You Can't Kill a Corpse (17 page)

Clane saw Betty Castle, a small figure far ahead. She wore slacks and a beret and a heavy cloth coat. When he caught up with her she was striding along with her hands deep in her coat pockets. She turned and he saw her face. It was streaked from tears and twisted from fear. Clane felt sorry for her but he forced the feeling aside.

He stopped the car and opened the door. She climbed in wordlessly. Clane drove until he reached the place where he and Edith Morgan had talked. He swung in there and cut the engine. He offered her a cigarette, wondering if his life was turning into one long cross-examination of women.

He said, I'm glad you came, Miss Castle. Does anyone know about it?”

No one,” she said unsteadily. Her features were tense, as though fright still held her. She took the cigarette and bent her head for the light he offered. Her eyes were a muddy brown and reflected nothing but her fear when she looked at Clane.

He said, “The elevator boy who took you and your father to seven kept the news to himself—about you, I mean. That was a break for me. Why didn't you want it known?”

“The police would question me. They've done enough of that already. Besides …”

“Besides,” Clane said, “someone was paying you to keep your mouth shut.”

“No!”

Clane sighed. “I don't care who it is—just yet. I want to know who you and your father saw on the seventh floor and why.”

Clane listened to her. She gave slowly at first, needing occasional reminders that he supplied. He was tired and a little disgusted with it all. She was neither pretty nor interesting. She was scared of him and scared of someone else. She vacillated between the two fears, not knowing which offered the worst consequences. When she gave up evading him, Clane found out all that he expected to within five minutes. He drove her to the edge of the park, thinking it over.

Castle had gone to his daughter to get the affidavits. She kept them in her safety deposit box at the bank. She had insisted on going with him because she knew what he might do. To protect him, she told Clane.

They went to the seventh floor, using the alley entrance and walking to the second floor where they took the elevator. They went in to see Mayor Pryor first. The mayor, resting at the hotel, refused to do business with Castle. He suggested that Castle see Ed Thorne. Castle left abruptly.

Then he saw Paul Grando. Grando literally threw him out of the room. Then he went to see Bob Morgan. Betty Castle had been surprised at this. Bob Morgan had made an appointment with Castle and he was there to keep it. Castle asked him who he was working for and Bob Morgan told him—Clane.

This surprised Clane. He said so. Betty Castle remarked that she was telling him what she had heard. He could do as he liked about it.

“And then what?” Clane prompted.

“Father said he would deal with you directly. He wouldn't talk business with Bob. Bob got excited and said he was trying to ruin things for everybody. He called father horrible names: drunkard, bum, all sorts of things. I—I got angry then and yelled at Bob and then Mrs. Thorne walked in.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Thorne, Natalie,” she said. “The door wasn't locked, I guess, and she opened it and walked in.”

Clane whistled. “Jee-hasus! And then what?”

“Nothing,” Betty Castle said. “Father walked out past her and so did I. I went home. I was awfully scared. But she didn't say a word about it to me.”

“And Bob?”

She smiled faintly. “I didn't ask her about him,” she said.

“So that's the last you saw of your father?”

“Yes,” she said dully. “That's the last.” She wasn't tearful and Clane was grateful for that.

There was nothing more to learn from her. She had no idea of what the affidavits and information had contained. Clane drove her to a boulevard and gave her taxi fare. Then he drove to the Regent Arms.

There was a note from Marilyn. She had gone to work, after all, and she would report hourly to him. Clane sat by the telephone. He wondered where Bob was and if Marilyn could tell him.

Her first call came at noon. She said, “Nothing yet.”

Clane said, “Thorne should have the cops hard on my tail by now.”

Her voice was low. “Any luck?”

“A little,” he admitted. “I'm roosting on dynamite. Where's the kid?”

He heard her breath suck in loudly. “He was there when I left, Jim!”

Clane said tonelessly, “Gone now. Call me at one.” He dropped the phone. He hunted around the apartment and fixed himself a drink, sipping it as he walked the floor. He made a circuit of the living room rug ten times and then sat down. He knew the pattern by heart and his head was still empty.

At one o'clock the phone rang. Clane answered it on the first peal. Marilyn said, “Some news, Jim.” She hesitated a moment. Then, “Lieutenant Mullen had lunch with Thorne. They've locked your room up. There are two plain-clothesmen in the lobby. They're putting you on the teletype, Jim.”

“Thorne lit the fuse,” Clane said cheerfully. “Anything else?”

“Nothing.”

“No news of the kid?”

“No, Jim.”

