The Corpse Steps Out

by Craig Rice

“In there.”

  Jake soaked a towel in ice water, shoved Essie’s head back against his arm, and slapped her gently with the towel until she grew quiet. He could hear Malone out in the kitchen, making noises that indicated coffee was being made.

  “Oh Jake,” she said weakly. “I’m terribly sorry. I just couldn’t help it. I’ve been trying not to for so long and then all of a sudden you were here and I couldn’t help it.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “I often have that effect on people.” He sponged her face with the towel, lit a cigarette, and held it to her mouth. “You’d better powder your nose.”

  She managed a faint and unconvincing smile.

  “Now take a long breath and tell me what happened,” he said very calmly.

  “Bob, you tell him. I can’t. I can’t talk about it.”

  Bob Bruce wrinkled his good-looking face into an appalling scowl. “Jake, it’s a mess. A terrible mess.”

  “You told me that over the phone, and I’ll take your word for it. What happened?”

  “Well—last night Essie told me what she was going to do. You know what I mean. We—I—we had a date. Never mind that. Anyway, she told me. About the letters, and how she was going to get them. It’s all right—her telling me, I mean. She knew she could trust me.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Jake said, “but go on.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to let her go out there alone. Hardly. So I drove her out there. We went around the back way. Through the window we could see St. John, slumped over in his chair. I waited in my car and Essie went in by the back door.”

  “Jake,” she interrupted in a little wail, “Jake, there wasn’t anything in the kitchen. Not anything. I don’t understand—”

  “Never mind,” Jake said hastily, “tell the rest of it.”

  Malone, standing in the doorway, signaled him to keep his mouth shut. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “I went into the living room, and Jake—” She stopped.

  “Go on, Essie.”

  “He was dead,” she said in a voice like a whispered scream.

  Jake lit a cigarette very deliberately, counted five to himself, and said, “He was dead when you got there?”

  “Yes. Yes, he was. I ran out to the car and told Bob. Then I thought about the letters. I thought about someone finding them, the police or someone. So I went back.”

  He stared at her in amazement.

  “I went back and—felt in his pocket—in all his pockets, Jake.”

  “Good God, Essie!” He looked at her admiringly.

  “Jake, they weren’t there. They weren’t anywhere. Someone took them.”

  There was a long, terrible silence.

  “I guess the coffee’s done,” Malone said at last. He went into the kitchen, returned with cups and the coffee pot, poured out coffee, and passed it around. No one spoke.

  “Oh Jake,” Essie said frantically, setting down her cup. “Who shot him? Who shot Paul March and how did his body get there? Who took the letters and where are they? What are we going to do? Oh Jake, what are we going to do?”

  Jake crushed out his cigarette. “Essie, I don’t know who shot who, or why, and I don’t know where the letters are. Let Malone and me worry about those things. But if you had courage enough to go back in that room last night, you’ve got the courage to do what you’ve got to do now.” He thought for a moment. “Will your sister have had sense enough—”

  Bob Bruce spoke up. “I phoned her just before you got here. I just said, ‘Do you know where Essie is?’ She knew what I meant, and she said that Essie had been there all night, and was sleeping. She said no one had tried to locate her out there yet, but that if anyone did, she’ll tell them Essie was sleeping.”

  “Good,” Jake said, “evidently the whole family thinks on its feet. Where’s your car, Bob?”

  “Parked right around the corner, on Pearson Street.”

  “All right. You drive Essie out to her sister’s. Pray that no one gets a look at her on the way. Then get away from there as fast as you can and spend the rest of the day giving the impression you don’t know a thing about this. Essie, you and your sister make double sure that alibi of yours is foolproof. And then, by God, you take a sedative and get into bed. Take something that will keep you asleep all day. I don’t imagine you had any sleep last night.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve just been sitting here by the window, trying to think, and finally all I could think of was for Bob to find you.”

