Free The Lady in the Morgue by Jonathan Latimer Page A

man.”
    â€œI’d like to have been there.” Williams, sitting on the toilet cover, sorrowfully sipped his drink, then brightened. “You’ll catch hell, though, when she gives the police your description.”
    â€œI’ll bet she doesn’t say anything about it.” The soap slipped from his hand, bounced out of the shower cabinet into the bathroom. Williams tossed it back to him. He caught it, said, “No woman likes to admit a man was in bed with her without making any advances.”
    â€œNo advances is what you say,” Williams said.
    â€œMy God!” Crane poked his head out of the cabinet. “You don’t think I’d assault a woman bound hand and foot, do you?”
    â€œCertainly,” said Williams.
    Crane finished with the shower handle turned clear over on COLD. He dried himself with two towels, put on a clean suit of underwear. He told Williams about the inquest and the conversations he had had in the morgue washroom. He pretended to be hurt when Williams thought it was funny everyone believed he had stolen the body.
    â€œFrankie French is a big-time gambler,” Williams finally said. “He’s supposed to own some joints over on the North Side, around Oak Street.”
    Crane asked, “But what would he or that other bunch of mobsters want with the body, particularly if she’s a New York society gal?”
    â€œWhy didn’t you ask Frankie when you were having your little chat?”
    â€œHe was doing all the asking.” Crane shuddered at the memory. “He said he’d be around again, though.” He pulled on his right sock. “I’d just as soon meet a rattlesnake.”
    â€œWe’ll handle him all right.” Williams twisted his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe we can figure some way of partin’ him from that five grand he’s waving around so careless.”
    â€œI’d sooner try to rob the Chase National Bank single-handed.” The telephone rang. Crane fastened a button to hold his trousers up and answered it. “Sure, send them up.” He hung up the receiver, said, “It’s Tom and young Courtland.”
    â€œWe better hide the liquor,” said Williams. “Courtland’s sort of a client.” He carried the loaded tray into the closet, closed the door.
    Crane had a clean broadcloth shirt on when they arrived. He shouted, “Come on in.” Williams was seated primly on the edge of the bed.
    Tom O’Malley came in first. He was a handsome, dissolute Irishman; tall and muscular, with deep-set blue eyes. He said, “Mr. Courtland, this is Mr. Crane.” His voice was deep, formal. He weighed 210 pounds, was six feet three inches in height.
    William Crane said, “Well, for the love of Jesus!” He circled the room until he was between the door and the second man, added, “How are you, Mister A. N. Brown of San Diego? And how is Cousin Edna?”
    They sat around while young Courtland explained. He was a nice-looking man with blue eyes that wrinkled at the corners when he smiled. His features were irregular, but he had nice teeth and a good tan skin. He was saying:
    â€œI grabbed the sleeper plane from New York at midnight last night (had to, because it was the only one I could get after just missing the nine o’clock plane) and landed in Chicago at 3:30. I took a cab right over to the morgue to see if it was sister.
    â€œWhen I got here I found the place in a devil of an uproar. The body had been taken, but I found that out too late to draw back. I certainly didn’t want to drag in the family name, particularly as we weren’t at all sure it really was Kit. So I used the name of a passenger on the sleeper plane, Mr. A. N. Brown, and made up the stuff about Cousin Edna. That seemed the only thing I could do.”
    â€œThat was a good idea,” said O’Malley, “but you’ll be in a jam yourself if