The Corpse Without a Country by Louis Trimble Read Free Book Online Page A

and then as a police photographer’s flash lit up the scene. In death, the beating he had given his body showed plainly. He was forty-one; he looked sixty.
    The lab boys padded around with somber expressions. Fenney had at one time been a great favorite with everyone who knew him at all. And, I thought again, everyone had known him.
    But there was certainly one person he hadn’t been a favorite with.
    Lieutenant Maslin shook his head sadly. “He was the only man I knew who ever reported crime news honestly.”
    It was a kind of eulogy. Reese Fuller said, “What’s he doing here on one of my boats?” His voice made it plain that he didn’t give a damn for the great man Mike Fenney had been.
    “Lying dead with a broken neck,” I said. I bunched my fists in my pockets to keep from hitting Fuller.
    Maslin turned to Fuller. “You tell us what he’s doing here?”
    “How in the devil would I know?”
    Maslin ignored Fuller’s bad manners. He was looking at big Arne who had just come into the cabin. Beyond Arne, I could see Jodi walking back and forth on the pier, smoking in rapid, nervous puffs despite the big
No Smoking
sign prominently displayed. Stumbling over Fenney’s body that way had given her quite a jolt. I was glad to see her walking off her edginess.
    Arne said in a comparatively quiet tone, “Fenney had a right to be here. He was working for me.” He swung his heavy jaw in Reese Fuller’s direction. “And he isn’t on
your
boat. He’s on
my
boat.”
    Fuller paid no attention to the rebuke. He was obviously thinking of the other part of Arne’s statement. “Working for you?”
    I was interested in the expression on Reese Fuller’s face. It was definitely one of annoyance. And I was interested, too, in the color of Fuller’s complexion. It had the quality of a mud flat at low tide.
    Maslin said, “What kind of work was he doing for you?”
    Arne took an ancient, charred pipe from his pocket and sucked noisily on the well-gnawed bit. “I hired him three or four weeks ago,” he said. “He came and asked me for a job. I gave it to him.”
    I could see the flicker of annoyance from Maslin. Arne hadn’t answered his question, but because this was Arne Rasmussen, Maslin couldn’t make an issue of it.
    He tried again, keeping his voice mild, “What kind of a job could Fenney do for you?”
    Arne grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “Odd jobs,” he said.
    I thought I knew the answer Maslin wanted. I could hear Arne saying to me, “I don’t need you snoopers. I got one of my own.” And I could see Fenney getting out of that chartered boat and being in too big a hurry to linger and talk to me.
    Maslin gave up. He said, “When did you last see him?”
    There was a brief hesitation before Arne said, “A couple weeks ago. He came over to the
Queen
and asked for some money. I gave him five hundred.”
    “So then he went out on a two-week drunk,” Reese Fuller said.
    Arne said almost quietly, “I didn’t ask him what he did with the money. With the first two hundred I gave him, he bought a new suit—not that one he’s wearing, but lubber clothes. Maybe he bought this outfit with the five hundred.”
    His tone said that Reese Fuller should mind his own business. Maslin opened his mouth to ask another question, but one of the lab men came up carrying a large envelope. “The contents of Fenney’s pockets, Lieutenant.”
    Maslin opened the envelope and glanced inside. I was reminded of my report. After sending Jodi off to phone the police and report Fenney’s death, I had looked in the locker. The report was gone. I hadn’t been surprised.
    I had also gone through Mike Fenney’s pockets, and part of what should legally be in Maslin’s envelope was now in my wallet. Maslin wasn’t going to appreciate this when he found out. He wasn’t going to appreciate, either, the fact that I’d decided to say nothing to him about meeting Fenney in Bellingham. Not for the moment, at least. I had a few