by Craig Rice
One of the two uniformed policemen mumbled to the other, “Bet you two dollars he gets sick.” His buddy mumbled back, “I’ll take you. He looks strong. Besides, the doc fixed her up so you can’t even tell her head was cut off.”
The bedroom door burst open suddenly. Dennis Morrison appeared there, his face not white now, but ghastly gray. His eyes were staring, dark with horror. “But that isn’t Bertha,” he said. “That isn’t her at all.” His hand grasped the door jamb, tightened on it. “That’s someone else.” His voice rose, almost to a scream. “Where is Bertha? Where is she?”
Chapter 3
A Murder on His Hands
“There is a train for Chicago,” Malone said, “at six-forty-five tonight.” He stole a look out of the corner of his eye at Helene, and added firmly, “And I am going to be on it.” He waited hopefully for some answer from her. There was none. She didn’t even seem to know he was there. She was gazing at a tiny speck on the polished surface of the bar as though it were the moon reflected on Lake Minnetonka, or Venus seen through the telescope at Yerkes Observatory. Malone reached out and brushed the speck away and said, “Tonight. Six-forty-five tonight.” She sighed faintly and transferred her gaze to a minute puddle of beer which, from the look on her face, might have been Lake Michigan seen from the top of the Palmolive Building. Malone turned to the bartender, waved, and called, “Two more.” Still there wasn’t a peep from Helene.
There was something about the look on her face that he didn’t like. He’d seen her under many circumstances and in many moods. White-faced, blazing-eyed, and still cool and calm, on a day when a friend had been accused of and arrested for murder. That had been the first time he’d seen her; she’d had on pale-blue satin pajamas, a fur coat, and galoshes, she’d just met Jake Justus, ex-reporter and press agent, and there had been a Look on her face. There had been a delicate glow in her cheeks the day she’d announced that she and Jake were engaged.
He’d seen her looking scared, happy, and starry-eyed the day she and Jake were married. He’d seen her terrified but grimly brave when Jake was missing, probably kidnaped and possibly murdered. He’d seen her with her lovely, patrician face smudged with dust and soot, with cobwebs entangled in her shining hair. He’d seen her happy, worried, thoughtful, sad, gay, drunk, sober, angry, indignant, sympathetic, and bored. But never like this, absent-minded and somehow, faraway.
Malone paid for the beers, cleared his throat, and began again. “I came here,” he said loudly, “under false pretenses. You long-distanced me yesterday afternoon and lured me into coming to New York. You said you had a problem and you needed my help immediately. You said I could spend a pleasant vacation in New York and have a wonderful time.” He paused to drink his beer and relight his cigar. “I came to New York, breaking a date with a very charming young lady to do so. I caught the train. I got here. And what did I find?” He waited for a moment. He might have been talking to someone in the next room for all the attention she paid him. He cleared his throat a second time, and went on. “I got off the train at quarter past seven this morning. You and Jake met me. I’ll ignore, for the moment, the fact that both of you were in evening dress. We went to the hotel, where I expected to find a bed. Instead, I found some strange drunk who has a murder on his hands.” He snorted loudly. “I haven’t had any sleep, I haven’t had any breakfast, the only cheap liquor on the train was terrible, and I lost twenty-four dollars in a poker game between Buffalo and Albany.” He didn’t add that he’d also lost his return fare to Chicago. That could be considered later. “And,” he said, “I am going back to Chicago at six-forty-five tonight.” He looked at Helene’s exquisite profile, counted ten, and then said angrily, “Well, what do you have to say?”
Helene frowned. She said, “I wonder where Bertha Morrison is.”
“I don’t know,” Malone said, “and I don’t care. And who the hell is Bertha Morrison?”
She shoved the newspaper that had been lying by her elbow in front of him. Malone glanced at it, trying to pretend he wasn’t interested. The headline was a little too much for him, and he went on reading. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? “Never in my life,” Malone said gloomily. He looked at the three photographs, Bertha Morrison, née Bertha Lutts, at seven, a plump, dull-looking child. Bertha in her graduation dress, a heavy-set, dull-looking girl. Bertha’s wedding picture, a round-faced, dull-looking woman.
WHERE IS BERTHA MORRISON? a caption read. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Malone told the caption. He didn’t want to read any more, but he couldn’t help it. He took one more look at the two-column full-face picture of her, and shook his head sadly. It was going to be damned hard to convince anybody that young Dennis Morrison hadn’t married Bertha Lutts for her money. Malone went on reading. Bertha Lutts hadn’t attracted any attention during the thirty-three years of her life. Then she’d made up for it fast, and all at once.
She hadn’t been numbered among the richest girls in the world, and she’d never appeared in the Social Register. She hadn’t made a debut, and her name had never been in Winchell’s column. Her picture had never been in a newspaper until now. But she owned a couple of Cadillacs, she had a chauffeur and a maid, she lived in an expensive apartment, she had charge accounts in all the best stores. She had a big block of A. T. & S. stock, a good-sized section of profitable real estate in Brooklyn, an unquenchable yen for life, and no friends.
