No Coffin for the Corpse

Chapter Three: Bury Him Deep

Dunning’s report concerned a strange and, he thought, sinister individual who had mysteriously appeared in Wolff’s office-study on the second floor. The butler, whom Dunning had queried on his way down, denied ever admitting the man.

The secretary had walked into the study and discovered a man he had never seen before calmly running through some personal papers in Wolff’s files. The stranger had seemed in no way startled or disturbed by Dunning’s entrance, and had made no attempt to escape. Instead, he had simply shoved the file drawer to, sat himself down in a chair before the desk, and said quite calmly, “Tell Dudley Wolff that I want to see him here. Now.”

Dunning, who made and kept track of Wolff’s appointments with all the deadly precision of a time clock, was upset by the incident. He had protested and tried to question the man, but had received no reply except for an insolent smile and the blunt repeated command, “Get Wolff!”

He was still sitting there quite calmly when Wolff barged in. He was an odd sort of man, though the oddness was something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He was dressed soberly enough in a smooth-fitting dark overcoat, white scarf, and a black hat which he showed no intention of removing. His face was thin, sharp-featured, ascetic. His black eyes set in deep hollows burned brightly. A thin penciling of dark mustache crossed his upper lip and descended down around each side of his mouth to meet the small close-cropped black beard that covered his chin. Although his skin was white, here was a hint of accent in his voice that Dunning couldn’t quite place. The man was, furthermore, anything but polite.

“Who,” Dudley Wolff demanded, “are you?”

The stranger looked at Dunning. “Get your secretary out of here. My business with you is private.”

There was an insolence not only in his words but in his whole manner that affected Wolff like so much hot red pepper. The millionaire’s complexion grew dark with all the rapidity of litmus paper in the presence of undiluted hydrochloric acid and his voice thundered like a Heaviside war chariot racing over cobblestones.

“You go to hell! Who the devil are you? What the blazing hell do you want? Why—”

The intruder reacted to Wolff vocal bombing attack as if he were miles away, safe underground in a deep mine. Only his eyes were watchful and careful. His thin-lipped mouth curved in what seemed to be a smile, although there was no humor in it.

“Smith will do for a name,” he said, his low steady voice cutting in across Wolff’s deep bellowing one. “And I repeat, get your secretary out of here!”

The old question of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object seemed about to be answered.

The pitch of Wolff’s voice changed. It was, suddenly, more like the crackling of a shorted electric cable.

“Dunning! Telephone. Police.”

Albert Dunning approached the desk, beside which the sinister Mr. Smith sat, gingerly. He put out his hand to pick up the phone. But no lightning struck. The man only grinned again, his sharp eyes still on Wolff.

Dunning started to dial. Then he stopped, frowned, and depressed the bar in the phone cradle once or twice. The stranger, still grinning, poked at the telephone cord that led down over the desk to the bell box by the baseboard. The point of his cane hooked under it and lifted it for their inspection. It ended abruptly three feet from the phone in a neatly sliced end.

“I thought it might be wise,” Smith said. “You’re too hasty, Wolff. If you continue to act in this manner you’ll regret it. When I tell you why I am here you will wish that you had dismissed this man—” he nodded at Dunning—“as I asked.”

“Asked!” Wolff growled, infuriated by the man’s calmly impudent manner. “You have a damned funny way of asking. Get to the point. What do you want?”

Wolff had moved in closer. He stood above the man, looking down, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. The stranger didn’t appear to notice. He glanced once again at Dunning, then shrugged.

“I want money,” he said. “Naturally.” His gloved hand slid in beneath his coat. Dunning sucked in his breath. Wolff’s right arm flexed as if to strike out.

But they heard the crinkle of paper and saw the man’s hand come out again, holding not a weapon but a long envelope of legal size.

Mr. Smith put down his cane and used both hands to open it. He removed several long, narrow, glossy photographic prints, spread them fanwise between his fingers slightly, and extended them in Wolff’s direction. Dunning caught a glimpse. They appeared to be facsimile photographs of checks. He also caught a brief flash of the envelope’s interior and of something there that looked suspiciously like the negatives from which the prints had been made. He saw Wolff’s eyes narrow and knew that he too had seen them.

Wolff stared at the prints. Then, suddenly, he let the stranger have his way. “Dunning,” he said grimly, “I’ll handle this. Wait outside.”

