The Lady in the Morgue (20 page)

Crane asked, “What does he do?”

“You know. The usual stuff, like playing dead, and barking, and turnin' some'saults.” The bartender again held the glass to the light. It sparkled like polished crystal. With a sigh he placed it on the shelf in front of the mirror. “He knows one good one, though. You give him a glove or a hanky belonging to somebody, and he'll pick that person out for you right off. From the smell, I guess.” He reached under the bar for another glass. “It don't matter whether the person is in the back room or under the bar; Champion'll find him.”

Williams was impressed. “Like a bloodhound,” he said.

From somewhere in the back of the building came a few bars of “The Wabash Blues” played on a saxophone. Loud for a few beats, the music quickly died away.

“What was that?” asked Crane.

“One of those musicians,” the bartender said. “A bunch of them hang out here.”

Crane nibbled on a potato chip. “That reminds me.” He stared at O'Malley. “Wasn't the Cavern the place they said Sam went to?”

“You mean that trumpet player?” asked O'Malley.

“Sam Udoni,” said the bartender. “He used to be with Vallee. He's back there with the boys now.”

Crane said, “I'd like to see old Sam.” He finished his drink, slipped from the stool.

“You can see him, all right,” said the bartender; “but I don't know as you'll be able to talk with him.”

“Why not?”

“Gin and marijuana. They don't mix so well.”

“Hell!” Crane shook his head sadly. “I didn't know old Sam hit that stuff.”

The bartender accepted a ten-dollar bill, pondered over the cash register, finally, tentatively, pushed three keys. Black numbers leaped into the glass-windowed top of the register, read: 4.20. Fumbling with silver, he said over his shoulder: “I guess all them musicians hit the smoke.” He gave Crane a five-dollar bill, three quarters and a nickel.

“Maybe we could go in the back room and see how Sam is getting along before we try to speak to him.” Two of the quarters fell from Crane's hand to the mahogany counter. “Is there an extra table in the back room?”

Deftly the bartender scooped up the coins. “Thanks.” They jingled against other silver in his apron pocket. “Sure. There's plenty of tables.”

Crane started to leave, halted, said, “Maybe you better bring in a pint of that Irish and some fizzy water.” His reflection in the mirror, although dim, showed a discolored left eye, a cut on the left temple, and another scratch below his left ear, half on the jawbone, half on the neck.

“Make it a quart,” said O'Malley. “We gotta get ready for that penthouse party.”

“Okay.” The bartender put both hands on the counter, shouted, “Hey! Ty!”

Ty came out of the back room just as they started to enter it. He shied at them like a locoed horse, rolled his eyes until the pupils disappeared, staggered around them. He was the waiter and his white coat had rust-colored stains on the front. They ignored him, went on through the door.

Smoke as thick as fine gray silk sheeted the back room from ceiling to floor, eddied around a peach-colored overhead electric bulb, made indistinct the silent figures of men grouped about a central table. Crane led the way to another table near the door, felt for a chair and sat down. The other two, walking carefully, blindly, joined him. Their eyes were slow in becoming accustomed to the haze. “Whew!” Williams whispered. “Like a fog off the East River.”

Against their skin, on their lips, the smoke actually had texture, body. It was warm and moist, like human breath. It was sweet and thick, like chloroform; only it was not medicinal.

At last they managed to see the entire room. Its walls were of cerise brick, darkened in patches by sweat; its ceiling was of rough plaster. There were no windows, but air came in through a chess-board ventilator. Six men were seated around the central table, their heads bowed before a seventh who perched, cross-legged, on top of the table. His head was bald; his face was fat and round and yellow; his arms were folded over his chest. His expression was tranquil. He had no cigarette, but the other six were smoking.

“What the hell?” whispered O'Malley.

Crane shook his head, kept his eyes on the men, who smoked in silence, apparently unaware that anyone had entered the room. The round-faced man on the table had his eyes open, but he didn't seem to be seeing anything through them. The pupils didn't move when the waiter, Ty, came with their bottle of whiskey, glasses, seltzer water and ice, made a clatter setting them on the table.

Crane put a finger to his lips. “Sush.”

