The Big Midget Murders

by Craig Rice

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Malone told her. Before he could say anything more, he caught sight of the huge figure of Jay Otto’s assistant in the doorway leading backstage, and felt a sudden cold shiver run up and down his spine.

  Jake saw him in the same instant, and whispered in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “He can’t possibly know anything about it.”

  Seen at close range, the big man appeared even more massive than on the Casino’s stage. Malone peered at him for a moment, trying to place a resemblance, until at last he realized he was remembering the pictures in the early pages of The Outline of History.

  Jake introduced him as Mr. McJackson—Allswell McJackson—and invited him to join them. Mr. McJackson shook his head, ruffling his mane of thick, brown hair.

  “I’ve got to hurry to the hotel, or Mr. Otto’ll be in a frenzy.” He spoke in a beautifully modulated voice that had a very definite Harvard overtone. “I went to take Angela Doll home the minute I left the stage, and if I’d dreamed Mr. Otto would leave before I got back, I’d have hurried more than I did.”

  Jake and Helene looked at each other, each signaling the other to speak first. Malone had trouble with cigar smoke that went down the wrong way, and by the time he’d downed half his drink in order to stop strangling, Mr. McJackson had gone on talking, apparently oblivious of the interruption.

  “I hope Mr. Otto isn’t angry,” he said.

  “For the love of Mike!” Malone exploded. “He’s only a midget.” He’d been within a hairsbreadth of saying, “He was.”

  Mr. McJackson smiled wryly. “You don’t know Mr. Otto.”

  Malone downed the other half of his drink. “Now I’d have been glad to take Miss Doll home for you,” he said gallantly, “if it would have saved you any trouble.”

  “I wanted to get her away from the Casino before Mr. Otto did his impression of her,” the giant said. “Not that she won’t hear about it anyway.”

  Jake said, “He could have picked out someone else and saved me a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes,” Mr. McJackson agreed. “But he doesn’t enjoy doing an impression unless it makes somebody mad.” He sighed.

  “It must be a lousy job,” Malone said. “Why don’t you quit him?”

  Allswell McJackson shook his head, and a wistful look came into his eyes. “I’d do it tomorrow,” he said unhappily, “if I could only get a professorship. Even in some little jerk-water college.” He sighed again. “But it appears to be impossible.” He sighed again, said goodnight, and began shoving his way toward the exit.

  Malone waited till he was out of earshot before growling, “And you wouldn’t believe in leprechauns!”

  “Poor Allswell,” Helene said feelingly. “He has a degree in chemistry, and nobody’ll give him a job as a professor because he looks like a wrestling champion. All he could do was be a stooge for Jay Otto.”

  “And now,” Jake said, “that’s shot. Or hanged, rather.”

  Malone scowled. “I don’t suppose, then, that he’d have murdered his way out of a good job.”

  “He might have,” Jake said. “I imagine one could stand just so much of Jay Otto.”

  “But,” Helene pointed out, “he couldn’t have. Because he was taking Angela Doll home at the time.”

  “How do you know?” Malone demanded. “You don’t know what time Jay Otto was murdered, except that it was after the last performance, and before we went backstage. This guy could have taken Angela Doll home and gotten back in time. As a matter of fact,” he added thoughtfully, “just who could have gotten into that dressing room during that time and murdered the midget?”

  “Any one of Al Omega’s band,” Jake said, “or any one of Ramon Arriba’s band, or any one of the twelve chorus girls, or Angela Doll, or Allswell McJackson, or any one of the stage hands, electricians, waiters, bartenders, and kitchen help, or any member of the audience who might have strayed backstage.”

  “Or Ruth Rawlson,” Malone added, looking toward the door that led backstage.

  Helene said, “Now that we’ve limited the suspects so brilliantly!”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “None of this is any of our business. We’ve gone and fixed it so that probably no one will ever know who murdered the midget. Now, let’s not talk about it.”

