The Big Midget Murders
Page 24
“Show her to a table—” he hesitated—“a corner table”—rosy lights, and a secluded corner—“and then page me.”
He went on into the Casino. It was early, but the crowd was there. Far across the room he saw Helene, sitting alone, and headed for her.
She looked up at him, smiled, and both of them said simultaneously, “Where’s Jake?”
Malone sat down, ran a finger under his collar, and this time both of them said, “Don’t you know?”
The lawyer waved to a waiter and said, “Let’s start this dialogue from the beginning. You’re supposed to say ‘Where’s Jake?’ and I’m supposed to say ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’ Or I’m supposed to say ‘Where’s Jake?’ and then you”—He paused to say to the waiter, “A double rye, a glass of water, and a soda cracker.”
The waiter said, “Yes Mr. Malone,” without any sign of surprise, and went away. Helene raised one eyebrow.
“The soda cracker?”
“Dinner,” Malone said. “I haven’t had time.” He looked hopefully toward the door. Any minute now, when that headwaiter came in, he’d usher a red-gold blonde in a white dress to a corner table, and start looking over the room for him, Malone.
“Jake called up at the hotel,” Helene said. “He said to come on down here tonight, and he’d meet me. He said everything was okay.”
“He’s right,” Malone said. “Everything’s going to be swell.”
He nibbled the soda cracker, took a sip of the water, and then looked at Helene over the glass of rye. Her pale-green silk-jersey dinner dress reminded him, somehow, of Lake Michigan on a clear day. Her perfectly composed face was pale and exquisite and smooth, and her corn-silk-color hair was like satin.
“He’s a very lucky guy,” Malone said, “even if he does lose this joint.”
“But he mustn’t!” Helene said. “Malone—”
“I know,” Malone said. “I’ve got to find out who murdered the midget.” And in a little less than nine hours, too. “How’s Annette Ginnis?” There were still those important questions he had to ask her.
“She’s backstage dressing,” Helene said. “She still feels a little shaky, but I think she’ll hold out.” She puffed at her cigarette and said, “I wish I knew where Jake could be.”
“Shut up,” Malone said. “The show’s starting.”
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t watch the door, but he took one more glance.
Oh well, Ruth Rawlson would be along any minute now.
He lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and looked over the Casino. If Jake could keep this up for just a few more nights, he’d be in the clear.
There was a crowd again tonight, and scattered through the crowd, he saw familiar faces. Pen Reddick, sitting at a table by himself. Betty Royal, her eyes sparkling, surrounded by five adoring young men. Ned Royal, at another table, in deep and earnest conversation with a slightly overdone brunette. Through the doors that led to the bar—Malone looked, started, and looked again. Hunched over the bar, a pair of heavy shoulders that could belong to no one but Lou Goldsmith. He looked away quickly and saw Max Hook, at a shadowed table near the wall, wearing a tuxedo which appeared in this light to be a deep violet, three shadowy and indistinguishable figures lined up against the wall behind him. Malone turned his head again only to see, at a special floor-side table, von Flanagan, viewing the floor show with the critical eye of a fellow artist.
The chorus—including Annette Ginnis, still looking a little pale, and a hastily recruited girl to fill the place left vacant by Mildred Goldsmith—finished the opening number. The lights changed, and Al Omega’s band struck up the melody that announced Angela Doll.
She too seemed a trifle pale. Still, she’d recovered in time for tonight’s show, Malone reflected, and that was something Jake had to be thankful for.
He cast one more wistful glance toward the entrance. Oh well, it was still early.
The chorus came back for its second routine, the South American number. Malone glanced at the long silk stockings, and glanced away quick. Good thing they’d had plenty of spares. Eleven members of the chorus there, and one substitute. Eleven pairs of silk stockings, and one pair—
That wasn’t the thing he was searching for in his mind, he told himself. That wasn’t the tip-off. It was something else.
Helene said, “Jake!” in a breathless voice.
