by Craig Rice
For a while he stood by the newsstand, considering the problem from all angles. There had to be some solution to it. The only trouble was that at the moment he simply couldn’t seem to think of one.
An occupied cab drew up at the stand, its door opened, and a pleasantly throaty feminine voice asked for the morning American. Malone gallantly handed one to the owner of the voice, collected the money, and handed it to the bewildered newsdealer.
The girl in the taxi was a compact, violet-eyed blonde, in a wispy orchid evening dress and a fluffy pale-yellow wrap that came close to matching her fluffy, pale-yellow hair. She looked at the little lawyer, reached in her rhinestone evening bag, took out a quarter, and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” Malone said solemnly. “I’m saving up for taxi fare to the Loop.”
The blonde gave him a long, second look, and followed it with the smile most people, blond or not, had for John J. Malone. “You’d better get in.”
Malone got in and said, “Thank you again.”
“Now look here, lady,” the driver began, in an anxious voice.
“Don’t worry about me,” the blonde told him. “My mother tends to all my worrying.” She flashed the smile at Malone again, and asked, “Where to, pal?”
A few minutes earlier Malone would have replied, “The river!” in a voice that would have been both hollow and sepulchral. Now he said, “Just keep driving in a general west-northeasterly direction until I think of a roof I can pull over my head.”
The driver shook his head in a disapproving maimer, and the taxi moved on toward the Loop.
“My name,” the blonde said, “is Bernice Storm. But my friends call me Tommy.”
“Good morning, Tommy.” He lifted his somewhat battered hat. “And mine is John J. Malone.”
Her violet eyes widened just a little. “I’ve heard about you.” She looked him over from head to foot.
“Disappointed?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not at all. Just wondering if you’re on the lam from an assault and battery charge.”
His fingers explored his cheek, and he winced. “No. Murder. And probably kidnaping.”
“You look as though you’d had a wonderful time at it. Would you like to have breakfast with me?”
Malone thought that was a superb idea, and immediately said so. She leaned forward and gave the driver an address on East Walton Place.
The address turned out to be that of a pleasantly remodeled town house, half a block from Michigan Boulevard. Tommy Storm led him up a flight of stairs, opened a pink-painted door marked 2-B, and ushered him into a brightly pleasant little living room.
Suddenly he realized how tired he was, how terribly, unbearably tired, how painfully his head throbbed, and how seemingly insurmountable the obstacles ahead of him were. He leaned against the closed door and shut his eyes for just a second.
His hostess shoved him into the nearest chair and said, “Don’t faint on the floor and wake the neighbors.”
“Or your mother,” Malone said. “The one who does your worrying for you.”
“She lives in Kansas,” Tommy Storm said. “She worries from there. Here, I’m all alone in the world. And how do you like your eggs?”
“With gin,” Malone said. He struggled to keep his eyes open, gave up for a moment and then got them open again. “It isn’t just the gravel that bothers my eyelids,” he complained, “it’s the gravity.”
She smiled at him, dropped the fluffy yellow wrap on the nearest chair, pinned a gaily printed dishtowel around her waist, and pushed back her bright hair. “Just relax, Malone, and forget all of your troubles.”
“Gin and breakfast,” Malone said faintly, “in the order named.”
She said, “Do you want to tell me all about it now, or wait until you’ve been fed?”
“After,” Malone said. “And the eggs sunny side up and lightly basted.”
Several minutes later, gratifying and heartening odors began to drift out from the kitchenette. Malone settled himself more comfortably in the chair and began to think back.
One small item had been overlooked last night, but there hadn’t been time for it in the first place, and in any case it was too late now, and besides, it might not have been important anyway. That was the little matter of searching the body.
