by Craig Rice
“You dad-ratted idiot,” Jake said indignantly, “you should have stayed there and let them question you.”
“I couldn’t, Jake. I’d seen the papers. I know they think I’m—I’m the blond woman. Oh Jake, between having the show to do tomorrow night, and the script for it doesn’t look very good either, and the contract to be signed, and now all this mess, I’m almost crazy. I couldn’t stand their asking me a lot of questions now. And suppose they took me somewhere for questioning and the newspapers got hold of it—”
“It wouldn’t look so hot,” Jake said slowly. “Nelle Brown picked up by police for questioning in Paul March and St. John murders—no, it wouldn’t look so hot.”
“And Goldman would know, and he wouldn’t sign the contract,” she said desperately, “and Tootz—”
“What’s Tootz going to think if the police go back to your apartment looking for you?” Jake said. “What if they go in and ask him a lot of questions?”
“They won’t,” Nelle said. “I thought of that. He was restless and not feeling very well anyway, so before I left, Bigges put him to bed and gave him a sedative that’ll keep him asleep for hours. If the police go back there, they won’t be able to wake him up.”
“I want to see that contract signed tomorrow night,” Jake said very thoughtfully. “I have a hunch that once it’s signed, we’ll be safer. If the story does get to Goldman after that, he probably won’t do a thing. Not only will Nelle be a valuable property but he’ll feel it necessary to protect the show’s reputation. So the thing to do is to keep the police from catching up with Nelle until after the contract is signed.”
“Very nice,” Malone said, “but how? They’re probably out looking for her right now.”
At that minute there was a knock on the door.
“If it’s the police,” Jake said, “we give up.”
It was not the police. It was the young man from next door, offering beer. Helene welcomed him and told him to close the door. The young man stared suddenly at Nelle.
“I hope I haven’t gotten you into any trouble,” he said slowly.
“Was it you?” Nelle asked. “Was it you told the police that I’d come here to see Paul March?”
The young man looked unhappy. “It was. I didn’t realize I was doing any harm. I didn’t tell them your name, but I told them you were pretty and a blonde.”
Jake thought fast. “They’d probably discovered Paul March used to be with Nelle’s show, and had been seen at parties here and there with Nelle, and when this dope here said ‘pretty blonde’ they immediately said, ‘Ah, Nelle Brown.’”
“I am a dope,” the young man said, “and I’m terribly sorry. If there’s anything I can do now—”
“Sit down,” Helene said absent-mindedly, “and shut up. I’m thinking.” She poured out the beer.
“The hell of it is,” Jake said, “they’ll probably come here, too. Because when they can’t find Nelle, they’ll naturally look for me to see if I know where she is, and when I left the hotel tonight, I left a message that I’d be here in case anyone tried to reach me.”
“Jake, you’ve got to do something quick,” Nelle begged.
Helene was looking at her very thoughtfully. “We’re going to let the police find you,” she said very slowly, “and you’re not a blonde. Come out in the bathroom and let me wash your face.” She grabbed the black wig from the mantel, shoved Nelle into the bathroom, and shut the door. From behind it Jake could hear water splashing.
“It won’t work,” Malone said morosely.
“Wait and see,” Jake said, sipping his beer.
A few minutes later Helene returned, triumphantly leading the transformed Nelle. The radio singer’s golden-brown curls had completely vanished under the bobbed black wig. But that was the smallest part of the change. Nelle Brown had become a very ordinary, pale-faced young woman with dark hair, a small, colorless mouth, and pale eyes behind thick eyeglasses. It seemed to Jake that she had even become smaller and thinner.
“You see?” Helene explained. “The main point is washing off the make-up. It’s unbelievable how different a woman looks with her make-up off. Nelle looks like an underfed schoolteacher.”
“The important thing is that she doesn’t look like Nelle Brown,” Jake said. “Besides, the police won’t have seen her except in photographs. Her voice would give her away though. Nelle, keep your mouth shut.”
“I will.”
