by Craig Rice
“Everything doesn’t happen to you,” Jake said. “I still have tonight’s show to worry about.” He told what had happened to Angela Doll, just as a cab arrived. Slamming the door, he said wearily, “Well, at least Helene’s getting some sleep.”
“Schiller street,” Malone said to the cab driver.
“What are we going to do when we get there?” Jake asked. “Walk in barehanded? Not,” he added, thinking of the bump on his head, “that I wouldn’t like to beat him to a jelly, with my bare hands.”
“We’re going to ring the doorbell, like little gentlemen,” Malone said. “And if Johnny Oscar is home, we’re going to tell him we’ve heard that the Hook has designs on his life, and that we just dropped in to tip him off. And we’re going to act as if we hadn’t the faintest idea he’d ever heard of the midget’s box, and sit and have a drink with him, and hope that he’ll inadvertently drop us some helpful piece of information. And if he isn’t home, we’ll go in and search the place.”
“Very nice, master mind!” Jake said scornfully. “Especially since, if he isn’t there, it’s likely that the box isn’t there either. And if he is there, we just pay a pleasant little social call and go away again.” He frowned out the cab window. “And he probably didn’t murder the midget. Johnny Oscar would never have thought up a refinement like those eleven silk stockings.”
“My pal!” Malone said bitterly. “Always encouraging. I thought of that myself. But if he didn’t murder the midget, he might know who did.”
“You don’t think he’ll tell you,” Jake said.
“I’ll do magic tricks,” Malone said, “and hypnotize him.”
The cab dropped them in front of the shabby house on Schiller street. Malone said, “Cheerful-looking place, isn’t it?” rang the doorbell, and added, “Let me do the talking.”
He rang the bell half a dozen times before he gave up and used Max Hook’s duplicate key.
“He may be just inside the door, waiting for company,” he warned Jake in a whisper.
Stepping to one side, he gave the door a sudden push. Nothing happened. He led the way into the hall slowly, looking to right and left. After a few steps he paused.
“I guess there’s no one home.”
The little lawyer peered into the four rooms.
“Nope. Nobody home. Listen for anybody at the door, and we’ll take a look around.”
“Wait a minute,” Jake said. “There’s a light in the basement. I can see it through the crack of the door.”
Malone tried the door. It was locked, but the key was there. He unlocked it, opened the door, peered down the stairs, and then called, “Who’s there?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then from the depths below, “Oh good Lord! Malone?”
“Helene!” Jake was down the stairs in one bound, Malone at his heels.
They saw Helene sitting on the cellar floor, her face streaked with dirt, her hair disheveled, a small scratch on one cheek. Annette Ginnis was lying on the floor, her head in Helene’s lap. The leather-covered metal box was on the table beside them.
“Don’t ask questions,” Helene said. “Just get us out of here.” She bent over Annette. “You can walk all right, can’t you?”
“Yes,” Annette said faintly. She struggled to her feet.
“But—” Jake said. He gasped, “Helene, are you all right? What happened? How did you get here? I thought you were—”
“I said, don’t ask questions,” she said. “Get us out of here first.” She struggled to her feet, pulling Annette up with her.
“The box—” Malone said.
Helene said, “Bring it along, and don’t you ask any questions, either.”
Malone took a quick look at her white face, tucked the box under his arm, and said, “I’ll run out in the street and get us a taxi. You come on up the stairs.”
“No,” Helene said. “We’ll all run out in the street and get a taxi. I’m not staying here another minute.”
Annette Ginnis began to cry. Helene pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and began an expert nose-wiping job on her as they started up the stairs.
“Johnny Oscar—” Jake began.
“He isn’t here,” Helene said. “I don’t know where he is. I’m not even sure I want to know where he is.”
Jake said, “But Helene, tell me—” and Malone said, “Shut up, Jake,” in the next second.
Malone had been leading the way up the stairs. Reaching the top, he saw something that he hadn’t been able to see coming down the little hall in the other direction. The door of a small closet, near the entrance, stood open.
