by Craig Rice
“Leave them alone,” Max Hook said. He shoved the gin and beer at Malone.
Malone said desperately, “Max, thanks for the drink and for everything, but I do have a taxi waiting, and if you can just cash this check for me—” He downed the gin and beer.
“Right away,” Max said. “Anything for an old friend.” He shoved at a button and said, “Georgie, hurry up.”
A moment later Georgie hurried into the room. He spread the money on Max Hook’s desk. Nine thousand-dollar bills. Nine hundred-dollar bills. Four twenty-dollar bills. A ten-dollar bill, and two fives.
Malone wondered where he was going to hide most of it overnight. He said, “Here’s the check. All endorsed.”
Max Hook looked at the check. Then he looked at Malone. Then he shoved the money across the desk and put the check on top of it.
“Just call it a loan,” he said.
Malone shoved the money back and said, “What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean the check is no good,” Max Hook said. “I hear things. I don’t get around, but my boys do. The guy is crazy as a nine-dollar bill, and I’m not going to touch any check of his. I’ll lend you the ten grand, Malone, but cashing the check? No.”
Malone picked up the check, stuffed it in his pocket, and shoved the money back across the desk.
“No loan, Max.” He knew from experience that borrowing money from Max Hook was like selling one’s soul to the devil, only more expensive.
“Suit yourself, Malone,” Max said. “If you want the money, there it is. Pick it up.”
Malone managed what he hoped was a smile and said, “Thanks again, Max, but I don’t need it.”
He stood up and turned toward the door. In the center of the room were two saucers, both licked empty. One had held beer, the other cream. Not far away, the mutt was sleeping peacefully. Curled up next to him was the scrawny kitten, no longer angry.
“You see,” Max Hook said. “Now, no one is hungry, so there is no trouble. But tomorrow, when they are hungry again—?” He shrugged his massive shoulders.
Malone said coldly, “I’m sorry, Max, but I do have a cab waiting downstairs. Thanks for the drink.” He nudged the mutt, who followed him to the door. The kitten lifted its head, wailed a protest at the mutt’s departure, and went to sleep again.
The memory of ten thousand dollars, in cash, haunted him all the way down the elevator. For one moment he considered going back. Saying, for instance, “Mind lending me a hundred bucks for cab fare, chum?” No. Not with Max Hook.
But something had to be done. He climbed into the cab. The mutt curled up and put his nose on the little lawyer’s shoe.
“Mr. Malone,” Charlie said, “I gotta turn the cab in and go home.”
“I know it,” Malone said. “Just take me down to the hotel first.”
He still had fourteen cents in his pocket. And a check for ten thousand dollars. Perhaps the hotel would take care of the cab bill. But he doubted it.
“Honesty,” he told the mutt, as the cab stopped at the hotel entrance, “may not be the policy, but it’s always been spoken of very highly.”
Charlie opened the door. Malone got out and stood on the edge of the curb.
“Honesty is the best policy.” He mumbled to himself. Then, “Charlie, I don’t have any money.”
Charlie grinned and said, “That’s okay, Mr. Malone. I’ll come up to your office and pick it up tomorrow. Do you need any cash in the meantime?”
It was as simple as that.
31
Malone groaned, turned over, and suddenly sat up in bed. The mutt looked at him apologetically.
“All right,” Malone agreed. “I know it’s time to get up.” He yawned, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone.
“No matter what time it is,” he said, “I don’t want to be told.” He hung up fast and looked at the mutt. “It was dawn when we came home,” he said, “and it’s only shortly after dawn now.”
The rumpled bed looked warm and inviting. Malone reflected wistfully that there was no reason for shaving, dressing, breakfasting, and going down to the office. In fact the mutt would probably enjoy a good nap, too.
No, today he did have to wake up. Because there was that still uncashed check in his pocket. And Charlie would be coming in to collect for last night’s cab bill.
