The Body Looks Familiar (15 page)

Neal Harrison gasped. “I told guys. I—if I don’t come back I—”

“What guys?”

The thin, slack mouth said nothing.

“You’re not even a good liar.”

He hit Harrison then, hit him in the belly hard, with a clenched fist. “Give me that list! All my life a cop, and every blackmailer I ever heard of said the papers were some place safe, said people knew where they were going.” His fist beat punctuation to the speech. “And they lied! They lied!”

Then he had to let go. Neal Harrison had passed out.

Jim Latson let the little man fall to the carpet, forgetting his worry about bloodstains. He went and mixed himself another highball, and waited. Time was on his side; it always had been. After a while, Mr. Harrison would come to.

And then he would talk. And those bank books would turn up. They would not go to any politician or to any newspaper; Neal Harrison would talk and they would go right back to Jim Latson, where they belonged.

Maybe he would have to resign from office because of the divorce. But he would resign with his money intact and without a trial, and certainly without a prison sentence.

Having sized up the situation, Jim Latson waited. He waited because there was nothing else to do; and he never tried the impossible.

WHEN THE EDITION HAD ROLLED, the city editor of the
News-Journal
turned his desk over to the day city editor, and strolled over to Harry Weber’s desk. He said, “Let’s go see the boss.”

Harry had been expanding feature stories for the Sunday paper; he was glad to stop. He followed the city editor down to the rich end of the room, and passed a secretary into the managing editor’s plush office.

Ward Candle, the managing editor, was thin, black-haired, very well dressed. He said Harry’s name at once, a good boss, and waved them to seats.

“Still hot on that Corday hunch, Harry?” On his desk was a folder containing the morgue clippings Harry had dug up on Corday and Latson and Captain Martin.

“I’m still convinced Cap Martin got something on Corday and got bounced out to the sticks for it,” Harry said. “I am not at all convinced that I am good enough to dig it up. I tried.”

“I can add a little something,” Ward Candle said. “Corday’s wife committed suicide in Kansas City a few weeks ago. Mean anything to you?”

Harry Weber frowned. “Suicide is death and so is homicide. Which could bring Captain Martin in. Where was Corday when it happened?”

Candle laughed. “I thought of that. We put a couple of legmen on it. They place him in a movie—here—that night.”

Harry Weber said, “Too bad.”

Ward Candle lit a cigarette, smiling. “The good reporter does his work without heat, without personal prejudice… Frankly, the publisher would like to see Corday out of office. But more particularly, he’d like to see Latson out. I want you to get on it, Harry.”

Harry Weber said, “Yes, sir.”

“It seems obvious that Latson is involved. That letter from Corday to Latson’s wife; I happen to know that they don’t know each other socially, she doesn’t attend political parties, Corday has never been on the guest list of any of the plush charity affairs she does give.”

The city editor said, “It would look like Corday was sending money out of the country. His pal Latson’s wife could be banking it for him abroad.”

Ward Candle said, “That wouldn’t be honest money.”

Harry Weber said, “No, sir.”

Ward Candle said, “Don’t jump at conclusions. All we’ve really got is your impression that Dave Corday was scared, and got over it when he found out that Martin was out of Homicide.”

Harry said, “Which leaves the Italian letter out in left field.”

Ward Candle said, “Maybe he thought he was about to go into the soup over the homicide matter—if it was homicide—and sent extra money away quick to take care of him if he had to run.”

Harry said, “A man doesn’t have to be in Kansas City to kill someone there. Not a man whose work has brought him into contact with paid killers.”

Ward Candle’s voice got sharp. “This is exactly the sort of conclusion I don’t want you jumping to. Get on it, but move carefully. We don’t want a libel suit. If we don’t get Corday—and Latson, particularly Latson—we want to keep our in with them for stories.”

“I’ll start with Corday.”

Ward Candle laughed. “You’re smart. I’ve always thought Dave Corday was nothing much more than a highly educated dog. But Jim Latson’s a hell of a big lion to find in your den.”

“My name isn’t Daniel, but I feel like him.” Harry Weber stood up.

Ward Candle said, “I hope this works. If they hadn’t transferred Captain Martin, maybe we wouldn’t be bothering. He was the biggest asset Police Headquarters had.”

