The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

  “I hope you haven’t caught cold,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

  “I never catch cold,” Malone said. He finally got the cigar lit, reached for the gin bottle and said, “But just to be on the safe side—” He sneezed again. “About the diary. It was written by a very happy, very normal young girl who had everything to live for, including about half the money in the world. Up to the point where strange things began to happen to her.” He reached for the little leather bound book and began to read aloud.

  “A strange thing happened. Everything is very mixed up and I don’t understand. I made myself a nightcap and went to bed early after the show, and woke up in a hospital. In between I sort of remember a lot of excitement and people running around, and being very sick and uncomfortable. They tried to tell me I took poison, but I know I didn’t. They said I wrote “Good-bye, good-bye” in lipstick on the head of my bed, but by the time they let me come home it had been washed off so I couldn’t tell it I wrote it or not. They found poison in my stomach but I know I hadn’t taken any.”

  “She is nuts,” von Flanagan commented.

  “Wait a minute,” Malone said. He went on. “I remember now that night there was a man in my room. He came to deliver a telegram only I never did see the telegram. I was in the bathtub so I put a robe on and opened the door a crack and told him to leave the telegram on the desk and shut the door when he went out. My nightcap was on the bed table. I wonder if someone is trying to poison me.”

  The little lawyer paused, refilled his glass, relit his cigar and said, “After that, there’s a note of uneasiness in the diary. The usual things—dates, parties, clothes—but a feeling of worry.”

  Von Flanagan scowled and said, “I remember a little about that. Someone called her maid and told her to hurry home, her employer was sick. Otherwise this babe might of died, though she didn’t take much.”

  “Some time later,” Malone said, “she wrote, ‘Someone is trying to kill me.’” He paused. “You’ll remember this, too. She was found in a hotel room, registered under another name. The maid came in and found her in the bathroom, with her wrists cut.” He paused once more and added, frowning, “She checked in, and did the slashing job just before the maid was due in that room on her regular rounds.”

  “Stupid of her,” von Flanagan commented, “if she really wanted to—” he cleared his throat, “check in and check out. She should have known she’d be found in time.”

  “According to her diary,” Malone told him, “a man telephoned her and told her that if she’d go to such-and-such a hotel, and register under such-and-such a name, he’d meet her there with some very important information about the long-missing Robert Spencer. She went there, answered the door, ‘a man’—otherwise unidentified—forced her into the bathroom, slashed her wrists, and left her there unconscious. She told the police this story, and they laughed at her. The words Good-bye, good-bye were written on the bathroom mirror.”

  Von Flanagan shuffled his feet uncomfortably and said, “You gotta admit, Malone, it smells phony.”

  Malone ignored him. “From that point on, the diary is the story of a terrified girl who knows someone is trying to kill her. And yet,” he put down his cigar, “I’ll read you the last entry.”

  “I am terribly afraid, but I must know the truth. I have been promised that if I keep the appointment I will be told what happened to Robert Spencer. This I must know.”

  Malone closed the little diary gently and said, “The slip of paper directing me—or someone—to dig in the garden, under the tree, was found between those two pages.” He picked up the remains of his cigar, decided it was past all hope of relighting, and began to unwrap a new one.

  “She took poison,” he said, “but not quite enough to kill her, and her maid was summoned home in time to have her rushed to a hospital. She registered at a hotel under a phony name and slashed her wrists—not badly—just before the hotel maid was due to come in.”

  “What are you trying to prove?” von Flanagan asked uneasily.

  “Nothing. Except that ‘the man’ must have known that ledge was safe enough to push a baby carriage on. He thought she’d use her head and climb back in through her window, though he made sure someone would see her and call the police before she did. He obviously didn’t know she had an abnormal fear of heights that would keep her frozen there, too scared to move and too sane to jump. Nor,” he added modestly, “did he know that I’d arrive providentially.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” von Flanagan said.

  “Trouble is,” Malone said, reaching for the gin bottle, “right now, neither do I.”

