by Craig Rice
She stole a glance at her passenger. She’d always thought the big, perfectly dressed man was handsome. She didn’t think so now. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in her mind that he would shoot, if he had to.
They’d reached Washington Street before McKeown said, “They’re probably following us. It’s up to you to lose them, if you want to get home safe.”
“You’ve got a lot of confidence in my driving ability,” Helene said, “but I’ll do my best.”
“I liked the way you dodged that truck,” Bill McKeown said.
Conversation lagged.
A few minutes later Helene said, “Would you light a cigarette for me, please?”
“Sure,” McKeown said. “Anything to oblige a beautiful babe.”
She waited until it was between her fingers before she said, “It’s none of my business, but frankly I think you’re making a big mistake. Von Flanagan hasn’t enough on you to bring you to trial.”
“How about Malone?”
“Hire him for a lawyer. He wouldn’t use his own evidence against his own client.”
“I don’t trust lawyers.”
“I shouldn’t think you would, after Jesse Conway.”
“Jesse was O. K., only he was beginning to crack up. I don’t know why Malone started messing around in this in the first place, but he was getting to Jesse.”
“How do you know?”
“I was tipped off.”
“Why did you kill poor Mr. Garrity?”
McKeown said, “Look, you just tend to your driving.”
They had reached Oak Park when Helene said, “How far west do you want to go, California?”
“I’ll tell you where to go,” McKeown said.
Conversation lagged again.
They passed through a succession of west-side suburbs. Suddenly Bill McKeown said, “Turn right when you get to the highway.”
“Thank goodness,” Helene said as she made the turn. “I was beginning to think we’d wind up in Iowa, and then Malone would add a Mann Act rap to the collection he’s hung on you.”
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you,” Bill McKeown said.
“Um-h’m. And my friends think I’m cute, too. Why did you tell Milly Dale not to sing that ‘Girl-with-the-Gun’ song?”
“None of your damn business.”
“You should have been a music critic,” Helene said. She was silent for a few miles. “Tell me, why did you murder Milly Dale?”
“Shut up.”
“Was it because—” She broke off suddenly. “Never mind. I’ll ask Malone, after you’re safely in Australia or somewhere.”
The highway had entered the Forest Preserve. For a few miles it would be a gently curving drive through the woodland, then it would emerge as a streamlined highway again. The Preserve, so beautiful in spring and summer, was a desolate, dreary, and almost frightening place at this season of the year, and this hour of the night. The trees were dark, gaunt skeletons; the ground below was covered with mud, water, and heaps of wet, rotting leaves.
It had been a long time since they had passed a car on the highway. Helene had had a number of ideas and dismissed all of them as impractical. Such as telling McKeown the door on his side wasn’t shut tight, and as he released the handle to slam it shut, swerving the car and dumping him on the pavement. Or, stopping the car suddenly, so that his head would bang against the dashboard.
She’d also considered scaring her passenger into a faint by a series of rapid skids. That had worked once before when there had been an unwelcome gangster in her car. But Bill McKeown didn’t look like the type that would scare easily.
It was just as she entered the Forest Preserve that she looked in her rearview mirror and suspected that a car was following, its lights turned off. For a moment she wasn’t sure. There was just a shadow not far behind.
Suddenly she stepped on the brake, then released it. The moment of glare from the tail-light reflected on the headlights of the car behind her. Three headlights. Then it was a police car.
“What’d you do that for?” McKeown demanded.
“Sorry,” Helene said. “I thought I saw a cat in the road.”
He muttered something about women drivers, then glanced over his shoulder.
“No more games,” he said. “I saw it, too. Step on it.”
The big car shot ahead, swerving crazily on the wet pavement.
“They don’t dare shoot,” McKeown said, “because if they did, they might hit you.”
“And you don’t dare shoot,” Helene said serenely, skidding around a curve, “because if I relaxed my hold on the wheel, for two seconds, at this speed, the car would go climb a tree. It’s a tie.” She swerved the car again, viciously.