“You can stay here tonight,” he went on. “Tomorrow you can go to rehearsal in that getup. The explanation will be that Nelle Brown is ill and her voice double is rehearsing for her. That’s pretty weak, but once you’re actually in rehearsal, nobody can get in the studio. It’s a chance,” he said thoughtfully, “but the one chance.”
“Even looking like that,” said the young man from next door, “she’s wonderful!”
Nelle sat down beside him and began getting acquainted. Helene turned on her radio and then turned it down so low that no one paid any attention to it. Jake and Malone took turns going to the corner for beer. It was nearly eleven o’clock, Helene was discussing with Malone the merits of using gin as a chaser for beer as against using beer as a chaser for gin, when there was a knock on the door. Jake opened it, and ushered in Von Flanagan, accompanied by a weary and morose policeman.
Jake introduced Helene, the black-haired girl (my cousin Miss Wilson, from Lansing, Michigan), and the young man from next door, whose name turned out to be Willie Wolff. Von Flanagan decided he was among friends, sat down, accepted the combination of gin and beer, waved the morose policeman to a chair, and complained bitterly that all people did was conspire to make life hard for him.
“And you, Jake Justus,” he concluded, “do you know where this Nelle Brown woman is?”
Jake shook his head. “I wish I did. Have you tried her home?”
“We’ve been there,” Von Flanagan growled. “We’ve been everywhere. Nobody knows where she is. I’m sick of this damn running around after her. When I do find her, I’m going to throw her in the can.”
“On what grounds?” Malone asked.
“She’s a material witness,” Von Flanagan said. “She came here to see Paul March. This young man here said she did.”
“I didn’t say it was Nelle Brown,” the young man said.
“Well, it sounds like her to me,” the police officer growled. “He worked on her radio program, and she’s the only blonde we can find who knew him.”
“It wasn’t Nelle Brown,” Helene said suddenly. “It wasn’t.” To everyone’s amazement she suddenly burst into tears.
“What the hell!” Von Flanagan said.
“I didn’t want Jake to ever know,” Helene said through her sobs, “because we’re going to be married, and now you’ve gone and ruined everything.” She wept noisily.
“You mean,” Von Flanagan said dazedly, “you mean you were the blonde?” He added absent-mindedly, “Stop crying.”
“But I didn’t shoot him,” Helene sobbed, “I haven’t been here for months. Have I, Willie?”
Willie Wolff picked up his cue. “No. No, you haven’t.”
“You knew it was her all the time and you didn’t tell me,” Von Flanagan said loudly to the young man. “I oughta arrest you, too.”
“I didn’t want Mr. Justus to find out,” Willie Wolff said hastily.
Helene’s weeping became louder.
“Now, now, now,” Von Flanagan said soothingly. “Don’t cry. Just be calm, and let me ask you a few questions. I said, stop crying. That ain’t gonna do you no good. Stop it, I tell you. I’ve got some questions to ask you. Stop it. God damn it all,” he said in a voice that could have been heard halfway across the lake, “Shut up!”
Helene gulped, and was obediently silent.
“Now,” Von Flanagan said triumphantly, in a tone that conveyed that he knew how to handle these women. “Now you can come along with me, and we’ll just have a nice little talk, you and I.”
“Look h
ere,” Jake said, “you can’t do that. She’s staying right here.”
“Are you telling me what to do?” Von Flanagan asked angrily.
“Jake’s right,” Malone began. “You can’t—”
“You keep out of this,” Von Flanagan told him.
“Damn it,” Jake said, “I won’t have it.”
“You shut up,” Von Flanagan roared. “That was all I needed, to have you butting in. Come along, sister. We’ll see whether I can take you with me or not.”
Helene stood up.
“All right,” Malone said, “but I’m going with her. I’m her lawyer.”
“I’m going, too,” Jake said.
“No you aren’t,” Malone said. “You stay here, Jake.”
Jake thought a moment, looked at Miss Wilson from Lansing, and agreed.
“Don’t worry,” Malone told him, “I’ll fix everything up.”
