Slocum and the Comely Corpse Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? SHOOT!”

  A shot exploded, drilling the wall, spraying Slocum with plaster chips and powder, stinging his face and the backs of his hands.

  There was enough room for him to take a running start toward the window. Maud pumped out slugs, deafening in the small space, filling it with gun smoke.

  Shots roared. One hit the window frame. Another starred a pane of glass.

  Slocum threw himself out the window. Too bad it was closed ...

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him ... the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM byTabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about U.S. Deputy Marshal Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  SLOCUM AND THE COMELY CORPSE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY Jove edition / May 1998

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Jove Publications, Inc.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole

  or in part, by mimeograph or any other means,

  without permission. For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17933-8

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks

  belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  1

  The screaming woke Slocum. He did not wake all at once. He came around slowly, by degrees. All was confusion, darkness.

  Where am I? he thought. Thinking hurt. His head hurt, ached. He saw only blackness. Night?

  There was screaming. A woman’s? Tireless screaming, going on and on, making his head hurt worse.

  The screaming grew louder, splitting his skull and jarring his bones. His aching bones ... Blackness lightened, becoming dark brown, then brown. The clinging muck of oblivion lost its hold, and he floated upward, drifting, faster now—

  He realized his eyes were closed. He tried to open them. The lids felt gummy, glued-down. Groaning, he opened them.

  Through brown-gray-gold murk could be seen the outlines of a room: walls, floor, ceiling. The gloom faded, reality coming into view. At the far end of the room stood an upright oblong space, an open doorway.

  In the doorway stood the screamer. He couldn’t see her too well. The screams sent waves of pain through his head, blurring his vision.

  Abruptly, the scene fell into focus. Shadows of unreality were mostly gone now, though the room was still gloomy. It was a small single room, with a white plaster ceiling and red wallpaper. The wallpaper had a fancy pattern, like a diamond-hatched snakeskin, enlarged and infinitely repeated. It made Slocum dizzy just to look at it. Red wallpaper, dull, faded, fraying in spots. The door frame and moldings were dark stained wood.

  Opposite the door stood a bed, its head to the far wall. Slocum lay on it, on his back. He sprawled awkwardly, in a stiff, unnatural position. He was fully clothed, and had on his boots. He lay on the left side of the bed, feet to the door.

  To his left, against the wall, stood a marble-topped chest of drawers. On it, a serving tray held a water pitcher and two glasses. Behind, mounted on a stand rising from the back of the chest, was an oval swivel-mirror. The glass was tilted forward, at a forty-five-degree angle. Nearby, on the countertop, stood a globe oil lamp. It was dark, unlit.

  The door was about six feet away from the foot of the bed. The screamer stood hunched in the doorway, holding on to the frame with both hands. She was young, hulking. She had brown bun hair, a potato face, flat chest, wide hips and thighs. She wore a brown wool dress, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, baring brawny washerwoman’s arms, and a white bib-front cleaning apron.

  He knew her: Nedda. That was her name, Nedda Something. Maid, house drudge ...

  There was more, but he couldn’t remember, couldn’t think. Not with all that screaming.

  “For God’s sake stop that noise!” he said, or tried to. He couldn’t talk so well, had a hard time making his mouth shape the words. What came out sounded wrong, not making sense. It didn’t even sound much like English. Saying it made his skull pound as if it would burst. He touched his hands to his head, cushioning it.

  Seeing that Slocum was astir sent Nedda into fresh hysterics. She grew short of breath, her screams fading. Now they were more gasps than shrieks.

  Behind her, the passage began to fill with noise, then people. Newcomers, brought at last by the screams. Up rushed a couple. The woman was young, in her late teens. Her dark hair was cut in bangs across her forehead, the sides sweeping down in glossy wings, pageboy-style. High, arched brows, thin, whiplike. Wide dark eyes, with dark circles under them. A red, sullen mouth, downturned at the corners.

  She wore black lingerie, sleek and low-cut, with black lace. It outlined her shapely breasts; high, firm, and pointed. Over it was a thrown-on robe, pink, with white fur collar and cuffs. It was open down the front, unbelted.

  Pauline. Easy to find a name for that one. Easy to guess the rest too. A whore, a good-looking whore.

  At her heels was an older man, fully dressed except for his tie. He had wavy gray hair and a stiff-bristled silver-gray mustache and goatee. His head was tilted back with his eyebrows raised, and he was looking down his nose, leading with it, as if sniffing the air.

  No name for him. But he looked prosperous, a financier or bank officer. From where he stood, he couldn’t see into the room. He was behind Pauline, who was behind Nedda, frozen in the doorway.

  At first, Pauline didn’t see into the room either. She grabbed Nedda by the shoulders, shaking her. She was much shorter and smaller than Nedda, but handled her easily, as if the other were made of straw. She gave her a good rattling, shouting at her to shut up.

