by Craig Rice
Helene looked at him in surprise. She started to speak and then changed her mind.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said testily. “That Carmena couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the murdering of poor old Leonard, and that anyway the murderer is nicely tucked away in jail and has confessed to his crime.” He scowled.
More than anything in the world, he wanted to take them completely into his confidence, tell them the truth about Frank McGinnis and that confession. But they’d know anyhow, one way or another, before the day was over. Right now, it was going to be safer for them if they didn’t know.
“But then, Malone—” Jake began, frowning.
“Let’s just say that I’m curious,” Malone told him.
Jake sighed, nodded, said that getting the information would be a matter of an horn: or two, and that it would be complete.
“And I’ll go along and help,” Helene said.
“No, you won’t,” Malone told her, “because I’ve got something just as important for you to do. Something that only you can do.”
“Much as I love flattery—” Helene began.
He ignored her and went on, “You know all these Estapoole people. Go visiting. Offer condolences. Ask after Alberta. All that kind of thing. And find out exactly where everybody—Carmena, Hammond, Jane, Lily—even Alberta—was last night at the time Antonio Clancy Art Medinica was being murdered. And where every one of them was night before last when Leonard Estapoole was being murdered.”
She nodded slowly. “That should be easy, with just a few casual remarks and questions.”
“The kind,” Malone said, “that would trap anybody into letting the chat out of the bag.”
For a minute of dreadful silence, they pointedly ignored him. “Malone,” Helene said, “what are you getting at? What are you trying to find out?”
“I don’t know,” Malone said. “I wish I did.”
“Well, whatever it is,” she said encouragingly, “we’ll help.” She paused. “What about my little guest? We can’t all go off and leave her alone. Someone might come barging in. Or she might go barging out.”
“Or at least, make herself deathly sick drinking Cokes,” Jake said.
Malone nodded. “I’ve thought of that too. I’m going to call up someone I can trust completely and ask her to come over and baby-sit, if you can call it that.”
He called Ma Blodgett. She would, as always, be happy to help Malone. Would fifteen minutes be soon enough?
“Ma Blodgett,” Helene said, her brow wrinkled. “Malone, wasn’t she—”
“She was,” Malone said, “and she’s running a highly respectable boardinghouse now. So respectable that only a select few, and with references, can get in.”
He picked up his hat, walked to the door and stood there for a moment, looking at them. “You can start off on your—missions—as soon as Ma Blodgett comes,” he said, with a wan smile. He looked very tired and somehow defenseless.
“Would you like a drink before you go?” Helene asked.
He shook his head. “I would,” he said, “but there’s no time. There’s very, very little time.”
On his way down in the elevator, he glanced at his watch. Quarter past twelve. Very little time was putting it mildly. And the worst of it was, he didn’t really know what to do with the time he did have. So far, every line of reasoning he’d pursued had landed him against a blank wall.
In the taxi, he reminded himself that the Estapoole family might quite possibly have nothing to do with all this. It was beginning to look as though half Chicago had been on a grim and relentless search for that envelope of information Leonard Estapoole had so painstakingly gathered. Max Hook had wanted it enough to arrange the Frank McGinnis setup and put out a comfortable sum of expense money. Mike Medinica wanted it. Therefore, obviously, any number of others would have gone to any lengths, including murder, to get hold of it.
But to comb the city of Chicago to find the one individual who’d murdered Leonard Estapoole, arranged to frame someone else for his murder, and made off with the envelope was something that obviously couldn’t be done before five this afternoon.
He had to stick with the Estapoole family simply because there was no alternative. And because in his heart he felt he was right.
He picked up a newspaper at a corner and glanced at it in the taxi. He grinned. Von Flanagan had, as usual, done a masterful job. “Naturally, as a trained observer, I could see that while John J. Malone’s office had been the real scene of a violent struggle, the scene of the other murder had been carefully arranged to look like one. In years of police experience, you learn to notice these things. But since we are dealing with two separate murderers and—”
Malone’s grin was a wry one. Von Flanagan had told it well, except that, of course, he had the two scenes switched. And except that he, like everybody else—almost everybody else—was looking for two murderers.
If he could only remember what it was about the scene of the crime that was so important—
Maggie looked up from her desk. He noticed uncomfortably that whenever he’d come in the door these past two days, the look on her face had been one of relief.
But it didn’t show in her voice. “It’s about time you got back. Von Flanagan called. He just said to tell you that the brass snake-charmer had also been washed and polished.” Malone nodded. “It isn’t a snake-charmer, as I told him, and I’m not surprised it’s been washed and polished.”
“Charlie Firman called to tell you he’d have all the information before two o’clock. Miss Jane Estapoole called and would like you to call her back. She must be the girl you told me about.” Her eyes softened. “Malone, she has a lovely voice.”
Malone beamed. “A nice voice. See why I plan to take her out to tea?”
She looked at him sadly. “And your friend from the American called. The one who knows everything. He says to tell you there aren’t any tearooms.”
CHAPTER 23
“No tearooms!” Malone said. “Perfect nonsense! Of course there are tearooms. Where the hell do people have tea?”
“That,” Maggie said acidly, “is something you wouldn’t know anything about, Malone.”
