by Craig Rice
He hung up and said, “Von Flanagan got a quick report on Dennis Dennis.” He paused. “He was shot full of embalming fluid. While he was unconscious, but still alive.”
There was a little silence. At last Jake said, “Well, it was an appropriate place for it, anyway.”
Malone nodded. “Very. Which indicates that murdering Dennis Dennis may have been a spur of the moment affair. And by someone who knew that a shot of embalming fluid would be fetal.”
They thought that over solemnly.
“Not entirely unpremeditated, though,” Malone said suddenly. “Not something that happened in a sudden flare-up of rage.”
“The kind you love to describe in front of a jury,” Helene commented.
He ignored her and went on, “Rather, someone who trailed Dennis Dennis with the idea of murdering him, saw he was alone in Rico’s except for the attendant, bopped the attendant, and used a tidy weapon which happened to be at hand on Dennis Dennis.”
“After bopping him,” Helene said. “Or to put it nicely, after rendering him unconscious.”
He looked at her gloomily and said nothing. He rested his head on his hands and went right on saying nothing, for a long time. The little lawyer looked tired almost beyond endurance now, his eyes red, his face drawn.
Finally he looked up and said, in a kind of far-off voice, “I could probably have prevented this, you know.” He drew a long, slow breath. “If one of my phone calls had reached him. If I’d only foreseen something of the sort.”
“Malone,” Helene said very gently, “you can’t prevent all the murders, you know.”
He looked at her gratefully. “No,” he said, “and right now, I still probably have one to prevent.”
He took the wrinkled envelope out of his pocket and stared at it. “There’s a lot of things I need to know, practically right this minute. Dennis Dennis’ real name. Name and location of his ex-wife. Details like that.” He caught a suspicious look on Helene’s face and said, “No, I’m not trying to get rid of you, I really do want to know all that. Because I want to locate the ex-wife. I don’t know why, it just seems important.”
“Anytime you don’t know why a thing seems important,” Jake said, “that means it definitely is important.”
Malone let that go by him and said, “Nobody knows, or admits to knowing, the guy’s right name. But here’s a guess at his age, the length of time he’s been with Delora Deanne, said to be his first job, the date of publication of a poem in Poetry Magazine, the fact that he’s a Chicago product and went to college in Chicago, and that’s about all there is to go on.”
“It’s enough,” Jake said, reaching for his hat. “College registrars. Bureau of Vital Statistics. Herald-Examiner morgue. Most of it can be done on a telephone. ” He grinned reassuringly at Malone. “What’s the good of having an ex-reporter for a friend, chum?”
“With a wife,” Helene added, “who can drive a car places in a hurry?”
Malone loved them both and thanked them both from the bottom of his heart. Out loud he said crossly, “Well, get going, then.”
The office seemed almost unbearably quiet after they had gone. He wished he knew just what to do next, or if he ought to do anything at all. He wished for a lot of things, including a sun-caressed beach in Bermuda. Or Hawaii. Practically the same place.
He sat brooding and feeling sorry for himself until a small nagging thought that had been annoying him all morning crystallized into a definite question, with an equally definite need for more information. Charlie Swackhammer had said, “I own forty-five per cent of Delora Deanne—but Hazel thinks I own fifty-five.”
Who did own the other ten shares?
It was, he told himself furiously, one of the things he should have worried about a long time before and would have, he apologized to himself, if so many things hadn’t kept coming up to distract him. For the second time that day he called Weasel Firman, and for the second time was told that the information would be along as good as immediately.
Well, now there was nothing to do but wait, while other people did his work for him. He told Maggie he’d gone to Chattanooga on sudden, urgent business, turned off the lights, locked the door, and settled down to a dream of tropic sands and beautiful native girls all looking exactly like the composite Delora Deanne and giggling like Tamia Tabet.
