The Lady in the Morgue Page 9

  He put the pictures down when the liquor arrived. “It’s got me,” he said, accepting a glass from Courtland. “I’d probably see a resemblance in a picture of Evangeline Booth.” He added, “Maybe the gal in the morgue was Evangeline Booth.”

  Courtland smiled at him, made crow’s-feet appear at the corners of his blue eyes. “What’s the program?” His jaw was square. He was wearing a white linen suit with a navy shirt and a canary-yellow necktie. He seemed to be enjoying his drink.

  “I’ll put a last line on this letter to my boss,” Crane said, “and then we’ll hike over to the Princess Hotel with the two photographs.”

  In moving from the writing desk Courtland took Crane’s glass. He added more whiskey and a puff of soda from the siphon, then did the same with his glass.

  Crane looked up from his writing in alarm “Hey! I’ve already had a drink this morning … before you came.”

  Courtland said, “So’ve I.”

  It was 2 P.M. when they finished at the Princess Hotel.

  They were both exhausted. It had been hot, unbelievably hot, in the hotel. They had removed their coats and neckties, rolled up their shirt sleeves while they showed the photographs to chambermaids, clerks, bellboys, porters. Outside the sun made the sidewalks griddle hot, set the tar squirming from cracks in the streets. The newspapers carried stories of corn popping in central Illinois fields, of eggs being fried on pavements, of prostrations and deaths. The faces of pedestrians were sullen.

  Three of the interviews had been notable enough to make Crane write notes on the back of an envelope. The first had been with his friend Edgar, the bellboy. Crane asked him if he had thought of anything further to describe Miss Ross’s visitor.

  Edgar admitted he hadn’t and added: “There’s sure been a lot of hell over your being in the room that night. How’d you get out, anyway, jump?”

  “Yeah,” Crane lied. “It’s a wonder I didn’t get my neck broken.” He asked Edgar if he had ever cleaned any shoes for Miss Ross.

  “You bet. She gave me a quarter.”

  “Did she have more than one pair?”

  “Sure.” Edgar was scornful. “She had a bunch of shoes. A couple of pairs of sport shoes, you know, with white on them, and some regular ones.” He looked at Crane alertly. “You’re not so dumb. The cops are trying to figure out why there wasn’t any shoes in the room, too.”

  The night clerk didn’t mind being awakened, especially when Crane handed him a ten-dollar bill. His name was Elmer Glaub and he said, “Next to impossible for a feller t’ sleep, anyhow, when it’s as hot as this.” He was a lean man with an axe-thin face, mottled teeth and a prominent Adam’s apple. He had on a soiled violet bathrobe. He didn’t recognize Crane.

  In response to a question he tried to remember something about Miss Ross’s friend. “He was wearing a black hat,” he recalled.

  “I know that,” said Crane, impatiently; “but can’t you remember anything else?”

  Mr. Glaub remembered the fellow was dark, sort of “slick lookin’,” and that he was well dressed. He’d never heard his name, had never seen him except when he passed through the lobby the night before she killed herself. No, sir, he didn’t know if he had a scar or not.

  Crane asked, “Did he stay all night with Miss Ross?”

  The clerk’s Adam’s apple quivered. He giggled, said, “I don’t suppose he sat out in the hall.”

  Courtland, who had been listening silently, winced.

  Crane asked Mr. Glaub, “Did you ever see Frankie French?”

  “The gambler?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. At least, not to my knowledge.”

  There was a musty odor about the clerk’s bedroom. Crane prepared to go, then asked, “Can you remember if you saw Miss Ross’ friend on the night she killed herself?”

  Mr. Glaub, elbow on knee, chin on palm, thought. Suddenly he jerked erect, exclaimed, “My God!” He leaped off the mussed bed, said excitedly, “You know, I did see that guy come down from her room.” His bathrobe came open, exposing thin, hairy legs. “He come in and then come hurrying out again. I remember thinkin’ they musta had a quarrel.” He stopped in front of Crane. “I don’t know how I come to forget that.”

  “About what time was it you saw him?” Crane demanded.

  “About twelve o’clock.” Mr. Glaub was positive. “I know, because I just come back from havin’ a glass of … a cup of tea.”

