by Craig Rice
“There certainly appears to be every indication of it,” Malone said, trying to be delicate about it. He looked at his cigar and added, “But what I don’t quite understand is just exactly what you want me to do.”
“Frankly,” she said, “neither do I. But I felt that you would be able to think of something. I do know quite a little about your reputation, Mr. Malone.”
He wasn’t at all sure whether he ought to thank her or not.
“At the very least,” she went on, “I expected you to be able to tell me what to do with—these.” She nodded toward the box. “Nothing like this has ever come up in my entire experience.”
Malone refrained from commenting on that. Having a pair of beautifully embalmed hands arrive with the bills in his morning mail was hardly an everyday occurrence in anyone’s life. He scowled at the box.
“I assume,” he said, “that you’ve told none of the others here—nor anyone else—about your receiving these?”
“Obviously not,” she said.
No, he reflected, she wouldn’t have. She undoubtedly had simply unwrapped the box, examined its contents, put the cover back on, and thought things over for a while before doing anything. New experience or not, she had made no outcry or disturbance, had said or done nothing that would alarm her staff, her photographer and copywriter, her executive assistant and the remaining Delora Deannes. At last she’d sent for Malone. And a good idea, too, he told himself; probably the best one she’d ever had.
He wondered what kind of a fee she had in mind.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “have you received anything besides this? Any letters, any messages, any telephone calls?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Just these.” Her slate-colored eyes looked at Malone appraisingly. “Just what are you thinking about, Mr. Malone?”
“There is just a possibility,” the little lawyer said, very slowly, turning his cigar around between his fingers and looking at it intently, “that it might not be murder.” He was trying to think at least several yards ahead of himself.
She watched him thoughtfully and said nothing.
“You may get a message,” Malone told her. “In fact, if it is not murder, you most likely will.”
Yes, he thought, that could be the case, and there was the chance that if Eva Lou Strauss was still alive, he might be justified in not insisting that the police be notified. Certainly, this didn’t seem like the right or tactful time to disagree with his new client on that point. The thing to do was wait.
“If she’s been kidnaped,” Malone began, and then stopped. There hadn’t been any message of any kind, nothing like the conventional warning against calling the cops. But perhaps there hadn’t been time yet. “If she has,” he went on, “you most certainly will get a message and some kind of a demand for money.”
“I,” Hazel Swackhammer said, looking uninterested, “am leaving everything up to you, Mr. Malone. I know you will handle the situation with perfect discretion.”
He realized that she wasn’t going to be interested in putting out much, if any, money to ransom Eva Lou Strauss, who wouldn’t be any further use to her without the Delora Deanne hands. Well, he would cross that bridge after the horse was stolen, and lock the barn door when he came to it.
“What did the—rest of her look like?” he asked, hoping he’d phrased it right.
By way of answer, she unlocked and opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a portfolio of photographs. Third from the top was a full-length picture of the girl with the nationally famous hands. A tallish girl, with a generously curved figure that would have been fully appreciated in one of the better harems, but whose large-featured face showed too much and too garish make-up, and who had entirely too much frizzy hair.
“Her hair, yellow,” Hazel Swackhammer said. “Not blond, yellow.”
Malone understood and appreciated the distinction. He gave back the portfolio and said, “Tell me a little something about her personal life.”
“As far as I have been concerned,” she told him, “her personal life consisted of an address and a telephone number in my files.” She gave both of them to Malone, who noted them down. “Except that naturally I reminded her from time to time of her responsibility to the reputation of Delora Deanne.”
“Naturally, Malone agreed, and remembered something else. He pointed his cigar at the newspaper clippings and said, “What do you want me to do about these?”
“Put a stop to them,” she said. “Find out their origin. That comes first.”
Yes, it would. The little lawyer picked up the top one and read it again. Nothing remarkable nor original. What model, internationally known for her voice, beauty and cosmetic appeal, had turned from cutting up with a well-known playboy to blackmailing him? Malone sighed. He knew most of Chicago’s better-known playboys, either by name or reputation, as very casual acquaintances, or as worried clients, and it was a long, long list.
