by Craig Rice
An enormously fat woman with streaky gray hair was squeezed into a rocking chair beside the table. She looked at Helene suspiciously and said, “You a friend of hers?”
“In a way, yes,” Helene said. She tried to look like a friend of Eula Stolz.
“Well, Eula ain’t here,” the woman said, “not since yesterday morning.”
“Left for work and ain’t come back,” Frank said. His voice suggested that it was all Helene’s fault, too. “Never heard from her since. Never look to hear from her.” And didn’t care much, his expression added.
“I’m her Aunt Rose,” the fat woman volunteered. “Eula, she boarded here. Paid her board, too,” she added defensively.
“Didn’t pay much,” the man growled.
“Well,” Aunt Rose said placatingly, “she didn’t make much. Worked in some bath-soap factory somewhere, but she didn’t make much.”
Helene tried to think of something to say; she wished Malone were along.
“She probably took off for Hollywood like she always said she would,” Frank said. “Every time she got mad, she said she would. Said she’d be appreciated out there.”
From Malone’s description of the torso and legs of Delora Deanne, Helene reflected, she probably would be.
“But she left all her clothes behind,” Aunt Rose said.
Helene perked up and said, “Would you mind—I wonder if I could see them?”
“Why not?” Aunt Rose said. She pointed to a door. “That’s her room there. Turn on the light for the lady, Frank.”
Frank grumbled, and turned on the light.
Eula Stolz’s room was small, with one window that opened onto the wall of the house next door, and lighted with one bulb hanging from the ceiling. It wasn’t particularly neat, it wasn’t particularly messy, in fact, it wasn’t particularly anything. There were a bed, a bureau, a dresser, a chair, a rug, and two pictures; none of them had cost very much to begin with, and none of them had received very good care.
She opened the closet door, and caught her breath. There were dresses and dresses and dresses. Dresses for evening, for afternoon, for the street. There were slack suits and playsuits and bathing suits. All of them were gay and lovely and costly.
Helene looked at a few of the labels, and caught her breath a second time.
The bureau drawers were overflowing with exquisite, filmy, lovely lingerie and stockings.
Helene almost fled back to the kitchen.
“Maybe you’d know someone who’d like to buy ’em?” the man named Frank said.
Helene shook her head. Finally she managed to say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone they’d fit—”
She shook her head and said a thank you to Aunt Rose’s invitation to have a beer before she left, and groped her way down the hallway of the building that smelled as though a lot of different people had been living there over a long period of time.
Once out in the car, she lit a cigarette and sat very still for a few minutes. She’d found out exactly what she’d expected to find out, but it had still shaken her.
Beautiful gloves, beautiful shoes, beautiful clothes, all left behind because they weren’t going to be needed any more.
Suddenly she started the motor and fairly shot down the street. Right now, she wanted to find Malone, and fast.
Chapter Seventeen
The evening began by proceeding according to plan, though dinner at Jacques’ produced nothing except a good-sized check and some very, very pleasant memories that were not entirely composed of excellent food. Malone observed Gus Madrid eating gloomily at a table by himself; once during the meal he left it to make a telephone call.
The early show at the Chez took his mind briefly off murder and the cosmetic business, and got him and Tamia on first-name terms. If there was any jarring note, it was that Gus Madrid didn’t seem to enjoy the show. For one fleeting sympathetic moment, Malone found himself wishing that, as long as Gus Madrid didn’t have his Eva Lou to keep him company, he did have some cuddly little blonde of his own.
On their way to the next important stop, they paused at a quiet little spot where Malone switched from champagne to rye and soda, Gus Madrid brooded alone in a rear booth, and Tamia shyly confided that the color pink always made her think of making love. For that matter, so did blue and green.
But a radio was playing softly in the quiet little spot, and the program was “Delora Deanne Dreams.”
“—sweet silver dreams, Delora! Snow will not harm your soft, smooth skin—”
A sudden nasty prickle ran over the little lawyer’s skin, and he sat bolt upright on the upholstered bench. The words were the words of Dennis Dennis, but the voice was not the voice of Rita Jardee.
