by Craig Rice
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Yes, sir, she’s having a very good time. She’s still chatting with Mr. Bullock, sir.”
“Damn Mr. Bullock!” Malone said, stepping back into the dressing room.
“Annette—” Al Omega said.
“She never was married to the midget,” Malone said. “The marriage certificate he showed her was a fake. She’s had a hell of a time, and she needs a good strong arm around her. Her husband’s, for instance.”
“Thanks,” Al Omega said. He paused at the door. “You know—Mildred Goldsmith—”
“I know,” Malone said. “She didn’t mean a thing. She ran after you. You were sore and hurt because you couldn’t understand why Annette had left you the day after your marriage. You didn’t give a hoot in hell about Mildred Goldsmith, but she was—available. And then the midget confided in you about his fake marriage to Annette, only he didn’t tell you it was a fake. And Mildred confided in you that Annette was working this marriage-annulment game, only she didn’t tell you it was someone else’s idea, not Annette’s. And you couldn’t guess that the midget had put her up to it.” The little lawyer shook his head. “He didn’t miss a trick. He saw how tortured Annette was when she saw you with Mildred Goldsmith, he saw how tortured Lou Goldsmith was when he saw Mildred with you, and he saw how tortured you were, when you believed Annette was a grafting little gold-digger with a new approach.” He picked up his cigar. “At least, I’m glad you two came out of it with your skins whole.”
“Thanks,” Al Omega said. He opened the door and said, “I’ll look after Annette.”
“He will, too,” Jake said after the door was closed. “He’s a good guy.”
Malone stared at the closed door. “I should have guessed.”
“After all,” Helene said gently, “no one even pretends you’re psychic, in addition to your other talents.” At Jake’s questioning look she went on, “Malone thought the nice young man Annette had married was—Allswell McJackson.”
“It was the logical conclusion,” Malone said. “But as a matter of fact, it all fitted together better this way. Remind me never to trust logical conclusions again.” He lit his cigar. “Well,” he said, “that winds up damn near everything.”
“No it doesn’t,” Helene said. “I still don’t understand about those silk stockings.”
Malone passed his hand wearily over his eyes. “I explained it. There were eleven, because he wanted to use Mildred Goldsmith’s own stockings on her—”
“That isn’t what I mean,” Helene said. “Why use stockings at all?”
“Revenge. Symbolism. Making the punishment fit the crime.” Malone shrugged. “Remember, these murders were committed by a man who considered them acts of vengeance—not for the wrongs he’d suffered himself, but because of other people. You’ve heard enough about the midget’s exotic personal life to realize that every member of the Casino chorus—except Mildred Goldsmith—could have killed him with pleasure.” He sighed. “Well, Allswell fixed it so they practically did. That boy sure has a sense of justice.”
Jake said, “Smart, too. He almost stumped you, Malone—for the first time.”
Malone thought for a moment, then said, “There’s always—just one key thing you need to know. The key that unlocks a door—or a mystery, or”—he paused suddenly, staring at them—“a fiddle case.”
“Yes,” Helene said excitedly. “A fiddle case. Malone, who moved the midget’s body? And why?”
“Do you know?” Jake put in.
The little lawyer nodded. “Yes, I know. And I’ll tell you in a minute. Jake, get Artie Clute in here.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
For just a moment, while Jake went to get the bass fiddle player, Malone permitted himself the luxury of thinking about Ruth Rawlson. She’d be there waiting for him, right at this very instant. The snow queen of that twenty-years-ago ballet, all in dazzling white, save for the red-gold hair that flowed over her pale arms like a flame. Just a few minutes now—
“I don’t feel as old as I look,” he told himself, “and by golly, I bet I don’t look as old as I feel.”
“What are you muttering about?” Helene asked. She lit a cigarette with fingers that still trembled.
“Truth,” he told her solemnly. “Truth is the key that unlocks all doors, and all fiddle cases.”
Helene said sternly, “Malone, you’re drunk.”
