by Craig Rice
“The girls must love you for it.”
He shrugged. “The only thing I’m afraid of is that the job may be monotonous for you. There is a fixed routine involved. Messengers will bring you tapes four times a day. They go into that box. You type directly from the tapes and put the letters in the box on the other side, where they are picked up and returned to wherever they came from for signature. The used tapes go into that other box for pickup.” He opened the desk drawer and took out a blue-covered manual. “This will show you the standard forms in which the letters are to be typed. All those silly numbers are included in the dictation.”
“I’ll probably make a million mistakes.”
“I doubt it. I’ll keep an eye on you in the beginning. And the letters are checked routinely after they’re picked up. If you make any mistakes, they’re returned with notations for rewrite.” Fargo bestowed a brilliant smile. “Simple?”
“I think I’ll enjoy it.”
“I hope so. I want you to stay a long, long time. If you get bored or have any questions, don’t hesitate to come into my office.”
“Thank you.”
“You can come and go as you please during the trial period, but I do hope you decide to work full time.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
A buzzer rang in Fargo’s office. He said, “I’m being paged. Just sit down and relax. You can study the manual until the messenger comes….”
The messenger arrived ten minutes later. He was a little old man of indeterminate age with a bright smile and a pair of the bluest eyes Helene had ever seen. He pushed a cart along the corridor. It was loaded with brown envelopes, one of which he put into Helene’s box.
“I wondered who this one was for. You’re new.”
“I just started today.”
“Think you’ll like it?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Won’t take long to find out. This is a pretty good outfit to work for. Two coffee breaks—morning and afternoon—and Fargo isn’t too tough on the girls. Watch out for Biddy Penrose, though. She’s tough, and every once in a while she picks a girl to light on.”
“Who is Biddy Penrose?”
“She’s the expediter for stenography. She spreads out the work. Another thing she can do is get down on a girl and bypass her. Either that or load her with so much work she falls behind.”
“I thought this was Mr. Fargo’s department.”
“It is, but Biddy Penrose throws some power around. You’ll probably get called to her office for a once-over. Gotta go now or she’ll be on my tail. By the way, my name’s Pop Warner—like the football coach, but I never been near a college in my life.”
Helene laughed. The old man was the nicest person she’d met so far. “I’m Helene Justus.”
“Okay, Helene. Take it easy.”
There was a squeak in one of his cart wheels. Helene listened to it until it faded in the distance and then opened the brown envelope. It contained three tapes.
With the form manual on the desk beside her, she fitted the tape into the machine and then brought the typewriter out of its compartment. It came easily into place on well-oiled springs. She put on the earphones and started the recorder. A tinny male voice used three long paragraphs to complain to somebody in Washington about office forms. They’d been late in coming through, and when they had come there wasn’t nearly enough room to get the requisition numbers in without crowding. What kind of business was that?
Helene put a letterhead and two carbons into the typewriter and was pleasantly surprised at how well it went. The only disagreeable part was that the man who’d dictated the letter had a cold and kept sniffling into her ear.
The next letter was from a breezy-voiced executive who wanted Dear Jimmy, in Washington, to, for God’s sake, get somebody cutting on Directive 702-Y-859-b. Otherwise everything was going to pile up at White Sands, New Mexico and there’d be the devil to pay. On her own authority, Helene cut out the for God’s sake, but left in the devil to pay, although it didn’t seem to her good business letter rhetoric.
She finished that one and was getting ready for the third when a tall, handsome woman appeared in her doorway and regarded her with what appeared to be disapproval.
“I’m Mercedes Penrose,” the woman said. “Will you come with me into my office, please?”
Chapter Nine
“I’ll have a gin and beer,” von Flanagan said, “being as I’m not on duty.”
Malone watched von Flanagan ease his bulk onto a stool. “A policeman is always on duty,” he said.
“I’ll have a gin and beer anyhow,” von Flanagan replied, and watched Joe the Angel reach for the bottle.
“Hear you went to a wedding,” Malone said.
“Uh-huh. Got back yesterday morning.”
“What happened to your Siamese twins?”
“I was gone for a week, so they filled in for Captain Spence out on South State Street.”
“I know,” Malone said.
Von Flanagan contributed a disapproving look. “If you knew, why’d you ask me?”
“I thought they might be pounding beats in Calumet after the trick they pulled on one of my clients.”
The fact that it had been one of Malone’s clients didn’t surprise von Flanagan. Malone had clients everywhere. He shrugged. “Just a little oversight. What did you want to see me about?”
Malone remained evasive. “Who do you think knocked off Toothy Spaatz?”
Von Flanagan shrugged again, gulped his gin, and reached for the beer chaser. “You tell me!”
“Not my job.” Malone watched von Flanagan lift his beer glass. When it was two inches from the big policeman’s mouth, he said, “And that joker that was cooled in the alley by my hotel—what happened to him?”
The beer glass froze, but only for a second—just long enough for Malone to be sure that it had frozen.
