The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

  It was easy to find the room. The door was open, spilling light into the hall. A cop at the door said, “Malone—!” tried to stop him, and was shoved aside. The minister, the eminent psychiatrist and Detective Lieutenant Klutchetsky from the police department were shoved aside too.

  At the window, he paused and drew a long, slow breath. Down the ledge from him was a white face and two terrified eyes. Malone spoke very softly and easily.

  “Don’t be afraid. You can get back here all right. Just creep along the ledge and keep your hands on the wall, and keep looking at me.”

  The dark figure stirred. She was not more than a few inches beyond the reach of his arm, but he knew better than to hold out a hand to her, yet.

  “There’s nothing to fear. Even if you should fall, they’ll catch you with the nets. The worst that can happen to you is a skinned knee and a few bruises.” Malone crossed his fingers for the bare-faced lie. “You’re as safe as if you were in your own bed.” It was the same tone he’d used innumerable times to nervous witnesses.

  It was a full minute before the girl began to move, but when she did, it was in the direction of the window.

  “Come on now,” the little lawyer coaxed. “It’s not so far. Only a bit of a ways now. Take it easy.”

  She managed about a foot and a half along the ledge, and stopped. He could see her face, and the terror on it, clearly now.

  “You won’t fall,” Malone said. It was an almost heartbreaking effort to keep from reaching a hand to her.

  Inside the room, and down on the sidewalk, the spectators were silent and breathless.

  For just a moment it seemed to Malone that she’d smiled at him. No, it hadn’t been a smile, just a relaxation of those frozen muscles around her mouth. How long had she been crouching on that ledge? He didn’t dare guess.

  Nor did he dare take his eyes from her face and look down, for fear her gaze would turn with his.

  Inch by inch she moved toward the waiting window. Only a few feet away she hesitated, started to look down, and turned a shade more pale.

  “For Pete’s sake, hurry up,” Malone said crossly. “It’s colder than a Scandinavian Hell with this window open.”

  That did it. She actually did smile, and managed the last bit of window ledge, twenty-two stories up from the ground, like a little girl sliding on a cellar door. Finally Malone lifted her over the sill, and Klutchetsky, moving fast and breathing hard, slammed the window shut and locked it.

  The eminent psychiatrist sank down on the nearest chair, his face a mottled gray. Klutchetsky and the uniformed cop stood glaring at her.

  “You’re a wicked, wicked girl,” the minister began.

  “Shut up,” Malone told him absent-mindedly. He looked closely at the girl, who stood clutching the edge of the window frame for support.

  She was small, and delicately built. Pale, distraught and disheveled as she was, she was something very special. Her chalk-white and definitely dirty face was triangular in shape, and lovely. Her frightened eyes were brown and large, and ringed with long, dark lashes. Her tangled hair was honey blonde. Her mouth, naked of lipstick and with marks showing where teeth had almost bitten through a lower lip, was a pallid, wistful flower.

  One more minute, Malone told himself, and he’d be writing poetry.

  The mink coat was a magnificent one. The dusty rose dress under it came, Malone realized, from one of the very best shops. The torn and muddy stockings he recognized as silk. Jewels glittered at her slim wrists.

  “As I live and breathe!” Malone said pleasantly, taking out a cigar and starting to unwrap it. “Doris Dawn!”

  Doris Dawn drew her first long breath in many hours. She glanced around the ring of hostile faces, then flung herself into the security of Malone’s warm and obvious friendliness. A faint color began to come back into her cheeks.

  “You saved my life. I was out there—forever, trying to get enough nerve to crawl to a window. High places—they always—” The color faded again.

  “You’d better put some makeup on,” Malone growled. “You look terrible.”

  She almost smiled. She fumbled through her coat pockets, found a compact and lipstick, dropped them both through her trembling fingers. Malone picked them up for her. Pink Primrose lipstick, he noted approvingly. Exactly right for her pale skin.

  He said, soothingly, “Relax. You’re safe now.”

  “No. No, I’m not. That’s it.” She turned to Klutchetsky. “You’re a policeman. Do something. Someone tried to kill me.”