Clane said, “Don't call any more. I'll call you if there's anything. And start looking sick. You may have to duck out of there pronto.”

“I feel sick,” she said.

Clane said, “Hang on, sugar,” and hung up. He went to the window and looked out. The sun had struggled weakly through the clouds. What little snow had fallen was beginning to melt and run into the gutters and along the sidewalks. Clane watched it a moment and then went for his hat and topcoat.

He went boldly to his car and drove as boldly toward the Hill. He thought they would be looking for him to duck out of town. He wondered how Mullen felt now, after letting him loose a few hours before. He grinned at the idea.

Turning into an alley, he parked the car in the rear of Thorne's house. He went into the grounds by the back way, following the tracks he had made the morning he had left so abruptly. He rapped on the back door. It was opened a little way by Betty Castle.

Clane asked, “Mrs. Thorne at home?”

She nodded without speaking. The fright was still on her face. Clane said impatiently, “Who are you afraid of besides me?”

She swallowed. Then she said, “Nobody. I'm not afraid.”

Clane said, “Okay. I'll see Natalie now.” He got inside the kitchen. She barred his way with her arms.

“She's—she's napping.”

Clane grinned sourly. “She has you scared sick, huh? Thanks, Betty. I'll wake her up. I don't mind.” He got as far as the kitchen door and turned. “Don't call her and tell her I'm here or you will have something to be scared of.”

Hoping his glowering look achieved the effect he wanted, he went through the hall and as quietly as possible up the stairs. He remembered the location of Natalie's room from Ed Thorne's directions the night he had spent there. He made for it now. The door was shut. Clane put his ear to it. There was a low murmur of sound, but he could catch no words.

Then: “You dirty little heel!”

Clane turned the knob. The door opened and he walked in. He said, “Now isn't this one for the book!”

Bob Morgan looked at Clane. He flushed, glanced at Natalie Thorne, and back to Clane again. Natalie stood partly facing Clane. She wore a negligee, a pair of mules that seemed to be mostly feathers, a careful job of make-up, and not much else. She wasn't being careful of the way she held the negligee together.

Bob Morgan said hurriedly, “Jim, I figured it out. I got tired of horsing around and this morning while you were gone I thought it all through. I came here to get proof.”

Natalie Thorne reached up and slapped him. The negligee fell wide apart and she paid no attention. Clane said, “Close it up, Natalie. There aren't any cash customers in this show.”

“Take your lousy stooge out of here,” she shouted. “I'm sick of punks coming around and trying to blackmail me. Get him out of here, Clane, or I'll kill you both!”

Bob Morgan was ruefully rubbing the red spot on his cheek. Clane thought he did not seem particularly frightened. He said to Natalie, “You're the only person who had a reason to kill everyone who has been killed. I made a sucker out of myself once, but not again. Shall I call the cops, Jim?”

Clane said, “Go back to the joint and wait, Bob.” He walked up to him, turning his back on Natalie. “The cops are after me,” he said in a low tone. “Thorne's got the machinery rolling now. You haven't got a chance bucking Ed Thorne.”

“He won't think so much of her if I make my speech,” Bob Morgan said sullenly.

Clane grunted. “Thorne knows what his wife does—don't kid yourself.”

“She killed them, Jim.”

“Watson, too?”

“Yes. He took those pictures of her—the one you told me about and others like them.”

“On Grando's orders,” Clane told him. “Anyway, she's not so modest that she's afraid of a photo like that. Scram, kid.”

Bob Morgan protested, “Jim, I tell you …”

Clane leaned close to him. “I know it, but she needs rope to hang herself. Go back to the apartment. Call Marilyn. Find out what news she has. Stick until I come back.”

The boy nodded reluctantly, turned, and walked out. The back of his neck was red. When the door closed Clane went back to Natalie Thorne. She was standing in the same place. Her mouth was white with anger. She hadn't closed her negligee.

Clane reached out and pulled the front of it together. “Surprise me gradually.” he said. He put a hand to her face, catching her cheeks with his thumb and his fingers. He pulled her toward him.

She twisted her head violently. “You lousy …”

Clane said, “Sh-h-h. This is the chance you've been waiting for, Natalie.” He pulled her head around, mashed his lips against her mouth. She took her lips from his long enough to say, “I should kill you, you bastard,” and then put her hands to his neck and held him tightly.

Clane finally stepped back. “That was a good rehearsal,” he said. He wished he could go into the bath and brush his teeth. “Now,” he added, “get dressed. Get packed.”

“Dressed? Packed? What for?”

“Got a drink?” Clane asked. He grinned wearily at her. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I'm blowing. I'm taking a chance, but I'll help you get away with me.”

