See You at the Morgue

by Lawrence G. Blochman

  “From Norway, you said.”

  “No cracks, Weaver. Whose are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you check them at Grand Central?”

  Barney hesitated for a full minute. At last he said, “Officer, I know I’ve put myself in a bad light by running away twice. After my first mistake, I was afraid it would do no good to try to get police co-operation because I wouldn’t be believed. What just happened tonight, however, makes me think that perhaps you will believe me—because you’ve seen with your own eyes that Vivian Sanderson is up the well-known creek without oars. That fact explains everything I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours. I’ve been trying to get her a pair of oars. You saw for yourself tonight that I’m telling you the truth when I say she’s in danger.”

  “Who wants to kill her?” Kilkenny asked.

  “I wish I knew. Tony Grove certainly has something to do with it, and he may actually be the one who’s trying to get rid of the girl. But on the basis of the facts, it’s only a probability so far.”

  “Let’s hear those facts,” Kilkenny said.

  Barney told the detective everything—from the first appearance of the frightened Tony and his story of the stolen auto plates, through the discovery of Laurence’s body, and Tony’s great interest in the key beside the corpse—to the opening of the locker that contained the suitcase, the license plates, and the platina furs. He told of his interest in Vivian, and his motive in trying to extricate her from the tangled web her cousin Tony had been weaving.

  Kilkenny listened carefully without interrupting. When Barney had finished, the detective said, “You know, Weaver, I’ve got half a notion to believe you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s only one condition, that you spend the rest of the night in the hospital here, and don’t leave until I have a sample of your blood.”

  “Good,” said Barney, his eyes eager with new interest. “So you’re going to make agglutination tests after all?”

  “What do you know about agglutination tests?”

  “I read in a scientific journal that one of the men in your medical examiner’s laboratories has been doing some important work in applying blood grouping to medicolegal purposes,” Barney said. “And I wondered when I saw that bloodstained handkerchief in Mrs. Dunne’s apartment tonight whether you would really put it to use, or whether you practical policemen didn’t trust science.”

  “We trust it, all right,” Kilkenny said, frowning, “but how—Say, is Doctor Bernard Weaver your father?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you must be the guy Rosie was thinking of, all right,” the detective said. “Doctor Rosenkohl, the medical examiner in this case, said he took a course in blood chemistry from your father at Columbia one summer session.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” Barney said.

  “Look, Weaver,” Kilkenny began. He poked a familiar forefinger into Barney’s chest. Dr. Rosenkohl’s sponsorship had made Barney practically a friend. “Do you think the girl is holding out on us?”

  “What would she be holding out?”

  “Well, about that suitcase. Do you think it’s really an accident that Tony Grove used it for those furs?”

  “I think that part of the story is true. I don’t think Vivian can stand Tony, as much as she likes his sister Pen.”

  “I don’t mean I think she might be mixed up in the murder,” the detective said reassuringly: “I mean, maybe there are a few little details she’s been holding back. Maybe she don’t even know she’s holding them back. But she knows something that somebody else don’t want told, or she wouldn’t have been pushed onto the subway tracks tonight. What could it be?”

  “I wish I knew,” Barney said.

  “Look,” said Kilkenny, “you go on in and talk to her alone for a while. She’s nuts about you and—”

  “Nuts about me? Not a chance.”

  “She is, all right,” Kilkenny said. “She’s got a million photographs of you all over her bedroom. Now go on in and talk to her. The nurse just gave me the high sign.”

  Barney strode through the antiseptic whiteness of the hospital corridor. The crisp, spotless silence, the chemical cleanliness of the odors made him doubly aware of the filthiness of his dungarees, of the greasy smudges on his face. He was glad it did; the effort of remaining aloof and somewhat hard-boiled would be easier. He had decided that he would remain aloof.

  “You can only stay a minute,” the nurse said. “The doctor says there’s nothing the matter with her, but she’s upset and needs rest. I’ve just given her something to make her sleep.” She scowled at the seat of Barney’s dungarees, and added, “Try not to sit down anywhere. Do you mind?”