He said, “Wait a minute,” and went on to investigate.
Helene said, “Malone, what is it?” She gasped, and said, “While I was down there, I heard a noise—”
Annette Ginnis moaned faintly.
Malone came back out of the closet. His round face was pale.
“Well,” he said, “I know where Johnny Oscar is. And I know where the other eleven silk stockings are, too.”
They looked toward the closet. Even from where they stood, they could see the heels of a pair of shiny black oxfords, against the closet wall, six inches from the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You can walk now,” Helene said firmly. “Just make a little tiny effort.”
“I’m sure I can,” Annette Ginnis whispered. She reached for Malone’s outstretched hand and slowly pulled herself to her feet. For a moment she stood there, swaying; then she managed a very small, very wan smile. “I promise I won’t faint again.”
A taxicab would be out of the question, Malone had explained. No cabdriver would forget two girls looking the way Helene and Annette looked, especially after Johnny Oscar’s murder was made public. And it might possibly be just as well if nobody could prove, later, that they’d been on the scene of the crime.
Malone had been silent, staring into space. Now he said unexpectedly, “Then Johnny Oscar didn’t murder the midget. I never really thought so. But I still don’t know who did.”
“I thought you didn’t care,” Helene said.
“I care now,” Malone told her. “I care two thousand dollars’ worth.” He told her about Pen Reddick’s visit, and the deal they had made.
Before Helene could comment, Jake arrived with the car. For once, Helene let him drive. She sat in the back seat, one arm around Annette.
“We’re taking the freight elevator,” she announced. “We’ve already created enough sensation in the lobby for one day. Come to think of it, we ought to send them a bill for entertaining their guests.”
Upstairs, she stared around the living room. It had never looked so beautiful to her before.
It looked beautiful to Annette, too. She gave a quick glance around her, and began to cry again.
“I was so frightened,” she sobbed. “I never should have gone there.”
Helene gasped. “You went there?”
“Let her tell it,” Jake said. Malone was already in the kitchenette, making coffee.
“I had to,” Annette said. “It was the box. I knew I had to get it.”
Jake and Helene looked at each other over the girl’s head.
“Why?” Helene asked very gently.
“My marriage certificate. To the midget. It was in the box, and I had to get it before anyone saw it. I begged Mildred to tell me where the box was, and she laughed at me and said that if Johnny Oscar didn’t already have it, he’d have it—pretty damned quick.” She paused to blow her nose.
“Take your time,” Jake said.
“I knew they’d keep it and hold it over me—the certificate, I mean. And I knew Mildred had a key to Johnny Oscar’s house. So when she was in the bathroom I got the key out of her purse, and went down the hall real quick before she knew I’d gone. And then I went out the back way, and got in a cab, and went right to Johnny Oscar’s house.”
Malone had returned from the kitchenette. Now he said admiringly, “I wouldn’t have tho
ught you had it in you. What would you have done if Johnny Oscar had been there?”
“I don’t know,” Annette said. “I didn’t think of that.” A fresh set of tears began to flow.
“Never mind,” Jake said. “Helene here hasn’t any sense either.”
“But he wasn’t there,” Annette went on. “So I searched, and I found the box. It was down in the cellar, right where you found it, with a hammer and a chisel beside it. And then I heard someone at the door.”
“That was us,” Helene said. “Me ‘n’ Johnny Oscar.”
“We’ll get to you later,” Malone told her. “Go on, Annette.”
“That’s all,” Annette whispered, “except that I went up quick and turned off the cellar light, and went back down again. And after a while the light went on again and I heard someone open the cellar door—I didn’t know it was Helene—so I ran and hid behind the coal pile, and then someone came downstairs and then the light went out. And I don’t know anything else.”
“Well anyway,” Jake said, “we’ve got the box. If we can get it open. Maybe we should have brought along that chisel and hammer.”
