“Well, maybe you’re lucky. I thought he’d got a foxy smell about him. I don’t think you’d’ve liked that.”
The driver came close to the window. “Where to, boss?” he asked, in what he thought was a soothing voice. “This ain’t the time to fool around. It’s too goddam hot.”
“The County Morgue,” Phillips said, leaning out of the window. “Don’t you understand? That’s the one cold spot in this burg, an’ we’re headin’ for it.”
The driver shook his head. “You’d never make it,” he said; “they wouldn’t let you in.”
“Who said? They’ll let me in all right. I know the guy there.”
“That on the level? Could you get me in too, boss?”
“Sure. I could get anyone in there. Don’t stand around usin’ up air. Get to it.”
Franklin was asleep when they got to the morgue. Phillips hauled him into the hot street and stood supporting him. He said to the driver, “What are you goin’ to do with the heap?”
“I guess I’ll leave it here. It’ll be all right.”
They stumbled into the morgue, making a considerable row. The attendant was reading a newspaper behind a counter that divided the room from the vaults. He looked up, startled.