by Craig Rice
He had a definite feeling as he hung up that Rufus Cable was wincing at the other end of the line.
Well, that settled it. J. J. Malone was murdered, and he was J. J. McNabb for at least the next twenty-four hours. He rummaged through the suitcase and found himself wondering if J. J. McNabb fancied himself as a prospective rodeo star, or if he just liked cowboy boots. Still, the clothes looked as though they would fit.
A side-pocket of the suitcase held a passport in its folder. Malone looked through it thoughtfully. Height, weight and general coloring were about the same. The little lawyer pulled himself to his feet, walked to the dresser, compared his image with the passport picture, and shuddered. They were equally terrible, he thought. And on top of everything else, J. J. McNabb wore sideburns.
Well, it was too late to turn back now. He reached for the telephone and called room service.
“Send up six fried eggs, a double order of ham, a double order of hot-cakes, two pots of coffee, a pint of gin, the best barber available, and all the newspapers you can find.”
He had finished the food and was half way through the pint of gin when the barber and the newspapers arrived simultaneously. The barber was short, plump, friendly and deeply apologetic for the delay. Malone pointed to the sideburns in the passport picture and said, “Put ’em back. Fast as in speed, and fast as in staying put.”
The barber surveyed Malone and the picture, opened his kit, and said, “Easy. Just a little trim off the back will give me the hair.”
Malone settled back and tried to relax, opening the newspapers. His murder, he noticed with satisfaction, had been moved to page one.
“That Mr. Malone, he was a fine guy,” the barber said. “I knew him very well. Now lean back, please, and close your eyes. The glue only smells bad for a minute.”
Malone obeyed. “How well did you know him?”
“Oh, very well, Mr. McNabb, very well. I always shaved him when he was in San Francisco.”
Malone, who had never been in San Francisco before in his life, said, “That’s very interesting.”
“A prince of good fellows,” the barber went on. “Only I know it for a fact that all his thinking was done for him by his secretary.” He added, “And he was always cockeyed.”
“Too bad,” Malone said. He reached for the rest of the gin, downed it, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, J. J. McNabb, sideburns and all, stared at him from the mirror.
“And they’ll stay,” the barber said proudly, “until time wears them off. A long time.”
After the barber had gone, Malone stuffed his own clothes in the suitcase with fine disregard for wrinkles, and donned the gaudy outfit. Luckily, he thought, he and McNabb were nearly the same size. He looked in the mirror and decided bright colors became him. For a moment he considered calling the blonde-voiced secretary and making a date, then decided that would be pushing his luck too far.
However, he did call the desk and instruct them to send his bill immediately to Mr. McNabb’s office and collect it. One more glance in the mirror, and on a sudden impulse he added, “And I want to send a wire. To Rico di Angelo’s Undertaking Parlor, West North Avenue, Chicago.
“The message? Immediately arrange transportation John J. Malone’s body from Tandem, Arizona, and arrange for your finest funeral.” He paused a moment and added, “All expenses will be paid by Mr. Rufus Cable. Signed, J. J. McNabb. And now,” he said, “get me an immediate plane reservation to Chicago.”
Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to miss his own funeral. While he waited, he picked up the newspaper to read further details from Tandem.
Miss Mary Margaret Gogarty, secretary, had been arrested in Tandem, for the murder of John J. Malone, her employer.
Malone stared at the paper for just thirty seconds, then he said into the phone, “Never mind that Chicago reservation. Get me a plane to Tandem, Arizona, and get it fast.”
He was halfway to the door when the phone rang. He swore at it, finally turned back to answer it. A slightly British voice announced that it belonged to Mr. Linberry.
“I got your wire to bring It to Chicago,” the voice said. “Luckily I called your office before I left and found out you were here. Why the change in plans?”
“A whim,” Malone said.
The voice laughed. “Have you got the money?”
“Yes,” Malone said.
“I’ve got It. Where shall we meet?”
“At the airport, as fast as you can make it,” Malone told him. “I’m leaving immediately for—” He caught himself. “For the East.”
