Give Up the Body

By Louis Trimble

The characters . . .

Adeline O’Hara, ex-WAC and reporter for the Teneskium (Oregon) Pioneer, also country correspondent for the Portland Press, who tells the story. She is young, red-headed, and Irish. She meets

Titus Willow, the pudgy passionate professional philanthropist, who is a badly frightened man. He is visiting

Carson Delhart, the Portland millionaire, who dislikes giving interviews , and who wants to marry Titus Willow’s daughter

Daisy Willow, small and babyish, with a penchant for suicide. She is engaged to

Arthur Frew, Titus Willow’s assistant, a very sullen young man who dislikes everyone and everything. He causes Adeline a lot of trouble. Also involved is

Glory Martin, beautiful ice-blonde ward of Carson Delhart. She is rumored to be his mistress, and has definite tendencies toward dipsomania and nymphomania. Watching out for her is

Potter Hilton, Delhart’s extremely efficient secretary, who is cold and precise and at times very frightening. He introduces Adeline to

Mrs. Edna Willow, Titus’ who had a very bad disposition. She is concerned with making a good marriage for Daisy until murder intervenes. Suspected by police is

Tim Larson, a high school friend of Adeline’s and now Delhart’s chauffeur. He is in love with Glory Martin. He lives with

Mrs. Larson, his Irish mother, and Mr. Larson, called Big Swede, although he is half a head shorter than his son, Tim. Along with everyone else, they dislike

Godfrey Tiffin, the assistant county prosecutor, who was Adeline’s first suitor, whom she rejected. He has never forgiven her and causes her a great deal of trouble even though

Jocko Bedford, the sheriff, s on her side most of the time. Then there is

Jeff Cook, the star reporter for the Portland Press, who is sent to Teneskium to help Adeline cover the murder, and is involved while helping her to try to prove Tim Larson’s innocence. He becomes a good friend of

Jud Argyle, Adeline’s boss, owner of the Weekly Teneskium Pioneer, who smells his liquor instead of drinking it, and

Bosco, the cat who saves Adeline’s honor, and who had a tremendous appetite for newsprint, string, and shoelaces, and

Nellie, Adeline’s ancient jalopy, whose death causes Titus Willow a lot fo grief later on. She is one of Adeline’s problems, along with the missing felt hat, the body in the river, and Jeff Cook.

Adeline becomes more and more involved with Godfrey Tiffin, who wants to put her in jail (especially after he finds Jeff Cook’s pajama’s in her dresser) until her midnight swim in her lingerie and an attempted suicide help point out the solution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Release date: Apr 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781440542022

Book preview

I

YOU WOULDN’T THINK that anything as beautiful as Mt. Hood could look down on violent, agonizing murder and yet continue to smile so serenely. Nor that the firs along the lovely Teneskium River could keep their soft, sweet murmur with blood flowing darkly red into the ground by their roots.

The Oregon countryside lay under the balm of a soft summer sun, and the river sparkled through a land of peace. It was one of those rare, perfect periods when even the forest is gentle and friendly. And suddenly it was gone. Suddenly terror stalked that Teneskium forest, and stayed, brooding and menacing, until the river and Carson Delhart’s fish ponds yielded their secrets.

I had no way of knowing then how important the battered felt hat and the cast off suit of clothes would become, any more than I could know I was inviting myself to murder when I maneuvered Carson Delhart into promising me an interview.

At first, I didn’t give myself a chance of an interview with Delhart. I simply got into my car and drove toward his estate, hoping I might see him, but with the excuse that I wanted to get a story from one of his guests, Mr. Titus Willow.

I had no real problem when I pushed my gas thieving jalopy through the cool forest. I cursed the pitted gravel road in a ladylike fashion, but all the time I was gratefully absorbing the dapples of sunshine that slipped through the canopy of trees. We had just completed six weeks of almost steady drizzle and that sun was a true friend now.

I was enjoying myself, singing Darling Nellie Grey in honor of the jalopy when that absurd little man stepped through a gap in the flowering scotch broom lining the road and forced me to stab for the brake.

Whoa, Nellie! I said.

