The Lady in the Morgue (21 page)

There was anguish in Udoni's voice. “It wasn't an affair.” His face worked, as though he were about to cry. “I loved her.”

“And you were going to marry her?” Crane asked, surprised.

“Of course, only my wife wouldn't set me free.”

“Then why did Miss Ross commit suicide?”

Udoni was actually crying. “She was so temperamental. Gay one minute, sad the next. Everything with her was all white or all black.” He shook his head. “She felt my wife would never give me up.” Tears rolled past his thin nose, over his lips. “Several times she threatened to kill herself if we do not get married.”

“And you think she just got one of her despondent spells and killed herself?”

“Yes.” Udoni dragged a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wiped his face, blew his nose. “I'm sorry, gentlemen.”

“That's all right,” said Doc Williams. His eyes were bright. He blew his nose, too.

Crane added a little whiskey to the mixture in his glass. “Let's start at the beginning.”

Udoni practically repeated his wife's story. He had met Miss Ross at the Savoy-Plaza. She was beautiful, intelligent, educated and musical, and he had fallen in love with her.

Crane asked, “But what was the matter with Miss—uh—Mrs. Udoni?”

“We had been married five years. In five years …” Udoni lifted his shoulders “… well, I had become bored with Angela.”

Crane looked at him dubiously. “It hardly seems possible,” he said reminiscently. “But go on.”

“Miss Ross felt there was no future in strictly union work …”

Crane whispered to Williams, “Commercial jobs with the big bands.”

“… and thought I ought to form a band of my own with some ride-men,” Udoni continued, “and pick up some of the dough going to the jungle boys from Harlem.”

Williams' eyes were questioning, but Crane shook his head.

Udoni went on: “I had been thinking that myself, so I got hold of Frankie Thomas for the sax and Clem Packard for the clarinet, and Fats Wolman to handle the drums, and some other boys and we grooved a couple of tunes in New York and caught a wire at a nitery here in Chicago.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Crane held both hands in the air. “You're getting too deep for me. What's grooving a tune?”

“Making a record.”

“What in hell's catching a wire at a nitery?”

“A contract to broadcast from a night club.”

Crane waved a hand. “Proceed.”

“Well, Miss Ross loaned me some money to make the trip to Chicago.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Crane turned to O'Malley. “How much was it Kathryn drew out before she disappeared?”

“Six grand,” said O'Malley.

Crane swung around on Udoni. “But why did you have to borrow from Miss Ross? You had some money of your own, some savings, didn't you?”

“No. I had saved nothing.”

Crane nibbled at his right forefinger, thought for nearly a minute before he said, “Well, go on.”

Miss Ross had come to Chicago with him, Udoni related, and tried several hotels before she went to the Princess Hotel. She wouldn't let him live with her, although he was able to visit her at any time. When the Kat Club closed he had been forced to take his band to the Clark-Erie while looking for another opening. That was about two weeks before Miss Ross had killed herself. Now he had lost the taxi-dance job.

“Now about Miss Ross' friends. Didn't she have any in New York, when she first met you?”

“I didn't meet any. She said she had heard me play when she was at a party at the Savoy (once in a while Rudy would let me take a lick), but when I first noticed her she was alone. She always came to meet me alone.”

Crane's teeth clicked on the glass. “Did you know anything about a letter Miss Ross wrote to her family saying they would never see her again?”

“No.” Udoni shook his head vigorously. “I didn't think she had a family. She told me her parents had died when she was young and that she had no near relatives.” His eyes were wet again. Suddenly he pounded the table, words jerked from his mouth. “It was my wife who killed her. She killed her.”

“The hell!” Crane's hands tightened on the table edge until his nails were white, “How?”

“By spying on her—following her.”

Crane's breath moved through his mouth, whooo. “You mean, that drove Miss Ross to commit suicide?”

“Yes. Every time Alice saw Angela it made her despondent, ashamed of herself.” Udoni twisted the handkerchief in his hands. “She moved from the Wacker Hotel to the Princess to escape her, but my wife followed her there, and when she learned that Angela was working in the taxi-dance hall where I was playing it made her ill.” His lips trembled. “I believe that's why Alice …” His voice died, then came strong again “… because she felt so sorry for Angela.”

