by Craig Rice
Oh well, Malone had been free from his shadow for the day, and for his own part, he’d learned a lot of new and interesting words.
. He opened the door into the hall. Gus Madrid was no longer by the elevator, he was in the doorway. “I’m coming in,” he said, and did, kicking the door shut behind him. He glared at Jake with suspicion and said, “Where’s Eva Lou Strauss?” Jake hesitated an instant between “I don’t know who you mean” and “Will you please get out of my way,” and finally said inadequately, “She isn’t here.”
“I see she ain’t here,” Gus Madrid said irritably. “What I want to know is, where’s she at?”
Jake shook his head.
“Distinctly,” Gus Madrid told him, taking a step forward, “I distinctly heard you tell that guy Malone you was going straight to where she was, and you come straight here, well, a’most straight here, and she ain’t here. So—”
“Oh, an eavesdropper,” Jake said.
The gunman promptly stated that Jake was several things, all far more unpleasant than eavesdropper.
“Look here,” Jake said, hanging on to his temper by a rapidly thinning thread, “I’m a respectable businessman—”
Gus Madrid’s comment on that reflected objectionably on a number of Jake’s personal habits. “If you wasn’t going to where she was, why’d you say you was?”
“Oh, that,” Jake said, trying for a very light touch. “That’s just a little joke Malone and I have. Instead of saying, ‘I’ve got to see a man about a horse,’ we say, ‘I’ve got to see Eva Lou Strauss.’”
This time, Gus Madrid not only commented, even more unpleasantly, on Jake’s personal habits, but on his origin and veracity as well.
Jake forgot himself and answered with two succinct words.
That was his first mistake. His second was very bad aim with his right. But as he went down, at least he knew what hit him.
Chapter Ten
For a little less than a minute, Malone considered going after Jake and Gus Madrid. Then he thought better of it. Jake’s impulse had been well-meant, and it behooved him to take advantage of it as best he could. Anyway, Jake could take care of himself in any situation. At least, he mentally added, he always had.
He decided to go back to the remodeled and redecorated little gem of a house that enclosed the heart and soul and, most importantly, the brains of Delora Deanne.
The breathtaking lovely in the little blue-and-gold reception room greeted him more than warmly. “You got here very quickly, Mr. Malone. We just called your office a few minutes ago.” Her smile made him forget almost half of his troubles.
Hazel Swackhammer met him in the green-and-pink lounge, and led the way to her office. Her expression was as close to grim as it was to anything.
“You’ve heard something?” Malone asked hopefully. “A message?”
She closed the office door and said, “You might call it that. I suppose.”
There was a box, still in its brown paper wrapping, on the desk. Malone looked at it silently, and the uncomfortable chill landed in his stomach again. The shape of the box told him perfectly well what it was.
“By messenger,” Hazel Swackhammer said. “I called you at once. And I decided to put off opening it until you got here.”
Malone nodded, still silently. He didn’t need to open it, but he knew he was going to. He untied the string slowly and pushed aside the brown paper wrappings with fingers that, he suspected, were registering somewhere three thousand miles away on a seismograph.
The pale mauve shoebox proclaimed, in graceful black lettering, that it came from a shop whose name was not only known at least halfway around the world, but whose prices were spoken of in awed hushed whispers.
Malone lifted the lid just far enough to catch a glimpse of little gold kid sandals with a multitude of tiny straps, and high, slender heels. They were not empty.
He closed the box, rewrapped it fast, and retied the string in a whole series of knots. Then he stood staring at it, drawing every breath as though he expected it to be his last.
At last he said, “Well, at least this one came by messenger. So you ought to be able to trace it. Or rather, I ought to be.”
“I doubt it,” Hazel Swackhammer said. “It was brought by a shabbily dressed man who smelled to high heaven of cheap gin, and refused to deliver it to anyone except myself. He’d been paid half a dollar to bring it here, and I tipped him a dime.” She paused. “Well, Mr. Malone, what do you propose to do about it?”
