The Lady in the Morgue

by Jonathan Latimer

  “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.”

  Crane asked, “What does he do?”

  “You know. The usual stuff, like playing dead, and barking, and turnin’ some’saults.” The bartender again held the glass to the light. It sparkled like polished crystal. With a sigh he placed it on the shelf in front of the mirror. “He knows one good one, though. You give him a glove or a hanky belonging to somebody, and he’ll pick that person out for you right off. From the smell, I guess.” He reached under the bar for another glass. “It don’t matter whether the person is in the back room or under the bar; Champion’ll find him.”

  Williams was impressed. “Like a bloodhound,” he said.

  From somewhere in the back of the building came a few bars of “The Wabash Blues” played on a saxophone. Loud for a few beats, the music quickly died away.

  “What was that?” asked Crane.

  “One of those musicians,” the bartender said. “A bunch of them hang out here.”

  Crane nibbled on a potato chip. “That reminds me.” He stared at O’Malley. “Wasn’t the Cavern the place they said Sam went to?”

  “You mean that trumpet player?” asked O’Malley.

  “Sam Udoni,” said the bartender. “He used to be with Vallee. He’s back there with the boys now.”

  Crane said, “I’d like to see old Sam.” He finished his drink, slipped from the stool.

  “You can see him, all right,” said the bartender; “but I don’t know as you’ll be able to talk with him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Gin and marijuana. They don’t mix so well.”

  “Hell!” Crane shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know old Sam hit that stuff.”

  The bartender accepted a ten-dollar bill, pondered over the cash register, finally, tentatively, pushed three keys. Black numbers leaped into the glass-windowed top of the register, read: 4.20. Fumbling with silver, he said over his shoulder: “I guess all them musicians hit the smoke.” He gave Crane a five-dollar bill, three quarters and a nickel.

  “Maybe we could go in the back room and see how Sam is getting along before we try to speak to him.” Two of the quarters fell from Crane’s hand to the mahogany counter. “Is there an extra table in the back room?”

  Deftly the bartender scooped up the coins. “Thanks.” They jingled against other silver in his apron pocket. “Sure. There’s plenty of tables.”

  Crane started to leave, halted, said, “Maybe you better bring in a pint of that Irish and some fizzy water.” His reflection in the mirror, although dim, showed a discolored left eye, a cut on the left temple, and another scratch below his left ear, half on the jawbone, half on the neck.

  “Make it a quart,” said O’Malley. “We gotta get ready for that penthouse party.”

  “Okay.” The bartender put both hands on the counter, shouted, “Hey! Ty!”

  Ty came out of the back room just as they started to enter it. He shied at them like a locoed horse, rolled his eyes until the pupils disappeared, staggered around them. He was the waiter and his white coat had rust-colored stains on the front. They ignored him, went on through the door.

  Smoke as thick as fine gray silk sheeted the back room from ceiling to floor, eddied around a peach-colored overhead electric bulb, made indistinct the silent figures of men grouped about a central table. Crane led the way to another table near the door, felt for a chair and sat down. The other two, walking carefully, blindly, joined him. Their eyes were slow in becoming accustomed to the haze. “Whew!” Williams whispered. “Like a fog off the East River.”

  Against their skin, on their lips, the smoke actually had texture, body. It was warm and moist, like human breath. It was sweet and thick, like chloroform; only it was not medicinal.

  At last they managed to see the entire room. Its walls were of cerise brick, darkened in patches by sweat; its ceiling was of rough plaster. There were no windows, but air came in through a chess-board ventilator. Six men were seated around the central table, their heads bowed before a seventh who perched, cross-legged, on top of the table. His head was bald; his face was fat and round and yellow; his arms were folded over his chest. His expression was tranquil. He had no cigarette, but the other six were smoking.

  “What the hell?” whispered O’Malley.

  Crane shook his head, kept his eyes on the men, who smoked in silence, apparently unaware that anyone had entered the room. The round-faced man on the table had his eyes open, but he didn’t seem to be seeing anything through them. The pupils didn’t move when the waiter, Ty, came with their bottle of whiskey, glasses, seltzer water and ice, made a clatter setting them on the table.

