by Craig Rice
“For heaven’s sake, Malone,” Helene exploded.
“If you think you’re confused—” Jake began angrily.
Von Flanagan simply stared.
The little lawyer looked tired and unhappy. He stood there for a moment, frowning. Suddenly he picked up the telephone and called the number of Charlie Swackhammer’s apartment.
It was Maybelle who answered the phone, the original and unforgettable voice of Delora Deanne. Yes, Charlie was there. He’d been there all morning.
Charlie Swackhammer’s booming voice wanted to know how everything was going.
“Fine,” Malone said, hollowly, “just fine. I just wanted to make sure everything was fine with you?”
Charlie Swackhammer said, “Huh?” and then, “Oh,” and finally, “Oh, sure. I’m not taking my eye off her for a minute— am I, Maybelle?”
Maybelle’s voice came on with a touch of a giggle in it and informed that Charlie dear was guarding her as though she were the crown jewels.
“See that he doesn’t stop,” Malone said and hung up.
“And just what was all that about?” von Flanagan demanded.
Malone looked at him gravely. “Von Flanagan—”
The telephone rang. Malone looked at it for a moment as though the devil himself were at the other end of the line, then grabbed it off the hook. He listened to it for a half-minute, scowling.
Finally he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” and stood looking at the phone for another half-minute before he put it slowly down on the hook.
Everybody started to ask questions at once. Malone shook his head at them.
“Client of mine,” he said briefly. “Emergency.” He reached for his topcoat.
“But damn it, Malone,” von Flanagan said. “This other business—”
Malone looked at him firmly. “You said yourself, it wasn’t in your department. It still isn’t. This—other business—only delays it a little.” He looked at his watch. He looked at Helene. “If you’ll drive me—”
“A pleasure,” Helene said, and looked it.
Von Flanagan started to protest, thought better of it, and settled for glaring at Malone all the way down in the elevator.
Once in the car, Malone said, “Rico di Angelo’s. Fast.”
The car moved out into traffic. Jake said, “What’s his trouble?”
“Plenty,” Malone told him. “First, a corpse that ought to be in his place wasn’t. Now, a corpse that isn’t supposed to be there, is.” He sighed and added, “Dennis Dennis.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Dennis Dennis’ body sat in a large upholstered armchair in the ornate waiting room of Rico di Angelo’s strictly high-class funeral home. It looked a little surprised.
“You see?” Rico said accusingly.
Malone nodded and said that he saw. He shifted his unlighted cigar to the other corner of his mouth and stared thoughtfully at the corpse.
“I went out,” Rico di Angelo said. “I went out to talk with a friend of mine with the police. About that other body. I fix that all up good for you, Malone. I explain I don’t tell them before because I am knocked very cold, and Joe my helper, he does not know what to do.”
He scowled at Malone. “I fix everything up good for you, Malone, like you ask me, and what do you do? I come back here from seeing my friend with the police, and I find him.”
Malone ignored that. He realized that for the time being, at least, Rico was going to look at him with suspicion regardless of what happened.
“At least,” Helene commented, “you’re getting plenty of new customers.”
He scowled at her too, which was unusual. “But I do not like it when they come walking in oft the streets.” He raised his voice and called, “Louie!”
Louie, his cousin and assistant, a short, swarthy, bucketchested man, came in from the display room.
“Louie, you tell them how it is while I have gone to explain things to our friend with the police.”
Louie accepted the cigar Malone offered, and explained simply that it wasn’t his fault, that he’d never seen the man before, that he had no idea what had taken place, that his head hurt, that he was thinking of quitting this job, relatives or no relatives, and that he’d like to have a talk with Mr. Justus whenever the opportunity presented itself.
“My cousin Louie, be plays the cello,” Rico said. “Not good. Tell them about your bead, Louie.”
“It hurts,” Louie said balefully.
