You Can't Kill a Corpse (9 page)

“Do all the women in this town take their clothes off?” he demanded.

She was flushing openly now. “Can't you see what a scandal sheet like that would do to Dad? she demanded. “Not only to his campaign but to his business. Anthony threatened me with that! I couldn't be sure he was bluffing.”

“He actually threatened to print this—privately, I suppose—and have it distributed?”

“Yes.” She set her lips and looked fully at him. “Those pictures! That is my face and—and head. But that is not my body.”

“I wouldn't know,” Clane murmured. He took a close, scrutinizing look. “No,” he said, “it isn't. It's what is know as a composite. I wish,” he added, “I had killed Wickett. Slowly.”

“Can't you see?” she pleaded. “After I left you I kept thinking and thinking about it. I didn't know where to turn. All I could see was that someone else had the original of this ghastly thing.”

“Presumably the murderer. You're sure it isn't your father?”

“No,” she said in a low voice, “I'm not sure.” She put her hand on his arm and clung tightly to him. “I'm not sure of anything any more. I'm too scared to think. This morning about four I got up and tried to call you. There was no answer. I was frantic. I woke up Bob. The poor kid. I kept him up, calling you.”

“I'm glad you did,” Clane said. “I was busy.”

“All night?”

Clane tapped the sheet in his lap. “I was in bed with the body part of these pictures, Edith.”

“Mr. Clane!”

“The name is Jim,” he said. “We're going to be familiar as hell from now on in. And if, in the future, you fall for me and get jealous, remember it was in a good cause.”

She said stiffly, “I'm not interested in your reasons—or in your private life.”

He said, “Nevertheless, remember this: you weren't up to see me last night. Not only for the sake of your reputation but because I have an alibi.”

“I'm not worried about my reputation, except that it might affect Dad.”

Noble, he thought. Nuts. He said, “Ed Thorne had me spend the night in bed with his charming wife. That established an alibi for both of us. In fact, he and your father walked in on us this morning. Thorne registered surprise. Your old man is too shrewd. He knew what was going on, but he'll play it our way.”

“Not if it means hiding a murderer!”

“Not if he knows it means that,” Clane corrected her.

She shook her head. “But Natalie Thorne. Why did she need an alibi?”

Clane tapped the pictures again. “This is her body, Edith. How did he get hold of such pictures? I'd swear it's her body.”

“You should know,” she said.

Clane laughed outright. He said, “Do you have any scissors in that handbag of yours?”

“Nail scissors.” She dug them out.

Clane clipped at the sheet she had given him. He took the central photograph and clipped it free, all but the head. He gave her back the scissors. “For comparative purposes only,” he said. “I'm not nasty-minded.” He took a match and held it to the rest of the sheet. It flamed up, burned quickly to ashes. Clane rubbed the ashes into the floormat of the car. The odor of burned film was strong.

“Now” he said, “start with last night and give me a detailed account. Don't leave out anything.”

“I told you Dad and I argued. Then he left the house after dinner. When he didn't come back I began to worry. I kept thinking of the way he had threatened Anthony that afternoon. I got my car and went up to Anthony's. That was sometime after ten. I parked around the corner. Dad's car was there. So I drove on by and parked under a tree. Just as I was leaving the car I saw Dad. He was walking fast. He got into his car and drove away. He drove faster than I had ever seen him.

“I was terribly frightened then. I sat in the car and smoked until I calmed down.”

“How long between the time you saw him and the time you got to Wickett's?”

“I smoked two cigarettes. Ten minutes. I had to walk through the rear way. Fifteen minutes altogether. I went in through the French doors, into his library.”

“Is that the way you always went?”

“Yes.” She flushed. “All right, I did go there often. I'm not very bright, am I?”

“You didn't say you hadn't before,” he told her. “You just implied you went infrequently.”

“I went about three times a week,” she admitted. “Whenever he called me. It was usually after eleven.”

“Always that late?”

