An ex-con and a sheriff meet while—

The Corpse Talks

David X. Manners

KARL CONDON laid down his acetylene torch and tilted back the huge composition helmet that covered his head and face. His mouth screwed into a grunt, and his dull eyes shifted rapidly up and down to take in the scrawny, withered man before him.

Condon looked down first at a twisted leg, and then up at the man's pitiful face. He sneered to show that he approved of neither. Nor did he like the beseeching eyes that the man held up to him.

"Well?" he demanded.

The man made a feeble gesture with his hands, and without saying a word held forward a card.

Condon took it with half-hearted disdain, and his small eyes swept over it. It said:

I am a deaf mute. I am the official representative of the National Home for the Muted Deaf. Your contribution to Haver Sheet-metal Works last year was $10. The need this year it greater than ever before. Your kindness is solicited and appreciated."

Condon handed the card back. "Deaf, huh?"

The man nodded his head in mute confusion.

Anger flared in Condon's face and his words were a snarl. "Since when?" he snapped.

A fleeting, uncomprehending terror came in the deaf mute's eyes. His bony hand groped in a baggy pocket and came out with a pencil. He raised it to a pad to write.

The torch-welder opened his thick knuckled hand with a sweeping swat, caught the pad and pencil and sent them flying to the floor.

The mute drew back, his mouth open in speechless fright. For a moment he clutched the hand that had been stung by the slap, then his eyes moved to the floor seeking the pad and pencil.

Condon saw what he was after and he put a heavy-shoed foot down to block the way. "Forget it!" he ordered. His fists were menacing.

The man's shoulders were hunched up, his head was lowered, and he held his hands high in cowering protection.

Condon thrust his grimy hands forward and caught the mute by the two threadworn lapels. He raised a tightened fist to strike. "Since when did you forget me, Gamey? You talked plenty in San Q, you dirty squealer."

The mute shrank back in trembling fear. "I didn't know it was you, Mert," he whined. "Don't hit me. Don't hit me, Mert. I didn't squeal on you. It wasn't my fault."

Condon smiled crookedly. "I wasn't going to hit you, Gamey," he lied as he relaxed his grip. "I just wanted to make you talk, that's all." His crafty eyes were appraising the little man again. "For Pete's sake, come back here and have a seat. Let's have a talk. What d'you know, kid?"

Condon led the way over the junk-littered floor to a grimy, greasy office that was equally junk-littered. He shoved aside a dusty tangle of coiled rubber hose and jerked out a dirty, battered swivel-chair.

"And for cripe's sake whatever you do, don't call me Mert. My new moniker is Karl Condon. All the boys call me Casey. Get it? From my initials K. C. Not a bad name. Karl always was my middle name. And Condon is a name that's sort of got class, except for the fact that it's got 'con' in it. But what's the diff?"

Gamey straightened up a little as Condon rambled on. His eyes were furtive, but his manner seemed more natural to him. "You're not down on me any more?"

Condon waved his hand downward in disgust. "Hell, no. Forget it, I said. We're pals now. Come on and tell me. What's the racket?"

Gamey managed a thin, weak grin. "Well, you know Mert—"

"Casey," corrected the welder.

Gamey smiled again. "Yeah. Well, you see, it's like this. I've got some forged credentials, and a flock of counterfeit receipts. I'm really collecting for a legitimate place. And it's a charity they go in for in a big way. I got a list of last year's contributors and I just call on 'em and show 'em my card and they pay me."

"What's the pull down?"

Gamey hesitated a moment before answering. "You'd be surprised. Some rich guys donate twenty-five, fifty, and even a hundred bucks. I try to make 'em give me the cash, but if I get checks, I got a way, too. I always make my hundred bucks a day."

Condon whistled low. "Not bad. Not bad at all. But how do you manage. Don't any of 'em get wise?"

Gamey shook his head with emphatic confidence. "No. None of 'em. You see my folks were deaf and dumb, so it sorta comes natural to me. I know the sign language and everything. I'm all set."

