But the Doctor Died

by Craig Rice

  But the Doctor Died

  A John J. Malone Mystery

  Craig Rice

  Chapter One

  Helene Justus said, “Darling, did I ever mention Vivian Conover?”

  Jake Justus shifted his Tribune and said, “Uh-uh. Don’t think so.”

  “But I must have! She was a college chum. Brilliant, beautiful.”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t think so.” If the White Sox could get one more first-string pitcher they might get into the first division of All-Star time. Then—

  “By brilliant, I mean really brilliant. She has an IQ of 145. Viv majored in chemistry and had a fabulous career ahead of her—still has, for that matter.”

  “Good girl.”

  They were having breakfast on the terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. The lake was incredibly blue. The sky was dotted with lazy white cotton balls. The bathers, already congregated on Oak Street Beach, attested to the late breakfast habits of the Justuses. But these were logical because Jake was a night person. He had to be to run a club like the Casino.

  “Vivian and I have kept in touch since we saw each other in New York last year. She was in a terrible state then, poor dear. A love affair. She’d fallen hard for a Frenchman—an André DuBois. He was a playwright. Had a few off-Broadway things done in Greenwich Village. Not very popular with the theater-goers, I’m afraid. When I talked to Viv there’d been a row and she was practically prostrate.”

  “Too bad.”

  “All she could do Was talk about him. It was hard to believe that any one individual could be so fabulous.”

  “Happens.” If Wrigley would quit chomping his jaws and put in some lights so the Cubs could play night games—

  “As a matter of fact, Vivian herself amazed me. She’d always been such a level-headed person. She went with a big eastern pharmaceutical firm and worked up through the ranks amazingly fast. Then she got some kind of a compulsion for this man.”

  “A cad,” Jake observed.

  “Anyhow, I gave her a shoulder to cry on. Not that I was much help. I could only be thankful the affair was over. It had literally torn the poor girl to pieces. Push the jam over here, will you, darling?”

  “Uh-uh,” Jake murmured. “Don’t think so.”

  Helene got the jam without assistance and went on. “She ended it by carving André up with a long pearl-handled butcher knife.”

  “Good girl.”

  “The body was identified by the missing ears, Vivian had mailed them to a friend at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo but they were returned for lack of sufficient postage.”

  “Tough break.”

  “They electrocuted Viv at Sing Sing last week. Do you think we should send flowers?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Helene sighed. “Anyhow. Vivian is due in Chicago this afternoon. She’s going to work at the new Walden Chemical Research Laboratory out on Grand Avenue. A new start. She’s going to stay at the Cray-more. I’m waiting to hear from her now.”

  Jake’s eyes jerked upward. The sun glinted off his red head. “The jam? Of course, honey. But you ought to watch your figure.”

  Helene was not offended. It had happened before….

  After Jake finished his last cup of coffee and went into the bedroom to dress for work, he found Helene emerging from the shower, toweling herself vigorously, and he quickly reverted from his absent-mindedness. “God, you’re lovely. I’ve got an idea. Let’s take the day off.”

  “You mean a holiday in bed?”

  “The thought hadn’t occurred to me. But it’s a swell idea.”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t think so,” Helene mocked. She flipped her gorgeous rear and went back into the bathroom.

  Jake frowned as he tied his tie. He was a man of keenly retentive memory, with a subconscious that never slept. “Honey, haven’t you got a friend coming to town or something?”

  “What gave you that idea?” Helene called, and Jake thought, Funny—sounds like she’s laughing at me. But he had a club to run so he went off to see about it.

  After the door closed, Helene came out of the bathroom. All her lightness was gone. But she felt she’d done a good job of assuming the mood she didn’t feel….

  The phone rang ten minutes later. “Darling,” a low, throaty voice greeted. “It’s Vivian. I’m here.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Where? At the airport?”

  “No. I came right on in. I’m at the Craymore.”

  “I’m dying to see you.”

