Free Corpses in the Cellar by Brad Latham Page A

Clarke—the dame you were visiting yesterday. How does she tie in?”
    “Just the girl friend of the bartender. The one who died.”
    “No motives?”
    Lockwood thought a moment. “Maybe. The bartender was her boyfriend. He was playing around.”
    “She got mad and burned him up?”
    “Possible, but not likely.”
    “So where are you now, Bill? This case is starting to annoy me. I’m beginning to think I can use all the help I can get. Even—”
     he said, winking, “yours.”
    Lockwood laughed ruefully. “You must be desperate. Wish I could help.”
    “Any new leads?”
    “Yes. One. A call girl named Melody O’Houlihan. I’m going to pay her a visit now.” He rose. “Any idea of why Eddie was shot?”
    “Only one.”
    “Yes?”
    “Someone didn’t like him. Like they don’t like you.”
    He had to slip a twenty and a ten under Melody O’Houlihan’s door before she’d allow him in. She was in the Belden Hotel on
     the West Side, and suspicious as hell of cops. It was Brannigan’s precinct, and he ran a tight ship.
    “I still don’t trust you,” she told him as he entered.
    “Then why’d you let me in?”
    “I trust the Treasury Department,” she said, flatly, dropping the bills into a cast iron safe with a slot in the top.
    “That’s the biggest damn piggybank I’ve ever seen,” Lockwood offered.
    “Only the best. Everything in this apartment”—she leered at him, while chewing gum—“is only the best.”
    “I understand that’s what Mack Grand thinks.”
    “Mack,” she laughed. “How the hell would
he
know?”
    “You’re telling me that nothing goes on between the two of you?”
    “I’m telling you that he’s purely an amateur, that’s what I’m telling you.”
    “I don’t imagine his wife thinks so.”
    The prostitute stared at him blankly.
    “After all, she married him. He must have something.”
    The laugh was harsh. “Right. Money. That’s what he has.”
    “Not
everyone
hops into bed for money.”
    “That kind does.”
    “Tell me about her.”
    O’Houlihan shrugged. She was dressed in a green silk wrapper that fell open from time to time, revealing a black French brassiere,
     low-cut black panties, and a black garter belt. “All I know is what I hear from Mack.”
    “And that’s—?”
    “He can’t stand her.”
    “
He
says?”
    “
He
says! Says she’s a pushy broad who wants to be a goddamn star. She keeps nagging him to make her one.”
    “Broadway?”
    “Fuck Broadway. Nothing but Hollywood for her.”
    “What else does he say about her?”
    “Says he’s had it with her.”
    “Wants a divorce?”
    “Something like that. He’s never really been too exact about it.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yeah. He wants me.”
    “You? As his next wife?”
    She stared at him without rancor. “Don’t kid yourself, flatfoot. Lots of men have asked me to marry them. You’d be surprised
     how many sickies are in this world.”
    “Mack Grand’s a sickie?”
    “When it comes to sex, one of the sickest.”
    “And you help him out.”
    She shrugged. “It’s a living.”
    “What about the fire? Was he with you that night?”
    She thought for a moment. “No,” she decided. “I remember reading the papers the next day, and wondering why the hell
he
wasn’t in it. The creep should have been.”
    “You don’t like him much.”
    “Why should I?”
    “You, um, spend a lot of time with him.”
    She barked out a laugh. “Yeah. That’s why I don’t like him. I spend a
lot
of time with him, whenever I see him. I could cool off a statue in half the time.”
    “He’s got problems, has he?”
    “Name one he doesn’t have. Christ, the things I have to do to get his wiener just halfway stirring…”
    He eyed the welt on her waist. “He hits, too?”
    She plunked herself down in a chair facing him, the gown open, legs spread. “Mister, you think of any bit of weirdness the
     human mind can come up with, and Grand wants it. Needs it, in fact.” She