But the Doctor Died

by Craig Rice

  Malone did not have either the time or the inclination to answer. Lights were blooming up all over the place as someone found the main switch and threw it. Malone seized Helene’s hand and lunged for the wings. “Come on! We’re sitting ducks.”

  But the fire from above was directed out into the orchestra, and they both stopped and stared upward. There, on a small platform high over the proscenium, a man stood at bay. He was too far away to be clearly identified, but he was obviously trapped. The platform had been built in preparation for some tearing-down operation, and was accessible only along a narrow catwalk.

  “Okay—come on down,” von Flanagan ordered.

  The answer was a thundering of shots. The man shuddered, teetered, and came plummeting to the stage. He landed face up, his arms spread wide.

  Malone scowled at the dead body. “Marcus. But who is he?”

  Helene said, “Marcus? I met him at Walden. His name is Felix Bassett.”

  Malone was already drawing Helene back into the wings. “Come on. Let’s get out of sight.”

  “But Malone! Why should we hide? We can’t run away!”

  “You’re my client now,” Malone replied grimly. “I’ve got a right to protect your health and well-being. Let’s get out of here!”

  Helene did not protest. Malone took her hand and led her through a passage leading toward the old stage door. They left the building to the echo’s of von Flanagan’s bellowed demand:

  “Malone! Where the hell are you?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Malone was disturbed. He was out of his depth, not being a professional psychologist. And being out of his depth always tended to disturb him.

  Helene seemed close to normal. It appeared that she had come out of it herself, although slowly, after the releasing key word, petticoat. He figured the horrors of the events in the theater had had a lot to do with it.

  But still, he skirted the truth which would have to be told: She was a murderess. She had killed Barnhall.

  He was sure he had a good case in her behalf, but he’d been a lawyer too long not to be aware of the risk. He was afraid that a jury might see it otherwise. At best, Helene could be declared a mental case.

  It was a goddam mess.

  Malone sprawled in a chair at the Justus apartment and stared moodily into his beaker of gin. Helene sat waiting.

  “Malone! Will you please talk?”

  “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “What made you come to the old opera house?”

  “I spent the day getting a little here and a little there and trying to piece the whole picture together. Going way out into left field, I tried to figure out exactly what had happened to you at Walden when you were put under control. The talk we had in that cocktail bar fitted some of the pieces together. You were given instructions as to what to do through that tape Pop Warner gave you. But someplace along the way, somebody else stepped in and changed the orders. This confused you. In trying to obey, you got all crossed up and didn’t know where you were going or where you had been.”

  “I knew I’d been in a place like the Pantheon, but it was all a dream somehow.”

  “It would be. After I triggered you off again like an idiot, I thought you’d probably go back to Barnhall’s office. I went there, but you hadn’t. It’s a good thing I did go there, though, because that was where I picked up the gun that saved our lives at the opera house. I found it in Barnhall’s desk.”

  Malone paused, eying Helene sharply to see if reference to Barnhall’s office stirred further recollections. Apparently it didn’t. He went on.

  “The Pantheon was a long shot. It was the only place I could think of that came anywhere near fitting the description you gave me while we were talking. Fortunately I hit it. But there are a lot of other questions to be answered. The main one is—why were you sent there if what you were being put through was only a trial run? That question kept banging at me. The only logical answer was that it wasn’t a trial run. Marcus was double-crossing DuBois. You were actually taking the material out of Walden and Marcus had picked the old theater as a good place for you to deliver it to him. Now we know Marcus was Bassett and he had old Pop Warner helping him without being aware of it.”

  “But I’m sure there was no one at the theater when I got there the first time.”

  “Unless I’m all wrong in the way I’m figuring it. There should have been—Marcus; that is, Bassett himself. We’ll never know now, probably, but something must have held him up.”

  “And when no one was there, I—”

  “You fell back on your original instruction pattern and went to Barnhall’s office.”

  Helene frowned. “I don’t know. It seems to me I went somewhere else first.”

  “Can you remember where it was?”

  “It seems to me I went to a wedding—or went to get ready to go to a wedding.”

  “Whose wedding?”

  “Professor Wadsworth said something about his daughter getting married, but I wasn’t invited. In fact, it was only a casual comment on his part.”

  Malone scowled. “I wonder if he’s mixed up in this thing. Everybody else is.”

  Helene shook her head. “There was something else. Not that wedding—”

  Malone asked, “Do you remember when you did go to Barnhall’s office?”

  “I remember struggling—battling with myself mentally. I was terribly frightened by the thought that I was going mad or had already gone mad.”

