Eight Faces at Three

by Craig Rice

  Eight Faces at Three

  A John J. Malone Mystery

  Craig Rice

  Cast of Characters

  John J. Malone: Short and little plump, always disheveled, he does not look like a lawyer but he could get a girl “out of trouble if she’d committed a mass murder in an orphanage, with seventeen policemen for witnesses.”

  Jake Justus: He’s been many things but right now he’s the press agent and manager for a band leader.

  Helene Brand: For a Northshore deb, she’s a handful and perfectly capable of holding her own. But what’s her connection to the family of the victim?

  Holly Inglehart: A young redhead, she’s just married a man the victim didn’t approve of. Is that motive enough for murder?

  Glen Inglehart: Her black-haired fraternal twin. He stands to inherit every-thing now but he’s standing by his sister.

  Dick Dayton: He’s the band leader and a pretty successful one. He doesn’t want to believe his bride is guilty.

  O.O. Featherstone: The victim’s attorney. There was time when he might have married her.

  Ambrose Parkins: The butler, he firmly believes in Holly’s innocence. What is it that he knows?

  Nellie Parkins: His wife and the cook. Why is she so scared?

  Maybelle Parkins: She’s a bit of a floozie and is keen on Glen.

  Hyme Mendel: He’s the District Attorney. He doesn’t much like rich people.

  Andy Ahearn: The sheriff, he suspects Jake and Helene are up to no good.

  Jasper Fleck: The chief of police, he knows they’re up to no good.

  Al Hedberg: The coroner. He just cares about bodies.

  Butch: Helene’s chauffeur. From time to time he “gets in jail for something” but he’s a good man to have around.

  Lewis Miller: He’s a dapper little man in a derby hat and a chesterfield overcoat. He’s more important that he looks.

  Dr. Kendall: He’s known to look the other way when Helene gets into trouble.

  Mrs. Fraser: She runs a very nice brothel, has a daughter who is an honor student and likes to knit. Besides every story needs a whore with a heart of gold.

  Aunt Alexandria Inglehart: The victim. Absolutely no one liked her.

  Introduction

  Craig Rice and John J. Malone

  “Murder is not mirthful and there is nothing comic about a corpse,” Craig Rice wrote in a 1946 essay, “Murder Makes Merry,” for Howard Haycraft’s The Art of the Mystery Story. Yet Rice herself was able to make murder mirthful, perhaps because she made it abundantly clear that it was all in good fun. “She never forgot,” said critic J. Randolph Cox, “that the primary purpose of the detective story was entertainment.”

  And entertain readers she did. She got serious once in a while, in the novels written as by Michael Venning or in the stand-alone, Telefair, but for the most part she went for the laugh, especially in a dozen or so novels featuring Chicago criminal lawyer John J. Malone and his sidekicks, Jake and Helene Justus. Starting in 1939 with 8 Faces at 3 and ending with My Kingdom for a Hearse in 1957, published two weeks after her death at the age of 49, Rice’s inebriated trio of sleuths prowled the streets and bars of Chicago, vowing that no blonde—or redhead or brunette—would ever be convicted of murder. Mostly, they hung out in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar where they playfully tweaked the nose of homicide cop Daniel von Flanagan (he added the “von” so as not to be deemed just another Irish cop). Such antics eventually earned her the unheard of sum (for a mystery writer) of $46,000 a year by 1945 and in 1946 Time put her on its cover, the only mystery writer ever to be so honored.

  While her nonseries book, Home Sweet Homicide (1944), in which the three children of a mystery writing single mom attempt to solve a murder and at the same time find their mother a man, won her much praise and a place in the Haycraft-Queen Cornerstone list, it is the Malone books that she is best known for. Yet, when the books first came out readers weren’t all together sure who to call the primary sleuth among our hard-drinking, hard-living trio. In fact, the first paperback edition of 8 Faces at 3 proclaims it a “Jake Justus mystery.”

  However, while Jake and Helene get most of the ink, it’s Malone who actually does the leg work (when he wasn’t eye-balling some blonde’s actual legs) and figures out whodunit. As series progresses, Malone increasingly occupies center stage. But Jake is the one who gets the girl when Helene eventually marries him.

