The Lady in the Morgue

by Jonathan Latimer

  Crane fumbled with the knots at his ankles, finally loosened the rope so that he could pull out first one foot, then the other. He went over and searched the men. The man with the rumbling voice had a pistol under his arm; the driver had a police-model revolver in his underarm holster, an automatic on his hip, and French had a palm-sized .25 Colt automatic in his coat pocket.

  “Pretty good haul,” said Courtland. “Now let’s lock them in here.”

  “In just a second.” Crane picked up the wallet, keys and change from French’s desk. He jerked the cradle-type telephone from its wire, tossed it on the floor. He looked out the window, saw that it was a long drop to a cement driveway. “I guess they won’t get out right away.”

  Palms touching the wall, the three men stood in silence.

  “I’ll lock the door,” Crane said. “You clear the way ahead.”

  Crane unfastened the snap lock on the door, pulled the knob until he heard it click. Courtland was waiting for him.

  “All we have to do is walk out,” he said. He examined Crane. “They certainly beat you up, didn’t they?” His tone was anxious. “Do you think you can make it to a doctor?”

  Crane said, “Boy! I never was so glad in my life to see anyone as I was to see you.” The pistols in his coat pockets clinked as he walked past the roulette wheel into the dining room with the murals. “Where is everybody?” He looked wonderingly at Courtland. “And by the way, how in hell did you get free?”

  “The girls and those two fellows have gone home, and one of the mobsters took Charley to a doctor. I think you bunged up Charley’s leg a bit, from the manner in which he was moaning.”

  Crane led the way down the narrow stairs. He said, “I hope they have to amputate it.” He wrapped a handkerchief around his bleeding wrist, pulled a knot tight with his right hand and his teeth. He was considerably relieved to find that his teeth were intact. “But how did you get free? I thought they tied you up.”

  Courtland said, “They did.” He followed Crane into the street. “I’ll tell you as soon as we get away from this place.”

  Crane halted and stared at the stucco front of the club. “I’d like to burn the goddam joint up,” he said, “but I don’t suppose it would be such a smart thing to do.”

  Courtland had secured a taxi. He helped Crane into it, instructed the driver: “Drive around until you find a good doctor.”

  “All right, Mister Houdini,” said Crane, as the cab started. “How did you do it?”

  “Well,” said Courtland, “in that chorus was a girl I used to know, and …”

  “You seem to know ’em all,” said Crane.

  “When I was younger I used to get around a bit.” Courtland gave Crane a Camel, took one himself, lit both cigarettes with a silver lighter. “Anyway, the men tied me in the roulette room, as French ordered them to, and then they went down to the bar with the girls and the two musical fellows who had finished their rehearsal.” Courtland blew a puff of smoke at the ceiling of the cab. “This girl (her name’s Sue) stayed behind, and slipped into the roulette room and asked me what it was all about.

  “I told her that French thought you had taken the body of his girl from the morgue and was trying to make you tell him what you’d done with it. She said, ‘My God! doesn’t he know Verona’s still alive?’”

  Crane straightened up so quickly it hurt his head. “She said that?”

  “Yes. And I said, ‘Presumably not.’”

  “Presumably not,” echoed Crane. “Say, there was no ‘presumably’ about it.”

  “Well, that’s what I said. Then she loosened my ropes so I could free myself in case I saw a chance to escape, and told me there was a gun in a drawer below the cash register. Then she became frightened …”

  “I should think she would,” said Crane.

  “And went downstairs to join the others. In a short while I heard the girls leave, and then, a few minutes later, I heard sounds of a struggle going on in French’s office.”

  “Sounds of a terrific struggle,” corrected Crane.

  “The three men supposed to be watching me dashed through the roulette room and into French’s office, hardly glancing at me as they went by. In a moment one of them came out with Charley. I heard him mention a doctor. The office door was closed, so I slipped off the rope, got the pistol out of the drawer below the cash register, and you know the rest.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” said Crane warmly.

  Courtland was embarrassed. “Anybody would have done what I did.” He blew smoke through his nose. “What happened before I got into the office?”

  Crane related as much of what had taken place as he could remember. When he recounted how he had told Frankie French that he did know where the body was hidden Courtland asked:

  “Do you, really?”

  The taxi driver slowed the cab, said, “Here’s a high-class medico, gents.” They were on the corner of Huron Street and Michigan Boulevard. There were doctors’ offices on the third floor of a white-stone building.

  “I think I do,” said Crane.

