by Craig Rice
“O.K., pal, I’ll be there,” Malone said. “Name the time and place.” He looked regretfully at the clock as he hung up the phone. Oh, well, he’d had four hours’ sleep. That was better than nothing. He picked up the phone again, called room service, and said, “Bring me a Spanish omelet, a double order of French fried potatoes, a piece of lemon-meringue pie, a pot of coffee, and a pint of bourbon.” By the time he got into his taxi, he was shaved, bathed, fed, and felt like a new man.
He wondered who the young lady could be, and about the interesting and valuable information. He wished it could be the chubby blonde he’d seen at Abner Proudfoot’s, and that the information might be her telephone number. Only he knew, of course, that it wouldn’t be. He’d have to find his own girls.
The little lawyer sighed and lit his after-breakfast cigar. He reminded himself that this was his first—and last—trip to New York, and that he ought to look around a little. This taxi ride might also serve as a sightseeing tour. He leaned forward as the cab turned into Fifth Avenue and said, “Do we go by any historic spots on the way?” He added, “I’m a stranger in town.”
“We go by Rockefeller Center in a minute,” the driver said. “And if you’re here for a visit, you sure oughta take time out and go to the Bronx Zoo. Them lions is really sumpin’! Only take my tip and don’t go there on a sunny day, because on a sunny day all them lions do is lie around and purr.”
“I’ve seen Rockefeller Center,” Malone said, “and I’m allergic to lions.” He leaned back and looked out the window. Fifth Avenue didn’t impress him any more than it had just before dawn. There was the Public Library. Well, personally, he liked the Art Institute of Chicago better. What he could see of the Empire State Building left him cold. It couldn’t hold a candle to the Wrigley Building, especially at night when it was all lit up like an octogenarian’s birthday cake.
“That’s the tallest building in the world,” the cab driver volunteered.
“It don’t look tall from here,” Malone said coldly. “Looks like an old two-story false front.” All right, the Empire State Building was tall. So what? Just proved New York builders didn’t know when to stop at a good story. The phrase pleased him, he repeated it to himself and flicked his cigar ashes out the cab window.
Madison Square looked like any other dingy and cluttered little city park. What’s more, he would have bet heavily that there were more bums per square foot back in Bughouse Square in Chicago.
He looked critically at the Flatiron Building. It did look substantial, but not as substantial as the Monad-nock Block, and besides, it needed a good scrubbing. The only thing to recommend it was its shape, and that was not any tribute; rather it was a reflection on the inefficient layout of New York’s streets. And even so, didn’t Chicago have the narrowest building for its height anywhere in the world?
The cab turned into Broadway, passed Union Square, and crossed Fourteenth Street. The cab driver pointed out the City Hall. Malone observed that it wasn’t as big as the Chicago City Hall. He looked at his watch and found he was early for his appointment, when he got out of the cab. He didn’t want to be early. In fact, he’d decided to keep Abner Proudfoot waiting a few minutes. Well, he could always stroll around a little. After all, he might never be here again.
Wall Street didn’t impress him, nor did the Subtreasury Building, nor the House of Morgan. The streets were too narrow. The city of New York had been laid out very carelessly and very badly, amateurishly, in fact. Now the Chicago Loop, on the other hand—He walked down to Bowling Green and back, still unimpressed. This was historic ground on which he trod. All right, Chicago had history, too. Maybe it hadn’t gone on for so long a time, but there’d been more of it. Hadn’t anybody here ever heard of Father Dearborn, and the Haymarket Riot, and Abraham Lincoln, and the Iroquois Fire, and the Century of Progress Exposition, and Al Capone? Malone had worked up a righteous wrath by the time he got back to Trinity Churchyard. History! History—! And who was Abner Proudfoot, to push him around?
He was fifteen minutes late by the time he got in the elevator, and he was glad of it. Abner Proudfoot would probably tell him that Procrastination was the Thief of Time. He had a few things to tell Abner Proudfoot, too.
The offices of Proufdoot, Schwartz, Van Alstine, and Proudfoot were impressive, at first glance. Nice paneling, fine old prints, leather upholstery. But the leather upholstery was slightly frazzled at the corners, and the pimply-faced girl at the switchboard didn’t look like an experienced PBX operator, rather like a business school student working out an unpaid tuition fee.
