by Craig Rice
The manager looked puzzled and unhappy. “I don’t know. The clerk downstairs said he didn’t get here until then.”
Von Flanagan muttered something about damned inefficiency, got the clerk on the telephone, and barked questions at him.
“The clerk doesn’t know when the hell he got in,” he said, banging down the phone, “except that he had a coupla calls around three and didn’t answer the phone, and at four he called and asked to be waked up at seven-thirty. One of the elevator boys must remember what time he was brought up.”
After a number of calls, it developed that none of the elevator boys remembered having seen Mr. Otto coming home the night before.
“He might have walked up the stairs,” the manager said faintly.
“Or he might have come in the window in a glider,” von Flanagan roared, “only I don’t think he did. This is the eighth floor and a heluva long climb, especially for a little guy.” He paused, baffled, and began slowly turning scarlet again.
There was the sound of a key in the lock. Everyone turned to watch the door as it opened. Von Flanagan looked as though he were ready to spring.
It was Allswell McJackson who came in. He looked at the people in the room, at the wicker basket, and turned pale.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in what was almost a whisper. “Mr. Otto won’t like it. He won’t like it a little bit.”
“Allswell,” Helene began, “Mr. Otto—”
Von Flanagan waved her to silence. “And who might you be?” He added, icily, “Professor.”
“This is Allswell McJackson,” Jake volunteered, “Mr. Otto’s assistant.” He turned to the big man. “This is Captain von Flanagan. He—”
“Don’t talk so loud,” Allswell McJackson implored. “You’ll disturb Mr. Otto.”
“Oh no we won’t,” von Flanagan said. “We won’t disturb him a bit.” He looked at the newcomer as though he were preparing to pounce.” So this is Mr. McJackson. Well now, perhaps you can tell us when Mr. Otto came home last night.”
“I don’t know,” McJackson said in a troubled voice. “I didn’t bring him home. I don’t know how he got home. I took Miss Doll home right after I got off stage, and when I got back, Mr. Otto was gone. I don’t know why he went home by himself. He’d never done such a thing before. And”—he paused and frowned unhappily—“he didn’t come straight home, either.”
“How do you know?” von Flanagan roared.
McJackson said, “Sssh!” and looked apprehensively toward the closed door. “I brought his car back to the garage and went home myself. Then I got to worrying and so I came back here to see if he was very angry with me, and he wasn’t here. I don’t know where he was.”
Captain von Flanagan’s eyes began to gleam. “Ah. And what time was that?”
“It was almost four o’clock,” McJackson said. “I stopped in the drugstore for a malted milk on my way home and it was ten after four then.” He looked as though he might wring his hands any minute. “I’m afraid Mr. Otto is furious. I don’t know what he’ll say to me.”
“He won’t say a word,” von Flanagan said almost pleasantly. “I promise.” He turned to Jake. “Then he couldn’t have got here before about four o’clock. He went someplace and got home and called the desk at four and left a call for seven-thirty. And then—”
“Please,” Allswell McJackson said. “Is anything wrong? Because—”
“Just one little thing’s wrong, professor,” von Flanagan said.
“Please,” the big man said again. “I’m not a professor.”
“What the hell do you talk like one for then?” von Flanagan demanded. Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “The only thing wrong—”
The bedroom door opened at that moment and Dr. Wickett came out, buttoning his cuffs.
“You can carry him out now, boys,” he said to the men with the basket.
Allswell McJackson took one horrified look through the open door. “Mr. Otto!” he squealed.
“Strangled, all right,” Dr. Wickett said, putting on his overcoat.
Allswell McJackson gave a horrified little moan and slid into a chair.
“Strangled!” von Flanagan growled. “I could’ve told that myself. What I want to know is what he was strangled with, and when it was done, and who did it. What do we pay medical examiners for?”
“You worry about who did it,” Dr. Wickett snapped. “What do we pay a bunch of dumb cops for? I don’t know what he was strangled with. There’s nothing in the place that looks as if it could have been used for it.”