“Don't worry 'bout them guys,” said the waiter, loudly. “Don't even worry a little bit. They ain't on the same plane with us.” He filled each of the three glasses nearly half full of whiskey. “They're bein' absorbed.”

Crane's eyes widened in wonder. “Absorbed?”

Ty pressed the lever on the siphon bottle, sent liquid over the table top. “'Scuse me.” He wiped the table dry with a napkin. “Yeah, absorbed. See that guy on the table? Well, he's Bray-mer. He's doin' the absorbing.”

“For Christ's sake!” said Crane. He really was astonished. “For Christ's sake!”

The waiter aimed the seltzer carefully this time, filled all three glasses. “Those other guys,” he stated, “they're undergods. But they ain't on the same plane with Bray-mer yet. They gotta keep smokin' to make it.”

Accepting his glass, Crane asked, “How do you know so much about them?”

“Hell! ain't I been watchin' 'em for the last month?” He leaned over the table, spoke confidentially, “They're goin' to make me a god next week.”

“Gosh, that's fine.” Crane's eyes were wide over the upper rim of his glass. “That's just fine.” In contrast with the sweet smoke in the room the whiskey was cleanly bitter. He let it roll around in his mouth, then asked, “Which one of those fellows is Sam Udoni?”

The waiter examined the men. “That's Sam. The dark guy, right across the table from you. He's Nar-sin.”

“Nar-sin?”

“The lion-god.”

“Oh!” Crane nodded his head as though everything were clear. “The lion-god.”

The waiter gave them change for another ten-dollar bill, accepted a dollar and turned to leave. Crane said: “Wait a second.” The waiter swung around. Crane asked: “How long do they keep this up?”

“They're just gettin' under way.” The waiter frowned thoughtfully. “They ain't even reached the fifth plane yet.”

“How many do they have to go?”

“They gotta hit the seventh plane before they can even talk with Bray-mer.” The waiter frowned again. “That'll take three more rounds of gin, an' three more cigarettes, not counting the rest periods.”

“God!” said O'Malley. His voice was awed. “You really gotta get steamed up to talk with Bray-mer.”

“Look.” Crane showed the waiter a five-dollar bill. “We want to talk with Sam Udoni. Is there any way we can get him out of here?”

“I dunno.” The waiter's face was dubious, but he kept looking at the bill. “I might be able to get him for you.”

Suddenly the round-faced man on the table spoke. His voice was in the lower human register. He said, “Matsya, extinguish the sacred incense.”

One of the six men bowed twice, then chanted in a shrill voice: “Lord Brahma orders the sacred incense extinguished.”

The men stood up, bowed twice in unison, mashed their cigarettes on the table, sat down again.

O'Malley and Williams watched them with eyes like fried eggs.

Crane slipped a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, held it in place of the five. The waiter's eyes glistened. “You go in the little room back of that door,” he said. “I'll bring him in to you.” Delicately, he took the bill between thumb and forefinger.

They carried the bottle of whiskey, the charged water and the glasses into the little room. There was a window in the room, looking out into a moon-lit back yard with a wooden fence, and the air was fresh. They felt dizzy for a second, then their heads cleared.

O'Malley said, “It wouldn't take much of that stuff to conk you.”

Williams was pouring himself approximately eight fingers of whiskey. “I don't like the looks of those guys.” He gulped the liquor. “When I was workin' with Narcotics in Frisco we knocked over an opium joint, and about six of them Chinamen came after us with knives as big as …”

Crane said, “These fellows haven't got any knives.”

Williams was holding his glass as though somebody were trying to pull it out of his hand. He eyed Crane, asked, “How do you know?”

O'Malley stuck his head out the window. “If they come at us we can scram out this way,” he said. “I see a gate in the fence.”

Williams said, “That's good. We'll let Buffalo Bill Crane, here, cover the rear with his trusty Remington—” he twirled his pointed mustache with a flourish “—while we ride for help.”

The waiter appeared at the door. “These are the gentlemen, Mister Udoni,” he said, and shoving a man into the room he backed out, closing the door behind him.

Udoni was somberly handsome. His skin was cream-colored; his hair was black and long, slicked back over a narrow head; his mouth was generous and sensitive. He had on a pale linen suit, a blue shirt and yellow necktie. His eyes, the size of half dollars, were blank.