“Not yet, I’m not,” he hold her happily. “But—” What if he did have to turn over most of the fee he’d gotten from Pen Reddick to square Jake with Max Hook? He’d get it back from Jake later. Meantime, Ruth Rawlson was waiting for him—
He could hear Artie Clute protesting by the time Jake had dragged him within six feet of the dressing room door.
“—honest, Mr. Justus, just a couple of quick ones before the show tonight. You know how it is, standing up there beating that ole bass fiddle, nothing to look at but the pretty girls in the chorus, a guy gets bored—” He came in through the dressing room door on the last word, looked around, and turned white.
“You’re not going to get fired,” Malone said sternly. “You’re not going to have to talk to a cop. You’re not in any trouble. But”—he drew a long breath—“why in hell did you carry the little guy out of here last night?”
“I didn’t know I was,” Artie Clute said, his round face unhappy. “Honest, Mr. Malone, I thought—say, Mr. Malone, how the hell did you know?”
“Truth,” Malone said gravely, “is the key that—” He paused, cleared his throat, and said, “Nobody could have gotten the midget’s body out of the fiddle case without having a key to the case. There was one key—the one the midget had—and it was”—he paused—“not available. So another key must have been used. And nobody in the world would have had that extra key to the fiddle case except—the man who owned it.”
Artie Clute said, “Gee, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.” He sniffed, like a small boy staving off the tears. “After all, hell, it had been my fiddle, and if I couldn’t get it back Al Omega wouldn’t give me my job again, and I owed sixteen bucks at the hotel and four bucks at the liquor store, and the—”
“So you did carry him out of here!” Jake said.
Artie Clute scratched the underside of his nose with the back of his forefinger. “After Al Omega told me I could have my job back, I thought I’d come in and try to make some kind of a deal with the midget. So I came back here and knocked on the door and then I came in, and he wasn’t here. But there was the fiddle case leaning up against the wall. So I thought what the hell, I’ll take it along with me and make a deal with him later. What would you have done?”
“Exactly the same thing,” Jake said calmly.
“So I took it back to my place at the hotel, and I got my key and opened it up and Jeez, instead of my fiddle, there’s a dead midget.” He looked up appealingly. “Can you imagine how I felt about that?”
“We can imagine it,” Helene said. “Easily.”
“So I thought, Jeez, what the hell am I gonna do with this? And I decided I’d better have a drink, only all I had left was forty cents, so I went over to the drugstore where you can buy an under-the-counter pint for forty cents.” He shuddered reminiscently. “So I drank about half of it, and then I began to feel sorry as hell for the little guy. Here he was, and not even in his own bed. So I drank the rest of the pint, and then I went through his pockets and found the key to his apartment, and took him down there, and undressed him, and put him to bed just as nicely and carefully as I could.” He sniffed again. “Honest, I meant to fold his hands, but I’m afraid I forgot to.
“Don’t apologize,” Malone said hoarsely. “You did a beautiful job. And I suppose you called up the desk and left a 7:30 call for him, too?”
Artie Clute nodded. “Was that wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“No,” Malone said, “but I hope you didn’t think he’d hear it.”
The bass fiddle player looked indignant. “Do you think I’m
dumb?” He turned appealingly to Jake and Helene. “I thought if I left a call for him, when he didn’t answer somebody would go up and see what was wrong. You wouldn’t have wanted to leave that poor little guy there all by himself, and nobody to come up and find him, would you?”
“Perish the thought,” Helene said.
Artie Clute smiled at her. “And then I meant to take the fiddle case back to the Casino and find the fiddle itself, but Jeez, I began to feel groggy as hell, so I decided just to take the case back to the Casino, and then I felt too groggy for that, so finally I thought well, Mr. Justus owns the Casino, so I took the fiddle case up and leaned it against your door. And I guess I got to bed all right after that, because that’s where I woke up this morning.” He looked anxiously at Jake. “You don’t think I’ve done wrong, do you?”
“N-o,” Jake said, dragging it out.
