The Lady in the Morgue

by Jonathan Latimer

  “You better be careful with him,” said Crane. “He’s an obstreperous one.”

  Dolly’s eyes rounded. She exclaimed, “Oh! A baby doctor?”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake!” said Crane.

  They moved across the living room, past women drinking cocktails, men drinking highballs, toward a closet which had been converted into a silver-and-black bar. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, with the mingled odors of tobacco, champagne, lemon, perfume, hair slick, real-flower corsages, whiskey, shaving lotion and gin. Crane noticed that the men were all elderly—fifty or over. The bartender wanted to know what they would have.

  The ladies said they’d have champagne cocktails. Courtland, O’Malley and Williams ordered Scotch and soda; Crane ordered a champagne cocktail. The bartender used Haig and Haig from a pinch-bottle for the Scotch and soda, and Crane knew at once that the party was going to be a good one. The champagne was Mumm’s Cordon Rouge, and the bartender poured it into crystal glasses on top of a piece of lemon peel and a lump of sugar partially soaked in bitters.

  Like the noise a manicurist makes with a chamois nail buffer, the shuffle of dancing feet on the terrace floated in to them. Wayne King was playing a tango, using wood-winds and stringed instruments, and the music was subdued, sweet.

  Vangie took hold of Crane’s hand. “Come on, baby, let’s dance.” She shook her shoulders. “I just love to tango.”

  Crane put the empty champagne glass on the bar. “I need one more to give me rhythm.” He accepted another from the bartender, drained it in a breath. “O.K. Let’s go.”

  In the sky hung a waning moon, lemon yellow and shaped like a portion of honeydew melon. The orchestra was playing a fox trot, and the dancers were moving faster. The air was soft and moist and fragrant.

  Crane danced with Vangie for three numbers, learned that she was from the Vanities. She said most of the girls at the party were from the show or from Frankie French’s new night club revue. She didn’t know Sue Leonard.

  O’Malley, leaning against the three-foot stone wall along the edge of the roof, signaled them. “When do I get to dance with this gal?” he demanded. He was carrying two champagne cocktails; gave one to Vangie, the other to Crane.

  Vangie tasted her drink, then set it on the wall. “I’ll be seeing you,” she said to Crane. She danced away with O’Malley.

  Crane drank his drink. He watched until Vangie wasn’t looking and drank hers. He started out to look for Courtland and almost bumped into a woman. “Sorry,” he said, bowing from the waist with continental elegance. “May I offer you a drink, madam?”

  There was a noise of ice tinkling against glass in the living room.

  The woman was smoking a cigarette in a red holder. Diamonds on a bracelet sparkled as she took the holder from her mouth. Her voice was low and harsh. “Why not?” she asked. Her voice sounded as though she didn’t give a damn either way. She walked with him into the living room.

  She didn’t walk, either. She slouched. She was a blonde and her face was coldly beautiful. Her hair was held back from a low forehead by a lacquered gold fish net; there were blue hollows under her high cheekbones; her lips were full and disdainful. She had on a lace gown which clung blackly to high breasts, thin waist, suave hips, and then, gorgeously, turned to Chinese red in a stiffened flounce exactly midway between her head and her painted toenails.

  Crane saw that the diamonds on the bracelet were real. He said, “What’ll you have to drink?”

  “Gin.”

  The bartender said, “Yes, Miss Renshaw.” He filled a water tumbler half full of Gilbey’s gin, handed it to her.

  Crane gaped at the glass. “Don’t you mix it with anything?”

  Her lips smiled scornfully.

  Crane said, “Give me the same.”

  There were sounds of cheering from the terrace. An overhead light had been turned on and in its bright circle Williams and the redheaded girl were doing a Cuban rumba. The girl had a bath towel, was rubbing it around her hind-quarters as she would a shawl, and Williams had another, wound sash-fashion around his waist. His teeth were white under his mustache.

  Crane and Miss Renshaw walked to the corner of the terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. A yacht was passing the end of Belmont Harbor and its lights made lemon stains on the still water. Behind them a small fountain gurgled. He tried the gin. It didn’t taste so bad, but it was a little difficult to speak for a second or two after a sip. He finally managed to say:

  “Silver spray falling on a velvet blotter.”

