The Lady in the Morgue (23 page)

“I don't know.…”

“If you wish to cast glamour and mystery over the case I suggest you use some name such as …” the colonel's voice grew faint … “Gertrude Stein.” There was a click at his end of the connection.

Muttering to himself, Crane allowed the operator to persuade him to drop three additional quarters into the coin box. “That son of a bitch,” he kept saying. “That son of a bitch.” He staggered into the lobby, fanning his face with his Panama hat. His skin looked like faded red-flannel underwear. He was still mumbling when he joined Courtland, O'Malley and Williams in a corner of the lobby.

“Who's got nothing to do but sit around all day and think?” asked Williams, catching some of Crane's words.

“Huh?” Crane was startled. “Oh! That handwriting expert,” he lied, and asked, “Do you know what I'm going to do?” They shook their heads. He said, “I'm going to get so drunk you'll be able to bottle me.”

Chapter Seventeen

EVEN BEFORE their elevator halted at the twenty-seventh floor they could hear laughter. It sounded as though the party were already nicely organized. The elevator man said, “You'll have to walk up one floor to the penthouse, gentlemen.” He pointed to carpet-covered stairs.

The door to the penthouse was ajar, so they walked right into the hall and tossed their hats on top of other hats on a table. There were screams and laughter, and men's and women's voices coming from a room at the other end of the hall. They were moving in that direction when another door swung open, disclosing a red tile floor and an electric stove, and a man and a woman nearly collided with them. The woman was slender and dark, and she had on a crimson dress cut very low in the back. She jerked her hand free from the man's, widened her eyes at them, said:

“Oo-oo! Lookut big handsome mens!”

She seized Crane's and O'Malley's arms, linked her own under them, inquired, “Does handsome mens like Vangie?” Her companion was an elderly man and he stared at them as though he, at least, didn't like them. He walked down the hall toward the room from which the noise was coming.

They assured Vangie they liked her. Yes, indeed. They were very fond of her, and later they would duel to see who would win her. But, in the meantime, did she know where they could find a drink?

Vangie giggled and led them into the penthouse living room. It was a large room with a high white ceiling and walls painted a vivid blue-green. Soft gray carpet covered the floor; ash-blond light filtered from parchment-shaded lamps; the big chairs, the two davenports facing each other in front of the fireplace, were slip-covered in solid colors, reds and greens and blues, but faded, as though they had been left for a long time in the sun. Someone cried, “Look at Vangie with four men!” and a redhead with dimples and a green dress detached herself from a group of men and women and ran toward them. Across from the fireplace French windows opened on to the terrace. A radio was playing a Wayne King waltz and moonlight, like spilled talcum powder, dusted the shoulders of dancers.…

“This one's mine,” said the redhead, taking Doc Williams' arm.

He smiled at her, gave his mustache a twirl. “You've got the grand prize, lady,” he said.

“That's Dolly,” said Vangie.

Crane said, “Dolly, meet Doc.”

“Oo-oo! I just adore doctors,” cried Dolly, squeezing Williams' arm with both hands. “You're so safe with them.”

“You better be careful with him,” said Crane. “He's an obstreperous one.”

Dolly's eyes rounded. She exclaimed, “Oh! A baby doctor?”

“Well, for Christ's sake!” said Crane.

They moved across the living room, past women drinking cocktails, men drinking highballs, toward a closet which had been converted into a silver-and-black bar. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, with the mingled odors of tobacco, champagne, lemon, perfume, hair slick, real-flower corsages, whiskey, shaving lotion and gin. Crane noticed that the men were all elderly—fifty or over. The bartender wanted to know what they would have.

The ladies said they'd have champagne cocktails. Courtland, O'Malley and Williams ordered Scotch and soda; Crane ordered a champagne cocktail. The bartender used Haig and Haig from a pinch-bottle for the Scotch and soda, and Crane knew at once that the party was going to be a good one. The champagne was Mumm's Cordon Rouge, and the bartender poured it into crystal glasses on top of a piece of lemon peel and a lump of sugar partially soaked in bitters.