It was like it. Yes, it was very like it. So much so that—as Malone observed in a quick glance across the table—Tamia Tabet didn’t seem to notice the difference. But Malone had listened to that voice too many times, on the radio and in his own favorite dreams. He excused himself and this time it was he who headed for the telephone booth.
Rita Jardee’s number did not answer, though he let it ring for a long time. Neither did Cuddles Swackhammer’s, nor Delora Deanne’s, nor any of the other numbers he called.
The bored-voiced operator at the broadcasting studio didn’t know anything about anything, and couldn’t, or wouldn’t, connect him with anyone who did.
Well, he told himself, there was nothing he could do about it now. He went back to their booth, took Tamia’s soft little hand again, and managed to pick up the conversation right where he’d left off.
“—but how about magenta? Or purple?”
The Pump Room produced more businesslike, if less delightful, results, Gus Madrid, who had made another telephone call, hovered near the door. From across the room, Ned McKoen signaled them that yes, he would be very happy to join them at their table. Ten minutes later the short, plumpish columnist slid into a chair and said, “What’s new?”
“I’m the one who asks you that,” Malone said.
“Then read about it in the newspapers,” Ned McKoen said happily. “New development in the model-playboy affair.”
He patted Tamia’s knee, smiled at her vaguely, and said, “And how are you, my dear? That’s good.” He picked up his glass and went on, “Turns out she isn’t suing him, never intended to sue him. All been sweetness and light all the time. Turns out she’s marrying him instead.” He hiccupped quietly and said, “P’arm me.”
“Would you call Charlie Swackhammer, of Swackhammer Brothers, a playboy?” Malone asked.
“Four will get you seven,” the columnist said, “that’s exactly what he’s doing right now. Well, happiness to him.” He lifted his glass again. “And what legal business are you doing for his ex, Malone, or don’t I ask you that yet?”
“You don’t,” Malone said. “And how did you know?”
“I protect my sources,” Ned McKoen said with injured dignity. “Thanks for the drink, Malone, and good luck to you.” He emptied his glass and wandered away in the general direction of a Hollywood starlet Malone found hard to recognize without a bathing suit.
Well, it didn’t matter so much now what Ned McKoen’s sources had been. In fact, the chances were that the columnist had simply relied on his own shrewd powers of observation. Must have, or he wouldn’t have made such a bad guess, confusing possible breach-of-promise with what had turned out to be pure and probably simple object matrimony. Or else May-belle, the cute little thing, had tipped Ned Mckoen off herself, with the idea of luring a possibly coy Cuddles Swackhammer to the altar.
He silently toasted the bride-to-be and her Cuddles. Gus Madrid chose that moment to return from one of his fruitless telephone calls and stop at Malone’s table.
“What I want to know is,” he said glumly, “are you doing anything to find my girl, or aren’t you doing anything to find my girl?”
“In my own way,” Malone said, “I am. You’ve just got to have confidence in me, that’s all.”
&
nbsp; Gus Madrid gave him a look showing all the confidence he would have given a coiled rattler, but he went away.
“Just a guy wants me to find his girl for him,” Malone told Tamia.
“What was that you just said?” Tamia Tabet asked, pouting prettily.
“I said, tomorrow is another day, and the hell with it,” the little lawyer said, “and let’s get out of this highly refined joint and go on to the Casino.”
At the end of a highly diverting taxi ride, he said, “And how about pale orange? Or taupe?”
He’d been right all along. She did giggle.
Two more lines of the song that had been bothering him off and on since he woke up that morning suddenly came into his mind.
Her eyes were blue, her hair was red,
And her two lips were the same—
He thought it would be interesting to find out her reaction to a rainbow.
“You sing, too!” Tamia Tabet purred.
“Flattery,” Malone said happily, “will get you everywhere.”
Otis Furlong was in the Casino’s downstairs bar, gazing thoughtfully into an empty martini glass. He turned around to greet them and said, “From now on, every third round is on me, and what did you find out from the columnist?”