JIM LATSON said, “I wish you’d stay with me awhile.” Neal Harrison looked up at the tall cop, and giggled foolishly. His eyes were rolled back in his head and slobber had run down his chin, bloody slobber that stained his shirt. The peculiarly disagreeable odor of the cold sweat of fear pervaded the room.

Jim Latson swore calmly and went and got a jigger glass full of whisky. He wore an expression of extreme distaste as he held Harrison’s head up, forced the whisky down his throat.

Jim Latson just jumped back in time to keep the liquor from spewing over him.

But some of it had stuck in Harrison. Slowly his eyes rolled down, his lips started moving, he swallowed a couple of times and even coughed.

“All right,” Latson said. “You can hear me now. What I’ve done so far is first-grade stuff, kindergarten. Now, you talk or we go into high school.”

Neal Harrison put both hands up, grabbed at Latson’s wrist. Latson let him hold it, thinking the man wanted to be helped up to a seat. But after he’d gotten to his feet, lowered himself down into Jim Latson’s best chair, Harrison hung onto the wrist.

Latson finally made out that the private detective wanted to look at Latson’s wrist watch. He let him.

Harrison let out a weird noise, halfway between a moan and a chuckle.

Jim Latson said, “All right. Talk, man, talk up.”

“Too late,” Harrison said. His breath was ragged. “Too late. Used your own—trick. Western Union boy… If he couldn’t deliver the—papers—to me, hotel room, take ’em back to sender.”

“Sender?” Jim Latson put a harsh rasp into his voice, sank his fingers into Harrison’s shoulder. “You were the sender.”

“Didn’t tell ’im that,” Neal Harrison said. From somewhere he got some strength and for a moment his voice was very clear. “Told him I was Dave Corday, to bring the envelope back to me at my office. I was lying. Stalling for time. Never meant to send ’em any place but to Corday. He hates you the most.” He giggled, weirdly.

And then he pitched forward, out of the chair, onto Jim Latson’s smooth gray carpet, his wall-to-wall carpeting that the apartment house had been so glad to put in for the deputy chief of police. His blood and his saliva stained Jim Latson’s carpet, slightly at first, and then much more freely, because Jim Latson had pulled back his foot and kicked Neal Harrison in the ribs.

Then Jim Latson stood, rubbing his right hand gently through his close-cropped hair. Harrison could still be lying. But the papers weren’t on him, and—

Jim Latson said aloud, “When I work ’em over, they don’t hold out on me.” Then he laughed. Harrison had built up a big scene. He had been going to tell Jim Latson that he, Harrison, was inviolate, because if he wasn’t handled at once and with money, Latson’s enemy, Corday, would have the evidence to send Jim Latson a long, long way away.

Only trouble was, Jim Latson had hit the little man before he could get the scene built up.

Jim Latson stood there, staring down at his good right fist. It had been his best friend, and in the end it had betrayed him.

He laughed again; laughed at himself, Jim Latson, getting fancy thoughts like that. Still laughing, he looked down at Neal Harrison and said, “Little man, you haven’t scratched me. If there’s one thing I’m not scared of, it’s Dave Corday.”

Then he was busy, tying Neal Harrison’s hands and ankles with towels, shoving another towel into his mouth, binding it expertly so the man wouldn’t choke.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Until then, you figure out what I can do with you. If you come up with a real good scheme, I might buy it.”

HARRY WEBER said, “Is the big man in, Alice?”

The girl smiled. “We’re certainly seeing a lot of you these days, Harry.” She reached out, thumbed the squawk-box, said Harry’s name. Corday’s voice saying, “All right, all right,” was weak and irritated.

Alice winked, and turned off the box. “Temper, temper.”

The last time Harry Weber had seen Dave Corday, the district attorney had been jubilant; before that, he had been distraught to the point of collapse; now he seemed to be in a glowering rage that didn’t seem to be able to get off the ground; instead of making him terrifying, it only underlined his pettiness.

He greeted Harry with: “What is it now? What?”

Harry said, “A couple of questions, is all.”

“More about Guild?” Dave Corday cleared his throat. “Frankly, I haven’t done any more on that case. More important things.”

