No Coffin for the Corpse Read online

  “I’m not so sure,” Wolff interrupted. “The blackmail was obviously a little side line of his own. It’s not at all likely that anyone, least of all his superiors, knows where he went tonight. And—” He hesitated a moment, then looked at the doctor squarely. “And if the body shouldn’t be found at all—”

  Haggard shook his head uneasily. “That’s impossible. You can’t—”

  His voice trailed off as he saw Wolff turn toward one of the casement windows in the wall opposite the door and unlatch it. The millionaire pulled one side of it in and looked out into the blackness above the waters of the Sound which, on this side, touched the foundations of the house two stories below. Small icy flakes of snow eddied downward out of the dark, caught the light from the window for a brief second, and then vanished.

  “It wouldn’t work, Wolff,” Haggard said. “The body would be washed up, and there wouldn’t be any water in the lungs. The conclusion would be only too obvious. Besides, I can’t allow it. I—”

  Wolff turned, scowling. “You’ll have to. I have no choice. I don’t know just what I’m going to do yet, but I’m going to do something.”

  “For God’s sake, man!” Haggard snapped. “Pull out of it! There are some things that even you can’t get away with. I’m phoning.” He moved toward the door again.

  “Dunning!” Wolff ordered. “Stop him!”

  Dunning usually carried out Wolff’s orders with instant obedience. For the second time tonight he hesitated. But Haggard was stopped by Anne. She had moved into the doorway, and she stood there facing the doctor defiantly.

  “Not just yet, Doctor,” she said.

  And Wolff, behind him, cut in, “Listen to me a minute.”

  Haggard, not quite certain how to get around Mrs. Wolff, turned part way.

  Wolff’s voice came rapidly. “It isn’t as if this were murder. It’s not. I didn’t intend to kill him. You know that. He was a blackmailer. And I’m not going to take it on the chin just because a rat like that happened to have a bad heart. No jury would indict me. But the newspapers won’t wait to find that out. They’ll make it look as bad as they can, and, when the Senate Committee hears about it, I’ll in one hell of a spot.”

  Wolff saw that this argument was not having the desired effect. He stopped abruptly and tried another. “Haggard, you’ve been working nearly ten years on that problem of yours. You’re right on the edge of something big. How long would it take you to reach the same point if you had to begin over again from scratch? Even if you found someone to give you a new lab and back a long series of experiments with no commercial value, what about that new strain of rats? How long would it take you to breed them again? What about those somatic-cell cultures you’ve been nursing so carefully for the last four years? It would be too bad if—”

  This hit home. There was blank consternation in the doctor’s face and he gasped as though Wolff’s words were hammerlike physical blows.

  “You—you wouldn’t—”

  “I own that lab and everything in it. I can do what I like with it. And I will—if necessary.”

  The scientifically designed thermostat that regulated Haggard’s emotions came very close to breaking down. The man took a sudden step forward.

  Wolff saw the look in his eyes and snapped, “Dunning!”

  Haggard stopped. “All right, damn you,” he said. “You win. But some day—” His eyes held Wolff’s for a moment, then dropped to the body on the floor. “But what do you think you can do about that? There’s no way—”

  “We’re going to find one,” Wolff answered. “You’re a doctor. You should be able to suggest—”

  The answer came from Anne Wolff. Quietly she said, “Dudley. The Pines.”

  Wolff turned and looked at her. He was silent for a moment. Then very slowly he said, “Yes. Of course. It’ll have to be that. No one would ever know.”

  “The Pines?” Haggard asked. “What—”

  “Graveyard,” Wolff said. “Old one. Here on the estate. It’s in a pine grove quarter of a mile east of the house and back from the shore. No one ever goes there. I don’t suppose many people even know about it now. If the body were put there it would never be found.”

  The silence for a moment after Wolff stopped speaking was intense.

  Finally Haggard said, “You’re determined?”

  Wolff nodded. “Yes.”

  The doctor looked at Dunning a bit skeptically. “What about him?”

