You Can't Kill a Corpse (11 page)

Forty minutes later Clane leaned back in his chair and sighed softly. He was pouring a teaspoonful of brandy into his coffee in an indolent, well-fed fashion when he saw Natalie's features freeze and then relax. The hardness stayed on the surface of her eyes. Clane turned his head to see for himself.

Paul Grando was coming across the room. He nodded now and then to various tables. Clane took his first long look at Grando. He was a smallish man, olive-skinned and slender. His hair was tight to his head and shone with a polished gleam. His thin black-and-gray line of mustache looked as if it might be waxed. Clane thought it probably was.

Clane laid down the cigar and let it go out. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of his coffee. In a low voice he asked Natalie, “What does he do, scare women and kids?”

“Among other things,” she said. “He makes a very good living out of it.”

“How much can he get away with in Dunlop?”

“Everything,” she said. “He has—he does.”

“Was that his bright idea—leaving posed pictures of you about?”

She looked up at that, quickly. “Damn you,” she said. “That's twice you've made a crack about me and pictures.”

“I have a nasty mind,” Clane said. “I collect them. How many have you got lying around loose?”

“None—that were posed.”

“You mean recently.”

“All right. I made a fool of myself. I laid myself open to it,” she said viciously. “I pay for it—through the nose. Why should it worry you?”

“No one can make you pay for a thing like that. It could have been done in your own bedroom.”

“The furnishings aren't my bedroom,” she said.

“Maybe the cute little picture snapper dubbed in the background.”

“Don't you think I tried to use that argument?” she snapped.

“Maybe it was an old photo—when you were in show business.”

“I didn't look that way then,” she said. Her eyes were still weighted with fear when she looked at him. “Don't be so damned noble,” she told him. “I know what you're after. And you don't get the information.”

“What do I get?” he asked. He set down the empty coffee cup. “Wickett's murderer?”

“No,” she said. “I think I was wrong. I've changed my mind. I made a bum guess.”

“You're a bum liar, too,” he said. “Meaning you guess Grando.”

She pushed back her chair. “Let's get out of here,” she said savagely. “I'm tired of this place. I want something to drink—and lots of it.” For a moment the coquettishness came back to her features. “Get me stinko, Clane.”

“Sure,” Clane said. “Thanks for the steaks.” He pushed the check at her. “Your husband is paying my expenses. Just charge it to him.”

She took the check, turned her back on him, and let him follow her to the cashier and then outside. Clane chuckled as they walked to the car. He was full, he was pleased. Natalie Thorne had ideas as to Wickett's murderer. Paul Grando was steamed up enough about something to play the heavy gangster. And Clane's brain was beginning to click again.

In the car she said, “Where'll we go?”

“Speaking again? How about my room? I'll get a bottle and you can get as drunk as you like.”

“In Ed's hotel? Try again.”

“All right,” Clane said. “You must keep a suite in the joint. We'll go there.”

“And have Ed drop in, I suppose.”

“Where is he?”

“With Morgan, trying to patch up a few fancy holes in the campaign.”

“I'll phone him,” Clane said. “Then he won't bother us. When I get through talking he'll stay up all night with Morgan.”

“Good, aren't you?” she asked. “All right. You go in, go up to your room and down the back way. Our suite is on three. Bring the bottle.”

“Two bottles,” Clane said. “Get rolling.”

• • •

Clane found Natalie Thorne in her suite and already on her way to finishing a half-pint. He tossed his own two bottles on the bed. She was propped there on pillows, drinking whiskey neat from a glass. She smiled up at him.

“Sit down, darling.”

Clane said, “There's a living room to this suite. Let's try that.”

Natalie's smile was meant to be enigmatic, but Clane got it. He shook his head. “Let's talk,” he said.

She pointed a finger at the half-pint. “Straight bourbon.”

“Sure,” he agreed. He looked around and located a glass. He poured two fingers into it and that killed the bottle. Natalie pouted and Clane pointed to one of the pints he had brought. He let her open it herself.

She managed it and took a big swallow, not bothering with the glass.

