You Can't Kill a Corpse (7 page)

“Get out of here,” Clane said savagely.

Castle unlocked the door and went shakily into the hall. He shut the door behind him. Clane waited until he heard the distant sound of the freight elevator descending. He wondered if anyone ever used the front entrance to Thorne's hotel.

He took a drink before he left the room. J. B. Castle made him sick. He wondered whether he had been taken for five dollars or whether affidavits would come to him tomorrow. And then he wondered how long Castle would live if someone found he was peddling information. And just how long would Jim Clane walk around after it was discovered whom Castle had sold to?

That was a pleasant thought. Clane picked up the leather toilet case, his bag, and started out. This time he made it. He went out the back way as the elevator boy had suggested, taking the freight elevator to the main floor and going into the alley. At the side entrance of the hotel he found a cab.

To the driver he said, “Who you voting for?”

The man glanced back at him. “Thorne.”

“He isn't running.”

“Okay,” the driver said. “A rose by any other name—Shakespeare.”

Clane relaxed. “Drive to the depot,” he said. He was pleased with Dunlop. It was full of people he felt he knew. The kind he had always depended on for the small things in his jobs. Most towns of that size were as barren of these people as they were of thoughts. He switched on the dome light of the cab and looked at the driver's license which was posted on the back of the seat.

The photo of a flat-nosed, wide-mouthed man stared at Clane. Beneath it was the driver's number and his name, “Anton Kravitky.”

Clane said, “Is this your picture?”

The driver pulled into a loading zone at the depot and then turned around in the seat. “Don't it look like me?”

Clane had to admit it did, down to a slightly punch-drunk air. He said, “Is that your station by the hotel?”

“Midnight on,” the driver said.

“I may have to remember that,” Clane told him. He climbed out of the cab. “Wait,” he said.

He went inside the depot, leaving his suitcase behind him. It was an old building, high-domed and filled with the ghostly light and emptiness only public building can have in the early hours of the morning. Clane felt conspicuous and that annoyed him. His footsteps made exaggeratedly hollow sounds on the stone flooring and he felt as if the few clerks, porters and janitors visible were all watching him.

He crossed the room to a bank of storage lockers. Dropping in a dime, he received a key from a slot. He opened the locker and put the leather case inside. Ten cents was cheap enough security for twenty-four hours, he thought. It was a simple ruse that any cop could catch. But he hoped that the cops weren't looking for ruses as yet. At least not from Clane. He went back to the cab.

He gave Ed Thorne's address to the driver and then settled back, lighting a cigarette. The driver whistled softly as he swung away from the curb.

“I hope you know what you're doing, bud,” he said. “Not even a voter should wake Thorne up at this time of day.”

Thorne's up,” Clane said. “I'm Clane. He's waiting for me.” He didn't say it because he wanted to glorify himself before Anton Kravitky but because he wanted to see how Kravitky reacted to having Clane as a passenger.

Clane was under no delusions as to his own prominence in Dunlop. The so-called riot was still fresh enough to make him news. Kravitky whistled again. “Boy,” he said. “I shoulda missed my sleep and seen Pryor's face. I shoulda seen it.”

“He turned pink,” Clane said. “So you liked that, huh?”

“Boy,” Kravitky said. “Lots of guys liked it. Thorne liked it, I'll bet.”

“He didn't squawk about it,” Clane said easily. The cab went around one of the hill's tight curbs and he was thrown against one side. He straightened with a grunt. “Take it easy,” he said.

“This ain't nothing,” the driver said. “You oughta see me come back down.” He wheeled the cab hard around a sharp turn and bounced it straight as it threatened to ride over on two wheels. “I'd know these streets blindfolded.”

Clane sighed. He wasn't in the mood to listen to a loquacious cab driver. And this one seemed to be on his way toward a harangue. Clane said, “I'll remember that.”

“On duty at midnight,” Kravitky said. “I'm off Mondays. You want to see the town, let me know.”

