Having Wonderful Crime

by Craig Rice

  “Do you know where Dennis Morrison is?” Arthur Peterson demanded. “Is he with you?”

  “No, and no,” Jake said, looking at Helene. He hadn’t noticed before that she’d put gold polish on the nails of her lovely toes. “Why?”

  “He went back to the hotel from the hospital,” Peterson said. “We put a cop in the lobby to watch out for him. But now he’s gone. Somehow he slipped by the cop. I thought maybe you knew where he’d gone.” He said, “The cop wasn’t there to keep him from going away, he was there to keep him from being killed.”

  Jake said coldly, “I haven’t seen him,” and hung up. He looked at Helene. Amateurs had no business mixing up in police affairs. Anyway, murder, like virtue, had its own reward. Helene was beautiful, and he loved her.

  And yet—“a good reason for finding a murderer … to keep him from murdering someone else.…” At least, it wouldn’t do any harm to ask a few questions of the elevator boy and the people down in the lobby. Jake said, “Helene, I’ll be right back,” and went out, fast.

  Nobody had seen a thing. Not the desk clerk, nor the doorman, nor the cigarette girl, nor the head bellhop. And this time, he knew, it wasn’t a conspiracy of silence. He wasn’t a jealous husband, and he was backing up his questions with nice green folding money.

  He asked one more elevator boy, who shook his head and said no, he hadn’t seen anyone resembling Dennis Morrison. Jake got in the elevator to go home. He’d done his duty, and the hell with it.

  “Sorry I can’t help,” the boy said, “but you could ride an ox down in one of these elevators and nobody’d notice. Or maybe he went down the freight elevator, or took the stairs. Poor guy, he sure must be nuts by now.” He shook his head and sighed. “Awful thing.” He grinned. “Too bad she didn’t know she was gonna be murdered, or she wouldn’t of called in a doctor.”

  “Doctor?” Jake said, his head spinning.

  “Sure,” the elevator boy said. “He said he was the doctor she’d called. I knew he really was a doctor because he had his little black bag with him. I took him up. He asked me what Mrs. Morrison’s room number was, and I told him. Oooops, sorry, Mr. Justus. I didn’t mean to carry you past your floor.”

  “Never mind,” Jake said. “Just take me back to the lobby. Thanks.”

  Dennis Morrison had gone out. A doctor, with a little black bag. If one could stop a murderer from murdering someone else—He knew, suddenly, where Dennis Morrison was going, and why. He knew, too, that he had to follow him. To save Dennis Morrison’s life.

  Jake paused at the desk long enough to tell the desk clerk, “Please phone up to Mrs. Justus and tell her I’ve been suddenly called out on important business. And tell her to stay right there until I get back.”

  31. A Snare and a Delusion

  “I am not lost,” Malone told himself firmly. “It’s just that I don’t know where I am.”

  He looked up again at the street sign, to make sure that he’d read it right. In spite of lack of sleep, brandy and Coca-Cola, red wine, rye, Scotch and soda, vodka, and beer, it was obviously a physical impossibility for Fourth Street to cross Eleventh Street. And yet, there it was, on the street sign. Maybe he ought to write a letter to Einstein about it, and at once.

  He’d spent an hour trying to find a restaurant which didn’t serve ravioli, curry, chow mein, or little hot biscuits. He’d succeeded in finding a number of bars, and he’d met a number of interesting people, all of whom he hoped he’d never see again. He’d reached West Twelfth Street and then, going on, he’d reached Little West Twelfth Street. That had scared him and he’d turned back.

  He’d found a bar run by an Armenian poet who charged a dollar for a drink, or gave you a drink free if you listened to his poems. Malone listened to one poem, paid a dollar for his next drink, and left.

  Finally, he got back to Fourth Street. He followed it because it had a nice, substantial-sounding name. A street named that certainly ought to lead a person somewhere. To a taxi, and then to a hotel, and then to a ticket office, where he could get a train for Chicago. Instead, Fourth Street had let him down. He’d followed it doggedly, and it had turned out to be a snare and a delusion. It had led him this far, and then abandoned him at a street intersection which obviously did not exist.

