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

lips to talk. He walked away from Clane, into the darkened end of the room, swung around and paced back. He was getting control of himself again and after a few moments the color started back into his face and he looked almost normal.
    â€œI saw Edith,” he said abruptly. He faced Clane squarely. “I’ve got to trust someone, Jim.”
    â€œSure,” Clane said. “I don’t love the cops. But you can’t hide everything, Bob.” He added, “Your sister was here—alone?”
    â€œYes,” Bob Morgan said. “I saw her come in. She didn’t see me. I don’t know what she wanted but she went through Wickett’s desk.”
    â€œHe was dead then?”
    Bob Morgan ran his tongue over his lips. He looked miserable, but his voice was steady. “He was dead. He was sitting like that.”
    â€œShe could have shot him?” Clane asked.
    â€œShe came in the same way you did. But she could have been inside and gone out and circled around the house. I suppose she could have killed him.” He took a step backward, turned and found a chair and dropped heavily into it. “She or Dad—he was here too.”

SIX
    Clane stared thoughtfully at the boy in the chair. He took Bob Morgan by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “Clear out of here, kid,” he said. “Hide outside. If someone comes, tip me off. I have work to do.”
    â€œGet out this, Jim,” Bob Morgan pleaded. “This isn’t your mess.”
    â€œMove,” Clane ordered. He turned his back on the boy and went toward Wickett’s desk. He heard the French doors open and shut. Then he went to work.
    He turned the desk lamp so its light was thrown toward the front and downward. He began leafing through the papers on the desk top. Mostly business and household bills. He pushed them aside and started on the drawers. He found the first thing in plain sight, resting in the top drawer. It was a snapshot, about half the size of a postcar. He held it to the light and looked at it briefly before he put it in his pocket. It was of Natalie Thorne and she looked as if she had just completed a strip tease.
    He thought, “I wonder how much Thorne had to pay for the negative?”
    He went through the rest of the drawers. He was wondering if Wickett had been naturally untidy or if the disorder was the result of Edith Morgan’s search. Nothing was filed, nothing in order. There were no more items of interest until he came to the bottom drawer. There, beneath a thick sheaf of newspaper copy paper, he found a small scrapbook. He flipped it open and looked at the dozen newspaper clippings pasted inside. He couldn’t see much sense to them.
    They were all local items and dated within the past five years. Each one was short and dealt with the same subject: J. B. Castle had been arrested for drunkenness. Clane tried to place the name. It eluded him until he read, “Castle, former newspaperman….” and then he had it. Castle had been the editor of Thorne’s now defunct sheet.
    Clane took the two pages on which the clippings were pasted and tore them from the book. He rolled them and put the roll in his inside coat pocket. He dropped the scrapbook back into the drawer.
    Clane was disappointed. There were no secret drawers in the desk. Nor did any of the bookcases look suspicious. He walked around the room, admiring Wickett’s taste in classical literature, but that helped him not at all. He went back to the bar and helped himself to another drink of Wickett’s rye.
    The French doors came open. Bob Morgan said, “Car coming up this way.”
    Clane motioned with his head. “Get inside, Bob. How much do you weight?”
    â€œOne-sixty,” Bob Morgan said.
    â€œAll right, lug Wickett outside and dump him in the shadow of the hedge. Keep on the flagstones.”
    â€œLook, Jim….”
    Clane studied the revulsion on the boy’s face. He