On his way to the airport, he wondered if the mysterious Mr. Linberry knew McNabb by sight. That was a chance that had to be taken.
If he had, and if he noticed any slight difference in appearance, Linberry, a tall, thin, seedy-looking individual, gave no sign. He simply said, “The price ought to go up. I had to give that crooked undertaker four thousand.”
“Ten thousand was agreed on,” Malone said firmly, wondering what he was buying.
Linberry shrugged as though to say he’d made a good try anyway. Malone opened the suitcase, took out the envelope of money and handed it over. Linberry grinned and said, “All right. It’s in the bag.” He laughed at what he evidently considered a joke and handed a small traveling case to Malone.
The little lawyer started to open it gingerly, and was promptly stopped.
“Don’t open it here. And you don’t need to worry.” He added, “Aunt Eva’s stomach is in there, all right.”
Malone managed to repress both surprise and a shudder.
Linberry nodded toward the newspapers. “Lucky for you this other guy got the poison,” he said. “Better watch your step.”
This called for repressing more surprise. “Maybe it was intended for the other guy,” Malone said with a hollow laugh.
The answering laugh was just as hollow. “You know better than that. Well, hope your luck holds out.”
Linberry disappeared into the crowd.
Malone sorted that out in his mind as he headed for the plane. One thing was sure. J. J. McNabb had been the intended victim, and hence still was. He, Malone, had taken on the appearance of J. J. McNabb. And it was too late to change back now.
The Tandem County courthouse and jail was a dreary one-story building that looked as if it had been there for a long time. Malone stood for a minute staring at it, wondering just how he was going to get Maggie’s immediate release. The newspapers had given him a few more details. The victim had been given a terrific overdose of chloral hydrate, according to the Tandem county coroner. This had evidently been administered shortly before the victim boarded his plane at Los Angeles.
There followed a few details about John J. Malone, most of them inaccurate and all of them, the little lawyer reflected, underplayed.
But there was nothing to suggest how he was going to get Maggie out of this mess. He considered introducing himself under his real identity, and decided that convincing a county sheriff that he, though alive and well, was the murdered man, would be like talking a frosty-eyed bank teller in a strange town into cashing a check. At last he decided it was time to ad lib, and strode on into the building.
Before he reached the office of Bert Gallegos, sheriff of Tandem County, he heard voices, one raised in indignation, one in weary protest. As he paused at the door, he observed that the indignant voice came from Maggie, who was explaining in detail just how this or any other sheriff’s department should be run. And that the other voice—more apologetic than protesting, he realized—came from a gray-mustached, unhappy-looking man with a star pinned on his shirt. But it was the third person in the room who held his attention. Mici Faulkner.
“Hello, Mr. McNabb,” Maggie said, with perfect aplomb. She nodded toward Mici. “She read about this—difficulty—in the papers, and flew over here right away.”
Mici said quickly, “I explained to Mr. Gallegos that Miss Gogarty had been with my brother and me every minute until we read ab
out poor Mr. Malone being murdered, and then took her to the airport.”
Malone nodded, his head whirling. Had Maggie somehow managed to contact Mici and induce her to play alibi, or had it been Mici’s own idea? But everyone’s presence seemed to be accounted for except his own, as far as Sheriff Gallegos was concerned. He began casting around in his mind for a good story.
The sheriff had finally made up his mind to speak. “You know this lady?” His voice seemed to add, “If you do, take her away.”
Malone nodded. “I’m J. J. McNabb of San Francisco, and—”
“Know who you are,” the sheriff said. He jerked his head toward Maggie. “Said you might get here. Guess she can go.”
“I should rather think so,” Maggie said. “And of all the silly mistakes—”
The little lawyer decided to interrupt before she was put back in jail, this time for disturbing the peace.
“Have a cigar?” he said.
“Thanks,” Sheriff Gallegos said, reaching out a hand. “Know this dead fella, Malone?” Before Malone could answer, he went on, “Don’t matter. Got identified anyway. Got poisoned in Los Angeles, died somewhere along the way, body landed here. None of our business.”
