My Kingdom for a Hearse

by Craig Rice

  The briefly interrupted friendship was sealed again. Rico promised to tell Joe the Angel to say nothing about it to anyone. Jake and Malone promised to start immediately, finding out the identity of the hijacker, and the present location of the body.

  At the door, Rico paused. “All is well.” He smiled. “But, Malone,” he added warningly, “I tell you. Do not do it again!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Just when you’d found all the Deloras, too,” Jake said bitterly.

  “Leave me alone,” Malone growled at him. “I want to think.” After a moment he said, “Just why did you tell Rico not to notify the police right away?”

  “Because I really did think you’d be able to find both the hijacker and the body,” Jake said.

  Malone sighed. “I probably can. But it may take a little time. And Rico doesn’t have much time. If he doesn’t notify the police pretty soon, he’ll be in the soup when they find out about it. If they find out about it,” he added.

  “The thing is, why?” Jake said. He lit a cigarette. “Not only who would want to steal Myrdell Harris’ body, but why?” He paused. “Malone, actually I don’t know why I asked Rico if he could stall notifying the police. It’s kind of a hunch, and at the same time, not exactly a hunch, if you know what I’m trying to say. Something I know, and can’t quite pin down, and maybe couldn’t understand if I did pin it down, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Malone said. He was experiencing exactly the same thing himself about the business of Charlie Swackhammer’s bride-to-be. Nothing tangible made her appear to him as a prospective victim of murder. But something, just like what Jake had described. It was there, and still it wasn’t there. And nothing he did, or thought, or found out, seemed to be bringing it into any better focus.

  After a little while, Jake said, “Someone knew Myrdell Harris had been murdered, and wanted to dispose of the body before there was any chance of its being found out. Therefore, find the hijacker, and you find the murderer.”

  “But Myrdell Harris wasn’t murdered,” Malone reminded him. “Stolen body or no stolen body, you can’t get away from that death certificate signed by Dr. Stonecypher.” He added almost reverently, “Dr. Alonzo Stonecypher.”

  “Well,” Jake said, “somebody thought Myrdell Harris had been murdered, and wanted to protect the murderer, and stole the body to get rid of it. In that case, find who wanted to murder Myrdell Harris, and then find who might have wanted to protect that person. It’s as simple as that, Malone.”

  They played with that theory for a little while. It wasn’t as simple as that. Someone, sometime this morning, was going to have to prowl Myrdell Harris’ apartment, Malone reflected, and it was up to him to do the job. Furthermore, he didn’t want Jake, or anyone else, along.

  That reminded him, and he reached for the telephone. More and more he felt it would be helpful to know just why Dennis Dennis had been trying to reach Myrdell Harris the evening before, and if he’d ever succeeded.

  The switchboard girl at Delora Deanne was sorry, but Mr. Dennis hadn’t been seen nor heard from so far.

  At that moment Helene breezed in, her usually pale face glowing from the cold. She smiled at them both, and wanted to know what was going on.

  “Nothing much,” Jake and Malone said, practically in unison.

  They looked at her admiringly. She wore blue, a soft, dusty blue that intensified and reflected the bright blue of her eyes; the wide-brimmed hat that framed her face and pale-gold, shining hair was almost the exact shade of strawberry jam; her sleek furs were the color of a milky caramel. Her purse and her caramel-colored galoshes had small, absurd, rose-colored tassels.

  “I don’t believe either of you,” she said cheerfully, “but go on with whatever you were saying.”

  “We were saying that things seem to be straightening out,” Jake said.

  “I don’t believe that, either,” she said. “And while you two wish-thinkers were sitting here theorizing, I’ve been doing something positive.”

  They looked at her silently and apprehensively.

  “Shopping,” she told them pleasantly, and Malone breathed again.

  She indicated a frivolously wrapped package under her arm, and Malone’s breathing was in more trouble. The wrapping was from a small and fabulously expensive Michigan Boulevard shop. It was the same wrapping that had covered the beautiful and terrible gloves he’d seen on Hazel Swackhammer’s desk.