Malone decided against telling her that he didn’t know. He said nothing and did his best to avoid looking at the box.
Finally she put it away decisively in her desk drawer and said, “Naturally I immediately telephoned Louella Frick at her apartment. Her roommate didn’t know anything except that she was not in.”
Malone went right on saying nothing. There was no point, he already knew, in asking questions about Louella Frick. He would simply be told that the private lives of the Delora Deanne models were none of Hazel Swackhammer’s concern, as long as they didn’t create unpleasant disturbances in the newspapers.
Finally he did manage to ask for Louella Frick’s address, and wrote it down. On a second thought, he included the addresses of the remaining Delora Deannes. Then one question did occur to him.
“Who knew, or might know, that these models were all working for you? That, together, they added up to Delora Deanne?”
Hazel Swackhammer shook her head. “No one,” she said, “outside of this very close-knit little organization. My secretary, Miss Harris. Mr. Furlong and Mr. Dennis, of course. My receptionist, Tamia Tabet. And naturally, they knew each other.” She added, “You can easily understand why it would be highly unfortunate for anyone—anyone—to know that there was, so to speak, more than one Delora Deanne.”
The little lawyer nodded. “It could he highly unfortunate indeed.” He scowled and thought hard for a minute. “As a matter of simple precaution, do you know where the other Delora Deannes are right now? It might be wise to advise them to—to take steps.” He wasn’t sure what kind of steps they should take, except that preferably they should be steps away.
“Quite naturally,” Hazel Swackhammer said, “I thought of that.” There was just a tinge of reproach in her tone. “I telephoned, but none of them were at home. I shall continue to telephone.” Her eyes said, “And just what are you going to do?”
Again he decided against suggesting that the police be called in. And again he wondered exactly what he was going to do. He could go to Louella Frick’s apartment, and probably find that she had gone away on a trip, leaving a large collection of beautiful and valuable shoes behind.
On a sudden impulse he made up his mind to get a little better acquainted with Dennis Dennis, and asked where he would be found.
Mr. Dennis had an office on the second floor, and was in. “But,” Hazel Swackhammer said, her eyes narrowing a little, “of course, you won’t say anything to him about this.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Malone hastily reassured her. “I only thought I’d just make some excuse to see him, and hope he might accidentally drop some information that might be helpful.”
“I doubt,” she said, “that he knows anything. Anything helpful, that is. But go ahead.” She managed to give the impression that at least Malone would be doing something besides standing about and saying nothing.
He murmured something noncommittal and wandered away. The full-length portrait of Delora Deanne that decorated the staircase, with its delicate gilded metal railing, only depressed him more. The whole affair seemed to be confused beyond confusion. And probably still more confusion lay ahead of him.
Had two of the Delora Deannes been kidnaped, or murdered, or both, and their hands and feet sent to Hazel Swackhammer either as a preliminary to an extortion message, or as a grim warning? A grim warning of what? And which one was going to be next, the torso and legs, the face, or the voice? And just how was he going to prevent it, assuming that it hadn’t
taken place already?
Myrdell Harris appeared at the foot of the staircase, almost as though she had been watching for him. She gave him the dreamy smile.
“New trouble, Mr. Malone?” she breathed.
He wondered if he really detected a hopeful note in her voice. Her oval face, with its vague, sweet smile, told him nothing. “No, nothing new.” That was practically the truth.
The smile intensified but, if anything, grew more vague. “I know I’m going to be a great deal of help to you, before everything is over with.”
What everything? He started to speak, but she was already on her way. He reached for her arm, but it eluded him like a shred of mist.
“Your check went out in the mail to you this morning.” Another smile. Then she seemed to fade away, to dissolve rather than actually move.
Well, that was one helpful thing she’d done, at least. Except that the check wouldn’t be at his office until the next morning. He had plans for the evening, and something was going to have to be done about them.