  “I too, darling.”

  Helene’s voice sobered. “How are—things, Viv? “Fine—just fine.”

  “I mean—how are they really?”

  Vivian Conover’s laugh was soft and easy, proving that she was a good actress also. “Truthfully, Helene. The cure took.”

  “Then—” Helene didn’t even want to use André’s name. “Then that problem you had—?”

  “Melted clean away. André. André DuBois. A man I was once acquainted with. See how easy it is?”

  Helene said, “Vivian. I must see you right away. I have my—well—my appointment … you know. But I’ll break it and—”

  “No, darling! You won’t. That isn’t the thing to do. We’ll have plenty of time afterwards.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been as constant and punctual as a Girl Scout. I’m entitled to be unreliable just once.”

  There was another change in Vivian Conover’s voice. Subtly, it dropped in enthusiasm. It did not become impersonal, but it moved in that direction.

  “Helene, I have something to tell you. Wedding bells.”

  “Vivian!”

  “It’s confidential of course. I mean—with the new job and all. You must forget I even told you about it. You must forget it. But still, darling—put a yellow ribbon in your hair and buy some confetti.”

  “Viv—I’m delighted.” But the pure delight no longer reflected in Helene’s voice. She seemed suddenly preoccupied.

  “And don’t break your appointment.”

  Helene put the phone down without saying goodbye. She looked at her watch, finished dressing and was ready to go.

  But before she left the apartment, she took a yellow ribbon from a drawer where she kept several, and tied it in a neat little bow into her shining blonde hair….

  Chapter Two

  John J. Malone awoke late that morning. He grunted and flung his right arm out across the bed and faced his first problem. The long-legged blonde was gone.

  Malone opened one eye, closed it again, and flung out his other arm. His groping hand came in contact with the trousers tossed carelessly across a chair the night before. He pawed until he found his wallet. He opened the single eye again and trained it on the money inside. About twenty dollars missing. His grunt was one of sour satisfaction. He’d figured the girl to be honest and he’d been right. She’d taken only what she’d felt she was entitled to.

  Resolving to look her up again some day, Malone yawned and went about the business of returning to life….

  When Malone entered Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar an hour later, Joe the Angel knew—from years of close rapport—several things. First, Malone had had a rough night. But if Joe had merely guessed this, he would have had three chances in four of being right. Most of Malone’s nights were rough. His days too, for that matter.

  Secondly, Joe knew that Malone had been on gin the night before. This too was no great feat of perception. Joe had only to look at Malone’s lapel. He knew a gin stain when he saw one.

  But only esp in its purest form told Joe that Malone now wanted rye instead of gin. Certainly, nothing visible indicated that Malone wanted hair from a different dog. Nonetheless, Joe sure-handedly poured a double rye and had it waiting when Malone pumped his short legs and climbed up on a bar stool. H
e scowled at the stuff, tossed it off, and said,

  “It’s a lousy day.”

  Joe replied with stubborn cheerfulness. “It ain’t the day. It’s you. All days are lousy after lousy nights.”

  “Who made you a philosopher?” Malone pushed the glass forward for a refill.

  “It’s just that I hate to see you wasting your youth.”

  “Wasting my youth! I’m forty years old, for God’s sake!”

  “We’re as old as we feel.”

  “Okay—I feel eight years older than Dracula.”

  “That’s all right. You’ll get younger as the day goes on. You know what’s wrong with you?”

  “I could outline it in a couple of hours, but what’s your version?”

  “You ought to get married. You been drifting too long, and when a boat drifts it always goes into the weeds. You’re going into the weeds because you ain’t got a firm hand on the wheel.”

  “Jesus! Maybe I’d better find another bar.”

  “You won’t, though,” Joe the Angel sighed. “Your tab’s too big. You’ll never escape from it. But I still say an eminent Chicago attorney should—” Joe paused, possibly overcome by finding and using such a classy word.

