by Craig Rice
With good luck, the fake kidnaping could be kept completely off the record. It was just a matter of keeping von Flanagan’s mind on other things.
“And this afternoon,” he went on, “my client, Miss Estapoole here, called for her. There wasn’t any question of kidnaping, the little girl went along perfectly willingly and happily with one of her favorite relatives. She knew she’d be safe with Jane Estapoole.”
Alberta, standing by von Flanagan’s chair, and leaning just slightly on his shoulder, managed a very quick wink at Malone and said, “Jane wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Jane loves me.”
“All right,” von Flanagan said, “all right.” He seemed to have an idea that things were getting a little away from him. “But then why did she drag the little girl all the way down to that cottage in the dunes?”
“Because,” Malone said quickly, “she was in a state of panic. Weren’t you in a state of panic, Jane?”
Jane nodded furiously and stared at the floor.
Nothing had been said about Jane Estapoole’s telephone call to Alberta’s mother, nor about Alberta’s singlehanded job of escaping. And with reasonable luck, Malone reflected, nothing was going to be said.
“Remember,” Malone said sonorously, “this well-brought-up, sheltered young lady had been through the terrific shock of killing a man—even though it was in self-defense. Admittedly she’d gone to that studio to search for the envelope of papers Leonard Estapoole had had with him on the night of his death. Why? She may have thought he’d decided to entrust it to his stepdaughter Lily instead of carrying it with him. That must have been it.”
He managed to flash a quick warning glance that both Jane Estapoole and Lily Bordreau caught.
“This man,” Malone went on, “admittedly an associate of unsavory characters, and working under an assumed name, came bursting in. There was undoubtedly a brief struggle. She did the first thing she could think to do—grabbed up the nearest heavy object and struck what turned out to be a lethal blow.”
“But,” von Flanagan said, scowling, “that room was fixed up to look like there’d been a big struggle, and it was fixed up phony. And that brass snake-charmer had all the fingerprints washed off of it.”
“Again, panic,” Malone said. He took out a handkerchief, patted his brow. “She felt that she had to hide her traces. She remembered the condition of my office after Leonard Estapoole had been murdered, and forgetting that you already had Frank McGinnis in jail—” he didn’t dare look at his watch now—“tried to make it look the same. She washed off the fingerprints for the same reason. This delicate, sensitive girl, von Flanagan, had never encountered crime or criminals before.”
In a corner of the room Helene, out of the range of vision of everyone but Malone, played an imaginary violin. He gave her his dirtiest look and said, “So there you have it, and if that isn’t perfect self-defense—”
“If he keeps this up,” von Flanagan growled at Jane Estapoole, “I’ll feel like I ought to apologize for keeping you in jail.” Then he roared, “All right, Klutchetsky, come take it down.”
By the time the statement—Malone refused to let anyone call it a confession—was finished and signed, a pale and half-tearful Carmena Estapoole arrived, Hammond Estapoole at her elbow. Malone held his breath for a moment as she scooped Alberta into her arms and then he said quickly, “Now everything’s all right. There wasn’t any kidnaping. Never was any kidnaping. Jane didn’t harm or threaten her in any way, and neither did anyone else. So there’s nothing to worry or make a fuss about.”
Carmena Estapoole got the idea right away and spent the next few minutes overwhelming everyone present with gratitude. There was a brief argument regarding Alberta’s going straight home. She was, she declared, having too much fun. She lost to. a majority vote.
“And now,” Malone said, “if you’ll all just go away and leave me with von Flanagan—we have things to discuss.”
Helene, Jake and Lily Bordreau protested that one, and lost to superior force.
The little lawyer drew a long breath. “In a few minutes, you and I are going to pay a visit. But right now, there’s something to be settled.”
Von Flanagan grumbled, pointed out that both murderers were already in jail and had made acceptable confessions, growled something about the lateness of the hour, suspected irritably that Malone was going to perform something just to make life harder for him, and that anyway he had a date that evening for a poker game.