  The difficult moment passed. Jake paid no attention to the box and said, “Now if Otis Furlong’s process turns out to be in any way successful—”

  The little lawyer saw an opportunity to keep them both busy and out of trouble for at least a while, and grabbed it fast.

  “You know, in case it doesn’t,” he began thoughtfully, “I’ve been giving some consideration to that camera. The one Maggie’s brother Luke has invented. From what I’ve been able to gather about it—it might solve the problem.”

  Jake and Helene looked at each other. After all, a camera with eyes—why not?

  “It does sound like something,” Malone went on encouragingly. Well, Maggie had said it had five eyes, hadn’t she?

  And there were five Delora Deannes, weren’t there? Of course, one of them was an unseen voice, so the camera would have to have only four eyes. He tried to picture it in his mind, got into a state of hopeless confusion and abandoned the project.

  “At least,” he said, “it wouldn’t do any harm to go and take a look at it.” It would please Maggie, too.

  After they had gone, Malone sat wondering about his next step. Myrdell’s apartment? It had to be done, but somehow he dreaded it. Not the search itself, but what he might find.

  It took the arrival of another visitor to make up his mind for him. Von Flanagan strode in, looking just a bit too friendly, and entirely too casual. He plumped down in the biggest leather chair and said, “I just happened to be in the building, and I just thought I’d drop in.”

  Malone knew perfectly well the only other tenant of the building who could have even a passing interest for the big police officer was the bookie down in the cigar stand. But he said amiably, “Always glad to see you. Well, usually.”

  Von Flanagan grinned, accepted a cigar, lighted it, and then said, “You got the tickets for the fights yet? Because if you haven’t—”

  “I’ll tend to it,” Malone said. He wondered just what von Flanagan was there for.

  “About that business last night—” Von Flanagan paused, delicately flicked a totally imaginary ash from the end of his cigar. “Malone, it was like you said. We checked right away, fast. Coffin was still at the undertakers place. Small place, fella name of Stoppenbach. Funeral’s tomorrow. Won’t need to be postponed or anything now. Girl name of Anna Ruth Cahill. Pretty girl, too. We got the torso back to him a’ready. Head was there all the time.”

  “Of course it was,” Malone said. Again there was the sudden, cold chill, the ugly premonition. But what was it? The thing he knew and still didn’t know, the combination of things he had to put together and couldn’t quite remember.

  Von Flanagan looked at him speculatively. “I wish you’d tell me what you’re holding out. Malone, we’ve been friends a long time.”

  “The hands and the feet,” Malone said, almost to himself. “You’ll have them in time for the funeral. I promise. The Cahill family will never need to know a thing.”

  “That isn’t what I mean,” von Flanagan said. “It is, but it isn’t quite enough. The rest of what you know, Malone.” Malone looked stubborn and said nothing.

  “Damn it, I never wanted to be a policeman,” von Flanagan said angrily. “I never would of been except that the alderman owed my old man money. I went to court and had the ‘von’ added to my name because I was sick and tired of being called an Irish cop. I never wanted to be promoted—” The little lawyer sighed and leaned back. It was a story he’d heard before, and would, many times, again.

  “—an
d one of these days I’m going to retire and get into something else—”

  Malone was familiar with that, too. The choices had ranged from raising mink to running a dude ranch.

  “—which reminds me, Malone.”

  A change had come into von Flanagan’s voice. Malone sat up and paid attention.

  “I want to talk to Jake. Now that he’s a big-shot television producer. I’ve been thinking of it more and more. I think I could do a good television show, and I want to talk it over with him about what I want to do.”

  Malone opened his mouth to ask what kind of a show von Flanagan had in mind, and closed it quickly again.

  “I used to be a very good amateur juggler,” von Flanagan said modestly. “But that isn’t quite enough. I’m thinking of something with more staying power.”

  This time, Malone couldn’t resist. “For instance?”