One thought struck him as he reached the top of the curving stairs. Even without hands and feet, Delora Deanne could go right on doing a lot of cosmetic business, and if Otis Furlong did come up with a workable idea for producing her in toto on a television screen, there was one problem less. It might take a little searching, but other beautiful hands, other exquisite feet could be found. Even the luscious torso and legs could undoubtedly be duplicated in time. But the angelic, wistful and alluring face of Delora Deanne, nee Gertie Bragg—never!
Could some especially adroit kidnaper have thought of just that fact, and be leading up to a threat of sending that to Hazel Swackhammer, if a sufficiently large sum of money was not immediately forthcoming? It was his first thought so far that began to create some kind of a pattern.
Then there was another thought. Charlie Swackhammer. Cuddles. Where did he fit into all this? According to his ex-wife, he had designs on the Delora Deanne business, and was quite possibly responsible for the campaign in the columns. Still, he would hardly go to the enthusiastic lengths of murder, mutilations, mailings and messengers, to gain control of a business. Or would he?
The little lawyer made a mental note to put Cuddles Swackhammer high on his list of persons to be visited that day.
One way or another, he had to earn that check that was in the mail. To say nothing of getting a lot of puzzling problems out of his own mind.
He saw Myrdell Harris crossing the room below, some businesslike-looking folders in her hand. She looked up and gave him the same dreamy smile. For an instant, her cloud-colored eyes suggested that she did know everything about everything that was going on, and that it was perfectly possible for Malone to learn it from her. But before he could speak to her, she had maddeningly vanished again.
Chapter Eleven
Malone found Dennis Dennis in a small, uninteresting office that was hardly in keeping with the rest of the Delora Deanne decor. It was at the back of the building, and its one window looked out in the general direction of Lake Shore Drive and the lake front. The furnishings and their arrangement were similar to Hazel Swackhammer’s private office downstairs, save that a standard-size typewriter stood on the desk, with a pile of unused paper on one side of it and an overflowing ash tray on the other.
Dennis Dennis himself was sitting with his back to the desk, his coat off, and his feet propped up on the window sill. He seemed to be gazing not only at the snow-screened lakefront, but all the way to Milwaukee, and possibly points even further north. But he wheeled around when Malone came in, and smiled a greeting.
“Snow slips,” he said mellifluously, “with soft sweet sibilance, inseparable with the silver streaks of shining streams.” He made a hasty note with pencil on the top sheet of paper and said, “What can I do for you, Malone?”
“Go right on with what you were doing,” the little lawyer said.
Dennis Dennis gave him a wry smile. “Twenty years ago, and I might have. But it’s much too late now, much too late.” He looked at the penciled note. “It’ll come out something like this. ‘Sweet silver dreams, Delora. Snow will not harm your soft smooth skin, protected by Delora Deanne silver lotion.’ ” The smile became a macabre, unpleasant grin. “Neither snow, nor hail nor sleet, and who the hell knows what sibilance is anyway, except you and me, Malone. Draw up a chair and park.”
Malone obediently drew up a chair and parked.
“Time was,” the ex-poet said. “Time was. Ah, yes. But that was before Delora Deanne’s dollars turned out to be silver to the touch, and I made the horrible mistake of marrying a good woman. Tell me, Malone, do you think I could get away with a murder?”
Malone jumped and then said, “Easily. But be sure to engage a good lawyer first.”
“Consider yourself engaged,” Dennis Dennis said, a little less bitterness in the grin. “But for the love of heaven, don’t ask for money in advance. That woman has tied up my last telephone slug.”
He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “And she was a toothsome little wench when I married her, too. College graduate she was, sociology major, plus courses in domestic science. I should have known. Bad enough to make mistakes, without going ahead and marrying them, Cigarette?”
Malone shook his head and took out his fifth cigar of the day.
“Oh, well, it may not actually come to a lethal act. I have high hopes of marrying her off to an old college chum I never really liked. Sent her a birthday present of a very erudite tome entitled The Successful Second Marriage. That ought to do it; she loves to do the right thing. Then I can go back to writing what I really think about snowfall.”