  “Did he appear frightened?” Crane asked.

  Mr. Glaub couldn’t remember. “I just know he was in a hurry—you know, walkin’ real fast.”

  Finally, there was the maid on Miss Ross’s floor. Her name was Annie Jackson and her skin was the color of root beer with a dash of cream in it. There were beads of sweat on her fat cheeks.

  “You never saw the man who visited Miss Ross?” Crane asked her.

  She leaned heavily on the handle of a mechanical carpet sweeper. “No, suh; he come after I gone home.”

  “Did you talk much with Miss Ross? I mean, enough to find out what sort of a woman she was?”

  The mulatto’s eyes brightened. “She was awful nice to me, Mister. She gave me a dollar.” She added that Miss Ross had been worried about something.

  “Seemed like she was afraid of someone finding her,” she said. “She didn’t want strangers to see her. She wouldn’t even leave me keep the door to the hall open when I was makin’ up her room.”

  Courtland glanced at Crane, who shrugged his shoulders, and then asked Annie: “Did Miss Ross give you any clothes?”

  “No, suh.” Annie gazed at her broad bosom with a pleased smile. “I reckon she didn’t figure they would fit me.”

  “Did she have a lot of clothes?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well, I never seen them all.” She pulled out a man’s handkerchief from her bosom and wiped her face. “She done kept her closet locked, an’ all I seen was what was out in the room.”

  Crane tried to think of some more questions. He felt that there should be something more to learn about Miss Ross. He asked, “Did she receive any letters?”

  Annie said, “I never seen her git any.”

  “Did she ever have any visitors? In the daytime?”

  “No, suh.”

  “She didn’t have any friends, then? Nobody was interested in her?”

  “No, suh.” Annie began to move the sweeper back and forth, tentatively. “That is, nobody but that woman.”

  “That woman?”

  “That Miss Udoni.” Annie’s tone expressed dislike. “I think she was tryin’ to spy on Miss Ross. One time I caught her peerin’ through the keyhole in the hall.” The mulatto snorted. “She pretended she had dropped somethin’.”

  “The hell!” Crane brightened. “Does this Miss Udoni live in the hotel?”

  “She did, but she moved out. The day after they found poor Miss Ross.”

  “You mean yesterday,” said Crane.

  “Yes, suh.” The mulatto gave the sweeper a jerk. “She didn’t remember me, neither.”

  “Have you any idea where she moved to?”

  “No, suh. But I kin tell you where she works.”

  “Where?”

  “At th’ Clark-Erie ballroom. She’s a hostess there.”

  “A taxi dancer?”

  “I reckon that’s what you calls ’em.” Annie’s face was stern. “Over on the South Side we has a differ’nt name for ’em.”

  Back in the big parlor of the suite at the Hotel Sherman Crane was both pleased and disappointed. Pleased because of the three interviews and disappointed because there had been no opportunity to compare Kathryn Courtland’s handwriting with that of Miss Ross. He had found out that Miss Ross had written nothing, had not even signed her name to the register.

  Courtland had sent for ice and was pouring a drink, Scotch and soda, into a glass. He asked, “What is the final tabulation on showing the photographs, Mr. Detective?”

 
Crane groaned, examined the back of his now completely covered envelope. “Well, here’re the final results. Three of the hotel people, including Edgar, the bellboy, identified Miss Ross as your sister. Five thought she must have been Verona Vincent. Four didn’t know.” He accepted the glass. “We now know positively it either was your sister or it wasn’t, or that it was Verona or it wasn’t.”

  Courtland said, “Or that it wasn’t either.” Crane, as usual, had reached the davenport first, and he stretched out with a groan. Courtland, his drink fixed, sank back in one of the big chairs. The hot wind moved an unruly tuft of blond hair on the rear top of his head. He asked, “What’s the program now?”

  Crane sighed, said, “I’m going to take a nap.”

  Chapter Eight

  “HI, MURDERER.”

  William Crane opened his eyes. Soft gray light filled the room, obscured the racing prints on the walls, made the greens and reds of carpet and furniture the tints of a Whistler pastel. He had been asleep six hours, and his legs were cramped from having been bent to fit the davenport. Williams and O’Malley were looking at him. He groaned.

