You Can't Kill a Corpse (2 page)

Clane swam out of it with the taste of blood in his mouth. He was on a cot and he could see the cell door from where he lay. His head kept swelling and emptying and he stayed motionless until the feeling eased and he could keep his eyes open for more than half a minute at a time.

He heard the sound of a key in the cell lock and he sat up carefully. Two policemen came in. One was red and beefy, what Clane thought of as a typical cop. Clane had a vague recollection of having seen him before. The other was an older man with graying hair. He wore sergeant's stripes on his uniform. He shook his head at Clane.

He's out of it,” he said.

“Come out of there, punk,” the red-faced man said. Clane remembered his thick voice; he had helped hustle Clane through the crowd just before he was sapped.

Clane got to his feet and walked unsteadily toward them. The beefy cop raised his hand. The sergeant stepped closer. “Easy, Day!”

“Ah, this bum….”

Clane looked at the sergeant. His face was sagging and lined and a little tired. But there was force in his eyes that were as black as Clane's own. “I said no,” the sergeant snapped.

Clane walked between them and down a corridor reeking of disinfectant. In a small room at the end of the corridor a police lieutenant was seated at a table. Clane saw two of the reporters who had been at the political rally. They watched him interestedly.

“Name?” the lieutenant asked in a weary voice.

“James Clane; age, thirty; occupation, salesman.” Clane said it all in one breath. He patted his pockets and brought out a soiled handkerchief. “I see you've stripped me. If you'll get my wallet you can read the rest of the information for yourself.” He wiped his cut lips with a clean corner of the handkerchief.

Day said, “He's a hard guy.”

“Hard enough to remember that someone sapped me,” Clane said.

“I'll do it again, punk.”

“I'll remember you,” Clane said.

The lieutenant paid no attention. He had Clane's wallet and he was spreading cards on the desk top. “Here's a medical discharge from the army,” he said. He looked at Clane. “Wounded?”

“No,” Clane said. “I was playing right half on a service team. I got stepped on.” He patted his belly. “I'm all torn up inside. They turned me loose. That's all.” He looked at the reporters. “And don't build it any bigger than that.”

“Publicity hound,” Day sneered.

The lieutenant said as he copied, “Clane, thirty; six feet one; eyes, black; hair, black; small scar on forehead; weight, one seventy-five. Occupation?”

“Salesman,” Clane said for the second time.

“Of what?”

“Myself.”

The lieutenant said, “What the hell was the idea?”

“I was doing a job.” Clane dabbed some more at his lips.

“Give,” the lieutenant said. He sounded weary. A desk-bound cop, Clane thought, was a man to pity. He wondered about the rest of the force. He had not been able to get much advance information on the men. But under a machine administration such as Pryor had here the police would be one of two things: work-horses doing their jobs, closing their eyes to conditions for the sake of those jobs; or corrupt officials, getting what they could while it lasted. Outside of Day, Clane did not see these men that way. The sergeant and the lieutenant were tired old men; their lives were a deadly, poorly paid routine.

The lieutenant said again, “Give.”

Clane said, “Thorne hired me to break up the party. I needed the dough. That's all.” Clane looked the lieutenant in the eye. He didn't change his dour expression. He wasn't a man to smile much. He hoped the lieutenant accepted his story. He was following the plan he had always found most successful in doing jobs of that kind. Publicity, good or bad, getting his name before the big shots in a town. That was his best opening gambit. He accepted the fact that public sentiment would be against him at first. That couldn't be helped. He could not work quietly; it wasn't his way. He liked to put things in the open and then keep them there. He went on the theory that the opposition would expose itself swinging at him. And they couldn't fight back if Clane hid his light.

This was a dramatic move, attacking the mayor publicly and then placing the blame on Ed Thorne. Clane knew he was taking a big chance. His research on Ed Thorne told him the man was a gambler. That meant he was open to a new approach, and he was willing to take a chance. Now Clane had fixed it so Thorne had to take a chance on him or repudiate him and sit back and wonder if he hadn't missed a good bet.

One of the reporters said, “Thorne!”

