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  Give her five minutes more, I thought….

  More than an hour had passed since Jean Putnam’s voice had promised on the phone that she would be there. As I started back to my office I gave a final look down the corridor, and suddenly she was there, framed in the stairwell.

  She was dressed in a very fetching pirate costume, the purposely ragged bottoms of her scarlet pants reaching to just below the hips. Her legs were bare from there on down to black oilcloth boots.

  She hadn’t moved, and a new sensation blew cold across the back of my neck. As I lunged for her she crumbled and fell backwards down the yawning stairwell. When I reached her on the next landing I saw that not all the redness was in her costume. A bullet had struck her in the back.

  Corpus Delectable

  Talmage Powell

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Also Available

  Copyright

  One

  She was late.

  She’d been a musical voice on the telephone identifying herself as one Jean Putnam. The music had been overlaid with strain and urgency when she’d asked for an immediate appointment.

  “I’ll detour on my way to the Claverys’ party,” she’d said. “I can be there in thirty minutes. I’ve got to see you, Mr. Rivers.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s a little complicated to try to explain on the phone. I’ve got to know whether or not a certain thing is true.” “I’ll wait for you,” I’d said. Nearly an hour had passed.

  There was nothing else at the moment to keep me in the office. But I decided to give Jean Putnam a little longer. People never call a private detective merely for the exercise of lifting the phone.

  Energetic brass-band music filtered into the office from outside. I ambled to the window and idled a few minutes with glimpses of the glittering parade passing the intersection a couple of blocks away. The floats were elegant, the girls gorgeous, the pirates fearsome. The packed masses of spectators over there had a common bond, a carefree, festive spirit.

  Tampa, Florida, where I operate, is the only city in the country to be captured every year by pirates. The capitulation is a joyous one. It started back in 1904 when somebody got the happy idea of a fun week dedicated to the legendary José Gaspar, who roamed these Gulf waters back when buccaneers were for real.

  The current invasion of Tampa had started this morning, when the three-hundred-ton replica of old José‘s flagship had sailed into the Hillsborough River, which slices Tampa in half.

  Followed by a vast fleet of pleasure boats, the José Gaspar’s rigging and masts had swarmed with Florida lovelies and Tampa businessmen in pirate regalia. As the ship had neared downtown Tampa, the cannons had started roaring. Scores of thousands of tourists and Floridians had cheered almost as loudly.

  With the ship at dock, Ye Mystic Krewe, as it’s dubbed, had poured gaily ashore, brandishing cutlass and pistol. The mayor had issued the proclamation of capitulation to Ye Mystic Krewe, and the Jolly Roger had been run up on the City Hall flagstaff to usher in the week-long wing-ding known as the Gasparilla Festival.

  As I turned from the window, nearly a million people heard seventy-six trombones jar the buildings on Franklin Street. The call of the music brought an off-key whistle of accompaniment from me. The building housing my office, on a grubby side street, seemed all the more drab and deserted.

  I gave up, let the seventy-six trombones have the field, and wandered to the office doorway, where the lettering reads: NATIONWIDE DETECTIVE AGENCY, Southeastern Division, Agent in Charge, ED RIVERS.

  I palmed the knob, debating whether or not to close up and join the rest of the building’s denizens in the pursuit of piratical pleasures.

  I assumed that the Clavery blast, which Jean Putnam had promised to detour, was one of those endless parties for which Gasparilla provides a unique and offbeat reason. I’d never met or heard of the girl before. For all I knew, she had decided the party wouldn’t wait, but the private cop would always be around.

  I pushed back my cuff and looked at my watch in its heavy nest of oily-looking hairs. More than an hour now since Jean Putnam’s voice had made its thirty-minutes promise.

  Give her five more minutes, I thought.

  She needed another thirty or forty seconds. As I started to turn back into the office, I gave the corridor a final glance, and she was suddenly there, a still life framed in the stairwell several yards away.

  She was a still life that vibrated, like atomic particles molded in about five-six of female perfection. She was dressed in a very fetching pirate costume that accented her firm, flowing, youthful lines. The delicate loveliness of her face was topped by a red silk scarf turbaned on her head. The purposely ragged bottoms of her scarlet pants reached just below the hips. Her legs were bare from that point down to where the black oilcloth boots began.

  “Miss Putnam?” I inquired.

  She nodded vaguely. Her mouth opened slightly. She still hadn’t moved, and a frown crept between my heavy brows.

  And a new sensation blew cold across the back of my neck.

  I lunged from the doorway. When I was halfway to her, she made a weak gesture toward me. She crumpled and disappeared into the yawning stairwell. She fell with the cruel sounds of tissue and bone striking uncontrollably against inanimate stairs and iron railing.

  I reached the break in the corridor and went down the stairs skidding on my heels. She was a twisted mass of creamy flesh and crimson cloth on the landing.