Jake’s and Helene’s eyes met, and silently asked each other if those silk stockings should have been planted up in the midget’s room.
“But WHEN?” von Flanagan howled.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Dr. Wickett said. “Can’t give you more’n a vague idea now. Maybe I can tell more when we look in his stomach at the autopsy, but I won’t promise you anything.”
The police officer scowled at him. “A lot of use you are! All we know now is he was killed some time before seven-thirty, and some time after four.”
“Four?” Dr. Wickett paused in the buttoning of his overcoat. “I can tell you this much: He was dead a long time before four o’clock. It couldn’t have been later than two, and probably it was earlier than that.”
Von Flanagan’s eyes grew round and bright as marbles. “But he made a telephone call at four o’clock.”
“He came to life long enough to do it, then,” the doctor said calmly. “Because he sure was dead at four o’clock this morning.” He opened the door, said, “See you at the morgue,” and went out.
“He was a midget,” von Flanagan said suddenly, in an odd, tight voice. He too had listened to all his grandmother’s tales. “No! I don’t believe it!” He wheeled on Allswell McJackson, who turned a shade whiter. “All those medical examiners are crazy anyway. He had to be alive at four this morning. What’s more, you’re the only guy who could’ve got in here, because you had a key. I believe you done it yourself, and I’m gonna take you right down to headquarters and make sure of it—hey!”
Helene moved quickly to the side of the big man who had slid quietly down to the floor. After a moment she looked up at von Flanagan.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she said reproachfully.
Allswell McJackson had fainted.
Chapter Nine
“What d’ya mean, he didn’t do it?” von Flanagan roared. “He worked for him, didn’t he? And it stands to reason a big guy like this would hate to work for a little guy like that. And he was the only person who could’ve got in here, on account of he had the other key. And nobody knows where he was last night when the midget was being killed.”
“But nobody knows what time Mr. Otto was killed,” the hotel manager said unhappily. “Nobody even knows how he got home. Nobody saw him get home.”
The big policeman glared at him for a moment, then suddenly sat down, hard.
“That’s a hundred percent correct,” he said slowly. “None of your elevator boys saw him come up in the elevator. He couldn’t’ve walked up all that way. So somebody must have took him up. And Doc Wickett couldn’t find what he was strangled with.” He looked triumphantly at Malone, who was trying unsuccessfully to appear unconcerned. “I guess I can use deduction as good as anybody. That little guy was killed someplace else, and then he was brought here.”
“Brilliant,” Malone murmured.
“But,” Helene objected, “that doesn’t mean that Allswell did it.”
Von Flanagan growled at her, “If he didn’t do it, who did?”
“Little elves,” Jake said gloomily.
“Listen here,” von Flanagan told him, “you stick to hiring comedians, not trying to impersonate ’em.” He turned to Malone. “Are you this professor’s lawyer?”
Malone said, “No,” in the same instant that Helene said, “Yes,” and just as loudly. They scowled at each other for a moment before Malone declared, “I’m having
nothing whatever to do with the case,” and Helene followed him briskly with, “That’s perfect nonsense. Of course you are.”
“Why don’t you toss for it?” von Flanagan said.
Allswell McJackson had finally found his voice, and it was a feeble, plaintive one. “But what makes you think I need a lawyer? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Shut up,” Malone said, “and let me do the talking.”
“There!” Helene said triumphantly. “I told you so.”
“And I protest your taking him to jail on insufficient evidence,” Malone went on, ignoring her. “And if you do take him, I’ll be down there in a hurry to get him out.”
Von Flanagan beamed, and laid one hand on his prisoner’s arm. “Come along, professor. We’ll be seeing you, Malone.” He turned to the two policemen who had preceded him. “Keep everybody out of here, including”—he grinned maliciously at Jake and Helene—“all these sightseers.”
Allswell McJackson opened his mouth for another protest, and closed it again when the little lawyer waved at him. “Don’t worry,” Malone told him reassuringly. “I’ll fix it up. I never lost a client yet.”
