The Lucky Stiff

by Craig Rice

  “Beat the guy into a raw pulp,” Helene said.

  “But suppose somebody convinces a gal pal of mine, who is also a gal pal of Big Joe’s, all under strictly clean circumstances, of course, that the same thing is true. What do you do if you’re the pal?”

  “You mean the gal pal,” Malone muttered.

  “You shut up,” Helene said. She added, “I’m afraid, in those circumstances—I’d have told Big Joe.”

  “A woman would have,” Malone muttered. “A man would have kept his mouth shut.”

  “Let’s leave the battle of the sexes out of this,” Jake said. “It all boils down to, somebody wanted to get Big Joe sore at Anna Marie, so he planted a story that Anna Marie was two-timing Big Joe with Milly Dale—who liked both Anna Marie and Big Joe. He planted it so well that not only Big Joe but Milly Dale believed it. The point is, what boy friend did he or she pick?”

  Anna Marie shook her head and said, “I don’t know. How could I know?”

  “The real point is,” Malone said, “why did somebody shoot Milly Dale just when she was about to tell what this alleged or imaginary guy’s name was?”

  Anna Marie stared at him. A sudden light came into her eyes. “Because,” she said, “someone would have checked with him and found out the story wasn’t true. Though that wouldn’t have been reason enough to—kill anyone—” Suddenly she buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry—perhaps I shouldn’t have walked so far this afternoon—I’m not used to it—”

  “My poor baby!” Malone said. He lifted her as though she were six years old, laid her tenderly on the bed, and began rubbing her hands.

  She lifted her eyelids and whispered, “Malone—you don’t believe that story is true?”

  “Just malicious gossip,” Malone said. He kissed her gently on the forehead. “And even if it were true—”

  Helene signaled Jake toward the door. They tiptoed out, and no one noticed when they closed the door after them.

  Out in the car, headed north, Jake said indignantly, “You might have known the story wasn’t true. And you might have known Malone wouldn’t believe it.”

  Helene said nothing. She swung the car viciously around a corner.

  “Someday,” Jake said, catching his breath, “you women will learn to mind your own business.”

  Helene whispered a mild profanity under her breath.

  “But I love you just the same,” Jake murmured.

  “Because I’m beautiful, or because I’m bright?”

  “Neither,” Jake said, “but the word I had in mind begins with the same letter.”

  Helene was silent all the way to the Michigan Avenue bridge. The bridge was up, and she stopped in a long line of futilely protesting cars.

  “Jake,” she said thoughtfully, “do you believe in hunches?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I used to keep rabbits in them when I was a boy back in Iowa. Rabbit hunches.”

  “Damn you,” Helene said, “I’m serious.”

  “Or,” he said, “do you mean, like the prophet who sat on his hunches and—”

  “Jake, please!”

  A chorus of indignant honks reminded her that the barrier had gone up and the line of cars was moving again. Helene started up the convertible and began inching along. Jake glanced at her, at her pale, lovely profile outlined against the dark fog outside the car. He had one of those sudden moments of wishing there were only two people in the world. Helene and himself.

  “Darling, what’s the hunch?”

  She gave him one brief glance. “Jake, I love you!”

  “That isn’t a hunch, that’s a miracle. Shall we stop off at the Drake Bar?”

  “No.”

  “Shall we stop at Pierre’s, Rickett’s, or Armen’s?”

  “No. No. And No.”

  “Home?”

  “Home.”

  She’d made the left turn on Ohio Street and swung up on North Wabash before she said, “Since you’re so anxious to hear about my hunch, this is it. What Milly Dale was about to tell us isn’t important. What she did tell us is.”

  “Well,” Jake said at last, “what was it?”

  “That’s the trouble,” Helene said, “I can’t remember. Except, it’s something about a gun. And I don’t know why—but it has something to do with—Bill McKeown!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “A very good friend of mine is a judge,” Malone said, “or should I say a friend of mine is a very good judge. Anyway, he can spring you guys in the time it takes him to sign his name, as soon as I say the word. Bail money is stacked up neatly in front of him, ready to be collected. Only”—he looked at his watch—“the judge likes to go home early. So you’d better make up your mind, quick.”