  While Jake and Malone are old pals, Helene enters their life for the first time in 8 Faces 3 when she rushes into the room of the murdered woman’s house like a “small cyclone.” She’s an admitted Northshore deb but she soon proves she can trade wisecracks with the best of them and drink both Malone and Jake under the table. Booze was a big part of their lives, as it was with their creator, and there’s little doubt that it played a major role in Rice’s death at age 49.

  Jake explains that booze helps him think. Malone doesn’t offer any explanations. But there’s no doubt that this permanently disheveled lawyer knows his stuff. When the cops arrest Holly Inglehart for the murder of her aunt, Jake proclaims that there’s no better lawyer in Chicago to represent her than Malone, explaining that he’s “a lawyer who could get her out of trouble if she’d committed a mass murder in an orphanage, with seventeen policemen for witnesses.” Malone preferred his clients be innocent but as long as they paid, he was willing to do everything in his considerable powers to help them beat the rap. It wasn’t that he liked criminals, he just disliked society more. And as soon as he proved his client innocent and showed the cops how someone else did it he would immediately offers his services to the newly accused. The idea of someone going to the chair appalled him.

  Rice’s comic touch was ideally suited to her era. When FDR took office in 1933, he promised the country that happy days were here again. After more than three years of the Great Depression, people were ready for a belly laugh. They wouldn’t have to wait long. In 1934, the era of the screwball comedy was ushered in by one unforgettable movie and an equally memorable mystery novel.

  The movie was Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night. This madcap comedy about a spoiled little runaway rich girl and a hard-bitten reporter was warmly embraced by the movie-going public and earned an unprecedented five major Oscars. The book was Dashiell Hammett’s last novel, The Thin Man. “The generation of the Thirsty Thirties fell on it with huzzahs. It was a book they understood, regardless of being a mystery,” wrote Lee Wright, Craig Rice’s editor at Simon & Schuster. Critic and mystery writer William L. DeAndrea agreed. “It… established what has been called the zany, gin-soaked school of hardboiled mystery, where most of the violent events are played for laughs.” Ironically, Hammett never published another novel, although he did not die until 1961, and most critics dismissed The Thin Man because it was atypical of his other work and was the basis for a series of commercially successful movies as well as a radio series.

  But others followed in his footsteps. While directors such as Capra and Preston Sturges turned the screwball comedy into a movie art form, several mystery writers aped Hammett’s style in print. His first major disciple was Jonathan Latimer, who published five novels, starting in 1935 with Murder in the Madhouse, featuring Bill Crane, a young, handsome, wisecracking private eye who was equally at home swilling gin with lowlifes or sipping martinis in high society. Alcohol was the fuel, according to DeAndrea, that fed the detective muse in Latimer’s books. It was also a key element in many other zany mysteries of the day, including Elizabeth Dean’s 1938 Murder is a Collector’s Item, which features a trio of sleuths with many similarities to Rice’s characters, although Dean pushed her female character—an antiques store clerk—into the central role and relegated her wannabe private-eye boy-friend to escort du
ties. The booze continued to flow in Elliot Paul’s 1939 debut, The Mysterious Mickey Finn, and Pam and Jerry North were at least as fond of their martinis as their cats in Frances and Richard Lockridge’s sophisticated comedy-mysteries beginning with The Norths Meet Murder in 1940. If Doan, the private-eye antihero of Norbert Davis’ 1943 The Mouse in the Mountain (and two other novels), is ever hesitant to take a drink, it’s only because he fears his sidekick, an enormous Great Dane named Carstairs, would rip his throat out if he did.

