by Craig Rice
He reminded himself that he had to be careful. And very crafty. Crafty and wise. That, he reflected, should be the name of a Real Estate firm. Crafty and Wise. Could do very well in Los Angeles, from all he’d heard. He wondered if he’d ever get to Los Angeles. He wondered if he’d ever get to the end of the alley.
He began to wonder if he’d ever get home.
There it was. The alley. He turned into it and walked cautiously, close to the wall. Craftily and wisely, he reminded himself.
Over there, on the other side of the wall, was the Fairfaxx house, the Lacy house, and that strange, deserted house. And also, over there, was Helene, and Glida and Gay Lacy, a combination that should make for, at least, mayhem—especially with Kenneth Fairfaxx being present. There was Elizabeth, too. They were all there, and Captain von Flanagan was there, and here he was, on the wrong side of the wall.
Jake felt very sorry for himself.
But Malone, his pal, was there too. Attempted murder. Jake couldn’t imagine Malone being the victim of an attempted murder. A successful one, perhaps, but—
He hoped Helene was taking good care of the mutt.
Halfway down the alley he paused. Perhaps if he grabbed hold of the top of the wall, he could hoist himself up and see into, at least, the yard. It was worth a try.
Suddenly he realized that he was standing on the very spot where the three murdered postmen had been found. He looked up at the wall.
For just one frightening moment he remembered the reason why old Rodney Fairfaxx couldn’t possibly be guilty of murder. In the next moment, he’d forgotten again.
Jake looked over the wall. All at once he stiffened. The garden beyond the wall was ghostly, pale with the snow and dark with the shadows. In the garden a figure was moving, the figure of a woman. She seemed to be searching for something.
A tall woman. He couldn’t tell if it was Gay Lacy, or Elizabeth, or even Helene. Possibly the Fairfaxx’s housekeeper.
He watched, breathlessly. Something seemed to frighten the woman, whoever she was. She stopped her search and ran back into the shadows.
Jake waited. The woman did not reappear. Jake took hold of the edge of the wall and tried to vault over it. Then he felt his grasp slipping, he grabbed at the vines along the top of the wall, he found what at the moment seemed to be a trapeze bar in his hand, then vine and trapeze bar gave way at the same moment and he slid to the ground.
It took a few seconds for him to catch his breath. Then he realized that the trapeze bar was a hammer, an ordinary hammer which had somehow gotten entangled in the vines.
“Never know when you can use a hammer,” Jake told himself. He decided he would take it home and show it, proudly, to Helene.
Somehow he got to his feet and went on down the alley. Again he debated ringing the bell and demanding admittance to the Fairfaxx house, again he decided it would be exactly the wrong thing to do. No, he would walk very casually by the gate, slowly enough to glance in through it and the lighted windows beyond.
There was a plainclothesman by the gate, one who looked unpleasantly familiar.
What was the penalty for breaking quarantine? Jake wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it was probably dreadful. Alcatraz, or Leavenworth. He decided to walk briskly past and pretend to be minding his own business.
“Just a minute, you,” the cop said. “What’s the idea of—”
At that moment the scarf slipped. Jake looked straight into the cop’s face, and said “BOO!”, and ran. He was halfway up the block before he realized that the cop had given one terrified scream and fled.
The rest would be easy. Just walk back to the hotel, that was all. Go up the freight elevator. Undress and get into bed. Helene would never know he’d left the room.
He concentrated doggedly on what he had to do. Hotel. Freight elevator. Undress. Cocoa butter. Get into bed. Pretend to be asleep when Helene got home. Stay awake, but pretend to be asleep. Hide the hammer, to surprise Helene.
He somehow managed all of the schedule save for two items. He was sound asleep a fraction of a second after his head hit the pillow. And he went to sleep with the hammer in his hand.
15
“Can’t I have one quiet little attempted murder without you butting in?” von Flanagan growled, glaring at Helene. Neither the growl nor the glare meant a thing. Helene had given him plenty of trouble in the past and probably would again, but he had a secret fondness for her in spite of it. Besides, he’d learned that she was a helpful person in a crisis.
