The Wrong Murder

by Craig Rice

  “Glad to, but why?”

  “Because Jake and I are going to go out and lose some policemen, and that car of mine isn’t any more conspicuous than a Knights Templar parade. As soon as they give up the chase, we’re going home. If you’ll meet us there early in the evening, we’ll go in a body to Mona’s party.”

  Malone pocketed the key. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  “If you were a gentleman instead of a lawyer,” Helene said firmly, “you wouldn’t ask.” She paused for a moment by the table while a small frown formed in the exact center of her forehead. “I do wish I knew where my old man was. I have a feeling he’s in jail.” The frown vanished. “Oh well, he’ll turn up, and he never gets in jail for anything serious.”

  “Like homicide,” Jake said with a shudder.

  Malone patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Never mind. I’ll defend you.”

  They parted at the door. As Jake and Helene stepped out to the sidewalk, two burly men in serge suits hastily left the bar and stood in the doorway, doing an unsuccessful best to look oblivious and unconcerned.

  Helene hailed a taxi, said, “Marshall Field’s,” gave Jake’s hand a squeeze, and devoted herself to staring out the window at Michigan Avenue shops. In a second taxi half a block behind, the two men debated the advisability of turning in the bar check on the expense record.

  The pulse in his head reminded Jake of an inspired performance by Gene Krupa. He didn’t know just what Helene had in mind, and didn’t dare ask. Whatever it was, it would probably work. He felt a curious combination of alarm and pleasant excitement.

  The taxi dropped them at the Randolph and Wabash entrance to the department store. Jake followed Helene through the crowded doorway as the second taxi drew up to the curb. She led the way to a stairway leading to the basement and paused one moment at the top.

  “Follow me, and hope for the best.”

  Then she dived down the stairway like a rabbit.

  Thirty minutes later Jake climbed into a taxi on Madison Street with a vague feeling that he’d been through a war, an earthquake, a riot, or a department-store basement at Christmas time. With lightning rapidity Helene had led him up and down aisles, around corners, from hats to lingerie to powder boxes to gift wrappings.

  When they emerged the two plain-clothes men had disappeared. Jake had an idea they had been trampled to pieces at ladies’ blouses and would be nonchalantly swept out the next morning in a welter of Christmas wrappings.

  As soon as he had caught his breath he said, “Of course all they have to do to pick us up again is wait in the hotel lobby until we show up.”

  “That’s all right. I just wanted to prove something. Now let’s go home.”

  “Mona McClane—” Jake began, without much conviction in his voice.

  “Later,” Helene said firmly.

  There was no sign of the police in the hotel lobby or in the hall upstairs. Helene closed the apartment door and let her furs slide into a heap on the floor.

  “Malone will be here in a few hours to go to Mona’s party with us. But not for a few hours—” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Jake slid his hands down her shoulders. Funny how satin could feel like skin, even have the same magnetic warmth.

  There was a thundering knock on the door.

  Helene lifted her finger to her lips. “Whoever it is will go quietly away if we don’t make a sound.”

  It became obvious in the next few minutes that this was wishful thinking. The knocking ceased. It was followed, however, by the sound of a large and heavy object exerting considerable pressure on the echoing wood. Helene’s eyes met Jake’s in one long, significant look. Then she shook her head sadly and opened the door.

  There stood George Brand and Willis Sanders, arm in arm and beaming. Jake stared at them blankly for a minute. There was something very strange about them, but he couldn’t quite decide what it was. Helene’s eyes were like a pair of marbles.

  “I always pay my bets,” George Brand said happily, kicking the door shut behind him.

  Then Jake realized what was strange. George Brand’s face was rosily pink, newly and smoothly shaven. The neatly trimmed gray mustache and imperial were resting, incredibly, on Willis Sanders’ lip and chin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I made a bet with Willis,” George Brand said. “I bet him my beard, and he won. So there’s the beard.” He sat down heavily in a large armchair and smiled happily.

