by Craig Rice
“This man,” Malone went on, in the same, dreamy tone, “murdered those three people, by hanging them with silk stockings worn by the chorus girls. But for the two men that he murdered, he used only eleven stockings. The woman he murdered was hanged with her own stockings.”
He drew a long, sighing breath. “He didn’t do that in order to point to the woman’s part in the past—crimes. It wasn’t that he wanted the world to know the truth. Rather, it was—a strange, fantastic notion of justice.” He paused, and said, “Of course, he must have been mad.”
Helene said suddenly, “No, Malone!”
The lawyer said chidingly, “Yes, Helene. Or at least, if I can’t make a jury think so”—He puffed at his cigar and looked at Lou Goldsmith. “I hope the offer that you made this afternoon still holds good.”
Lou Goldsmith nodded and said hoarsely, “You’re damned right it still holds good.”
“Fine,” Malone said. He was silent for a moment while he thought over a few details of finance.
“Go on, Malone,” Jake said.
“I’m guessing, now,” Malone said. “If I don’t guess right, I hope—someone here will correct me.” He crushed out his half-smoked cigar in the ash tray, and put his hands in his pockets. “I think that this man put dope in the midget’s whiskey bottle here in the dressing room before the show last night. I think that, because the dope that was used takes a long time to act. It had to be an expert bit of timing, so that the midget wouldn’t collapse until he got back to his dressing room. Then this man came back here, and strung up the midget with the stockings he’d previously stolen from the chorus girls’ dressing room.”
Allswell McJackson looked up. “You mean—Mr. Otto was murdered—here?”
“Right here,” Malone said. “I have the proof of it—from someone who happened in here, and saw him.” He wondered how Ruth Rawlson would look on a witness stand. “How he was moved from here has nothing to do—with his murder. That’s one of the things—that will probably never be discovered.” He added mentally, “I hope.”
He began unwrapping a fresh cigar. “This morning, he traced Mildred Goldsmith to Annette Ginnis’ apartment. He waited, I think, somewhere outside her apartment, planning to pick up the trail there, but as luck would have it, he saw Annette Ginnis leave. So—remember, I’m still guessing—he knocked at the door, and when Mildred Goldsmith let him in, he struck her over the head—the medical report on her will probably show that: I’m saying it because that’s the only thing he could have done—took off her stockings, and hung her in Annette Ginnis’ clothes closet.
“Then he came to Johnny Oscar. He probably made an appointment with Johnny Oscar—who was probably a pretty nervous man about that time—very likely on the pretext that he had some information for him. They had a drink together, and he doped the drink with the same stuff he had used on the midget—and on one other person. Then the two of them went to Johnny Oscar’s apartment—again, the knockout drops must have been very carefully timed—went in together, and when Johnny Oscar suddenly keeled over, this man strung him up with the other eleven stockings.”
He bit off the end of the cigar, lit it, and said, “That’s all pure guesswork, but I’ll bet you any money it’s right. Because that’s the way it must have been.”
“Wait,” Helene said. “Last night. Annette Ginnis. The telephone call.”
Malone nodded slowly. “That’s my proof,” he said. “This man knew—that last night Annette Ginnis was to go through another meaningless marriage ceremony, with a young man who would be held up for a stiff fee for a quick, quiet annulment. He knew that the procedure would call for a great deal of night-spot visiting. He wanted to prevent that marriage, and so he called up every night-spot in town until he managed to catch up with her. Then he told her that the midget was dead.”
Al Omega said suddenly, “You’ll never be able to prove any of this.”
“I could,” Malone said, “by telling the police just what I’ve been telling you now. But the murderer loves Annette Ginnis enough to want to keep this whole story out of the newspapers. He knows I can give the police proof that won’t involve this story. And he knows too,” he said in almost a roar, “that he has the best damn lawyer in seven states, if not the whole civilized world, who can get him off on an insanity plea.” He smiled. “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, this man murdered Jay Otto, the Big Midget, and Mildred Goldsmith, and Johnny Oscar, because his poor, sick brain had conceived the notion that they were persecuting him. You intelligent citizens, who are giving your valuable time to serve on a jury, can you honestly believe that a sane man would murder his supposed persecutors with—silk stockings?” He paused, mopped his brow, and said, “it will be as easy as that. And God knows, the man must have been mad.” He wondered how big a fee he could stick Lou Goldsmith for.