Malone looked up to see the tall, red-haired man sitting down at their table. He hadn’t changed his clothes and his face was pale and haggard from lack of sleep, but there was a hopeful gleam in his eyes.
“Everything’s okay,” Jake announced. “Everything’s going to be swell.”
“The show—” Helene said.
“It’s all set,” Jake said. “At least I hope it’s all set.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Don’t ask me questions now. I’m still out of breath.” He looked at Helene and said, “How anyone has the right to look so beautiful, with so little sleep—”
“How anyone can get away with looking so terrible,” she said affectionately, “just because he’s lost a night’s sleep—” She looked at him critically and said, “Jake, you’re wonderful! And straighten your tie.”
Jake straightened his tie, ordered a drink, and looked around the room. “A nice house.” He looked at Max Hook, at von Flanagan, and then, hopefully, at Malone.
“I’ll fix it,” Malone promised, wondering how he’d do it and when Ruth Rawlson would arrive.
The chorus finished the South American number and vanished. The lights dimmed a little.
Jake downed his drink, leaned forward, and whispered, “Now, watch!”
The orchestra was silent. Then the pianist began to play, simply, and not too well, “The Skater’s Waltz.”
The curtains parted, and from between them appeared Allswell McJackson, in a full-dress suit that didn’t fit him any too accurately, carrying a silk hat which was obviously too small. He stood there for a moment on the tiny platform just above the dance floor, blinking at the audience as though he were wondering what to do next.
Helene said, “Jake!”
Malone didn’t trust himself to speak.
Von Flanagan, at his floorside table, applauded wildly.
“I shall try,” Allswell McJackson said, in his polished accent, “to entertain you with a few tricks.” He came down onto the floor, almost tripping over the step, and drew a pack of cards from his pocket.
The audience giggled.
Allswell McJackson picked a plump gentleman at a floorside table. “Will you be so kind, sir, as to select a card? Any card at all, sir, any card.”
Obviously, he was sweating to perform the trick exactly as the book had directed him. Somehow, though, when he was riffling the cards, they seemed to explode in his hands, spraying across the floor, and landing him, stomach-side down, across the plump gentleman’s table, one card still in his hand.
“That’s the one,” the plump gentleman said loudly.
The audience howled. All save von Flanagan, who looked on in a disapproving silence.
Allswell McJackson ducked backstage, returning with a derby hat. “Ladies and gentlemen, the question has long been raised as to which came first, the hen or the egg. Tonight—”
By some miracle the egg, bouncing from the hat, just missed the piano player, who continued to play “The Skater’s Waltz.”
Allswell said, “The wrong kind of egg.”
The audience howled again.
The act of burning up the dollar bill turned out even better, especially when Allswell McJackson not only burned up the wrong envelope, but nearly set fire to his coattails in doing so.
The climax came, however, when Al Omega’s band struck a loud chord, and Allswell Me Jackson announced that, having produced an egg without the aid of a hen, he would now produce a hen without the aid of an egg. The hen—the same Rhode Island Red—was still unco-operative. Halfway through the trick Allswell paused to apologize that it really should be don
e with a tame hen. And by the time the hen had gotten away, been chased about the dance floor by the tall, gawky man, finally caught by one leg, and then lulled into an amiable clucking, the crowd was helpless, gasping, and applauding.
“Jake,” Helene said, “you’re a genius!”
Allswell McJackson took his curtain calls with the hen in his arms. Al Omega’s band vanished backstage, and Ramon Arriba’s band began to play. The crowd began to spill onto the dance floor.
“He may never be able to repeat himself,” Jake said, lighting a cigarette, “but it sure solved the problem of tonight’s show.”
Malone finally caught his breath. “He couldn’t do it,” he said, “if he weren’t about twelve feet tall.”
Helene stared at him. “I dreamed that.”
“You what?” Malone said.