He expected to be kept waiting, with the leather-up-holstered chair and a 1938 copy of Life magazine. But the girl said, “Y’can go right in. Second door to yer left, down the hall.” She went back to the letter she was writing, by hand.
The door marked Abner Proudfoot was gilt-lettered wood, the others in the hall were ground glass, a couple of them ajar. Malone glanced into one of the offices; it was empty, the desk bare. He opened the door into Mr. Proudfoot’s anteroom. The paneled walls here were done in walnut that needed refinishing. A thin, gray-haired woman sat at the receptionist’s desk, reading a copy of the Woman’s Home Companion. Malone said, “Hello, cutie, I’m Mr. Malone.”
“Yes, Mr. Malone,” she said. She finished the sentence she was reading and laid the magazine aside. “I’ll tell Mr. Proudfoot you’re here.” She reached for a plug on the switchboard and said, “You won’t mind waiting a few minutes?”
“Oh, I would mind,” Malone said. “Very much. Time and Tide wait for no man. I’m Mr. Tide, and time is fleeting. You won’t mind if I go right in.” He heard a faint squeak of protest from her as he opened the door to Abner Proudfoot’s office. It was an impressive room, magnificently furnished, well dusted, and slightly shabby. The curtains had been mended, and a corner had been chipped from the frame of one of the pictures of old New York. Abner Proudfoot sat behind his desk, his black-clad shoulders hunched, his gray head bowed. He looked up as Malone came in.
“Oh, Mr. Malone,” he said. Evidently he decided to ignore Malone’s informal entrance. “You’re rather late. Fifteen minutes, in fact.” He frowned. “Procrastination is—”
“Punctuality,” Malone said quickly and smoothly, “is the virtue of a man who owns an expensive watch. What the hell do you want to see me about, anyway? I thought you fired me.”
“I thought you refused to be fired,” Mr. Proudfoot said, just as smoothly.
Malone sighed and began unwrapping a cigar. “All right,” he said. “We seem to be working the same side of the street again. What happened between the time you threw me out of your house and had a couple of thugs beat me up, with the idea of finding that paper you signed and throwing my voiceless body in the river, and now? Did you have a change of heart?”
“Your attitude is very unconventional,” Mr. Proudfoot said. He took a pinch of snuff. “Am I correct in understanding your statement, that you had some unfortunate accident after you left my house last night?”
“Think nothing of it,” Malone said, lighting the cigar. “And it wasn’t an accident.” He threw the match away. “Only if I keep on getting kicked around, my price is liable to go up, and I have a feeling you want something from me.”
“I have great faith in your ability,” Mr. Proudfoot said coldly.
The little lawyer said, “That’s fine. Faith can move mountains. Which mountain do you want to have moved, pal, and which way?”
“I suspect you are being facetious,” Mr. Proudfoot said, in a tone of voice that indicated he was accusing Malone of some unmentionable crime. “I engaged you to find Bertha Morrison. I wish you to carry out that assignment.” Before Malone could say anything he added quickly, “She is, obviously, alive and well. If there are any traveling expenses involved, you may be assured—” The buzzer on his desk rang. He picked up the phone, listened a moment, and said, “Ask her to come right in.”
It was only ten or fifteen seconds before the door opened.
The gray-haired spinster said, “Mrs. Eunice Olsen, Mr. Proudfoot,” gave Malone a disapproving look, and shut the door softly. Before Malone had time to look at Mrs. Eunice Olsen, a small pigtailed bombshell ran across the room, threw over the wastebasket, pounded on Mr. Proudfoot’s knee with tense little fists, and demanded. “What’ya got to gimme?” A voice just inside the door said, “Bubsie! Please!” and then, “I’m sorry, Mr. Proudfoot, I had to bring her with me, The Expressionality School is closed—some kind of financial trouble, I think—and I don’t have a maid—Bubsie, stop that—really, I wouldn’t have come here at all, only I remembered you were poor dear Bertha’s trustee and that’s why I called you up about the letter and you thought it was important so I brought it right down here, and—Oh!” There was a sound of breaking glass. “I hope it wasn’t anything valuable! Bubsie, how could you do that!”
“I done it like this,” Bubsie said. There was another sound of breaking glass.
“Just a trifle,” Mr. Proudfoot said grimly. “I trust you brought the letter with you.” He seemed to be breathing with difficulty. “Mrs. Olsen, this is Mr. Malone, one of my associates. You may speak freely in front of him, I assure you.”