  Nedda, breathless, fell silent. She kept her face turned toward Slocum, staring. Eyes like black olives bulged in a leaden face. She unpeeled a hand from where it was gripping the doorjamb, lifting it to point a shaky accusatory forefinger.

  Pauline kept shaking Nedda, slamming her against the door frame. She said, “What are you on about, you stupid cow�
�?!”

  Nedda kept looking into the room. Pauline paused, frowning, biting her lower lip. She turned her head, her gaze following the direction of Nedda’s pointing finger, to Slocum.

  Pauline went white around the eyes, color draining from her skin. Her eyes widened, lips parted. Her lips looked even redder against her now-bloodless face. It was stiff, stark. She looked ten years older.

  She raised a hand to her mouth, taking a step back. The gray-haired man was moving forward, for a better look. He bumped his nose on the back of Pauline’s head, a painful blow bringing tears to his eyes.

  “Ow!” he said, clapping his fingers to his nose.

  The passage outside the door was further crowded by the arrival of a second couple, a bosomy blue-eyed redhead and a shaggy-haired, bearded man in a suit of long red underwear. Buckled over the long underwear was a well-worn leather gun belt with side arm.

  He was bleary-eyed, puzzled, more than half drunk. He stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the backs of the gray-haired man, Pauline, and Nedda, into the room.

  “Whass’ goin’ on?” he said, peering, squinting. He got a good look and gasped, stammering, “M-m-m-muh-murder!”

  Inside the doorway floated white oval faces with gaping eyes and mouths. Murder.

  The redhead pushed forward, thrilled, demanding, “Who’s killed, Cal?”

  Cal was the stutterer. He stopped trying to talk, swallowed hard, and started over. This time he managed to croak out the word “Murder!” again.

  “Who, Cal, who?”

  Slocum glanced sideways, at the other side of the bed, not surprised by what he found. He was not the bed’s sole occupant. He shared it with a corpse. A female corpse.

  She lay on her back, head propped up by a pillow and the headboard. Her arms lay at her sides. She was a brunette, young. She must have been pretty when she was alive. She hadn’t died peacefully, judging by the expression on her face, a mingling of shock, rage, and horror.

  She wore a wine-red dress, black stockings, ankle boots. The front of the dress was ripped open, an act that had been done with such violence that it left her half nude, from waist to throat. Buried between her breasts was a hunting knife. It was hilt-deep. A long, slim, slightly curved knife, it had deer-horn grips and a rounded pommel. Slocum had never seen it before.

  The girl was more familiar.... He remembered her from before. When? Last night? How much time had passed between then and now?

  She’d been beautiful and desirable and alive. Her name was—He drew a blank. She’d told him her name, but he couldn’t remember it. Maybe he’d been drunk. Maybe they both had.

  But not so drunk that he wouldn’t remember killing her, with a knife that wasn’t his.

  And what was putting a hurt on him was no hangover. He’d had enough of them to know that that wasn’t what was flattening him. He felt hammered.

  Of course, the girl felt worse. Or had. Now she was beyond pain. Beyond, period. She looked like she’d been dead for some hours. Her skin was the color of wet sand. Her neck was bruised. A thin red line circled the soft parts of her throat. It was not a cut, it was a welt.

  Her arms lay at her sides. The posture was stiff, unnatural, as if the limbs had been arranged that way after death.

  Her mouth lolled open, a line of blood hanging down from the corner of her lips. All in all, there wasn’t much gore, just a tumbler or two of the red stuff, soaked into the pillow and bedcovers and mattress. A spread covered the bed from head to foot; Slocum and the girl lay on top of it.

  She was dead and he was alive and there was a reason for both things, but whatever it was had him baffled.

  He raised himself up on his elbows. The effort cost him. He was seized by a wave of weakness. The edges of the scene were outlined by a whiskey-colored aura. Slocum thought he might pass out, but didn’t.

  From among the figures in the crowded doorway, the redhead shoved her face forward, eyeing Slocum. She had reddish-gold hair and blue eyes. The hair color came out of a bottle, but the eyes were her own. They looked like blueberries. They sparkled while viewing the deathbed.

  “It’s him!” she said.

  “Eh? W-w-what’s that you say, Vangie? You know that f-fellow?”

  “I know him, Cal. I know him. He killed Trav Bannock and now he’s killed Dolly!” She was gloating.

  “Look at him, the swine,” the gray-haired man said. He was still feeling around his bumped nose, trying to rub out the soreness. It made his voice nasal, funny-sounding.

  Vangie said, “Well, what’re you going to do about it?” “Best fetch the marshal,” Cal said.