  Malone was silent, watching the tottering figure of Ruth Rawlson as it moved toward their table. Save that she had unfastened her high-heeled sandals, leaving the straps dangling, the ex-beauty looked, at first glance, exactly as she had earlier in the evening. As she came closer to the table, however, the lawyer noticed that she was a shade more pale, and several degrees unsteadier. He rose hastily and pulled out a chair for her.

  She slid into it, beaming, and braced her elbows on the table. “Thank you so much, darling. Yes, I will have one drink. Just an itsy-bittsy one, though. Ruthie does have to get home early and get her sleep.” She opened her still lovely eyes to their full width and turned them on Malone. “You’ve no idea, really, what a responsibility it is to be a professional beauty. Early to bed—diet—plenty of exercise—” She rolled her eyes skyward with a martyred expression. “Just one little teensy-weensy drink, remember.” She picked up Jake’s glass and began sipping from it while waiting for her own to arrive.

  “I’m sure,” Malone said, with perfect composure, “your beauty is worth all the care you have to take of it.”

  Helene flashed him a grateful look across the table, turned to Ruth Rawlson, and said innocently, “Been backstage?”

  Ruth set down Jake’s glass, picked up her own, and nodded. “I’ve just come from the loveliest long chat with Angela Doll. You wouldn’t believe it, but I knew her mother. We were in the Follies together. Of course Angela is very young—it really wasn’t so long ago.” She sighed noisily. “Those dear, dead days! Sometimes, you know, sometimes I think I’ll go back to them after all. But I do enjoy private life so much.” She finished her glass, yawned, and closed her eyes. Malone had a sudden horrible notion that in another moment she would begin to snore.

  Jake rose. “Get your wrap, Ruth,” he said gently. “I’ll buy you a taxi home.”

  She opened her eyes again, smiled at him, and let him help her to her feet. “Been so nice meeting you,” she said to Malone. “Must meet again sometime.”

  Jake aimed her toward the checkroom, and turned back to whisper, “I think by the time I get back it’ll be safe to leave. And stop worrying.” His face looked very tired, and a trifle pale.

  “Damn Jake,” Helene said affectionately, after he was gone.

  “I know what you mean,” Malone said, nodding. “But he’s got to make a success of the Casino.”

  “While I’d be just as happy married to a press agent,” she told him gravely. “Malone, let this be a lesson to you. Never marry a woman with money.”

  “Hell,” the lawyer growled, “I’ve never even been able to meet a woman with money.” He gazed thoughtfully into his cigar smoke. “Did I hear her say she’d just come from a long chat with Angela Doll?” As Helene nodded, he went on, “But that Man Mountain the Second said he’d taken her home right after he left the stage.”

  “You don’t understand Ruth Rawlson,” Helene said. “She just happened to pick on Angela Doll. She’d have made it Queen Victoria if she’d happened to think of her first.”

  Malone blinked. “I can see she’s a souse,” he said, “but the insanity doesn’t show.”

  “Ruth is sane,” Helene said. “She just lies by some kind of instinct, I think. It comes natural to her. If she’s been shopping in Marshall Field’s, and you ask her where she’s been, she says she’s just come from Mandel Brothers. Or if she went to the movies the night before, she’ll tell you she was home reading the most fascinating book. The chances are this time she was back chinning with the chorus girls while they dressed.”

  “I’d love to be able to use Ruth on the witness stand sometime,” Malone said.

  “Ruth,” Helene said gravely, “is
stranger than fiction.”

  The little lawyer pretended not to have heard. “She couldn’t have strayed into the midget’s dressing room and murdered him, could she?”

  “She could,” Helene said, “but she wouldn’t have done it that way. Malone, who did murder him?”

  “I’ve mislaid my tea leaves at the moment,” the little lawyer said gloomily. He was silent a minute, lost in thought. “The hell of it is, I have a hunch I’ll never be able to find them, now.”

  The late crowd had begun to thin out by the time Jake returned. Betty Royal and her admirers had paused to speak to Helene and then gone home; the Goldsmiths had departed, not looking at or speaking to each other; the tables were emptying fast. Al Omega’s musicians were beginning to cast hopeful glances at their watches.

