by Craig Rice
Joe the Angel said, “Malone, you watch the bar.” He strode to the back of the room, went into the phone booth, and was there for the length of time it took Malone to finish his drink and light a new cigar. Then he came back, picked up the bar towel, and went to polishing glasses.
“My second cousin Al, he has just been called to Detroit on business,” he said. “He now has no interest in what was in Mr. Estapoole’s pocket. And I thank you, Malone. But Medinica—”
“It’s all in the morning papers,” Malone said. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk about it any more. “Is there anything else you know that I don’t know, and that I should know?”
Apparently there was not. Except last night’s little episode with Jake Justus, which Joe the Angel outlined in detail. Malone scowled. Right now Jake might be anywhere, in spite of Joe the Angel’s and von Flanagan’s helpfulness, and in the meantime, he might have done practically anything. Well, he’d find out when he got to the office and got on the phone.
And there was no putting it off any longer. The day had begun, and the day’s work with it. Joe the Angel wished him luck as he strode to the door.
The nasty little rain had stopped, and the sky had, incredibly, begun to tighten. Malone drew in a long breath of the spring air. He glanced at himself in a window, the Finchley suit, the almost new tie, the fresh shave. A fine figure of a man, one who was ready to take on and handle whatever problems the day might bring.
Here it was not even nine o’clock, and already he’d done well. He’d learned all he wanted to learn from Tommy Storm, and there was no doubt in his mind that she’d been telling the truth. Similarly, he’d settled a few questions at Joe the Angel’s.
Oh, sure, there were a few minor points to be cleared up with both of them, but he would get to those later. Meantime there was a promising day ahead, he had time and to spare before his twenty-four hours were up, and he’d never felt better in his life. Well, almost never.
He was whistling under his breath when he walked into the office. Maggie looked up from the newspaper she was reading, gasped, and turned pale.
“Malone!” she said. Just tike that.
“You were expecting someone else?” he said pleasantly.
She looked at him helplessly. “Malone. I’ve been reading the papers. And everybody’s been calling. And here you walk in—” She made a helpless little gesture.
“Shaved, bathed, dressed, breakfasted, and in my right mind,” he finished for her, “and early, for once. Sorry to surprise you like that. But I’ve decided to turn over a last leaf.” “New leaf,” she murmured almost automatically.
“New or old, it’s a last leaf that has no turning,” he said. Well, he meant something reasonably close to that. “And now, let’s start answering all those telephone calls. Starting,” he finished, “with the ones you suspect I’m not going to like.”
CHAPTER 20
Malone sat down behind his desk, feeling almost incredibly efficient. Nine o’clock—indeed, a bare shade earlier—and here he was, ready to tackle the problems of a new day. Of this, or any other day. He looked at the Utter on his desk with distaste, started sorting it into neat little piles, finally swept it aU into the top right-hand drawer.
Only the absence of the little bronze Buddha and the spot on the rug reminded him of the current unpleasantness. Well, in time the police department would give the little Buddha back, and perhaps the spot on the rug would fade.
Maggie came in, a sheaf of notes in her hand. “All right, Malone, where do you want to start?”
He scowled. “I made some notes last night—” He fished through the handful of papers he’d transferred to his pocket this morning, finally located the notebook and began thumbing through it. A few fascinating entries whose meaning he could not decipher and whose origin he could not remember interrupted him briefly, but finally he found the page he was looking for.
“Here it is,” he said triumphantly. “Plain as day.” He handed the notebook to Maggie.
She looked at Cl vFgn. McG pap. Fnd. Est. Inherit. Who. F’m. C’s hus. Tearooms.
“It makes perfect sense,” Malone said indignantly, reading her face. “I was in a hurry, and I left out a couple of vowels.”
“I understand all of it perfectly,” Maggie said, “except the last item. Tearooms.”
Malone sighed and said, “I want to find a nice tearoom, that’s all.”
“I’m sure you do,” Maggie said sympathetically. “Now, let’s get to work. The first item.”