  Wolff didn’t look at him at all. “Dunning,” he said flatly, “will do as I say.”

  Haggard glanced at Anne. She still stood in the doorway. Then he made his decision. “I don’t seem to have much choice either. We’d better get it over with then.”

  Dudley Wolff was the captain of industry again, ruthless and efficient. “Anne. Go down and talk to Galt. Keep him out of the way. Dunning, get a pick and some spades. Make sure none of the servants see you. Meet us outside. The door off the rear hallway. We’ll use the back stairs.”

  Wolff, Haggard, and Dunning worked hard for the next two hours. It was no easy job carrying the body the distance it had to go. But they did it.

  There were half a dozen graves there in the small clearing beneath the dark pines. The men worked steadily, somewhat frantically, by the shielded light of an electric torch. Doctor Haggard carefully cut away the sod above one grave, slicing it as neatly as though he were working with a dissecting scalpel. Dunning, rather more white-faced than usual, lifted it and stacked it on one side.

  None of the men was used to the heavy physical labor that came next. Luckily the frozen ground was sandy and not as hard as it might have been.

  When they had reached a depth of four feet, Haggard said, “That’s enough.” His voice was a tight tense whisper. “We’ll turn up something we don’t want to if we go much farther.”

  Dunning, whose hands trembled, helped the doctor lower the blanket-wrapped body into the hole. The perspiration on Wolff’s forehead as he watched them did not all come from the physical exertion of his digging. His hands gripped his spade in a desperate effort to keep control over the fear inside him. Haggard, noticing it, took the spade from his hands.

  He and Dunning finished the job hurriedly. There was a good-sized heap of earth left over when they were done.

  “Dunning can come over tomorrow and clear that away,” Wolff said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He helped them replace the sod and scuffle a covering of pine needles over it again. Dunning quickly gathered up the spades and the pick.

  Then they moved off hastily, eager to get back to the warmth and light of the house. Their light bobbed jerkily as they made their way over the uneven ground and blinked like a ghostly will-o’-the-wisp as it passed between the trees.

  And in the cold black of the thick woods behind them, a man squatted silently on the ground watching the light recede. He had been there a long time without moving and he was cold. But his lips smiled.

  Chapter Four:

  Will-O’-the-Wisp

  AFTER KISSING THE BOYS at the police station good-by, I took the Parkway back into town at a more cautious rate of speed and without further mishap. From my apartment on East 40th Street I phoned the Wolff house. I suspected that Dudley might have issued orders to Phillips concerning calls from me so I boosted my voice up a couple of octaves and said, “Is this Mamaroneck 3824?”

  Phillips admitted it.

  “Hollywood calling,” I said then. “I have a call for Miss Kathryn Wolff.” Then I held my hand over my mouth to muffle my voice and create an effect of distance. “Hello. Hello. Orson Welles’s office. Is this Miss Wolff?”

  That, I felt sure, would get her if anything would. But I was no Julian Eltinge. My female impersonations apparently needed another week of rehearsal and a tryout in Philadelphia before braving the Phillips criticism. He sounded like George Jean Nathan.

  “Miss Wolff is engaged at the moment,” he said coldly, and then skeptically, “If Mr. Welles will call again i
n the morning—”

  I gave in. “Okay, Phillips. It’s me she’s engaged to. Be a good skate and put me through. This is Ross Harte.”

  Phillips was a skate all right—one of those flat fishy ones with a sting in its tail. “I thought so,” he said. “I’m sorry. That is impossible. My instructions—”

  I hung up. Phillips sounded about as sorry as a man whose rich uncle has just contracted bubonic plague—and about as helpful. I thought it over gloomily and decided that perhaps, after all, it was just as well. Kay’s emotional upset, and mine too for that matter, would have a chance to settle overnight. We could discuss things the next day far more rationally and with greater hope of agreement than now.

  I called again the next morning, and, this time, used a smoke screen that put less strain on my histrionic abilities.

  “Police headquarters,” I announced gruffly. “Inspector Gavigan speaking. The 1941 maroon Buick Miss Kathryn Wolff reported stolen two weeks ago has been found. May I speak with her, please?”

