James Chase - Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief

IT WAS A HOT night. Oven−heat that baked the sweat out of the body and played hell with the dogs. It had been hot all day, and now the sun had gone down the streets still held the stifling heat.

Phillips of the St. Louis Banner sat in a remote corner of the Press Club getting good and drunk. He was a long, thin bird, with melancholy eyes and lank, unruly hair. Franklin, a visiting reporter, thought he looked like a bum poet.

Phillips dragged down his tie and undid his collar. The long highball slopped a little as he groped to put it on the table. He said, “What a night! What’s the time, Franky?”

Franklin, his face white with exhaustion and his eyes heavy and red−lidded, peered at the face of his watch. “Just after twelve,” he said, letting his head fall back with a thud on the leather padding of his chair.

“After twelve, huh?” Phillips shifted uneasily. “That’s bad. That’s dug my grave good and deep. Know what I should be doin’ right now?”

Franklin had to make an effort to shake his head.

“I gotta date to meet a dame tonight,” Phillips told him, blotting his face and neck with his handkerchief.

“Right now that babe is waiting for me. Is she goin’ to be mad?”

Franklin groaned.

“Franky, pal, I couldn’t do it. It’s a low trick, but not on a night like this. No, sir, I couldn’t do it.”

“Break it up,” Franklin pleaded, scooping sweat out of his neckband. “I want to freeze myself to death in a big refrigerator.”

Phillips raised himself slowly. A look of faint animation came over his thin face. Drunkenly, he patted Franklin on his back. “You’ve got somethin’ there,” he said. “Gee! The guy’s got brains. I’ve been doin’ you dirt. Boy, you’ve certainly got somethin’ there!”

Franklin pushed him away. “Sit down,” he said crossly; “you’re tight.”

Phillips shook his head solemnly. “Come on, bud, you’ve given me an idea.”

“I ain’t moving. I’m staying right here.”

Phillips grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the chair. “I’m goin’ to save your life,” he said. “We’ll take a cab an’ spend the night in the morgue.”

Franklin gaped at him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to sleep with a lotta stiffs. You’re crazy.”

“Aw, come on. What the hell? Stiffs ain’t goin’ to worry you. Think how cold it’ll be.”

Franklin wavered. “Yeah,” he said, clinging to the table, “but I don’t like it. Think you can get in?”

Phillips leered. “Sure I can get in. Know the guy there. He’s a good guy. He won’t mind. Now come on, let’s get goin’.”

Franklin’s face suddenly brightened. “Sure,” he said; “it ain’t such a bad idea. Let’s go.”

Out in the street they flagged a taxi. The driver looked at them suspiciously. “Where?” he demanded, not believing his ears.

Phillips shoved Franklin into the cab. “The County Morgue,” he repeated patiently. “We’re passin’ in our pails. This is just a matter of convenience, see, buddy?”

The driver climbed off his box. “Now listen, pal,” he said, “you guys don’t want the morgue. You wantta go home. Just you take it easy. I’m useta handlin’ drunks. You leave it to me. Where do you live? Now, come on. I’ll have you in bed before you know it.”

Phillips peered at him, then put his head inside the cab. “Hi, Franky, this guy wants to go to bed with me.”

“Do you like him?” Franky asked.

Phillips turned his head and looked at the driver. “I don’t know. He seems all right.”

The driver wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now listen, you guys,” he said pleadingly, “I ain’t said nuttin’ about gettin’ into bed wid youse.”

Phillips climbed into the cab. “He’s changed his mind,” he said mournfully. “I’ve got a mind to slosh him in the puss.”

“Well, maybe you’re lucky. I thought he’d got a foxy smell about him. I don’t think you’d’ve liked that.”

The driver came close to the window. “Where to, boss?” he asked, in what he thought was a soothing voice. “This ain’t the time to fool around. It’s too goddam hot.”

“The County Morgue,” Phillips said, leaning out of the window. “Don’t you understand? That’s the one cold spot in this burg, an’ we’re headin’ for it.”

The driver shook his head. “You’d never make it,” he said; “they wouldn’t let you in.”

“Who said? They’ll let me in all right. I know the guy there.”

“That on the level? Could you get me in too, boss?”

“Sure. I could get anyone in there. Don’t stand around usin’ up air. Get to it.”

Franklin was asleep when they got to the morgue. Phillips hauled him into the hot street and stood supporting him. He said to the driver, “What are you goin’ to do with the heap?”

“I guess I’ll leave it here. It’ll be all right.”

They stumbled into the morgue, making a considerable row. The attendant was reading a newspaper behind a counter that divided the room from the vaults. He looked up, startled.

Phillips said, “Hyah, Joe, meet a couple of buddies.”

Joe laid down his newspaper. “What the hell’s this?”

“We’re spendin’ the night here,” Phillips said. “Just look on us as three stiffs.”

Joe climbed to his feet. His big fleshy face showed just how mad he was. “You’re all drunk,” he said. “You better scram outta here. I ain’t got time to horse around with you boys now.”

The driver began to edge towards the door, but Phillips stopped him. “Listen, Joe,” he said; “who was the swell dame I saw you with last night?”

Joe’s eyes popped. “You didn’t see me with no dame last night,” he said uneasily.

Phillips smiled. “Don’t talk bull. She was a dame with a chest that oughta have a muzzle on it, an’ a pair of stems that cause street accidents. Gee! What a jane!” He turned to the other two. “You ain’t seen nothin’ like it. When I thought of that guy’s poor wife, sittin’ around at home doin’ nothin’, while this runt goes places with a hot number like that, I tell you, it got me.”

Joe undid the counter-bolt and pulled back the little door. “Okay,” he said wearily, “go on down. It’s a goddam lie, an’ you know it, but I ain’t takin’ chances. The old woman would just like to believe that yarn.”

Phillips grinned. “Down we go, boys,” he said.

They followed him down a long flight of marble steps. At the bottom there came to them a faint musty odour of decomposition. As Phillips pushed open a heavy steel door the pungent smell of formaldehyde was very strong. They all entered a large room.

The sudden icy atmosphere was almost too violent after the outside heat.

Franklin said, “Jeeze! There’s hoar frost formin’ on my chest hairs.”

On one side of the room were four long wooden benches. Round the other three walls were rows of black metal cabinets.

Phillips said, “If you don’t think about it you’d never know there were a lotta stiffs in those cabinets. I like comin’ here. I jest sit around an’ cool off, an’ it don’t worry me at all.”

The driver took off his greasy cap and began twisting it in his hands. “That where they keep the corpses?” he said, his voice sinking to a whisper.

Phillips nodded. He went over to one of the benches and laid down. “That’s right,” he said. “You don’t have to think about that. Just settle down an’ go to sleep.”

With his eyes on the cabinets the driver sat down gingerly. Franklin stood hesitating.

“I wonder if Joe would stand for me phonin’ my girl friend to come on down,” Phillips said sleepily. He shook his head. “No, I guess he wouldn’t stand for it.” He sighed a little and settled himself more comfortably.