He glanced down at the carpet and blinked. “What in the name of the Saints is that thing?”
The mutt gave him a dirty look.
“That thing,” Helene said coldly, “is a very rare dog. An Australian beer hound.”
The mutt expressed his inbred dislike of policemen with one brief remark.
“Don’t tell me,” von Flanagan said. “Say, the police department could use a mascot like that.”
Feeling that he was otherwise among friends, the mutt, instead of retreating, made another, and even more pungent remark, and sat down. The big police officer made a gesture towards patting him on the head.
“Don’t do that,” Helene warned. “He’ll chew your finger up to the collar bone.” She was thankful for the momentary diversion and reminded herself to buy the mutt an extra beer. From the way Glida and Gay were looking at each other, and from the startled expression on Elizabeth’s and Kenneth’s faces, she had an uncomfortable feeling that von Flanagan was going to have another attempted murder on his hands. Any minute now.
“How much do you want for him?” von Flanagan said.
“He isn’t mine,” Helene said. “He belongs to Malone.”
“And where is Malone?” von Flanagan roared, forgetting all about the mutt.
Helene stared at him, her face pale. “Don’t—you—know?” She sat down suddenly on the nearest chair.
Kenneth Fairfaxx bounded to her side and said, “Mrs. Justus, are you all right?” He was obviously managing not to look at Glida.
“No,” Helene said truthfully. She closed her eyes for a moment. Elizabeth. Kenneth. Kenneth’s bride-to-be, Gay Lacy. Kenneth’s ex-bride, Glida. But no Malone. She decided she was going to scream. At least that would break the silence.
Elizabeth beat her to breaking the silence by saying, “Glida, let me take your coat. This is such a pleasant surprise.”
The well-bred Fairfaxxes, Helene thought, her eyes still closed. Well-bred except when they murdered postmen, committed blackmail, and probably robbed the U.S. mails.
“Thank you,” Glida said, in an equally well-bred voice. “I should say, pardon the intrusion.”
Helene shuddered.
“But I’m damned if I will,” Glida said. “And what you really meant to say is, ‘Why the hell are you here?’ All right, I’ll tell you why I’m here. I’m looking for Malone.”
Gay Lacy said acidly, “Elizabeth, I’m very sorry about this. I’m not responsible for this—for her forcing her way in here. I would not have come along and caused you this embarrassment except that I—”
“She’s looking for Malone too,” Helene said wearily. “And so am I. And so is von Flanagan. And will someone please tell me who attempted to murder who or whom, and in this age of scientific marvels, how did he or she happen to fail?” Her voice seemed to be coming from very far away, and it seemed to be going on and on without any help from her. “And where is Malone? What have you done with him?”
She felt fingers slip a glass in her hand, opened her eyes and looked up into Violet’s calm and friendly face. She downed the drink gratefully, smiled at Violet, and lit a cigarette.
“No one’s done anything with Malone,” von Flanagan told her. “And what’s the matter with you, anyway?”
Glida looked up at him, braced her fists on her hips and said, “I don’t know who you are, but you look like a cop. All that’s the matter with her is that her husband’s dying of some strange disease, her lawyer’s disappeared, she�
��s at the scene of an attempted murder, and I’m embarrassing her. Isn’t that enough to be the matter with anybody?”
Von Flanagan said, “Who asked you any questions?” and Kenneth Fairfaxx said, “Darling—I mean Glida—please—” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said quickly, “Helene, my dear, is Jake seriously ill?” and Gay Lacy said, “Doesn’t anyone know where Malone is?”
“I can think of a number of places Malone might be,” von Flanagan said angrily, “and not more than two of them that I’d mention in the presence of ladies. I’m here because of an attempted murder, not a misplaced lawyer.”
Gay Lacy adjusted her unbecoming furs and said very coldly, “Since there is no need for my remaining, in that case—I’ll be at home if Mr. Malone shows up.”
