Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“A witness I’m bringing in. Is Sam still on duty?”

“In his office. He won’t go home.”

“Forest?”

“He set up temporary headquarters in the Clerk’s rooms,” the man at the telephone desk said. “You want to talk to him, I’ll see if I can get you a passport and visa. You ever consorted with Democrats?”

“Don’t bother.”

“That was a joke, son.”

“Ho ho.”

“What’s the matter, Howie, you losing your sense of humor?” He turned to the other deputies. “Mister Cross done hitched his wagon to a star.”

I said: “If you want to do something, order me in some food. I haven’t eaten for several weeks.”

“I leap to do your bidding, marster.” He swiveled back to the telephone.

“Thanks. Make it ham and eggs and coffee. I’ll be in with Sam.”

I tossed a dollar across the counter and took the suitcase and Molly down a tile-floored corridor to Sam Dressen’s cubicle. Sam was asleep, his gray head resting on his desk like a large granite paperweight. I shook him and he sat up, blinking and smiling:

“Must have dozed off for a minute. That was a red-hot tip, Howie, that business card you gave me. We got one corpse identified already.”

“Art Lemp?”

The smile sagged disappointedly. “You know, eh? Where you been?”

“To hell and back. This young lady knew Lemp, and the other one was her husband.”

I nodded towards Molly. She was making herself small and flat against the door-frame. I wondered if she recognized the jail smell that sifted down inevitably from the second floor. Or perhaps it was the WANTED circulars that were the only pinups on Sam’s walls.

“You wouldn’t kid an old man old enough to be your father, Howie?”

“She’s his widow, common-law possibly, but his widow. His name was Kerry Snow.”

“We were married in Las Vegas,” she cried. “On the fifteenth of January. It was legal!”

“I believe you, Molly. Come in and sit down now, and tell us all about it.”

A session of questioning followed, until my breakfast arrived. Molly gave us no additional information. Either her men had kept her completely in the dark about their illegal activities, or she was afraid of talking herself into jail. She looked afraid, and hungry.

I shared my toast and coffee with her. Sam had eaten at midnight, he said. It was nearly two.

I stood up, feeling the stiffness in the hinges of my knees. “Is Amy Miner still here?”

“She’s in the special cell on the third floor. I’ll take you up.”

“Who’s on duty?”

“Stan Marsland.”

“I can run the elevator. You’ve got work to do, Sam. This suitcase belonged to Lemp. It’s loaded with grist for your mill.”

His lined face expressed a nice balance of anticipation and foreboding. “Fine,” he said doubtfully. “What do I do with the girl?”

“Forest will want to talk to her. Perhaps you’d better turn the suitcase over to him, too. They’ve got their mobile laboratory down here, haven’t they?”

“It’s in the garage courtyard.”

“Good. You can go home then. Why not take Molly with you? She doesn’t want to spend the night in jail.”

“I’ll say I don’t.”

Sam regarded her dubiously. “I got a wife already.”

“That’s the point. I haven’t.” I turned to her. “If Sheriff Dressen puts you up in his house, you won’t run away?”

“Where would I run away to?”

“Okay, Howie,” he said. “You did enough for me lately. One thing you didn’t do, though, you didn’t bring back my pictures.”

“I will. Give me a few minutes more.”

The automatic elevator was the only way to reach the jail floors at night. I rode it up. Stan Marsland was waiting at the top of the shaft with his hand on his holster.

“Isn’t it kind of late for visiting-hours?”

“Special circumstances, Stan. How often do we have a kidnapping?”

“Often enough to suit me. What’s in the briefcase, food? I hope it’s food.”

“Files and hacksaws.”

“Don’t mention them there things.” The graveyard shift made everybody garrulous. “I was hoping maybe it contained a steak, onions, fried potatoes, and a glass of draft beer. All of which I could use.”

“Is Mrs. Miner awake?”

“I wouldn’t know. She probably is. They don’t sleep so good the first night. You want to see her?”

“Yes.”

“Down here?”

“In her cell will do. It will only take a minute.”

He led me up a curved iron stair to an iron-railed gallery with a riveted floor. We passed a series of iron-sheathed doors with small wire-reinforced windows. There were shouts and howls and laughter behind one of them.

“Drunk tank,” Marsland said. “It’s just like fiesta, on a Saturday night. But oh on Sunday morning!”

At the end of the gallery he unlocked a door and turned me over to a sleepy matron. The women’s cells were open cages with barred doors. I could smell perfume among the animal and chemical odors. Amy Miner, alone in a corner cell, was standing at the bars as if she had known I was coming.

“Mr. Cross! You’ve got to get me out of here.”

“Quiet, Amy,” the matron said soothingly. “You’ll disturb the other girls.”

“But I’ve got no right to be here. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The matron wagged her head in my direction. Her hair was tied back in an old-fashioned bun that looked as hard and shiny as a doorknob. “Amy’s been quite a problem, Mr. Cross. Do you think they’ll be letting her out in the morning?” She added in a whisper: “I had to take her stockings off, she was talking about putting an end to herself.”

“They have to let me out,” Amy was saying. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Your husband has, apparently.”

“I don’t believe that, either.”

“Until it’s settled, one way or the other, they’re going to have to hold you. I don’t like it. Nobody likes it. Still, it’s got to be done.”

I moved up closer to the bars. A wire-netted light burned feebly in the ceiling. Amy’s eyes were puffed from crying. The lines in her face had deepened like erosion scars. Her mouth had set bitterly. Her hair straggled in grayish-brown ropes over her temples.

“What have they done to Fred?”

“Nothing’s been heard from him.”

“They’ve killed him, haven’t they? They’ve killed him and stolen the boy and locked me up and thrown the key away.”

I didn’t like the hysterical lilt in her voice. “Calm down now, Amy. Things could be worse. You’ll be out of here in a day or two.”

Her hands came through the bars. “Do you promise?”

I took her hands. They were as cold as the metal. “I think I can promise that. You’re being held as a witness, partly for your own good. When you’ve done your job as a witness, you’ll go free.”

“But I didn’t witness anything.”

“You must have. You were married to Fred a long time. How long, ten years?”

“Just about. Long enough to know that Fred’s no criminal.”

“Wives have been mistaken before.” I turned to the matron. “Can we have a little more light?”

She strode to a bank of switches and turned the ceiling light up. For the fourth and last time, I brought the posthumous photographs out of the briefcase.

“Did you ever see this man in your husband’s company?”

I held a blown-up full-face to the bars.

She made a sound in her throat: “Augh.” Her knuckles strained around the bars, and whitened. “Who is he?”

“He served on the Eureka Bay . Your husband must have known him. Fred was aboard the ship from the time it was launched.”

“Is it the Snow boy? Is that who it is?”