He was ominously silent, however, all the way back to Jake and Helene’s apartment. Once there, he shed his hat and coat, lit a cigar, and stood for a minute looking at them both indignantly.
“A hundred and forty million people in the United States,” he began, “and you always get me stuck with a client who doesn’t have any dough.”
“If you’ll just be patient,” Helene said, “we’ll find you one with lots of it. And you couldn’t desert poor Allswell in a spot like that.” She lit a cigarette. “Did Annette Ginnis marry that young man? And why was she sending for you at five o’clock in the morning?”
Jake frowned at her. “Never mind about that. We’ve got other things to worry about first. The Royals’ family scandal can wait, and this can’t. Malone, what do you think? Is von Flanagan right?”
“Every now and then,” the lawyer said. “It stands to reason a man can’t be wrong all the time.” He went out into the kitchen and turned on the coffeepot.
“I mean is he right about Allswell murdering the midget?” Jake asked.
“Could be,” Malone said laconically.
“Damn you,” Helene said. “He’s your client. Do you think he’s guilty or not?”
“If he has me for a lawyer,” Malone said, “who cares?” He watched the coffee for a few minutes, finally poured himself a cup, returned with it to the living room and sat down. “As a matter of fact, though, he can’t be. He left the Casino before Jay Otto finished his act, to get Angela Doll out of the way before that impersonation of her went on. Of course, he could be lying about that.”
“He could,” Helene said. “But it would be easy enough to find out.”
“Assuming that he’s telling the truth,” Malone went on, “and that he didn’t get back to the Casino until we saw him come in, then he couldn’t have murdered Jay Otto—because we went backstage and found Jay Otto dead before then.”
“But,” Helene pointed out, “we can’t tell von Flanagan that.” She frowned. “If the police decide on a time when the midget must have been murdered, and if Allswell has an alibi for that time—” She paused, and added, “Or if we find someone who did murder the midget—”
“If we do, I hope it’s someone with money,” Malone said gloomily, “who wants me for a lawyer.”
“What I don’t understand,” Jake said, “is who took the midget out of the dressing room, carried him home and put him carefully to bed in his own pajamas, and then brought the fiddle case up here and left it leaning against my door.” He briefly told the morning’s events to Malone, and finished, “Was it the murderer or was it someone else? And in either case what was the idea?”
“What was the idea of murdering the midget in the first place?” Helene asked. “We don’t even know that yet.”
“Nine o’clock in the morning,” Malone moaned, “and she puts problems to me. Who murdered the midget? Why? What was the idea of using eleven silk stockings, all different sizes, to hang him with? Who carried him out of the Casino and put him to bed in his own bed and left the fiddle case here by Jake’s door, and why? And how am I going to spring Allswell McJackson from the jug, and will I ever get paid for it if I do?” He stared indignantly at them both. “Do you realize I haven’t had any sleep?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing since we left you this morning?” Jake snapped. “Knitting sweaters?”
The little lawyer didn’t appear to have heard him. “The midget was dead,” he whispered. “He couldn’t have gotten out of that locked fiddle case, with the key in Jake’s pocket all the time, and propped the case against Jake’s door from pure maliciousness, and put himself to bed. He couldn’t. I don’t believe it.” He looked appealingly at Helene. “Is there any more coffee in the house?”
“There is,” she told him, “but you’d better have a drink. And the midget was dead, and he didn’t get out of that fiddle case by himself.” She swung open the hinged bookcase that concealed a built-in bar and poured him a healthy swallow of straight rye. “Besides, Malone—”
He took the glass and stared at it for a moment. “That whiskey. It wasn’t poisoned. It was doped. I forgot to tell you. I got my chemist friend out of bed and he tested it.”
