You Can't Kill a Corpse (15 page)

Mullen was eating weenies and kraut. Clane was dunking chocolate-covered doughnuts in coffee thick with cream. The sight made Mullen a little sick. He came up for air and tucked a stray bit of kraut into his mouth.

Clane said, “Turn the kid loose? If I don't hand you a solution in twenty-four hours, I'll hand him back to you and smear it all over the papers myself.”

“That will elect Morgan for fair.”

Clane shrugged. “It's my chance. I'll take it.”

Mullen sighed and reached for his coffee. “No, Clane. I'll give it to you.” He blew on his coffee. Then he raised his eyes and looked toward the front of the restaurant. “Ah, company.”

Clane turned his head. He said, “Driggs! I didn't know he stayed up so late. Ever ask him, Mullen, what he was doing at Wickett's that night?”

“Sure, seeing you.”

“Ask him,” Clane said, “if the marked fifty-dollar bills were meant for him.”

“What bills?” Mullen asked quickly. He was waving a vaguely amiable hand at Driggs as he spoke.

Clane said, “I'll tell you later. Also about the photograph, the cigar case, and the cigar.”

“You damned mystery guys,” Mullen snorted.

Driggs, coming up, said, “What was that?”

“Mullen is cussing me,” Clane answered. “I bit his dog today. I'm mean that way.” He eyed Driggs unfavorably. “You look well, Publisher.”

Driggs sat down. He smiled with putty-like condescension. “Not quite,” he said. “I'm simply managing the paper while the estate is being settled.”

“Reward for services rendered,” Clane remarked. “Who's executor?”

“Mr. Wickett's will is not to be read until after the funeral,” Driggs said pointedly. “At present, that is known only to the lawyer.”

“Unstuff yourself, shirt,” Clane said nastily. “And order.”

Mullen hid a grin with his last forkful of kraut. “Driggs,” he said, “I have no statement for the press. I—wait a minute.” He turned his wistful eyes on Clane. To Clane they looked anything but wistful now. He had a sudden sense of foreboding.

Mullen said, “Driggs, Mr. Clane publicly states that in twenty-four hours from now—let's say eleven tomorrow night—he will personally hand to me a triple murder. Right, Clane?”

Driggs' thick lips were gaping. Clane could tell he didn't know whether it was a rib or not. Clane's smile was like a knife along Mullen's throat. “Yeah,” he agreed. “All wrapped up. A triple murderer. Or maybe three single murderers. I play no favorites.”

Driggs looked slowly from one to the other of them. “Triple murder, Lieutenant?”

“One, two, three,” Clane said. “Want to make a fourth, Driggs? You can be dummy.”

Driggs said soberly, “You don't like me, do you, Clane?”

Clane threw up his hands. A waiter came over. Clane said, “Bring me more of the same.”

The waiter looked at Driggs. Driggs smiled and said, “A large glass of milk.”

Mullen shook his head, and when the waiter had gone he said, “Three murders, Driggs. The paper can have fun guessing about the other two.”

“As a member of the police department,” Driggs said, “you have no right to withhold such information. If more than one man was killed …” His eyes lit up. “Watson! Then he didn't kill himself!”

“Two,” Clane said. “Keep on guessing.”

“Are you implying that you can trap me into an admission, Clane?”

Clane said to Mullen, “He has a guilty conscience.”

Mullen sighed. “Driggs, I'm not sure yet why you were at Wickett's the night he was killed.”

“When I saw Clane there?” Driggs asked. He tried to look sly. “I can't say any more than that I went to discuss a matter of policy with Mr. Wickett. Watson's eulogy, you know.”

“At that time of night?” Clane asked. “You work—worked on the evening paper then, didn't you?”

“I came whenever Mr. Wickett called me,” Driggs said coldly. “He was grooming me for an important managerial job. My time was not my own. I was on twenty-four hour call.”

Clane shook his head. “What a break for the
Call
and the
Clarion
that you'll run them, Driggs. You still haven't answered the lieutenant's question.”

“Was it,” Mullen suggested, “to collect some money?”

Driggs looked horrified. “Certainly not! Mr. Wickett paid me amply—on pay days.”

“A hundred bucks is nice dough,” Clane said softly.

Driggs jerked his head around to look at Clane. “Your insinuations …”

Mullen said, “Skip it. Now go on home, Driggs. You've had your statement for tonight.”

Driggs rorse. “Some day I hope to see a competent police department in this city.”

He started toward the door. Clane called. “You forgot your milk, Driggsy.”

Driggs took two steps back toward the table. In a low, level voice he directed Clane as to the disposition of the milk. Then he turned and walked rapidly out of the restaurant. Clane looked at Mullen.