“No, occasionally quite early. Between seven and eight or between eleven and twelve. I never stayed over an hour.”

“And you weren't seen any of these times?”

“I don't think so. Anthony didn't think so.”

“Go on.”

“I went in the library. Anthony was at his desk. I spoke to him and he didn't answer. I—I went up to the desk. He was dead.” She shuddered.

“You didn't hear any shot while you were going in?”

“No. The radio was on, not too loudly but not very soft. I turned it off. The noise made me nervous.”

Clane said, “A wonderful invention, the radio. Then what did you do?”

“I searched his desk,” she said. “I found what I was looking for in the bottom drawer.”

“You started at the bottom or the top?”

“At the top,” she said.

“And you didn't find any other pictures—like the ones on that sheet?”

“No,” she said. She looked at him, puzzled. “Should I have?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. Evidently, he thought, someone had put the picture of Natalie in after Edith Morgan left and before he arrived.

“Then,” she said, “I went to Blake Watson's. I left Anthony. I was scared for Dad. I—I saw Dad leaving Watson's. It was just like Anthony. Oh, it was horrible.” She was blinking now, fighting tears. Clane glowered at her to scare them back. She sniffled.

“I went into his place. He was dead. Just the same way.”

“And the gun? The .32 you threatened me with?”

“There was no gun,” she said. “I hurried home. I had to talk to Dad. I had to know what was happening.”

“And when you got home?”

“I came on Dad climbing the basement stairs. He was sick white. I made him lie down. I gave him a sedative and he went to sleep. Then I went into the basement to see why he had been there. I found the gun. It was back of some fruit jars. I took it.”

“My God, what a chase,” Clane said. “But why did you go to Watson's place?”

“His name was scrawled on a desk memo pad. The sheet with the writing on it had been torn off. But the imprint was still on the sheet below it.”

“And you assumed your father had torn off the top sheet and gone there?”

“Yes. And I talked to Dad this morning. We talked some of it over. I couldn't hold back any longer. He went to Watson's and found him dead.”

“Last night you told me your father left Wickett alive.”

“I was—I was defending him.”

Clane said, “This is a mess, Edith. Look. Your father goes to Wickett and argues with him. He runs out of the place scared to death. He walks up to Wickett's desk and takes a sheet of his memo paper with
Watson
written on it. He did this while Wickett was alive. At Watson's he finds the man dead and he takes the gun that killed him. You go into Wickett's place fifteen minutes after your father leaves and you find the man dead. You search the desk and in plain sight is the very thing you have wanted for so long. Only you don't find the original, just a copy. No sooner do you leave then I stumble into the place. I find Wickett dead and I search his desk. I found another picture in plain sight—only you seem to have missed it.

“Does it make sense that the murder went in after your father left and killed Wickett? That he took the original sheet and left the copy for you to find? Then he ran to Watson's and beat your father there so he could leave a dead man for your father to find. And then he ran back to Wickett's and put the photo I found in the desk—after you left and before I got there. Now what the hell?”

She turned her pale face away from him. “I don't know. It doesn't make much sense, does it? Unless—unless—”

“Unless your father killed them both,” he said brutally. “And unless he is the one with the original of that scandal sheet. That doesn't explain the photo I found nor your father's cigar case in Wickett's pocket. Unless you put those two items in to confuse things.”

“Why should I? Why should father keep that scandal sheet?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “Why was Blake Watson killed?”

“Because,” she said heatedly, “he deserved to be killed. He worked for Paul Grando.”

“Grando is the enemy?” Clane asked. “He's on the mayor's side of the fence?”

Some of the heat was out of her voice, and she shivered distastefully. “Paul Grando is mixed up in every filthy business in Dunlop.” She stopped and looked at Clane.

“And Watson was helping him?” Clane said. “Watson was part of this ‘filthy business'?”

“I don't know,” she said vaguely. “Except that he worked for Paul Grando. I'm sure of that.”

