The Wrong Murder

by Craig Rice

  George Brand nodded. “Don’t worry, I will. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Sanders rose, fastened his overcoat, picked up his hat, started toward the door, stopped, and said, “But who did kill Fleurette?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Malone said crossly. “I’ve been too busy.”

  “Of course. I only thought—” He paused, dropped his hat, and picked it up again. “Somebody did.”

  “Evidently,” Malone agreed. “That’s not for you to worry about. Let the police do the worrying. That’s what you pay taxes for.”

  “Mona—” Sanders said suddenly. His voice stopped as though it had been cut off somewhere deep in his throat.

  “This does coincide with the terms of her bet, doesn’t it?” Malone said easily and unconcernedly. “Assuming of course that she wasn’t joking when she made it.”

  “She wasn’t joking,” Sanders said.

  “Did Mona McClane have any reason for murdering your wife?” Malone asked without looking up.

  “No. Not as far as I know.”

  “Forget the bet,” the little lawyer advised. “If anything unexpected turns up, you’ll hear from me. And don’t worry.”

  At the door Sanders paused again, his hand on the knob. He hesitated a moment, finally said, “Thanks,” very awkwardly and in a low voice, and was gone. George Brand waved reassuringly to Malone and followed him out.

  Malone sat motionless until he heard the corridor door open and shut. Then he bawled loudly, “Maggie!”

  She came in, muttered something about the buzzer being in working order.

  Malone said patiently, “When Fleurette Sanders phoned for an appointment, where did she call from, or do you know?”

  “From a telephone booth. I know because when I told her you weren’t in and I didn’t know where you were, and asked if I could call her back when I did hear from you, she said that she was calling from a phone booth and I couldn’t call back.”

  “Wonderful,” Malone said.

  The girl strolled over to the desk, picked up the newspaper, glanced quickly through the account of the murder of Fleurette Sanders without a sign of surprise, put the paper down, and commented, “Mr. Sanders didn’t act like a man who had just shot his wife.”

  “He hadn’t,” Malone told her.

  She shrugged her shoulders, said, “You don’t have to practice your act on me,” and went out, slamming the door.

  Malone looked at his watch, rose, and turned on the little radio that stood on the bookcase. “There’s a news broadcast in a few minutes. It may have some later dope.”

  He fiddled with the dial until sweet Hawaiian music came from the loud-speaker, then returned to his desk and sat staring moodily at the half-empty bottle of rye.

  “I seem to be back in this mess whether I like it or not.”

  “You didn’t have to take Sanders as a client,” Jake said indignantly.

  “Hell,” the lawyer said, “he’s the only client I could get.” He frowned angrily at the bottle.

  Jake said, “Sanders’ story sounded fishy as hell to me.”

  Malone nodded. “Me too. That’s why I believe it. No man as smart as Willis Sanders would deliberately make up that story.”

  “Very pretty reasoning,” Helene commented, “but it won’t count for much in court.”

  Malone started to answer, halted, and turned his attention to the radio. The Hawaiian music had ended, and an anonymous voice had begun to speak, faintly and indistinguishably. Malone bounded across the room, turned a knob, and the voice suddenly became loud and full.

  “… slaying at the corner of State and Madison Streets this afternoon …”

  “That’s it,” Malone said quickly.

  “Officer Garrity, who drove the police ambulance, stated that when the ambulance arrived at the morgue, and he and officer Lally went to remove the body from the ambulance—” the voice paused and for a moment appeared to be having trouble “—the body appeared to be in a completely unclad condition.”

  “What the hell?” Jake asked of the anonymous voice.

  “Police Officer Garrity stated that he was completely mystified. He said, quote, I’ve been on the force for twenty years and I’ve never known such a thing to happen before. I don’t believe it. Unquote. Witnesses and the traffic officer who saw the body placed in the police ambulance stated clearly that the body was, at that time, completely dressed. Both officers Garrity and Lally are positive in their statements that the ambulance made no stops at all between the corner of State and Madison Streets and the morgue. Neither of them is able to offer any explanation for the condition of the body on its arrival at the morgue…. La Porte, Indiana. School-board authorities here stated today that the student strike was under—”

  Malone bounded up and shut off the anonymous voice.