“Meaning Casey Street?” Clane asked. He braced himself and rode a third hard curve easily.

“Anything you want.” The cab pulled up sharply in front of Ed Thorne's mansion. “Up to the door?”

“I'll walk from the street,” Clane said. He clambered out, taking his suitcase. He gave the driver five dollars and waved aside the change. “See you,” he told him.

He walked jauntily, feeling pretty good. Cab drivers could be assets, he had found before. This one appeared to be no exception.

Thorne was waiting on the porch for Clane. They stepped inside together and walked a dimly lighted hallway to Thorne's study. The fireplace still had a bunring log in it and Thorne went up to warm his hands. He had a cigar in his teeth. Clane sniffed at it.

“Smells good,” he said.

“Fifty cents,” Thorne told him. “Here.”

Clane lit the cigar. He set it down. “Too strong for me. I'll stick to cigarettes.”

He was watching Thorne but the big man showed no particular interest. He was studying the fire and suddenly he swung on Clane. “I hired you because I figured I could trust you.”

“Mutual,” Clane said.

Thorne grunted at him. “Trust includes a lot of things, Clane. Among them not asking too many questions.”

Clane eased over to a bookcase and rested indolently against it. “Sure,” he said.

“Come on, then,” Thorne said abruptly. “Bring your suitcase.” He led the way through a side door and up a rear stairway to the second floor. He went down a long hall, past the broad front stairs, stopping before a door at the far end on the left side.

“My room is at the other end,” he said. “Natalie is across the hall from me. This is your room. Bath next to it. Got that?”

“What for?” Clane demanded. He felt annoyed at the sharp line of apprehension running down his back.

“I'm telling this,” Thorne said. He opened the door. A bed light was on. The bed was wide. Natalie Thorne lay under the covers on the near side. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at Clane.

Thorne said, “Clane, I want you to sleep here tonight.”

Natalie Thorne held her sleepy smile, but Clane could see that there was no heaviness to her eyes. In the low light they showed a deep, rich blue, and they were on him expectantly.

Clane said, “With all due respect to your wife, shove it, Thorne.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. He went down the hall, his suitcase in his hand, down the stairs he had come up, and back into Thorne's study. There he set down the suitcase and waited for Thorne to come.

He could hear Thorne's heavy tread, and in another moment Thorne came into the room. He scowled at Clane. Clane shook his head. Thorne shrugged. He sat down and faced Clane.

“So you have to know the answers first?”

“Thorne, maybe you don't like me. Maybe you regret the bargain. That's a swell way to get rid of me. Sucker Clane. He goes to bed with Ed Thorne's lovely wife. Anything to oblige a pal. In the morning Thorne comes into the room and finds them together. Everyone knows how he feels about his wife. What the hell? They don't blame him for shooting Clane. Especially Clane. Thorne almost deserves a medal.”

“You've got a good imagination,” Thorne said. “If I wanted to get rid of you I'd do it with a lot less trouble.”

“Probably,” Clane admitted. “You're pretty blunt. Anyway, you look blunt.”

“Thanks,” Thorne said. ‘Shall we have an academic discussion on it?

Clane said, “I have all night.”

“How much do you want?”

“I wouldn't touch the job.”

“Because I'm crazy about Natalie?”

“Mostly,” Clane admitted.

Thorne said, “My word would be worthless to the cops in a case like this. So would yours. So would Natalie's. But all three of them, and maybe a witness thrown in, could turn the trick.”

Clane was beginning to wake up. “Who needs the alibi?” he asked.

Thorne looked at him, his eyes shrewd through the cigar smoke. “Maybe you do, Clane.”

Clane thought it over. It was simple; it was neat. There was no way the cops could push him around if everyone stuck to his story. And there was nothing he needed quite so much as an alibi. The idea dangled like a juicy steak before the questing nose of a dog.

Clane said, “Thorne, what would you do if I had insomnia—Natalie too?”

Thorne's smile was narrow and mirthless. “Just what you figured I was planning to do.”

