The Lady in the Morgue Read online

“We’ll keep him out of it,” Johnson said to the others. “He’s a professional.” He started to pull out the whiskey bottle, overcame the impulse. “Just us three’ll play.”

  “I don’t know,” said Greening. “I …”

  “Aw, come on.” Johnson slid over the rail. “Augie, here, will let us know if anything happens.”

  Crane and Greening followed his thin back across the marble-floored waiting room, past mahogany-colored benches, a sign reading MEN, a drinking fountain, and down a narrow flight of metal stairs. The heavy air became moist as they neared the bottom, and there was a musty odor of decomposition, as in the basement of a deserted house. Johnson pushed a row of electric-light buttons on the cement wall, unlatched and swung open a heavy steel door, motioned them inside.

  Brilliant white light from a long row of bulbs on the ceiling of the room made their eyes blink. Their nostrils sucked in the sweet, sharp, sickeningly antiseptic smell of formaldehyde. Icy air caused their shirts to stick clammily to their flesh. The steel door shut with a muffled thud, and all three of them momentarily experienced a feeling of being trapped.

  “Creepy place, ain’t it?” observed Johnson.

  The plaster walls of the room had been painted oyster white, and there was in front of them a corridor between two long rows of black metal cabinets, something like those in the locker room of a golf club.

  “Usually forty or fifty dead ones down here,” said Johnson. “They hold ’em for a month before they let the county bury them.”

  “That means a guy could lose four or five bucks at this game,” said Crane.

  “It generally balances up pretty close,” said Johnson. “There are more white people killed than niggers, but more people come to claim the white ones, too.”

  The sound of their voices seemed to circle the room, echoing from several places, as though searching for a way to escape.

  “How about it, Greenie?” asked Johnson. “Shall we flip to see who gets what?”

  Greening had to swallow twice before he was able to speak, and then his voice came out falsetto. “Sure,” he said.

  Crane was odd man and he selected women. Greening took white men and that left Johnson with the buck niggers.

  “Let’s begin here,” he said, “and work down this side. That’s the way the numbers run.” He started to pull out the drawer marked with a brass 1 on the upper part of the first cabinet to the right.

  “Wait a minute,” said Crane. “How about Mexicans? Do they count as white or black?”

  “I’m taking money out of my pocket,” said Johnson, tugging on the drawer, “but they count as white.”

  In the drawer, which slid out quite easily on roller bearings, was a middle-aged white man. They could tell he was white, even though his skin was a dirty blue and his face was covered with half-inch stubble. His cheeks were hollow, and his lower lip hung down, showing blackened teeth. He had been blind in one eye.

  “A bum,” Johnson said, closing the drawer. “Probably got hold of some wood alcohol. That’s one for Greenie.”

  Number 2 drawer in the bottom part of the same cabinet was empty, and Johnson hurriedly closed Number 3 when it revealed a man’s bloated face. “Drowning,” he said. “Two up for Greenie.”

  Number 4 was interesting. It was a large white man who had either been stabbed or shot in the left eye. He must have been a sailor because there were tattoo marks all over his chest. Johnson pulled the sheet down so they could see better. Near the neck was a pink-and-blue mermaid, under which was written in black letters, Jeanne; while across the chest, in order, were an American flag, two naked women dancing, a kewpie doll, and a setting sun. But the masterpiece was on the stomach: the battleship Maine being blown up under Morro Castle in Havana harbor. The flames from the explosion were done in vermilion and they soared magnificently up the lower part of the man’s chest, almost scorching the feet of the dancing women. There could be no doubt the work was intended to represent the Maine disaster, because below it was printed: “Remember the Maine.”

  Crane said admiringly: “They ought to stuff him and hang him in the Art Institute.”

  Johnson said, “That makes Greenie three up.”

  After that there was more variety in color. Negro men alternated with white men, and finally Crane recouped most of his losses with a dazzling run of four women: two middle-aged black ones, a very old and very withered white one, and a young one, either Mexican or Italian. Then Johnson won a syndicate with the largest Negro Crane had ever seen; he must have weighed 350 pounds, which Crane thought was unusual for a black man; and then they came to Number 27.

