by Craig Rice
Jake sighed deeply. “Mr. Jake Justus is a television producer,” he said nastily. “Mr. Jake Justus is a big shot. Everybody wants to meet Mr. Justus. Everybody has a relative who wants to meet Mr. Justus. Mr. Justus has a lovely office in the Wrigley Building with his name on the door. In gold letters yet. Mr. Justus has a telephone answering service that says Mr. Justus will call you back, only Mr. Justus never does. And pretty soon Mr. Justus won’t have the lovely office with his name on the door—”
“Stop it,” Malone said. He walked over to the filing cabinet and came back with the bottle from the Confidential drawer and two glasses. As Jake gratefully downed his drink, he added, “You know yourself it’s just a matter of time.”
“Time,” Jake said in a bitter voice, “is the thing I don’t have the money to pay for.”
Malone cleared his throat. “How about a little loan to tide you over—” He reached for his wallet.
Jake looked suspiciously at Malone, and even more suspiciously at the gin.
“I am not,” Malone said indignantly. “Nor out of my mind.” He took out the hundred-dollar bills. “I know I’ll get it back. Just a matter of time. If this will tide you over—”
“Malone,” Jake said, fingering the bills. “You didn’t win this much at poker.”
“I could have,” Malone said. “And have, too, in my time. But as it happens, a client paid a big bill.” Jake still looked a little dubious, and he added quickly, “A long overdue bill. Don’t think you ever knew about the case.”
“Well—” Jake said. He still looked dubious.
“Just consider it a little investment,” Malone told him, “in the Justus Television Production Company. Probably turn out to be the best one I ever made.”
He shoved the bills farther across the table, Jake picked them up gingerly as though he were afraid they might vanish, and put them away.
“And absolutely no need to tell Helene about this,” Malone added.
“Definitely no need,” Jake said. He poured himself another drink, said, “Thanks, Malone,” and lit a cigarette. “Now about this morning—?”
Malone was silent for a moment. Sooner or later Jake was going to have to be told about the composite. But not just yet. And as far as what he preferred to call the Other Thing—that he shoved firmly into the back of his mind. Right now he’d rather pretend it didn’t exist at all.
“I met Mrs. Swackhammer,” he began slowly. “A very interesting woman—”
“Swackhammer,” Jake said, frowning. “Sounds familiar.”
“Funny. It does to me too,” Malone said. “But anyway. She’s the owner and the boss and the brains of Delora Deanne.”
He was still trying to think what to say next when Helene made her second appearance. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were faintly pink, and there were tiny glistens of snow on the caramel-colored fur. She’s done a nice, quick job, Malone reflected admiringly, of running around the block after she’d seen Jake enter the building, to collect that faint glow and the snowflakes.
She kissed Jake enthusiastically and said, “Well! Am I in time to hear all about Delora Deanne?”
Malone repressed a slight shudder and said, “You are.”
She glanced at the bottle on the desk and said, “A fine idea, but let’s adjourn to Joe the Angel’s, where the glasses are cleaner.”
Instead of indignantly defending his housekeeping, Malone gave her a feeble smile and said, “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Got a very important telephone call to make first.”
At the door Helene paused and said, “Malone, did you know that Maggie’s brother—”
“I do,” Malone said. “He’s inventing eyes like a camera. Or something. Later.” He waved them toward the door.
The question that had suddenly come into his mind might not mean a thing, and then again, it might. Anyway, it wasn’t going to do any harm to find out. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of Rico di Angelo’s strictly high-class undertaking parlor on North Avenue.
He was still wondering just how to phrase the question when Rico came to the phone. “Listen,” he said at last, after spending as much time as he could on idle pleasantries, “I want to know something about your business. Can you cut off a person’s hands? A live person, that is. And then embalm them?”
“I say no,” Rico said, a little coldly.
“You mean it can’t be done?”
“I mean I don’t cut off anybody’s hands, Malone.”
“You don’t understand,” Malone said desperately. “It’s a hypothetical question. I mean, is it possible for something like that to be done?” He heard only silence, and drew a long slow breath. “Look, Rico. Suppose somebody has somebody’s hands. Never mind what’s happened to the rest of the somebody. Could this somebody take this somebody’s hands and take them to somebody—not you—and have them—?”
“Malone,” Rico interrupted. His voice was very gentle and almost pleading. “I am your good friend. My cousin Joe the Angel, he is your best friend. You go home. Drink coffee. Lie down. You feel better. Malone, go home.” He hung up.
The little lawyer sighed, replaced the receiver and struggled into his overcoat. He’d make another try at getting the information as soon as he felt a little stronger.
He was halfway to the door when the telephone rang. For a minute he hesitated, finally gave in and answered it. Rico was calling back. But this time his voice was indignant, almost angry.
“Malone,” Rico said. “I just think it all over fast. I am your good friend, yes. My cousin Joe the Angel is your best friend, yes. But Malone, I will not do it. Not even for you. Whatever it is, I will—not—do—it.” And he hung up for the second time.
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About the Author
Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Rice’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1957 by Craig Rice
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5174-3
This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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