by Craig Rice
Benson looked down at his glass. “I can see now how that might be misconstrued,” he said. “Of course you understand I had no intention of accusing Mr. Petty of anything. It was just that I couldn't understand—” He took out his wallet and handed Malone the confession the little bookkeeper had signed. “Here, you keep this,” he said. “Or better yet, destroy it. There is also Mrs. Petty to consider. And the trouble he was having—with women, I mean. I suppose he told you about that too? Imagine, women! A man like Petty. I wouldn't want to have it on my conscience—"
"That's very generous of you, Mr. Benson,” Malone said. He put the signed confession in his pocket.
"I would destroy that if I were you,” Benson said. “I wouldn't want anything to come out that might be misinterpreted—can I give you a lift, Mr. Malone?"
In the cab on the way to police headquarters Benson was still nervous and disturbed. “I dread all this fuss—reporters, police—I suppose I'll have to testify at the inquest. It would be a great relief to me if I had a good lawyer—” He looked speculatively at Malone.
The little lawyer nodded. “Come and see me. Any time.” At police headquarters he took leave of Benson, explaining it was only a short walk to his office. “I might begin by giving you one piece of legal advice,” he said on parting. “If Von Flanagan should ask you why you took the midnight plane back from Pittsburgh Saturday and what you were doing in Chicago Sunday night, don't tell him a thing. Remember nobody is compelled to testify against himself."
Without turning to look back Malone hurried to the corner and boarded a streetcar to the office. No point in running up cab fares, he told himself. Not on a twenty-buck retainer.
6.
Back at the office Malone handed Maggie the signed confession, saying, “Put this in my safe deposit box first thing tomorrow morning when you make the bank deposit. Did I have any phone calls?"
Maggie gave him a straight look. "What bank deposit? And whom did you expect a call from?"
"There might be a bank deposit, and I'm expecting a call from George Benson. I just left him at police headquarters. He seems to think he'll be needing my professional services."
"Don't tell me it was Benson!"
Malone said, “I'm not ready to say it was anybody—yet. But it could have been Benson. Let's take a trial balance.” He took out a fresh cigar and lighted it carefully before continuing. “All right, motive: Two hundred thousand dollars is enough motive for anybody, anytime. Opportunity: He could have flown to Pittsburgh Saturday afternoon, checked in at a hotel and seen or called somebody from the home office, and caught the night plane back to Chicago with plenty of time to kill Petty and return to Pittsburgh on the night plane, and deposit the payroll money in an airfield locker. Meanwhile the police would be searching for the bandit killers, and—no bandits. Because ... “ Malone watched a funnel of cigar smoke ascend slowly to the ceiling, “because the safest crime to commit is one in which the only obvious suspect is the one everybody is searching for and nobody can find—because he doesn't exist."
"Perfect,” Maggie said. “Unless somebody saw him come back. Unless somebody noticed that he hadn't spent the night in his hotel room, or saw him getting off the plane there in the morning, or returning to his hotel room. And what about the murder weapon? And the night watchman?"
"No crime is that perfect,” Malone said. “Besides, Benson may save everybody a lot of trouble yet by cracking up and coming clean with the whole story. He was pretty scared when I left him. Yes, I have an idea we'll be seeing Mr. Benson soon."
That evening the papers carried the news that all reports of the fleeing bandits had proved false alarms, that auditors had failed to find any irregularities in the slain bookkeeper's accounts, and that, according to Captain Von Flanagan, the department had undisclosed information on the identity of the payroll mob and was preparing to stage a series of lightning arrests. There was also a statement by George V. Benson to the effect that no effort or expense would be spared by his firm to bring the murderers to justice.
It was nearly midnight when the telephone in Malone's apartment rang. It was George Benson. His voice was low but urgent. “I've got to see you right away. Alone. I'll be right over.” In less than fifteen minutes he was at the door, a shaken, almost incoherent, man.