“Stop that,” McKeown said.
She glanced anxiously in the rearview mirror. She seemed to have lost the car behind.
“I can’t help it,” she said, going into another side-to-side skid. “I’m not a very good driver, and I’m scared.”
Bill McKeown swore, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Slow down and jump out. I’ll take over the car.”
Helene gave the gearshift a quick shove. The car stopped, instead of slowing down, with a sudden, bucking motion. She opened the door, jumped, and ran blindly toward the security of the trees. Behind her she could hear McKeown’s vain attempts to start the car. A dripping branch slapped her across the face, a vine tripped her and sent her sprawling into a puddle of mud.
She heard the other car come roaring close and stop. She heard voices. Jake!
Somehow she got to her feet, stumbled back in the direction of the road. Bill McKeown had given up trying to start the car, had leaped out and was running up the highway. Five men piled out of the other car. Jake, Malone, Von Flanagan, the plain-clothes man, and the man in the tan raincoat. Von Flanagan yelled to McKeown to stop.
McKeown turned just long enough to fire one shot. Jake stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed at his ear. Helene screamed. McKeown fired again. She heard the bullet zip past, close to her. There was a third shot, and the man in the tan raincoat staggered and fell forward. McKeown kept on running.
The plain-clothes man drew his gun, stood still, held his elbow close to his side, steadied his gun hand in the palm of his other hand, took aim, and fired. McKeown stumbled. The plain-clothes man fired again. McKeown fell.
Helene ran out into the road and gasped, “Jake! You’re hurt!”
Jake felt of his ear. “Just a scratch. Darling—”
She leaned her head against him, he put an arm around her. It felt very firm and very comforting.
The plain-clothes man came back from examining McKeown. “He’s dead,” he reported.
Von Flanagan rose from examining Al Harmon. “And he isn’t. Radio for an ambulance.”
Malone said, “Well, there you have it, all tied up in one neat little package. Head of the protection racket. Murderer of Jesse Conway, Garrity, and Milly Dale. To say nothing,” he added, “of Big Joe Childers.”
“Wait a minute,” Von Flanagan said. “Even if the guy’s dead, we need evidence to close the case.”
“As far as the protection racket is concerned,” Malone said, “you’ll probably find plenty of evidence when you fine-toothcomb that private office at The Happy Days. Al Harmon may be able to give you some additional evidence when he comes to.” He added, “I hope he isn’t hurt bad.”
“Bullet grazed his scalp,” Mike, the plain-clothes man said. “Not much harm done.”
Malone nodded. His knees were beginning to behave a little strangely. He braced himself with one hand against the fender of Helene’s car and fumbled in his vest pocket with the other hand. “Has anybody here got a cigar?”
Mike beamed, produced a cigar, and said, “My niece got married yesterday. These are good cigars. Three for a dime.”
“Thanks,” Malone said, leaning against the car. “Now, all I need is a drink. Let’s all go back to The Happy Days.”
“I�
�d like to know one thing first,” Jake said. “Helene, how did you fix the car so McKeown couldn’t use it?”
“Easy,” Helene said. “I threw it into reverse going at a high speed, and stripped the gears.”
“Women drivers!” Von Flanagan said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The happy days was deserted, save for a white-faced, nervous bartender and Lou Berg. Even the bouncer had vanished.
Lou Berg was sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and watching the spot where Anna Marie had disappeared like a cat watching a mousehole. He turned around as the party came in and reported anxiously, “She hasn’t appeared again.”
“Don’t worry,” Jake said. “She will.”
There was a bit of fresh white bandage stuck on the lobe of Jake’s ear. Another bandage adorned Al Harmon’s head. More bandage covered Helene’s skinned knees, her beige wool dress was torn and covered with mud, and there was a scratch on one of her pale, smooth cheeks. Malone, his black eye even more prominent against the whiteness of his face, was walking as though he expected every step to be his last.
“Run into any trouble?” Lou Berg asked casually.
“A little,” Jake said, just as casually.
“What happened to McKeown?” Berg said.