Malone pointed out that it was von Flanagan’s duty as a police officer and that it wasn’t going to take long anyway.
Von Flanagan looked suspicious, mumbled that it had better be good, whatever it was, and where did Malone want him to go, anyway.
“To see Max Hook,” Malone said. “First I’ve got a couple of things to tell you. I did have an appointment with Leonard Estapoole at my office night before last.”
“I know that,” von Flanagan said.
“Of course you do,” Malone said. “And you knew it at the time. But until then there were only two people in the world who knew it outside of Leonard Estapoole and myself. I’ve made positive of that.”
The big police officer looked fixedly at a spot on the wall and said nothing.
“This is important,” Malone said. “Leonard Estapoole called me and made that appointment himself. But he made it for ten-thirty.”
“I knew that too,” von Flanagan said, “and I don’t see what’s so important about it.”
“I do,” Malone said. “Because Leonard Estapoole got there early. Nearly an hour early.”
Von Flanagan went right on saying nothing.
“What makes it important,” Malone said, “is that there’s only one person who could have tipped you off that he was going to be there. Am I right?”
Von Flanagan looked at his old friend for a long, unhappy moment. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes. It was old Estapoole himself.”
“Thought so,” the little lawyer said triumphantly. He took out a fresh cigar and began sliding off its wrapper.
“He came to me instead of to anybody else,” von Flanagan said, not looking at Malone, “because he’d heard you and I had had our occasional run-ins. He told me why he was meeting you and he planned to trip you up. He had it in for you. He was going to get there early, ahead of you—he said he could get in your office, any dime-store master key would open it—and see if he could find any additional proof. Trace your direct contact with the kidnapers.”
“But there wasn’t any kidnaping,” Malone reminded him.
Von Flanagan shrugged his heavy shoulders. “All right, this imaginary kidnaping. Anyway, he wanted me in at the finish.”
“I knew it!” Malone said. “It had to be that way. Because there couldn’t be any other way. Absolutely no one else knew he was going to be there, so it stands to reason the only person who tipped you off was Leonard Estapoole himself. But here’s the main point. Did you, accidentally or otherwise, tip off anybody else? That could mean a great deal.”
Von Flanagan shook his head firmly. “Not one soul. Scanlon and Klutchetsky didn’t have any idea why we were going up to your office. I told them just what they told you last night, that if you were in I wanted to see you, and if you weren’t, we were going bowling.”
“Wonderful,” Malone said happily. “Perfect. That clears up everything.” He lit the cigar. “And last night?”
“A girl called me,” von Flanagan said. “It must of been her. Miss Estapoole. Her voice—”
“I know,” Malone said. “It’s a lovely one. She just couldn’t bear the thought of that poor man’s body lying there undiscovered. Or of Lily walking in and having the shock of finding it.” He’d already made up his mind that Jane Estapoole had done the tipping off. Though he doubted in his heart that her motives had been quite that altruistic.
Von Flanagan looked at him anxiously. “Malone,” he said unhappily, “it’s true we’ve had our little disagreements from time to time.”
“It is that,” Malone said. “And all of that.”
“And it’s true that now and then we’ve had our little troubles.”
Malone said, “You’re putting it-very mildly, von Flanagan.” “But you know,” von Flanagan said earnestly, “I’m the last one in the world to wish you any harm. I wouldn’t be the one to see a man like Leonard Estapoole get you in a jam. You know that. If I went up to your office night before last it was only for pure friendship—old friendship. I thought that in case you were in any trouble, I could get you out of it. You believe that, don’t you?”
“In another minute,” Malone said, “you’ll have me in tears.”
“Malone,” von Flanagan said, very unhappily now, “you’re not sore about it, are you?”
“Sore?” Malone said cheerfully. “Me, sore? Right now, I couldn’t be sore at anybody in this whole great big beautiful world. And now let’s be on our way. We’re going to see Max Hook.”