  Malone stood considering the phenomenon for a long time, gazing thoughtfully at the street sign. To his surprise, it failed to disappear. He had a feeling that something ought to be done about it, immediately, but he wasn’t quite sure what. Maybe he ought to phone the police. No, the thing to do was to find his way back to the party he’d left so unceremoniously, and tell Jake and Helene. They would know what to do. He wouldn’t have any trouble getting back there. It was somewhere south of here. Malone drew a long breath and plunged bravely in a direction he believed to be south. Or was it south? After a few blocks he began to worry, and finally tried a new direction, walked a few more blocks, and ended up on Fourth Street again. This was getting him nowhere.

  A pedestrian came along at this moment. Malone swallowed his pride, stopped him and asked how to get to Morton Street.

  The pedestrian thought it over. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you go down this street.” He pointed in the direction from which Malone had come. “At the next corner you turn left. Go a block, and turn right. Go another block, and turn left again. Then go two blocks and—”

  “Never mind,” Malone said hastily. “I’ll find it myself.”

  Nevertheless, he attempted to follow the directions the stranger had given him. They landed him back on Fourth Street again. Once he’d read a book about the big north woods that had contained directions on what to do when lost. Something about examining the bark of the trees. The problem, then, was to find a tree. He looked around hopefully.

  A prim-looking, middle-aged woman was coming down the street. Malone stepped up to her, lifted his hat politely, and said, “Pardon me, madam, can you tell me where to find a tree?” She screamed and fled.

  The book had also advised building a small fire, sitting down, keeping calm, and waiting to be rescued. That sounded more reasonable. “Remember,” the book had said, “if you are lost, people are looking for you.” That was the most hopeful thought of all. “Most people, when lost, become panicky and start going around in circles.” That had been his whole trouble, he’d been going around in circles. There didn’t seem to be anything with which to build the small fire, however, and besides, Malone doubted if the police would approve. He should have stuck to Fourth Street in the first place. Obviously he and Fourth Street were affinities. He started doggedly along Fourth Street, and got back to the corner of Fourth and Eleventh Streets again.

  Malone was getting mad now. He was damned if he’d let Fourth Street fool him again. Eleventh Street looked more promising, anyway. He started off in a new direction with a feeling that now, perhaps, he was getting somewhere.

  Ah! Waverly Place! That was a name he remembered. He was getting somewhere! He followed it with a growing feeling of confidence and reached a broad, well-lighted thoroughfare which looked vaguely familiar. Twenty-three Morton Street ought to be around here somewhere. He resolved to stick to Waverly Place, the only street he’d been able to trust so far. He sailed joyously on across the broad, lighted street and looked hopefully around for Waverly Place on the other side. Just at that minute he remembered why he’d recognized its name. Once he’d known a chorus girl named Wanda Waverly. That discouraged him.

  He walked the short distance to the next corner and looked around for the street sign. Waverly Place. He looked at the other angle of the sign. Waverly Place. He pulled himself together and looked again at the sign, to make sure. Reaching an intersection of Fourth and Eleventh Streets had been bad enough. But coming to the corner of Waverly Place and Waverly Place was the last straw. A cruising Yellow, obviously sent by a merciful providence, came along just in time to save Malone from complete collapse. He sank back on the cushions and closed his eyes.

  “Where d’ya want to
go?” the driver asked.

  “Chicago!” Malone said hoarsely. “And quick!”

  He was still shuddering a little when he stepped into the lobby of the St. Jacques. The sooner he got out of this town, the better! Helene stopped him in the middle of the lobby. She grabbed his arm and gasped, “Malone! I’m so glad you got here!”

  “Out of my way,” he said. “I’ve got to pack. The hell with Abner Proudfoot and his forty-five hundred bucks.”

  “Malone, listen to me!” She shook his arm. “Jake—”

  He looked at her. She had on an ice-blue satin negligee, galoshes, and a fur coat. Her gleaming hair was down over her shoulders. It was pleasantly reminiscent of the first time he’d seen her. “What’s this about Jake?” he asked.

  “He’s gone.” She caught her breath. “The police called. They said Dennis Morrison had disappeared again. Jake went downstairs to ask a few questions in the lobby. Then he sent me a message that he had to go out on important business. By the time I got my coat and galoshes on and came down here, he was gone.”

