Having Wonderful Crime

by Craig Rice

  “I’m not giggling,” Helene said. “That was just a staccato sneer. If you’re so curious about that dinner jacket, why don’t you find out where it came from and how it got on Dennis Morrison’s back? A smart man like you!”

  “Shut up,” Malone said almost dreamily. “Let me think.” He paused. “It was an expensive, custom-made jacket. There must be a tailor’s mark on it. Good tailors keep records of the clothes they make.”

  Helene said, “You’re still a smart man,” jumped up, raced into the bedroom, and returned with the dinner jacket. “I was hoping you’d think of that before I did.” She tossed it on his lap. “Too bad the owner didn’t leave an identification card in his wallet. That would simplify everything.”

  “He was probably out on a bender,” Malone said, “and wanted to be able to pass himself off as John W. Smith of Keokuk, Iowa, in case of necessity.” He examined it carefully. “Mawson and Mawson,” he reported, “New York.”

  Helene ran for the phone book. There was no Mawson and Mawson in the phone book. Malone tried information. There was an eighteen-months-ago number, which turned out to have been disconnected. Helene started calling all the Mawsons in the phone book; on the third try she got the widow of the senior member of Mawson and Mawson. Mr. J. L. Mawson, Sr., had died eleven months ago. The firm had gone out of business right after his death. Mr. J. L. Mawson, Jr., was touring Mexico. The widow of J. L. Mawson, Sr., had no idea what had happened to the records of the firm, or where any of its old employees could be reached. Neither did J. L. Mawson, Sr.’s married daughter who lived on Long Island, nor a niece in Bridgeport, Connecticut. But an older brother (quite deaf) on Staten Island remembered that the head cutter of the firm had been a Mr. A. Garabedian, who lived somewhere on East Thirty-fourth Street. It turned out that Mr. A. Garabedian was now on the West Coast, employed by the Hollywood Costume Company.

  “Well,” Helene said, after forty-eight minutes of telephoning, “it was an idea, anyway.”

  “Just a temporary setback,” Malone said grimly. “I’ll find who that jacket belongs to and how Dennis Morrison got it if it takes till Christmas.”

  “But, Malone,” Helene said innocently, “I thought you weren’t interested.” Before Malone could find a suitable and reasonably unprofane answer, Helene said reproachfully, “Such language! Now I’m going to get dressed for dinner. I’ll meet you in the bar in forty-five minutes.”

  That would be six-forty-five, Malone reflected as he went out the door, just the time that train was going to leave for Chicago, without him. He went to the room Jake and Helene had reserved for him, let himself in, turned on the light, and sank down on the edge of the bed. It was a pleasant room, with maroon and apple-green printed draperies, hunting prints on the cream-colored walls, a comfortable bed, a big easy chair, a handsome bureau and writing desk, and thick, spongy carpets. But he didn’t appreciate it. He was too worried about how he was going to pay for it.

  There was, he felt, an overwhelming load of assorted worries on his mind. The fare back to Chicago. The trouble between Jake and Helene, whatever it was. Jake’s mysterious absence. The tough spot Dennis Morrison was in, though that was none of his business. The dinner jacket. Making up the sleep he’d lost on the train. Paying for the hotel room. And now, one more. Paying for Helene’s dinner and the other incidental expenses of the evening. He hadn’t had a chance, what with one thing and another, to wire Joe the Angel for immediate funds. Besides, all he could count on from Joe the Angel was return fare to Chicago. And the nine dollars in his pocket was all he had in the world.

  Malone rose wearily, stripped off his coat, took off his shirt and tie, and prepared to shave. Helene would, as usual, want to pick up the check. As usual, he wouldn’t allow her. She was one of the two best friends he had in all the world, but he’d never let her pick up the check. Nor Jake either, for that matter. To be perfectly accurate, he practically never let even a perfect stranger pick up the check. That was one of his great troubles.

  He looked crossly at his half-lathered face in the mirror. With all the money he’d made, he told himself, here he was with just nine dollars. And where had it gone? Thrown away. Women, liquor, poker games, and friends. Still, he reflected, rinsing out his shaving brush, what the hell could you do with money except spend it on women and liquor, lose it in poker games, and lend it to friends.