  When I reached her and dropped to one knee, I saw that not all of the redness was in her costume. A bullet had struck her in the back near her left shoulder blade. It had angled deep in her body. It hadn’t come out through her right breast, because it had struck bone, ricocheting briefly inside of her and tearing the hell out of her chest cavity. Bleeding to death inside, she shouldn’t even have had the strength to drag herself upright in the stairwell.

  Turning her, I knew an emergency ambulance ride wasn’t going to help her. The young violet eyes were already going murky as the life left her.

  She was trying to speak. She made little actual sound, more a suggestion of words. “Are you … Rivers?”

  No need to tell her to take it easy. She hadn’t a clock tick left.

  “Yes,” I said. “Who did this to you?” “Man … Strange man …” “Someone hired to do it?” “Yes …” “Why?”

  “I … Incense …”

  It came to her then that she was face to face with the darkest of all mysteries. She summoned her reserves to fight it. Her hand clutched my arm. Her mouth twisted in a frightened, childlike plea for help. A brief fire came to her eyes. Then she went limp. She was gone.

  I let her shoulders slide from my f
ingers. Over on Franklin Street, in another world, the seventy-six trombones had passed on, and the mammoth parade continued.

  Here, the silence crimped tight with unpleasant meaning. She couldn’t have carried the slug far. She must have been okay when she’d come off the street …

  As I turned from her, a silenced gun burped in the corridor below, and a slug put a neat round in the wall behind my head. I dropped behind a square newel post, reaching for the .38 I carry as a part of my armament. The rest of the equipment consists of a knife in a hidden sheath at the nape of my neck.

  I heard his footsteps in the corridor, heavy but fast. Swinging around the newel post, I dropped from the landing.

  The second I showed my puss in the lower corridor the silenced gun made another nasty, anti-Rivers sound. I jerked back into the cover of the stairway.

  My body felt as if it were smothering in its own sweat. Part of it came from being plain scared, but not all. I wanted a chance to talk back to the crumb’s whispering gun with the honestly loud voice of the .38.

  I dropped low and plunged across the corridor, ready to fire at anything that moved.

  Flattened against the far wall, I jerked some breath into my lungs. The corridor was silent and empty. I shoved myself away from the wall, racing toward the double glass doors.

  When I reached the sidewalk, a drum and bugle corps on Franklin Street let go with a concussion that poured through the narrow canyons formed by buildings.

  Diagonally across the street from me, I glimpsed movement. I got an impression of a big man wearing a dark-gray suit and coconut straw hat. Then he was out of sight, disappearing into an alley.

  Not a pedestrian was in sight. Nothing else moved on the narrow, deserted back street. Cars were parked in every available space. I eeled between a couple of them and ran to the far sidewalk. At the entrance to the alley, I stopped and plastered myself against the corner of the building for a second. I’d have given five bills for the sight of a cop.

  Dropping low, I chanced a look in the alley. I saw a parked pickup truck, the usual garbage cans, a loading platform. It was a scene of desertion, of quiet, almost of stark desolation. A few blocks away the multitudes cheered a bathing beauty on a float of flowers.

  A drop of sweat came down and stung the corner of my eye. As I eased into the alley, a tightness spread through my chest, transforming the normal act of breathing into a conscious, labored process. My grip on the .38 had the trigger on a hairline.

  He wasn’t hiding behind the first rack of garbage cans, or the next. The pickup truck was empty, and he wasn’t crouched and waiting beyond the loading platform.

  The end of the alley was marked by a meeting of sunlight and shadows. I slipped the gun in the side pocket of my suit jacket and padded across to another sidewalk.

  I went a block and rounded a corner. Ahead of me was a solid jam of humanity. Over their heads I glimpsed the upper portions of a passing float. A baby was crying fretfully somewhere in the crowd. Cardboard periscopes bobbed up and down. Young daddies stood with kids straddling their shoulders. At first glance I counted a dozen coconut straw hats, like chips floating on a restless sea.

  He was under plenty of tension, I reminded myself. I stood in readiness for the natural thing to happen, waiting for one of those hats to turn as the man under it sneaked a glance backward.

  A band blaring Sousa strains came and went. On the following float, a tall, leggy girl, gleaming with golden gilt, stood on the back of a golden dolphin, a golden chain in her hand.

  The golden image slipped past the edges of my vision. A grinning, gigantic pirate, two stories tall and inflated with helium, floated past the intersection. A troop of cowboys from the Kissimee ranching area clop-clopped by on spirited palomino horses. Another band marched past with drums rattling a swift cadence.

  None of the hats had turned. I knew he was a cool, experienced professional. He had to be aware of my presence, but he had the self-discipline to keep from revealing himself.

  My hands had gradually become hard knots of frustration. I wheeled abruptly and headed toward my office.

  When I got back to Jean Putnam, a glistening green fly had landed on her smooth, firm cheek and was crawling toward the young, innocent mouth. With a thick curse, I shooed the fly away, cut my eyes from her, and hurried up the stairs.

  Trying to keep my mind away from the implications attached to the young, cooling body on the stair landing, I phoned police headquarters.