  “Well,” von Flanagan said, “for instance, a different kind of quiz program. What do you think?”

  Malone said gravely, “I think it would be a novelty. You ought to talk it over with Jake.”

  Von Flanagan beamed and nodded. “I knew you’d agree with me, Malone. But I’d do anything. I could probably be a pretty good actor, even. Just so I didn’t have to be a cop.” He shook his head sadly. “A cop, everybody tries to make things hard for you. Mix things up and complicate everything.”

  This was a familiar story to Malone too, and he knew just where to put in the right sympathetic answers.

  “Like you holding out information on me. I could drag you down to jail right now, Malone. But you notice I’m not. Only because we’ve been friends for a long time.”

  And, Malone thought, because von Flanagan remembered from experience that it was safer to wait and see what was brought in.

  “And like this babe found dead up in Lincoln Park this morning.”

  For the second time, Malone sat up straight and listened.

  “What babe?”

  “We don’t know yet. No identification on her. No marks on her to show cause of death. Doc Evans is working on her right now to find out what killed her.”

  “Interesting,” Malone said, trying to sound bored.

  “Cop noticed her, sitting up against a tree, magazine in her lap. Just sitting there. He wouldn’t of paid any attention, except for the way she was dressed. House pajamas. Expensive ones, too. Kind of a smoky color—”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  If only one thing would go wrong at a time, Malone reflected, if only his carefully figured calculations could be upset in just one way at once, everything would be far, far easier.

  He told the taxi driver to go to the Lake Shore Drive address, and tried to follow the printed card of advice to sit back and relax. The card also added, let the driver do the worryinc for you. He wondered how this cabdriver, one Maurice Dougherty, would feel about taking on his collection of worries.

  The minute von Flanagan had gone, leaving an unskilfully veiled warning to show up with everything in a hurry, or else, he’d phoned Rico. The body had been found, he explained, and added the circumstances. Now, would Rico manage to hold off notifying the police for just about an hour?

  Rico had assured him it could and would be done. He agreed to wait until Malone phoned him the word.

  That would give him time to go through Myrdell’s apartment in some detail. The minute von Flanagan had the body identified, he would head for the apartment like a homing pigeon in a rocket ship.

  A few words with the building manager secured him the key, with no questions or difficulty. As Miss Harris’ employers attorney—the manager understood perfectly. In fact, he was rather glad not to have to take on the job of inventory himself.

  Malone turned on the lights, looked around the apartment, and wondered just where to begin.

  It would help if he had just the faintest idea of what he was trying to find.

  Although it had been only a few hours since Myrdell Harris’ body had started on the journey which ended in the police morgue by way of a tree in Lincoln Park, already the big, gracefully decorated rooms had a cold and empty feeling, as though no one had been in them for a very long time. Malone shivered a little, and decided to keep on his topcoat.

  The apartment itself, the paintings on the walls, the furnishings, the clothes and accessories in the closets, the toiletries on the dressing table told him only that the late Myrdell Harris had had the very finest of taste and the means to indulge it lavishly.

  Had Myrdell herself latched on to a wealthy playboy, like the Delora Deanne in Ned McKeon’s column?

  No, she wasn’t exactly the type to attract one. Nor the type who, if she had attracted one, would have kept on with what must have been a thoroughly tiresome job.

  Nor were there any signs of a regular masculine visitor, nor a sweetly signed photograph on the dressing table.

  A wealthy woman, working for the pure pleasure of having a career?

  Again no, not if the career included Hazel Swackhammer.

  A thorough search of the drawers in the bedroom, her purse, and finally the desk drawers, revealed absolutely nothing.

  He noticed a thick envelope that had been pushed through the mail slot, today’s mail, arriving too late for Myrdell Harris to read. He picked it up, glanced at it, finally opened it. It was a regular monthly bank statement from the Chicago Trust and Savings Bank, with a handful of canceled checks. He glanced through them quickly. They meant nothing to him.

  Checks for the rent, the maid, the grocery, a dress shop, a department store, a dentist.

