The Lady in the Morgue (9 page)

“What letter?” asked Crane. “I don't know about any letter.”

Courtland gave him a letter he had been carrying in a manila envelope in his inside coat pocket. The letter was postmarked Chicago, Central Station, July 24, 10:15 P.M. It was addressed in blue ink to Mrs. Chauncey Courtland, 835 Park Avenue, New York City. Crane took out the inside sheet. It was undated and it read:

Dear Mother:

I'm afraid I haven't been a very good daughter to you, but I do want to tell you I am genuinely, truly sorry for the trouble and worry I have given you and Chance. We haven't been a very happy family … perhaps it has been my fault … and I have been a headstrong and foolish girl, certainly.

I am telling you this because I am going into a different, perhaps a better world soon … and this may be the last time you will ever hear from me. I am so sorry, mother.…

Love,

Kit

Doc Williams was frowning. “Who's Chance?” he demanded.

“That's my nickname,” Courtland said.

Crane folded the letter, put it on the bureau. “But you received that more than a week ago,” he said. “Why all the delay in looking for her?”

“Mother.” Courtland's expression was one of disgust tempered with tolerance. “She didn't show it to Uncle Sty or me until a few days ago. She had been consulting her yogi about it first.”

“Her yogi!” exclaimed Williams. “What in hell's a yogi?”

Crane said, “Shut up.” He was standing in front of Courtland. “What did you and your uncle do when she finally did show it to you?”

Courtland was smiling at Williams. “We both had the same idea—that it might possibly mean suicide, but more likely not.” The crow's feet disappeared from the corners of his eyes. “Kit was always very dramatic. But we were both worried—far more than Mother. She took the letter to mean Kit was entering a nunnery, or a new cult, or something.” He offered Crane a cigarette from a leather case, lit one of them himself when Crane refused. “Anyway, we discussed hiring detectives to find Kit. We were actually discussing it yesterday afternoon in Uncle Sty's office when the papers came out with stories of the girl's suicide in Chicago.” He drew deeply on the cigarette, exhaled slowly, letting the gray smoke roll from his lips. “Mother discovered it. She came charging into Uncle Sty's office with the
News
in her hand. ‘Kit's dead,' she said, then fell over backward into one of the big leather chairs.” He filled his lungs with smoke again, let it come out as he talked. “That was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon. Uncle Sty got hold of your Colonel Black who suggested I come out here and try to identify Kit, and said in the meantime he would put a man to work in Chicago. That's about all, except that I got caught in some traffic jammed up by a fire near the mouth of the Holland Tunnel and missed the nine o'clock plane at the airport.”

That was about all. Crane asked a few questions, but developed nothing new. They decided that the best thing was to wait for the studio portrait of Courtland's sister, taken about six months later than the passport photograph, to arrive in the morning, and then take it to the Princess Hotel. Courtland refused Crane's invitation to have dinner with them.

“I have to eat with friends in Winnetka,” he explained. “The Paul Bruces. He handles some of the estate's business here. I'll be around the first thing in the morning, though, as soon as I get hold of the picture.”

“Fine,” said Crane. “I think we'll get somewhere with it.” He went to the door with Courtland, shook his hand. “Better get plenty of sleep; may be a tough day ahead.”

He closed the door and went back to Williams. O'Malley got up from his chair and stood glowering at them. “Now, you bastards,” he said, “where'd you hide the liquor?”

Chapter Six

AFTER THEY finished the two-dollar dinner at the College Inn—actually it came to four dollars each with Martinis and a quart of Niersteiner '29—they moved into a suite of rooms on the twenty ninth floor and ordered a bottle of Martell's brandy. Doc Williams took off his coat and his shoes and said, “Boy, this is the life.” In a way he was responsible for the suite (two Early American bedrooms with twin beds, a very large bathroom and a combination Early American and modern living room) because when O'Malley had suggested such an arrangement he had enthusiastically agreed, pointing out that the price was only five dollars a day more than it would have been if all three of them had taken single rooms; and adding, “—and, anyway, it ain't as if it was just for us. We gotta obligation to old Uncle Stuyvesant. HE wouldn't want HIS detectives to have anything but the best … not a man in HIS position.”