  Again the young policeman came to the door, even more mud on his boots and slicker. “We found a little of what’s left of his clothes,” he reported. “Looks like he’s been there a long time. Got his wallet, his watch, and some other stuff. Looks like,” he said, “he was some guy named Robert Spencer.”

  Malone lifted the gin bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes.

  “It looks,” the young policeman added, “like he might of been murdered. Anyway we found what must of been a bullet in what looks like it probably had been his stomach, once.”

  “Go away,” Malone groaned. He put down the gin bottle and sneezed again.

  “You’re going to get pneumonia,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

  The little lawyer shook his head. “Not on my income.”

  “I better go back out,” the young policeman said. “Johnson still thinks he can find the rest of that left foot.” He slammed the door.

  “Malone,” von Flanagan said, “that note. Was it written in the same handwriting as the diary?”

  Malone blew his nose and said “Yes,” unhappily. That was one of the things that had been bothering him. Plus the fact that there was something maddeningly reminiscent about the wording of the note. “But,” he added, “it wasn’t written on a telephone pad.” If he could only remember—

  At this point another young policeman came in the room and said, “There’s someone here inquiring about Miss Dawn. I thought I’d better speak to you. He says his name is Robert Spencer.”

  Malone covered his eyes with his hand and said, “This is too much!”

  Von Flanagan said, “By all means, send him in.”

  “By all means,” Malone repeated. “Maybe he can help find what’s left of his own left foot.” He sneezed again. He downed another drink of gin. Then, suddenly he remembered, Bob Spencer, actor. Appearing, right now, in a rather dreary and not too successful comedy. Robert Spencer had had a small son, parked somewhere with relatives, when he met and married Diana Dawn.

  “There’s someone with him,” the policeman said. “A Mr. Apt.”

  “John Apt,” Malone said. “He’s an old-time theatrical agent. His friends call him Jack. Managed Diana Dawn, probably managed Robert Spencer, too—I don’t know.” He smothered the next sneeze.

  Bob Spencer was tall, young, handsome and anxious-eyed. His first words were, “Is Doris all right? What’s been happening to her? Why are all these policemen at her house? Where is she? When can I see her?”

  Jack Apt smiled at Malone, von Flanagan and the young policeman. It was a friendly, ingratiating smile. He nodded a shoulder towards the young actor and said, “You pardon him, he is upset.”

  Nothing, Malone reflected, would ever upset Jack Apt. The diminutive agent had undoubtedly been born with a friendly smile and an imperturbable face and hadn’t changed his expression in all his sixty-odd years. He had bright little eyes, a white, waxy skin, and a few wisps of silvery hair on his well-shaped skull. He wore a black Chesterfield that seemed too large for his tiny frame and carried, incredibly and appropriately, a black derby.

  “I am greatly concerned,” Jack Apt said. “I am the manager of Miss Dawn.” He sat down on a straight-back chair and placed the derby neatly on his knees. “I would like your assurance, sir—”

  “Where is she?” Bob Spencer demanded, his voice harsh wi
th desperation.

  “The young lady is quite safe,” von Flanagan said coldly. “And what’s it to you?”

  “I’m in love with her,” Bob Spencer said. “She’s in love with me.”

  Malone looked at him and swallowed a sigh. He’d been cherishing a few very personal ideas about Doris Dawn. Now, he realized, he didn’t have a chance.

  “We’re going to be married,” Bob Spencer added.

  The little lawyer sat up in surprise, but said nothing.

  Jack Apt beamed. “Just like two little lovebirds. And then there will be no more difficulty about the money.”

  “Money?” Malone asked. It was one of his favorite subjects, right now more than ever.

  “Never mind about the money,” Bob Spencer said, “Where is Doris?”

  “Never mind about Doris,” Malone snapped. “What money?”

  “Diana Dawn’s will,” Jack Apt explained. “She had a great deal of money. All of it from that unfortunate Mr. Stuart. She left it all to her second husband, Robert Spencer. Just before she died. Almost as though she had a premonition.”