“Yeah,” Clane said. “Ed Thorne. Know him?”

“Sure,” the lieutenant said heavily. “We'll probably give you thirty days for this. But Thorne will have you sprung or killed before then.”

They gave Clane back his cigarettes. He stood and smoked one, waiting for the lieutenant to make up his mind. Clane looked terrible and felt worse, and he kept his mind off himself by thinking about the future when he could get a crack at the red-faced cop, Day.

“I always did object to cops using saps,” he told Day. “And to guys like the one who socked me with his fist.”

“Wickett,” Day said. He grinned at Clane. “I like saps. Wickett likes to use his fists. Go on and object, punk.”

Clane had his information, the name of the man who had hit him during the rally. Now he said, “What time is it?” He looked at the sergeant instead of Day.

The lieutenant answered. “It's night, Clane.”

“Take your time about arraigning me,” Clane said. “I want some food and sleep.”

The lieutenant grunted and shook his head tiredly. Then he waved Clane away. They took him back to his cell and after a while brought him a supper of stew and bread and coffee. He ate and smoked and fell into a doze. When he awoke he lay in the dimness thinking about the kid in the gas station and his two gallons of gas. He hoped Bob Morgan would be smart enough to keep out of this.

In the next twelve hours Clane had three visitors. The first was the pudgy, pinkish mayor. He came into the cell during the morning.

“Got a campaign cigar handy?” Clane asked amiably. He was feeling better after sleep and breakfast. He wondered if he could needle the mayor into threatening him. He didn't doubt that the city machine would put pressure onto him, and he wanted a hint of their plans.

Mayor Pryor glared at him. “I'm going to bring suit against you for slander,” he said.

“You're a damned fool if you do,” Clane told him. He touched his lips, finding that the swelling had gone down. His stomach felt good too. Breakfast had been a fair meal, no jailhouse slop. That, Clane decided, was due to Ed Thorne. He wondered how much weight Thorne really carried.

“I could prove the charges I made if I had time,” Clane went on. “And if I had a clear field.”

Mayor Pryor's ruddy cheeks deepened in color. “I've had a satisfactory record for twenty years.”

“You can buy those,” Clane said. “Now get the hell out. I want to think.”

The mayor swelled in indignation. “I demand to know what is back of this unwarranted attack on me!”

“Go away,” Clane said. He lay back and closed his eyes.

“Clane,” the mayor said, “there are ways of making you talk.”

“Not under your administration, Your Honor. It's too clean.” Clane kept his eyes shut. The mayor waddled out of the cell, clanging the door behind him. Clane wondered which cop in the hall was choking on his laughter. He hadn't received much information but he had succeeded in getting the mayor both angry and bewildered. That counted for something.

Clane's next visitor made him sit up. He even combed his hair. The girl was young, about twenty-three, he judged. She wore very little make-up, only soft lipstick and a touch of powder. Her skin was creamy and her hair a dull red-blonde in the harsh light. She wore a semi-tailored suit of gray. It half suppressed an obviously good figure. And that, Clane thought, was a shame.

“I'm Edith Morgan,” she said. She had green eyes and she looked directly into Clane's face. Candor overdone, was his first impression.

“You're not Bob Morgan's mother?” he said without smiling. He rose. “Have my chair.”

“I'll share it with you,” she said. She had a nice voice, a little soft for the crispness she tried to put into it, but nice. She sat on the edge of the cot. Clane liked that about her. He took out his packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She shook her head and smiled a little when he discovered the package was empty. She opened her purse and handed him two full packs. “I brought these,” she said.

“Why?” He took them.

“Because Bob—he's my brother—said to.”

She was very pretty, Clane thought. Even in a suit she was pretty. Her mouth was too small, her nose a little too short. Her cheekbones were higher than they should be for beauty, but the ensemble pleased him. Except that she looked too guileless.

“Tell Bob to hold the gas for me,” Clane said. He watched her with his dark eyes slightly closed. “Maybe Thorne sent you?”

“No,” she said.

“Your brother?” he asked. “I hardly know him.”