Like the noise a manicurist makes with a chamois nail buffer, the shuffle of dancing feet on the terrace floated in to them. Wayne King was playing a tango, using wood-winds and stringed instruments, and the music was subdued, sweet.

Vangie took hold of Crane's hand. “Come on, baby, let's dance.” She shook her shoulders. “I just love to tango.”

Crane put the empty champagne glass on the bar. “I need one more to give me rhythm.” He accepted another from the bartender, drained it in a breath. “O.K. Let's go.”

In the sky hung a waning moon, lemon yellow and shaped like a portion of honeydew melon. The orchestra was playing a fox trot, and the dancers were moving faster. The air was soft and moist and fragrant.

Crane danced with Vangie for three numbers, learned that she was from the Vanities. She said most of the girls at the party were from the show or from Frankie French's new night club revue. She didn't know Sue Leonard.

O'Malley, leaning against the three-foot stone wall along the edge of the roof, signaled them. “When do I get to dance with this gal?” he demanded. He was carrying two champagne cocktails; gave one to Vangie, the other to Crane.

Vangie tasted her drink, then set it on the wall. “I'll be seeing you,” she said to Crane. She danced away with O'Malley.

Crane drank his drink. He watched until Vangie wasn't looking and drank hers. He started out to look for Courtland and almost bumped into a woman. “Sorry,” he said, bowing from the waist with continental elegance. “May I offer you a drink, madam?”

There was a noise of ice tinkling against glass in the living room.

The woman was smoking a cigarette in a red holder. Diamonds on a bracelet sparkled as she took the holder from her mouth. Her voice was low and harsh. “Why not?” she asked. Her voice sounded as though she didn't give a damn either way. She walked with him into the living room.

She didn't walk, either. She slouched. She was a blonde and her face was coldly beautiful. Her hair was held back from a low forehead by a lacquered gold fish net; there were blue hollows under her high cheekbones; her lips were full and disdainful. She had on a lace gown which clung blackly to high breasts, thin waist, suave hips, and then, gorgeously, turned to Chinese red in a stiffened flounce exactly midway between her head and her painted toenails.

Crane saw that the diamonds on the bracelet were real. He said, “What'll you have to drink?”

“Gin.”

The bartender said, “Yes, Miss Renshaw.” He filled a water tumbler half full of Gilbey's gin, handed it to her.

Crane gaped at the glass. “Don't you mix it with anything?”

Her lips smiled scornfully.

Crane said, “Give me the same.”

There were sounds of cheering from the terrace. An overhead light had been turned on and in its bright circle Williams and the redheaded girl were doing a Cuban rumba. The girl had a bath towel, was rubbing it around her hind-quarters as she would a shawl, and Williams had another, wound sash-fashion around his waist. His teeth were white under his mustache.

Crane and Miss Renshaw walked to the corner of the terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. A yacht was passing the end of Belmont Harbor and its lights made lemon stains on the still water. Behind them a small fountain gurgled. He tried the gin. It didn't taste so bad, but it was a little difficult to speak for a second or two after a sip. He finally managed to say:

“Silver spray falling on a velvet blotter.”

Miss Renshaw's voice was harsh. “What?”

“Moonlight on the lake.”

“The moon's all right, if you like it,” admitted Miss Renshaw. Her voice was incredible. It was like a waitress' voice in a Greek restaurant. “It don't make me romantic, though.”

“No,” Crane said. “It wouldn't.” He eyed the diamonds.

Miss Renshaw faced him. “Just whatd'ya mean by that crack?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” said Crane. “Nothing at all.” He drank some more gin. “I was thinking that a full moon is much nicer than one like this. It's so much bigger, for one thing.”

Louis Armstrong replaced Wayne King on the radio. It was like jumping from Vienna to Africa. Crane said, “Would you care to dance?”

“Not now,” said Miss Renshaw negligently.

“Well, how about a swim?”

“In the fountain here?”

“No. In the lake.”

Miss Renshaw looked at him with interest for the first time. “You got a yacht?”

“Well, no. Not exactly,” Crane admitted. “But I could probably get one.”

“I got one,” said Miss Renshaw.

The music was throbbing, moaning, torrid. Saxophones, an inspired trumpet, the piano made wild improvised flights from the written melody. Louis Armstrong was swinging it.

