You Can't Kill a Corpse (10 page)

Clane said it was fine and gave the clerk five to split with the elevator boy. Some day a tip like that might save him a bullet or a beating with a rubber hose. Clane liked to have the little guys on his side. The minute cogs in the machine; they were his kind and he found them helpful almost without fail.

He passed the switchboard on his way to the elevator. He glanced that way and the girl there crooked a finger at him. She was the same girl he had tried to date before. Now she seemed more friendly. She gave him a nice, wide-mouthed smile.

“You must wear a shamrock, Clane.” She had her voice low and he leaned over her counter to hear her plainly.

“Have them sewed onto my undervests,” Clane said. “Thirteen of them.”

She laughed softly. Her laugh was as rich as her voice. “Mullen is looking for you. I heard a patrolman telling the hotel detective about it.” She nodded her head generally at the lobby. “We have a wonderful detective: he can go deaf, dumb and blind at will.”

“What's the name?” Clane asked.

“Mullen. Detective Lieutenant Mullen, Homicide Department, Dunlop Police Force.”

“No, yours.”

“Anderson,” she said. “Marilyn Anderson.”

“I like it,” Clane said. His eyes admired her figure, her dark hair held by the band of her telephone mouthpiece. “And you must like mine—why the tip?”

She said flatly, “We work for Ed Thorne here, Mr. Clane.” She underlined the Mr. with her voice.

Clane grimaced. But he said, “I won't tip you. But I'll save up until I can think of a nice present.”

“Do that,” she said. “A fur coat. Winter's coming.” The board buzzed and she turned to her work.

Clane said, “Thanks—I mean it,” and went toward the elevator.

He rode up thinking about the telephone girl. She was very nice to look at and that startled him, because she seemed as well put together inside her head as she was outside. He had to smile sourly when he thought of his completely abortive attempts to approach her in any but a businesslike way. That worried him because she had made it plain she was helping because of his connection with Ed Thorne. If Thorne got too sore—and he didn't seem overly pleased with Clane now—then all this cooperation would stop. Clane knew he wouldn't get far without the help of people like the clerk and the girl.

When he got to his door he began thinking about the man in the room. He tried his door cautiously. It was unlocked and he eased it open slowly. He looked in. The blinds were drawn so that the room was in a dim light. He looked at J. B. Castle on the bed. He could smell liquor and he poked Castle hard in the ribs.

Clane wished it hadn't been Castle sprawled there. The man was dead.

Clane picked up the phone. “Get me headquarters,” he said. “No, wait. What was the name of that detective you mentioned to me a few minutes ago?”

Marilyn Anderson's rich voice said, “Mullen, Mr. Clane.” Her voice, totally impersonal, caught suddenly. “Is it—is something …”

Clane said, “No. I mean don't call Thorne. I can handle it.”

“If you talk to Mullen you'll need Ed Thorne,” she said almost caustically. “I'll ring you back.”

Clane grinned a little sourly and cradled the phone. He looked again at the body on the bed, but he was thinking of the service the hotel offered its guests. Mention the cops and someone seemed bound to run for Thorne. Trouble prevention, Clane thought.

He mulled it over while he began a distasteful search of Castle's pockets. The thin, wracked body was just so much wasted bone and flesh, huddled in the ragged clothes. That there was any warmth at all surprised Clane; it seemed to him that Castle's life had been so tenuous that all signs of it would have gone with the first stopping of his heart.

“I'm getting morbid as hell,” Clane said aloud. He stood up and lit a cigarette, trying to shake the feeling from himself. It was no good and he began the search again. If there were any affidavits he wanted to get them before the police arrived.

He found three Lincoln pennies and an Indian-head in one pocket and a wallet and soiled handkerchief in the other. Outside of a crumpled, empty cigarette package that was all he found. He looked into the wallet. It was old and sweat-stained with the stitching coming loose at the edges. Once, Clane saw, it had been fine leather. But it had become like its owner: old, tattered, and almost empty.

He found nothing but a single dirty identification card. It read: “J. B. Castle. Morland Hotel, Dunlop. Main 4441. In case of accident notify Betty Castle, 44 West, The Hill Drive.”

