The Lady in the Morgue

by Jonathan Latimer

  “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.”

  Crane’s teeth chewed on his lower lip. “You may have it, Doc.”

  “May have?” Williams made a flat, horizontal gesture with his free hand. “Hell! I have it.”

  O’Malley started for the shower, paused in the doorway, “Why did you ask Udoni about his wife’s hair?”

  Crane said, “I saw a bottle of black hair dye in her bathroom. She tried to hide it, and I wondered why.” He glared at O’Malley. “For Christ’s sake, take your shower. I’m going to melt in a minute.”

  O’Malley said, “O.K., Bray-mer.”

  Williams put on a clean set of underwear, began slapping Ed Pinaud’s lilac water on his face. “Do you think Miss Ross is really Kathryn Courtland?”

  “It looks like it.” Crane was fingering a newly discovered bruise on his back, just below the shoulder blade. “It certainly looks like it. There’s the similarity in money (where’re you going to find another blonde with five grand to toss around?) and then there’s that stuff about Harlem.”

  “What about Harlem?”

  Crane decided that the sore place on his back was the result of a kick. “Don’t you remember Courtland told us he saw his sister sitting all alone one night at some club in Harlem? Well, she was probably waiting until Udoni finished playing with the band.”

  “But—” Williams’ voice was outraged “—those guys are all niggers.”

  “Sure, but a lot of the good white musicians go down to Harlem after they finish playing and practice with the black bands. They get a chance to make up their own variations in Harlem, while they have to stick to the straight music with the commercial bands.”

  Williams thought for a moment, then said proudly, “You mean Udoni went down to Harlem to blow a lick or two on the horn.”

  “That’s it,” said Crane. He heard the shower stop and stood up. “He wanted to swing it with the jungle boys.”

  Williams said indignantly, “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? What’s the matter, can’t you speak English?”

  “The trouble is,” said O’Malley, appearing in a pair of shorts, “that you two guys ain’t on the same plane.”

  “Oh my God!” Crane started for the shower. “I don’t know how I put up with you two.”

  “Wait a minute.” Williams handed the bottle of lilac to O’Malley, who said, “For the love of Mike! Why don’t you buy some of this stinkwater if you like it so well?” Williams continued, “Then you aren’t going to look for the gangster’s gal any more, now you think it is Miss Courtland?”

  “What? No penthouse party?” demanded O’Malley.

  “Hell, yes.” Crane walked into the shower. “I want to find that babe.” The wet tile felt nice on his feet. “I’m getting tired of having those two mugs, French and Paletta, slap me around.” The water, cool and refreshing as a Tom Collins, sang around his ears.

  It was nearly one o’clock when they reached the Blackstone. They were dressed in fresh linen suits, pressed by the night valet at the Sherman, and each had a red carnation in his buttonhole. They felt fine, even Crane, who had just computed that he had been without sleep for forty hours. The clerk who phoned the Courtland suite told them: “Please go up.”

  Mrs. Courtland had on a black satin evening gown trimmed with lace and festooned with diamonds. She said, “Well It’s about time.” She had on a diamond choker, was regarding them coldly through a gold lorgnette.

  Courtland moved toward them. “We’ve been trying to find you.” He was wearing a white mess jacket, black trousers, patent-leather shoes and a midnight blue cummerbund. “Here’s something for you to look at.” He handed Crane a letter.

  Mrs. Courtland pursed her lips, looked at Crane through the lorgnette. “Now we shall be able to stop this foolish waste of money.”

  The letter had been addressed on a typewriter and was postmarked Pennsylvania Station, N.Y., 9:40 A.M., August 5. It was addressed to Mrs. Evalyn Courtland, 835 Park Avenue, New York City. He took out a folded sheet from the envelope. It read:

  Dearest Mother.

