Eight Faces at Three

by Craig Rice

  “Let’s go downstairs,” he said wearily.

  The dark-haired boy was waiting for him in the hall.

  “You’re Dayton’s manager, aren’t you?”

  Jake nodded.

  The boy took a long breath. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to do something. But I don’t know what. What does one do at a time like this? There’s a lawyer who looks after the estate, but I don’t imagine he’s had any experience with murder. I don’t know what to do. But I’ve got to get Holly out of this. Even if she did it, I’ve got to get Holly out of this.”

  Jake looked at him sympathetically. “Want me to help?”

  But what can you do? What can anyone do?”

  “I’ll get her a lawyer,” Jake told him, “a lawyer who could get her out of trouble if she’d committed a mass murder in an orphanage, with seventeen policemen for witnesses.”

  Glen Inglehart looked at him gratefully and mopped his pale forehead. “Things like that happen to other people. You read about them in the paper every day. But when they happen to your own family—you know what I mean.”

  “Sure,” said Jake awkwardly.

  Glen hesitated a moment as though he wanted to say something more, didn’t, and moved slowly away.

  Before Jake could follow him, a rabbity, white-faced little man popped into the hall, stared at him, popped back behind a door, stayed out of sight for a moment, then slowly, hesitatingly, came back into the hall. He was a homely man, with startled blue eyes and mouse-colored hair. He looked, Jake thought, as though someone had just cried “Boo!” at him.

  “Did you want something, sir?”

  Jake nodded. “You must be Parkins ”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Jake Justus. I work for the man who’s married Miss Inglehart. I’d like to find a telephone.”

  Parkins seemed to relax a little. “Yes, sir. You’ll have to come downstairs, sir. There’s only the one telephone in the house, and it’s in the hall by the kitchen.”

  Jake followed him down the stairs, wondering why there would be only one telephone in a house the size of a small hotel. At the telephone he had a few words with a man named John J. Malone, and decided that for the moment that was all he, or anyone, could do.

  But as he started back to the library, for one instant he saw the tall, angular woman who had let him into the house. She was, he decided, Nellie Parkins.

  There was also, he decided, something very wrong with her.

  Little Parkins, a naturally timid soul, was startled and anxious. That was normal enough. But while the pasty white face of Nellie Parkins was blank and wooden, the look in her eyes was one of pure, stark terror.

  Chapter 5

  Hyme Mendel, district attorney of Blake County, had always been a little inclined to hate everybody. In fact, he had been born just a bit angry. He was an exceptionally bright young man, and he had been aware of it ever since he brought home his first report card. But in his early life, no one seemed to notice it. The Ingleharts and other residents sent their clothes to be cleaned and pressed at his father’s little shop and spoke in a kindly tone to young Hyme when he delivered them. But no one paid any other attention to him.

  He was honest as well as bright, and his sense of justice was almost as furious as his sense of injustice. At heart, he was a kindly young man, but the same generous providence that had seen him through law school and made him district attorney of Blake County had dumped Maple Park’s first murder in years right on his lap. Moreover, it had landed that murder among the Maple Park residents he hated most.

  He felt that he should have enjoyed the situation. Instead, he was annoyed and irritated and a little hurt. He hated these people who had always ignored him.

  He hated little Parkins who had seemed to imply that he, Hyme Mendel, should have used the rear entrance.

  He hated Holly Inglehart, so cool and poised and perfectly at home in surroundings that bothered him in spite of himself.

  And, finally, he hated poor Jasper Fleck with a positive fury because he considered the venerable chief of police of Maple Park a stupid fool who liked nothing better than to kowtow to these people.

  Well, he, Hyme Mendel, was going to be different. This Inglehart girl wasn’t going to be treated any differently from any other criminal. These people weren’t any better than he was. He had as much right to be in the Inglehart library as anybody.

  He wished he’d worn his other suit.

  The situation was a serious strain on his knowledge of etiquette. How did one ask a young lady to come along on a murder charge? Especially one of the social standing of the Ingleharts?