“I need this,” she said. “I have to let off steam. Help me let off steam, Clane.”

“Let's talk,” Clane repeated.

With the suddenness of a drunk her smile faded and she stared at him with hot anger. “I'll talk when you stop messing with that Morgan girl. Be your age, Clane.”

“Mutual,” Clane grunted. “What am I supposed to have done to her?”

“Don't think I don't know what you do and where you go,” she said. Her lips were set tight and hard. She leaned forward so that her head was on a level with his belt. She reached up and grabbed him by the coat lapel. She jerked him down. Clane was taken off guard and he went forward. She put her mouth against his while he was off balance. When he righted himself he pushed her away. She clawed at his face with a hooked hand. Clane ducked. He pulled back his arm and slapped her across the face.

The sound of it was loud. She fell back against the pillows, her fingers pressed to the red mark on her cheek. She started in calling him names. Clane listened, half angry, half awed. She had an astonishing vocabulary.

When she was through he said, “This isn't getting us any place. Now start the talk or I'll take my business some place else.”

“All right,” she said viciously, “I'll tell you. And then I'll go out and tell the world. I'll spread it all over Anthony's papers and all over this precious town. Bob Morgan killed Anthony Wickett!”

“Junior or Senior?” Clane asked calmly.

Her eyes were hot, staring at him. “Junior,” she said. She laughed, and the sound sent a cold line up Clane's back. “Little Bob Morgan—brother of your precious Edith.”

Clane hadn't thought of that one before and it took him a minute to get oriented. He said, “You seem to have a grudge against Edith Morgan.” He took time to light a cigarette. “And any time you could get people to believe an eighteen-year-old kid killed Wickett—hell, he wasn't even anxious to have his old man elected.” He grinned mockingly at her. “Besides, Ed would kill you for opening your mouth that way.”

“Would he?” she sneered. “You don't know Ed Thorne.”

“He may be nuts about you,” Clane pointed out, “but he's got himself tied up in this election.”

“You don't know Ed Thorne,” she repeated.

Clane reached down and grabbed her shoulders. “Damn it,” he said, “what do you mean by that?”

“Figure it out,” she said. “You're the smart boy in this town. Earn your dough, Clane.”

Clane shook her until her head snapped forward and then back, against the headboard of the bed. She was drunk enough to take it laughing, implying that he couldn't hand it out any too tough to suit her. And then in the next minute she stopped laughing and brought one hand up. She hooked it into his hair and jerked him sidewise.

Clane let loose and backed off. It was either that, he thought, or maul her around. He said, “Is Thorne double-crossing Morgan?”

“Ed's no heel,” she retorted. She was panting now. She made it good so Clane could admire her breathing.

He said disgustedly, “All right. You told me who killed Wickett. Now tell me why.”

“Ask Bob Morgan,” she said. “Or better still, get into his rooms sometime and look through his stuff. He's quite a lad.” She smiled coldly at Clane. “He lives over the double garage at his home. Fixed himself a regular den up there.”

“You've been there,” Clane said. He didn't like it so well but it was worth knowing.

She continued to smile. Clane thought, “That damned fool kid!”

Clane said, “You get along pretty well with Grando, don't you?”

The change of pace didn't seem to bother her. She reached for the bottle and poured whiskey into a glass. Then she looked up with confident assurance. “All men like me, Clane.”

“Most men,” Clane amended.

She drained the whiskey and threw the glass at him. “Get the hell out of here, you cheap bum!” Her voice was shrill, harsh, and the assurance was gone. “No lousy snooper can insult me!”

Clane was rubbing his cheek where the glass had grazed it. He said, “I'm no snooper, and I wasn't insulting you. I just want you to know where we stand.”

“Okay, ice-cake,” she jeered. “Still get out.”

“I don't feel like it,” Clane said. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked her over calmly.

She reached for the telephone. Clane put out one hand and grabbed her wrist. She said, “I'll call the desk and have you thrown out. I'll call Ed and have you cut in pieces.”

