Corpse on the Grill

“You know,” Jewett put in, “she comes out after them chorines do their strip tease on skates; she ain’t wearing a stitch except she’s holding this big snowball, and of course while she skates around the snowball begins to melt—”

“Shut up,” barked Pedley. “What’s her name?”

Biddonay looked at the floor. “Name is Sue d’Hiver. She’s a swell kid. She wouldn’t harm a flea.”

“Where’s she live?”

“Over on the East Side somewheres. The address’d be up in the cashier’s ledger.”

The Marshal got his arm, shoved him toward the stairs. “Let’s get it, fella. I might want a word with this mouse.”

Chapter Three Gorilla Greg

They went up to the office. Biddonay opened the safe with fingers that rattled the combination dial. He pulled out a black and red ledger. “Here y’are.”

Pedley read: Suzanne d’Hiver, 12 Griswold Place. He checked down the list of employees until he came to: Peter Donnelly, 966 West 51st Street.

“This cashier of yours lives just around the corner, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“Funny he hasn’t showed up.”

“Is queer.” The cafe man snuffled dismally.

“Give him another buzz,” Pedley suggested.

Biddonay stuck a pudgy forefinger in the phone dial, spun it seven times. There was an odd, puzzled look in his round eyes; after a bit he held the receiver away from his ear so Pedley could hear the operator ringing. “Nobody home.”

The marshal growled: “Give him another couple minutes. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll have to go after him.”

“It would be a dumb trick to lam out, Marshal. An’ Pete ain’t dumb, at all.”

A black limousine slid to the curb in front of the restaurant. Four men got out, carrying valises, camera cases, tripods, flash guns.

Pedley said: “Homicide boys’ll take over here, but you better come with me, Biddonay. I’ll put you under technical arrest as a material witness.”

“For the Lord’s sake—”

“Hold on, fella. Material witness arrest means the cops won’t be able to drag you downtown for a day of questions and answer stuff while I need you to run down this arson business.”

The stout man seemed relieved. “It’s just I don’t like the idea of being arrested, is all. Besides, I won’t be much use as a witness, will I? I don’t know anything about the fire. And I’ve only seen this Gorilla lug a couple times here in the restaurant. I never talked to him—”

“Don’t worry about your testimony.” The Marshal opened a closet door, peered inside. “This is your joint; you hire the help; you were first on the scene after the crime was discovered. That’ll be all I’ll need. Except I’ll want you to shag over to Donnelly’s with me, if he doesn’t get here directly.”

“I can’t go like this.” Biddonay wiggled his toes in the slippers. “My clothes is upstairs—” he gestured, palms out.

Pedley tilted his head toward the closet. “Who belongs to those duds?”

“The tux? That’s Herb’s. I couldn’t get into that.”

“Try it. Better than going around like you are.” The Marshal went out to meet the headquarters men. He explained the setup briefly and wound up, “All that’s left of it in the ice-box is the torso. Arms and legs went on the grill. Might look around for the skull. I’m going over to the cashier’s; he’s supposed to be the last man here, the guy who closes up.” He didn’t go into detail about the wrestler or the snowball dancer; Jewett would do that, anyhow, and the homicide squad liked to do things its own way. And they made a fetish identifying corpses before rounding up suspects...

The murder experts trooped down to the basement; Pedley went back to the office. Biddonay was dressed. The pants were skin-tight and an inch too long. The coat wouldn’t button, but there were shiny patent leathers on his feet and a soft dress-shirt under the coat.

“I buzzed Herb,” the fat man frowned. “He wasn’t home. Mrs. Krass was there. She don’t know where he is. I told her to have him come right over soon’s he shows up.”

“That’s right. Thought you said your partner went home early.”

Biddonay pursed his cupid-bow lips, comically. “Herb likes to buck the tiger, once in a while. Prob’ly where he is now.”

Pedley was noncommital. “He’s lost his shirt, anyway.”

They walked a block and a half, found 966 a shabby redstone rooming house. An angry woman in a bedraggled dressing gown answered the bell after a while, subsided after a glance at the gold badge in Pedley’s palm.

“Second floor front is Mr. Donnelly. I hope there ain’t anything wrong?”

The Marshal didn’t satisfy her curiosity. He borrowed her keys and went upstairs.

Biddonay panted: “Hell of a place to live. Pete can afford better’n this.”

Pedley knocked, without result. Then he used a key.

By the light of a cheap lamp on a center table, they saw the cashier lying face down on top of the bedclothes. He might have been asleep, save for the wedge-shaped wound on the back of his head. A thin red ribbon trailed down the back of his neck, across his pajama coat.