  Even Andy Ahearn was a little embarrassed. He started to say, “Come along, sister,” and then stopped short.

  Holly came to their rescue. “I’m quite ready to go,” she said in a clear voice, smiling at them as though to indicate that she understood their feelings perfectly, knew they were only doing their duty and that the situation was an awkward one. “I’m ready to go any time.”

  Glen turned even more pale. “Do you have to do this? I mean, is it absolutely necessary?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Hyme Mendel briskly.

  “Look here,” Dick said suddenly, “look here. You can’t take her to jail. I won’t—”

  Holly interrupted him. “There’s no sense making a fuss about it. It’s all a silly mistake and it’s going to be straightened out. Just don’t worry about it.”

  At that moment a girl swept into the room with the velocity, and about the same effect, of a small cyclone. She, too, was tall, thinnish, but where Holly was gentle and appealing, this girl seemed made of ice and steel. Her hair was ash blonde, almost white, combed sleekly back from her ivory-pale, finely modeled face. Her eyes were blue and brilliant. She was dressed informally in galoshes, fur coat, and blue satin house pajamas.

  “What in hell goes on here? The place is crawling with cops, and Nellie comes over with some insane story about Holly murdering Aunt Alex—God knows it was a good idea if she did—and—Glen, explain this to me.”

  They stared at her.

  “And just who,” asked Andy Ahearn irritably, “might you be?”

  She seemed amazed that anyone should fail to recognize her.

  “My name’s Helene Brand, my fat friend—if that means anything to you.”

  Evidently it did. They looked at her with a sudden deference. Jake wondered where he had seen her picture.

  “Are you taking her to jail?”

  Mr. Fleck cleared his throat, apologetically. “Well you see, Miss Brand—”

  “Damned fools!”

  “It’s all right, Helene,” said the other girl. “It’s all right. It’s a mistake. It’ll all he straightened out. Please don’t worry. I shan’t mind being in jail. Really I shan’t. After living in this house all my life, it might be a pleasing novelty.” She turned to smile at Andy Ahearn. “Shall we go?”

  It might have been a royal command. Jake repressed a sudden impulse to applaud.

  Jasper Fleck began to bustle. He gave a dozen orders to the policemen who were remaining in the house, nodded amiably to Jake, and began shooing everybody toward the door. In a moment the heavy door of the house had closed after them.

  Holly turned to wave. “ ’By, Dick. See you in jail!”

  Then she was gone.

  For the first time Dick seemed fully to realize just what had happened. He began running down the snow-covered walk. Jake caught his arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Let go of me, damn you. I’m going with her.”

  “Oh no, you’re not!” As Dick started to swing at him, Jake pinned the young man’s arms in an iron grip. “You’ll run into a flock of reporters and this is no time or place to have your picture taken.”

  “She needs me!” Dick roared.

  “Not in the Blake County jug, she doesn’t!”

  They glared at each other.

  “If you’
ll keep your head,” Jake added, “you can be of some help. I know what I’m doing.”

  Dick’s opposition seemed to collapse suddenly. “Okay.”

  “That’s better.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Go back to town,” Jake said gloomily, and added, “I knew we should have kept that cab.”

  They went down the snow-packed walk in silence. There was not a cab in sight, the street was quiet and deserted. For a few minutes they waited, stamping their feet in the snow.

  “Better start walking,” Jake suggested, “unless you want to go back to the house and phone for a cab.”

  Dick shook his head.

  “Then we walk.”

  At that moment a long, sleek car stopped beside them, its door opened and the blonde girl leaned out.

  “Hey, youse guys. Get on board. I’ll drive you down to the Loop.”

  Jake felt her bright eyes run over him from head to foot. It bothered him a little. He felt as though she were undressing him, there in the snow. A hell of a thing to be thinking about, with Dick in a jam like this!

  They climbed in gratefully, wedging into the front seat. She started the big car and began piloting it expertly over the ice.

  “So you’re the man Holly married.”

  Dick roused himself with a start. “Yes.”

