You Can't Kill a Corpse (13 page)

After a moment, Clane said, “Apologize, hell! What do you want to know, Mullen?”

Lieutenant Mullen looked more wistful than ever. “You and the kid were thick, Clane. I thought you might want to help him.”

“Not when you've got him sewed in your clink,” Clane said. “Did you pin Castle on him, too?”

“That first,” Mullen said. “It led right to Wickett.”

“And to Watson, I suppose?”

“That was suicide,” Mullen said.

Clane deliberately dropped the second shoe. Then he stood up and went into the bathroom. He came back and got his pajamas and robe from the closet. He shut the door. In five minutes he was back, his suit over his arm. He hung it carefully in the closet, draping his tie over the coat-hanger that held his shirt. He shut the closet door and went back to the bed. He took a cigarette from a pack on the night stand. He lit and watched Mullen.

Mullen said, “I want the answer to one question, Clane.”

“Shoot.” Clane yawned widely and loudly.

“What did you find out at Wickett's today?”

“At Wickett's?”

“From Mickey—the maid.”

Clane said. “She told me she and Bob parked in the back sitting-room and necked—kid stuff. Then at ten he shooed her off to bed. One of Wickett's rules. He escorted her to her side of the house, said good night, and she went upstairs. She presumed he went home. Didn't he?”

“Did he?”

“That,” Clane said, “you'll have to get Bob to tell you. I don't know. Good night, Mullen.”

“By God,” Mullen said, “if …”

He stopped and looked wistful again. Clane said, “If—what?”

Mullen pulled a telegram out his pocket. “They delivered this tonight. I think it's yours.”

It had been opened. Clane looked at the slit envelope. “You louse.”

“At least I know where I stand. Hands off Clane.”

Clane read the telegram. “Keep your boys away at two tomorrow, Mullen. I don't want to be tailed.”

“I have that much sense,” Mullen said.

“And keep your yap shut.”

“I'm on your side of the fence,” Mullen told him. “But I don't like the way you work.”

Clane took the telegram to the bathroom, burned it, dropped it in the toilet and flushed the ashes down the sewer. He went back into the room. “When do you announce your pinch?”

“Not for a while,” Miullen said. “Partly because of his father and partly because he's a kid. We wouldn't want to be wrong.”

“Could you be?”

“Not in this case,” Mullen said cheerfully. “He confessed.”

Clane stubbed out his cigarette. “Shut the door as you go out. And don't be such a big damned fool.”

When the door had closed he turned out the light and lay in bed, staring through the window. A neon sign across the street sent reflected, blinking light into the room. It was red and green and blue. Clane watched it, his mind too tired to take much in or give much out.

Finally he reached for the phone. He asked the operator for the time. When she told him it was three in the morning, Clane said, “Call me at four-thirty.” He turned over and went to sleep.

• • •

It was ten minutes before five when he entered the hotel's all-night coffee shop. He ordered a pot of coffee and a newspaper. They brought him a last night's edition of the
Clarion
. He looked out of the window at the dead, still dark streets, and then he turned to the paper.

There was no news to excite him. The murders, according to the paper, remained unsolved. Watson's death was still a mystery since no one could offer a suicide motive. There was still no mention of Castle's death.

The political news was even lighter. Clane turned to the editorial page. There was a long eulogy on Anthony Wickett, with the by-line of William Driggs over the story. There was no mention in it of the future of the paper. Another editorial announced that the mayor was standing on his lengthy record and out of respect to Wickett would make no more campaign speeches. It was now the duty of every citizen to decide for himself. The
Clarion
seemed to think this very noble of the mayor.

Clane drank the first cup of coffee straight down and then had a second. He laid the paper on the counter, paid his check, and went out of the hotel by the restaurant doorway. The darkness was lightening almost imperceptibly, but Clane knew it would be hours before there was any real daylight. He was glad. He wanted the darkness.

The air was cold and clouds still hung low over the city. Clane turned his face up and got a raindrop on his nose for his pains. He hunched into his coat as the rain began to drift down a little faster. By the time he decided all the taxicabs were in bed and went to the garage for his car the rain was a light but steady fall.

Clane turned his car toward the Hill. He kept looking back but no one seemed to be tailing him. To make sure he detoured and doubled on himself. Finally convinced, he made a beeline for the Morgan home. He stopped a block and a half away, switched off his lights, and cut the engine. Then he stepped into the rain.

He was getting wet with rain coming on the wind now and driving against the cuffs of his trousers and against his legs when his topcoat flopped open. He kept to the sidewalk, taking advantage of the trees as much as he could. When he got to the Morgan place, he walked casually by, checking it over.

The garages were set in the rear, behind and to one side of the house. There seemed a lot of driveway to follow before he came to them. In the darkness he could make out a few details, but he was sure Bob Morgan had figured a way to get in and out quietly.

