The Lady in the Morgue (24 page)

Somebody had turned up the radio until the music sounded as though it were being played by the United States Marine Band. A girl was dancing on the terrace in an orange-colored chemise. Somebody was smashing crockery in the kitchen. Two men were being dissuaded with difficulty from fighting. A baby-faced blonde borrowed a dollar from Crane for cab fare home. A couple were necking on one of the davenports. Three men were bitterly arguing politics on the other. A man in shirt sleeves asked O'Malley if he was having a good time. O'Malley asked him what the hell business it was of his. The man said he was sorry. He said he wouldn't have asked except that he was giving the party and wanted everybody to have a good time. O'Malley accepted his apology. A baby-faced blonde borrowed a dollar for cab fare home from Williams. Somebody fell over a chair on the terrace. Two girls were wading in the fountain. A gold watch flipped from the pocket of a man trying to Charleston on the terrace, shattered itself on the polished tile. Williams asked the girl in the nightgown which wasn't a nightgown for her telephone number and she tossed him a handkerchief, and what do you think? The number, Superior 7500, was printed in green thread on one corner, so all you had to do was to keep the handkerchief. A baby-faced blonde borrowed a dollar for cab fare home from O'Malley. The redhead, Dolly, passed out and had to be put to bed.

Courtland came over just as Crane was finishing the bottle of champagne. His face was excited. “I've been talking to Sue,” he began.

“A nice little tambo, too,” Williams said.

“You will please be silent,” Crane carefully placed the empty bottle on the gray rug. “My friend, my pal, my old pal Mister Courtland, has a message.”

“Well, Sue says that Verona Paletta is alive.” Courtland grinned at Crane. “She is positive about it.”

“That's a strong statement—a very strong statement,” Crane wheeled around on Williams. “Isn't that a strong statement?”

Williams nodded.

“The question is,” said Crane slowly, “can she prove it?” He shook a finger at Williams. “Proof is ninety points of the law.”

“You're thinking of whiskey,” objected Williams. “Ninety proof whiskey.”

“I know what I'm thinking of.” Crane was indignant. “I'm thinking of Verona Vincent Paletta.” He liked the sound of the name.

Courtland said. “Well, she's here at the party.”

“Verona Vincent Paletta?”

Courtland nodded.

“This
is
interesting.” Crane staggered against the champagne bottle, knocked it over. “Good old Verona here.” He bent over and after a time managed to stand the bottle on the rug. “Are we on a yacht,” he demanded, “that the floor keeps moving so?” He dusted his hands on his white trousers. “Did Sue say which one old Verona was?”

“She says she doesn't dare tell us.”

“So that's what she says? Very well! If that's what she shays, that's what she says. Very well! We'll carry on, however.”

Williams asked, “But how're you going to find her?”

“That's not the problem. No, sir. I've found her already. The problem is, how're we going to get her out of here?”

Courtland asked, “You've found her already?”

Crane said, “Frankly, yes, old pal.” He added, “Have I thanked you for saving my life, old pal?”

Williams signaled O'Malley.

“Forget about that life stuff,” said Courtland.

“No. I do not forget, old pal. Allow me to show my ap're'cion. Allow me to secure you a drink. I know the bartender person'ly.”

“Wait a minute,” said Williams. “We gotta do something about this Paletta dame.”

“Good. I'm glad you realize it. It's about time, too. Let's take her home to Paletta.”

“Suppose she don't wanta go there,” objected Williams.

“We'll give her a choice.” Crane kicked over the champagne bottle again, bent down to pick it up. “She can go back to Paletta, or she can go back to Frankie French, or she can go back to Paletta.”

“She won't wanta go back to either,” said Williams.

Four men in another corner of the living room were singing “I wish I was in Dixie.” Outside it sounded as though someone had fallen in the fountain. The radio was playing “Minnie, the Moocher.”

“What we going to do, then?” asked Crane, tossing the bottle so that it fell on the davenport, just missing the head of the man necking the girl there.

“We'll snatch her,” said O'Malley.

Bottle in hand, the man came over from the davenport. “Listen,” he said, “you can't get away with that sort of stuff.” He planted himself in front of Crane. “You almost hit me.”

“What if I did?” asked Crane.

O'Malley said, “Yeah, maybe we can do better next time.”

