The Corpse Steps Out Read online

  The sky was faintly gray when they deposited Malone at the Loop Hotel where he had lived for fifteen years and drove Nelle home. Helene turned north along the drive. Jake felt his eyelids suddenly growing unendurably heavy and closed them for an instant. When he opened them again, the familiar scenes of Maple Park were slipping by the car’s windows. He shook and blinked himself awake.

  “The only way to enjoy your driving is to sleep through it,” he remarked. “But why are we going out here?”

  “I want to change my clothes and pack,” she told him. “Did you forget I’m moving to Erie Street?”

  Jake thought a moment. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “You couldn’t stop me.”

  It was noon when they walked into the lobby of the Erie Street building, Helene coolly lovely in a crisp white suit, its perfect severity hinting that it cost more than the average man earned in a week.

  Molly Coppins, the landlady, an enormous, slightly faded and very amiable blonde, showing only faint signs of a hang-over, was busily sorting papers at the desk. She was delighted to meet Helene Brand.

  “Any friend of Mr. Justus is a friend of mine.”

  “She gets lonely,” Jake said. “Don’t let her sit around and mope.”

  “Don’t worry,” Molly Coppins said, beaming. “Jake, I only have one vacancy that would do for this young lady. Lovely apartment. It’s lucky I have it, too—the occupant just moved out yesterday.”

  She found an enormous bunch of keys, led them through the maze of halls and corners, up a flight of stairs, and down a long corridor. She stopped in front of a door marked 215.

  Chapter 10

  “It’s one of the nicest apartments in the building,” Molly was saying. “Of course, I’ll have the curtains washed.”

  Jake sank down in a worn overstuffed chair and stared dazedly around him. It was a large, square room, with two immense windows that opened onto a fire escape and looked into the back windows of apartments across the alley. There was a slightly battered but still handsome marble fireplace, now stuffed with old newspapers, a tapestry-covered davenport, a day bed in one corner, and a spinet desk in the other. Nowhere was there any sign of the previous occupancy of Paul March. Not so much as an abandoned magazine.

  “Didn’t Paul March live here once?” Jake asked very casually.

  Molly nodded. “Nice young man, too, but a terrible woman chaser. He left rather suddenly.”

  “Oh, did he?” Jake murmured.

  “Didn’t even say good-by to me,” the landlady went on. “He was away all night, night before last, and in the morning he came and packed a handbag and left without seeing a soul. Sent me a nice note, though, with the back rent and an extra five dollars, asking me to pack his things and send them to him in care of American Express, Honolulu.”

  “Well well,” Jake said in his most noncommittal voice.

  “How do you like it?” Molly asked Helene anxiously, in a tone that suggested renting this apartment to her was the one thing that really mattered in the world.

  “It’ll do beautifully,” Helene said, “I’m crazy about it. I’m moving in right now.”

  She and Molly settled formalities of rent and receipt. Molly promised clean curtains the very next day, so help her, and left them.

  “You don’t have to stay here, you know,” Jake said, after she had gone.

  Helene paid no attention to him. “Jake, Honolulu is a long way from here.”

  “A very long way,” Jake agreed. “By the time the American Express Company gets tired of trying to find Paul March there, and sends all his belongings back, nobody will give a damn about Paul March any more.”

  “Somebody,” she observed thoughtfully, “is being awfully modest about this murder. Help me unpack.”

  They unpacked a collection of clothes that would have done credit to a Hollywood queen, set a bottle of rye on the kitchen shelf, and stowed away the empty suitcase.

  “Tomorrow,” Helene said, looking around the room, “I buy vases and stuff at the dimestore, and this will be elegant.”

  She vanished into the dressing room, reappeared in a pair of lounging pajamas the color of the center of a very pale rose, and opened the bottle of rye.

  “I love our little home, dear,” Jake said, settling down on the davenport. “Where shall we hang up the goldfish?”

  She poured two drinks, set them on a table by the davenport, and sat down beside him.

