by Craig Rice
Malone said that he would be delighted, and meant it. He was anxious to see the inside of the Lacy house. His mental picture of it included a full-length portrait of Boris Karloff and a pair of tame bats.
It turned out that he was wrong about the bats, but the butler who came to the door to let them in could have made a living as a stand-in for Karloff in a horror picture role. He was an enormous, ugly man, with long ape-like arms, a completely bald head and a mask-like face. Neither Abby Lacy nor her daughter paid any attention to him as he opened the door. Undoubtedly an old family retainer. Malone reflected. He looked as if the architect had built him into the house. The rest of the architectural design was, from what he saw of it, the duplicate of the house he had just left.
In every other respect, however, it was as different as night from day. There was no cozy chintz-covered furniture, only heavy pieces of undoubtedly costly walnut. There were no gay, bright-colored draperies, only heavy velour of a distressing shade of maroon, and there was not the faintest sign of a drink—not anywhere. Malone sat down gingerly on what he mistakenly hoped would be a comfortable chair, and discovered that a large bronze statue holding a glass-shaded lamp was leering at him unpleasantly from across the room. He turned around hastily, but remained unhappily aware that the monster was staring at the back of his head. Perhaps, he told himself, he should have turned down that last glass of gin. But Mrs. Lacy said, “Young man!” again, and Malone jumped.
“I could not talk to you in that house,” Mrs. Lacy went on. She made it sound as though that house were used for an illegal but highly profitable way of making a living.
“Mother means,” Gay Lacy said, “she didn’t want to be overheard.”
“Gay!” Mrs. Lacy said, “I’m perfectly capable of telling Mr. Malone what I mean. Go to your room.” She added, “And tell Huntleigh I want him.” Gay squeaked and fled. Malone wondered who Huntleigh might be and was only partially relieved to discover he was the alarming-looking butler.
“Huntleigh,” Mrs. Lacy said, “bring this gentleman whiskey and soda, and an ashtray.”
Malone murmured his thanks, took out a cigar, and began to unwrap it. He murmured more thanks when Huntleigh came back with a tray containing a bottle, syphon and a glass.
“I suppose,” Mrs. Lacy said, “you think I’m a very unpleasant woman.” Malone started to protest. She shook her head at him. “The fact is, I am a very unpleasant woman, but please remember I’ve had a very unpleasant life.”
She looked around the room. “As you know, my husband and Rodney Fairfaxx were devoted friends. You’ve observed that the two houses are alike—in certain respects. Not in decoration. I decorated this house. My house.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Albert never really liked this room. Sometimes, I think he never liked me either. And I know he, too, was very much disappointed in Gay.”
Malone, who’d begun to wonder if she’d invited him over to tell him the story of her life, glanced up sharply at the “too.” Abby Lacy saw the look.
“Yes,” she said, “I’d always hoped if I had a daughter, she’d be pretty. I wasn’t. Albert was sorry for me because I wasn’t pretty. He had a very sympathetic nature, but sympathy is not enough of a basis for marriage.”
Malone nodded. Abby Lacy had really said very few words, but he knew her story from beginning to end. He resisted an impulse to pat one of her beautifully manicured, thin, little hands. There seemed to be nothing to say. He mixed another drink and sat watching her.
“Albert spent most of his time at the other house,” Abby Lacy went on, “especially in his last few years. I think he rather envied Rodney. Albert was not only sympathetic, but he had a rather romantic disposition. There was something almost fascinating to him in Rodney’s tragedy—if you can call being saved from a thoroughly unsuitable marriage a tragedy.” Her voice turned hard again on the last phrase.
Malone suddenly remembered Helene’s comments on Annie Kendall. He said delicately, “You mean because of the young lady’s background—or—?”
“I mean because of the young lady’s nature,” Abby Lacy said, in a grim voice. “The Fairfaxxes were always making unsuitable marriages. You know about Elizabeth’s father. Annie Kendall was perfectly suitable as far as her background went. She didn’t have any money, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that she’d have made his life a perfect hell.”