  This approach should certainly confound Phillips. The facts were all true enough; her car had been stolen. But I had taken the Inspector’s name in vain.

  “Miss Wolff,” Phillips said, “is out of town.”

  I blinked. I was sure he hadn’t caught on that quickly. On the other hand, I didn’t see why he would want to mislead the police department. I couldn’t very well stay in character, however, and express my doubts.

  “Oh, I see,” I said. “Where can I reach her? It’s very important.”

  My luck hadn’t improved any overnight. The Phillips voice was glacial. “I have no authority to give out that information. Besides, the police found and returned Miss Wolff’s car three days ago. Good day, Mr. Harte.”

  The click of the phone as he broke the connection sounded as final as the trump of doom. But I was certain now that he was giving me the run-around. Having guessed who I was, he had reason for wanting me to think that Kay was out of reach. I put through a call to Peggy Shields whose daily column in the Press annotates the comings and goings of the uppercrust.

  She promised to look into the matter. Fifteen minutes later she called back. There was disillusion in her voice.

  “I thought I had a way with butlers,” she complained, “but the rock-ribbed specimen who answers the Wolff phone doesn’t third-degree very well. He insists that Mr. and Mrs. Wolff and daughter, Kathryn, are out of town but he won’t go into details. He refuses politely but firmly to say where they’ve gone, when they went, why they went, or when they’ll be back. It looks odd. I guess I’ll have to give up my Sunday morning nap and run out there for a personal appearance.”

  “Look, sweetheart,” I warned. “Phillips can’t be had. Even if you took Hedy Lamarr, Gypsy Rose Lee, and Carmen Miranda, he’d still make noises like a clam. I know him.”

  “But,” she said, “don’t clams have sex?”

  “It’s possible, but I’m not so sure about Phillips. Work your wiles on someone else, but get going. Those senators are snapping at Wolff’s heels. He might be taking it on the lam.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That would be interesting. I’ll let you know.”

  Actually I didn’t think that running out was Dudley Wolff’s style. But I knew that baiting the hook with possible headlines would keep Peggy on her toes. I made a few calls myself, mostly to friends of the Wolffs’. I couldn’t turn up anything on them that dated later than press time the day before. No one seemed to be aware that they had had any intention of leaving town. A few persons who had engagements with one or the other of them within the next few days went so far as to think it all highly unlikely. I was beginning to feel sure that Phillips was perjuring himself in the line of duty when Peggy called back with the answer.

  “They’ve gone all right,” she reported. “I checked the air lines. Ten-thirty plane for Miami. Unless they’re headed for South America I expect to find them registered at the Lido Club Hotel where they always stay. But it doesn’t look very suspicious from here. And, if it was, it wouldn’t make headlines in this man’s paper. A little bird at the office just told me that we have a new publisher. Somebody named Dudley T. Wolff, of all things. Is that why you’re interested in Kay?”

  “No. It’s the other way around. And you’re only half right. You’re working for him, but I quit last night when he fired me. Thanks for the answers. I’ll stop in some day and treat you to lunch. And, by the way, don’t talk back to your new boss unless you just don’t care what happens. He isn’t used to it.”

  I hung up quickly before the conversation could develop into an interview, called Western Union, and sent Kay a wire addressed to the Lido Club Hotel. I wrote a letter too and sent it out air-mail special. I stayed at home all evening waiting for an answer to the wire. None came. At eleven I put through a long-distance call. I got Dunning.

  My subtle Machiavellian attempts at deception had all panned out so badly that, this time, I tried a simple direct approach. I told him frankly who was calling and asked politely to speak to Kay. I think he was a bit surprised at having been traced so quickly, but the shock was in no way fatal.

  “Miss Wolff isn’t in,” he said promptly. “May I take a message?”

  I trusted him about half as much as I did Phillips. “Yes, you might tell her I called.” I hung up, adding to myself, “But I doubt it.”

