by Craig Rice
“He did, huh,” O’Brien said, taking a step forward.
Well, anyway, Jake consoled himself, they hadn’t caught up with Wildavine. If she had sense enough to stay under cover, everything would still be O.K. As soon as he’d talked his way out of this—and he had no doubt that he could—he’d get back to her and start asking questions.
Then there were more footsteps on the stairs, light footsteps. They came to the landing, down the hall to the door, and stopped. A short, plump, freckled young woman with reddish hair stood in the doorway, a grocery bag in each arm. Her mouth was round with surprise. “Why, Wildavine!” she exclaimed. “What’s going on here?”
O’Brien and Birnbaum stared at her. Then they said, in perfect unison, “Wildavine?”
8. Life Story of an Escort
“Don’t be silly,” Helene said firmly. “I’m not in the least worried about him. He can stay away all day as far as I’m concerned. All I said was that he’s never stayed away as long as this before.”
“And all I said,” Malone growled, “was that he’d probably be along any minute.”
“If he isn’t,” Helene said, “I don’t care.” She lit a cigarette and sat breaking the match into tiny pieces.
They’d brought Dennis Morrison upstairs. The hotel manager was having the young man’s clothes and personal possessions moved out of the suite he was to have shared with his bride, and into another room, and had brought one complete change of clothing into the Justus suite. Malone had given Dennis stern orders to take a bath, shave, and dress before he tried to talk or even to think.
“Malone,” Helene said, “what time is it now?”
The little lawyer ignored the question and said, “He’s probably been delayed in traffic.”
Helene sniffed and said, “I hate you.”
The bedroom door opened and Dennis Morrison came out. He’d put on a well-cut gray worsted suit, a white shirt, and a maroon tie. He was newly shaved, his dark hair was shining, and he was doing his best to smile. But his face was still very pale, and there were still shadows around his eyes. “That’s better,” Malone said. “Sit down there on the sofa and relax. When did you eat last?”
“Dinner,” Dennis Morrison said. “I had dinner last night. With Bertha.”
Helene and the lawyer looked at each other. Helene said, “We’d better not wait lunch for Jake. It’s nearly two o’clock now.” She telephoned downstairs for three double orders of scrambled eggs, three double orders of bacon and large quantities of toast, marmalade, and coffee.
“My clothes,” Dennis Morrison said. “I left them in there.” He nodded toward the bedroom, paused, and said, “The dinner jacket—”
“It stays right here,” Malone said. “That dinner jacket is evidence.”
“The police kept the cigarette case and the wallet,” Dennis Morrison said. “They said that was evidence. But they let me keep the jacket.”
“Haven’t you even the faintest idea of where you got it?” Helene asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to think. All day. Trying to remember the names of people I met. But I can’t. I can’t even remember where I was.”
“Well, stop trying until you’ve had some food,” she said. “All discussion is hereby postponed until the last crumb is off the tray.”
Conversation during lunch was hardly sprightly, but somehow Helene and Malone, between them, managed to keep it off brides, disappearances, and murder. A little color had begun to come into Dennis Morrison’s face by the time the tray was carried out. “The police would inform me the minute they discovered anything, wouldn’t they?” Dennis said anxiously. “So if I don’t hear anything, it means they haven’t found out anything yet, isn’t that right?”
Malone nodded and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get a call from them as soon as they have any news.”
“If I could only do something,” Dennis said. “If I could only go out and find her. If there was only some way I could help the police.” He paused. “The thing is, you see, I did marry Bertha for her money.”
Malone stole a quick glance at the tortured young face and then blew a cloud of cigar smoke toward the ceiling before he said, “That’s nothing so remarkable. I always planned to marry for money myself. Only I never could find a woman with enough money who agreed it was a good idea.” He was rewarded by a faint smile on Dennis Morrison’s face.
“She knew about it, though,” Dennis said. “So it was really all right. Besides, it was her idea, anyway. And I meant to make her happy. Just as if it had been really love. Maybe we would have fallen in love. Eight years’ difference in age isn’t so much.”