“No,” he said very quietly, “I don’t think that the murderer will give away any secrets. Because if he did—he’d have to give away a secret of his own.” He knocked a half inch of ash off his cigar, and said, “Jake, will you go and ask von Flanagan to step back here?”
Jake walked to the door, put a hand on the knob, paused, turned around, and said, “Wait a minute. Before we turn this meeting over to the cops, how did you know? What tipped you off?”
“You did,” Malone said, examining the end of his cigar. “You should have guessed it yourself, from what a certain elevator operator told you. Remember? ‘I’m afraid of only one man, and he’s closer to me than any other person in the world’?”
Jake stared at him for a minute, blinked, shook his head, and muttered, “All right, I’m just a dumb guck. I’ll get von Flanagan.” He opened the door and went out.
There was a little flurry of movement in the room. Helene ran a hand over her smooth hair, took out a cigarette and lit it. Allswell McJackson moaned and rubbed the back of his neck. Lou Goldsmith fumbled in his pocket for a cigar, found one, looked at it, and put it back. Angela Doll straightened up and pulled her coat closer around her shoulders.
“It was a swell show,” she said, “but why did you drag me in here to watch it?”
Malone smiled at her admiringly. “Because, sweetheart,” he said, “you’re the proof I need.”
She started to speak, he frowned at her, and she was silent.
Lou Goldsmith said suddenly, “But how do you know?”
“That,” Malone said, “is what I’m going to tell von Flanagan.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jake paused for just a moment at the door leading out front, and looked over the Casino. Ramon Arriba’s band was tearing off an impassioned samba, and the floor was jammed. There didn’t seem to be an empty table in the place.
He hoped Malone knew what he was doing.
Halfway across the room, a gentle voice called to him. “Mr. Justus!”
He wheeled around, to see that Max Hook was signaling to him.
Feeling in his pocket for a cigarette, he strolled casually up to the table. “Good evening. Hope you liked the show.”
“Delightful show,” Max Hook said. “Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a show so much. But I didn’t ask you over here to tell you how much I liked the show.”
“No?” Jake said, as though he didn’t have the faintest idea what Max Hook was talking about.
“No,” Max Hook said, on the downbeat. “You know, I think it’s about time for us to talk business, if I may be so coarse. About the Casino—”
“Oh yes,” Jake said. “Listen. I’ll be delighted to talk business with you, about fifteen minutes from now. Right now, I’ve something important to attend to. Do you mind?”
“Mind?” Max Hook said, waving his perfumed cigarette. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than sitting here, watching all these charming young people having a good time. Make it whatever time is convenient for you. But”—he looked at his wrist-watch—“make it before twelve, Jake my dear boy, because I’m always in bed by one.”
“Sure,” Jake said. �
�Before twelve.”
If Malone did know what he was doing, if he could turn up the murderer of the midget and Mildred Goldsmith and Johnny Oscar, then it would be possible to keep von Flanagan from closing the Casino. But Max Hook was another matter.
Malone wanted to see him backstage, Jake explained to von Flanagan. The big police officer finished his drink, cast a last wistful glance at the dancers on the floor, and followed Jake.
Malone was outside the dressing room, talking to a waiter. As Jake opened the door for von Flanagan, he heard the little lawyer say, “Tell her I’ll be with her in just a few minutes. Does she have everything she wants?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Malone,” the waiter assured him. “And she’s talking with Mr. Bullock.”
Jake thought that Malone’s face paled as he said, “You don’t mean Harrison Bullock, the broker?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the waiter said.
Jake grabbed Malone by the arm. “With all the girls there are in the world—” he began indignantly.
“You were too young to see the Follies,” Malone said, “back in ’22.”