“Didn't you worry about Angela working in the dance hall?”

“Angela can take care of herself.”

Crane agreed. “Yes, I guess she can.” He turned his glass so that the ice clinked against the side. “What color is your wife's hair?”

Udoni's eyes opened wide. “Why, black. It used to be blonde, but it's black now.”

“Did your wife know you wanted to marry Alice?”

“Yes. I wrote her, asking for a divorce, and that's how she found out where Alice was living in Chicago.”

“And she came here and watched Miss Ross; first at the Wacker Hotel and then at the Princess?”

“Yes.”

Crane took a drink, rubbed melted ice from the tip of his nose. “You loved Miss Ross, yet you would have let them bury her in potter's field?”

“No! No!” Udoni moved his hands up and down. “I was waiting to see if anyone claimed her. I would have buried her, had a friend claim her if nobody took her.” He turned to Crane. “I am not altogether a scoundrel.”

Crane asked a great many more questions, but he learned little. Udoni reiterated his belief that Miss Ross had no relatives, repeated that she had more than once threatened suicide, expressed surprise that only a few dollars had been found in her room. He said, “She never told me she needed money.” He said he wanted to help them in any way he could to find out who she really was, if not Miss Ross.

He asked about the theft of the body from the morgue, wanted to know if Crane had any idea who had taken it. Crane said he hadn't the faintest idea, asked, “Just as a matter of record, Mr. Udoni, where were you on the morning the body was stolen?”

Udoni said he had played with his orchestra at the Clark-Erie until 4
A.M.
that morning.

“If that's true,” said Crane, “you certainly couldn't have snatched the body.”

“But why would I steal the body?”

“I give up.” Crane smiled at the others, took Udoni's address—the Mozart. “You'll stick around?” he asked.

Udoni promised he would.

As he rose to leave Crane asked Udoni how he happened to be mixed up with the cult in the next room.

“Those are my boys,” said Udoni. “Many musicians have cults, as you call them. It makes the dreams beautiful, instead of sordid, as they ordinarily are from marijuana. I myself rarely smoke, but now it helps me … forget.”

“You mean you get so you really believe in Brahma?” Crane demanded.

Udoni said, “After the second cigarette one believes anything.”

Chapter Sixteen

THE LOBBY of the Hotel Sherman looked like the waiting room of a small-town railway station. Men in shirt sleeves, with loosened ties, sat in the big leather chairs fanning themselves, between puffs of cigar smoke, with magazines, newspapers. A few talked, but most of them simply sat, concentrating on breathing the warm, moist air. It was eighty-three degrees above zero in the lobby, ninety-one in the street. There were circular sweat marks under the men's arms.

O'Malley crossed the lobby to the Western Union counter, collected two telegrams. Williams went to look up his friend Dwyer, the house detective. Crane sank limply in one of the leather chairs. It was exactly 11:41.

Crane had his little finger in a corner of one of the telegrams, was about to slit it when Williams returned. “Dwyer says the cops have beat it,” he announced. “He says we can use our rooms if we want, and he'll tip us off if they come back.”

Crane put the telegrams in his pocket, found a wilted handkerchief and rubbed his forehead. “That's swell. I could use a shower.”

“Yeah,” said O'Malley; “and we can get dolled up for that penthouse party.” He looked critically at Crane. “You could use a shave.”

Crane ran his palm over his cheek. It came away wet. “What do you care?” he asked. “I'm not planning on kissing you.”

Williams snorted, allowed them to enter the elevator ahead of him. “I wish I was in Greenland,” he said.

“Okay,” said Crane. “You take Greenland. I'll take Siberia. But what'll be left for O'Malley?”

“I'll take Miss Udoni,” said O'Malley.

When they entered their suite of rooms they saw it had been gloriously ransacked by the police. The rug had been moved and not replaced, pictures were askew, and the Early American furniture had been bunched in a corner by the east windows. In the bedrooms their luggage had been opened and clothes were strewn on beds and floor. Broken glass and a brown stain on the bathroom floor marked the place where one of the policemen had fumbled a bottle of iodine.

Williams whistled in amazement. “What in hell were they looking for?”

