Free The Lady in the Morgue by Jonathan Latimer

any seltzer?” asked Williams.
    â€œSeltzer? Oh my God, yes, seltzer.” He squirted seltzer in the glass. “Say, did I tell you I was glad to see you?”
    â€œI think you mentioned it.” Williams tasted the liquor tentatively. “What’s the matter, pal? Some dame after you?” He took a second, longer drink.
    Crane was filling his own glass. “I only wish there was.” He didn’t add any seltzer, simply filled it to the brim with whiskey. “It’s a lot worse than that.” He started to tell Williams about the girl in the morgue.
    â€œI know about her,” said Williams. “She’s why me and Tom O’Malley are here. The colonel sent us down to meet the dame’s brother.”
    â€œThe girl’s brother!” Holding his glass in mid-air, Crane stared at Williams. “You know who the girl is … was?”
    â€œIf she’s this guy’s sister we do. Tom’s over gettin’ him now. Going to bring him up here. He’s a society dude from New York. The family’s got a pot of dough.” Williams took a long drink. “The name’s Courtland, Chauncey Courtland the third.”
    Crane whistled. “I know that family. His old lady’s got something to do with the opera.”
    â€œSomething to do with the opera?” Williams’ voice rose to a higher key. “Say! that old dame is the opera. Without her the Metro would be playin’ burlesque this very minute.”
    Crane scowled. “Well, if they got all these rocks, what’s the daughter (what’s her name, anyway?) doing in a cheap joint like the Princess Hotel?”
    â€œThe dame’s name is Kathryn, and I don’t know nothin’ about her.” Williams took off his hat, scratched the back of his head, replaced the hat. “We’ll ask brother about her when he gets here. All I know is that the brother of old Mrs. Courtland—the girl’s uncle, that is—is our client. He’s been dealing direct with the colonel.” He rubbed the moisture off his glass, let the drops fall from his finger to the green carpet. “And, incidentally, the colonel’s plenty sore at you.”
    â€œSore at me? The colonel? The colonel’s sore at me? By God! what for?”
    â€œHe thinks you were a sucker to let them steal the girl’s body from the morgue.”
    â€œHe does, does he?” Crane got to his feet, steadied himself by holding to the foot of the bed. “Why didn’t he tell me he wanted the body watched? Who ever heard of a body being stolen from a morgue, anyway? Hey? If he wanted the body watched all he had to do was to say see, so—I mean so, see? I would have climbed right in with that babe, right in that old steel box.”
    â€œThat isn’t all. He thinks you screwed up the Indianapolis case.”
    â€œHe thinks that?” Crane’s tone was anguished. “Why, I stuck round there at great person’l sacri … sacro … risk until everybody got killed off except that nasty old lady … then had her pinched.”
    â€œThat’s a fine way to look after your clients’ interests—let ’em get bumped off.”
    â€œHell,” said Crane; “the old lady was my client.” He released his hold on the bed.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œI am deeply, deeply wounded. Very deeply, indeed.” Crane put his glass on the window sill. “I am going to take a shower.”
    Under the sobering influence of alternately hot and cold water Crane related the story of the body’s removal and the narrow escape he had had in the Princess Hotel.
    â€œWhooee!” exclaimed Doc Williams when Crane came to the account of his flight from the police through the other room. “You climbed right into bed with this floosie?”
    â€œSure. Why not?” Crane was soaping under his arms. “I’m a desperate