Knocked for a Loop

by Craig Rice

  “That’s why,” she said, in the same, small, weary whisper, “when he was arrested for murdering Leonard, Tony—Art—whichever you want to call him—must have assumed—he’d left that envelope—with me. But he didn’t—” She drew a faint little breath. “And somebody else was looking for the envelope—I guess a lot of people are—and went there and killed him—and searched the body—” Her voice trailed off.

  “And you,” Malone said mercilessly, “went in, and found him dead. And you searched the body yourself, didn’t you? That’s what took you so long.” A mean trick, taking advantage of a tired child, but he had to know.

  She nodded. “Didn’t find anything.” Suddenly she sat up straight, eyes open and alert. “Malone. You thought I went in there and killed him!”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Malone lied nobly.

  She patted her hair roughly into place, made another pass at her face with the rumpled Kleenex, and said, “Malone. The way his confession read. Frank’s. It did look like self-defense. One of the papers quoted a statement from you about that. Do you think you can get him off? Do you think you can get him out of jail?”

  Malone started to say, “Oh, is it like that?” and then didn’t, because he didn’t need to. He patted her hand once more and then said, “Dear child, I can promise you he’ll be out of jail—” he glanced at his watch, did a frightening mental calculation, and said—“tomorrow. And now you’re going home to bed.”

  It was a short drive to the apartment building that, in Malone’s mind, was fairly honeycombed with Estapoole apartments. A friendly doorman took charge of the car, Malone took charge of the exhausted Lily Bordreau. An equally friendly elevator operator escorted them to the door of Jane Estapoole’s apartment.

  She came to the door after what seemed like a forever of ringing, took a quick look at Lily and, just as quickly, took charge, with a head-nurse kind of efficiency that pleased and reassured Malone. It was not until Lily had been settled on a comfortable-looking but probably incredibly antique sofa, and Carmena Estapoole’s maid (who slept in, upstairs) had been sent for, that Jane came up with questions.

  In the meantime Malone had been watching her with the kind of admiration he usually reserved for presidential candidates, public heroes, winners of beauty contests, and St. Patrick’s Day parades. She had on what could not, by any stretch of his imagination, be termed a negligee, nor on the other hand, could anyone call it a bathrobe. It was cream-colored satin, smoothly tailored, its lapels neatly edged with rosy beige, a fringed and narrow sash tied around her slender waist. The slippers that played hide-and-seek under the hem of it were rosy-beige too, made, he guessed, of some kidskin that could double for platinum in an open market. Her brown hair had been brushed until it shone invitingly, her lovely oval face was innocent of make-up and just slightly shining with cream, and it was a face that he knew was going to haunt him in a great many pleasant and improbable dreams.

  “What happened to her?” She made a well-bred gesture indicating that almost anything might have. “The police were here a while ago. About the murder in her studio. They didn’t say anything about her. Just asked about me, and where I was. And then—Carmena finally reported Alberta kidnaped—” This time the gesture wasn’t quite as well-bred. “I’m sorry, Malone, I guess I’m a little overwrought. But Lily—there’s blood on her sweater, her face is dirty, she’s a little drunk, she looks as though—” She paused.

  “As though she’s gone through Hell,” Malone said in his politest voice. “And she has.” He paused for dramatic effect, reminded himself there wasn’t a jury in the room, and said, “She discovered the body. I mean, we did.” He went on fast. “She drove me down from Lake Forest, asked me in for a drink—and there was this murder. I suppose you know who—”

  “Tony,” she said.

  If she knew Tony’s name was Art Medinica, it didn’t show in her face.

  “The police questioned her. The whole thing was a little upsetting.” He began to wish there was a jury in the room. Suddenly he found he wanted to show off in front of Jane Estapoole. “In fact, they wanted to hold her. Fortunately, I was there and acted as her lawyer and, of course, they let her go. But then the news about the kidnaping came—”

  He watched her closely.

  “But Malone, the kidnaping—” She paused and said, “Go on, about Lily—”

  He shrugged his shoulders in the gesture that had charmed more jurors than he cared to remember. “The poor child went all to pieces. I bought her a drink, and brought her here. She said she wanted to go to Jane’s.”

  The smile on her face was like the sun breaking through on a dismal afternoon. “She’ll always be my little sister to me, Malone.” Coming from anyone else, it would have been not just corn but popcorn, Malone reflected. But Jane Estapoole was different.

  The arrival of the maid was a welcome interruption. Lily Bordreau was whisked off to a bath, a bed, and a strong sedative. Jane Estapoole said, “You look pretty done in yourself. Let me fix you a drink, Malone.”

  The little lawyer leaned back again and glanced around the room. It was one of those restful rooms where everything was exactly right, and in exactly the right place. A Governor Win-throp desk, flawlessly polished, but its shelves showing the bright colors of the best and latest books. Ash trays everywhere, and all of them newly washed.

  Jane Estapoole came back with a tray and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

  “You’ve been through so much today, Malone, and you’re so tired yourself. I thought maybe you’d rather have this than a drink. Though if you’d rather have Scotch—”

  He would rather have had gin with a beer chaser than either, but he wasn’t going to say so, not in front of this girl.