  Klutchetsky and the eminent psychiatrist exchanged significant glances.

  “Okay, sister,” Klutchetsky said wearily. “Just come along quietly now.”

  Malone said, “Just a minute. Since when is it customary, in a case of attempted murder, to arrest the intended corpse?”

  “Look, Malone,” Klutchetsky said. He paused and sighed deeply. “We appreciate your help. Okay. Now suppose you let the police department handle its own problems in its own way.”

  “But I’m not a problem,” the girl cried out. “Someone—”

  “That’s what you think,” Klutchetsky told her. “Am I right, Doc?” He paused. The eminent psychiatrist nodded his head briskly.

  “He tried to kill me,” the girl gasped. “He will again. He put me out on that ledge and left me there. I was too scared to crawl back. I just held on. Until—”

  “And who is this ‘he,’” Klutchetsky interrupted skeptically, “and what does he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him.”

  The police officer turned to the eminent psychiatrist. “See what I mean, Doc?” Again the psychiatrist nodded.

  She began to sob, dry-eyed. She took a step towards Malone. “You believe me, don’t you? Don’t let them drag me away to—to a hospital. They’re the police. Make them find him. Make them protect me.”

  “What I always say is,” Malone murmured, lighting his cigar, “what do we pay taxes for?” He paused long enough to glare at the police officer and his aide. “But what you need is a good lawyer.”

  “Find me one!”

  Malone smiled at her reassuringly. “I have found you one.”

  “Listen,” Klutchetsky said. “This is the third time she’s tried this. She’s bats. Just ask Doctor Updegraff.”

  “A very interesting case,” Doctor Updegraff purred. “Of course, after I have given it some study—”

  “Nuts!” Malone said rudely.

  “Precisely,” the psychiatrist said.

  Malone thought of a number of things he would like to do to Doctor Updegraff, all of them unkind, and most of them unmentionable. He thought, also, about the immediate problem. If Klutchetsky and Dr. Updegraff happened to be right, Doris Dawn would be better off in a hospital, and the sooner the better. On the other hand, if she was telling the truth—and Malone believed she was—she would be safer in jail, right now.

  “As this young lady’s lawyer,” he began.

  Klutchetsky said, “Now Malone. You heard what the doc here said. And maybe you remember this babe’s mother.”

  “I do,” Malone said, “I was secretly in love with her for years.” He reflected that every impressionable male who’d been to the theater between 1925 and 1936 remembered Diana Dawn who’d committed suicide at the very height of her career.

  “Okay,” Klutchetsky said, “this babe takes poison, only she’s found in time and luckily she didn’t take much. Then she goes to work on her wrists with a razor blade, but she misses the right spot and anyhow a hotel maid finds her before she bled too much. Now she takes a room here under a phony name, and decides to jump.”

  The little lawyer was silent for a moment. Maybe, this time, Klutchetsky was right and he was wrong. Still—

  “How about notes?” he asked. “Did she leave any?”

  “Notes!” the police officer snorted, “what do you call these?” He waved an arm around the room.

  Malone looked, and realized that the room was fil
led with mirrors. On every one of them was written, in lipstick, “Goodbye, Good-bye.” The letters were the color of dried blood. The bathroom door was a full-length mirror, and on it was scrawled, over and over “Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye—”

  “I didn’t write it!” Doris Dawn said.

  Malone looked at her closely, then back at the dark red letters. He said to Klutchetsky, “I’m convinced.”

  The minister muttered something about the use of excessive makeup, the perils of the city, juvenile delinquency and his next Sunday’s sermon. Dr. Updegraff muttered something about the significance of the use of lipstick for a farewell message.

  The girl gave a tragic little moan. “But I thought you’d help me!”

  “Don’t look now,” Malone said, “but I am.” He turned to Klutchetsky. “Better have the squad car go round to the alley. There must be a flock of reporters in the lobby by now. We’ll go down the freight elevator.”

  Klutchetsky nodded his thanks, told the young cop to get headquarters on the phone, and said to Malone, “You’ll have to show us the way. How come you always know where the freight elevators in hotels are, anyhow?”

