Meanwhile Back at the Morgue

by Michael Avallone

“I tell him nothing, Bud. Please—do not talk like that before other people.”

  His face got ugly and he took a step toward her, one ironing-board arm raised in fury. “You yap your guts out allatime. No matter what. C’mon, don’t lie to me. I’ll beat it outta you—”

  Two spots of scarlet materialized in Lisa de Milo’s creamy face. Her eyes raised to regard Bud Tremont. I blinked. Her eyes were sad. And her voice was now tinged with an uncommon quietness.

  “But, please. I tell the truth. We make mistake about Mr. Noon. He only wants to help Marcus.”

  Tremont wasn’t having any of it. He cursed. A vulgar, dirty street curse I hadn’t heard since my kid days around West Farms when little boys tried to ape their elders by using words they didn’t even know the meaning of.

  Lisa was close to tears.

  I looked tightly at Tremont.

  “Sit down, loud mouth,” I said. “Before I shoot you down. She didn’t tell me anything about you and her. Just about Marcus. But thanks to your big mouth, nobody has to tell me.”

  His lack of comprehension outweighed his anger. “What are you saying, wise guy?”

  I sighed and waved him to a seat beside her.

  “Don’t ask me why, but she’s in love with you. One of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. How you rate it I don’t know. She’s miles ahead of your class, even if she does need improvement. Now sit down and behave and I’ll ask the questions.”

  He cursed again but he sat down. What a world. Lisa de Milo, the verb-mangling beauty of all nationalities, the mistress of a rich man, was suddenly acting as demure as a schoolgirl. She was sitting shyly beside her hulking lover, trying to hold one of his lumpy, scarred hands. He was shaking her off with childish petulance. Love. Who can figure it out?

  I was trying to figure out my next question when the doorbell rang. Three long, two short. Authoritative. Tremont jumped and Lisa looked at me questioningly.

  “You expecting anyone?” I asked. She shook her head. The doorbell rang again. I couldn’t see any good reason for not answering it.

  “Okay, Lisa, answer it. Bud will keep me company. And don’t try anything more today. Is it a deal?”

  She nodded, squeezed Tremont’s hand and tripped off into the foyer to see who was calling. Tremont glared at me in the interval.

  “Private cop?” he muttered.

  I nodded. He spat at me without the spittle.

  “Sneak punch, buster,” he snarled. “I owe you for that. And believe me, I catch up with people I owe things to.”

  I showed him my teeth. “That punch was taught to me by a gentleman. A gentleman you’ll never be, incidentally. He was also a champ, by the way.”

  His gimlet eyes were interested. “Yeah? Who?”

  “Tommy Loughran.”

  His snarl subsided. “Oh,” he said.

  We waited for Lisa to come back. There were voices and small sounds coming from the hallway. I tensed, the .45 ready in my hand.

  But I didn’t need a .45. I needed God and a good lawyer.

  Lisa de Milo was standing, helpless and confused, in the entrance to the living room. Right behind her, blocking out the background like a painting, were three men I didn’t particularly care to see so soon and under such circumstances. They cramped my act.

  Captain Monks, Lieutenant Hadley and Detective Sergeant Sanderson, James T. In that heartbreaking order.

  Monks spared me any comment but Hadley and Sanderson were a study in awe and no-not-again.

  I got to my feet and holstered the .45.

  “Old home week,” I said, just to say something. “What gives?”

  Lisa’s eyes fluttered from Bud and me to her new visitors, and back to us again.

  “The police. They say—something about a corpse….”

  I looked at Monks’ bulldog kisser, my eyes asking my question. His mouth was thin and his expression would have done credit to a martyr.

  “Anonymous phone call,” he growled, in his nails-eating voice. “Man said we’d find a dead woman in Lisa de Milo’s bedroom.”

  Hadley shouldered his way around Monks and grunted at a terrified Lisa de Milo.

  “Which way to your bedroom, lady?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There was a body in the bedroom, all right. Lisa de Milo’s bedroom. Just beyond the fancy living room, through a connecting foyer that housed a painting by Lautrec that must have been an original.

