The Corpse Was Blind - Chapter 9

Ray Irish Mystery Case File #4

The doorman, standing in front of the Orwell Apartments, gawked at an undertaker’s hearse which pulled up in front of the building. A short man who looked like he never saw sunlight stepped out of the hearse. His black suit and high collar appeared two decades out of fashion, and he placed a bowler hat on his head.

 The doorman waited for a moment, pulling on the cuffs of his gray gloves out of habit while he wondered why the hearse stopped. But when the small man’s two assistants got out and walked sedately around to the back of the truck, the doorman hurried down the steps.

He stepped in front of the small man, who paid him no attention. He turned to order his assistants to step up their pace. They opened the doors and pulled out a metal platform with a simple casket on top.

“Hey! Hey—there,” the doorman slid over to get in the sight of the small man again. “You gotta take this thing around to the rear entrance. This is bad business when your kind shows up at a building.”

The undertaker had a prominent Adam’s apple that moved his black bow tie up and down like a piston. He held up one hand as he regarded the man in the green uniform as a nuisance.

“We are here at the invitation of one named Omar Riza living in apartment 4D—well, I’m afraid it’s a slip of the tongue. When he was living, he resided in 4D. Our days are short, my friend. We never know when the sunset will come.”

The undertaker’s somber expression changed abruptly when his men started taking the casket up the steps to the entrance.

“You—” he called out with a sneering voice. “Be more careful with that equipment. They don’t grow on trees, you know, and the Willoughby Funeral Service prides itself on using the very best of equipment. Now, please attend to your duties.”

The man in the green uniform watched dumbfounded as the undertaker went to the front steps. The man stopped and looked back doorman.

“Chop, chop!” He gave him an icy glare.

The doorman suddenly came to life and hurried past the three men to open the door for them. As the strange-looking trio entered the building, the man in the green uniform stared at the casket. He slowly followed them several steps into the foyer.

I never heard Mr. Riza died!” He thought.

The man watched the building manager hurry over to intercede when the three men moved aside several people waiting to enter the elevator.

After watching a repeat of his conversation with the three men in black, the doorman smiled as the exasperated manager entered the elevator. He waved the undertaker inside. The two men carrying the casket carefully sit it upright in the elevator. With the pine box sitting next to the distressed-looking elevator operator, the doors finally closed.

“I wish I was a fly on the wall to see what happens upstairs,” the doorman mused.

He turned back to his duties to see a pretty woman walking up the steps. Catherine Bennet’s serious expression remained unchanged as she nodded at the man after he opened the door for her.

“Good morning, Miss Bennet. I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” he stated with sympathy.

Confusion crossed her face, and she asked him what he was talking about. After the doorman explained, her lips pressed together, becoming a thin line.

“He might need a casket when I get through with him!”

The man stared wide eyed as Cat walked to the elevator.

In apartment 4D, Omar Riza stood at the window. He looked down at the street from behind slightly parted curtains. Curious, he watched the doorman and the undertaker talking while other men pulled a casket from the hearse.

When they left his view, he shrugged, then swept his long black hair across his shoulders, turning back to his living room, a weird place that met his needs.

A long table occupied one side. There were chairs enough to accommodate an audience of exactly fifteen people. An altar-like structure set off around one corner and there was a small organ beside it. His partner hung the entire room with deep purple drapes that gave it the perpetual appearance of a room in mourning.

Normally, the heavily bearded man wearing a turban sat with his back to the altar while facing those around the table. However, today was a day of relaxation.

Omar needed such days from the toils of fleecing the morons with money in Oyster City. While his name came from the Middle East, the man using the moniker held several other aliases, none of which brought him cash, like using the Omar Riza name.

Not bad for a guy from the swamps of Louisiana!

The phone rang, and he frowned, walking over to pick up the receiver. Surprise filled his face when an unfamiliar voice addressed him by Omar’s real name.

“Francis, I’m dropping off a package for you. By midnight, you’ll be inside it.”

A click followed the announcement, and Omar stood there like a statue. His mind whirled as he placed the receiver back in the cradle. An ongoing conversation at the door immediately interrupted his thoughts. Soon, the buzz of his doorbell made him frown.

  The man hastily glanced in the mirror to see if his turban looked halfway presentable, and then he donned a frock coat. He slid back a pair of burglar chains and opened the door. His shocked expression followed pale as he stared at two dressed in black suits who carried a coffin between them. They were behind the building manager, who apologized for the interruption.

“Mr. Riza, this man won’t listen to reason. I—well, they just rushed up here!”

The small undertaker, standing next to the manager, bowed slightly then hurriedly pushed by Omar Riza.  

“In times such as these—distressing but necessary moments of one’s life,” he quietly stated. A wide motion of his hand showed that the assistants were to follow.

“Now, you can’t—.” the building manager tried to stop them but had to move aside as the men carrying the coffin pushed through.

For his part, Omar fell back as the telephone warning repeated in his head. Looking at the coffin, his face paled while the men passed him and placed the wooden box on the floor near the table. As they did so, the undertaker continued rambling.

“The Willoughby Funeral Services extends our sympathy to you. At this time of loss and grief, we are here to support you. However, I would like to gather all the other details, if you please. We’ll need to know how to proceed with the final disposition of the deceased.”

Finally, coming out of his shocked trance, the man wearing the turban interrupted.

“What’s the gag? Who put you up to this?”

The undertaker flushed slightly and consulted the black-edged card he held in his hand. The building manager finally interceded.

“I asked these men the same thing as we came up the elevator. He’s assured me someone already paid for their services. He means everything. He won’t listen to reason.”

“There’s no gag, sir. A caller handled the monetary arrangements for this fine coffin, sending cash over by courier. We’ll arrange the room for the deceased. I’m told the body of Omar Riza is waiting in the bedroom for us. Give us a few moments…”

“Enough!” Omar pulled his eyes off the box to confront the small man. “You’ve been duped, mister. Look at me, I’m not dead. There’s no body in my apartment. You and your two ghouls take a hike, got it?”

“There cannot be a mistake. People do not joke about such sacred things, my dear fellow. I received the call about an hour ago,” the undertaker placed his hand on Omar’s forearm, his expression sympathetic.

“I understand you’re distraught, but we shall take care of all details and—”

“Look, stop rubbing your hands as if you were already looking at the corpse to dump into the ground,” the man in the turban finally snapped. “I don’t like this kind of joke. I’m Omar Riza and I don’t like this scam you’re pushing on me. Are you planning on charging me to haul my body to the cemetery?”

The undertaker glared at Omar, then held himself erectly while his face reddened.

“I think I can take a hint. Willoughby Funeral Services maintains professionalism despite the rudeness we encounter. I also assure you that if I find out who has perpetrated this unfunny joke, we will notify the authorities. Good day, sir.”

He waved his men to leave, and they head to the door.

“Wait, take this coffin out of here,” Omar ordered.

The small man sent his men to the elevator before turning back.

“Willoughby Funeral Services fulfills our contract. I’m afraid we’ve only been engaged to bring the coffin here and make the arrangements for the final disposition of the body. We have no further business with you.”

Omar and the building manager hurried after the undertaker, who paid no attention to their pleas to remove the coffin. The small man and his assistants left along with the manager, who continued to plea his case. When he returned to his apartment, he found Catherine Bennett at the door.

“It’s fitting that you’ve saved me the trouble of picking out your coffin after the scam you’ve pulled on me,” she told him with a bitter smile. Then she held up the extra equipment Irish found in her radio.

“How much is it worth for me to stay quiet?”