  “What a wonderful way that was to stave off any inquiries about Paul March’s disappearance,” she said.

  “Wonderful, and simple. Anyone who wants to know where Paul March is, if anyone does want to know, will just be told that he’s gone to Honolulu.”

  She sighed. “Jake, where would you hide a corpse, if you had to hide a corpse?”

  “It’s a problem I’ve never been faced with, but I’ll think about it. Helene, why did you run away from me?”

  “Because I was in love with you,” she said calmly. “But if you had to hide a corpse, where would you hide it?”

  “In the Cook County Morgue,” Jake said, “because that’s the last place anyone would think of looking for it. Did you really mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it. It would be a waste of time though, I think.”

  “What? Loving me?”

  “No. Looking in the Cook County Morgue for Paul March’s corpse.”

  “Damn you,” he said, “if you don’t stick to one subject I’ll get another girl. Do you still love me?”

  “Of course I do. It must be hidden somewhere. You can’t just make a body disappear into the air.”

  “Listen,” Jake said. “Get the body of Paul March out of your mind for a few minutes, and me into it. Murders are happening every day in the year including holidays, but this may never happen to us again.”

  “Jake, let’s get married.”

  He dropped the glass of rye he had been holding, it overturned on the carpet.

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it. But if you’re going to go throwing good liquor around that way, I’ll change my mind.” She found a rag in the kitchen, mopped up the carpet, and poured Jake another drink. “Keep your hands off that until you’re sure you won’t drop it.”

  “But Helene,” he said stupidly, “we can’t.”

  “Unless you have a wife and five children in Dubuque, we can,” she said firmly. “We can and will.”

  “But you’re rich,” he said, still more stupidly.

  “Good God,” she said, “does that make me an old maid for life?”

  “It wouldn’t be right.” He couldn’t say it convincingly.

  “Jake Justus, are you turning me down?”

  “Damn it, Helene, I could never fit into your life.”

  “I seem to get along all right in yours,” she said reflectively. “Jake, are you in love with me?”

  He was silent a moment. “Yes, I guess I am. Yes, that’s it.”

  “Well then, if I’m in love with you, and you’re in love with me, we’ll get married. That’s all there is to it.”

  It did seem like a simple and perfectly plausible idea.

  “Well,” he said after a while.

  “You’re weakening,” she observed. “Jake, when shall we be married, and where?”

  He said very thoughtfully, “We could drive to Crown Point tonight, if we left now.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “Now you can drink your rye.”

  The rye helped a little, but he still felt dazed.

  “But Helene,” he said, in a final struggle. “Helene, your money.”

  She sighed. “Well, if you’re going to be fussy, I can always give it away. I can think of any number of people who could use it. But it would be more fun to keep it. You’d be surprised how much fun we can have with money.”

  “I have a rough idea,” he said, “but—”

  “That’s all it’s good for, to have fun with. You’ve got to go right on being a press
agent because I’ll leave you if you ever give it up. I like your being a press agent. I meet so many people that way.”

  “Well, of course,” he began slowly.

  “Oh Jake,” she said suddenly, “don’t make it awful for me to have money. Like being born with a harelip or something. I can’t help it. It’s just been a damn nuisance all my life, and if it spoils things, I can’t stand it. Let’s be sensible.”

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll be sensible. But I’m going to tell everybody that I’m marrying you for your money. Nobody could ever be able to imagine any other reason.”

  “If we’re going to Crown Point,” she said reflectively, “I’d better get dressed, unless you don’t mind my being married in pink pajamas.”

  “It would save time,” he told her, “but it does seem a bit expedient.”

  She looked into his eyes for a long moment. “I can’t believe it. I’m really here and you’re really here, and we’ll never be separated again. It’s been so long, Jake.”

  “The longest year and a half on record.”

  “I ought to have a new dress,” she said after a pause. “But never mind that. I have you, and one can’t have everything. After all, Jake, if we’re going to be married today, you might kiss me—”

  He did, and thought what a very long time a year and a half had been.