"Say," broke in Condon, "I used to play around with that sign language when I was a kid. I used to be able to spell out anything." He raised his hand and began to form letters.

"That's the same system we use, except we've got a lot of abbreviations and short cuts. But how about you? How you making out?"

"Not bad, either," Condon wheezed. "Of course, I ain't making the dough you are. I came here right after the crush-out. I been practicing up on my old trade. It might come in handy. And I'm sort of laying low in general. Naturally everybody in this burg knows me, but they'd throw a hundred fits if they knew who I really was."

Gamey rose to go. "When will your boss be back? I want his ten buck donation."

Condon shot a wise-guy smile. "In about an hour or so." And then he added casually: "By the way, where are you staying?"

"I've got the back room at the Widow Ashley's house." He waved a farewell as he limped from the door.

Condon watched him disappear around the corner. "The back room at the Widow Ashley's house. Hmmm," he mused to himself. "The dirty little squealer."

IT was late evening when Karl Condon wove his way through the shadows in the rear of the Ashley house. Stealthily, he advanced to the back door. It was unlocked. He eased it open, and an evil smirk wrinkled his face. By going through the rear he could go to Gamey Wearing's room without anyone seeing him.

Light came from a door that was ajar in the back hall. He sidled through it. There was Gamey sitting in an old fashioned rocker near a small, slant-legged table. When his eyes fell on Condon he was not startled, but unconscious dread came into his face.

"Hello, Casey," he choked.

"Hello, Gamey," Condon replied softly. "I just dropped in to see you."

Gamey was nervously fumbling with a button on his shirt cuff. "Yeah? Well have a seat. What d'you want?"

"I'll stand," Condon announced. "I didn't come for a social call. I want a hundred bucks."

Gamey's face paled to a jaundiced yellow. "A hundred bucks," he echoed. "Why? What for?" He rose from his chair.

Condon thrust forward and with a violent shove slammed Gamey back down. He clutched the cripple's collar in a vicious fist. "You know why, you dirty rat. You're wanted back at San Q. And just one word by me and you go back."

Gamey wetted dry lips. There was no out. "All right," he murmured, his thin hand going for his hip.

Condon grabbed the hand and jerked it away. "No you don't," he snapped. "I'll get it out." He pulled the cripple forward in the chair, took a thick black wallet from his hip.

Gamey's hand went up to reach for it. Condon slapped it down. Quickly he counted the bills. "A hundred and sixty bucks. Well I'll leave you two fins." He checked himself, extracted another five, and then tossed the near- empty wallet on the little man's lap.

"Not a bad racket you're in," he jeered as he stepped to the door. "Well, I'll be seein' you."

"Just a minute," came Gamey's voice. "Remember, you're wanted at San Q, too."

The space between them became electrified. Condon's eyes froze and his mouth sagged. He blurted an oath and lunged back into the room. "Why you dirty, squealing rat, you! You mean you'd welsh on me—give me away?"

The ex-convict's eyes were wild. He saw a small three ounce bottle on the table near the rocker. His glance shifted from Gamey to it, and back again. A red label with skull and cross bones. Iodine. POISON.

Condon snatched the bottle, tore out its stopper. He forced it into Gamey's thin hand. With brute strength he jammed its mouth between the cripple's teeth.

Gamey struggled against Condon's snakelike grip, choked and coughed as the brown poison drained down his throat. Condon let him drop the bottle when it became empty. The cripple's fingers were convulsing in agonizing pain.

Condon pinned him to the chair until he became still. Then he relaxed his hold. It would take a little while now before the poison was complete in its effect, but Condon knew it wouldn't take long for such a dose.

He straightened a little throw rug on the floor. He wiped his hands; they were not stained in the least. He wiped the door knob, the rocker arms, the table. He wiped every place he could have left a fingerprint.

It had all been remarkably quiet.

Gamey stirred once more. He slumped back limply. Condon tiptoed over and felt for his pulse.

Gamey Wearing was dead.