  Malone scowled. “But Robert Spencer had disappeared before then.”

  “Quite right,” Jack Apt said, nodding and smiling. “Therefore the will stated that until he was found, Doris Dawn would receive the income from the estate, and would have the use of this property for living purposes.”

  “‘Found,’” Malone quoted. “Did it specify—dead or alive?”

  “No,” Jack Apt said. He looked very innocent and mild, turning his derby round and round on his knee. “A very curious will, I admit. But Diana wanted it that way. Robert had his faults, but she was fond of him. He stole from her, lied to her, almost ruined her career, but she was fond of him right up to the end.” Suddenly he didn’t look quite as innocent, nor as mild. “There is a clause—if her daughter should die, before he returned or was found, the money would go to his heirs. Or—if her daughter married, before he returned or was found, the money would go to the daughter and her husband. A very complicated will, but then, Diana Dawn had a very complicated personality.”

  Young Bob Spencer obviously couldn’t stand this any longer. He said, “But this isn’t finding Doris. And she hasn’t married anybody, and he—hasn’t been found.”

  Just at that moment one of the young policemen came in and said, “Johnson just found the rest of the left foot. Looks like we got all of him now.”

  “Him?” Bob Spencer asked wildly. He stared around the room. “Where—is—Doris?”

  “Right here,” Doris Dawn’s voice said.

  Malone jumped, and turned around.

  “Hello, Malone,” a deep, masculine voice said. “Sorry we startled you.”

  She was still very pale, but her face had been washed and freshly made up. Her honey blonde hair was smooth over her shoulders. She wore a nurse’s uniform and white shoes and stockings, but the dark mink coat was over the uniform.

  Malone sneezed and said, “You’re in a hospital. You’re an illusion. Go away. Vanish. Scat!”

  Jerry Kane laughed.

  “And you, Kane,” Malone said, breathing hard. “How did you get in here?”

  “We came in through the back door,” Kane said. “Very easy, since it’s our own house.”

  “Our—?” the little lawyer exploded.

  He glared at Jerry Kane. The gambler, racketeer, nightclub owner, and promoter was a big, rangy, yet strangely graceful man. His tanned face could be hard as nails, or it could be ingratiatingly friendly and smiling, and it had an old scar down one cheek. His business deals had always kept him inside the law—but just inside. He owned the night club in which Doris Dawn sang. His reputation with women was worse than Malone’s.

  The other occupants of the room had been momentarily struck speechless. Now, everyone spoke at once. All questions. All the same questions.

  “I discovered,” Doris Dawn said, “I had to get out of that hospital. I had to. Because there was a chance to find out—something. It was very easy, really. I bribed a nurse to call Jerry. He bribed the policeman by my door to go away. And he brought me a nurse’s uniform, and all I had to do was put it on and walk out.”

  “And,” the big man said, “before coming here we drove across the state line and were married. Meet Mrs. Kane.”

  Young Bob Spencer cried, “Doris!” in an anguished voice.

  “You fool!” Jack Apt said.

  She paid no attention. “This time, no one’s going to stop me—finding out. It would be better, honestly, if you all just waited here for me.” Suddenly a little gun flashed in her hand. “But don’t try to stop me.”

  “Doris—baby—” Jerry Kane gasped. And then, “How the hell did you get my gun?”

  “I took it out of your pocket,” she said calmly. Her white little face was hard as ice. “If anyone tries to stop me or follow me, I’ll shoot. No matter who. Even if it’s Jerry, and I love Jerry. I always have.” Suddenly she was gone.

  Before anyone could move, little Jack Apt said, “Too bad you married her, Kane. Because she isn’t going to inherit the money after all.”

  Kane swore bitterly and raced for the door. Suddenly everyone in the room was racing for the door. Malone caught up, out on the sidewalk, just as a car roared away down the street. Kane’s car. With Doris driving. Other cars roared away. Bob Spencer’s roadster. Two police cars.