"I need your help, Malone. You'll have to believe me. I had nothing to do with the robbery or the murder. I was only trying to help Petty. But what do you suppose happened tonight? Eric Dockstedter came to my home. He's our night watchman, you know. For the longest time he kept talking, beating around the bush, and then it dawned on me what he was trying to say. He suspects me of having committed the robbery and the murder! Didn't want to make any trouble for me, he said, loyalty and all that, to the firm, to me personally, but he had a sick wife, a son-in-law that was in some kind of jam, he wasn't in too good health himself and was thinking of retiring anyway, and all that kind of talk. Trying to shake me down. Trying to blackmail me!"
"What did you say?"
"What could I say? I denied it, of course. I couldn't fire him. He might go to the police anyway. I stalled. Told him I'd have to think it over. There must be some way to stop him, Malone. But quietly, without any publicity. There'll be expenses, of course. I'm not a rich man, Malone, but a thing like this—will a thousand take care of it? The initial expense, I mean."
Malone tried not to look at the crisp hundred dollar bills on the coffee table. “As your lawyer—and I haven't said I'll take the case yet—I would have to ask you a few questions first, Mr. Benson,” Malone said. “Why did you fly back from Pittsburgh Saturday night, and what were you doing in Chicago between Sunday morning and Sunday night when you flew back to Pittsburgh?"
"How did you know—” Benson began, and stopped himself abruptly. “Who says I was here Sunday? Did anybody see me?"
"I was only guessing,” Malone admitted. “Just a shot in the dark, but it seems to have rung a bell. Come now, Benson, I'll have to have the whole story—straight—if I'm going to take your case. You may have to explain it to the police later, anyway."
"I suppose so,” Benson replied dejectedly. “Although there's nothing to it, really. Nothing that has any bearing on the case. It—it's something personal."
Malone said, “I see. The blonde alibi. You'll have to think of something more original, Mr. Benson."
"I'd hoped I could keep her out of this,” Benson said, shaking his head sadly, “But I suppose you'll have to check on it. I'll need time, though, to sort of prepare her for it."
Malone shook his head. He handed Benson the telephone. “Now,” he said. “Just say I've got to see her right away. Alone. And don't try coaching the witness."
Benson did as he was bidden, then drove Malone to the rendezvous. As he pulled up before the apartment hotel he turned to Malone. “This is going to be a delicate business,” he said. “I can trust you, of course."
"You can trust a lawyer with anything,” Malone said, “and don't mention a word of this to your wife."
7.
The blonde alibi proved to be a blonde all right, and everything else a man could wish in the way of an alibi. Serena Gates was neither surprised nor shocked.
"I've been expecting something like this ever since it happened,” she told Malone right away. “I'm not the kind of a girl you think I am, Mr. Malone. Things are not really as bad as they look."
Malone looked again and decided things didn't look bad at all. In fact, things were every bit as good as they looked, even in the dim half light that concealed as much as it revealed of the shapely figure.
"You'll have to excuse my informal attire,” Serena said, drawing a wisp of the filmy negligee over her shoulder. “You see, I had already gone to bed. It's about yesterday you want to question me, isn't it? Can I fix you something to drink?"
After the fourth highball and what Malone told himself was a very satisfactory investigation of the facts, he came away with the conviction that Benson's alibi was just a trifle sh
ort of what he needed to eliminate him as a suspect. According to Serena Gates he had left her apartment shortly after eight o'clock in the evening driving a rented car, as he usually did on his visits. The crime was committed at ten. This would have left him plenty of time to drive to the plant, return the rented car and take a cab to the airport. Serena might have been lying about the time, but if she was it did not promise well for Benson if he had no better alibi than she was willing to give him. Besides, she seemed to be prepared to take an entirely fresh view of her amatory loyalties. The little lawyer made a mental note to look further into this aspect of the case.
When he got down to the office at noon he told Maggie about the events of the night before. Maggie was unimpressed. “Von Flanagan has been telephoning like mad all morning,” she told him. The words were hardly out of her mouth when the phone rang. It was an entirely changed Von Flanagan.
"We're up against a blank wall, Malone. You've got to help me out. We've run down every suspicious car report, and no dice. I've never seen anything like it. No fingerprints, no murder weapon, no suspects."