  But eminent might have been laying it on a little thick in Malone’s case. There were other descriptive terms. Sawed-off shyster; sneaky mouthpiece; the hood’s friend. Call Malone whatever you chose and you’d find that someone in Chicago had said it first.

  Still, no one could deny that he was one of the keenest little criminal lawyers who ever gave a judge fits. Once, years earlier, while making his living as a cab driver, he’d become disgusted with his lack of progress in life and enrolled in a law course in night school. He earned his diploma, and passing the bar exam had been the turning point in his life.

  Joe the Angel ignored Malone’s empty glass. “You ought to eat. I got pig’s knuckles.”

  “I’ll take an order of boiled cop’s head.”

  Joe’s reply was automatic. “Von Flanagan giving you a hard time?”

  It would have to be von Flanagan and his two shadows, Kluchesky and Scanlon. They were the only cops on earth so far as Malone was concerned. Homicide dicks. Von Flanagan was homicide so far as Malone was concerned, a knob-headed public servant dedicated to the proposition of making Malone’s life miserable.

  “Von Flanagan bounced my boy all over town,” Malone growled. “From one precinct to another. I hunted for hours—until I got sidetracked about midnight. I should be out hunting now.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “Toothy Spaatz.”

  “Toothy again. Who’d he kill?”

  “Monks Tannen— Now wait a minute! You know damned well no ethical lawyer would—oh, hell! Gimme a ham on rye.”

  All of which was of no great importance—at least appeared to be nothing of importance at the moment. Toothy would probably be chivvied into court where he would deny the murder gun belonged to him even if it had been found—which it hadn’t and never would be. Besides, Malone would maintain, why would Toothy want to kill Monks who was practically a relative because his second cousin down on Taylor Street had married a girl who had gone with Toothy’s first cousin until the first cousin’s wife had heard about it and clobbered the first cousin with an electric iron she’d just heated up to use on his shirt?

  Or at least that was how it would sound to a confused jury that would refuse to indict because there had been no witnesses and they’d been told to ignore Toothy’s long anti-social record. He would be on trial for Monks’ murder—not six others.

  Malone in turn could justifiably declare his belief in Toothy’s innocence because he could tick off ten guys on his fingers—and ten more if he wanted to use his toes—who would have loved to ice Monks for any number of reasons.

  So it was nothing of any great importance—just another opportunity for von Flanagan to harass him.

  Malone brooded. He suddenly jerked his head up. “What time is it?”

  “Ten after one,” Joe said.

  “Hell! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  Malone climbed down off his stool. “I’ve got to meet Helene Justus.”

  “Is she in trouble?” The question was quick and aggressive. Helene and Jake Justus were two of Joe the Angel’s favorite people.

  “Of course not!”

  Malone’s tone indicated the question was ridiculous; that trouble wouldn’t dare to even come into Helene’s neighborhood. Which wasn’t true. The dark bird of chaos spent most of its leisure time roosting on the Justus balcony, but Joe did not make an issue of this.

  “It’s Jake’s birthday coming up,” Malone said, “and Helene wants to buy him a shotgun.”

  “Not a hot one,” Joe said.

  “Are you nuts? Besides, I wouldn’t know where to buy hot merchandise anyhow.”

  Joe didn’t dispute this either, although he had ample proof otherwise. “You better get going then.”

  “After that, I gotta go find Toothy,” Malone said as he climbed down from his stool.

  But before he reached the door, Joe called, “Hold it, Malone. Telephone for you. Your office.”

  Malone scowled and retraced his steps. Why couldn’t they leave a man alone when he was out following his profession—trying to do his duty to his fellow man? He went to the far end of the bar and picked up the phone. It was Maggie, his long-suffering secretary. “Where have you been?” she asked coldly.

  “Around. What’s new?”

  “Several things, such as your neglecting to sign my pay check. But of course that’s not really new.”

  “Stop joking.”

