by Craig Rice
She looked at him again. “You do need a good night’s sleep.” She swung off Michigan Boulevard, drove a few blocks toward the lake and parked neatly in front of a small frame building labeled “Frank’s.” “I hope this will do.”
Helene and the mutt headed for the bar while Malone shut himself in the phone booth. Five minutes later he emerged. The search for Jake was going on, but so far there were no results. Jake had apparently vanished from the face of the earth and it was still up to Malone to keep Helene from finding out about it.
He walked into the bar, trying desperately to think of ways and means.
“This is on me,” Helene informed him, “I just matched Frank for the next two drinks.”
“Everytime she comes in, I lose money,” Frank said. He didn’t sound displeased. “How much you want for the little dog?”
“I’m just keeping him for a friend,” Malone said. Sooner or later Helene would have to know the truth. He’d have to think of a way to handle that, too.
“You have worries, Malone?” Frank asked sympathetically.
“Future worries,” the little lawyer said. “I always believe in crossing my barn doors after the bridge has been stolen. Make mine gin.”
“Malone,” Helene said, “I’ve got to get back to Jake. Right away.”
Malone ignored her. “Suppose Annie came back and married Rodney Fairfaxx. Then suppose Rodney Fairfaxx died. He’s bound to, eventually. Annie would inherit most of the Fairfaxx dough.”
“None of that seems like a legal problem to me,” Helene said. “It seems like first grade arithmetic.”
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “There would be a legal tangle that would get top billing in the American Weekly. Because Annie’s marriage to Rodney, being bigamous, would be automatically non-existent. Vamoosed. Spurlos versenkt. And where would that leave the money? To all the heirs and prospective heirs, all of whom would hire high-priced lawyers.”
“And the Fairfaxx money would also go down the versenkt,” Helene said. “I know a little about lawyers myself. Finish that drink, and let’s go.”
“All this,” Malone went on dreamily, “would leave Uncle Ernie with two things. No money. Annie. Right now I don’t think he wants to be left with either of them.”
“Malone. Hurry up.”
“However,” Malone said, “if Annie should turn up, and Uncle Rodney should marry her and leave her all his dough, and if something should then happen to Uncle Rodney—Uncle Ernie just might overcome his natural delicacy and marry her, never mentioning the fact that he’d already been married to her for some forty years. I wish I knew what was in that will.”
“Finish your drink, Malone.”
“It gives him—Uncle Ernie—a perfect motive for two future murders. Uncle Rodney’s, and, in time, gentle Annie’s. But a perfect lack of motive for murdering three postmen.” He took a very long time unwrapping a cigar. “Why did he go to such great lengths to call it to my attention? Or did he know I’d find it out anyway? Or is he just covering up for somebody else by calling a lot of attention to himself? And in that case—”
Helene suddenly reached over, held his mouth open, poured the rest of the gin down his throat, poured the beer chaser after it. Half of it went up his nose. He sputtered, gulped, and sneezed.
Before he’d quite recovered himself, he was in the car, the mutt sympathetically licking his face.
“I’ll drop you wherever you want to go,” Helene said, “and then I’ve got to get back to Jake.”
“The Fairfaxx house—” Malone gave a feeble little moan and leaned back against the cushions. The mutt howled mournfully.
Helene jammed on the brakes and slid over to the curb.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” Malone whispered, “but I’m a very sick man. I’m not as young as I was when I was born. Last night—was a little too much for me—”
He opened one eyelid a fraction of an inch and could see her face bending over him, pale with anxiety.
“I’m taking you straight to a hospital,” Helene said.
“No. Duty to clients first. Must go to Fairfaxx house. Then you can take me anywhere.” Maybe by that time, Jake would have been found. “But go with me.”
“Of course I will,” Helene said, sympathetically. “Did you think I’d desert you?”
She drove on slowly, asking him at half block intervals how he felt. By the time they reached the neighborhood of the Fairfaxx house, he had recovered sufficiently to sit up and look around.
