Corpse on the Grill

The Marshal barked: “Stay outside, Biddonay. Don’t want you smearing up any prints in here.” He gave the room a rapid once-over. Nothing seemed to be disturbed; there were no signs of a struggle, and no indications that the bureau or the wardrobe in the corner had been ransacked. The man’s clothes were neatly piled on the back of a chair by his bedside; the suit had been hung on hangers in the wardrobe. He put a hand on the dead man’s wrist. It was cold, but not yet stiffened in rigor mortis.

He lifted the head. Donnelly’s eyes were open; the man hadn’t been killed in his sleep. By the placid expression on the corpse’s features, Pedley guessed that the cashier hadn’t even known he was going to die.

Pedley knelt, looked under the bed and behind the wardrobe. No sign of a weapon. He went to the bureau, opened the drawers with his hand covered by a handkerchief. He found shirts, sox, underclothes; a bank-book with eleven hundred dollars as the last balance; some old baseball scorecards and theatre programs. There were gloves, handkerchiefs, cuff links — stuff you’d find in half a million rooms like this.

Under a folded sweater in the bottom drawer, Pedley found a photograph. It was a glossy print of a nearly nude girl, with a figure that could stand that kind of photography. She wore only a white fur cap, white mittens and skating boots with wooly socks. She was poised on skate-toes; she held in her mittened hands a white ball about the size of a basket-ball. The Marshal took it over to the door and asked, “This the mouse who does the snowball dance?”

Biddonay exclaimed, “Why... why sure! That’s Suzie. But I never saw this. What would Pete be doing with her picture?”

“Maybe he went for this mouse.”

Biddonay gaped. “I’d never dreamed.”

Pedley picked up a newspaper from the table, slid the picture in between the folds. “The guys who go for Suzie seem to get treated pretty rough, mister. Suppose we ask her why.”

Downstairs in the hall, Pedley used a slot phone to call Biddonay’s office. To the plainclothesman who answered, he said: “When you’ve finished at the Ice-taurant, there a job at Nine-sixty-six West Fifty-first. Second floor front, name of Peter Donnelly. Cashier at Biddonay’s place. Back of his head split open with a cleaver or something like that. Hurry it, will you?”

He hung up. He questioned the landlady as to possible visitors to Donnelly’s room; got nowhere. She couldn’t keep track of everyone who came in her house at that hour of the morning, could she?

Biddonay said: “I think Pete’s mother lives somewhere upstate. We better send her a wire.”

“Up to the Bureau of Identification,” Pedley replied. “They’ll find her address in his things, probably. Here comes the death watch; let’s grab a cab.”

They went out as the Homicide Squad came in. Ten minutes later a taxi dropped them in front of 12 Griswold Place. A new apartment with a river view, it boasted too much chromium and plate glass and stainless steel for the Marshal’s taste. Miss Suzanne d’Hiver occupied Apartment 7B. They used an automatic elevator; there was no night man visible in the lobby.

Pedley listened at the door of 7B for a minute, and heard voices. They ceased abruptly when he buzzed, but it was a full minute before a girl’s voice called:

“Who is it?”

“Fire Department.”

The door opened, revealing a flaxen-haired, pleasant-faced girl with wide-set mint-green eyes and sensuous lips. The negligee she wore hadn’t been designed to conceal her curves.

“Mr. Biddonay! Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, Suzie.” The fat man sighed. “A lot is wrong. The spot burned down tonight; three firemen lost their lives. And—”

“I want to ask a couple of questions, Miss d’Hiver,” Pedley cut in.

“That’s perfectly dreadful. Come right in.” She seemed shocked at Biddonay’s news. Still, she was in show business, the Marshal realized — she might be putting on an act. The cafe proprietor introduced them.

“Better give out with the answers, Suzie,” Biddonay counselled. “The truth, the whole truth, you know.”

She said she understood. She watched Pedley warily as he gazed around at the ultra-moderne furnishings of the apartment.

“Someone here with you? Thought I heard voices,” he inquired.

“I had the radio on. I turned it off.”

“Oh, that was it.” The Marshal thought she was lying. “You know a big guy they call Gorilla Greg? A wrestler?”

“Gregory Scanopolous? I ought to.” She nodded calmly. “He’s my husband, you see?”

Biddonay cried: “You said you weren’t married. That’s what you told me and Herb!”

“Sure I did. A wedding ring wouldn’t go so good in the snowball dance business, Mr. Biddonay.”

Pedley interrupted: “You’re not living with this Gorilla gent now?”

“No. We called it a day. Been separated for two years now. He used to beat me up.” She said it quite without venom.

“Why’s he keep going to the Ice-taurant to see you?” Pedley asked.