“Try beginning at the beginning,” Helene said. “It might make more sense that way. Where did you meet her and how did it all happen?”
“I was working for an escort bureau.” He paused, looking at the floor, and said, “I know, it sounds like a silly way to make a living. But I didn’t seem able to do much else. I thought making a fortune in New York would be a cinch, but—oh, well, you don’t want to hear my whole life story.”
“Indeed we do,” Helene said warmly.
“I can think of nothing more interesting,” Malone said, sternly repressing his conscience and a yawn. It had been a long time since he’d had any sleep.
“I guess it’s just Small-Town Boy Tries to Make Good, and Flops,” Dennis said. “Small town. My folks didn’t have any money, but we got along. Summers I spent on Grampa’s farm. He did have money, some, anyway. He bought me a bicycle, and when I was in high he bought me swell clothes and gave me spending money, and a flivver when I was in my last year. I was pretty popular. And then Grampa died and left some dough for me to be sent to college. A good college. I guess he figured that there wasn’t anything more important than going to a good college.”
Malone squeezed down another yawn and reflected that he wouldn’t know anything about that. He’d worked his way through night law school driving a taxi. “I bet you were pretty popular in college, too,” Helene said.
“Well,” Dennis said, “well, yes. I was friends with all the right guys, if you know what I mean. I didn’t go in much for athletics, but I was president of my class one year. And when I finished I thought I was sitting on top of the world, coming to New York, with a job waiting. I thought selling insurance was going to be a cinch. I guess I just wasn’t a good salesman. I had a couple of other jobs, and then finally, a few years—about three years—ago, I ended up with this escort bureau.” He paused to sip his drink and said, “I’m afraid I’m boring you.”
Malone murmured, “Think nothing of it. Go on.”
“Well, I had to earn a living somehow,” Dennis said defensively. “My folks were all dead and I couldn’t write home for money. I made enough to pay for my room and get clothes and meals. And sometimes I had fun. Then I met Bertha.”
“A client?” Helene asked.
Dennis nodded. “She was—well, sort of different. Most clients were a terrible pain. She was just—oh, I don’t know, pathetic. She’d never had any dates or boy friends or gone out dancing, or stuff like that. Only, she didn’t hire me from the escort bureau because she wanted to go out dancing.”
Malone opened his eyes and said, “Howzat?”
“It was because of her girl friends,” Dennis said. “She had a bunch of them that she’d gone to school with. Most of them were married or getting married, or having careers, or something. She wanted to show them she could at least have a guy to take her out on dates. So she had a regular schedule for me at the escort bureau, three nights a week. Then one night I called for her and she looked like she’d been crying. She’d been to a shower for one of her girl friends who was going to get married. So I said, joking, ‘Why don’t you get married yourself, just to show those girls?’ And she looked at me a minute and said, ‘That’s an idea. Will you?’”
“It’s as simple as that, eh?” Malone said. He rose, walked to the bathroom, and poured himself a short slug of gin. He hoped it wou
ld wake him up, because he wanted to hear what Dennis Morrison was saying. It was hard to concentrate. Life stories were hardly the prescription for a man who’d spent twenty hours on the train, had no sleep at all and a great deal of hangover.
“Are you sure this interests you?” Dennis Morrison said.
“My dear young man,” Malone assured him, “if it interested me any more, I’d be in a state of nervous collapse.” He lighted a fresh cigar.
“So you married her,” Helene prompted Dennis.
“Well,” Dennis said, “you see, she wanted to get married. Most of her girl friends were married, or getting married, or divorced, and they sort of looked down on her. The ones that weren’t married were in business or something, and they looked down on her, too. Except for one or two, they were really just nice to her because they all went to the same school. So she thought that if she suddenly had a big romance, and got married—see?”
Helene said, “Well, it’s a rather drastic kind of glamour build-up. But go on.”
“There was another thing,” Dennis said. “She used to say she didn’t want to be a rich old maid with a companion. She’d much rather be a rich old divorcee with a past.”
“A perfectly reasonable ambition,” Malone said. He got up and moved a little closer to the window.
