The Right Murder

by Craig Rice

  “Anybody ought to like this. Try it, Ross.”

  Ross McLaurin took the glass obediently and managed a tiny sip. Then he handed it back.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Helene said patiently. “I’ll try another one.” She picked up an empty glass and began measuring liquids into it.”

  “It isn’t the flavorings,” the young man said unhappily. “It’s the alcohol I can’t seem to stand.”

  “Never mind,” Jake said consolingly. “I’ve felt the same way a lot of times. You’ll get over it.”

  Malone groaned. “We aren’t getting anywhere at all. Of all the insane ideas—”

  “Have you a better one?” Helene asked severely.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then I’ll go right on trying.”

  Malone mopped his face. It was now seven o’clock, and Helene had been inventing new cocktails since half-past five. In that time the young man on the bed had managed to down less than an ounce of liquor.

  The collection of bottles on the bureau would have done credit to a high-class bar. Malone reflected that he’d have them on his hands when this affair was over. He hadn’t decided yet whether to drink them himself or just open a saloon.

  In the midst of his reflections, the telephone rang. It was von Flanagan.

  “Malone, I’m bringing that whole bunch from Mona McClane’s down here,” the police officer reported.

  Malone said, “You’re doing what?”

  “I want all those people to take a gander at the guy who was killed New Year’s Eve. Maybe one of them will recognize him.”

  “Good idea,” Malone said noncommittally. “When are you doing this?”

  “They’re on the way right now. I want you to come along. And do you know where the hell that blonde dame might be?”

  Malone said, “Huh? Who? Oh yeah. Sure. I know.”

  “Stop stuttering,” von Flanagan growled, “can you bring her down here with you?”

  “Easiest thing in the world.”

  “Then do it, and make it snappy.”

  Malone put down the telephone. Helene was just taking a tallish glass, containing some poisonous-looking green mixture, away from the young man.

  “This was a very special one, too. Shame to waste it. Well, if you don’t want it. I do—”

  “Put that glass down.” Malone said sharply. “You’ve got a date with von Flanagan, right now.”

  “Why, what have I done?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Put on your hat and coat.”

  “I’m going anywhere Helene goes,” Jake said firmly.

  “All right, you can come, too.”

  “If I’m going to have a session with von Flanagan,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m going to need that drink.” She emptied the glass quickly, put on her coat, and adjusted the pert little brown fur hat.

  “Will you promise to stay right here until we get back?”

  Ross McLaurin nodded. “I promise. I know you’re trying to help me. I’ll do anything you say.”

  Malone said, “We won’t be long. If you want anything, pick up the phone and ask for it.”

  On the way to von Flanagan’s office he explained the reason for the visit.

  “I wondered how long it would take von Flanagan to tumble to that,” she commented. “Those two killings are cut out of the same paper, and with the same pair of scissors. Malone, where do you suppose that key went to?”

  “The murderer has it. He trailed me the night of the first murder and picked my pocket.”

  “It’s possible,” Jake said.

  “Or this Tuesday trailed me and picked my pocket, and then the man who murdered him took it from him.”

  “I like the first one better,” Helene said.

  “Or it fell out of my pocket somewhere and was lost down a grating.”

  “That’s dull and probably what happened,” she said. “I imagine it unlocked something damned important, too. Oh well, no use crying over spilled keys.” She reached for Jake’s hand and held it tight.

  They were the last to arrive at von Flanagan’s office. Mona McClane was there, looking very impressive and very small and very chic, in something black, tailored, and expensive. Lotus Allen was sitting in a straight chair, smoking a cigarette in a brown amber holder, seeming very cool and self-possessed. Jake noted and approved her camel’s hair coat, her small brown hat and trim little oxfords. The Vennings sat side by side on the worn leather couch. Michael Venning’s face was pink and a shade indignant. Editha Venning seemed more pale and haggard than before. Gray squirrel and blue felt were certainly not becoming to her, Jake decided. Still, she must have been a howling beauty once. She met his gaze across the room with just the faintest smile of friendly recognition.