Von Flanagan was too subdued to protest at their destination. But halfway there he broke the silence with a question. “But, Malone, Leonard Estapoole told me he was going to get there early. And when I got to your office at ten-thirty, he wasn’t there.”
“No,” Malone said. “He wasn’t there.”
“But, Malone. Then he must have been there and gone away again.”
“Yes,” Malone said. “He must have. And don’t bother me. You’ll have the whole story before long.”
Von Flanagan sighed deeply and was silent.
If the combination elevator operator and bodyguard at Max Hook’s building felt any surprise at von Flanagan’s presence, he kept it discreetly to himself. Nor did Max Hook himself indicate that there was anything unusual in the occasion. He greeted them cordially, offered them chairs and cigars wrapped in tinted tinfoil, sent for the portable bar and asked Malone a question with his eyebrows.
Malone said Yes to everything, including the question.
“My good friend, von Flanagan,” he said, “is a man of great understanding. So you can give him the paper I signed, that you’re keeping for Frank McGinnis.”
Max Hook shrugged his shoulders, grinned, took the paper from his desk drawer, and handed it to von Flanagan.
The big police officer read it through twice, while his broad face turned from its normal pink to crimson, to magenta and finally almost to purple.
“Now wait a minute,” Malone said quickly. “There’s more to tell. Leonard Estapoole did get to my office early, just as he told you he would. And he wasn’t there when you got there at ten-thirty. Because he was out on the fire escape, stone cold dead. Or dead, anyway. It couldn’t have been long. Not more than a few minutes before I came in.”
He went on to tell von Flanagan everything that had happened the night before last, not omitting Tommy Storm’s rescue of him.
Von Flanagan stared at him steadily and angrily. “By all that’s holy,” he began ominously, “I’ve wanted to arrest you for twenty years, and this is the time I’m going to do it. And not just for obstructing justice, either.”
“You’re not going to arrest anybody,” Malone said. “Because I haven’t done anything. Oh, perhaps a little matter of moving a body without a permit. That’s a minor offense, punishable with a fine. But you don’t even have me for obstructing justice. Because I’ve been furthering it.”
Von Flanagan stated exactly what he thought about Malone’s furthering justice, and added a number of unpleasant details about what he thought of Malone.
“According to that paper,” Malone said, pointing to it, “McGinnis was to stick to his story and stay arrested for twenty-four hours—or until you had the murderer of Leonard Estapoole in jail.”
“And I’m going to have,” von Flanagan roared, “just as soon as I can get you down there.”
“Calm down,” Malone said. “You’ve already got the murderer of Leonard Estapoole in jail.”
Both von Flanagan and Max Hook said “McGinnis?” in the same incredulous breath.
“I know,” Malone said. He put aside Max Hook’s fine cigar and reached for one of his own. “The idea seemed impossible. It seemed preposterous, when I first thought of it. But it’s the right answer, and I have proof. I can produce a witness who saw Frank McGinnis go into that office building just after Leonard Estapoole did, and come out a short time later. The same witness saw Frank McGinnis trail me, catch up with me on a dark street, slug me, take me to a cheap hotel on West Madison Street and park me there so that I couldn’t go back to my office and dispose of the body.”
Von Flanagan said, with dark suspicion, “I hope you’re telling me the truth.”
Max Hook had wiped the surprise off his face, and said nothing at all.
“There isn’t any doubt about it,” Malone said. “And finally, if you really take his place apart, you’ll probably find that precious envelope. It will be pasted under a table or inside a picture, or some stupid obvious place like that, but it’ll be there.”
Max Hook made a strange, half-strangled little sound.
“And I imagine,” the little lawyer said, “if you ask Little Georgie—you’ll find that the reason he picked Frank McGinnis to act as the fall guy was partly because he was the type of guy who would do something like this particular murder for this particular motive—and partly because Little Georgie, who knows practically everything that goes on in this town, knew that Frank McGinnis had a remote but more-or-less romantic connection with the Estapoole family. We might ask him.”
