You Can't Kill a Corpse

Jim Clane walked into Dunlop carrying a two-gallon can with “gasoline” in red paint on the side. He stopped to read a big electric sign set along the roadway. It was a hot day for late fall and he set down the can and wiped sweat from his eyes.

The sign read: “Welcome to Dunlop, the Fair City. Population 50,003.” The lettering was large and extravagant.

“I'll bet,” Clane said. He looked around at the farms bordering the road. They were small that close to the city, and the neatly fenced fields were brown and dried with the summer's crops gone from them. Inside the city limits were a scattering of weed-grown lots and farther on a junk yard and a dilapidated-looking greenhouse.

Clane took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, flipped one out and put it between his lips. He put the pack back, found a match and held it against his thumbnail. He stepped a short distance away from the gas can before he lit the match and his cigarette.

Clane took his last fifty-cent piece from his pocket and flipped it into the air. He caught it deftly in his palm. It was heads. Clane said, “My head or someone else's?” He shrugged. “Okay, Dunlop, here comes Jim Clane.”

He took three quick drags from his cigarette, dropped it to the pavement and stubbed it out with his toe. He put the fifty cents back in his pocket, picked up the gasoline can, and started walking again.

The road curved a short distance inside the city limits. Passing the junk yard and taking the curve, Clane found the town itself directly in front of him. There was little warning, no suburbs. The whole metropolitan district seemed to have been put there at one end of the town.

Clane started looking carefully now. He saw the big Super-Service sign on his right and not a half-block ahead. When he reached it he turned in. There were double rows of four pumps each in front and on the far side of the glass-walled station house. A big concrete parking space separated the station from a low, brightly painted building that housed the grease racks and the accessories department. The whole place looked neat and clean and fresh. There were no customers.

Clane took a good look at the boy who came out of the station house. He seemed about eighteen, a tall, well set up blond kid, handsome enough for his age. His eyes were blue and wide and they regarded Clane with no more than normal curiosity.

The kid said, “Run out of gas?” He took the can from Clane.

Clane wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. “Three miles back,” he said. “A hot hike today.”

“Unseasonable weather,” the kid said. He grinned. “The Chamber of Commerce is in tears about it.”

Clane took another look at the boy. He said idly, “I hear there's a parade on today. Some guy in a restaurant down the line was talking about it. Worth seeing?”

The kid glanced up from filling the two-gallon can. He said, “It's a political parade. They usually put on a fair show before the speeches.” From the tone of his voice Clane could sense contempt for the whole affair.

Clane glanced into the station house. An electric fan was perched on a high cabinet. “Looks cool in there,” he observed.

“Go ahead,” the boy said. He screwed the lid back on the can, hung up his gasoline hose and followed Clane inside. Clane leaned against an oil drum where he could get the benefit of the fan. He took out his cigarettes. He offered one to the kid. Then he held a match for both of them.

The kid said, “That'll be thirty cents.”

Clane handed over his lone fifty-cent piece and took back two dimes in change. He looked ruefully at them and dropped one into his pocket. He tossed the other to the boy. “Split with you,” he said.

The boy caught the coin with a nod. He said unexpectedly, “What do I do now, earn it?”

Clane almost grinned. “You can tell me something about local politics.”

The kid's glance was less casual now. He said, “Why?”

Clane said, “I'm Clane. Jim Clane.”

“And I'm Bob Morgan. Robert Morgan, Junior.” His voice had a shrug in it.

Clane said almost impatiently, “I know who you are.” He drew out his wallet and tossed it to the boy. “You got the governor's letter, didn't you?”

Bob Morgan handed Clane the wallet. “I burned the letter,” he said. “I guess it's okay—you're Clane.”

“It pays to be careful,” Clane agreed. He shifted his position against the oil drum. “Remember, I've never been in Dunlop before. So give me the situation as if I didn't know a thing. Which,” he added, half to himself, “is practically the truth.”

Bob Morgan grinned a little. But when he spoke his voice was dry. “As Dunlop's outstanding high school graduate last summer I was the lieutenant governor during boys' week.”

