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Having Wonderful Crime

Page 30

by Craig Rice


  Anna Marie remembered the weeks spent in the death cell and laughed harshly. “That’s no news to me.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said dully. “That isn’t what I meant at all. There’s one lawyer who might have spared you this. He’s not afraid of anything or anybody. They say he’s as crooked as a worm in an apple, but nobody can buy him if he doesn’t want to be bought. At your trial the judge and the jury were fixed, but even with that he might have come up with something. I even thought”—he paused—“it’s a damned shame that”—paused again and finally said, looking up, “I mean John J. Malone.”

  Anna Marie frowned. She sat down on the arm of a chair, swinging her foot. “I’ve heard about him.”

  “He’s a little guy,” Jesse Conway said, “short and stocky, with dark hair and a red face. Always looks mussed up. He’s a souse and a dame chaser and a gambler, but he’s a damn smart lawyer.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “That’s the one.”

  “He hangs out in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar,” Jesse Conway said. “He’s got an office somewhere on Washington Street. The address is in the phone book, in case you ever need him.” He smiled mirthlessly. “As you probably will, if you do what I think you’re going to do.”

  “I’m not going to do any murders,” Anna Marie said. She stood up and tucked her purse under her arm. Then she, too, smiled. “Unless scaring people to death counts as murder.” Her eyes softened suddenly, almost with pity. “What are you being so damn helpful for?”

  The gray-haired man looked past her, his face haggard, his hands clenched together between his knees. “Because,” he said hoarsely. “Because. Today, all day. It was a kind of murder, you know. They were murdering you. And nothing I could do, not one damn thing.” He sucked in his breath sharply. “It was an accident, you know. The confession. It just happened that way. It was a lucky accident.”

  “Sure,” Anna Marie said, “and I’m a lucky stiff.” Suddenly she laughed. “That’s funny, you know. I’m a lucky stiff.” She gave Jesse Conway a quick pat on the shoulder, walked to the door and flung it open. “Well, let’s go, ghost.”

  The air outside was fresh and moist and cool. For a moment Anna Marie stood on the sidewalk, breathing deeply. Free, now. You know, free. Breathe the air, go to a movie, ride on busses, have fun, raise hell. Free, and alive. Just being alive, that wasn’t so bad either. She looked at her watch.

  Fifteen minutes to midnight.

  She turned to the white-faced, shaken man. For a moment she’d felt pity for him. Now her heart hardened again.

  If it hadn’t been for that lucky accident, right at this moment she’d be in her cell, waiting for the footsteps in the corridor. She was alive now, and free, but it wasn’t because of him.

  “This insane scheme of yours,” he mumbled. “Had to consent to it. Got us all on the spot, and you know it.” His hand reached out to grasp the doorpost. “For God’s sake, Anna Marie,” he said, his voice rising desperately, “you’re free, it’s all over, it was all a mistake. If you want money I can get it for you, plenty of it. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you can have a happy life—” his voice trailed off into a gasping whisper. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing illegal,” she said. She looked at her watch. “In twelve minutes they’ll inform the newspapers that I went to the chair with a smile on my lips. Then you’re going to give out to the newspaper boys with that confession.” Just one side of her mouth smiled. “It’ll make a nice story. Girl executed for the murder she didn’t do. Anna Marie St. Clair died at midnight, and then—”

  “Don’t!” Jesse Conway said. “I won’t do it. I won’t, I tell you.”

  “Oh, yes you will,” she said. “You’ve got to. Or you and a lot of your friends are going to be very sorry. Give out with your confession story, Jesse Conway, but not until after the warden releases his statement. Or maybe you’ll have ghosts in your attic, too.”

  She walked out to the edge of the curb and stood waving for a taxi. It seemed to her as though the blood was moving in her veins for the first time in all these weeks. There weren’t going to be any footsteps in the corridor. No march to the electric chair. No wisecrack to spring from her lips at the last minute. The whole thing had been one hell of a bad dream—but she hadn’t dreamed it.

  A cab rolled up to the curb, the driver reached out and opened the door. Anna Marie paused, one foot on the step, then turned back to look at Jesse Conway.

  He looked sick, old. Somehow he managed to cross the sidewalk with slow, shambling steps, managed to hold the door for her, to help her in with what seemed like a travesty of courtliness.

  “Wait. Anna Marie,” he said. It was a tortured whisper.

  She smiled at him through the open cab door. Then she looked at her watch again.

  “In eight minutes now,” she said, “I’ll be dead.”

  She threw herself back against the seat cushions and closed her eyes. A few blocks later she sat upright and called to the driver. Her face was bright, almost gay, and her voice was as clear as a bell.

  “Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar,” she said.

  Buy The Lucky Stiff Now!

  About the Author

  Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1943 by Craig Rice

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-4413-4

  This edition published in 2017 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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