On the other hand, though, he did know the columnist, Ned McKoen. But in any case, getting information was going to involve expensive and extensive buying in Chicago’s best café-society saloons.
Oh well, he would be sending the bill to Hazel Swackhammer, and it had been a long time since he’d been in the Chez.
“There’s another thing,” he said thoughtfully. “These two situations—the column items and—this—” he pointed to the box again—“may be connected, and then again, they may not. That remains to be seen.” He paused. “Did this girl have any particular enemies that you know of?”
“I know nothing about Eva Lou Strauss,” she told him. “Nor about any of the others. Except that I do believe that Rita Jardee woman has had four husbands and has her eye out for a fifth.” She looked at him squarely. “As long as Delora Deanne is not involved in any way, I have absolutely no concern about it.”
Malone nodded that he understood perfectly. He said, “And how about yourself?”
“A successful woman always has enemies, Mr. Malone,” she said. “I am not the exception.” She paused a moment. “There is one in particular. My former husband, Charles Swackhammer. At one time he was of some assistance to me in the creation and development of Delora Deanne. Now he would like to own and control the business. Now that it is a success. It is just possible that by forcing Delora Deanne into bankruptcy and failure, he would be able to buy me out, and turn my loss into his gain. Or at least,” she added, “so he may think.”
Win, lose or draw, Malone reflected, he did not envy Charles Swackhammer.
He could imagine someone deliberately planning just such a newspaper column for such a purpose. But Malone could hardly imagine him going to the length of mailing Hazel Swackhammer a beautiful box containing the hands of Delora Deanne. No, not even for the purpose of frightening her. If he knew her, he would know better than to try to frighten her. And anyway, assuming that, one way or another, he did gain control of Delora Deanne, he too would need her famous and photographed hands.
At last he said, “Is there anything else you have to tell me?”
Before she answered, she put away the portfolio. She found the brown wrapping paper and the string which had come around the white satiny box, rewrapped the box, tied it securely, put it away on top of the portfolio, and shut and locked the drawer.
Then she said, “I have told you everything, Mr. Malone. I shall mail your retainer to your office. And I trust I shall hear from you before long.”
Malone went away unhappily, with only the vaguest ideas as to where he was going, and what on earth he was going to do when he got there.
He peered wistfully into the mauve-and-gray room and saw that all the Delora Deannes who had been there had disappeared. He wished he knew where Eva Lou Strauss had been. Even more, he wished he knew where she was now. Most of all, he wished that he knew just how he was going to find out.
Dennis Dennis was there, leaning against the conference table, his arms folded, talking to Otis Furlong who was still sprawled in his chair. The
y waved cheerily to Malone to come in.
“I suppose Hazel called you in about the scandal,” Dennis Dennis said.
The little lawyer tried to look surprised. “Scandal?” he repeated innocently.
“Don’t try to be coy,” Otis Furlong said. He took out his pipe and began filling it, ignoring the mossy green carpet which, in this room, was sprinkled with tiny violets. “We too read the daily newspapers.”
Dennis Dennis lit a cigarette and said, “Which is she going to do about it? Sue, or stay shut up?”
“Stay shut up,” Malone said blandly. “Which girl is it, if it really is one of the Deloras?”
Otis Furlong shrugged his shoulders, and Dennis Dennis said, “Search me. Might be any or all of ’em. Though I can’t exactly see the Deloras ganging up together, even to take a sucker.”
“They aren’t exactly en rapport,” Otis Furlong agreed. He finished tamping his pipe and reached for a match. “Hazel must be fit to be tied in a bowknot, though she’d never let on. What I can’t figure is, how did any Delora latch on to a playboy? They live about as secluded lives as top-secret atom scientists.”