  “Jake,” she said suddenly, and then, “Jake, how do you suppose the body was gotten out of here without—”

  Just then there was a thundering knock at the door.

  Helene opened the door; it was Molly. “Telephone for Mr. Justus. And Miss Brand, there’s a buzzer over your door. Three rings means you’re wanted on the telephone.”

  The telephone was on the first floor. Jake raced down, two steps at a time. It could only be Nelle, or John Joseph Malone. And either one probably meant trouble.

  It was Nelle. Her voice was tight and frantic.

  “Jake, have you had dinner yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “Jake, I’ve got to see you. Meet me at Ricardo’s in half an hour. Bring that blonde with you if you can, she’s got brains. And Malone, if you can find him.”

  “But Nelle—”

  “I’ve found out who it was,” she said. “The letters. My letters. I know who has them.”

  Before he could answer, she had hung up.

  Chapter 11

  “Never mind,” Helene said consolingly. “We can get married tomorrow. And it’ll be so nice to find out who the murderer was.”

  She had dressed in something pale and cool while he was at the telephone. They picked up Malone at his hotel, selected a table in a far corner of Ricardo’s, and waited for Nelle.

  “I bet Nelle feels relieved at knowing who it is,” Jake said, with little conviction.

  Malone looked toward the door. “She doesn’t look it.”

  Nelle was coming toward the table, her face stormy.

  “The dirty rat,” she said as she sat down. “The double-dirty stinking double-crossing bastard ape. I might have known it. Nobody else in the world would think of a lousy trick like that. I always thought he looked like a murderer anyway. And if he thinks for one split second that he can get away with it—”

  “Take a drink,” Jake said mildly, “and catch your breath.”

  She took the drink and caught her breath. “I’m not going to do it, that’s all. I’m damned and double-damned if I’m going to do it.”

  “Menu?” said the gentle Italian waiter apologetically.

  “Go to hell,” she said absent-mindedly.

  “You’re double-damned if you’re going to do what?” Helene asked.

  “I might have known all along he’d be the one who had the letters,” Nelle said.

  “All right,” Jake said, “that’s a fine dramatic buildup. Who?”

  She stared at him. “John St. John, of course.”

  The waiter took advantage of the momentary silence to come back with the menu.

  “Later,” Jake said, waving him away, “and bring us a drink.”

  “And then,” Nelle added, “to try to tie me up with a contract like that!”

  “Reorganize yourself,” Jake said, “and start this over.”

  “He telephoned and said he had to talk with me and it was urgent. Then he came up to the apartment. Tootz was taking a nap. He said he had the letters.”

  “He admitted it!” Jake said. “But good God, that’s practically an admission of guilt!”

  “What of it?” Malone asked. “You’re hardly in a position to call a cop.”

  “He didn’t say how he got them except that it was none of my business,”’ Nelle said. “Then he said he didn’t want to make any trouble for me. Trouble! The low-down—”

  “You can leave your personal impressions of him out of this,” Jake said.

  She ignored him. “He’s nasty,” she said, “he’s mean. He gives me the creeps. He’s got a fancy accent, and he was born in Nebraska. And he’s cold-blooded as a fish.”

  “How do you know?” Jake asked interestedly.

  “Pure hearsay,” she said indignantly.

  “Well, how was I to tell?” Jake said mildly. “After all, there was a time when you hadn’t sold the program.”

  Helene said hastily, “But how did he know about the letters and that Paul March was blackmailing you?”

  “We’ll get to that later,” Jake said. “Right now, I want to know what St. John has up his sleeve besides his handkerchief. Go on, Nelle. What’s the rest of it?”

  “A contract like that,” she said indignantly. “It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is. And if he thinks he can sell the show to Givvus—you know, Jake, the soap man—he’s squirrelly. Givvus and Company!” She produced a lengthy and impolite sound.