  “Ain’t you going to eat, murderer?” asked Williams. “It’s eight o’clock.”

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Where do you get that murderer stuff?” he demanded.

  Williams gave him a copy of the Evening American. He glanced at it, exclaimed, “Well, for God’s sake!” On the front page of the second section was a photograph showing Mrs. Gertrude Finnegan Liebman pointing a finger at William Crane. Below, in black type, was: “This Man Killed My Husband!”

  Crane said, “Oh, my God!” Then he said, “The old bitch! Now Grady and his crew will have to drag me in, with the papers after me.” Alarmed, he stared at Williams. “It’s a wonder they aren’t here now.”

  Williams said, “We’ll take care of you, pal. We’ll see you have plenty of cigarettes while you’re in jail.”

  “Listen,” said Crane, earnestly. “I don’t want to go to jail. I want to go dancing tonight. I’m jazz cuckoo, see? I gotta go dancin’ every Satitdy night, see?” He stood up, pretended to tap dance on the carpet.

  O’Malley and Willams exchanged glances. “He’s off the trolley again,” O’Malley observed.

  Crane went into the bathroom and doused his head in cold water. He appeared with a towel in his hands. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we have to move fast. The fate of a nation is in our hands.” He held out one hand to show them how he was holding the nation’s fate. He felt fine after his nap, and he wasn’t really scared about the police.

  “O’Malley, you call Courtland. Tell him to meet us at Hardings on Clark Street, in the Ship’s Cabin on the second floor.” He finished drying his face. “He’s been resting, too, for the dancing tonight. We’re going together.”

  “Oh, you nasty girls,” said O’Malley.

  Doc Williams was troubled. “Are you going on another bender like you did in the Westland case?” he wanted to know.

  O’Malley said, “You should worry. He broke that damned case, didn’t he?”

  Crane was cleaning off his tan-and-white sport shoes with the towel. “I solve ’em, drunk or sober,” he said. “Gentlemen, I give you William Crane. May he always be sober in foreign affairs, but drunk or sober, I give you William Crane.” He flicked the towel at them. “A quotation from Stephen Decatur.”

  They started dinner with martinis at Hardings.

  The room was small and comfortable, and in another booth were some chorus girls from the revue at the Apollo. The room was built to represent the inside of a ship. There were portholes with brass rims, and walls and tables of polished oak, and there were nautical instruments—clocks with mechanical calendars on their faces, huge compasses and a barometer—hung head high. The girls were gay and pretty. A lovely blonde kept glancing at their table. Crane winked at her; she winked at him.

  Crane said, “I don’t know as I’m going to work tonight, after all.”

  O’Malley said, “I thought you were going dancing?”

  Crane finished his martini. He looked regretfully at the blonde. “That’s right. Me and Courtland are going dancing.”

  Courtland’s square face was sober. “I’m afraid I can’t. I had a wire from Mother. She and Uncle Sty are coming in on the midnight plane. I’ll have to meet them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Crane said. “I’d like to have you along.” He beckoned to a waiter, said, “We have come here not to bury Caesar, but to eat him.”

  The waiter said, “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll help us Sunday, won’t you?” Crane asked Courtland.

  Courtland said, “Oh, sure.”

  They ordered steaks broiled on the charcoal fire downstairs. They also ordered hashed brown potatoes in cream, combination salad, French fried onions, and a bottle of Liebfraumilch. Crane said he thought he’d try some Bass ale.

  When the food came O’Malley said, “Don’t you want to know what me and Doc did today, Master Mind?”

  Doc Williams peered at Crane triumphantly over the bowl of combination salad. “You ain’t the only one who gets results,” he added. There were crisp slices of green pepper in the salad.

  Crane was facing them, sitting beside Courtland in the booth. He pretended to choke on his ale, allowed some to spill on his chin. In wiping his face with his napkin he allowed his forefinger to rest vertically against his lips. He said, “Sure, tell me what you did today. I’m all aquiver.” He made horizontal, negative motions with his head, still rubbing his face with the napkin.

  O’Malley evinced a sudden coyness. “Maybe we oughtn’t to tell him, Doc. He’s SO young.”