  Miss Renshaw’s voice was harsh. “What?”

  “Moonlight on the lake.”

  “The moon’s all right, if you like it,” admitted Miss Renshaw. Her voice was incredible. It was like a waitress’ voice in a Greek restaurant. “It don’t make me romantic, though.”

  “No,” Crane said. “It wouldn’t.” He eyed the diamonds.

  Miss Renshaw faced him. “Just whatd’ya mean by that crack?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” said Crane. “Nothing at all.” He drank some more gin. “I was thinking that a full moon is much nicer than one like this. It’s so much bigger, for one thing.”

  Louis Armstrong replaced Wayne King on the radio. It was like jumping from Vienna to Africa. Crane said, “Would you care to dance?”

  “Not now,” said Miss Renshaw negligently.

  “Well, how about a swim?”

  “In the fountain here?”

  “No. In the lake.”

  Miss Renshaw looked at him with interest for the first time. “You got a yacht?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly,” Crane admitted. “But I could probably get one.”

  “I got one,” said Miss Renshaw.

  The music was throbbing, moaning, torrid. Saxophones, an inspired trumpet, the piano made wild improvised flights from the written melody. Louis Armstrong was swinging it.

  “It’s dangerous to swim under a waning moon,” said Crane. “Maybe we better postpone that ride on your yacht.”

  “Who invited you?” asked Miss Renshaw.

  “I need a drink,” said Crane weakly. He was surprised to find his glass had somehow been emptied. “How about you?” He knew when he was licked.

  Miss Renshaw’s glass was empty. Crane suddenly realized what her voice made him think of. She said, “My tonsils is dry, too.” It made him think of the raucous voices invariably possessed by the female stooges of second-flight vaudeville wisecrackers.

  They went back to the bar, secured two more glasses of gin and came out on the porch again. Williams had thrown away the towel and, apparently, his coat, and was dancing Bowery style with Dolly, whose red hair had fallen over her shoulders. There was a circle of people around O’Malley, amazedly watching him produce lighted cigarettes from his pockets, ears, mouth; from other persons’ pockets, ears, mouths. Courtland was standing in the doorway of the living room, talking to a pretty blonde in a gown of floating gray marquisette with a garland of yellow daisies over her breast. He seemed fairly sober.

  There were seductive hollows just above the V formed by Miss Renshaw’s breastbone. They shifted when she moved her neck, sometimes almost disappearing, leaving only smooth flesh, pale in the moonlight. There was an exotic odor of jasmine about her.

  Crane thought he could almost forgive her voice. “Getting any warmth out of that gin?” he asked.

  She looked into his eyes. “You think I’m cold?”

  “Perhaps a trifle reserved …”

  She stared at him reflectively, then took a long drink of the gin.

  He said, “I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “Have you?” She looked at him again, then drank the remainder of her gin. “No, I don’t think so. People don’t forget me.”

  “I can forget anybody,” Crane said. “Anybody.”

  “You won’t forget me again.”

  “Oh yes, I will,” said Crane obstinately.

  She put her glass on the wall and took Crane’s face bet
ween her two palms and kissed him. Her lips were hot. She released him roughly, asked, “You still think you will?” and walked into the living room.

  Crane said, “What the hell?” He stared at her back until she disappeared. “Why, my God!” He gulped the rest of his gin.

  A man came up behind him and tapped his shoulder. “I’d be careful with that lady, young man,” he said. He was about fifty. “She’s the host’s personal guest.”

  “Next time she comes around,” Crane promised, “I’ll scream for the police.”

  People were watching Williams’ girl, Dolly, doing some sort of a buck and wing to the music. She had her skirts pulled above her knees, was moving her feet with unbelievable rapidity. She had on black garters. Crane pushed past the circle, ran into Williams as he stepped into the living room. He asked Williams a question.

  “I’m looking for it, too,” said Williams.

  They wandered down a hall and encountered a woman coming out of one of the bedrooms. She was wearing a dress of pink chiffon. It looked like a nightgown, but you couldn’t see through it, so it wasn’t a nightgown.