“Do you mean to say,” Malone said incredulously, “that in this whole big city of Chicago—”
“I wrote down his exact words,” Maggie said. “He told me to tell you: ‘Chicago had 9,227 taverns at last count, and not one legitimate tearoom. That shows you what we think of the tearooms. One by one, they dropped from sight, and no one missed them. And, one by one, the number of taverns in town increased. Vive l’increase!’ That’s just what he said, Malone.” Malone sat down behind his desk and said, “But, Maggie, what am I going to do? You’ve never met this girl. You just can’t picture her.”
“I’ve heard her voice,” she reminded him. She went on in a softer voice, “Malone, there’s still a tearoom in Marshall Fields’-”
The mere thought of making a safari through a large department store even to find a tearoom gave him the shudders, and he promptly told her so.
She consulted her watch. “You could still take her to lunch. There’s Henrici’s.”
“Too crowded.”
“There’s Jacques’.”
“Too fashionable.”
“Le Petit Gourmet.”
“That’s too artistic.”
“Oh well,” Maggie said with a sigh, “take her down to Walgreen’s for a malt. I’m only trying to be helpful.”
His injured look told her she wasn’t succeeding at all well. Maggie said sympathetically, “I know exactly the kind of place you have in mind. Quiet, and refined, and not too brightly lighted, and with tea and toast and marmalade. But those places don’t exist any more.”
Malone groaned. “Well, it was a fine idea.”
He sat for a moment looking unhappily at nothing. Then suddenly a clear, sweet and well-remembered voice came from the anteroom. “Mr. Malone?”
He looked up, a
nd there she was.
No one would have guessed to look at her that she’d had a murder and a kidnaping in the family within the past few days. She was perfectly poised, though without even a hint of being sophisticated, a little hesitant at the intrusion but not too much, and smiling just exactly enough.
She wore a trim little beige suit that was exactly what the well-brought-up young woman should wear for a spring day in Chicago, and a small powder-blue felt hat that framed her face. Her matching lizard purse and Cuban-heeled pumps were expensive, but not extravagant. Her smooth brown hair was shining, her gray-blue eyes were as clear as though she’d had a long night’s sleep, and the touch of lipstick was just the right shade.
For a moment, Malone forgot not only every trouble he had in the world, but all those he’d ever had.
He bounded to his feet, held out his hand and said, “My dear Miss Estapoole!”
“I hope you’ll forgive my just coming in like this,” she said. “But I called you after I went out, so I knew that you wouldn’t reach me when you called back—and since I was down in the Loop, I hoped you wouldn’t mind—”
“Mind!” he said, “I’m delighted! Have you had lunch?” He’d think of someplace—
“Thank you—I have.”
“Then—let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Somewhere where we can talk.” He had a feeling that he was stammering.
“I’d love to.”
He told Maggie he’d be back shortly and escorted Jane Estapoole into the elevator, thinking fast. Halfway down, his thought process went into reverse. He’d intended to show off, to impress this thoroughly, this amazingly nice girl. Well, he’d do just the opposite. If she was as nice as he believed, she’d like him and accept him just the way he was. Perhaps it was the honesty about her that brought out his own. He took her, without qualms, to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar.
There was, in his heart, the sickening thought that she might be offended, which would be bad, or that she might think Joe the Angel’s was quaint, which would be worse. Instead, she seemed as perfectly at home as she had in the Estapoole mansion in Lake Forest, or the living room of her own perfectly decorated apartment. She was genuinely happy to meet Malone’s old friend Joe the Angel. She settled down in a booth in the back room and ordered Scotch-and-water.
Malone approved that, too. To have ordered a Daiquiri, or a Very dry Martini would have been out of place in Joe the Angel’s. Rye or gin or bourbon would have been unladylike. Scotch-on-the-rocks would have been far too New Yorkish. She’d done exactly right.
She smiled at him across the table and said, “I imagine you’ve been worrying about Lily.”
“No,” Malone said frankly. “I knew she was in the best of hands.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone.” His heart expanded a little. Nobody ever called him Mr. Malone! “She woke up this morning, feeling pretty awful. All that business last night—and not enough sleep—” She shook her head sympathetically. “And she’s naturally nervous, anyway. So I gave her a glass of hot milk and a pretty hefty sleeping pill, and she probably won’t wake up till mid-afternoon. By that time, she’ll feel much better.”
“And in the meantime,” Malone said, hoping he didn’t have a downright fatuous grin on his face, “no mean nasty policemen are going to be able to bother her.”
“I thought of that too,” Jane Estapoole said. She had just a trace of a dimple in her left cheek.
He wondered if he dared tell her exactly what he was thinking about her. No, better not. Later, perhaps.
“Mr. Malone, about this murder—these murders—”
The little lawyer almost jumped. Momentarily, he’d come dangerously close to forgetting that there had been any murders. He took a small sip of his own Scotch-and-water, took out a cigar, started to unwrap it, and then said, “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” She took out a cigarette and held it prettily while he lighted it. “Lily couldn’t have had anything to do with it, you know.”