  “You were in a nasty position, then,” said Courtland. “Knowing, yet naturally not wanting to tell so as to protect your client’s interests.”

  “Naturally.” Crane got out of the cab, gave the driver a fifty-cent piece. “Keep the change.” He tried to smile at Courtland, but it hurt his lips. “Maybe French was bluffing about that torture.”

  “But what if they actually started to pull off one of your finger nails?” Courtland persisted.

  “Hell!” said Crane. “I would have told ’em!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  DOC WILLIAMS and O’Malley gaped at Crane’s face, circled him wonderingly. They were in the incense-scented lobby of the Congress Hotel, in a corner by the marble stairs leading to the second-floor convention rooms. A bellboy with a blue-and-white uniform was watching them curiously.

  “Just some concussions and lacerations,” said Crane, “as well as a bruise or two. The chances are I will live, though.”

  Williams’ face became serious. “They really cuffed you around. Who did it?”

  “Some people who objected to my collecting a few rare old weapons.” Crane turned to O’Malley. “Perhaps you were not aware, Mr. O’Malley, of my interest in the panoply of war?”

  O’Malley asked, “What are you talkin’ about?”

  Williams said, “Quit foolin’ around. Who did it?”

  “Frankie French.” Crane put his hand in a coat pocket. “But I secured a few trophies.”

  Williams said, “Yeah, I can see ’em all over your face.”

  “No, I mean some rare old weapons.” Crane produced five weapons: the three pistols and the revolver he had taken from French and his men, and the pistol Courtland had found in the cash-register drawer. “Not bad, eh?”

  “Jay-zus!” exclaimed O’Malley. “You musta stuck up the Capone gang.”

  Crane told them how he had acquired the armory and the wounds, and how Courtland had saved him.

  “It was a good thing for you he knew that doll,” stated O’Malley. “And a good thing he had plenty of guts. He’s quite a guy. What’d you do with him?”

  “He went back to have dinner with his family. We’re going to pick him up about midnight.”

  Williams was thinking about Frankie French. “I’ll fix that guy,” he asserted. “He can’t pull that kind of stuff on us.”

  “He can’t, but he did,” said Crane.

  “Why didn’t you slug him after you and Courtland had him covered?” Williams demanded. “You could’ve busted his nose, or knocked out a few teeth or something to pay him back.”

  “I thought of that,” Crane admitted, “but I decided to let him alone. He’ll figure nobody would take a beating like mine without planning some sort of revenge, and he’ll spend most of his time figuring out how he can dodge me. In other words, he’ll decide the grievance is all mine and not his, as it would be if I’d done something to him. So he’ll sit tight f
or awhile.”

  “I guess that’s smart,” agreed Williams, “but I’ll put a tack in that sonabitch as soon as we clean up this case.”

  “That reminds me,” said Crane. “Did you find Miss Agnes Castle’s grave?”

  “Sure,” said O’Malley. “We put lilies all over it.”

  “Forty bucks worth,” supplemented Williams, disapprovingly.

  “Holy mackerel!” Crane stuck out his lower lip, looked down his nose at O’Malley. “You must have been knee deep in them.”

  “Well, Uncle Sty …” O’Malley began.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Crane. “Uncle Sty wouldn’t want HIS detectives stinting on flowers for the girl who might be his niece. Not Uncle Sty.” He gave the police revolver and one of the pistols to Doc Williams, the two other large pistols to O’Malley, and kept the .25 Colt automatic. It had “F.F.” set in silver letters on the handle. He dropped it in his pocket. “Let’s see if the colonel has answered any of our questions.”

  At the Hotel Sherman, in the name of O’Malley, was a telegram from Colonel Black. Williams learned from his friend Dwyer, one of the house detectives, that the police were still watching their rooms, so they didn’t go upstairs. Instead, they went across the street to the Bismarck Hotel’s German grill and ordered potato salad and assorted cold cuts, rye bread and beer. Crane opened the telegram and read it aloud:

