by Craig Rice
“Office hours nine to five,” Malone said. “Call for appointment. Number in phone book.” He picked up the mutt and let Helene lead him out to the car.
The snowstorm had been followed by a brilliant sky. The magnificent old houses had been brushed with snow as a cake is brushed with powdered sugar. Malone blinked at the blazing beauty.
Helene swung the car into Lake Shore Drive and said, “I hope Jake is all right.”
“I hope I’m all right,” Malone said indignantly. “And don’t take me to my hotel. Just drop me at Joe the Angel’s.” He had suddenly remembered that he still hadn’t collected that retainer.
Helene said, “It isn’t just that everything I can think of has happened to you. It isn’t that I think you need a good night’s sleep. It’s just that I don’t think you ought to take that sweet little doggie woggie with you into a saloon.”
“This is not a doggie woggie,” Malone said. “This is an Australian beer hound. And my brief pause at Joe the Angel’s is purely a business matter.”
Helene watched while he led the mutt across the sidewalk into Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. Then she started up the street. Malone and the Australian beer hound would be in good hands. But Jake—
She’d left him alone all this time. Was chicken pox serious for a grown man? No, she was thinking of something else. But perhaps he’d wakened and found himself all alone, and not found her note. Besides, he must have needed more cocoa butter by this time. She hoped the mutt hadn’t eaten it all.
She swung the car into the garage and all but raced to the elevator. There was that uneasy feeling in the back of her mind. The masked man outside the gate. Oh no, Jake wouldn’t have—
She flung open the door of the apartment. She closed it quietly behind her.
From the bedroom she could hear Jake’s slow, steady breathing.
The very idea, imagining a thing like that!
She tiptoed into the bedroom. Jake was sound asleep.
She could stand a little sleep herself.
After all, it was a long time past dawn.
She unclasped her furs and let them slip onto the nearest chair. She ran a tired hand through her pale blonde hair.
And then she saw it. The hammer. It was in Jake’s hand.
It seemed like hours before she reached Malone on the telephone and told him that she’d found the murder weapon.
Malone said sleepily, “Fine. Throw it in the lake.”
18
“Mr. Malone,” Maggie said disapprovingly as he came in the office, “the building manager has called again about the rent. The stamp magazines for your client came to four dollars and eighty-five cents, which I paid for out of my own pocket. And there are a lot of phone calls—” She paused, gasped, and said, “What on earth?”
“It’s a dog,” Malone said. “A very rare and expensive breed of dog.”
Maggie sniffed. “It probably has fleas.”
“It does have fleas,” Malone told her. “Very rare and expensive fleas.”
The mutt looked wistfully at Maggie.
“He’s cute!” Maggie said. “My little brother has been wanting a dog—”
“I’ll discuss it later,” Malone said hastily. “Right now he isn’t really my dog.”
It was true. The financial transaction with Joe the Angel had been long and difficult. Joe had finally agreed, for old times’ sake, to let the bar bill ride for twenty-four hours, and to advance ten dollars in cash money. But if the account wasn’t paid, Malone was to turn over the mutt. The little lawyer glanced down at the trusting eyes, winced, and hoped that the mutt hadn’t understood any of the transaction. Somehow he’d have to collect that retainer in the next twenty-four hours. Not, he reminded himself, that he didn’t want to find a home for the mutt. It was just that Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar didn’t seem like quite the right environment.
“Maggie, I’m a very tired man,” Malone began. He looked longingly at the worn leather couch in his inner office.
“No,” Maggie said firmly. She picked up the notepad that lay beside a pile of fan magazines on her desk. “Captain von Flanagan called you three times. Mrs. Justus called twice. And all these people want to see you as soon as possible, and they all say it’s very important.” She read off the list of names: “Miss Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Mr. Kenneth Fairfaxx. Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx, who is in Passavant Hospital. Miss Gay Lacy. And someone named Huntleigh.”
“Such popularity,” Malone muttered. He wished he’d obeyed his impulse not to come down to the office at all.