The late Leonard Estapoole had been not only a one-man anti-Malone committee, he had been a whole convention full of one-man committees—anti-vice, anti-crime, anti-gambling, anti-bribery, and probably also anti-malicious mischief, anti-walking on the grass, and anything else you cared to name, not forgetting anti-spitting on the sidewalk. As such, and acting in his purely unofficial capacity as a solid citizen and sterling character, he had collected a dangerous amount of information, complete with names and numbers, which he proposed to turn over to a Grand Jury, the newspapers, and the public at large.
That information, or at least the most dangerous part of it, should have been on his person last night. Obviously, Malone reminded himself now, when it was too late, he should have looked for it. On the other, and more consoling, hand, there was the fact that if he had looked for it, it undoubtedly wouldn’t have been there anyway. The stranger who had so expertly conked the solid citizen and sterling character with Malone’s bronze Buddha would very probably have looked for it himself and taken it away with him. In fact, that was probably why the whole affair had been arranged in the first place.
Malone felt a great deal better immediately. Now there remained only the matter of finding out who had conked the one-man anti-practically everything committee, and getting that envelope of information back.
He had no doubt in his mind that Leonard Estapoole had had it with him. The information had been, according to reliable report, complete enough to cause sleepless nights all over Chicago and even a few sudden vacation trips to faraway places. Newspaper speculation about it had moved up to page one, and report and rumor had made it the number one topic of conversation in various Chicago circles.
Then Leonard Estapoole’s stepchild had been kidnaped. The asking price had been a hundred grand and the envelope of highly charged information. Leonard Estapoole, adoring husband and devoted stepfather, had agreed to make the deal.
He’d have had to be pretty damned adoring and devoted to ransom that stepchild, Malone thought. And that reminded him of something else he had to do.
He picked up Tommy Storm’s telephone, called Ma Blodgett, and inquired after her young visitor.
“She’s okay,” Ma Blodgett said.
Malone said, “Find out if she knows me. Find out if she knows my name. Or if she recognized me. If she doesn’t, give her bus fare and turn her loose.”
There, that much was off his mind. Bertie Commanday would make her way home safely, he felt sure of that. Or some kind soul would take her home. Nothing had even been whispered, officially, to the police so far, and now the chances were that they wouldn’t be. There hadn’t been any kidnaping, and there wasn’t going to be any kidnaping charge against Malone.
The world was getting visibly brighter with every passing minute, the ache in his head was promising to go away, it was full and glorious spring outdoors, and at that very moment Tommy came in with a tray of breakfast which she placed on the low coffee table in front of him.
There were eggs fried exactly the way he liked them, pink ham that curled up delicately at the edges, a golden mound of fried potatoes, a plate of crisply hot buttered toast, a jar of strawberry jam, a steaming pot of coffee, and a pitcher of thick, yellow cream.
Half an hour later Malone looked up from the empty dishes and sighed happily. He unwrapped a cigar with loving care, lighted it, and looked appreciatively at the bright-haired, violet-eyed Tommy, at the delightfully comfortable little living room with its gaily patterned curtains, its cheerful prints on the wall, and its big, welcoming chairs. He wished with all his heart that he had nothing at all to do all that day, and quite possibly the next.
Tommy Storm poured he
rself a second cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and said, “Well?”
“The police are looking for me,” he said with serene unconcern. “And quite probably the whole city of Chicago, if it’s made the newspapers by now. For murder.”
“Fine thing,” she scolded him affectionately. “And you hide out here in my apartment and give a hard-working, if unemployed, chorus girl a bad reputation.”
“Not only that,” he told her blandly, “but probably there’s attempted extortion on the list. And there may still be kidnaping to worry about. Excuse me—”
He called Ma Blodgett again. No, Alberta Commanday didn’t know him from Clark Gable. She didn’t have the faintest notion who’d kidnaped her, and never in her young life had she heard anything of John J. Malone.
The little lawyer breathed a sigh of relief. “Turn her loose,” he ordered.
“She won’t go,” Ma Blodgett said.