  “Ruth must be losing her grip,” Jake announced, sitting and lighting a cigarette. “Usually she puts away enough cheap whiskey to kill a horse, and keeps right on navigating. Tonight when I put her into the cab, she was practically paralyzed. I told the driver to see her all the way in her door.”

  “It isn’t every night one of her friends opens a night club,” Helene reminded him.

  “Or closes one,” Jake said wearily. He blew out his match and stared at its charred end. “Let’s go back and take the midget out of his fiddle case, and call the cops.”

  Helene stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m just getting it back,” Jake said. A thin line had appeared in his forehead, between his eyebrows. “I don’t mind breaking the law—or anyway, bending it a little—in a good cause, but murder is murder.”

  Malone drew a long breath. “I thought you didn’t like the little guy.”

  “I didn’t,” Jake said, “I detested him. And the cops will probably close up this joint for a week while they horse around trying to find out who killed him, and in the meantime Max Hook will want his dough back and decide to take the Casino instead. And I’ll end up with a job press-agenting an ice-skating troupe.”

  “Never mind,” Helene said, “I adore traveling.”

  He leaned across the table and kissed her.

  “Damn it,” Malone said crossly, “never cross your bridges until the horse is stolen. Remember, things never seem as bad as they are. I can stall off Max Hook, and in the meantime, maybe I can find out who killed your midget. What’s more,” he added, “I’ll bet you even money I can have your joint open for business by tomorrow night. I don’t have three guys in the sheriff’s office owing me money for nothing.”

  “Hooray for Malone!” Helene said enthusiastically.

  Jake grinned. “As I’ve said before, what the hell do I have a lawyer for? Let’s go.”

  He led the way back to the dressing room. The backstage of the Casino was deserted now, no light showed under the doors of the dressing room, save under the one that had been Jay Otto’s.

  Jake paused at the door, one hand on the knob.

  “We couldn’t possibly put him back the way we found him,” he said thoughtfully, “and we probably left fingerprints all over everything. We’ll just have to admit we took him down before we called the cops.”

  “Just say you thought he might be still alive,” Malone advised.

  Jake swung open the door. Helene stepped in ahead of him and switched on the light. Then she stood stock-still in the center of the floor, reaching for Jake’s arm.

  “Well,” she said at last, “the marines evidently got here ahead of us.”

  The fiddle case that held the body of Jay Otto, the Big Midget, was gone.

  Chapter Four

  Malone stared at the spot where the fiddle case had been, rapidly added up the events of the evening in his head, and privately resolved he would never take another drink, not as long as he lived.

  For a moment Jake appeared to have been petrified. Then, without a word, he strode across the room to the closet where the bull fiddle had been stored and flung open the door. The bull fiddle was still there. He stared at it for an instant, then kicked the door shut again.

  “It’s nonsense,” he said at last. “I don’t believe it.”

  Malone leaned against the dressing table and stared bewilderedly around the room. There wasn’t a place where the fiddle case could have been concealed, not another closet nor cupboard, not so much as a curtain.

  “How—” he began.

  “The question isn’t ‘how’,” Jake told him. “It’s ‘what’. What the devil are we going to do now?”

  “Search the rest of the place,” Helene suggested.

  Jake snorted indignantly. “I suppose you want to go around asking everybody you meet if he’s seen a bass fiddle case with a dead midget in it.”

  “No,” she said calmly, “but we can search the place from end to end for a pair of gloves I mislaid somewhere before the show.” And while he stared at her admiringly, she went on, “After all, it’s your night club, and you can search it if you want to.”

  “So it is,” Jake said. “I keep forgetting that. Come on, then.”

  Half an hour later they returned to the midget’s dressing room. By that time, save for Al Omega’s boys packing up their instruments and preparing to leave, the Casino was deserted. And the fiddle case was definitely nowhere in the building.

  Malone unwrapped a cigar and stared at it for a moment before lighting it. “Well,” he said at last, “there’s nothing you can do about it. You didn’t move the body from the premises, and you don’t know who did. Maybe it’ll turn up again and maybe it won’t. In the meantime, go home to bed and stop worrying.”