“No,” she said again. “I'm here on my own. I want to know just why you're trying to ruin Dad's chances in the election.”

“I'm not ruining them,” Clane said. “I'm going to elect him.”

Her eyes widened and then she laughed. A soft laugh, one to humor a child. “Thank you,” she said.

Clane was annoyed with her. Partly because obviously she regarded him as either a fool or crazy, and partly because she had played the fool herself in coming there. He did not want himself to appear to be connected with the Morgan family. It would give the opposition too much to go on. Clane wondered if he could make her angry as he had the mayor. He knew a policeman was outside, listening.

Clane said, “I'm telling the truth, Miss Morgan. I'll tell you about it over cocktails when I get out.”

“You make your dates a long time in advance,” she said. She sat straighter. “Now, just why did you make that preposterous statement about Ed Thorne?”

“I'll have to give you the same answers I would to the reporters or anyone else,” Clane said. “Ask Ed Thorne.” He saw her cheeks redden and he said bluntly, “And thanks for the cigarettes.”

She stood up quickly. Clane congratulated himself. In her anger she looked less softly feminine and more in keeping with the suit she wore. “I think my brother misjudged you, Mr. Clane.”

He let her go without answering. He listened to her footsteps on the hard corridor floor, annoyed because she had linked him with Bob Morgan in a definite manner. He wondered what she was doing in politics. She hardly looked the capable type. But he had been fooled before.

His third visitor moved into the cell and seemed to fill it. Clane had been relaxing and now he sat up and watched the man from sleepy eyes. He kept his indifferent look but inside he was tightening up. This was it, he thought; it couldn't be anything else.

The man was big all over, heavy in girth and tall, filled out. He was smooth-faced with a hawk-like nose and a mouth thinner than Clane's. He wore expensive clothes without shouting about it. There was a big diamond on the middle finger of his right hand. Clane estimated it to be about five carats. He carried a black homburg and an overcoat and he tossed them on the bunk beside Clane.

“Hello, Thorne,” Clane said. “I've been waiting a hell of a time.”

The big man kept his pale eyes on Clane. “I'm here now,” he said. “You'll have dinner at my place tonight, Clane, seven o'clock.

“Formal?” Clane asked. He brushed his hand over his wrinkled and soiled suit.

Thorne was casual. “Venchetti will take care of it.” He picked up his hat and coat and moved his bulk gently toward the door. “Seven o'clock.”

Clane lay back and smoked some more after Thorne had gone. He got up and blew smoke around the cell, trying to efface the effects of Thorne's heavy masculine cologne. Clane didn't like it. He didn't think he would like Ed Thorne too well.

The police sergeant who had been in the night before came to the cell. “All right, Clane,” he said disgustedly. “We could have saved our time.”

“And the taxpayers' money,” Clane said. He didn't move. “I want lunch first. I like the meals here.”

The sergeant's mildness went away for the first time. “You'll want hell,” he said. “Get out of here.”

At the desk Clane received his valuables. He was strapping on his wristwatch when he saw the same two reporters of the night before coming down the corridor. He picked his wallet up from the desk and looked inside. He said loudly, “Where's the thirty bucks I had in here?”

The sergeant said, “To hell with Thorne. Throw this guy out of here.”

Clane put on a fine show, making the most noise as he was hustled past the reporters. They had stopped and were watching the action. They turned and fell into line as he was shoved down the corridor. The older of the men helped Clane to his feet at the bottom of the outside steps.

“I make fine copy,” Clane said pointedly.

The younger man, who looked about fifty, said, “What's this about stolen money?”

Clane asked, “Which paper do you work for?”

“
Clarion
—evening. I'm Driggs.”

The older man looked more like a newspaperman; Clane caught a little cynicism in his eyes that the other man lacked. He said now, “I'm Watson.
Morning Call
. We work together.” He was half smiling at Clane.

“Who owns which paper?” Clane asked him.

“Wickett,” Watson said. “Both of them. He's the one who knocked you down at the riot.”

“It's a riot now, is it?” Clane said. “Any other papers in town?”

“No,” Driggs said impatiently. “What's this about stolen money, Clane?”