  “I don’t mind,” Barney said. The nurse opened the door for him and stayed in the corridor.

  Vivian smiled at him with a helpless sort of eagerness when he came in. The vivid red gold of her hair rippled out across the snowiness of the pillows, and her gray eyes seemed larger than ever. It was going to be no easy matter to remain aloof.

  She held out her hand and said, “I haven’t got the shakes any more. See, Barney? And I can talk coherently again—although I’m afraid I’ll never be able to say enough—and the right things—”

  “About what?” Barney said gruffly.

  “About—about you. About what just happened.”

  “I thought that was the sort of thing you liked to happen,” Barney said. “I hope it’s turning out to be more fun than leaving for home with me twenty-four hours ago, the way I suggested.”

  “Don’t talk like a professor,” Vivian said. “You can’t change ancient history, Barney. Kiss me.”

  “You ought to be spanked, not kissed, for getting us into this mess,” Barney said, trying to make a dour face, “particularly, as you say, because I can’t do anything about it now. The detective out there refuses to let me take you home. He won’t even let you leave the hospital—which is a good thing.”

  “You wouldn’t want to run out now, would you, Barney?” the girl asked. “You wouldn’t go away now, would you, without having everything straightened out?”

  “It’s not what we want. We can’t do what we want, now.”

  Vivian’s smile became forlorn. “You mean you don’t even want to kiss me?” she demanded.

  He nodded. “Exactly,” he said with his best scowl. “To kiss you is precisely what I do not want. You’re a damned self-centered, willful, ambitious, scatterbrained, redheaded little brat. One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was to kiss you, years ago, and I’d be a fool to want to make the same mistake now. But I—” His voice broke. “I am a fool, Vivian, and you are devastatingly lovely, and whether I want to or not, I—”

  “Darling!” Vivian breathed.

  Barney sat on the bed. His arms went tightly around the girl, and he was kissing her with such conviction and ardor that the grime of the Bronx garage was being widely redistributed over the pristine linens of the Mid-Manhattan Hospital, when the door opened. He was standing innocently when the nurse came in with Detective Kilkenny.

  “Time to go now,” the nurse said. “You’ve been—Good Lord, what have you done to her? Look at those pillows! And her face! Go on, get out! She’ll have to be bathed!”

  “Good night, darling!” Barney said.

  “Good night, Barney.”

  In the corridor, Detective Kilkenny asked, “Well, did you find out anything?”

  “Yes,” Barney said. “I think I did.”

  “Was it the suitcase?”

  “Suitcase? Oh, that,” Barney said. “No, I don’t think she’s holding back anything on the suitcase story. Matter of fact, I think she’s telling pretty much the truth.”

  Kilkenny nodded his head with vehemence and smiled with only one side of his mouth. “You’re a great help,” he said. “I should have known.”

  “Known what?” Barney inquired naively.

  “Look,” the detective said. “When a cop g
ets moony over a dame, I wouldn’t trust him with the job of keeping raggedy-bottomed kids from stealing apples off a First Avenue pushcart. Maybe you’re different, since you’re so damned scientific. I don’t know. But I think I’ll take a chance.”

  “On what?”

  “On you. I’m going to release a clean pair of pants from the concentration camp so you can smell nice tomorrow morning. You’re coming with me when I cover the milk route.”

  XVII

  DETECTIVE KENNETH KILKENNY purged the sleep from his system with three cups of drugstore coffee. Three hours’ rest was normally not enough for him, but there were many things he had to do this morning before going to Bellevue for the autopsy. So, although he was officially off duty, he was at the West 100th Street station house before the morning mists had lifted from Central Park.

  Studying the still un-co-ordinated reports of his colleagues who had been gathering up loose ends of the Pierre Laurence case, he came upon numerous bits of information that made the prospect of a busy morning seem even busier.

  He read with interest the report of Bannigan, who had supervised the final search of Penelope Dunne’s apartment.

