Having Wonderful Crime

by Craig Rice

  The door opened and the young man from the Homicide Bureau came out. Arthur Peterson. He was slender and not very tall. His light hair was thinning on his dome-shaped head, his skin was an unhealthy yellow, and he wore thick-lensed glasses. But his eyes were friendly and for just a moment he seemed almost embarrassed at speaking to the man who’d been a widower before he’d been a bridegroom.

  “Tell me,” Dennis Morrison said. “Was she—?”

  “No,” Arthur Peterson said. “No, it wasn’t that.” He managed not to look at Dennis Morrison even for a moment. “Your wife was a very wealthy woman, wasn’t she?”

  “I guess she was well fixed,” Dennis Morrison said. “I never asked.”

  Arthur Peterson looked at the ceiling and said, “I’m sorry to have to bother you with all these questions, at a time like this. But you understand, it’s purely a matter of routine. You aren’t exactly wealthy, are you?”

  “My God,” Dennis Morrison said, “are you suggesting I married her for her money?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” the pale man said hastily. “But you will inherit it, won’t you?”

  Dennis Morrison said, “I have no idea.”

  John J. Malone couldn’t stand it any more. He stepped up and said, “If you’re going to examine this young man, I insist on his lawyer being present.”

  Helene whispered, “Attaboy, Malone.”

  The man from the Homicide Bureau looked at him and said, “Indeed. And who is his lawyer?”

  “Me,” John J. Malone said, drawing a long breath.

  “That’s fine,” Arthur Peterson said. “And you are present, so we can go right ahead.” He raised his thin eyebrows. “Assuming you are a lawyer.”

  “I am the damnedest fine lawyer that ever came down the pike since Portia,” John J. Malone said a trifle thickly. “And if you attempt to intimidate my client, you’d better stay away from the city zoo in the future. Because I’ll make such a monkey out of you that they’ll be chasing you with butterfly nets.” He pulled the gin bottle out from behind the cushion and said, “Shall we drink to it?”

  “No thanks,” Arthur Peterson said, wincing. “Liquor is poison to my stomach.”

  “Routine questions,” said John J. Malone. “That’s all I’ll let him answer.”

  The routine questions covered the details of where Dennis Morrison had been the night before, and why. The man from the Homicide looked a tiny bit sympathetic. Not very much, though. Then the door to the bedroom opened, and everyone looked at it.

  Assistant Medical Examiner D. Royale St. Blaise came out, a tall, dark, tired-looking man. He ignored everyone in the room except Arthur Peterson and said with professional callousness, “Beautiful job of decapitation. A surgeon couldn’t have done better. Of course, she was killed about two hours before. I need further tests to determine the exact cause of death. But it was a beautiful job. Cut off neat as a—” He realized the presence of the widower, and said hastily, “I—beg your pardon.”

  “What happened to her?” Dennis Morrison said.

  “Someone called her on the telephone,” Arthur Peterson said. “When there was no answer, this party—we haven’t located him—said he was sure she was in and someone had better investigate. The house detective went up. He found the door unlocked and went in and found Mrs. Morrison in bed, the covers pulled up over her chin, almost up to her nose. She was dead. Her head had been cut off.”

  Nobody looked at anybody else. Jake instinctively reached for Helene’s hand, then drew back again. Then Dennis Morrison stood up. “But why Bertha?” he said. He reached inside his left-hand coat pocket for his cigarettes, tried the right-hand pocket, then the inside pocket. Suddenly he stiffened. “This isn’t my coat,” he said suddenly.

  “Come, come now,” Arthur Peterson said. “Let’s not play games.”

  “No,” Dennis Morrison said. “No, look. My God, it doesn’t even fit.” He moved his shoulders. The dinner jacket definitely didn’t fit. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette case engraved Q. P. Z., reached in another pocket and pulled out three blue match folders printed in red, Q. P. Z. Then he pawed in the inside pocket and brought out an expensive monogrammed wallet, black leather, and crammed with folding money. The monogram was Q. P. Z. But there weren’t any identification cards, not any at all. Not even a driver’s license.