  “That would trigger you to Barnhall as the man who could help you. We’ll get a lot more information when von Flanagan gathers in the goons I’ve got stashed around town. But whether we’ll ever get all the answers …”

  He trailed off and regarded Helene with a kind of thoughtful dread. The time had come. She had to be told. He avoided it for a few more moments.

  “When will Jake be home?”

  “Not for a while. He’s at the club, of course.”

  “Is there anything really bad wrong between you two?”

  “No. Of course not. It was just my female ego. So childish. I can see that now. Jake is—wonderful.”

  “Helene,” Malone said. “When I found you at Barnhall’s office, he was dead. He’d been stabbed.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “When I went back the second time, the body still hadn’t been discovered.”

  “But who killed him?”

  “You were standing there with the knife still in your hand. You did, Helene.”

  She turned pale there in the silence as they stared at each other.

  But then an amused voice asked, “Did I hear my name mentioned?” They turned. A man was standing in the doorway. He was smiling. There was a gun in his hand.

  “Doctor Barnhall,” Helene gasped.

  Malone gaped….

  Malone closed his mouth and studied the handsome face for marks of what the man was. Supreme self-confidence. A talent he had abused in his greed until it had turned him into something utterly ruthless.

  “There seems to be a mistake in identity here,” Barnhall said.

  “Tell me about it,” Malone replied.

  “I’m sure you already know.”

  Barnhall made no effort to hide his contempt for Malone; and that fact gave the little lawyer the real key to his weakness—the weakness that, at some time and place, would eventually defeat him.

  He underestimated his enemies. Perhaps he had good reason, Malone thought. No doubt his victories had always been easy. But some day it would get him.

  “I haven’t any idea who the man was,” Malone said firmly.

  “A government agent named Blane.” Barnhall tossed it off with apparent disgust.

  “Helene wouldn’t have killed him.” Malone was surprised, and could not conceal it.

  “Of course not. She wouldn’t have killed anyone. I didn’t condition her for murder,” Barnhall said flatly.

  Malone stabbed blindly. “You killed him.”

  “That’s
right. It was necessary. Things moved fast and got a little complicated there at the finish. You’re aware of Terminal’s existence, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Malone said carefully. This was a break, of sorts. Barnhall was revealing another weakness; one which made Malone re-evaluate quickly. Conceit. His plans were obviously made. He saw himself as being in the clear, but someone had to know. His ego insisted that people be aware of his brilliance.

  “I have my own deal with him. I’ve been in control from the beginning, although the game almost got away from me. I let Marcus run the show from his end. But it wasn’t until he’d missed his contact with Mrs. Justus at the opera house that he came to my office and I got the story out of him. So clever. The dry run becoming the real thing. That left DuBois out in the cold. It left me in some difficulty, too, because Marcus’ stupid amateur directives confused Mrs. Justus and she went somewhere else from the opera house before she came to my office. I knew this because she did not have the material with her.”

  Malone said, “But when she got there, she found Blane dead and you gone.”

  “That was the second time. She came earlier and told me where she’d put the material, and I sent her after it. But in the meantime that stupid agent turned up and tried to arrest me.”

  “And you killed him.”

  “I told you it was necessary.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Quite simple. I was at the opera house when all the activity took place. Neither of you were aware of it, but I was never far away. It appeared as though I would have to take over, but then it wasn’t necessary. Mrs. Justus dropped her purse.”

  “What good was that to you?”

  Barnhall shrugged with wry amusement. “None, as it turned out. It only forced me to come here. But I was a little late, or I wouldn’t have taken up your time this way. So now, if you’ll give me the material. I’ll be on my way.”

  Malone had begun to see light, but then had become confused again. But this was no time to appear stupid. “Don’t give it to him, Helene.”

  “Come now—”

  Helene, blank-faced, said, “But I haven’t got it.”

  “Where did you put it?”

  “I never had it.”

  “Oh, yes you did. You were supposed to deliver it to me, as always.”

  Confeftti—yellow ribbon—petticoat.

  Suddenly, Malone knew. And, characteristically, he called himself a few choice names for not knowing sooner. Marcus had picked the control words, looking ahead to the double-cross even then. Barnhall had guessed Marcus’ plan and then had made one of his own—direct contact with Terminal.

  “We’ve wasted enough time,” Barnhall said. “Where is the bag of confetti you brought out of Walden today?”

  “That’s the material you referred to?”