  ESSENTIALS COURTLAND TRUST: MRS. COURTLAND LIFE INCOME OF FORTY THOUSAND A YEAR. KATHRYN FIFTEEN HUNDRED A MONTH. UPON MARRIAGE KATHRYN RECEIVES ONE THIRD TRUST AND AT THIRTY COURTLAND RECEIVES ANOTHER THIRD. AT DEATH OF MRS. COURTLAND BEFORE 1950 HER FORTY THOUSAND A YEAR REVERTS TO TRUST. SHOULD COURTLAND DIE WITHOUT CHILDREN ONE THIRD OF THE ESTATE GOES TO PRINCETON UNIVERSITY FOR BOOKS AND LIBRARY IMPROVEMENTS. SHOULD KATHRYN DIE WITHOUT CHILDREN ONE THIRD GOES TO SMITH COLLEGE FOR SIMILAR PURPOSE. SHOULD KATHRYN AND COURTLAND DIE UNCLE STUYVESANT GETS REMAINING THIRD FOR PHILANTHROPIC PURPOSES AS HE SEES FIT LESS ONE MILLION FOR MRS. COURTLAND. IN 195O THE TRUST IS DISSOLVED. MRS. COURTLAND, IF ALIVE, IS TO RECEIVE ONE MILLION AND COURTLAND AND KATHRYN, WITH OR WITHOUT CHILDREN, TO SPLIT REMAINDER. COURTLAND HANDLES AFFAIRS OF ESTATE WHICH AT TIME OF PROBATE WAS ESTIMATED AT THIRTEEN MILLION.

  Crane stopped reading long enough to eat a piece of tongue liberally coated with mustard and finish his stein of cold beer.

  O’Malley, holding a piece of chicken breast on a fork, said, “If I had thirteen million I’d throw one away just to make sure I didn’t have no bad luck.”

  “Yeah,” said Williams scornfully. “You’d throw it, and the other twelve, too, away on some babe.” He delicately wiped beer foam from his mustache.

  “You mean, on some babes,” corrected O’Malley.

  Crane signaled the waiter, ordered more beer, tried a piece of boiled ham and said, “I’ll finish the telegram.” He read:

  YOUNG COURTLAND LEFT NEW YORK THURSDAY EVENING AFTER A CONFERENCE WITH MOTHER, UNCLE AND ME WHICH LASTED UNTIL 7:05. HIS NAME ON PASSENGER LIST OF MIDNIGHT SLEEPER PLANE AS IS THAT OF A. N. BROWN OF SAN DIEGO. WOULD HAVE ARRIVED IN CHICAGO ABOUT 4 A.M.

  UNCLE STUYVESANT PRESUMABLY SPENT NIGHT AT HIS APARTMENT, WHERE HE LIVES ALONE. MANSERVANT, WHO CAME IN FOR BREAKFAST AT 10 A.M. SAYS HE AWAKENED UNCLE FRIDAY MORNING AS USUAL. MRS. COURTLAND PLAYED BRIDGE WITH FRIENDS UNTIL MIDNIGHT, AROSE SATURDAY AT 11 A.M. SHE AND UNCLE STUYVESANT LEFT NEW YORK FOR CHICAGO AT 9 P.M. SATURDAY.

  YES, I DID TELL UNCLE STUYVESANT ABOUT UNDERTAKER. FELT WE OUGHT TO BE ABLE TO SHOW HIM WE ARE MAKING SOME PROGRESS, EVEN IF WE ARE NOT.

  BLACK.

  “I wish he was around to absorb a beating or two,” said Crane bitterly. “Maybe he wouldn’t holler so much about progress then.”

  “Look,” said Williams. “Let’s see if we can figure out who’d gain by having Kathryn out of the way.”

  Crane’s eyes were alert. “Why do you want to do that?”

  “It don’t seem reasonable Uncle Sty would hire an undertaker to hide the girl’s body and then kill the guy later just to protect the family honor.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Crane reluctantly put down a piece of bread, examined the telegram. “Should Kathryn and Courtland die,” he read, “Uncle Stuyvesant gets remaining third for philanthropic purposes as he sees fit, less one million for Mrs. Courtland.”

  “Jeeze!” exclaimed O’Malley. “All the old guy has to do now that Kathryn’s croaked herself is to knock off Chauncey, and he has about three million bucks for himself.”

  “Sure.” Crane cut into a piece of very rare roast beef. “But why would Uncle Sty go to all the trouble to hide the girl’s body?”

  “He don’t want to frighten Courtland, see?” O’Malley waved a piece of chicken in the air. “He’ll let the body be found after Courtland’s dead.”

  “And he could’ve easy killed that undertaker after he and Mrs. Courtland got here on that plane.” Williams tapped the table with a butter knife for emphasis. “He could’ve slipped away from the hotel.”

  Crane said, “That reminds me.” He summoned the waiter, asked him to get the evening newspapers. Then he asked, “But who helped the undertaker remove the body from the morgue? There must have been two persons.”

  “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.