Malone scowled. “We’ve got the box,” he agreed, “but we can’t open it, because part of my arrangement with Pen Reddick is that it be delivered to him unopened.”
Annette gave a faint little moan.
“Now wait a minute,” the lawyer went on. “I’ll be present when it’s opened. That’s part of the agreement too. Pen Reddick isn’t even remotely interested in your marriage certificate. So when the box is opened, I’ll get the certificate and bring it to you, and you can burn it up with your own little hands.”
The first gleam of hope came into Annette’s big, tear-filled eyes.
“See?” Helene said cheerfully. “You haven’t a thing to worry about. And Jake, you heat a glass of milk while I wash Annette’s face and tuck her into bed.”
Annette murmured something about going home. Helene shook her head quickly. “You’re staying right here for a while.” She led Annette into the bedroom.
Jake put the milk on to heat and returned to the living room.
“Max Hook,” he said. “Max Hook said he was going to take care of Johnny Oscar. And Johnny Oscar’s been murdered.”
Malone rolled his cigar between his fingers. “Very nice,” he said. “But he said he was going to, he didn’t say he had. Johnny Oscar must have been murdered about the time we were talking to Max Hook. And a silk-stocking strangling has never been one of the Hook’s methods.”
Jake groaned. “It’s a mess,” he said, “and no matter how hard we try to get out of it, it seems to be our mess.” He paused. “It keeps coming back to who knew the midget was dead before his body turned up here at the hotel. If we had the straight dope on who knew, and how—” He paused again. “Did you talk to Ruth Rawlson?”
Malone nodded, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks.
“Well, damn it,” Jake said. “Did she tell you anything?”
“She did,” Malone told him. “A very interesting story.” He went on with Ruth Rawlson’s explanation of the “terrible voice” that had answered her call to the midget’s apartment.
Jake scowled. “Who has a voice like that—” He stopped and stared at Malone. “But the midget had a couple of calls around three o’clock, and nobody answered. There weren’t any calls before that. And Ruth Rawlson couldn’t have called up anybody, after two.”
“I know,” the little lawyer said miserably. “I figured that out for myself. But too late to go back and talk to her again. Don’t worry,” he added, “I’m going to talk to her tonight.”
Jake drew a long breath, swore at Malone, at Ruth Rawlson, at the memory of the midget, and at the world in general. He ended with, “Oh hell, the milk’s boiling over,” and dashed into the kitchenette.
When fresh milk had been heated and delivered to Helene through the bedroom door, he came back to the living room and sank down in a chair.
“Meantime,” he said gloomily, “I still don’t know what I’m going to do about tonight’s show.” He picked up the phone and called Angela Doll’s apartment.
Miss Doll was still sleeping. Very soundly.
Malone frowned. “From the symptoms,” he said, “it looks to me as if—”
Helene interrupted him, coming in from the bedroom and closing the door quietly behind her. She’d changed her soot-stained dress for one of soft beige wool with an immense gold clip at the throat, washed her face and made it up, and brushed her pale, shining hair.
“Annette’s asleep,” she reported. “I gave her a sedative and some hot milk, and by the time she wakes up, she’ll feel all right again.”
“That’s just dandy,” Malone said, “because I still had a lot of questions to ask Annette, and now you’ve gone and put her to sleep.”
“You’ll ask them after six o’clock then,” Helene said firmly, “because that’s about the time she’ll wake up.” She lit a cigarette. “And now, I’ve got something to tell you two. Mildred Goldsmith—”
A thunderous knock at the door interrupted her. Jake opened the door to admit von Flanagan and a thin, sour-faced policeman.
“Well, well,” Jake said. “Have you brought a hat and a rabbit with you?”
The big police officer was in no mood for gaiety. His moon face was pink. He stood just inside the door, arms akimbo, and glared reproachfully at Helene.
“It’s bad enough to be a cop,” he began slowly, “it’s worse to be an inspector in the homicide division. But when everybody sets out to make things hard for you, then it’s—it’s—” He paused, tried to think of a word superlative to “worse,” and finally said, “It’s awful.”
