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    Milo March #12: Uneasy Lies the Dead
    Milo March #12: Uneasy Lies the Dead
    Milo March #12: Uneasy Lies the Dead
    Ebook183 pages2 hours

    Milo March #12: Uneasy Lies the Dead

    By Kendell Foster Crossen and M.E. Chaber

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    About this ebook

    A man disappeared seven years ago, and his large life insurance policies are ready to come due unless he is found alive. He’s a union boss and gangster who was in the midst of testifying to Congress when he mysteriously vanished. Hoping to save the insurance company a million dollars, Milo March crisscrosses the country to find out if he’s still alive, with a pair of professional killers on his tail, determined to stop the investigation.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteeger Books
    Release dateSep 26, 2020
    ISBN9791220200301
    Milo March #12: Uneasy Lies the Dead

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      Book preview

      Milo March #12 - Kendell Foster Crossen

      Uneasy Lies the Dead

      by

      Kendell Foster Crossen

      Writing as M.E. Chaber

      Steeger Books / 2020

      Copyright Information

      Published by Steeger Books

      Visit steegerbooks.com for more books like this.

      ©1992, 2020 by Kendra Crossen Burroughs

      The unabridged novel has been lightly edited by Kendra Crossen Burroughs.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

      Publishing History

      Hardcover

      New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, January 1964. Dust jacket by Ben Feder, Inc.

      Toronto: Holt, Rinehart & Winston of Canada, 1964.

      London: T.V. Boardman (American Bloodhound Mystery #470), 1964.

      Paperback

      New York: Paperback Library (63-328), A Milo March Mystery, #8, May 1970. Cover by Robert McGinnis.

      Dedication

      For the one and only—Lisa

      One

      It was a nice little club on Euclid Avenue in Cleveland, Ohio. You know the kind—with dim lights, fancy furnishings, and stiff prices. The attraction, as far as I was concerned, was a blues singer named Lola Crane. She was about five feet seven and a hundred and twenty pounds. Every pound of it was in just the right place. Her hair was honey-colored. She had the kind of voice that makes your throat tighten up when you hear it. I’d discovered her by accident the second night I was in Cleveland. I’d been back several times, but this was the first night I could relax and really enjoy it.

      The name’s March. Milo March. I’m an insurance investigator with my own office in New York. I’d been in Cleveland a week, working for the Security Insurance Company. It was a small outfit that gave me a job maybe once a year. This time it had been some broad who had killed her husband and thought she was going to collect his insurance.

      She might have gotten away with it, too, if she’d been a little more patient. He had been listed on the police files as a victim of a hit-and-run accident. That meant the company paid double. They resigned themselves to their fate and were about to pay off. Then, about two weeks after the accident, a clerk for the insurance company drove down her street on his way home from a night out with the boys. It was three o’clock in the morning. It just happened that he was the clerk who was processing her claim. It also happened that he was ambitious. So he noticed the lights on in her house and thought he saw a couple dancing in the living room. He didn’t think that was the way for a brand-new widow to act, so the next morning he reported it.

      The company didn’t get excited, but they asked a few questions. The widow said there wasn’t any party; it was just that she was so upset she had to call her doctor. He verified that he’d been there and said he’d had to give her a sedative. The only thing that bothered the company, after they thought about it for a while, was that he was the same doctor who had signed the death certificate. They got a court order and had the body dug up and an autopsy performed. The husband had been killed by a car, all right—he’d been run over three or four times—but he was also full of enough morphine to have kept him unconscious for a week. The company called me.

      It had taken me a week to wrap the case up, and the doctor and the lovely widow were both locked up. The company was so grateful they gave me a thousand dollars over my fee of seven hundred. That had made me so grateful that I decided to spend part of it in Cleveland before catching the plane the next morning. So there I was at the Hideout, drinking V.O. at a buck and a half a shot and letting Lola Crane’s voice send shivers up and down my spine.

      She was just finishing her final number when I beckoned the waiter.

      He hurried over. Another one, sir? he asked, reaching for my glass, which was still half full.

      In a moment, I said. Ask Miss Crane if she’ll join me for a drink.

      He shook his head. I don’t think she will, sir. She doesn’t do that sort of thing.

      Why don’t you ask her and find out, I suggested. I slid a five-dollar bill across the table.

      He hesitated a second, then scooped it up. He turned and went to meet her.

      I was pretty sure she’d come. It wasn’t that I thought I was irresistible; I was sure that curiosity would get to her. I had sat at that same table alone every night I’d been in Cleveland. It was near enough to the small stage so that she couldn’t have helped seeing me.

      I’d been right. She listened to the waiter and then came directly to my table. I got to my feet.

      I’m glad you came, Miss Crane, I said. I wanted to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your singing. Won’t you join me for a drink?

      Thank you, she said.

      I went around and held the chair for her. She sat down and I suddenly found myself looking down over her shoulder. It was a lovely view. It answered one thing I’d been wondering. Only nature had ever made anything like them.

      I couldn’t think of an excuse for lingering, so I went back to my chair. My name is Milo March, I said.

      Hello, she said with a smile.

      The waiter came over and I looked at her.

      Bourbon and water, she said.

      I ordered it for her and another V.O. for myself. Then I turned back to her.

      You’ve been here almost every night for a week, she said. Why?

      I’ve told you. I think you’re one of the most exciting singers I’ve heard in a long time.

      That’s very nice to hear, but I’ve been here for two months. How come it took you so long to discover me?

      I’m from New York. I just arrived in Cleveland a week ago. I happened to wander in here the first night and liked what I heard—and saw. So I’ve come back. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I thought I’d tell you how much I liked your singing before I left.

      The waiter arrived with the drinks.