“It's dangerous to swim under a waning moon,” said Crane. “Maybe we better postpone that ride on your yacht.”

“Who invited you?” asked Miss Renshaw.

“I need a drink,” said Crane weakly. He was surprised to find his glass had somehow been emptied. “How about you?” He knew when he was licked.

Miss Renshaw's glass was empty. Crane suddenly realized what her voice made him think of. She said, “My tonsils is dry, too.” It made him think of the raucous voices invariably possessed by the female stooges of second-flight vaudeville wisecrackers.

They went back to the bar, secured two more glasses of gin and came out on the porch again. Williams had thrown away the towel and, apparently, his coat, and was dancing Bowery style with Dolly, whose red hair had fallen over her shoulders. There was a circle of people around O'Malley, amazedly watching him produce lighted cigarettes from his pockets, ears, mouth; from other persons' pockets, ears, mouths. Courtland was standing in the doorway of the living room, talking to a pretty blonde in a gown of floating gray marquisette with a garland of yellow daisies over her breast. He seemed fairly sober.

There were seductive hollows just above the V formed by Miss Renshaw's breastbone. They shifted when she moved her neck, sometimes almost disappearing, leaving only smooth flesh, pale in the moonlight. There was an exotic odor of jasmine about her.

Crane thought he could almost forgive her voice. “Getting any warmth out of that gin?” he asked.

She looked into his eyes. “You think I'm cold?”

“Perhaps a trifle reserved …”

She stared at him reflectively, then took a long drink of the gin.

He said, “I think I've seen you somewhere before.”

“Have you?” She looked at him again, then drank the remainder of her gin. “No, I don't think so. People don't forget me.”

“I can forget anybody,” Crane said. “Anybody.”

“You won't forget me again.”

“Oh yes, I will,” said Crane obstinately.

She put her glass on the wall and took Crane's face between her two palms and kissed him. Her lips were hot. She released him roughly, asked, “You still think you will?” and walked into the living room.

Crane said, “What the hell?” He stared at her back until she disappeared. “Why, my God!” He gulped the rest of his gin.

A man came up behind him and tapped his shoulder. “I'd be careful with that lady, young man,” he said. He was about fifty. “She's the host's personal guest.”

“Next time she comes around,” Crane promised, “I'll scream for the police.”

People were watching Williams' girl, Dolly, doing some sort of a buck and wing to the music. She had her skirts pulled above her knees, was moving her feet with unbelievable rapidity. She had on black garters. Crane pushed past the circle, ran into Williams as he stepped into the living room. He asked Williams a question.

“I'm looking for it, too,” said Williams.

They wandered down a hall and encountered a woman coming out of one of the bedrooms. She was wearing a dress of pink chiffon. It looked like a nightgown, but you couldn't see through it, so it wasn't a nightgown.

Crane bowed and said, “Pardon, madam.”

Williams said, “Hi, tutz.”

She said, “Go right through that bedroom across the hall.” She smiled at them.

Coming out of the bathroom, Crane and Williams admired the double bed in the bedroom. It had a pale-blue spread and the sheets were silk. Williams fingered them and said, “My God! Look!”

The sheets weren't plain white like most sheets but were sprinkled with royal blue flowers. Crane bent close to them, but Williams said, “No, you don't.”

“I just want to try the springs,” said Crane.

“No, you don't.” Williams tugged at his coat. “We still have work to do. You can sleep tomorrow.”

Crane allowed himself to be pushed into the hall. Williams asked, “What did the colonel have to say?”

“What makes you think I talked to him?”

“You don't buy five dollars' worth of quarters to call a handwriting expert in Chicago. Come on, what did he say?”

“He said, keep on working, the son of a bitch.”

“Did he have any ideas?”

“He always has ideas,” said Crane, bitterly.

“Well, don't let it worry you,” Williams moved on ahead into the living room.

“Don't let what worry me?”

“That the colonel's smarter than you.”

This put Crane in such a fury that Williams was forced to bring him a quart bottle of champagne to calm him. They each drank from the bottle and watched the progress of the party.