Clane looked that over for some time and it wasn't until he was copying the information that the address made sense. Forty-four West, The Hill Drive, was Ed Thorne's address. He remembered Ed Thorne saying to the maid, “I'll take care of it, Betty.”

So, Clane thought, Betty Castle must be Ed Thorne's excitable servant. It was worth thinking about.

The telephone rang and Clane picked up the re-receiver. Marilyn Anderson said, “Here is your party, Mr. Clane.”

“Mullen speaking.”

“Clane,” Clane said. “I'm at the Metropole. I have a dead man on my bed.”

The voice at the other end of the wire was soft and well modulated and a little thoughtful. “What has that to do with Wickett?”

“Do you want to know or do you want the whole damned town to know?” Clane demanded. “I can tell you or wait until you show up.”

“I'll show up,” the gentle voice said. Clane grunted and lowered the phone. A moment later he picked it up again and gave the number of the bail bondsman he had hired to free Castle. The operator called for him without comment.

“Look,” Clane said when the connection was through, “when did you spring Castle?”

“I didn't,” the man said. “Your dough is waiting for you.”

Clane said, “They let him walk out? I told you to hang onto him, damn it.”

“Thorne sprang him at noon,” the man said. “Thorne always springs him. I waited too long, that's all. This isn't any nursing bureau. When he got out, he went off.”

“I'll pick up the money later,” Clane said. He hung up.

“Thorne always springs him,” Clane muttered. And Thorne's maid was Castle's daughter. Castle had worked for Thorne once and he had figured Thorne had sold him out. Yet Thorne always got him out of jail. How did that add up?

Clane was getting a headache. He wished the cops would come and take his mind off the corpse. He guessed that Lieutenant Mullen would want to talk more about Wickett than about Castle.

Inside of five minutes the phone rang again. Marilyn Anderson said, “This is the switchboard. A prowl car just pulled up outside.”

“Thanks,” Clane told her. “I'll really buy you that fur coat if I'm still around at Christmas.”

“Put it in your will,” she retorted. “I can't miss then.”

Clane grunted and hung up. He strolled to the window and looked out. His room was on the side and he could see nothing but a pair of pedestrians loafing in the doorway of a barber shop across the street. He went back and sat in the easy chair. He was lighting a cigarette when he heard the elevator stop. He settled in the chair.

Someone thumped on the door. Clane said, “Yeah?”

“Open up.”

Clane rose leisurely and went to the door. He pulled it open. Day, the red-faced cop, was standing there with the same sad-looking sergeant as a sidekick. Clane stepped back. “Come in, boys. Come in and meet the company.”

Day shut the door after they were in and then stalked to the bed. He looked down at the body. “Castle,” he said. He turned his big bulk on Clane. “Why'd you croak him, Clane?”

“He sniffled,” Clane said. “I hate guys who sniffle.”

Day took a step forward, his fist cocked. The sergeant said, “No, Day.” It sounded like a sigh.

Clane grinned and sat down again. Day stood in front of the bed as if he would protect the body from Clane's gaze. He glowered at Clane. The sergeant sat down.

“The lieutenant will want the use of another room,” he said to Clane. “He likes privacy.”

“This job don't need the lieutenant,” Day said.

Clane said, “Day's the flunkey. Let him call the desk.”

“Call and get the lieutenant a room on this floor,” the sergeant said.

“Like hell!” Day glowered. The sergeant sat where he was. Day said, “Like hell,” again. He turned to the telephone. He bellowed into it for a moment. Then he hung up. He looked at the sergeant. “Right across the hall. They'll send a boy up with the key.”

“Why didn't you stand outside the door and yell?” Clane asked. “You could have saved the operator some work.”

“Some day, punk …” Day said.

The elevator made its stopping sound again. The sergeant looked from Clane to Day and then got up. He was at the door when the knock came. He opened it to a small crew of men. Clane stayed where he was.