  “That’s the coat you had on when we picked you up,” Jake Justus said. “I know, because I took it off you.”

  Dennis Morrison didn’t seem to hear him.

  He glanced down to his left, then reached suddenly for his breast pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. “It isn’t my coat. But this is my handkerchief. Look.” There were initials on the handkerchief. D. M., for Dennis Morrison. He stood looking at it for a long time, not saying a word.

  Then, “Listen, buddy,” Arthur Peterson said in his expressionless voice. “You’ve got to do this sooner or later, so you might as well do it now as have to come down to the morgue. You’ve got to identify her.”

  “All right,” Dennis Morrison said. He stood up. “What do I do?” He seemed to be in a daze.

  Arthur Peterson and the medical examiner looked at each other, and then the examiner said, “Just take a quick look, that’s all. It’s nothing but a legal formality and it won’t take but a second. Just look at her face, that’s all. She looks pretty good, don’t worry. We’ll be right with you. It’s just the formal identification.”

  “All right,” Dennis Morrison said. “Where is she?” He moved mechanically toward the bedroom door. Royale St. Blaise took his arm and began mumbling the trite condolences long memorized by a doctor in the medical examiner’s office. The door closed behind them.

  One of the two uniformed policemen mumbled to the other, “Bet you two dollars he gets sick.” His buddy mumbled back, “I’ll take you. He looks strong. Besides, the doc fixed her up so you can’t even tell her head was cut off.”

  The bedroom door burst open suddenly. Dennis Morrison appeared there, his face not white now, but ghastly gray. His eyes were staring, dark with horror. “But that isn’t Bertha,” he said. “That isn’t her at all.” His hand grasped the door jamb, tightened on it. “That’s someone else.” His voice rose, almost to a scream. “Where is Bertha? Where is she?”

  3. A Murder on His Hands

  “There is a train for Chicago,” Malone said, “at six-forty-five tonight.” He stole a look out of the corner of his eye at Helene, and added firmly, “And I am going to be on it.” He waited hopefully for some answer from her. There was none. She didn’t even seem to know he was there. She was gazing at a tiny speck on the polished surface of the bar as though it were the moon reflected on Lake Minnetonka, or Venus seen through the telescope at Yerkes Observatory. Malone reached out and brushed the speck away and said, “Tonight. Six-forty-five tonight.” She sighed faintly and transferred her gaze to a minute puddle of beer which, from the look on her face, might have been Lake Michigan seen from the top of the Palmolive Building. Malone turned to the bartender, waved, and called, “Two more.” Still there wasn’t a peep from Helene.

  There was something about the look on her face that he didn’t like. He’d seen her under many circumstances and in many moods. White-faced, blazing-eyed, and still cool and calm, on a day when a friend had been accused of and arrested for murder. That had been the first time he’d seen her; she’d had on pale-blue satin pajamas, a fur coat, and galoshes, she’d just met Jake Justus, ex-reporter and press agent, and there had been a Look on her face. There had been a delicate glow in her cheeks the day she’d announced that she and Jake were engaged.

  He’d seen her looking scared, happy, and starry-eyed the day she and Jake were married. He’d seen her terrified but grimly brave when Jake was missing, probably kidnaped and possibly murdered. He’d seen her with her lovely, patrician face smudged with dust and soot, with cobwebs entangled in her shining hair. He’d seen her happy, worried, thoughtful, sad, gay, drunk, sober, angry, indignant, sympathet
ic, and bored. But never like this, absent-minded and somehow, faraway.

  Malone paid for the beers, cleared his throat, and began again. “I came here,” he said loudly, “under false pretenses. You long-distanced me yesterday afternoon and lured me into coming to New York. You said you had a problem and you needed my help immediately. You said I could spend a pleasant vacation in New York and have a wonderful time.” He paused to drink his beer and relight his cigar. “I came to New York, breaking a date with a very charming young lady to do so. I caught the train. I got here. And what did I find?” He waited for a moment. He might have been talking to someone in the next room for all the attention she paid him. He cleared his throat a second time, and went on. “I got off the train at quarter past seven this morning. You and Jake met me. I’ll ignore, for the moment, the fact that both of you were in evening dress. We went to the hotel, where I expected to find a bed. Instead, I found some strange drunk who has a murder on his hands.” He snorted loudly. “I haven’t had any sleep, I haven’t had any breakfast, the only cheap liquor on the train was terrible, and I lost twenty-four dollars in a poker game between Buffalo and Albany.” He didn’t add that he’d also lost his return fare to Chicago. That could be considered later. “And,” he said, “I am going back to Chicago at six-forty-five tonight.” He looked at Helene’s exquisite profile, counted ten, and then said angrily, “Well, what do you have to say?”

