No Good From a Corpse by Leigh Brackett

Book Details

No Good From a Corpse (1944) – Laurel Dane was no angel. She’d changed men as often as she’d changed her hair color, and there was plenty in her past she’d like to forget. But no one deserved to be beaten to death, and private eye Ed Clive didn’t believe that her boyfriend had killed her. Pursuing her own lonely trail, he found out just how easily jealousy and twisted rage could turn a human being into a monster of violence.

No Good From a Corpse is a twenty chapter novel first published in 1944.

According to Brackett: “It was published and Howard Hawks read it. I had a friend in Martindale’s bookstore. Hawks came in every couple of weeks and bought an armload of thrillers and my friend saw to it that mine got in the pile. A few days later my agent rang me up and said, ‘Howard Hawks wants to see you.’ I fell on the floor.”

Brackett was in the middle of writing Lorelei of the Red Mist at the time. She saw Hawks, was hired to screenwrite for The Big Sleep, and had to give the story to her friend Ray Bradbury. He finished it off and together they had collaborated on a highly influential science fiction novella.

Leigh Douglas Brackett was born December 7, 1915 in Los Angeles, California, and grew up there. On December 31, 1946, at age 31, she married fellow science fiction writer Edmond Hamilton in San Gabriel, California. Ray Bradbury, a very good friend to both, served as best man. She died of cancer in 1978 in Lancaster, California.

Brackett was an immensely talented writer of science fiction, and is known as the “Queen of Space Opera.” She was also a very talented screenwriter and worked on such films as The Big Sleep (1945), Rio Bravo (1959), The Long Goodbye (1973) and The Empire Strikes Back (1980). The Empire Strikes Back is dedicated to her memory in the closing credits.

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Excerpt: No Good From a Corpse

Chapter One

EDMOND CLIVE saw her almost as soon as he came into the runnel from the San Francisco train. She was standing beyond the gate, watching for him, and somehow in all that seething press of uniforms and eager women, she was quite alone.

Clive smiled and tried to shove a little faster through the mob. Then her gray eyes found him. Suddenly there was no mob, no station, no noise, nothing. Nothing but the two of them, alone in a silent place with the look in Laurel Dane’s gray eyes.

Clive’s step slowed. He saw her smile. He answered and went on, but the lift was gone out of him.

She was wearing a white raincoat with the hood thrown back. There were raindrops caught in her soft black hair, but the drops in her thick lashes never came out of a Los Angeles sky. Her arms went around him, tight.

He kissed her.

‘Hello, tramp.’

‘Hello. Oh, Ed, I’m so glad to have you back!’

He looked down at her. Cream-white skin, her face that had no beauty of feature and yet was beautiful because it was so alive and glowing, her red mouth, full and curved and a little sullen. He found it, as always, hard to breathe. He bent his head again. They stood for a long time, the noise and the crowd flowing around them and leaving them untouched. Her lips were faintly bitter under his, with the taste of tears that had run down and caught in the corners of them.

‘The car’s outside, Ed.’

They walked toward the door. She held his hand, like a child.

Clive said, ‘Johnny didn’t come down?’

‘No. And you’re to go straight to the office. He’s got a client waiting. A very expensive and very urgent client.’

Clive groaned.

Laurel said acidly, ‘Female.’

‘Oh, well! That’s different.’

His wide, mischievous grin did a lot for his face. It was a sinewy, angular face that had known its way around for a long time, and there were those who said that Ed Clive could look tougher than the people he sent up. But his dark eyes were alert and friendly, his smile was nice, and most women decided he had a certain sinister fascination. They caught themselves wishing secretly that their own men didn’t look quite so good.…

He made himself comfortable in the coupe.

‘You drive, baby. I’m an old man, and I’m tired.’

‘The age I’ll grant, but the rest is just plain laziness.’

Clive shook his head. ‘Hookworm.’ His eyes were closed. The rain on the metal top sounded like a regiment of small boys bouncing golf balls.

‘Drive slowly, dear, and be careful of skidding.’

Laurel pulled his hat down over his face and drove off through swirling streets toward Hollywood.

After a while she said, I’ve been reading all about the case. The Los Angeles papers played it up big. They just loved watching a native son make the Frisco cops look silly.’

‘I hope they used a good picture of me.’

‘With that mug, darling, there’s no such thing. You’re not happy about it, are you?’

‘The case or the face?’

‘You know damn well what I mean.’

Clive’s mouth was suddenly bitter. ‘I caught me a killer, all right. She’s twenty-three; she had red hair and the bluest eyes I ever saw. Sure, I’m happy.’