  “Well, you stay asleep all day. I’ll send a doctor friend of mine out to see you late this afternoon, and he’ll give you something to make you keep on sleeping, and he’ll announce to the police that you’re in a state of complete collapse, not fit to be questioned. By the time they do get to question you, either you’ll have your nerves in good shape so you can stand up under it, or the murderer will have been found and it won’t matter.”

  “All right, Jake.” She drew a long, shuddering breath. “I’ll do just as you say.”

  “Good girl.” He patted her shoulder.

  Malone spoke up from his post by the doorway. “Jake’s advice is good, and be sure you follow it. But, just between ourselves, and just to keep the record clear, did you shoot him?”

  She looked up, wide-eyed. “No.”

  Bob Bruce said angrily, “Of course she didn’t.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Malone said. “I don’t care. I was just curious. But if the whole story comes out, your part of it is going to look fishy as hell.”

  Essie St. John spoke slowly and deliberately, “No, I didn’t shoot him. But so many times I’ve wished I had nerve enough to do it. Now he’s dead and I’m free. I can’t believe it.”

  Bob Bruce knelt beside her again, put an arm around her gently. “You’ll believe it in time. The whole thing is going to seem like a nightmare that’s all done with. And when it’s all over and forgotten, and we’re married, perhaps I can make you happy enough to make up for all of it.”

  “Well, well,” Jake said, “what a wonderful time for a proposal.”

  No one paid any attention to him. Least of all, Essie St. John. She stared at the young announcer. “But Bob. You mean you really want to marry me?”

  “Of course I do, you nitwit,” Bob said almost crossly. “I’ve been in love with you for weeks—months—hell, I’ve been in love with you forever.”

  “But Bob,” she said again. “But I’m so—homely!” Tears trembled in her eyes again.

  “Don’t be such a sap,” he said, and this time his voice was really cross. “You’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw, and you know it.”

  Jake could tell that he meant it from the bottom of his heart.

  “Very pretty,” Malone said, “and for the love of God, get out of here and on your way.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle.

  Out on the sidewalk, Jake said to Malone, “That reminds me, I’m going to be married myself. Do you think we can make it today?”

  “I doubt it,” Malone said. “At least, your bride-to-be has to stay hidden out until I get this arson charge off her neck.” He sighed. “Arson, body snatching, obstruction of justice, falsifying evidence, and resisting arrest. Resisting an officer in the attempt to do his duty—hell, a whole squad car full of officers.”

  “Not only that,” Jake said, “Helene also drove through a stop light.”

  “All she has to do now is slap a policeman,” the lawyer said gloomily, “and she’ll get life.”

  “Malone, who shot St. John?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope his wife didn’t. That looks like the start of a beautiful romance.”

  “She said she didn’t shoot him,” Jake observed. “Don’t you believe her?”

  “I never believe anybody,” Malone said sourly. “I always expect people to lie to me. That’s how I always know exactly where I stand.”

  “Just assuming for the moment that Essie is telling the truth,” Jake began.

  Malone interrupt
ed him. “By a strange coincidence, at least I hope it’s a coincidence, the person who benefits most by the death of Paul March and by the death of Mr. Givvus and now by the death of John St. John is none other than Nelle Brown.”

  “Malone, you can’t think she’s guilty of murder.”

  “Leave what I think out of this. I only hope the police don’t think she is.”

  “Damn it,” Jake said crossly, “they can’t.”

  “Who are you to tell what the police can or can’t do?” Malone said. “Hope for the best and keep your fingers crossed. And now, for the love of God, let’s have breakfast.”

  Chapter 27

  They walked to Erie street, found Helene awake, and while Malone went to the corner delicatessen for breakfast materials, Jake told her all that had been happening. By the time he had finished, it was one in the afternoon, and Malone had breakfast on the table.

  “There’s a certain austere simplicity about this murderer that I’m beginning to enjoy,” the lawyer said, buttering a piece of toast.

  “Simplicity!” Helene said indignantly.

