The Lady in the Morgue (7 page)

“No, sir.”

“No, sir?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, who did see him last?”

Crane's shoulder itched. He scratched it. “The man, or men,” he said, “who killed him.”

The coroner grunted. Crane said, “I beg your pardon?” The coroner said, “I didn't say anything.” Crane said, “Oh.”

It was breathlessly hot in the room. Hats, handkerchiefs, handbags were being used as fans by the women in the audience. The air smelled of human perspiration, heavy and salty sour.

In reply to another question, Crane said, “I have no idea who the lady was, other than that she was called Alice Ross by the newspapers.” He related how he had received orders to try to determine her identity.

The coroner returned to his probing of the last few minutes of Mr. Liebman. “How long were you down there alone with him?” he asked.

Crane was conscious of Mrs. Liebman's eyes upon him. He said to the coroner, “Not more than two or three minutes.” Mrs. Liebman was registering hate.

“You say you had been looking at Miss Ross' body with the two reporters when Mr. Liebman came down?” asked the coroner.

“That's right.”

“What did Mr. Liebman do after he told the reporters someone wanted to see them?”

“He looked at Miss Ross' body, too.”

One of the cameramen was making a shot of Mrs. Liebman. She was still registering hate. She was registering more than that. She was clenching, unclenching, her hands. She was registering: I would handle that murderer if I were a man instead of a defenseless widow.

“Mr. Liebman looked at Miss Ross' body,” the coroner repeated. “Did he say anything?”

“Yes, he did.” William Crane paused. He lowered his eyelids, pretended to yawn. “He said: ‘I wish I could trade my wife in for a model like that.'” He watched the widow from the corners of his eyes.

Mrs. Liebman took it as well as could be expected. She leaped to her feet, screamed, “Why, the lousy bum!” Nobody could be sure whether she was referring to William Crane or her husband because she immediately fainted at the feet of Captain Grady. She was removed by two female cousins to the ladies' room.

This, the coroner appeared to think, concluded the testimony. He said, “Thank you,” to Crane, let the jury through a door at the back of the room. Crane followed the scuffling, perspiring crowd through a corridor into the big waiting room. He had a drink of warm water from the fountain. The clock with the cracked glass read 12:20; the red mercury column in the thermometer on the morgue keeper's desk was a fraction below the line marked 98. His head ached, his eyes smarted, his face was hot; he went into the room marked MEN to wash.

He was pulling a paper towel from a container marked: “Why Use Two When One Will Do Just As Well?” when someone came into the room. He looked in the fly-spotted mirror and saw it was the Italian of the night before. He said, “You've got your nerve, coming here.”

The Italian was standing in the center of the floor. He wasn't very tall and he was more than forty, but he was thick and he looked as though he would be durable. He said, “The big shot wants to know something.” He didn't seem friendly.

“What does he want to know?”

“He wants t' know what you done with the girl?”

The paper towel broke in Crane's hands. He dropped it in the waste basket, pulled another from the container. “What makes him think I took the girl?” he asked.

“Him and I was at the inquest.” The Italian's legs were apart, his body bent forward at the waist. “We heard what they said. We got ears.”

“Yeah, you got ears, all right.” Crane looked at the Italian's with disfavor. “If you didn't have so much hair on them maybe you could have heard me say I didn't know who took the body.”

“We heard what you said.” Black hair grew in a reverse widow's peak on the Italian's chest just below his neck. “But you don't need to hand us the old crappo. We wanta know what you did with the girl.”

“I didn't take her.”

“O.K., smart boy.” The Italian moved toward Crane. “The big fellow wants t' see you, then.” He took hold of Crane's arm, started to push him toward the door, halted suddenly.

A man dressed in a green ensemble was watching them. His face was swarthy and, except for a jagged scar over the right cheekbone, handsome. He wore an olive-green suit cut square at the shoulders, snug at the waist. He had on a black hat, a dark-green necktie with small red dots in it, a tan shirt, and brown suède shoes.

“Hello, Pete,” he said.

The Italian released Crane's arm, stepped backward. “Frankie!” he exclaimed. He held his arms stiffly, away from his body, away from his hips.