Malone said, “Have you questioned the night watchman?"
"Yesterday and again this morning. Same thing. He heard a shot, found the body, and fired after the getaway car. Ballistics supports the guy's story. The bullet that killed Petty wasn't from his gun. I know your suspect is Benson but you're crazy. We've checked his alibi. He was in Pittsburgh all right."
Malone said, “Maybe you're barking up the wrong alibi. And maybe there weren't any bandits."
"Malone, Malone, you're holding out on me.” The tone was something between a plea and a threat. “If Petty told you anything about Benson, it's your duty—besides I'm your friend, and if you make one false move, Malone, so help me—"
"I'll be ready to tell you all I know in a few hours,” Malone said. “Meanwhile, put a tail on Benson. We may need him before the night is over.” He hung up.
"Malone,” Maggie said, “I've seen you stick your neck out before, but this time you've really done it. How can you prove Benson killed Petty and stole the money? Motive? Sure. And now, with this blonde in the picture, double sure. Opportunity? Swell. He could have done it in the two hours between eight and ten. He might have done it, he could have done it, but did he do it? And where are your witnesses? Where is the murder weapon? And where is the money? I suppose you think Benson is going to make a full confession, produce the gun, and turn over the money, just to get you out of a mess."
"Maggie,” Malone said, “I think I need a drink."
"No use looking in the Emergency file,” Maggie said, “You killed that bottle yesterday."
The telephone rang. It was Benson.
"Dockstedter just called me. Gave me till noon tomorrow. He wants fifty thousand dollars. You've got to do something, Malone.” He paused. “I talked to Serena on the phone this morning. She's acting kind of strange. What did she tell you, Malone?"
Malone said, “You haven't got a thing to worry about. A clean conscience is a man's best defense. Sit tight and don't do a thing till you hear from me. And don't go near Serena again till I give you the all clear. The police might be shadowing you.” He hung up. “What was I saying, Maggie?"
"About money,” Maggie said. “Why don't you use some of that thousand Benson gave you?"
Malone was indignant. “That money goes right back to Benson the minute I put the finger on him. You forget I've got a client. Algernon Petty."
8.
It was a perplexed and dejected John J. Malone who walked into Joe the Angel's City Hall her early that evening.
"Joe,” Malone said, “have I got any credit left around here?"
"Liquor, yes. Money, no,” Joe the Angel said. “What's the matter now, Malone? The client he no pay?"
"The client he pay,” Malone said. “Twenty bucks. Then he get shot, and two hundred thousand dollars missing. Make it a gin and beer."
"I read about it in paper,” Joe the Angel said. “Too bad. Don't worry, Malone, you find the bandits. Yes?"
"I find the bandits no,” Malone said. “Joe, I need flowers."
"Ah, for the funeral. Sure, Malone."
"Not for the funeral, Joe. For a lady."
"Ah, for a lady. Same thing. I mean, I call my brother-in-law, the one owns funeral parlor, and he send over flowers left over from funeral. What's address?"
Malone gave him Serena Gates’ address, decided to call her up, and then changed his mind. Better surprise her after the flowers are delivered. “Tell him to put in a card saying ‘Flowers to the fair,’ and sign my name to it,” Malone called over to Joe the Angel who was already on the telephone.
Over a second gin and beer Malone unburdened his heart. “Imagine, Joe. I've got the case as good as solved. The suspect had the motive. He had the opportunity. His alibi is two hours short and the lady in the case is on my side. All I need is the evidence—the murder gun, the money, or at least a witness."
Joe the Angel said, “The lady, maybe she help you?"
"I don't know,” Malone said. “She admits he was in her apartment till eight. How would she know what he was doing between eight and ten,” he paused, “unless she followed him,” he paused again, “unless—” He set the beer down on the bar. “Give me a rye, quick, Joe. Make it a double rye. I've got to think."
He downed the double shot. “I've got it, Joe,” he beamed. “I think I've got it. If Benson is two hours short on his alibi, so is Serena Gates. I've got to go and see the lady again. How about a ten-spot, on the cuff?"