Lieutenant Mullen came in last. He nodded briefly to the men in uniform and went directly to the bed. Clane looked at him with interest. He was fairly small, slender, and light. Clane recognized him as the same wistful-looking man who had gone into Thorne's that morning. He wore no hat and his brown hair stuck out from the sides of his head. He pawed a hand through it now and turned to Clane.

“You know who this is?”

“I do,” Clane said. “I invited him here.”

Mullen turned to the sergeant. “You fix a room for me?”

“The bellboy's bringing the key.” The sergeant opened the door and met the bellboy about to knock. He took the key and gave it to Mullen. The lieutenant motioned to Clane. Day started after them but Mullen shook his head.

Clane said, “That guy doesn't like me. I don't like him.”

“He's all right,” Mullen said. “He's got a few wrong ideas, that's all.” His voice was low and as wistful as his expression. He looked as if he would feel too sorry for a man to arrest him, certainly too sorry to get tough with him. He opened the door into a room the duplicate of Clane's

Clane sat in the easy chair and watched Mullen. Mullen took a straight-backed chair and faced Clane.

“Now,” he said mildly, “why'd you leave Thorne's place this morning?”

“I had a date,” Clane said. “And maybe I overstayed my welcome.”

Mullen's smile was brief but it told Clane what he wanted to know. The alibi for Natalie Thorne had been handed out. Mullen's gentle brown eyes met Clane's dark ones. Then Mullen said, “I don't know much about you, Clane. Only that a lot of trouble started when you hit town.”

“I didn't start it—not all of it,” Clane said. “I invited this guy to be here at four o'clock. He had something to tell me. I got here at four and found him like that. I called you.”

“Clane, you were at Wickett's. All the alibis in the world can't convince me you weren't. Driggs saw you. A druggist gave your description as that of a man who was in his place and used his telephone late last night. You bought chocolate and potato chips from him.”

“I wish I had some now,” Clane said. “Whose word is heaviest in this town: Natalie Thorne's or Driggs'?”

Mullen spread his hands. “Driggs was detailed about your actions. She wasn't.”

“You didn't answer the question,” Clane said. “And did you expect her to be detailed?”

Mullen said, “Ed Thorne had a man beaten half to death for making a pass at his wife. The man was drunk and she led him on. That didn't cut any ice with Thorne.”

“Thorne likes me,” Clane said. “We're bosom pals. Besides, I'm doing a job for him.”

“We'll bust you wide open in court,” Mullen said. “We'll take you in and prove you had motive, opportunity—the works.”

“Scare me,” Clane sneered. “Scare hell out of me. You can do the same with Morgan, I suppose.”

“I can,” Mullen said. “His alibi is like cut whiskey. He sat home with his daughter all evening. At twelve he went to bed.”

“He's respectable,” Clane said. “He sleeps in his own bed.” He stifled a yawn. “Now pin it on his daughter. Get on with the game.”

“I haven't seen her,” Mullen said. “Not yet.”

“Or his son,” Clane went on. “Or how about the mayor? Now tell me why I killed Wickett.”

“He knocked you down in the street. You made a public threat against him. Thorne hired you to help elect Morgan. You took the easy way and got Pryor's angel out of the road.”

“Fine,” Clane said. “And Watson? Why did I kill Watson?”

“That was suicide.”

Clane grinned sourly. “Have you found the gun yet, Mullen?”

“You know a lot of stuff that doesn't get in the papers, Clane.”

“And why did I kill Watson?” Clane repeated. He looked at Mullen through his cigarette smoke. “For fun?”

“If I can't find a motive,” Mullen said smoothly, I'll invent one. But that was suicide.”

Clane said, “Make up your mind, Lietenant. You taking Morgan or me?”

“I like you,” Mullen said.

“Pryor'll give you more for Morgan,” Clane told him amiably. He rose. “I'm going to eat. When you get your mind made up, let me know.”

Lieutenant Mullen opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he smiled softly. “If they could sentence a man for nerve, Clane, you'd be in for life. I don't blame Day.”

“All right,” Clane said. “Drop in sometime. Maybe we can get together. But don't pinch me, Mullen. I can't waste the time now.”

“Of course not,” Mullen said. “I wouldn't
think
of it.”