  Humor, if not booze, also found its way into the traditional cozy mystery of the early to mid-1930s. There had always been elements of humor in books by Ellery Queen, Rex Stout, and John Dickson Carr, but nothing like the out-and-out farce to be found in the works of Charlotte Murray Russell, in which an overbearing “full-figured” spinster sleuth browbeats the local police into letting her lend a hand in solving murders. Humor also was the dominant factor in the homespun mysteries of Phoebe Atwood Taylor featuring Asey Mayo, the “Codfish Sherlock.” Among the wackiest mysteries of the period were the first of 21 books by two Australian-born sisters, Constance & Gwenyth Little, who launched their careers with the 1938 shipboard murder comedy. The Grey Mist Murders. The lighthearted Hildegarde Withers mysteries of Stuart Palmer featured an elderly school teacher and her (sort of) cop boyfriend, characters who were as popular with readers as they were with moviegoers. Several of Rice’s own books were filmed, including Home Sweet Homicide and a couple of the Malones. Pat O’Brien, who resembled the Malone of the books, was one of the actors who portrayed him on the screen.

  Many people think Craig Rice is a pseudonym but it was her legal name She was born in 1908 to Bosco Craig, a would-be painter, and his wife, Mary a would-be sculptress, who named the little girl Georgiana. Bosco was in Europe when his daughter was born and Mary soon joined him, leaving her baby behind with Craig’s mother. Living in the same house were Craig’s half-sister, Nan Rice, and her husband Elton, who, though in their forties, gladly agreed to raise the young girl, not being able to conceive a child themselves. The Craigs retrieved their daughter once for a period of three years before again heading for Europe and handing her off to the Rices. When Georgiana was eleven, Mary Craig attempted to take her back once more, only to have her daughter tell her to “go to hell.” The Rices formally adopted her and she became Georgiana Craig Rice. Eventually she dropped the Georgiana but not the attitude.

  Toward the end of her career, the woman who had ghosted the occasional celebrity mystery (the Gypsy Rose Lee mysteries were not among them as most authorities now believe that Gypsy, a friend of Craig’s, actual wrote her own books) had to rely on ghost writers herself in order to meet a deadline. When Rice wrote her editor, Lee Wright, and asked if she had read her latest manuscript yet, Wright famously responded: “Yes, have you?” She lived her life to excess and died way too young. And if the laughter had left her life at the end, it lives on in her books.

  Tom and Enid Schantz

  Lyons, Colorado

  Chapter 1

  She woke slowly and unhappily. Her mouth was painfully dry, her head felt hot and swollen. There was a strange, faraway feeling in her stomach that threatened to materialize into a nearer, more positive and unpleasant, feeling.

  What time could it be? She felt for the bed lamp, turned it on, blinked sleepily at the little onyx clock on the bed table.

  Three o’clock.

  She rubbed her eyes, sighed, yawned. Surely it must be later than three. She must have been sleeping for more than four or five hours. There had been a dream—

  A dream—vague now, receding rapidly into unconsciousness and forgetfulness, but leaving behind an echo, an unpleasant echo. She struggled to bring the dream back to mind, to remember what it had been. Darkness. Something about darkness. And a rope.

  A rope. Hanging. That was it. She had dreamed that she was being hanged. Only the rope had kept slipping and slipping. It had slid down over her shoulders and tightened over her arms. No, under her arms.

  She stirred uncomfortably. Curious. Her underarms were sore. Could a dream be as real as that? Impossible. But her flesh was sore.

  She stretched, yawned, frowned, lit a cigarette and lay smoking it, staring at the ceiling. There had been more to the dream than the hanging. A dream of darkness, of standing in a cramped, dark place, an airless place, swathed in suffocating cloths. Like a coffin. No, not quite like a coffin. She had been standing up, not lying down. A coffin that was standing on end, perhaps.

  She shuddered violently, shut her eyes. Silly and absurd to be so upset by a dream. It was all over now. She was awake, and the light was on.

  Still, how to account for that sick throbbing in her head, the dryness in her mouth? She had felt perfectly well all day and at bedtime. An early bedtime. She had not had even one drink. The window—

  She looked at the window. It was closed. Queer. She was sure that she had opened it before she went to bed. But it was closed now. Perhaps Nellie had come in and closed it. There was snow heaped against the window-pane, and it was bitterly cold outside.

  She took a long drink of water, put out her cigarette and prepared to go back to sleep again.

  But the clock.