Von Flanagan snorted, suddenly also looked at Miss Wilson from Lansing. “You, young lady. Did you ever know Paul March?”
She shook her head.
“What’s the matter,” the police officer asked, “can’t you talk?”
She found a handkerchief, coughed into it, and said in a hoarse and almost indistinguishable voice, “Got a cold.”
“Too bad,” the policeman said sympathetically, “nasty thing, in this weather. Do you know anything about Paul March?”
“No,” said the hoarse voice, “nothing.” She coughed again. “I just came down from Lansing for my cousin’s wedding.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, said to the morose policeman, “Come along, Konkowski, we got stuff to do,” took Helene by the arm, and marched out, Malone following.
The door closed behind them, and heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Jake looked accusingly at Miss Wilson from Lansing.
“On top of everything else,” he said, “just when I’m about to get married, you go and get my girl thrown into jail.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Oh Jake, I cause you so much trouble. Jake, I’m so sorry. I know I’m nothing but a nuisance.”
He patted her shoulder. “Never mind, babe. It’s all in the day’s work. What have you got a press agent for, anyway? Only we ought to change my contract to Jake Justus and family!”
Chapter 31
Jake reminded Nelle that she still had a program to do, induced her to lie down on Helene’s bed, and talked to her until she went to sleep. Then he sat by the window and devoted himself to worrying, until sometime near four in the morning when Malone telephoned.
The lawyer informed him that he was letting Von Flanagan keep Helene overnight. It would, he explained, keep his mind off Nelle Brown. Once Jake had delivered Nelle safely to rehearsal, he, Malone, would get Helene out without any difficulty.
Helene was, he added, having a wonderful time.
“She would be,” Jake said gloomily, and hung up.
He returned to his chair by the window and sank into a half doze filled with uncomfortable dreams composed of Goldman, the program, Helene, Tootz’ horses, and Von Flanagan’s mink.
In the morning he sent Nelle to the studio and told her to stay there, met McIvers, observed that the morning papers mentioned only “a blond woman” being questioned by the police, and went to call on Mr. Goldman.
The sponsor was a small, compact man with white hair and a benevolent face. This morning, however, it was less benevolent than usual, and very anxious.
He showed no indication to waste time discussing fishing, the weather, and what was the matter with the Chicago Cubs. To Jake that was a bad sign.
“It’s this way,” he said, without preliminaries. “Jake, before I sign the contract tonight, I want that you and Joe should find out who done all these murders.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Jake said lamely.
“Oh yes, you understand,” said Mr. Goldman soothingly. “Oh yes, you do understand, Jake. Suppose I sign the contract tonight, and they don’t know yet who done these murders. And maybe tomorrow they find out Nelle, she is mixed up in the murders, or maybe even that she did them herself, only it seems to me like she was too much of a lady. But I’m just supposing, you understand. I ain’t saying Nelle is anyway mixed up with these murders, but this man Paul March, he used to be with the show and there was some trouble between him and her when he left it, and this St. John was with the agency, and there was always trouble between him and her. So now I don’t want to sign the contract tonight unless I know who done the murders, and that Nelle ain’t mixed up in it.”
He leaned back, folded his hands across his round little middle, and smiled at them benignly.
“But look here,” Jake said, “you can’t do this to me. I’ve arranged for a photographer tonight to take a picture of you and Nelle signing the contract. It’s to be announced in the program tonight that the contract is signed for another year. Why, it’s written into the script.”
“Well,” said Mr. Goldman mildly, “I guess maybe you could send the photographer away, and maybe take it out of the script, h’m?”
“Now look, Mr. Goldman,” said Joe McIvers in his most persuasive tone. “You know as well as I do that Nelle Brown couldn’t be involved in anything like this. Not Nelle Brown!”
“Maybe so,” Mr. Goldman said, “and maybe not so. How should I know? All I say is that I don’t sign the contract tonight unless I know who done those murders and that Nelle isn’t mixed up in it.”
Joe McIvers mopped his forehead.