Malone said, “She looks very gentle in her pictures.”
Mrs. Lacy snorted like an indignant horse. “She had a mean, grasping, calculating heart—if you can call it a heart at all. Frankly, we were all relieved when—it happened.” Her voice softened again and she said, “I’ve always been very fond of Rodney Fairfaxx.”
Malone wondered if she were fond enough of Rodney Fairfaxx to commit murder in order to preserve his illusion.
“Perhaps,” he said, watching Mrs. Lacy from the corner of his eye, “in that case, it’s just as well she went down on the Titanic.”
He was not surprised when Mrs. Lacy snorted again, this time scornfully. “I’m not only an unpleasant woman,” she said, “but I’m smart enough to know what you’re doing. You’re perfectly well aware of the fact that Annie Kendall is alive and you probably figured it out the same way I did.”
Malone knocked ash off his cigar and said, “Why?”
“Because of the three postmen,” Mrs. Lacy told him.
Malone was silent for a moment. He could follow Abby Lacy’s line of reasoning in his mind, because it was very like his own. There could be but one conceivable reason for murdering three separate and individual postmen, and that was to prevent something from being delivered to the person for whom it was intended. And that something must have been a letter from Annie Kendall, or the news that she was alive.
“I always imagined,” Mrs. Lacy said, “that for some reason she wanted to stay in England. Probably because she’d met a man with more money. The sinking of the Titanic made it conveniently possible for her to do so without having to inform Rodney. She would do it that way.” She glanced at Malone and added, “You’ve undoubtedly checked and verified all this.”
“I have,” Malone said, “and you’re perfectly right. The question is what to do now about telling Rodney—that is, if he should be told or not. And the other question is who would be sufficiently anxious to keep Rodney Fairfaxx from finding out to murder three otherwise inoffensive postmen.”
“Any number of people have any number of reasons,” Abby Lacy told him. “You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.” She paused for a moment. “If Annie Kendall comes back and Rodney marries her, she’ll get every cent of the Fairfaxx money.”
Malone had a feeling that that was the principal thing she’d wanted to impress on his mind, the reason for the visit, the whiskey and soda, and the ashtray.
“I’m sure,” she said, “you’ll handle the entire situation in the best manner for all concerned. And if, for any reason, the Fairfaxx family should decide to make—other arrangements—I feel sufficient personal interest in the case to engage you myself.”
Malone suddenly remembered he had still done nothing about his retainer, but Abby Lacy was not the person to discuss it with, yet. He wondered how much of her “personal interest” in the case had to do with the fact that Kenneth Fairfaxx was apparently destined to be her son-in-law, and that she might not like to see the Fairfaxx money go elsewhere. True, the Lacy family was wealthy, but it had been Malone’s experience that the more money people had the more grimly determined they were to make sure that other prospective money didn’t get away from them. On the other hand, if Kenneth Fairfaxx inherited the dough, he might change his mind about marrying Gay. He might even go back to Gilda, and the six twins. The little lawyer wondered if Abby Lacy had thought of that angle.
“And please remember,” Abby Lacy said, “that I consider Rodney Fairfaxx’ being in a public jail most unsuitable.”
Malone agreed with her that it was most unsuitable and promised to do some
thing about it immediately. The other aspects of the case, he assured her, would be adequately dealt with. “Believe me, my dear Mrs. Lacy,” he said, “it couldn’t be in better hands.”
He went away with the vague and uncomfortable feeling that there was something more Mrs. Lacy wanted to tell him. He knew that she wouldn’t until she was good and ready, and that no amount of questioning or coaxing on his part would do any good.
He consulted his watch and realized that Uncle Ernie was waiting for him.
Again the little lawyer felt an icy shiver in the pit of his stomach as he walked—this time alone—through the grounds surrounding the two houses. It was not a place where he would like to encounter anyone with lethal intent. It especially wasn’t a place where he would like to encounter Huntleigh, regardless of his intent.