The car obligingly bucked, skidded, slowed, and stopped. Her motor panted twice at me and expired.

Damn! I wanted to cry.

The man bounced up at me. He looked something like a rubber ball with a beard and smile attached. He was short and round and actually wore plus fours! They were a hideous henna color and not at all attractive against the glorious yellow of the scotch broom.

Ah, he said. Could you direct me to Mr. Delhart’s estate?

I could, I admitted. I’m going there. I waved toward the car door. If you want a lift … I really wanted to push him into the river with a prayer that he would hit one of the numerous potholes. But the motto of our country is to help the stranger. I knew he was a stranger; I was acquainted with everyone in and around Teneskium and had been for my total of twenty-four years. I felt I really should recognize him but it was one of those things that stayed just out of reach. I motioned to the door again.

He reached for it, pulled it open and started to get in. Don’t sit on Bosco! I warned.

He jumped back, alarm on his pink face. Bosco? He looked where I pointed. Oh, he said.

Bosco sat up, stretched, and yawned. She looked the short gentleman over thoroughly and stuck out her tongue. Then she curled into a grey-brown ball and slept again.

She’s a well behaved kitten, I said, but she hates to be sat on.

Naturally, he agreed.

I pulled Bosco against me. She replied by testing the tightest part of my green skirt with her claws. Before you get in, I said chummily, I may as well admit that Nellie died.

Nellie? The stranger’s pinkish face suddenly went quite white. Nellie? He nearly screeched it. He put his hands on the door and held on until his knuckles were as white as his face.

The car, I explained hastily. It has to be cranked. I put on what I hoped was a helpless-female look. It’s a terrible bother.

Oh, he said. The car. The pinkish color came back into his face and he let loose of the door. I’m afraid I … He smiled again, weakly, and his lips showed surprisingly red through his brown and grey beard.

I had met with this hesitancy on the part of men before. The crank, I said, and handed it to him. You just put it through the hole in front and twist. Hard, I added firmly.

Just twist, I repeated as he held back. I changed the helpless look to the winning smile. I’m so stupid mechanically, I murmured.

Fortunately, I was sitting and he couldn’t see that I’m hardly the helpless type. Not that I’m big and buxom, but I stand five feet six and am what is known as athletically built. Trim enough, fore and aft, as a Wave pal of mine once remarked. But hardly the willowy female.

He stepped gingerly around to Nellie’s front and poked at her with the crank. Give it a spin. I called encouragingly.

He jerked. Luckily, Nellie bleated, coughed, and then, as I manipulated the foot feed and choke wildly, she settled to a steady clatter. The man came back looking masculinely triumphant. He slid cautiously into the seat and laid the crank on the floor. I started Nellie forward.

I felt a little guilty when I saw him looking in dismay at his greasy hands, so pink and pudgy. After all, I could take Nellie apart blindfolded. But I detested cranking.

There’s a rag in back of the seat, I yelled.

He turned and got it. When his hands were wiped he seemed to feel better. Is it far?

About a mile, I said over Nellie’s chortlings. We have to cross the bridge first. Have you an appointment? Mr. Delhart is fussy that way.

I kept my eyes on the road but I knew he was ogling my legs. It’s impossible for a woman to drive and keep her skirt down, but for some reason men always seem perturbed by it. I find no fault with my legs unless there is too much of them up and down but I didn’t care to have him stare at them.

He finally answered me. An appointment? I’m staying there, you know. He raised his eye level a few feet. Are you a guest, Miss …

O’Hara, I said. Adeline O’Hara. No, I’m going on business. I was trying to place this man as a guest of Delhart’s. And suddenly his true identity came to me and I felt very foolish indeed. I wanted to crawl into the river and hide.

You’re Mr. Willow, I said. Mr. Titus Willow.

I glanced from the corner of my eye and saw that he was expanding. I admit it, he said coyly.

Gee!

Titus Willow blossomed. I said, Are you in a hurry, Mr. Willow?

He was looking at my legs again. No, Miss O’Hara. Certainly not.