“I know that,” Clane said.

“And I saw the governor. Privately.” His voice deepened and he struck a pose. “Young man, you can do a great service to your city and your state if you will cooperate with me.”

“That's the governor,” Clane admitted. “You're cynical for your age.”

“I'm still doing it for nothing,” Bob Morgan said. “Because I believe in the governor's ideas, even if I don't trust his motives.”

Clan shrugged. “His motives are political. He wants to be senator. The other party will crucify him if he doesn't clean up Dunlop while he's still governor.”

“And what's your stake in this?” the boy asked bluntly.

“Fifty-fifty,” Clane said. “Fifty per cent idealism, because I was born that way, and fifty per cent cash. It's the way I make my living. I get what I can out of whoever I can. Legally,” he added.

A sudden off-key booming penetrated the glass walls of the station house. Clane winced at the noise. Bob Morgan said, “That's the band. They'll parade up Main Street and stop on the corner of Main and First. They've got a platform rigged there. There'll be a ham comedian and then the mayor will make a speech.

“It's a joke,” he went on. “The mayor's opponent can't get a license to give street spiels. He has to use the old auditorium. It only holds five hundred people.”

“So they're still running towns that way,” Clane murmured.

“They're running this one that way,” the kid said. “Pryor has been mayor since before I was born.”

“What kind of a set-up is against him?” Clane asked.

“A local business man,” Bob Morgan said. “Robert Morgan, Senior. He's no politician. He's still honest.”

“And bucking an old-time machine?”

“He's got a smart manager. Ed Thorne.”

Clane sounded as if he had never heard the name. “What is he, a newspaper publisher?”

“No, the papers back Pryor. Anthony Wickett is the big-shot newspaper publisher here. The only one. He owns both the morning and evening sheets.”

Clane nodded. “What about this Thorne?”

“He owns a hotel. He's one of the behind-the-scenes boys. He had a newspaper once but it went flop. He can lick his fingers and taste a different kind of pie on each one.”

Clane did grin this time. “And what does Robert Morgan, Senior do?”

“He owns a chain of independent gas stations.”

Clane looked around at the bright red, white, and blue paint. “And you work for Rockefeller?”

“I'm spying for Dad,” the kid said. He grinned.

“You think he's smart running for mayor?”

Bob Morgan shook his head. “I'm smart enough not to answer that.”

“What would you say if you were an outside observer—no relation to him?”

“I'd say he was a sucker,” Bob Morgan replied. “He's fighting a tight, tough organization. And I'd say it was about time we had a new mayor even if he can't win. As his son, I'd say that I would rather see someone else shoulder the campaign dirt.”

The noise of the band reached a crescendo and then faded out. Clane stood straight. “Okay,” he said. “I'll need more information later. And maybe some help. But you stay out of it as far as knowing me is concerned. That could backfire and bust your father's campaign all to hell.”

“I know,” Bob Morgan said. “I have my orders.”

Clane went for the door. “I'll be back for the gas. I'll probably spend the night in jail first. Don't let that surprise you. Don't be surprised at anything I do. I work my own system.”

He left the door open behind him and walked down the street toward the band. Reaching Main and First, which seemed to be the hub of the business district, Clane edged into the crowd and took in the scene. A wooden platform had been built half on the sidewalk and half on the street. Traffic had been roped off on the platform side of Main Street so that it could move only in the opposite direction. It was roped off completely on First, the cross street. The band was small but loud and it was parked in front of the platform playing, “Hail, Hail, The Gang's All Here.”

“Corn,” Clane remarked to an old man next to him.

“It's free,” the old man said.

“That seems to mean a lot in this town.”

“It does.”

“Who pays for the band?” Clane asked. “The city, doesn't it? Your taxes pay for it. What's free about that?” He felt a little foolish, as always, talking that way, but it was part of his job.

“You must be a Morgan man,” the other said.

