The Corpse Steps Out

by Craig Rice

  Jake steered her to the davenport, sat down beside her, and pulled her head down on his shoulder. “Go ahead. Cry all you want. You might as well get it over with.”

  “I just thought,” she sobbed, “about all the times I used to come here and how everything looked then, and then I didn’t come here any more but I knew everything was just the same, and he was here, and now he’s dead, and everything of his is gone, and it’s all so different.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, patting her. “Go ahead and cry.”

  “It was just as if I didn’t really know what had happened, because so many other things kept on happening, but walking in here like this made me realize everything all of a sudden, Jake, and it’s awful.”

  “A lot of things are awful,” Jake said, “but you get used to them.”

  “I won’t ever get used to this, Jake. I’ll just keep thinking about walking in here and finding him dead, even when I’m an old woman and all my teeth fall out and nobody likes me any more, and I’ll never forget any of it, Jake, and I’ll never be happy again as long as I live, never, never, never.”

  “Cheer up,” Jake said, “you haven’t got hay fever.”

  She stopped crying and looked at him. “What about hay fever?”

  “I mean,” Jake said, “think how terrible it would be if all this happened to you, and you had all these troubles, and then on top of everything else, you had hay fever. That would really be awful.”

  She was silent for a minute, finally managed a smile.

  “Maybe I ought to have a drink.”

  “Maybe you ought to wash your face first,” Jake said.

  She thought about it. “I guess I will.”

  Jake strolled out to the kitchen where Helene was busy with glasses and the bottle of rye. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “I don’t know but what I do approve your variety of sympathy after all,” Helene observed. “Maybe it was a good idea to bring her here. She’s going to feel a lot better from now on.” She carried glasses and the bottle into the living room, poured drinks and set them on the table, and sat down on the floor.

  Nelle returned, her face duly washed.

  “Well,” Jake said, putting a glass in Nelle’s hand, “now perhaps we can try to dope this thing out.”

  “Jake,” Nelle asked, “who shot Mr. Givvus?”

  “Did you?” he asked, very calmly and quietly.

  She stared at him. “Jake, you really think that I did?”

  He avoided her eyes. “Well after all—you were there. You had the best reason for it, as far as I know.”

  “Jake, don’t be a fool,” Helene said furiously. “You know she didn’t shoot him.”

  He sighed. “I don’t know anything. She might have, and could have. That’s why I was so ding-danged anxious to get the body away from there.”

  “But I didn’t, Jake,” Nelle said, desperation in her voice.

  “All right, we’ll go on the assumption that you didn’t, and God help you if you’re lying about it. If you didn’t—who would want to shoot Mr. Givvus?”

  “A question,” Helene said. “Who at the audition would know him well enough to want to shoot him?”

  “As far as I know,” Jake said thoughtfully, “the only person there who knew him was St. John. How about it, Nelle?”

  “You’re probably right. I met him once, months ago. He’s from Philadelphia. I don’t imagine one solitary soul at the broadcasting studio knew him, except perhaps for a casual introduction. What’s more, it being a secret audition, nobody outside the cast and ourselves knew he was there—and I’m sure nobody in the cast knew him.”

  Jake sighed. “That leaves us you and St. John,” he said. “And God knows, St. John wouldn’t have shot him. Not after arranging a secret audition of a show to sell him and going through all a secret audition means—and on a day when his bunions hurt, too. No, even if St. John had wanted to shoot him, he’d have let him hear the audition first.”

  “And that leaves me,” Nelle said slowly. “But Jake, I didn’t.”

  “All right,” Jake said, “let it go at that. There’s one very pertinent fact that you yourself innocently pointed out when we found the body. Remember? You said—‘But nobody would shoot a prospective sponsor. He must have been mistaken for someone else.’”

  “He was sitting with his back to the door,” Nelle said slowly, “with just the back of his head showing. And the lights weren’t any too bright in the client’s room. They’re kept dim on purpose, so that prospective sponsors won’t start reading timetables when they’re supposed to be listening to auditions. But who could he have been mistaken for?”

