Corpses in the Cellar Read Free

scratched his head. “What’re you driving at, Hook?”
    “Nothing, Jimbo. Just laying all the groundwork I can.” He moved toward the bodies, took another drag on the Kool, and then,
     one after the other, pulled back the blankets that had been placed on the corpses a few moments before.
    “Well?” Brannigan asked when he was done.
    “The girls used to be pretty,” Lockwood remarked flatly.
    “Nobody there familiar to you, either?” Brannigan asked.
    “No, not really. Although as the years go on, they all begin to look alike.”
    “ ‘They’?” Brannigan inquired.
    “Innocent victims,” Lockwood said. He made a slow tour of the rest of the club, and moved toward the exit.
    Brannigan, who’d been chewing his lip saying nothing, jerked his head up as he saw his friend start toward the stairs. “I’ll
     come on out with you,” he said. “I’m through here.”
    The two of them slowly went up the stairway, alert to whatever they might find. The doors were shut as they reached the top,
     and Lockwood opened them carefully, stopping them when they had fully caught the light.
    In a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a jackknife, and then a handkerchief.
    Brannigan stood there impassively as Lockwood carefully put the knife to the door, scraping at it slowly and with precision,
     holding the handkerchief near, depositing the scrapings into it from time to time.
    Finally, he stood up, put the knife into his pocket, folded the handkerchief, and handed it to Brannigan. From Brannigan’s
     expression he knew he didn’t have to explain. The big man’s eyes had gone opaque and dangerous. “I’ll get this to the lab
     for you, Bill. And if it’s what you think it is, I’ll check with Eddie Black, and find out whether or not the doors were open.”

Chapter Three
    Debbie wasn’t there. Just the old man, uncomfortable, apprehensive as he let him in, a little frail as he showed the way into
     the enormous living room. Ceilings at least twenty feet high, Lockwood judged. High ceilings should cool a room down, but
     the place was still oppressively hot, even with half-a-dozen fans going. It looked as if it were going to be a bad summer.
    “Drink?” Grand asked, moving to the cocktail bar.
    “Irish and soda if you’ve got it,” Lockwood requested, and waited as Mack Grand ploddingly went through the motions. He was
     a small man, maybe five foot six inches, Lockwood judged, stocky, without suggesting either fat or strength, and bald, fluffs
     of white circling the large bare spot at the top of his head. However, his eyes were aware, and his lips full and sensual,
     as if whatever power that had once been contained in that body had retreated to those few inches between chin and forehead.
    “Cheers,” Grand toasted mechanically, after handing one of the glasses to Lockwood. He waited while Lockwood sipped, and then
     asked, “Now what can I do for you?”
    “I want you to tell me everything you know.”
    “My wife informs me she already told you all that.” It was said quietly, without anger or malice.
    “There has to be more to it than that.”
    “A fire is a fire, Mr. Lockwood.”
    “And arson is not just a fire.”
    “Arson?” Grand’s brows arched, and his eyes widened. “The police never said—”
    “I’ve just left the police. They’d only just determined that it was arson.”
    “I don’t understand—” Grand said, giving the appearance of genuine confusion.
    “All the bodies were found in the main part of the club, at the cellar level, far from the stairs.”
    “Yes?”
    “It didn’t make much sense because people don’t usually die that quickly in a fire. And since there were no marks on the bodies…”
     Lockwood pulled out the Camels and offered them to Grand, who shook his head no, and waved Lockwood to feel free to light
     up.
    The cigarette tasted good, blotting away the remaining traces of menthol, and Lockwood waited a moment to continue. Then,
     “So I