“Now Mr. Goldman,” he said anxiously. “Even if by some wild chance Nelle was involved in this, you could trust Jake to keep it out of the papers. What is he hired for?” He looked hopefully at Jake.
“Sure,” Jake said, laughing hollowly. “I could hush it up no matter what happened.”
Mr. Goldman pulled his lower lip. “I don’t say you can’t,” he said firmly. “Now look at here. At home I’ve got a wife and two wonderful daughters. Every week they sit at home and listen to Nelle Brown. Every week they sit at home and tune in the West Coast and hear the rebroadcast of Nelle Brown. Now how would I feel if they sat at home listening to Nelle Brown, and here she is mixed up in two nasty murders.”
“But she isn’t—” McIvers began.
Mr. Goldman silenced him with a gesture. “All over the country,” he said, “people sit at home with their families and listen to Nelle Brown. Now maybe tomorrow they pick up a newspaper and read Nelle Brown is mixed up in a murder mess. Or maybe they don’t read about it, but she is just the same. For twenty years,” he said oratorically, “for twenty years I have been selling good candy to people. Ever since way back when all I had was a little pushcart and a box of chocolate bars. Then—”
In patient and respectful silence, Jake and Joe McIvers listened to the frequently related story of how Mr. Goldman had risen from his pushcart to become head of the Goldman Candy Company, with products for sale at all candy counters.
“And so,” he finished, “Joe, tonight you have my contract there for me to sign, and Jake, you have the photographer there to take the picture, but be sure you have the proof of who murdered those people and that Nelle isn’t mixed up in it no way.”
“But what can we do?” Joe McIvers asked desperately. “The police are working on the case. What on earth can we do that the police can’t do?”
Mr. Goldman shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know? I only make candy. Maybe now Jake here can do something.”
“I’m a press agent, not a detective,” Jake said, “and there isn’t much time before tonight.”
“Well,” Mr. Goldman said, “you heard what I got to say. That’s all.” He pushed a button on his desk, and a yellow-haired secretary popped in the door. “Jessie, bring me in those letters I should answer.”
“But Mr. Goldman,” McIvers began a little desperately.
“Look here,” Jake began, “you can’t expect—”
Mr. Goldman looked up from the letters on his desk as though sur
prised to find them still there. “Good-by,” he said pleasantly, “I’ll see you tonight.”
The two men walked silently put.
“Fatheaded old imbecile,” McIvers muttered in the elevator. “When he gets set about a thing, you might as well ask the Wrigley Building to waltz as to try to move him.”
“No man who can start with a pushcart and make a million bucks in the candy business is a fatheaded old imbecile,” Jake observed. “Not as far as I’m concerned, anyway. But this puts us on a nice spot.” He sighed. “Maybe it’s just that I can’t think straight so early in the morning. Let’s go talk to Malone.”
They found the little lawyer eating breakfast in his office. McIvers told him of Goldman’s ultimatum, while Jake helped himself to Malone’s coffee.
“What do we do, Malone?” Jake asked.
“Send for more coffee,” the lawyer growled. He walked to the window and stood staring gloomily across the rooftops, while Jake sat wondering if Von Flanagan would take him as a partner on a mink ranch. By the time Malone’s secretary arrived with a thermos bottle of coffee, the lawyer seemed to have reached a decision. He sat down behind his desk and poured coffee into water glasses.
“Helene,” Jake asked anxiously, “where’s Helene?”
“At the broadcasting studio,” Malone said peevishly, “probably telling Nelle Brown how to sing. She put in the night telling Von Flanagan how to run the homicide squad.”
Jake sighed with relief. “At least she’s out of this mess.”
Malone nodded. “It was a matter of proving to Von Flanagan that she really didn’t know anything about Paul March,” he said, “and she contributed more to that than I did. Then a few hints to Von Flanagan that I might be very displeased, personally, if he didn’t forget the whole thing. Don’t ask me why that had an effect on him, because I won’t tell you. After all, some things are sacred.” He sighed heavily. “Anyway, Von Flanagan was damned glad to see the last of her.”