  The gray-haired man cleared his throat. “A-hem! Now, don’t go rushing into anything, Cal—”

  “This is a job for the law, Mr. Murray.”

  “Certainly. Of course, of course. Marshal Hix must be told, and will be, right away. Only, this thing has got to be handled quietly, discreetly.” He mopped his face with a pocket handkerchief. “There’s some tricky angles here....”

  Vangie gave him a horse laugh, loud and long. His face reddened. She said, “It wouldn’t look so good, a respectable gent like yourself associating with the likes of us.”

  “Nonsense,” Murray said. “I was thinking of all of us. None of us wants to be involved in a scandal.”

  “Well, you are involved, like it or not,” Vangie said, sneering. Murray started to reply, but Pauline stepped between them. She put her hand on his chest, silencing him before he could speak.

  “Save your breath, Reg,” she said. She turned to face Vangie, saying, “Keep that viper’s tongue of yours still, unless you want it slapped out of your mouth.”

  Vangie’s face turned redder than her hair. Her fingers formed into claws. She began, “Why, you—”

  “Keep shut, gal,” Cal said.

  Vangie stared at him as if unsure whether he’d gone mad, or she had. “You take up for that little bitch against me?”

  “I ain’t taken up for nobody,” Cal said. “Nobody but him, that is. Mr. Murray. He runs the bank, and the rest of you don’t, so what he says goes.”

  “Thanks, Cal, that’s mighty fine of you,” Murray said.

  “Besides, I don’t guess Miz Maud would want the law called in without her say-so first.”

  “No, I don’t believe she would, Cal,” Murray said.

  “Where is she anyhow? Seems all that racket would’ve fetched her along by now.” Cal scratched the back of his neck.

  Pauline said, “I wouldn’t be so quick to have the law come in and start snooping around if I was you, Vangie.”

  “No? And why not, Miss Fancy Britches?”

  “You might not like what they’d come up with on you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide. Which is more than I can say about some people around here,” Vangie said, sniffing.

  “No quarreling,” Cal said, uneasy. “It ain’t fitting. Show some respect for the dead.”

  Vangie said, “She wouldn’t be dead if not for that dirty murdering butcher! What’re you going to do about him?” Him being Slocum.

  “If there was a real man here, he’d know what to do,” she said. “He’d’ve done it already!”

  Slocum lay there like a lump of flesh, motionless, listening.

  Vangie reached for Cal’s gun, saying, “Give me that, I’ll do it myself!”

  Cat shied away from her, clamping his hands on the gun butt, jamming the iron deep into the holster. He was morally offended, outraged.

  “Hey! What’re you doing? Get away from there! Reaching for a fellow’s gun! You gone loco, Vangie?”

  She sneered bitterly. “Loco, huh? I’ll remember that, the next time you come sucking around me, Cal.”

  “Aw, now, honey, don’t you be like that—” Cal broke off, turning his head to one side, to look down the passage.

  “Here comes Miz Maud,” he said, brightening, grateful for the interruption.

  “She’ll know what to do,” Pauline said.

  “Always sucking
up,” Vangie said out of the side of her mouth.

  “That’s how you made your reputation, isn’t it, dear? Sucking up?”

  “If you want to know, Pauline, just ask your gentleman friend, Mr. Murray. He didn’t have any complaints, did you, love?”

  “Not until now,” Murray said.

  “He’s right,” a new voice said—Maud Taylor’s. It was hard-edged, crisp. “Outside of the bedroom, Vangie, you should learn to keep your mouth shut.”

  “But, Maud, I—”

  “Do like Maud tells you and shut up,” a man said, not Murray or Cal. A third man.

  Vangie cringed, throwing up her hands to protect her face. “Chase, don’t!”

  Chase laughed, an ugly sound. “You didn’t think I was going to hit you, did you, girl?”

  “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Vangie said, sullen.

  “It’s too early for hitting. I’ll just have to kick you.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Think I won’t?”

  Maud said, “Shut up. You too, Vangie.”

  Nobody spoke. “Who’s killed?” Maud said. “Somebody must be killed to raise all this racket.”

  Silence. Maud looked into the room. “Dolores,” she said. “My God.” She spoke in the same tone she might have used to say, The commode’s backed up. Disgusted, but not particularly surprised.

  “He’s still in there,” Vangie breathed. “The killer, the dirty coward!”

  “One side,” Chase said, shouldering past the others, Maud following. He was six-two, 225 pounds, handsome, muscular, long-limbed. He was barefoot, and bare above the waist. His oxblood-colored hair was slicked straight back, with a widow’s peak. A thin dude-type mustache was brown with red highlights. His chin was cleft.

  He was in splendid condition. Broad-shouldered, with a tapering torso and lean hips. His belly was flat, hard. His skin was smooth and pink, glossy with good health.