  He looked at his new clients. They were goons, he decided, but a little above the average. Postgraduate goons. Perez was a little skinny man with a snaky look about him, black hair, black eyes, and a sallow complexion. Earl Wilks was a big goon, six-foot-four in his socks, if he wore socks, and wide as the south side of a barn. Wilks, Malone decided, was ninety-nine and forty-four hundredths per cent brawn, and the rest was brains. And the one difference between Wilks and Perez was that the latter didn’t even have the brawn.

  “Of course,” he went on, “that don’t mean you won’t have to stand trial. Though, come to think of it, there might be a way to fix that up, too.” He paused there and waited.

  Perez and Wilks looked at each other uneasily. Wilks nodded to Perez. Then Perez said, “I’m an American citizen and I know my rights. Nobody can keep us in jail for doing nothing. Me and my pal here was just walking down an alley, peaceable as you please, and we seen a guy parking a hearse and starting to open it up. Naturally, we stepped up and asked the guy what was the idea. And for that we get pinched. How come there’s a law against citizens being curious?”

  “That depends,” Malone said. “It depends on whether when you approached the driver of the hearse you said”—he pulled a sheaf of notepaper from his pocket—“O.K., Rico, open up. We know what you got in that hearse,’ and that when Rico said, ‘There is nothing in this hearse and none of your, deleted, business, anyway,’ you, Mr. Perez, made the statement, ‘Don’t give us no monkey talk, Rico. Kick in or we’ll call the cops and tip ’em off you’re trying to get rid of a hot body,’ whereupon Mr. Enrico di Angelo replied, ‘Hot or cold, there’s no corpse in this hearse.’ Whereupon you threatened Mr. Enrico di Angelo with severe bodily harm if he did not open up the hearse.”

  Malone paused and said, “Be sure to interrupt me if you have any corrections.”

  Louis Perez and Earl Wilks looked at each other and at Malone. Neither of them said a word.

  “At this point Mr. Enrico di Angelo made the statement, ‘You make a move and I murder you two bums,’ and Mr. Perez made the statement, ‘We ain’t got all day. Quit stallin’ or we call the cops,’ to which Mr. di Angelo replied, ‘You call the cops! I call the cops.’”

  Malone flipped a page in the sheaf of paper. “At this point a brief altercation ensued in which both Mr. Perez and Mr. Wilks were loaded, while unconscious, into the hearse and secured there. Mr. Enrico di Angelo then drove to the nearest police station and lodged the following complaint.”

  Malone paused again and said, “Shall I read you the complaint? Or are you sufficiently familiar with it?”

  Earl Wilks began hoarsely, “Listen here, Malone—”

  Malone folded the sheaf of blank papers, put them in his pocket, and said, “It was a lucky coincidence Rico happened to have a reliable witness and a stenographer hidden in the front seat when he went out for a harmless little ride this morning in a perfectly empty hearse. Only it won’t be so lucky for you if this case ever comes to trial.” He added, “Of course if the stenographer’s notes should disappear, and the reliable witness should leave town, and Rico should decide to quit the whole thing—”

  Louis Perez and Earl Wilks exchanged another glance. Then Perez said, “How much?”

 
“That depends on who’s paying it,” Malone said.

  Earl Wilks opened his mouth to speak. Louis Perez kicked him in the ankle, and he shut it again.

  “Or,” Malone said pleasantly, “there’s just a chance that it might not cost you a cent. You or anybody else. If you’d consent to have a little private conversation with me, of a highly confidential nature, of course, and help me out in the matter of a little information I need, I might be able to arrange the whole thing for free.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Perez said, “Mind if me and my pal talk it over first?”

  “Go right ahead,” Malone said pleasantly, “only I don’t want to keep my friend, the judge, waiting too long.”

  The two men withdrew to a far corner of the visitors’ room and held a consultation. Malone waited patiently, meanwhile making a concertina from a cellophane cigar wrapper. At last they returned, and Perez said, “O.K., Malone, we take you up on it.”

