conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled No good from a corpse about Blue, Murder with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 1st edition 1989 Blue Murder trade paperback vg++ story In stock shipped from our UK warehouse
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No good from a corpse
  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.
  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 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.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He was not the man in Laurel Dane's picture, except that he still had his big pantherish body and his swarthy good looks. But he had aged and hardened, and there was no laughter in him. His skin was pale with the bleaching of three years in the cell blocks, but it only made the brown of his eyes browner and the black of his brows and hair blacker. The lines around his mouth were like scars, cut deep.
  Laurel's husband. The first man she loved, the only man she married, the man who had taken steel because of her. It didn't register. Clive thought, That wasn't Laurel. That was a redheaded kid named Sue Tanner, a girl I never met. And he never met Laurel. But they were both dead, lying in a dark drawer, not feeling the darkness or the cold. Red hair, black hair, it didn't matter. There was only silence now, and the long, long night.
  Beauvais moved his chin. 'Sit down. I want to listen... and I don't want to hear anything but truth.'
  Clive walked over and sat down, not hurrying. He leaned forward with his hands lax between his knees and started to talk.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He went out silently, and silently down the stairs. The darkness of his tanned skin showed through the thin wet fabric of his shirt. He pulled the coat closer around him. Drops of water ran down his face from his dark hair.
  He looked at Clive, and past him up the steps, and then back again. He said nothing. His face showed no surprise. There was something curiously timeless about his being there.
  Clive stopped by the graceful newel post. He said quietly, 'Miss Vivien has had an accident. She slipped at the edge of the pool. She's dead.'
  Mulligan inclined his head. Clive went past him, out onto the polished floor. Mulligan said with an odd, shrewd softness, 'Perhaps it's the best thing, after all.'
  He said slowly, 'There's an old saying, Mulligan, that of all things, never to have been born is best.'