From there on she was even more vague. Clane could get no satisfaction beyond her statement that Watson worked for Grando in a supposedly secret capacity. When he pressed her as to her informant she hedged. Disgusted, Clane had her drive him to the nearest point where he could get a cab.

The last thing he said was, “Sit tight. If anything comes up keep in touch with me.”

He got into the cab and told the driver to take him to the Super-Service station.

He found Bob Morgan greasing a car. His face showed worry as he peered from under the car and waved a greasy hand. Clane said, “It's okay.”

“You gave her a break, Jim?”

Clane's smile was sour. “Did she need one?” He leaned against a truck tire propped alongside the station wall and lit a cigarette. “It's time you opened up about last night, Bob.”

“I told you,” Bob Morgan said. He was under the car he was greasing and his voice was muffled. Clane couldn't see his face.

“You told me you saw your dad and your sister. That's all you told me.”

Bob Morgan came out from under the car and turned his back to Clane. He was very busy putting another grease gun on his air hose. He said, “That's all I saw.”

“You don't know if Wickett was dead before or after your father showed up?”

“Dad didn't kill him. I'm sure now.” Clane waited and Bob Morgan went on, “Look, Jim, Dad and I have disagreed but I know him pretty well. He isn't that kind.”

“What kind?” Clane prodded him softly.

“The murdering kind!”

Clane said, “Keep the voters thinking that way, huh?”

Bob Morgan ducked quickly back under the car. “I'll help all I can, Jim.”

“As long as it doesn't cross up your own ideas, kid. Sure. I hope you wise up before it's too late.” Clane made his voice faintly indifferent.

“Aw hell! What else can I tell you?”

Cane said quietly, “How well did you know Natalie Thorne?”

“I know who she is, who she was, that's all.” One of Bob Morgan's greasy hands reached out from under the car and grasped the running board. He rocked the chassis a little. He swore softly, as if he were wholly occupied with his job of the moment.

Clane didn't say, “You're lying.” He straightened and dusted off the seat of his trousers. He did say, “She is Ed Thorne's wife; she was a chorus girl. Wasn't she?”

“She was high class,” Bob Morgan said, and Clane could sense the heat in his voice. “Or so I've been told,” he added more quietly. “Top notch stuff.”

“An artiste,” Clane said musingly. “The body beautiful and will the bald-headed gentlemen in the first row please remove their cigars….”

“This isn't solving a murder,” Bob Morgan said angrily.

Part of Clane's success was in knowing when and how to back down. He said apologetically, “Sorry. I'm too crude for most guys, I guess. And it isn't solving the murder.”

Bob Morgan was equally quick to apologize. “I didn't mean to blow up, Jim. Only this thing has me down. It's like …”

“Sure,” Clane said when he hesitated. “It's a tough racket for anyone.”

Bob Morgan's voice was cautious. “You think Mrs. Thorne is connected, Jim?”

Clane said indifferently, “I just play all the angles, Bob. Well, I'll see you.” He walked rapidly away and if Bob Morgan called to him he didn't hear it. He walked on to the hotel and got his car from the garage. He drove to the Hill, to Wickett's handsome house.

It was even more prepossessing by daylight than at night. In the clear fall weather the white brick looked clean and handsome. Almost chaste, Clane thought humorlessly. He speculated idly on what the house would look like if the exterior reflected the interior as some humans did. White brick turning blood red and the curtained windows having the blank stare of death. Clane cursed his imagination and climbed the front steps.

He rapped on the door. He looked at the black wreath hanging from the brass knocker, and he wondered what would happen to Wickett's apparently considerable estate. He rapped again, using his fist so as not to disturb the wreath. After some time he heard quick footsteps.

When the door opened Clane was facing a red-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, attractive enough in standard high school fashion. She had on a dark red, plain housedress and she wore no make-up. Her hair was quite dark and clustered in ringlets all over her head. The dress was cut without lines but it failed to hide an extremely mature figure.