Max Hook picked up the house phone, spoke briefly to Little Georgie, and said, “You were right, Malone.” He paused. “But the envelope—”
Malone said, “Leonard Estapoole had to have it with him. It never left his person. But it wasn’t on his body. Obviously, Frank McGinnis found what he was after.”
“All right,” Max Hook said. “But in that case, why did he go ahead and agree to this put-up job of yours?”
“Because,” Malone said, “he couldn’t think of a safer way to prove he was innocent. When he was approached, he figured that agreeing to it, and having that signed paper, would make him foolproof safe.”
Max Hook poured three fresh drinks. Malone relit his cigar. Von Flanagan said, “But how did you know?”
“The bronze Buddha,” Malone said. There was no point in letting them know that only a few hours ago he’d been ready to give up and head for a country where there was no extradition and the living was cheap.
Von Flanagan said, “What’s this about the bronze Buddha?”
“On my desk,” Malone said. “Or rather, not on my desk. Not right now. And don’t forget I want it back.” He threw away his match. “When I made that deal with Frank McGinnis, right here in front of the Hook, I told him exactly what to say. But I didn’t mention the bronze Buddha. I didn’t even think of it at the time.”
Max Hook nodded slowly and said, “That’s right, you didn’t.”
“I just said, ‘Bashed him on the head,’ if I remember correctly. There wasn’t any mention of any weapon. And there were plenty of other heavy objects around that he could have used.
“If he hadn’t been the murderer, if he hadn’t been there in my office, he’d never have known that there was a bronze Buddha. But he had been there, and he had used it as a weapon. When he did his talking, he said so.”
Von Flanagan said very thoughtfully, “That’s right. Why, there’s even a picture of it in the paper.” He was silent for a moment. “With that, and with your witness—” He paused again and indicated the paper. “The rest of this had better just be quietly forgotten, along with the kidnaping. Which never was official anyway. And we’ll find that envelope.”
Malone cleared his throat. “One return favor,” he said softly. “After all, tike you said, ours has been a long friendship. I hope it’ll be a longer one. All I want is five minutes alone with that envelope, when you get it.”
Von Flanagan looked at him. A little more than pure friendship was involved, too. This wasn’t the kind o
f story he would like to have get around.
“Sure thing,” he said heartily. “Easiest little thing to arrange in the world.”
Just the shadow of a smile crossed Max Hook’s face.
CHAPTER 28
“All right, all right,” Malone told Jake and Helene. “You’ll just have to wait a minute. Maggie’s been waiting here overtime to tend to a little important business for me.”
He sat down behind his desk, lighted a cigar, and contemplated a world that was not only bright with spring moonlight but with a lot of other things as well. He knew that the check from Max Hook would be an outstanding one, and there was still Mike Medinica to deal with. He had a feeling he was about to miss another night’s sleep, but that it would be worth it.
Maggie said from the door, “About that bracelet, Malone. Don’t you think that a Paris negligee from Saks, or a big bottle of imported perfume, or four dozen roses—”
“No,” Malone said. “And see that it gets delivered this evening. Tommy Storm is a very remarkable girl.”
She shrugged her shoulders and went to the telephone. “Malone,” Helene said desperately. “Are you going to tell what happened, or aren’t you?”
He brought out the bottle he usually saved for very important clients, located three glasses, and told them everything. Or almost everything.
“My mistake,” he finished, “was that I kept thinking there was only one murderer involved. While the truth was, everybody else was right all along, and there were two. Then you turned up alibis for everybody involved for the night of Leonard Estapoole’s murder. And then I remembered about the bronze Buddha.”
“But,” Helene said, “Jane. How did you know it was Jane?”
He sighed. “It had to be either Jane or Lily, the way I was thinking. And it couldn’t have been Lily because of her dirty little hands. When she was driving into town, I noticed the pencil smudges on her hands.”
“She’s always had pencil smudges on her hands,” Helene said, “ever since she took up sketching in Miss Finley’s School.”