“My error,” said the man. He took the bottle back to the davenport with him.

“How we going to get her in a cab?” asked Crane. “She'll scream.”

“Knock her over the head,” said Williams.

“Wait a minute.” Courtland crossed to the mantel over the fire place and picked up a bunch of keys. He thrust them in his pocket, said, “I saw a man put those up there.” He crossed to where the men were arguing about politics, addressed one of the men. “The doorman phoned up and said one of the cars parked outside was blocking another. Is yours the Pierce Arrow roadster?”

“No,” said the man; “mine's a green Packard convertible.”

Courtland returned triumphantly. “We now possess a green Packard convertible.”

“Good work, pal.” Crane turned to O'Malley. “Let's get the dame.”

“You're going to have trouble draggin' her out of here,” observed Williams.

“I got an idea,” said Crane. He told them the idea. He concluded by saying to Courtland and O'Malley, “You two grab her when she gets downstairs.”

Courtland said good-by to Sue Leonard and left with O'Malley, and after a short interval Crane hunted up Miss Renshaw. She had half a glass of gin in her hand. He asked, “Don't you ever drink anything but gin?”

Her expression was friendlier this time. “What's wrong with gin?”

Crane took the glass from her hand, drank some of the gin. “It does taste pretty good,” he admitted. He drank the rest of it.

She smiled, said, “You're drunk.”

“Me? Me drunk? Madam!”

“I like people drunk.”

“I'm drunk. Please consider me drunk.”

Williams joined them. “I've some good news for you, Bill,” he said.

Crane introduced him to Miss Renshaw.

Williams continued, “Frankie says he'll be able to make it, after all.”

“Frankie French!” Crane's voice was pleased, surprised. “That's swell. I haven't seen him for a long time. When's he coming?”

“He said it'd take him ten minutes to get over here.”

Miss Renshaw's face was suddenly haggard. Her fingers drew the skin tight around her throat. “I'll see you later,” she said. “I have to go … I … I have a headache.”

“Don't go,” said Crane. “Maybe another drink …”

“No!” She turned and hurried across the terrace into the living room.

“That got her,” said Williams.

They watched until she went out the front door, a black cape with a scarlet lining thrown across her bare shoulders, and then they took a bottle of champagne and a bottle of gin from the bartender, a corkscrew from the kitchen, and followed. The green Packard was double parked half a block down the street, and in the back seat was O'Malley with Miss Renshaw. Williams got in beside Courtland at the wheel, and Crane got in beside Miss Renshaw. He couldn't see her face.

“Don't think I'm not your friend,” he said, handing her the bottle of Gilbey's gin.

Her voice was almost lost in the noise of the accelerating engine. “What do you want?”

Crane cut the tinfoil off the champagne bottle with his thumbnail. “We want to know where you've been for the last month or so, Mrs. Paletta.” He shoved on the cork, but nothing happened.

“Where to, Bray-mer?” called Williams from the front seat.

Miss Renshaw said, “I'm not Mrs. Paletta.”

“Drive around Lincoln Park,” Crane said.

“Where's Lincoln Park?” Courtland asked.

Williams said, “I'll show you. Turn right here.”

“Sure, you're Mrs. Paletta,” Crane said.

O'Malley said, “Here, lemme open that bottle.”

Miss Renshaw said, “And even supposin' I am Mrs. Paletta; what's it to you?”

The champagne bottle went POP.

Williams said, “Mi Gawd! I
am
shot.”

While the Packard slid effortlessly around the curves of the tree-walled inner drive in Lincoln Park they drank the champagne. Miss Renshaw was politely offered the first drink from the bottle, but she refused. Crane demanded the first drink, but was refused. When he finally did get the bottle there were only a few sips left. “A fine bunch of pals you are,” he said sadly.

O'Malley took the bottle of gin from Miss Renshaw and twisted the corkscrew into it.

Crane tried to question Miss Renshaw, but she wouldn't tell him anything. He explained he wanted to establish the fact that Mrs. Paletta was alive to prevent Frankie French and Paletta from doing him further injury. He told her of his experience with French and showed her his eye, his bruises and cuts.

She laughed as though they really amused her.

O'Malley had opened the gin bottle and was holding it behind him so Crane wouldn't see it. “Should I knock her off, Boss?” he demanded gruffly.