‘Twenty-three,’ echoed Laurel. ‘And she killed him for love.’

The car quivered sharply. Clive looked up. Her hands were rigid on the wheel.

‘Love can be a terrible thing, Ed…’

He waited. When she didn’t go on with it, he said gently, ‘You want to tell me now, or later?’

She sighed. ‘I suppose you’ve known all along, haven’t you? I mean, that I have one of those things they call a Past.’

Uh-huh. And I also had an idea that you had an idea that the Past might suddenly sneak up and become the Present again.’

I’m afraid it has… No, not now, Ed. I have a rehearsal I’m late for already; you’re tired and you have business waiting. Come down to the club tonight. Early.’ Suddenly she laughed. I’ve got a surprise for you, Ed.’

‘Yeah? I’ll bet I can guess.’

‘Try.’

‘I’ll bet it’s a man.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

Clive relaxed, tilting his hat over his eyes again. ‘How do you make a noise like jealousy?’

‘You’ll make a noise like something when you meet him, Ed!’

‘Not any more, baby. I’ve got calluses.’

‘You wait!’ Presently she burst out, ‘Oh damn it, Ed! Why do you stay around me if you don’t love me? Why do you want to be so…’

Clive said quietly, ‘I thought we had that all settled.’

‘No.’ Her voice was throaty with tears. ‘No, it isn’t settled. It’s… Oh, Ed, I wish I were different. I wish you were different. I wish the whole thing…’

‘Sure.’ He patted her thigh. ‘Sure.’ He let his hand stay there, feeling the lithe play of the muscles as she drove. His mouth twitched, once, as though something hurt him.

They didn’t speak again until Laurel stopped the car and said tiredly, ‘Well, here I am. You can drive yourself back to your office.

Clive sat up. They were on Ivar just below Hollywood Boulevard. Across the sidewalk were the pseudo-airliner doors of the Skyway Club. The rain had slacked off.

There was a chrome-and-gray custom job parked in front of them. Clive frowned at it, but he didn’t say anything. He took Laurel inside.

THE foyer was small but opulent, with the airliner motif carried throughout. Queenie, one of the bouncers, was standing in front of the closed inner doors, talking to a tall, well-built man in a trench coat and a snap-brim felt.

‘Can’t help it,’ Queenie said. ‘Boss’s orders. Not even the President could get in during rehearsal.’

The man in the trench coat said something under his breath and turned around. He had a blond mustache above a sensual mouth. His skin was tanned, like Clive’s. His eyes were very blue, very bright, and very angry.

Clive said, ‘I thought that was your car outside. When did you start haunting the Skyway Club, Farrar?’

Farrar ignored him. He said to Laurel, ‘That’s a fine way to treat people! Honey, tell this big ape who I am.’

Clive knew she already had. He got in when he wanted to.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Farrar. It’s a house rule. We can’t take anybody in to rehearsal.’ Laurel smiled.

‘Well, if you put it that way—’ Farrar smiled back, making it personal—’I suppose I can’t get sore.’ He examined Clive, ‘I’m disappointed. I thought you’d be wearing your crown of laurels.’

‘I was afraid it would sprout in the rain.’

‘Just as cute as ever,’ said Farrar. ‘All right, Laurel. I’ll be around again.’

He went out. Queenie said, ‘The ork’s waitin’, Miss Dane.’

‘Be right there.’

Queenie went inside, letting through the sound of a man’s voice crooning ‘As Time Goes By.’ Clive jerked his head at the way Farrar had gone.

‘Is that your surprise man?’

‘Farrar? Heavens, no!’

‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Oh, he came in for dinner one night around three weeks ago—just after you left for Frisco. He fell for me, I guess. He’s been making a pest of himself ever since.’

Clive said, ‘That guy is not used to being called a pest by the female sex.’

‘So I gathered. Well, I just don’t like his type.’

‘You better keep on not liking it. Kenneth Farrar is supposed to be just another honest private dick, but between the two of us he’s one of the smartest blackmailers on the Coast.’

A brief look of fear crossed Laurel’s face. Then she shrugged. ‘I can handle him all right.’ She came close to him. ‘Promise me, Ed? You will come early tonight. There’s so much I have to tell you, and not all of it about me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ll explain tonight. Just promise me, darling. Please.’

‘Sure.’ He laughed and kissed her. She put her arms around him tightly, the way she had in the station. He felt her shiver.

‘I’m scared, Ed,’ she whispered, ‘I’m scared.’

Excerpt From: Leigh Brackett. “No Good From a Corpse”