The Corpse Steps Out

by Craig Rice

  “I’ll tell you what you can do,” Malone told him. “I’m going to drop in at Von Flanagan’s office and you can come along. You have the excuse that your client was associated in a business way with St. John and you want to find out just what is what. But keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”

  Jake nodded.

  “And then,” Malone continued, “you and I had better go talk to Nelle.” He looked at his watch. “The day’s practically gone. We’d better get going.”

  “But what about me?” Helene wailed. “Do I have to stay hidden here forever?”

  “I feel a lot safer when you can’t roam around and stir up more trouble,” Malone said severely. “But I’ll do what I can, as soon as I can.”

  “And meantime, you just stay right where you are,” Jake told her.

  “All right. I will,” she said so meekly that Jake worried about it all the way downtown.

  Von Flanagan, when they found him, was not in an amiable mood. He was standing by his window, gloomily watching the traffic in the street below and whistling a bar of “The Last Round-Up,” as Jake and Malone walked in.

  “You remember Jake Justus,” Malone said. “He used to be with the Examiner.”

  Von Flanagan nodded with no warmth whatsoever.

  “He’s something of a mink fancier himself,” Malone added.

  The police officer’s eyes brightened. “You keep mink?” he asked interestedly.

  “Only as pets,” Jake said.

  “You, seem to have quite an affair on your hands,” Malone said hastily.

  For several minutes Von Flanagan talked loudly and profanely about the murders.

  “It’s certainly all of that,” Malone agreed as the police officer paused for breath. “Jake here is interested because his client—he’s a press agent now—was associated with St. John.”

  Von Flanagan turned to Jake. “Who’s your client?”

  “Nelle Brown.”

  “You don’t say!” the big man said more cheerfully. “Do you suppose you could get me her autograph?”

  “Sure,” Jake said, “any time. Who killed John St. John, or do you know yet?”

  “Well, his wife might have,” Von Flanagan said, “he wasn’t any too good to her from what I learn. Only it don’t look like she did. Her alibi looks pretty good and anyway she didn’t have no reason for shooting the other one.”

  “The other one?” Malone inquired.

  Von Flanagan nodded. “This St. John fella and the guy that was in the kitchen were shot with the same gun. There, by God, we know something, anyway. And we know something else, too. The Paul March guy, he wasn’t shot up in St. John’s kitchen, he was shot someplace else and took there, just like that other bird, Givvus, was took up to Lincoln Park. It would look like the same thing, only the Givvus murder don’t seem to have nothing to do with these two, on account of he was shot with a different gun. But this here Paul March, I don’t know where he was shot, and God only knows when he was shot, because there’s something funny about the condition of his body. But wherever he was shot, he was took up to where we found him.”

  “That’s curious,” Jake said weakly. It was the best he could do at the time.

  “What’s more,” Von Flanagan said, “now it books like there was some tie-up between these murders and this guy Givvus. On account of the one thing we did find out about this guy Givvus is that he’d sent a bunch of money to Paul March just a few days before he came to Chicago.” He leaned back precariously in his chair and folded his hands across his middle.

  Malone considered the end of his cigar very thoughtfully and said, “What do you suppose he did that for?”

  “Search me,” the police officer said, “I’m no crystal-gazer. All I know is this guy Givvus sent this guy Paul March a check for five hundred bucks, with a voucher attached reading, ‘For services rendered.’ I know that, and I know three guys are dead, and I know the papers are raising hell with me. And I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Malone said soothingly.

  “Somebody moved those two bodies,” Von Flanagan said, an indignant light coming into his eyes, as though he considered it a grave personal affront. “Somebody did, and me, I ain’t gonna stand for it. I don’t know who done it, but I’m sure as shooting going to find out. And boy,” he said gleefully, rubbing his hands together, “boy, when I do get my hands on whoever it was—”

  Chapter 28

  “Well, we didn’t learn much from Von Flanagan,” Malone said on the way to Nelle’s apartment. “Just that Mr. Givvus sent Paul March five hundred bucks, and that if Von Flanagan ever lays hands on you, God help you.”

