Duncan stared unsmilingly at Moraine. He spoke without raising his voice.
“Shut up, Barney, I’m handling this.”
Barney Morden grimly remarked, “Okay, Chief.”
Frank Lott sat motionless, his face fixed and lugubrious. Moraine flashed him a glance and said, “For Christ’s sake, what is this bird, an undertaker?”
Duncan nodded his head in slow, solemn assent. “Yes,” he said, “he’s an undertaker. He’s also the coroner.”
“Cheerful outfit to be pulling a man out of bed,” Moraine said, and turned to Frank Lott. “I didn’t mean any offense, Lott. I was just trying to make a joke.”
“And to change the subject,” Barney Morden said.
“Shut up, Barney,” Duncan repeated in a low monotone.
Sam Moraine made tasting noises with his mouth.
“What the devil’s the matter?” he asked.
“We’re waiting to find out about that telephone call,” Duncan said.
“Good God!” Moraine exclaimed. “Do I have to explain every telephone call I get, just because I let you birds use my office?”
“You left the office in a hurry,” Duncan went on, “and went somewhere. I think you took a cab.”
“Do you, indeed!” murmured Moraine sarcastically. “That’s awfully important, if it’s true, Phil. You should concentrate on it — find out if it’s true.”
“We’ve located a cab driver,” Duncan went on, “who took a man who answers your description, from near your office building out to Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst.”
Moraine’s face became utterly expressionless.
“What are you trying to do?” he asked.
“We want to know whether you were the one who took that cab.”
“What if I was?”
“What did you go out there for?”
“I didn’t say I went out there.”
“We can get the cab driver and he can identify you.”
“Suppose he does? Then what?”
“You’re not helping us much,” Duncan said.
Moraine laughed. “Snap out of it, Phil. Tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll answer questions. Try this gloomy, professional stuff and I won’t tell you a damned thing.”
Duncan and Barney Morden exchanged glances.
“I think,” Duncan said, “I’m going to ask you to get up.”
“What do you mean? Do you want to search the bed?”
“No, get up and get your clothes on.”
“Why?”
“We want you to go with us.”
“Where?”
“To the morgue.”
Moraine’s face showed indignation.
“Now, what the hell should I go to the morgue for?” he expostulated.
“To look at a body,” Duncan told him.
“Whose body?”
“We’ll let you know when you get there.”
“What good would it do for me to look at a body?”
“Never mind, we want you to go.”
Moraine stared steadily at him.
“Is this official?” he asked.
Duncan sighed and said, “Sam, I hate to do this, but this is official as hell.”
“And why do you want me to look at the body?”
“Because we think you went out to Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst.”
“That’s got something to do with it?”
“That’s got something to do with it.”
“What happens if I don’t dress?”
“If you don’t dress,” Duncan said slowly, “I’m afraid it will be an admission that you’re concealing something that may be connected with the case.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’d have to take you down to the office for inquiry. We’d have to confront you with the taxi driver.”
“Well, why not bring him up here?”
Duncan shook his head slowly and said regretfully, “No, Sam, we’re going to give you the breaks. We’d put you in a line of ten or fifteen men and let the cab driver see if he could pick you out.”
“Why, you don’t do that to a man,” Moraine exclaimed, “unless he’s accused of crime I”
Duncan’s silence was more significant than words world have been.
Sam Moraine kicked back the covers, walked to the closet, divested himself of his pyjamas and started dressing.
“Of all the fool things I ever heard in my life!” he said, as he struggled into his shirt.
Duncan sat silent. Barney Morden’s eyes followed his every move.
“There’s a bottle over there in the cupboard,” Moraine said. “It’s damned good Scotch. You guys help yourselves while I’m getting dressed... God, of all the damn fool ideas I ever heard of, dragging me off to a morgue to look at a corpse!”
He fumbled with his necktie, inspecting himself in the mirror, setting his face into rigid lines, schooling himself to give no exclamation, not to betray himself by so much as a single quiver of the facial muscles when the authorities should rip back the sheet and uncover the dead body of Pete Dixon.
The men were pouring whisky into glasses as he finished buttoning his vest.
“Want one, Sam?” asked Duncan.
“Make it a big one,” Moraine accepted.
Duncan pushed a glass, across to him. Moraine held the amber liquid up to the light.
“Well, boys,” he said cheerfully, “here’s to crime.”
Phil Duncan set his empty glass down on the side of the table, pulled his coat around him.
“Come on, Sam,” he said. “I hate to do this. Get your coat on and let’s go.”
In silence, Moraine wrapped his coat about him, pulled a hat down on his head, nodded to the others. They filed out through the door, down the stairs and to the windswept sidewalk.
A car was waiting at the curb. Morden was doing the driving. Lott took the front seat, Duncan and Moraine the rear. The car purred into motion, swept through the deserted streets at speed. On the corners the wind tugged at the car, swayed it from side to side.
“Hell of a wind,” Morden remarked, fighting the steering wheel.
Duncan said nothing.
They turned down a dark side street, slid to a stop before a gloomy building, in front of which glowed greenish lights.
The men pushed through a swinging door. A dour-faced individual regarded them with fishy eyes, and nodded. Lott took the lead, led the way through a door, into a long corridor, paused before another door, took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and entered a room that was as sepulchral as the inside of a vault. A sheeted figure lay upon a marble slab.
Barney Morden manuevered Moraine into a position facing the sheeted figure.
“You’ll understand, Sam,” Phil Duncan said, in the monotone of a magician diverting the attention of his audience, “that we only want...”
Sam Moraine saw Barney Morden’s hand surreptitiously drop to a corner of the sheet. He braced himself for the shock.
The sheet ripped back explosively as Morden gave it a strong jerk.
Sam Moraine’s eyes stared at the battered countenance of a dead woman. Blood matted her hair, encrusting it against her face in dark, stiff streamers. Blows had crushed the skull, had pushed the face lopsided. One eye bulged from its socket.
“Good God!” said Sam Moraine, recoiling.
The body was that of Ann Hartwell.
“When did you see her last, Sam?” Duncan asked.
Moraine turned to face Duncan. Morden took his arm, pivoted him back toward the corpse. “Take a good look at her,” he said. “Look at the face. See where those blows landed. Tell us who hit her.”
Moraine whirled savagely.
“Say, what the hell are you trying to do?” he demanded. “Is this some sort of a third degree? God damn you, Barney! I’ve shot square with you as a friend. You’ve mooched my liquor and hung around me, playing poker at my office and at my home. I don’t know as you’ve ever given me anything. I’ve put up with you because you’re a friend of Phil’s. Now you’re showing yourself up. You touch me with your damned hands again and I’ll smash your nose all over your face! Do you get that?”