Malone swore indignantly into the telephone. “Tell her she’s got to go. Tell her that her mother is worrying herself sick. Tell her the whole city of Chicago is worrying about her. Tell her she’s in danger. Tell her it’s against the law.”
“I did,” Ma Blodgett said. “She won’t go.”
Malone swore again. “Then get a taxi and take her. Don’t tell her where you’re going. Take her somewhere and lose her. Somewhere in the general direction of Lake Forest. Then forget her.”
“Okay,” Ma Blodgett said.
“That takes care of the kidnaping,” Tommy observed. “Ale you going to do anything about the murder?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Malone said. He lapsed into silence, thinking hard. She watched him for a moment, shrugged her shoulders, and went into the next room.
An idea was slowly beginning to form in Malone’s mind. It might work, and it might not. But it was the only idea he had right now. And he’d better start laying the foundation for it this very minute.
He picked up the telephone book and went through it. Marty Budlicek.
CHAPTER 4
A very sleepy and very irritable Sophie Budlicek answered Malone’s caH. Her voice immediately changed to amiable and more than a little anxious when she recognized Malone’s.
Was anything wrong in the office? She’d cleaned in kind of a hurry last night but—
“No, not a thing,” Malone lied cheerfully. Evidently Sophie Budlicek didn’t know what had been going on in that office since she’d cleaned it in the early evening. But for that matter, he reminded himself, neither did he.
He just wanted to know—didn’t Marty have a brother who lived in Waukesha, Wisconsin? Fine. He thought so. Now, just let him talk to Marty.
Marty sounded even more sleepy and even more anxious. Had someone found out about Malone’s occasional misuse of the freight elevator?
No, Malone reassured him, it was nothing like that. He just wanted to give the pair of them a little vacation, starting right now. A visit, in fact, to the brother in Waukesha.
It took a little persuading. There was more than the promise that Marty and Sophie wouldn’t lose their jobs, not with Malone such a close friend of the building superintendent. There was also the mention of a fair-sized sum of money to be paid for the expenses of the trip. Finally there was an appeal to old-time friendship and a reminder of the time he’d gotten young Steve Budlicek out of jail without its costing a cent, to convince them both that they really ought to visit the brother in Waukesha and to do it today.
And it was particularly important, he added, that they should go immediately, before any police officers came around asking questions.
That was the clincher. He could picture Marty Budlicek moving to beat the speed of sound at the merest mention of the police. They had been largely responsible for Marty’s rapid decline from high income brackets as a beer-runner to his present insignificant job of piloting an elevator, an old elevator, in an old building.
“But Malone,” Marty did begin to protest. “I wanted to tell you. Last night—”
“Never mind last night,” Malone said testily. “I’ll talk to you later and explain what’s going on. Has your brother a telephone? Good. His address? Fine. I’ll send you money there.” Where the money was going to come from, he couldn’t even speculate about right now. But he reminded himself of the ravens and Elijah and felt considerably better. “Now, move fast!”
“I’m moving,” Marty said, already breathless. “But Malone-”
“I said, move!” He hung up fast.
Tommy had come back from the bedroom, dressed now in a pale green wool suit that would have made a jaded octogenarian think blissfully about springtime.
“You really are thinking fast,” she commented, “for a man who’s had little or no sleep.” She finished fastening the buttons of her jacket. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not on my way out to call a cop. I’m just going out to get the later papers and see exactly where we stand.”
“We?” Malone said, feeling a little dazed.
“Remember Lee Merchant? You got him out of a murder rap. The girl he married afterward used to be my roommate. They’re very happy.” She smiled at him. “There’s another reason, too, why I like you, but it’ll keep.”
Malone reflected that it wasn’t always true that bread cast upon the waters came back all wet.
The front pages of the newspapers she brought in told him almost everything he needed to know, including the fact that he didn’t photograph well.
“It’s a very old picture,” he told her apologetically. “Taken at the time of the McJackson trial.” He hoped, though, that there wouldn’t be a new one soon, captioned “LAWYER TAKEN INTO CUSTODY,” or “JOHN J. MALONE ARRESTED.”
