The Lady in the Morgue (10 page)

“I wanta bury her out at Calvary, out by Evanston.”

“Bury her! You want to pay ten thousand dollars to bury that girl?” Crane was really astounded. “Why?”

Paletta thrust out his lower lip, said sadly, “She's ma wife.”

Bending double, Crane tried to catch his glass before it struck the carpet. He failed, but the glass didn't break, merely spilled liquid in the shape of a pancake stain on the green surface. He handed the glass to Williams, said, “Fill 'er up, Doc, before I faint.” He turned back to Paletta. “How do you know she was your wife?”

The thick man told his story with a curious eagerness. His wife's name was Verona Vincent, and she had been a singer at Colisimo's until he had married her five years ago. That was when she was nineteen. They had lived happily together until a year ago, when his wife had run away with Frankie French, that son of a bitch. He would have had Frankie French knocked off, only he still loved Verona, and if Verona loved Frankie, he wasn't going to spoil her happiness. But then, about five months ago, he learned that Verona had left Frankie, that son of a bitch, and had gone to New York.

He had followed his wife there—found her singing in a Third Avenue “barrel house”—and had given her one last chance to come back to him. Verona had agreed, and he had given her five thousand dollars to buy some new clothes, and then, he asked Crane, “Whad' ya think tha crazy dame done?”

Crane said he didn't have any idea.

“She took it on th' lam … wit' all th' dough.”

This had made him pretty sore. He didn't get mad easily, see? But this had made him pretty sore. He let word get around that he was planning to bump her off, not really intending to kill her, but just to give her a good scare. It must have scared her, too, because he hadn't been able to find her since that time. Last he had heard she was staying in cheap hotels in Chicago with her money all gone and pretty desperate because both he and Frankie French, that son of a bitch, were looking for her.

Crane asked, “What did Frankie French want with her?”

Paletta wasn't sure, but he heard that after she and Frankie had split up a couple of Frankie's best gambling houses had been raided by the police and that Frankie had blamed her for tipping them off. It seemed that the police had had some inside information, anyway.

Crane asked, “What makes you think the dead woman in the Princess Hotel was your wife?” He added, “Especially when you never saw the body?”

Paletta rubbed his ear. “I ain't sure she is, but you gotta admit it looks a lot like it. In the first place, th' papers say th' dame is a swell lookin' blonde, an' I ain't blowin' when I tell ya Verona's th' classiest blonde anywhere.” He glared at Williams and O'Malley as though one of them had denied this, then continued speaking to Crane. “An' besides, why should anybody snatch any other dame from th' morgue like that?”

Crane asked, “Why would anybody take your wife?”

“There's Frankie French, that son …”

Crane said, “I know he hasn't got the body.”

Paletta stuck his right hand out at Crane, palm downward. “Maybe he ain't got her, but I'm overlookin' nuttin', see? He could be pretendin'.” His voice was hoarse. “But there's plenty other guys that'd like to get hold of her, too.”

“But why?”

“Listen. I'm business agent of the Amalgamated Truck Drivers and Helpers Union, see? An' there's goin' t' be an election o' officers in a couple months.” He had both hands in front of him now, palms upward, like a mammy singer. “What chance 'ud I have if word got around I wasn't big enough man t' bury my own wife?” He added darkly: “Tha's exactly the kind of thing that dirty Monahan would use.”

“Is the job of business agent worth so much to you?” Crane asked.

“It's wort' som'pin better than fifty grand a year.”

Doc Williams actually whistled this time.

Crane said, “Now look here. You probably won't believe it, but I didn't take the body from the morgue. But there's a chance that I may find it. If I do, and it's your wife, I'll make some sort of a deal with you.” He was speaking quickly, earnestly. “I have another client who thinks the girl might have been his sister. If it's her we haven't got any deal at all. But the fact is that I haven't got the body.”

Paletta's face turned dark and ugly, his voice rumbled like stones in a barrel. “Listen, buddy, you got the body, or you wouldn't be tryin' t' make a deal.” He clenched his right fist. “You either …”

Someone knocked on the door. “What the hell!” exclaimed Williams. He walked over to the door and opened it. O'Malley kept his eyes on Paletta. A small, pale, black-haired man with gold-rimmed spectacles entered the room. It was Assistant State's Attorney Samuel Burman. One of the men from the homicide squad was with him. Burman's eyes widened when he noticed Paletta.