Natalie Thorne turned from a dressing table. She had a bottle in her hand. She walked deliberately to Clane and gave him the bottle. Then she stood back, her hands on her hips. “What should I do—bawl? I'm in no hurry to leave this burg.”

Clane looked at the bottle. It was straight bourbon. He took off the cap and tilted the bottle. When he lowered it he said, “Thanks, Natalie. Thorne has had lunch with Mullen. He's been seeing Pryor. He knows where you stand with Grando. And with the kid. He's got the ball rolling now. He turned the heat on me and he'll turn it on you.”

“Ed Thorne? You're crazy!”

“Am I?” Clane asked. “He knows damned well I didn't kill anyone. He knows I can prove it in time. He knows he can pin it on your nice round tail, too, and he'll do it.”

Natalie Thorne whitened. She said, “Give me that bottle.” She took a drink. Then she said, “What do you mean, Clane?”

Clane said, “Ed Thorne killed three pople, sweetheart. To save his own neck he'll sell even you down the river. Morgan is cleared. The kid's confession won't hold water, but it will make you look like Thorne wants you to—guilty as hell. Thorne is pushing his weight around. He has a game of his own going and he's the whole team. He's had you picked for his sucker from the start—and, baby, he's playing it that way to the end.”

Natalie Thorne laughed. She said, “Brother, are you screwy! Paul Grando killed Wickett, he killed Watson, he killed Castle. Paul Grando—not Ed Thorne.”

Clane settled back on the bed. “Do you pack or don't you?” he demanded. “I'm not having any Grando. You won't either when they warm your pratt with an electric current.”

Natalie Thorne turned her back on him and opened a closet door. She talked to Clane while she put on street clothes. She said, “I'm going no place unless to see Ed. If you think you can hook him into being a murderer, you're nuts. I know how Grando did it and why. If I have to, I'll spill it to the cops.”

“It's your neck,” Clane said indifferently.

“My neck, hell! Grando killed Wickett because he wanted to run the town. Wickett was using Grando for what he needed—and giving him no more than he had to. Grando wasn't getting stronger sitting around town. Wickett stood in Paul's way and he rubbed him.”

“Sure,” Clane said, admiring the deft way she put on her hose. “Sure. And he killed Watson because Watson was a good photographer.”

“Because Blake knew too damned much,” she said. “He worked for Grando and he had enough to upset the whole thing. He knew Paul Grando made a deal with Ed and he went to Wickett with it.”

“What kind of deal?”

She was buttoning her blouse. Now she turned around. “He didn't get far,” she said. “He told Ed he would throw Morgan the election if they played ball.”

“And I suppose he killed Castle because of some old affidavits threatening to ruin Mayor Pryor. That's a sweet fairy story.”

“Castle had no useful affidavits,” she snapped. “Castle had a grudge against Ed. That's all.”

“I know that story. But he wasn't trying to sell a grudge—the day you walked in on him with Bob Morgan.”

“Castle was selling stale information,” she said.

“And got killed for it?”

She worked her way into a tailored skirt. “Because J. B. Castle was seen at Watson's too damned often. Because J. B. Castle was at Watson's when Grando killed him.”

“Like hell!”

Natalie went to the dressing table and sat down. She picked up a comb and attacked her hair. “He was in the dark room. He was Watson's boss once, remember.”

“You know a lot.”

“I know plenty. I know enough that if Grando was taken care of they would hang the murders on his corpse.”

Clane jerked his head in her direction. He swung his feet to the floor and got up. “Sweetheart I” he said. He walked to her. She was still facing the mirror. He bent, put his hand under her chin and tilted her head back. “What an idea!”

She parted her lips for a kiss. She closed her eyes. Clane removed his hand and swung the other one. His fist caught her chin. Her head snapped and she went limp. He caught her and carried her to the bed. His lips were set and grim as he worked. He used the sheets, tearing them into strips. When he was through she was gagged and spread-eagled on the bed. He shook her head. “Brother! What an idea!” He reached for her telephone. He called Marilyn.

“Darling,” he said, “get this quickly. Tip Thorne I've gone to see Paul Grando. When he's alone. Then, if he ducks out of there, tip Mullen. Got that? Tell them separately. Make it sound real. And pray for me, honey. Pray for me!”

• • •

Clane wheeled his car openly along the main road past the desolate Super-Service station, following the route Natalie had taken that night they had gone to Grando's. He forgot completely about the dragnet out for him until he saw a pair of prowl cars, one on either side of the road and at the city limit sign. He slammed on the brakes and took the turn into a dirt road off to his left. The old sedan rocked and swayed and then bounced down hard on the muddy tracks of the dirt.