  Today I suddenly realized that my last letter must have sounded dreadfully like suicide to you and the family. Nothing is further from my real intention.…

  The new and perhaps better world I spoke of is merely the world shared by the majority of people … a world where people are united by the necessity of finding food, of making homes, of earning comforts and necessities. I have learned that money, unless it has been earned, is a burden, and I know, really, that my only chance for happiness lies in working for myself and for another.

  I have found that “another,” and that is why I must cut myself off from my selfish past, so as not to be tempted to give up if the going is rough.

  Believe me, Mother, I do not blame you for my old unhappinesses, but money, and if things go well, perhaps … perhaps … perhaps …

  All my love,

  Kathryn.

  Crane fumbled around in his coat pocket, found the first letter from Kathryn. As far as he could tell the writing was the same. So was the cream-colored writing paper. He gave the two letters to Doc Williams, turned to face the family.

  Uncle Stuyvesant, in white flannels and a dark coat, took a deep breath. “Ha, ha, ha,” he said; “it looks as though we were barking up the wrong tree, ha, ha, ha.” His eyes weren’t amused.

  “I don’t understand it at all,” Crane said. “Are you positive this came from Kathryn?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Courtland. “It means your job is over, young man.”

  Crane glanced at Uncle Stuyvesant, who said:

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how any further expense is justified.”

  Bewildered, Crane blinked at them. Finally, he said, “Would you mind if I sent the letters to a handwriting expert in the city? There’s just a chance …”

  “I consider the matter closed,” said Mrs. Courtland, tossing her head.

  “Now, Mother,” said Courtland. “It can’t do any harm.” He turned to Crane. “Will it be expensive?”

  “It won’t cost you anything.” Crane took the letters from Williams. “I simply want to satisfy myself.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Mrs. Courtland. “But I hope you won’t be forcing yourself——”

  “Now, Mother,” said Courtland.

  “Good evening,” said Mrs. Courtland, fixing her lorgnette in order upon O’Malley, Williams, and Crane. “GOOD EVENING!”

  Courtland followed Williams and O’Malley out into the corridor. Crane started after them, then turned back, said, “Mrs. Courtland, this is a very serious business. There have been at least two murders in connection with the search for the girl in the morgue.”

  “Well?”

  “As a private detective I am also an officer of the law.” Crane made his eyebrows frown, his mouth grim. “And as an officer of the law I want to ask you two questions.”

  Mrs. Courtland turned indignantly to Uncle Stuyvesant. “Such impertinence!”

  “I think you had better answer him, dear.”

  Crane said, “The night you arrived here, Mrs. Courtland, an undertaker whom we believe was connected with the case was murdered. He was murdered between midnight and two o’clock.” He took a quick breath, demanded, “Where was your son at that time?” He braced himself for an outburst.

  Surprisingly, she was perfectly calm. “My son met me at the airport and came bac
k to the hotel with me. We talked until after two o’clock.” She still held the lorgnette to her eyes.

  “Is this true, Mr. Courtland?” Crane asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  Mrs. Courtland said, “Stuyvesant doesn’t know. He wasn’t with us.”

  “He wasn’t! Where was he?”

  “Suppose you ask him.”

  “All right. Mr. Courtland, where were you?”

  Uncle Stuyvesant was making a washing motion with his hands. “Why … why, I went out to see a friend from the airport.” His eyes moved from Crane to Mrs. Courtland, back to Crane.

  “Did you see him?” asked Crane.

  “Why, no. No. He wasn’t there.”

  “What time did you get back to the hotel?”

  “A few minutes after two.”

  “Nearer three,” said Mrs. Courtland.

  “And who was this friend?” asked Crane.

  “Yes, who was this friend?” echoed Mrs. Courtland.

  Crane stared at her in surprise. She stared at Uncle Stuyvesant in something like triumph. Uncle Stuyvesant stared at the floor.

  After a time Uncle Stuyvesant said, “His name is Peter Hamilton and he lives at 3800 Sheridan Road.”

