Nothing More than Murder by Jim Thompson

something like that. He looked like the guy that actually was president, see, and when this guy ran off or fell in a mudhole or something and wasn’t ever seen again, why this one hooked his place. He didn’t know beans about the business, and all he planned on doing was to stick around long enough to snap a few rubber checks and maybe get the other guy’s gal alone in the parlor for a while. But once he got inside, the graft looked so good that he decided to stay for a real milking. He was scared out of his pants, naturally, because he didn’t know any more about the setup than a hog does about ice skates. But he ran a bluff, and damned if he didn’t make good on it.
    His work was just cut out for him, see what I mean? The stenographers would bring him letters to sign, and he’d just sign ’em. And when he got any letters, his vice-presidents or some of his secretaries would take charge of them. And when people showed up for conferences all he had to do was keep his eyes and ears open, and he could see what he had to do. He didn’t have to move. He got moved. As I remember the yarn, he wound up by getting made president of a lot of other companies and marrying the other guy’s gal, and no one ever knew the difference.
    Well, when I read that I thought it was strictly off the cob. And I knew it’d be just my luck to have the thing made into a movie and I’d have to see it. But if you asked me now I’d say it wasn’t corn. If I hadn’t been worried about Hap Chance, and being broke, I wouldn’t have done much worrying. Up to a certain point.
    I didn’t have to explain the accident—if you want to call it that. There were several stories going around that were better than any I could dream up. I didn’t have to pretend I was suffering from shock and grief. They told me I was.
    A delegation brought me some mourning clothes Tuesday afternoon, and Sheriff Rufe Waters and County Attorney Web Clay and a couple of fellows from the chamber of commerce drove me over to the mortuary in a limousine. Rufe and Webb took me into the chapel to look at the casket—but not inside it—and then they took me right out again.
    I didn’t hear much of the services because someone thought I was looking peaked, and they took me into the rest room. They gave me a couple of drinks to brace me up, and made me lie down on the lounge. And after the services were over they got me up again.
    I rode out to the cemetery with Rufe and Web and one of the Legion boys and a fellow from the Farmers’ Union. Rufe is the wheel horse for the Democratic party and Web is the same for the Republicans. If I’d been picking a foursome to ride with from the standpoint of keeping all sides happy, I couldn’t have done better. And I hadn’t had to do it. It was done for me.
    It started to rain a little on the edge of town, just a few drops, but by the time we passed our—my—place it was misting pretty hard. I looked up the lane toward the garage, and of course there wasn’t any. Just part of the framework and a pile of timber and metal and ashes. But there was a guy chasing around, trying to cover things up with pieces of canvas.
    I asked who he was.
    “That’s the investigator from the insurance company,” said Rufe. “Looks like he’d have enough decency to lay off during the ceremony.”
    “I’ve got my eye on him,” said Web. “I’m just hoping he gets out of line a little. He can’t come into my county and tell me how to run things.”
    I wanted to ask him what the trouble was, but I decided it wouldn’t be appropriate. Or smart. The longer I could stay in the background and let my friends do my arguing the better off I was.
    I guess almost the whole county was at the cemetery. There wasn’t room for half the people inside, and they were parked along the grade for almost a mile on either side of the gates.
    They all stood up when we passed, stood along the side of the road or on their running boards or wagon beds, with their heads