Clane kept on going, following the road past a farmhouse and circling left. He wasn't surprised when he found himself back on the highway, heading into town. He kept on until he was in the Park and then he tried to remember the route that Ellen had taken earlier that morning. He became hopelessly lost and couldn't get oriented until he saw a signpost pointing to a side road which would take him onto the highway east of town. He took the road, cautiously, so that when he saw a police car ahead he had time to back around and return the way he had come.

By now Clane was getting edgy. He knew there was a way to Grando's without leaving the city limits. Or he thought there should be. And it seemed as if he would have to find it to get to the steakhouse. Evidently Mullen wasn't fooling around. Thorne had thrown his weight on to the police department and the dragnet was the result.

Clane drove openly back to the hotel, mulling over the problem and wondering whom he could find to guide him. Marilyn, of course, but for him to go to her now would be suspicious, and then he hardly had the time. He could feel the urgency pressing like thick fog against his mind. He had set the stage and he couldn't make a bust of the play by not acting in it.

He cursed luridly as he drove around the Metropole. A taxi swung around in a U-turn and pulled to the curb at the side entrance. Clane yelled:

“Kravitky!”

He backed up until he was alongside the cab. The driver was a stranger. Clane leaned out of the car window. “Hey, where can I find Anton Kravitky?”

“Off duty now.”

“I know,” Clane said impatiently. “I want to get hold of him.”

“I don't know,” the driver said. He scratched his head with a methodical motion that made Clane want to tear the man's hair off.

“This is important,” Clane said violently. “Where in hell is he? Where does he live?”

“I don't know,” the driver said. He scratched some more and then he lifted himself in the seat and dug into his hip pocket. With Clane watching and swallowing curses, the man took out a billfold and went through it deliberately. He came up with a thin black book of the type used for addresses. He thumbed it, wetting his finger for each tiny page. Clane was sweating.

“I got his phone number,” the driver said.

“Fine,” Clane managed.

“How much is it worth to you?”

Clane said, “Aw, Christ!” and dug for five dollars. The driver gave Clane the number in exchange for the bill. Clane swung his car away from the taxi and gunned up the street. He stopped at the nearest drugstore and half ran inside. He saw a booth near the door and he plunged for it.

Anton Kravitky was asleep. It took Clane about three minutes for his identity to register. Clane said, “Give me your address and I'll come out there.”

“Where you now?”

Clane looked at an advertising poster in the booth. “Sunnyside Drugstore.”

Anton Kravitky said cheerfully, “I'm upstairs. I got me a room here. You go round back outside and come on up. First door left side of hall.”

Clane slammed the receiver down and walked quickly outside and to the rear of the building. He was wondering just how much he could take before he blew himself all over the streets from sheer steam pressure. He took the steps two at a time and pounded on the first door at the left side of the hall.

It was an old building, a typical shoddy neighborhood rooming place. The smell of many ancient and poorly cooked foods hung on greasy, stale air. The rubber matting on the hall floor was worn through to catch the first unwary heel. The whole place had a blowsy feel to it. But nothing registered on Clane. He was too busy hammering at the door.

Kravitky opened it and stuck his homely face out. “What's the gag, boss? Oh, I remember you. Couldn't make it out right on the phone.” He was in loose flannel pajamas and a dirty robe.

Clane said, “How much to drive me to Grando's steakhouse by the rear door?” He elbowed his way into the room and pushed the door shut with his back. He looked at Kravitky's gaping face and said, “The cops have a dragnet at the city limits. I can't find my way to Grando's without going outside the city. It's worth fifty bucks to me.”

“My cab …”

“My car's outside.”

“I saw you give it to Pryor at the riot that day,” Kravitky said reminiscently. “That was the nuts.”

“How much?” Clane asked wearily.

“It aint' the dough. Hell, lemme get dressed.”

There was nothing Clane could do about that. Except try to impress Kravitky with the need to hurry. He wasn't disappointed. The taxi driver driver dressed with the speed of a fireman. Inside of five minutes they were in Clane's car and heading toward the river.

“You gonna put the finger on Grando?”

“I hope so,” Clane said. “If he isn't dead of old age by the time I get there.”

“Boss,” Kravitky said aggrievedly, “this bus only goes so fast.”

He stopped talking and settled to his driving. Clane found himself going through a maze of unfamiliar streets. Factories and then tenement houses pushed right to the sidewalks. There was the odor of poverty in the neighborhood, and when they came to a dirt track running along the river Clane could smell sewage.