The secretary hesitated. “Are you sure—”

“Yes. Get out!”

Dunning turned and left hastily, closing the door behind him. He didn’t go far, but dropped on one knee and investigated the keyhole.

“That’s more like it,” he heard Smith say. “You shouldn’t let everyone know about something like this, you know.”

“Where did you get these?” Wolff asked coldly.

Smith ignored the question. “Interesting, aren’t they? And not nice. Particularly if the papers or those senators should see—”

“They’re forgeries,” Wolff protested. “I can prove that.”

Mr. Smith lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Even if you could it would take considerable time. And, meanwhile, the newspapers and the Senate Munitions Committee—” He left the sentence unfinished.

Wolff glared at him. “How much?”

“A hundred thousand. They’re worth more. But that will do.”

“And I get the negatives?”

The man nodded. He made a small gesture with the envelope. “Yes. Of course.”

Wolff said, “I’ll pay ten.” His eyes were steady on his opponent, anger spilling from them — and decision.

“Ten?” Mr. Smith made his little grin again. “I’ll give you one minute. At the end of that time the price will go up to—”

Dudley Wolff never found out what the new rate was going to be. His fist, clenched until his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palm, swung up at the man’s face.

Smith saw the movement in his shoulders. He threw himself back in the chair and tried to twist his head. Wolff’s fist smashed against the side of his jaw and ploughed along his cheek.

Smith’s chair went over backward.

It teetered for a moment in slow motion on its back legs, and then crashed down. Smith’s feet described an arc above his head. His body somersaulted from the chair along the floor, then lay still, face down.

Wolff knelt quickly and scooped the envelope up from the floor. He glanced inside, grinned briefly, and then moved hastily around behind his desk.

His right hand yanked at a drawer, readied in and came out with a revolver. His left shoved the envelope and the prints into his side coat pocket.

“Dunning!” he called.

The secretary pushed the door open.

Wolff pointed at the man on the floor with his gun. “Search him quickly, before he comes to.” His physical explosion had given Wolff control over his temper again, and, though the cold light in his gray eyes still indicated anger, he seemed almost to be enjoying himself now.

Dunning went through Mr. Smith’s pockets. He found nothing at all except some small change and a wallet. He laid these on the table before Wolff. The latter flipped open the billfold.

He blinked for a moment at the card that was there behind the square of celluloid. Then he smiled.

“That fixes him, Dunning. It makes his little blackmail attempt boomerang very nicely.”

The card stated, in the same simple, cold, matter-of-fact way Mr. Smith talked, that William Garner was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Lock that door, Dunning,” Wolff said. “Then see what you can do about a little first aid.”

Dunning started toward the door, then halted. Wolff looked around.

Anne Wolff, Dudley’s wife, stood in the doorway watching them.

“What happened, Dudley? Who is that?” Her voice, though surprised, was cool. Anne Wolff was a cool person, poised, and self-assured. Even her rather startling beauty, as warmly alive as it was, had something of the cool smooth quality of a Grecian marble that comes from a too classic regularity of feature. But, in the deep hazel eyes, there was a glow that told plainly of emotions beneath the surface quite capable of flaring hotly.

Dudley Wolff was fifty-five; she was at least fifteen years his junior and appeared even younger. Her clothes, which had the smart ultra fashion of an Eric drawing, accented this youthful appearance, as did the equally extreme coiffure of her dark hair and the alert lithe way she used her body. This last you noticed even when she stood perfectly still, as she did now, staring at the gun in Wolff’s hand and at the still figure on the floor. A thin feather of blue smoke curled slowly upward from the gold-tipped cigarette in her right hand.

Wolff scowled at Dunning over his desk and splashed some whisky into a highball glass.

“He’s a detective who had an odd idea that he could blackmail Dudley Wolff. He’s not so smart in other ways too. I hit him and took what he wanted to sell. You’d better go. He might be a bit nasty when he wakes up. Dunning and I will handle him.”

Anne frowned at the man on the floor. “Doctor Haggard is downstairs, isn’t he? Perhaps I had better call him.”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I don’t want everyone to know—”

Dunning, who had gone to kneel at the man’s side, said nervously, “I think we should have the doctor. I don’t like — I can’t feel his pulse and he doesn’t seem to be breathing.”