“What joker?”
“Damned if I know. You’re Homicide. People getting gunned down on the street are your department.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” von Flanagan said, “so maybe you better tell me.” When Malone didn’t answer, he said, “What did you hear?”
“Just rumors.”
“Then they were false rumors. Nobody was killed in the alley by your hotel.”
Malone grinned inwardly. He was not so much interested in what von Flanagan said as how he said it. The big Homicide dick was uncomfortable. He was far from sure of himself. Malone had known him too long not to be aware of the reactions. When von Flanagan set a glass down very carefully and forgot to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, he was unsure of himself.
Malone said, “You got a few minutes? I want to show you something in my office.”
“No time,” von Flanagan grunted.
“It won’t take ten minutes.”
“Is it important?”
“It might be.”
Von Flanagan’s tone indicated reluctance. “Okay, but let’s make it fast.”
Maggie O’Leary was reading a paperback novel when they entered, and she made no effort to hide it.
“What’s cooking?” Malone asked cheerfully.
“Nothing important,” Maggie replied.
“Good,” Malone said, “that means crime is not rampant today. Look, pet, will you duck down the hall and borrow Clint Kaine’s tape recorder for a few minutes?”
“No,” Maggie said coldly.
Malone’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean—?”
“Yes. I saw them go in.”
“Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
Malone knocked on Kaine’s door. There was a delay of a minute or two before Kaine opened it a crack and peeked out. When he saw Malone, he opened it wider and went on fumbling with his fly.
“Want to use your tape recorder for a while, Clint.”
“Okay—okay. But why the hell don’t you buy one of your own?”
“I’ve got one ordered,” Malone lied casually. The littl
e brunette was looking out the window with her back to him. Her zipper was in the rear, down the middle. It was properly zipped.
Back in the office, Malone told Maggie, “We’ll be busy a while. Send everybody away,” and closed the door.
“What the hell is this?” von Flanagan growled.
“Patience … patience.” Malone inserted the tape, snapped the switch, and sat back to peel a cigar. Von Flanagan began to talk—but not in person. His voice came off the tape while the real von Flanagan sat gaping at the recorder. He came out of his daze when a quarter of the tape had been played. He lunged across the room and stopped the recorder. He jerked the tape off and stood like a bull at bay.
“Where’d you get this?”
“I have confidential sources of information. Privileged.”
“Well, there isn’t a damned thing on it that’s incriminating.”
“Of course not,” Malone soothed.
“Besides, I’ve got it now. And if you think you’re going to get it back, Malone, you’re crazy.”
“Be my guest. It’s a gift.”
“Then you made copies!”
“Do you think I’d stoop to anything as low as that?”
“I know damn well you would!”
“But like you said, there’s nothing incriminating on it.” Malone took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar. “I’ll say one thing, though. You’ve led a damned interesting sex life. And I didn’t know ’til now that a voice could come through so clearly on a tape. You’ve got a fine voice, von Flanagan. Anybody who ever heard you speak ten words could identify it right away.”
“You wouldn’t, Malone! Even you couldn’t be that much of a rat!”
They were silent for a time, both of them listening in their imaginations to the howls of delight that would erupt at the station if the tape were ever played for the boys in the ready room.
“You wouldn’t,” von Flanagan moaned weakly.
“Of course not, von Flanagan,” Malone soothed. “But I keep thinking of how lucky you were that Kluchesky and Scanlon goofed. A blessing in disguise. If they’d taken a search warrant with them, that tape would be locked up as evidence on South State Street. And at my client’s trial, I’d probably have had to play it in court.”
The thought made von Flanagan shudder anew. “Molly’d leave me,” he muttered. “My kids would look on their father as a—”
“As an old lecher,” Malone cut in.
“What do you want from me?” von Flanagan bellowed.
“Nothing. I just think two old friends should level with each other.”
“How many prints of this have you got?”
“Only one,” Malone said innocently.
“And you’ll give it back to me after … ?”
“After we level.”
Von Flanagan’s shoulders sagged. “Okay … what do you want to know?”
“Well, out of concern for you as an old friend, I’d like to know what the hell you were doing in a head-shrinker’s office. Are you mentally disturbed or something?”
“It was in the line of duty,” von Flanagan said sullenly.
“Brief me.”
“We’ve been watching this guy Barnhall. It began as a query from New York. One of his patients died there. They couldn’t hold him, but when he set up shop here, they asked us to keep an eye on him, so I went in to have a look-see. He’s … well, a pretty persuasive guy. I went in as a prospective patient and he gave me the idea he knew his business.”
“Did you use your own name?”
“Hell no. I’m Joe Jackson from Elmhurst. Anyhow, I wasn’t getting any line on him so I thought a few sessions wouldn’t hurt. That’s the whole pitch.”
“You amaze me, von Flanagan.”