“It was another playboy,” Malone said solemnly, “and another Delora Deanne.”
Otis Furlong said, “Good God! That makes six of them!”
“No,” Malone shook his head owlishly. “That makes none of them. No more Delora Deannes. All gone. Fact is, there never were any. Don’t you know that? Delora Deanne was a myth. Myth Delora Deanne. But that was in another century and on another continent, or something.”
“Malone,” the bartender said, “you’re drunk.”
“And about time, too,” Malone said, looking at his watch. “And I’ll have Scotch and water, and a daiquiri for the little lady, and Furlong, I have news for you. Your ex-wife is missing.”
The handsome photographer scowled. “What do you mean? How? Where is she missing from? What happened to her? How do you know?”
“One thing at a time,” Malone said. He downed his Scotch, patted Tamia’s hand, took out a fresh cigar, unwrapped it, lit it, and then said, “Maybe she isn’t missing, but her voice is.”
“Damn it, Malone—” Otis Furlong said frantically.
“The broadcast,” Malone said. “I heard it. It was her voice, and it wasn’t her voice. I mean—” He drew a long breath, started over and told of the Delora Deanne show, of the voice that had been so like Rita Jardee’s, and yet not quite the same.
“But I heard it,” Tamia said, in a puzzled voice. “And I didn’t notice anything different.”
“You didn’t,” Malone told her, “and probably untold thousands upon thousands of listeners heard it and didn’t notice the difference. But I did, and I know.” He saw no point in adding just how long he’d been listening, rapturously, to the voice of Delora Deanne.
Otis Furlong, a little pale, said that he could hardly believe it, that Rita had never been known to miss a broadcast. But on the other hand, it might be true, and that anyway, it would be a good idea to find out. He added, “Let’s go up to Ricketts and check. Dennis Dennis usually goes there after the show, and so does Henry.”
“Henry Henry?” Malone asked hopefully.
“Just Henry,” Otis Furlong said. “I don’t know his last name. He produces the show.”
They spotted Dennis Dennis and Henry at a table in a far corner of Ricketts, with a young woman in a cloudy gray-violet dress. Even with her back turned, and across the crowded room, Malone recognized Myrdell Harris. He’d known that it would be Myrdell.
Henry was a pale young man with thick-lensed glasses and what appeared to be a permanently worried expression. The expression was deepened by an added shadow of apprehension as the trio approached the table.
“Otis,” Henry said anxiously, “I don’t know what did happen. It was just one of those things.”
“Rita simply didn’t show up,” Dennis Dennis said just as anxiously. “We phoned and phoned and couldn’t locate her anywhere. She’s never done it before.”
“It was so late,” Henry said. “I just had to go ahead and take a chance. Luckily, I remembered Myrdell, and I was able to reach her right away.”
“Myrdell’s a very talented, very promising actress,” Dennis Dennis said as though he’d invented her himself.
“And I’m absolutely sure,” Henry said, “absolutely sure, that nobody, but nobody, noticed any difference.”
“Except me,” Malone said, sitting down beside Tamia. Myrdell gave him a vague, soulful look and said, “I do hope you liked me.”
“The voice,” Malone said, sighing, “was the voice of Esau. Or do I mean Jacob? I always mix them up. Anyway, I liked it.” He pressed Tamia’s hand and smiled at Myrdell.
“But that doesn’t tell us where Rita is, you fools,” Otis Furlong said angrily, his good-looking face white. “I’m going to telephone her apartment. Something might have happened to her.”
“Still mad about Rita,” Henry said sadly. He pressed Myrdell’s hand and smiled at Tamia.
It seemed to be a very long wait before Otis Furlong came back. “She doesn’t answer,” he reported. “Nobody answers. I let it ring a long time, a long, long time.”
Malone could have told him the phone wasn’t going to answer. The little lawyer felt terribly cold, the cheerful glow of champagne, rye and Scotch had fled from him suddenly and completely. He felt a wild urge to tell them all the whole frightful tale, the hands and the feet, the gloves and the shoes, everything.