“I tell you, it was pathetic,” Dennis said. “All she wanted of me was to marry her, and be wonderfully attentive when other people were present, and stick around for a couple of years, and then she’d pretend to run away with another man and I’d divorce her. That was all I had to do, and she was willing to make me comfortably fixed for life. Only—well, look, I figured that we already liked each other and—well, we might be able to make it stick. It would have been better.” He smiled wryly. “She’d have been happier with a husband to show off to her girl friends in the bridge club than a divorce decree. A husband, and a nice home, and all that.” He paused. “Of course, if she’d wanted to stick to the original bargain, I’d have agreed.”
“Tell me,” Helene said, “was this to be a marriage in name only?”
Dennis Morrison looked embarrassed. “Well,” he said at last, “well, in a way.”
“Young man,” Helene said sternly, “to that question you can only answer yes or no.”
Malone said, “Helene!”
“Well,” Dennis Morrison said, “I mean—well, it was like this. It was—well, it was implied I mean eyes. That is, ‘yes’ was implied. If you know what I mean.”
“Vaguely,” Helene said.
Dennis said, “I just assumed—you know. I’d never kissed her, or anything. And it was all arranged in such a business-like way. It—just never was discussed. I don’t know what she thought.”
Malone opened one eye and said, “What did you think?”
“I didn’t think,” Dennis said. “Not until we were married and we had a wonderful dinner at the Rainbow Room, and we came back to the hotel. And then I began to think about it. You know. I could have slept on the sofa in the parlor overnight. But then there was that long trip on the train, in the same drawing room. And resort hotels, and all that. I didn’t know if I ought to say something, or just what.”
“So you excused yourself and went out to get drunk,” Malone said sleepily.
“Oh, no,” Dennis said. “It wasn’t like that.”
“He didn’t go out to get drunk; he went out and got drunk,” Helene said. “There’s a distinction.”
“Stop quibbling,” Malone said crossly, “and give me the facts. Never mind her, Dennis, just go on.”
Dennis said, “She told me she wanted to unpack a few things and take a bath. So I said that was fine, I wanted to drop down at the bar for a nightcap. I sort of figured that—well, that was up to her, after all, only I wanted to find out what she expected, without asking. And I figured if I waited long enough, if you know what I mean, I could—well, you know, figure it out from the way things were when I got back.”
“A very gentlemanly idea,” Malone murmured, his eyes closed. “Only you fell among drunkards.”
“You know how it is,” Dennis said. He looked very young and very embarrassed. “You get to talking with people at a bar. And I hadn’t eaten such a lot of dinner. And I was kind of upset and jittery, anyway. And this guy I was talking to—I don’t remember much about him—suggested we go up the street and catch the show at some club—I don’t remember which one it was. And I looked at my watch and thought, well, that would just about fill in the right amount of time. I remember that. So we had a couple more drinks and we left, this guy and I.”
“Was it a good floor show?” Malone asked. “And where was it?”
“I guess it was good,” Dennis said. “I’m pretty vague about it. And I can’t remember where it was. I do remember there was a comedian and a girl who sang and a chorus. I know I got separated from this guy I’d met, but I got mixed up with some other people there. I don’t remember anything about them, just sitting down at their table. Only there’s just a dim recollection—well, more of a feeling than really a recollection—about going to a bunch of other night clubs and bars. And that’s all.”
“When did you start on this tour?” Malone asked.
“It was about eight o’clock. Maybe half-past. Not later than that, I’m sure.”
Helene said thoughtfully, “And it was after four when we found you down in the lobby, trying to pick lilies. You must have covered a lot of territory.”
“But how did I get back here?” Dennis said.
“There’s a kind of instinct drunks have,” Malone told him. “Drunks, and homing pigeons.” He scowled. “That’s a lot of time, too.” Malone and Helene looked at each other in silence.
“What is it?” Dennis demanded.
“Your night’s adventures make an interesting story,” Malone said slowly, “but if the police get any unpleasant notions about the murder that happened to be committed in your rooms, they won’t consider it much of an alibi.”