He rounded the corner of the Fairfaxx house and walked toward the meeting place. At first, he decided that Uncle Ernie had forgotten the appointment or else had grown tired of waiting and gone back inside. Then he saw the crumpled figure at the foot of the wall.
His first thought was that Uncle Ernie had passed out. His second thought was that Uncle Ernie had been killed. It turned out he was wrong both times.
12
“A NASTY BLOW on the head,” Dr. McSmith said briskly, “but he’ll live. Anyone know how it happened?”
Nobody spoke for a moment. Kenneth and Elizabeth looked at each other and then at Malone.
“How soon will he be able to talk?” Malone asked.
Dr. McSmith gave him a look that said very plainly, “It’s you again!”
“Because,” Malone said, “he may be able to tell us what hit him.”
“You mean who hit him,” snapped Dr. McSmith. “That blow was no accident—as I shall report to the police.”
“Now wait a minute,” Malone said hastily. “Let’s talk this over. Uncle Ernie—Mr. Fairfaxx—had been drinking heavily. He went out for a walk to clear his head, slipped on the icy pavement and bumped his head against the wall.”
Kenneth and Elizabeth said, almost in unison, “That’s what must have happened.”
“That injury,” Dr. McSmith said, “was not made by a wall. I say Mr. Fairfaxx was hit on the head with a blunt instrument.”
“And I say,” Malone roared, “that Mr. Fairfaxx was hit on the head with a wall.”
Dr. McSmith said, “You’ve no witnesses and you can’t prove it.”
“There are always witnesses,” Malone said, “to everything.” He added, “Even the eyes have walls.” He paused for a moment and said, “The ears have eyes.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Dr. McSmith said, “and I suspect very much that you’re drunk, and I’m going to call the police.” He reached for the phone.
“I may be drunk,” Malone said indignantly, “and I think it’s a good idea, too, but I still say there’s no reason to call the police. All they can do is ask us a lot of silly questions and keep us up awake all night.”
He noticed Violet nudging the again tearful Bridie as he spoke. Bridie stepped forward and said, “I’m sure Mr. Malone is right, doctor. No one would have wanted to hurt nice Mr. Fairfaxx.”
Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “Besides, we were all here in the house at the time, and there’s no way a prowler could have gotten into the grounds.”
“This man was not in the house at the time,” Dr. McSmith said pointedly.
“This man,” Malone growled, “is not in the habit of hitting the relatives of his clients on the back of the head.” Especially, he reminded himself, when he had not yet collected that retainer. Just the same, he thought it over. No amount of argument was going to impress Dr. McSmith. Besides, arrangements had already been made to take Uncle Ernie to the hospital for X-rays in the morning, and the hospital would raise the same embarrassing questions. He said, “But if that’s the way you feel about it, I’ll call the police myself.” He picked up the phone before Dr. McSmith could reach it and called von Flanagan.
Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “Oh!” in a small voice and sat down in the nearest chair.
Malone smiled at her reassuringly and said, “Now don’t worry.” Then into the phone, “I wasn’t talking to you, von Flanagan. Yes, I am talking to you now. There’s been an attempted murder at the Fairfaxx house. Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx. No, I don’t know who, but a very suspicious character lives across the alley.… Mr. Fairfaxx was inside the wall, but this character could have reached over the top of it with a club.… No, I won’t be here when you get here. I’m already late for a very important engagement.… Yes, I know it’s the middle of the night, but it’s still a very important engagement.” He listened for a moment and said, “That remark was very, very rude, von Flanagan,” and hung up.
Dr. McSmith said, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going home.”
“Go, if you must,” Malone said cheerfully, unwrapping a cigar, “but you can’t elude the police forever. It may take years, and they may have to cover every inch of the globe, but sooner or later they’ll catch up with you, McSmith.”
Dr. McSmith picked up his bag, strode to the door, paused long enough to glare at Malone and yell angrily, “You’re drunk!” and went out, slamming the door.
Elizabeth Fairfaxx looked up helplessly and said, “Oh, Mr. Malone, what shall we do now?”
“Now, we mix me a drink,” Malone said. “The doctor, alas, was mistaken in his diagnosis.”
