Mourning After by Thomas B. Dewey

Author:Thomas B. Dewey [Dewey, Thomas B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery;crime;detective;series;sleuth
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2018-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I found a lamp and when I switched it on Singer was kneeling beside the girl on the floor.

“She’s alive,” he said. “She’s been beaten.”

She had been beaten all right. Her face looked something like mine had after my session in the elevator at the Morris Hotel. Her dress had been ripped downward from the shoulders, and there were ugly blue bruises on her shoulders and above the one breast that was uncovered. It would be some time before she would be able to solicit paying business again.

We worked over her for a while with cold compresses and some smelling salts we found in the bathroom. There was a bottle of cheap whisky in the kitchen and I poured some of that into her mouth. She came around a little and opened one of her eyes.

“No—” she breathed—“no more!”

“You’re all right now,” I said and I guess she recognized my voice.

“You—make—me—sick,” she said.

I couldn’t hold it against her. She closed her eye and seemed to have fainted. I looked at Singer.

“We’ll have to take her to our room,” he said.

“She’ll need clothes.”

“See what you can find.” There was a small closet in the bedroom and I found a couple of dresses and some cheap lingerie on a shelf. I opened a scarred overnight bag and put the things in it. I gave the bag to Singer and picked Donna up and carried her out while he held the doors. She wasn’t any lightweight. By the time I got to the car I felt as if I’d been hauling timber.

We made her as comfortable as possible in the back seat and I drove back to the motor court. Singer called a doctor we found in the phone book and we spent about twenty minutes trying to make Donna comfortable again in one of the twin beds. Singer wasn’t enthusiastic about undressing her, but we had to get her out of the tight, twisted dress, which, besides the torn brassiere and her shoes and stockings, was all she had on. It took the doctor another twenty minutes to arrive and when he came he wasn’t happy. He walked in, yawning, needing a shave and when he saw the girl in the bed he said, “Where did this cat come from?”

“I’ll tell you the story,” Singer said, “if necessary. But it may take some time.”

“You better tell me,” the doctor said, “while I look her over.”

So we told him. He looked her over carefully and gave her a shot of something in the arm. When he got through he turned to Singer and said, “It’s the damnedest story I ever heard.” He looked at me. “This type of girl,” he said, “you don’t have to rape them, you know.”

“I didn’t,” I said.

He looked at my face for a while.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Make an examination. I didn’t lay a finger on her till I picked her up to bring over here.”

“Why did you bring her way over here instead of getting somebody to look at her over there?”

“It wasn’t a safe place to leave her.

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