  “I have my secrets,” Malone said coyly, “and all of them are sacred.” He didn’t add that, among those secrets, was the knowledge that the ledge outside the window was a good two and a half feet wide, and that it had a rim extending up for at least six inches.

  One reason was that he didn’t want to tell how he knew.

  He held Doris Dawn firmly by the elbow as they walked to the door. Dr. Updegraff and the minister had volunteered, with willing helpfulness, indeed, even hopefulness, to stay behind and cope with the reporters. Malone had muttered something unpleasant about people who were their own press agents and thus kept honest, but starving, ex-newspapermen out of jobs.

  Out in the alley, Klutchetsky thanked Malone for guiding them down the freight elevator, said good night, and ushered Doris Dawn into the back of the car. Malone promptly popped in beside her.

  “Now wait a minute,” Klutchetsky said, “You can’t do this, Malone.”

  “I can,” Malone said pleasantly, “I will and I am.” He smiled. “Did you ever remember to tell your wife about that trip we took to the races while she was visiting her cousin in the east—” He paused.

  “Oh, all right,” the police officer growled. He slammed the car door shut and climbed in beside the uniformed driver.

  As the car turned into Michigan Avenue, where the crowd was thinning and the fire department was packing up to leave, her hand crept into his like a cold, frightened kitten creeping into a feather bed.

  “I didn’t, you know,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have. There wasn’t any reason. I’ve always had fun. I’ve always had everything. Until this started, I’ve always been happy.”

  “I know it,” Malone whispered back. “I’ve heard you sing.” He curled his fingers reassuringly around hers.

  “But I don’t want you to believe it because I say so and because you’re sorry for me. I want you to believe it because something proves it to you. I want you to read my diary, and then you’ll really know.”

  She reached into her pocket. “You trusted me, so I’m going to trust you. Here’s the key to my house. It’s 1117 Gay Street. You can remember that, can’t you? The light switch is just to the right of the door, and the library is just to the left of the hall. There’s a desk in the library and my diary is in the middle drawer, under an old telephone book. You’ve got to read it. And please don’t mind there being a little dust everywhere because I’ve been too busy to do any dusting myself, and my housekeeper had to go to Clinton, Iowa, because her daughter-in-law had a baby.”

  Malone blinked. Doris Dawn, radio singing star, had spent agonizing hours on a window ledge twenty-two stories up from the street. She was in danger of being hustled into a psychopathic ward and if she were turned loose, she was probably in danger of being murdered. But she worried for fear he’d think her house needed dusting. It didn’t make sense. But then, neither did Doris.

  “Tell me,” he said, “about this mysterious ‘he’—”

  “Honest,” she said, “I never got a look at him. That first time—” The car was pulling up in front of headquarters. “It’s all in the diary.”

  He squeezed her hand, tight. “Look. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t talk to any reporters. Refer everything to your lawyer. That’s me. And don’t be afraid.”

  A big sob of pity rose in his throat. She was so lovely, and so frightened. He wanted to put a comforting arm around her for just one moment. But Klutchetsky was already pulling open the car door.

  “You’ll be safe,” he promised her. “I’ll raise a little hell.”

  He raised so much hell that Doris Dawn was taken from headquarters in a police ambulance, two jumps ahead of the reporters, placed in a private hospital under an assumed name and with a police guard at the door. Indeed he was so efficient about his hell-raising that it was not until he was out on the sidewalk, in the cold spring rain, that he remembered overlooking a number of very important details.

  One, he had neglected to tell Doris Dawn the name of her self-appointed lawyer. Two, he had neglected to learn the name of the private hospital, and the name under which she’d been registered.

  He reflected that he’d probably have more trouble finding his client than she would have finding her lawyer. But those were the minor details.

  The more important items were that, while appointing himself her lawyer, he’d forgotten to mention the delicate matter of a retainer. And worse than that, the original client he’d been on his way to see had certainly located another mouthpiece by this time.

  Finally, the expensive blonde had never been known to wait for anyone more than half an hour. He was almost two hours late, by now.