  “Who else would be in the client’s room during the audition?”

  “Nobody but St. John.” She paused, and stared at him. “But Jake, that means somebody wants to murder St. John. And we’ve been thinking all along that St. John was the man who shot Paul March!”

  “Maybe he did,” Jake said. “That doesn’t mean he’s the only potential murderer in town. This afternoon’s mistake, assuming that it was a mistake and the shot was meant for St. John, may be an entirely different affair.”

  “Who would have wanted to murder St. John?” Helene asked.

  “Anyone who knew him,” Nelle said promptly and nastily.

  “That’s what you said about Paul March. Not much help,” Jake said. He sighed. “The client’s room is down the hall from the studio and away from the reception room. Which means that before the audition, anybody connected with the show might have gone in and shot him. Or anybody else might have, during the audition, including Essie St. John, who was around waiting for news about the audition. I hope she isn’t waiting there yet.”

  Nelle said, “Do you think she shot Mr. Givvus, thinking he was St. John?”

  “If she did,” Jake said, “I think she’s entitled to another try.” He thought a minute. “It’s funny nobody heard the shot. It’s funny nobody heard the shot when Paul March was killed. Maybe someone is using a gun with a silencer. But that would indicate the same person was responsible, and there isn’t any connection between the two murders except Nelle.”

  “Jake,” she said earnestly, “Jake, I didn’t.”

  “You’ve said that before too,” he told her.

  The sudden sound of the buzzer over the door made them all jump. Jake went to the door, found the call was for him, and went down to the telephone, noticing on the way that another noisy party was getting a good start in the room next door. Almost as noisy as the last one had been.

  The call was from Malone, still in Madison.

  “Never mind,” Jake told him, “everything’s fixed. I can’t explain it over the phone, but you don’t need to find Goldman now. And for the love of Pete, get back here as quick as you can. We need you!”

  “For what?”

  “To be best man at a wedding,” Jake said, and hung up.

  He started up the stairs, wondering how long it would take to drive to Crown Point in the morning. As he reached the top a sudden, loud noise came through the closed door of apartment 215.

  The door of the room housing the noisy party burst open and the hall was full of people. A disheveled brunette caught at Jake’s arm.

  “That noise! What was it! Where did it come from?”

  “It came from in there,” Jake said grimly, racing toward the door, “and it was a revolver shot!”

  Chapter 16

  Jake’s mind was spinning like a top as he raced down the hall. The gun. Who had fired it? Nelle? Was she the murderess after all, and had she—Oh no, not Helene. It couldn’t be. Or had someone come in while he was at the telephone, and—

  He flung open the door, the disheveled brunette at his heels, the others close behind.

  Nelle sat on the davenport, calmly smoking. Helene stood in the middle of the room, a peculiar contraption of wood, rubber, and leather in her hand.

  “Good God!” he said, and again, “good God!”

  “What happened?”
the brunette cried.

  “The gun,” Jake said, “where—”

  “I’ve got it,” Helene said. She suddenly released a spring on the peculiar contraption. The room resounded with the sound of a gunshot. The brunette screamed …

  “Holy Moses!” Jake said. “It’s Krause’s sound effect!”

  Helene laughed. “I’m sorry I frightened anybody.”

  For the first time Jake was aware of the little crowd in the doorway.

  “You certainly frightened us all right,” said a thin young man with a dark mustache. “You certainly frightened us!” He mopped his brow.

  Helene looked surprised. “You mean you could hear this thing all the way down the hall to your room?”

  “Hear it!” the young man said, “I thought the little men were landing from Mars!” He mopped his brow again. “I’m glad no one was shot. Come on down and have some beer.”

  Helene brightened. “We’d love to,” she said. “But to make up for frightening you, let me bring along a drink. Besides, I just moved here, and I ought to buy the drinks.” She tucked the bottle under his arm and they followed her through the door. Jake waved to Nelle to come along.