No one asked her to remain. In fact, no one paid much attention to her departure.
Von Flanagan sat down heavily and mopped his round pink face.
Helene drew a long, slow breath. At least the victim of the attempted murder wasn’t Malone. “Just what did happen here tonight, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Someone hit the old—” von Flanagan paused, coughed, and went on. “Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx on the head.”
“Uncle Ernie?” Helene gasped. “Who’d want to murder poor old Uncle Ernie?”
“Looks like the same person that murdered three postmen,” von Flanagan said with a growl. “The wound looks like it was made with the same weapon. Only this time it wasn’t fatal. He’ll be okay in a couple of days. These old drunks are tougher than they look.” Again he paused, looking suddenly apologetic.
“That’s all right,” Helene assured him. “Every good family has at least one drunk in it.”
“And,” von Flanagan said, “the postmen were hit when they were on the other side of the wall. This—Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx—was on this side of the wall.”
Helene said, “Well obviously, you wouldn’t expect him to go out into the alley to get hit on the head, just to make things easier for you.”
“Nobody ever makes things easy for me,” von Flanagan said. “People go out of their way to make things hard for me. I never wanted to be a policeman anyway.” He sighed, and then scowled. “But from the way he fell down, and from where his head was hit, the person who hit him must of been on the other side of the wall too … the opposite of the person who killed those three postmen.”
There was a long and very uncomfortable silence.
Kenneth began, in an almost too-steady voice, “We were here together. My cousin Elizabeth and myself. Violet was making coffee. We heard Mr. Malone call for help—”
“We found Uncle Ernie by the wall—” Elizabeth went on with it.
“I’ve heard all that,” von Flanagan interrupted. His tone made it very clear that he didn’t believe it.
“Look, you,” Glida said. “I don’t like you, but you might have some sense. If the guy who conked Uncle Ernie on the bean was outside the wall—” She paused. “Wait a minute. If this is the same guy who bumped off those three postmen, it can’t be Uncle Rodney, because you’ve got him in jail. So you’d better get him out and get him right home.”
Von Flanagan glared at her. “Just exactly who do you think you are?”
“I was Mrs. Kenneth Fairfaxx,” she told him coldly. “My first name is G-l-i-d-a, pronounced Gilda, and I have twins. Six twins.”
The police officer looked bewildered and even more unhappy. “Six—?”
At that moment the doorbell rang long, loud, and frantically. Bridie’s scurrying steps were heard in the hall. The door was opened and a white-faced, trembling Gadenski burst into the room.
“Masked man,” he gasped. “Horrible face. Spots. A leper.”
Von Flanagan snapped “Leopard?”
“Leper. Like—” He made futile gestures with his hands.
“Catch your breath,” Helene said. She poured a straight drink and handed it to him.
The plainclothesman shook his head. “On duty.”
“Take it,” von Flanagan said. “What about this masked man?”
Officer Gadenski more than made up in imagination and dramatic style for what he lacked in literary approach. The man had been extremely tall. Almost a giant. He was wearing a mask that covered his whole face except his eyes. Then the mask had come off, and the face underneath had been terrible beyond all description. Exactly like what Gadenski imagined leprosy looked like.
“I was following instructions and watching the house,” he said, warming to his audience, “waiting for Malone to come out. Making myself inconspicuous, like it says in the police manual. Only I couldn’t read a newspaper account of it was too dark, and anyway who’d be standing reading a newspaper in a snowstorm. This—this monster—approached me. I—”
“Did he speak to you?” Helene put in suddenly.
Gadenski nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Justus. He yelled something at me in some foreign language. I couldn’t tell what language it was, but I knew for sure it was foreign.”
Helene relaxed. Jake didn’t know any foreign languages save pig Latin remembered from high school.
“Go on,” von Flanagan said impatiently.
“Well,” Gadenski said. He gulped. “I thought it best to come in and report to you.”
Von Flanagan started to swear, remembered where he was, and said, “You should have caught him first and then reported to me.”