Rico shrugged his shoulders and said, “It is like this, Malone. I leave Louie alone here. This—this person—” he pointed to the late Dennis Dennis—“he came in. Said he was meeting someone. He sat down here. But in a different chair. Then Louie, he goes in the office. He sits down by the desk. He gets hit on the back of the head. After while he gets up off the floor. Nobody is around. He looks to see what is stolen. Nothing is stolen. He waits. I come back. I see this person. I go to speak to him. I see he is dead. So I telephone you, Malone. Then Louie tells me he is sitting in a different chair. Do I make it all quite clear?”
“Beautifully,” Jake said admiringly.
“Except for a few points,” Malone said. “Did Dennis Dennis go in the office, sneak up behind Louie and hit him on the back of the head, then come back here and sit down and die? And, from what?”
“And what was he doing here in the first place?” Helene demanded. “And who was he going to meet?”
“One thing at a time,” Malone told her.
“He was hit on the hack of the head too,” Louie volunteered.
Malone walked around the chair and inspected the back of Dennis Dennis’ head. “Wouldn’t have killed him,” he reported.
“But what did, Malone?” Rico di Angelo asked despairingly.
The little lawyer sighed. “I’m gifted with many things, but second sight is not one of them. Have you called the police?” Rico shook his head indignantly. “Naturally I have not. I called you, Malone. Because somehow you are mixed up in this. I look in his wallet, I see that he works in that same place as that girl did. So I know you are mixed up in this, and so, and because you are my good friend, I called you first.”
“Good,” Malone said, “and thanks. And go right on being my good friend, and call them now. And don’t mention the fact that you did call me first. I’ll handle them when they get here. But don’t waste any more time, von Flanagan is unhappy enough as it is.”
Rico went away to telephone and Helene said, “Have you any idea what killed him, Malone?”
Malone said, “No,” and went on looking at the corpse. “Do you know who he was going to meet, and why he was going to meet them here?”
Malone said, “No,” again, chewing furiously on his cigar. “Well, do you know—”
“No,” Malone snapped, “I don’t know. And stop bothering me, I’m busy.”
Jake said mildly, “I know the layout here. In the office, Louie would have his back to the reception hall. Someone could have come in the front door without being seen—”
“Someone could have come in the back door, too,” Rico said glumly, coming back from the phone. “When I came back from seeing my friend who is with the police, it is unlocked.” Malone nodded. “Someone came in through the front door or the back door, knocked Louie cold—probably watched for his chance—then came in here and knocked Dennis Dennis cold, and then finished him off.”
“But how?” Helene said.
“And who unlocked the back door?” Jake asked.
Malone ignored them both, very pointedly.
“He,” Louie said stubbornly, “was sitting in another chair.” He pointed to it, another big upholstered chair next to an elaborately decorative table. It had its back to the office and to the rear room.
Malone sighed. “And why would he get up, unlock the back door, knock out Louie, come back and sit in another chair, then, I suppose, knock himself out and murder himself?”
“I never said he did,” Louie said.
“And who says he’s been murdered?” Rico demanded.
“The police will,” the little lawyer said wearily. He gave the corpse an unhappy glance. “Who was in here this morning?”
Rico began holding up fingers. “Judge Touralchuk, about a lodge meeting. Mrs. Swackhammer, about the funeral. Mr. Swackhammer, a friend of mine, also about the funeral. My cousin Frankie, to borrow some money. A Mr. Furlong, a friend of the dead lady. And him.” He pointed. He added reflectively, “I didn’t tell any of them that the dead lady, she was not here.”
“And I suppose any of them could have unlocked the back door,” Malone said in a thoughtful voice. “And then waited till the coast was clear, come in and conked Louie and murdered Dennis Dennis.”
“But how was he murdered?” Rico said. “Who says he was? To me, he only looks dead.”
Malone sighed again and said, “Maybe the same way Myrdell Harris was murdered. She just looked dead, too.”
“And who says she was murdered?” Rico seemed to be keeping his temper by main force. “The doctor, he wrote down—”
Malone said, “Never mind. It’s too complicated to explain right now.” To explain, or to understand, he reflected miserably.