      Too bad you’re not a talent scout, she said with a smile. I could use a little discovering. But it’s sweet of you to tell me anyway. Thank you.

      To your being discovered, I said solemnly, lifting my drink.

      We drank to that and I looked her over again. She moved a little but it was with pleasure not embarrassment. And when I glanced at her face, there was amusement in her eyes as well as enjoyment.

      You have another show, don’t you? I asked.

      She nodded. I can’t stay long because of that. I go on again in an hour, and I have to change and rest a few minutes.

      Sure, I said. Maybe we can have another drink when you’re through.

      She gave me a long look from beneath her lashes. Maybe, she said. She finished her drink and stood up. Thank you, Mr. March.

      It was my pleasure, I said. It was, too, especially when she turned and started to walk away. I watched until I lost her in the darker recesses of the club. Then I sat down and went back to my drink. It didn’t taste nearly as good as it had before.

      I had almost finished it when I was aware that somebody was standing beside my table. I looked up. He was dressed like a waiter, but he certainly wasn’t one. His dinner jacket was bulging at the seams, especially under the left arm. His face looked as if he’d spent most of his life as a sparring partner for Sonny Liston.

      You, he said, the boss wants to see you.

      Fine, I said. Send him over.

      Nah. In the office. He jerked his head toward the rear of the club.

      Who’s the boss?

      You’ll see. You want to walk back or you want to be carried back?

      Depends on who does the carrying. You’re not my type. I stood up. What’s the idea of all the strong-arm stuff?

      The boss said he wanted to see you. What the boss says goes—one way or another. Start walking.

      We threaded our way back through the tables. At the rear of the room there were a few steps going up to another level. When I reached the top, there were two ways to go, so I stopped.

      Left, he said.

      I turned left and that brought me up in front of a door, a good strong door by the looks of it.

      Open the door and go in, he said.

      Wouldn’t it be more polite to knock first? I asked.

      Don’t be smart. Open the door and walk in. He gave me a shove that almost removed the necessity of opening the door.

      I filed it away in my memory and turned the knob. The door swung open and I walked into an office—some office. Everything was in white, the big thick rug, the walls and draperies, the desk and chairs, even the telephone. There was a man sitting at the desk, a well-built man with gray hair. He was also wearing a dinner coat, but his fitted him. He was smooth, a little too smooth.

      Here he is, boss, the one behind me said.

      Then I noticed something else. Directly in front of the desk was a large window. Through it you could see the entire floor of the nightclub and everything that went on. But, I remembered, when you looked up from the floor, what you saw was a big section of what seemed to be a mural on frosted glass. It was one-way glass.

      I can see him, the man said. Get outside, Rocks. I’ll call you when I want you. He sounded as smooth as he looked. He waited until the door closed behind me.

      Sit down, he said then.

      An invitation or an order? I asked.

      Take it any way you like, he said. Stand up if it makes you feel bigger.

      So I sat down in the chair beside his desk, facing him. I pointed a thumb in the direction of the one-way glass. Nice view you have there.

      I like it. He was looking me over as if I were a new piece of furniture he’d ordered for the office.

      Look, I said, before he could start, I gather you have some sort of speech to make to me. Before you start, I have one of my own. If you ever want to see me again, send me a nice invitation, not some goon who starts giving me orders. And especially a goon who shoves me. I don’t like it. Now, who the hell are you?

      I’m Nick Potti. He said it the same way that the President of the United States might announce that his name was Johnson. But it didn’t mean a thing to me.

      A nice name, I said. What am I supposed to do? Ask for your autograph, swoon, or just scream a little?

      Very funny, he said. You’re Milo March, an insurance dick.

      Gee, that’s pretty good. You want to try for the mink coat by telling me how many dimples I have? Or do you have a swami hidden behind the bar who reads the drops of whiskey left in each glass?

      This is the fifth night you been here, he said. Each night you sat at the same table—alone. This ain’t the kind of club where a guy comes alone. I notice things like that.

      That’s nice, I said. Do you always go around picking up guys who are alone? If so, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I like girls.

      That time I got to him. A little red crept into his cheeks.

      Don’t be so smart you blow your own brains out, he snapped. I want to know what the hell you’re doing here.

      Enjoying myself—up until now. I stopped in the first night and thought you had a hell of a good singer. So I came back.

      I noticed. You were talking to her, too. What about?

      I told you. I like girls. And I like girl singers. Is it against the law for a man to talk to a girl in this town?

      That’s all?

      I might have other ideas about her besides talking, I admitted, but that’s strictly between the girl and me. It’s not any of your business.

      I might make it my business.

      Not you, I said. You wouldn’t like it. There’s no cash in it. Just a man and a woman. Like the birds and the bees, although probably no one ever told you about them either.

      His face darkened again. It wouldn’t take much to make me dislike you, March.

      I’m not so fond of you either, I said. You could have saved both of us from all of this by just leaving me where I was. And I still don’t know what the hell this is all about.

      He had himself under control again. I told you. This ain’t a place where a guy comes in and sits by himself. If he does once, then he don’t come back. When I noticed you out there for the third night in a row, I started to find out about you. So you’re Milo March, an insurance dick from New York. And I still want to know why you’re here five nights this week.

      I told you. The singer.

      You come all the way from New York just to see a broad?

      I looked at him and laughed. Now I get it. You have cop fever.

      Cops don’t bother me, he snapped. I’m clean.

      I’ll bet, I said. Well, relax, Potti. I came out here a week ago to work on a case for an insurance company. A broad bumped off her ever-loving. I finished the case today, and I was planning on going back to New York tomorrow—unless you get me so interested I decide I’d like to work for nothing.

      He stared at me for a minute. All right, he said. He reached under his

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