The Lady in the Morgue (14 page)

Crane swung Miss Udoni around and danced towards the end of the floor opposite the entrance, away from the two gunmen. In the center of the floor, in the midst of swaying couples, O'Malley encountered the pair. He planted himself in front of them, spoke to the slender man. They halted, answered him furiously, motioned for him to get out of their way. From the entrance fifty feet away, almost running, came Pedro the Filipino, and the man with the bandaged ear. Pedro looked as though he were going to cry.

Outside the horn had stopped honking.

The slender man attempted to push O'Malley out of his way. O'Malley struck him lightly on the chest with his left hand, then let him have a stiff right to the chin. Whirling in a half turn to the left, the slender man lost his balance, sprawled upon the floor. The boy had the automatic pistol in his hand. He crouched, sidled around his companion's form, spoke as though he was spitting. Crane could hear him say:

“Nobody's going to stop me this time, you son of a bitch.”

The man with the bandaged ear and the Filipino were running now, right behind the boy. Their feet pounded the floor. O'Malley's face was joyful. He shouted, “Good work, boys; you've got him now.”

The boy swung around like a coral snake to face the running feet.

O'Malley leaped, threw his arms around the boy, reached for the pistol. There was a hollow report and the Filipino, still running, his angry, almost weeping eyes fixed on Crane and Miss Udoni, plunged headlong onto the floor, slid twenty feet across its polished surface on his face, bowled over two couples like a well-trained blocking halfback, and came to a stop almost at Crane's feet. He was either dead or unconscious.

Someone by the curtained entrance screamed:

“The police!”

More than a dozen men, some of them in uniform, ran into the room. O'Malley had the boy's pistol, was beating him across the face with it. The slender man was trying to rise from the floor, comically, because his feet couldn't get traction on the wax.

Crane seized Miss Udoni's hand. “A raid!” he said. “How can we get out of here?”

She said, “Through the girls' dressing room. There's a fire escape.”

They ran toward the dressing room, but the attendant with the bandaged ear got in front of them, said, “No, you don't.”

Crane hit him on the bandage with a tremendous roundhouse swing, and he faded away.

Gas burning under a red globe set red shadows flickering in the dressing room. Back of a large, half-opened window Crane could see the fire escape. He said, “Come on.” His hand hurt.

She halted. “I can't go out on the street like this. I'll have to find my dress.”

“My God!” He spied a pile of dresses on a table. “Here!” He scooped up an armful. “One of these will fit you.” He pulled her out the window, down the steel steps into a pitch-black alley. They ran along it until faint light from the street reached them, then halted while she put on one of the dresses, a black one with an imitation gardenia pinned over the left hip.

“This is much too big,” she said.

“It'll have to do until we get to some place where you can change. We've got to get away from here before that bandaged gent tips off the police.” He led her out into the street, still carrying the other dresses. “We'd better get a cab.”

Inside the cab, he said, “Whew! that was a close one.”

She said, “Do you know, you look familiar to me.”

“That's funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” He tried to see her face, but in the darkness of the cab he couldn't make it out. “My name's Crane, Bill Crane. Does that mean anything to you?”

It didn't.

When they reached her hotel—the Alexander, on Wilson Avenue-she tried to say good-by. “My gosh,” he objected, “after all we've been through, don't you think we ought to have a bite to eat?”

“All right, but I'll have to put on one of my own dresses.”

Crane paid the driver, came into the hotel lobby with her. It was dark, and there was only a light over the automatic elevator. “What'll I do?” he asked. “Sit down here?”

“Oh, you might as well come up. I have a dressing room.”

She got her key, and he followed her into the elevator, and they went up to the seventh floor. It was dim in the elevator, and in the corridor. She unlocked the door, switched on a brilliant indirect light and motioned for him to enter. She closed the door and they turned toward each other, curiously. Swiftly the half smile on her lips was erased; her eyes, green-gray, became as large as poker chips. She crossed her arms over her breasts and screamed.