“Sometimes the guy is almost human,” he said. “Imagine—with milk I”

Mullen said, “He's sore now. He represents a lot on newspaper, Clane. What the hell came over me?” He looked bewildered.

“You didn't like him; you showed it. You turned honest—cop.”

“Thanks,” Mullen said drily. “Now I'm waiting for this fairy story of yours about fifty-dollar bills.”

“I found them in Wickett's billfold.”

“Turning ghoul, Clane?”

“Among other things,” Clane admitted. “I also found a cigar case. On the desk I found a partially smoked cigar. I've been trying to figure out who owned it ever since. I narrowed down to Grando—I thought.

“In the top drawer of Wickett's desk I found a picture. Not a nice picture at all. Of the fair Natalie.”

Mullen said, “When was all this?”

“I walked in on the corpse,” Clane said. “I took a look around and found those things. Also, I found Mob Morgan listening at the hall door.”

“You're a big help to him,” Mullen commented. “I could run you in for stealing evidence.”

“I was only protecting my clients,” Clane said. “You know—professional ethics sort of thing.”

“Where is this stuff?” Mullen demanded.

Clane said, “I'll get to that. Anyway, later I ran into the charming Miss Morgan. She carried a .32. I appropriated it. I put it, along with the picture, the cigar case, and the bills, into a leather case. I dumped them into a public locker at the depot. Imagine my surprise the next day.”

“They were gone,” Mullen said. He laughed. “Give me a rain check, Clane.”

“No,” Clane said. “I had the key in my pocket. And the gun was in the locker. But I'll wager it was the same gun that killed all three men.”

Mullen said, “All right. It was.”

“Then,” Clane said triumphantly, “Watson couldn't have committed suicide unless he killed Wickett and then himself.”

“No,” Mullen admitted.

Clane asked, “Then how did the gun kill Castle? I didn't do it.”

“Didn't you take off your pants?”

Clane grinned reluctantly. “Sure, at the behest of Natalie.” He was silent a moment; then he added. “I've wondered too if she couldn't have taken it. But I'm a light sleeper—especially in a spot like that.”

“There go a couple of alibis,” Mullen said in a satisfied tone. “I think I could pinch the whole town and find a motive to fit practically anyone in this mess.”

Clane said deliberately, “You might ask Natalie a few questions. And the impeccable Miss Morgan. Find out just what Watson had to do with her—and her trouble with Wickett.”

“And where did this bright idea come from?”

Clane said, “I have proof, Mullen, that Wickett was the reason that Watson was killed. Wickett himself sent the murderer to Watson. Work on that angle a while.” He got to his feet.

Mullen said, “What about those bills?”

Clane dug the two fifties from his watch pocket. He handed them wordlessly to Mullen. The lieutenant spread them out in front of him. He grinned ingratiatingly.

“I can match these,” he said. “We found one just like them on Watson's body.”

Clane said, “I told you to play the Watson angle!” He took out the picture of Natalie Thorne and handed it to Mullen. “Can you match this?”

Mullen tossed it back to him. “Watson was a bug on that stuff. His dark room is full of them.” He looked at Clane with gentle malice. “And if your story about Bob Morgan and Natalie is the goods it gives the kid a real motive.”

“Then you won't release him?” Clane said.

“No.”

Clane said, “All right, if I have to, here's the payoff.” In a few quick words he told Mullen of the governor's arrangement with Bob Morgan and Clane.

“That doesn't exempt him from being a possible murderer,” Mullen said logically.

“No,” Clane said. “But it rather makes me responsible.” He paused and added heavily, “And the governor.”

Mullen said wearily, “I'll release him, Clane, but not to you.”

“At eleven tomorrow night you can throw me in,” Clane said angrily, and stalked away.

At a drugstore Clane put a nickel into the pay phone and dialed the Regent Arms. Marilyn had her own phone in the apartment and she answered on the second ring.

Clane said meekly, “Darling, can I come home?”

“Bring me something to eat,” she said. “I have cravings.”

“Not yet!” Clane said in a shocked voice. “Can I bring a guest home?”

“Anyone I know?”

“I'm going to kidnap someone,” he told her blandly. “I want a place for the job.”

“Be serious, Jim.”

“Lady, you've no idea how serious I am,” Clane assured her. “Wait up for me.” He dropped the receiver.

He put in a second call, to police headquarters. When he got hold of Mullen he said, “When will you turn the kid loose?”

“His father is coming down to get him,” Mullen said amiably. “I decided to release him to his custody.”

“You dope,” Clane said feelingly. “My pall”

He left the booth and went up to the fountain. An old man with wispy hair and a contemplative expression was polishing glasses. Clane saw doughnuts in a glass jar. He said, “Give me a dozen of those. And a couple packages of peanuts.” He looked around. “And a pound of chocolate candy. That two-dollar box.”