Malone gave Bubsie a hard shove toward Mr. Proudfoot and got a good look at her mother. She was a thin, anxious-looking little woman, with hair dyed an unpleasant orange shade. Her purplish alpaca suit was badly fitted and slightly dusty, her brown hat was a trifle askew. Bubsie, though, was an age-four fashion plate. Eunice Olsen’s hair hung down in tiny wisps; the makeup was slightly smeared on her left cheek. Bubsie’s hair, though, was sleek and shining; it stuck out in two stiff pigtails on either side of her cross, pink little face.
“I was afraid dear Bertha was dead,” Mrs. Olsen said, “when I read the papers last night. And then this morning, I got this lovely letter from her, mailed yesterday. So I remembered you were Bertha’s trustee, and I called you up, and you said for me to come right down. I wouldn’t have brought Bubsie, only the school—don’t, dear. Put down those matches!”
Bubsie put down the matches, marched over to Malone, and announced that she’d learned a new word yesterday. Malone, being polite, said, “Hm?” It wasn’t a nice word.
“Oh,” Mrs. Olsen said. “Bubsie! Well, anyway, here’s the letter, Mr. Proudfoot.” She fumbled for it in her bag and laid it on his desk. I tell you, I was so surprised when it came, after I’d read that—Bubsie, stop that!
“Oh, Mr. Proudfoot, I’m so sorry!”
“Quite all right,” Mr. Proudfoot said, his face like ice. “The picture needed reframing, anyway.” He read through the letter and pushed it toward Malone. Bubsie struck a pose in the middle of the carpet and announced to all and sundry that she wished to go to the bathroom and immediately. Abner Proudfoot pounded the buzzer on his desk and yelled for Agatha. The gray-haired spinster appeared in the doorway. A moment later she, Mrs. Olsen, and Bubsie vanished. “You’ll pardon me while you read that,” Abner Proudfoot said, wiping his brow. He looked pale and shaken. “I’ll rejoin you in a moment.”
Malone wiped his own brow, relit his cigar, and examined the letter. The postmark on the envelope was Buffalo, the date was yesterday. He unfolded the letter, typed with a bright-blue ribbon on paper monogrammed with a queen bee.
My dear Eunice:
Thank you for your good wishes, and for the lovely gift. We are deliriously happy, and Niagara Falls is beautiful beyond description. Tomorrow we are moving on toward the Far West. Soon we shall be at home, and then I hope we will see you and your beautiful little girl. Until then, all my love.
Bertha
Malone stared at the letter. It was a conventional note, sent by a happy young bride. Only the bridegroom was here in New York, he’d lost his bride the night of his marriage, right now he was in the hospital, or on the way home from it, the victim of a murderous assault. And Bertha—He didn’t want to think about it. Not here, and not now. He shoved the letter back on Abner Proudfoot’s desk.
Of course the whole thing could be a fake. But, with a check of Bertha Morrison’s past typewriting and handwriting, it would be easy to tell. Or, a hallucination. Only he’d never seen a hallucination neatly typed on monogrammed paper before. And Abner Proudfoot and Eunice Olsen had seen the same thing. He couldn’t answer for Abner Proudfoot, but Eunice Olsen seemed a sensible, levelheaded young woman, in spite of Bubsie. Maybe he was dreaming the whole thing. He wished that he were, but he had an uncomfortable certainty that he was awake.
The telephone rang. No one seemed to be in the anteroom, so Malone answered it. Mr. Proudfoot? He was out right now. But this was Mr. Proudfoot’s confidential assistant. What did Mr. Proudfoot want to put on what, in the seventh? “Sorry,” Malone said, “I’m not that confidential. I don’t place Mr. Proudfoot’s horse money for him.” He hung up.
Funny a guy like Proudfoot, in an office as impressive as this one, in a fancy building like this, wouldn’t have a brace of stenographers, secretaries, assistants, and office boys, instead of one gray-haired babe in the anteroom. The telephone rang again, and again Malone explained he was Mr. Proudfoot’s confidential assistant. It was a female voice, a businesslike but rather pleasant one. “I’m Olive Eades. I went to school with Bertha Morrison, and I remembered Mr. Proudfoot was her trustee. Well, I had a letter from Bertha this morning, and in view of all that’s been in the papers, I thought I’d better phone you.”