“What’s the matter?” Malone said quickly.
Von Flanagan ignored him. He went on looking at Helene. “I don’t expect no consideration from common criminals,” he continued. “But when somebody you think is a pal goes out of her way to do you dirt”—his face began to turn red, and his voice began to rise in volume—“then it’s too damn much, and when a guy gets good and mad he’s gotta do something about it, and I hope being tossed in the clink for obstructing justice is going to be a good lesson to you. And I hope—”
“Wait a minute,” Helene said. “I can explain everything.”
“You’ll explain it to a judge,” von Flanagan said.
“Helene,” Jake said desperately, “what have you done?”
“Ask her what she’s done,” von Flanagan shouted. “Ask me what’s she’s done.” His face had now reached the purple stage. He advanced a few steps across the floor, and shook a forefinger under Helene’s nose. “What was the idea,” he bellowed, “of walking in and finding that Goldsmith dame had been murdered, and then running out before the cops had a chance to get there?”
Jake said, “Helene!”
“It’s true,” Helene said, in a small voice.
Malone glared at her in his turn. “Why the hell,” he demanded, “didn’t you tell us about it?”
“When the hell,” she answered in simple truthfulness, “have I had a chance?” After a moment’s pause she turned to von Flanagan, looking helpless, appealing, and extremely beautiful. “I wasn’t trying to—run out. You don’t think I’d do a thing like that, do you?”
Von Flanagan looked at her for a moment; then looked down at the carpet. He said, “Well—” making three syllables of it.
“I went to see Annette Ginnis,” Helene said, in a hurt voice. “When she didn’t answer her door, I got worried about her, and I asked the manager to let me in. I was afraid she might be sick. And then we found—the body. That’s all there is to it.” She took out a tiny wisp of lace handkerchief and pressed it delicately to her nose.
“There, there,” von Flanagan said automatically, in a quieter tone. Then he remembered his errand, and roared at her, “But why didn’t you stay there until the cops arrived?”
Helene gazed at him with stricken, violet-blue eyes. “I was so frightened,” she
whispered. “I wanted to find Jake. As soon as I found him, I was going to come right down and see you.”
The big police officer stared at her for a moment, melted under her gaze, and sat down on the sofa, fanning himself with his hat.
“This is the damnedest thing,” he said. “Imagine hanging a dame with her own stockings! Nobody but another dame would think of that. So now we got to find this Annette Ginnis, and the Lord only knows where she might be.” He looked up at Helene. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might have gone to, have you?”
“Don’t you think I’d tell you?” Helene said innocently.
Von Flanagan sighed. “Nobody ever tells me anything,” he said sadly. “I always have to find out everything for myself. And everybody tries to make it hard for me.”
“In another minute,” Malone said softly, “I’m going to burst into tears.”
Von Flanagan didn’t hear him. He looked up at Helene. “You know you hadn’t ought to have done that,” he told her, in a tone he might have used to a misbehaving child. “You caused me a lot of trouble. I ought to have you arrested for it, just to teach you a good lesson.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Helene said. “I’ll never do it again.”
Jake said quickly, “How’s the magic getting along?”
“Say!” von Flanagan brightened up. “That guy taught me a wonderful trick, just before he left. If you folks had stayed about five more minutes, you’d have seen it.” He drew a long piece of string from his pocket. “He made some mistake in it when he was showing me, and damn near took my finger off, but he showed me how to do it right.” He advanced toward Malone. “Now hold out your hand and lemme make a loop around your forefinger—”
Malone held out a hand, casting a reproachful glance at Helene, as if saying, “See what I’m doing for your sake?”
“Now,” von Flanagan said, “I tie another loop around like this—”
The telephone rang; Jake answered it. It was the desk clerk, asking if Captain von Flanagan was there. His office was trying to reach him.
“ ’Scuse me,” von Flanagan said, tying one more knot. “Finish this when I get back.”