by Craig Rice
Malone snapped, “I tell you I don’t know where I got it from and I don’t. It came in a pretty bright red box with Merry Christmas printed all over it, and that’s all I know.”
Von Flanagan opened his mouth and closed it again without uttering a sound.
“I’m not trying to hold out on you, you dumb cop,” Malone went on. “I didn’t bring that gun over here to do you a favor. I brought it over here because I wanted to find out if it was used in those two killings and I knew you could find out for me. After all, by God, the Homicide Bureau ought to be good for something.”
“All right,” Von Flanagan said wearily, “all right, all right. I’ll find out about your damned gun.” He went to the door and yelled something unintelligible down the corridor, came back to his desk, and muttered, “It’d serve you right if I refused to tell you a thing about what I find out.”
Malone said, “For two cents I’d take my pretty gun and go home.”
“For two cents,” Von Flanagan said, “I’d tell you to stick—” He interrupted himself hastily, just as the door opened and the red-faced policeman came in. His eyes went quickly around the room, noted Jake’s presence, and looked hopefully at Von Flanagan.
Von Flanagan jerked his head toward Malone and said calmly, “Charge this man with carrying concealed weapons and throw him in the can. He came here with a pistol in his pocket.”
Helene gasped. Jake said, “Why you—” and shut his mouth quickly. The little lawyer sat down on a corner of Von Flanagan’s desk, took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it slowly and deliberately and lighted it, before he spoke.
“Von Flanagan,” he said casually, and in the friendliest of tones, “will you ever forget that time you and Joe Flynn and that guy from Milwaukee went out to the Wheaton roadhouse with the babes from the Star and Garter, and how the guy from Milwaukee—”
That was as far as his idle reminiscences went before the police officer hastily interrupted him. “Beat it, Kluchetsky,” he snapped.
The red-faced cop looked a little puzzled. “Don’t you want—”
Von Flanagan shook his head vehemently. “It was just a joke. Forget it. He didn’t have any gun.”
Kluchetsky blinked, scratched his right ear, finally said, “O. K.,” and went way. As he shut the door, Von Flanagan mopped his brow.
“You oughta know better than to start something like that,” he said reproachfully. “You could get me in a lot of trouble. That guy goes out with my wife’s kid sister.” He mopped his brow again. “I just went along that time as a favor to Joe Flynn, but you could get me into a lot of trouble just same.”
“I’ve forgotten the whole thing,” Malone promised smoothly. He knocked the ashes from his cigar and buttoned his overcoat before he asked, “How soon do you think you can get a report on that gun?”
“Is there a rush?” Von Flanagan asked.
“There is,” Malone assured him.
Von Flanagan looked at his watch and said, “I’ll have it some time this evening.
Malone nodded. “Phone me at my office. I’ll be there until I hear from you.” He opened the door, paused to say, “Make it as quick as you can.” He motioned to Jake and Helene who followed him into the hall.
“I’ll phone the minute I get a report,” Von Flanagan said. “And—” he paused, “and thanks, damn you, Malone.”
Chapter Thirty-One
They were barely out of the building before Jake turned furiously on the little lawyer. “What’s the idea? Von Flanagan may succeed in tracing the ownership of that gun.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Malone said.
“But if he does, and if the gun belongs to Mona McClane—”
“Then he’ll find out that it belongs to Mona McClane,” Malone said calmly. “What the hell of it?”
“Suppose the ballistics tests show it’s the gun that was used in shooting Joshua Gumbril and Fleurette Sanders.”
“Suppose it does,” the lawyer said complacently.
“Damn you, Malone. If I’m going to win that bet—”
Malone said crossly, “I know what I’m doing.”
Jake muttered something indignant under his breath.
“Besides,” Malone pointed out, “even if Von Flanagan does all that—and I imagine he will—he won’t know anything about the motive for the murders. No more than we do. And as I’ve pointed out before, this is a crime of motive, not method.”
“Very pretty,” Jake growled, “but he’ll think he has enough to make a pinch. Probably he’ll have it before midnight. Unless I can uncover that motive in the meantime, I’m out of the ownership of a very nice night club.”