  The hotel would probably cash a fair-sized check, considering that Jake had made the reservation for him. Not so good though, when the check bounced three days later.

  He finished shaving, and stood under the shower for a full ten minutes, letting the soothing water stream down over his broad, brown hairy chest, his small paunch, and his short, stocky legs. It refreshed his body, if not his mind. He toweled and dressed himself, rubbed talcum on his round, reddish face, and brushed his dark, unruly, and slightly thinning hair. Maybe he’d better just tell Jake and Helene that he was broke. No!

  There must be a drink left in that pint of rye he’d bought in Chicago just before he left. He burrowed through his suitcase and found the bottle tucked into a bedroom slipper. There were three drinks left in the bottle. He took two of them, fast.

  The phone rang, and he picked it up. Maybe Jake was back. Or maybe Dennis Morrison had heard from the police. It was the switchboard girl. “A Mr. Proudfoot to see you, Mr. Malone.”

  “Send him right up,” Malone said. He wondered who the hell Mr. Proudfoot was. Probably more trouble. Another worry. Where was he going to get some dough, fast? Where the hell was Jake? Who did that dinner jacket belong to? When was he going to get back to Chicago? There was a knock. He opened the door and saw a tall, angular man with iron-gray hair and a grim gray face. A well-dressed man, though everything he wore, save his white shirt, was dead black, from his highly polished shoes to his well-brushed derby. “Mr. Malone?” the man said, almost without moving his mouth. “I’m Mr. Proudfoot.”

  Malone murmured that he was delighted to meet Mr. Proudfoot. He invited Mr. Proudfoot to come in, apologized for the mussed-up condition of the room, and regretted that he didn’t have a drink to offer.

  The visitor seemed to have no time for the social amenities. He came straight to the point, sitting down on a straight chair and parking a black calfskin brief case on his knees. “Mr. Malone,” he said, “I read of you in this afternoon’s paper. I took the liberty of telephoning a number of people in Chicago and checking up on you.”

  Malone felt a cold wave starting through his blood stream. Like a drowning man doing a split-second autobiography, he thought over every sin he’d committed in his life, and ended up wondering if he were being arrested or sued. “I reached the conclusion,” Mr. Proudfoot said, “that you are a very remarkable man.”

  “That all depends,” Malone said cautiously.

  “And I am given to understand,” Mr. Proudfoot went on, “that you have done some very remarkable things.”

  “Well, that’s one way of describing it,” Malone said airily. “Have a cigar.”

  Mr. Proudfoot appeared to be a man who talked but didn’t listen. “Therefore, I have come to the decision,” he said, “that you are exactly the man I am looking for. I,” he said, “am the trustee and lawyer for Bertha Lutts—I suppose I should say, Bertha Morrison. I have become convinced that this is what her late father would wish me to do.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Malone said, in a daze. He began to wonder if he should have taken that last drink. Or maybe it was because he’d lost a night’s sleep.

  “Mr. Malone,” Mr. Proudfoot said, leaning forward a little, “I would like to engage your services. Not in any legal capacity, but in connection with the disappearance of Bertha Lutts—or, rather, Morrison. In short, I desire you to find her.”

  Malone started to say that he was not a walking lost-and-found column, took another look at Mr. Proudfoot’s black broadcloth suit, estimated its cost, and said instead, “Well, that might be a difficult task. It might take time, and time is money—”

&n
bsp; Mr. Proudfoot cleared his throat. “As Miss Lutts’—I mean, Mrs. Morrison’s—trustee, I am taking it upon myself to offer you five thousand dollars as a fee. Plus any expenses which might be incurred.”

  “There would be immediate expenses,” Malone said.

  “And of course,” Mr. Proudfoot went on, as though he hadn’t heard, “a five-hundred-dollar retainer. In fact, I have the check right here in my wallet.” He reached into his wallet and drew out a long, narrow, pale-yellow slip of printed paper. “I trust that you’ll accept the case, Mr. Malone. It is simply a matter of finding Bertha Lutts—Morrison—and producing proof that she did not murder that woman who was found in her bed—proof that would convince a jury.”