  “Damn it,” Jake said indignantly, “I wasn’t the first person to move Paul March’s mortal remains. Somebody else started this juggling process. Malone, why did Givvus send the money to March?”

  “You’re as good a guess artist as I am,” Malone said noncommittally. “Offhand I can think of several dozen reasons, and none of them seem in the least reasonable.”

  “Malone, you’ve got to do something!”

  “I am going to do something,” the little lawyer said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to move to Australia,” Malone said sourly, “and raise mink.”

  They found Nelle in the big, paneled living room, talking animatedly to a tall, slender girl. The girl had bobbed black hair, wore eyeglasses attached to a wide ribbon, and was dressed austerely in a gray tailored suit.

  “Hello,” Nelle said happily, “I’m so glad you finally got here.” She didn’t bother to introduce the black-haired girl. “I’ve just been telling the story to this young lady from the Times.”

  “You’ve been doing what?” Jake asked in a dazed voice.

  “It’s very interesting that she was really the one to find Paul March’s body,” the young woman said. Her speech was high-pitched and affected. Jake disliked her at the first sound of it.

  “My God, Nelle!”

  Nelle looked at him with wide, hurt eyes. “Oh Jake! Did I do wrong?”

  Jake groaned. “Damn it, Nelle, you know I never want you to talk to reporters. You know I handle all these things myself. And now—” The implications of what she had done grew in his mind with a mounting horror. “After I’ve practically broken my neck, risked a jail sentence, and God knows what else besides, just to keep you out of the newspapers, you go and pull a fool stunt like this and ruin everything—” He stopped and wondered what the hell Nelle was laughing about.

  “This will teach you to label me a pyromaniac,” the young woman said in Helene’s voice.

  Jake looked at her, at the black, bobbed wig, the eye-glasses, the tailored suit. Probably for the first time in his life, he was speechless.

  “Well after all,” Helene said, “you couldn’t expect me to sit around with my hands folded.”

  “Where in the name of God did you get the wig?” Jake said. His voice hadn’t quite recovered.

  “Molly borrowed it from a girl who works in a burlesque show. The nice young man next door went to the dimestore and got the glasses for me. The suit belongs to a model who lives on the floor above. Who is going to be arrested for St. John’s murder?”

  Nelle looked up, her face suddenly grave. “Yes, Jake. Tell it all quick before Tootz gets through being shaved and comes in here.”

  Jake told them what little they had learned from Von Flanagan.

  “Nelle, where were you last night?” Malone asked.

  “But I didn’t kill him—”

  “I never said you did. I want to know what kind of an alibi you’ve got.”

  “I went to see Baby. Bigges drove me there and went off someplace and then came back and got me. I got home a little after midnight.”

  “A wonderful alibi,” Jake said sourly. “It’ll look nice in print, too.”

  “All right,” she said irritably, “I had a headache and couldn’t sleep so Bigges took me for a drive and brought me home again.”
r />   “That’s weak, but it sounds better.”

  “Jake, the police don’t suspect me, do they?”

  “I don’t think so,” he told her, “but you’re bound to be questioned. You get this into your head and keep it there. One, you only knew St. John in a business way. Two, you haven’t any idea who might have wanted to murder him. Three, you were riding around with Bigges last night.”

  “But Jake. The copies of my letters. Where are they?”

  “I wish to God I knew,” Jake said soulfully.

  “Find the murderer and you’ll find the letters,” Helene said. “They were in St. John’s pocket yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh Jake,” Nelle said desperately, “Tootz mustn’t know about any of this. Or Baby. But especially Tootz. If either one of them should find out, I’d drop dead.”

  “Or if Goldman or your public find out, we’ll all drop dead,” Jake said gloomily, lighting a cigarette.

  They heard a door close somewhere in the apartment.

  “Here comes Tootz,” Nelle whispered.

  The handsome, white-haired man walked in, greeted them. He looked a little uncertainly at Helene.

  “You know me,” Helene said. “I’m me.”