  “It’s very beautiful,” Helene said when she recovered her breath, “but how did you do it?”

  “Partridge,” Willis Sanders said, as though that explained everything. He added after a moment, “You can pull it, if you want to, and it won’t come off. It’s there to stay.”

  Helene looked from one to the other. “I’ve always thought you two looked alike, but I never realized how much alike before. It’s baffling.”

  George Brand beamed. “We met a couple of girls last night after we left you. Today we went to take them to lunch, after I’d given Willis my beard, and they were baffled too. They were very baffled.”

  Jake stood staring first at George Brand and then at Willis Sanders. It was a little hard to be sure which was which.

  George Brand announced that Partridge was on his way, bringing food. Helene declared that Malone had to inspect the transferred beard, and telephoned the lawyer, who arrived fifteen minutes later. By that time Jake had stated that he intended to spend all his future honeymoons in the middle of a race track where there would be more peace, quiet and solitude. No one paid any attention to him.

  Dinner made Jake feel a little better. The small, shy Partridge had achieved something of a masterpiece, despite the meager facilities of the kitchenette. Jake looked at Partridge with a new respect, a respect that mounted to admiration whenever his eyes fell on Willis Sanders’ realistic new beard.

  After dinner Willis Sanders went away, beard and all, to take Fleurette to Mona McClane’s party. There was some speculation as to the effect of the new beard on Fleurette, and everyone wished Willis Sanders luck.

  Helene opened one of the suitcases packed for the Bermuda honeymoon, and changed into something long and clinging, the same pale-gold color as her sleek hair.

  “Now,” George Brand said, as though he’d forgotten it before, “I want to know what progress you’ve made with our murder.”

  Helene rapidly brought the developments up to date.

  “You aren’t getting anywhere,” he complained. “I wish you’d move faster. I have a date in Havana at New Year’s.”

  Jake thought of something he might add, but refrained.

  Helene frowned. “If I could only remember—” she paused, staring at Jake. “Something about the Casino and Mona McClane.”

  Before anyone could offer a suggestion, there was a knock at the door. Helene opened it.

  Two men stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind them. One, a heavy-set, ugly man with a thickly freckled face, was a stranger. The other was little Georgie la Cerra, impeccably attired in a midnight-blue suit that was just a shade on the purple side, and a bright tan polo coat. He was holding an extremely businesslike-looking gun in one hand.

  “This time,” said Little Georgie by way of greeting, “there won’t be no funny business.”

  His companion grinned, displaying an incredibly wide expanse of yellow, broken teeth.

  “My friend here,” Little Georgie explained, “is gonna stick around here and see there’s no trouble. Me and Mr. Justus have some place we gotta go.”

  Everyone sat very still.

  “Why can’t Max be businesslike about this?” Malone said very calmly. “Why don’t you tell Jake why Max wants to see him? Maybe he’d be glad to go.”

  “Max’ll tell him why he wants to see him,” the gunman snapped. “He didn’t tell me to talk to no lawyers. He told me to bring Mr. Justus to see him, and I gotta bring him. When Max says he wants a thing done he means he wants it done.”<
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  Jake sat motionless, estimating the distance between himself and the gangster and wondering if he could cover it before La Cerra had a chance to fire. But the man beside La Cerra was keeping his hands ominously in his pockets. That wasn’t encouraging. Still, Jake felt he had to do something. He couldn’t let the gunmen quietly carry him off without offering some kind of resistance, especially before Helene.

  At that moment Partridge unexpectedly appeared from the kitchenette, carrying a large tray of drinks. Apparently he failed to notice the gun in their visitor’s hand.

  “A drink for the gentlemen, Mr. Brand?” he suggested, in his mildest voice.

  George Brand nodded silently.

  La Cerra had slipped his hand in his pocket, gun and all. His eyes narrowed, but there was a smile on his lips. “Sure, I’d be glad to have a drink,” he said, “before Mr. Justus and me leaves.”