  Over a route of back streets, an official contingent made an almost stealthy arrival in about ten minutes. Two cars and a sleek, black Caddy ambulance disgorged tech men, meat-wagon boys, uniformed cops, and Lieutenant Steve Ivey of Homicide.

  The preliminaries were quiet, Ivey surveying the girl, murmuring instructions, motioning me back to my office.

  A big, bald, placid man, Steve never made headlines. But he was a good detective, making up in integrity and determination what he might have lacked in brilliance. He rested against the edge of my desk patiently while I told him what had happened.

  “And you’ve no inkling why she called, Ed?”

  “Only that she wanted a question settled in her mind,” I said.

  “I wish you’d got a better look at the gunman.”

  “Look, hell,” I said. “I would have guaranteed his medical or funeral expenses for one clean shot at him.”

  “Know anything about Jean Putnam, Ed? Where she lived? Who her people were?”

  “Nothing. I don’t even know if she was a Tampa resident. She might have been a nice young secretary from Topeka vacationing here during Gasparilla week.”

  “Chances are she was local.”

  “Chances of anything are just about endless at the moment,” I said. “She was single.”

  “Unless she wasn’t as nice and innocent as she looked,” I said, “and had shucked her wedding band for some hanky-panky during Gasparilla.”

  Ivey used a padded handkerchief to wipe moisture from the sweatband of his hat. “A swift, hard strike by a cool gunman …” he murmured. “We’re reasonably sure of only one thing. It was a professional killing. The toughest kind. He fills his contract. He makes his hit, and this time tomorrow he could be in Gary, Detroit, or L.A.” “I know.”

  “Except,” Ivey said, “I don’t think he will be. I think he’ll be right here in Tampa, thanks to you.”

  “Did you have to put it into words?” I said.

  “He has no way of knowing how much the girl might have been able to tell you, Ed. A pro killer can’t leave loose ends like that.”

  “The pay-off party won’t be happy until the error is fixed,” I admitted.

  Ivey looked up slowly. The office was very quiet. Steve and I had known each other a long time. “I could put you in protective custody, Ed, or jail you as a material witness.”

  “For how long?” I asked. “Until the guy dies of old age?”

  Ivey sighed heavily. “The idea is full of negative values.”

  “It leaks negative all over the place, Steve. I should sit in jail while the gunsel regains his balance? While whoever hired him has a chance to mend fences, plan the next move, really set me up? No thanks!”

  I stood at the window, looking at the holiday spectacle passing on Franklin Street. A Shriners’ band was really giving out with “There’ll Be a Hot Time in Old Town Tonight.”

  I looked at Steve over my shoulder. “I won’t be much good in this town if I let a prospective client get knocked off on my doorstep and run and hide. I didn’t make the eight ball, Steve, but you add everything up and it looks like I’m right behind it.”

  “Maybe we can grab our man quick, Ed.”

  “And supply the pallbearers if you can’t.” I said. The bitterness in my voice was for real, and Ivey was left without an answer. He looked at me a couple of seconds longer, then punched me on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  As he neared the door, he stuck his handkerchief in his pocket and covered his peeled-egg pate w
ith his hat. A coconut straw. In this climate, even cops in plainclothes wear them.

  Two

  There is always a way.

  I picked up the phone book and opened it to the C section. “Clavery” wasn’t a common name. I hoped the Clavery throwing the party that had been Jean Putnam’s destination didn’t have an unlisted phone.

  I started dialing.

  The first few Claverys didn’t answer. Then a salty voice expressed an opinion of people who call a wrong number and wake a night-shift worker in the middle of his bedtime.

  I got another Clavery on the line and repeated the question: “Has Jean Putnam got there yet?” “Who?”

  “Jean. She was on her way to your party.”

  “Party? Ain’t no party …”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I dialed the wrong number.”

  The next-to-last Clavery phone rang three times before it was picked up. The aloof voice of a trained domestic answered. “The Van W. Clavery residence.”

  Bursts of laughter, stereo jazz in the background. My hand tightened on the phone.

  “Has Miss Jean Putnam arrived?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen her, sir. Who is calling? I’ll look among the guests if you wish.”

  “No, don’t bother.”

  “Is there a message?”

  “No,” I said. “No message.”

  I hung up, made a note of the address, and left the office.

  Located in swank Palma Grande, the Clavery home was a modern architect’s dream in glittering glass and concrete. I turned off the wide boulevard and parked behind the string of cars in the driveway.

  Walking toward the house, I heard AI Hirt spinning on a turntable and the sounds of bright, gay people beyond the house, on the patio side. I didn’t need to see the scene to know it. There’d be a pool out there, tables heavy with food and drink. People mingling or sitting at tables under big beach umbrellas. A few couples dancing. Bikinis and diaper-like trunks on those attracted to the pool. Sprinkled among the swim wear and pirate costumes would be a business suit or two worn by squares destined to leave early.