  Louella White sat beside her in a big leather chair, her broad face impassive, but her small eyes watching everything that went on in the room. Jake wondered if she had been shooting at him there in the woods. She looked to him as though she would shoot at almost anybody, on very little provocation.

  He recognized Pendley Tidewell from Malone’s description. The tall, pale young man was leaning against the wall, one hand deep in his overcoat pocket. Jake suspected it was resting on his camera.

  Von Flanagan was just awed enough by the assemblage to be angry. “Where in the hell is that McLaurin?”

  Everyone looked vague.

  “He’s probably out on a drunk,” Lotus Allen said at last, speaking delicately.

  Von Flanagan grunted. “I’ll have him picked up. When I want someone here, I want him.” He looked crossly around the room. “All right, we’ll all go have a look at this corpse. All I want is to know who he is.”

  At the morgue the members of the party went in one by one, accompanied by von Flanagan, while Malone sat on one of the battered wooden desks, smoking a cigar. Mona McClane went first, was gone several minutes, and returned without a trace of expression on her face.

  “No, I didn’t know him.” she said answering Malone’s look. She pulled her coat close around her shoulders. “I’d expected this to be a far more gloomy place. It really isn’t half bad.”

  Lotus Allen went next, her face very white, her chin high. She came back, shaking her head. Helene followed, and then Editha Venning, who returned sniffing a small bottle of ammonia the attendant had given her. She was followed by Michael Venning, then the hard-faced Louella White, and finally young Pendley Tidewell.

  It was while the latter was viewing the unidentified body that a terrific commotion broke loose in the inner room. Von Flanagan’s angry roar seemed to shake the building to its foundations. Pendley Tidewell had attempted to take a few candid-camera shots.

  Somehow Malone managed to calm things down.

  “I’m sorry,” Pendley Tidewell said apologetically. “I never had a chance to—” He looked at von Flanagan’s face and shut up fast.

  Of all the party, no one reported knowing the man who had been murdered on New Year’s Eve.

  Von Flanagan thrust his hands in his pockets and scowled. “Someone in this crowd is a liar. Because the same person who murdered the man in Mrs. McClane’s house murdered this guy.”

  Malone knocked the ashes from his cigar. “You’re making a wild guess,” he said scornfully. “Just because the two men both happened to have had their shoes made by the same London shoemaker.”

  “So you noticed that, too,” von Flanagan growled.

  “It doesn’t mean a thing,” Malone began blandly.

  “It ain’t just the shoes.” von Flanagan roared. “It ain’t just the shoes, or the suits or the shirts. It’s the names.”

  “The names?” Malone repeated. He wondered if he looked as blank as everyone else in the room.”

  “I didn’t bring this mob down here because this guy hadn’t been identified,” von Flanagan said, “but because he had been. Because I found out there’s more connection between these two than having the same shoemaker. Because they’re
the same guy.”

  He paused. His face was slowly turning a rich magenta. Suddenly he turned, walked across the room and opened a door at the far end.

  “Mr. Dickett, you come in here now.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mr. Dickett came in, a thin, anemic, frightened young man with mouse-colored hair. He stood helplessly just inside the door, his pale eyes moving from one to another of the group.

  Von Flanagan’s voice and coloring had returned to almost normal. He assumed a stance copied from a representative collection of prosecuting attorneys.

  “Mr. Dickett, what do you do?”

  The unhappy young man gulped. He mumbled something that sounded like “hotel clerk.”

  “Where?”

  “The LeGrand Hotel.”

  “That’s a small hotel,” von Flanagan explained, “outside the Loop.” Again he fixed his eye on Mr. Dickett. “Did you view the unidentified body of the man who was stabbed on New Year’s Eve?”

  Mr. Dickett nodded. “It’s the same one.”

  Jake couldn’t stand it any longer. “The same as what?”