“What caliber gun do you use, Thorne?” Clane asked.

Thorne set down his wine glass. “I don't like that one, Clane.”

Clane said, “So? How did you know about the killing?”

“Those things get around,” Thorne said easily. His anger was gone and he was heavily amiable. “It was on the twelve o'clock newscast.”

Clane sat up, straighter. “What was said?”

“They played it up as suicide; no reason known as yet. What did you expect them to say?”

“Suicide?” Clane swallowed his sigh of relief. “Watson, then?”

“Are we talking about different murders?” Thorne's eyes were calculating.

“I thought it was suicide,” Clane dodged.

“Not Watson,” Thorne said. “I had him working for me too many years.”

Clane said, “And your wife needs an alibi?”

“Keep your mind to yourself, Clane,” Thorne said.

“I've changed my mind,” Clane said. “I'll take the job—gratis.”

“Go on up, then,” Thorne told him. He stayed in his chair, smoking. He watched Clane go to the door and then he said, “Clane, a healthy man is a man who gets his rest. Doctors have a lot to say for sleep, Clane.”

“Don't blame the silverware for letting a thief steal it,” Clane told him. He went on up the stairs.

Natalie Thorne was still awake, very much awake. She sat up, propping herself with pillows, and lit a cigarette. She watched Clane flip open his bag and take out his toilet goods. He went into the bathroom and lined them in the medicine chest. He came back and took out his pajamas, robe, and slippers.

She said, “That was a good act you put on.”

Clane put his finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the door. Emotion ran over her face and lingered in the blue eyes. She was scared of Thorne, Clane thought. He left her thinking about it and shut the bathroom door. When he came out he had his robe over his pajamas and his aged slippers on his feet. He carried his suit over his arm. He draped it neatly over a chair. Then he walked to the bed, went around to the far side, and flipped back the covers. Her pajamas were sheer. Clane shucked his robe and slipped into bed.

Natalie Thorne murmured, “Shall I turn out the light, Clane?”

“I sleep better in the dark,” he said. He lay on his back. The smoke from her cigarette was slightly perfumed. Clane yawned. He was tired until he ached. It hadn't hit him until he felt the mattress beneath him. He was tired and he was hungry.

Natalie stubbed out her cigarette and reached up to turn off the bedlight. Her nails, he saw, were a brilliant red. Then the darkness was heavy around them. He could hear her breathe and smell her subtle perfume. He was wishing there were easier ways to make a living. His kind of living.

“Clane?” Her voice was very soft.

Clane said, “What does Watson have to do with all this?”

“All what?” she asked. Her voice was a little louder and petulant.

Clane turned toward her. He put out one hand and caught the back of her head. He found her lips in the darkness. He kissed her hard and let loose abruptly. He turned on his back again. “With Wickett, with you and Thorne, with Morgan, with J. B. Castle.”

“You get around,” she whispered. “I liked that, Clane.”

“It was just to show you what I won't do,” he said. “Let's talk or let's get some sleep.”

“Don't be a fish, Clane.”

“Especially not a sucker.”

“I can cause you a lot of trouble, Clane,” she told him. Her voice was cold and flat and angry.

“Mutual,” Clane said. “By the way, who collects strip-tease photos in this town?”

Silence.

Clane said, “Shall we sleep, Natalie?”

“You bastard!”

Clane sighed in the darkness and turned with his back to her. He relaxed and went to sleep. His last conscious thought was that it had been one hell of a day. Much more that he had bargained for.

The sound of the door opening woke him up. He sat straight up, wide awake, and looked into the bright daylight coming into the room. Natalie lay asleep, one hand flung out, her head resting on her arm. Her blond hair was loose, harsh in the bright light. Clane let his eyes go toward the door.

It was Thorne; he wasn't alone. He was talking. Clane heard him say: “Clane has been here, Robert. Naturally I accepted him as my guest. Now …” Clane thought Thorne did a fine job of expressing surprise. But it wasn't amusing. The hardness that sat on his face was a little frightening. Nor did Clane appreciate Thorne's choice of witnesses.