He decided on the neighbor's yard and followed a high hedge that led along the Morgan driveway toward the rear. The thought of a dog turning up was enough to make him sweat. But he made the rear of the hedge without hearing or seeing anything. He found himself separated from the garage by the hedge, five feet high at that point. Over the top he could see an outside stairway leading to the rooms above the garages. Clane tried to go around the end of the hedge.

There was a taut wire fence there, over his head. He tested the strands with his fingers and decided it would hold him. Cursing under his breath, he started the climb. The fence buckled a little and the strands cut into his hands; he could feel them playing hell with his shoes.

He made the other side of the fence and stopped to get a little of his breath back. This job was one he disliked and it seemed everything had been thrown in his way to stop him. He took another minute to make sure he still carried the gun he had taken from Grando's hired boy and then started quietly up the stairs.

The door at the top was open. Clane stopped and looked into the darkness of the room. He held his breath and listened, but all he could hear was the sound of his own blood in his ears. He released his breath and stepped inside.

The door shut behind Clane.

“Raise your hands!”

He turned in the darkness. It was thick and heavy. The blinds were down on the windows and no light seeped in.

Clane said, “Say that again.”

“Raise your hands!”

Clane said, “For God's sake, behave yourself and turn on a light.”

Edith Morgan said, “You took an awful chance. I might have shot you.”

“And I might have slugged you,” Clane replied amiably. They were sitting in the rear room of the two over the garage. It was well equipped kitchen and Clane was watching a pot of water on the gas plate.

Edith Morgan looked frightened. The color had gone from her face; she wore no make-up and her paleness was noticeable. She was dressed in lightweight and quite chaste pajamas with a flannel bathrobe over them. She wore leather slippers to match the robe, a dull blue, and now she stared fixedly at her toes. She held a .38 revolver listlessly in her lap.

Clane said patiently, “It would help if I knew why you were here.”

“And I tell you I don't know,” she said. She had been saying it for ten minutes and Clane was getting weary. “I woke up and—well, I thought I should come. That's all. It was an impulse.”

“Let's stop this,” Clane said in a tired voice. “Your brother is in jail. He allegedly confessed to killing Wickett. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. Only that Lieutenant Mullen told me the same thing.”

“Did you hope to find something to help Bob by coming here?”

“I don't know,” she said in a confused voice. “I may have—without realizing it.”

“Nuts,” Clane said without elegance. “What were you looking for?”

“I might ask the same thing of you,” she said. “You're trespassing, Mr. Clane.”

He couldn't figure her out. She was a child in so many ways, and her outlook was so small-town that it pained him. She had come to him for help, and now she was freezing up and out-maneuvering him. It didn't set well. Getting up at four-thirty was bad enough without running into trouble of this kind.

Clane stood up. “When that water boils, make the coffee, will you?” He walked into the other room. It was still dark and the lights were off in that room. Clane kept them that way, not wanting to attract attention from the house. He had the flashlight she had been carrying along with the thirty-eight. He held the light low, cupping his hand over it, and moving around the room. This room was larger than the other, extending fully across the garage and into an alcove on the rear. Clane found the alcove filled with books. There was a bed and a dresser in one corner. There was no bath and Clane presumed Bob Morgan went into the house for that. At the end of the room nearest the outside doorway Clane found the most interesting display. Bob Morgan had a workbench there, and under the bench was a small chest of drawers. Every drawer was locked.

Clane went to work on them, using a chisel he found in the rack over the workbench. Unavoidably, he made some noise with the chisel. The door to the kitchen came open. Clane looked around.

“Shut that door! The light's coming in.”

“Please get away from there, Mr. Clane,” Edith Morgan said.

“Is the coffee ready?” Clane asked her. He turned back to the chest of drawers.

Edith Morgan said coldly, “If you don't leave that alone, I
will
shoot!”

Clane turned again. She stood framed in the doorway, the light streaming around her. There was enough light for Clane to see the gun plainly. It looked huge in her hand, and she was holding it steady and pointed at him.

He sighed and crawled from under the bench and stood up. He stretched himself once and then walked toward her. She backed off, holding the gun pointed at his middle. Only when he was in the kitchen did she lower it. She sat down again, her face white with strain, and her hands shook.

Clane said, “What is in that Chest, Edith?”

“Nothing of value to you,” she said quietly. She kept her eyes on him, but she did not look at his face.

Clane shook his head. He went to the stove and took the pot of water, now boiling, from the flame. He turned off the gas and then poured the water into a small drip coffee pot. He sat down.

“Your brother had quite a set-up here.”

“He enjoyed being alone,” she said.

“Less friction, I suppose,” Clane said casually.

She raised her eyes to his. “There was no friction,” she said stiffly.

Clane shook his head again. He lifted the lid of the coffee pot and peered at the water. It had not quite dripped through and he lowered the lid.

“I suppose your father will hire a lawyer to get Bob off,” he commented.