Helene started the big car moving down the street. “Speaking of night clubs, I want to call on the ex-owner of one. Do you boys care to go along?”
“Max Hook?” Malone asked.
“Right. I’d like to ask him just what is in that little box of Gumbril’s. He must know, or he wouldn’t have been so all-fired anxious to get it.”
The two men were eloquently silent for half a block. “Well damn it,” Jake said finally, “I can’t think of everything. Where does this Hook hang himself, Malone?”
Malone named an address on Lake Shore Drive.
“Not that building!” Helene said with a little gasp.
“Why not?” Malone snapped. “He owns it.”
Five minutes later Helene parked the car before the Lake Shore Drive building whose address appeared on the society pages at least four times a week. They walked through the lobby and got in the elevator.
“Twenty-three,” Malone said.
The elevator boy hesitated a moment, coughed delicately. “What floor, sir?”
“Twenty-three,” Malone said grimly, “and no stops.”
The elevator shot upward. Helene noticed the back of the boy’s neck was pale. On the twenty-third floor Malone tapped lightly on a door, called out, “It’s John J. Malone and friends.” The door opened and they stepped into what was probably the most ornately decorated apartment in the city of Chicago.
The living room was immense, rose-carpeted, filled with delicately carved, satin-upholstered furniture, with innumerable little decorative lamps, pink-shaded, and with what seemed to be hundreds upon hundreds of small silk pillows. At the windows feminine printed draperies were held back by enormous satin ribbon bows. Everywhere there were painted china boxes, cut crystal ash trays, tiny vases and statuettes, and enameled clocks. Against one wall stood a huge roll-top desk, of some brown-painted wood, badly nicked and scarred. Behind it sat Max Hook himself.
He was a mountain of a man, easily six feet tall, and such a mass of fat, quivering flesh, that he seemed, at first glance, to be completely boneless. His head, entirely bald, was egg-shaped; it was impossible to tell where it ended and his shoulders began; the whole ran together in one jellylike glob of pink flesh. From that point he spread out in a great expanse of fat shoulders and chest. Round arms ended in plump, rosy hands with fingers like little sausages.
His face seemed to be composed of a wide grin and a long black cigar.
He remained in his chair as they entered. Jake thought he probably never moved out of it. It was impossible to imagine that huge bulk being moved without the aid of a derrick.
Malone introduced Jake and Helene.
Max Hook smiled amiably. “Sure, that’s all right. I know all about them.” His grin widened. “You like my little place, huh?”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Helene breathed. Her eyes were wide with admiration.
The big man beamed at her. “I always like to have things nice. Always when I see nice things, I like to buy them. Nothing but the best. Take a cigarette.” He waved to one of the china boxes.
The cigarette was, Helene discovered, not only mono-grammed, but perfumed.
Those social amenities over, Max Hook became serious.
“Well, Malone, this is a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”
“I just thought I’d li
ke to find out why La Cerra was so anxious to get hold of Jake the other day, that’s all,” Malone said smoothly.
“I’ll let you ask him,” the gangster said cheerfully. He raised his voice and bellowed, “Georgie!” A moment later Little Georgie la Cerra appeared. Something seemed to have happened to him since the last time they had seen him. Even Helene could tell that he was a changed man.
“The Cherry, he caused your friend some annoyance. I’m sorry about that,” Max Hook said apologetically to Malone. “The Cherry, he’s impulsive. When I tell him he should do something, he feels like he’s got to get it done, regardless. See.”
Malone nodded impassively.
“So when your friend here got picked up in Gumbril’s room that night, naturally it was logical to figure he might have stumbled onto something there, wasn’t it? Am I right?”
The lawyer nodded again. “You are. But if Jake had found any evidence pertaining to the Ogletree snatch, you could have it and welcome.”
Hook stared at him. “He must have found something, if you know that’s what I was interested in.”
“He didn’t. He was looking for something else, and he didn’t find that either. I happened to know it was Georgie who handled the Ogletree snatch, and that it went through Gumbril. That’s all.”
