You Can't Kill a Corpse (3 page)

Watson gave him a disgusted look and then grinned. Clane said, “Don't you guys ever eat? It's past noon, isn't it?”

“All right,” Watson said. “You cover for a while, Driggs. I'll feed Clane. On the
Call
,” he added.

Driggs went off. Looking relieved, Clane thought. He said to Watson, “What kind of a newspaperman is that guy?”

“A Wickett man,” Watson said. “He writes nice words. If he made nice figures he would be a bookkeeper.”

“Let's eat where we can have a beer,” Clane said. They started walking down Main. “You weren't trained on Wickett's sheets?” Clane asked.

“I worked for the opposition when his old man was alive,” Watson said. “When he died Wickett bought up the opposition. I went with it.”

“Who ran that paper?”

“Thorne owned it. A man named Castle managed it. He's slipped since then.” Clane sensed bitterness in Watson's voice.

“I'd make a good reporter,” Clane said. “I've got all the answers now. How does it feel to be interviewed?”

“I'm trading,” Watson said. “And I'm finding out what you don't know.” His grin was humorless. “I'm an old workhorse, Clane, and damned near sixty. You don't run rings around me.”

“We might play together,” Clane said.

They went into a restaurant on Main Street a half-block toward Bob Morgan's Super-Service from First Street. It was a small place, cool and dim inside. They sat in an isolated booth.

Watson said to the girl who came up, “This is the infamous Clane, Nettie. He wants a beer.”

“And a hamburger steak with onions, well done, and a half dozen doughnuts and coffee,” Clane said.

The girl blinked and look at Watson. “Yours, Blake?”

“I ate,” Watson said. “No, make it beer. Wickett won't be smelling my breath today.”

Clane watched the girl move off. Then he looked again at Watson. He was a thick-set man, his gray hair thinning. His face was beginning to sag at the jowls with the weight of his age. His pale eyes kept bothering Clane because of the way he kept sliding them to one side as he talked. He was well dressed in a conservative gray business suit. An incongruous note was the leather camera case slung by a strap from his shoulder. Clane presumed it held a camera.

Watson touched the case with his fingers. “How about a picture in exchange for the lunch?”

“After I eat.”

“Naturally. Now, what's the racket, Clane?”

“I want to eat in peace,” Clane told him.

He drank his beer, letting the first few sips take the dryness out of his throat, and then finishing the glass at a gulp. He was silent until he was well into his second cup of coffee. “I like to eat,” he said then. “I like my meals regularly. Does that explain anything?”

“For a guy with thirty dollars when he hit town—no,” Watson said dryly.

“All right,” Clane said, “then quote me this way: Mayor Pryor is through in Dunlop. Twenty years of a grafting administration is more than enough. It is about time that the people had a competent mayor who can organize a civic group in line with other fine cities of the country. Dunlop is known as the political sinkhole of the Middle West. We must follow the lead of Kansas City, Terre Haute, Milwaukee, and other reformed metropolises and provide our future generations with a clean city to live in.” He swung his arm wide and struck a pose. “You take it from there, Watson.”

“Wickett would kill every line of that crap,” Watson said. “Damn it.”

“Basically it's true, isn't it?”

Watson shrugged. “Where were you raised, Clane?”

“My father parked me in the cloakroom of Tammany Hall until I was big enough to sit in myself,” Clane said.

“That explains it,” Watson said. “I'll make a story out of this.” He waited until Clane had drained his coffee cup. Then he said, “Ready for that picture?”

“Any time,” Clane said. He followed Watson to his feet and outside. Watson wasted no time. He squinted at the bright sun, moved Clane to a position, stepped back and unlimbered his camera. Before Clane could note that it was a nice Leica, Watson had taken three shots, moving expertly between each one.

“You're good at it,” Clane said.

“It's a sideline,” Watson said. “It means extra money.”

Clane thought he was probably a man who needed extra money now and then. For all of the conservativeness of his clothing Watson didn't give the impression of a man who had netted himself a comfortable bank account against the future. There was a restlessness in his movement and in his speech.

Watson said, “Where are you headed?” He was fitting the camera back into its case.

Clane said, “Thanks for the lunch. Right now I'm going to see Wickett and ask him for a job.”

Clane found the
Clarion-Call
building the highest and most imposing in town. The lobby was so ornate he had difficulty in finding the directory. When he did locate it he saw that the editorial offices of the
Clarion
were on the tenth floor, those of the
Call
on the twelfth, and the office of Anthony Wickett, publisher, on the eleventh. The top floor, he noticed, was occupied by the Wickett Broadcasting Company.

“Which,” Clane muttered as he headed for the elevator, “neatly sews up public opinion for Mr. Wickett.” He was slightly surprised at Wickett's lack of modesty. Few men would have the nerve to wave their power so flagrantly in public. The least Wickett could have done, Clane thought, was to make a pretense of letting someone else own something.