He looked down at Uncle Ernie’s white face for a moment. Elizabeth Fairfaxx apparently understood what was in his mind. She said, “Violet is an excellent nurse, and the doctor said he probably wouldn’t stir for hours. Let’s go downstairs.”
Down in the living room, he sank into a comfortable chair and thankfully accepted the drink Kenneth put into his hand.
“Mr. Malone,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said again, desperately, “what are we going to do? When the police come, I mean.”
“That fool of a doctor,” Kenneth said explosively, “anybody could see this was an accident.”
“Anybody could see that it was not an accident,” Malone said in a tired voice. “The only thing to do in a case like this is to tell the truth.” He drank half the contents of his glass and closed his eyes for a moment. It had, he realized, been a very long time since he’d slept and a lot had been happening. He wanted nothing in the world but to go home. He remembered that the Australian beer hound was trustfully waiting for him.
“Which truth?” Kenneth Fairfaxx asked.
The little lawyer opened his eyes again and relit his cigar. “The real truth. I had been with Mrs. Abby Lacy, questioning her in the interests of my client. Returning. I stumbled on Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx lying unconscious by the garden wall, apparently the victim of an accident. I called for assistance. We moved Mr. Fairfaxx into the house and sent for Dr. McSmith.” He paused to finish his drink. “Dr. McSmith, being a muddle-headed, opinionated old fool, and probably wanting to get some free publicity, maintained that the unfortunate man had been the victim of an attempted murder.”
“Please,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “was he?”
“Obviously,” Malone said.
“Then why,” she demanded, “did you say what you did to Dr. McSmith?”
“Because.” The little lawyer closed his eyes for just one more moment. He didn’t want to say what was in his mind; he didn’t even want to think about it. “Because, I don’t want—” He paused again. He couldn’t say that he didn’t want to see these two nice people, Kenneth and Elizabeth Fairfaxx, deeper in this case than they already were. “Because Dr. McSmith throws rocks at dogs.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said sharply.
“Neither is throwing rocks at dogs,” Malone told him. “Neither is being arrested for attempted murder.” With an effort he sat upright and asked, “You have keys to the front gates—to the garages gates—both of you?”
Elizabeth nodded, her eyes puzzled. Kenneth said, “Why yes, of course. Why?”
“The man
who hit Uncle Ernie on the head,” Malone said, “was standing on the other side of the wall. Anyone able to get out of this enclosure and back again—is a suspect.”
The two young Fairfaxxes thought that over for a moment. Then Elizabeth said, “But in that case—it could have been someone from—from outside.”
“It could have been,” Malone agreed, “but it wasn’t.” He rose, put down his glass. “It would be pleasant to think that this—series of events—came from outside, happened because of things outside. We might as well face the fact that it isn’t true. The police are bound to figure out that either of you two could have gone into the alley, lain in wait for Uncle Ernie—knowing that he had made an appointment with me to divulge something of, as he put it, great importance—conked him, and come back inside without anyone being the wiser.”
Elizabeth Fairfaxx sat up very straight. “We were here together,” she said, as though she was a self-conscious little girl reciting the Preamble to the Constitution, “my cousin Kenneth and myself. Violet was making us some coffee. We heard you call for help.” She paused.
“We found Uncle Ernie by the wall,” Kenneth picked it up. “I helped carry him into the house. The nearest doctor was Doctor McSmith, an opinionated old fool who saw an opportunity to get some cheap publicity by calling it murder. Anybody could see that poor Uncle Ernie, who wasn’t too steady on his pins, slipped on the ice and cracked his head against the wall.”
“You’re both doing fine,” Malone said, “and stick together and don’t let them shake that story.”
He paused at the door. “In case either of you did sock Uncle Ernie, it might save a lot of time and trouble if you told me about it now. Just so I can cover up for you with the police.”
Elizabeth Fairfaxx turned pale and gasped.
Kenneth Fairfaxx turned pink and said, “Sir!”
“Don’t mind me,” Malone said, “I’m only trying to help.”