  I tried a night letter then, and asked Western Union to sit tight and try to get an answer. I shouldn’t have bothered. A wire came through less than an hour later. Time magazine never ran anything as curt, clear, complete, or half as upsetting. It read:

  Don’t squander precious bank account on wires and phone calls. Useless.

  Kathryn Wolff

  If you know of any better excuse for getting tight, I don’t want to hear it. I spent a couple of hours in a bar on Lexington Avenue and managed to forget my troubles temporarily. But they were all back again the next morning, along with some new ones. Item one was the headache I had when I awoke. Item two was the fact that, having failed to set my alarm, I didn’t wake until nearly eleven. The time specified on that court summons was 9:00 a.m.

  It was, consequently, noon when I arrived again in Mamaroneck. The judge, a strict disciplinarian, was in no mood to listen to excuses even if I had had any. I pled guilty and let nature takes its course. It added up to twenty-five bucks on each count, plus a few unminced words and some caustic advice from His Honor.

  Sergeant Lovejoy, seeing the glum look on my face as I went out, said, “Great Scott, young man, what happened? You look as if he gave you the chair!”

  “Well,” I said smiling half-heartedly, “he didn’t exactly kiss me on both cheeks. I’ve got other worries. See you again some time.”

  He grinned. “I hope not.”

  I could put something in here about coming events casting their shadows, but, not wanting to be tagged as a had-I-but-known writer, I’ll leave it lay, saying merely that the sergeant’s wish did not come true. I saw him again all too soon and under circumstances that gave me even greater reason for looking down at the mouth.

  His remarks did serve to call my attention to the fact that I was going to have to do something about my state of mind before I started out to hunt a new job. As I drove back to town I tried hard to push Kay and thoughts of her down into my subconscious and file them under Postponed Business. But the going was tough. I think I managed to erase the expression the sergeant had commented on. I may even have deceived a few of the editors I approached into thinking that I was bright and cheerful. But I didn’t fool myself.

  I tried arguing, telling myself that, if Kay could call it all off as easily as she had and for as little reason, perhaps it was just as well. Logically that was sensible enough. I told myself that, too. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Then, on Saturday, I made a withdrawal at the bank that was all-inclusive in its scope, and did what I had known I would do all along. I packed a bag and took the next train out.

  I had twenty-tour hours en route
in which to think. And I argued myself, more successfully this time, into believing that perhaps Dudley Wolff, being the sort of totalitarian dictator that he was, might be censoring his daughter’s mail before she saw it, and confiscating all notes from foreign powers. And I had, furthermore, no good evidence that the telegram I’d received had really been sent by Kay herself. Dunning could have held back the fact of my long-distance call and, under orders from his employer, been responsible for the wire. The more I considered the theory, the better I liked it. I felt better too. Not a lot, but some.

  The first mistake in my military campaign was a disastrous one. I neglected to scout the ground in advance, breezed into the Lido Club Hotel quite openly, and found Dudley Wolff there in the lobby as big as life and twice as snappish, a welcoming committee of one. He saw me before I could take cover. His greeting was nor exactly the ticker-tape, key-to-the-city kind.

  He scowled like a hungry shark and came toward me with the same sort of headlong dive. I couldn’t do anything but stand pat and take it, though I did manage to get in the opening shot.

  “You don’t look well,” I said. “What is it? Gout?”

  His scowl grew still blacker.

  I knew the value of appeasement policies and decided to stick to shock tactics. “Careful!” I warned. “Rigor mortis might set in. Or has it? That scowl of yours always seems to be the same.”

  “Young man!” he growled. “If you’re here because you think—”

  “My presence,” I cut in, “is your own fault. If you hadn’t fired me, I’d have had to stay in New York on the job.”

  That thrust penetrated his hide, but it was far from being fatal. It only made him roar louder.

  “You’re wasting your time! You can take the next train back because you are not going to see—”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve bought a controlling interest in Florida too?” I was enjoying myself now, and feeling more certain than ever that it was not Kay who had sent that wire. If those sentiments were hers, Dudley would hardly need to protest so strenuously.