Knocked for a Loop

by Craig Rice

  Knocked for a Loop

  A John J. Malone Mystery

  Craig Rice

  CHAPTER 1

  Something unpleasant was going to happen, something incredibly and overwhelmingly unpleasant. John J. Malone was sure of it.

  This conviction had not come to him by instinct, or during a quick conference with a crystal ball. He knew it by the way the owner, manager and bartender of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar was gazing at him solicitously. Indeed, Joe the Angel had just bought him two drinks in rapid succession, and that clinched it.

  “If this is just a bad dream,” the little lawyer said gloomily, “I wish I could tune in on another channel.”

  “Malone,” Joe the Angel said in a worried voice, “maybe it would be better that you don’t go.”

  Malone shook his head. The impending appointment in his office was one that he had to keep, in spite of his friend’s gloomy predictions and his own uncomfortable premonitions. It might solve a kidnaping. It might prevent a murder. It might settle a lot of questions, many of them political and all of them complicated and disagreeable. Furthermore, it might even make money for John J. Malone.

  He looked up at the clock over the bar. It was still early, but for once in his life he wanted to leave the pleasant shelter of Joe the Angel’s. It wasn’t that he was looking forward to the next hour or two, but Joe the Angel’s reaction to his having been picked as the go-between in the Commanday affair had unnerved him. In fact, the whole situation had unnerved him. He was used to walking into trouble and to knowing that it was going to be there waiting for him. But he did like to know in advance what particular kind of trouble it was going to be.

  He sighed unhappily, finished his rye, and went out into the night that was heady with warm spring winds whispering of far more agreeable activities than keeping a business appointment. The mellow fights of neon signs made a nice substitute for technicolor moonlight, and the sounds from the loudspeaker of a nearby phonograph shop could have been the music of the spheres. But not for Malone, not that night. Moonlight and this particular business appointment wouldn’t mix.

  It was five past ten and the appointment was set for ten-thirty. Malone decided to go on up to his office and do his worrying in private. For just a moment he paused and stood looking from across the street at the somewhat dingy and far from pretentious building that had housed his office since the time he’d finished night law school, passed his bar examinations, and given up driving a taxi, more years ago than he cared to remember.

  On a sudden and completely unreasonable impulse, one that he was never able to explain later, even when it became important, he went down the alley, unlocked a rear door, and made his way up to his office floor on the self-service freight elevator. The hallway was not only dark and deserted, but downright melancholy. Almost ominous. Malone fit a cigar, gave himself a brief but very stern talking to, opened the door, and switched on the light. Then for a moment he stood silent, his cigar going out unnoticed.

  Something like this had been bound to happen sooner or later. The amazing thing was that it had not happened before. Malone looked down at the body of Leonard Estapoole, at the carefully planted signs of a mild struggle, and reflected that whoever had framed him for murder had done an excellent job.

  But his private guardian angel had done an excellent job too, in getting him here a good fifteen minutes early. Because this was one of the times when he was going to have to act fast and think about what to do after he had done it.

  Leonard Estapoole, financier, solid citizen and sterling character, anti-crime crusader and committee member, had appointed himself a one-man anti-Malone committee as well. Now he lay sprawled on the floor of John J. Malone’s private office, bludgeoned to death with the conventional blunt instrument—in this case, a heavy bronze Buddha from Malone’s desk.

  Leonard Estapoole had been a tall, skinny, ascetic-looking man with skimpy pale hair, eyes like ice-blue eggs, a long, squeamish nose, and a thin, almost lipless mouth that had smiled only at park dedications and cornerstone-laying ceremonies. He didn’t look any better dead, either.

  But this was no time to think about the murdered man’s lack of charm, Malone reflected; the immediate problem was what to do with him for the next few hours. The little lawyer looked around the room thoughtfully. Moving the late Leonard Estapoole was going to be a heavy job, but not impossible, and the fire escape seemed to be the best and simplest solution.