As he shaved and stood under the shower, he told the mutt how happy he was that the Fairfaxx case was closed. Now, there could be a vacation in Bermuda, or a trip to Hollywood, perhaps a flight to the Hawaiian Islands. He assured the mutt that both of them would enjoy the Hawaiian Islands.
At the entrance to the hotel, the doorman beamed and said, “Morning, Mr. Malone. Taxi?”
Malone felt in his pocket. Fourteen cents and a ten thousand dollar check.
“No, thanks. We’ll walk.”
Maggie looked up from her magazine as he walked in the door.
“About time you got here, Mr. Malone. Mr. and Mrs. Justus are in your office. They got here a few minutes ago. A Mrs. McClane has been calling you from London since noon yesterday. The bank has been calling you since nine this morning, and the office rent has to be paid by noon. There’s a Mr. Steve Wray called about your fixing a traffic ticket for him. And, Mr. Malone—”
The little lawyer took the now badly rumpled check from his pocket and laid it on her desk.
“Call Judge Williams and fix Wray’s traffic ticket. Bill Wray for twenty bucks. Put a call through to Mona McClane in London. Then take this down to the bank, deposit it, pay the office rent, your back salary and everything else.” He paused. “And can you lend me five bucks cash?”
He walked into the inner office.
Jake and Helene were sitting on the leather couch, holding hands.
“Go away,” Malone said wearily. “Don’t go away mad, just go away.” He patted the mutt and said consolingly, “Not you. Them.”
Helene stared at him. Her exquisite face was pale and shadowed with weariness.
Jake said, “I suppose I’m breaking quarantine or something, but I had to be in on the finish of this.” He added, “Isn’t it wonderful what pancake make-up will do for a case of chicken pox?”
The little lawyer hid his face in his hands and said, “I have nothing more to do with the case. Nothing. Now, or ever.”
“Now, Malone,” Jake began.
Maggie popped her head in the door and said, “Mr. Malone, I have your London call for you. And I’ll tend to the rest of the things—”
Malone yawned and said, “Remind me to pay your salary sometime. And don’t forget to lend me the five bucks.” He picked up the phone.
There was a series of delays. He waited through them, watching Jake and Helene, and wishing with all his heart that Helene’s dearest friends were not involved in the series of murders which, he reminded himself, he had nothing more to do with.
It was all over, as far as he was concerned. Maggie was banking the check. Little Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was out of jail. Uncle Ernie was out of the hospital. He, Malone, was through.
Helene said, a note of desperation in her lovely voice, “Malone, I’m afraid they’re going to arrest her—”
Malone said pleasantly, “Shut up. And you’ll find a drink in the second drawer of the filing cabinet. Under Confidential.”
“Damn it, Malone,” Jake rose. “Don’t you want to know where I found that hammer?”
“Frankly, no,” Malone said. “I’m through with all of this. All I want right now is a nap—”
The phone rang. He grabbed it. There was another brief delay.
The little lawyer said into the phone, “Yes, it is. Thank you, operator.” Then, “Mona?” There was a very long pause. Malone’s face turned from pink to pale, to gray. “When did she die?”
There was another long pause. Helene moved closer to Jake’s comforting warmth.
Malone was saying, “Who—knows?” Another pause. “No,” Malone said, “it’s all right. You should
have told—”
He slammed down the receiver and dialed frantically.
“Von Flanagan,” Malone said hoarsely, “quick. Dig up your records. What time is mail delivered at, or near the Fairfaxx house? Well, get the hell in a squad car, and meet me there. Don’t use your siren, and park quietly. We might just be in time to head off the murder of the fourth postman.”
32
“The first three postmen were killed because Annie Kendall was alive,” Malone said. “This one is in danger of being killed because Annie Kendall is dead.” He puffed at his cigar and said, “Damn it, Helene, won’t this car go any faster?”
“Why?” Helene demanded.
“Because I’m in a hurry, that’s why,” Malone told her.
“That isn’t what I meant,” Helene said indignantly. “I’m talking about the postmen. And Annie Kendall. And your phone call from Mona.”
