The Lady in the Morgue (19 page)

“It could've been anybody,” Williams assured him. “Some pal of the undertaker's, or a guy sent by Uncle Sty from New York.”

“O.K.” Crane nodded his head. “That gives us suspect Number One.” He drank half his stein of beer in one breath.

Williams said, “I guess that's about all, too.”

“Yeah,” said O'Malley, examining the telegram. “It doesn't look as though young Courtland would have anything to gain by his sister's death. Her third goes to Smith College.”

Crane said, “Maybe it's a plot on the part of the board of trustees at Smith.” He finished the stein of beer. “Maybe the college needs a new book.”

“Aw,” said Williams, “a collidge wouldn't do that …?”

A waiter picked up Crane's stein, looked at him inquiringly. Crane nodded, then faced O'Malley. “Look,” he said, taking the telegram. “I think I see how young Courtland can be suspect Number Two.”

“How?”

“Well, here's the way the will goes: if Kathryn marries she's to have one third of the estate. If she dies, Smith College is to get the third.” Crane accepted the new stein from the waiter. “In the event of either death or marriage the estate has to be broken up to make that one-third payment.

“Now, let's suppose Courtland has been embezzling a lot of money from the estate. Maybe he's been playing the market, or the races.

“Or women,” said Williams. “My guess is chorus girls.”

“Anyway, if this is so,” Crane continued, “Courtland can't afford to have his sister marry anybody. The marriage would end the trust and disclose his peculations. Neither could he have her dead, for the same reason.”

“Then, what the hell?” asked O'Malley. “What does this prove?”

“Well, suppose he learns his sister is dead, that her body's in the morgue in Chicago? What does he do?”

Williams said, “He hides the body.”

“You see,” said Crane. “It fits. By taking his sister's body before anybody identifies her she becomes a missing person. It would be a year or more before she would be officially declared dead, and in that time Courtland could make good his embezzlements or leave the country.”

O'Malley nodded. “It sounds good—provided the dame in the deadhouse proves to be Kathryn.”

Williams said, “I guess we'll have to get an order from the coroner to exhume the body tomorrow.”

“No, we won't,” Crane said. “We're going to get the body tonight.”

“What!” Williams was genuinely startled. “Rob a grave?”

“Certainly.” Crane saw the waiter coming with the papers, flipped him a quarter. “Do you mean to say you've never cracked a sepulcher?”

Williams said indignantly, no, he hadn't.

The newspapers gave a very satisfactory play to the new development in the Morgue Mystery. The
American
took a proprietary interest in the affair; it was almost as if a member of the staff had murdered the undertaker. It announced with pride that the red hair on Mr. Connell's head matched that found in the morgue by Captain Grady, told in detail of the strange telephone call which enabled its reporters to be first on the scene, irritably denied the assertion of the rival
Daily News
that the signature “Shirley Temple” on the note proved the crime was the work of a deranged mind. The signature was evidence of a macabre sense of humor on the part of the author, the
American
asserted, and added, as a final bit of triumphant proof, that “the voice on the telephone was that of a cultured man.”

“For God's sake!” exclaimed Williams, when Crane read that part. “How did you manage that?”

“Oh, I've picked up a little culture listenin' to youse guys,” said Crane.

Further reading added little to the story. Mr. Connell had been dead about seven hours before the police found him, or, as Crane mentally calculated, about six hours before 6:30
A.M.
Mr. Connell was twenty-nine years old, unmarried, and he had been employed by the Star Mortuary for thirteen months. Before that he had worked as a bouncer in the Venice Club in New York, had got into trouble by beating up a disorderly but influential customer, and had been forced to leave the city. The
Daily Times
, the tabloid newspaper, played this bit of history as a “gangster angle,” suggested that the theft of Miss Ross's body, the murder of August Liebman and the death of Mr. Connell could be laid to a “half-world feud” between the leaders of two Chicago gangs. The story sounded as though the reporter had heard a rumor of the quarrel between Frankie French and Mike Paletta.

Crane crumpled the papers, tossed them under the table. He yawned, closing his eyes and holding the palm of his hand over his mouth. “Do you know it's thirty-five hours since we've been to bed?” he demanded. “Thirty-five hours!” The beer tasted fresh and dry-sweet in his mouth. It left his mouth clean and cool, as though he had taken a breath of Montana air. “And I'm still going.”

