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

attentively. Crane looked around for both Frankie French and the Italian, but he was unable to find them. His eye caught that of Mrs. Liebman; she scowled, looked away. Between the two homicide men Captain Grady sat unconcernedly, as if he had no interest in the verdict. His eyes, in contrast to his brick-red face, were a startling blue.
    The coroner cleared his throat. “The jury finds,” he said, “that the deceased, August Liebman, was willfully murdered by person, or persons unknown while trying in the line of duty to prevent the felonious removal of the body of Miss Alice Ross from the Cook County Morgue in the City of Chicago.” He cleared his throat again. “The jury further recommends that the police proceed at once in the steps necessary to apprehend the murderer, or murderers.”
    The coroner stood up, swept the papers off the desk into a black brief case, quickly stepped from the room. The jury followed hurriedly, eager for their free lunch. Crane walked over to Captain Grady and said: “Missed me that time, didn’t you?”
    Captain Grady snorted, made no reply. The burlier of the two homicide men, however, said, “Listen, smart guy, we’re going to keep close to you.”
    Crane glanced around again for Frankie French, but he couldn’t see him. He spoke fervently to the homicide man. “I hope you do.”

Chapter Five
    WILLIAM CRANE didn’t feel sleepy any more, but that was probably because he was scared rather than because of the two-hour nap he had just finished. He didn’t feel sleepy, but he didn’t feel so good, either. He sat on the edge of his bed and brooded about his connection with the girl who had been stolen from the morgue. He wished he had never become involved in the matter—at least not to such an extent that the police, a gang of gunmen, and the sinister Mr. Frankie French were all convinced he had the girl somewhere. In fact, on second thought, he wished he had never become involved in the affair at all. Not at all.
    There was a knock at the door. His startled jump brought him halfway across the room, onto his bare feet. “Who’s there?” he asked.
    â€œThe waiter. Your drinks, sir.”
    The waiter was a Greek. He had a tray on which there was a bottle of Dewar’s White Label, a bowl of cracked ice, two high glasses and a siphon. He put the tray on a table, deftly caught a quarter, said, “Thank you,” and departed.
    Crane poured himself a straight one first. Then he filled the glass halfway with the whiskey, dropped in a chunk of ice, squirted seltzer water until the mixture reached the brim. He drank this slowly, sometimes letting the cold liquid stay in his mouth a minute before he swallowed.
    Thirty stories above the street, the room was still uncomfortably warm. There was a steady breeze filled with the distant sounds of roaring motor coaches, of streetcar wheels screaming against steel rails on turns, clattering on steel rails at switches; of automobile horns and, faintly, human voices; but it was not a cool breeze. There was not a cloud in the sky.
    Well into his third drink, Crane was debating whether or not to take a cold shower when there was another knock at the door. He was surprised to find he was still jumpy. He shouted, “Come in.”
    A dapper man with a waxed black mustache, button-bright eyes and black hair with a white streak over the left temple stood in the doorway. “Hi,” he said. His name was Doc Williams and he worked for the same detective agency as Crane.
    â€œOh, my God! am I glad to see you?” Crane dragged him into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, shook his hand, pounded his back. “The U. S. Marines to the rescue. Have a drink, marine, have a drink.” He poured whiskey in the other glass, ignored Williams’ twice repeated “When.” He handed him the glass. “My God, I am glad to see you.”
    â€œDon’t I get