The Fourth Postman

by Craig Rice

  “‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,’” Malone said approvingly.

  “And he did go to the World’s Fair of ’93. He also made all the money in the family. It was very simple, really. He just bought a lot of real estate when it was very cheap, and sold it when it was very expensive. I wish I could think of as easy a way to make money as that.”

  “So do I,” Malone said fervently.

  “He got married,” Kenneth said, “and he had Uncle Rodney. I don’t know much about Uncle Rodney’s mother, but I’ve seen her picture. She was pretty. She died, and he got married again, and had Uncle Ernie. That wife died too. He got married again—”

  “This begins to sound like the first chapter of Matthew,” Malone said. “But go on.”

  “Well,” Kenneth said, “my father was born. My grandmother named him Cedric.” He looked embarrassed. “After Little Lord Fauntleroy. And then Elizabeth’s father was born.”

  “And what was he named?” Malone asked.

  “John,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said. “Just plain John.”

  “The family imagination evidently got senile,” Malone said. “Now that we’re out of the Begats—”

  “The Lacys,” Kenneth said. “You see, it’s all sort of mixed up together. Uncle Rodney’s mother’s brother was Albert Lacy. He was named for Prince Albert, like the tobacco. And the coats.”

  “Wait a minute,” Malone said. He relit his cigar. “In one more minute I’ll have to start putting this down on paper.”

  “He got married too,” Kenneth went on, “and he had a son. Named Albert.”

  “Obviously,” Malone said, “named for his father, and for—indirectly—Prince Albert, and for the coats.” He added, “And the tobacco.”

  “And then another son,” Kenneth said, “named—”

  “Edgeworth,” Malone said. “It couldn’t have been anything else.”

  Kenneth Fairfaxx stared at him. “Are you really psychic, Mr. Malone? That was very close. It wasn’t actually Edgeworth, it was Edward.”

  “Let’s leave it right there,” Malone said, hastily, “before we get into the reason he was named Edward. Who inherited all of Hark the Herald Angels Sing’s dough?”

  “Uncle Rodney. He felt very guilty about it, I think. Because he’s always taken very good care of Uncle Ernie. And Elizabeth’s father got married, and Elizabeth was born, and her mother—she was an actress—left him, and her father died and Uncle Rodney adopted her. And my father got married, and I was born, and I was about six when both my parents got killed in a car wreck, and Uncle Rodney adopted me too. He’s always been wonderful to us both.”

  The young man drew a long breath. “And I fell in love with Glida and we were married, and we got divorced, and the family sort of wanted me to marry Gay, so we got engaged, and Elizabeth is in love with this actor and they’re going to be married, and Uncle Rodney has been in love with Annie Kendall all these years and won’t believe she’s dead.”

  “Knots,” Malone murmured.

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind,” Malone said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Kenneth blinked. A pair of moments later he said, “You ought to know. Albert Lacy and his brother were pretty swell guys. I think Albert Lacy would have liked me to marry his daughter, Gay.”

  Malone said gently, “Maybe his brother would have liked to see you stay married to his daughter Glida.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I’m afraid I’ve taken up too much of your time, Mr. Malone,” Kenneth said stiffly.

  “Stick around,” Malone said, “while I take up some of yours. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx has all the Fairfaxx dough, which must amount to something worth while, with or without inflation. Who is going to inherit that?”

  “Why,” Kenneth said, “except for Uncle Ernie’s trust fund, Elizabeth and I will.”

  Malone picked up his cigar, gazed at it, and said slowly, “But suppose Annie Kendall should be alive?”

  Kenneth’s chair fell over backward with a loud clatter as he stood up. “Mr. Malone! Is there a chance that she might be?”

  Malone said nothing. Kenneth strode across the room and gripped the edge of the desk.

  “Mr. Malone, if she is—and if she can be found—” He paused, gasped. His face lighted up like a neon sign. “Think what that would mean to Uncle Rodney! He’s loved her so much, all these years. And she’s so beautiful—I’ve never seen her, but I’ve practically grown up with her pictures—”

  He paused again. “I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean. There is a lot of money involved. But if you think Elizabeth or I would—would keep him from knowing—You know what I mean, Mr. Malone. I’m not as much of a stinker as you think I am.”