“You'll call Grando and have me rubbed out,” he mocked. “You'll call Mullen and have me pinched. For God's sake, have some sense.” He stood up. “Call all you damned please. I'm going to put the bee on your doting husband.”

“About what?” She evidently had forgotten about the telephone. She leaned against the pillows and rubbed her wrist.

Clane turned toward the door. “To ask him if Bob Morgan killed Wickett. Maybe he's been in the kid's room, too. And to ask him what you meant by that crack about my not knowing Thorne.” He kept on walking.

He expected almost anything, but not the explosion that came. He was nearly through the living room of the suite when Natalie came running from the bedroom. She threw herself in front of the door. Clane reached for the knob and she put her hands on his shoulders. He thought for a minute that she was going to be sick. Her face had turned a deathly white against which the smear of red lipstick looked like a line of fresh blood. Her pale eyes were wide in terror; her whole body shook.

“God Almighty!” she moaned. “Clane, are you trying to kill me?”

“I thought you were drunk,” Clane said. He kept his hand on the doorknob. He didn't look at her.

“Please, Clane!” He could see that her terror was real. He took her shoulders and pulled her away from the door. She grabbed his arm and hung on to him. “Damn it, Clane, have a heart. Clane, he'll kill me!”

“I'll remember that,” Clane said. “If you turn your toes up, I'll tell Mullen who to pinch for it. Let go my arm; you're wrinkling my suit.”

She loosened her hold on him. When he looked at her the fear had been replaced by cold, rigid anger. She said, “You step out of here to take that crap to Ed and I'll have you dead before you go two blocks.”

Clane said, “Boo! So you're over your scare?” He relaxed, leaning against the door. “Maybe we can make a trade. You talk; I'll keep shut.”

“I don't know any more than I told you,” she said sullenly.

Clane took a chance on another bluff. “You answer me one question straight and we'll call it square. Otherwise I'm off to see your precious Ed.”

“What's the question?”

“Is it a trade?”

“What's the question?”

Clane said, “Were you at Wickett's last night?”

“You go to hell,” she said levelly. She was sullen now, standing stiff, without posing. Clane could see the signs of her age showing in her cheeks and neck and around her eyes. She was tired and she wasn't holding up under it.

Clane opened the door and went out. He was tired, too. The feeling hit him as he waited by the elevator. It came over him, cracking against his skull. The ruckus with Natalie had been too noisy, too crummy to take. The results he was getting weren't enough to give him a lift. He felt lousy, done in. He wished he had never hit Dunlop, had never got that letter bringing him there.

“You're a liar, Clane,” he told himself. “You wouldn't kiss this good-bye for an extra five thousand bucks.”

He pushed the elevator button again and at that instant the doors opened. He got in and gave his floor. He said, “Are those cops still in my room?”

“No,” the kid said. “They pulled out. They took the stiff, too.”

“Fine,” Clane said, “and did the management decide to change me or do I sleep where the body hung out?”

“You can get another room if you ask,” the boy said cheerfully. “We ain't quite full.”

Clane sighed. “Send a bellboy up then with a new key. And who was on duty at four this afternoon?”

“I was,” the boy said. “Three to eleven every day.”

“Did you bring Castle up to my room?”

“I brought nobody to your room,” the kid said.

“Do you know the dead man?”

“Sure, Castle.”

“Did you bring him up at all today?”

“No,” the boy said, “but the morning kid did. At one o'clock.” He stopped the elevator and opened the doors. He grinned in a friendly fashion. “He's been questioned by the cops. Important as hell.”

Clane kept himself half in the elevator so the boy wouldn't run off with it. “When was this?”

“A couple hours ago. They hauled Jack in and grilled him. Boy!”

Clane snorted. “Yeah, they probably used a rubber hose on him. Where is he now?”

“Downstairs, shooting off his face.”

Clane said, “Send him up with the key. Here's a buck. Tell him there's a little something up here for him.”

“A lousy buck,” the kid said, looking at the bill.

Clane stepped out of the elevator. “On your way—or do I hammer you down to the lobby?”