"For a lady, that's different,” Joe the Angel said, and handed over the ten.
"Thanks,” Malone said, “and can I borrow your gun?"
With a look of utter confusion Joe the Angel handed Malone the gun. “First it is flowers. Now it is a gun,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders. Malone was already on his way out the door.
9.
This time Serena Gates was both surprised and shocked at Malone's unexpected visit. It took a foot in the door and an ungentlemanly heave of the shoulder to override the lady's remonstrances. Serena was furious.
"What is the meaning of this? Malone, you must be crazy."
"Call it the impatience of youth,” Malone said.
He looked around the living room. It had every appearance of a hastily planned departure, stripped of every personal belonging. He noted that his flowers to the fair had been delivered, and deposited in the waste basket. Three suit cases stood ready near the door. One of them particularly struck his eye. It seemed singularly out of place, large, metal-bound and quite unladylike.
"I was just planning to leave,” Serena explained nervously.
"So I see,” Malone said. “Can I help you with your baggage? This looks like the heavy one."
With his left hand he reached down for the big metal-bound suitcase, while his right hand moved to his hip pocket. The lady was faster on the draw but slower on the rebound. With a swift lashing motion of his right arm Malone slapped the gun out of her hand. In the clawing, kicking, catch-as-catch-can wrestling match that followed Malone had no reason to revise his previous appraisal of Serena's physical charms, but he realized how much he had underestimated her muscular development. It took most of what he had once learned from Dr. Butch ("The Killer") Hayakawa about the gentle art of jujitsu to persuade the lady to listen to reason.
"I guess you could have handled that baggage yourself, after all,” he said, still breathing hard. Keeping Serena covered with his own gun he picked hers up off the floor and stuck it in his coat pocket. “If it's Benson you're waiting for, you can just take it easy,” he told her. “He'll be along in due time—with the police right behind him. But maybe it isn't Benson. If it were, you would have given him a better alibi. Or were you planning to double-cross him and let him take the rap while you made a fast getaway?"
Serena was silent, glaring at him with the pent-up fury of a cat waiting its opportunity to spring again.
Malone said, “No, I guess it wa
sn't Benson, after all. Between eight and ten Sunday night you had as much opportunity to commit the crime as he had. You forgot that when you tried to short him on his alibi. All right, who was it? You didn't handle this job alone, did you, or am I underestimating you again?"
"Malone,” she said, “there's two hundred thousand dollars in that suit case. Don't be a fool. There's still time if you and I—"
"A generous thought,” Malone said, “and a flattering one."
"Make up your mind, Malone. They'll be here any minute—"
"So there were others,” Malone said. “And now you're ready to double-cross them too, if I'll split with you.” He reached for the telephone. “Get me Captain Daniel Von Flanagan at police headquarters,” he told the hotel operator.
Serena screamed, “Malone, don't be a fool! Malone—!"
"Get over here right away,” Malone told Von Flanagan, after explaining the situation to him briefly. “And bring Benson with you."
Von Flanagan and his squad had barely arrived on the scene and staked out to arrest the bandits when they arrived. Malone heard a knock on the door and then the shooting started. When it was over, two subdued bandits, one of them slightly wounded, were brought in. At sight of Serena Gates one of them shouted “Stool pigeon! Double-crosser!” and lunged toward her, but Von Flanagan's cops restrained him.
"There's the payroll haul,” Malone said to Von Flanagan, “and here's the lady's gun."
"That makes three guns,” Von Flanagan remarked. “One of them should tell us who fired the shot that killed Petty. Nice work, Malone."
"I was just doing my duty to my client, Mr. Algernon Petty,” Malone replied. “That's what he retained me for."
When he was finally alone in the apartment with Benson Malone said, “What are you going to do about the night watchman? Fire him, or lend him money to get his son-in-law out of a jam? And, speaking of money, here is your thousand-dollar retainer. I'm sorry, I guess I had you figured wrong all the time."
"You'd better keep it,” Benson said, “I'm going to need a lawyer to defend me—in a divorce suit."