  He stared at her. “But you’ve done something to your hair.”

  “It’s a wig,” Helene said.

  Malone said, “She’s disguised.”

  Tootz smiled and nodded as though that explained everything. “Oh, I see. It’s a very good disguise.”

  “It has to be,” Helene said, “I’m being followed. Jake and I were followed everywhere last night, and I thought we’d never get away, so today I disguised myself.”

  Tootz looked around wonderingly, finally caught Jake’s eye, surreptitiously tapped his forehead, glancing at Helene. Jake nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Tootz’ mouth formed a round O.

  “Some of these cases are terribly sad,” he murmured softly to Malone.

  “Sad,” Malone said with feeling, “is hardly a strong enough word for it.”

  Tootz glanced at the newspaper on the table beside him. “I suppose you’ve read all about the murders,” he said.

  Jake cleared his throat. “Yes. We were just talking about it when you came in.”

  “A horrible thing,” Tootz said fastidiously. “I suppose you all knew St. John. I can’t say I liked the man, but it’s a terrible way to die. It seems to me the other name—March—sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place him.”

  “He was an actor and director,” Jake said lamely. “I didn’t know him very well myself.”

  “Neither did I,” Nelle managed.

  “It seems to me I’d met him,” Tootz said, pondering. “I know I did.” He drew his brows together and was silent a moment. “Oh yes, I remember now. It was at a party. Nearly a year ago. Remember, Nelle? He seemed rather charming. Too bad this happened.”

  Malone had been studying a chess problem on the board by the window, he chose that moment to ask Tootz’ opinion of it. Tootz slipped into the chair by the chessboard. It was a difficult and involved problem, and the two men discussed it at great length.

  “I’m glad you dropped in,” Henry Gibson Gifford said happily. “I was getting lonely.” He sighed. “It’s a fine day out. I wish I dared go walking. But Nelle hasn’t wanted to go with me.”

  “You know,” Malone said thoughtfully, studying a chessman, “I’ve been thinking about those men following you. I think something ought to be done about them.”

  Tootz nodded gravely. “Something should. But what could be done? Perhaps the police could help.”

  “I don’t think the police would do much good.” Malone said. “They’re so stupid about things like this. Perhaps I could, though. I’ve had a lot of experience in one way or another.”

  A light came into Tootz’ eyes. “Do you think you could?”

  “Well,” Malone said, “I could try. Have you ever thought of doing anything yourself?”

  “What?” Tootz asked helplessly.

  “For instance,” Malone leaned over the table and said very confidentially, “have you ever thought of shooting them?”

  Henry Gibson Gifford stared at him, a puzzled look in his fine gray eyes. “But that would be murder.”

  “Yes,” Malone said reflectively, “yes, it would. But it would be justified as self-protection. Or you could shoot at them, and frighten them away.”

  “I could, couldn’t I!” It was as though a sudden ray of hope had crossed the handsome old face. “I could do that. And if they didn’t pay any attention, then I would have to really shoot. I hate to think of it, but I could.”

  “It’s a suggestion, anyway,” Malone said, picking up a chessman and putting it down again.

  “Only—” Henry Gibson Gifford paused, frowned. “I haven’t any gun. I’d have to get one. Yes, I’d have to get one. I must speak to Bigges about it.” He smiled at the little lawyer. “Thank you very much for your advice, Mr. Malone. I appreciate it greatly.”

  Conversation went back to the chess problem. At last Malone signaled to Jake that he was ready to leave, and they rose to go, taking Helene with them. At the door, Jake managed one last warning to Nelle, to sit tight and say nothing.

  “I wish I had my car,” Helene grumbled as they hailed a taxi. “Malone, are you going to get me out of this mess, or aren’t you?”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ll do it now. Andy will be at the police station. In fact, I’ll even take you with me, wig and all.”

  “Wonderful,” Helene said. “I ought to marry you instead of Jake.”

  “While I’m doing it,” the lawyer went on, “why don’t you, Jake, go have a talk with Baby. He’ll probably be freer with you than with me. Find out if there’s anything he knows that we don’t know.”