“That’s swell,” Artie Clute said, brightening up. He scratched his nose again, and said, “I gotta get back out there or I’ll be in trouble again. Mr. Justus, have a heart! Please don’t tell on me. I don’t want to lose my job again.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jake said.
“That’s wonderful of you,” Artie Clute told him, “and I want you to know I appreciate it. Because if Al Omega knew I’d been drinking that forty-cent whiskey again, he’d—” He started to open the door.
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “I thought you meant—you didn’t want any of us to tell—you’d carried the midget’s body out of here, in your fiddle case.”
“That?” Artie Clute said, “Who the hell would care about that?” He stared at them and said, “Sure, I won’t tell anybody about that, because if I did I’d have to tell about that forty-cent liquor, and then Al Omega would fire me again, and I couldn’t let that happen because I just borrowed ten bucks tonight from the headwaiter and put up my fiddle for security.” He opened the door, started out, and said, “Oh Mr. Justus, I bought a suit of clothes on time payments this afternoon, and forged your name as a reference. I hope you don’t mind.” The strains of Ramon Arriba’s closing theme came in from the bandstand. Artie Clute said, “Gotta go. Good by,” and closed the door.
“Well,” Jake said at last, “he is a damn fine bass fiddle player.” He glanced around the room and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The three left the dressing room without a backward glance. Back in the Casino, Malone strained his eyes to see, in the farthest corner, two figures with their heads together. One of the figures wore a white dress. Well, he’d chase that Bullock guy away fast enough, even if he did own half the real estate on the near-North Side. Surely Ruth Rawlson wouldn’t mind having been kept waiting, for such a little while.
“Now,” Jake said in an undertone to Malone, “one thing more. Max Hook.” As Malone nodded, he seated Helene at the table they had left such a short time before, leaned over her, and said, “You’ll excuse us for a minute? Business.”
She had never looked more beautiful, her pale hair smooth and gleaming around her face, her lovely eyes violet-edged with weariness.
As they threaded their way through the tables, Malone felt for the reassuring crackle of the checks in his pocket. The office rent could go for another month. That little matter at the bank could be taken care of. Apologetic notes could handle those February and March bills in his desk drawer. There would be the fee for Allswell McJackson’s defense coming along. No, he didn’t really need the money Pen Reddick had given him.
Max Hook looked up and smiled at them blandly. “Sorry to trouble you, Jake, my dear boy. Will you join me in a drink? No? Very well, shall we get right down to business?”
“Sure,” Jake said. “Let’s get it over with.”
Max Hook glanced around as though to make sure no one was listening. “Jake, my boy, I let you have the use of certain money, to remodel and redecorate the Casino. You put up the Casino as security. Frankly, my dear fellow, I don’t want the Casino. But”—he paused.
Malone thought, “Here it comes!” He felt again for the checks.
“Also, frankly,” Max Hook whispered, “I don’t want the money either. But I’d be glad to cancel the debt—” Again he looked cautiously around.
Malone withdrew his hand from his pocket and thought, “What the hell?”
“Jake, my dear young friend,” Max Hook said, “I’ll be glad to call it square, if—The midget: I understand he had some pictures in his room.” He cleared his throat. “If you can arrange it—I’d be glad—I’d be delighted to take those pictures instead of the money or the Casino—”
Jake stared at him, and said hoarsely, “It might be arranged.”
“Good, good, my dear boy,” Max Hook murmured. He fitted a thin cigarette into his rose-quartz holder, leaned across the table, and breathed, “Are those pictures really as—”
Halfway back to his own table, Jake said to Malone, “I knew I’d find a use for those pictures, sometime.”
Malone glanced at him. It was as though the weight of the world had dropped from Jake’s shoulders. He watched while Jake sat down beside Helene, took one of her slender hands in his, and brushed his lips over the finger tips. He looked up towards the bandstand where Al Omega had just appeared, bright-eyed and smiling, keeping one eye on the table near the door where Annette Ginnis sat watching him adoringly. He started across the floor and passed Betty Royal’s table, her basketball team of admirers gone and Pen Reddick at her side, just in time to hear Pen Reddick saying, “There’s a reason why I couldn’t tell you before, but now—” He glanced at his watch. Oh well, Ruth Rawlson had only been waiting a little over two hours. He threaded his way through the crowd to her table.