  The body wasn’t hard to find. It was on the bed. Monks had trouble with the light switch. It wasn’t working. Then Hadley or Sanderson handed him a regulation Police-Department flashlight. After that it was easy. Monks probed with the beam. Its first illuminated tour of the room found the bed. We moved in closer, like a bunch of hushed kids in a haunted house, Lisa and Bud Tremont bringing up the rear.

  “How long these lights been outta whack, lady?” Monks grunted as he bent over the body on the bed.

  Behind me, Lisa stammered, “I—do not understand.” Monks didn’t know about Lisa and her English. I translated. She nodded fearfully in the gloom.

  “Ohhh. They work yesterday. Must just go out.” She drew closer to the bed and the body. “Is it a dead person really?”

  They don’t come any deader. Monks, Hadley, James T. and myself ringed the body off. Monks kept his flashlight unwaveringly on the corpse. Bud Tremont grunted unintelligibly at my shoulder. With his height, he had a ringside look at things. It wasn’t pretty. Corpses never are.

  The corpse was a woman. A naked woman. The bed was made, with a rich, expensive counterpane of some exotic foreign material. But the woman was spread-eagled across the pattern like a symbol of crucifixion. It wasn’t hard to see what had killed her. Wasn’t hard at all.

  Thumb-deep blue-black impressions furrowed the soft throat. The Adam’s apple section of the outraged flesh was severely puckered and bruised. If that wasn’t enough, the flushed, bloated face of the corpse, with the red tongue lolling between small, white teeth in grisly suffocation, was more than enough. The woman on the bed had been strangled. Monks swore an oath, and Hadley shook his head. They were old police hands but they still hated corpses and man’s inhumanity to man. Man’s inhumanity to woman was even worse by their standards.

  My eyes traveled down from the strangled throat to the woman’s wide, full breasts, to the pale oval of her flat stomach, to her thighs. I didn’t like what I saw there, either. I’ve stood beside the M.E. too many times, I guess. Something about the redness of the inner part of the thighs and the bruised look of the pelvic area was like a red flag flying in my face. The corpse had been violated, too. It was a nice, messy homicide.

  The corpse’s clothes were carefully placed on a nearby chair.

  There was a grim silence as the body of the dead woman shone starkly in the glare of Mike Monks’ flashlight. A dead woman, blonde, still beautiful in her late thirties, and world famous. World famous and dead.

  “You can skip the vagrants, sex maniacs and wild-young-men notions, Mike,” I said quietly. “You’ve got a whole boatload of fish.”

  “Give it to me in English,” Monks snapped. He jerked a thumb at Sanderson to take a half-fainting Lisa de Milo back to the living room. Bud Tremont growled and shook Sanderson off. My cracks about being a gentleman must have hit home.

  I shrugged. “This gal got bigger spotlights than a police captain’s flash, in her day.” I took a breath. “It’s Darlene Donegan, Mike. The jet-propelled musical-comedy star. Miss Broadway herself. The hottest entertainer in the world. She was everybody’s girl at one time or another.”

  Monks grunted and clicked the flashlight off. We moved back to the living room.

  “Just a real friendly doll, eh?”

  “You saw her shape. The guys that went nuts over it would fill a ballpark.”

  “Still the hard guy. Okay, Ed. She was hot once. But she’s cold now. So forget the obit until I ask for it. Meantime, stay out of the way. This is a murder. A murder for the police. We’ll handle it from here on i
n.”

  I took his arm. “I can help you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I doubt that very much. Here you are with corpses for company again, withholding evidence, playing like those lousy TV dicks—”

  “Mike,” I said wearily. “We’re old pals, remember? I thought you might like to know that Darlene Donegan threatened Marcus Manton this morning in his office.”

  He grunted. “Why would she want to do that?”

  “Temperament. Marcus wouldn’t give her the lead in Roses in the Rain, his new show.”

  Monks smiled his awful smile. “Your client is still in the hospital with a bad ear, remember?”

  I spread my hands. “I’m not saying anything. Just giving you the facts, man, the facts.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Monks marched to the center of the living room, his Police-Academy eyes roving over the furnishings and doodads. His sniff told me he didn’t like any of it. Hadley was already on the phone, putting all the official machinery into action. Lisa had her head buried on one of Tremont’s formidable shoulders. The divan looked like a loveseat. Sanderson, James T., had stationed himself near the entrance to the living room so nobody could take off. The look he gave me invited me to try. I stuck my tongue out at him.