“They probably thought we had Miss Ross' body concealed up here,” said Crane.

O'Malley was examining the living room. “Yeah,” he said disgustedly, “that's why they moved all the pictures. You always hide bodies behind pictures.”

Crane pulled the davenport around in place, sat down and read the first telegram:

O
'
MALLEY
…
HOTEL SHERMAN
…
CHICAGO
.

YOU DIDN'T THINK I SWAM, DID YOU
?

A. N. BROWN
…
SAN DIEGO
…
CALIF
.

Crane grinned, said, “I guess that puts him on the plane, all right.”

The other telegram was from Colonel Black and read:

COURTLAND PLAYED BRIDGE AT HARVARD CLUB WEDNESDAY EVENING UNTIL AFTER MIDNIGHT. ALIBI ABSOLUTELY AIRTIGHT. THURSDAY LEFT CONFERENCE WITH ME AT SEVEN P.M. TO PACK FOR CHICAGO. CAUGHT MIDNIGHT PLANE
.

UNCLE STY LEFT OFFICE 5:30 WEDNESDAY P.M. NO CHECK UNTIL HE WAS AWAKENED AT 1O A.M. THURSDAY BY VALET. SPENT EVENING WITH MRS. COURTLAND AFTER CONFERENCE WITH ME
.

MRS. COURTLAND PLAYED BRIDGE HOME ALL WEDNESDAY EVENING. WITH UNCLE STY THURSDAY EVENING. EXCELLENT GUESS ABOUT COURTLAND IN MARKET, BUT HE SEEMS TO BE MAKING MONEY HAND OVER FIST INSTEAD OF LOSING. NO HORSES, NO WOMEN
.

BLACK
.

They flipped a coin to see who would take the first shower, and Williams won. While he was undressing Crane telephoned American Airways, asked the clerk if Chauncey Courtland had been listed as a passenger on the sleeper plane which left New York at midnight Thursday.

After a pause the clerk said yes, he was.

“And the ticket was collected?”

“Yes. It was collected.”

Crane thanked him and hung up.

“What's the idea?” asked O'Malley.

“Just checking,” said Crane, removing his shirt.

“I can see why you want to know where he was when the body was lifted from the deadhouse,” said O'Malley, “but I'm damned if I see what difference it makes where he was Wednesday night when the dame was knocking herself off.”

“I'm not sure myself.” Crane rubbed his chin. “But whatever I was thinking of seems to be out. Courtland was in New York playing bridge at the time Miss Ross was kicking her heels against that bathroom door, and he was riding in an airplane when somebody was raiding the morgue.”

O'Malley shuddered. “Hangin' gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah,” said Crane; “'to dance to flutes, to dance to lutes, is delicate and rare; but it is not sweet with nimble feet to dance upon the air.'” He pulled his underwear top over his head.

From the shower Williams shouted, “I wonder if the coppers are digging up that graveyard for Miss Ross?”

“They're too dumb to look in the burial book,” Crane yelled back. In a lower tone, to O'Malley he said, “And even if they did, they'd have to go to court to get an order to exhume the body, and that would mean they'd have to wait until tomorrow.”

O'Malley was removing his shoes and socks. He held up a sock. “Look, it's wringin' wet. I bet I've lost ten pounds in the last couple of days.” He put the sock in one of the shoes, added, “I don't like that Udoni.”

“Why?”

“There's something phony about him … the way he acts … like his nerves was all shot … as though he was scared to death.”

A towel wrapped around his middle, Williams padded into the room. His face was damp and contented. “Wouldn't your nerves be shot,” he asked, “if your best gal knocked herself off?” His feet left wet prints on the rug.

“Sure, but I wouldn't be scared,” O'Malley said.

Crane agreed. “He did act as though he was frightened.”

“I bet I know why,” announced Williams after a moment's thought.

They stared at him questioningly.

“That money.” Williams held the towel with one hand, gestured with the other. “I bet he took that dough from Miss Ross and gave it to his wife. You remember she told you he had given her the three grand in her bank account?” Crane nodded and he continued. “Well, he's afraid somebody'll either make him pay it back or toss him in jail for taking it from Miss Ross.”