  Malone stared at her. Duty and temptation began to wrestle in his mind. “Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Malone, do something.”

  “I’m thinking,” he told her. “I’m between the devil and the sea-blue sheep.”

  She stamped her foot, said, “All right, I’ll find him myself,” and started to push past him. He caught her arm.

  “Wait a minute,” the little lawyer said. They were beside the huge floral display where Jake and Helene had first met Dennis Morrison. If they’d only had sense enough to mind their own business then, all this wouldn’t have happened. He stared at the flowers. Just one thing would fit the whole puzzle together. “Helene, which flowers was Dennis Morrison stealing to take home to his bride?”

  “Who cares?” She drew a long breath. “The lilies.”

  He nodded, and took her arm. “That’s what I needed to know. Come on. We’ll follow Jake.”

  “Follow him where?”

  “I know where he’s going,” Malone said, “and why.” He almost shoved her into the taxi. “Because even a drunk don’t take lilies to a live girl.”

  32. A Beautiful Case of Self-Defense

  “There he is!” Malone said. He started to hurry down the ramp toward the ferryboat. Helene caught his arm.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t let him see us.” She hesitated a moment. “Malone, he’s doing something that—for some reason—he wants to do by himself. He doesn’t want us to romp up and announce we’re going along. We’ve got to let him do it his own way. But we’ve got to be there, in case—well, just in case.”

  Malone grumbled that Helene was obviously crazy, that it was two-thirty in the morning, and that he should have stayed in the hotel to do his packing. Jake was a full-grown man who could take care of himself, Helene ought to have sense enough to be home in bed at this hour, instead of riding around in ferryboats, wearing a negligee, and as far as Dennis Morrison, his missing bride, and the murder of Gloria Garden were concerned—the hell with it. He ducked behind a pillar, pulling Helene with him, when Jake turned to look over his shoulder. Then he said, “Come on. He’s out of sight. And we’ve got to catch the same boat.”

  “Malone, you’re a very wonderful man,” Helene said. She scampered down the ramp beside him.

  Jake was up at the very prow of the boat, as though he couldn’t wait for it to land. Helene and Malone paused halfway along the deck. The ferryboat gave a sudden quiver and started moving. “Maybe we should have called up the cops,” Malone said.

  “Not necessary,” Helene said. “Don’t look now, but Birnbaum, O’Brien, and Schultz got on just behind us. They’re trying to keep out of sight.”

  What had been a thin drizzle of rain, in mid-Manhattan, was a thick, smoky fog, here in the bay. The ferry moved slowly, the melancholy warnings of foghorns sounding from every direction. The few lights that showed were dim, misted blurs. “This is my first ride on a boat,” Malone complained, “and I can’t see a damned thing. Not even the end of my cigar.”

  The fog was cold and wet on his face. He wished the ferry would be a little steadier. “Malone, do you know where we’re going?”

  “Yes,” Malone said, “but I don’t know the address. That’s why we’ve got to follow Jake.” He decided to throw the cigar overboard.

  “Malone, do you know where Bertha is?”

  “Yes,” Malone said tersely. “And don’t bother me.” He wondered if he could swim ashore, if he jumped overboard right here and now. He tightened his grip on the rail.

  “That dinner jacket,” she said. Malone decided to jump overboard and take a chance on drowning. “I wanted to wait until I could tell you and Jake at the same time,” she said, “but—” The little lawyer said, “Shuddup!” “—since I did find out—” He began to hope that he would drown.

  “Malone!” She gasped. “Look, this is just a little ferry-boat, just going over to Staten Island. Millions of people ride on it every day. You couldn’t possibly be seasick on a ferryboat.”

  Malone said, “I’m unique,” and was. Fifteen awful minutes later he stumbled up the ramp, shamelessly leaning on her arm. “Thank heaven,” he said. “Dry land.” He paused for a minute until the dry land stopped spinning around. “Helene, isn’t there some way of getting back to New York besides riding on that boat?”

  “None,” she said mercilessly. “And come on. Jake’s headed toward something that looks like a streetcar.”

  Malone groaned, and followed her. “I’ll have to spend the rest of my life on Staten Island,” he said, “and I don’t like it here.”