  Helene started to ask a question. The little lawyer waved at her to be quiet, picked up the telephone and began calling various numbers, until at last he found the policeman who had driven the ambulance. The policeman, it seemed, was an old friend. Malone carried on a long conversation with him, alternating brief questions with, “You don’t say so!” and, “Well I’ll be damned!” Then he hung up.

  “Garrity says,” the little lawyer said in a curiously weak voice, as though he didn’t believe it himself, “he says that the body of Fleurette Sanders was put into the ambulance at State and Madison Streets fully dressed, and that he and his pal drove direct to the morgue, without a stop. When they got there and went to remove the body, they found it in what the radio announcer referred to so delicately as an unclad condition. Garrity’s own phrase was, ‘It was as naked as a worm.’”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jake stamped out his cigarette and said, “Would you mind telling me just why the clothes were taken off Fleurette Sanders’ body between State and Madison Streets and the morgue?”

  “I’ll go you one better,” Malone said. “Will somebody please tell me how they were taken off?”

  Helene said, “Send that one to ‘Information, Please!’ and it’ll get you an encyclopedia. Just what Jake and I need for those long winter evenings.”

  “Someone’s insane,” Jake said, “and I hope it’s the police department, but I’m not sure.”

  Malone shook his head. “Things that look as mad as this seldom are. When someone appears to be completely insane, that’s the time to look for a very logical, fixed, and usually diabolical purpose.”

  “Forgetting the strip tease, for the moment,” Jake said, “who murdered Fleurette Sanders?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Malone said. “I wasn’t even there.”

  “Mona McClane?” Helene asked, “or am I getting a fixation neurosis?”

  “Either Mona McClane,” the lawyer answered, “or someone trying to look like Mona McClane.” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned perilously far back in his chair. “Someone wanted to murder Fleurette. That person heard Mona McClane make that damned bet. Then the murder of Joshua Gumbril showed the way. If Fleurette met her death in the same manner and at the same place, Mona would get the credit for both corpses. Not a bad idea, either.”

  He paused and counted on his fingers. “Besides ourselves, Willis, Sanders, Daphne, Ellen Ogletree, Wells Ogletree, and Mrs. Ogletree listened in on that bet. And of course there was Mona McClane—” He paused and scowled.

  “Why the hell would Mona McClane want to murder Fleurette?” Helene asked.

  “Why would she want to murder Joshua Gumbril?” the lawyer asked in return. “There simply isn’t any motive. No matter where you turn, there’s no trace of a motive.” He groaned, leaned his forehead on his hands, and said, “It’s like barking your shins against a stone wall.”

  “You mean it’s like barking up the wrong shin,” Helene said acidly.

  Malone ignored her. He rose, walked to the window, and looked out across the snow-covered roofs.

  “I still believe,” he said at last, addressing himself solely to t
he roofs, “that this is a case of motive and not of method. Why did Mona McClane want to murder Fleurette Sanders?” Apparently the roofs refused to answer. He went on, “When that bet was made, it was Fleurette Sanders who said, ‘By all means, Mona, pick someone who won’t be mourned.’ She laughed as she said it. Mona McClane said ‘I can think of any number of people who wouldn’t be mourned in the least.’ And she didn’t laugh. The motive for the murder of Fleurette Sanders might lead to the motive for the murder of Joshua Gumbril. It’s far easier to imagine Mona McClane having a motive for murdering Fleurette. At least we know they’d met each other.” He drew a long, almost sighing breath and turned away from the window. “It’s easier to imagine that such a motive exists. It may not be easier to find it.”

  He returned to the desk, sat down heavily in his chair, uncapped the bottle and drank from it, shoved it across the desk, and said, “Help yourselves.”

