The Kissed Corpse Read Free Page B

ranch on the Pecos River and I was just a kid.
    He’s covered a long and adventurous trail since I first knew him, ranging from a hitch in the U. S. Intelligence Service during the war; through a period with the Texas Rangers; gun-running in Latin America and the Orient; successfully heading his own detective agency in New York—and finally being called back to El Paso to mop up the crime-ridden Border city.
    I suppose all of that has contributed to make Jerry Burke the man he is today, but it has seemingly had an inverse effect.
    Outwardly, he appears the least adventurous and imaginative of men. The inward spark that has driven him to do the things that other men wishfully dream of doing doesn’t show in his face, speech, or actions. In appearance, he looks like a moderately successful broker or merchant. His stubby hair is turning gray, and his body gets a little bulkier each year.
    But I followed him around on the MUM case, * and I saw that glint in his eyes while we sat in the Juarez cafe waiting for the killers to show themselves at the end of a heartbreaking manhunt, so I know what’s inside of him that makes him tick.
    Knowing him as I do, I shouldn’t have hung back and watched his face as he stepped forward by Chief Jelcoe’s side and looked down at the body. Perhaps I shouldn’t have wondered what his reaction would be to the red lips and queer symbol.
    I might as well have saved myself the trouble. If Jerry Burke ever allowed himself to have a reaction he wouldn’t let it show outwardly. His heavy face was as impassive as though he had just shoved out a stack of blues on a busted straight.
    Jelcoe’s long nose was quivering but he didn’t say anything. In Burke’s presence he had a way of respectfully effacing himself that was just the opposite of respectful. He’s the only man I ever met who could sneer with becoming modesty.
    Uniformed men and the police surgeon were approaching. Burke stepped back to my side to make room, saying pleasantly to Jelcoe:
    â€œBetter start your blood-hounds circling while it’s still light.”
    While Jelcoe issued crisp orders to his detectives, the police surgeon bent briskly over Young. He was a stout little man who whistled cheerfully as he went methodically about his task.
    I couldn’t stand Burke’s silence as we stood there. “What do you make of it?” I burst out. “What do those marks on his cheek mean ?”
    Burke shook his head with maddening deliberation. The taciturnity of his cowpunching days still clings to him. “Guesses are for fools. But …” He paused, a puzzled look on his face, “I’ve seen such a two-barred cross somewhere.”
    â€œDoes Young’s wife use lots of lipstick?” I broke in impatiently.
    â€œDamned if I know,” Jerry murmured. “We’ll ask her presently.”
    Jelcoe had his men circling around looking for footprints or other tangible clues. He came sidling back to stand beside us as the surgeon straightened up and spoke.
    â€œA small-calibre bullet into the brain from some distance. .22 or .25, I imagine. Bullet’s lodged inside.” He stepped away, closing his medical case.
    â€œHow long …?” Jelcoe began eagerly, but the surgeon stopped him with a plump palm held up.
    â€œI know. The one all-important question which no doctor can answer. I can narrow it down to comparatively brief limits this time. Death was instantaneous … not less than half an hour and not more than two hours ago. I may be able to do better after I get him in where I can go over him.”
    â€œWhen did you find him, Asa?” Burke asked me.
    Jelcoe’s eyelids twitched while I looked at my watch. “Exactly thirty minutes ago. I looked at my watch.”
    Burke was satisfied but Chief Jelcoe wasn’t. From the beginning he hadn’t taken kindly to the action of the City Fathers in bringing Jerry Burke to El Paso