Rober Morgan said, “I think we had better go, Thorne.”

Thorne let out a breath. “Natalie!”

“All right,” Clane said, “no one swiped your silverware. Morning, Morgan. Gentlemen, I'll see you at breakfast.” He slipped out of bed, got his robe and slippers, and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door on Thorne's booming demand that his wife awake.

Clane showered and shaved and dressed leisurely.

When he reached the dining room, Thorne was having coffee. Morgan was smoking a cigar that Clane eyed speculatively. Thorne looked amiable enough. Clane sat down.

The maid appeared and served him fruit juice, coffee, and toast, Clane said, “Got any doughnuts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“About a half-dozen and a couple of soft-boiled eggs. Nice and soft.”

Thorne said, “Clane, you're human.”

“Sure,” Clane agreed. He sipped the fruit juice. It was a canned mix and not very good. He finished it off in a gulp. “Lots of people are,” he said. He tried the coffee. It was fine.

“I should have told you,” Thorne went on, “Robert and I are both aware of Natalie's—er—shortcoming. You should have been warned.”

“As it was,” Clane added for him, “I wasn't warned and I am human. Has anyone a morning paper?”

Robert Morgan looked a little bewildered and, Clane thought, shocked. His thin lips were tightly compressed. He said, “Any particular news you want?”

“Just keeping up with the world,” Clane said. “That's a nice-smelling cigar, Morgan. Mind if 1 borrow one for after breakfast?” He saw Thorne's eye steadily on him. He kept on looking at Morgan.

Robert Morgan took a cigar from his pocket and passed it to Clane. There was no expression on his thin, cold face. Clane wondered if his daughter had carried the message.

Clane said, “What time is it?”

“Ten o'clock,” Thorne told him.

Clane nodded absently. His eggs came, and the doughnuts. He broke a doughnut in half and dipped one end into the egg. He ate with relish, quietly and steadily. When he was through the girl brought him more coffee. He relaxed and lit Morgan's cigar.

After two slow puffs he put it down. “Too strong for me,” he said. “I'll stick to cigarettes.” He caught Thorne staring at him again.

Thorne's deep voice dropped into the heavy quiet. “They found Wickett's body this morning.”

Clane looked up from his coffee cup. “You mean Watson? I thought they had him last night.”

“I mean Wickett,” Thorne said. “Anthony Wickett.”

“Did he kill himself too?” Clane asked.

Robert Morgan's thin face tautened and his voice came like cold rain over Clane. “There is no need to beat around the bush. This is a serious matter.”

Clane said, “Your integrity is unquestioned, Mr. Morgan?”

“Certainly.”

“Then,” Clane said, “you know where I was last night. I could have had nothing to do with Wickett. He socked me. I wish I could have repaid him. Unfortunately, you can't kill a corpse, so Mr. Wickett remains unsocked. Mrs. Thorne's nymphomania is providence. An indisputable alibi—for Clane.”

Thorne worked his mouth. “Clane, you're through. Our deal is off!”

“No,” Clane said, “not until this is settled.” He looked briefly at Thorne and then turned to Morgan. “Why don't you have someone give you a cigar case for Christmas, Morgan? Then you won't crush your stogies.”

Clane saw a flicker of emotion in Morgan's eyes. Clane was surprised.

Before Morgan could answer the maid came quickly into the room. Clane saw that she was trembling slightly, as if she were suppressing excitement.

“Mr. Thorne, the reporters and some policemen are coming up the walk!”

Clane stood up. “I'll blow,” he said. “And don't try to back out on me, Thorne.”

“No,” Thorne said. He drummed his fingertips on the table meditatively. “I'll take care of it, Betty,” he said in a calm voice. “You get Mr. Clane's suitcase down.”

The girl hurried out, moving jerkily. Clane wondered why she was excited.