“Hello, Mike,” he said; “what are you doing here?”

“Hello, Mister Burman.” Paletta's face was friendly, respectful. “Jus' havin' a little talk with my ol' fren, Mister Crane.” He turned to Crane. “I go now. Tomorrow ma'be we make a deal.” He paused at the door. “Good-by, Mister Burman.”

When the door closed Burman demanded suspiciously, “What was Mike Paletta doing here?” His eyes were curiously examining Williams and O'Malley. He had on a white double-breasted linen suit.

Crane reached over to the table by the head of the davenport and took up his glass. He drank with evident relish. “Mike and I are planning to enter vaudeville, only we need a stooge,” he said finally. “How would you like the job?”

“Look here, Crane,” said Burman. He put plenty of fury in his voice. “I've stood about enough from you. I could have had you arrested, but I've been leaning over backwards in your case. I've said again and again, give him a chance. But if you keep up this wise-guy stuff I'll have you tossed in the can so quick your head'll swim.”

“Sure, you've given me a chance,” said Crane. “A chance to hang myself.”

The homicide man's black coat and trousers were untidy, wrinkled. He moved forward a step, said, “Just say the word, Mister Burman, and I'll put …”

Williams interrupted him. “I'd keep out of this, if I were you, flat-foot,” he said. There was something incomparably sinister in the way he was twisting his black mustache.

“Oh, a couple of big city torpedoes,” said the homicide man, mockingly. He didn't move forward any further, though.

“Now, what do you want?” Crane asked Burman.

“I want to know why you took that girl's body and what you did with it?”

“I didn't take her body.”

“I'm getting tired of hearing you say that.”

“I'm getting tired of having to say that.”

There was a small diamond ring on the third finger of Burman's left hand. It glinted when he waved his arm. “I told you I was leaning over backwards in your case, Crane. That's why I'm giving you a chance to tell me your story before I get out a warrant.”

Crane interrupted a drink, spoke with the glass held to his lips. “Get out a warrant? You haven't any evidence for a warrant.”

“Oh, haven't I?” Burman straightened his necktie, brushed imaginary dust from the sleeves of his white linen suit. “Did you know the police found your fingerprints downstairs in the morgue?”

“Why shouldn't they? I told you I was down looking at the girl's body.”

“Yeah, but they found these prints on the door leading from the corpse reception room to the driveway—right on the knob of the door.”

Through the windows the soft, warm wind made a noise like a sleeping person sighing. Ice, melting in the silver container, slipped down a few inches with a tinkling sound.

Crane said, “Well, if you've got the goods on me, why don't you get out a warrant?”

“I thought maybe you'd like to tell us who hired you.” Burman's brown eyes glinted. “We know there's somebody behind you, somebody big.”

Crane sat up straight on the davenport, his glass resting on his knee. “You mean you want me to turn state's evidence?”

“Now we're beginning to understand each other.” Burman was rubbing his hands together in a washing motion. “You see? I've been leaning over backwards in your case, like I told you. I spoke to the state's attorney and he …”

“I'm sleepy,” Crane broke in, speaking to the others. “I'm sleepy, so I'm going to get rid of this guy.” Burman had paused in the middle of his sentence, his mouth an O of surprise. Crane continued, “A police sergeant named O'Connor went around to look at the back of the morgue with me after the body was taken. He and I both handled the door. I'll bet your big friend here knows O'Connor?” The homicide man said in a hostile tone, “Supposin' I do?” Crane said to Burman, “You just trot around and see O'Connor, and that'll clear up all your nasty suspicions.”

After a period of silence Burman came to a decision. “All right, Crane,” he said. “You don't deserve it, but I'll give you a break. I'll go around and see O'Connor.” He opened his double-breasted coat and pulled out a white gold chain with a Phi Beta Kappa key on the end of it. He swung the key in a circle. “Now, in return, don't you think you ought to tell us who the girl was?'

“I don't know who she was.”

