You Can't Kill a Corpse by Louis Trimble Read Free Book Online Page A

His right arm was to the rear door and the fireplace now; on his left was the largest part of the study.
    He reached the door and put out one hand to open it. A small sound came from the other side, a noise as of someone vainly trying to move hurriedly and silently away. Clane jerked at the door.
    The hallway was dark but Clane made out the movements of someone running. Clane took two steps forward and turned, making a diving tackle. His arms closed around a pair of pumping knees. There was a hard, jarring sound. Over his own breathing Clane heard a sob. He cocked his fist.
    â€œClane … Jim!”
    Clane rolled away. “You crazy kid!” he panted. He stood up and let Bob Morgan get to his feet. “Who else is here?”
    â€œThe maid and her mother,” Bob Morgan said. “They’re asleep over the garages at the other end of the house.” His voice shook uncontrollably.
    Clane said, “Come on in the library.” When they were once more in the other room he shut the door. “Damn it, did you do this?” He shot the question abruptly, one hand grasping the boy’s upper arm in a tight, hard grip.
    Bob Morgan’s muscles were shaking as badly as his voice. He took a deep breath and said, “No,” flatly. Clane dropped his hand.
    â€œWhat were you doing here?” Clane was less savage now. Bob Morgan was scared sick; it was a natural reaction in the face of violent death. It could also be the reaction if the boy had caused that death, but Clane doubted that.
    â€œMickey—my girl—works here,” Bob Morgan said. “She had to work tonight so I brought some stuff, ice cream and junk, and hung around.” He had himself controlled a little now. He kept his back to Wickett, his eyes fixed resolutely on Clane. His face was white, drained, but not shaking so badly.
    â€œWhat time did she go to bed?” Clane asked.
    â€œTen,” Bob Morgan answered. He was positive.
    â€œIt’s eleven-twenty now,” Clane said.
    â€œI wasn’t sleepy,” the boy said. “I stayed around.”
    â€œYou talked to Wickett?”
    â€œNo. He didn’t know I was here.”
    Clane said, “This isn’t the kind of information you can hold back, Bob. You can talk to the cops or to me. Maybe you’ll have to do both.”
    â€œWe can both fade and keep our mouths shut,” Bob Morgan said. There was a short break in his voice and then he blurted, “Wickett was a louse I” He had begun to shake again.
    Clane took his arm and turned him so the light fell on his face. His eyes were hot and bright, his mouth trembling. It gave Clane something to think about. Bob Morgan was a pretty self-sufficient boy for eighteen. He had managed to hold himself in check once, but now he was going to pieces again. Only this time it looked more like anger than fright.
    Clane said, “It isn’t a good thing to start at your age, but you’ll take a drink.”
    â€œI’ve never used it.”
    Clane crossed the room. In a recess between the bookcases he found a portable bar. He opened it and took out a bottle. He saw that it was rye but he took a shot himself and then passed it to the boy.
    â€œPut your handkerchief around the bottle,” Clane directed.
    Bob Morgan took his handkerchief and wrapped it around the bottle and took a drink. He coughed and choked and some of the whiskey ran down his chin. He wiped at it and blinked watering eyes at Clane. Clane said, “Try again.” The second time it was easier. Clane took the bottle away from him and put it back.
    â€œNow,” he said, “give. I’m not kidding about the cops. They’re sure to know you were here at ten—they’ll be on your tail sooner or later.”
    â€œGive me a cigarette, Jim.”
    Clane lit one and put it in the boys’ mouth. His hands were shaking so that he nearly dropped the cigarette when he tried to take it from his