“Mike shot him,” Von Flanagan said. “Shot him dead. Mike’s a good shot.”
The bartender made a strange little gurgling noise in his throat.
“You should worry,” Von Flanagan said to the bartender. “Nobody’s going to hang a thing on you, if you play along with us and show me where McKeown’s private records are kept.”
The bartender nodded and started toward the hallway.
“That can wait a few minutes,” Malone said, sagging into a chair. “We all need a drink, and we all need it fast.”
Von Flanagan muttered something about being on duty.
Malone looked at his watch. It was near midnight. “If you don’t get time-and-a-half for overtime, at least you’re entitled to have a drink in your overtime. Besides, I’m paying for it. Sit down and shut up.”
They sat down at one of the tables. Lou Berg brought his drink over from the bar and joined them. Malone gave an order to the bartender.
“The Commissioner is happy as an ant at a picnic,” Von Flanagan said. “Malone, how the hell did you know?”
“I didn’t,” the little lawyer growled. “I was just bluffing.” He saw the bartender approaching with a tray and paused.
The bartender had just reached the table when suddenly his face turned even a shade more white. He gave a half-strangled moan and his knees began to buckle. Malone resourcefully grabbed the tray just as the bartender slid to the floor in a faint.
“He wasn’t a very good bartender, anyway,” Helene said.
No one paid any attention to her. Von Flanagan looked down the hallway, yelped, and started to rise. Malone grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back to his chair. Al Harmon sat paralyzed and staring. Jake and Lou Berg were both gazing at the hallway, Jake with admiration, Lou Berg with delight.
The lovely vision of Anna Marie St. Clair walked, with an almost floating motion, in the darkness of the hallway. She seemed a pale, gray shadow, ethereally beautiful. There was a faint smile on her face.
“Please,” Lou Berg cried, “don’t go away again!”
Malone rose as Anna Marie came into the bar and moved another chair up to the table. She sat down and began removing her gloves. Everyone stared. The bartender sat up, shrieked, and shut his eyes.
“Get up,” Malone said, nudging him with a foot, “and bring one more drink.”
The bartender scrambled to his feet and made it to the bar in two jumps.
“You mean, you can drink?” Lou Berg gasped.
“Sure,” Anna Marie said, “and I can smoke, swear, and spit. Would you like to pinch me?”
He gave her a long, thoughtful, almost calculating look. Then he turned to Jake.
“I didn’t think you’d do a thing like this to me, Jake,” he said resentfully. “You told me she wasn’t anybody made up to look like her. You told me she was the real thing.”
“She is the real thing,” Jake said, grinning. “The real, real thing. She’s Anna Marie St. Clair, all right, but she’s alive.”
Von Flanagan and Al Harmon said, “What the hell!” almost in the same breath.
Jake rose and said, “Malone, you make the explanations. I’m going to phone the newspapers and give them the best story they’ve had since the Chicago fire.”
By the time he returned from the phone booth, the story had been told to the group at the table. Anna Marie sat, calm and unconcerned, while everyone looked at her, amazed and almost incredulous. The bartender’s eyes were like a couple of billiard balls.
“Little Girl,” Lou Berg said earnestly, “you have a very great future ahead of you. I will personally supervise it.”
“She can sing, too,” Jake said. “And I have a hunch she can act.”
“Who cares?” Lou Berg said in a dreamy voice. “Did I say anything about can she act or can’t she act? I got the best directors, they could teach a baboon to act. Sometimes they do.” He drew a long, rapturous breath. “Little Girl, there’s a plane for Hollywood at six in the morning, and we’re going to be on it. I’m making the reservations right now.” He almost raced to the telephone booth.
Anna Marie smiled at Jake. “He might at least have asked me if I wanted to be a movie star.”
“He didn’t need to,” Jake said.
“You’re right.” She turned to Malone. “I’m sorry—”
“I’m not,” Malone said. “I’m glad. It’s very much for the best. More, perhaps, than any of you know.”