I smiled sweetly and drove on until we reached the turn in the road. I took it, crossing the lovely, mossy old covered bridge that spans the Teneskium. The car rattled over the planking and dipped downward on the other side. There was a cleared space along the road here and I pulled Nellie into it, her nose downgrade for easy starting. I set the brake and cut the engine. The silence was like weight in my ears. Nellie is not one of your noiseless automobiles.

Trees and brush and steep banks hid the river except where it broke from the forest just before it went under the bridge. With Nellie quiet I could hear the sounds of the water going over rocks and around the pilings of the bridge. It was a lovely place and one I did not particularly care to share with Mr. Willow. It held memories for me—swimming, as a kid, when I was foolish enough to dare the treacherous potholes and undercurrents of the river.

But as much as I disliked stopping here I could do nothing else. There was no other turnout short of Mr. Delhart’s estate. I was afraid to take Mr. Willow all the way there for fear I would be requested to leave before I could get an interview. Mr. Delhart was notoriously unkind to reporters, even the small town variety.

Mr. Willow wriggled around in the seat. Bosco tested my skirt again to see what made it tight in that particular place. I smacked her paws and she went amiably back to sleep. Mr. Willow said, Well?

I gave my skirt a slight tug and half turned toward him. I’m on the staff of the Teneskium Pioneer, I said. I came out to interview you. I smiled hopefully and trustingly. It’s so seldom we have a celebrity out here in the country, Mr. Willow, I burbled.

I’m happy to help you.

I had had no worry about getting a story from Willow, providing I could contact him. I knew he would give out—I had heard he was a glory hunter. He was politely known as a professional philanthropist. As such, his business depended a good deal on publicity.

You aren’t a bit like your pictures, I said. They don’t do you justice.

And he ate it up! I gave him some more along the same line and then, feeling he was sufficiently softened, started asking the routine questions: What was he doing here? What were his future plans? Was it true he was going to handle a large charity donation for Mr. Delhart? How did he like our countryside? What did he think of the government?

He answered mechanically. After a while, he said, Where is your notebook, Miss O’Hara?

I tapped the place where my red hair blossomed from under my green suede skullcap. I have one of those funny memories, I said. I can go back to the office and write this down word for word.

Amazing, he said. Such extraordinary talent seems wasted in a small town.

Now it was his turn to give me the business. I put on my small town look. I hope to do better some day, I said confidently.

Mr. Willow edged closer. I tried frantically to think of a way to get back to the interview; I wanted more information on the rumored donation Delhart might give to charity. But Mr. Willow was giving me no chance. His pink features were moist and he kept wriggling toward me. I began to wish I had made arrangements for a third party at this interview.

I used my first line of defense. I kept my eyes on his face and at the same time surreptitiously turned Bosco around. She awoke and looked up. His plus fours were fascinating and irresistible. Bosco reacted.

Mr. Willow’s progress came to an abrupt halt. I said, Bosco! I picked her up and smiled sweetly. She’s awfully naughty. Now, Mr. Willow, is it true that Mr. Delhart’s charity donation will be to a boy’s home? His answer to my first tentative question had been the usual, I am not at liberty to say.

Mr. Willow was rubbing himself on the leg. Ah—er, perhaps Miss O’Hara, we could discuss it some other time. I really should get back to the house. He brightened suddenly. I may have some real information later. Say at your office tomorrow evening?

Bosco had stalled him and the interview as well. I did not relish the way he said evening but I could only agree.

It would help me so, I murmured.

He reached out and patted my hand. He kept patting it. I am always glad to help someone get a start.

His hand stiffened halfway down toward mine. There was a crashing in the underbrush near us. A man’s voice yelled:

Damn your black soul to hell!

II

MR. WILLOW’S REACTION to the violent curse was even more startling than it had been to my casual remark that Nellie died.

His pink face went pallid again. He opened and shut his little red mouth and made no sound beyond a slight choking noise. At first I thought he would faint and then I was sure he would strangle. He put out a trembling hand, opened the car door, and stumbled out. I could only sit rigidly, watching him.

Titus Willow turned in the direction of the voice and then a woman shrieked, No, Arthur! There was a lot of fear in her tone. The kind of fear that makes little jarring shocks run up and down your spine like electric currents in a wire.