It was a dismal, mid-winter late afternoon. The snow that had stopped falling hours before had already become muddied and soot-shadowed heaps. The sky was dark with clouds and a premonition of an early twilight.
“Slow down a minute,” Malone said.
The three almost identical houses looked like three bored vultures squatting behind a wrought iron fence. Malone shivered.
“Malone, what’s the matter?”
“I just wanted to get a good look at them by daylight,” the little lawyer said. There, the first in the row, was the deserted house whose cellar he never wanted to see again. He looked at it closely. Suddenly he said, “Hey!” Then, “But this is the Fairfaxx house.”
“Maybe I had better take you to a hospital,” Helene said.
“I’m perfectly all right,” Malone said indignantly, forgetting himself. “But the number of the Fairfaxx house is 1217. And that house number is 1217.”
“You’re crazy,” Helene said without conviction. She peered through the window of the car. “It can’t be.” Suddenly she laughed.
“There’s nothing funny about it,” Malone complained.
“They just didn’t change the numbers when they changed the numbers,” Helene said.
“Now you’re crazy,” Malone said.
“I am not,” Helene said. She drove on and parked in front of the Fairfaxx house. “Look at the number. 1217.”
Malone looked and said, “Well, one of us is.”
“Ten years ago all the street numbers in this section were changed,” Helene said. “Originally the Lacy house was 1209, the Fairfaxx house was 1213, and that one was 1217.”
“What happened to 1211 and 1215?” Malone demanded.
“They didn’t exist,” Helene told him. “I mean, they were gardens. Vacant lots.”
“Sinful waste,” Malone muttered.
“Then when the numbers were changed,” she went on, “1209 became 1213, 1213 became 1217, and 1217—well, nobody lived there so nobody bothered to change the number on the gate post. See how simple it is?”
“I’d rather not think about it,” Malone said. “I suppose 1211 became 1215. But what did 1215 become?”
“Nothing,” Helene said. “It doesn’t exist.”
“If it’s for sale, I’ll buy it,” Malone said. He got out of the car stiffly, the mutt at his heels. “And let’s keep Uncle Ernie’s confidences to ourselves.”
Walking into the Fairfaxx living room, Malone reflected, was like walking into the middle of a movie he’d seen several times before. The same scene—cheerful lights, a warm glow in the fireplace, bright curtains drawn against the gloominess outdoors. The same cast, Elizabeth, Kenneth, Abby Lacy and her daughter Gay. Violet. No, not quite the same cast, he told himself. Uncle Ernie wasn’t here. Rodney Fairfaxx was. And the portrait of Annie Kendall smiled at them all from over the fireplace.
During the little flurry of greetings, in which Bridie picked up the mutt, cooed at him, and bore him off to the pantry, Malone struggled with a mad impulse to blurt out everything he’d learned and then run like mad. The impulse lost. He accepted a drink from Elizabeth and a light for his cigar from Kenneth. He declined the offer of a comfortable chair from Violet. This time, he told himself, he’d do better thinking on his feet.
He also had a vague feeling that if he ever sat down, he’d never get up again.
Old Rodney Fairfaxx, sitting in a big wing chair near the fireplace, at the far end of the room, seemed to dominate everyo
ne as though he were eight feet tall and had eyes like balls of fire.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Malone,” Rodney Fairfaxx said pleasantly. “It was good of you to drop in.”
“Nice to see you out of jail, chum,” Malone said instinctively. He heard a muffled gasp from Abby Lacy, and remembered too late which side of the tracks he was on.
He also remembered that he’d done nothing worth noting towards getting Rodney Fairfaxx out of jail. And that he had a little less than two dollars in the world. To say nothing of the arrangement with Joe the Angel, and the mutt having been put up as security.
“As a matter of fact, I found it an interesting experience,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. “Frankly, I believe I’ve led too secluded a life. Up to yesterday, that is.”
“Good God,” Helene exploded, “didn’t they at least give you a private cell?”
The little old man smiled at her and said, “Yes, and a very comfortable one. Being there gave me a chance to think realistically, and that’s why I asked all of you to be here this afternoon.” He paused. “It’s unfortunate that Ernie can’t be with us. And Glida. But I know they will understand.” He turned to Kenneth. “Do you have that paper?”