  No one bothered with such trivialities as introductions.

  “A whole quart!” the young man said admiringly. “You’re going to be a wonderful addition to the neighborhood!”

  The young man’s room was small, and there were only two chairs and a bed to sit on, but no one minded. After the rye was gone, Jake went to the corner for two half-gallon bottles of beer, and then the young man with the mustache went to the corner for two more half gallons. Then someone else went to the corner for more rye. By that time Jake had learned that the previous occupant of Helene’s apartment had been named Paul March, that he had been a very handsome young man who had something to do with the radio business, that he’d owed a little money to nearly everybody in the building, that he’d promised the disheveled brunette to get her a job on the radio, and that he’d once had a blondish girl friend, described as pretty by the mustached young man.

  Except for the beer, Jake had a feeling that the evening had been wasted.

  At last he rounded up Nelle and Helene and they left, after a slight argument with someone who wanted to know how Jake could get away with taking two women home from the party. The three of them went into Helene’s apartment and shut the door.

  The sound effect still lay on the table. Helene picked it up and looked at it thoughtfully.

  “Don’t do it,” Jake begged. “This time someone will call a cop.”

  She sighed, and put it down.

  “Krause will have you arrested,” he observed. “He loves those things like a mother. What did you do it for?”

  “I wanted to know if you could hear a revolver shot down in that room when a party was going on, and I found out. You could.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “you certainly could.”

  “So why didn’t they all come down to find out what had happened the night Paul March was shot?”

  “Oh,” Nelle said, “I see now!” She paused. “It’s a pity you can’t go and try that in the client’s room where Mr. Givvus was shot, and see if it can be heard in the reception room—”

  “Don’t suggest it,” Jake said with feeling. “You don’t know her. She’ll try it.”

  Helene sniffed. “I don’t need to try it. I’m sure nobody heard the shot this afternoon, or it would have been investigated. Therefore, no one did.”

  “Therefore,” Jake picked it up, “someone used a gun with a silencer in both cases, and that must mean the same person committed both murders. I’ll believe just so far in coincidence, and no farther. Helene, when are we going to get married?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said promptly. “But Jake, it was St. John who shot Paul March. It must have been. And that means—”

  “Can you imagine St. John shooting a prospective client during or before an audition?” Jake asked scornfully. He looked searchingly at Nelle. “Nelle, if by any chance you’re lying to me about this, I’ll break your neck, so help me God.”

  “But I’m not lying to you,” she said desperately.

  He sighed. “As a matter of manners, I’ll believe you. But you could have done both murders, and you had a motive for each of them. In the second one you had a motive that worked both ways—I mean, whether you thought you were shooting St. John, or knew you were shooting Givvus, your contract would be all right.”

  “Do you think I’d commit a murder for a contract?”

  “Hell,” Jake said, “for a good contract you’d do much worse than that.”

  “Stop picking on her,” Helene said indignantly.

  “Don’t mind me,” Jake said mildly, “I’m just trying to solve a couple of murders.”

  Helene frowned. “Find someone who had a motive for murdering both Paul March and either St. John or Mr. Givvus.”

  “And then,” Jake said, “find who had the opportunity in both cases, and has a gun with a silencer on it, and then pin it on this unknown person in such a way that Nelle won’t be dragged into it, and then get her letters back safely.” Jake sighed. “Nelle, this woman hasn’t any more liquor. Let’s go home.”

  Nelle rose to her feet a little uncertainly. “I’ve got to go home anyway. It’s late.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Helene said. “You too, Jake.”

  In the first-floor hall they ran into Molly, looking very forlorn and on the verge of tears.

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed. “If I hadn’t found anyone to have a drink with me, I’d have gone right out the window.”