  “Yes?” said Mrs. Courtland. Her voice was smooth. “Well, good evening, Mr. Crane.”

  Crane blinked at her, wandered out into the hall. “I’ll be God-damned,” he repeated under his breath. “I’ll be Goddamned.”

  Courtland was standing with the others. “You don’t know how glad I am that sister’s alive,” he said. “I may not have shown it, but I was really worried.” His eyes crinkled at them.

  “You showed it all right,” said Williams.

  Courtland asked Crane, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I guess we’re pretty well washed up.” Crane shrugged his shoulders. “However, I think we’ll go to a certain penthouse party tonight, anyway.”

  “Hot damn!” said O’Malley.

  “How come a party?” asked Courtland.

  Crane told him how they had traced Sue Leonard. “If she knows Verona Vincent is alive,” he went on, “she should know where she is. And if I can find where she is I can turn her over to either French or Paletta and stop them shooting at me. I can’t have them gunning for me the rest of my life.” He suddenly grinned at Courtland. “It’s positively embarrassing.”

  Courtland said, “Yes, I should think it would be.” His teeth were strong and white. “Say! Could I come along? Sue might talk to me as an old friend.”

  “Swell.” Crane adjusted his carnation, stared admiringly at Courtland’s mess jacket. “You’ll give us just the class we need to crash the party.”

  Courtland started for the door to the suite. “I’ll tell Mother,” he called over his shoulder.

  Crane said, “We’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

  As they came out of the elevator Crane said to O’Malley, “We better order a cab.”

  “Now that Uncle Sty ain’t payin’ the bills,” Williams objected, “we better walk.”

  “God will provide,” said Crane. “You order the cab and talk to Courtland while I make a phone call.”

  He bought five dollars’ worth of quarters from the night clerk, and went into one of the telephone booths and closed the door. He got the long-distance operator and asked for Butterfield 8-4040. Fugi, Colonel Black’s Japanese man, answered the phone, said: “Very nice to hear voice again, Mister Bill Crane.” Crane said, “Yeah, Fugi; nice, but expensive. Will you put the colonel on the extension?”

  In a moment the colonel’s voice, lazy and good-natured, came through the receiver. “Hello, Bill.”

  “Hello, Colonel. I thought I better tell you we just got fired.”

  “So I understand. Uncle Stuyvesant wired me to call you off.”

  “It was on account of a letter.…”

  “Yes, from Kathryn.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that letter. I thought I’d give it to Carlson, the handwriting man. It might be a forgery.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. It’s Kathryn’s handwriting, all right.”

  “For the love of Mike!” Crane let the receiver slip from his hand, had to bend his knees to recover it. “How do you know that?”

  “We opened the letter when it arrived Saturday and examined the handwriting before we forwarded it to Chicago.”

  “Then you think the letter’s legitimate?”

  “I know she wrote it. But you might give some thought to why a typewriter was used to address the envelope.”

  “But how about the case? Do you want us to drop it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think there’s one really good reason why we should go on.”

  The colonel’s voice was soft. “You mean, because Miss Ross was murdered?”

  The receiver fell to the end of the cord, banged against the wooden wall of the booth. Crane retrieved the receiver, spoke passionately into the mouthpiece. “Good God! Isn’t there anything you don’t know?”

  Colonel Black chuckled. “Many things, including the identity of Miss Ross. But tell me, what made you conclude she was murdered?”

  “A lot of things—the bathtub full of water, the missing shoes …”

  “Yes, but wasn’t there one thing in particular?”

  Crane’s voice was exasperated. “The bathroom scales.”

  “Exactly.”

  Perspiration ran down Crane’s face, tickled his neck. He was very angry. “What the hell good am I?” he demanded. “What do you need anybody in Chicago for, when you know everything already?”

  “I can hear you quite well,” Colonel Black said. “You needn’t shout.” His voice was good-humored, drawling, “I am very glad you are in Chicago, particularly as it centers the unwelcome attentions of the rival gangsters on you. I like to feel that if anyone is killed in this business it will be you, not me.”