  They drove in silence for a moment.

  “I thought you were.”

  Another silence.

  “Drink?”

  Jake gasped, collected his thoughts. “Invariably.”

  She laughed. “Reach in the side pocket. No—this side. I thought it might be a long, cold ride into town.”

  Jake beamed approvingly at her. “There’s a certain Florence Nightingale touch about you that’s beginning to grow on me.”

  She laughed again. “No glasses, though.”

  “Well,” he said, “you couldn’t have everything. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  He passed the bottle to her, watched admiringly as she tilted it up and drank deeply without allowing the big car to waver more than a little on the icy pavement. Then he handed it to Dick, who shook his head, finally lifted it to his own lips, sighed, and closed his eyes happily.

  It seemed to him that a fog was beginning to lift from his brain.

  “And now,” the girl said, “how in God’s name are we going to get Holly out of this mess?”

  “I’ve had tougher assignments. Don’t worry.” Jake spoke with serene confidence.

  He was pleasantly conscious of the pressure of her arm against his side when the wheel turned. They drove along the lake shore, on roads as smooth and treacherous as glass, watching the great grimed cakes of ice that bobbed up and down in the gray lake. Dick was silent beside them, staring straight ahead. After a few miles, they ignored him.

  “If she did do it, I don’t blame her,” said Helene crisply, skidding the heavy car around a sharp curve, while Jake held his breath.

  “That’s fine,” said Jake, “now all we have to do is get you on the jury.”

  “Wonderful,” she told him. “I’ll wear black and tell them about Aunt Alex.”

  “Aunty an old hell cat?”

  “And then some.” She missed a tree superbly. “Give me a drink, I’m nervous. She took Holly and Glen to raise when they were babies. Their mother was her younger sister. Must have been quite a gal. Aunt Alex was years and years older. Anyway, she raised her too. I’d say she had some sort of a—well, some sort of a complex about her.”

  “Holly’s mother?” asked Jake, nursing the bottle of rye.

  That’s right. Only she wasn’t Holly’s mother then. Well anyway, she—Holly’s mother—got fed up with the quiet life, I guess. Aunt Alex practically kept her wrapped in cotton wool. And that’s no life for a lively gal.”

  “So she ran away with a traveling salesman,” Jake said dreamily, wondering if Helene had ever been kept in cotton wool, and again pleasantly conscious of the arm.

  “Practically the head of the class. Only he was a vaudeville actor. A bum one, too, I guess. Aunt Alex all but died of it. Said ‘Sister, stay ’way from my door,’ or words to that effect.”

  “Old stuff.” They were getting into heavier traffic and Jake could feel his hair slowly turning gray. At intervals the car would slip sideways, slide halfway down a block, and miraculously right itself.

  “And then she had twins and died.”

  “Holly’s mother?”

  “Naturally. And Aunt Alex relented. She fairly oozed family pride anyway. So she wrote to Papa and said that if he’d agree never to see the twins again, she’d raise ’em and make ’em her heirs. After all, they were Ingleharts and therefore sacred, So they lived with her ever since. I guess she gave their old man a bunch of dough to stay out of the picture.”

  They wove their way through Evanston, discarded the empty bottle at Rogers Park, bought a full one at Wilson Avenue, and turned into the outer drive, where Helene drove with absentminded enthusiasm between cars and taxicabs. Jake wondered if he dared put a hand on her blue satin knee.

  “Still old stuff,” he said after a while. “I don’t see any motive for murder in that little tale. At least a girl wouldn’t ordinarily murder an old aunt just because that aunt had adopted her and brought her up and agreed to leave her a cut of the family dough.”

  “Holly had plenty of motive,” said the girl grimly, braking furiously for a stop light. “And they’ll see another motive, too, that isn’t really there at all.”

  “I can see you’re going to be a big help,” Jake said. “To the prosecution. But go on. Tell all.”