“Allswell McJackson. I dreamed of him doing a magic act, and stopping in the middle of it to say, ‘I couldn’t do this trick, if I weren’t twelve feet tall.’”
Malone started to speak, but there was an influx of congratulatory customers around Jake’s table. Pen Reddick, a sports reporter from the Times, Betty Royal and one of her young men, a City Hall hanger-on, a society woman from Highland Park, and, at the tail of them, von Flanagan. The little lawyer took advantage of the moment’s confusion to slip away for a word with the headwaiter.
No, the lady hadn’t arrived yet. Yes, he would inform Mr. Malone immediately.
By the time Malone returned to the table, the customers had vanished, and Jake and Helene were alone.
“Well, that’s that,” Jake said. He lit a fresh cigarette and said, “Now, Malone, if you’ll only”—He paused. “You know, von Flanagan wasn’t fooling.” He paused again. “If you don’t—”
“Don’t worry,” Malone said confidently. “Just leave everything to me. I’m not just your lawyer, I’m your pal.” He emptied his glass and said, “We’re like brothers. We’re closer than brothers.” His voice seemed to catch in his throat on the last word.
His eyes met Helene’s across the table for a long moment.
“What the hell,” Jake said. “What’s the matter with you two?”
“Nothing much,” Malone said very quietly. He turned to look at Jake. “Except that Helene and I know who murdered the midget.”
Chapter Thirty-One
When Malone said a thing like that, he didn’t fool. Jake said “Who?” and, “How do you know?” all in the same breath.
Malone answered the last question. “You may not remember it, but you told me.” He drained his glass and stood up.
“What are you going to do?” Helene asked.
“I’m going to collect my other two thousand bucks,” Malone said. He lit a fresh cigar, and looked around the room. Suddenly he said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to move fast. I’ve got a hunch—” Without another word, he headed for the door that led backstage.
Jake and Helene followed him, Helene flinging a dark-green woolen cape over her pale shoulders.
At the door to what had been the midget’s dressing room, the lawyer paused. “I may be wrong about this,” he said. “I hope that I am.” He threw open the door.
Allswell McJackson lay sprawled on the floor, just below the spot where the midget’s tiny body had hung. There was a noose of ordinary rope around his neck, and another strand of rope was fastened to the overhead bar.
“The rope broke,” Malone said. “He was too heavy.” He knelt down beside the big man.
Jake said, “Damn it, it’s a conspiracy against me. As fast as I get a good entertainer for that top spot, somebody comes along and murders him.”
“This time, it was a failure,” Malone said, getting to his feet. He examined the piece of rope he had removed from Allswell McJackson’s throat. “Helene, get Annette Ginnis here, right away.”
Helene nodded, her face white as chalk, and darted out the door, closing it after her.
“Malone,” Jake began desperately, “what do you think?”
“I don’t think,” Malone said laconically. “I know.”
There was a gentle knock at the door. Jake opened it a crack. It was a waiter, with a whispered message for Malone.
“Show the lady to her table,” Malone whispered back. “Tell her to order whatever she likes, and that I’ll be with her as soon as I can.” He shut the door again.
“Two thousand bucks is a lot of dough,” Malone said grimly, “but I’m beginning to think I’d have done this for free.”
Before Jake could ask a question, Helene returned with Annette Ginnis. The chorus girl’s face was pale under her makeup. She had thrown a coat hastily over her garish costume. She looked at Allswell McJackson and gave a frightened little gasp.
“He’s all right,” Malone said. “He’ll come to any minute now.”
“Malone,” Helene said, “Pen Reddick’s outside in the hall.”
“Ask him in,” the lawyer said. “He’s paying for this party. He might as well attend it.”
Pen Reddick came in, stared, and said, “What—”
“I’m collecting the rest of my fee,” Malone said. He looked at Annette Ginnis. “My dear, everything hangs now on two questions I must ask you.” He used the same gentle tone he would have applied to a nervous witness in a courtroom.