  He got the hot chocolate down. He heard the maid’s report that Lily Bordreau was tucked in and sleeping nicely. He thanked his hostess and rose to go.

  She stood at the doorway for a moment. “Malone. It’s very late, and there’s no time to talk. But I need to talk to you. As soon as I can. May I call you at your office—early?”

  “Early!” Malone said fervently. “Any time!”

  “You see—well, there isn’t any time to talk now but—you see, I know your client Frank McGinnis—very well.”

  Malone knew that if he even tried to speak, he’d probably stammer.

  “But we can talk about that tomorrow. It’s so good of you to have taken such good care of Lily.”

  He only hoped the stars in his eyes didn’t show when he said good night.

  He rode down in the elevator as though it were a moon-kissed cloud, floated out to the taxi-stand on a star-spangled mist, slid into the cab and said, “Where can I catch the next rocket ship to Mars?”

  The cab driver turned around and said, “Malone, you don’t want Mars, you want Joe the Angel’s.”

  “I know what I want,” Malone said. “Drive through Lincoln Park, and I’ll tell you from there.”

  He’d always known there were girls like Jane Estapoole. Indeed, he’d come within brushing contact of a few. Just a thoroughly nice, nice girl. Everything nice about her. She might not want to have anything to do with a disreputable—who was to call him disreputable?—criminal lawyer, but—oh well, she’d call him in the morning. He’d see her during the day.

  The little matters of murders, kidnapings, money, and such trifles—why think of them now?

  But just the same—

  So she knew Frank McGinnis too.

  And that was what she wanted to see him about.

  There were a few other questions that began to rise in his mind.

  He pulled a notebook from his pocket and hastily scrawled a memo to himself. Cl vFgn. McG pap. Fnd. Est. Inherit. Who. F’m. C’s hus. Tearooms.

  “You need any help, Malone?” the driver called.

  He did, and plenty. Information, and in a hurry. But first of all, a good night’s sleep. He looked at his watch. All right, a good three hours’ sleep. Someplace where von Fla
nagan, where no one, could find him.

  He leaned forward and gave the driver the address of Tommy Storm.

  She came downstairs to open the door, walked up the stairs with him. Suddenly he realized how tired, how utterly tired he was. And how little time he had left. And how wasted the day had been.

  Or had it?

  He found himself in her cheerful, softly lighted little apartment, caught the welcoming smile she gave him, heard her say, “Well, Malone, it’s about time.”

  The little lawyer sighed deeply. “I’m just a drowning man,” he said, reaching for her, “grasping at a straw-colored blonde.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Helene stared, gasped, gulped, and finally caught her breath. She didn’t say What-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-all-this! right out loud, but the look on her face did. Finally she managed to say, “How did you get here?”

  “You brought me,” Alberta Commanday said smugly, looking very pleased with herself.

  “And I’m going to take you right straight back again,” Helene said grimly. “Get back down under that rug.”

  “You can’t,” Alberta said in a maddeningly calm voice. “Because you’re driving a hot car.” She grinned nastily. “I heard everything everybody said.”

  Helene thought that over. The devil of it was, Alberta was right.

  “Besides,” Alberta added, “you put the finger on me for the snatch.”

  Helene didn’t bother to ask how well-brought-up little girls picked up such language. She knew from personal experience.

  In any case, this was no place to talk. There was always a good chance that a couple of indignant cops would come roaring into the garage any minute now. She felt serenely confident that she could talk her way out of whatever the problem was concerning the car, plus the minor item of racing away to avoid questioning. But not with a kidnaped child in tow.

  “All right,” she said wearily, “we’d better go on upstairs and talk this over.”

  She took Alberta by a small, grimy hand, led her to the self-service freight elevator, warned her to keep quieter than she ever had in her life before, and finally reached the security of her own apartment.

  “And now, listen,” she admonished fiercely, as she closed the door and bolted it. “If anyone—anyone—comes in, you duck out of sight, and fast.”

  “Or what?” her visitor demanded scornfully.

  “Or,” Helene said, “I’ll jump up and down on you with hobnailed shoes.”

  She switched on the light and gazed lovingly around the big room she hadn’t seen since the departure for Wyoming—that seemed so very long ago. Then she took a second glance around the room. Then she sniffed the air.

  Jake had been here. It seemed impossible, no, it was impossible. Jake was in Wyoming, thousands of miles away, and wasn’t answering his telephone messages.

  She sniffed the air again. She inspected the stubs in the big crystal ash trays. She walked into the kitchen and looked in the sink, the icebox, and the liquor cabinet. Finally she investigated the bedroom.

  Impossible, hell! Jake had been here, and not so very long ago, either.

  Alberta had been following her around; now she asked curiously, “What are you looking for?”

  “Rats,” Helene said, “and hush up.”

  Finally she sat down by the telephone and made one last call to Wyoming. This time she got a little more information than she’d had before. Mr. Justus had left the dude ranch sometime early this morning, and hadn’t been seen since. Was there any difficulty?

  “No,” Helene said grimly. “Nothing at all.”