Then the pounding of the surf on the beach at Waikiki turned into a clamorous pounding on his office door, and the soft voices of native musicians were drowned out by Jake’s bellowing to open up. He stumbled sleepily to the door, opened it, turned on the light, and stood there blinking at them and muttering something about hibiscus blossoms. “Fine thing,” Jake said indignantly, “here we work our fingers to a shadow for you, in this weather, and you go off to Hawaii. I’ve a good notion not to tell you about Dennis Dennis’ ex-wife.”
“I was thinking,” Malone said, equally indignantly. He stalked to his desk, sat down and said, “Well?” He started unwrapping a fresh cigar and added, “The ex-wife’s name?”
“Zero,” Helene said. “Miss Zero.” As Malone stared at her she added with a malicious grin, “There isn’t any.”
“You mean you can’t find her?”
“I mean Dennis Dennis never was married,” she said smugly.
Malone looked, bewildered, at Jake, who nodded gravely. “It’s the truth. We traced Dennis Dennis back to college. It was Northwestern, by the way. Majored in writing. Changed his name to Dennis Dennis. Lived in an alumni club. Sold two poems to Poetry. Got a job with Delora Deanne. Moved to a fairly good apartment hotel. Moved to the Astrid Arms. Talked very poor because of alimony to an ex-wife.”
“But there wasn’t any ex-wife,” Helene said. “He made it all up.”
“We checked thoroughly,” Jake said. “He even spent his vacations in Chicago. No one ever saw a wife, let alone an ex-wife. No record of any marriage, no record of any divorce.”
Malone stared at them for a long moment. Then he said, “I might have known it. She was entirely too perfectly typical to be real. Only a writer could have invented her.” He beamed at them. “All that,” he said admiringly, “in so short a time. And his right name, too. What was it?”
Jake lit a cigarette very slowly and then said, “Arthur Swackhammer.”
This time the moment was a very long one. At last Malone said, “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Jake said. “Only son of one Gerald Swackhammer, deceased. The unsuccessful one of the Swackhammer brothers. There were only two, by the way. Charlie survives. Dennis Dennis’ father left him enough to go through college and live tor a year or so, and that’s all.”
“This I have to think over,” Malone said. He scowled. “Did Hazel hire him as Dennis or as Swackhammer, and did she know it was really Swackhammer? And will she tell? How did his Uncle Charlie fit into all this? Will he tell? And why did Dennis Dennis—I like him better by that name—invent an ex-wife, and—”
There was a small silence. No one remarked that Dennis Dennis wasn’t going to tell.
“And what was he doing with the money he said went for alimony?” Malone finished.
Helene said, “And we can’t wait and tune in next week and find out.”
At that moment, the phone rang. Malone grabbed it, listened, mumbled a few yesses and noes, finally said, “Thanks, Weasel,” hung up and said, “We don’t need to wait till next week to find out. He used the money buying stock in Delora Deanne. It was Dennis Dennis who owned that other ten per cent!”
Jake whistled. “And what does that mean?”
“Dennis Dennis owned the stock,” Malone said. “Dennis Dennis worked it through Myrdell Harris. He also was one of the heavy contributors to her bank account. Then Dennis Dennis did take the bankbooks. He probably wanted to keep his transaction with her hidden—though he must have known her bank account would be checked up after her death. All this, and on top of it, Dennis Dennis was a Swackhammer.”
“All of this,” Helene repeated, “and
on top of that, Dennis Dennis bought those gloves.”
Jake said, “I begin to see what you mean that the more you find out, the less you know.”
Malone stared at him and then said very slowly, “All these things are side dishes. They adorn the real thing, but they aren’t the real thing itself. They aren’t what I do know, and what I’d have done something about before if all this hadn’t come up to distract me.”
Before any questions could be asked, the telephone rang again. Malone listened, said, “Stay right there, I’m on my way,” hung up, and said, “Come on.”
They were in the corridor before Helene could gasp, “Where, Malone?”
“Hospital,” Malone said, leading the way into the elevator, “Come on!”
“Who?” Jake demanded.
Malone simply said, “I didn’t expect this. Something like it, but—”
“Malone—” He didn’t answer.
Down on the sidewalk, Gus Madrid was shoving his way through the crowd. “Malone, wait,” he called.