She nodded, her wide, terrified eyes fixed on his face.
“The very nice young man you married,” Malone went on, “after the marriage to the midget—which you didn’t remember. What was his name?”
There was a death-like stillness in the room before her lips managed to form the words, “Al Omega.”
Malone gave an almost imperceptible start. For a moment he seemed lost in thought. Then he nodded, and said, “We’ll invite him to this party, too.” He opened the door an inch, called to a passing waiter, and said, “Ask Mr. Omega to step in here, right away.”
“Listen,” Jake said. “If you think, Malone—”
“Shut up,” Malone said, almost absentmindedly. He waited until Al Omega came into the room before he spoke again.
The handsome young orchestra leader said, “You wanted”—caught sight of Allswell McJackson, looked around the room, and said, “Oh God!”
“Yes,” Malone said, “another one. But this one lived.” He knelt down for a moment beside Allswell and said gently, “How do you feel?”
Allswell moaned faintly and moved his head. “What—happened?”
“That,” Malone said, “is what I want you to tell me.”
“I—” He moaned again, and put a hand to his throat. “I—don’t know. I—came into the dressing room—something hit me—I don’t know—”
Malone nodded. “There wasn’t time for knockout drops in the whiskey tonight.” He rose, spied a big towel on the dressing table, wadded it into a pillow, and put it under Allswell McJackson’s head. “Just lie there. You’ll feel all right in a few minutes.”
Helene said, “But, Malone—”
He ignored her. “My other question now, Annette. Last night—someone telephoned all over town to find you—and when finally the call reached you—told you that the midget was dead.”
“Yes.” It was the faintest of whispers.
“Now, my dear,” he went on, “if you’ll tell me who made that telephone call, I’ll know everything I need to know. You must have recognized the voice.”
She stared at him for a moment, while the last color faded from her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came, and then, with a little, choking breath, she slid to the floor at his feet.
Helene flew to her side, looking accusingly at Malone. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“No,” Malone said, “because I knew the answer.” He looked down at the unconscious girl. “She’s been tortured enough,” he said very quietly, “and there’s nothing more I need to learn from her. Is there a place where she can lie down, while we get this over with?”
“There’s a couch in the chorus girls’ dressing room,” Jake said.
During the interval that followed, the little lawyer paced back and forth across the floor, chewing savagely on his cigar, his face grey, not saying a word. Allswell McJackson moaned again, struggled up to the one chair in the room, and sat down heavily, his head resting on his hands. No one else moved.
When Jake had returned, and Lou Goldsmith and Angela Doll had arrived, Malone stopped his pacing, and stood, half-leaning against the dressing table.
“Daniel von Flanagan of the homicide division is out front,” he began. “I could ask him in to hear this, but I won’t. Because what is said in this room tonight is never going to be repeated outside its walls.” The words seemed to be forced from him by some great effort.
He looked around the room, at Helene standing, pale and motionless, in one corner; at Al Omega, whose forehead glistened with sweat; at the big, thick-shouldered Lou Goldsmith, his eyes dark and tortured; at Allswell McJackson leaning his head on his hand; at Pen Reddick; at the wide-eyed Angela Doll; at Jake.
“I can say that,” he began again, “because every person in this room tonight has a good, sound, and entirely private reason for not wanting what is going to be said here to be repeated, anywhere, ever.” He looked down at his cigar. “Please be assured, I’m not going to give away those reasons.”
Jake burst out, “Malone, for the love of Mike! Who—”
“Don’t rush me,” Malone said. He looked beyond them all, somewhere into space. “There was a man,” he began slowly, “who loved a certain girl, very greatly. And who discovered that she was being cruelly victimized by three people who were—as someone else has said—the very incarnation of evil. The girl was one of the twelve members of the chorus of the Casino. One of the three people was another member.”
He paused for a moment in which everyone in the room looked surreptitiously at Lou Goldsmith. The slot-machine king’s face was as impassive as concrete.