  Malone folded his hand over the check. If he took it to the hotel desk, he could draw all the money he needed, including the price of a ticket to Chicago. The hell with Joe the Angel. “My dear Mr. Proudfoot,” he said, “I assure you, your case couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Then he wound up the slowest double take in his life. “What was that,” he said hoarsely, “you wanted me to do?”

  10. A Creature of Whims

  “But look here,” Malone said. “What makes you think Bertha killed that woman?”

  Mr. Proudfoot looked at him fixedly. “Can you suggest any alternatives?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Malone said. He began unwrapping a cigar. “Is that what I’m hired for? To find an alternative and make it stick? Because that last part may take a little doing. It isn’t so easy these days to pin a murder rap on somebody, especially if it’s somebody who didn’t do it.”

  “No one is suggesting that you do anything even remotely illegal,” Mr. Proudfoot said. His eyes and voice were like ice.

  “O.K.,” the little lawyer said mildly. “I was just asking. Let’s get back to where we were. What makes you think Bertha killed the woman?”

  “My dear Mr. Malone,” Abner Proudfoot said, “since her childhood, Bertha has been strong-minded and stubborn, and a creature of whims.”

  Malone coughed. “Murder and decapitation,” he said, “are hardly whims.”

  “I suspect,” Mr. Proudfoot said, trying not very successfully to look as though he were smiling, “that you choose to be humorous. No thank you, Mr. Malone, I have never smoked. However, if you will permit me—”

  Malone had been betting with himself that Abner Proudfoot took snuff. He won. “By a whim,” Abner Proudfoot said, “I refer, naturally, to her rash and thoughtless marriage to this indubitably charming but nevertheless completely unknown young man. Until yesterday,” he added in a wounded tone, “I had never heard of him.”

  “She must have been very impetuous,” Malone murmured.

  “Impetuous,” Abner Proudfoot said, “in a determined way. But does that have anything to do with the situation?”

  “Well,” Malone said, “no.” He was beginning to wish that his visitor would go away. He could feel a pleasant warmth emanating from his inside coat pocket, where he’d stowed the check. He would, he resolved, have the cashier give him five one-hundred-dollar bills. That would settle Helene’s hash once and for all. She’d looked entirely too skeptical when he’d refused her offer to pay his train fare. Well, tonight he’d take out a hundred-dollar bill to pay the dinner check and say apologetically, “I’m sorry, waiter, I haven’t anything smaller—”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I didn’t hear what you were saying—”

  “I said, I would have been glad to have given her advice,” Abner Proudfoot repeated, “if she’d come and asked for it. If she had, it would have saved all this trouble.”

  “You’d have advised her against marrying Dennis Morrison, I assume,” Malone said.

  “Naturally. I feel that we may safely assume,” Proudfoot went on, “that this man is an adventurer. What was he when they first met? A professional escort. The word for it, I believe, is gigolo.” Malone knew several other words for it, but he kept them to himself. Abner Proudfoot took another pinch of snuff. “Under those circumstances,” he said, “I feel that we may also assume that if he preyed on one wealthy woman, he preyed on others.” He sneezed and blew his nose on an enormous, snow-white handkerchief. “The murdered woman was obviously wealthy.”

  “Did you know her?” Malone asked. “Or are you psychic?” He wondered if Jake was back yet. Probably not. Helene would have phoned.

  “I did not know her,” Proudfoot said, “and I am not psychic, although I had a great aunt—” He paused. “I examined the unfortunate woman’s remains, at the morgue. Her hair was dyed, a shade which is known, I believe, as moon dust. A costly process, and one that can only be done at two or three beauty salons in New York. She wore false eyelashes, of a type which can only be applied one at a time, each lash fitting over the natural hair—a slow and difficult process, requiring the services of a highly skilled operator. And her manicure—” He paused again.