  “You heard me,” Malone said. “There’s no nonsense about him. No obscure poisons, no time bombs, no mysterious messages pinned on the wall. He wants somebody out of the way, so he just walks in and shoots him.”

  “You’re right about the simplicity,” Jake said. “We’re the ones who seem to complicate everything.”

  “In the case of Paul March,” Malone went on, “the murderer came to his apartment, sensibly picked a time when the radio program coming through the loud-speaker would cover the sound of the shot, and shot March neatly through the forehead. Then when he decided to murder Givvus, he went into the client’s room at a time when The Rider of the Rockies was filling the air with racket, and tidily shot Mr. Givvus just behind the right ear. And last night, he evidently waited till St. John was alone, calmly walked in the house—”

  “There weren’t any shot-and-shell programs on the air last night,” Helene said. “I looked through the program listings.”

  “Just the same,” Malone told her, “I’d be willing to place a small bet that our murderer picked a good noisy program and turned St. John’s loud-speaker on full when he fired the shot. Patterns tend to repeat themselves.”

  “There’s one pattern I hope doesn’t go on repeating itself,” Jake said gloomily. “Helene and me driving bodies around the streets of Chicago.”

  “I could mention another,” Helene said. “You and me trying to get married.”

  “Don’t be discouraged,” Malone said. “I once knew a couple who were engaged for eleven years.”

  “I never believed in long engagements,” Jake said. “Malone, what happened out there last night?”

  “I don’t know,” Malone said, “but three murders, if committed by the same person, ought to be easier to solve than one.” He sighed deeply. “The thing that bothers me about these damned murders is that they all benefit Nelle Brown. This glamour-pants Paul March was blackmailing her. Somebody shot him. The guy Givvus was trying to get his hands on her show. Somebody shot him. John St. John had a copy of the Paul March letters and conceivably knew about the Paul March murder. Somebody shot him. The inference,” he said, stirring his coffee violently, “is obvious. Too obvious, in fact, for me to credit.”

  “You mean it looks so much as if she had shot all three of them that you don’t think she did?” Helene inquired.

  Malone sighed again. “But the only indication of her innocence is that she says she didn’t do it.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Jake said.

  “You aren’t a jury,” Malone reminded him. “You aren’t the public. But assuming it wasn’t Nelle, and that protecting her was the motive, who thought enough of her to murder three guys for her?”

  “Any God’s number of people,” Jake said.

  “How about Baby?” Malone asked.

  “He didn’t like Paul March,” Jake said slowly, “and he knew about Nelle’s affair with Paul. He might have known March was trying to blackmail her. In fact anybody who stole Nelle’s script last week might have known it. He had the opportunity. When I called him on the phone that night, he was alone, and his apartment is only a few blocks from here. He could have nipped over here, shot March, and nipped back again. In the case of Givvus—He would have had to know all that St. John was trying to do, to have had any motive for murdering the man. Even then, would he have shot Mr. Givvus just so that St. John couldn’t sell him a program?”

  “Men have been murdered for less,” Malone said.

  “He was at the studios,” Jake went on. “He says he was taking a nap in the announcer’s room. He would have known that The Rider of the Rockies was on, with all its gunfire effects. And last night—” He paused. “Last night, of course, the motive would have been to get Nelle’s letters back from St. John, if he knew St. John had them. As far as we know, he had ample opportunity last night.” He scowled. “Motive a little weak perhaps, but opportunity one hundred per cent in all three cases.”

  “Of course,” Helene pointed out, “it’s still possible that none of these murders had anything to do with Nelle Brown.”

  “Possible but improbable,” Malone said, “and it’s been my experience that while impossible things happen frequently, improbable ones never do.”

  Jake was paying no attention. “You can take the name of almost anyone on the show,” he said slowly, “and apply the motive of getting Nelle out of a nasty jam.”

  “Even going as far as murder?” Helene asked incredulously.

  “As far and even farther,” Jake told her. “There isn’t a person on the show who doesn’t damn near worship Nelle. In the first place, no one can help liking her, you know that yourself, of course. But it’s more than that. There isn’t one person on that show Nelle hasn’t done some very swell thing for.

