Safer Dead

‘Hello, Joe,’ Scaife said. ‘They got it up all right. They should be along in about half an hour.’

‘Anything in it?’

‘Cement. I don’t know what else. The old man’s opening it here.’

‘The last cement job I did,’ Joe said scowling, ‘was a horror. The guy had been in the water for six months. You should have seen him.’

‘She’s been in for fourteen months. Think there’ll be anything left to see?’

Joe shrugged.

‘It depends on how much of the cement has covered her. If she’s right inside the cement shell, she might be all right. She won’t last long: just long enough to identify her.’

Listening to this talk made me feel a little sick. I wasn’t sure now if I wanted to be present when they opened the barrel.

‘Come into the office,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve got a bottle in there that’ll put you in the right mood. I always have a shot before I tackle a job like this.’

We went into a small office and stood around while Joe got three glasses and a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard.

‘This is Chet Sladen, the guy who writes for Crimes Facts,’ Scaife said. ‘He’s working on the case.’

Joe nodded at me.

‘I’ve read some of your stuff, mister. You should have a good story here. Going to take photographs?’

‘I guess so.’

He beamed and moved over to the light.

‘Maybe you’ll be wanting my picture?’

‘I don’t suppose his camera’s insured,’ Scaife said, grinning.

I took a couple of shots of the little man. The light was poor and I didn’t expect to get good pictures, but as I was going to make a hole in his whisky, I thought it only fair to do something in return.

We had several drinks: taking the whisky straight without a chaser.

I was feeling less squeamish when I heard the truck come into the yard.

Joe hastily put the bottle and glasses away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went to open the double doors leading to the morgue.

‘Come on,’ Scaife said. ‘This’ll be a good test for your stomach.’

Creed came in scowling, followed by the Medical Officer.

‘You here already?’ Creed said, glaring at me.

‘Why not? It was my idea you found her,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ He snorted and turned to snap orders at the squad of cops who were manhandling the barrel on to a four-wheel trolley.

‘I had a sweet time shaking off those vultures,’ he went on. ‘If I could find out who talked, I’d break his neck.’

‘Well, you should be able to find out; you’re a cop,’ I said, needling him.

Scaife nudged me, shaking his head warningly.

We all trooped into the mortuary behind the truck. Joe and two of his assistants, also in rubber aprons and gloves, stood waiting.

‘Get going,’ Creed said. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

He waved the four policemen who had wheeled in the truck, out of the room. I moved back against the wall, and fitted a flashlight bulb into the flash socket. My hands were unsteady and I nearly dropped the bulb.

It didn’t take Joe and his assistants long to strip off the outer casing of the barrel.

While they worked, Creed said to me, ‘It’s the barrel Sperry sold to Flemming. Do you see the strawberry plant holes? She must be in it!’

Joe forced the last of the sodden lathes out of the iron hoop that bound them together. The block of cement, shaped like the barrel, looked gruesome in the hard light.

‘Whoever fixed this, did an expert job,’ he said, stepping back to wipe his forehead. ‘Get me a couple of wedges, Tom.’

I took a flashlight photograph of the cement block as Tom fetched the wedges.

‘Let’s take it easy,’ Joe said, and the two of them began to drive the wedges into the cement. Ten minutes of steady hammering cracked the cement. Joe peered into the crack.

Creed shoved him aside, looked into the opening, grimaced and stepped back.

‘It’s her,’ he said. ‘I can see the spangles on her getup. Okay, Joe, get it open.’

A few more blows with the hammers caused the cement suddenly to fall apart the way an Easter egg will open. I took one look and turned away.

I heard Creed say, ‘She’s all yours, Doc: what’s left of her.’

I was on my way out by then. I have a pretty good stomach, but what I had seen turned me sick. I went into the office, took out the bottle of Scotch and gave myself a big shot.

‘Me too,’ Scaife said, coming in. He took the bottle and half-filled his glass. ‘Phew! I wouldn’t be a croaker for all the money in the world. Well, that settles it. It’s her all right.’

After a few minutes, Creed came in.

I made him a drink; he took it silently and went to sit on the desk by the window. He drank some of the liquor although he didn’t look as if he needed it. His eyes were alight with excitement and satisfaction.

‘Well, at last we’re getting somewhere,’ he said. ‘You two stick around. I’m going to talk to the press. There’s no doubt it’s Fay Benson. The body in there’s got a crooked little finger and so had Fay.’ He finished his drink. ‘Now, we’ll have to find out why she was killed.’

He went out to where a gang of pressmen were waiting impatiently in the yard.

Scaife lit a cigarette.

‘We’re heading for some hard work,’ he said gloomily. ‘We’ve got to find this guy Rutland.’