  “There was something odd about her manicure,” he admitted. “It had obviously been done at one of the best salons. And yet, her hands had not received the same fine care in the past. For some reason, that struck me as rather strange.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Malone said. “Say, maybe you could tell me a good place to buy a nightgown for a present I want to give a girl.”

  “I would recommend Karole’s,” Abner Proudfoot said promptly. He named an address on Forty-fifth Street.

  Malone pretended to write it down. Then he said, “How do you know all these things?”

  Abner Proudfoot winked at him. It was a little as though a minor earthquake had cracked the Great Stone Face. Malone said, “Oh,” and wished he hadn’t asked. His imagination started to work on a picture of Abner Proudfoot in a playful mood, and gave up fast. “So this dame was well-fixed, huh?” he said. “Well, I’ll take your word for it temporarily. But how does that make Bertha a murderess?”

  “Jealousy,” Proudfoot said. “This other woman felt that she had a prior claim on Dennis Morrison’s attentions. It is quite conceivable that she may even have been providing him with the necessities of life. In which case, hearing of the marriage, it is not unnatural that she should come here to confront the bride. There was, as you know, a struggle. There were bruises and contusions on the body, in addition to the fact that death was caused by strangulation, a fact which is in itself an implication of emotional violence. I am quite sure that if the circumstances of the case were to be carefully examined, it would be readily proven that the murder was committed in self-defense—a circumstance which I trust will not arise, if you succeed in what you have been engaged to do.”

  “Brother,” Malone said, “for five grand I could prove to any jury in the world that old man Macbeth murdered in self-defense. Only I gathered that what I’m engaged for is to find the dame, prove she didn’t done it, and find some guy we can prove did done it. That should be worth more money than you’re paying, but I’ll do it for you because you’re a pal. But a couple of little things bother me. After Bertha had strangled this visiting babe in self-defense, why did she bother to undress her, rig her out in a fancy lace and satin nightgown, and tuck her in bed?”

  “When you have located Bertha,” Abner Proudfoot said coldly, “we will ask her.”

  “Oh, sure,” Malone said. “And another thing. When Bertha scrammed, she took all her jewelry along. Nothing else. There was a coat hanging there in the closet that looked as if it had been carved out of a whole herd of chinchillas, but she didn’t take that. She just took the rocks. How come? For dough? Didn’t she carry enough mad money in her purse to take care of her in case she impetuously committed a murder?”

  “I take it you are being facetious,” Abner Proudfoot said. His lips curved in what might have been a smile on almost any other face. “When you locate Bertha—”

  “We’ll ask her,” Malone said. “O.K. Just one more little problem bothers me, do you mind? After she’d strangled this babe with the expensive hair-do in self-defense, why did she stick a
round for three or four hours, and then cut her head off?”

  “Bertha—” Proudfoot began. He stopped, and his lips shut like a bear trap.

  “I know,” Malone said. “She’s a creature of whims.” He put out his cigar. “All right, I’ll find her. You might toss in a couple of hints, though, about where to look. Where might she have gone? Any family? Any friends?”

  “Her entire family consists of an uncle, George Lutts, and a cousin, Howard, or Howie, Lutts,” Abner Proudfoot said. “They live in Brooklyn. It had once been planned that she would marry Howard when she attained her maturity, but for some reason the match never came off. Howard can be a rather difficult individual. I have, naturally, investigated the Luttses since Bertha’s disappearance. She has a number of friends, mostly female, and it goes without saying that I have similarly investigated them. I very much regret, Mr. Malone, that I am afraid I will be unable to give you any suggestions.”

  Malone said, “Oh, well, she’ll probably turn up holed out at the YWCA. “That’s the least of my worries. I’ve always been wonderful at finding women. Now when that little chore is attended to, who do you want me to put the finger on?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Abner Proudfoot said stiffly.

  “Talk English, pal,” the little lawyer said, “and don’t try to kid John Joseph Malone, because, just between ourselves, he isn’t kiddable. You want me to find some guy or some babe we can pin this murder rap on and make it stick. Only I want to know, do you have any suggestions?”