Water, freed by the automatic release, gurgled through the urinals.

“You'd better leave—” the man in green was talking to the Italian “—while you can.” He smiled with his mouth. “I want to talk to Mr. Crane.” His lips were full, cruel.

Sullenly the Italian made a side-stepping progress toward the door, moving in an arc always the same distance from the man in green, as though a pistol was pointed at the pit of his stomach. He went out the door backward.

With his expressionless face inclined toward Crane the man in green had followed the Italian's departure with his eyes until the sockets were filled almost entirely with white. Now the golden irises slid back into position. “I'm Frankie French,” he said. He shook hands with Crane, added, “Maybe we can be of assistance to each other in this matter.”

Crane was surprised to find he was still holding the paper towel. He dropped it, took another, rubbed his face with it, said, “Why use one when two will do just as well?” He rolled the paper into a ball, flipped it into the basket with his thumb. “What help can I be to you?”

Frankie French talked without moving his lips. “You can give me a little information.”

“Yeah, I know. I can tell what I did with the girl's body.”

“I see we understand each other.” The man's carefully plucked eyebrows and the long lashes of his narrowed eyes made exactly parallel lines. “How much will it cost me to find out?”

“It won't do any good for me to say that I haven't the least idea where the lady's body is?”

“No, Mr. Crane, it won't.”

Leaning against one of the washbowls, Crane said, “Supposing for a minute that I do know where the girl's body is, how much would it be worth to you to know?”

Frankie French's tapering hands were beautifully manicured. Light reflected from the glossy fingernails. He lifted five thousand-dollar bills from a calfskin wallet, held them out to Crane.

Moving his head negatively, Crane said, “It's too bad I don't know where the body is.”

“I'm not going to haggle with you,” said Frankie French, still holding out the bills. “My top price is five grand.” His voice was low, ominous. “You will be wise to accept it.” He spoke precisely, almost the way a foreigner, who had learned English in a good school, would.

Crane shoved himself away from the washbowl, balanced himself on the balls of his feet, repeated: “I don't know where the body is.”

There were golden flecks in Frankie French's eyes. He moved back from Crane—lithely, dangerously, like a cobra about to strike. “You goddam cheap dick,” he said, almost in a whisper; “I'm giving you five seconds to start talking.” The fingers on his right hand fluttered.

Some men came into the washroom. One of them was saying; “—an' on the buck dinner they throw in a glass of red wine.” He was a heavy man with a pock-marked face and curly black hair.

Crane went over to him. “Well, for God's sake, what are you doing here?” he asked the man. “How's the wife?” He seized the man's hand, shook it heartily.

For a moment Frankie French hesitated, then said to Crane: “Think it over.” His tone was impersonal, courteous. “I'll be seeing you again.” He left the washroom.

The man with the pock marks said, “You got the better of me, Mister.” His face was puzzled. “I can't recall ever having seen you before.”

Crane released his hand. “You never did,” he said. “But anyway, thank you very, very much.” He left the men staring at him in astonishment, went back into the room where the inquest had been held.

It was only a few minutes before the jury returned. The foreman handed the coroner a sheet of paper before taking his seat with the other five men. The room was filled again and the audience, even the reporters, waited attentively. Crane looked around for both Frankie French and the Italian, but he was unable to find them. His eye caught that of Mrs. Liebman; she scowled, looked away. Between the two homicide men Captain Grady sat unconcernedly, as if he had no interest in the verdict. His eyes, in contrast to his brick-red face, were a startling blue.

The coroner cleared his throat. “The jury finds,” he said, “that the deceased, August Liebman, was willfully murdered by person, or persons unknown while trying in the line of duty to prevent the felonious removal of the body of Miss Alice Ross from the Cook County Morgue in the City of Chicago.” He cleared his throat again. “The jury further recommends that the police proceed at once in the steps necessary to apprehend the murderer, or murderers.”

The coroner stood up, swept the papers off the desk into a black brief case, quickly stepped from the room. The jury followed hurriedly, eager for their free lunch. Crane walked over to Captain Grady and said: “Missed me that time, didn't you?”