  “Go away,” Malone said wearily. “It’s been a very pleasant and instructive half hour, but I’m a tired man. I’ve got another appointment five minutes from now, and with rare good luck I can catch four minutes sleep in between. And I still don’t know what you came here for.”

  Kenneth Fairfaxx walked to the door, paused and said “Elizabeth. Uncle Ernie. The postmen—”

  There was no answer until the mutt growled at him. It was a whispered growl. Because John J. Malone was asleep.

  20

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” Malone began.

  The judge barked at him. There was a sound of pounding.

  The little lawyer sat up and blinked. The mutt was barking and someone was knocking at the door.

  “Come in, your honor,” Malone called sleepily.

  Maggie came in, closing the door behind her.

  “I was having the most wonderful dream,” Malone said. “I dreamed I was asleep.”

  She sniffed. “Try dreaming you’re awake.” Her eyes softened momentarily. “I’ll run down and get you some coffee. And there’s a Mr. Huntleigh to see you.”

  Malone yawned. “Five will get you ten he’s wearing a black derby.”

  “I won’t bet with you,” Maggie said.

  “I know. Because I’m psychic.”

  “No,” Maggie said coldly, “because you’re broke.”

  He yawned again, shook some of the sleep from his eyes, and sat up straight. He did his best to look not only wide awake but cordial, when Huntleigh came in.

  He’d been sight about the black derby.

  “Mr. Malone,” Huntleigh began, “I feel that I have done you an injury.”

  “You sure as hell did,” Malone said, as cheerfully as he could. “My head aches, I’m lame all over, and I missed a night’s sleep. No hard feeling, though.”

  “I gathered the impression that there were no hard feelings,” Huntleigh said, “when you refrained from informing the police that I had been responsible for what we may call last night’s little incident.”

  “Oh boy,” Malone said admiringly. “You should have been a lawyer and landed in the Supreme Court. You’ve got a nice way with the words.”

  Huntleigh sat down stiffly, twirled his derby and said modestly, “Thank you, Mr. Malone. If I may take the liberty of saying it, the same to you.”

  Malone beamed and said, “Have a cigar.”

  Huntleigh confided that he didn’t smoke. No, he didn’t drink, either. Malone caught himself on the verge of saying, “What do you do?”

  “Mr. Malone, if you please. May I ask, why?”

  “Why didn’t I turn you over to the cops?” Malone asked. “Very simple. It would have wasted a lot of time for both of us. You’d have been dragged off to jail, and I’d have had to spend half the morning signing a complaint. Besides, you have a lot of questions to answer, and I’d rather ask them myself than let the police do it. Now it’s my turn to ask, why?”

  “I am devoted to Miss Lacy—”

  Malone said hastily, “Let’s not go into that again. Or maybe we should. Why are you devoted to Miss Lacy?”

  “Because,” Huntleigh said, “I was devoted to Miss Lacy’s father.” He sighed. “I suppose, in view of last night’s unpleasantness,
you are entitled to a certain amount of explanation.”

  “You’re damned right I am,” Malone said grimly, rubbing the back of his head. Suddenly he stared at Huntleigh. “Wait a minute.” Tall. Very thin. Dressed in black. Long, ape-like arms. “While you’re at it, you might as well explain why you were following me around downtown Chicago last night.”

  It was Huntleigh’s turn to stare. Finally he said stiffly, “I was not aware that you saw me, Mr. Malone.”

  “I did,” Malone said, recalling his flight with a shudder. “Again, why?”

  “Because,” Huntleigh repeated, “I am devoted to Miss Lacy.”

  Malone said wearily, “You’d better go on with the explanation. And it had better be good.” He added mentally, “And it had better be quick.”

  “Mr. Malone,” Huntleigh began, “I was not what you would call an attractive child.”

  The little lawyer looked up at Huntleigh and reflected that he had just heard the understatement of a lifetime.