  He sat down on the upholstered divan and thought things over. Suddenly he realized that his search hadn’t been worthless after all. The important thing was not what he had found, but what he hadn’t found.

  There weren’t any bankbooks.

  To make sure, he checked again: desk, dresser, every conceivable place a woman might keep bankbooks. There were none. But there had to be a checkbook, with its deposit book, if there were canceled checks. There could quite possibly be a savings account book as well.

  He telephoned the bank. Yes, he was told after a long wait, Miss Myrdell Harris did have a savings account there, but they were not permitted to disclose the amount over the telephone.

  The amount didn’t matter. The missing bankbooks did.

  Of course, it was just possible that she had kept them at the office, but somehow, he doubted it.

  Then he realized that the telephone slips he’d noticed last night were gone. That mattered at least as much as the missing bankbooks.

  While he was still puzzling over it, he heard sounds at the door, the faint scratch of a key inserted into the lock. Malone stiffened, stood up, and looked around quickly. Then he reminded himself that he had no reason to hide, even if there had been a place to duck into quickly. The door opened, a voice said, “The light’s on,” and Charlie Swackhammer came into the room, a woman at his side.

  For a moment, everyone stared at everyone else. Then Charlie Swackhammer scowled and said, “Malone—what—?”

  “I’m Mrs. Swackhammer’s attorney,” Malone said stiffly. “I was here last night. She asked me to make the arrangements for her, and I did. Sooner or later, an inventory—” He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying. Because the woman on Charlie Swackhammer’s arm was Delora Deanne.

  What’s more, she was the composite Delora Deanne. The same seraphic yet voluptuous face with its cloud of shining hair; there was also the slender, joyous body, swathed now in soft brown furs instead of swirling mists. There were the delicate, graceful hands, in pale blue gloves, one holding a cigarette in a slim, amber holder, and there were the tiny, high-arched feet, in cunningly designed high-heeled sandals that were the shade of pure maple sugar.

  Cuddles Swackhammer said, “Startling, isn’t it?” and beamed an introduction.

  The vision said, “How do you do, Mr. Malone,” in Delora Deanne’s golden voice.

  With a gigantic effort, the little lawyer finally managed to sa
y, “Hello.”

  Cuddles Swackhammer beamed even more broadly. “I don’t need to tell you, Malone, that Maybelle is—was—the original for Delora Deanne.”

  “Gertie’s my sister,” Maybelle said. “But I was always the one with the brains.”

  Malone had recovered himself enough to speak. “The brains, and the beauty,” he said gallantly. “Outside of those two minor differences you could be twins.”

  She rewarded him with a smile that set his red corpuscles to moving like greyhounds around the last lap of the track.

  “That’s the big thing Hazel will never forgive me for,” Cuddles Swackhammer said. “Hazel wanted to start this little business of hers, and I encouraged her. Helped her. Kept her out of my hair. Maybelle was the original model, at the beginning. Then I parted from Hazel. Not just because of sugar-pie here, but because Hazel was beginning to get on my nerves.”

  Malone nodded. Hazel Swackhammer could do that.

  “But I kept on seeing Maybelle, and Hazel was violently jealous. Not because she cared any more about me. It was the other way. Maybelle had become Delora Deanne, and Delora Deanne belonged to Hazel. Hazel’s the most jealous person I ever saw in my life. Wants to own everybody and everything completely, all by herself. So one day Maybelle got sore and quit. Looked for a while like Delora Deanne might go out of business. But Hazel found Gertie, latched on to the best-looking body and so on she could find to go with her, and kept right on a-going.”

  Malone had listened with half his mind. He’d realized something else. Myrdell Harris hadn’t imitated Rita Jardee’s radio voice, she had imitated the natural voice of Maybelle Bragg, the original Delora Deanne, and now the future Mrs. Swackhammer.

  And at the moment, all he could think about was the Jake Justus Television Production Company. If Maybelle could be persuaded—and if Cuddles Swackhammer would agree—