“Is that the mayor?” Clane inquired. He nodded toward a pudgy, round, graying man climbing to the platform. He had the look of an ineffectual machine figurehead about him. Clane had seen dozens of his kind. He was small and smooth and pink, and his greatest assets would be a glib tongue and the ability to shut his eyes and keep them shut.

“That's Pryor,” the old man said. “Been mayor for twenty years.” He spit on the street.

“The department of sanitation isn't much,” Clane remarked, and moved away.

Clane watched the mayor as he stood comfortably at the front of the platform waiting for the band to stop. When the music died away the mayor raised one hand to the crowd.

“We'll have the show in a few minutes, folks,” he said. “But first, let me say a few words.”

Some wag in the audience groaned loudly; a few people laughed. But Clane sensed that the reaction was one of good-natured boredom. These people had come to see the show and they were willing to put up with a political speech. And probably, Clane reflected, they would go to the polls and vote for Pryor with equal amiability. They were stultified into the habit of voting his ticket. That made a hard combination to beat: habit and disinterest.

Even the handful of men lined up behind the mayor on the platform did not bother to hide their boredom. This would be an old story to them, Clane guessed, as it was to the few newspapermen seated to one side of the platform. They were in front of a long, low table, their pencils poised above copy paper, trying to look as if there would be some news.

The mayor had a good speaking voice, sometimes too high pitched, but the words rolled out smoothly enough. Clane paid little attention to the gist of the speech itself. The same old thing, he thought, and started sizing up the crowd.

He saw an opening near the reporters and he edged that way. There were a couple of cops in uniform between the crowd and the platform and Clane kept people between himself and them. He stopped when he was in the first row, only a short jump up to the platform. The mayor paused for breath. Clane took a breath of his own and made his play.

“Take him out of there!” he yelled. “The dirty crook ought to be lynched.” He jumped for the platform, knocking a cop away with a swinging arm as he moved. He clambered up and gave the mayor a push with the flat of his hand. He had a glimpse of a pink face gone red and then white, and the mayor's mouth opened and shut soundlessly. He was bounced into the row of men standing behind him.

Clane swung and faced the crowd, some booing and some laughing now. “Have you looked at your police force lately?” Clane bellowed. “Where are your taxes going? Are you going to let these grafters suck you dry for another four years?”

That was as far as he got. He saw that the reporters were enjoying it, standing up now, but some of the crowd were rumbling, and from ahead of him and behind him the cops were closing in.

“I dare you….” Clane howled. A man's hand grabbed him and swung him around. The man was dark and slender, neat in a conservative business suit. Clane swung. The man let loose and Clane made a running jump into the crowd. The man followed him, moving lithely.

The mob milled and shouted in Clane's ears. Half a dozen made a grab for him. He balled up his fists and started punching his way out. A billy club got him on the side of his head and he went to one knee. He came up to a fist against his mouth. He spat blood.

“By God,” he said, “I won't be forgetting that.” In spite of his dizziness he recognized the man as the one who had grabbed him on the platform. That was good, Clane thought: an important person. He would have to find out who the man was. He was not as heavy as Clane, but sleeker, with a slim moustache. There was a touch of gray at his temples but he wouldn't be much older than Clane himself. Clane hoped the reporters had caught everything. Clane swung again, but the club had taken the steam from his muscles.

There was nothing he could do now. Two of the police had their hands on him, holding him back. The slender dark man hit Clane again and he jerked his head, letting the blow ride along his cheek. One of the cops said, “Take it easy, punk. Take it easy.”

The man who had hit Clane was wiping carefully at his knuckles with a clean white handkerchief. Clane didn't like him and wouldn't have liked him under any circumstances. He was too smooth and suave and well groomed, in a greased way that grated on Clane.

“I'll bust you wide open,” Clane told him loudly.

The man shrugged and turned away. The police holding back the crowd pushed a path for him. The cops holding Clane jerked him along through the same opening. Clane pulled as he hit the edge of the crowd. He broke free and then someone sent a sap at his head. He went forward, feeling his face scrape the pavement. He didn't feel the kick in his ribs.