Corpses in the Cellar by Brad Latham Page A

assignment,” Lockwood said, irritation creeping into his
     voice. Why did Gray’s face have to look so white and bloated, like a stiff hauled out of the Hudson after a two-week soak?
    “Ah, yes, well, Bill, you know,” Gray purred, “what’s done is done. The past is the past. It’s the
here
and the
now
that counts. That’s what this business is all about.”
    Lockwood watched a couple of smoke rings break against Gray’s face before he continued. “All right. I’ll tell you where I
     am.”
    He rose, and paced the thick rug of the room. “I’ve checked out all the victims. The customers were tourists, each of them
     from out of town. There’s no reading on any of them. As far as I can tell, they were clean.”
    “You do still think it’s arson?” Mr. Gray asked, hope shining out of his watery blue eyes. If it were arson, and if the arson
     were owner Grand’s work, then Transatlantic wouldn’t have to pay. To Gray, that was the best of all possible worlds. Premium
     upon premium coming in, and not a payment going out.
    “Yes,” Lockwood said, staring through the window at the city that spread out below him. No airshaft here.
    “Well, what about the other people who died in the fire? Do they mean anything?”
    The Hook took another drag on the Camel. “Something funny was going on there.”
    “Yes?” Gray was expectant in a way that offended The Hook. To Gray all those dead bodies were nothing but possible evidence;
     evidence to make use of while building a case to deny the claim.
    “By law the club should have been closed to the public by three in the morning. But it wasn’t. I figure the waiter and bartender
     who died in the fire kept the place open, knowing Grand was gone, and sold booze to the tourists, pocketing the cash themselves.”
    “That’s just a theory.”
    “More than a theory. The books hadn’t been done, but the total on the register tape—the tape I found in the cash register—that
     total had been penciled into the books to work against. The amounts were exactly the same.”
    “And that means?”
    “That means that after Grand left the place at three, no cash went into the register.”
    “And since the customers were still there half an hour or so later, one would presume some drinking went on during that period.”
    “Exactly.”
    “But the bookkeeper—she was Grand’s sister. Wouldn’t she have—as you are wont to say—blown the whistle?”
    “One would think so,” Lockwood admitted. “But loyalty among relations isn’t as unflagging as we might wish. It could be she
     was in for a share of the pot.”
    “And the two chorus girls?” Gray asked, eyes glittering. Lockwood remembered how Gray had looked when he’d told the detective
     how the women were found, bodies blackened, clothes burned off. It had made him want to puke.
    He turned his back on Gray, repulsed by the sickness he saw there. Naked women. That was Gray’s big thing. Naked women. No
     matter how their clothing had been removed. “I figure they were girl friends of the bartender and waiter. Or maybe pick-ups
     of one of the customers. In any event, I think they just got caught in something that didn’t have anything to do with them.”
    “Poor dears,” Gray clucked, his pale blue eyes alight, as he thought about them. And then the light flickered and died, and
     he looked up at Lockwood. “What else?”
    “I haven’t had a chance to check out everyone yet. I want to see the families of the waiter and bartender, see if they knew
     anything.”
    “And that’s it?” Gray asked, aghast. “My God, Bill, it sounds as if you—”
    “It sounds as if I haven’t finished speaking,” Lockwood snapped. “We’ve got enough suspects already. Grand himself could have
     done it. I looked over his books while I was at the club, right after the fire. He was just hanging on.”
    “Ah! So he could have done it for the money!”
    “Easily. Besides, he’s got a young, beautiful wife. Men like