Malone said smugly, “Youth will find a way,” and brushed hopelessly at the cigar ashes that had just fallen on his vest. It was true, Delora Deanne, the beautiful, the enchanted, the well-nigh legendary, never showed herself in public. That, he had always assumed, had been part of the magic legend. Now he realized that none of them could possibly have appeared publicly. The Delora Deannes, he reflected, must have led one hell of a dull life.
“I wonder who the playboy is,” he asked very casually, not really expecting an answer, but hoping for the best.
The handsome photographer shrugged again, and again Dennis Dennis said, “Search me.” He added, “I’m glad Hazel isn’t going to make a great big thing out of it. We have enough troubles around here as it is.”
“Any particular kind of troubles?” Malone asked lazily, with a great show of disinterest.
“Oh, no. Just the usual run of mild upheavals that result from handling a bunch of highly jealous females,” Otis Furlong said. “And poor old Hazel always worrying for fear her ex is going to try and take her precious business away from her. And Dennis here worrying for fear his ex will find out how much money he’s winning at the races and try to get her alimony increased.”
Dennis Dennis snorted. He added, “And Otis here worrying for fear his ex is going to get laryngitis and lose her job, or get drunk and fall on her face in a Delora Deanne broadcast.”
“My ex being Rita Jardee,” Otis Furlong explained. “But our pal here exaggerates my worries.” He lit his pipe, put away the matches, got to his feet with amazing, catlike grace for so tall a man, and said, “Drop in at my place some time, Malone, and have a drink. It’s right in the neighborhood. I’ve got something cute to show you.”
“And drop in at my ivory tower here some time,” Dennis Dennis said. “I’ll whip up a poem or something.”
Malone said a yes and a thank you to both of them, and went on to the little blue-and-gold reception room. The breathtaking lovely who had already told him her name was Tamia Tabet, and whose telephone number he had already obtained, smiled at him warmly, from behind her gilt-and-ivory desk. Malone made a mental note to do much, much more research about the whole Delora Deanne organization, and soon.
“Well, Mr. Malone,” said Myrdell Harris’ shrill voice. “What’s going to happen now?”
He turned to look at her, wondering again how that voice, and that misty, dreamy beauty ever got together. “Sorry, I’m not a soothsayer,” he said amiably.
“Come now, Mr. Malone, I know all about you.” Again she favored him with that vague, lovely smile. But there was nothing vague about the way she said, “Who is going to be murdered? Or, has she been?”
Chapter Three
“Come in quick, Malone, and lock the door,” Helene Justus said.
The little lawyer obeyed and stood looking at her dejectedly. For once, even looking at Helene didn’t raise his spirits. Not more than a little, anyway. Delora Deanne might have his secret dreams, but it was Helene who had a very special place in his secret heart.
Worries or no worries, he looked admiringly at her smooth, pale hair, nearer the color of pure cornsilk than even Delora Deanne’s, at her caramel-colored fur worn carelessly over her shoulders more perfectly than even Delora Deanne could ever wear anything, at her long, slim legs, more beautiful than anyone’s, anywhere.
But the very sight of her smooth perfection only deepened his gloom. He walked over to the filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer marked Confidential.
“No, thanks, Malone,” Helene said. “It’s too early in the morning.” She looked at him closely. “What’s the matter?”
Malone helped himself generously to the cheap gin, shut the file drawer, growled, “My grandmother died,” and sat down behind his desk.
“I know,” she said unsympathetically. “Your grandmother died in 1886, and this is no time for cheap vaudeville jokes, Malone. I need your help.” She lit a cigarette, frowned, and said, “It’s Jake.”
“I know,” Malone said, as reassuringly as he could. “But look. Remember Rome wasn’t burned down in a night. Building a TV production company takes time.”
“I’m not so sure about Rome,” Helene told him, “but I know all about TV production companies taking time. I know something else, too. They take money. Jake has a beautiful office, but the rent is due on it.”
Malone caught himself on the verge of remarking that two could play at that game. “What can I do?”