The body of Leonard Estapoole had been discovered in John J. Malone’s private office by Miss Mary Margaret O’Leary, John J. Malone’s private secretary, shortly after her arrival at the office. It had not been discovered immediately, according to the story, because she had had no occasion to go into the inner office when she first arrived.
The murdered man had been found on the office floor, having been struck on the head by some undetermined heavy object. John J. Malone was being sought by the police for immediate questioning. There would be more details later.
Malone smiled grimly. This, he knew, was just the first, quick flash; the details later would be more damning. The smile became less grim when he thought of Maggie. Her first act on getting to the office was invariably to open the doors and windows of the private office, in the usually vain hope of getting rid of some of the smell of stale cigar smoke. This morning she’d undoubtedly spent the next half-hour or so frantically trying to locate him by telephone, trying all the places he could possibly be, and finally decided she couldn’t postpone discovering the body any longer.
He made a mental note to give Maggie a raise. Or at least to make a determined effort to pay up her back salary.
But nowhere was there any mention of the kidnaping. Nor was there any speculation as to what the late Leonard Estapoole had been doing in John J. Malone’s office in the first place. The gist of it was “Leonard Estapoole Found Murdered, Malone Sought.” He sighed and tossed the paper away.
One thing was certain. He needed to know more, a vast amount more, about the entire Estapoole setup. Carmena Estapoole, ex-Carmena Commanday, ex-Carmena Bordreau, was a person worth investigating. But how, from his present situation, was a matter for serious study.
Suddenly he remembered von Flanagan’s too casual question. Hadn’t Helene known Ted Commanday’s first wife? A rather distant link, but right now the only link he could find.
He looked at Tommy Storm thoughtfully. “I don’t usually ask my hostess if I may make a long-distance call on her telephone when I don’t have the cash on my person to pay for it—” Or anywhere else, right now, he thought.
She grinned. “I don’t usually pick my guests up on West Madison Street corners, either. But you’re Malone, and that makes everything different.”
For a mad moment he considered d
ropping everything and going back to his idea of staying here for the rest of his natural life. Then she handed the telephone to him and the moment was lost. But not forever, he promised himself.
It was a long time before a very sleepy Jake Justus, roused by the dude ranch manager, answered his phone. Malone remembered suddenly and guiltily about the difference in time. No matter, this concerned at least life or death. He was about to ask for Helene when Jake became very wide awake at the sound of Malone’s voice.
“Thank goodness, Malone. Have you found her?”
Malone blinked and said, “The little girl? She’s all right.”
There was a pause. “What do you mean, little girl? She’s no little girl.”
This time, Malone paused. Then, “Just what are you talking about?”
“Helene,” Jake said, a little stupidly. “I’m talking about Helene. Is she there?”
Malone said, “No,” and wondered what to say next. He started to say, “Is she there?” which was obviously foolish, and finally managed to ask, “Where is she?” It wasn’t exactly in a calm voice, but it was the calmest voice he had.
“I don’t know,” Jake said anxiously. “I thought you were looking for her.”
A number of highly unpleasant convictions were beginning to creep into Malone’s mind, and he could only hope that at least most of them were wrong. He said, “Let’s try to get this straight. Why did you think I was looking for Helene?”
“Because,” Jake said, “I asked you to.”
One of the more unpleasant convictions was that Jake had suddenly and unaccountably gone mad.
At this point Jake said, “Malone, are you crazy?”
The little lawyer drew a long, slow breath. “Let’s deal with each subject as it comes up. When did you ask me to look for Helene, and why?”
“Last night,” Jake said. “In a telegram. Because she isn’t here. Because I don’t know where she is, and I’m worried about her.” From the sound of his voice, he was terrified.
“That explains that,” Malone said with relief. “I simply didn’t get your telegram.” No need to worry Jake right now with his reasons.