“But you must have some idea.” The key hung straight down on the chain now. “You're representing someone, aren't you? These men are also detectives?”

O'Malley said, “Naw, we ain't dicks. We're members of the Purple mob, outa Detroit.” Williams said, “I'm the mascot. I only killed nine guys yet.” Crane said, “I told you I wouldn't tell you the name of my firm's client, if I knew.”

“All right. All right.” The blood drained out of Burman's pointed face, leaving it eggshell yellow. “Remember how smart you sonabitches were when you're all back of the bars.” He put the gold key back in his white vest pocket, buttoned his coat, looked at the homicide man, said, “Come on, let's get out of here.”

With undisguised amusement the three watched him follow the homicide man to the door. Williams got up, put his glass on the table and crossed the room so as to be able to close the door in case they didn't. Halfway into the hall Burman paused.

“Listen, Crane, I'll give you one more chance,” he said. “I'll give you until tomorrow night to tell me your story.” He thrust his pointed face back into the room. “You see? I am leaning over backwards.”

Williams said, “Well, be careful somebody don't give you a shove.” He closed the door gently in Burman's face.

Chapter Seven

PERSPIRATION, DRIPPING from an arm thrown over his eyes, tickled his neck, finally wakened him. Hot sunlight was beating down on his face, on the uncovered top of his body. He opened his eyes and was slightly alarmed, as he always was when he woke in a room strange to him. It seemed to be a nice room, however, and he admired the racing prints on the walls; bright-colored rectangles of spindle-legged horses carrying jockeys over water jumps and along turquoise patches of sward. He looked at his wrist watch. It was a few minutes of nine o'clock. He remembered he was in the Hotel Sherman, in Chicago and he sat up, knocking one of the pillows on the floor. He had only a slight hangover.

He went into the other bedroom to wake up O'Malley and Williams, but they had already gone. He took a long shower, ending it with the cold fully on, and then he got dressed, putting on an unbleached, natural-tan linen suit. He drank some water, and soon he began to feel quite gay and somewhat hungry. He ordered half a grapefruit, soft-boiled eggs, toast and coffee sent up to the room, and while he was waiting he took out the classified telephone directory and called up the larger photographic studios. At the sixth place he located a picture of Verona Vincent and arranged to have a print sent over to him by Western Union messenger.

Breakfast and Doc Williams and O'Malley all arrived at the same time. Williams and O'Malley appeared unpleasantly cheerful, and Crane regarded them suspiciously.

“You guys haven't been drinking this early in the day?” he wanted to know.

They assured him positively, on their honors, that they had not. Did he think they were the sort of characters who would dream of drinking anything before lunch? Did he think that? They both were deeply hurt.

“All right, you mugs,” said Crane disgustedly; “I don't mind your drinking so much as your breaking faith with me.” He attacked the grapefruit. “I have been entrusted with the difficult and dangerous (yes, I may fairly say dangerous) task of solving this terrible mystery. Up with the birds in my devotion to duty, I have already located the portrait of the fair Verona Vincent as the first step in a busy day.” He brandished his spoon at them. “And what do I find as I sit down to this frugal repast? What do I find? I find my trusted allies already in the embraces of John Barleycorn.” He looked at them cunningly, still pointing the spoon, “I suppose one of you even now has some of this deadly, habit-forming drug concealed about his person.”

They looked at him solemnly, protesting their innocence. O'Malley, in all fairness, said, yes, he did think he had a small potion somewhere about him. There was no telling when a man would be overcome with faintness; it was foolish to take a chance. Give him a moment, and he'd try to remember where he carried it. Oh yes, here it was in his hip pocket. He pulled out a half-pint bottle of Seagram's V.O. Rye. You see? He'd hardly remembered he'd had it.

Crane took the bottle from him. “Very interesting,” he said. He lifted it to his lips.

After a time O'Malley said, “Hey! you bastard, leave some for me.” He rescued the bottle and with the aid of Williams emptied it.

While Crane finished his eggs, which had been boiled too long, and drank his coffee, they discussed the case. Doc Williams observed, “It looks to me as though you better work fast. Either the police or one of Paletta's mob is goin' to catch up with you damn soon.”