  Partridge started across the floor toward him. It may have been that the large tray obscured his vision, or perhaps he didn’t notice the rug that curled up in front of him. At any rate, without warning, he suddenly tripped and fell. The tray, with its collection of brimful glasses shot up into La Cerra’s face, throwing him off balance so that he too landed on the floor. Somehow in the ensuing melee of men, glasses, and tray, Partridge found himself sitting on the hand that held La Cerra’s gun.

  At exactly the instant Partridge had started to fall, Jake had made a lightning dive at the feet of La Cerra’s companion, and they were added to the heap of combatants on the floor. George Brand gave a whoop of joy and joined the fray. Malone saw a gun lying on the floor, grabbed it, and stood holding it. Helene had removed “Whistler’s Mother” from the wall and was brandishing it menacingly over the head of La Cerra’s companion.

  “Now,” Jake said grimly, looking down at the fallen invaders, “now, by God, we are going to have a talk.”

  “I got nothin’ to say,” La Cerra muttered.

  “Partridge,” Jake said, “do you know any ways of making people talk?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Partridge said with what was almost enthusiasm. “I once worked in a household where there was a Japanese butler—” He paused and coughed apologetically.

  La Cerra looked at the small figure of Partridge with a certain uncomfortable respect.

  “Mr. Justus, nobody’s lookin’ for no trouble,” he began plaintively.

  “Shut up,” Jake said, “and answer my questions. Why does Max Hook want to see me?”

  La Cerra faced him with a last shred of defiance and said nothing.

  Partridge coughed again. “There’s a pair of pliers in the kitchen, sir, if—”

  “Get them,” Jake said.

  The gangster turned pale.

  “Well,” Jake said, “I’m listening.”

  “Hook wants to make a deal with you,” the gangster said in a low voice.

  “What kind of a deal?”

  “He wants to buy what you found up in Gumbril’s room.”

  “Oh.” Jake thought for less than a minute. “Listen, you dope. If I’d found anything in Gumbril’s room, don’t you think the police would have taken it last night?”

  La Cerra looked uneasy. “You mean you didn’t find nothin’?”

  “Not one damn thing. Get that straight. You march right back to Hook and tell him all I found in Gumbril’s room was a pair of old red-flannel drawers and Ann Sheridan’s autograph. He’s welcome to both of them, but I want you guys to stop bothering me. I’m a married man now, and it’s liable to be embarrassing—I hope.” He added the last two words in a sigh.

  There was a puzzled frown on La Cerra’s face. “You must have found something.”

  “There was nothing to find. Now beat it.”

  “If it wasn’t there,” La Cerra said stupidly, “where the hell is it?”

  “Where the hell is what?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No!” Jake roared.

  Malone spoke up. “Are you talking about Gumbril’s personal records?” As the gunman nodded, he went on, “Well, tell Hook he can’t be half as anxious to get hold of them as we are.”

  “Is that on the level?”

  “Ask Hook if I ever lied to him,” the lawyer said coldly. “Tell him if he finds those records first, we’ll offer him a deal.”

  La Cerra muttered something about mistakes.

  “Out,” Jake said firmly, “before I make one.”

  Partridge opened the door and showed the visitors out with an elaborate display of politeness.

  “Maybe I’m being rude,” Jake said thoughtfully. “Maybe I should pay Mr. Hook a social call.”

  “Wait till he starts sending engraved invitations,” Malone said. He made an unsuccessful attempt to straighten his tie. “At least you know why he was bothering you.” He mopped his brow with a mussed and dingy handkerchief. “That leaves only Von Flanagan thinking you murdered Joshua Gumbril.”

  Jake said, “Tomorrow I get that box of Gumbril’s if I have to climb up the side of the building.”

  “Meantime,” Helene said, “we’re due at Mona McClane’s.” She looked at the litter on the floor. “Nice work, Partridge. In emergency, break glass.”

  “Too bad all those drinks were wasted, though,” Jake said.