“Later,” Malone called back. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Once in the car, he said, “Helene, lose him if you can.” He gave her the address of the emergency hospital.
The snow was coming down hard now. “In this,” she said, “I could lose anybody. I can hardly see my hand in front of my face.”
“If you put your hand in front of our face,” Jake said anxiously, “how are you going to see to drive?”
She ignored that. “Tell us, Malone.”
“Charlie Swackhammer,” Malone said tersely. “Smashed up his car. Not hurt much. That’s all I could gather.”
“And his bride-to-be?”
Malone caught his breath. “That’s just it,” he said. “She’s disappeared. She’s gone.”
Chapter Thirty-two
During the nightmare drive through the thickly falling snow, Malone tried once more to add up everything in his mind. Not that it mattered too much, he reflected once or twice, when any moment now might be his last.
It all fitted together perfectly now. Then he looked at the pattern again and decided that no, only half of it was there. The murder of Myrdell Harris and the hijacking of her body seemed to be another picture entirely, and carved up—he winced at his own expression—with a different jigsaw.
Or was it? He got back to the original, to the main picture again. Myrdell Harris had found out, in her own peculiar way of finding out things, just what was going on at Delora Deanne’s. That was why she’d made it a point to get better acquainted with him. Because, he reasoned, she had figured there would come a time to sell her information to the highest bidder.
It followed, then, that she must have tried blackmailing her murderer, with unfortunate results.
Helene whisked the big convertible around an icy corner, and the little lawyer covered his eyes.
“It’s not that I’m worried about my neck,” he complained, “but I’ve got my duty to my client to worry about.”
“Don’t worry,” Helene said consolingly, “we’re almost there.”
And so was he, Malone told himself, so was he. Almost to the finish of this—if he had reasoned it right. And he must have. There could be no other way.
The convertible slid to a screaming stop in front of the emergency hospital entrance. An instant later, Gus Madrid’s black sedan slid to a stop behind them.
“Damn!” Helene said furiously, and then, “Good driver, that boy. Never mind, Malone, go on in and tend to your client. I’ll take care of Rover boy here.” She began to get out of the car.
“But Helene—” Malone began weakly.
“I said never mind. Go on.”
Malone went on. He found Charlie Swackhammer waiting in a chair in the lobby. One arm was in a sling, a rakish bandage went around his head, but the pallor on his normally ruddy face appeared to be purely one of anxiety.
“Malone!” he said, and then, in a cracked voice, “Maybelle!”
“We’ll find her,” Malone said grimly. “Don’t worry. Tell me what happened.”
Charlie Swackhammer groaned. “It happened so fast, Malone.” He shook his head.
“Accidents usually do,” Malone said. “But just tell me how it happened, and where.”
“In the park,” Charlie Swackhammer said. “We were driving up through the park. Through the snow. Then a car came up behind us. I thought it was trying to pass us at first. All of a sudden I realized it was drawing pretty close. It was trying to shove us off the road. We were going pretty fast.” He closed his eyes for a minute. “If I hadn’t been going fast—”
“Never mind,” Malone said quickly. “If someone was really after you, it wouldn’t have made much difference.”
Swackhammer nodded slowly. “Was after me, all right. Thought for a minute—a second, I guess—was trying to sideswipe us. Then I saw a tree.” He paused. “Then I hit the tree.” He paused again. “That was all.”
“All right,” Malone said. “Let’s get you pulled together. What’s about Maybelle?”
“I don’t know,” the big man said miserably. “She’s gone. I was knocked out for a minute. I don’t know how long. Not very long, I guess. But when I did come to, Maybelle was gone. She just wasn’t there. Just gone.”
For one horrible moment, Malone was afraid Charlie Swackhammer was going to blubber.
“Malone, she hadn’t been hurt. There wasn’t any blood. Except mine, from a cut here.” He pointed to his forehead. “The car wasn’t smashed much. I sprained my wrist and I cut my head, that’s all that happened to me. Some people came by and then the police came, and they brought me here. But Maybelle, she’s gone, Malone, and I don’t know where she is.” Malone started to say, “I think I do,” then changed it to “I told you not to worry. We’ll find her.” He added, “Just how much did you tell the police?”