  Malone stood shivering. They’d never catch up with that car of Kane’s, not even the squad car would. And here he was stranded, and only he knew where she was going.

  Not a taxi in sight. None nearer than Chicago Avenue.

  Chicago Avenue—a sudden thought struck him, he wheeled around and sprinted down the street. One block to State Street, three blocks to Chicago Avenue. He made it to the safety zone just as an east bound streetcar came clanging through the rain.

  “Wet night,” the conductor commented.

  “Going to be wetter,” Malone prophesied gloomily. He dropped the remaining nickel in the coin box and began searching his pockets for an imaginary two pennies. The streetcar had reached the turn into Lakeshore Drive when Malone found the telephone slug, handed it triumphantly to the conductor for change and was properly surprised and crestfallen when it was returned to him. He continued to search for the pennies right up to the moment when the now empty streetcar came to an abrupt halt at the end of the line.

  “Guess I’ll have to put you off here,” the conductor said. “No fare, no ride.”

  Malone glanced through the window, saw the familiar outlines of Navy Pier, and said, “Only the brave deserve the fair.” He reached into his vest pocket and said, “Have a cigar.”

  Jerry Kane’s custom-built convertible was parked at the entrance to the pier. There were no other cars in sight Malone sighed. This was something he was going to have to handle by himself.

  He knew exactly where to go. Up the stairs on the left-hand side of the pier, and along the promenade. Dark and deserted now, and desolate in the rain. There was one certain point, just beyond the line of benches—he stared ahead through the wet blackness and saw no sign of a girl in a nurse’s uniform. He began to run.

  He reached the spot from which Diana Dawn had leaped to her death, years before, and looked over the railing. There was a blob of white on the black water. Malone peeled off his overcoat, kicked off his shoes, and jumped.

  The water was icy cold. He caught his breath after one terrible moment, and swam in the direction of the white blob.

  She was alive. She was struggling against the water. That gave him new strength. He held her head up for a minute and, by some miracle, managed to rid her of the dark mink coat that was pulling her down.

  A boat was coming. A tiny canoe, dark against the darkness. Malone aimed for it, helping her. An oar came out from the canoe, and pushed—down.

  There was a brief agony of being underwater and an even briefer remembrance of all the things that had made living so much fun. An almost unbearable roaring in his ears a
s he rose to the surface still holding her. A light that almost blinded him as he breathed air again.

  A voice said, “Catch ’em before they go down again.” Strong hands reached out and caught him by the armpits. One quick motion, and he was hauled into the motor boat that had made the almost unbearable roaring and had flashed its light in his face.

  He longed to collapse into unconsciousness there on the deck, but first—he looked, and saw that she had been hauled on board, and was breathing. Then he managed, with his last strength, to point at the canoe.

  He heard a shot. He pulled himself up enough to look over the edge of the boat. He saw the canoe, overturned, starting to settle and sink.

  “You might have known I’d commandeer a shore boat,” Jerry Kane said. “I knew where she’d go. After all, I’ve been in love with her for a long time.”

  Malone lay back against the set boards, thought the whole thing over, and finally said, “You know, I think I am getting a cold after all.”

  In the emergency room on the pier, Captain von Flanagan agreed that it was a shame young Bob Spencer—such a promising young actor, too—had perished in an attempt to rescue one of Chicago’s favorite radio and stage entertainers, Miss Doris Dawn. Fortunately, Mr. Jerry Kane had come along in time to rescue Miss Dawn and Mr. John Joseph Malone, prominent Chicago attorney.

  After the reporters and Doris Dawn and her new husband had gone, he said, “All right, Malone, what the hell happened?”

  Malone snuggled into the blanket some kind soul had wrapped around him, sneezed, and said, “If Doris Dawn died, and the body of Robert Spencer were found, Robert Spencer’s heir would inherit several million dollars. Bob Spencer, naturally, was the only heir. Being a young man of imagination, he decided it would be better for her to commit suicide than to be murdered in some ordinary way. There wouldn’t be so many embarassing questions asked of the one person to benefit by her death.”