  “As the man at the hotel.” Mr. Dickett drew a long breath. “He registered there the last day of December and took a room. Then he went out and never came back. He’s the one in—in there. When I saw the name in the paper I went to the police.”

  “When you saw what name?” Malone demanded.

  “Gerald Tuesday.”

  Everyone stared at the young man. A look of grim satisfaction began to creep over von Flanagan’s broad face.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Malone said. “This man—who was murdered on New Year’s Eve—was the one who registered at your hotel?” When Mr. Dickett nodded, he went on, “Under what name?”

  “Gerald Tuesday.”

  “You see?” von Flanagan said. “This guy was named Gerald Tuesday, and the guy who was murdered up at Mrs. McClane’s place was named Gerald Tuesday.”

  “It’s a mistake of some sort,” Malone managed feebly.

  “You’re damned right it’s a mistake. It’s a mistake for anyone to think he can put over a thing like this on me.” The police officer scratched his nose vigorously and went on, “That murder in Mrs. McClane’s house was done by somebody who belonged there. Nobody broke in from outside. Mrs. McClane was downstairs when the murder was done, Malone was with her. Mr. and Mrs. Venning were out for a walk, out of the house.” He paused and looked angrily around the group. “There were five people upstairs in that house when that murder was committed. Miss Brand—I mean Mrs. Justus—didn’t have nothing to do with this guy. I know all about her.”

  “We must compare notes some time,” Jake muttered.

  Von Flanagan glared at him. “This McLaurin guy was passed out cold, and you”—he looked indignantly at Pendley Tidewell—“were shut up in a darkroom. I got a nephew who’s one of these damn camera nuts. So I don’t think you’d come out of a darkroom even to murder some guy” He focused his baleful eye on Louella White. “Where were you?”

  “Upstairs.” She looked at him coldly.

  “Did you go in this guy’s room?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go out in the hall between four and four-thirty?”

  “No.”

  “Then you were in your room all that time?”

  “No.”

  Von Flanagan’s face was beginning to turn a deep crimson. Malone felt a little happier.

  “You were upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t go out in the hall?”

  “No.”

  “But you weren’t in your room?”

  “No.”

  “Then,” von Flanagan roared, “where in the hell were you?”

  She looked at him indignantly for a full thirty seconds before answering.

  “In the toilet.”

  Well, Malone reflected, von Flanagan had broken the record. He’d got Louella White to speak three consecutive words.

  The police officer managed to swallow his rage. “You’ll talk all right on the witness stand.” He drew a long breath. “There is just one person who could have murdered this guy and she did. She’s here under a phony name, not the same one that’s on her passport. I guess this guy was going to give her away.” He turned to Lotus Allen, who had turned very white. “You’re under arrest, Miss, for the murder of Gerald Tuesday.”

  Now it was Mona McClane who turned white. She jumped to her feet. “You can’t arrest her!”

  “What the hell do you mean, I can’t arrest her,” von Flanagan roared. “I’m an officer of the law!”

  Mona McClane made a weary little gesture. “She didn’t even know him. She’d never seen nor spoken to him in her life. She couldn’t possibly have murdered Gerald Tuesday, or anyone else.”

  “That ain’t for you to say, lady,” von Flanagan said in a milder tone. “That’s what they have juries for.”

  “You can’t take a child like that off to jail,” Editha Venning said. She was weeping unbecomingly into a borrowed handkerchief. The mascara around her big tragic eyes was beginning to run. Jake wondered why her paid companion, Louella White, was making no attempt to console her.

  Michael Venning cleared his throat. “Really, officer, you can’t do this sort of thing,” he said in a patronizing, clipped voice. “You’re overlooking the fact that Miss Allen is hardly the type of person who’d commit murder.”

  Von Flanagan appeared to be subduing an impulse to commit a murder of his own. “If you’re referring to the fact that she’s a lady,” he said in a voice that was restrained almost to the exploding point, “I just want to say that the last real refined lady I met had murdered three people with an ax.”

  Editha Venning gave a little scream and shuddered.