The dirt road turned into a gravel quarry and Clane grabbed for the door handle to hold on as the old sedan bit hard at deep chuckholes. They jounced across what seemed a roadless desert of gravel, swung around a mound of the stuff and then Clane saw the steakhouse ahead and below them. It was a low gear road down from the gravel, but Kravitky disdained it, letting the car roll in high.

Clane was sweating hard when they parked in Grando's big lot. Telling Kravitky to wait, he walked around to the side door. The same thick-set pug met him. Clane said, “Hello, AI. Tell the boss I'm down here.”

Al whistled softly through his teeth. “Ain't that nice,” he said. He nodded and started up the stairs. Clane followed him, close on his heels.

Grando was in his office, behind his desk. Clane took in the room and the visitor. He cursed disgustedly, keeping it under his breath.

Finally he said, “I thought you were at home, Bob.”

Bob Morgan tried to grin. He wasn't having much luck with it. He looked scared, and a little relieved at the sight of Clane. He said, “I'm still trying to clean up this mess, Jim.”

Paul Grando's cold eyes were fixed on Clane. “Did you send this snotty brat out here?”

Clane ignored him. “Did they rough you, kid?”

Bob Morgan shook his head. Paul Grando said, “Somebody will, one of these days. He's been sitting here blowing his top about Wickett's killing. He tells me I'm mixed up in it.”

Clane said conversationally, “That's what Natalie Thorne thinks. She's even got you pegged for the murders, Grando. You bumped off Watson and Castle too. I can even spiel the motives if you want to listen. Your little girl friend, Edith, is in the same boat by now. Popular opinion will put you in the chair, Grando.”

Clane lit a cigarette. Grando examined his nails. “I've had some of the boys out looking for you, Clane,” he said. “I like your stories. And then you never did keep that appointment with me. I don't care to be kept waiting—by anyone.” He smiled without warmth. “Now tell me a few more stories. Only I'll ask the questions.”

Al stood up from behind Grando's desk, moved in back of Clane, and put his hands on Clane's shoulders. He pushed and Clane sat down suddenly. Bob Morgan started up. Clane shook his head at him and stared steadily at Paul Grando.

“Tell your ape to keep his hands off me,” he said levelly. “And stop going to movies. You're getting melodramatic as hell. What do you do if I don't talk, pour acid on me?”

Grando said, “You'll answer my questions. Al will see that you answer my question.”

Clane grunted rudely. Grando went on: “I want to know a few things, Clane. Who you are, why you're here, when you're leaving?”

“I'm a salesman,” Clane said flippantly. “I sell rat poison. Want a free sample?”

Al reached a ham-like fist over Clane's shoulder and hit him on the mouth. Clane put his fingers to his lips. He said, “Tell your ape to lay off.”

Bob Morgan stood up and made a wild dive for AI. Clane thought they were nice heroics but not well timed. He winced when Al's fist chopped against the boy's chin. Bob went down, sprawling to one side of the room. Clane didn't move.

Grando said, “Now answer the questions, Clane.”

Clane took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Childishly he made overly much noise. Al swung another fist. Clane grabbed it. He hooked his fingers in Al's wrist and threw his weight forward. The chair went over, sending Al over Clane's head. Clane swung his body from the knees and came down on top of Al. He chopped viciously with the side of his hand, catching Al at the throat. Al gagged and made futile motions with his hands. Clane took a knee in his belly and then drove his fist deliberately into Al's groin. He rolled off and got to his feet.

Grando had lost his imperturbability. He was standing behind his desk. Clane looked into the muzzle of a peewee gun.

The sound of the door opening came from behind Clane. He made a dive for the desk. A gun cracked. Clane hit the desk top with his chest and grabbed for Grando's wrist. It faded from his range. He bent his knees and stopped his forward momentum. He lay belly down, looking stupidly at Paul Grando's body. Grando was on his back and there was a small round hole in the center of his face.

Clane heard Ed Thorne say, “My God, what a mess!”

Then Clane pushed himself all the way over the desk and came down on top of Grando. The gun he hooked with his fingers was a twenty-five. He righted himself and stood up. He glared across the room at Ed Thorne, bulking in the doorway.

Thorne shot again. The bullet made a raw crease along the top of the desk.

“You crazy sonafabitch,” Clane yelled. He raised the gun and shot Thorne between the eyes. He fired twice after that, sending the bullets into Thorne's body as it toppled and fell to the floor.

Clane said, “Jesus!” and turned and vomited on the rug behind the desk.