  He opened the window and hauled the body through it and down to the next landing. He tucked it carefully in the narrow space between the fire stairs and the windowpane, so it wouldn’t be noticed by a casual glance from above. Then he climbed back to his office, puffing, and reflecting that it was a damned good thing Leonard Estapoole hadn’t been a bigger man.

  That done, he set himself to a fast job of straightening up the office. He righted the two overturned chairs and the wastebasket. He picked up the bronze Buddha and put it exactly, where it had always been on the desk. It was probably thick with fingerprints, but he wasn’t in the least concerned about that now. His prints would be all over it, and so would be those of Maggie O’Leary, his secretary, any number of visitors over a long period of time, and Mrs. Budlicek, the cleaning woman.

  Luckily there was no blood to be washed off the Buddha. Apparently it had been thrown at the late Leonard Estapoole, had done its deadly work, and bounced off. The blood, and there wasn’t very much of it, was on the floor. Malone blew on the bronze Buddha to dispose of any possible stray pale hairs, wet a handful of paper towels, and scrubbed ineffectually at the spot on the floor.

  A few minutes later he flung the sodden mass of towels in the wastebasket and decided that desperate, even heroic, measures were needed. The stain was lighter, but it looked definitely and unexplainably wet. Malone opened the file drawer marked EMERGENCY, lifted out a bottle of Dollar Gin that was more than half full, took one last, parting gulp, and poured the rest regretfully on the floor. Then, just in case any fuller explanation was needed, he smashed the bottle, scattered the finer fragments over the stain and its vicinity, and tossed the rest in the wastebasket.

  One last look around the office assured him that the scene had been convincingly reset, and very prettily too. His desk was cluttered with correspondence, notes, a couple of last week’s Racing Forms, legal and legal-looking documents, advertising and other unread matter, and a miscellany of pencils, a few of them sharpened. The copious ash tray was overflowing with ashes and dead cigar stubs. Yes, everything was not only in perfectly normal order, but downright homelike.

  Suddenly he thought of one more detail, went out into the hall and rang for the elevator. It came up at last with a sleepy-eyed Marty Budlicek, night elevator operator, watchman, and husband of Sophie, at the helm.

  “Evening, Malone,” Marty Budlicek said in a reproachful voice. “You come up the freight elevator again. You ain’t supposed to do that and you know you ain’t supposed to do that.” He stretched his neck and said, “Happens all the time.”

  “That’s all right,” Malone said. “If anyone asks, you brought me up yourself, understand? Just be careful to be sure of that.”

  “Have to be,” Marty said gloomily. “It’s my job.”

  “Don’t worry,” Malone promised. “I’ll back you up.” He handed Marty a cigar and added very casually, “Anyone else come up tonight?”

  Marty Budlicek nodded. “Coupla fellas. Both for other floors. One of ’em is still here.” He scratched his ear. “Thanks for the cigar, Malone. And don’t you forget, I brought you up.”

  “About an hour ago,” Malone said. “Maybe less.”

  He went back into his office, thinking the whole thing over. Yes, one of the couple of fellows who had ridden up wi
th Marty was still here. And would be until Malone was able to shift his thinking from the pressing present into the immediate future.

  It had been very neatly done. It was probable that the late Leonard Estapoole had been advised to get off on another floor and walk either down or up, in case he was being watched. The killer had come along a little later, doing the same thing, conked Leonard Estapoole with Malone’s bronze Buddha and left him dead on the floor of Malone’s office, finally overturning a few chairs and the wastebasket to set the scene.

  The little lawyer wondered unhappily and unsuccessfully just who could dislike him enough to go to all that trouble.

  He looked at his watch again. Company would be coming along any minute now. He wondered what member of the police department would have gotten the tip, and hoped that it would be someone he knew. Right now, he didn’t feel like making pleasant small talk with a couple of perfect strangers.

  Finally he sat down behind his desk, relit his cold cigar, and waited. It was a minute or two—perhaps five—after ten-thirty, the hour of his appointment with Leonard Estapoole, when he heard the elevator door clang down the hall. He picked up one of the more important-looking papers from his desk and became extremely busy going over it.