“Give her a minute or two more,” said Crane.

Miss Renshaw laughed huskily. “If you Boy Scouts get much funnier I'll have hysterics,” she stated.

Dead white light from passing street lamps played fitfully on her face. Crane saw she certainly didn't appear frightened. “All right,” he declared. “All right. If you won't admit you're Mrs. Paletta, you won't. But I know you are. I know French and Paletta would like to see you. And I'd like to have them see you.” He had to stop for a breath. “Which one do you want to go to?”

The road curved to the left, crossed over a stone viaduct and neared the lake. There was a faint odor of fish in the warm air. They were on Lake Shore Drive.

Miss Renshaw said, “I don't want to go to either.”

“Come on,” said Crane. “Pick one.” He made a lunge for the gin bottle, but O'Malley deftly passed it to Williams. “We're being little gentlemen. We're giving you a choice.”

“You better let me go,” said Miss Renshaw, “or you'll be dead little gentlemen.”

“Threats, eh?” Crane sat up straight on the seat. “Very well. We'll take you to Frankie French.”

Her fingers tightened around his wrist It was the first feminine move she had made. “No. Not to French. I'm afraid of him.” Her harsh voice had a pleading note.

“O.K. To Paletta, then.” He spoke to Williams. “Do you know where the guy lives?”

“Sure. Over on Delaware Place.”

It took them only three minutes to reach the co-operative apartment building in which Paletta lived. Crane pulled Miss Renshaw out of the car after him. “You better come along, Doc,” he said, starting for the door. Williams followed them through the ornate marble-and-gold lobby and into the elevator. The operator was a bright-looking boy. He closed the door, started the elevator and asked, “What floor, please?”

Crane asked, “What floor's Mike Paletta on?”

“I really couldn't say, sir.”

Williams hauled out a .45 automatic, pointed it at the boy's startled eyes. “Listen, punk; what floor's Paletta on?”

“Twenty-third, sir.”

“That's better.” Williams lowered the pistol, let it dangle from his hand. “Always be polite to your elders.”

There was only one door on the twenty-third floor. While Williams watched the elevator boy Crane led Miss Renshaw across the hall and pushed the bell. After a time a man opened the door a crack and peered out at them. It was the Italian who had tried to see the body in the morgue. His eyes goggled at them.

“Call Paletta,” said Crane.

Bare feet thumping the carpet, small black eyes squinting in the light, Paletta marched ponderously toward them. He was wearing a tan flannel robe with a peach-colored monogram over purple pajamas. He needed a shave. Crane put his right palm in the small of Miss Renshaw's back, pushed her through the door into Paletta's arms.

“Now quit bothering me, you big Dago,” he said.

He slammed the door, jumped into the elevator, rode down to the lobby and hurried out to the Packard. He was well pleased with himself. He climbed into the back seat and said:

“To the graveyard, driver, and flail the horses.”

He leaned back in the leather seat and in thirty seconds was fast asleep.

Chapter Eighteen

CRANE SHOOK the hand off his shoulder, said querulously, “Lemme alone. Please lemme alone. I don't feel well.” He kept his eyes shut. Then he said, “Graveyard. What graveyard?” With a tremendous effort he sat up, asked, “Am I dead?”

In the citron radiance of the low-hung moon they stood and watched him. Their faces were composed and quite pale.

Light reflected from the chromium fittings of the Packard dazzled his eyes. He rubbed them with the sleeve of his linen coat. “I don't feel well,” he repeated. His coat smelled of jasmine.

O'Malley had been shaking him. “Come on,” he said. “We got work to do.”

Dew on the grass sparkled in the moonlight; the air was laden with the thick odors of graveyard flowers, of tuberoses, carnations, lilies, violets. There was no wind at all.

Cautiously, O'Malley opened the gate of twisted iron, closed it after they had tiptoed through. The night attendant's white stone lodge was at their right. A 25-watt bulb burned from a cord hanging just inside the lodge's single window. O'Malley tried the door, found it was open. They could hear the tick-tick of a Big Ben alarm clock. Williams had his pistol in his hand, and he led the way through the door. The night attendant was lying on the cement floor of the lodge on his side, his head almost touching his knees, his back toward them.