Free The Lady in the Morgue by Jonathan Latimer Page B

the police catch up with you, Mr. Courtland.”
    â€œHell,” said Doc Williams, “if it ain’t his sister the police’ll never see him again, and if it is he can explain he didn’t want to get mixed up in the thing until he was sure.”
    Crane asked, “How are you going to find out if it is his sister or not?”
    â€œThat’s up to you.” The lid dropped over one of Williams’ bright eyes. “Master Mind!”
    Courtland said, “I’m almost sure it isn’t Kathryn, after all. You see, I hopped over to the hotel the woman was staying in to look at her clothes. That captain——”
    â€œGrady,” said Crane.
    â€œYes, Grady. He took me over to see if I could identify anything. We had some trouble getting into the room (I think a sneak thief was supposed to have been inside and to have jumped out the window when we tried the lock) and the police had to break down the door, but I examined all the clothes, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t the kind Kit would wear. They had Marshall Field’s label on them, and she’d been getting things from Best’s and Saks ever since I can remember.” Courtland thought for a time, then shook his head. “Besides, I’m certain Kit wouldn’t have had so few clothes. She wouldn’t travel without a trunk.”
    â€œLook,” said Crane; “we can settle this right away, if you have any pictures of your sister.”
    Courtland produced an ostrich billfold. “I’ve got a passport photo taken of her some time ago.” He pulled out a small photograph and handed it to Crane. “Always carry it with me. Of course, we have some studio portraits of her at home.”
    Crane walked to the window with the photograph. It showed the head of a young girl about nineteen—a rather plump young girl with blond hair and an excited, anticipatory expression about her lips and eyes. There was a white background, and that, with the strong light used by the photographer and the fact that the girl’s face was turned toward the camera, made it impossible to determine what sort of a nose and chin she had. There was a comb in her unbobbed hair.
    Courtland said, “It was taken nearly four years ago, and you know how passport photos are, anyway.…”
    Crane gave the photograph back to him. “I know,” he said. “It doesn’t look much like her. Your sister’s fatter.… I mean fuller in the face, for one thing.”
    â€œKit was fatter, then.” Courtland held the photograph, watched Crane’s face. “She was fat as a little kid, clear up to the time she was twenty. Then she suddenly lost weight. It showed especially on her face. I used to kid her about dieting secretly. D’you think it might be her, if you made an allowance for the difference in weight?”
    â€œIt might be.” Crane sat on the bed beside Williams, leaned backward so that his elbows were resting on the green spread. “It might be, but she’d have had to change a lot. A hell of a lot. I don’t think that photo is going to do us any good.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I bet you could take the photograph of almost any pretty blonde, and she’d look something like the girl in the morgue, especially if you had to allow for a difference in weight and four years in age.”
    O’Malley had been sitting on the straight-backed chair by the writing desk, his blue eyes attentive. He said, “Maybe you could have one of the portraits sent on to Chicago, Mr. Courtland?” He turned around to Crane. “We’d probably do better, Bill, if we showed it to some of the people in her hotel. They saw her alive.”
    â€œOf course.” Courtland’s face brightened. “I’ll wire Mother to send it air mail.” He ran his hand backward through his short blond hair, left it tousled. “You know it’s damnable to