CONDON was busy in the morning welding a trailer brace in the shop when he looked up to see Sheriff Walters. His heart sank momentarily, but he knew it was foolish to be frightened. Walters came in often. This was just another visit. Well, a few more days and he'd lam out of this dump. Just as soon as he could do so without creating suspicion.

"Hello, sheriff," Condon sang out from underneath the trailer. "How be you?"

"Fine," he replied. "Get out from under there, Casey. I want to talk to you."

"Oh-oh," he thought to himself. He clambered to his feet. And the sheriff had a deputy with him, too. Not so good. "Hello, Raoul," Condon greeted the deputy. "Still toting that toy gun, I see."

It was an undersized twenty-two the deputy carried that made Condon vent a sneering guffaw every time he saw him. The deputy answered with a scowl.

"Sorry, Condon, but we come to arrest you for the killin'," the sheriff broke in.

Condon started in feigned surprise. "What killing?" He laughed. "Are you kidding me?"

The sheriff's eyes were hard. "No. I'm sorry, but we ain't. The new deaf and dumb boarder over at the Widow Ashley's house was murdered sometime last night. She found him dead this morning. We want you to come along with us over there."

"Sure, sheriff. I don't know what you're talking about, but I'll go with you."

Gamey Wearing was still in the rocker but a big change had come over his face since the night before. His jaw hung loose, his cheeks were sunken, and his color was ghastly wax. Condon felt something cold shoot up his spine.

"Take a look at things, Casey. I want you to tell me if we're not right in thinking you killed him," the sheriff said.

Condon shifted his gaze about. "I don't see what you mean. I don't get it at all, sheriff."

Anger burned in the sheriff's eyes, and the muscles that bunched in his jaw showed that he was gritting his teeth. "Come over here and look at his hands," he commanded aggravatedly. "The poor fellow never could talk much when he was alive, but he's talking as well now as he ever did."

Condon looked down at the dead man's hands. Those hands that he thought were convulsing in pain had formed the deaf mute signs for two letters that even he recognized. K. C.

"Dead men do talk, don't they, you rat?" the sheriff shouted at Condon. "K. C. can only mean one person in this here town. You! Why did you kill him?"

Condon was a little shaken. He knew his face was pale and he didn't want it to be. "I didn't kill him. I didn't—"

"Say that again, Condon, and I'll slap you down!" roared the sheriff.

The ex-convict shrank back. They didn't have him yet. They still couldn't even prove it was murder, let alone that he had done it. The poison bottle was still on the floor. What was the matter with them, anyway?

Condon walked over near the dead man. "It looks to me like a clear cut case of suicide," he said in a strained voice. "That's what I think.

See the bottle on the floor? He dropped it there after he drank it. Then it just accidentally happened that his fingers look like they're spelling out letters. A coincidence. A big-city dick would never call it anything but suicide."

Something cleared in the sheriff's eyes as he heard Condon speak. He looked at the dead man, the poison bottle, and then his suspect. "Gosh, I do think you're right at that," he admitted. "As soon as I saw that deaf and dumb sign, I thought he meant you killed him. In fact I was sure of it. I never even thought that it might be suicide. But I guess you're right. By golly, it is suicide."

The sheriff put his hand on Condon's shoulder. "I guess I ought to apologize to you for acting so tough before."

"Forget it," said Condon.

Sheriff Walters paced about the room a moment trying to decide what to do next. His eyes fell on an iodine stain on the dead man's left shirt sleeve. He was going to pass it up, but on second thought he drew closer. He unbuttoned the cuff, pulled back the sleeve.

He swung around towards Condon and a six-shooter was in his hand. "You are the murderer," he roared. "You did kill him. A man wouldn't paint a sore with iodine and then drink what he had left. He must have just finished dressing his arm with the stuff, and then you forced him to drink it!"

Condon's eyes were darting from side to side like a cornered animal. He twisted about to break for the door.

In the doorway Deputy Raoul was covering him with his little twenty-two.