“Tell me about Hazel Swackhammer,” Malone said. He slid the cellophane wrapper from his cigar, held it to his lips, and blew it with amazing accuracy at the wastebasket. “I only met her yesterday morning.”
“You probably know as much about her as I do,” Dennis Dennis said. “She’s like a tigress with a deep sense of insecurity, where Delora Deanne is concerned. Especially about her reputation. So damned afraid someone might find out that there are five of them. More damned afraid that someone might insinuate that Delora Deanne was not quite all that she should be.”
“Is she?” Malone asked innocently. “Or, are they?”
The last trace of bitterness was gone from the grin now.
“I’ve too much on my mind to worry about any private lives except my own.” He went on, “If Hazel hadn’t been the type to fly into a great calm, there would have been an inordinate amount of jumping up and down and running about and yelling and screaming and ringing bells, when those column items appeared. I suppose that is the reason she sent for you, Malone.”
It sounded more like a question than a statement. Malone answered it with a noncommittal nod and said, “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Those things just come and go, and nobody really remembers them. Which one of the gals do you think it was?”
“Hell,” Dennis said, patting all his pockets in search of a match, “none of them.” He finally located one and lit a slightly bent cigarette. “None of ’em ever looked at a man except Eva Lou, and I guess she just looked at all of ’em—but in sweet seclusion. Eula’s too money-mad and she doesn’t like men anyway. Louella’s much too respectable and too fat, and Gertie is just plain too dumb. Rita, of course—well, she’s just Rita. But she’s just another little homebody hell-raiser like Eva Lou. When she does step, she’s the saloon type anyway, and not the playboy nightclub type.”
This time Malone grinned, and hoped it wasn’t a sickly one. “Somebody must have been thinking of another Delora Deanne.”
“Or another five of them,” Dennis Dennis said. “Oh well, they’re not a bad bunch to get along with. Rita always beefs about the radio copy, but give her a couple of slugs and a chuck under the chin, and she reads it like a chorus of Ethel Barrymores.”
“Too bad she and Furlong couldn’t get along,” Malone said, very, very casually.
; “Oh, Rita never could get along for more than a year or so with anybody on a matrimonial basis,” Dennis Dennis said cheerfully. “I guess they parted friends, at least there haven’t been any fireworks when I was around. She’s a lot of fun, but she must be hell at breakfast.”
Well, that appeared to settle that, Malone thought. So far, the interrelationships of the Delora Deannes and the staff didn’t produce anything worthy of murder, or even mild mayhem.
“Swackhammer,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully. “The name sounds familiar.”
“It should,” Dennis Dennis said. “You see it every time you ride a streetcar or pick up a newspaper. If you read advertisements, that is. Swackhammer Brothers, Morticians. They’ve got a whole string of high-class, low-pay undertaking parlors. Must make a fortune.”
Now Malone remembered. His blood wasn’t actually running cold, but it did seem to be a little cooler.
“He’s good at it,” Dennis Dennis said. “Embalming’s an art, like everything else, and he’s a real artist. I saw one of his jobs once, and it was a pip. Beautiful!”
Yes, decidedly cooler. Malone said, “He couldn’t possibly have been the person who set up those column stories, could he?” as though it was the farthest thing from his mind.
Dennis Dennis laughed. “Hell, no! Good old Cuddles? He wouldn’t be bothered. I imagine he was glad to be rid of Hazel and her damned goo for the face and bear grease for the hair. Hasn’t been heard from around here in heaven knows when. Just sticks to his embalming and lets them as wants be beautiful.”
He lit a new cigarette from his half-finished one, threw away the empty pack, took out another one from his desk drawer and began tearing at its cellophane. “I met him a few times, long while back. Sort of liked the old lecher.”
Malone lifted a questioning eyebrow and Dennis Dennis added, “Oh, no, nothing serious. He’s just the usual foolish fifty, only a little more usual than usual.”