  Crane bowed and said, “Pardon, madam.”

  Williams said, “Hi, tutz.”

  She said, “Go right through that bedroom across the hall.” She smiled at them.

  Coming out of the bathroom, Crane and Williams admired the double bed in the bedroom. It had a pale-blue spread and the sheets were silk. Williams fingered them and said, “My God! Look!”

  The sheets weren’t plain white like most sheets but were sprinkled with royal blue flowers. Crane bent close to them, but Williams said, “No, you don’t.”

  “I just want to try the springs,” said Crane.

  “No, you don’t.” Williams tugged at his coat. “We still have work to do. You can sleep tomorrow.”

  Crane allowed himself to be pushed into the hall. Williams asked, “What did the colonel have to say?”

  “What makes you think I talked to him?”

  “You don’t buy five dollars’ worth of quarters to call a handwriting expert in Chicago. Come on, what did he say?”

  “He said, keep on working, the son of a bitch.”

  “Did he have any ideas?”

  “He always has ideas,” said Crane, bitterly.

  “Well, don’t let it worry you,” Williams moved on ahead into the living room.

  “Don’t let what worry me?”

  “That the colonel’s smarter than you.”

  This put Crane in such a fury that Williams was forced to bring him a quart bottle of champagne to calm him. They each drank from the bottle and watched the progress of the party.

  Somebody had turned up the radio until the music sounded as though it were being played by the United States Marine Band. A girl was dancing on the terrace in an orange-colored chemise. Somebody was smashing crockery in the kitchen. Two men were being dissuaded with difficulty from fighting. A baby-faced blonde borrowed a dollar from Crane for cab fare home. A couple were necking on one of the davenports. Three men were bitterly arguing politics on the other. A man in shirt sleeves asked O’Malley if he was having a good time. O’Malley asked him what the hell business it was of his. The man said he was sorry. He said he wouldn’t have asked except that he was giving the party and wanted everybody to have a good time. O’Malley accepted his apology. A baby-faced blonde borrowed a dollar for cab fare home from Williams. Somebody fell over a chair on the terrace. Two girls were wading in the fountain. A gold watch flipped from the pocket of a man trying to Charleston on the terrace, shattered itself on the polished tile. Williams asked the girl in the nightgown which wasn’t a nightgown for her telephone number and she tossed him a handkerchief, and what do you think? The number, Superior 7500, was printed in green thread on one corner, so all you had to do was to keep the handkerchief. A baby-faced blonde borrowed a dollar for cab fare home from O’Malley. The redhead, Dolly, passed out and had to be put to bed.

  Courtland came over just as Crane was finishing the bottle of champagne. His face was excited. “I’ve been talking to Sue,” he began.

  “A nice little tambo, too,” Williams said.

  “You will please be silent,” Crane carefully placed the empty bottle on the gray rug. “My friend, my pal, my old pal Mister Courtland, has a message.”

  “Well, Sue says that Verona Paletta is alive.” Courtland grinned at Crane. “She is positive about it.”

  “That’s a strong statement—a very strong statement,” Crane wheeled around on Williams. “Isn’t that a strong statement?”

  Williams nodded.

  “The question is,” said Crane slowly, “can she prove it?” He shook a finger at Williams. “Proof is ninety points of the law.”

  “You’re thinking of whiskey,” objected Williams. “Ninety proof whiskey.”

  “I know what I’m thinking of.” Crane was indignant. “I’m thinking of Verona Vincent Paletta.” He liked the sound of the name.

  Courtland said. “Well, she’s here at the party.”

  “Verona Vincent Paletta?”

  Courtland nodded.

  “This is interesting.” Crane staggered against the champagne bottle, knocked it over. “Good old Verona here.” He bent over and after a time managed to stand the bottle on the rug. “Are we on a yacht,” he demanded, “that the floor keeps moving so?” He dusted his hands on his white trousers. “Did Sue say which one old Verona was?”

  “She says she doesn’t dare tell us.”

  “So that’s what she says? Very well! If that’s what she shays, that’s what she says. Very well! We’ll carry on, however.”

  Williams asked, “But how’re you going to find her?”

