John Baer - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 5 — August 1922)

But — then she would be dead. She didn’t want to be dead. She wouldn’t know about Dennison. She had to know. No, that wouldn’t do either. She wanted to live. She was too young to die. She must get even with Dennison!

That woman who had died — a blonde woman, too, nearly her age. She wondered about her.

Then the thought came to Irene. It came to her, suddenly. It enveloped her, left her weak, dizzy. Could she get that body? If that body could be found — here — instead of hers!

The woman had no relatives — surely that would be easy enough. She would try. That was it. She could do her best. It was the only way — a way to get even...

Her heart started to sing in a wild way, a way it hadn’t sung for a year — more than that. If she could — if she could fix things so that it would look as if Dennison...

She thought it over. If things went right! If not... well, she’d have to take some chances, anyhow.

A ring at the door-bell. She trembled. The mail man. She went downstairs, a plan already formulated in her mind. She met Mrs. Peterson in the hall, started right in on the plan — talked with her... the vacation... a holiday with Dennison.

She telephoned to Schmidt to bring her trunk up. He brought it and the bags up almost immediately. She talked with him eagerly, nervously.

Another ring at the bell. It was the man for Dennison’s trunk. She trembled as the man took it out. Mrs. Peterson, again. Dennison’s trunk gone.

She finished dressing, went out, the clipping about the woman suicide in her purse.

Mrs. Peterson’s door was still open. That prying little woman. She’d keep on talking — prepare her — in case things went all right.

She hurried out of the apartment building, took a subway train, went to the address mentioned in the news story. It was a cheap rooming house. She hurried up the stone stairs, remembering to sniffle a bit.

A weary looking woman with red eyes answered the door.

Irene’s voice trembled. She really was nervous.

“I–I read in the paper just now—” she began.

“Yes?” the woman looked at her, suspiciously.

“My sister — her name — she disappeared from home. I just happened to be here, visiting in New York — she could sew — she was blonde — like me...”

The woman’s expression changed.

“Your sister?” she asked sadly, but with a certain eager curiosity.

“Yes — I–I think so,” said Irene. “Is — she — the body — here?”

“No,” said the woman. “They came last night — took her right down to the morgue. You can see her down there.”

Irene hesitated. Her mind leaped on.

“I–I — we want to take the body home — if it is my sister,” said Irene. Then, “Do you know what I could do — how to get it?” She started to cry.

“It’s too bad,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Figg. She’s rented a room of me for over six months, now. Never talked much of herself. And yesterday morning — come in, dearie...”

Irene went in, saw the cheap little room of the other woman, listened to stories of her. No one cared for her. It seemed the woman was herself, in a way. That didn’t matter. She wanted — the body.

“I’ll go, now — to the morgue,” she said.

“I’ll go with you, if you like, dearie,” Mrs. Figg volunteered. Irene shivered a little more at that. Then she nodded. After all, she didn’t know how to get a body at the morgue. With this woman, who believed her story...

She sat, quiet, while the woman dressed. They took a cross-town car. The morgue...

It was a big, gloomy building, smelling of disinfectants, clean, solemn.

They went into a bare room, with wooden chairs about. A man asked questions. Irene sobbed. Mrs. Figg answered. The woman had died — no post-mortem had been necessary. Irene suddenly remembered those. What if there had been. How would she have got out of this?

Yes, they could see the body. If Irene could identify it there would be no objection to her taking it away. She must get an undertaker, of course — she could sign, authorizing him — he could take it to his shop, embalm the body — have it shipped to her home out of town...

Irene didn’t want an undertaker or embalming. All she wanted was that body, untouched, in her apartment, without a coffin, without anything — that body. She must get it. What could she do? She must get it. Her mind raced on.

Well, she’d do her best. A new cunning seemed to come to her. If things would only go on...

The man led the way down a row of narrow stairs into a big room, with walls of white tile, clean, like a kitchen. There were huge drawers in the walls — drawers that pulled out...

“Here,” said the man, and pulled out a drawer, a long drawer with a woman on it — a dead woman. Was that the woman? She looked, covered her eyes. A dead woman — a woman she had never seen before — a blonde woman with a sad, thin face — not like hers — and yet — in a way — if there was enough time before the body was found...

She glanced at Mrs. Figg through her fingers. She had to be sure that this was the woman — that they were not testing her.

Mrs. Figg nodded.

“The poor, poor thing,” she said.

“Yes,” said Irene, “that — that’s my sister — two years older than I am — and she’d dead — all alone...” she sobbed. They were real tears, now. She was thoroughly frightened.

The man turned away. He was accustomed to scenes.

They went up the narrow stairs. Another man filled out a blank slip, gave it to Irene, told her the details about getting an undertaker.

She and Mrs. Figg walked out of the morgue. Another step was finished. She couldn’t fail, now! What should she do?

Irene was sobbing again.

“I wonder,” she said, “if — if I dare ask you another favor. Could I bring her — the body — to you? Could she be embalmed there? I could go out and buy her a new dress — so — that, when we got her home... I’ll get something right away. I can’t bear to think of her in an undertaking shop. She wouldn’t be in your house very long. I’ll have my trunk sent there, too, with some things in it. I live in the country — I’ve been here a week — I’ll go right home with — with her. To think that Grace...

“That’s all right, dearie, don’t carry on,” said Mrs. Figg. “Of course, if it would make you feel any better — have it sent right out...”

They stopped at an undertakers, near the morgue. The undertaker, it seemed, preferred embalming the body right there — get it ready for shipment. But, of course, if the lady—

Irene bought a coffin, paid in advance for that and the embalming — asked the undertaker to send the body at once and come later in the afternoon for the embalming, when she’d have the clothes there. He promised. Yes, that would be all right — the body had been on ice in the morgue.

Irene left Mrs. Figg. She wanted to get the dress and to have her trunk sent, she said. She thanked that good lady again and again — in a little while she’d be back.

Another subway ride. In her own apartment, Irene threw a couple of blankets into the big trunk, moved it into the hall, so that the express-man could get it if she were not there, spoke to Mrs. Peterson again. That woman! Still, if she were careful, it might work out all right.

Irene went to a corner express office and gave an order for the trunk to be called for at once and delivered to Mrs. Figg’s.

The subway again. A block from Mrs. Figg’s, she passed another undertaker’s establishment, and this gave her a new inspiration. She went in. She told the man a story that he accepted, though she was quite afraid he wouldn’t. She had bought a coffin for her sister, she said. The body was to arrive there — just a block away — quite soon. Now, her brother had bought a better coffin. Would the undertaker buy the one — give her something for it. She told him what she had paid. He offered five dollars. She agreed, told him to call later — she would step in and let him know. It was taking a big chance. She had to get rid of the coffin if she could — had to keep Mrs. Figg from getting suspicious. Well, she was trusting to luck, anyhow — one thing more or less.