  “Of course. You’ll recall that I always relieved you of the confetti during the conditioning. Marcus wanted you to bring it to him at the old opera house. The reason he picked the place was the seclusion it afforded; a place in which he could relieve you of the material forcibly if necessary. Now—let’s have it.”

  “But I don’t know where it is.”

  “Then remember! If you hadn’t put it somewhere, you would have still had it with you at the opera house.”

  “She hasn’t got it,” Malone said. “I have.”

  “Then hand it over.”

  Malone had noted, with satisfaction, that Helene had not responded to the control word when Barnhall used it. That meant, he was sure, that she was at least partially out from under Barnhall’s control.

  “I left it in my room,” Malone said.

  “I’m sure you’re lying,” Barnhall replied. He turned his eyes on Helene. “Bring me the confetti,” he said, his tone of voice changing markedly. “Get the yellow ribbon. Put it in your hair.”

  Helene struggled … fought Barnhall. But she lost, at least partially, because her eyes went vague. She said, “The wedding. Vivian’s wedding. She told me … said to get some confetti.”

  “Of course,” Barnhall said smoothly. “When you became confused with overlying directives at Walden, you associated with an earlier command. You put the confetti away for the wedding.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you put it?”

  “Don’t tell him, Helenel He’s not going to use that gun here. One shot and he’d be finished. He’d never get out of the building.”

  “In my dressing-table drawer,” Helene said. “I was saving it for the wedding.”

  “We’ll go and get it, my dear.”

  Under the muzzle of Barnhall’s gun, Malone was a trifle uncertain. Maybe the maniac would shoot. Maybe he’d kill them both and take his chances.

  Helene turned toward the bedroom. She walked as though in a dream as she went inside. Barnhall did not follow. Instead, he shifted his position so that he could watch Helene in the bedroom and keep an eye also on Malone.

  “Bring it to me, my dear.”

  Helene emerged from the bedroom carrying a cellophane bag of confetti—a bag of brightly colored bits of paper, little round red, white, and green dots to be thrown on festive occasions.

  Malone set himself for a leap. But then, just as quickly, he decided not to interfere. It was too dangerous. He did not want to risk Helene’s being injured. In fact, he did not even want to risk injury to himself. He was as patriotic as the next guy, but to hell with getting his head shot off.

  “Hand it to me, my dear.”

  Helene extended the bright bag. Barnhall’s hand came forward. But then, Helene suddenly ran past him. Before he could react, she was on the balcony. She ripped the top off the cellophane bag as she prepared to dump the contents down into the street.

  “No!” Barnhall barked. “Stop! Bring it back! Bring it back.”

  Helene froze, her arm extended.

  “Bring it back.”

  Barnhall, in slow, measured steps, moved toward the balcony. He had forgotten Malone. Malone watched. Barnhall slowly approached Helene. He gained her eyes and struggled to control her.

  He was on the balcony now. Helene remained as she was. Their eyes locked, but she did not draw her arm back. He was a step away from her now. Carefully he extended his own arm, leaning forward to get his hand on the precious bag.

  Malone acted. He lunged forward. He hit Barn-hall with the heels of both hands in the small of the back. Barnhall went over, and down, screaming. He thudded on the cement of the driveway below.

  But before his body struck, Malone had seized Helene and jerked her backward. They went down in a heap on the carpet just inside the patio. The confetti emptied from the bag and floated joyfully down on them.

  They lay still for a long moment. Then Malone said, “The black ones. See? Four or five of them. The little black bits of confetti. Nobody makes black confetti.”

  “What are they?”

  “Microfilm. Microdots. The formula is photographed on them. Blow the dots up, and you can read the formula.”

  Helene laughed weakly. Not with humor, but from a hysteria that threatened and then faded. “I fought him off … almost.”

  “You did fine. Now do something else.”

  “What?”

  “Call Jake and tell him to get the hell up here. He’s the man of the house, not me. It’s time he assumed some of his responsibilities. Then I’ll call von Flanagan and tell him to gather in the pigeons.”

  Helene got to her feet, but Malone lay comfortably where he was, watching her. For the barest few moments, he allowed his true feelings to show in his eyes. Those feelings were the reason, beyond doubt, why he would remain a bachelor to the end of his days. Just looking at Helene Justus spoiled him for any other woman. He knew it.

  To the rising din in the street below, he climbed wearily to his feet.

  “But first,” he said, “I’ll have a gin and beer….”

  About the Author

  Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, wa
s an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Rice’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1967 by Followes, Atwill & Ferguson

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-5173-6

  This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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