  “Pleasant dreams to you too,” Helene said acidly. “But just out of idle curiosity, I wonder who did take it away?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the murderer. Maybe some other person.”

  “How did this unknown person—whether he was the murderer or not—know the body was in the fiddle case? After all, the case was locked.”

  The little lawyer glared at her. “Obviously, he had X-ray eyes.” He ignored the face she made at him.

  Jake drew a long breath. “Malone’s right. The best thing for us to do is go home to bed.” He scowled. “Tomorrow’s bound to be a bad day, whatever happens.”

  Malone nodded. “Whether the body turns up or not, there’s going to be excitement when the midget is missing. Where did he live, anyway?”

  “In our hotel,” Jake said. “Had a very fancy suite there, I’ve been told. I’ve never seen it myself.”

  “Well,” Malone told him, “maybe you’ll be informed that he’s disappeared. Maybe you’ll be informed that he’s been found up an alley somewhere. Whatever happens, just remember you don’t know a thing about it.”

  Jake said, “Don’t worry about that. Do you think I’m a dope?”

  “Yes,” Helene said suddenly. Her face had turned very white. “I think we’re all three of us dopes.”

  The two men stared at her.

  “That bottle,” she said, in a voice that threatened to develop a quaver. “The bottle of Scotch. Malone thought it was poisoned. And being three dopes, we went off and left it here.”

  Jake frowned. “Well damn it,” he said, “we could hardly have carried it out and set it on our table.”

  “And besides,” Malone began. He paused and said, “Between hiding the midget’s body and your announcement about the stockings, the bottle just slipped our minds.”

  “In the meantime,” Helene said, “someone’s come in and drunk half of it.”

  Malone wheeled around, picked up the bottle, stared at it, and set it down again.

  “Someone,” Helene said, “is going around with half a bottle of poisoned liquor in his insides.”

  Jake felt for the chair, found it, and sat down hard.

  “And,” she finished, “we don’t know who it is!”

  For a good thirty seconds, the silence could have been cut with a knife.

  “Look here,” Jake said weakly. “Malone could have been mistaken. That Scotch may not be pois
oned at all.”

  “Do you want to drink it and find out?” she asked.

  “No,” he confessed.

  Malone unscrewed the cap of the bottle and sniffed. “Smells all right. But there’s still some of that whitish stuff along the edge.” He pointed to the neck of the bottle. “When the liquor was poured out, it washed the powder off one side of the rim, but not the other.” He picked up the cap, held it to the light, and ran a finger inside it. The finger came away with its tip covered with white powder. He sniffed at it thoughtfully.

  “Don’t taste it,” Jake said. “I’ll take your word for it. It’s poisoned.”

  “I’ve got a friend who’s a chemist,” Malone said. “Tomorrow morning I can have him analyze this and find out what it is.”

  “Damn it,” Jake said. “What’s the difference what kind of poison it is, I want to know who got it. Anybody could have wandered in here, seen the room empty and a bottle of expensive Scotch sitting on the dressing table, and helped himself.”

  “It could have been the murderer,” Helene said.

  “Not if the murderer put the poison in the bottle,” Jake pointed out scornfully.

  “Then if the person who carried away the fiddle case wasn’t the murderer, it could have been the person who carried away the fiddle case,” Helene said.

  “Your wonderful reasoning powers,” Jake said. “That’s what I really love you for.”

  “Or,” she said, “it could have been one of the orchestra men, or one of the waiters, or one of the chorus girls, or—anybody.”

  “For the love of Mike,” Malone said suddenly. “Jake, have you any liquor around this place that isn’t poisoned? Because if you have, I need it bad. After all, this is supposed to be a saloon.”

  “Don’t call it a saloon,” Jake said, “and all the liquor is locked up for the night. That’s the last thing the head bartender does before he goes home.”

  “A fine thing,” Helene said. “Own your own night club, and you can’t get a drink. Wait a minute.” She was out the door and down the hall before either man could stop her. In two minutes she was back again with three paper cups and a nearly full bottle of rye. “It’s Angela Doll’s,” she explained, “but she won’t mind.”