  Jake scowled. “I hope he doesn’t.”

  “So do I, but we’re leaving no turn unstoned.”

  “That’s wrong,” Helene said. “It’s that we’re leaving no worm unturned. Malone, is Tootz a homicidal maniac?”

  Malone said, “Hell no. And in any case, I can only see these murders being committed by a sane man.”

  Jake left them in front of the remodeled mansion where Baby lived, promising to meet them at the corner bar in half an hour.

  Baby was in, looking very pale and very tired. Jake wondered if he had gotten any sleep the night before. In fact, he wondered if anybody had gotten any sleep the night before. Except, of course, John St. John. The young man seemed almost terribly glad to see him.

  “Jake,” he said, “I need your advice. Do you think I ought to go to the police and confess to these murders?”

  Jake dropped the cigarette he was in the act of lighting, picked it up again, and finished lighting it before he spoke.

  “Is that your idea of fun,” he said, “or did you do them?”

  “No,” Baby said. “But eventually the police will find out who really did, and it’ll be all right. And in the meantime, it will help Nelle.”

  “You aren’t real,” Jake said. “People like you don’t happen. You’ve been reading the wrong kind of magazines. Look here, kid, suppose Nelle herself is really guilty?”

  “But she isn’t. I knew she couldn’t be when I read in the papers that both St. John and Paul March were shot with the same gun. I knew she didn’t shoot St. John because she was here last night. So, of course, she couldn’t have done the other. She couldn’t have anyway. Not Nelle. I should have known—” His voice broke off suddenly.

  “What should you have known?” Jake asked.

  The young man buried his face in his hands. “I’ve been an awful fool. All this time I’ve been thinking Nelle killed Paul March, and then Mr. Givvus, and I’ve been nearly going crazy.”

  Jake stared at him. “But nobody knew about Paul March’s murder until this morning.”

  “I did,” Baby said miserably. “I knew it all along.” He looked up, his face strained and white. “Jake that night—the night of the broadcast—
I’d been over at a friend’s apartment listening to the show, because my radio was on the fritz. It was over and I was just walking home along Erie Street, when I saw Nelle get out of a taxi in front of the building there.”

  “Did she see you?” Jake asked.

  Baby shook his head. “I started to call to her, and then I stopped. I knew she was going to see Paul March. Or I supposed she was. I wasn’t sure. I waited there for her to come out. This all sounds crazy, but you do crazy things when you’re as jealous as I was that night. Finally she did come out, and went away. I was nearly wild, wondering if she’d been to see him. I thought I’d just go in and see if he was there. I thought that if he was there, then I’d feel sure she’d been to see him. So I walked up to his door. It was just a little open and I—went in. Oh hell, I don’t know what I thought I’d say to him or do to him. I just went in. And there he was, dead.” He looked up at some indeterminate point on the ceiling. “I supposed Nelle had shot him.”

  Jake walked to the window, watched two taxicabs and a truck roll down the street, turned back again. “Good God,” he said, and again, “good God! And you’ve been carrying this around on your back all this time!”

  “I couldn’t say anything to her, could I? I couldn’t do anything, could I? I just had to keep still. And then the day of the audition—” He paused.

  “Go on,” Jake said.

  “I knew the secret audition was going on. And I was just coming out of Studio B and I saw Givvus going into the client’s room with St. John. And I just sort of figured it out myself—that St. John was making Nelle give the audition. I knew she wouldn’t want to do such an audition. I wasn’t sure how St. John was making her do it, but I knew he must be. And then I read in the paper that Givvus had been killed.”

  “And you thought Nelle killed him!” Jake said.

  “What could I think?” The young man said wildly. “What could I think? I know now I was wrong, but still that doesn’t help much. My God, Jake, what am I going to do? I can’t just not do anything at all about it.”

  “All you can do is keep your mouth shut, and be nice to Nelle,” Jake told him. “She’s having it tough right now. Are you in tomorrow night’s show?”