“It’s because of the Annie Kendall Memorial Foundation,” Malone said. “And watch out for that truck!”
Helene glanced at him briefly. Malone’s face was pale with fatigue, and shadowed with unhappiness. She’d seen that look on his face before, and she recognized what it meant. Malone knew something that he wished he didn’t know.
Several blocks later she said gently, “I know nobody wants to go to jail, Malone. But the postmen didn’t want to be murdered, either.”
He flashed her a grateful look.
Just as she turned off Lake Shore Drive, Malone said, “I knew Mona McClane was in London. It was Mona who found out that Annie Kendall was alive, plus a few more interesting details of her life. Then when Annie suddenly up and died, Mona called to let me know.”
Jake said plaintively, “I wish I knew what this is all about.”
“You will,” Helene said.
The squad car, without sirens, passed them at that moment. Helene said indignantly, “They can’t do that!” The next moment, they had passed the squad car.
The street in front of the three houses was deserted, gray with melting snow. Helene slid expertly to a stop in front of the iron gates. The squad car stopped just behind her.
A plump little postman, whistling cheerfully, was just about to turn the corner into the alley.
Malone got out of the car fast. He saw von Flanagan running up the sidewalk towards him, Kluchetsky at his heels. He had a vague feeling that Helene, Jake, and the mutt were behind him, but he couldn’t be sure.
The snow was beginning to fall again, thick, wet snow.
The little postman was going up the alley, still whistling. But by now the snow was like a veil.
Suddenly Malone saw the weapon, poised over the wall. He opened his mouth to cry a warning. But before he could utter a sound, something tripped him and he fell forward into the snow. As he fell, he heard the sound of furious barking, saw the little postman wheel around just in time for the weapon to graze the side of his head. He saw the weapon drop into the alley.
Three seconds later he was up on his feet again. Von Flanagan was bending over the little postman. The mutt was still barking.
A familiar, red, and angry face looked over the wall.
Dr. McSmith roared, “What’s all this—” He saw Jake, paused and said, “Why aren’t you home in bed?”, saw the postman, and vaulted over the wall.
The mutt growled at him.
“Shut up,” Dr. McSmith said to the mutt. He knelt down and examined the little postman. “No damage done. He’ll come to in a minute. A bit of plaster on his ear, and he’ll be able to go along on his route.”
Helene said breathlessly, “If the little dog hadn’t barked—”
“He’d have been dead,” Malone said.
“Dogs don’t like postmen, and postmen don’t like dogs,” Dr. McSmith said. “And personally, I don’t like either. Shall I patch him up?”
“Do that,” von Flanagan said. “Hang on to him. I want to talk to him later.” He glared at Malone. “Another minute, and we’d have seen who was on the other side of the wall. Now, the party has had time to get back in the house.”
“You have another murder weapon,” Helene said consolingly. “Or do I mean, another attempted murder weapon.”
Von Flanagan had wrapped the weapon carefully in a scarf and handed it to Kluchetsky. Now he turned his glare on Helene. “A big place like this must have a lot of hammers.”
“We’d better go inside the gates,” Malone said. “And we weren’t too late, von Flanagan. You’d better get ready to make an arrest.”
They trudged back to the iron gates, where Malone pushed the bell.
It took only a few minutes to assemble the members of the Fairfaxx household and the Lacy household in the warm and pleasant living room of the Fairfaxx house. Von Flanagan glared impartially at all of them, and said, “I want to know where every one of you was for the last half hour.”
Old Rodney Fairfaxx said, with mild surprise, “Why, I was in my library, cataloguing some new stamps—my collection has been rather neglected for the last few days—”
“I don’t know who cares,” Uncle Ernie said, “but I was taking a bath. Hospitals are wonderful institutions, but why they don’t have decent soap, I will never know.”
Kenneth had been in his room, writing a letter.
Bridie put in tearfully that she’d been making a pot of coffee for Mr. Ernie, and that Violet had been checking the laundry.
Violet nodded assent.