Clane was let off at eleven. He scowled at the brunette receptionist tastefully decorating Anthony Wickett's modernistically ornate front office.

“Clane to see Wickett,” he said.

Her eyes widened, so he guessed she read the newspapers. He kept his scowl while she plugged in on the switchboard. “Mr. Clane to see Mr. Wickett,” she said. She looked at Clane and dropped he eyes. She added, “Perhaps you had better come out.”

“I won't bite him,” Clane said loudly.

The inner door opened while Clane was speaking and a man, walking stiffly erect, came into the reception room. He stared openly at Clane, and Clane returned the stare bluntly.

Clane noted a resemblance to someone he had seen. He caught it in the pale eyes, the blond hair turning gray, in the fullness of the lips set in a thin face.

Because the man looked so much like Bob and Edith Morgan, Clane said, “Did I interrupt you, Mr. Morgan?”

“I heard your voice,” the man said coldly. “I wanted to see this Clane for myself. I'll thank you,” he added, “to let me handle my campaign as I see fit. And to keep out of my affairs.”

“Advice received,” Clane said cheerfully. “Also given. My suggestion is that you see Wickett in the dark. Letting people know you're dealing with the enemy can raise a stink.”

Angry color touched Morgan's cheeks for an instant. He set his mouth in a firm line and strode wordlessly past Clane and out the door. Clane said, “Warm as an icebox! He'll freeze the votes out of them. What a babe in the woods.”

The inner door opened again and a stiff-backed, middle-aged woman with a prim, pulled back hairdo came into the room. She regarded Clane and his scowl coolly. “Mr. Wickett is busy. I'll make an appointment for you.”

Clane said gently, “You need a permanent and you'll be beautiful,” and walked past her before she could close her mouth. She found her voice and ran after him.

“Please!”

Clane closed the door just before she would have entered. He found there was still another door to go through. He skirted the desk and opened the door without ceremony.

Anthony Wickett was alone. He was scanning a newspaper whose damp ink was redolent in the room. He put down the paper when Clane shut the door hard. Then he stood up expectantly.

He was taller and thinner than Clane remembered from his last glimpse of the man. But on second look Clane noticed that the thinness was deceptive. Wickett had broad shoulders and long arms. His hands were big for a man with such delicate features. His eyes were nicely set and a rich brown. His nose was straight and fairly long and there was a neatly etched black line of moustache above his well molded lips. From the first scrutiny Clane knew that here was a suave ladies' man, but one with brains to back himself up.

The furniture in the room was in bleached maple, giving Clane the sensation of being in a bedroom. The rug on the floor was a soft, pale blue, thick and springy beneath his feet. All of the chairs were well upholstered and comfortable-looking. Clane raised his eyebrows at a long low divan along one wall, done in blue to complement the rug. He looked briefly at the handsome oils on the walls and wondered if Wickett's prim secretary was ever shocked at being in the same room with them.

Clane finished his survey of the room and nodded to Wickett. The publisher was rubbing his knuckles reflectively. Clane said, “I didn't come here to finish that, Wickett. You pack a punch for a man of your build.”

“Get to the point,” Wickett said.

“Don't be such a peremptory bastard,” Clane told him. “I'm news right now.” He sat down in a soft but not too deep chair. He took a cigarette from a box on the desk. “Sit down,” he suggested.

Wickett's smile was thin but it was there. He sat down and watched Clane carefully. The telephone buzzed and he reached for it. He listened a moment and then he said, “No, don't bother. He's all right. No, of course there is no trouble.” His voice had a slight edge to it.

Clane said, “Tell her that Thorne would spring me right away if she did call the cops.”

Wickett cradled the phone. “And you want what?”

“A job,” Clane said. He felt good. Things were looking up. He knew the type of people he was dealing with. So far his initial play had been very successful. He leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke. “I'm a handy man to have around, Wickett.”

“A newspaper job?” Wickett retained his composure.

“No,” Clane said. “Publicly I'm out to crucify your editorial opinions. And I don't work office hours. I want a private job.”

Wickett reached to the back of his desk and flipped open the lid of a carved wooden cigarette box. He selected a cigarette, making a ritual of it, and lit it carefully. “You want a private job from the man who knocked you down?” The idea put amusement in his voice.

“I took that chance,” Clane said pleasantly. He was feeling so well set up that he almost smiled at Wickett. Wickett did not smile.

“I would like to know your reasons for all of this.”

“Ed Thorne….” Clane began.

Wickett waved his hand. Clane shrugged and said, “Do you deny that this town is a political sewer?”

“I'd hardly admit it,” Wickett said.

Clane held up his right hand, his fingers extended. “Wide open gambling and prostitution. There are laws on the books against both of them. But you can find slot machines in the back room of every drugstore and every cigar clerk in town doubles as a bookie and a pimp.”

It was Wickett's turn to shrug. His handsome features had a hard set to them. “Isn't that our private business, Clane? The voters are the ones to remedy that.”