  Monks pinned me down. “Who are these people?” Bud Tremont sneered.

  “That’s Lisa de Milo,” I said. “She lives here. The gent with her is Bud Tremont, the ex-heavyweight champ. Friend of the family, I understand.” Monks took his hat off for Lisa’s benefit. She gave him a smile that would make any other old family man run away from home. Any other man but Mike Monks.

  “And what are you doing here, Ed?”

  I smiled at Lisa. “I met Miss de Milo outside the hospital. Marcus had told her about hiring me. She invited me home for a conference. She had a previous appointment with Mr. Tremont, who showed up on schedule. About fifteen minutes after we got here.”

  Monks looked at Lisa for confirmation. She nodded nervously. That seemed to satisfy him.

  “Uh, Miss de Milo,” Monks began. “Everything in order when you got here with Mr. Noon? You know, doors, windows….”

  Her face brightened. Death aside, she found police work fascinating. The actress within her paraded into view.

  “Oh, yes. Surely. The door was locked. Windows I always close.” Her brows knitted in puzzlement. “The light in the bedroom. Strange. I no remember it not working.”

  Monks pulled at his big chin with his big right hand.

  “Was Darlene Donegan a friend of yours?”

  Lisa’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Her beautiful face clouded classically.

  “Poor dear, yes. She come here many times. I am a great fan of hers. Lately we see a great deal of her, Marcus and me. She want so very bad to play in Marcus’ show.”

  Bud Tremont stirred. Monks eyed him.

  “Don’t get restless, sonny. Nobody’s forgetting you.”

  “Thanks,” he sneered. “I just love talking to cops.”

  “Easy, Champ,” Sanderson said stonily from his post in the doorway. Tremont glowered, but settled down.

  Monks smiled. “Too bad you stopped when you did, Tremont. You were coming along fine. Must be tough to retire at—what was it, twenty-seven? How old are you now?”

  Tremont bit his lips. “Thirty next month.”

  Monks’ smile got wider. “Prime of life and you had to quit, eh? What kind of work you in now?” You have to know Monks to get hep to the finer points of interrogation. He was a master.

  “Promotion,” Tremont said thinly. “I promote things. You know, small businesses. Lot of my friends need backing to open barber shops, grocery stores, junk like that. I’m no millionaire but I eat regularly. None of this broken-down ex-pug hooey for me.”

  “Good for you,” Monks said amiably enough. “You’ve got two good hands. No reason why you should need charity.” He stared at Tremont’s ring-scarred destroyers. Even Bud Tremont could not miss the implication.

  “Hey—hold on, Cap. Don’t go off your rocker. I hardly knew the Donegan dame. Only met her once. At Lisa’s party last month. You can’t tie me in with that stiff in there.”

  We were getting nowhere fast. I had a question for Monks. “How is Marcus, anyway?”

  Monks’ smile had gone away. “He’ll be out tomorrow. But his ear won’t be kosher for quite a while. Why?”

  I shrugged. “He’s my client, isn’t he?”

  Lisa was getting restless. Her lovely fingers were wringing themselves silly. Tremont flung her a warning glance that I didn’t miss. Monks didn’t miss it either. But he looked at his watch and grunted again. It was about time for the official ghouls to show up: the photogs, the fingerprint men and the meat wagon. “Death on Riverside Drive.” I could practically see the morning headlines. “Daylight was dying in Manhattan but Darlene Donegan was already dead. Lying naked on a fancy bed.”

  I looked away from the windows then and saw the smoke for the first time. It must have just got under way. Sanderson, James T., saw it about the same time, because he was facing the bedroom. We had left the door open.

  It was incredible, really, but a lazy tendril of dirty blue smoke was curling out from the darkened bedroom, the bedroom with a dead body in it.

  Behind the lazy smoke, lambent flames flickered hungrily, casting a fiery glow on the bedroom wall.

  Somebody was trying to destroy the evidence in an awful hurry.

  The body in the bed wasn’t cold yet.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In a way it was funny. A fancy apartment on Riverside Drive and smoke pouring out of the bedroom in the best cheap-tenement tradition. Funny, but it got action. To a man, Sanderson, Monks, Hadley and me bolted for the bedroom. But Tremont stayed behind, comforting his weeping Lisa.