  “That’s not the problem. No, sir. I’ve found her already. The problem is, how’re we going to get her out of here?”

  Courtland asked, “You’ve found her already?”

  Crane said, “Frankly, yes, old pal.” He added, “Have I thanked you for saving my life, old pal?”

  Williams signaled O’Malley.

  “Forget about that life stuff,” said Courtland.

  “No. I do not forget, old pal. Allow me to show my ap’re’cion. Allow me to secure you a drink. I know the bartender person’ly.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Williams. “We gotta do something about this Paletta dame.”

  “Good. I’m glad you realize it. It’s about time, too. Let’s take her home to Paletta.”

  “Suppose she don’t wanta go there,” objected Williams.

  “We’ll give her a choice.” Crane kicked over the champagne bottle again, bent down to pick it up. “She can go back to Paletta, or she can go back to Frankie French, or she can go back to Paletta.”

  “She won’t wanta go back to either,” said Williams.

  Four men in another corner of the living room were singing “I wish I was in Dixie.” Outside it sounded as though someone had fallen in the fountain. The radio was playing “Minnie, the Moocher.”

  “What we going to do, then?” asked Crane, tossing the bottle so that it fell on the davenport, just missing the head of the man necking the girl there.

  “We’ll snatch her,” said O’Malley.

  Bottle in hand, the man came over from the davenport. “Listen,” he said, “you can’t get away with that sort of stuff.” He planted himself in front of Crane. “You almost hit me.”

  “What if I did?” asked Crane.

  O’Malley said, “Yeah, maybe we can do better next time.”

  “My error,” said the man. He took the bottle back to the davenport with him.

  “How we going to get her in a cab?” asked Crane. “She’ll scream.”

  “Knock her over the head,” said Williams.

  “Wait a minute.” Courtland crossed to the mantel over the fire place and picked up a bunch of keys. He thrust them in his pocket, said, “I saw a man put those up there.” He crossed to where the men were arguing about politics, addressed one of the men. “The doorman phoned up and said on
e of the cars parked outside was blocking another. Is yours the Pierce Arrow roadster?”

  “No,” said the man; “mine’s a green Packard convertible.”

  Courtland returned triumphantly. “We now possess a green Packard convertible.”

  “Good work, pal.” Crane turned to O’Malley. “Let’s get the dame.”

  “You’re going to have trouble draggin’ her out of here,” observed Williams.

  “I got an idea,” said Crane. He told them the idea. He concluded by saying to Courtland and O’Malley, “You two grab her when she gets downstairs.”

  Courtland said good-by to Sue Leonard and left with O’Malley, and after a short interval Crane hunted up Miss Renshaw. She had half a glass of gin in her hand. He asked, “Don’t you ever drink anything but gin?”

  Her expression was friendlier this time. “What’s wrong with gin?”

  Crane took the glass from her hand, drank some of the gin. “It does taste pretty good,” he admitted. He drank the rest of it.

  She smiled, said, “You’re drunk.”

  “Me? Me drunk? Madam!”

  “I like people drunk.”

  “I’m drunk. Please consider me drunk.”

  Williams joined them. “I’ve some good news for you, Bill,” he said.

  Crane introduced him to Miss Renshaw.

  Williams continued, “Frankie says he’ll be able to make it, after all.”

  “Frankie French!” Crane’s voice was pleased, surprised. “That’s swell. I haven’t seen him for a long time. When’s he coming?”

  “He said it’d take him ten minutes to get over here.”

  Miss Renshaw’s face was suddenly haggard. Her fingers drew the skin tight around her throat. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “I have to go … I … I have a headache.”

  “Don’t go,” said Crane. “Maybe another drink …”

  “No!” She turned and hurried across the terrace into the living room.

  “That got her,” said Williams.

  They watched until she went out the front door, a black cape with a scarlet lining thrown across her bare shoulders, and then they took a bottle of champagne and a bottle of gin from the bartender, a corkscrew from the kitchen, and followed. The green Packard was double parked half a block down the street, and in the back seat was O’Malley with Miss Renshaw. Williams got in beside Courtland at the wheel, and Crane got in beside Miss Renshaw. He couldn’t see her face.