“Where?” asked O'Malley.

“To bed,” said Williams.

“Don't be cynical.” Palms against the white tablecloth, Crane slid back his chair. “I'm going to send a couple of telegrams.”

They paid the bill, gave the waiter a dollar over Williams' violent objections and went to the Western Union booth in the lobby. There Crane wrote two telegrams.

One read:

A. N. BROWN, MISSION HILLS, SAN DIEGO, CALIF
.

DID YOU RIDE SLEEPER PLANE NEW YORK CHICAGO THURSDAY? PLEASE ANSWER COLLECT
.

THOMAS O'MALLEY, HOTEL SHERMAN
.

The other read:

COLONEL BLACK, CHRYSLER BUILDING, NEW YORK CITY

PLEASE WIRE O'MALLEY ACTIONS UNCLE STUYVESANT, COURTLAND AND MAMA WEDNESDAY NIGHT, THURSDAY MORNING. HAS COURTLAND BEEN LOSING MONEY WOMEN, HORSES, MARKET? MY PROGRESS FINE. DOCTORS SAY WILL LIVE. LOVE
.

CRANE
.

From the Bismarck Hotel they took a taxi to the Clark-Erie. The building was dark and Williams was unable to locate anyone connected with the dance hall. Crane got out of the cab to help him make inquiries and finally, in the basement, they encountered the janitor of the building. He answered their questions around a chew of tobacco the size of a walnut.

No, he didn't think the musicians would be around this evening. He didn't think they'd be around any evening, in fact. The reason he thought so, he averred, squirting cinnamon-colored juice into an ash can, was that the joint had been closed by the cops. And about time, too.

Yes, he knew Sam, the trumpet player, but he didn't know where he lived. He didn't know where any of them musician fellers lived. They hung out a lot at a saloon called the Cavern, though, over in the two hundred block on Grand Avenue. He thought it wouldn't hurt to try there.

Before going to the Cavern, Crane told the driver to stop at the Liberty Club. The place wasn't open, but there was a lemon-yellow bulb burning in the window with the photographs of the chorus girls.

Crane pressed his nose against the window and examined the eight photographs.

“I'll take that blonde in the left-hand corner,” said O'Malley, who was standing right behind Crane. “I like a big diz.”

“You're old-fashioned,” said Williams, jostling Crane to get a better look. “A big diz has gone out of style.”

“Style or no style—” O'Malley began.

Crane interrupted: “There's our baby—down at the bottom.” He indicated a photograph of a small blonde holding a shawl in such a way that it exposed exactly half her body. She was a trifle plump, but her leg was muscularly slender. Under the photograph was written “Sue Leonard.” “Now we have to find her,” he added.

O'Malley bent over, holding Crane's arm for support. “Not a bad little twitchet.”

Williams was looking at a small sign above the girls. “It says the show don't open for a week.”

“We'll find her, anyway,” Crane assured him.

O'Malley demanded, “What are you going to do? Walk in and ask your old pal, Frankie French?”

“God forbid,” said Crane.

“I got an idea.” Williams faced them. “Mike Fritzel, over at the Chez Paree, keeps a list of girls wanting work in his chorus. I'll give him a jingle an' see if he's got her down.”

They drove to a drugstore and presently Williams came out, beaming. “She lives at 201 East Delaware,” he announced.

Leaving O'Malley in the cab, Crane and Williams took an elevator to Miss Leonard's apartment on the third floor. An elderly woman with carmine lips, bright rouge on her cheeks and white hair answered their knock. She had on a red kimono.

“Miss Leonard's not at home. Is there any message?” she asked, adding, “I'm her mother.” Under Williams' frank stare she altered this, saying, “—or rather … her aunt.” She smirked at them.

Crane said, “She did a great service for a friend of mine today, and I wanted to thank her.” He let his voice emphasize the word “thank.” “I'd like to find her, if I could.”

“Dearie, if it's money, you can leave it here
just
as safe …” She simpered at Crane. “I'm like a
mother
to her.”

“No. My friend wanted me to deliver our thanks in person.” Crane liked gin, but not second hand. He moved back, out of range of the lady's breath. “When will she be home?”