  Partridge looked up, surprised. “Nothing was wasted, sir. It was only water.”

  About thirty seconds later Jake repeated, “Water?” in what he realized was a very feeble voice.

  “What the hell do you mean?” George Brand growled.

  “It was water in the glasses, sir. When I heard the gentlemen come in, there wasn’t time to fill the glasses with anything but water.” He rose to his feet, a tray of broken glassware on his arm. “I do hope I did right, sir.”

  The last look he gave George Brand as he left the room expressed his intense disapproval at being mixed up with such people.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Don’t look now,” Helene said as her big car turned off Rush Street, “but I think that man is here again.” She glanced in her rear-view mirror and said, “At least, we seem to be leading a parade.”

  Jake looked back. A long, black car was less than half a block behind. As he watched it, Helene suddenly turned left, drove for a block, and turned left again. The black car followed discreetly. She stopped. The black car stopped. She started again and drove very slowly, so did the car behind.

  “Maybe it’s done with mirrors,” George Brand suggested.

  Helene turned into a darkened side street, the black car close behind now. For a few blocks she drove with a blissful disregard for speed limits while the other car managed to keep up the pace. Then she stepped on the brakes suddenly, and at the same time, pulled over to the curb with a jerk that set Jake’s teeth rattling in his head.

  The driver of the black car evidently tried to stop some distance behind Helene, but failed. There was a banshee wailing of brakes and the whine of tires sliding on moist pavement, and when the pursuing car did stop, it was directly alongside Helene’s.

  There appeared to be a moment’s hesitation on the part of the driver over the delicate problem of whether to back up or drive on. Helene took advantage of it to open her window wide, and Jake recognized little Georgie la Cerra beside the driver. He leaned across Helene and shouted.

  “Hey you! I think I hear your mamma calling you home!”

  A conference seemed to be going on in the other car. Jake withdrew from the window and slid one hand into the pocket where La Cerra’s gun still remained. Then the door of the other car opened and Little Georgie, both hands tactfully in sight, came over to the window.

  “If you’re looking for a job as a bodyguard,” Jake began nastily.

  “Lookahere,” the gangster said unhappily. “I gotta do what I’m told, don’t I? I don’t want to bother nobody. I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble. But I gotta do like I’m told.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, “and I’m telling you to get back on your horse and ride away.”

/>   “The Hook told me,” little Georgie said, “maybe you was telling the truth about you didn’t find nothin’ in Gumbril’s room. He told me he wasn’t doubting but what you was telling the truth. But just the same he told me I shouldn’t let you outa my sight, just for safety’s sake, and so I ain’t lettin’ you outa my sight. See?”

  Jake glared at him savagely for a minute. “All right. Don’t let me out of your sight. Except that I’m damned if I’m going to let you sleep under my bed.”

  He leaned back in his seat, and Helene started the car with a jerk.

  “I have an idea,” she observed coolly, “that when you start climbing up the side of the Fairfax Hotel to get that box, Little Georgie is going to hold the landing net.”

  She turned the car in the direction of Mona McClane’s.

  “In the meantime,” she said suddenly, “that guy gave me a few bad minutes earlier in the evening. An eye for a tooth, that’s what I always say.” With that she pressed on the gas.

  The next fifteen minutes was something Jake hoped he would be able to forget, and knew would come back to haunt him in his more terrible nightmares. Helene drove the big, powerful car everywhere except up the sides of buildings, and her passengers expected that at any moment. It wasn’t, however, until she began to play in-and-out-the-window with the huge concrete pillars in the underpass below Wacker Drive that Jake decided it was time to be masterful. Tactfully he reminded her that they were overdue at Mona McClane’s.

  With a regretful sigh she slowed down and headed once more in the direction of the Drive.

  As soon as Jake felt that he could turn his head without its falling off his neck, he looked back. The gangster’s car was still following, a little farther behind, but there. Jake decided to take back fifty per cent of everything he had thought about Little Georgie la Cerra. Or at least, his driver.