  Helene frowned. She said, “I wonder where Bertha Morrison is.”

  “I don’t know,” Malone said, “and I don’t care. And who the hell is Bertha Morrison?”

  She shoved the newspaper that had been lying by her elbow in front of him. Malone glanced at it, trying to pretend he wasn’t interested. The headline was a little too much for him, and he went on reading. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? “Never in my life,” Malone said gloomily. He looked at the three photographs, Bertha Morrison, née Bertha Lutts, at seven, a plump, dull-looking child. Bertha in her graduation dress, a heavy-set, dull-looking girl. Bertha’s wedding picture, a round-faced, dull-looking woman.

  WHERE IS BERTHA MORRISON? a caption read. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Malone told the caption. He didn’t want to read any more, but he couldn’t help it. He took one more look at the two-column full-face picture of her, and shook his head sadly. It was going to be damned hard to convince anybody that young Dennis Morrison hadn’t married Bertha Lutts for her money. Malone went on reading. Bertha Lutts hadn’t attracted any attention during the thirty-three years of her life. Then she’d made up for it fast, and all at once.

  She hadn’t been numbered among the richest girls in the world, and she’d never appeared in the Social Register. She hadn’t made a debut, and her name had never been in Winchell’s column. Her picture had never been in a newspaper until now. But she owned a couple of Cadillacs, she had a chauffeur and a maid, she lived in an expensive apartment, she had charge accounts in all the best stores. She had a big block of A. T. & S. stock, a good-sized section of profitable real estate in Brooklyn, an unquenchable yen for life, and no friends.

  There were a lot of girls like Bertha Lutts. Born to be plump and dull, and born to a father who made a lot of money and invested it wisely. They were well fed and well cared for, they had their teeth straightened and their eyes protected with expensive glasses, but they never went to fashionable boarding schools or joined exclusive sororities. They grew up to buy costly clothes, with good labels, that never fitted very well, but they never had any place to wear them. Usually they were left orphans at an early age. Papa died from the strain of making money; Mamma died from the strain of living with Papa.

  A few of them went into business and made more money. Others hired companions and became perpetual tourists. Some met congenial nurses and became chronic invalids. Some went in for tweeds and heavy shoes and managed dog kennels. Some moved to southern California and became religious, giving their time and their incomes to little groups with no money, a small meeting hall, and an exalted name, like The Society of the Lavender Lily. They organized bridge clubs, they became unpaid social workers, they sometimes (unfortunately) became interested in politics. Occasionally they joined Lonely Hearts clubs. (“Attractive man, 42, world traveler and scholar, would like to meet lady interested in discussing poetry.”) And once in a while, one of them got married. Rich old maids—who began being old maids at the age of fourteen. Bertha Morrison, née Lutts, had been one of them.

  “A perfect fortune-hunter setup,” Helene commented. “Only usually it turns out that when a rich thirty-three-year-old orphan marries a poor but charming young man, she’s found ten weeks later stuffed under a culvert somewhere in Nebraska. This happened another way, and it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I am not interested,” Malone said stiffly. “I am not even curious.”

  “And I,” Helene said, just as stiffly, “am not talking to you. I’m talking to myself.” She looked at the newspaper again and scowled. “They met and they loved. It could have been like that. Just because she had money doesn’t mean he married her for it. Well, anyway. They get married. Then on his wedding night this guy gets a terrific attack of bashfulness and goes out and gets plastered and doesn’t come home. He turns up wearing a dinner jacket that belongs to some perfect stranger with the initials Q. P Z. but with his own handkerchief in the breast pocket.”