“Not much of anything. I was dazed, I guess. Then I didn’t tell them about Maybelle. I don’t know why, I just didn’t. As soon as I could, I called you.”
“And a good thing you did, too,” Malone said modestly. “The situation couldn’t be in better hands.”
For some reason, Charlie Swackhammer didn’t look any better.
“First we’ll find Maybelle,” Malone said, with perfect confidence. Find Maybelle, and then wind up everything else, and then worry about paying back Gus Madrid. And how to finance another and probably more successful date with Tamia.
He went to the public telephone and called Tamia first, but not about the date. It was, he told her, a little matter of information. Just who was in the Delora Deanne building, and how long had they been there? And Otis Furlong? Fine. He was going to be there himself before long. Roughly, a half-hour or so.
“Hazel is there,” he told Charlie Swackhammer, “and Otis Furlong. Came in about the same time. From lunch, I suppose.” He realized that so far that day he hadn’t even begun to think about lunch.
“But Maybelle—”
“Isn’t there,” Malone said. “So first of all, we’re going where she is.”
Heaven help him if he was wrong, he reflected, as he guided Charlie Swackhammer out to the car. Help him, and most of all, help Maybelle. Because right now he could think of no other possible answer.
Gus Madrid was still there, but he was leaning against the car, chatting companionably with Jake and Helene. He looked up as Malone arrived.
“Malone,” he began. “That money—”
“Look,” Malone said, helping Charlie Swackhammer into the back of the car, “you’ve got to wait. This is something that has to be tended to right this minute.”
“I’m in a hurry too,” Gus Madrid said. “Now listen, Malone. I been talking all this over with the lady here. And I’m a reasonable type guy. I want you should keep the money I give you for finding my girl. Even if you didn’t find her. You was trying to, and it wasn’t your fault she came back of herself.” Malone forgot Charlie Swackhammer and everything else for a mad moment. He opened his mouth to speak
, closed it again, finally said, “No, let me give back half of it,” and immediately hated himself. Half was exactly what he had left. But his wallet was already out.
“No,” Gus Madrid said, shoving the wallet back. “I said you should keep it, I said.”
“I insist—” Malone began, but more weakly.
“Shut up, both of you,” Helene said, “and get in, Malone. You two can play Alphonse-Gaston some other time. This other thing is urgent.” She smiled and said, “Good-by, Mr. Madrid.” Gus Madrid flashed the second smile Malone had ever seen on his face, waved good-by and called after them, “Don’t forget our date, Mr. Justus.”
“You don’t need to tell me, Jake,” Malone said sympathetically. “Does he want to dance or sing?”
“Act out his life story,” Jake said.
Malone gave Helene the address of the Lake Shore Drive apartment building where Hazel Swackhammer lived and where Myrdell Harris had died, patted Charlie Swackhammer’s shoulder comfortingly and said, “Don’t worry.”
A few blocks later he said to Helene, “But just exactly what did you say to Gus Madrid?”
She drove on in silence.
Finally Jake said, “She wouldn’t even tell me, Malone.” At the building, Malone said, “Let me out here. Do any of you know where the service elevator is?”
“I do,” Charlie Swackhammer said.
“Good,” Malone said, almost adding that he’d thought so. “I’ll meet you at 405. Myrdell Harris’ apartment.” He dodged any further questions by ducking into the building fast.
He paused briefly at the manager’s office. To his relief there was no difficulty about the key, though the manager did look a trifle dubious at first.
“Mrs. Swackhammer did say that she wanted the apartment left untouched—not even dusted—until she was through with it.”
Malone nodded. “Of course. The inventory. But I promise it isn’t going to take very long.” Nor would it, he thought, as far as he was concerned.
“Of course, the police did go through it earlier—I’m sure I don’t know why, but Mrs. Swackhammer said it was perfectly all right. They were very nice and quiet about it,” he added.