  “I guess this is mine without looking,” said Crane.

  Johnson said, “Miss Alice Ross.”

  Greening pressed forward. “Oh, this is the lady we’re waiting for them to identify.” He had recovered some of his spirit. “I’d like to see her.”

  “Open it up, then,” Johnson said.

  Alice Ross had hair the color of a country road after a long dry spell. It was too pale to be called gold and too rich to be compared with honey. Her eyelids were a delicate violet, and she had that tragic look some women have when they close their eyes. Her lips were gentle, and there was a dark line about her neck where the rope had bruised the skin.

  Johnson jerked the sheet off her body. “Nice, eh?”

  She was slender, not with the stringy slenderness of a boy, but firmly rounded, and her skin was like cellophane which had been tinted the color of a cherry stone clam. It had luster and depth, and its texture was fine.

  Greening touched her shoulder with his finger tips, drew them away. “Cold!” he said. “Cold.” His voice was surprised.

  They stared at her in silence until the morgue attendant came downstairs and called:

  “There’s a guy up at the desk wants to see you, Johnson.”

  “Me?”

  “He said the reporters.”

  “I guess that means you, too, Greenie.” Johnson winked at Crane. “Don’t let me scoop you.” He led the way along the corridor, out the door, Greening following at his heels.

  The attendant was looking at the girl’s body. “I wonder how long a guy would live if he had a wife as swell as that?” He ran a yellow hand over her smooth hip.

  “You’d get used to her after a while,” said Crane.

  “I’d like to try.” The attendant’s sharp yellow face was wistful. “I’d be willing to trade my wife in if I could get a model like this. I suppose it’d take a lot of money to keep her in clothes, though.”

  “Plenty.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Crane said, “I think I’ll go up and see what that fellow wants with the reporters. He didn’t say, did he?”

  The attendant’s face was oblivious. The bright light thinned the wispy gray hair on his head, showed a vivid purple scar across the top. He paid no attention as Crane moved away.

  The stairway, taken alone, was a dark trap through which poured air, heavy and hot like an animal’s breath. Something seemed to move in a doorway back of the stairs, and Crane’s heart went thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. He went up the stairs and into the room marked MEN. Then he had a drink from the fountain and finally walked over to where the two reporters were in conversation with a stocky Italian.

  “I’m willin’ to play ball wid youse guys, if you’ll play ball wid me,” the Italian was saying. “It’s just that the big … the guy I rep’esent don’t want this dame I’m tellin’ you about to know he’s worried about her.” He had on a violet shirt which sweat had turned to purple. “If it’s her down there, O.K. The papers can have the whole story. But if it ain’t her he don’t want no story, because this dame I’m telling you about will find out he’s worried about her. D’ya see?”

  Greening said, “But how are we going to know if it is the right girl? There’s nothing to prevent the man you represent from walking in here, looking at the girl, recognizing her and saying, ‘No, that’s not the right one.’”
r />   “If it’s her he’ll identify her, all right.” The Italian caught sight of Crane, scowled fiercely at him. “Who’s this mug?”

  “He’s all right,” said Johnson. “He’s the Associated Press man.” He gave Greening a warning glance.

  “Well, how about it, then?” asked the Italian, still looking at Crane.

  “I’ve seen you somewhere before,” said Johnson to the Italian.

  “Naw, you haven’t.” Rivulets of perspiration flowed crookedly through the forest of black hair on his arms. “You never seen me before.”

  “All right. I never saw you before.”

  The Italian nodded to Johnson, said, “You got tha idea.” He repeated, “How about it, then?”

  “Sure. Go get the fellow you represent.”

  The Italian went out the wide corridor to the front door. “What’s the idea?” asked Greening. “We can’t protect his boss, can we?”

