I moved down the corridor and stood waiting. Myra didn’t keep me long. Her voice sounded in my ear after a few minutes, “Let’s go,” she said.
We reached the city morgue a quarter before midnight. A thin, querulous looking bird with a heavy moustache and a network of veins over his sharp, hooked nose sat behind the counter. “What do you want?” he snapped.
“You have a body here I want to look at,” I said, taking out a Recorder press card and handing it to him, “a guy named Ansell. Doc Ansell.”
He flipped the card back to me, “Come to-morrow,” he said, and picked up his newspaper.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “I have to see this guy right now.” The morgue attendant glared at me over his glasses, “No one’s going in there to-night. Beat it,” he said.
I turned to Myra, “One of those nice helpful guys,” I said, “maybe you’d better do something about it. Look at the time.”
It was ten to twelve.
Myra said, “I’m on my way,” and she vanished.
On the floor where she had been standing were her clothes in a neat little pile. Her hat rested on top and her shoes were at the bottom of the pile.
I lit a cigarette and watched the effect on the morgue attendant with interest.