“Any idea where he did die?” Malone asked in a bored voice.
The sheriff bit the end off his cigar, shrugged and said, “Up in an airplane. Over California, Nevada or Arizona. Body already on the way to Chicago to get buried.”
“False arrest—” Maggie began.
“I’m sure it was just a mistake,” Malone said quickly and smoothly. “There won’t be any further trouble.”
“Been enough,” the sheriff said, reaching in his pocket for a kitchen match. “Thanks again for the cigar.” His tone of voice added “Good-bye and good riddance.”
Out on the sidewalk, Maggie said, “I’d barely gotten here—”
Simultaneously, Mici Faulkner said, “I thought perhaps I could help—”
In the next few moments Malone caught a few phrases, mainly “—the most stupid sheriff—” and “—caught first plane—”
“Save it,” Malone said. “It took a little doing to get here because there isn’t any regular plane service. But there’s a charter flight waiting at what Tandem calls an airport, to take us back to Las Vegas. From there, next stop Chicago. This is going to cost Mr. Cable money.” He didn’t add which Mr. Cable. “On the way, you can both do some explaining.” He ushered them into the car which had driven him from the airport and said to Maggie, “You talk first.”
“Of all the stupid—” She paused. “Never mind. Naturally I wanted you—I mean your body—I mean that body—to be identified as you, so the murderer wouldn’t try again before I found out who he was. So I came straight over here to make the identification and, incidentally, to find out everything I could.”
“What did you find out?”
She sniffed, and didn’t answer. “I said I’d last seen the deceased at the Los Angeles airport. Which was true. And because they’d decided the poison had been administered there—”
“They threw you in the can,” Malone said without sympathy.
He turned to Mici.
“I knew you hadn’t been murdered,” she said. There was faint bewilderment in her voice. “Because you’d been with Eric and me at the time.”
Malone said, “First time I ever heard of anyone giving an alibi for the victim but not the suspect. Go on.”
“And I just knew Maggie hadn’t done it. Anyway, I had to find out what had really happened, so I came right here and introduced myself.”
“Nice fast work,” Malone said admiringly. He waited till they had boarded the charter plane and taken off before he said, “And now you’re coming on to Chicago.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want you both present at my funeral,” Malone said. “It’s going to be a specially nice one. And you can keep Maggie company on the way, because I’m going to sleep.”
“We can have a nice long talk,” Maggie said in a voice that would have won the confidence of the Sphinx.
Malone yawned. “Mici, how well did you know McNabb?”
“Not well. You see—” She paused.
“Never mind. Tell Maggie.” He well knew his secretary’s genius for extracting information. “But I still wish I knew why Eva Gay left you all that money. Because it was the motive for my murder—and still is.”
Maggie and Mici said, “What?”
“You were right,” Malone said to Maggie, “about my being a prospective victim of homicide. I still am. Probably it will happen when we get to Chicago. And meantime, let me sleep.”
Somewhere over Iowa, Malone was wakened by Maggie sliding into the seat beside him.
“He’s Mr. Cable’s son, and he’s going to meet us in Chicago,” she whispered.
“That’s nice,” Malone said. “Now go away.” The stop-over in Las Vegas had been a strenuous and expensive one. The little lawyer felt what was left in his pocket and resolved to do any future gambling in friendly territory.
“Wake up!” she hissed at him. She dumped the bag recently purchased from Mr. Linberry unceremoniously on the floor, to make room for herself.
Malone jumped.
“Be careful of that,” he said, retrieving the bag as gingerly as though it might be expected to explode at any minute. Wide awake, now, he changed the subject fast. “You mean that J. J. McNabb was Cable’s son?”
“Of course not.” The tone of her voice added, “You stupid oaf.” She went on, “Eric is. But he uses the name Faulkner. And Mici didn’t know he was her brother—or Rufus Cable’s son—until a few weeks ago. And she wouldn’t have known it then—about Rufus Cable, I mean—except that she happened to learn it from J. J. McNabb.”