  “We aren’t going to.” Johnson leaned against the oak rail, rested his elbows on it. “We can’t lose anything by having the guy come in to look at the body. If he identifies it then we got a story. If he doesn’t then we’re no worse off than we were.”

  “He’ll have to give his name to the attendant, anyway,” said Crane. “That’ll give you something to work on.”

  Johnson grinned, showing strong, irregular teeth. “He don’t have to give his right name.”

  The Italian came back. His face was puzzled. “I don’t know whas th’ matta,” he said. “He’s gone. He musta drove around th’ block.” He looked at Johnson. “I think I take a look at her myself.”

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

  “Naw,” said the Italian. “Not me.” He turned to Crane. “Which way you go?”

  Crane led them down the stairs. The big steel door was ajar and a stream of cold air poured out of the storage room. The lights were still on, but the attendant wasn’t there. None of the vaults were open. They halted and Johnson called:

  “Hi, Augie.”

  The words beat back on their eardrums.

  “Where they got her?” asked the Italian.

  “Over there,” said Johnson. He called again: “Augie … Oh, Augie-ee.”

  There was no answer.

  “That’s funny,” said Johnson. “Where the hell could he have gone?” He shouted, “Augie!”

  They paused in front of Vault Number 27. The silence was threaded with the faint, shrill laughter of the insane woman in the Psychopathic Hospital, feverish and excited and mocking.

  “Well, here she is,” said Johnson. He grasped the handle of the vault, swung his shoulder in a half pivot to the right.

  Up at them, from the depth of the steel box, stared a man. He had on a white coat and there was a smear of heavy blood on his yellow forehead. It was Augie, the morgue attendant, and there was no need to touch him to know that he was dead.

  “What the hell!” Johnson stepped back two paces.

  The Italian asked, “Whassa matta? Where’s the dame?”

  Johnson pulled open the bottom vault, but it was empty. The huge Negro was still in the one to the right, and there was an old woman in the one to the left. “She’s gone!” Frantically, he began opening other vaults. “Somebody got her.”

  The Italian exclaimed, “That sonabitch Frankie French!” He turned and ran clumsily down the corridor and up the stairs.

  “Hey!” yelled Johnson. “Wait a minute!”

  The Italian’s footsteps sounded above their heads. He was still running. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get the police,” said Johnson.

  Chapter Two

  SIREN SCREAMING, the squad car detailed to rove in the neighborhood of the morgue arrived first, poured out men with revolvers, sawed-off shotguns. Then came the homicide squad from police headquarters, the official police photographer, two special investigators from the coroner’s office, an assistant state’s attorney, photographers from all the newspapers, and four Tribune reporters. Everyone was occupied in getting in everyone else’s way until Captain Grady, night chief of detectives, arrived in a Lincoln sedan with a uniformed chauffeur.

  “Now, first of all,” he demanded; “who found the body?”

  Crane said he and the two reporters had found it. He explained they had been looking at the woman’s body when the morgue attendant had told them a man wanted to see them, and he related how they had taken the Italian down to view the body, but he didn’t say anything about the game they had been playing.

  “I think I’ve seen that Dago somewhere before,” Johnson added.

  Captain Grady stared at him with pale blue eyes. “We’ll take a look at the body,” he said. He was within two years of the retirement age and his hair was cotton white, but he rated ninety-three in the annual police physical examination. His face was crimson from years of John Jameson’s Irish whiskey and Lake Michigan’s wind, and his cheeks were filigreed with tiny blue veins.

  The policeman guarding the storage room was glad to see them. He said, “’Tis a hell of a place, Captain.”

  “Keep them other reporters and photographers out of here for a while, Officer,” said Captain Grady. “I’ll talk to them in a minute.” He walked over and looked into the open drawer. “It was obliging of the murderer to lay him away like that.”

  The police photographer was packing his bag. “Looks like somebody grabbed his wrists, Captain.” He pointed his tripod at the body.

  There were maroon bruises about both the morgue attendant’s wrists. Bending closer, Crane saw that there was hair between the thumb and forefinger of the left hand. He pointed it out to the Captain.