  Through it all, the center of discussion, Lotus herself, had said nothing. She stood stock-still in the middle of the room, her face dead white and expressionless, her back as straight and stiff as a board. There was not a trace of fear or horror or sorrow or any other feeling in her well-shaped brown eyes.

  Mona McClane brushed absent-mindedly with her slender fingers at the black bang that covered her forehead. “This is all a stupid mistake, Lotus my dear, but it will be straightened out very quickly. In the meantime, you’ll have the best of legal counsel available.” She looked appealingly at Malone. “You will take the case, won’t you?”

  “Take it,” Malone said, “I’m already working on it.” He turned to von Flanagan. “Miss Allen is my client. She isn’t to say one word until I’ve had a chance to talk with her in private, and I want that chance right now.”

  “Hell, I don’t care,” von Flanagan said. “After I arrest ’em, I’m through. I hope you get her off, she’s a nice girl. You can take her in the next room and talk to her till you bust, if you want to.”

  “Thanks,” Malone said, shifting the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. “Maybe the rest of you will be good enough to wait for me. Come, my dear.” He reached for her arm.

  Lotus Allen seemed to come to life suddenly. “No. It’s very good of you, but no.”

  “Don’t argue with your lawyer,” Malone said pleasantly.

  “But that’s it. You aren’t my lawyer. I—can’t have a lawyer. You see—” Her face turned, if anything, a shade whiter. “I haven’t any money to pay for a lawyer. Not any money at all. Not any. Do you understand?”

  “Who the hell said anything about money?” Malone said crossly. He took her arm firmly. “This door, von Flanagan? Thanks.” He led the girl out of the room, conscious that every pair of eyes was following them, and closed the door.

  It was a small, dingy room, with two battered chairs and a table. Malone shoved the girl into one of the chairs, threw his cigar butt into the cuspidor, sat down on the table, and began to unwrap a fresh cigar.

  “Tell me, kid. Did you murder this bird?”

  She shook her head, her teeth clenched.

  “I didn’t think you did. Not that it ma
kes any difference.” He lit the cigar, watching her from the corner of his eye. In about sixty seconds that beautiful self-possession would crack. Suddenly he remembered the half-pint of gin in his pocket, carried for emergencies. He whipped it out, unscrewed the cap quickly, and shoved it into her hand.

  “Take a couple of good big swallows. It’ll bring the color back into your face. Your type always looks like the devil when you’re pale.” He lighted a cigarette for her while she obeyed, and slipped it between her fingers.

  “That’s better. Maybe I ought to apologize for its being cheap gin. You’re probably not accustomed to it.”

  She laughed unexpectedly, a strange, hoarse laugh. “Not used to it? I was raised on cheap gin.” She took a long, deep drag on her cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it out under the heel of her trim little oxford. “The whole truth is bound to come out, no matter what happens. So it doesn’t make much difference whether I murdered anybody or not. I haven’t committed any crimes, but I might as well go to jail. I won’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Malone was silent, waiting.

  She thrust her hands into the pockets of her coat, stuck her feet out in front of her, and looked up at him. “My name was originally Lotus Angelo. I was born in a Boston slum. My father was a Portugee. There are brown-haired light-skinned Portugees, you know. By the time I was ten I’d decided I was going to do things, be somebody. Even then I was reading magazines at the library, learning how to dress and how to talk and act. I was bound I was going to make a lady out of myself.”

  “You did a swell job,” Malone said quietly.

  “Thanks. Underneath, though, I’m still Lotus Angelo from a Boston slum.” Her pleasantly well-bred voice suddenly seemed oddly incongruous. “I took a business course in high school and a lot of other things besides. I got a job right after I got out of school, and in a year I was secretary to a grand old man named Newton Abbot, one of the old Boston families, and stinking rich. He was swell to me, and so was his wife. After he died, she took me on as a companion-secretary.” She paused, again her teeth were set hard. “May I have another cigarette please?”

  Malone lit one and handed it to her without a word.