  He studied with a low whistle the copy of a telegram from the F.B.I. in Washington, in reply to the fingerprint card which had gone down the night before by air.

  He noted that Tom Norfolk had been picked up getting into a car with a woman named Julia Frye at 1 a.m. and had been released after brief questioning without much result.

  But the report that he found most illuminating of all was the one filed by the detective assigned to follow Penelope and Roger Dunne when they left for a hotel after being released from the police station. Kilkenny read it carefully twice, made some notes on the back of an envelope, and started downtown.

  At the Mid-Manhattan Hospital he found Vivian Sanderson sleeping soundly and Barney Weaver drinking coffee with six nurses.

  “Hey, Weaver, take it easy,” the detective said. “A guy shouldn’t get so ambitious on only a few hours’ sleep. What the devil you doing with half a dozen nurses?”

  “I’m still groggy from last night,” Barney said. “I need medical care.”

  “You’ll need twice as many nurses if that redheaded pal of yours ever hears about this,” Kilkenny said. “Come on. Button up your hat. We got gruesome business ahead.”

  As they got into Kilkenny’s car, the detective asked, “Did you ever drop in on the Dunne optical works for animals?”

  “Never,” Barney replied.

  “That’s where we’re going now,” Kilkenny said. “To watch Roger Dunne make eyes.”

  The Roger Dunne Studios—Artificial Eyes for Animals, Toys, Furriers, Taxidermists, and Figures of All Descriptions—were in a loft building in West Twenty-Eighth Street, on the fringe of Manhattan’s fur district. Kilkenny and Barney entered a gloomy, dusty interior that at first glance might have been a natural-history museum, a taxidermist’s, a toymaker’s, or an old curiosity shop. A bell rang as the door swung closed, and an attractive young girl came from somewhere in the rear and appeared between a row of stuffed owls, graduated for height, and a row of baby dolls, three-inch to life size. The owls had bright yellow eyes by Dunne Studios, and the dolls had lovely blue ones. The girl had green eyes. She also had trim ankles and yellow hair and a pleasant smile that she had tried to remodel cosmetically but which remained pleasant.

  “Help you, gentlemen?” she said.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Dunne.”

  “He’s not down yet. I’m sorry.”

  “What time’s he due, Miss Morse?” the detective asked.

  The pleasant smile disappeared. The rouged lips were hard, the green eyes suspicious. “How’d you know my name was Morse?” she demanded.

  “Just a guess,” said Kilkenny. “When do you expect Mr. Dunne?”

  “He usually comes in early. He’s usually here by now.”

  “I suppose he’ll be late this morning. He didn’t get much sleep last night, did he?” Kilkenny winked at Barney.

  The girl bridled. Her nostrils flickered with indignant breath.

  “How should I know how much sleep he gets?” she countered sharply. The suspicion in her eyes had become hostility. Her movements were apprehensive.

  Detective Kilkenny shrugged. He continued to grin at Barney. He seemed quite pleased with the girl’s reactions.

  “You go on about your work,” he added. “We’ll wait here for the boss.”

  Miss Morse did not move. “I don’t like your insinuations,” she said. “I read the morning papers. I read where the cops are trying to make Mr. Dunne look like a murderer, and I don’t need a microscope to see you’re cops. But even if you are cops, you can’t insinuate—”

  “I haven’t insinuated a thing,” said Kilkenny sweetly.

  “You’re trying to mix me up in this,” the girl protested. “You’re trying to make me say I was with Mr. Dunne last night. That’s not true. I didn’t see Mr. Dunne last night.”

  “I quite believe that,” said Kilkenny. “My information is that he didn’t turn the light on.”

  “You—” The girl glared an instant, then turned abruptly and retreated into the shadows of the back loft. A door opened, revealing several men bending over a workbench, then closed with a bang.