“We were—talking about something,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said. She smiled at Bob Allen. “Bob dropped in to—talk about it with me.” The stars in her voice made a pleasant contrast to the atmosphere in the room.
Gay Lacy said she’d been in her room, reading a book.
Mrs. Abby Lacy said indignantly, “I consider this highly irregular procedure, and I am under no obligation to tell anyone where I have been, or what I have been doing. And I also consider this entire situation in the worst possible taste.”
Huntleigh said he had been polishing the silver.
“Not a usable alibi among the bunch of you,” von Flanagan growled.
Malone rose to his feet. He ached in every bone, and he suspected that about a quart of snow had packed itself around each of his ankles.
“I hate to ask you to go out in weather like this,” he said wearily, “but I think we can settle this much better outdoors.”
During the little flurry of getting coats, scarves and galoshes, von Flanagan hissed at him, “I certainly hope you know what you’re doing.”
Malone muttered, “So do I.”
The falling snow had obscured any footprints that might have been left in the little square of yard near the alley. The mutt romped cheerfully over the snow and barked insultingly at the wall, as though he suspected that Dr. McSmith might be on the other side of it.
“Some of you might as well go back in the house,” Malone said, “unless you want to hear. Mr. Allen, you weren’t here at the time the first three postmen were killed, so you might as well go away. Mrs, Lacy, Kenneth, Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, Bridie—”
Elizabeth Fairfaxx broke in suddenly. “Mr. Malone, what are you getting at?”
The little lawyer sighed. “After the murder of the third postman, I examined the ground very carefully. Footprints would have meant nothing. But, the marks of a ladder, or an upturned box, or even an ordinary kitchen chair would have meant that the killer was not tall enough both to see and reach over the wall.”
Von Flanagan said excitedly. “Sure, Malone. That’s why I knew Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx couldn’t of done it even if he’d of tried, which I don’t think he would of.”
“Thanks,” Malone said. He brushed a snowflake off his nose. “Of the five remaining suspects, three were in one house, and two in the other. The big mistake we made was in assuming the killer was in the wrong house—”
He saw a sudden movement in the snow.
Gay Lacy cried out, “Mr. Malone!” and ran toward him.
There was another sudden movement, followed by the sharp c
rack of a pistol.
She fell almost at his feet, a crumpled heap. Her face looked up at him. Blood began to stain the snow.
“Mr. Malone—I knew—”
Von Flanagan was shouting, “Don’t let him get away!”
Malone closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t wanted it to happen this way. He was dimly aware of voices. It was just as he opened his eyes again that he heard one of them say:
“Don’t worry. I haven’t the slightest intention of trying to get away. And I trust Mr. Malone will defend me.”
33
“You’re damned right I’ll defend Huntleigh,” Malone said. His tone indicated that he’d defend Huntleigh with his life, if necessary.
He glared at von Flanagan and said, “At the beginning of this mess, you told me yourself that the murderer must be crazy.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” von Flanagan roared. “I just said that—” He caught himself. He turned to Kluchetsky, pointed a bushy eyebrow at Huntleigh, and said, “Take him down to headquarters. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
Malone said, “No!”
It was so loud a no that even Kluchetsky hesitated.
The little lawyer braced himself against a chair and told himself that he wasn’t really tired. For a moment, the people in the room moved around him like tropical fish in a circular bowl. Old Rodney Fairfaxx in his big wing chair. Uncle Ernie, leaning against the mantel. Abby Lacy, her face like old marble, on the sofa.
Elizabeth, lovely, disheveled, and a little frightened, clinging to Bob Allen’s hand.
Jake and Helene. He could always depend on them. Even with the make-up covering Jake’s chicken pox, and the pallor on Helene’s lovely cheeks.
He didn’t dare try to cross the room to talk to Jake. Two steps away from the reassuring chair, and he was going to fall on his face. He signaled Jake frantically with his eyes.
The room was so still that it seemed to him that his faint whisper to Jake must have sounded like a loud-speaker system. Jake listened, nodded, whispered, “I get the idea,” and tiptoed out of the room.