“You're Mickey?” Clane smiled gently, in keeping with the wreath on the door.

“Yes, sir.” She was subdued and a bit puzzled.

“I'm a friend of Bob Morgan's,” Clane said. Hé gave her his name. “May I come in?”

The girl stood aside, wordless. Clane stepped in and removed his hat. He looked around. “You're staying until the estate is settled?”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated. She hesitated and then extended her hand for his hat. “Won't you sit down?”

Clane relinquished the hat. “Sit and wait for whom?”

She looked nervous; Clane decided that without red eyes she would be exceptionally attractive. She said, “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

“I do,” Clane said. “Or your mother.”

“She—the police asked her to headquarters.”

“I'll talk to you then,” Clane said. “What made you think I wanted to talk to you?”

“You're a detective, aren't you?” The girl's eyes were large and very dark. She fixed them questioningly on Clane and waited.

“No,” he said. “I'm just a busybody. I'm a pal of Bob's and he needs a lift. I'm trying to give him one.

The breath slid out of her in a long gust as if she had been storing it up since Clane had come. “He's in trouble?” Her eyes grew even wider and she put a hand quickly on Clane's arm and her lips worked as if she might cry. It was no act; he could tell that.

“Should he be?” Clane asked softly. He saw the fear film her eyes and rush the blood from her face, leaving her white and shaken. He said in a different voice, “Can we go in the kitchen? I haven't had anything to eat for quite a spell. Maybe I could bum you for a bite?”

Sympathy touched her. “Yes, of course.”

She led him down the hallway to the end and through a swinging door. The kitchen was white and big and shining. Clane sat at an enamel-topped work table and admired the deft way in which she corraled his request: coffee and doughnuts. He sat and smoked in silence until the coffee was made. She slid the doughnuts onto a plate and popped it in front of him. She poured one cup of coffee.

“I can't manage a whole pot,” Clane said. “Help me out.”

She got another cup and cream and sugar and sat down. When she had relaxed a little, Clane said, “I'll confess half the reason I'm here is to find if Bob was lying or not.”

The same terror flooded her again, leaving pallor around her lips and in her cheeks. Her eyes struggled to meet his and then she slid them away. “Lying about what?” she asked faintly.

He said, “Bob told me how cute you were. I had to find out.”

Her laugh was brittle and he could feel the gusty relief in it. “Bob is silly.”

Clane worked alternately on the coffee, the doughnuts, and the girl. By the time he was finishing his second cigarette he had her relaxed and without any sign of the fear of half an hour before.

“How much do you like Bob?” he asked.

“World,” she said. “I—he—well, we …”

“Sure,” Clane said. “It gets us all. Only you two are lucky to find it so young.”

She gave him a smile of understanding. Then she seemed reminded of the reason for Clane's coming and her smile faded. “Is Bob in trouble, really?”

“He's holding out,” Clane said bluntly. “He's trying to protect someone. If he doesn't tell the truth there'll be hell to pay.”

“You mean about last night?”

“Yes,” Clane said. “Last night—when he was here.”

She put her hands together and studied them, her head bowed. Clane waited, not urging her, letting her get at things in her own way. He was relieved to find her fairly level-headed and a good deal more mature than her age would indicate.

She said in a low voice, “I can trust you?”

“I'm Bob's friend; I'm yours too.”

Without raising her head, she said, “What did Bob tell you?”

Clane took a shot in the dark. “The story you two made up,” he said. “About you going to bed early.”

She looked at him then. “It wasn't early. It was after ten. We were in the small sitting room. It's just off the library.” She gestured vaguely. “Bob and I were sitting there, in the dark, and Mr. Wickett came home.”

“What time was this?” Clane wanted to know.

“It was after ten,” she said. “Ten-ten. I remember because I made Bob look at his watch. Mr. Wickett was very strict with me on school nights. He insisted I get to bed by ten.”