Malone sighed. “Start at the beginning.”
“Mici Faulkner is a very nice, very well brought up girl. Her mother was an actress and a great friend of Eva Cable. But Mici never saw Eva Cable in her life. Mici’s mother died when she was very young, and she was brought up by an aunt. When she grew up she became a model, and she hopes to be a Hollywood star someday. She—”
“Mici Faulkner’s life story is interesting, but I’ve heard most of it,” Malone said. “Pick it up where the long lost brother appeared.”
Maggie sniffed indignantly. “Eric was a son by a former marriage—evidently to Rufus Cable. After his mother’s death, he was brought up by other relatives and Mici never saw him. She knew she had a half-brother somewhere, but that was all. Then he turned up in Hollywood—with proof of his identity—and introduced himself. Mici likes him.”
“I’m glad,” Malone said. He glanced at his watch. Chicago and its probable perils was not far away. And one of the perils was landing there close to broke. What was more, John J. Malone being dead, he couldn’t borrow from any of his usual sources.
“A week or so after Eric arrived,” Maggie went on, “Eva Cable died and left Mici everything she had in the world. Including jewelry.”
Malone sighed again, this time not so contentedly. “Eric had plenty to gain by that. Mici would undoubtedly split with him. But—that will was genuine. It was dated about three months ago. The previous one split the money between Ed and Rufus Cable, neither of whom needed it. The witnesses are sterling characters, both of whom swear to their signatures. According to every handwriting expert, Eva Cable’s signature is genuine. And what’s more, I examined the will myself. Furthermore, Aunt Eva died of a heart ailment from which she’d suffered for some time.”
This time, Maggie sighed. “But you’re engaged to find out if anything is wrong and on your way to report that nothing is, someone tries to murder you.” She glanced again at the bag. “Malone, what is in there?”
“Aunt Eva’s stomach,” Malone said.
She jumped, then stared at him with obvious disbelief.
“It really is,” he said.
He went on to tell her everything that had happened in San Francisco, including Linberry�
��s cryptic statement that McNabb had been the actual intended victim, and still was in danger.
“Now none of it makes sense,” Maggie said at last. “Unless somehow there was a—well, a switch of stomachs before the autopsy. But only Mici and Eric had anything to gain by her sudden death, and Mici swears neither of them went near her or even knew her. And I believe her.”
“So do I,” Malone said, “if only because the woman who had been Eva Cable’s companion for years swears the same thing.”
“Why did Eva Cable leave all her money to Mici Faulkner?” Maggie demanded. “Why are you carrying her stomach to Rufus Cable? Why was J. J. McNabb murdered?” She frowned. “There simply isn’t any motive.”
Malone stared at her. “Bless you,” he said at last. “I think that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“That there isn’t any motive. I may have to fill in a few details, but that explains everything.”
“Malone,” Maggie said, “you can be maddening.” She frowned again. “But all this means you’re still in danger. What are we going to do about it?”
“Take a few simple precautions,” Malone told her. “First, after we get to Chicago—” He paused. “Did you say Eric was going to join us there?”
“Mici agreed with me it might be a good idea,” Maggie said, with an air of innocence which didn’t deceive Malone in the least. She added, “And we might need a bodyguard. So she phoned him from Las Vegas, and he’ll arrive in Chicago before we do.”
The stewardess came by and murmured, “Good morning. Fasten your safety belts, please.”
Malone pressed his nose against the window and saw, through the murky haze, a faintly yellow corona of lights. He hoped it would turn out to be Chicago, perils or no perils, and not Seattle, Washington or Nashville, Tennessee.
“Malone,” Maggie said urgently, “you need a bodyguard.”
“My body,” Malone said dreamily, “is already on its way to one of the finest wakes Chicago has known since its late-lamented fire. And you are going to be an honored guest.” He paused. “That is, if my body gets there alive. Of course, there are just a few things you could do to help—”