  Crane put a finger to his lips. “Sush.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout them guys,” said the waiter, loudly. “Don’t even worry a little bit. They ain’t on the same plane with us.” He filled each of the three glasses nearly half full of whiskey. “They’re bein’ absorbed.”

  Crane’s eyes widened in wonder. “Absorbed?”

  Ty pressed the lever on the siphon bottle, sent liquid over the table top. “’Scuse me.” He wiped the table dry with a napkin. “Yeah, absorbed. See that guy on the table? Well, he’s Bray-mer. He’s doin’ the absorbing.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” said Crane. He really was astonished. “For Christ’s sake!”

  The waiter aimed the seltzer carefully this time, filled all three glasses. “Those other guys,” he stated, “they’re undergods. But they ain’t on the same plane with Bray-mer yet. They gotta keep smokin’ to make it.”

  Accepting his glass, Crane asked, “How do you know so much about them?”

  “Hell! ain’t I been watchin’ ’em for the last month?” He leaned over the table, spoke confidentially, “They’re goin’ to make me a god next week.”

  “Gosh, that’s fine.” Crane’s eyes were wide over the upper rim of his glass. “That’s just fine.” In contrast with the sweet smoke in the room the whiskey was cleanly bitter. He let it roll around in his mouth, then asked, “Which one of those fellows is Sam Udoni?”

  The waiter examined the men. “That’s Sam. The dark guy, right across the table from you. He’s Nar-sin.”

  “Nar-sin?”

  “The lion-god.”

  “Oh!” Crane nodded his head as though everything were clear. “The lion-god.”

  The waiter gave them change for another ten-dollar bill, accepted a dollar and turned to leave. Crane said: “Wait a second.” The waiter swung around. Crane asked: “How long do they keep this up?”

  “They’re just gettin’ under way.” The waiter frowned thoughtfully. “They ain’t even reached the fifth plane yet.”

  “How many do they have to go?”

  “They gotta hit the seventh plane before they can even talk with Bray-mer.” The waiter frowned again. “That’ll take three more rounds of gin, an’ three more cigarettes, not counting the rest periods.”

  “God!” said O’Malley. His voice was awed. “You really gotta get steamed up to
talk with Bray-mer.”

  “Look.” Crane showed the waiter a five-dollar bill. “We want to talk with Sam Udoni. Is there any way we can get him out of here?”

  “I dunno.” The waiter’s face was dubious, but he kept looking at the bill. “I might be able to get him for you.”

  Suddenly the round-faced man on the table spoke. His voice was in the lower human register. He said, “Matsya, extinguish the sacred incense.”

  One of the six men bowed twice, then chanted in a shrill voice: “Lord Brahma orders the sacred incense extinguished.”

  The men stood up, bowed twice in unison, mashed their cigarettes on the table, sat down again.

  O’Malley and Williams watched them with eyes like fried eggs.

  Crane slipped a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, held it in place of the five. The waiter’s eyes glistened. “You go in the little room back of that door,” he said. “I’ll bring him in to you.” Delicately, he took the bill between thumb and forefinger.

  They carried the bottle of whiskey, the charged water and the glasses into the little room. There was a window in the room, looking out into a moon-lit back yard with a wooden fence, and the air was fresh. They felt dizzy for a second, then their heads cleared.

  O’Malley said, “It wouldn’t take much of that stuff to conk you.”

  Williams was pouring himself approximately eight fingers of whiskey. “I don’t like the looks of those guys.” He gulped the liquor. “When I was workin’ with Narcotics in Frisco we knocked over an opium joint, and about six of them Chinamen came after us with knives as big as …”

  Crane said, “These fellows haven’t got any knives.”

  Williams was holding his glass as though somebody were trying to pull it out of his hand. He eyed Crane, asked, “How do you know?”

  O’Malley stuck his head out the window. “If they come at us we can scram out this way,” he said. “I see a gate in the fence.”

  Williams said, “That’s good. We’ll let Buffalo Bill Crane, here, cover the rear with his trusty Remington—” he twirled his pointed mustache with a flourish “—while we ride for help.”

  The waiter appeared at the door. “These are the gentlemen, Mister Udoni,” he said, and shoving a man into the room he backed out, closing the door behind him.