  Malone rose from the uncomfortable straight-back chair and said, “That’s fine, boys. I’ll rush this through, meet you outside, and we’ll go somewhere and talk this over.”

  It was a surprisingly short time later that he greeted Earl Wilks and Louis Perez, climbed into a taxi with them, and gave the address of his office.

  “Everything’s fixed,” he reported, “including getting rid of the evidence. You’ll never be bothered about this again.”

  Louis Perez said, “See what comes of having a smart lawyer, Earl?”

  Earl muttered something under his breath, and conversation lagged until the cab deposited them in front of Malone’s office building.

  It was just barely dusk, but the low-hanging clouds and the continual drizzle of rain and sleet had plunged the city into a murky darkness. The three men hurried across the sidewalk and paused just inside the lobby. Earl Wilks took Malone by the arm. Perez said, “You’re sure you got rid of that evidence, Malone?”

  “Everything’s attended to,” Malone assured him. “You haven’t a thing to worry about.”

  Louis Perez beamed and said, “Well, we haven’t a thing to tell you, either. Hold him, Earl, while I flag a cab.”

  Earl pulled Malone’s arms behind his back with an iron grip on his thumbs and said, “I wouldn’t advise you to move if you don’t want to bust a coupla arms.”

  Louis added, “We don’t want to do you no harm, we just want you to stay put till we get outa here.”

  “I thought you’d take it this way,” Malone said joyfully.

  Earl didn’t see the six-foot-one, two hundred and twenty-five pound Rico di Angelo snaking his way along the wall of the deserted lobby. But he did feel the blow on the back of his head. That was all he felt, for a while. Similarly, Louis Perez didn’t see Bill, the aged elevator man, waiting in the shadows of the door to trip him with a sudden thrust of the foot, but he sprawled on the marble floor just the same.

  “Nice work, pals,” Malone said, rubbing his thumbs. “Let’s load them into the hearse and get going.” He added, “I sure would have been in one hell of a spot if they’d decided to come up to my office in a nice peaceable manner and spill me a lot of nice, irrefutable lies.”

  Rico di Angelo hauled Perez over his shoulder and carted him out through the alley entrance. He returned and dragged Wilks out by the collar. Malone tucked a ten dollar bill in the old elevator man’s hand and followed Rico. A moment later the shiny new hearse was roaring up Clark Street.

  “Take it easy,” Malone said. “Are you sure they’re locked in safely?”

  “Safe as in a tomb,” Rico said. “Watch, Malone. All my life I want to drive through a red light without getting the pinch!” The hearse shot across Ohio Street, scattering traffic and pedestrians.

  “One more like that,” Malone said, “and you will get pinched.”

  “Never,” Rico said. “In this beautiful new hearse, we don’t get arrested. The cops they stop us, they say, ‘Where you think you’re going, a fire?’ and we say, ‘No, a funeral.’ Good-by cops. Look, Malone, another red light! Whee!”

  The hearse careened madly across Chicago Avenue skidding around the front end of a streetcar and narrowly dodging a truck. Malone closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that he was asleep and having a particularly bad nightmare, and that he’d waken any minute now.

  “At this time of day it’s especially fun,” Rico said. “Lots of traffic.” The brakes screamed and horns honked wildly on all sides as he made the turn into Division Street.

  An incredibly short time later the brakes screamed again, and the hearse slid to a shuddering stop. Malone sat very still, his eyes closed, trying to get just one long breath.

  “I drive good, yes?” Rico said proudly.

  “Wonderful,” Malone said. He climbed out of the front seat and stood still for a moment, enjoying the feeling of solid and motionless ground under his feet. “Wait a minute, Rico, and I’ll give you a hand.”

  “I carry them O.K.,” Rico said, unfastening the back of the hearse. Malone leaned against the side of the hearse and watched while Rico opened the back door of his establishment, switched on a blindingly brilliant light, and dragged the two limp forms inside. Then he followed and closed the door behind him.

  Suddenly he felt a pang of sympathy for the two captives. The back room of Rico di Angelo’s undertaking parlor had been frightening enough last night, in the darkness. Now, with the lights on, it was ten times worse.