Malone looked at Cl vFgn. He said, “Perfectly simple. It means, call von Flanagan.” He closed his eyes for a moment. That wasn’t just what it meant. It meant something else too, and right now, he couldn’t think to save his life what it was. “I’ll take care of that later. Now let’s see. McGinnis paper. That’s easy enough to read.”
“If you know what it means,” Maggie said.
“I will,” Malone said, “when the time comes.” He would, too. “The next—” He read it letter by letter, out loud. F-n-d. E-s-t. Inherit. Who. F-apostrophe-m. He paused again. “Get Charlie Firman on the phone.” He looked at her as though she were a lovable but slightly retarded child. “You must have realized that F-apostrophe-m means Charlie Firman.”
He leaned back in his chair and relit his cigar. Charlie Firman, who preferred to call himself an investment adviser, had been a client since the time, years past, when Malone had successfully defended him on the charge of operating a horse parlor. There had been other charges since then, ranging from dubious oil wells to even more dubious real estate developments, and Malone had gone right on being successful in his defense.
Most important, though, Charlie Firman, sometimes called Weasel, had a well-nigh incredible ability for digging out more information about people’s private financial affairs than they knew themselves. On occasion he’d helped out Malone by finding out if a client really couldn’t pay a whopping fee, or if he had a secret bank account hidden somewhere. The facts he dug up had always been accurate, too.
They exchanged a few minor pleasantries, including the fact that Charlie Firman was now promoting some hitherto unexplored uranium fields, before Malone explained what he wanted.
“It’s Leonard Estapoole’s will,” he said. “I need to know what’s in it.”
There was a soft whistle at the other end of the line. “Finding out what’s in a will takes a little doing, chum.”
“I know it does,” Malone said, “that’s why I called you. And what’s more I need to know—well, damned near immediately. This morning, if it can be done.”
“Can do, pal,” Charlie Firman said, with perfect confidence. “Likewise,” Malone said, “how much is involved.”
“Can do that too,” Charlie Firman said. “You’ll hear from me.”
Maggie said apprehensively, “Just what are you trying to do? What are you driving at?”
“If I knew,” Malone said, “you’d be the first person I’d tell.” She smiled at him, a little wanly.
“Next item,” Malone said. “Carmena’s husbands.” He leaned back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “They seem to have had a uniformly high mortality rate. I’d like to know a little more of the details.”
“You could always ask von Flanagan,” Maggie said.
One look from Malone disposed of that suggestion in a hurry. “I’ll take care of that problem later too,” he told her. “That leaves Tearoom,” Maggie said.
A dreamy look came into the little lawyer’s, eyes. “Maggie, I’ve met a girl. A really nice girl. I mean, nice like, well, nice, if you know what I mean.”
“Nice,” she said.
He glared at her. There wasn’t any real point in trying to describe Jane Estapoole, nor did he think he could do it adequately. “This very nice girl is going to confer with me this afternoon. She’s not a girl I can take to a bar. She’s not a girl I’d even suggest taking to a bar. She is the kind of girl I’d like to take out to tea.”
“In a tear
oom,” Maggie said.
“Obviously,” Malone said icily. “Look,” he said, “call up that nice guy at the American, the one who knows everything about everything, and ask him for the low-down on tearooms. The best.”
“Naturally the best,” Maggie said.
This time his glare was poisonous. “And keep your opinions to yourself!”
She reached for the phone, but it rang before she could pick it up.
“I’m in,” Malone said. “To everybody.”
It was Marty Budlicek.
“I was just going to call you,” Malone said cheerfully. “Been pretty busy. Are they treating you and Sophie all right?”
“Wonderful, Malone, wonderful. Nice suite of rooms, swell eats brought up, drinks and anything we want, a big TV set, and they even had Sophie send out for some clothes and stuff at a big store.”
“Fine, fine,” Malone said. “Glad to know the police department takes care of its own.”
“Only, Malone,” the little elevator operator moaned, “I got worried.”