“What are you, a critic or something? How about leveling with me now? Exactly how did you get that tape from—”
“From South State Street. A woman named Massey came asking me to help her son. He was the punk your two little helpers flagged down without a warrant. I went to see Captain Spence and got the loot back. The tape was a part of it.”
“The punk heisted Barnhall’s office?”
“He denies it. He claims to have heisted an office next door.”
“Then the tape was made from the outside—through the wall!” This definitely alarmed von Flanagan, and Malone could see why. “I don’t think anyone was after you. There’s a hell of a lot more to it.”
“Why are you so damn interested?”
“Helene Justus is one of Barnhall’s patients.”
“Well for Christ’s sake!”
Malone had no intention of throwing information around with too open a hand. He said, “Now about that guy who was killed in the alley last night.”
“We got orders from upstairs on that one. Hush it up. He was a government agent.”
Malone’s eyes widened. He whistled softly. “Things are beginning to make less and less sense. Who killed him?”
“Damned if I know. We’re investigating, but we’re walking soft.”
“No reason for you to beat your brains out. Toothy Spaatz gunned the guy. By mistake. He was after me.”
“You mean you were on the scene?”
“Toothy tailed me from the Casino. The guy stepped out of the alley just as Toothy let loose.”
“Toothy’s dead.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Knocked off because he goofed?”
“Cats Gavin had him scrubbed.”
“Cats is dead, too.”
“Sure. He blew his own head off with a trick cigar meant for me.”
Von Flanagan stared at Malone as though he were some new kind of freak. “Are there any killings in town you aren’t involved in?”
“They all tie together,” Malone said.
“Who’s after you? Did you cross Cats?”
“Not me. I’m no fool. Somebody gave him a contract. He passed it on to Toothy.”
“A guy trying to gun his own lawyer,” von Flanagan muttered. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
“I want to hear a hell of a lot more. I want to know who’s after me. And why.”
“You think Barnhall is tied in?”
“He’s tied in with something.”
“Who do you suppose is bugging his joint?”
“I’d like to know.”
Malone had a clue. Nothing very definite. Only a watch with some initials on it. Nothing to take into court as Exhibit A.
“The room next door,” von Flanagan said. “Maybe we ought to take it over and keep an eye on that headshrinker.”
Malone frowned. “I think maybe Barnhall knows about it.”
“You mean he’s letting them bug him?”
“I haven’t got all the answers, but there’s a peephole in the wall. I can’t figure Barnhall not knowing about it.”
“Sounds crazy.”
“We’ve got to go through his office—see what we can find among his records.”
“That’s illegal,” von Flanagan murmured.
“There might be some more of your couch sessions in there on tape.”
“We better do it tonight.”
Malone opened a drawer of his desk. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I need a drink.”
“As long as I’m off duty,” von Flanagan said, “I’ll indulge also….”
Chapter Ten
“I understand your husband owns a nightclub, Mrs. Justus.”
“That’s correct.”
“Also, that you are a very wealthy woman.”
“I suppose I could be regarded as such.”
“Then tell me—why are you working at an ordinary job for a nominal salary?”
Mercedes Penrose made it sound as though Helene were doing something indecent. She’d led Helene into her large, comfortably furnished office and seated herself behind her desk without asking Helene to sit down also. Helene, possibly falling back on the power her wealth gave her, chose one of the two remaining chairs and sat down with
out being invited. Mercedes Penrose did not object. There was rattling behind her and the door of a chute opened. Three tapes fell into a basket together with a white envelope.
Without waiting for Helene’s answer, Mercedes Penrose reached for the envelope and opened it. She pressed a buzzer. A girl appeared.
“Jane, please bring me a small bottle of aspirin from the first-aid room.”
The girl left and the stern-faced, handsome woman turned her eyes on Helene, signifying that she was now ready for the answer to her question.
To Helene, it sounded like the beginning of a clearance inquiry. She was surprised. She thought that she had already been accepted. She said, “I’m not interested in the salary, naturally. I think the best way I can answer you is to say that I wanted to be useful. I’d heard some of the positions here are difficult to fill because of the low pay. Therefore, I thought I could be more useful here than anyplace else.”
“Who gave you the impression that we are on a poverty basis here at Walden?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“We’ve had several junior-league types at Walden. They too probably wished to serve, but it didn’t work out very well. I have found from experience, Mrs. Justus, that women who do not have to depend on their salaries make very poor employees.”
“Why?”
The blunt question threw the woman slightly off-balance. Her stern regard turned into a slight frown.
“What do you mean—why?”
“I can’t understand why any woman interested enough to come to Walden and apply for a job shouldn’t be a good employee.”
“I think perhaps it is the monotony of the work. They are not conditioned to the captivity of nine-to-five. They take jobs as a lark and quickly become bored. Their work soon becomes sloppy.”
Helene had seen no ring on the woman’s finger. She said, “Miss Penrose, may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you in a position to have me discharged?”
“Of course she isn’t.”
It was a new voice. An inner door had opened and a tall, lanky man stepped out. Mercedes Penrose turned angrily.