  “My grandfather was a man of great integrity. He had the honor to be employed as butler by the famous Shakespearean scholar—”

  Malone leaned back and allowed himself to doze a little. From time to time he opened one ear. He gathered that Huntleigh’s father had also been a terrific guy and also picked up a few odds and ends about the English language. Huntleigh, however, had been a complete failure practically from the moment of his arrival. The little lawyer opened both ears just long enough to listen for the phrase “—that only a mother could love.” He got it.

  But if Huntleigh had been a failure as a candidate for a “Man of Distinction” portrait, he had become a great success as a butler.

  “It was just thirty years ago, Mr. Malone, that I was engaged by the late Mr. Albert Lacy.”

  Malone slid down in his chair and resigned himself to listening to the history of the past thirty years. Huntleigh didn’t disappoint him. Everything from women’s fashions to world-shaking events, and thumbnail reviews of the better books was included. It was restful. It was almost as good as a nap.

  A picture of the Albert Lacy who had been named for the prince, the coat, and the tobacco began to emerge. Handsome, of course. Tall and slender. Just a bit on the impractical side. A romantic, who had named his daughter Gay, and who lived Rodney Fairfaxx’s tragic romance as if it had been his own. A friendly, generous man who took the neighborhood children to the theater. A sympathetic, kindly soul who had inspired devotion in his unloved and unlovable butler.

  No wonder, Malone thought, that Albert Lacy had spent so much of his time away from the gloomy atmosphere of the Lacy house. He must have hated it.

  “And then,” Huntleigh was saying, “Mr. Lacy lost all his money.”

  Malone sat up, wide awake. “Wait a minute. This is Albert Lacy you’re talking about, not Edward.”

  “Quite right, sir.” Huntleigh said, nodding. “Mr. Albert made a series of unfortunate investments. To be quite truthful about it, I took the liberty of advising him against them. However, he would persist. I fear that poor Mr. Albert was sadly lacking in business judgment. It was most regrettable.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Malone said hoarsely. “Edward Lacy lost all his dough in the stock market crash. He killed his wife and himself, leaving Glida an orphan.”

  “That is correct, Mr. Malone.” Huntleigh paused. “Mr. Edward, if I may say so, was a very charming gentleman, and extremely sensitive.”

  “No doubt,” Malone said, puffing on his cigar. “But Mr. Albert also went down in the crash?”

  “Regrettably,” Huntleigh said.

  Malone rose, strolled to the window, and looked out over the expanse of dirty roof-tops. Snow was beginning to fall again. He wished that murders wouldn’t invariably happen in such bad weather.

  “In other words,” Malone said, “Mrs. Abby Lacy had money of her own?”

  “No, Mr. Malone.”

  The little lawyer turned around, took a fresh cigar from his pocket, and began unwrapping it. “Just how has Mrs. Lacy managed, all these years?”

  Huntleigh cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. “I was present at the late Mr. Albert’s deathbed, sir. He was not then aware of the extent of his financial losses. He requested me always to look after his daughter. Naturally, I looked on it as a sacred responsibility.”

  “In other words,” Malone said, “you’ve been supporting the household.”

  “You might put it that way, Mr. Malone. It was merely a matter of making an arrangement with the trust company to continue paying the income from the Lacy interests to Mrs. Lacy.”

  “Merely,” Malone muttered. “Very merely. And just how were you able to make this arrangement?”

  Again the butler cleared his throat. “It had happened that I had been able to make some very fortunate investments.”

  Malone sat down behind his desk. He lit his cigar on the third try. “You certainly were devoted to Mr. Lacy,” he said after a long silence.

  “I always tried to do my best, sir,” Huntleigh said.

  Again there was a silence while Malone thought the whole thing over. He wondered if Huntleigh had been sufficiently devoted to the Lacy family to murder three postmen in order to insure the inheritance of Gay Lacy’s fiancé.

  “I assume,” Malone said at last, “that no one except yourself knows about this arrangement.” He wondered if he was beginning to talk like Huntleigh.

  “And yourself, sir,” Huntleigh said.

  “Don’t worry,” Malone said. “I won’t tell.” He looked at the end of his cigar. “I bet you’re a hell of a good butler, too.”