  There was a little three-car train waiting outside the ferry station. Jake got into the first car. Helene led Malone into the second. Malone hoped that Birnbaum, O’Brien, and Schultz were in the third.

  He was beginning to feel better now, but he resolved not to tell Helene. He wondered what Staten Island looked like. All he could see was a gray-white wall of fog presence of things that could be imagined but not seen, horrors that couldn’t be described in polite company. Malone shivered. Was that a banshee yodeling, or was it the wheels of the car as it went around a curve?

  The cut over his eye began to itch. His stomach felt like a football that had gone through an Army-Navy game. He ached in every limb. And he was going to feel worse before the night was over. He knew it.

  The little train stopped at a dozen stations. At every stop he bounded up to the door with Helene and looked out on the platform for Jake. Then finally, there was a station where Jake got off. The fog was lighter here, but not much. Vague shapes loomed up through it that might have been houses, or trees, or prehistoric monsters. Helene held up the skirt of her negligee, and they waded through a patch of tall, wet weeds to what seemed to be a sidewalk. At least, Malone hoped they were weeds. A frog croaked suddenly, somewhere near his feet, and a cold sweat broke out all over his body. “Don’t let him get out of sight,” Helene whispered.

  Jake was moving slowly, pausing now and then, as though to make sure he knew his way. They followed at a discreet distance. Malone prayed silently that Birnbaum, O’Brien, and Schultz weren’t too far behind. He glanced once, over his shoulder; they were nowhere in sight. He muffled a groan. He was unhappy. He knew what they were going to find when Jake led them to their destination, and he suspected what was going to happen. It wasn’t just a premonition, either. And he didn’t like the prospect. He wished it weren’t going to turn out that way.

  A tiny street light flickered feebly and ineffectually in the fog. Beyond it, they passed four shadowy shapes of houses. The first three were unlighted. It might have been that their occupants were asleep, but Malone didn’t think so. They had an empty look. A pale-yellow light showed dimly in the window of the fourth house. Then, beyond it—

  Helene clutched Malone’s arm. Jake was standing at the edge of what seemed to be a little open field, a tall, motionless, and silent figure. In the center of the field was another figure, on h
ands and knees. Helene and Malone crept up a bit closer.

  Suddenly the door of the house opened, making a long, narrow panel of light. Old Dr. Puckett appeared in the doorway. He had a lantern in one hand, and an old-fashioned revolver in the other.

  Malone had done his best to be quiet, but the fog had been too much for him. He sneezed, and loudly.

  Jake wheeled around and stared at them. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I might ask—” Malone began indignantly.

  Helene gave a little gasp, pointed and said, “What’s he doing here?”

  Malone looked at Dennis Morrison. He closed his eyes, quickly, but the image remained before them. A dead-white, desperate face, blotched with mud, and streaked with sweat, with damp, disheveled hair hanging over the forehead, and with burning eyes that stared out, wide with horror and a kind of madness. His hands were caked with mud, they were bruised and bleeding. A small trowel lay abandoned a little way behind him, for the last few feet he’d been digging, wildly, frantically, with his hands.

  “Why, he’s looking for Bertha Morrison’s head,” old Dr. Puckett said mildly, coming down the steps and into the garden. “Only he won’t find it here. It’s buried over there in the corner, by the crab-apple tree.” He added in a tone of gentle reproof, “No sense in tearing up all those beets I just put in.” Then he said, “You should have brought a shovel, son.”

  “I couldn’t find one,” Dennis Morrison said. He rose to his knees, with a sudden scream of terror. Then he was silent. The silence was more frightening than the scream had been.

  Jake said, “Wait! Dr. Puckett—”

  Dr. Puckett didn’t seem to hear. He took a few more steps into the garden. Helene screamed, Jake reached for her and held her tight. “You shouldn’t have killed Hazel,” Dr. Puckett said. His voice was quiet, too quiet. “Bertha was a bad woman, maybe she deserved to be killed, but Hazel’d done a lot for you. You shouldn’t have killed her.”

  “I didn’t want to kill her,” Dennis screamed. “I didn’t want to kill Bertha either. But I had to!” He tried to get up, and stumbled to his knees again.