  Malone sighed unhappily and regretted having spent most of that lone five dollar bill buying magazines and candy for Doris Dawn at the newsstand, before the police ambulance took her away. Then he thought about Doris Dawn and decided he didn’t regret it too much.

  There was a grand total of eighty-seven cents in his pocket. The little lawyer ducked into the nearest corner bar and spent seventy-five cents of it on a gin and beer while he thought over all he knew about Doris Dawn.

  Her mother, Diana Dawn, had been one of the most beautiful women of her, or any other, generation. Talented, too, though she hadn’t needed to be. It was worth the price of a theater ticket just to look at her, she didn’t have to utter one word or sing one note. She’d married a man as rich as she was beautiful, and been heart-broken when he was killed in a polo accident shortly after Doris was born.

  Time had apparently healed wounds enough for her to marry again—this time, an actor. Malone fumbled through his memory for his name, finally found it. Robert Spencer. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, for some reason he couldn’t quite place.

  Diana Dawn Stuart Spencer had been married only a few months when her second husband had vanished from the face of the earth. Not long after, Diana herself had jumped from the end of Navy Pier into the cold waters of Lake Michigan, leaving alone in the world a small blonde daughter who inherited the Stuart fortune, was raised by a board of trustees, and burst upon the world at eighteen as Doris Dawn, singer, determined on making her own way in the world.

  Malone put down his empty glass, sighed, and felt in his pockets. Two nickels, two pennies and a telephone slug. He searched other pockets, not forgetting to investigate the lining of his coat and his trouser cuffs. Sometimes small change turned up unexpectedly. But not this time. He considered investing the two nickels in the slot machine, thought over the odds, and gave that up. He debated riding a street car to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar and negotiating a small loan, then remembered Joe the Angel had gone to Gary, Indiana, to help celebrate a niece’s wedding. He ended up by riding a State Street car to within a couple of blocks of 1117 Gay Street.

  It was nearly midnight when he entered the tin
y, perfect (though admittedly dusty) house Charles Stuart had built for his bride and left to his daughter, set in a small square of garden enclosed by a high brick wall. Less than half an hour later he was out in the garden with a spade he’d found in the back entry, shivering in the rain, and praying that he was on a fool’s errand. Before one o’clock he was on the telephone in frantic search for Capt. Dan von Flanagan, of the Homicide Squad. By one-fifteen von Flanagan was there having brought, per Malone’s request, two husky policemen with shovels, the morgue wagon, a basket and a bottle of gin.

  “I thought it was a joke,” Malone said hoarsely, nursing his glass of gin. “I found her diary right where she said it would be.” He nodded toward the little Chippendale desk. “I started to read it.”

  “Shame on you, Malone,” von Flanagan said. “Reading a girl’s diary.” The big policeman looked uncomfortable and uneasy, perched on the edge of a delicate brocade chair. “What does it say?”

  “It was her idea,” Malone said. “Anyway, I wanted to read her version of those two—suicide attempts. And this paper fell out of it.” He handed it to von Flanagan.

  Dig, dig, dig.

  Under the willow tree in the garden.

  “It sounded like a couple of lines from a couple of popular songs. But I found a spade, and I dug.”

  “You must have been drunk,” von Flanagan commented.

  “Who, me?” Malone asked indignantly. He gulped the rest of his glass of gin, took out a cigar and lit it with only a slightly trembling hand.

  “And don’t be nervous,” von Flanagan said. “You’ve seen skulls before.”

  “Who’s nervous?” Malone demanded. He closed his eyes and remembered standing under a tree that dripped cold spring rain, bracing his feet in the mud and digging with a small inadequate shovel into the still half-frozen ground, until suddenly a white and fleshless face leered at him. A nearby door opened, and he jumped.

  A policeman in an oilskin slicker and muddy boots said, “We found a’most all of him, ’cept a little bit of his left foot.” He closed the door as he went out, and Malone closed his eyes. He opened the door again and said, “Looks like he was buried with all his clothes on, even his jewelry. Johnson’s cleaning off his watch.” He closed the door again. Malone sneezed.