“You can lend him some money,” Helene said calmly.
The little lawyer looked at her as though she’d been suddenly taken with a form of insanity. He opened his mouth.
“Shut up and let me talk,” she told him. “There isn’t much time. I told Jake I’d meet him here for lunch. But I got here early, and I’m going out through your back door in one minute. When he gets here, you’re going to lend him the money. A thousand ought to see him through.” She was fumbling through her tan alligator purse. “Tell him you won it. Tell him a client paid you. Tell him anything. But do it.” She shoved ten hundred-dollar bills into his limp hand.
“But—” he began, and stopped. He would do anything in the world for her, and she knew it.
“You said yourself it was just a matter of time.”
Malone hadn’t said anything of the kind, but he refrained from mentioning it.
“He’ll get a show pulled together and sold. And then he’ll pay you back and you’ll pay me back, and he’ll be a highly successful TV producer, and everything will be rosy.”
Malone thought about the Delora Deannes that added up to one composite, and about one of them being missing, and winced inwardly. Still, there would be other possibilities for Jake. All he needed was a start. And Jake would never take the money from Helene herself.
As though she’d been reading his thoughts, she said, “Anyway, I expect to be an ex-heiress any day now. Pa’s courting a red-haired widow he met in Palm Springs.”
On the other hand, there was the chance that Jake might find out about the transaction. Malone shuddered. Then Helene smiled at him, and he would have promised her a round-trip rocket trip to the moon if she’d asked.
Anyway, he told himself after she had gone, he’d as good as committed himself. He stared indignantly at the money and finally stuffed it away in his wallet.
Maggie O’Leary, his black-haired, blue-eyed secretary, came into the office. “Malone—”
“Please,” Malone said wearily. He raised a feebly protesting hand. “I know all about everything. The office rent. The bank. The bill from Saks.” He drew a long breath. “I have a new client. A very rich client. Less than an hour ago she said she was putting a check in the mail.” Though, he thought unhappily, she hadn’t mentioned the amount it would be for.
“Malone—” she began again.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he told h
er valiantly.
“It’s something else,” she said. “Malone, I want you to meet my brother Luke.”
“I’ve met your brother Luke,” Malone said. “Charming guy.”
Maggie drew a long, patient breath. “He’s inventing a camera.”
“Nice of him,” Malone said. “Might come in handy for photographers. Now go away, I want to think.”
She said, “And von Flanagan called. Three times.”
The little lawyer stiffened. A call from his long-time bosom friend and bitter opponent, of the Homicide Division, just might be ominous right now.
“He said it was important,” Maggie added.
Yes, very possibly ominous. Had the—the rest of Eva Lou Strauss’s body been found, had the matter of the hands in the gloves been found out already? Hardly probable, Malone tried to reassure himself. It couldn’t have happened that fast. Von Flanagan did move, and eventually in the right direction, but ponderously. That was supposed to be a cheering thought, but somehow it didn’t seem to do much for him.
He considered calling von Flanagan back. He considered not calling von Flanagan back. He put one hand on the telephone, but left it there. One good way of staying out of trouble was not calling anyone back, especially von Flanagan. And then again—
Jake’s arrival made the happier decision for him. If there was trouble, he’d rather hear about it after lunch.
The tall red-haired ex-newspaperman, ex-press agent, ex-night club owner and possibly ex-television producer if something didn’t turn up, looked tired and worried. He sank into a chair and managed what was a passing imitation of a smile.
Maggie brightened visibly. “Mr. Justus!” she exclaimed happily. “I want you to meet my brother Luke.”
Jake blinked and looked a little vaguely around the room.
“He’s not here,” Maggie said hastily. “But I want you to meet him. He’s inventing a camera with a lot of eyes.”
“Later,” Malone said in a firm voice. “We’ll get to your brother Luke later. Right now, we both want to think.”
She sniffed and flounced out, closing the door hard.