The druggist said, “Is she pretty?”

Clane nodded. “Also particular. How about those flowers?” He pointed to a vase fiilled with chrysanthemums.

“They're the last out of my garden,” the druggist said conversationally. “I've got a real nice garden. If she's pretty I'll give them to you. They aren't for sale.”

Clane said, “I'll take them then. Now what's the fanciest thing you have in stock?”

“I've got a fine electric clock. It rings chimes like a cathedral. It even looks like a cathedral. A French one, I think. I've had it a long time. It sells for fifty dollars, but I'll let it go for thirty-five. No one seems to want a clock that looks like a cathedral.”

“I do,” Clane said. “It sounds swell.” The druggist brought out an electric clock that did indeed look like a cathedral. Almost, Clane thought, a full-sized one. It was very nearly too big to carry. If quantity meant anything, Marilyn should like it for a wedding gift. He said, “Wrap it up, chimes and all.”

While he was paying for it he asked, “Who you voting for next week?”

“Pryor.”

“Morgan will lower your taxes. He's a business man like yourself.”

“I don't want a murderer for mayor,” the old man said.

Clane took his change. “You might have something there.” He carried his things to his car, then drove toward police headquarters. He circled the city hall. He saw no car that looked like Morgan's. He headed for the Hill.

He met the car coming toward him on the edge of the business district. He backed into an alley, swung around and followed back to the city hall. He parked around the corner when Morgan stopped. When Morgan and his son got in the car and started off, Clane followed closely. Halfway up the Hill he ran his car alongside and forced Morgan to the curb.

“What's the meaning of this?” Morgan was sputtering when Clane jerked the door of his car open.

Clane said, “Sorry,” and clipped him on the chin. Morgan's head bounced against the back of the seat and then he slipped slowly forward over the wheel. Clane said, “Come on, Bob.”

“What the hell, Jim?”

Clane said, “You damned fool, do you want me to slug you, too?”

“Have you gone crazy, Jim?”

Clane reached across Morgan, grabbed Bob by the coat, and jerked him forward. As he jerked, Clane swung. Bob Morgan made a single soft sound and then he went limp, his weight heavy on Clane's hand. Clane dropped him, circled the car, and opened the door on the other side. He picked the boy up, grunting under the unexpected weight, and took him to his own car.

He drove straight to the Regent Arms. There was a parking lot in the rear and he used it now. He went in through the back entrance. There was no elevator so he started climbing, carrying Bob Morgan fireman style over his shoulder. By the time he hit the fifth floor he was sweating. He dropped Bob Morgan at Marilyn's door and rapped. The door opened. Clane said, “Dump him somewhere. Keep him if he wakes up. Use a flatiron if you have to. I'll be right back.” He turned and headed for the service stairs.

The next time he knocked his arms were full of packages. He used his knee to rap on the door. Marilyn opened it again. Her wide mouth was set in a tight line.

“Jim, what are you doing?”

“Here's to the bride,” he said. He dumped the packages, all but the clock, in her arms, keeping hold of the flowers.

Marilyn turned and set everything on the davenport. After closing the door and setting down the clock, Clane looked around. “Where's the kid?”

“I tied his hands and feet with towels and put him in the bathtub,” she said. “I gagged him too. If he tries to get out he'll jerk the cold shower lever on. He was heavy, in case you're interested. I dragged him.”

“Wonderful!” Clane said enthusiastically. He made a grab for her and kissed her. The kiss surprised them both. It started out playfully and ended seriously nearly five minutes later.

Marilyn said. “I'm glad we're married—that wasn't legal otherwise. Now what did you bring to eat?”

Clane said, “Open the stuff up.” He went toward the bath. He found Bob Morgan lying trussed in the tub. The towel that was wrapped around his ankles was also hooked to the shower control. Clane noticed it with admiration.

“What a woman! What a mind!” He was glad she hadn't thought that one up for him. He reached down and untied the towels. He pulled Bob Morgan to his feet in the tub, held him so that only his head was under the spray, and then turned the water on.

The boy came gasping to life. Clane shut off the shower and held on. The kid said, “Jim …”

Clane helped him out of the tub. “Dry your face, kid. I'll explain later. Now calm down or I'll have to sock you again.”

Bob Morgan buried his face in a towel. A minute later he said, “I don't get it. Mullen told me you had let me out. Then you pull this stunt.”

“Your old man is no fit company for a guy in your condition,” Clane said. “I want some answers tonight. All he'd do would be to lecture you and put you to bed.”

The boy grinned weakly and rubbed his chin. “He'll have the cops looking for us.”

“Maybe,” Clane said. “I'm going to call him up pretty soon to find out. Come on.”