The voice, now. He wished he knew, and still didn’t want to know, just what was going to be on Hazel Swackhammer’s neat desk in the morning.
“For the love of something,” Dennis Dennis exploded, “don’t just stand there. And for the love of something else, don’t look so awful about it. Nothing has happened to Rita. Nothing ever happens to Rita. Maybe she’s just in the hospital. Maybe she’s in jail. Why don’t we go look for her?”
“Very good idea,” Henry said. “We’ll go look for her.” Otis Furlong said, “There’s a joint on upper Clark Street where she hangs out sometimes—”
“Fine,” Malone said. “Let’s all go look for her.”
Myrdell, it appeared, couldn’t go along to help look. She glanced at her watch and said she was meeting someone in just a little while. Her eyes met Malone’s as though he ought to know whom she was meeting, and why. The look puzzled him, and he didn’t like it. No, he didn’t like it at all.
With an assist from the driver, they all managed to crowd into one taxicab. Malone sat staring out the window, unhappily seeing snow-covered, moon-touched streets that had lost their magic for him now. Even Tamia Tabet snuggled confidingly close to him didn’t make any difference.
Perhaps he should tell. No, he couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. And especially not with that terrible, stricken look on Otis Furlong’s face. The Clark Street establishment had a cheerful, neon-welcoming front, but it didn’t cheer him up the least bit.
Until they found Rita Jardee.
She was sitting at a table at the back of the room, her red hair beckoning to them like a lighthouse beacon, her haggard, attractive face looking smugly pleased.
Otis Furlong reached her first, in long, almost leaping strides. He grabbed her by the shoulders, almost shook her, and gasped out, “Rita! I was afraid—something terrible had happened to you! Oh, Rita, darling, are you all right? Tell me you’re all right, Rita!” He sank down beside her and said, “Oh, Rita, I do love you so!”
Dennis Dennis and Henry looked at each other solemnly and said almost in unison, “Rita is all right.”
Malone sat down, pulled Tamia close to him and said, “Rita is all right.”
Rita threw her arms around Otis Furlong’s neck and said, “Darling! Don’t ever leave me!” Then she pulled herself away and said firmly to Henry, “I’m through, understand? Through! No more mushmouth!”
Henry looked dubious for a moment and then said, “Well—”
Rita said, “I just suddenly reached the point where I simply couldn’t stand it any longer. That awful copy, Dennis. That awful, awful copy!”
“That awful, awful, awful copy,” Dennis Dennis agreed fervently.
“Sweet, soft, silvery snow,” she mouthed. “Sweet silken dreams!” She revised the copy in words that would have put any network off the air in a hurry and probably forever. “I never wanted the job in the first place, but Otis coaxed me. I didn’t want the job, I wanted Otis back again.”
“You’ve got him,” Dennis Dennis said.
“But I had to quit to get him,” she said. “And that damn woman. Telling me where to go, how to act, what to do, and then griping about paying me any decent money. And that stuff! Silken soft, and sweeter than your sweetest dreams!” She added one very brief and very unpleasant word.
“I hate the sound of my own voice,” she said. “Do you understand?” Her voice cracked and grew hoarse and shrill. She repeated, “I hate the sound of my own voice! There, that sounds better! I’m going to get a job as a hog caller!”
She gave a skillful imitation of a hog caller that would probably have gotten them all thrown out, except for Malone’s hasty and expert intervention.
“Well, that’s that,” she said, resting her head happily on Otis Furlong’s shoulder. “You’re looking at a woman who’s just retired from the radio business. Otis, do we have to get married all over again, and do we use the same ring?”
“A new ring,” he promised her. “As big as Eva Lou’s opal.”
Again the song came back to Malone’s memory, and he came up with two more lines.
A ring was on her finger,
But I loved her just the same—
“I know that song,” Henry said. He added two more lines.
She was a lyin’ woman,