  “That’s very effective,” Jake said, “but your narrative is terrible. Try it all over again, possibly from the beginning.”

  She drew a long breath, took a drink, and lit a cigarette. Jake had the impression that she was mentally counting ten, slowly.

  “Start with the contract,” he added.

  “It’s a personal-management contract St. John is having drawn up for me to sign. You know the sort of thing, Jake. Absolute management of all work, all my contracts signed through him, he collects all income and pays me a weekly salary.”

  “Good God,” Jake said.

  Nelle said, “That’s what I thought.”

  “But then,” Helene said, in a slightly dazed voice, “he could collect all your dough, and pay you fifty dollars a week if he wanted to.”

  “Hell,” Jake said, “he could pay her ten dollars a week. Such things have happened before, but usually because some promising dope signed up with a grafter before knowing any better.”

  “It’s blackmail,” Nelle said furiously, “that’s what it is.”

  “And what’s this about Givvus and Sons?” Jake asked.

  “He’s wanted to sell the show to them for a long time,” Nelle said. “Givvus is his pet personal account, and with the show sold the way it is, he—St. John—doesn’t make any money out of it. If he personally sells the show to Givvus, he’ll make a hell of a lot in commissions.”

  “Well, as far as that part of it is concerned,” Malone said, “What the hell do you care?”

  “Goldman is such a swell guy,” she said, “and things are practically ideal the way they are. He lets us run the show, and we let him run his candy business, and there’s never any trouble. With St. John running things for the Givvuses, we’d all go nuts. And besides,” she added, “it’s the principle of the thing.”

  The waiter appeared with the tray of drinks and waved the menu at them hopefully.

  “Go away,” Jake said. “Look here, Nelle, he can’t do it. Goldman has an option.”

  She nodded. “But the option is up tomorrow night at six. Goldman and Joe McIvers are such pals that they aren’t worried about re-signing the contract. Goldman wanted to do it with a big gesture at the broadcast ne
xt Friday and have his picture taken putting his pen to the dotted line. St. John knows that, and he knows that after six o’clock tomorrow night he can sign with Givvus.”

  “Well,” Jake said slowly, “we can get hold of Goldman tomorrow and get the option taken up before expiration, and Givvus can go peddle his soap somewhere else.”

  “I thought of that,” Nelle told him. “But in the first place, Goldman is somewhere up on the Brule River catching fish and Joe is with him, and he isn’t coming back until day after tomorrow. And in the second place, the letters.”

  “What do you mean?” Malone asked.

  “The letters St. John has. I don’t know how he got them from Paul March, but anyway, he has them and that’s enough. He said if I tried to communicate with Goldman or Joe, or didn’t do just as he ordered, he’d send half the letters to Tootz and the other half to Papa Goldman himself.”

  “I can see Papa Goldman,” Jake said, musing. “If he once had the faintest idea that you’d ever committed anything worse than dropping a lead nickel in a phone box. Not a pretty picture. Nelle, St. John seems to have you very nicely.”

  “Give me a little time to think,” Malone said. “What does he want you to do?”

  “He’s planned a secret—very secret—audition for Givvus tomorrow,” she said. “Givvus is flying from the East for it. Hardly anybody at the studio knows anything about it and nobody at the agency. Rehearsal at eleven and the audition in the afternoon.”

  “If Givvus is all set to sign the show,” Jake said, “why the hell does he have to have an audition? Hasn’t he heard it on the air?”

  “He wants to hear it the way it would be presented for his product, I suppose,” Nelle said. “That’s all I know. Ask St. John.”

  Jake said, “I’m God damned if I’ll ask St. John anything, even the time of day. Malone, what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Malone said, “unless we could pin the Paul March murder on St. John in such a way that Nelle would be protected, and do it between now and tomorrow night, when the option on your show expires.”

  “Easy,” Jake snorted, “especially as we don’t know where the body is, and anyway maybe St. John had nothing to do with it.”