Malone felt that his blood temperature had just dropped about ten degrees. “Now listen, Marty,” he said sternly. “Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be fine. You trust me, don’t you?” He thought he heard a faint assent over the wire and suddenly wondered how he was going to rescue Marty from a perjury rap when the truth came out. “You just relax and have a good time and leave everything to me. Just stick to your story.”
“I gotta stick to it,” Marty Budlicek said, unhappily. “Only, Malone, I got to tell you something.”
Malone swore. “Well don’t tell it over the telephone. I’ll be in to see you later.” He hung up as Marty said, “But, Malone—”
“Witnesses!” he said crossly.
“Especially,” she said, looking stem, “a witness who’s on the other side. Marty Budlicek is the witness who ties your client directly to the crime. Or have you forgotten he’s your client?” Her look implied that he might also have forgotten the code of ethics.
“But Maggie—” He paused, remembering. Maggie didn’t know anything about the deal. No one knew about it save Frank McGinnis, Max Hook, Little Georgie the Cherry, and himself. For a moment he considered breaking down and telling her the truth about it. No, the less she knew the better, if everything blew up. “But Maggie,” he said gently, “you forget. McGinnis had made a full confession before I even came on the scene.”
She muttered something about blondes and not getting to the office till five in the afternoon.
The little lawyer ignored that and said, “It’s the most beautiful case of self-defense I ever saw.” Suddenly a light flickered in his eyes. He picked up the scrawled memo. “That’s what I wanted to see von Flanagan about. I wouldn’t write vFgn for von Flanagan. It should have been v’F comma gn. The taxi must have hit a bump while I was writing that. Because I wanted to see von Flanagan about a gun.”
Maggie made a note of that and said, “What gun?”
“I’ll remember that when I get to it,” Malone said. “Let’s get on with these calls. Mike Medinica and Max Hook. Neither of them likes to be kept waiting. Shall we flip a coin?” The coin came up Mike Medinica.
The handsome, dapper owner-manager of the All-Chicago Sports and Boxing Arena answered his phone fast and said, “Malone, I been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been tied up,” Malone said truthfully. He lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Sorry to hear about your cousin Art.”
“Second cousin,” Mike Medinica said.
“All right,” Malone said, “I’m sorry about your second cousin Art.”
“And why should you be sorry?” Mike Medinica demanded. “You didn’t kill him.”
“Well, no,” Malone said lamely. Though he might have a little trouble convincing von Flanagan of that before the day was over.
“Look, Malone,” Mike Medinica said, “Art was all right, but he was a lazy guy, and always out for the fast buck.”
While second cousin Mike, Malone reflected, was always out for the fast grand.
“This Estapoole hired him,” Mike Medinica said, “because he figured Art would know a lot of the scores old Estapoole was trying to add up, y’know. So Art let the old guy change his name for him, and took the job only he figured he could add up the scores to more than the old man could, y’follow me, Malone?”
“Every half-inch of the way,” Malone assured him.
“So Art, he must of been on the trail of that stuff old man Estapoole dug up, and somebody else on the trail of it conked him.”
Malone flicked the ash off his cigar. “Just what do you want me to do?” he asked a little wearily. “If it’s to find the brutal killer of your cousin—”
“Second cousin,” Mike Medinica said.
“—I’m just as interested as you are.”
“That ain’t what I want at all, Malone. That envelope of stuff...” There was a little pause. “Y’understand, Malone, I’m a respectable, honest businessman, I run a nice little place out here, and I’m not mixed up in anything. But I got friends, and I got obligations to my friends. I’d like to lay my hands on that stuff, and Malone, if anybody can find it, you can.”
Malone said, “This would be, I trust, a cash transaction.”
“Get the stuff,” Mike Medinica said, “and name your figure.”
“We’ll talk about that sordid subject later,” Malone said pleasantly. “I’ll go along, though, if you’ll answer just one question, just between the two of us.”
“Yes?” Mike Medinica said suspiciously.