Kenneth, his face an unhealthy gray, nodded, gulped, and dug an envelope from his pocket.
“Would you be so good as to hand it to Mr. Malone?” Kenneth nodded again, said, “Here,” and thrust the envelope into Malone’s hands as though it were a squirming rattler.
“According to that paper,” old Rodney Fairfaxx went on, “none of these three houses can be sold without the consent of the owners of all three. I, for instance, cannot sell this house nor the house next door, which I acquired after the death of its owner, without the consent of Mrs. Abby Lacy or, in the event of her death, her heirs. Nor could she sell her property without my consent. Is that correct, Mr. Malone?”
Malone had taken a quick look through the letter. “Yes it is.”
“But, Mr. Malone, is there anything in that agreement which prevents any party to it giving away his or her property.”
There was a long silence. Finally Malone said, “No.”
Old Rodney Fairfaxx sighed. “I want you all to know that I have been a stupid and stubborn old man. But I realize, now, that Annie Kendall,”—he paused for a moment, glanced up at the portrait, then looked back at the occupants of the room—“that Annie is dead.” He paused again, and said, “I must have known it all along.”
Violet put a cup of tea into his hand. He thanked her with a smile.
“Abby, my dear,” he said, “I wonder if I might borrow Huntleigh’s services for a few moments.”
Abby said, “Rodney Fairfaxx, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. But I’ll have Bridie send for him.” She signaled Gay, who rose and went to send Bridie.
“Uncle Rodney,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said unhappily, “You’ve had—I mean—you ought to be resting—”
“I’ve just had a very good rest,” Rodney Fairfaxx reminded her.
There was an uncomfortable silence until Bridie returned with a puzzled Huntleigh.
“Huntleigh,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “would you be good enough to climb up on a chair and take down the portrait from over the fireplace?”
This time the silence was not only uncomfortable, but shocked.
Bridie came flying in with a little kitchen ladder. Huntleigh mounted it solemnly and with great dignity. The portrait of Annie Kendall was lifted carefully from its hooks and carried gently to the floor. The big square of wall where it had been was a curious combination of bright and dusty, as compared to the rest of the wall. Bridie gave a frightened squeak, grabbed the ladder and flew back to the kitchen.
“Thank you, Huntleigh,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. “Pack it very carefully. There will be a much better place for it.” He smiled impartially at everyone in the room.
“Fortunately,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “I have no dependents, in the strictest sense of the word. Ernie will always be well provided for, by a trust fund. My dear Elizabeth, who has been like a daughter to me, will soon be married, with my approval, to a young man who will assume the responsibilities of her future.”
Malone thought briefly of Bob Allen, and had a horrible mental picture of Elizabeth driving the wagon while her husband picked up the ash cans.
“Kenneth,” Uncle Rodney went on, “who is as dear as my own son could be, has reached an age where he can make his own fortune. He has the talent for it, too.”
Malone glanced quickly at Gay Lacy. He didn’t like the lack of expression on her face.
“In short,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “there is no one who needs anything from me.” Suddenly he stood up, and seemed to be taller than anyone in the room.
“Mr. Malone will draw up the papers,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “but I do want you to know what will be in them. Now that I know Annie is dead, I’m leaving everything, save for Ernie’s trust fund and a few minor bequests, to the Annie Kendall Memorial Hospital. I’m giving this house, and the house next door, and the land involved, to be the site of the hospital.”
He walked to the library door, paused, and said, “Mr. Malone—?” It was a command.
Malone reached the door by the time Rodney Fairfaxx had opened it. Right then, leaving that room was like leaving a badly managed wake.
The door closed quietly behind them. Old Rodney Fairfaxx motioned Malone to a comfortable chair and said, “I’ve neglected to thank you for the stamp magazines. Believe me, I enjoyed them very much.”
Malone indicated with a gesture that it was nothing, and he’d been glad to do it. He noticed that Annie Kendall’s photographs had disappeared from the room.