Clane went out the door. No one stopped him when he went into his room and got his topcoat and hat. The coat felt a little light. He put his hand in the pocket and found his .25 was missing. He looked at Day who, besides the sergeant, was the only one left in the room.

“Give,” he said.

“They took it to ballistics,” the sergeant said shortly.

Mullen opened the door. “Day, send for the desk clerk. What did the boys find out?”

“I've got it,” the sergeant said. He held up a shorthand notebook.

Clane said, “I want my gun. It was a .25. I have a license to carry it. No .25 made that hole in Castle's head.”

“They took it to headquarters,” the sergeant repeated.

Mullen stared at Clane. “Go get it, why don't you?”

“I will,” Clane said, “before one of you bastards shoots the mayor with it—just to help me along.”

Mullen's smile was gentle. “Come down tomorrow and pick it up, Clane.”

Clane walked to the door and slammed it behind him. He jingled his change pocket and his fingers felt something rough and alien. He took it out and stopped under a street light to look. He stared a long time at the key lying in his palm.

“By God,” he muttered. “Mullen can keep the .25 for a while.”

Clane decided he would go to the locker at the depot and borrow the .32—that was a fair trade.

Once there, he headed for the locker. The key opened it and Clane put his hand inside. He brought out the leather case. He tucked it under his arm and went to the rest room, where he paid a nickel to get into a booth. He sat gingerly on the edge of the stool, the leather case in his lap. He opened the case.

Clane's nose twitched a little. The smell of powder was fresh enough in the case to hit his nose. He bent and sniffed. There was no doubt about it. The gun had been fired recently. And it had been put back in the case soon enough after firing to put a little of the gunpowder scent in the case. That, Clane thought, was swell.

That meant the same .32 that had fixed up Wickett and Watson had probably been used on Castle. And, Clane thought dourly, if Edith Morgan ever broke down and told Mullen how Clane had taken the gun away from her, then he would be Mullen's chief candidate. Ballistics would hang him sure.

He looked at the other stuff in the case. He lifted Natalie's picture and the fifty-dollar bills. Then he remembered Morgan's cigar case. It wasn't there. The case was shallow, without hidden pockets, and it took Clane but one look to make sure.

Clane pushed any ideas aside for the moment. He tucked the fifties in his watch pocket. He took the piece of picture he had got from Edith Morgan and compared it to the photo of Natalic. There was no doubt in his mind. Even a cursory glance showed the pictures matched to a navel. Clane grunted and put Natalie's picture with the other, stowing them both in his wallet. He put the gun back in the leather case and left the rest room.

It cost him another dime and then he had the locker for another twenty-four hours. He figured it would be smarter to leave the gun there and see what happened to it.

He started for a restaurant. The incident of the gun overshadowed other things on his mind. The only way he could make sense out of it was that someone had found a way into the locker, had used the gun and then replaced it.

Two fifty-dollar bills and Natalie Thorne's picture had been left. But Robert Morgan's cigar case had been taken. Clane said aloud, “Someone wants me to make something out of that.”

He tried to figure out how his locker had been entered. He was fairly sure he had not been tailed when he had first gone to the depot. Looking back on it, Clane realized he had picked up a cab at the hotel. It was Thorne's hotel and the cab drivers might also be Thorne's. Clane took a minute to turn that over in his mind. He was remembering that driver, Anton Kravitky.

And then another idea hit him. Grando had been a constant lobby visitor since Clane had registered at the hotel. Grando could have found out about his visit to the depot by questioning the driver—or the man could easily have been planted at the cabstand.

His stomach growled at him, reminding him of his destination. He brought his head up and looked around for a restaurant. Without realizing it, he had walked back on Main. Two blocks down he could see the glaring neon sign of the Metropole. He walked more slowly now, studying the cafés in the neighborhood.

He would have given up and gone into a place proclaiming itself to be The Original Joe's Steak House had not the sleek black sedan pulled up at the curb. Clane was going down the right-hand side of the street. The car was headed against him but it pulled over, crossing a thin line of horn-blowing motorists. Clane looked up.

“Clane!”