“Also,” Maggie said, “Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx wishes you to come to his home this afternoon. He has something to confess to you, and he would like to make a new will.”
Malone yawned.
“I’ll call these people and make appointments,” Maggie said sternly. “And comb your hair and straighten your tie. You look as though you’d fallen down a well.”
“I did,” Malone said, “only it was a cellar. Handle those appointments carefully. I don’t want these people to run into each other.”
He went into the inner office, followed by the mutt who promptly curled up on the couch Malone had been eying, and went sound asleep. Malone looked at him bitterly and murmured something about the end of a beautiful friendship.
The little lawyer sat down behind his desk, took out a cigar, unwrapped it very slowly and thoughtfully, folded the strip of cellophane into a lover’s-knot and laid it on his desk.
A moment ago he’d been tired beyond all belief. His shoulders still ached, and there was a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head. He’d caught exactly sixty minutes of sleep at his hotel and tried to augment them with a shower and a shave. But now, suddenly, he was wide awake again.
The whole thing was a tangle of lover knots. For a moment he closed his eyes and tried to visualize it as a wallpaper pattern. Very pretty, he decided, but the average person would miss the significance.
Old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, and his lost Annie. Abby Lacy, who’d wanted to be lovely, and had married a man who admired lovely women. The fabulous Liza Lavender, who had deserted Elizabeth Fairfaxx’s father for an Italian count when Elizabeth was a baby, and then returned as housekeeper in the house of Fairfaxx. Elizabeth herself, and her unemployed actor. Glida and Kenneth, so obviously in love with each other, and so irrevocably separated.
Love, money, and murder. The three things always seemed to go together.
Maggie walked in. Malone looked up from his cigar and said, “I’ve just discovered a new eternal triangle.”
Maggie sniffed. “Here’s your list of appointments. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx is expecting you at four. Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx at three-thirty. I asked Mrs. Justus to come in at two-thirty. I thought that might save you cab fare.”
“Smart woman,” Malone said.
“I mean,” Maggie said, “I thought it might save you borrowing cab fare from me. And Captain von Flanagan’s on the phone again.” She slammed the door as she went out.
Malone sighed, relit his cigar, and picked up the telephone.
“Glad to know you’re all right again,” von Flanagan’s voice said. “I suppose you know that we’ve released Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx.”
“I do,” Malone said grimly. He drew a long breath, gripped the telephone hard, and said, “My pal, giving me a client one day, and taking him away from me the next. Couldn’t you have kept him in jail long enough for me to collect a retainer from him?” He went on with several minutes of an indignant description of what he thought of such unethical proceedings.
There was an awkward pause.
“Malone,” von Flanagan said. “I really called up to talk to you about the little dog—”
“The little dog will never be surrendered to the police department,” Malone said. “Not even if he makes a full confession.” He hung up fast.
The receiver was barely on the hook before Maggie came in. “Miss Elizabeth Fairfaxx is here. With a—gentleman.”
The gentleman turned out
to be Bob Allen. He was still wearing the faded corduroy slacks, the stained canvas shoes, the old sports jacket. He had, however, added a soiled and badly worn raincoat to the combination. He sat down in the nearest chair and acted as though he were pretending to be in the next room.
“You remember Mr. Allen,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, with that breathless note.
Malone resisted an impulse to ask Mr. Allen if he’d mind emptying the wastebaskets while he was waiting, and said, yes he did indeed remember Mr. Allen.
Elizabeth Fairfaxx sat down beside the mutt and began stroking his ears. Malone looked at her appreciatively. It was obvious that she had dressed hastily. Her face was almost blank of make-up, and her tawny hair was tied in a knot on the back of her head. The jacket of her green tweed suit was only half buttoned. There was a run in one of her stockings. And she was one of the loveliest things Malone had ever seen.
“Mr. Allen,” Malone said, “do you mind if I talk with Miss Fairfaxx alone?”
Bob Allen rose, looked at Malone for a long moment, said, “No,” and went out.