Crane had been alarmed by this plan at first, but by the time they had finished his bottle of Dewar's he was no longer disturbed. He even thought up an additional reason for taking the suite. It had windows on two sides of the hotel, he explained, and that gave you variety. You could look at the City Hall, or you could look at the Ashland Building. Or, if you wanted to drop bottles, you had a choice. You could drop them on the heads of pedestrians on Randolph Street, or you could drop them on the heads of pedestrians on Clark Street.

When the brandy had arrived, had been poured into slender tumblers with ice in them and slightly diluted with White Rock, they settled back in the soft chairs. That is, O'Malley and Williams settled back. Crane had the davenport and he lay down with a pillow under his neck, his feet slung over the back. He put his glass on his chest.

Williams finally broke the silence. He said, “You know, I think there's something funny about young Courtland's attitude. He don't act like a guy who just had his sister kill herself. He don't seem worried, or broken up … or nothin'….”

O'Malley said, “Maybe he didn't like his sister.”

The glass felt cool and wet on Crane's chest, right through his shirt. “That may be part of it, but I think he's pretty upset,” he said. “Did you notice his hands tremble and the way he was smoking one cigarette after the other? His face and his manner were front—just trying to appear tough, unmoved.” He shifted the glass so it would cool another part of his chest. “You can always tell about guys from their hands; they don't think to guard them when they're acting with their faces.”

Beads of sweat on the glasses in the indirect light were like drops of quicksilver.

“Maybe he knows the dame's not his sister,” suggested O'Malley.

Crane asked, “Why would he and his uncle be keeping us on the job, then?”

“Search me.” Williams was putting more brandy in his glass. O'Malley said, “Don't forget me.” Williams gave him the bottle, asked, “Could you tell anything from the passport photo, Bill?”

“Not a thing.” Crane swung his feet down onto the last cushion on the davenport. “Hell! I probably couldn't have told anything if it had been taken only a few weeks ago. People change when they die. Sometimes relatives who've been seeing them every day can't identify them.” He tilted the glass, let some of the cold liquor slide into his mouth. “We'll do better when we get the portrait from Mama.”

“Say!” Williams sat erect, spilled some of the drink on his trouser leg. He rubbed the spot with the palm of his hand. “What did that guy mean by his mother's yogi?”

O'Malley snorted. “What! you haven't heard of the song?” he asked; “… the song about ol' black yogi?”

Crane thought this was funny. He laughed with O'Malley. They laughed even harder at the indignation in Williams' pink face. They laughed until they were wringing wet, until they noticed three men standing inside the room by the hall door. By the hall door, but inside the room!

The men were all dark and scowling. One of them was the Italian. Another of them, in back, was partly in shadow but yellow light washed the third's face. He was not tall, but he was thick. His chest was the shape and the size of a flour barrel and his neck looked like the base of a fire hydrant. He asked the Italian: “Which one's the punk?” He had bushy eyebrows and coarse black hair, like the hair of a horse's tail, grew from a point on his sloping forehead hardly more than an inch above the brows.

Pointing a thick thumb at Crane, the Italian said, “This 's the guy, Chief.”

The thick man shambled over to the davenport and looked down at Crane like a grouchy bear. “Didn't Pete tell ya I wanted t' see ya?” he asked. He slurred his words, as though there was something in his mouth.

Crane didn't want to sit up because he was afraid somebody would misconstrue the motion and shoot him. It was ridiculous, though, having to talk with the man while lying flat on his back. He compromised by shoving his neck against the arm of the davenport, so that his head, at least, was vertical. He replied, “He mentioned it, all right.”

The thick man's voice was menacing. “When I wanta see som'buddy I see 'em.” He bent over Crane. “Come on. We go som'where an' have a talk.”

“This is a nice place to talk,” said Crane.

The thick man, still bending over Crane, said, “I think you come wit' me.” When Crane shook his head the man who had been in the shadow walked over to the davenport. He was a young man, and his face was dark and smooth. He was scowling, but the youthful appearance of his face made him seem like a sulky girl. He had an automatic pistol in his left hand. He said:

“Get on your feet, smart guy, or I'll give it to you.”