My God! Titus Willow gasped. He turned a tortured, panting face over his shoulder and looked appealingly at me. Then he pushed his pudgy body into the underbrush and crackled out of sight.

I simply stared at the dent Willow had made in the flowering scotch broom. It had all come too suddenly for me to absorb. And not until a faintly familiar, deep voice said, Don’t be a fool, young man, did I come out of it. I recognized the timbre and the complete coolness of that voice in the midst of all this hysteria. Here was a story and I sat as motionless as Nellie.

I left her and Bosco, throwing open the door on my side and jumping to the roadbed. I remember feeling pleased because I had worn my stout brogans and irked because I had turned up my nose at a slack suit in favor of a deliberately tight green skirt.

I dashed through the slight opening Titus Willow had made in the scotch broom. I stumbled and went head first over an embankment. A salmon berry bush stopped my progress very suddenly, and I lay so completely wrong side up I could feel a steady draft where my skirt should have been. Worse, my breath was jarred out of me and I could not even make observations on the character of the Oregon forest growth.

But I found my breath and footing soon enough when that familiar, deep voice said sarcastically, Women seem bent on exhibitionism today.

I could feel my face flaming as I got up and jerked my skirt into place. The first voice said, You aren’t funny, in a tone more sullen than wildly angry now.

I took my bearings. I had rolled right into a wow of a scene. It was a little sandy beach, one of the few that are scattered along the usually precipitate banks of the Teneskium. It was encircled by trees and more trees and the old covered bridge hid it effectively from the road. It had always been one of my favorite swimming holes. And someone had evidently come here for the same purpose.

Of the group of four, three were dressed and on the beach. The fourth was neck deep in crystal clear water. I saw that the owner of the sullen voice was a violent-looking young man who had struck an outraged pose. He was a stranger to me. And I saw our local celebrity, Carson Delhart, as cool and immaculate and severe looking as ever. Mr. Willow stood between the two men, pink again but still not calm.

Added to that was a puddle of brightly colored feminine garments with a pair of adorable pink scanties uppermost, and a blushing but defiant young lady in the river. She was obviously the cause of the ruckus. And despite the fact that she stood up to her neck in the water, it was equally obvious that she had gone in au natural. The glass-like clarity of the water made the section of her beneath the surface shimmer whitely. It was a picture that would have appealed greatly to a painter or a photographer, but it affected the young man quite differently.

While I was trying to digest this, the scene froze. There was a complete lack of animation. Only the river sounds came through the quiet.

Carson Delhart shattered it. He moved away from the others. He left the strange young man still in his outraged pose, one arm extended; and Titus Willow pale, his mouth open to gasp, though he seemed to be holding his breath. In the river the girl still stood, the only movement the lapping of the water around her rigid white body.

Delhart took my arm firmly.

Miss O’Hara, isn’t it?

He flashed his patent leather smile for me. He had a smooth, bronzed face, high of cheekbone and forehead, with a straight, thin mouth and nose. His chin was craggy and well set. When you looked into his eyes you knew that here was a strong will. I saw it rise now as he propelled me away from the scene and toward the road. There was no arguing with Delhart. Both his manner and his grip on my arm were too firm for me to handle. I let him lead me up the embankment and through the scotch broom hedge. In a silence as complete as the one below, but deadly now like the honed edge of a razor, he helped me beneath the steering wheel of the car. The noise of the car door closing broke the silence, making a sound of complete finality.

I settled in my seat and absently rubbed my arm where he had gripped me. Panting and confused, I was half angry at what I had seen. As I regained my breath and my wits my anger transferred itself wholly to Delhart. I did not care for the way he stood now, one foot on the running board, his cold smile turned down on me.

I’m sure I can trust your discretion, Miss O’Hara, he said in that smooth voice. He offered me a cigaret from an opulent silver case.

The bribe, I said, taking a cigaret. I inclined my head as he struck a match for me. The smoke tasted good. Just what am I supposed to be discreet about, Mr. Delhart?

I was regaining the rest of my wits and I felt that here I had a lever to use in bargaining with Carson Delhart. He was notoriously aloof and reticent about his affairs, both public and private. That was an inevitable challenge to a newspaperman. Delhart wanted my discretion; I wanted his statement. It seemed to be a fair trade.