“Don’t know if it’s about Guild or not. Well, a legal question. If a case—say murder—runs into two states, does it become a federal case?”

Dave Corday slapped the top of his desk. “Oh, really, now. Hypothetical questions? Doesn’t your paper have a lawyer you can bother with things like that?”

“Oh, I’d just like your opinion. The states involved are this one and Missouri—Kansas City.”

It was a shot in the dark; this was a fishing expedition. The shot missed. Dave Corday said brusquely, “Well, if a body is taken over a state line, I suppose the federal attorney might have an interest. If a person is taken over a state line alive and then killed, there is a kidnaping charge under the Lindbergh Law; but since murder is the greater charge, the kidnaping would probably never be filed… In practice, such matters remain with the states.”

Nothing had happened that time except the fish had eaten the bait off the hook. But it was apparent that, having gone this far, Harry Weber had to keep on driving. If he didn’t, Corday would simply sit still and the interview would be over.

“I was over in Kansas City yesterday,” Harry said. “On a story. The funniest thing, I thought I saw Captain Martin over there. What in the world would take him to Kansas City I can’t imagine. I must have been mistaken.”

Dave Corday looked at him. “You’re babbling, Weber,” he said. “Whatever is the matter?” He stood up, came around the desk, stared down at Harry Weber. “Did you come here to confess something? Are you involved in some crime you want to tell this office about?”

Anyone else could be bluffing. But not Dave Corday. He didn’t have the strength, the guts, to carry on a protracted bluff like this.

Harry Weber said something unintelligible; he wasn’t sure what it was himself.

Corday said, “I don’t understand you,” and then turned sharply, his voice rising to a peevish snarl. “Alice, I have told you—”

But the girl stood her ground in the open door. “Something most peculiar has happened, Mr. Corday. And this boy insists on your signature in person.”

She stood aside then, and a kid in a messenger boy’s uniform came in, holding out a letter. “I was to try an’ deliver this till four o’clock,” he said, “and then bring it here. The guy give me ten bucks; I don’t want him complaining to the manager he didn’t get what he paid for.”

Dave Corday said, “Let’s see that thing.”

He took the envelope from the boy, read the address. “Neal Harrison, Esquire, Mandan Hotel. That’s not my name, boy.”

“In the corner. For return-like.”

Dave Corday looked. He said, “Yes, I see.”

“Ya sign here.”

Dave Corday signed. As he did so, he said, “I hate mysteries,” and took the envelope. The boy waited a minute, perhaps for a tip, and then scooted. Alice went after him, and shut herself out.

Harry Weber said, “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Dave Corday held the envelope up to the light, to see which end was safe to tear, and ripped the paper open in his deliberate, prissy way.

“Go on,” Harry said. “Maybe your aunt died and left you a millionaire.”

“I haven’t any aunts,” Corday said automatically, and started unfolding the letter.

Because he was Dave Corday, he did not glance at the contents until everything was unfolded, neatly. The bank books he stacked to one side on his desk blotter.

So Harry Weber saw the books first; and saw the name written on them. The whole thing was clear to him before Corday even started reading the letter from Neal Harrison.

Later he would wonder why. He wasn’t particularly conceited about his quick-wittedness. And he didn’t think, recalling all his conversations with Cap Martin, that the captain had ever even hinted at the true story about Corday and Latson.

But when he saw those bank books—all different colors, all different banks—he grabbed one. And when he saw the name James Latson on the cover, he knew what the letter to Mrs. Latson had been—a letter conspiring to pull the props out from under Jim Latson.

A lot of little things fell into place, and he knew Corday was not Jim Latson’s friend, but his bitter rival.

So he put his hand down hard on the bank books, to keep Corday from hiding them.

And just then Alice said, on the box, “Chief Latson is here—”

She never finished, because Jim Latson had already charged into the office.

MOST OF THE ADJECTIVES in the English language had been applied to Jim Latson at one time or another; the complimentary ones by boards of review and his political allies; the others by men he had sent up, cops he had broken, girls he had used and discarded, and by his political enemies.

But nobody had ever called him slow-witted. Long before Dave Corday had managed to stammer out Latson’s name, the police chief had taken in the little tableau; the bank books on the desk, the letter on hotel stationery, and the newspaperman with his hand on the bank books.