  It wasn’t a perfect stranger. It was Daniel von Flanagan, of Homicide, with Klutchetsky and Scanlon hovering unobtrusively in the background. Malone put down the important-looking paper and looked up in genuine and pleased surprise.

  Von Flanagan showed even more surprise, but he appeared to be more puzzled than pleased. He returned Malone’s greeting a little vaguely, accepted a cigar and the invitation to sit down, and sniffed the air.

  “Gin,” Malone explained. “Dropped a bottle of it. Seemed to fly right out of my hand.”

  “Too bad,” von Flanagan said, in tones he might have used in speaking of the death of a very dear friend or close relative.

  “Oh, there’s more,” Malone said unconcernedly. He flicked an ash from his cigar, glanced at the two plain-clothes men in the doorway, and said, “Professional call?”

  “Oh no, no,” von Flanagan said, “just dropped by.” He paused, coughed, and went on uneasily, “The guys came along because we thought we might go bowling if you weren’t in.” “That’s right,” Scanlon said helpfully.

  No policeman, Malone reflected, could lie convincingly enough to fool a retarded year-old aborigine, and that went double for von Flanagan.

  “But since you are here—” von Flanagan said. He paused again. “Of course, if you’re busy—”

  “Not a bit of it,” Malone said cheerfully, sticking the papers in a desk drawer. “In fact, I was just finishing up.”

  Von Flanagan cleared his throat noisily, tried not to look self-conscious, and finally said, “Well, I’ll see you boys later.” Scanlon said, “Sure thing,” with false heartiness, and Klutchetsky just managed a vague and slightly silly grin. They went away with what they mistakenly considered an air of debonair nonchalance and aplomb.

  Malone said, “Well, since this is a purely nonofficial call, and since I only broke one of them—” He walked over and reopened the EMERGENCY drawer.

  A few minutes later von Flanagan seemed to relax a little. He puffed at his cigar, looked into his glass, and said, “As a matter of fact, Malone, I did want to ask you about something.”

  Malone looked at him questioningly and maintained a discreet silence, knowing perfectly well what it was.

  “The Commanday kidnaping,” von Flanagan said. “If there is a Commanday kidnaping. Leonard Estapoole’s stepdaughter, I mean.”

  The little lawyer knew he was expected to say something, and he went right on saying nothing. He wished von Flanagan would come to the point, get through with what he had to say, and go away fast. Because something had to be done, and soon, about that body on the fire escape. The chances were that nothing would be noticed before daylight, but this was no time to be taking unnecessary risks.

  “You understand,” von Flanagan said, pure misery in his voice, “not one single word has been said officially, anywhere or to anybody. Nobody in the police department has been told anything. The Estapoole family doesn’t know anything. Nobody seems to know anything.” His broad face began to deepen in hue. “And now, damn it,” he said angrily, “you don’t know anything.”

  “In that case,” Malone said soothingly,‘aiming his cigar ash inaccurately at the ash tray, “what’s all the screaming and hollering about?”

  “Who’s screaming?” von Flanagan roared. He gulped down his drink, ran a big pinkish hand across his mouth, and said, now entirely too calmly, “Understand, Malone, this is just a friendly visit in the hope that you might have picked up some information here or there, and that you’ll give it to me as an old, old friend. Unofficially, of course.” He paused hopefully.

  “Of course,” Malone said, and let things go at that.

  The big police officer looked deeply grieved. “You’ve held out on me a lot of times, Malone, but have I ever held it against you? No. You’ve made a lot of trouble for me at times in the past, but have I ever complained?”

  “Yes,” Malone said, grinning.

  “Only in the line of duty,” von Flanagan said stiffly. He scowled. “This is different, Malone. A child’s life may be at stake. A dear little child with blue eyes and golden curls.”

  “Have you ever seen her?” Malone asked.

  “No,” von Flanagan growled, “but that’s beside the point.”

  “And anyway,” the little lawyer said dreamily, “it isn’t official.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about this presumed kidnaping—if I can.”