Chapter Ten

“LISTEN,” said William Crane earnestly, “I'm sorry to always have to be tying you up this way, but you do seem to like to scream.” He was sitting in a moderne white-leather chair, his legs thrust out in front of him. He had found some whiskey and was drinking it mixed with cold water, “I think we might have a very beautiful friendship, if you just wouldn't scream. Why don't you try not screaming for a while—just as an experiment?”

She shook her head. Her strange, greenish eyes, over the towel around her mouth, were angry. She was lying on a scarlet-cushioned chaise longue, and her hands and feet were bound with tan silk stockings.

“I am really sorry about the other night,” Crane continued, “but that was the only way I had of dodging the police, short of leaping to my probable death on a roof below Miss Ross' window. You wouldn't have wanted me to do that, would you?”

She nodded, yes.

He grinned. “Listen, I didn't hurt you when I got in bed with you. I didn't even hurt your boy friend. I put him back right where I found him. You can't say I'm not considerate … or neat.” He took a long drink. “You still want to scream?”

She nodded, yes.

He stood up, stretched his arms over his head, yawned. “Pardon me.” He examined the room with interest. “Not a bad place for a taxi dancer.”

Miss Udoni's apartment consisted of a large room, the walls of which were two shades of white, a dressing room and a bathroom. Scarlet curtains hung at the windows of the large room; one chair was covered with white leather, another with red leather, and the combination couch-bed was the color of cherries. A tall silver-and-black lamp on a pencil-thin metal stand threw light up at the white ceiling, so that the reflected rays lit the room indirectly.

There was a checkbook lying on a small table with chromium legs and a black composition top, and William Crane picked it up. It was for the First National Bank of Chicago, and the last stub (number 7) showed a balance of $3,251.68. He whistled.

She watched him move about the room. Her eyes, now darker, more green-blue than gray, were apprehensive. The too-large black dress had slipped down over one rounded shoulder, exposing white skin and a triangle of yellow silk.

In the closet off the dressing room were dresses and coats. He looked at the label in a light-green evening wrap with a summer ermine collar. It was Saks, Fifth Avenue. A black silk dress also had a Saks' label. On a dressing table, among combs and manicure instruments, was a bottle of Guerlain's Shalimar perfume. He stuck his head into the bathroom. A red-rubber shower cap hung from a hook over the tub; back of the door were pink mules, a pink robe-de-nuit. On a stool beside the tub was a large round bottle half filled with black liquid. A white label read: “Armaud's theatrical Hair Tint-Black.” The medicine cabinet was filled with cosmetics, gargles, two toothbrushes, a blue metal container of Dr. Lyon's tooth powder.

Crane went back into the large room and said: “Three grand in the bank isn't bad for a girl who's just trying to earn a living.” He bent over Miss Udoni, said, “Listen, if I was going to rob, rape or murder you I would have done it long ago. My intentions are very honorable, indeed. I simply want to talk with you. Won't you talk to me?”

She nodded her head, yes.

“You won't scream?”

She shook her head, no.

He took off the towel gingerly, ready to shove it back in her mouth. Her face was composed, however, and he stepped back, smiled, said, “There, that really improves your appearance.”

Unsmiling she said: “Aren't you going to untie my hands and feet?”

He took out the clipping from the
Evening American
showing Mrs. Liebman pointing at him and saying: “That Man Killed My Husband.”

“You see, I'm a desperate guy. A hell of a desperate guy. I don't want any funny business.” He felt her tremble as he undid the stockings around her feet, her hands. He looked up at her face. She was laughing.

He sat down on the chaise longue in the love seat made by her bent knees. “Want a drink?” She said, “No. What do you want with me?” He said, “I've got some questions I want to ask you.” She said, “Well …?”

“First, I want to know why you were so interested in Miss Ross at the Princess Hotel?” He arched his back, added, “Say, if you jump like that again you'll have me on the floor.”

The blood had drained from her face, leaving only a raspberry smear on her lips. “You sit in that curved white chair,” she said. “You make me nervous here.” Her eyes were a cloudy aquamarine. “I promise not to scream.”