“You are a one,” the gangster said admiringly, shaking his head. “I wish I had you on my pay roll, Malone.” He scowled. “I must admit I disbelieved you when you told the Cherry Mr. Justus didn’t find a thing, until I learned different.”
Malone took off his overcoat very slowly and deliberately, sat down on a. lavender satin sofa with his elbows on his knees, leaned forward, and stared fixedly at his host.
“Max, let’s talk business. I want to get everything straight. If you’ll tell me all I want to know, I’ll get that Ogletree evidence and turn it over to you.”
“It’s a deal,” Hook said quickly. He added a little reproachfully, “You know I’d be straight with you anyway, Malone.”
“Sure,” the lawyer said blandly. “What kind of an arrangement did you have with Gumbril?”
The big gangster laid down his cigar, selected and lit, incredibly, one of the perfumed cigarettes, and leaned perilously far back in his chair. “Well, it’s like this,” he began reminiscently. “Way back in ’27, I had a chance to make some quick dough on a big load of liquor run down from the border, only I didn’t have the cash to swing it. One of my boys put me next to Gumbril, and he put up for me. After that, you might almost say we was in business together, and when repeal come in—”
The story he unfolded was a long one, the story of a little monopoly of crime and gambling, with the miserly, wizened Gumbril as business head, and the big gangster as manager of operations. The tale led slowly up to the Ogletree kidnaping.
“Did Little Georgie handle the snatch on his own?” Malone asked, “or for you, or for Gumbril?”
Max Hook put his head on one side. “Well now, it was really for Gumbril. You might say I lent the Cherry to Gumbril.”
“How much did you get?” The question was like the snap of a whip.
“Not a damn—” Max Hook caught himself. “What the hell business of yours is it?”
Malone whistled. “You mean you didn’t get a cut of the fifty grand?”
There was actually a faint blush on the big man’s cheek. “I told you I lent the Cherry. It was a personal favor to Gumbril. I owed him a favor or two, y’understand. Gumbril, he give the Cherry a grand, which was big pay for him, considering all the Cherry done was pick up the girl and deliver her.”
“Did Gumbril make him sign a receipt for the dough?”
“You know damned well he did,” Little Georgie said suddenly. “He never gave anybody a dime without a receipt. Said it was his way of protecting himself. What the hell do you think I wanted out of that room, anyway?”
Max Hook suddenly said, “Where is it now? That’s what I want to know. If you didn’t get it, and the Sanders dame didn’t have it, where is it?”
Malone waited a good thirty seconds before he asked, very casually, “What made you think she might have had it?”
“I knew you wanted something Gumbril must have had,” the gangster said, “or Mr. Justus here wouldn’t have cased his room. So I figured Flossie Sanders must have found it and was going to make a deal with you. If she had that, she probably had the other stuff too. I knew she must be going to make a deal with you as soon as the Ogletree dame tipped me off she had made a date with you—”
“Wait a minute,” Malone said very quietly. “You mean Ellen?”
Hook stared at him. “Hell no. Mrs. Ogletree. The old lady.”
“Damn it,” Jake burst out suddenly, “I’ve had about all I can stand of this. What’s it all about, anyway?”
Little Georgie said soothingly, “Let me fix you a drink, Mr. Justus. Your nerves ain’t so hot.”
“Look here,” Max Hook said, “when I’ve got a good thing, I don’t like to let go of it, see. But I’ll tell you about the Ogletree dame. She’s one of these old ladies who likes to play the wheels, see, only she can’t figure so good. First thing I know, I’m stuck with a bunch of IOU’s big enough to choke a pony, and no way to collect because her old man’s so tight you couldn’t pry a dime outa him with a cold chisel. So Gumbril suggested I make a little deal with her. I forget about the IOU’s and she passes on all the society gossip to me, and to Gumbril. You’d be surprised to know how many good things I got next to that way.”
“I probably would be,” Malone said dryly. “Was this arrangement made before the girl was snatched, or after?”
