You Can't Kill a Corpse

Louis Trimble

• Editorial: Prologue Books
• Año: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781440541957
• Categoría: Littérature
• Categoría: Littérature policière et sur le mystère

Jim Clane, arriving in Dunlop to clean up the town, found it teeming with crime, vice and political corruption. Clane started by instigating a near-riot at a political meeting, thus at once getting in the bad graces of both the machine mayor and Wickett, the powerful newspaper publisher who backed him. Then one of the publisher's reporters died, and after that Wickett himself was murdered. And Clane's alibi—that he'd been with the nymphomaniac wife of the jealous city boss—was guaranteed to pack almost as much danger as a murder charge!A fast, tough, suspenseful baffler by a justly popular author.

EIGHT

Clane sat down on the bed and looked at her without expression. He said again, “That’s a .32, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Her voice was cold and angry and her mouth was set in a harsh line. Clane thought she would be better-looking if she smiled more often.

“I came here because you threatened my father,” she burst out. “I want to know why.”

Clane said, “You know why I had you come here.” She held the gun stiffly in front of her. Clane hoped she wouldn’t start shaking and squeeze the trigger accidentally. “You shoot me and there will be a hell of a mess,” he added.

“If I don’t shoot you,” she said amazingly, “I won’t have any peace of mind.”

Clane got off the bed. “Have some bourbon; some straight bourbon.”

Edith Morgan looked steadily at him while he walked to the dresser and took the bottle from the top drawer. He poured one drink in the bathroom glass and another in the deep cap of the bottle. He walked toward her, extending the glass.

“You have a lot of nerve,” she said.

“Admitted,” Clane said easily. He had both hands full. In one motion he downed his drink, set hers on the arm of her chair, and took the gun from her hand. For only an instant did her fingers tighten on the gun butt. Then she let loose. “Drink up,” Clane said. He took the gun and went back to the bed.

He looked down at the little gun. “You messed hell out of the fingerprints, if any,” he said.

She held the liquor glass in her hand. She was shaking a little now and whiskey bobbed unevenly. Clane thought she looked as if she might cry. “Drink it,” he said gently.

“I—I don’t drink.”

“You do this one.” He got up again. “Take your medicine for papa.” She looked at him, her mouth set in a straight harsh line he disliked. She set the glass back on the arm of the chair. Clane turned and tossed the .32 on the bed, then went up to her. She half rose from the chair and then settled back. Her eyes showed him she was half frightened, half angry. Clane took the glass in one hand and her nose in the other. She gasped and made a grab for his wrist. Clane tossed the whiskey into her open mouth, put his thumb to her chin and snapped her jaws shut. Her fingernails dug into his wrist and she jerked her body sideways convulsively. When she began to cough he released her.

She choked and gagged and finally wiped her eyes. Clane waited. She looked at him, flushed and angry. She said, “Now that you’re through being masterful you can tell me why you ordered me here.”

“I want to know if you killed Wickett,” Clane said. He drew a straight chair close and sat down. “I didn’t ask you in to make love to you.”

She went haughtily stiff and then relaxed, smiling at him. “You don’t flatter me, do you?”

It was bad coquetry. Clane ignored it. He said, “Did you kill Wickett?”

“No. Why should I?”

“The police will probably be asking that one,” he said. “Did your old man kill him?”

Her hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “No,” she said. “They’ll think he did but he didn’t! When he left Anthony was still alive!”

“And when you left?”

“When I left? I wasn’t at Anthony’s place!”

“But you know he was killed? Your father told you, I suppose. Only he left before Wickett died. Don’t waste my time, Miss Morgan. You were seen at Wickett’s.”

“By whom?”

Clane said, “That is my business.”

“I was not there!”

