Meet Me at the Morgue by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online

of the customers nowadays you got to use a chisel to peel a nickel off their palms. He slipped me two bucks for walking across the street.”
    “Tell me about him.”
    “I thought he was going to register when he came in, that he was just off the train. No luggage, though. He told me he left his suitcase at the station, told me where it was.” He held out his hands, palms upward. “What should I do, tell him I was too ritzy to tote a bag? Could I know it was hot?”
    “He also told you not to speak to Joe at the newsstand. Didn’t he?”
    Sandy looked everywhere but at me. The dismal surroundings seemed to sadden him. “I don’t remember. If he did, I must have figured it was a gag of some kind. What did Joe say?”
    “Just what he heard. You do the same. Except that you have eyes.”
    “You want a description?”
    “As full a one as you can give me.”
    “Is this going into court? I wouldn’t make a good witness in court. I’m nervous.”
    “Quit stalling, boy. You’re one step away from being booked yourself. He paid you more than two dollars, and you knew very well it wasn’t legit.”
    “Honest to God, cross my heart.” His finger crossed and recrossed his faded blue breast. “Two bucks was all it was. Would I risk a felony rap for a lousy two bucks? Do I look gone in the upper story?”
    “I won’t answer that one, Sandy. You are if you won’t talk.”
    “I’ll talk, don’t worry. But you can’t make me say I knew. I didn’t. I still don’t. What was it, stolen goods? Marijuana?”
    “You’re wasting time. Let’s have a complete description.”
    He took a deep breath. It wheezed in his throat and swelled his chest out like a pouter pigeon’s. “Okay, I said I’d co-operate, that’s my policy. Let’s see, he was about your size, maybe a little shorter. Definitely fatter. A pretty ugly puss, if you ask me, I should of known he was a hustler. Whisky eyes—you know what I mean?—a sort of pinky blue color. Bad complexion, kind of pockmarked around the nose. He was pretty well dressed, though, a sharp dresser. Brown slacks and light tan jacket, yellow sport shirt. I like good clothes myself. I notice clothes. He had these two-tone shoes, brown and doeskin or whatever they call it. Real sharp.”
    “A young man?”
    “Naw, I wouldn’t call him young. Middle-aged is more like it, maybe in his fifties. One thing I noticed about him. He had a hat on—brown snap-brim—but under it I think he was wearing a toupee. You know how they look at the back, sort of funny around the edges, like they didn’t belong to the neck?”
    “You have eyes all right. What color?”
    “Brown, sort of a dark reddish brown.”
    “Over-all impression?”
    “I tabbed him strictly from hunger, but putting on a front. You follow me? We see a lot of them: actors and pitchmen out of a job, ex-bookies peddling tips from the horse’s brother—that sort of stuff, with barely one nickel to rub against another, but keeping the old front up. When he slipped me folding money, you could have knocked me over with a bulldozer.”
    “Did he pay you before or after?”
    “One buck when he sent me, the other when I cameback. He was waiting on the veranda when I came back. What was in that suitcase? It didn’t feel heavy to me.”
    “I’ll tell you when I find out. Where did he go with it?”
    “He marched off down the street. I thought he was going to register—”
    “You said that. Which way?”
    “Across the railroad tracks.”
    “Come out and show me.”
    He followed me to the veranda steps, and pointed west towards the harbor:
    “I didn’t wait to see where he went. He just started walking that way. He walked as if his feet hurt him.”
    “Carrying the suitcase?”
    “Yeah, sure. But now you mention it, he had a topcoat with him. He carried the suitcase under his arm, with the topcoat kind of slung over it.”
    “Did he cross the street?”
    “Not that I saw. He didn’t go back to the station,