  “I guess my pay check is a joke to you, but not to me. I’m forced to live on it.”

  “There’s a roll of bills in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk. Rainy day money.”

  “Is it raining?”

  “There are clouds in the sky. Take your salary out of that. What else?”

  “You have a client—I think.”

  “Prosperous? Well-dressed?”

  “Penniless. Shabbily clad. A Mrs. Massey. She’s waiting.”

  “I’ve got a little thing to do. I’ll be along in about half an hour. Then we’ll find out if she’s still waiting.”

  “She will be.”

  Malone put down the phone and sighed. Why couldn’t they come up rich once in a while? He left the bar and walked to State Street—toward the Carson Pirie clock where he’d promised to meet Helene and help her pick out the gun for Jake’s birthday. He growled about the imposition on his valuable time but in truth he looked forward to meeting Helene.

  They had known each other for a long time and the friendship had endured from one desperate situation to the next.

  The first of these had been the one where the secret bride of Jake’s band-leader client—Jake had been single and a press agent at the time—was accused of murdering her lovable old great-aunt. That case had brought Jake and Helene together; Jake, the red-headed dynamo, and Helene, the beautiful North Shore heiress.

  Later, a female radio star for whom Jake was tubthumping became involved in not one murder but three, and John J. Malone stepped gallantly into the breech because Jake’s fortunes were at a low ebb and he couldn’t afford to lose a client to the electric chair. Malone not only managed to save Jake’s valuable celebrity from the law, but he also brought her through smelling like the rose she definitely was not.

  Even on Jake and Helene’s wedding day there had been difficulties. By way of celebration, Jake bet one Mona McClane—rich, beautiful, and foolish—that she couldn’t commit a murder and get away with it. Again, Malone pulled on his fireman’s pants and shinnied down the pole. He ran himself into a stumpy little shadow solving that murder, which turned out to be the wrong one. Then he reduced his anticipated life-span appreciably by finding and solving the right one.

  It was of such strong material as this that their friendship was built, and while John J.
Malone did not wear his affection on his sleeve, the idyl of Jake and Helene symbolized the few things that Malone considered right with the world. Tell him the sun would not rise tomorrow and he would probably shrug and ask, “Well, what the hell can you expect these days?” But tell him tragedy would strike at his favorite pair and he would rock to his foundations.

  Parked under the clock, scowling every few seconds at his watch, he chafed until Helene appeared. When she did, it was worth it. She was gorgeous. That was the only word for her. This made it difficult for Jake to hold his scowl, although he managed it.

  “You’re late. I’m a busy man. I’ve got no time to—”

  She walked past him.

  “Hey—Helene—”

  He ran after her, pulled up beside her, and slowed down. She kept right on going.

  Amazed, Malone again put on speed and this time he did not slow down, but measured his pace to hers and stayed beside her.

  “Helene—you walking in your sleep or something?”

  She turned her eyes on him. Her face was expressionless. But then Malone realized she wasn’t looking at him at all, but past him, at the stop light, preparatory to turning and crossing the street. If his reflexes hadn’t been quick, drawing him back a step, she might have walked right into him. He stared after her until she was halfway across State Street, and then followed along behind.

  Helene made the opposite sidewalk and Malone did also, but only by jumping for his life. He paused to hurl a curse at the homicidal balloon-head driving the truck and then ran to catch up with Helene just as she was entering Woolworth’s. Hardly the place to buy shotguns, he thought, as he followed her down the aisle.

  But Helene wasn’t after shotguns. She asked the clerk, “Do you have confetti?” Woolworth’s did have confetti, and Helene bought a transparent plastic bag of the stuff and again might have bumped into Jake on her way to the exit if he hadn’t again stepped aside.

  He followed her back into the street where she did not hesitate, catching the light to recross State Street as she put the confetti into her purse.

  Malone plowed along behind.

  He’d given up all thought of accosting her again. There didn’t seem to be any point in getting snubbed over and over in public.