Read Online The Lady in the Morgue by Jonathan Latimer - Free Book Online

Liebman do after he told the reporters someone wanted to see them?”
    â€œHe looked at Miss Ross’ body, too.”
    One of the cameramen was making a shot of Mrs. Liebman. She was still registering hate. She was registering more than that. She was clenching, unclenching, her hands. She was registering: I would handle that murderer if I were a man instead of a defenseless widow.
    â€œMr. Liebman looked at Miss Ross’ body,” the coroner repeated. “Did he say anything?”
    â€œYes, he did.” William Crane paused. He lowered his eyelids, pretended to yawn. “He said: ‘I wish I could trade my wife in for a model like that.’” He watched the widow from the corners of his eyes.
    Mrs. Liebman took it as well as could be expected. She leaped to her feet, screamed, “Why, the lousy bum!” Nobody could be sure whether she was referring to William Crane or her husband because she immediately fainted at the feet of Captain Grady. She was removed by two female cousins to the ladies’ room.
    This, the coroner appeared to think, concluded the testimony. He said, “Thank you,” to Crane, let the jury through a door at the back of the room. Crane followed the scuffling, perspiring crowd through a corridor into the big waiting room. He had a drink of warm water from the fountain. The clock with the cracked glass read 12:20; the red mercury column in the thermometer on the morgue keeper’s desk was a fraction below the line marked 98. His head ached, his eyes smarted, his face was hot; he went into the room marked MEN to wash.
    He was pulling a paper towel from a container marked: “Why Use Two When One Will Do Just As Well?” when someone came into the room. He looked in the fly-spotted mirror and saw it was the Italian of the night before. He said, “You’ve got your nerve, coming here.”
    The Italian was standing in the center of the floor. He wasn’t very tall and he was more than forty, but he was thick and he looked as though he would be durable. He said, “The big shot wants to know something.” He didn’t seem friendly.
    â€œWhat does he want to know?”
    â€œHe wants t’ know what you done with the girl?”
    The paper towel broke in Crane’s hands. He dropped it in the waste basket, pulled another from the container. “What makes him think I took the girl?” he asked.
    â€œHim and I was at the inquest.” The Italian’s legs were apart, his body bent forward at the waist. “We heard what they said. We got ears.”
    â€œYeah, you got ears, all right.” Crane looked at the Italian’s with disfavor. “If you didn’t have so much hair on them maybe you could have heard me say I didn’t know who took the body.”
    â€œWe heard what you said.” Black hair grew in a reverse widow’s peak on the Italian’s chest just below his neck. “But you don’t need to hand us the old crappo. We wanta know what you did with the girl.”
    â€œI didn’t take her.”
    â€œO.K., smart boy.” The Italian moved toward Crane. “The big fellow wants t’ see you, then.” He took hold of Crane’s arm, started to push him toward the door, halted suddenly.
    A man dressed in a green ensemble was watching them. His face was swarthy and, except for a jagged scar over the right cheekbone, handsome. He wore an olive-green suit cut square at the shoulders, snug at the waist. He had on a black hat, a dark-green necktie with small red dots in it, a tan shirt, and brown suède shoes.
    â€œHello, Pete,” he said.
    The Italian released Crane’s arm, stepped backward. “Frankie!” he exclaimed. He held his arms stiffly, away from his body, away from his hips.
    Water, freed by the automatic release, gurgled through the urinals.
    â€œYou’d better leave—” the man in green was talking to the Italian