“Before. Only the old dame didn’t put the finger on her own kid, if that’s what you mean. She didn’t know from nothing about it. Hell, she even came to me about it and I had to get Gumbril to give her his personal assurance the kid would be O. K.”
“Who did put the finger on the girl?” Malone asked.
“Flossie Sanders. She was Gumbril’s sister, you know.” The big gangster lit another cigarette from the glowing end of the last one. “She had plenty of reasons for wanting to get Gumbril’s papers after he was bumped off. He kept all the stuff about the way the first Mrs. Sanders got hers. So I had a hunch she might have got hold of them, and I asked the Ogletree dame to keep an eye on her. Today she found out Flossie was going to see you, and she gave me a ring right away and tipped me off.”
“So you had one of the boys pick her up at the entrance to Field’s, and when he couldn’t figure any other way to keep her from coming to me, he shot her,” Malone said lightly.
“Honest to God, Malone,” Little Georgie la Cerra put in unexpectedly, “you got me all wrong. We was going down State Street trying to keep her in sight in all that mob, trying to catch up with her and have a little quiet word with her.”
“I know your little quiet words,” Malone said, “but go on.”
“Almost to Madison Street, we all of a sudden lose her in the crowd, see. We’re trying to shove through when hell breaks loose up ahead. I push up in the crowd and I see the dame has been shot. But I didn’t shoot her.”
“Strange as it seems,” Malone said, “I believe you. But I’d give a lot to know how the hell her clothes got taken off on the way to the morgue.”
“You would, eh,” Max Hook said suddenly. He burst into a laugh that threatened to split the pale pink walls of his apartment, opened a drawer of his desk, pulled out a heap of assorted feminine garments, and tossed them at Malone. “Well, there they are.”
Malone looked at the collection, picked up a tiny, lacy affair, dropped it as though it had bitten him, and said, “How did these get there?”
“Go on, Georgie,” Max Hook said amiably, “tell the gentleman.”
Little Georgie la Cerra drew a long breath. “Well, it’s like this. Mr. Malone, when the boss tells me he wants a thing done, he means he wants it done. He tells me he wants this Sanders dame searched for Gumbril’s papers, so I know he wants her searched. So all o
f a sudden there she is shot, right smack on the corner of State and Madison Streets, and fifty thousand people milling around. What am I going to do?”
“Do I get three guesses?” Malone said pleasantly, “or do you tell me?”
“I’m telling you,” said the gunman. “We got the car parked in a lot a few blocks off, see. Before the dead wagon pulls up, me and Louie ducks up and gets the car and drives back to the corner. By that time they got the dame inside, with two cops sitting up in the front seat, so we drive along and tails the dead wagon, trying to think what to do next. I know the Hook wants them papers, see?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Malone said. “But for the love of God—”
“She being dead already, there ain’t nobody in back with her,” Little Georgie said. “And those doors are easy to open. So when the dead wagon gets stalled in traffic, I hops out of the car, opens the doors, and hops in. It was as easy as that.”
“The way you tell it,” Malone said, “I think I’ve been wasting my time trying to make a living the hard way.”
“Let him finish,” Jake said hoarsely.
“Then I searched her. Nothing in the bag. Nothing in the pockets. I take her dress off. Nothing sewed inside it. I take the stockings off. Nothing in the stockings. By that time I know she ain’t got no papers of no kind. What am I going to do?”
No one had any suggestions. When the gunman spoke again, his voice was low, curiously embarrassed. “Mr. Malone, I got to prove to the Hook I really searched the dame. How’m I gonna prove it? All of a sudden it come to me in a kind of flash. I’d just take the dame’s clothes back with me. That oughta prove I searched her. So I rolls all the clothing up in a bundle, sticks it under my arm, opens the door, waits till the dead wagon slows down in traffic again, hops out, Louie picks me up in the car, away we go, and there you are.”
“I wish I had been,” Helene said.
The smile on Max Hook’s face was one of great pride in his boys. Jake looked reverent. It was Malone who summed up the situation. He said, “You mean you got in a police ambulance on the way to the morgue, searched and undressed the body, and got clean away?”