Captain Grady snorted, made no reply. The burlier of the two homicide men, however, said, “Listen, smart guy, we're going to keep close to you.”

Crane glanced around again for Frankie French, but he couldn't see him. He spoke fervently to the homicide man. “I hope you do.”

Chapter Five

WILLIAM CRANE didn't feel sleepy any more, but that was probably because he was scared rather than because of the two-hour nap he had just finished. He didn't feel sleepy, but he didn't feel so good, either. He sat on the edge of his bed and brooded about his connection with the girl who had been stolen from the morgue. He wished he had never become involved in the matter—at least not to such an extent that the police, a gang of gunmen, and the sinister Mr. Frankie French were all convinced he had the girl somewhere. In fact, on second thought, he wished he had never become involved in the affair at all. Not at all.

There was a knock at the door. His startled jump brought him halfway across the room, onto his bare feet. “Who's there?” he asked.

“The waiter. Your drinks, sir.”

The waiter was a Greek. He had a tray on which there was a bottle of Dewar's White Label, a bowl of cracked ice, two high glasses and a siphon. He put the tray on a table, deftly caught a quarter, said, “Thank you,” and departed.

Crane poured himself a straight one first. Then he filled the glass halfway with the whiskey, dropped in a chunk of ice, squirted seltzer water until the mixture reached the brim. He drank this slowly, sometimes letting the cold liquid stay in his mouth a minute before he swallowed.

Thirty stories above the street, the room was still uncomfortably warm. There was a steady breeze filled with the distant sounds of roaring motor coaches, of streetcar wheels screaming against steel rails on turns, clattering on steel rails at switches; of automobile horns and, faintly, human voices; but it was not a cool breeze. There was not a cloud in the sky.

Well into his third drink, Crane was debating whether or not to take a cold shower when there was another knock at the door. He was surprised to find he was still jumpy. He shouted, “Come in.”

A dapper man with a waxed black mustache, button-bright eyes and black hair with a white streak over the left temple stood in the doorway. “Hi,” he said. His name was Doc Williams and he worked for the same detective agency as Crane.

“Oh, my God! am I glad to see you?” Crane dragged him into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, shook his hand, pounded his back. “The U. S. Marines to the rescue. Have a drink, marine, have a drink.” He poured whiskey in the other glass, ignored Williams' twice repeated “When.” He handed him the glass. “My God, I am glad to see you.”

“Don't I get any seltzer?” asked Williams.

“Seltzer? Oh my God, yes, seltzer.” He squirted seltzer in the glass. “Say, did I tell you I was glad to see you?”

“I think you mentioned it.” Williams tasted the liquor tentatively. “What's the matter, pal? Some dame after you?” He took a second, longer drink.

Crane was filling his own glass. “I only wish there was.” He didn't add any seltzer, simply filled it to the brim with whiskey. “It's a lot worse than that.” He started to tell Williams about the girl in the morgue.

“I know about her,” said Williams. “She's why me and Tom O'Malley are here. The colonel sent us down to meet the dame's brother.”

“The girl's brother!” Holding his glass in mid-air, Crane stared at Williams. “You know who the girl is … was?”

“If she's this guy's sister we do. Tom's over gettin' him now. Going to bring him up here. He's a society dude from New York. The family's got a pot of dough.” Williams took a long drink. “The name's Courtland, Chauncey Courtland the third.”

Crane whistled. “I know that family. His old lady's got something to do with the opera.”

“Something to do with the opera?” Williams' voice rose to a higher key. “Say! that old dame is the opera. Without her the Metro would be playin' burlesque this very minute.”

Crane scowled. “Well, if they got all these rocks, what's the daughter (what's her name, anyway?) doing in a cheap joint like the Princess Hotel?”

“The dame's name is Kathryn, and I don't know nothin' about her.” Williams took off his hat, scratched the back of his head, replaced the hat. “We'll ask brother about her when he gets here. All I know is that the brother of old Mrs. Courtland—the girl's uncle, that is—is our client. He's been dealing direct with the colonel.” He rubbed the moisture off his glass, let the drops fall from his finger to the green carpet. “And, incidentally, the colonel's plenty sore at you.”