  Huntleigh repeated, “I always try to do my best.” He rose. “I shall appreciate it if you do not mention my visit, Mr. Malone. And I am sincerely glad that there are no hard feelings.”

  “None at all,” Malone said, “but wait a minute. Do you go to the movies? Or the theater?”

  Huntleigh shook his head. He looked bewildered.

  “Nightclubs?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Gambling?”

  “After my successful venture in the stock market, I decided not to—ah—push my luck, Mr. Malone.”

  “And you don’t drink, and you don’t smoke. Don’t you do anything for fun?”

  “Oh yes, sir.” A light came into Huntleigh’s eyes. “I collect rare butterflies.”

  “Well, well, well,” Malone said. “That must be very interesting.”

  A smile broke over Huntleigh’s face. It was like sunrise over a movie set for Frankenstein’s Castle. “I’d be delighted to show you my collection, Mr. Malone. I’ve just acquired a very unusual specimen of Teinopalpus Imperialis.”

  “Some other time,” Malone said hastily. He puffed furiously at his cigar. “As a butterfly specialist, I don’t suppose you know anything about fleas?”

  Huntleigh looked at the mutt. The smile stayed on his face. The mutt looked at Huntleigh and wagged his tail.

  “I should suggest soap and water, sir,” Huntleigh said. He added, “If by any chance you’re looking for a home for the little dog—”

  “He’s not mine,” Malone said. “I—am keeping him for a friend.”

  The butler said, “If that will be all, Mr. Malone—”

  “It will not,” Malone said, suddenly remembering. “I still don’t know why you were following me last evening.” He placed a mental bet on Huntleigh’s first words, and won.

  “The Lacy family—” Huntleigh paused. “The Fairfaxx family is, in a sense, a part of the Lacy family. I am devoted to old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. I was deeply concerned over the fact of his being accused of murder. It occurred to me that you might be able to—to put my mind at ease about him.”

  “So you were following me,” Malone said, puffing on his cigar.

  “Frankly, Mr. Malone—I was attempting to arouse sufficient courage to speak to you.”

  Malone stared at him. Finally he said, “Always be brave Huntleigh.” He wondered how much of what the
butler had told him, last night and today, was the truth.

  The door opened. Maggie came into the office, very quietly, closing the door behind her. She handed Malone a slip of paper.

  Malone glanced at it and said, “Thank you, Maggie.” He turned to Huntleigh and said, “Would you mind leaving by my private door? There’s someone—” He paused, managed to look coy, and finished—“A woman.”

  “I quite understand,” Huntleigh said, with just a suggestion of a wink. As Malone opened the door for him, he said, “And anytime you’d like to see my collection—”

  “I’ll call you,” Malone promised. He closed the door, mopped his brow with a slightly wrinkled handkerchief, and said, “That was close!”

  Maggie sniffed indignantly, opened the other door, and said in her sweetest voice, “Mr. Malone will see you now.”

  It was Gay Lacy who walked into the room. Her stringy hair was tucked under an unbecoming hat. She wore a pale blue raincoat that just might have looked well on a beautiful blonde. There was a look of severe determination on her face.

  “Well, Mr. Malone,” she said sharply, “let’s not waste any time. How much do you want?”

  21

  Malone quickly repressed an impulse to say, “How much have you got?” Instead he gave her the smile he usually reserved for difficult juries, held out a cordial hand and said, “My dear Miss Lacy! How nice to see you! Won’t you sit down!” Over Gay Lacy’s shoulder he could see Maggie’s scornful glance as she closed the door.

  Gay Lacy sat down stiffly. “I don’t want to waste your time. I repeat, how much do you want?”

  Malone said, “Would you care for a cigarette? Could I send out for some coffee? It’s a very bad day out. May I take your coat?”

  She loosened her coat but showed no signs of giving it up. She took a cigarette case out of her bag, helped herself, took out her lighter and beat Malone’s offered match by a good ten seconds.

  Malone sighed, sat down behind his desk, and picked up his cigar. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Huntleigh would have approved of that speech, he reflected. “And just what did you mean? How much what, and for what?”