“And aside from all that,” Helene said suddenly, “it’s too late to do anything about it now, but we’ve made a terrible mistake. We never should have called the cops. Rico’s in enough trouble as it is. We should have taken this out of here, and let the police find it somewhere else. It might have done Rico out of a fine funeral job, but I doubt if he’d have made much profit anyway.”
Rico looked a little brighter. “When I called the cops,” he began, “I didn’t tell them what it is for. We can move him away and when they come, I tell them it is because somebody hit my cousin Louie on the back of his head.”
Malone shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Very definitely no. Because for one thing, there’s been enough body-snatching lately. And for another, von Flanagan would identify him, find out that he was a member of the Delora Deanne outfit and hence tied in somehow with Myrdell Harris, and Rico would still be in a spot.”
Rico’s face fell, but he nodded. “And anyway,” he told Helene sadly, “it would be against the law.”
That was when von Flanagan and Klutchetsky arrived. The big police officer looked suspiciously at everyone.
Helene beamed at him brightly. “You certainly got here in a big hurry. Rico just telephoned.”
Von Flanagan looked a little puzzled. He pointed to the late Dennis Dennis and said, “Who’s he?”
“The corpse,” Malone said. “What else did you expect to find?”
“Well,” von Flanagan said, “it’s an undertaking parlor, isn’t it? But what’s he doing in that chair?”
“Just sitting there,” Helene said.
Malone glared at her and said to von Flanagan, “That’s the reason we telephoned you.”
“Who telephoned me?”
“I did,” Rico said. He added, “Malone told me to.”
“All right. Why?”
“Because of him,” Jake said, pointing to the corpse.
It took Malone a few minutes and a great deal of fast looked at his watch to straighten things out. Then von Flanagan, an ominous growl in his voice, sent Klutchetsky to the telephone to round up the team he scornfully called the “experts.” Finally he gave the corpse a desultory inspection, announced that someone had given the late Dennis Dennis a conk on the head but not a bad one, and that he hadn’t been dead very long. Then he turned to Malone and demanded, “This your client?”
Malone shook his head.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“For that matter,” Malone said quickly, “what are you doing here, if it wasn’t because of Rico’s telephone call?”
“I wanted to ask Rico some questions about Myrdell Harris’ body,” von Flanagan said. “Now that it’s in my department, on account of it turning out she was murdered after all.”
Rico opened his mouth, glanced at Malone, and shut it again.
“Well,” Malone said quickly, and very smoothly, “Myrdell Harris was a friend of ours.”
It wasn’t exactly an explanation, but for a moment von Flanagan accepted it. Then his eyes narrowed. “You went tearing out of your office and asked her to drive you—” he jerked his head toward Helene—“because one of your clients had an emergency.”
“Oh, that,” Malone said. “That’s all taken care of.” He hastily shifted the subject to, “But I suppose you’re mostly concerned with what happened here.”
Everyone helped to explain except Louie, who had lapsed into a sour silence, limiting himself to muttered yesses and noes. The departure of Rico, the arrival of Dennis Dennis, the knocking out of Louie, the return of Rico and the discovery of the body. The fact that the back door had been unlocked was duly noted and the door examined by Klutchetsky. Somehow von Flanagan failed to inquire about the day’s roster of visitors, Rico didn’t volunteer the information, and Malone tactfully kept his mouth shut.
The experts came and began their dreary work. The story had to be told and retold again. An assistant medical examiner didn’t care to venture a suggestion as to the cause of death; that would have to be determined by an autopsy. If then, Malone added to himself, thinking of Myrdell.
Finally von Flanagan turned on them and braced himself his big face crimson. “I don’t know why it is, but you people always go out of your way to make things hard for me.” He gave a brief dissertation on the hardships of a cop. “And old friends of mine, too.” He gave another dissertation on friendship, and how little it ever got anybody. “What I ought to do is lock up the whole bunch of you for obstructing justice.” It wasn’t a new threat.