  Helene carefully filled the two glasses to exactly the same point, handed one to Jake, emptied the other, and said, “The link between Mona McClane and Joshua Gumbril is Max Hook. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Malone said to Jake in a sympathetic tone, “It’s a shame, having your wife lose her mind. And on your honeymoon, too.”

  “I have not lost my mind,” Helene said firmly. “And if this is a honeymoon, Elinor Glyn has been badly misquoted.”

  Jake nodded grimly and said, “There’s plenty of connection between Max Hook and Joshua Gumbril.”

  “There is,” Malone said, “but—”

  “Mona McClane owns the Casino,” Helene reminded him. “Who used to own the Casino?”

  Malone thought for a moment, and said, “Max Hook,” in a very low voice.

  Helene turned to Jake. “It’s too bad,” she observed, “having your best friend lose his memory—”

  “Damn it,” Malone said. “How do we know how many hands the Casino may have passed through before Mona McClane got it?”

  “We don’t,” Helene said calmly. “But it’s the first hint of any connection between Mona McClane and the murdered man.”

  There was a discreet knock at the door before Malone could answer, and the black-haired secretary came in, carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper.

  “For you, Mr. Justus. A Mr. Partridge brought it. He said a messenger boy brought it to your hotel, and he thought it might be important.”

  “Who from?”

  “He didn’t know. He just left it for you and went away.” She laid the package on the desk and was gone.

  Jake reached for the package, turned it over several times, and shook it.

  “It doesn’t tick, by any chance?” Malone asked interestedly.

  “No,” Jake growled. “If it did, I’d let you open it.” He reached for his pocketknife, cut the string, threw it at the wastebasket, and began unwrapping layers of brown paper.

  “Maybe it’s liquor,” Helene said hopefully.

  Jake ignored her, let the wrapping paper slip to the floor, and looked curiously at a gaily colored gift box from a Loop department store.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t open it before Christmas,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t, but you will,” Helene predicted.

  He sighed, lifted the cover of the box, dropped it on the floor, and said, “What the hell?”

  “What is it, Jake?”

  By way of answer he took from the box what was probably one of the most perfect platinum fox muffs in the civilized world. Helene gasped.

  “Why would anybody send me a muff?” Jake demanded. “Do I look like a piano player?”

  Helene was staring at the muff, her eyes blazing. “Jake! That muff! It’s Mona McClane’s!”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m positive. It’s the only one in Chicago.” She caught her breath and added, “It’s famous. There are only two or three others anywhere in the world.”

  Malone growled, “Let me see it,” examined the muff, felt of it, said, “There’s something inside it,” lifted it up by one end and shook it gently. Something small and heavy and metallic fell to the desk top with a startlingly loud sound. It was a flat, compact, black, and ugly gun.

  “That tells exactly how it was done,” Malone said. His voice was curiously hoarse. He picked up the gleaming blob of fur and turned it over and over in his hands.

  “The sound of the shot,” Helene began. She stopped, seeing the lawyer’s rapt face.

  He didn’t seem to have heard her. “The simplest thing in the world. Just walk down the street carrying a muff. The gun is in one hand, inside the muff.” He picked up the gun in his right hand, slipped it inside the fur, and held the muff with both hands. It looked strange and incongruous against his wrinkled blue suit. “Then get right up behind your victim in the crowd, and shove one end of the muff against him, like this—” He suddenly held the open end of the muff against Jake, who jumped.

  “Then simply fire, with the gun still in the muff,” the lawyer mused.

  “Damn it,” Jake said indignantly. “Stop using me for a model. It makes me nervous.”

  Malone sat down at his desk and continued in the same meditative vein. “Any sound of the shot—and especially surrounded as it was by the terrific racket of State and Madison Street traffic at that hour of the day—would unquestionably be most effectively muffled.”

  “Use a muff to muffle with,” Helene commented. “It sounds like an advertising slogan.”

  “It’s a swell muff,” the lawyer said admiringly. He leaned back in his chair, his hands still tucked into the fur. “Yes, it’s a lovely muff. I wonder if Jake is legally entitled to keep it.”