  “Nicely folded, too,” Malone said.

  Helene was silent for a moment. “Maybe it happened like this. Someone slipped him a mickey with the idea of robbing him and walked off with his jacket. That could explain how he lost his own jacket.”

  “Then a fairy godfather in a well-fitted dinner coat comes along and slips our hero a new coat.” Malone said gloomily. “Besides, he said he didn’t have much money in his own wallet. While Q. P. Z.’s wallet was stuffed with ten-buck bills.”

  “All right,” Helene said. “You find an explanation.”

  “It’s none of my business,” Malone said. He got tired of trying to attract the bartender’s attention and drank Helene’s beer.

  Helene said, “He woke up in the morning full of remorse at having walked out on his bride. But his bride is missing. Malone, where the hell could she be?”

  “Gone home to Mother,” Malone said.

  “But she’s an orphan,” Helene said.

  The little lawyer sighed. “That remark is supposed to lead into a very bad vaudeville joke, but for the life of me I can’t remember how it goes. Will you shut up and stop bothering me.” He raised his voice and addressed the bartender. “Put down that Racing Form and pay attention to your customers.”

  “It isn’t the Racing Form,” the bartender said. “It’s The New Republic. Was there something you wished, sir?”

  “I do my wishing on four-leaf clovers,” Malone said. “But since you’re here, you can bring us two beers. And give me a double rye for a chaser.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender said. He was a tall, thin, blond young man with melancholy eyes and a Boston accent. He began filling the glasses, then suddenly caught himself and looked questioningly at Malone.

  “You heard me,” Malone said hoarsely. “Where I come from we always drink rye as a chaser for beer. I’m a Chicago gangster and I shoot people when they don’t serve me properly. Now gimme those drinks.”

  The bartender said, “Yes, sir” shoved the glasses across the bar with shaking hands, and fled back to The New Republic.

  “This,” Malone growled, “is a hell of a saloon.”

  “It isn’t a saloon,” Helene said. “It’s a cocktail lounge. And you’re a big bully, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” She lit a cigarette. “Malone, what could have happened there last night? The bride vanishes. In her place is a beautiful woman, still unidentified, wearing a very elegant nightgown, and neatly decapitated.” She glanced back at the newspaper and added “Decapitated after she was killed. She’d been strangled, and she’d put up a terrific struggle. Bruises and contusions all over.”

  “That jus
t goes to show,” Malone said in a morose voice, “never struggle while you’re being strangled. You get bruised.”

  “All Bertha’s jewels are missing,” Helene went on relentlessly, “and so is Bertha. Where is she? What’s it all about?”

  “At eleven o’clock in the morning,” the little lawyer moaned, “you bring up problems like that.”

  “Dennis Morrison is being held for questioning,” she said. “Malone, they can’t keep that poor young man in jail, can they?”

  “Ask them,” Malone said, drinking his rye. “Or ask his lawyer.”

  Helene said, “But you’re his lawyer.”

  Malone put down his glass and turned to her. “This is New York, not Chicago.”

  “Perfect nonsense,” Helene said. “Besides, you don’t have to go into court, or even talk to the police. All you have to do is find Bertha, find out who strangled and decapitated that unidentified woman, and get Dennis Morrison out of jail.”

  “At six-forty-five tonight,” Malone told her firmly, “I will be on the train for Chicago.” He lit his cigar. “Funny damn thing, though, about that dinner jacket.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Where’s Jake?”

  “I don’t know,” Helene said. She tried unsuccessfully to make it sound like, “I don’t care.”

  Malone looked at her, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Something—he didn’t know what—was wrong. He didn’t like to admit how much it worried him. There were just two people in the world he loved very dearly. Jake and Helene. Whatever was wrong was serious enough to make Helene send for him. But what the hell was it? She’d tell him about it when she got good and ready, he reminded himself, and in the meantime there was no use asking questions.

  “Jake goes out,” Helene said suddenly, “and stays away for hours at a time. He says it’s business, and he’ll tell me about it later. But what is it, and why doesn’t he tell me now? And why does he insist on staying on in New York, when we’d only intended to be here a week or two?”