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Malone said, “but frankly, I think you’ll run into a little trouble with the zoning laws.”
Old Rodney Fairfaxx nodded and looked pleased. “I’d thought of that. A cigar? You’re welcome. Yes, I’d thought of that, and besides, this neighborhood is no place for a hospital. But I can give the ground to the Foundation and let a couple of apartment buildings be put up here. The income from them ought to keep the Foundation out of the red.”
He paused, and added, “Abby may not like having an apartment building practically in her yard. In that case I’ll buy her property, for a reasonable sum. She will have enough to live on, even after the mortgages are paid.”
Malone looked up sharply. How much, he wondered, did Rodney Fairfaxx know of the financial condition of the Lacy family?
“Perhaps this is none of my business,” Malone said, “as a matter of fact, it isn’t. But suppose it should turn out that she—Annie Kendall—is still alive?”
For a moment, the silence in the beautifully paneled room could have been cut with a dull knife and spread on cold toast.
“In that case,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “in that case—” He smiled at Malone. “One of two things would happen. She would return, and marry me. Then, as my wife, she would inherit the bulk of the Fairfaxx estate. Or, if she didn’t marry me, my original will would remain in force.”
“All this reminds me,” Malone said. “I’m still your lawyer, so you might as well tell me. Who does benefit by your present will?”
The old man smiled. “Outside of a few bequests—Kenneth and Elizabeth and their—what is the phrase? Heirs and assigns. Ernie Fairfaxx has his trust fund, and aside from that, those two are all the family I have.”
“And who knows what’s in your present will?” Malone went on.
“Oh—everybody in the family.” Rodney Fairfaxx shrugged his thin shoulders. “There’s never been any secret about it.”
Malone said hoarsely, “All this talk of wills and inheritance. You talk like a man who expects to die.”
Rodney Fairfaxx reached for an exquisitely carved pipe, examined it, filled it, lit it. “Who doesn’t?” He rose, strolled to the oriel window that overlooked the garden, and gazed at the softly falling snow. “Mr. Malone, I’ve been stupid and I’ve been—unkind. This is a kind of conf
ession. I understand it’s permissible to make a confession to one’s lawyer.”
He didn’t wait for Malone’s startled nod; he went on:
“I suppose you think I’m a sentimental old fool, Mr. Malone.”
Malone said, “Being sentimental and being a fool are exact opposites, and your age is your own business.”
Rodney Fairfaxx smiled. “You see, I’ve known all along that Annie Kendall was dead.”
The little lawyer played with an unlighted cigar and said nothing.
“Perhaps,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “I should enlarge on that statement. At first, I didn’t believe that she was dead. I couldn’t.” He paused, drew a long breath. “You must understand, Mr. Malone, that I was always the uninteresting member of the family. Ernie was frivolous and fascinating to women. Albert and Edward were—romantic young men. I was simply—well, I’ve never been handsome, and I’ve always been shy, and I collected stamps. And I was the most surprised person in the world when Annie said she’d marry me.”
Malone reflected that if anyone ever told Rodney Fairfaxx just why Annie had consented to marry him, he, personally, would see to it that there was another murder.
“When she—died,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “it was the first time in my life that I’d ever had a lot of attention. And, I really didn’t believe it at first. All of them—Albert particularly—encouraged me in my delusion. So that when I finally did realize that she was dead, I couldn’t—it wasn’t that I couldn’t let them down—it was—well, I wanted to go on being a romantic figure. So all these years I’ve let everyone believe that I thought she was alive, and that I was waiting for her letter.”
Malone opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again, fast. He wasn’t going to be the one to tell old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx the truth.
Rodney Fairfaxx said crisply, “Therefore, Mr. Malone, I’m as guilty of the murder of those innocent postmen as if I’d struck them down with my own hand.”
He walked back to his chair, sat down, smiled again and said, “Forgive me for boring you with all this, Mr. Malone. I trust you will keep it in confidence. Now about these papers—”
“A little out of my line,” Malone said. “Remember, I’m a criminal lawyer.”