“Frankly,” Malone said, after the door had closed, “what do you see in him?”
“Mr. Malone—” There was a light in her eyes that almost hurt him. “Maybe you don’t understand—”
“Oh yes I do,” the little lawyer said quickly. He picked up his neglected cigar and relit it. It took a little time.
“Kenneth couldn’t have done it,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said.
“Of course he couldn’t,” Malone said. “Neither could Rodney Fairfaxx.” He decided to throw the cigar away and start another one.
“But,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “I lied to you last night. And so did Kenneth. We weren’t together at the time Uncle Ernie was—was almost killed.” Her voice broke.
Malone rose, walked over to her, took the clean handkerchief he’d tucked in his breast pocket that morning and handed it to her.
“Twist it,” he said.
She looked up at him helplessly.
“When I have a woman witness on the stand,” Malone said, “I always give her a handkerchief to twist. Not only because it makes a good impression on the jury, but because it takes her mind off what’s she’s saying. You’re on the stand now, so go ahead.”
Elizabeth smiled at him wanly. “You think I’m still lying to you, don’t you? I’m not, honestly.” She began twirling the handkerchief between her fingers. “I was frightened after you left the house. I don’t know why. Maybe just nerves. Or maybe because of Uncle Ernie. I knew you were going to meet him, and I didn’t know what he was going to say to you.” The handkerchief tightened. “I didn’t know what he might say to you.”
“You’re doing fine,” Malone said. “Go on.”
“I went out in the yard. I didn’t know just what I was going to do, or why. It didn’t seem to matter, just then. It was—well—it was just a crazy impulse—” The handkerchief tied itself in a knot.
Again Malone rose. He patted her shoulder and said, “I’d love to have you on a witness stand sometime.”
“I was frightened,” she said. “Terribly frightened. Out there in the yard, I mean. The snow was falling so fast. I couldn’t see Uncle Ernie. Or anybody. And then I saw—I mean, I thought I saw—Glida’s mother’s ghost, in the snow.”
Malone said, “Ghost?” He wondered if his voice sounded the way it felt.
She went on in a breathless rush. “Glida’s father killed his wife before he—died. It was because he loved her. She’d always had everything and he couldn’t bear the thought of her being poor. Everybody thought she’d run away, and then they found her body in the cellar of the house next door.”
“It’s a nice cellar, as they go,” Malone said. “You’d better have a drink, Miss Fairfaxx.”
“I don’t need one, thank you,” she said. The handkerchief was beginning to be shredded now.
“I do,” Malone said hoarsely. “While I pour it, go on about your ghost.”
“It was just something—in white,” she whispered. “Tall—Glida’s mother was tall—and white—and glistening—I ran back in the house—”
Malone held the drink he’d poured for himself to her lips. She gasped, choked, rewarded him with a smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Malone. I—didn’t get much sleep last night.” She picked up the handkerchief. “But, I wasn’t with Kenneth at the time it happened. So, I could have attacked Uncle Ernie. Kenneth can’t alibi me.” She rose, dropped the handkerchief, smiled vaguely and said, “That’s all I came here to say.”
“And you can’t alibi him,” Malone said. “Sit down.”
She stared at him, sank back on the couch.
“I’ll have you arrested,” Malone said, “if that’s what you want. And I’ll be your defense attorney and get you off. But—” he picked up a scrap of ruined linen from the floor. “You’ll have to buy your own handkerchiefs. And right now I’d rather talk about something else.”
He found a cigarette, lit it, and put it between her fingers.
“Tell me something about Violet,” he said softly. “Have you ever heard her speak?”
Elizabeth Fairfaxx stared at him. It was a long moment before she answered. “I started to say No, but that would have been a lie, too. I’ve never heard her speak with people present, but—” She paused. “Maybe I’m dreaming this. Maybe I’m insane. But I’d swear I’ve heard her whisper to me. Last night—this morning—she tucked me in bed. I don’t know what she was saying, but I knew she was whispering to me. She’s always been so good to me. I dream about her sometimes, and the dreams don’t make much sense, but—” She paused again and said, “Mr. Malone, I’m so tired. I’d better go home.”