There were a lot of girls like Bertha Lutts. Born to be plump and dull, and born to a father who made a lot of money and invested it wisely. They were well fed and well cared for, they had their teeth straightened and their eyes protected with expensive glasses, but they never went to fashionable boarding schools or joined exclusive sororities. They grew up to buy costly clothes, with good labels, that never fitted very well, but they never had any place to wear them. Usually they were left orphans at an early age. Papa died from the strain of making money; Mamma died from the strain of living with Papa.
A few of them went into business and made more money. Others hired companions and became perpetual tourists. Some met congenial nurses and became chronic invalids. Some went in for tweeds and heavy shoes and managed dog kennels. Some moved to southern California and became religious, giving their time and their incomes to little groups with no money, a small meeting hall, and an exalted name, like The Society of the Lavender Lily. They organized bridge clubs, they became unpaid social workers, they sometimes (unfortunately) became interested in politics. Occasionally they joined Lonely Hearts clubs. (“Attractive man, 42, world traveler and scholar, would like to meet lady interested in discussing poetry.”) And once in a while, one of them got married. Rich old maids—who began being old maids at the age of fourteen. Bertha Morrison, née Lutts, had been one of them.
“A perfect fortune-hunter setup,” Helene commented. “Only usually it turns out that when a rich thirty-three-year-old orphan marries a poor but charming young man, she’s found ten weeks later stuffed under a culvert somewhere in Nebraska. This happened another way, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“I am not interested,” Malone said stiffly. “I am not even curious.”
“And I,” Helene said, just as stiffly, “am not talking to you. I’m talking to myself.” She looked at the newspaper again and scowled. “They met and they loved. It could have been like that. Just because she had money doesn’t mean he married her for it. Well, anyway. They get married. Then on his wedding night this guy gets a terrific attack of bashfulness and goes out and gets plastered and doesn’t come home. He turns up wearing a dinner jacket that belongs to some perfect stranger with the initials Q. P Z. but with his own handkerchief in the breast pocket.”
“Nicely folded, too,” Malone said.
Helene was silent for a moment. “Maybe it happened like this. Someone slipped him a mickey with the idea of robbing him and walked off with his jacket. That could explain how he lost his own jacket.”
“Then a fairy godfather in a well-fitted dinner coat comes along and sl
ips our hero a new coat.” Malone said gloomily. “Besides, he said he didn’t have much money in his own wallet. While Q. P. Z.’s wallet was stuffed with ten-buck bills.”
“All right,” Helene said. “You find an explanation.”
“It’s none of my business,” Malone said. He got tired of trying to attract the bartender’s attention and drank Helene’s beer.
Helene said, “He woke up in the morning full of remorse at having walked out on his bride. But his bride is missing. Malone, where the hell could she be?”
“Gone home to Mother,” Malone said.
“But she’s an orphan,” Helene said.
The little lawyer sighed. “That remark is supposed to lead into a very bad vaudeville joke, but for the life of me I can’t remember how it goes. Will you shut up and stop bothering me.” He raised his voice and addressed the bartender. “Put down that Racing Form and pay attention to your customers.”
“It isn’t the Racing Form,” the bartender said. “It’s The New Republic. Was there something you wished, sir?”
“I do my wishing on four-leaf clovers,” Malone said. “But since you’re here, you can bring us two beers. And give me a double rye for a chaser.”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender said. He was a tall, thin, blond young man with melancholy eyes and a Boston accent. He began filling the glasses, then suddenly caught himself and looked questioningly at Malone.
“You heard me,” Malone said hoarsely. “Where I come from we always drink rye as a chaser for beer. I’m a Chicago gangster and I shoot people when they don’t serve me properly. Now gimme those drinks.”
The bartender said, “Yes, sir” shoved the glasses across the bar with shaking hands, and fled back to The New Republic.
“This,” Malone growled, “is a hell of a saloon.”
“It isn’t a saloon,” Helene said. “It’s a cocktail lounge. And you’re a big bully, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” She lit a cigarette. “Malone, what could have happened there last night? The bride vanishes. In her place is a beautiful woman, still unidentified, wearing a very elegant nightgown, and neatly decapitated.” She glanced back at the newspaper and added “Decapitated after she was killed. She’d been strangled, and she’d put up a terrific struggle. Bruises and contusions all over.”
“That just goes to show,” Malone said in a morose voice, “never struggle while you’re being strangled. You get bruised.”
“All Bertha’s jewels are missing,” Helene went on relentlessly, “and so is Bertha. Where is she? What’s it all about?”
“At eleven o’clock in the morning,” the little lawyer moaned, “you bring up problems like that.”
“Dennis Morrison is being held for questioning,” she said. “Malone, they can’t keep that poor young man in jail, can they?”
“Ask them,” Malone said, drinking his rye. “Or ask his lawyer.”
Helene said, “But you’re his lawyer.”
Malone put down his glass and turned to her. “This is New York, not Chicago.”
“Perfect nonsense,” Helene said. “Besides, you don’t have to go into court, or even talk to the police. All you have to do is find Bertha, find out who strangled and decapitated that unidentified woman, and get Dennis Morrison out of jail.”