“Thanks,” Malone said. “I’m handling Bertha’s affairs for Mr. Proudfoot. Would you be kind enough to read it to me over the phone?”
The businesslike voice read:
My dear Olive:
Thank you for your good wishes and your lovely gift. We are deliriously happy. Niagara Falls is even more beautiful than its description. We are leaving tomorrow for the West. As soon as we are home, I do hope you will come and call on us. Until then, all my love. Bertha
Malone said, “That’s very interesting. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“I feel a little confused,” the voice said. “From her letter, she seems to be on her honeymoon, her husband is with her, and they’re very happy. But from the newspaper stories I’d gotten the impression that Bertha was dead, and that her bridegroom was here in New York, in a hospital, and that someone had tried to murder him.” The voice sighed over the wire. “It’s really terribly confusing, Mr.—what did you say your name was?”
“Malone,” the little lawyer said, “and don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. You have a very lovely voice. What color are your eyes?”
A soft and hastily repressed giggle came through the receiver. “My friends say they’re hazel, but my enemies say they’re green.” Her voice grew sober again. “Really, there must be something terribly wrong. Bertha writing that she’s happy and on her honeymoon, but the newspapers saying that her husband is here—”
“Pure propaganda,” Malone said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you ought to be on the radio?”
“Honestly?” There was a little gasp. Then, “So many friends of mine have said—but I haven’t any experience, you know.”
“I bet you could make up for that, fast,” Malone said. He wondered how she looked. “It just happens I have a few connections in the radio business—tell me, where can I reach you?”
“At the office,” she said. “Blackett, Barton, Sample, and Ayers. It’s in the phone book. Just ask for Miss Eades. Extension 291. And if I happen to be out, just leave a message with Miss Joyce. She’s a lovely girl.”
“I’m sure she is,” Malone said warmly, “if she’s a friend of yours.”
The anteroom door popped open, and the gray-haired spinster stuck her head in. She looked a trifle harassed. She said, “Will you watch this dear child a moment, Mr. Malone? I’m getting her mother an aspirin.” She shoved the dear child into the room and shut the door, fast.
Malone said pleasantly and automatically, “Be a good little girl, and your mother will be here soon.” She stated emphatically that she
didn’t mean to be a good little girl. Malone said, still pleasantly, “Shut your trap, or I’ll shut it for you.”
She bit him just below the knee, picked up an ash tray and poured out its contents, grinding them into the rug. Then she announced that she hadn’t really gone to the bathroom and she was going to, right here and now.
“You’re a liar,” Malone said. It turned out he was right.
She stuck out her tongue at him; he retaliated in kind. She called him a name; he called her a noisier one. She pulled a book off the desk and threw it at him; he caught it adroitly and threw it back at her. Then she really got mad. Five minutes later Mrs. Eunice Olsen returned. Bubsie, looking peaceful and angelic, was serenely settled on Malone’s lap, listening to a story about leprechauns. Eunice Olsen said, “Oh! Mr. Malone!” Her china-blue eyes said, “How did you do it?”
Malone caught the look, and said, “Well, she kicked me. So I kicked her back.” He turned a pleasant-natured and flexible Bubsie over his knee and showed the small, pinkish bruise. Then he turned her back again, finished the story in a few hurried sentences, said, “Now be a good girl and mind your mother,” and delivered her back to Mrs. Olsen. “She’s a fine, smart child,” he said, “but you’d better take her out of that school and buy a hairbrush.”
Bubsie sat down by her mother, a subdued and agreeable little girl. “Mist’ Malone said,” she announced, “that if I’m not good, you’re goin’ t’ beat the b’jeez out of me.”
Eunice Olsen looked at Malone, then at Bubsie. A little color began to come back into her sallow cheeks. She said, “He’s damned right.”
Abner Proudfoot came back. He thanked Mrs. Olsen for her help, and patted Bubsie on the head. They left, Bubsie swearing undying affection for Malone, and Proudfoot sat down behind his desk. “I trust you understand,” he said, “the circumstances which led me to reconsider my hastily arrived at decision. Bertha must be alive, but she must be mad. In which case, after you have succeeded in locating her, it will be necessary for the courts to declare her incompetent and appoint a guardian.”