He was getting a cigaret for himself out of the case. He raised his cold dark eyes to mine. It was a misunderstanding, I assure you, Miss O’Hara. Young Frew is a quixotic idiot. He shifted his smile a notch warmer. Shall we forget it?

I smiled in return and tapped my cigaret against the steering post in my most sophisticated manner. It was a rather strange situation, wasn’t it?

He stopped smiling. He said, It was a purely personal matter. Miss Willow chose an unfortunate time to bathe.

And Mr. Frew an unfortunate time to come along, I said.

Delhart took his foot off Nellie’s running board and drew away a little. I’m sure he was flushing as much as it is possible for him to. I don’t think we need discuss this further, he said in that chilled voice.

Of course, I said. Could you possibly drop into the Pioneer office tomorrow, then, Mr. Delhart?

His lips thinned out. He said, For what reason?

You just might want to renew your subscription to the paper, I said. I turned on the ignition key and slipped the brake and let Nellie roll coyly forward. Delhart stepped back, out of the way, and I had a last glimpse of his face. He did not look pleased.

Nellie started on the downgrade and by the time I had her turned around and back to the bridge Delhart was gone. I went slowly across the bridge, hoping to hear something, but Nellie’s motor and the loose planking under her wheels made far too much noise. I made the turn and picked up speed.

I was nearly back to town before I realized I had one of those untouchable stories. I really had nothing to use on Mr. Delhart to pry an interview from him. Even if I had been willing to use a little discreet blackmail there was nothing I could think of that would upset him for very long. He was, like most wealthy men, far too adept at handling scandal.

I itemized: (a) Young Frew, whoever he might be, had stumbled onto a neat scene composed of Delhart and Miss Willow. Miss Willow was, I presumed, Daisy Willow, Titus’ daughter. And then Frew, whom she had called Arthur, either (b) saw her in the water or (c) saw her before she went into the water. I conceded that it was wholly possible for Mr. Delhart to be the innocent victim of circumstances, but Arthur Frew obviously had no such ideas. His attitude had suggested whole hog or nothing.

I could write the story and possibly get it past the boss, but I would be inviting a libel suit backed by Carson Delhart’s considerable capital. Or I could do as I knew I must and write nothing, hoping that Delhart would give me an interview before he realized how weak my position was.

I wasn’t overly surprised when I reached the office and Jud Argyle, the boss and the rest of the Pioneer staff, handed me a message. Phone call, Addy.

I took the message, a folded slip of paper, and glanced at it.

It read, Call 662-J. I crumpled the paper. That was Delhart’s number.

Any luck, Addy?

I made a face at Jud. He is bald and lean, a wrinkled fiftyish. I could make faces or say anything to him and he never took it amiss. Which was a good thing because Jud owned the paper, wrote half of it, set the type, and ran the press. My job, which I needed, was as much courtesy to a wounded WAC veteran as anything. Jud could have put out his weekly without my assistance.

I have an interview from Mr. Titus Willow, I said. You can get the same stuff from any old publicity release. Also, I have a date.

Jud grinned at me and reached in his desk. He brought out a full bottle of whiskey. He uncorked it, took a big sniff, sighed and replaced the cork. He put the bottle back in the drawer. It was a frequent routine with him. He never tasted the whiskey, nor any kind of liquor. Five years ago he had sworn off drinking. To remind himself of it he kept a full bottle of fine old bourbon handy. At least three times a day he would take it out and sniff with his big nose. And every time he would say, as he did now:

That’s will power, Addy. Date with who?

Date with whom, I corrected. With Willow. Pink, pudgy, and passionate. Tomorrow night. I may get a story out of it. That charity donation rumor business.

Maybe, Jud said. Call 662-J and see what you get.

I sat down at the telephone and gave Jenny Nellis, the day operator, the number. While she was putting through the call I leaned back and sniffed appreciatively at the familiar smells of the dusty little office. After more than two years away it was nice to be back. I had never worked any place else, nor did I have any desire to. I had worked off and on for Jud in practically every capacity since I