Dennis groaned. “I know it,” he said, “but what can I do? Because that’s exactly what did happen.”
“It may not be much of an alibi,” Helene said to the lawyer, “but it’s all the alibi he’s got.”
Malone chewed savagely on his cigar for a moment. “Personally,” he said at last, “I distrust alibis. People who turn up able to account for every minute of their time, with proof and witnesses, when a murder happens to be committed, rouse my suspicions. Because alibis like that always seem to me to indicate a certain amount of preparedness. Under ordinary circumstances people can’t account for their time that way. But,” he said gloomily, “sometimes the police take a very conventional view of things.”
“If he could only remember the places he went to last night,” Helene said thoughtfully. “Or even if he could find out which ones they were. Because he mightn’t remember being there, but people would remember him.” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s it. See, there’s a solution to every difficulty!”
“Now,” Malone said. “Remember. At six-forty-five tonight—”
“There’s a train for Chicago,” Helene said. “And you won’t be on it. Because this nice young man needs an alibi. And we’re going to find it for him.”
9. The Man He Was Looking For
“For the one hundredth time,” Malone said firmly, “I am not going to accompany you on an insane tour of all the night clubs, saloons, dives, and heaven knows what in New York City, asking waiters and bartenders, ‘Did you see a young man with dark hair in here last night?’”
“You’re very unco-operative,” Helene said. “Besides, we’d take his picture along. He’s got one. I saw it.”
Malone snorted. “Do you think that when some stranger pokes a photograph in a bartender’s face and says, ‘Did you see him last night?’ the bartender is going to give any information?”
“He would to me,” Helene said with serene self-confidence.
Malone reflected that she was right. He had yet to see the man Helene couldn�
�t talk out of anything she wanted. He tried another approach. “It’s none of our business,” he began. “Just because you and Jake happened to pick up a strange drunk in the hotel lobby last night—”
“We’re the only friends he has in the world,” Helene said. “He told us so himself.”
Malone lit a fresh cigar and said, “Jake won’t like it. Murders aren’t a hobby to him, they’re a damned nuisance.”
He was immediately sorry he’d said it. The expression changed on Helene’s face, and she said, “Malone, what time is it now?”
“Five o’clock,” Malone said. He added hastily, “He’s been delayed.”
“Since ten o’clock this morning?” Helene said.
He couldn’t tell if the tone in her voice indicated fury or alarm. He said, “All right, he’s probably stumbled into an honest job for once, and he’s ashamed to tell you about it.”
“Jake?” Helene said witheringly.
“The truth is,” Malone said, “he’s probably out with another girl. So stop worrying about him.”
Helene sniffed. She was silent for a moment. Then, “But, Malone, he’s never been away as long as this.” And after another moment, “If he isn’t here by six o’clock, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?” Malone said.
“I’ll—” She stared at him, drew a long breath, and said, “I’ll get all dressed up and we’ll go out to dinner, and after that we’ll find Dennis’ alibi, and the hell with Jake.”
“Oh, no,” Malone said, “not me. Let Dennis find his own alibis.”
They’d tucked the exhausted Dennis Morrison into bed half an hour before, and left strict orders at the desk that he was not to be disturbed. Since then Malone had been carrying on a losing argument with Helene over the evening’s plans. Losing, he reminded himself, but not lost.
“Damn it, Malone,” she said, “aren’t you even curious?”
“Not in the least,” the little lawyer said with his last ounce of determination. “I don’t care where Bertha Morrison is, or why she disappeared from her bridal chamber after going to so much trouble and expense to get a bridegroom. I don’t care who the unknown beauty was. I don’t care how she got into the aforementioned bridal suite, or why. I don’t care who murdered her, or why her head was cut off. I don’t care one damned thing about it, and I’m getting rapidly less interested every minute.” He glared at Helene, attempted to land an inch of cigar ash in the ash tray, and landed it on his vest instead. He brushed at it ineffectually for a minute and then said, “It is a hell of a funny thing, though, about that dinner jacket.” He looked at Helene and added, “Stop giggling.”