Clane shrugged and stood up. He went to the bed and picked up the gun, holding it in his hand so she could see it. “This,” he said, “is the same caliber gun that killed Wickett. It may be the same caliber gun that killed Blake Watson. It’s probably the same caliber gun that will hang someone.” He glanced down at it. “There is still a serial number on it. It can be traced to the owner.” His eyes met hers until she dropped her gaze. “There are a lot of things, Miss Morgan, that spell trouble for your family. A gun, a body—two bodies.

“You’re asking Pryor to put his wolves onto you.”

“As long as we’re innocent,” she began, “there won’t be …”

“Can it!” Clane snorted. “My God, haven’t you got over what you were taught in school yet? Innocent! What has that to do with it? This is murder. This is politics. Your father was at Wickett’s office today. He was at his home tonight. You were at his home tonight.”

“And so, Mr. Clane,” she said with heavy sweetness, “were you.”

“Thank God I was,” he said.

She stood up. “If you’ve finished, I’ll go home.”

Clane was forced to admire her nerve. She was a lousy actress but she was sticking to her role. He hoped she could beat out the cops. He said, “I was hired to do a job. I’ll do it, Miss Morgan. In spite of you. I’d like your help, but …”

“Don’t humble yourself,” she said calmly. She walked past him to the door.

Clane grinned. It tickled him, that crack. He reached the door ahead of her. “How did you get in here?”

“A pass key,” she said “Hotel locks aren’t difficult.”

“Try to go out without being seen. And take a message for me, will you?”

“A message?”

“Tell your father I’ll trade him a cigar case for one of his cigars.”

Clane closed the door gently on her sheet-white face. He went back and sat on the bed.

He was drinking another burbon and smoking sourly when the knock came on the door. He rose. “Yeah?”

“Message, Mr. Clane.”

“Come again,” Clane said.

“All right, call the desk and ask them.”

Clane opened the door. He had one hand on the doorknob and the other cocked into a fist. When he saw the elevator boy who had brought him up he dropped his arm. “Come on in.”

The boy stepped in cautiously. “The dame gone?”

“Maybe you earn big tips that way,” Clane said.

The boy grinned at him. “Thorne’s orders. This message is strictly private.”

“I was waiting for it,” Clane said. “Paul Grando seemed to have scared your clerk.”

“Thorne doesn’t tell his business in front of Grando.”

“All right, the message?”

“Call Thorne,” the boy said. “Call Dunlop 4432.”

Clane waited until the sound of the elevator descending told him the boy was gone. He picked up the phone and put in the call. Thorne’s heavy voice answered, “Thorne talking.”

Clane said, “Calling Dunlop 4432 on order. What the hell?”

“This is my private line,” Thorne said. “What held you up?”

“Bodies,” Clane told him. “I’m in the moving business. Any excitement yet?”

“About what?”

Clane wondered if Thorne was playing dumb or if he actually was dumb. “What’s this call for?” he demanded.

“Clane,” Thorne said heavily, “I want you to spend the night here.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Clane said. “What night?”

“Now. Come on. Take a cab. Bring your overnight bag with you.”

Clane thought, “Thorne is just playing dumb.” He said, “Give me ten minutes.”

He hung up, took another quick drink and went to work. He packed his one suitcase with pajamas, toothbrush, and razor. He emptied his leather toilet kit of everything and into it he put the cigar case, clippings, the two fifty-dollar bills, the .32, and the frank photo of Natalie. He snapped the case shut and put it under his arm.

He was nearly to the door when there was a soft, rapid knock. Clane stepped closer. “Yeah?”

“I want to talk to you,” a voice said. There was the suggestion of a whine in it. “This is important.”

“So am I—to Clane,” Clane muttered. “Fat chance,” he said aloud.

“May name’s Castle,” the voice continued. “J. B. Castle. Lemme in.”

Clane pursed his lips in a silent whistle. He stepped behind the door, putting his hand on the .25 in his coat pocket. With the other hand he reached out and turned the key. “Walk in,” he said. “Hands high.”

The door came open and a man shuffled into the room. His ...