  Jake had been in town all through this horrible day and evening, and hadn’t come to her side. Even if he hadn’t known anything about the tangled mess she was in, his first thought should have been to come to her. Instead, he’d probably run into Malone and the two of them had gone off somewhere to celebrate something, possibly the battle of Manila Bay. Treat her like that, would he! She’d show him!

  She looked down at Alberta Commanday, at the glasses, the braces on her teeth, at the expression on her face. She looked like a mean little kid. Helene softened a little. She liked mean little kids.

  “Care to join me in a drink?” she asked hospitably.

  Alberta would. There was Coke in the icebox. Helene mixed a gin-and-tonic for herself, went back to the living room, sat down and lit a cigarette, and began to think things over.

  Alter all, she hadn’t been exactly easy to find for the past twenty-four hours, holed up in Lily Bordreau’s studio. It was perfectly possible that Jake had flown back to Chicago because he’d been worried about her, or because he’d just been lonesome for her. In fact, that was probably exactly it. Obviously, the apartment had been the first place he’d come to. Just as obviously, he’d stayed in it for quite a while, waiting for her.

  She’d noticed her address book beside the telephone. Jake must have been calling up everybody she knew, trying to find her. Worried. Anxious. Frightened for her.

  Much more of that, she told herself, and she’d have to blow her nose.

  As a matter of fact, right this minute Jake was probably out looking for her, and in that case, he’d undoubtedly enlisted Malone’s help. The two of them must be out looking for her, and perhaps running into all kinds of trouble.

  She sat down by the telephone and called every number she could remember, every place Malone could conceivably be. The net result was a series of zeros.

  Well, there was nothing to do but wait. She finished her drink and looked thoughtfully at Alberta.

  “The best thing for me to do,” she said, “is to call a cab driver I know and tell him to deliver you right straight back to your mother. And then telephone her myself and explain everything.” Well, almost everything.

  “You try that,” Alberta Commanday said coldly, “and I’ll—” she paused—“I’ll send you spiders through the mail.”

  Helene ignored her loftily, reached her hand to the telephone, and paused. Maybe sending little Alberta home wasn’t the smartest thing to do right now, after all. Not until she’d found out a little more of what had been going on. Nor until she was on surer ground in explaining her own part in the matter.

  And certainly not until she had Malone at her side to help answer questions.

  Alberta Commanday sipped her Coke and looked around with a pleased expression. “I like being kidnaped here,” she said. “I like it even better than being kidnaped at the di Angelos. And a whole lot better than being kidnaped at Ma Blodgett’s.”

  Helene’s eyebrows raised. “And who is Ma Blodgett and when were you there and why?”

  Alberta ignored every question but the last one and said calmly, “Mr. Malone took me there.” She added reflectively, “I like Mr. Malone.”

  Well, there was something that was understandable. Though Helene wasn’t sure that she herself liked Malone right this minute.

  A1 di Angelo had told her that they had delivered Alberta Commanday to Malone, as per previous agreement. But why, then, hadn’t the little lawyer immediately delivered the child straight back to her presumably distraught parent?

  It occurred to her that there were a number of things she might learn from her young guest, with a little adroit questioning. She produced another Coke and turned on her most ingratiating smile.

  “To begin with,” she said warmly, “what I want to know is, how did you get in the back of my car tonight?”

  “Why,” Alberta said, amazed at such a stupid question, “I climbed in.”

  The telephone rang. Helene grabbed for it, hopefully.

  It was the desk clerk downstairs. He’d thought Mrs. Justus ought to know there were a couple of gentlemen on the way up. Just got in the elevator. A couple of policemen.

  Helene slammed down the receiver, her lovely face pale.

  “Cops,” she said to Alberta, hoping she was making the right approach. “You’ve got to hide. Keep out of sight until they’re gone. Then we can visit some more.” She pointed. “In there
!”

  To her relief, Alberta didn’t seem any more anxious to chat with the cops than she was. She finished her Coke in a breathtaking gulp and scooted through the bedroom door just as the knock came.

  Helene took one quick glance around the room. Nothing to arouse suspicion in the most astute policeman. Then, she opened the door, wearing a smiling expression that was halfway between “Won’t you come in?” and “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  The pair of plain-clothes men looked her over. “You Mrs. Justus?” one of them said.

  Helene was willing to admit that. They came in, closing the door behind them. Helene regarded them thoughtfully. Both of them were strangers to her, which might or might not be a good break. One of them was a little taller than the other, and looked a little older; the other had slightly reddish hair. Outside of that, they looked like any two plain-clothes men anywhere in the world.

  “And now,” she said brightly, “what’s all this nonsense?”

  The older one sighed and said, “Don’t bluff, Mrs. Justus. You were driving a car that was reported stolen earlier in the evening. You drove away fast when an officer tried to question you. The car’s downstairs in the hotel garage right now, or will be until we take it in with us. Now get your coat and let’s go.”

  “There’s a perfectly simple explanation,” Helene began.

  “You can make it downtown,” the other cop said. “We wouldn’t maybe make such a thing about it because maybe you do have a simple explanation, but this car was stolen from a house from which there’d been a kidnaping, and its owner’s just been murdered.”