  Hadley used his head and opened the two windows facing out on the Drive. Sanderson bellowed when he spotted the trouble, guiding Monks’ flashlight to the spot. Smoke filled the room now before the first gusts of evening wind cut into the haze.

  It wasn’t much of a fire yet. Just a couple of oil-soaked rags smoldering away near the bedroom closet. But some of the wood had caught hold and a ten-cent fire was under way. If no one had been home, it would have turned into a four-alarmer. Sanderson’s big feet stamped and stomped. Hadley held his nose and scooped up some of the rags and ran with them, looking for the bathroom. Monks swore a stifled oath. I borrowed his flashlight and checked what fuse boxes I could find. One was right by the closet door.

  The emergency was over, so we all went back into the living room. My brain was working overtime. Two and two were adding up to a very crazy four.

  When Monks asked Lisa about the oil-soaked rags, she told him that she knew nothing. He wasn’t satisfied, but he couldn’t say much, so he let it go at that. Far off in the night somewhere, the siren of a radio car or ambulance got louder. I drew Monks to one side.

  “Not much doubt about the faulty light switch in the bedroom, Mike. It all adds up.”

  He took his fedora off, punched it out of shape a couple of times and replaced it on his harassed head. He hates cute homicides worse than he hates dope peddlers.

  “You tell me,” he growled.

  “Murderer kills Donegan. Fixes lights so they don’t work. Faulty connection sparks in fuse box, igniting oil-soaked rags left there. Nice fire starts and bingo—maybe house burns down. Donegan corpse burned beyond recognition. Or at least badly enough for killer to gain some much-needed time.”

  Monks snorted. “Time for what? Burn her for what? Dammit, that’s what I mean about fancy homicides. Why? Who calls up and leaves the tip about a dead body? Certainly not the killer, according to your theory. He wanted time, you said. Aw, who needs this kind of case?”

  He was shouting now and Lisa was looking at us fearfully.

  I didn’t want to laugh at him but sometimes he tickles me silly.

  “Okay, Mike. Don’t buy it. I was just telling you what I think.”

  “Thanks for nothin
g.” He whirled from me and barked an order to Sanderson. “Jimmy, go out and direct the traffic in when it gets here.” He smiled wanly at Lisa and Tremont. “You two will have to hang around. I’m sorry, but too many things about this house will need explaining when my squad arrives. Okay?”

  Tremont made a face and smirked in my direction. “What about the hero there? He stay, too? I like his company.”

  Monks was way ahead of him. He turned to me and poked a sausage thumb over his shoulder toward the front door.

  “Out. Go run along and hold Marcus Manton’s hand. I don’t want you underfoot making bum jokes. My squad might not understand. And keep in touch. We go along with you on this investigation, you go along with us. Right?” He winked at me with his back to everybody else. I nodded solemnly and started toward the door.

  Sanderson made room for me, shaking his head. Monks and Hadley started getting businesslike in the living room. Lisa suddenly called out in a loud, clear voice, “Mr. Noon—”

  “Yes?” I inquired sweetly.

  She faltered, a becoming blush filling her ivory face. “Please say hello to Marcus for me.”

  “Will do, Lisa. Good-bye all.”

  I left them like that. Outside on the front stoop, I had just enough time to light a cigarette and start walking. A radio car was turning in to the front of the house, doors already hanging open. Down the block an ambulance wheeled into view, waking everybody up with ear-blasting siren music.

  It looked like a pretty grim case.

  Marcus Manton and his mad musical. Dead Donegan and the fire routine. The fantastic elevator bit with four frightened females. Bud Tremont and Lisa de Milo, the impossible lovers.

  Roses in the Rain couldn’t be worth all that.

  I caught a cab on West End Avenue and headed back to the office. It was about time I started acting like a detective.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Habits are hard to break. The good ones and the bad ones. I’d no sooner stepped out of the cab on West Fifty-sixth, ready to go up to the office and tackle my homework, when the same old urge hit me. Kelly’s Bar across the street was wide open. I could hear jukebox music and glasses tinkling in the stillness of the night air, Suddenly the martini thirst had me by the throat.