  Detective Kilkenny grinned again. He and Barney devoted themselves to examining the heterogeneous display of the handiwork of the Dunne Studios, which cluttered up the front office. There were showcases containing fish bait, artificial minnows, decoys for duck hunters—all fitted with glass eyes of the first quality. There were toys, birds, mounted fishes, the heads of various types of fur-bearing animals to demonstrate to furriers that Dunne Studios could supply eyes for fox, mink, or ermine with equal skill. There were eyes for ventriloquists’ dummies, eyes for bear rugs, eyes for stuffed snakes.

  “Good morning, Kilkenny. Hello, Barney.”

  Roger Dunne had come in silently, and Kilkenny continued to study the displays. Barney could see, however, that the detective was watching Dunne’s reflection in the plate glass of the showcases. Penelope’s husband seemed to stoop a trifle this morning, as if with age. The outdoor bloom of his face was submerged beneath a dull pallor. He was almost haggard.

  “Morning, Mr. Dunne.”

  “What’s Kilkenny doing to you, Barney? Trying to worm a confession out of you?” Roger’s attempt at humor was not very successful.

  “I’m trying him out,” Kilkenny said. “I don’t know yet whether he’s a potential detective or a potential crook.”

  “Seriously, Kilkenny, is there any news? Any arrests?” Roger brandished a morning paper. “Anything more recent than this, I mean?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Kilkenny said.

  “Glad to help,” Dunne said. He led the way to a small glass-partitioned office, where the green-eyed Miss Morse had just spread the opened mail. She beamed a pleasant good morning to the boss, and stood by for instructions.

  “I think it would be better to send Miss Morse out of the room for a moment,” said Kilkenny. “What I’m going to say is sort of private.”

  The blond secretary scowled inquiringly. Roger Dunne nodded. Miss Morse flounced out, revealing a twinkle of silken knees as her short skirt whisked through the door.

  “Nice-looking girl,” said Detective Kilkenny to Barney.

  “Very efficient secretary,” Dunne said. “Now, what is it you want to know?”

  “I want to know why you didn’t offer us your alibi last night when we questioned you?”

  “Alibi?” Dunne shook his head. “What alibi?”

  “You know we suspected you of killing Laurence, don’t you—on account of your wife?”

  “Of course that’s ridiculous. I wasn’t jealous of Pierre.”

  “You have a very forgiving nature, you mean?”

  “No, it simply didn’t occur to me to be jealous of Pierre. I knew him before Penelope did. In fact, I’m the one who introduced hi
m to my wife.”

  “Don’t make it too complicated,” Kilkenny frowned. “Just like this business of a fake reconciliation. Why did you go through the motions of taking a suite with Mrs. Dunne at the hotel last night?”

  Roger Dunne moistened his lips but did not reply. His eyes dreaded what they saw coming. He glanced at Barney.

  “You checked in at the Hotel New Yorker at about eleven-thirty,” the detective said, consulting the back of his envelope, “and after going up to your suite with Mrs. Dunne, you came down alone—almost immediately. You left the hotel on foot, walked to Ninth Avenue, and took a cab to a ground-floor garden apartment in a red brick house in Old Chelsea—West Twenty-Fourth Street. You didn’t ring because you had your own key to the door under the stairs. You didn’t come out again until four-thirty o’clock when you returned to the hotel, and, I suppose, sneaked in to give the impression that you had spent the night there.”

  Roger Dunne leaned back in his chair with an air of resignation. He seemed less haggard now that he was confronted with the detective’s account of his itinerary.

  “You have had a key to that apartment,” the detective continued, “for nearly a year. At least you’ve been paying the rent for that long. The lease, though, isn’t in your name. It’s in the name of a young lady—”

  “What do you expect me to say to that?” Dunne interrupted, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Just this,” Kilkenny answered. “Tell me why you didn’t offer to tell me last night—privately if you wanted—that you had been interested in this other gal for a year, and that you would therefore have no possible reason for wanting to kill a man who may or may not have been your wife’s lover.”

  “That’s not difficult to explain,” said Dunne slowly, looking at his fingernails. “You must understand my reluctance to bring the girl’s name into a mess like this. She comes from a very decent family upstate, and the connection of her name with a tabloid scandal would be extremely unpleasant, to say the least.”