He found his drink, sank back in the chair. “Well, how about Miss Ross?”

She bit at the narrow, highly polished, flesh-tinted nail on her forefinger. “I was curious to see …” she began. White light reflected from the ceiling came down across her face, made shadowed pools of her eyes, hollowed her cheeks. Suddenly she looked directly at him. “You knew my husband had eloped with her?”

Crane said, “Well, I guessed it. When did this happen?”

“About five months ago … in New York.”

“Your husband was a musician, wasn't he?”

“Yes. He played with Vallee.”

He drained the glass. “Why didn't he stick with Rudy?”

“He wanted to form a band of his own—that is, one in which he would have a part interest. That's why we quarreled in the first place. He gave up two hundred a week with Vallee for nothing a week with his new band.”

“That
is
quite a cut.” He filled his glass a third the way up with whiskey. “Won't you have some?”

She said, “I might as well, since I paid for it.” She found another glass, let Crane pour her an equal amount of whiskey. She took both glasses. “I'll get some water in the bathroom.”

He was uneasy while she was gone, but she came back almost at once. She saw his troubled face and her lips were faintly contemptuous. “I told you I wouldn't scream.”

He accepted the glass. “Thanks.” The liquor was cool and tasted faintly smoky. “That certainly hits the spot.” He put the glass on the black composition table. “Now, where did your husband meet Miss Ross?”

“Somewhere in New York. While he was playing at the Savoy-Plaza, I think. She got him to leave his job with Vallee.”

“Why did she do that?”

“She told him he could make a name for himself with a hot band instead of spending all his life with the long-underwear boys.” She drank the whiskey as though she didn't like it. She drank it in gulps. “Of course, her real reason was to get him for herself.”

Crane was frowning. “The long-underwear boys?”

“The big commercial sweet bands.”

“I guess I get the idea. Anyway, how'd they ever get to Chicago?”

“The new band had a contract in the Kat Klub on Walton Place. They played there for a couple of months, and then the place went broke.” She had nearly finished her drink. “I didn't know they had come to Chicago until I got a letter from him asking me for a divorce so he could marry her. Of course, I couldn't do that.”

Crane said, “Of course not.”

Faint color seeped into her cheeks. “So I came here myself. I got a room next to hers at the Princess Hotel, so I could watch her.”

“Why did you want to watch her?”

“I knew sooner or later she'd double-cross him, and I wanted to be able to tell him about it. I didn't want him to get hurt.”

“You still love him, then?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “Something like that.” Her voice was defiant. “Some women are fools.” She held out the glass. “Another.”

As he filled her glass he asked, “If you'll pardon my getting personal, I'd like to know who that gentleman was I had to remove from your bed that night.” He stopped pouring, held the whiskey bottle over the glass. “Tour brother?”

She sat up angrily. “No!” For an instant Crane thought she was going to throw the whiskey at him, prepared to duck. “That was Sam.”

“Oh! Just old Sam, eh? Good old Sam.”

“My husband.” She leaned back in the chaise longue again. “He was drunk … he got drunk after he found that woman's body, and I had to do something with him.”

“So you took him to bed with you.”

“I couldn't get him to go to his room … he was afraid.”

“Of whom?”

“The police.”

“Why the police?”

“I don't know.” She drank, but her cloudy eyes never left his face. “He didn't tell me.”

“Maybe he didn't want to get mixed up in the suicide because the publicity would hurt him professionally?”

“Maybe.”

With his glass to his mouth, the edge touching his lower teeth, he pondered. “What did he do the night Miss Ross died?” he asked finally.

“I don't know.”

“Well, how did you happen to find him the night I so rudely burst upon you?”

“Oh, I've been keeping my eye on him.”

“Where can I find him?”

She took a long drink of the amber liquid before she answered. Then she spoke in such a soft voice that he was barely able to hear her. “I don't know.”

“You mean you won't tell me?”

“Yes.”