “I realize you think I’m silly,” she said. “But I tell you I’m scared. I’m scared and I can’t help it. Oh, Bill,” she wailed suddenly, “hold me. Please.”

  I held her, against my side, one arm across her shoulders, her head against my chest. I held her for a long time. Once, I lowered my head and kissed her on the tip of her ear. Her breasts moved under the dress as she slowly breathed. Her eyes were shut. Once she said:

  “Do you think I’m beautiful, Bill?”

  “I think you’re really beautiful.”

  “So are you,” she said. “Even that big, square head. Even that little scar.”

  The small scar on my puss had been left by a thug’s bullet.

  At five minutes of six the telephone rang alarmingly, and she sat up quickly, as if she had been awakened. The top of her head brushed my chin.

  I went to the phone stand and picked up the receiver.

  “Randall.”

  “This is Roxy.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse. “I found him.”

  “Where?”

  “Melverne.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “Probably. He’s in a bawdyhouse called Oakdale Rooms. A cab driver picked him up about four this morning and delivered him to the door. He’s been inside ever since.”

  I could sense Roxy’s concern. “Is that so bad?”

  “These houses in Melverne are no local operation. Some Kansas City boys, I hear. The names aren’t important. Offhand I can think of three politicians, one with a seat in Washington, who’ve mortgaged their careers to Kansas City people because of one night in Melverne. Get him out of there, Bill,” he said urgently.

  “All by myself?”

  “Well, Donny Arlene did the tracking for me. He works for me, now and then. He’s good. He’ll help you. He knows the place. You can pick Arlene up in the Melverne bus station.”

  “I’ll be there about seven.”

  “Bill,” Roxy said, “take it easy. Some real hard boys keep their eyes on these houses. And after you tuck Nathan in, come and see me.” He hung up.

  “Where is he?” Karis said.

  I turned around.

  “Melverne. I’m leaving right now.”

  I went into the bedroom and put my gun on. Karis was standing by the front door when I came out.

  “You might as well go home,” I said. “I’ll bring Nathan to you when I pick him up.”

  “I’m going with you,” she said.

  “No, you’re not. Things could get rough. It’s no place for you.”

  “Don’t argue. I said I’m going with you. He’s my brother. Where in Melverne is he?”

  “He’s in . . . in a—”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” she said. “I’m familiar with his habits. Come on. I want him home.”

  6

  DONNY ARLENE was about my height, five-ten. But he had shoulders like a Buick with both doors open. His hair was black and he combed it straight back without a part. He had a Roman nose, a black bar of eyebrows, heavy prominent cheekbones, a narrow chin and a beautiful, almost lecherous, smile. He was wearing a tweed sport coat and soft gray slacks.

  The bus station was practically empty. I found Arlene on a stool in the coffee shop. He tossed me a look that took in everything and gave away nothing, the smile fading but still hanging around.

  “Hello, there,” he said. To the waitress he said, “This is a good friend of mine, honey baby. What’s the name again, good friend of mine?”

  “Bill Randall.”

  “Give my good friend Bill Randall a hot cup of coffee, baby doll.” He whirled with the stool, winked at her. “There’s something in it for you.”

  “You can skip the coffee,” I said. “We’re in a rush.”

  Arlene snapped his fingers. His every movement was made with impeccable grace. “That’s right. There was something we had to do, wasn’t there?”

  He unseated himself, tugged at his coat, flicked at a spot of lint on his slacks, which looked as soft as cleansing tissue.

  “Give me a call, you beautiful one, you,” he tossed over his shoulder at the bemused waitress. “Cheyney six four two oh.”

  She spelled it out with her lips. Arlene tugged at his sport coat again, walked toward the door, balancing delicately, like a good dancer, a better fighter. I fell in behind him without being told.

  “What’s the weather outside?” he said back at me. “Looked like rain when I came in.”

  “It still looks like rain. My car is the Oldsmobile across the street.”

  “The ’53? Nice job. What does it do?”

  “It runs. Now and then.”

  He started across the street. His quick hungry eyes spotted Karis in the front seat, and he paused.

  “Hey,” he said. “A doll. Yours?”

  “His sister. Shift into low. She’s not in the mood.”

  “I’ll give her the sixty-second quickie line. Have my little ol’ finger in the pie before she knows it, man. Or would I be beating your time?”

  “You couldn’t beat it with a canoe paddle. Let’s go before it rains. I wouldn’t want you to fade.”

  He gave me more teeth and danced over to the car. I mean it. He skipped across the street and introduced himself to the front seat, letting one hip ride Karis over slightly. She took on a bemused expression, too.

  “Baby,” he breathed, “how do you do? I be Donny Arlene. You be Karis . . . uh, Fisher. Donny glad to meet Karis.”

  “Down, boy,” from Karis.

  We all got the dazzling grin.

  “Quick, dad, the blinders,” Karis said, with
out expression.

  “The lady understands me,” Arlene chortled, a hand resting lightly on her thigh. Karis took the hand and tucked it firmly into his breast pocket. Donny laughed explosively and sat up straight.

  “Enough with the junior prom stuff,” I said. “Roxy said you were a hot article. When do you get lit?”

  His smile vanished, leaving his lips in a grim line. “I weigh one ninety-four, in shape,” he said. “And I’m always in shape. I can take any two men your size. Wanna bet?”

  “You interest me,” I said. “Come over some time and we’ll throw pablum at each other. Is it okay if now we stick to business?”

  He shrugged. “The house is in a neighborhood a block south of Highway 29. Old-time residential street. Most of the houses are stone crypts, built maybe fifty years ago.” He glanced at Karis. “Does the lady know about . . . ?”

  Karis nodded. “Go on.”

  “He’s in one called the Oakdale Rooms,” Donny continued. “There are two other something-or-other ‘rooms’ on the same street. Same set-up. An alley runs behind the place. The house is three stories, and a basement.”

  “Ever been inside?” I asked.

  His eyes sidled in Karis’ direction, but she was looking straight ahead. “A couple of times. Out of my income bracket, usually.”

  “What about the rest of the block?”

  “Converted residences, mostly. An interior-decorating shop and some dentists’ offices. There’s a drug store on one corner. A couple of old Melverne families still live on the street. Won’t give up their homes. The whole think is discreet. You wouldn’t know what goes on unless youwere wised.”

  “How do we get there?”

  Donny gave directions and I pulled out. We drove silently for a while through downtown Melverne. It was almost dark, partly because of the welts of storm clouds low in the sky.

  Arlene said, “You heeled?”

  “Forty-five revolver.”

  His eyes rolled. “Leave it on your belt. Even if you are a cop. We need any work like that, we use this.” His hand came out of his coat pocket. It was holding a switch-knife. His thumb caressed the handle and the long thin blade jumped out, two inches above Karis’ lap. She started nervously. Donny chuckled softly and put it away.