They walked through corridors and downstairs to the “cold room.” Another attendant opened a door and turned on a switch.

He grinned. “A little chilly, eh?” he said, getting off his standard joke.

“You ain’t been outside, son,” Coffin Ed said.

“We want to see the victim of a hit-and-run driver from Harlem,” Grave Digger said.

“Oh yes, the colored man,” the attendant said.

He led them down the long, bare room, lit by cold, white light, and glanced at a card on what looked like the drawer of a huge filing cabinet.

“Unidentified,” he said, pulling out the drawer.

It rolled out smoothly and soundlessly. He removed a coarse white sheet covering the body.

“It hasn’t been autopsied yet,” he said, adding with a grin, “got to take its turn like everybody else. It’s been a busy night—two asphyxiations from Brooklyn; one ice pick stabbing, also from Brooklyn; three poisonings, one by lye—”

Grave Digger cut him off. “You’re holding us spellbound.”

Coffin Ed took the bartender by the arm and shoved him close.

“My God,” the bartender whimpered, covering his face with his hands.

“Look at it, goddammit!” Coffin Ed flared. “What the hell you think we brought you down here for—to start gagging at sight of a stiff?”

Despite his horror, the bartender giggled.

Grave Digger reached over and pulled his hands from his face.

“Who is he?” he asked in a flat, emotionless voice.

“Oh, I couldn’t say.” The bartender looked as though he might burst out crying. “Jesus Christ in heaven, look at his face.”

“Who is he?” Grave Digger repeated flatly.

“How can I tell? I can’t see his face. It’s all covered with blood.”

“If you come back in an hour or two they’ll have it all cleaned up,” the morgue attendant said.

Grave Digger gripped the bartender by the back of his neck and pushed his head toward the nude body.

“Goddammit, you don’t need to see his face to recognize him,” he said. “Who is he? And I ain’t going to ask you no more.”

“He’s Black Beauty,” the bartender whispered. “What’s left of him.”

Grave Digger released him and let him straighten up.

The bartender shuddered.

“Get yourself together,” Grave Digger said.

The bartender looked at him from big, pleading eyes.

“What’s his square moniker?” Grave Digger asked.

The bartender shook his head.

“I’m giving you a chance,” Grave Digger told him.

“I really don’t know,” the bartender said.

“The hell you don’t!”

“No, sir, I swear. If I knew I’d tell you.”

The morgue attendant looked at the bartender with compassion. He turned toward Grave Digger and said indignantly, “You can’t third-degree a prisoner in here.”

“You can’t help him,” Grave Digger replied. “Even if you are a member of the club.”

“What club?”

“Let’s take him out of here,” Coffin Ed said.

Detective Tombs listened to the byplay with fascination.

They took the witness outside to their car and put him in the back seat beside Detective Tombs.