She broke into a trill of laughter. “Not until late, I'm afraid.” Her smirk suggested that girls will be girls. “She's going to a party at a gentleman's penthouse at eleven.”

“But where is she having dinner?”

“I
really
don't know, dearie. She went out with two gentlemen and Miss Thompson, another sweet girl who lives here with me.”

“Miss Sadie Thompson?” asked Crane.

“Oh, now you're joking me,” exclaimed the woman. “This girl is
Anabel
Thompson. She worked with Sue in New York, at the Venice Club.”

Williams looked grimly at the lady. “You're not letting the girls go to a party at that gambling penthouse on Surf Street, are you?” His tone was accusatory.

“Oh! Dear me, no!” She shook her head, her whole body. “She's going to Mr. Lawrence's penthouse, on the Orlando Hotel. I'm sure he's a perfect gentleman.” In a dramatic gesture she held out both arms, then, giggling, clutched at her kimono. She smiled at them coyly. “I'm afraid I'm not properly dressed to receive gentlemen callers.” The skin on her shoulders, her breast, was heavily powdered, like a chicken which has been dusted with flour preparatory to frying.

“That's quite all right,” Crane assured her.

“Sure,” supplemented Williams. “We're no gentlemen.”

This set the lady into a paroxysm of laughter which threatened to let the kimono slip open again. Between gasps she asserted they were the funniest men! They were, they agreed, hastily departing.

O'Malley was asleep in the back seat of the cab. Awakened with difficulty, he rubbed his face, inquired: “Did you find her?”

“No.” Crane climbed in beside him, held the door for Williams with his foot. “But we've been invited to a swell penthouse party.”

“Hot damn!” exulted O'Malley. “Ain't we the society pooks?”

Chapter Fifteen

THEIR FEET scraped on the cement stairs, halted while the basement door swung open, then shuffled along a dim corridor. Another door let them into a brick-walled room with a wooden floor, two brown-stained tables with chairs and a bar with a mirror behind it. A man was feeding a white English bulldog beer on one end of the bar, holding a glass to the animal's mouth. The bar was made of Cuban mahogany, and in front of it was a brass footrail and three heavy stools.

The bartender was polishing a glass. “What'll it be, gentlemen?” he asked. He breathed on the glass, held it to the light, then rubbed off the fog with his cloth.

They ordered three double shots of Bushmills' Irish whiskey.

The bulldog had stopped drinking, was looking at them. The man was saying, “Come on, Champion; finish it up.” He tried to pour the beer into the bulldog's mouth, but the dog snorted, wouldn't drink.

Williams, who was nearest the dog, shuddered. “I hope he ain't as fierce as he looks.” He moved his stool nearer Crane's.

The bartender's jaw champed as he talked, as though he were chewing grass. “That dog won't hurt nobody. He's gentle as a kitten.” He added with three movements of his jaw, “—unless he's drunk.”

“Jesus!” said Williams. “How is he now?”

Cloth in one hand, glass in the other, the bartender gazed reflectively at the bulldog. “He's just a little beered up. That don't mean nothin'. Takes hard liquor to make him ugly.”

The dog swaggered along the bar toward Williams. He had the rolling gait, the bowed legs of a cowpuncher. Peering at Williams through topaz eyes, he sat three feet away, barked once, explosively.

“That means he wants a drink,” the bartender explained.

“My God! Give him one.” Williams' shoulder pressed against Crane's arm. “Give him some beer.”

“No,” said the bartender. “He wants whiskey.”

“But you said hard liquor makes him ugly.”

“It makes him worse to be refused.”

Williams slid his glass of Irish whiskey toward the dog, but before the animal could get to it his master had the glass. He drank three quarters of the liquor, gave the rest to the dog. “We thank you,” he said, pulling the dog back to the end of the bar.

“Quick, pour me another shot,” ordered Williams. “A double one.”

He took the glass from the bartender, drained it without pause for breath. “Wa-ah!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The bartender grinned at him. “Don't worry. That purp ain't really ugly, drunk or sober. It's just a racket. That's the way the guy that owns him cadges drinks—through the dog.” He picked up the glass and towel. “I always let him get away with one drink. That don't hurt nobody, and the dog's got some good tricks to amuse the customers. I figure it helps trade.”