His voice was strangely flat, with something more than weariness alone. He took out a cigar and slowly began unwrapping it. Helene resisted an impulse to reach out and pat his hand. She’d seen Malone before on occasions when he’d trapped a murderer, and she knew exactly how he felt.
No one spoke until Lou Berg had come back to the table, beaming.
“Photographers and reporters at the airport,” he announced. “Here, and when we get to Hollywood. Little Girl, you are going to be very rich and very famous.” He signaled to the bartender and said, “This is on me.”
“Now,” Helene said, “Malone, will you please tell me, how did you know?”
“I had an eye on Bill McKeown from the beginning,” Al Harmon said, “but I never could pin a thing on him. How did you do it?”
Malone lit his cigar, with a hand that trembled only a little. “Louis Perez made a dying declaration that McKeown was head of the protection racket,” he said. “And—” He remembered just in time that he had not been, officially, on the scene of the crime. “Rico di Angelo heard it. Furthermore, Rico saw the murderer.”
He puffed hard on the cigar. “McKeown preferred to do his own murdering. After he’d thrown the bomb, he switched guns with Louis Perez. He didn’t see Rico in the alley and assumed that he’d been caught in the building. Otherwise, he’d have killed Rico. He didn’t know Louis Perez would live long enough to make a dying declaration or he’d have attended to that.”
The little lawyer made a mental note to tip Rico di Angelo off quick as to what he had and hadn’t seen. After all, he told himself, this wasn’t going to be actual testimony at a trial, so he wouldn’t be asking Rico to commit perjury.
“McKeown had some bad breaks,” Malone said, “and he made some bad errors. He didn’t know Louis Perez and his gun were in the jailhouse at the time he killed Milly Dale—when she was on the point of telling his name as the name of the man behind the protection racket. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have planted his own gun on Louis Perez.”
He caught Helene’s eye across the table. She smiled at him.
“The thing that really tipped me off,” Malone said, downing the last of his drink and waving for another, “was that McKeown had ordered Milly Dale not to sing that strip-tease song about the girl with the gun. It wa
s just a coincidence, of course, that the gun song happened to be one that would have made it plain to everybody that Anna Marie St. Clair couldn’t have shot Big Joe Childers.”
Von Flanagan looked searchingly at Anna Marie. His eyes moved slowly from her feet to her head. “That’s the thing I should of thought of!”
“That’s what we all should of thought of,” Malone said bitterly. “That’s what was the one bad link in the chain of evidence that framed Anna Marie. But nobody could guess she’d show up at The Happy Days in a costume that wouldn’t have allowed her to conceal as much as an extra hairpin.” He glanced at her, and glanced away, quick. Six o’clock was when the plane left for Hollywood. “That, plus the dying declaration of Louis Perez, was all I needed.”
He sat back and flicked cigar ash inaccurately toward the ash tray.
“He killed Milly Dale because she was about to reveal that he was head of the protection racket,” Helene said thoughtfully. “But Malone, why did he—” She paused. “Jesse Conway. And Garrity. And—”
“Because,” Malone said quickly, “both of them knew the truth about Big Joe Childers’ murder and the frame-up of Anna Marie. He put them on the spot by telephone calls that would send them rushing to me, and then rubbed them out.”
“The frame-up,” Von Flanagan said, “that’s what I don’t get. I get his killing Big Joe Childers because Big Joe had tumbled to the protection racket and wanted to put it out of business, but why pick on her?”
“Frustration,” Malone said. “He had a psychological reason.”
“Psychology,” Von Flanagan said, “that I can understand.”
The little lawyer stared at an imaginary spot on the table. “He had two reasons, as far as Big Joe was concerned,” he said in a low voice. “You know one. The other was jealousy. Bill McKeown wanted Anna Marie St. Clair, and he couldn’t get her. He tried hard enough, but she always turned him down cold. She was loyal to Big Joe. McKeown knew he couldn’t get her even with Big Joe out of the way, so he framed her for Big Joe’s murder. You can check that with Anna Marie herself.”