Meanwhile Back at the Morgue by Michael Avallone

Author:Michael Avallone [Avallone, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Story Merchant Books
Published: 2013-04-20T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day dawned bright and clear on my empty stomach. My howlingly empty stomach. I dressed up properly, cut myself shaving and lammed out of the office on the double. I was down the elevator and out on the sidewalk, blinking in some unseasonal sunlight, when I first got back to thinking about crazy yesterday. The Marcus Manton caper with all the hops, skips and jumps of murder and attempted murder. I shuddered inwardly, thinking about the impossible string of goofy suspects that had piled up in one day.

I ticked them off in my mind as my size nines guided me toward the combination drugstore and luncheonette on the corner. Lisa de Milo, Bud Tremont, Von Arnheim and now the fantastic Fran Tulip who had dropped off Cloud Nine into the heart of the case. All of them had good reason to kill. I mentally added Marcus Manton to the suspect list. I didn’t trust him either any more. Sure, he’d done the hiring, but his showman’s brain was capable of anything, bad ear or no bad ear. I could still see the .32 he had pointed in my kisser.

I beelined for a red leather stool at the other end of the long counter, and sat down. My watch said ten thirty-two. The store was deserted except for the counterman and the druggist. The druggist was checking off a load of headache powders by his cash register. The counterman was wiping off his griddle when I interrupted him by arriving. I kept my eyes on the front door, my back to the rear of the store, à la Wild Bill Hickok. The habit was always a good one. In the last century I would have been a cinch to be either a sheriff or an outlaw. I’m a gunslinger as it is.

I went all out for breakfast. Cold cereal, pancakes, sausages and coffee, plus a beaker of orange juice. The counterman showed me a patient smile as he went into his act. I settled back and lit a Camel, burning up some mental wood as well as tobacco.

It was next-move time. What was my next move? Check with Mike Monks on the Donegan murder? Go see Lisa de Milo and twist her arm? Ask Bud Tremont about the juvenile goon duet named Artie and Tip that he had sicked on my tail? Look up Von Arnheim and find out what crystal ball he was looking into? How about Marcus Manton and his new discovery, the mysterious Miss Fran Tulip? I shuddered under the weight of possibilities. And there was still the tarantula, the falling elevator and the phone call that had exploded in the Manton ear. A gorgeous case all around.

I was still kicking the gong around when my food arrived. I plunged into the goodies, still thinking. Thinking helped because it took my mind off the badly made coffee, the orange-less orange juice and the rubbery tastelessness of the flapjacks. French chefs are not to be found at lunch counters—that was the only deduction I came up with that morning that was worth anything.

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