“Damn you,” Jake said. “Listen, Malone, there’s some trouble—”
“Another murder?” Malone asked pleasantly.
“Worse. Max Hook wants his dough back.”
Malone chewed his lower lip. “When?”
“Now.”
“Well,” Malone said, “we’ve met everything else. We can meet this, somehow. How much do you owe him?”
“Only thirty-five hundred bucks,” Jake said. “But I can’t take that out of the Casino receipts, what with—”
Malone said quickly, “Never mind.” He was thinking fast. There was that check from Pen Reddick in his wallet, for two thousand bucks. There would be another check from Pen Reddick for eighteen hundred bucks—if he was guessing right about the midget’s murderer. “Never mind,” he repeated, “we can meet it.” He’d still have a few hundred dollars left, to spend on Ruth Rawlson.
“Oh sure,” Jake said bitterly, “we’ll meet it! We meet everything.” He opened the door for Malone, his heart sick.
Helene smiled at him from across the dressing room. That didn’t help much either. She was pale and tired, and still smiling. “I wanted to make this place a success for you,” he tried to tell her with his eyes.
Von Flanagan had stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the room, staring about him.
“What the hell is this?” he asked suspiciously.
“Just a little quiet celebration,” Malone said, smiling, “to celebrate my handing over to you the murderer of the midget and Mildred Goldsmith and Johnny Oscar.”
The smile faded from his face. “I hate to do this, von Flanagan,” he said, “because the guy’s crazy. He didn’t have a reason in the world for committing the murders, except that his poor, sick brain cooked up a notion that they were persecuting him.”
Von Flanagan had heard Malone talking to juries in the past. He said, “Yeah?” and looked around the room. “Which one is it?”
“Imagine a sane man,” Malone went on, “drugging his victims, and then strangling them with silk stockings. Imagine the conflict that must have been going on in his poor, tortured mind. Think of it, von Flanagan.”
“Let a jury think of it,” von Flanagan said. “I’m just a cop.” He paused, shook his head, and murmured, “The guy must have been nuts.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Malone said.
“Okay,” von Flanagan said. “Maybe I’d better call a squad car.”
“You won’t need one,” Malone said. “He’ll go quietly.”
Von Flanagan said, “I’ll take your word for it. But which one?”
“Do you mean you don’t know?” Malone said, in a hurt, surprised voice.
Von Flanagan’s eyes followed Malone’s “You’re nuts,” he said. “He has an alibi—”
“The alibi,” Malone told him, “is what proves I’m right.” He turned to Angela Doll. “My dear, before you left the Casino last night, did you have a drink?”
She nodded. “Several drinks.”
“Here? In this room?”
She nodded again. “Yes. He said—it would be all right—there was a bottle of Scotch—”
“And then you went home,” the lawyer went on. “Do you remember what happened after you got home?”
“Well—” She paused. “Ruth Rawlson called me up. I remember that. But I don’t remember—much else.”
“No,” Malone said, “because you’d been doped with the same drug that laid out the midget. I know, because you woke up this morning feeling swell, and then, all of a sudden, you passed out cold as a clam. The dope that was given to the midget worked that way.” He turned to von Flanagan. “There goes the alibi. She doesn’t know what time she went to sleep last night. And who in the world would be able to whip up a drug like that, except a man who’d studied to be a chemistry professor?”
Allswell McJackson struggled to his feet.
“Wait,” Malone said. He went on mercilessly, “At the last minute, he decided to save himself. So he faked a murder attempt, in which he was to have been the intended victim.” He picked up the strand of rope from the floor and handed it to von Flanagan. “Only, when he frayed the rope so that it would break and drop him to the floor unharmed, he had to use a razor blade on a few of the strands.”
“Wait,” Allswell McJackson said.
“The poor, helpless madman!” Malone said. “There isn’t a jury in the world who would send him to the chair.”
Allswell McJackson stared helplessly around the room, at von Flanagan, at Malone. “I must have been—I was crazy.”
“Was!” Malone said. “You are.” He walked up to the stricken man and laid a hand on his arm.