“Did you, or did you not, send your cousin—pardon me, second cousin—Art, to find that envelope?”
Mike Medinica said, “Yes. I did.”
“Thanks,” Malone said. “And you’ll hear from me.” He hung up.
Maggie’s face was as expressionless as a freshly washed dinner plate. She said, “Now, Max Hook.”
“In a minute,” Malone said. “Let me catch my breath between rounds.”
It was more than unusual, it was well-nigh unheard of for the Hook to make telephone calls. Usually he sent a message, or more often, a messenger, demanding a private interview. The fact that Max Hook had called him was ominous. The fact that he was going to call Max Hook back was frightening.
He looked at his watch. He still had most of the day, and anything could happen. He nodded to Maggie.
It was Max Hook himself who came on the phone instead of Little Georgie relaying conversation. Malone decided to throw the first punch.
“I suppose you want to know about what happened last night,” he hazarded.
“Why?” Max Hook said. “Artie’s no loss.”
“Well,” Malone said, glancing sidelong at Maggie and hoping she wasn’t overhearing, “it must have been by the same guy.”
“Sure,” Max Hook said. “That’s your problem.”
That could be said again, and in triplicate, Malone told himself. What the hell had Max Hook called him about? He said, “It isn’t five o’clock yet, you know.”
“I got a clock,” Max Hook said, “I can tell time.”
“Well,” Malone said, fishing around desperately, “I think I have a line on—it.”
“Good,” Max Hook said. “Pull it in.”
There was an awkward silence. The little lawyer drew a long breath and finally said, “Just what did you call me about?” “Why,” Max Hook said, “with everything that’s been coming up, I just thought I’d better ask if you needed any more dough to operate on, that’s all.”
Malone closed his eyes for just a moment. Then he said very gently, “Thanks, no, Max. You’ll hear from me.” He put the phone down softly.
“Malone,” Maggie said anxiously, “is there something you’re not telling me?”
Again he felt the impulse to confide in her; again he caught himself just in time. “Not a thing,” he said cheerfully. He added, “And don’t worry. What you don’t know won’t hurt me.”
/> She said nothing, but she said it unhappily.
“Von Flanagan,” Malone said. He looked at the notes. Von Flanagan. Gun. “I’ll go down and take care of that in person. Alter I’ve left the office, call and say I’m on the way down. And then get after those tearooms. Now before I take off, let’s call Jake and Helene and tell them how glad I am they’ve finally found each other.”
Maggie scowled. “Malone, the calls are from two different numbers. And if I’m not mistaken—” She reached for the phone, did some rapid calling, identified herself as John J. Malone’s secretary, asked a few questions, ended both of the two calls she made with “Mr. Malone will take care of it,” put down the phone and said, “They’re in jail, Malone. Different jails.”
Malone blinked.
“Mrs. Justus is in Lake Forest,” Maggie said worriedly. “Something that started with a stolen car charge. And Mr. Justus is in Chicago. The charges begin with creating a disturbance, and seem to go on and on from there. From the way the desk sergeant sounded, Malone, you’ll be lucky to get him off with twenty years.”
CHAPTER 21
“Jake and Helene are my best friends,” Malone said indignantly. “You can’t keep them in jail. It isn’t as though there were any real charges.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” von Flanagan said.
Malone snorted. “Driving a stolen car! Helene’s already proved it’s her own car. Its being reported stolen was just a silly mix-up of circumstances.”
The big police officer sighed. “A lot of circumstances, and all of them mixed up.” He started ticking them off on his fingers. “For no reason anybody knows anything about, she took that helpless little golden-haired girl to a museum, where the kidnapers picked her up. Then she turns up driving a stolen—all right, it was her own car, there was a mistake there, but it was reported stolen from in front of the Estapoole house. We got a kidnaping and two murders and she’s tied up with it somehow, and I’m not going to let her go until she tells what it is.” He scowled and said, “There’s still a charge of flight to avoid police questioning.”