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

“—while you can.” He smiled with his mouth. “I want to talk to Mr. Crane.” His lips were full, cruel.
    Sullenly the Italian made a side-stepping progress toward the door, moving in an arc always the same distance from the man in green, as though a pistol was pointed at the pit of his stomach. He went out the door backward.
    With his expressionless face inclined toward Crane the man in green had followed the Italian’s departure with his eyes until the sockets were filled almost entirely with white. Now the golden irises slid back into position. “I’m Frankie French,” he said. He shook hands with Crane, added, “Maybe we can be of assistance to each other in this matter.”
    Crane was surprised to find he was still holding the paper towel. He dropped it, took another, rubbed his face with it, said, “Why use one when two will do just as well?” He rolled the paper into a ball, flipped it into the basket with his thumb. “What help can I be to you?”
    Frankie French talked without moving his lips. “You can give me a little information.”
    â€œYeah, I know. I can tell what I did with the girl’s body.”
    â€œI see we understand each other.” The man’s carefully plucked eyebrows and the long lashes of his narrowed eyes made exactly parallel lines. “How much will it cost me to find out?”
    â€œIt won’t do any good for me to say that I haven’t the least idea where the lady’s body is?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Crane, it won’t.”
    Leaning against one of the washbowls, Crane said, “Supposing for a minute that I do know where the girl’s body is, how much would it be worth to you to know?”
    Frankie French’s tapering hands were beautifully manicured. Light reflected from the glossy fingernails. He lifted five thousand-dollar bills from a calfskin wallet, held them out to Crane.
    Moving his head negatively, Crane said, “It’s too bad I don’t know where the body is.”
    â€œI’m not going to haggle with you,” said Frankie French, still holding out the bills. “My top price is five grand.” His voice was low, ominous. “You will be wise to accept it.” He spoke precisely, almost the way a foreigner, who had learned English in a good school, would.
    Crane shoved himself away from the washbowl, balanced himself on the balls of his feet, repeated: “I don’t know where the body is.”
    There were golden flecks in Frankie French’s eyes. He moved back from Crane—lithely, dangerously, like a cobra about to strike. “You goddam cheap dick,” he said, almost in a whisper; “I’m giving you five seconds to start talking.” The fingers on his right hand fluttered.
    Some men came into the washroom. One of them was saying; “—an’ on the buck dinner they throw in a glass of red wine.” He was a heavy man with a pock-marked face and curly black hair.
    Crane went over to him. “Well, for God’s sake, what are you doing here?” he asked the man. “How’s the wife?” He seized the man’s hand, shook it heartily.
    For a moment Frankie French hesitated, then said to Crane: “Think it over.” His tone was impersonal, courteous. “I’ll be seeing you again.” He left the washroom.
    The man with the pock marks said, “You got the better of me, Mister.” His face was puzzled. “I can’t recall ever having seen you before.”
    Crane released his hand. “You never did,” he said. “But anyway, thank you very, very much.” He left the men staring at him in astonishment, went back into the room where the inquest had been held.
    It was only a few minutes before the jury returned. The foreman handed the coroner a sheet of paper before taking his seat with the other five men. The room was filled again and the audience, even the reporters, waited