Crane held a chair for him. “Sit down, Mr. Udoni.”

There was a flicker of light in the distended pupils. Udoni sat down, moved his head to look at each of them, like a feebleminded child. “They say Narsinh know you.” He blurred his words. “Narsinh does not know you.” He started to rise from the chair.

“Wait a second.” Crane leaned toward him. “We want to ask you about Miss Ross.”

For a fractured second Udoni's face twitched, the blankness left his eyes. Then he said, “Narsinh go.”

“No.” Crane put his hand on Udoni's arm. “Why didn't Miss Ross have any shoes?”

Udoni stood up, his sleepwalker's face composed. “Brahma calls.”

O'Malley said, “The hell he does!” He seized the seltzer bottle, sent a stream of ice-cold water into Udoni's mouth, nose, eyes. Udoni took three gasping breaths, tossed hands in the air and crumpled on the wooden floor.

“That'll bring him down to our plane,” said O'Malley.

For five minutes they watched the man on the floor, listened to his heavy breathing. “That's the guy who was in bed with Miss, I mean Mrs. Udoni, all right,” said Crane; “but he looks better with his clothes on.”

Finally Udoni opened his eyes and sat up. “I think I'm going to be sick,” he said.

Williams helped him to the window. He vomited into the back yard. “That closes our last avenue of retreat,” said Crane.

“Not for me,” said O'Malley.

When Williams brought him back to the table Udoni's eyes were normal. “Could I have some water?” he asked. They emptied one of the glasses, filled it with ice and seltzer water. He drank it gratefully.

“Feel better?” asked Crane.

“Yes.” Udoni looked about him. “Where am I?”

“In the back room of the Cavern.” Crane studied his face. “We were trying to ask you some questions.”

“Questions? About what?”

Crane opened his billfold, showed Udoni his card. “We're private detectives. We want to ask you some questions about Miss Ross, if you don't mind.”

“Miss Ross!” There was terror in the man's eyes. “I don't know any Miss Ross.”

“Listen. We're not working for the police. We don't want to get you into any trouble, unless we have to.” Crane paused to sip whiskey. “But if you won't answer our questions we'll take you down to the detective bureau.”

Udoni asked, “But what could they arrest
me
for?” His eyes moved from one of them to another, furtively.

“Well, for one thing,” said Crane, “you found her body and didn't report it to the police.”

“Yes, I did.” Udoni shrugged his shoulders. “But I was afraid to tell anyone. I'll go to the police, if you like.”

“No. You don't have to go to the police at all, if you'll just answer our questions.”

Udoni's face was puzzled. “Certainly, I'll answer them. I have nothing to conceal.”

“Then why didn't you notify the police when you found Miss Ross' body?”

“I was frightened. I was afraid …” he stared for a full thirty seconds at Crane, continued: “… that the publicity would ruin my chances of obtaining a job in Chicago for myself and my band.”

Crane watched him curiously. “You're sure that was the reason?”

Udoni nodded firmly, but his throat trembled.

“What about her shoes?” Crane made his voice harsh. “Why didn't she have any shoes?”

“I didn't know she didn't have any.” Udoni's face was bloodless, his lips quivered. “Better have a drink,” Crane urged, but Udoni said, “No, thanks.” He added, “She always had shoes while I knew her.”

“And you left everything in her room just as you found it? You didn't remove any of her clothes, or anything?”

“Why, no. I was only there a minute or two. I saw her hanging from the door, and …”

“Her body was naked?”

“Yes. And so …”

“That's all right.” Crane wrinkled his forehead. “Now, Mr. Udoni, of course you knew who Miss Ross really was?”

“Really was?” Udoni's expression was startled. “I didn't know she was anybody but Alice Ross. She never told me. Who was she?”

Crane shook his head. “That's what we're trying to find out. We're sure of one thing, though.”

Udoni's tone was apprehensive. “What's that?”

“That she wasn't Miss Ross. Somebody would have been asking about the body if that was her real name.” Crane put his arms on the table. “You better tell us the history of your affair with Miss Ross. There may be something …”