It was empty. There was a little litter of cigarette stubs and empty glasses which a busy waiter was rapidly clearing away.
“Miss Rawlson?” Malone said, with a sudden anxiety in his voice.
“Miss Rawlson? Oh yes, Mr. Malone. She left a message for you.”
Malone said, “Left—”
“Miss Rawlson left just a few minutes ago,” the waiter said, “with Mr. Bullock. She asked me to tell you they were driving to Crown Point to be married, sir.” He sighed. “A very lucky young lady, if I may say so. Mr. Bullock—”
“I know,” Malone said hoarsely. He stood there for just a minute, looking at the deserted table. Then, “Tell me, how did she look?”
The waiter rolled his eyes heavenward. “Beautiful, sir, simply beautiful! She wore a white dress, trimmed with—I believe they’re called gold nail-heads, sir. And her hair—frankly, sir, I’ve never seen more gorgeous hair. Like red sunshine it was, I give you my word. And her face, Mr. Malone, was like the face of an angel.”
“It was, eh?” Malone said. “I hope they’ll be very happy.” He handed the waiter a five-dollar bill.
The waiter stared at it and at Malone. “What’s this for, sir?”
“Never mind,” Malone said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He took one more glance at the table, strolled out past the bar, through the lobby, and into the street.
Well, twenty years from now, perhaps—
He hailed a passing taxi, yawned, and climbed in.
“Home,” said John J. Malone.
Turn the page to continue reading from the John J. Malone Mysteries
Chapter 1
The Bridegroom’s Morning After
There was always one hour of the day when he believed, acutely, in hell. It came very early in the morning, just before sunrise. It was a time of torment, of fears, apprehensions, and occasional regrets, of tortured half-waking, half-sleeping dreams, memories he’d tried over and over to bury, and premonitions of a future he didn’t like to face. Then, too, there was a persistent, throbbing pain in his head, and a burning, terrible thirst.
He’d learned that if he could only get back to sleep, and stay asleep for a few more hours, he’d wake feeling himself again, a little on edge, perhaps, and with no appetite for breakfast, but himself. After those fe
w hours he could go out into the world again, the charming, amusing young man who did, occasionally, get a trifle high at parties (but not often, nor objectionably) and did, now and then, win or lose at poker games (but only once in a while, and never too much).
So there would always be the desperate struggle to get back to sleep again, closing his eyes and burying his face in the pillow. Sometimes an aspirin and a glass of milk would do the trick, when he could goad himself into getting out of bed and going to the refrigerator. Or, a bottle of cold beer would invariably work, though that was likely to leave him with an unpleasant, crawling sensation in his stomach when he woke later.
In that hour of awful waking, though, his desire to sleep again had little to do with how he would feel and act when he got out of bed, two or three hours later. Rather it was a desperate need to escape from the things that plagued his mind. This morning, though, was going to be the last. He turned over in bed, his eyes still closed, and put one arm across his face to shut out the light. Beginning today, from this morning, this moment on, he was on the wagon, and completely on the wagon, a drinker of tomato juice and ginger ale.
It wasn’t an ordinary hangover resolution, to be broken by eleven in the morning. He’d never made any of those since he was nineteen, being enough of a realist to know how little they meant. No, he was becoming a teetotaler from pure necessity. After yesterday, he had to. He’d gone on last night’s bender for the same reason. He had to.
He took the arm away from his face and slowly and uncomfortably opened his eyes. This wasn’t his own bed he was in. This wasn’t his room. It was a place he’d never seen before. It wasn’t his room, but it was a gorgeous one. Even in his present state of mind and body, he could appreciate it. It was obviously a hotel room, in one of the best and most expensive hotels. The furniture was handsome and restrained. The walls and draperies were pleasantly unobtrusive. The pictures were tactfully chosen. The bed was swell.