Nobody said a word. There were times to answer von Flanagan, but this wasn’t one of them.
“But I’m not going to do it,” he roared at last. “Because somehow you’d find a way to make more trouble for me, even in jail.” He glared at them, waved an arm toward the door.
“Go home,” he said in a dramatic bellow. “That’s all I want of you, understand? And it’s an order. Keep out of my way. Keep out of my sight. Go home!”
The three fled.
Out on the sidewalk Malone wiped his face with a crumpled handkerchief and said, “Well, that’s a new angle from von Flanagan, anyway.”
“Malone, what killed him?” Helene asked.
And Jake said, “Who did it, Malone?”
The little lawyer shook his head. “I don’t know, and I don’t know, and I don’t know. For a little while I thought I did, but after this, I don’t know!” He added, “And you heard what von Flanagan said.”
Helene gave him a stricken look.
“Only,” Malone told her reassuringly, “he didn’t say just whose home.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Don’t bother me with questions now,” Malone growled. He took out a fresh cigar, unwrapped it and stood there in the Division Street snow and slush staring at it. “It isn’t that the questions bother me,” he complained moodily, “it’s that the answers are so hard.”
Helene sniffed. “All right, Malone. But what are you going to do now?”
“Two things,” he told her. “Two things simultaneously. And both of them have to be done right away. So, reluctant as I am to accept your help—”
He explained hastily. There had to be an immediate visit to the Delore Deanne offices, to pick up any loose ends of information that might be floating around there, before von Flanagan arrived on the same mission.
At the same time, there had to be an immediate search of the late Dennis Dennis’ apartment. Because there just might be something, some hint as to the writer’s private life, if he had one. Maybe a lead to his ex-wife. Something, anyway.
He gave them the address he had found in Dennis Dennis’ wallet and added, “It’s a second-rate apartment hotel on North Dearborn Street, not far from here. I happen to know the manager, name’s Reilly. He doubles as day c
lerk, and he’s probably there now. Tell him I said to let you in. And don’t let von Flanagan find you if you can help it.”
He waved down a passing taxi and was gone before Jake could finish a remark about how funny it was that Malone apparently knew all the apartment-hotel managers in Chicago, especially the second-rate ones.
The Astrid Arms apartment building looked as though it had never been anything but second-rate, and its years apparently hadn’t been easy. The lobby, Helene observed, was dowdy, but not genteel. Not outright poor, but rather like a small-incomed widow who hadn’t grown old gracefully.
The gray-haired, middle-aged Reilly leered pleasantly when Jake announced that they were friends of Malone, then grew grave when he explained their visit.
“Too bad,” he said sadly, mentally marking Dennis Dennis’ rent off the future ledgers. “Nice quiet young man, never had any parties, never gave any trouble. Too many murders going on, if you ask me. Suppose it’ll be in the papers, too. Bad for the hotel. Oh, well.” He produced the key and said, “Three-oh-two. Guess it’s all right if Malone says so.”
Helene remarked that Malone would also be just as happy if the police didn’t find them there.
Reilly nodded as though he were used to the police and their vagaries, and said, “I’ll call and warn you if I see them come in. There’s a flight of stairs right around the corner of the corridor.”
The gloomy little building seemed very quiet as they rode up the self-service elevator with its hand-lettered sign with instructions as to what to do in case of fire. Probably, Helene reflected, the occupants were all either people who slept all day, or who crept silently out to mediocre jobs early in the morning. She shivered and took Jake’s arm as they walked down the worn carpeted hall.
Dennis Dennis’ apartment was small, drab, and ordinary, like the building itself and its Mr. Reilly. There was one boxlike room with a folding bed—down and unmade, at the moment— and an assortment of badly worn cheap furniture—a desk, a sagging armchair, an end table, a magazine rack, and a couple of wooden chairs. The one window looked at another one exactly like it, but with the shade drawn, across a narrow airway. The scuffed rug had originally been of an Oriental inclination, and the one picture was a dust-streaked Maxfield Parrish reproduction.