  She stared at it, blinked her eyes. The hands still pointed, crazily, to three o’clock. She picked it up and shook it.

  Strange. The little onyx clock had never failed before. But now it had stopped, and refused to start again. Even if it did start, it would need to be reset. And she didn’t know what time it was.

  Damn.

  She turned out the light, nestled down in her pillow.

  It must be sometime after three. Might be any hour. She stared at the window. Was it getting light? The combination of winter darkness and new-fallen snow was deceptive. And the mornings were so dark anyway. It might be six or seven o’clock. Perhaps there was only another hour to sleep before Nellie brought in her breakfast tray.

  Or perhaps it was only a little after three.

  Then she remembered the other thing.

  It had been a clock ringing that had wakened her. She remembered lying there, struggling between sleep and waking, hearing that persistent ringing, not very near. Probably from Glen’s room. It had kept up for a while, and stopped. By the time she was wide awake it had stopped entirely.

  But that was absurd. Glen had no alarm clock. Parkins always woke him. Even if he had an alarm clock, why would it be ringing in the middle of the night?

  Or was it the middle of the night?

  Imagination! she told herself furiously.

  She turned her face from the window, resolved to forget the clock. She would think about something else. About Dick. The way he had smiled at her from the orchestra stand, as though he were playing for her alone. What a row Aunt Alex would kick up when she knew! Wonder what Dick was doing at this hour. Asleep in his room at the hotel? Or just leaving the orchestra stand after the last dancers had gone home?

  What time could it be?

  If she were to meet Dick in the morning, she must look her best. Meet him, and never, never come back to Aunt Alex’s ugly old house again. In—how many hours now?

  Surely it must be nearly morning—

  What had that ringing been? Had it come from Glen’s room? But why?

  She must let Glen know somehow. Glen was her twin, all the family she had in the world, except Aunt Alex. An unlike twin, Parkins always said. But still, her twin. Perhaps she could get a word to him before breakfast if there was time. Time.

  What time—

  She swore softly to herself, If the clock was going, she probably wouldn’t give two hoots in hell what time it was. Wouldn’t even look at it. Now, when the clock was stopped, she was obsessed by the idea of time. There was no going back to sleep now until she knew what time it was.

  And that ringing!

  It must have come from Glen’s room. But why? What was it? She had to know now.

  Well, it was simple enough to find out.

  She slid out of
bed, shivering in the cold, hunted for her slippers, wrapped her bathrobe around her.

  Senseless thing to do, go chasing around the house in the dark and the cold to find out what time it was. It didn’t really matter. If it was morning, Nellie and her husband would be stirring around in the kitchen. But the house was as quiet as a grave. A grave. She thought again of her dream and shivered.

  It wasn’t only that she didn’t know what time it was. It was that ringing, a ringing like an alarm clock.

  The door of Glen’s room was open. She felt gingerly for the light switch. Lights never woke Glen, he always slept like the dead. She pressed the switch, stood blinking for a moment in the light.

  Glen was gone.

  Glen wasn’t in his room. His bed was empty. His bed hadn’t been slept in.

  Where could Glen be at an hour like this? Aunt Alex would raise the devil if she found out. Glen didn’t have a key to the house. No, unless he had bribed Parkins to give him one, as she had.

  She sat there worrying for a moment, forgetting her errand. At last she shrugged her shoulders, shook her head. It was none of her affair. Let Glen bury his own dead. Strange, though, for Glen to be out at an hour like this. She looked at his clock.

  Three o’clock.

  She didn’t believe it.

  Three o’clock.

  She picked up the sturdy little leather clock, listened to it, shook it.

  The clock had stopped.

  Coincidence!

  Funniest thing she had ever heard of! Both their clocks had stopped, and at the same hour. The same hour and the same minute. Talk about telepathy and such things! She rocked with sudden laughter.

  Her laughter stopped short.

  Where was Glen?

  Glen was gone, his bed had not been slept in.

  And both the clocks had stopped, at three.

  A sudden panic swept over her. There was a shuddering echo of the strange dream, the dream of hanging and the coffin that stood on end.