  “Aw, come on,” said Crane. “Come on. Tell me.”

  “Okay. He asked for it.” Doc Williams cut off a big slice of steak, shoved it in his mouth, spoke between chews. “We shadow the big gangster like you tell us. We stick to him like flypaper. We don’t let him out of sight all day. And what d’ya think we find?”

  Crane said he couldn’t guess.

  O’Malley said, “We find it’s time for supper.”

  “Aw, you spoiled the story.” Williams pretended to be deeply wounded. “I don’t never get a chance to tell things.” As a consolation he filled his glass with the pale, green-gold wine.

  Courtland’s blue eyes were incredulous. He stared at first at Williams, then at O’Malley. He started to say something but didn’t.

  “I know,” said Crane. “You’re disgusted.” He finished his ale. “I don’t blame you. I am disgusted, too. A fine pair of detectives. A hell of a fine pair of detectives.” He turned to Courtland. “And we’re paying them well, too. Twelve dollars a week and carfare.”

  Courtland decided to be amused. “A fabulous sum,” he agreed.

  The blonde with the other chorus girls came over to their table. She had a pert nose and her lips were vermilion. Crane thought she was going to speak to him. She spoke to Courtland. “Hello, Chance.” She had on a pink silk dress.

  Courtland stood up. His voice was cordial. “Why, it’s Topsy! My God! I didn’t recognize you at all. How are you? What in the world are you doing here? Where is Eva?”

  Her laughter was a delighted tinkle. “I’m playing at the Apollo. Eva’s in New York with Billy Rose. Why don’t you drop over after the show some night and have a visit?” She released her hand. “I have to run. Curtain goes up in fifteen minutes.”

  Crane watched her retreating back. The silk dress was tight across her small buttocks. Courtland said, “I used to play around with her girl friend in New York. She’s an awful nice kid.”

  Williams’ black eyes glistened as he enthusiastically agreed. “Yes, sir, she does look like a nice kid. Yes, sir, an awful nice kid.” He would have said more, but O’Malley said, “Shut up.”

  Crane ordered a round of whiskey and soda from the waiter.

  Courtland looked at one of the clocks on the wall. It read 8:27. He asked, “How long does it take to reach the airport?”

  “About three quart
ers of an hour,” Crane replied.

  “Then I have until around eleven. Isn’t there something we could do in the meantime?”

  Crane said, “We could go to a movie.”

  “No. I meant some work.”

  “Oh!” Crane regarded him blankly. “Work? Oh yes, to be sure. Work.” He pondered for a second. “No. I prefer a movie.”

  Williams looked at him with disapproval. “Listen. You better get busy. If the colonel hears …”

  O’Malley interrupted. “We’re going to work, anyway. I think we can get cleaned up on this—” he caught Crane’s warning glance “—on this gangster tonight. I mean, we can shadow him some more,” he finished lamely.

  “Yeah,” Williams confided. “We have to run up some carfare. That’s how we make our dough. The streetcar company gives us a commission.”

  The waiter came with the drinks. Crane helped him distribute them, then said, “One of you two mugs is coming with me to the taxi-dance joint. I think I’m going to need an assistant.”

  He explained how he and Courtland learned of Miss Udoni from the colored chambermaid at the hotel.

  O’Malley shook his big head. “You don’t want anybody to go with you. That’d be foolish. Two persons would make them suspicious. They’d think it was the cops, and everybody’d close up like clams.”

  “No, I thought about that.” Crane took a long, reflective drink of whiskey. “They won’t think we’re cops if we get drunk enough, not if we get blind drunk.” He waved an arm at Courtland. “That just goes to show you nothing is wasted, not if you’re wise. You and I have been drinking all day. If we were to go to bed it’d all be wasted. Yes, sir, every drop. Every sweet little drop.” He sampled his own drink to show what he meant by a sweet little drop and continued, “But I’m wise. You think I drink just for amusement? Or because I’m scared of Frankie French, that son of a bitch? No. A thousand times no. I have a purpose. I waste nothing. I build up a foundation so I can get drunk and go to the Clark-Erie dancin’ establishment without having people suspect I, he, I am a cop.” He blinked at them. “The fact is, I am not a cop.”