It was Natalie Thorne. She leaned out from the window and smiled at him. Even in the dim street light her smile was radiant and compelling. Clane walked across the sidewalk and stood beside the car. He nodded to her.

“I've tracked you down!” she announced gaily.

“Have any trouble?”

“Terrible,” she said. Clane guessed that she had either just run into him by accident or had been looking for him and found him on her way to the hotel. He grunted.

She made a face at him. Petulance, Clane supposed. He opened the car door. “Take me some place to eat,” he said.

“This is important,” she told him. She swung the car expertly through a gap in the traffic and was in her own lane again. She went through the first bell of a red traffic light and then the car leaped forward as she prodded the gas pedal. She drove skilfully, Clane noticed, and very fast. They went by the dark outlines of the Super-Service station, closed now, and then they were on the open highway.

“I'll eat first,” Clane said. “If you're kidnapping me, feed me and I won't squawk.”

She smiled, turning briefly for him to see. Her eyes were shining in the light from the dash. Clane noticed that her red lips were a trifle moist. She reached out one hand and touched his leg lightly.

“No passes until I eat,” he warned her.

“You'll eat,” she answered. “And then you'll listen.”

“Willingly,” Clane said. He fell silent, watching the dark road come up under the headlights and then flow beneath the car. A crossroad opened up to their left and she took the turn, tires squealing. It was a smooth paved road, winding over a series of low hills. She kept the same speed as she had on the level.

In the distance Clane could see a bright red sign. It was on top of a building and the red glow of it hit against the low-hanging clouds and spread, making a washed-blood look in the sky. When they were closer Clane made out the lettering on the sign. It said simply: Steaks.

“This belongs to Grando,” she said abruptly. “He won't mind my coming. He doesn't like Ed but he won't mind me.”

“He'll mind me,” Clane said flatly. He lit a cigarette and passed it to Natalie. Se parted her lips and he put the cigarette between them. He lit one for himself. “He'll mind very much.”

“He won't be here,” she said. “If he were, he wouldn't care—not as long as you're with me.”

“Thanks,” Clane said. “What is this joint?”

“The usual thing. There's gambling upstairs, a bar and good food downstairs.”

“What's in the rear?”

She turned her head again. “The usual,” she said. “We're back in the city limits. This road brings us in an arc toward town. This is the edge of the city.”

“I take it the county doesn't cooperate with Grando.”

“No,” she said. “The county doesn't cooperate with Mayor Pryor, either. The county is independent.”

Clane stored that away for future reference. He might find a use for the district attorney if Natalie was telling the truth. She swung the car into a graveled parking lot with a suddenness that threw him against the padded door. Before he could straighten out she put the car at the end of a short line of other sleek automobiles. She cut the ignition and switched off the lights.

“The food is very good,” she murmured.

Clane had one hand on the door when she spoke. The tone of her voice turned him toward her. She had one hand out. Clane said, “We'll ruin your lipstick.”

“I have more,” she said softly. There wasn't much else he could do, Clane reflected, unless he wanted to alienate her. He didn't find it distasteful. Her lips were warm and soft and heavy against his. He objected only to her aggressiveness—and to her stamina. At the moment he wanted to eat.

“Later,” he said after a time. “I can't work on an empty stomach.”

“How much work is it?” she asked. Her voice was husky and she still had her fingers locked ‘at the nape of his neck. Clane took them gently away.

“Not how much is it,” he said, “but how much will it be. What do they serve here—good beer?”

“Good Christ,” Natalie Thorne said. “I'll feed you right away.” She opened her door and stepped out. Clane followed from his side. She walked quickly through the dark parking lot, not speaking, not looking at him. He decided it would seem funny if he weren't so hungry. He walked alongside in silence.

Nearing the door, she suddenly lost her stiffness. She smiled at him and tucked her arm through his. “Was I mean, darling?”

“Obviously,” Clane said. “Are the steaks good?”

“You're a good deal more interested in steaks than in me—or in Anthony's murder.”

“At the moment, yes—to both,” Clane said.

“Well,” she said as they ascended the short flight of steps, “I was looking for you to tell you about the murder—to tell you who killed Anthony.”