“At six-forty-five tonight,” Malone told her firmly, “I will be on the train for Chicago.” He lit his cigar. “Funny damn thing, though, about that dinner jacket.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Where’s Jake?”
“I don’t know,” Helene said. She tried unsuccessfully to make it sound like, “I don’t care.”
Malone looked at her, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Something—he didn’t know what—was wrong. He didn’t like to admit how much it worried him. There were just two people in the world he loved very dearly. Jake and Helene. Whatever was wrong was serious enough to make Helene send for him. But what the hell was it? She’d tell him about it when she got good and ready, he reminded himself, and in the meantime there was no use asking questions.
“Jake goes out,” Helene said suddenly, “and stays away for hours at a time. He says it’s business, and he’ll tell me about it later. But what is it, and why doesn’t he tell me now? And why does he insist on staying on in New York, when we’d only intended to be here a week or two?”
“It takes time to look over Radio City,” Malone said.
Helene sniffed scornfully and said nothing.
Was it another woman? Impossible, Malone told himself, looking at Helene. He was sure there was no woman in the world—indeed, no woman had ever been born—who could compete with Helene. And Jake had worshiped her since the first day he set eyes on her, the day of the Inglehart murder, dressed in blue satin pajamas, a fur coat, galoshes, and with a quart of gin in the side pocket of her high-powered car. No, it couldn’t be another woman.
“And he’s worrying about something,” Helene said. “I can tell.”
Malone said, “It’s all your imagination.” He’d realized that Jake was worried when he first stepped off the train. He too could tell. Financial troubles? Hardly. The Casino back in Chicago was out of debt and doing a rushing business. Anyway, if Jake was worried about money, he wouldn’t be here in New York, he’d be tearing back to Chicago to do something about it. What the devil kind of trouble could Jake be in that he wouldn’t tell Helene? Maybe he was being blackmailed. No, that was absurd. There wasn’t any sin or crime Jake could ever have committed that he wouldn’t tell Helene about. One thing was certain, it wouldn’t do any good to go to Jake and say, “Look here, what the hell’s the matter with you?” When Jake had anything to tell, he’d tell it in his own way and his own time. Meanwhile—“There is a train for Chicago,” he began again.
“At six-forty-five tonight,” Helene said acidly. “I heard you the first time.”
The little lawyer sighed. He did want to be on that train. There was, of course, the unfortunate fact that he’d lost his return fare in that poker game. Financially speaking, it had been a particularly bad time for him to take the trip. When Helene’s call had reached him, he’d been sitting in his office, looking admiringly at a very lovely little bracelet that had cost him exactly half of all the money he had in the world. And he’d been contemplating the date he had that evening with a charming young person from the Casino floor-show chorus. Regretfully he’d broken the date and taken back the bracelet. Then he’d bought a shirt, a pint of cheap rye, and a ticket for New York. Of the remaining money, there was nine dollars left after the disastrous poker game. Naturally Helene had asked to pay his fare, and naturally he’d refused, informing her that he had more money than he knew what to do with. He knew she didn’t believe him, but he hadn’t expected her to. Of course, he could wire Joe the Angel to wire him the price of a ticket home. Maybe he’d better do it right now.
His thoughts were interrupted by a voice saying, “Oh, here you are. The desk clerk told me he thought you were in the bar.” It was Dennis Morrison. He looked very tired. He still had on the mysterious dinner jacket, and his dark hair was mussed as though he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes were just faintly swollen and pink-rimmed. “They let me go,” he said hoarsely. “But I could see they didn’t believe a word I said. Tell me, what am I going to do?”
“You’re going to sit down,” Malone said sternly, “and have a drink. You need one.”
The bartender leaned over the bar and said, “Oh, aren’t you the gentleman who—”
Malone fixed a cold eye on him and said in an ominous voice, “In Chicago, when we find curious bartenders—” The bartender fled for the second time.
“Stop scaring him,” Helene said. “It’s mean.”
“I don’t like him,” Malone said. He moved over to the next stool so that Dennis could sit between them. A train for Chicago, he reminded himself. Six-forty-five. Wire Joe the Angel for money. No mixing up in this affair. He avoided Helene’s reproachful eyes, and tried not to look at the
expression on Dennis Morrison’s very young and very handsome face.
“They haven’t found Bertha yet,” Dennis said. “They haven’t identified that other woman. Nobody knows what’s happened to Bertha. Where is she? And the police don’t believe me. I can tell they don’t believe me.” He looked up helplessly. “I don’t know why I should bother you two with this. I only met you this morning. But I haven’t any other friends in the world.” He buried his face in his hands.
Malone crushed out his cigar, took a fresh one from his pocket, and began unwrapping it slowly and thoughtfully. There would be a train for Chicago at six-forty-five tomorrow night, too. After all, he hadn’t seen anything of New York yet. Not that he was going to get involved in this—But it wouldn’t do any harm to give the young man a little good advice. Besides, if Helene got interested in the case, it might take her mind off her anxiety about Jake. He carefully looked away from her, though, as he said, “My dear boy, you have nothing to worry about. You couldn’t be in better hands. Now let’s move over to a booth, where we can talk in private.”
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About the Author
Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Rice’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.
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