“I’ll confess,” Allswell McJackson said. “I’ll confess everything.”
“You do,” Malone told him, “and I’ll break your neck. Don’t you dare say one damned word unless I’m dictating it. What do you have a lawyer for?” He tightened the hand on Allswell’s arm. “Don’t worry, pal. When I get you before a jury, I’ll save you from the chair.”*
“A damn shame,” von Flanagan rumbled. “He was a swell magician.”
“He was a lousy magician,” Malone said, “and a worse actor. That phony faint of his here tonight would have tipped off anybody with a discerning eye. A man who’s just missed being hung by the snap of a rope doesn’t lie peacefully on the floor with his eyes closed.” He took out a fresh cigar.
Von Flanagan took the giant by one unprotesting arm. “Come along, professor. While you’re waiting trial, maybe you can teach me that coin-and-glass-of water trick.”
He walked to the door with his prisoner, everyone in the room watching and trying to pretend that he wasn’t. At the door he paused and turned around.
“How the hell did you know, Malone?”
“An elevator operator told Jake,” Malone said. He unwrapped the cigar. “He’d overheard something the midget said once. It was—” He paused, squinted at the ceiling, and quoted, “‘I’m afraid of only one man. And he’s closer to me than any other person in the world.’” He lit the cigar, slowly and with exquisite care. “For a while, I thought that meant someone else. Then I realized. Who was closer to the midget than Allswell McJackson, who stooged for him in his
* Author’s note: He did, too.
act, and drove his car, and put him to bed at night, and got him up in the morning, and looked after his accounts, and—read his mail?” He looked thoughtfully at the end of the cigar. “And who was as much a giant as Jay Otto was a midget. They were—closer than brothers.” He met Helene’s eyes across the room in a casual glance. “That’s how I knew.”
Allswell McJackson laughed hoarsely. For a moment Malone wondered if his analysis of the case had been right.
“Come on, professor,” von Flanagan said gently.
The door closed behind them.
Malone slumped down against the dres
sing table. “I guess that ends the show,” he said. Suddenly he looked up, a half-smile on his face. “I could have given another proof, if I’d needed to. The thing I’ve been trying to remember, and couldn’t.” He glanced up at the bar over the closet. “Helene had a dream about Allswell McJackson in a magician’s cloak, saying, ‘I couldn’t have done this trick, if I hadn’t been twelve feet tall.’”
“That’s it,” Helene said excitedly, “that’s the thing I’ve been trying to think of—”
Malone interrupted her. “There wasn’t any chair in this dressing room when the midget was hung. Jake’s a fairly tall man, yet he couldn’t have reached up to that bar where the noose was tied. Only a man as tall as Allswell McJackson could have done it. We should have guessed that—hours ago.” Suddenly he looked very tired. “Will you call a waiter, Jake? I want to send a message.” He ran a hand over his face, covering his eyes for just one moment.
Pen Reddick had been bending over the dressing table, busy with a fountain pen. Now he straightened up and handed a check to Malone.
“I guess that squares us,” he said.
Malone stuck the check in his pocket without looking at it. “I guess it does,” he said. He smiled. “Betty Royal’s out front. Now that you’ve got the midget off your mind, there’s no other reason why you can’t manage a proposal, is there?”
“Not a reason in the world,” Pen Reddick said. He put his fountain pen back in his pocket and ducked out the door.
Angela Doll pulled her furs around her shoulders. “I guess there’ll be pictures, when the story breaks tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe I’d better go and get a good night’s sleep.”
“You’d better,” Jake said. “And have a facial before the reporters get to you.”
She smiled wanly. “Leave it to me,” she said, and was gone.
Then Lou Goldsmith roused himself from what had seemed almost to be a trance. “What I said still goes, Malone,” he rumbled. “Defend the guy, and send me the bill.” He picked up his hat, stood silent by the door for a moment, waved a good night, and took his leave.
The waiter Jake had called arrived at the door. Malone stepped outside to whisper to him. “Tell Miss Rawlson I’ll be with her in just a few minutes now. Is she having a good time?”