There was no expression in his flat, metallic voice.

Crane struggled to a sitting position. O'Malley was already on his feet. He said, “No! No! Sit there.” He walked toward Crane, as if to say something more to him, but when he came abreast of the boy he swung his arm in a quarter circle, stingingly slapped his face. The boy staggered backward, throwing his hands in front of his eyes. O'Malley jerked the pistol away from him, slapped him again across the mouth. “Flash a rod, will you, you punk?” he asked savagely. He wheeled around to face the thick man, who was blinking stupidly at him. “Here,” he said, thrusting the pistol in the thick man's hand; “put this where baby can't reach it.”

The boy was standing in the middle of the green rug now, with his hands at his sides. His face was blue-white, like watered milk, and from the left corner of his mouth ran a trickle of blood. “I'll fog you for that, you son of a bitch,” he said to O'Malley. His brown eyes were hot with hate.

Crane wondered why Pete, the Italian, hadn't taken part in the action. He was standing motionless at the back of the room, an expression of negation on his face, as though he was trying to assure someone that he was in no way responsible for the boy's actions. Simultaneously, Crane saw the reason for this attitude. Doc Williams was holding a Colt .45 in his lap, its mouth pointing at the pit of the Italian's stomach.

O'Malley paid no attention to the boy. He was speaking to the thick man. “If you got some business with Mr. Crane, spill it.” His face, his tone, his manner indicated fury repressed with difficulty. “You ought to know better than to come around here with a gunsel like that. Jerking a heater out as though it was some kind of toy. I'll bet you're damn fool enough to let him play with matches.”

The boy said, “You son of a bitch.”

Gold teeth appeared suddenly in the man's thick mouth. “Jeez!” he exclaimed, “You get mad easy.” He started to hand the boy's pistol back to him, then decided against it. “Tony, you and Pete go out in the hall. I come out right away.” He put the pistol in his coat pocket. “If ya don' hear from me in ten min'ts call fer th' cops.” He was grinning broadly now.

Williams waited until the two had gone out before he put his pistol away. He took a drink of brandy and said, “You came near losin' a couple of your boys just then, Mister Paletta. You really oughta be more careful.”

Surprise and pleasure were mirrored in Paletta's heavy face. “You know me, huh?” He was wearing a black suit of tightly woven wool and cotton, and there was a wrinkle around the back of the coat where the collar pushed against his neck.

O'Malley said, “Well, I don't. I don't even like you.” His blue eyes were pale. “If you got something to say, say it. If you haven't, get out.” He looked slender beside the bulky dark man.

Bushy eyebrows almost concealing his bloodshot pupils, Paletta stared at the Irishman. Then he laughed, appealed to the others, “Goddam, ain't he got the temper?” They looked at him with wooden faces. O'Malley said, “There's the door over that way.”

Paletta addressed Crane. He spoke rapidly, more distinctly. “Listen, I'm sorry Tony pulled the cannon, Mister. The bambino's gotta learn some t'ings yet.” His gold teeth, each time he opened his mouth, reflected the light in quick flashes, like a radio station sending Morse code. “Me, Mike Paletta, don' hurt nobody unless he has to, see?”

Crane asked, “What do you want?” He made his voice unfriendly.

“It's the dame in th' morgue.” The dark face seemed unguarded for an instant. “I wanta find 'er.”

“You think I took her?”

Paletta was rubbing his right ear. “Listen, Mister, I ain't sayin' who took her. I jus' wanta find her.” The hand was moving over the ear in downward, milking strokes. “Listen. You let me have her, an' I let you fix the price. I don' care about th' dough; I got plenty, see?” He bent down toward Crane, thrust out his lower lip. “What about makin' it ten grand, whadusay?”

Crane didn't say anything for a time. Williams had his lips puckered as though he were whistling, but no sound came out. Lighted windows in the Ashland Building to the east made a geometric design on the side of the structure. Neither cool nor hot now, the breeze had died to a whisper.

Finally Crane asked, “What do you want with this girl's body, anyway?”