They went into the living room. Marilyn was staring wonderingly at an assortment of doughnuts, flowers, peanuts, candy, and the mammoth clock that took up the entire center third of the davenport.

“It plays chimes like France,” Clane said. “Plug it in.”

“I can't even move it,” she protested. “I guess it's beautiful.”

“It cost me thirty-five bucks,” Clane told her.

“I don't make that much in a week!” she said indignantly. She turned on him, her hands on her hips.

Clane said, “Bob, meet my wife. Already she squawks about dough. Darling, thirty-five is chicken feed. At least until I'm broke again.

Bob Morgan said, “Jim …”

Marilyn shook her head at him. “Don't question Clane. He might buy you a clock.” She headed for the kitchen. “I'll fix something to eat. And I'll never send you shopping again.”

“Nothing for me,” Clane said. “Only coffee. Lots of coffee. We don't selep tonight.”

He sat down in an easy chair, placed Bob Morgan in another. He fixed the kid with a cigarette. Then he said, “Bob, start from the beginning and tell me the truth.”

“I told you, Jim. That first night …”

“And so you confessed. Why?”

Bob Morgan studied his cigarette. “Edith,” he said slowly. “I guess you know. She told you the next day about Wickett.”

Clane made a rude noise. “And I met her at five-thirty a.m. in your rooms, too. She said you sent her there to get some stuff and burn it.”

“I—!” Clane saw him go pale suddenly and then he said, “Yeah, that's right. After I confessed I figured I'd play it safe.”

“And destroy the evidence that it was Natalie and not Edith?” Clane asked.

“That's my business, Jim.”

Clane didn't quite know how to go about it. He could get rough and make the kid see himself for a fool or he could try tact. Clane wasn't much on tact, he knew that.

He said, “Bob, you're a fool. Now keep still for about five minutes and I'll tell you a few nasty stories.”

“I don't want to hear them,” Bob Morgan said. His face was white, his jaw set hard.

Clane said, “You'll hear it or I'll tie you up and make you listen. I'm not fooling now. I'm trying to save a few scalps from the police force, and maybe from more murder.”

The boy dropped his cigarette into an ashtray. He put his hands to his face and sagged in his chair. Clane started talking.

Five minutes later he stopped talking. Bob Morgan had not moved except to jerk now and then as though Clane had stuck a knife into him.

“I was an idealistic kid myself,” Clane concluded. “I got it kicked out of me—just like you did. If you can use your brain now and see what a sucker you were, then you're old enough to vote.”

“All right,” Bob Morgan said. He took his hands from his face. He looked sick but he tried a weak grin. “I'm a sucker. There wouldn't be any reason for you to lie to me, Jim.”

“No,” Clane said, “I don't want Natalie. Do you know how old she is?”

“You know how that goes. I didn't care. All I …”

“Sure,” Clane said hastily. “I get it. Now you can start talking.”

Bob Morgan stood up. “Give me a cigarette, Jim.” Clane handed him a cigarette. “Look, about Dad …”

Clane said, “That's right. I'll go call him.”

Bob Morgan lit his cigarette. “I wouldn't tell him anything—yet.”

“No,” Clane said. He went to the phone and dialed Morgan's number. Edith Morgan answered the phone. Clane asked, “Is your father home yet? This is Clane?”

“He hasn't come home,” she said. “He went to get Bob.”

“I saw him halfway up the Hill,” Clane said. “He was driving with Bob. Maybe they went somewhere to talk.”

“Maybe,” she assented. Then: “Jim—I have to talk to you. I've been thinking about things and I just have to …”

“When?” Clane sounded suspicious.

“Now? I've been ringing your hotel for hours.”

“Not now,” Clane said. “Say about four o'clock—a.m.”

“Jim, please.”

“I'm serious,” he said. “Where?”

There was a short silence. Then she said, “Can you find that place in the park where we were before?”

“Yes,” Clane said. “At four.” He hung up. He turned back to Bob Morgan. “Just what is your sister doing for a living these days?”

Bob Morgan looked a little startled. “She helps Dad in the campaign,” he said.

Clane said, “How many guys has she been out with, engaged to, stuff like that?”

“None,” Bob said. “I mean, she's had dates. But she never got engaged. Why?”

Clane started to say something. Marilyn came in from the kitchen. “Come and get it.” She let Bob Morgan go to the kitchen. Then she said, “Excuse us a minute.” She turned to Clane. “What's this about four o'clock, Jim?”

“I have a date with Edith Morgan. In the park.” He grinned down at her. “Worried?”

“Enough so that I'm going along,” she said. “I'll keep my distance.”

“The hell!”

She said firmly, “And I'm taking a club just in case.”