“Captain von Flanagan,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said suddenly. “Couldn’t that have been the murderer? Some prowler—some madman—loose in the neighborhood?”
“Could be,” the officer said. Obviously he didn’t think so any more than she did. “May I use your telephone?”
As he waited for his connection, he added, “But there aren’t many prowlers around in this kind of weather.”
He gave headquarters a slightly modified description of the masked man.
“Von Flanagan!” Helene said, as he put down the phone, “He said—he was waiting for Malone!”
Everyone looked at Gadenski. There was a long pause.
“Bridie said she let him out the gate,” Helene said.
“He didn’t come out the gate,” Gadenski said. “I was to watch for him and trail him and tell Garrity where he was, account of von Flanagan wanted to see him and Malone’s hard to get an appointment with. So I know he never came out the gate.”
Von Flanagan turned to Elizabeth Fairfaxx. “There are other ways of getting out of here?”
The other ways were promptly checked. No one had gone through the Lacy gate. The Lacy butler, Huntleigh, was positive about that. No one had gone through the garage. And there was no other way.
This time, von Flanagan did swear.
“He’s here somewhere,” Helene said. “Anything might have happened to him. You’ve got to find him.”
“We will,” von Flanagan said grimly. He stood up and began buttoning on his overcoat. “Come on, Gadenski.”
Kenneth Fairfaxx said, “I’ll go with you.”
“Good,” von Flanagan said. “You know your way around these grounds. I don’t think we’ll need anyone else.” He looked sternly at Helene and said, “You stay right here, or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice.”
It was a long wait. Helene sat lighting cigarettes and putting them right out again. Violet made a fresh pot of coffee, which nobody touched. A saucer of beer was brought for the mutt, who sat looking at it disconsolately.
Once Helene telephoned the hotel. No, Mr. Justus had not left the hotel. There was, she reminded herself as she hung up, the freight elevator. But no, even Jake wouldn’t venture into a snowstorm with a case of chicken pox. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
At last the three men returned, wet with snow and shivering with cold. Malone had not been found.
The Fairfaxx house and the Lacy house had been gone over from cellar to roof. The abandoned house next door was securely locked and boarded up. The garages and the gardens had been searched inch by inch. There was not the slightest sign of Malone, not anywh
ere.
“And the worst of it is,” von Flanagan said bitterly, “there’s so much snow falling, if there ever had been any tracks, we’d never find them now.”
“He just might have gotten out,” Helene said, in a very small and unconvincing voice. “He might be sitting in some nice warm bar right now, while we—”
“Impossible,” Kenneth said. “There’s no way of getting out of this enclosure. Unless someone let him out.”
A faint gray light was beginning to come through the windows. The lamps in the Fairfaxx living room had lost their cheerfulness.
“He’s been—wherever he is—for hours!” Elizabeth Fairfaxx whispered.
At that moment the mutt let go with a very long and very mournful howl.
Helene started to scream. Instead, she jumped to her feet, a blue light flickering in her eyes. “Von Flanagan!”
“He’s not a bloodhound,” von Flanagan said dismally.
“No. He’s a beer hound. An Australian beer hound. But—von Flanagan, he’s our last hope of finding Malone.”
16
Malone groaned, and wished he were dead. Obviously someone had exploded a cannon cracker inside his skull, and he could still taste the fumes.
He tried experimentally to move, and decided that he was dead. No, on second thought, only partially so. He could move his legs, with a little difficulty. But his feet didn’t seem to quite touch any solid substance. There was something solid down there, but it was maddeningly out of reach.
He opened his eyes. Utter darkness.
He sniffed the air. There was an odor of musty wood, damp concrete, and old mice.
After a few minutes, he decided that he was alive. Just where, and why, he wasn’t sure. There was a splitting ache in his head, but he could move it. After a few tries, to make sure it would still turn and nod, he decided to leave it as quiet as possible.
His hands would move, too. And his legs and his feet. The rest of him seemed to have been bound.