“The slaughtered lambs,” Clane said. “The voters put anti-vice laws on the books with the aid of the present administration, no doubt. That leaves an opportunity for graft. Legal vice reduces the cut the cops and the city officials get.” He waggled his head. “I'm no prude, Wickett. If people want to gamble and cat around that's their business. But things should be in the open and recognized for what they are.”

Wickett said, in a rough imitation of Robert Morgan's cold voice, “Taxes are being diverted from their rightful channels to enrich those in power.” He seemed amused again.

“I agree,” Clane said. “Taxes are supposed to be for the people's protection, not to injure them. Under the present set-up you have a heavy venereal disease rate, you have excessive slums, you have kids growing into delinquency because vice is easy to get at and it has the thrill of illegality.”

“You're quite a preacher, Clane.”

“No,” Clane said. “You asked me where I stood. I'm telling you. Your city is antiquated. You're a hangover from the days of Chicago and prohibition. The rest of this State is almost a decent place to live in.”

“Maybe we like being an anachronism.”

Clane stubbed out his cigarette and borrowed another one from Wickett's box. He could see the pattern of Wickett now. It was not a case of money. Wickett would have plenty. It was power. Other men cut throats for money so they could get the power. Wickett already had the money and he would cut throats to keep the power. He ruled the city's political clique. He had the power to turn them in whatever direction he wished. But he was suave and soft about it. Clane had more contempt for him than if he had been an uneducated hoodlum who had kicked himself to the top. Wickett didn't care how the other fifty thousand and two people of Dunlop lived as long as he could have thing his own way.

“I don't like you,” Clane said frankly. “I don't like your philosophy. But I still want that job.”

Wickett was unperturbed. He said, “I'll be home from ten to twelve tonight. Come through the French doors off the garden into my library.” He removed a fleck of tobacco from his tongue and turned his attention pointedly to the newspapers again.

Clane got to his feet. At the door he turned. “I prefer straight whiskey if you have it, Wickett. I don't like blended stuff.” He went through the door.

The secretary was stitting rigidly at her desk. Clane nodded amiably. “He's still in one piece. Don't forget that permanent.”

He offered another scowl to the receptionist on his way out.

In the lobby he located a phone booth and looked up Venchetti. He found it was a tailor shop half a block from Main on Second. He walked that way.

The heat was lessening as dark clouds scudded out of the north across the pale fall sky. Clane wondered if a storm would come and break the weather the right way. He liked his weather cool enough for a topcoat. And he liked a good howling wind with rain or snow on it. Something inside Clane found companionship in a storm. He crossed Main at the turn of the traffic light and went down Second.

It was a neighborhood of small shops. Venchetti's, he found, was half hidden by more imposing facades on either side of it. But inside, the silence, the thick carpet, and the quiet good taste of the surroundings impressed Clane.

A small thin man with nondescript graying hair came forward to meet him. Clane took in the dark face and eyes of the man. He said, “I'm Clane.”

“Venchetti,” the man said. “Ready made in the next room.”

Clane said, “Ready made, hell. I want something tailored. A brown, a blue, and a tuxedo.”

“You get one suit,” Venchetti said in a colorless voice. “Ready made. And fifty bucks.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “Is Thorne a sucker?”

Clane followed Venchetti through a wide opening into a side room. He looked sourly at the racks of ready made suits and then took the envelope. Opening it, he found a fifty-dollar bill. He put the bill in his wallet. “No sucker,” he said.

Venchetti said, “Pick out your suit.” He turned and walked away.

Clane glared after him and then, shrugging, turned again to the suits. He picked out a dull blue, an apathetic-looking business suit. The trousers were too short on the one he chose and the coat too large in the next size up. He combined two suits, found the fit as good as he could expect, and left the suit on. He walked back into the other room, carrying his old clothes.

“That's a hell of a choice,” Venchetti told him.

“I hide my light,” Clane said. “Now shoes, shirt, socks.”

“You got fifty dollars; spend some of it.”

“I still want those three suits,” Clane said.

“Hundred apiece.”

Clane said, “I'll come for a fitting before election.” He went out, carrying his old suit over his arm.

Back on Main, he looked for a shoe shop and a haberdashery. He found both nearby. When he was through buying he went into the rear of the haberdashery and changed his shirt and shoes. The old ones he handed to the salesman. “Which is Thorne's hotel?”

“Metropole,” the man answered.

“Send this stuff there. Jim Clane.”

“What room?”

“I don't know,” Clane said. “I haven't registered yet.”

He walked onto the street, feeling set up again. The suit fitted pretty well and his build and complexion did things for it that not even the color and style could squelch. He felt like whistling.

He stepped into a drugstore and telephoned the Metropole. “Jim Clane,” he said. “I want a room high up with bath. A package is coming for me. Accept it, will you?”

“Have you a reservation?” the clerk inquired.

“Didn't Thorne make one for me?”

“Oh, that Clane!”

Clane hung up, feeling better and better.