Wolff scowled at Dunning over his glass. “Nonsense!” he said. But he put his drink down and crossed to join the secretary. He looked down at the body for a moment. “He doesn’t look too good, does he? All right, get Haggard.”

Dunning hurried into the gun room, ran his finger down a row of buttons beneath the phone and pressed one marked Library.

Anne Wolff said, “I think I’ll stay. I don’t like this.”

Wolff frowned down at the figure at his feet for a moment and then returned to his drink.

Dunning came back after a moment, and then Doctor Haggard hurried in. He stopped just inside the door, blinked once in a startled way at the body, threw a ¢questioning look at Wolff, and scowled briefly at the gun in Wolff’s hand. But he asked no questions. He moved across to the man on the floor and knelt above him.

Wolff, less confident now, poured himself another drink. They all watched the doctor without speaking.

Haggard’s fingers went to his patient’s wrist. The calmly interested professional look on his face suddenly froze. He hesitated a second, scowling. Then, quickly, he turned the body over on its back, threw open the overcoat, ripped away the man’s tie, and unbuttoned vest and shirt. He leaned forward and put his ear against the bare flesh over the heart.

Wolff, distinctly nervous now, watched him intently. Mrs. Wolff seemed to be holding her breath. Dunning was transfixed.

Then, after a long moment, Doctor Haggard straightened up, sat back on his heels, and looked again at Wolff and at the gun in Wolff’s hand. His voice was crisp. “What happened? I don’t see any wound, and no blood. I heard no shot. How long—”

“There wasn’t any shot,” Wolff said quickly. “I hit him. What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to do something? Why—”

“Do something?” Haggard lifted one eyebrow. “I’m a bit late. This man is dead.”

The doctor’s voice was, except for a trace of curiosity, as matter-of-fact as a weather report.

But the words gathered impact in the silence that followed them. Wolff shook his head in a dazed fashion. He opened his lips twice before his words came. Then, hoarsely, he said, “Dead? No. I don’t believe it! He can’t be—”

Haggard frowned. “He is though.” His eyes went again to the gun in Wolff’s hand. “What happened?”

Dudley let the weapon fall onto the green desk blotter. He sank back into the chair. “I hit him,” he said. “But not that hard. He might have cracked his head when he went over backward, but — but — dammit, look at him again. You must be wrong. It isn’t possible—”

Haggard bent above the body again. “There’s some abrasion along the side of the jaw. But that’s all. His head seems to be all right. But he’s still dead.” Haggard stood up. “Bad heart probably. The autopsy will show. Who was he?”

Wolff stared at Haggard for a moment, then took a hasty drink from his glass. His hand shook. He looked at the body on the floor and his voice was like that of a sleepwalker. “Man named Garner. He tried to blackmail me.”

Haggard blinked again, glanced curiously at Anne and Dunning, and said, “Oh. That’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

Wolff nodded vaguely, still staring at the body, not believing it. His face was white and his forehead shone damply in the light that came from the green-shaded desk lamp. He sat limply in the chair, all his dynamic energy gone like the air from a pricked balloon.

Haggard picked up the phone, saw the cut wire, blinked once more, and looked around at everyone again. Then he replaced the receiver slowly and, turning, started out the door.

Wolff wasn’t paying attention, but Anne asked, “Doctor Haggard, where are you going?”

“Telephone,” he answered. “Notify the police. Cases of sudden or violent death must be—”

Dudley Wolff heard that. He came up out of his chair abruptly. “Wait a minute, Haggard!” Something of the old punch was back in his voice now.

The doctor turned. “Yes?”

“You’re not going to call the police,” Wolff said heavily.

“No?” Haggard’s eyebrows lifted. “I haven’t any choice in the matter. You can’t possibly avoid—”

“I’m going to though,” Wolff insisted. “Somehow. I’ve got to. I can’t have this hit the papers now. That man was an FBI agent.”

The surprises came so fast Haggard seemed a bit dazed. “But if he was blackmailing you — that’s excuse enough for hitting him.”

“But I can’t admit that. It would only make things worse. The papers would love it. And the Senate Committee—” Wolff’s rugged face had a cornered look, but there was hard determination in the set of his jaw.

Anne, still cool, said, “Perhaps if the body was found somewhere else—”

Haggard protested. “If he was a Federal agent his presence here is probably known. That wouldn’t help a bit. The police would—”

“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.