  “Whether I am or not, I wish you’d put it down,” Jake complained. “It’s damned unbecoming to you.”

  “It feels so nice and soft and warm,” Malone said wistfully. He laid the muff back on his desk with an air of regret and sat stroking the fur with his short-fingered hands. “So that was how it was done,” he said again, almost to himself. “A gun in the muff is worth two in the hand.”

  Helene sat down on a corner of the desk and lit a cigarette. “Evidently Mona didn’t credit Jake with enough intelligence to figure that out for himself.”

  “Sending this to me is something in the nature of a challenge,” Jake said. He grinned and added, “Mona McClane has definitely thrown down the muff.”

  “Maybe if you just sit around and wait long enough,” Helene said coldly, “she’ll send you the motive, too.”

  “Possibly,” Jake said. “But I’d rather not wait. Malone, I want to know if the bullet that killed Fleurette came from the same gun that killed Joshua Gumbril.”

  By way of answer, the little lawyer picked up the telephone and put a call through to Daniel Von Flanagan of the Homicide Squad. The ensuing conversation was, in turn, amiable, cajoling, demanding, vituperative, and profane. It ended with Von Flanagan giving the requested information but not until Malone had asked him, in the most innocent of tones, whether he’d ever told his wife about the twelve hundred dollars he’d won on that horse at Arlington Park.

  Malone put down the telephone. “It has already been established that the bullet that killed Joshua Gumbril and the bullet that killed Fleurette Sanders came from the same gun.”

  “What does that mean?” Helene asked.

  “It means that the two bullets came from the same gun,” Malone said crossly. “Don’t bother me.” He went back to his post at the window. “I had thought I was decently out of this. Now I seem to be in it up to my neck. If I have Sanders as a client, I’ll probably have to find out who killed his wife.”

  He scowled heavily and said, apparently to the window, “We ought to get that box from the ledge outside Gumbril’s room.”

  “If you can think of a better way than burning down the Fairfax Hotel,” Helene began. “Jake, what is it?”

  “Gun,” Jake said. His eyes were blank. He didn’t seem to be addressing anybody.

  “Yes, dear,” Hele
ne said soothingly. “Gun. It shoots. Goes bang-bang. Just keep quiet for a minute and you’ll feel better.”

  He waved at her as though she were a particularly noisy mosquito. “Wait a minute. That particular gun.” He rubbed the palm of his hand over his forehead. “It’s something terribly important, but I’ve forgotten it.”

  Helene and the little lawyer stared at him anxiously.

  “Were you drunk or sober when you thought of it?” Helene began.

  “Drunk,” Jake said, as though he were speaking in a trance. “But I didn’t think of it. I found it. Found—it. Wait a minute, don’t tell me—” A yellowish light began to flicker in his eyes.

  Helene filled the water glass about one third full of rye and handed it to him. He took it from her, emptied it almost automatically, and went on staring into space. “Gun,” he said again. His eyes suddenly seemed to be the color of the paper that is wrapped around absorbent cotton.

  Malone had begun counting under his breath.

  Suddenly Jake reached in his pocket, drew out the twin to the gun on Malone’s desk, and tossed it down before the little lawyer. “I found that in Mona McClane’s library table drawer last night,” he said calmly.

  Helene stared at the two guns. “They’re Ike and Mike,” she said feebly.

  “A pair,” Malone agreed.

  Jake told briefly of finding the gun and putting Little Georgie’s in its place. He remembered and added the conversation he had heard between Willis and Fleurette Sanders, in which there had been talk of blackmail.

  “So that’s what you were doing all the time you were missing from the living room,” Helene exclaimed.

  “What did you think I was doing?”

  “If I told you,” she said, “Malone would save it for divorce evidence.” She turned to the lawyer. “What do you think now about the guns?”

  “I think Mona McClane owned them,” Malone said. He picked up a piece of ribbon that had been tied around the Christmas box, tied it with a decorative bow around the gun Jake had taken from his pocket, murmured, “For identification purposes only,” and dropped that gun in his desk drawer.