  “Well,” von Flanagan said, clearing his throat again, “well, it’s like this. There’s a rumor going the rounds that this Commanday kid has been kidnaped. The family, the Estapoole family, isn’t saying anything to anybody. There’s likewise a rumor the family is going to make a deal. Nobody’s saying anything about that either. And finally there’s a rumor you were picked to handle the deal.” He stopped and looked hard at Malone. His expression said, hopelessly, that he expected Malone wasn’t going to say anything either.

  Things do get around, Malone said to himself. Out loud he said, “I’ve heard the same rumors. But that’s all. And if they were true, and the little one had been kidnaped, and the family had decided to make a deal, and I had been picked to handle it, why, it would be my duty to the family and society, in order to save the life of a beautiful blue-eyed child with golden curls and long eyelashes, to keep my big mouth shut until the deal was completed.” He smiled bleakly at von Flanagan.

  “I was afraid you’d see it that way,” von Flanagan said. He sighed. “But that wouldn’t be your duty to the police department.”

  “You said this was unofficial,” Malone reminded him gently.

  Von Flanagan nodded and looked unhappy. “Well, that was it, Malone,” he said at last.

  It failed to explain, Malone reflected, how he’d just happened to arrive a few minutes after half-past ten, with two plain-clothes men in tow.

  Von Flanagan rose, turned his hat around a few times, and said, “If you’re just finished, come along to Joe’s and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  The little lawyer hesitated for only a moment. It would be far easier to shake von Flanagan once they were out of the office. If the big police officer hoped to pry more information loose from him over a gin-and-beer, that was just a dirty shame. If he’d planned to have Scanlon and Klutchetsky sneak back for an unofficial search of the office, that was just another dirty shame, unless they happened to go prowling around on the fire escape.

  He stacked the important-looking papers into some semblance of neatness and led the way to the elevator.

  Going across Washington Street, von Flanagan remarked, “Another thing I’ve heard is that Leonard Estapoole likes you the way he’d like a red-haired visiting cousin with the itch.”

  “That,” Malone
said with a bitter grin, “was no rumor.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Joe the Angel looked up with an expression of relief at seeing Malone safe and in reasonably good company. He asked a question with one eyebrow, and Malone answered it with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  They ordered gin-and-beers and talked aimlessly. The races. A minor scandal in the vice squad. Gadenski’s fifth baby. The coming baseball season. The party last weekend at Judge Touralchuk’s. The new show at the Casino. And conversation lagged.

  “Raining yet?” Joe the Angel asked helpfully.

  They discussed the weather for a little while and ran that subject into the ground too.

  Malone resisted every impulse to look at his watch, accepted three gin-and-beers he didn’t particularly want, and wondered how soon he could tactfully make the first move toward breaking up. Finally he yawned conspicuously and remarked that tomorrow was going to be a very busy day.

  “For me too,” von Flanagan said, not getting up.

  A little later Malone observed that he really ought to be getting along to bed.

  “Me too,” von Flanagan said again. He ordered another gin-and-beer. “I suffer from insomnia though.”

  Malone asked sympathetically, “Does a drink make you go to sleep?”

  “No,” von Flanagan said. “But I don’t mind staying awake quite so much.”

  Conversation came to another standstill. It showed every indication of standing still all night. At last it was von Flanagan who couldn’t endure it any longer.

  “Know anything about the Estapoole family?” he asked, with elaborate casualness.

  Joe the Angel immediately found a spot on the bar right next to them that needed a great deal of polishing.

  “Not very much,” Malone said, every bit as casually. “Understand Estapoole’s wife is a good deal younger than he is. There’s a nephew, too, I think.”

  “Hammond Estapoole,” von Flanagan said, a little too promptly. He went on, “He’s a polo player. Very good-looking guy. Mrs. Estapoole used to be married to Ridgeway Com-manday, the furniture store millionaire. Guess when a girl marries one millionaire it gets to be a habit. He got hit by a car and died a couple of years back. She used to be a model.”