  Crane clung weakly to the coin box.

  “I think it would be advisable to go ahead for a time,” the colonel continued. “We can afford it, fortunately, as I received a five-thousand-dollar retainer from Stuyvesant Courtland. You will find Miss Ross’ body sometime tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Crane, hoarsely. He no longer felt surprise.

  “Fine. I believe that’s about all.… Oh, yes! The police.”

  “Yes. They’re after me.”

  “No. No longer. I had a conversation with the state’s attorney which cleared up several misapprehensions. However, he would still like to have a chat with you. I wish you would try to see him sometime tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  “And Bill. About Shirley Temple. Do you think it gentlemanly to involve a young lady with a stainless reputation in a dubious case of this sort?”

  “I don’t know.…”

  “If you wish to cast glamour and mystery over the case I suggest you use some name such as …” the colonel’s voice grew faint … “Gertrude Stein.” There was a click at his end of the connection.

  Muttering to himself, Crane allowed the operator to persuade him to drop three additional quarters into the coin box. “That son of a bitch,” he kept saying. “That son of a bitch.” He staggered into the lobby, fanning his face with his Panama hat. His skin looked like faded red-flannel underwear. He was still mumbling when he joined Courtland, O’Malley and Williams in a corner of the lobby.

  “Who’s got nothing to do but sit around all day and think?” asked Williams, catching some of Crane’s words.

  “Huh?” Crane was startled. “Oh! That handwriting expert,” he lied, and asked, “Do you know what I’m going to do?” They shook their heads. He said, “I’m going to get so drunk you’ll be able to bottle me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  EVEN BEFORE their elevator halted at the twenty-seventh floor they could hear laughter. It sounded as though the party were already nicely organized. The elevator man said, “You’ll have to walk up one floor to the penthouse, gentlemen.” He
pointed to carpet-covered stairs.

  The door to the penthouse was ajar, so they walked right into the hall and tossed their hats on top of other hats on a table. There were screams and laughter, and men’s and women’s voices coming from a room at the other end of the hall. They were moving in that direction when another door swung open, disclosing a red tile floor and an electric stove, and a man and a woman nearly collided with them. The woman was slender and dark, and she had on a crimson dress cut very low in the back. She jerked her hand free from the man’s, widened her eyes at them, said:

  “Oo-oo! Lookut big handsome mens!”

  She seized Crane’s and O’Malley’s arms, linked her own under them, inquired, “Does handsome mens like Vangie?” Her companion was an elderly man and he stared at them as though he, at least, didn’t like them. He walked down the hall toward the room from which the noise was coming.

  They assured Vangie they liked her. Yes, indeed. They were very fond of her, and later they would duel to see who would win her. But, in the meantime, did she know where they could find a drink?

  Vangie giggled and led them into the penthouse living room. It was a large room with a high white ceiling and walls painted a vivid blue-green. Soft gray carpet covered the floor; ash-blond light filtered from parchment-shaded lamps; the big chairs, the two davenports facing each other in front of the fireplace, were slip-covered in solid colors, reds and greens and blues, but faded, as though they had been left for a long time in the sun. Someone cried, “Look at Vangie with four men!” and a redhead with dimples and a green dress detached herself from a group of men and women and ran toward them. Across from the fireplace French windows opened on to the terrace. A radio was playing a Wayne King waltz and moonlight, like spilled talcum powder, dusted the shoulders of dancers.…

  “This one’s mine,” said the redhead, taking Doc Williams’ arm.

  He smiled at her, gave his mustache a twirl. “You’ve got the grand prize, lady,” he said.

  “That’s Dolly,” said Vangie.

  Crane said, “Dolly, meet Doc.”

  “Oo-oo! I just adore doctors,” cried Dolly, squeezing Williams’ arm with both hands. “You’re so safe with them.”