The Corpse Was Blind

Chapter 1 of Ray Irish Mystery Case File #4

The battered body remained tied to the chair, his head drooping forward. A large, shirtless man with a tattoo covering his upper left arm gulped his breath as he lifted his victim’s head by its hair. He looked over the nearly unrecognizable face in sweat and blood, the open eyes confirming the torture had gone too far.

“Well, this guy ain’t telling us nothing now,” the shirtless man declared. “Buddy, I told you he was too weak. His heart must have gave out after I cracked a few ribs.”

“Dutch, the boss ain’t gonna like this.” The voice exploded from the shadows of the room.

“Christ, you lug, how are we going to get his secret now? What’d ya have to kill him for?”

“Come on, I only tapped his ribs a couple of times,” Dutch complained.

His hard face suddenly showed surprise when a thought came to him.

“But we get paid anyways, don’t we? You go tell him what happened.”

Buddy flicked his lit cigarette at his partner in disgust. The man came over to the body. Above the chair, a single light bulb from the ceiling of the damp basement. It fully revealed the extent of the victim’s condition.

“You always want me to tell them when you get stupid.” Buddy sighed.

He pulled a pocketknife from his pocket, flicked it open, then stabbed the corpse. His bloodless face remained impassive as he confirmed the truth.

“Yeah, he’ll want us to dispose of the body,” he finally said.

Buddy scowled at Dutch.

“I’ll go tell him what happened. Just don’t complain when he cuts you out of the loot.”

“No, come on, Buddy, you know he can’t do that,” his partner whined. “I was just following orders.”

“Yeah, just like Italy,” his partner replied. “Keep your mouth shut and I’ll talk with him.”

Buddy walked over to the shadows and picked up his gray jacket that hung over the back of a chair. The heavy man went up the dusty, creaking stairs as he put on his coat. He pushed open the dilapidated door to enter the kitchen.

A startled rat peered at him from the top of a dirty cabinet, but Buddy paid no attention as he went to the next room. His boss sat at an old kitchen table. His pressed white shirt and blue vest stood out in a room of peeling wallpaper limply hanging from the walls. Two dusty, broken-down chairs lay on their sides amid the trash on the floor. The table was empty but for a revolver, greasy paper bags from their last meal, and a glass next to a bottle of whiskey.

“Did he talk?” The man asked as he exhaled white-gray smoke.

“No, he’s dead. Must have been his heart,” Buddy explained as he looked out the grimy window. The quiet street showed him nothing, so he glanced at the table.

“You heard him tell you when we snatched him. He’d rather die than let you in on the loot. Three days is a long time. He wasn’t gonna talk.”

“Like hell! You and your buddy screwed up,” the man at the table fumed.

The smoking man looked down at his revolver, then turned his deadly green eyes at Buddy.

“Did he say anything?”

Buddy shook his head. Long straggling strands of brown hair gave up trying to cover his bald spot and fell across his face.

“Nothing much more than you heard already. Kept saying it’s gonna stare you in the face. Even after we pushed his head in the water for a while, he laughed at us, then said the same thing. Damn hard head!”

He scratched his head, then brushed the tired hairs back in their place with a sweep of his sweaty palm. He felt the sweat on his forehead as he turned to the boss.

“What now?”

“It was a simple job,” the boss said icily.

The man looked past Buddy at an old calendar on the wall. It had a picture of a blonde pinup model glancing back at him enticingly. Partially obscured by the last torn off page, the calendar showed 1945. It was the year of his betrayal.

 “Well, that son of a bitch can’t take it to the grave. I won’t allow it. You got that?”

The man turned back to Buddy.

“The bastard might be dead, but we get what he owes me!”

Buddy nodded hastily.

“Sure thing, you’re the boss. But what do we do now?”

When the green-eyed man told him his next steps, Buddy cocked his head at the news. He could not believe his ears.

“You mean it? That’s what you want me to do?”

“Yeah, I mean it. The bastard won’t get the last laugh,” the man stated as he leaned back in the chair.

~~~

Ray Irish pulled his gray Nash along the curb, stopping in front of a slab-sided house with a brick and wood front along with a flat roof. He nearly missed the low-slung home behind the wooded landscape. Fortunately, the simple white gate and mailbox caught his attention.

As he walked along the path to the house, he was already sweating. The summer heat and humidity stifled the air like a South Pacific jungle. The man frowned when he recalled the stench of those jungles.

After ringing the doorbell, Ray waited. Observing one of the indoor blinds move, he took a step back but missed who looked through the window.  

A nervous type!

The front door opened and a woman in a white dress carefully gazed out from behind the door. Pale faced with light blue eyes, it lined her attractive face with apprehension and fear. The expression came across like the air conditioning which swept out of the door.

“Who are you?”

“Hi, I’m Ray Irish,” he said. “You called me this morning.”

“Can you provide proof?” She poked her head out further to scan the front yard behind him.

Ray grimaced, thinking he had another nut case in front of him. However, he pulled his wallet from his suit pocket. Flipping it open, he slid out the private investigator card he carried.

“Will that do for you?” He failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Her doe eyes looked hurt, but the woman backed away and held the door open.

“I apologize for this, but something terrible has happened since we spoke,” she confessed. “I received a package by messenger about thirty minutes ago.”

The woman hesitated, glancing behind her and appearing ready to run away. Irish stood there, feeling like a dope. He tried to reconcile the firm voice he heard over the phone only a few hours earlier.

“Well, I’m not sure what to say. Did you solve your problem?”

The woman shook her head.

“No, it’s worse. Maybe I should call the police.”

Ray scratched his head. He guessed she had found her husband. But he didn’t understand the need for cops.

“Did you find Mr. Leigh?”

The woman glanced back again and finally let out an enormous sigh.

“That’s a strong possibility.”

She backed away and opened the door.

“Please come in Mr. Irish. Even now, perhaps you can help me.”

Ray entered the living room, giving it the once over. While he barely understood the ideas behind the designs, he knew enough about pastel colors being the rage. The living and dining rooms had plenty of blue, pink, and yellows. The new blond furniture and décor that looked straight from the New York showrooms caused him to inspect the woman.

Her long lean figure, wide blue eyes, and attractive face with high cheekbones reminded him of a magazine model. However, her dress had a green print that reminded him of a willow tree. With her ash blonde hair pulled back, the woman looked more like a typical housewife.

Mrs. Leigh pointed at a small brown cardboard box sitting on the table. A pair of scissors lay next to the package.

“It’s there. Tell me what you think I should do?”

With the sudden mystery thrown at him, he stepped over and peeked at the outside of the box. No return address showed, only the address of the house handwritten on the side. He pulled open the top flap of the box to see two glassy human eyes staring back at him.

Irish looked over at the woman in disbelief. She stared out the front window, appearing ready to break down. It surprised him it hadn’t already happened. He sat the package back on the table.

Ray looked again. They were human eyes all right—two soft globular items lying on a red-stained paper. The green iris’s looked dulled as he recalled the deadman’s look from corpses during the war. Still, icy fingers fluttered up his spine. He’d seen enough to know it was a message. Now he wanted to know more.

“Yeah, I can see why you want the police. Why haven’t you called them already?”

“I have my reasons,” she told him while refusing to look at the package.

Ray frowned. He’d seen these clients before. Dark secrets buried deep but still living in the vain hope that it would all work out. He wasn’t sure if she was naïve or in too deep.

Irish went over to a chair and pulled it out. As he sat, he released a low whistle.

“Well, what do you plan on doing? You can live in fear, or you can bring the cops into this. Either way, I don’t think your secret magically disappears.”