  “Aunt Alex would have disinherited Holly the minute she knew about this insane—I beg your pardon, Mr. Dayton—this marriage of hers. She didn’t want Holly to marry anyone. And a band leader! God! I don’t know if Holly knew about that, but if she did—”

  “She did know about it,” Dick spoke up suddenly out of a trancelike silence. “She did know about it. We talked it over. She knew she was cutting herself out of a fortune if she married me, but she didn’t care. She knew I could support her. She didn’t care about the money.”

  “It’s going to be hard to convince a jury that she didn’t care,” said Jake very gently, “especially if she knew that she’d be cut out of the old dame’s will. No, that doesn’t do her any good, not any good at all.”

  “Oh God,” said Dick, and again, “oh God!”

  “Don’t do that!” said the girl sharply.

  They spun west into Wacker Drive, turned south again, swung suddenly into a parking lot, struck a patch of ice, skidded around once, grazed the corner of a filling station, and came to a full stop beside a startled attendant. Jake reached for a cigarette, his hands shaking.

  “Baby,” he said admiringly, “baby, that was as skillful drunken driving as I’ve ever seen.”

  Dick roused himself again. “What are we going to do?”

  “See a lawyer, of course,” Jake told him. “John Joseph Malone.”

  “I know him,” said the girl. “I mean, I know who he is. He defended that hammer slayer last summer. Got him off, too.”

  “That’s the one.”

  They climbed out of the car.

  “Well, thanks for the ride.”

  “Whoa. I’m coming with you. I’m in this party too.”

  Jake glanced dubiously at the blue satin house pajamas. She looked down at her ankles, grinned understandingly, and deftly rolled up the offending pajama legs, anchored them with the garters that held up her skin-colored stockings, wrapped her fur coat around her, and smiled triumphantly.

  “What the well-dressed girl will wear to a lawyer’s office!”

  As they walked through the lobby of the office building, Dick stopped suddenly.

  “But Jake. What’s the use of going to see him?” He paused, gulped. “She may be guilty. It’s horrible, but it’s true. She might be.”

  Jake looked at him affectionately. “That’s right. That’s just why we want John J.
Malone!”

  Chapter 6

  John Joseph Malone did not look like a lawyer. A contractor, or a barkeep, or a baseball manager, perhaps. Something like that. At first sight he was not impressive. He was short, heavy—though not fat—with thinning dark hair and a red, perspiring face that grew more red and more perspiring as he talked. He was an untidy man; the press of his suits usually suggested that he had been sleeping in them, probably on the floor of a taxicab. His ties and collars never became really close friends, often not even acquaintances. Most of the buttons on his vest were undone, and almost invariably he had one shoelace untied.

  His courtroom manner was spectacular and famous. It was hardly because of his voice, which had once been publicly described (and by Jake Justus, too) as sounding like a pair of old rusty gates swinging in the wind. His gestures were simple; he had two. He pointed a dramatic finger or pounded a dramatic fist. He also wiped his red face with a soiled and crumpled handkerchief every five minutes, or whenever a pause for dramatic effect was indicated.

  Crowds gathered in the courtroom whenever John Joseph Malone appeared to plead, argue, reason with, and occasionally insult a jury that sat back and purred like twelve cats in a basket. A witness facing cross-examination at his hands was usually reduced to a state of complete nervous collapse before the short, untidy man had even opened his mouth.

  He had nothing but contempt for all but a rare few of the criminals he defended and saw acquitted, and no sympathy. Yet he worked unceasingly, amassing a considerable fortune in the process, at turning clients who were indubitably criminals loose upon society. It was not from any liking for the criminals. It was simply that he had even less liking for society. He always assumed that the words from a witness’ mouth were perjury, unless he had put them there himself. He expected his friends eventually to double-cross him, and was neither surprised nor hurt when they occasionally did. Yet this did not interfere in the least with his very sincere liking for them.

  He was genuinely interested in the three people who sat in his office: Jake Justus, casual, lazy-eyed, drunken; Dick Dayton, white-faced and distracted; and the exquisite blonde girl who sat nervously lighting one cigarette after another and wondering if she dared take off her coat, blue pajamas or no blue pajamas.