  “It’s red,” said Johnson. “The murderer must have been red-haired.”

  Captain Grady grunted, plucked an envelope from his inside coat pocket and carefully put the hair in it.

  Crane said, “One of the assailants must have tried to hold his wrists. That’s how the bruises got there.”

  Captain Grady looked at him. “The assailants?”

  “There must have been two. You can’t hold on to somebody’s wrists with both hands and also sock him over the head.”

  “Some sock, too, Captain,” said the police photographer. “Whole top of his skull is bashed in.”

  The captain looked and saw that this was so.

  “The proverbial blunt instrument,” said Johnson.

  “I don’t think they meant to kill him,” Crane said. “He had a nasty scar on his head that might have weakened his skull. They might have been trying to knock him out.”

  “You seem to know a devil of a lot about this business,” said Captain Grady.

  “I noticed the scar earlier in the evening.”

  The officer at the door said, “Here’s the assistant state’s attorney, Captain.”

  “Hello, Burman,” said the Captain. “Made out anything?”

  The assistant state’s attorney was a small, dark, alert man with glasses. “Not a thing,” he said. He was a graduate of the University of Chicago Law School and his family had wanted him to be a rabbi. He was troubled with indigestion.

  The captain repeated what Crane had told him and added, “This fellow seems to be pretty smart. Maybe he can tell us who the girl was.”

  “I don’t know any more about her than you do, Captain,” Crane said. “Not that I would’ve minded knowing her before—”

  “Smart guy, eh?” said Burman. “Maybe you can tell us just how you happen to be here.” His voice sounded as though he wouldn’t believe the explanation, whatever it was.

  William Crane looked at him in quiet surprise, then down at the corpse again. “Sure, I’ll tell you. I like it here because it’s cool.”

  Greening had edged around by the open vault. “He says he’s a private detective.”

  Captain Grady said, “Where’s your permit?” Crane showed it to him. “All right,” said the captain. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t answer a civil question.”

  “I’ll be glad to answer a civil question
.”

  “Well, how do you happen to be here?”

  “I work for Colonel Black in New York. I happened to be in Chicago last night, and I got this wire from him.”

  Crane pulled a Western Union telegram from his coat pocket, unfolded it, handed it to Captain Grady. It read:

  WILLIAM CRANE … SHERMAN HOTEL … CHICAGO … 6:34 P.M. LEARN IDENTITY OF WOMAN SUICIDE PRINCESS HOTEL NOW AT MORGUE.

  BLACK.

  Crane continued, “It seemed to me the best thing was to come to the morgue and wait until somebody showed up and identified her, so I did. That’s all I know about the lady.”

  “And you came right over to the morgue when you got that telegram?” asked the captain.

  “He got over here a little before eight,” said Johnson. “I was here then.”

  “I grabbed a bite to eat first,” explained Crane.

  Burman stroked his cheek with his hand. “How do we know you didn’t get another wire telling you to remove the body to keep it from being identified?” His words tumbled from his mouth. “This second wire could have been to cover you up.” Across his cheek his hand made a sandpaper noise.

  Greening said, “He was down here alone with the attendant for some time while we were talking to the Italian.”

  “You fat son of a bitch,” said Johnson.

  “Sure, I murdered the attendant,” said Crane, “and carried the girl out in my hip pocket.” He slapped his hip. “I got her there now.”

  Burman whirled around and faced the captain. “He could have done it with an accomplice.” His eyes were like horehound cough drops. “They could have murdered this poor fellow here, and the accomplice could have carried away the girl while Crane joined the others upstairs.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing accompliced,” said Crane.

  “He might have,” said the captain, “but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  Burman’s hand clung to his jawbone. “Why not?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t have stuck around like this.”

  “That’s exactly what he would have done to throw suspicion from himself.” The assistant state’s attorney balled one hand, pounded it on the palm of the other. “I’m not saying he did kill this man——”