  “Baby, of course, is crazy about her,” he went on. “Oscar—he got in a very bad way a year or so ago; Nelle sent him through an alcoholic cure, lent him money, got him back on his feet again. Lou Silver—Nelle got him out of an unpleasant blackmailish jam with a dame. Bob Bruce was practically on his uppers and couldn’t get a job to save his life, when Nelle fought, bled, and all but died to get him on her show. She straightened out a hellish mess between McIvers and his wife. When Schultz’ kid was in the hospital with a serious operation, Nelle put up the money. There’s other stuff I could tell you, and probably a lot more I don’t know about. Add that to the person Nelle is. See? When she smashed up over Paul March last winter, everybody on the show suffered damn near as much as she did. Commit murder for her? Hell’s bells, any one of that crew would be murdered for her.”

  “A beautiful speech,” Malone said. “It does you credit, and what’s more, I believe it. But it doesn’t tell me who murdered who.” He paused to mop his face with a soiled and crumpled handkerchief. “What’s more, I’d like to know how much goofier Tootz is than we think he is.”

  They stared at him for a full minute.

  “Oh Malone,” Helene said, “you couldn’t imagine Tootz being a homicidal maniac.”

  “Understand this,” Malone said, frowning, “you think of a homicidal maniac as a wild creature with tangled hair and flaming eyes, foaming at the mouth, and brandishing an ax. That isn’t the right picture at all. A crazy man can be crafty as hell. He can fool a lot of people.”

  “But why would he pick on those particular victims?” Jake asked.

  “In his condition of mind, he might pick on anybody,” Malone said. “Delusions of persecution can bring on a bunch of murders. Especially if he thought those particular people were persecuting Nelle.”

  “But that’s why it’s impossible,” Jake said. “He didn’t know anything about them. Not about Paul March, nor Givvus—hell, he didn’t know Givvus from a circus horse. He didn’t know anything about anything.” He scowled ferociously. “Damn it, Malone, half of our anxiety is over keeping Tootz from finding out about any of this.”

/>   “There’s another reason why it’s impossible,” Helene said thoughtfully. “Tootz couldn’t have been there.”

  “Helene’s right,” Jake said. “All his horses couldn’t drag Tootz out of the house when Nelle wasn’t with him. And in the case of all three of the murders, Nelle was away from Tootz.”

  Malone shrugged his shoulders. “Well anyway, that would still leave a long list of questions unanswered.” He checked on his fingers. “One, what was the motive for moving Paul March’s body? Two, where did March get the money that was in his pocket? Three, who stole Nelle Brown’s script with the impression of the blackmail note on it? Four, where are the letters St. John was carrying in his pocket yesterday? Five, who set fire to the old warehouse?”

  Jake blinked.

  “After all,” Malone added, “it doesn’t seem likely that the warehouse would have chosen this particular time to burn down, just all by itself.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

  “And to think,” Jake said at last, “all this started with one measly little murder that nobody cared about, and that I thought nobody would ever know anything about. Personally,” he muttered, “I think it’s a conspiracy just to keep me from getting married to Helene. Somebody’s doing the whole thing just to make life hard for me.”

  “Von Flanagan is probably thinking the same thing right now,” Malone said. “He thinks murderers try to hide the evidences of their crimes as a personal unkindness to him.”

  “Would it do any good,” Jake said slowly, “for me to go to Von Flanagan and tell him my part in the whole mess? Leaving out the part about the letters, of course. But if he knew about the secret audition, and where Givvus was killed, and where March was killed and when—”

  “It might have done some good if you’d thought of it earlier,” Malone said. “Von Flanagan is too sore about it now. He’d love an excuse to throw anybody in the jug right now, and you’ve given him plenty of reason for arresting you. You’d better not stick your neck out any more than it is already, or Von Flanagan will have a noose around it.”

  Jake said, “No noose is good noose,” and blushed apologetically.