“Well,” Helene said, “that drink you’re looking at suspiciously isn’t poisoned either. It isn’t even doped. I’m sorry, but the service around here is terrible. I’ve complained again and again to the management about our whiskey not being poisoned, but—”
“Ruth Rawlson,” Malone said in a hoarse voice. “She’ll be waking up before long, feeling like a zombie. And then there’s Annette Ginnis. I promised to get back there as soon as I could.” He looked around the room desperately, gulped down the drink, and half choked on it.
“And now,” he finished, as soon as he could get his breath, “this! Allswell McJackson. He not only hasn’t money enough to hire a swell, expensive lawyer like me, but I don’t even like the guy. Why couldn’t he have murdered the midget? Hell, we’ve got to have somebody who murdered the midget.” He took down the last drops in his glass, relit his cigar, and growled, “I wish I’d never known either of you.”
“Think of all the fun you’d have missed,” Helene said soothingly. “Now, what’s all this business about Annette Ginnis? Did she elope or didn’t she? And in either case, why is she shouting for a lawyer?”
“She did,” Malone said, “and she didn’t.” He drew a long breath. “It’s like this.” Jake and Helene both leaned forward expectantly. “Annette Ginnis called me up this morning and asked me—”
The telephone rang.
The Times reporter down in the lobby asked Jake if he had any comments on the murder of Jay Otto, and what he was going to do about the floor show at the Casino that night.
Jake told him politely, if a shade profanely, that he had no comments to make, and that the floor show was going to be a big surprise.
“To me,” he said gloomily as he hung up, “the surprise will be if there is any floor show. Helene, what did you do with those stockings?”
She blinked. “Stockings? All this couldn’t have unsettled your mind, could it? Oh.” A different look came into her eyes. “You mean those stockings.”
“I’d say the shock had unsettled both your minds,” Malone growled. “Or have I forgotten something?”
“The stockings that strangled the midget,” Jake told him. “Eleven of them. Remember now?” He turned to Helene. “What did you do with them?”
“I hid them,” she said promptly, “while you were out taking the fiddle case back to the Casino. I didn’t know what might happen next, and I didn’t want to take any chances, so I hid them.”
“Good girl,” Jake said admiringly. “Only why didn’t you play a hundred percent safe and destroy them?”
She stared at him in horror. “They’re evidence.”
&n
bsp; “We’ve destroyed enough evidence already,” Malone said, “that we shouldn’t draw the line at eleven silk stockings.”
“I’ve a hunch we’re going to need them,” Helene said firmly. “Besides, did you ever try to destroy eleven stockings in a kitchenette apartment with no incinerator?” She drew a long breath. “You’re a lawyer. How would this scene look in court, when the midget’s murderer is being tried? ‘What did you find in the fireplace of Mr. Justus’ apartment, Officer So-and-so?’ ‘I found the charred remains of eleven silk stockings, which—’”
“Oh all right,” Jake said crossly. “You couldn’t destroy them. Where the hell did you hide them?”
“You’d never guess,” she said proudly, “but it’s a good, safe place.”
“Where?”
“In fact,” she went on, “you could search this place for a million years and never find them. I’d just like to make you a bet—”
“For the love of Mike!” Jake exploded. “This is no time to play hide-the-thimble. Or hide-the-stockings. Where are they?”
“All neatly rolled up in pairs,” she told him, “with the extra one tucked into one of the rolls. And they’re all in my stocking drawer, mixed up with my own stockings. The last place in the world anybody would look for them.”
“If anybody wanted to look for them,” Malone said. “Hell, nobody knows they were used to strangle the midget, except us. Us, and the murderer.” He scowled. “Eleven extra-long silk stockings. All different sizes. All belonging to girls in the Casino chorus. Why?”
“That’s what’s been puzzling me,” Jake said. “Why go to all the bother of stealing eleven silk stockings from the chorus girls’ dressing room and making them into a rope? Why not just use a rope, and be done with it?”
Malone shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. Why the devil weren’t there twelve stockings?” He rubbed out his cigar in the nearest ash tray. “Maybe it was just an oversight. But I don’t think so. I think there was some very definite and deadly reason for leaving out that twelfth stocking. The question is—what was it?”