  “All new,” Rico said proudly, “and everything the best. Malone, maybe you like a drink of wine while I lay them out?”

  Malone nodded. Rico opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of red wine and a glass. Malone gulped half a tumbler full—it was sour stuff, but heady—while he watched an expert job of undressing two unconscious men and stretching them out on the tables.

  Rico covered both tables with sheets, got a glass for himself, and said, “Now, we wait.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. Only half the bottle of red wine was gone when Louis Perez stirred faintly, moaned, stirred again, and finally pushed the sheet away from his face. He stared at the ceiling, lifted his head and stared at the walls with their instrument cases, and sat upright with a blood-curdling yell.

  “Now, now,” Rico said, “you are in a very fine establishment. Everything new.” He waved a hand at the cases of instruments. “See? Everything new and shiny. Never used yet.” By that time Wilks was conscious and watching him with silent horror. “All the best modern methods, if I do embalm you.”

  “You can’t embalm me,” Wilks gasped. “I’m alive!”

  “I never embalmed a live man yet,” Rico said, “but I can try.” He beamed. “It is a very simple process. First I—”

  Perez let out another yell, slid off the table, clutching at the sheet, and said, “Malone, you’re our lawyer, get us out of this.”

  Malone shrugged his shoulders and said, “Mr. di Angelo has a one-track mind. He seems to have made it up that you ought to answer any questions I want to ask you.”

  Rico grinned, took just one instrument from one of the cases, and twirled it unpleasantly on one finger.

  “Did you shoot Jesse Conway?” Malone asked.

  “No.” It was a duet.

  “Did you move his body?”

  “Yes.” Another duet.

  “Look, Malone,” Perez said, wiping the sweat from his face. “We ain’t brains. We’re just mugs. We do like we’re told, see?”

  “Like putting the pressure on for protection dough?” Malone said.

  “Sure, that’s it. We get the names and addresses, and we do the advance work. This here business was just an odd job. A certain guy slips us a fancy key and tells us to go to a certain address and move out a stiff. He meets us, we give him back the key, he gives us another key and tells us to park the stiff out here in the swell coffin. Then he tells us to watch this guy who runs this undertaking joint, a guy who’d given us a lot of trouble in the past, and see if he tries to snake the stiff out and stach it in
some alley. O.K., we do, and it looks like this guy does, and we make the pitch according to directions, only it turns out this guy has laid a trap for us, and look at all the trouble it caused.” He added indignantly, “The bastard.”

  Rico di Angelo spat out seven words in Italian.

  Louis Perez countered with nine words in Spanish.

  Rico advanced, the shiny instrument swinging on his finger.

  “Malone!” Perez shrieked. “Don’t you let him!”

  “Lay off, Rico,” Malone said.

  Earl Wilks sat up and made a number of unpleasant comments on the probable ancestry and personal habits of everyone else in the room.

  “Shut up,” Malone said amiably. “And go on with what you were saying, Louis. Never mind the interruptions.”

  “I told you everything,” Louis Perez said. “Lemme go home now.”

  “What’s the name of the guy that told you to move the stiff, slipped you the key, and worked out the details?”

  “Guy name of Art Harvey, Al Harmon, or Abe Haycraft. Sometimes calls himself Alex Hazlitt.”

  “Does he usually give you your orders?”

  “No.”

  “Who does?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  Rico sighed and said, “Son of a bitch! Malone, you let me handle him. Maybe I put in the embalming fluid first, and then draw off the blood. You lie down on the table, burn!”

  “No!” Perez yelped. “Malone, get me out of here!”

  “In due time,” Malone said. “Give me the name.”

  “I can’t. I’d be killed.”

  “And if you don’t,” Malone said, “you’ll probably be embalmed alive. I don’t want to rush you. Make up your mind.” He turned to Rico and said, “If you’ve got a couple more glasses, maybe the gentlemen would like a glass of wine.”

  “Sure thing,” Rico said, going over to the cupboard.

  “Malone—” Perez began.

  A car roared past in the alley. One of the back windows shattered with a loud crashing of glass and something landed on the floor.

  Malone took one glance and yelled, “Duck!”