Corpses in the Cellar Read Free Page A

checked the exits, and found nothing. Nothing, that is, till I got to the front doors. There were things stuck to those
     doors…”
    He rose, and walked to the window. Below he could see all of Central Park, green, throbbing with life. What was there in people
     that moved them to destroy? Why all the waste, the useless, unnecessary waste? He sighed, and turned back to the club owner.
     He wasn’t being paid to reflect. “I had them checked out at the police lab. They were what I suspected they were. Bits of
     clothing and human flesh.”
    “I don’t—” Grand’s voice faltered, “I don’t understand.”
    “Simple enough. The people in that club had tried to get out. Had pressed their bodies against the hot steel of the doors.
     Were crushed against the doors, probably by the people behind them, till bits of them sizzled, and stuck.”
    Grand looked sick. He sat for a moment hanging his head, and then looked up at Lockwood. “But why does that make that arson?”
    “Two reasons. One, the bodies weren’t found on the stairs. They’d been moved to look as if they’d never gone near the front
     doors.”
    “But why?”
    “That should be obvious to you. The doors were locked from outside.”
    “But they couldn’t have been.”
    “Shouldn’t have been, perhaps. But they were. Nothing else could have kept them shut, no way they could have just jammed.”
    “But if they were locked, how did the firemen—the doors weren’t damaged.”
    “Even before the firemen got there, the doors were open. Even before the first person on the scene—a policeman—got there,
     the doors were open.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    Lockwood took a drag on the Camel. “Whoever did it opened the door before the cop got there, dragged the bodies down to the
     cellar, and left.”
    “Impossible. He’d have been burned to death. I saw what the stairs look like.”
    “My guess is the decorations went quickly. The stairs probably burnt out in minutes. When the firemen got there they were
     fighting flames along the sides of the cellar; the more substantial stuff.”
    “My God.” Grand looked about him, helplessly. “Who could ever do such a thing?”
    The detective returned to the couch, and sat. “That’s what I’d like to ask you,” he said, quietly.
    Grand stared at him dumbly for a moment, then offered, “How could I possibly know?”
    “It’s your club. Somebody torched it. Deliberately.”
    Grand finished his drink in one quick gulp. “I don’t see how I can help you.”
    “Mr. Grand, I have to warn you—until my investigation can proceed to a satisfactory conclusion, there’s no way my company
     is going to pay off on your insurance.” Lockwood stabbed out his butt. “And at the moment, I’m nowhere near that conclusion.”
    The old man’s arms dropped to his sides, and he faced Lockwood directly, all defenses seemingly down. “All right. I can’t
     think of anything. But if you want to ask questions, go ahead, if you believe it’ll help.”
    “Vinnie Griese,” Lockwood said.
    Grand’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
    “There’s been word out for some time that Griese’s been trying to muscle into your club. Some people even say he’s done it.”
    Grand’s eyes narrowed in anger, and his lower teeth showed, as he spat out the words, “Griese’s got nothing to do with my
     club! Nothing!”
    “Okay,” Lockwood said, soothingly. “Okay. But what about the rumors that he wanted a piece of the action?”
    “Mr. Lockwood, everyone in New York seems to want a piece of my club. Hoodlums like Griese, cops on the take, columnists expecting
     freebies everytime they drop in with a party of twelve…”
    Lockwood persisted. “How recently was Griese after you?”
    “I don’t know. A month ago, two months… at my age, it’s hard to keep track of time.”
    “You turned him down?”
    .”Of course. He’s nothing but a lamebrain punk. What good could he do me?”
    “The standard offer is