“He has already called his lawyer,” she said.

Clane looked into the coffee pot again. This time he nodded and poured the coffee into two waiting cups. He pushed one toward her. He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and looked from his cup to the girl.

“Well,” he said slowly, “Bob will get off anyway. But this makes it tougher on your father. Mullen will prove friction in the family and they'll have to throw out the chivalry theory. Because it's obvious that Bob wouldn't kill Wickett for his sister—or his father.”

“What are you getting at?” Edith Morgan sat very quietly, her fingers touching the handle of her coffee cup, her eyes wide and stark on his face. Clane could feel her rigidity.

“Obviously,” he went on in the same casual voice, “if Bob didn't do it, they'll go back to the original theory. It will make quite a stink when they pinch your father.”

Edith Morgan stood up, her face deathly white. She put her hand into the pocket of her bathrobe and took out a key. She laid it on the table before Clane. She turned toward the door.

“Bob gave me that key. He told me to destroy what was in his chest. I was about to when you walked in. I'll leave it up to you now. I don't want to make a bigger mess than I have.”

She walked from the room, closing the door behind her.

Clane called, “Just keep out of it altogether, Edith.” He sounded tired. He felt tired and lousy. But if she had to hang her hurt feelings on a public clothesline that wasn't his worry. He had found what he wanted. He turned the key over in his fingers.

It was a small key. He looked at it, studying it closely. He could hear her slippers clicking as she walked down the outside steps. He looked from the kitchen window. It was getting gray in the southeast. He wondered exactly what went on in the girl's head. He didn't know whether to be disgusted with himself for blowing up at her or disgusted with her for getting so hurt.

He decided it didn't matter at the moment. He had a job to do; personal feelings had to stay out of it until it was done. Clane disliked making enemies, yet he always seemed to find plenty of them.

He finished the coffee and stood up. He turned off the kitchen light, took the flashlight and went into the other room. It was still dark there, with the windows facing west. He turned on the flashlight, shielding it as he had before, and bent to the chest of drawers.

The key fitted each drawer. He opened them all and then, pulling out the top one, began his search. He found an album and opened it. It was small, containing half a dozen stiff black sheets. Each sheet had a single picture pasted on it. Clane looked at the pictures. He put the album back in the drawer. They had been all of the same person, obviously old publicity releases of Natalie Thorne during her chorus days. Clane made a face.

He opened the second drawer. It was full of blueprints of model airplanes, of motors, and under them was a thick handful of snapshots. He riffled through them.

Clane was beginning to see now. All the snapshots were of Natalie Thorne. Some had been taken at a lake. In a few she wore a bathing suit. In others she posed on a sailboat, on a pier. Others were casual studies. Of Natalie in sports clothes, in an afternoon dress, in a dozen poses and costumes. Clane turned each one over. There was handwriting, giving a date and an explanation. The writing was big, heavy. Clane thought it might be Bob Morgan's. He noticed that all of the dates were close together. They began in June and ended in September of the current year.

He put the pictures back in the chest and laid the blue-prints on top of them. He locked the top and second drawers. Then he rose and went across the room to a small desk. He found odds and ends of Bob Morgan's handwriting. It was the same as that on the photos. He was beginning to get sore at Natalie Thorne.

He went back to the chest and opened the bottom drawer. It contained a half-dozen sport shirts, swimming trunks, shorts and undershirts. Beneath them Clane found a paper tube. He pulled out what was inside it. For a long time he stared at the Ediphone record in his hand. Then he put it back in the tube. He put the tube in his coat pocket and closed and locked the drawer.

He opened the outer door and went down the stairs. It was nearing daylight now, a gray, dull daylight with rain coming softly, mistily down. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Edith Morgan stood there.

She had evidently waited for him. Her robe was beaded with fine drops of rain; her hair was damp. She looked at him steadily.

She said, “Did you find them?”

“Yes,” Clane said. “I put the pictures back. You can burn them if you want to—after he's cleared.”

“Will they clear him?” Her voice was anxious. She put one hand on Clane's arm. Once more she was the girl asking for help. He felt embarrassment, remembering his outburst in the kitchen.

“You know, then?”

“Yes,” she said, “Natalie. I knew since it started—last June.” Her face took on a hardness Clane had not suspected in her. “She's rotten. Flirting with an eighteen-year-old boy!”

“Why?”

She looked at Clane. “I suppose she wants to deny her age. Isn't that usually it? She wants to feel eighteen herself again.”

“That isn't always it,” Clane said.

“I don't care what the reason was,” she said furiously. “She made a fool out of him. When he found out about her and Anthony …”

“My God,” Clane said, “did Wickett have them all on his hook?”

“He had Natalie,” she said.

Clane looked down at her. “So you believe Bob killed Wickett over Natalie Thorne!”

She said desperately, “I won't believe it! I can't believe it!”

“But,” Clane said gently, “you do.”