“I see,” Clane said. “And he went straight to his library.”

“Yes. I whispered to Bob to be awfully still. I didn't want to go to bed yet.”

“Wickett was alone?”

“Yes,” she said. She nodded for emphasis. “Because a few minutes afterward someone opened the French doors and came in. We could hear them moving around but we couldn't hear them talking. And—and that's when Bob started acting so funny.”

“Funny?”

“He got up and went to the door that goes into Mr. Wickett's library and bent down and looked through the keyhole. I tried to pull him away but he just pushed at me. After a minute he got up and pulled me through the room into the kitchen. We went through there to the back hall—that goes to the stairs that lead to Mother's and my rooms. Bob turned the light on and he seemed so—so sort of crazy. It scared me.”

“Do you know who it was with Wickett?”

“No,” the girl said. “I wish I did. But I don't.”

Clane lit a third cigarette and said, “How do you mean, Bob seemed sort of crazy?”

“His eyes were so wild like and he kept running his hands through his hair and he was all white and—well, scary. And he said the funniest things. He grabbed me and kissed me so hard it hurt.” She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing a little. “He said, ‘Do you love me?' and I said I did. And he said, ‘Don't ever try cheating on me, Mickey.' He looked so wild and he put his hands around my neck and squeezed, just a little. ‘Don't ever try cheating on me.' He said that twice. I was scared sick. Just sick.” She was shivering and wide-eyed again at the memory.

Clane nodded his sympathy. “Then what happened?” he asked.

“Then,” she said more calmly, “he told me to wait and he went back into the other room. He was gone, it seemed like hours. But it couldn't have been only a few minutes. And when he came back he didn't look wild any more, just scared like I was. While he was gone I heard the noise. I know now it was a shot.”

Clane hoped the police wouldn't get hold of the girl. And he hoped they would never find out what he thought was true. He could hear a smart D.A. taking Mickey and using her to put the noose around Bob Morgan's neck. Clane said, “What time was this?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “I know it was ten-thirty when I went upstairs. It wasn't much before then.”

“When Bob left you, did he say anything?”

“He said, ‘Mickey, you go to bed. If anyone ever asks you say you went to bed at ten o'clock. Say I left you at ten o'clock. You don't know anything. You don't know when Wickett came home.'”

She clasped her hands and looked down at them again. “He made me promise,” she said. “And I was so scared I said I would. But I had to tell you. I don't want Bob to get into trouble. I know he didn't do anything, Mr. Clane. I know he didn't.”

Clane said, “Sure now. We both know it. And call me Jim. We're pals, the three of us.” She looked up at him and he gave her a quiet grin. “Keep this under your curls, honey. If the police question you tell them you went to bed at ten.”

“I already did,” she said. “They didn't ask me very much. They're asking Mother about Mr. Wickett's past, I suppose.” She flushed a little and then smiled, softly.

“Did he have a past?” Clane demanded.

“Mother always threatened to take me away if Mr. Wickett didn't stop things.”

Clane stood up. “Forget it and relax, Mickey. Bob will be okay. And when this blows over we'll do the town, the three of us. Like that?”

“Oh, yes!”

Clane said, “I'll see you soon.” He went on out, not letting her follow. He was sweating a little by the time he had the car started. It had been rough seeing the fear for Bob Morgan in that girl's eyes. Clane knew pretty well that she believed Bob to be more deeply implicated than Clane thought him.

“Loyalty,” Clane said aloud. And she was loyal, he thought. She was sticking to Bob even though she suspected him. Clane wondered what he would do if he ever had a woman like that—one who didn't question his actions.

“Make a sucker out of her probably,” he decided.

He turned the car down the Hill. His watch announced that it was nearly four. And time to meet J. B. Castle.

The clerk at the desk told him there was a man waiting in his room. He had come in the back way but an elevator boy had spotted him. They had called the room and the man had said Mr. Clane had sent him up. Was that right?