“My dear Miss Estapoole,” Malone said, “no one has the faintest idea that she did. Especially not myself.” He smiled at her. “Don’t forget, I’m her alibi.”
“Oh?”
He related the story again. How Lily had driven him downtown from Lake Forest, invited him in for a drink. They had gone in—he didn’t use the word “together” but the inference was there—and found the body.
“How horrible for her!” Jane Estapoole said. She didn’t say it with distaste, or a slight shudder; she said it warmly and sympathetically. She smiled at him and said, “How lucky you were with her.”
Malone’s heart warmed at her look. He wondered just how soon he dared ask her for a dinner date, and just how he should do it. Fine thing, he told himself; usually with nothing but an introduction and a telephone number as preliminaries, he’d succeeded in making dates that amazed even himself. Now, with Jane Estapoole, he found himself more hesitant and nervous than he’d been since he left sixth grade.
“I started to tell you last night,” she said. “I know Frank McGinnis. Lily does, too. I know that may seem a little odd, but—” She shrugged her shoulders charmingly. “I met him through Lily. She has a proclivity for meeting people—all kinds of people. Interesting people,” she added quickly.
Malone had never thought of Frank McGinnis as particularly interesting, but he supposed that to someone like Jane Estapoole, he’d be, at least, a novelty.
“In fact, I even had a—date with him once,” she said. “We went, of all places, to a concert. I don’t know if he enjoyed it or not, but I hope he did. And now to think he’s in jail. For murdering Leonard.”
“He won’t be there long,” Malone said, his mind coming back to the present with an unpleasant bump.
“It did sound like self-defense,” she said, “from the newspaper story I read. It’s hard to think of anyone having to defend himself against Leonard, but I suppose if he thought Leonard had a gun—”
“He did,” Malone said. “I mean, Frank McGinnis thought so, and it turned out he was right.”
He hated to think of things like murder, and all that went with it, touching this lovely girl.
“And I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, “that whoever committed that murder last night—was after that envelope of papers Leonard had. Though why anyone should think it was in Lily’s—” She paused. “I suppose that someone knew that Lily and Frank McGinnis were friends and thought he might have left them with her. I mean, hidden them in her studio. Without her knowledge, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Malone agreed, admiring the smooth curve of her cheek.
“And Tony—I can’t seem to think of him as having a different name—was after the envelope, and someone else was after it, and they both got to the studio to search it, and—” She shivered just a little.
“Don’t think about it,” Malone said soothingly, forgetting himself enough to pat her hand. She didn’t draw it away.
“I worry so about Alberta.” The lovely gray-blue eyes were troubled. “I knew about the—fake kidnaping. Lily confided in me. And I knew Helene Justus had come back to Chicago to try and prevent it. So I kept out of it. I was sure everything would be all right, either way. But where is she now, Mr. Malone? I’m so fond of the child. I’m so worried about her I can hardly think straight.”
“Helene will take good care of Alberta,” Malone said, before he thought. But apparently she hadn’t noticed what he’d said.
She went on, “Mr. Malone, is there anything I can do?”
“Not a thing,” he said, patting her hand again. “Except take good care of Lily. And try to keep from thinking about this horrible thing. It’s all going to be settled and over and forgotten, sooner than you think.” And those, he reflected, were the truest words he’d ever spoken in his life.
The whole subject seemed to be closed, much to his relief. There were so many things he’d rather talk about to Jane Estapoole than murder. He’d managed to touch on only a few of them before she l
ooked at her watch and said she had to go.
He showed her into a taxi, promised to keep in close touch with her and let her know everything that went on, and saw her on her way regretfully.
Oh well, when all this was over—but he still hadn’t figured how to ask her for that dinner date. That was something to which he was going to need to give very careful thought, but some brilliant idea would come to him. It always had.
He was almost carefree when he got back to his office. Jake was there, waiting for him.
“She’s too young for me,” Malone said as he came in the door, “and much too nice, and she wouldn’t look at me anyway, but I can take her to dinner sometime, can’t I?”
Jake stared at him and opened his mouth to speak.
“None of your damned business,” Malone said hastily, sitting down behind his desk. “And just what did you find out?”
“The untimely death of Augustus Bordreau,” Jake said, “was accident pure and simple. It happened at a smallish but noisy party in a Park Avenue apartment in New York. About a dozen people were there. Including Carmena, of course. Gus Bordreau, who was something of a lush anyway, was higher than a kite and trying to fly like one. No, he didn’t jump out the window. Nor was anyone near enough to push him. He was soaring around doing his impressions of the Russian Ballet, having a wonderful time and amusing everybody no end, when he stumbled. Stumbled through the window and ten floors down to the sidewalk.”
“No possibility that something was put in his way to stumble over?” Malone asked.
“Not a chance. He just tripped over his own feet. Some sixteen witnesses, about half of them sober and all of them respectable, testified.”
Malone sighed. “And Ridgeway Commanday?”
“Was crossing the street in front of his club after lunch, when some drunk driver came roaring around the corner and knocked Commanday about a block down the street. No possible connection between the driver and Commanday, or the driver and Carmena. No, Malone, there isn’t any remote possibility of either of those deaths being anything but tragic and unavoidable accidents.”