  They paused long enough to help her finish a bottle of gin, and listened while she told them about her life, which had been unquestionably very sad. Then Helene performed a miraculous feat of driving that landed them in front of Nelle’s apartment building, and Jake saw her safely into the elevator.

  “I’ll send the sound effect back tomorrow, anonymously,” Helene said on the way back, “if it’s on your conscience.”

  “It’s not on my conscience,” Jake said, “but with a new baby and a wife in the hospital, Krause has enough trouble without losing his revolver-shot sound effect. Helene, you don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go home. It’s still early. Only two o’clock. We’re still sober. Let’s go somewhere and buy a drink.”

  “We’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said firmly. “I’m taking you to your door, and you’re going right upstairs and go to bed and go to sleep. Then I’m putting the car away and going home myself. You may have forgotten it, but you’re going to be married tomorrow.”

  Jake sighed deeply. “I’m afraid that matrimony is going to be a terribly sobering influence on you,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I won’t marry you after all.”

  She drove in silence for half a block.

  “All right,” she said, “all right. But we only stop for one drink. One!”

  Chapter 17

  Jake woke from a dream that was half hang-over and half nightmare, wondered if his eyes felt more uncomfortable open or shut. He thought very seriously for a little while, and then resolved that this would be the beginning of a new and far, far better life.

  There was a dim—but very dim—recollection of taking Helene home in a taxi. He wondered where they had left her car, and if they would ever find it again.

  He remembered that there was something about today that was terribly important. Or had that been part of the dream he had just left behind him? No, he was sure—quite sure, anyway—that it was something real. Not a delucination. Delucination? What was that? Oh yes, it was what Tootz had. A cross between a delusion and a hallucination.

  He wished he hadn’t waked up.

  What was it that was so important? Something that made today different from all the other days in history, his history or the world’s. Something that he was going to do.

  He wished he could remember what it was.

  He was still trying to fix his mind on it when the tele
phone rang. It was Helene.

  “Today we’re getting married, or had you forgotten?”

  “I was just trying to work it into the schedule,” he said gallantly.

  “I thought maybe you’d just remembered you already had a wife in St. Louis.”

  “It isn’t St. Louis, it’s Allentown,” Jake said in a surprised voice, “but how did you know?”

  “Maybe I’m just discouraged, but I have a feeling we’ll never get to Crown Point.”

  “There’s no audition today,” Jake said, “and no shootings scheduled as far as I know. Anyway, nothing is going to interfere this time. Nothing. Do you get that? I’ll be over in,” he looked at his watch, “half an hour.”

  He shaved, took a shower, and dressed, spending an extra thirty seconds on the selection of his tie.

  Just as he was ready to leave there was a sudden knock at the door. He opened it and there stood Malone, a rakish bandage over one eye.

  “The next time I travel, I go on a tricycle,” the little lawyer said sourly. He came in and kicked the door shut. “Imagine how I felt when I saw that tree coming at us. Imagine how I felt when I couldn’t find any way of getting up to Brule. And imagine how I felt when you told me it had all been a waste of time. Now tell me why I didn’t need to find Goldman.”

  “Somebody shot St. John’s client,” Jake said, “during the audition. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Who shot him?”

  “A man with a gun in his hand. Or maybe it was a woman. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Look here,” Jake said, “I’ve had enough of this. Helene and I are getting married today at Grown Point. I’m on my way to get her now. If you want to come to breakfast, I’ll tell you about it on the way. If you don’t want to, you can go to hell.”

  “A very kind invitation,” Malone said, “and welcome, too. And if you don’t know any better than to get married, it’s none of my business. Now tell me about this murder.”

  By the time they had reached apartment 215, Jake had finished his story of the sudden death of the late Mr. Givvus, and the subsequent disposal of the body. Helene greeted them enthusiastically and invited Malone to go with them as a bridesmaid. Malone agreed but stated his refusal to wear a corsage, and began looking through the morning newspapers, while Jake and Helene quarreled over the process of coffee making and discussed what she might or might not have done with her car the night before.