Her face was as white as Malone’s face felt. She got to her feet.
“Kenneth couldn’t have done it,” she said.
“No,” Malone said, his heart aching, “but you could.” He kicked the buzzer under his desk. Maggie was in in a flash, the unemployed actor right behind her.
“I didn’t, Malone,” she breathed into his ear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, “but you have a motive.”
He watched while Bob Allen escorted the exhausted girl to the elevator. Then he returned to the office.
“Am I making a motive out of a mountain?” he asked Maggie, “or am I making a monkey out of a male heel?”
19
“I don’t know just how to begin,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said miserably.
Malone yawned in spite of himself. He had made an attempt to get a quick nap between appointments, curled up uncomfortably on the chair. The mutt had looked so contented sleeping on the couch that the little lawyer hadn’t had the heart to disturb him. The attempt at napping hadn’t been successful.
“Suppose you begin by telling me,” he said, “that you and Elizabeth weren’t together at the time Uncle Ernie was hit on the head, and that therefore you can’t alibi each other?”
Kenneth Fairfaxx stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“I’m psychic,” Malone said, “but don’t tell my friends. My enemies know it already.” He stifled another yawn.
“I wanted to think,” the young man said. “I wanted to get away by myself for a few minutes, and think. Do you understand, Mr. Malone?”
Malone rose, strolled to the window and gazed for a moment across the dreary Chicago rooftops. Under the blazing sunlight, last night’s snow was already a tired gray, when it should have been glistening.
“In every murder I’ve encountered,” Malone said, “there was always some idiot, usually young, who needed an alibi. Invariably it turned out that when the murder was committed, he had gone away somewhere to think. Or was taking an unobserved nap.” He killed another yawn at birth. “Or had gone for a walk in the park to look at the moon. Or was in the men’s room at the Union Station.”
He turned around and walked back to the desk.
“Mr. Malone,” Kenneth said, even more miserably, “do you think it would help if
I confessed to knocking out Uncle Ernie? And to everything else?”
Malone sat down, puffed furiously at his cigar, and said, “No, I don’t. Because no one would believe you. Especially, myself.”
“Well,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said, “I thought I’d ask. You see—” He was suddenly very silent.
“You must be pretty tired,” Malone said. “You missed a night’s sleep. You’d better have a drink.”
“No, thank you,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said. A moment later as Malone put a glass in his hand he said, “Well—” And then added, “You must be pretty tired too.”
Another moment later Malone said, “I was.”
“About Elizabeth,” Kenneth said. “It’s like this. We were brought up together. We didn’t go to the same schools, but we spent our vacations together, and we were both orphans, and we didn’t have any brothers and sisters, and when I wanted to marry Glida she thought it was fine and she helped us elope, and when the first set of twins was born she waited with me in the hospital, and while the rest of the family didn’t quite approve of Bob Allen, I think he’s a grand guy. No, thanks, Mr. Malone—well then—just a short one—”
He gulped down the drink and said, “I took a fish-hook out of Elizabeth’s thumb when she was six years old.”
“I bet it hurt,” Malone said, “and I bet she didn’t cry.”
“She didn’t,” Kenneth said. “And when I was about eight, Gay Lacy said something nasty about my father, and Elizabeth knocked two of her teeth out. Funny that it should have been Gay Lacy.” He sighed and said, “Mr. Malone, everything seems terribly complex.”
“It does,” Malone said, chewing savagely at the cigar, “and it would help no end if you’d uncomplex a little of it for me. Especially if you’d help me sort out what members of your family are related to who. Pick an ancestor who watched George Washington chop down the cherry tree, or attended the Lincoln-Douglas debates, or went to the World’s Fair in ’93, and take it from there.”
The young man smiled wanly. “It was Herald Fairfaxx,” he said. “Herald, not Harold. And he wasn’t a misprint, and he wasn’t named for a newspaper. He was named for a hymn.”