The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “Steve, of course!”

  “I don’t know, but I still hope he’s somewhere on this train. You joining me in the search? Nice to have your pretty face among us.”

  Lolly had the face of a homesick angel. Her hair was exactly the color of a twist of lemon peel in a glass of champagne brut, her mouth was an overripe strawberry, and her figure might have inspired the French bathing suit, but her eyes were cold and strange as a mermaid’s. “Are you in this with Steve?” she demanded.

  Malone said, “In simple, one-syllable words that even you can understand—No!”

  Lolly suddenly relaxed, swaying against him so that he got a good whiff of brandy, nail polish, and Chanel Number 5. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just upset. I feel so terribly helpless—”

  For Malone’s money, she was as helpless as an eight-button rattlesnake. “You see,” Lolly murmured, “I’m partly to blame for Steve’s running away. I should have stood by him at the trial, but I hadn’t the courage. Even afterward—I didn’t actually promise to come back to him, I just said I’d come to his party. I meant to tell him—in the Pump Room. So, please, please help me find him—so I can make him see how much we really need each other!”

  Malone said, “Try it again, and flick the eyelashes a little bit more when you come to ‘need each other.’ ”

  Lolly jerked away and called him a number of things, of which “dirty little shyster” was the most complimentary. “All right,” she finally said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Steve’s carrying a hundred grand, and you can guess how he got it. I happen to know—Glick isn’t the only one who’s been spying on him since he got out of jail yesterday. I don’t want Steve back, but I do want a fat slice for keeping my mouth shut. One word from me to the D.A. or the papers, and not even you can get him off.”

  “Go on,” Malone said wearily. “But you interest me in less ways than one.”

  “Find Steve!” she told him. “Make a deal and I’ll give you ten per cent of the take. But work fast, because we’re not the only ones looking for him. Steve double-crossed everybody who was at that party this afternoon. He’s somewhere on this train, but he’s probably shaved off his mustache, or put on a fright-wig, or—”

  Malone yawned and said, “Where can I get in touch with you?”

  “I couldn’t get a reservation of any kind.” Her strange eyes warmed hopefully. “But I hear you have a drawing room?”

  “Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,” Malone said hastily. “Besides, I snore. Maybe there’ll be something available for you at the next stop.”

  He was out of there and back in the club car before Lolly could turn on any more of the charm. He decided to have one for the road—the New York Central Road, and one for the Pennsy too. The sensible thing was to find Steve Larsen, collect his own hard-earned fee, and leave Lolly alone. Her offer of ten per cent of the blackmail take touched on a sore spot.

  Malone began to work his way through the train again, this time desperately questioning porters. The worst of it was, there was nothing remarkable about Larsen’s appearance except curly hair, which he’d probably had straightened and dyed, a mustache that could have been shaved off, and a briefcase full of money, which he’d probably hidden. In fact, the man was undoubtedly laughing at everybody from behind a false set of whiskers.

  Such were Malone’s thoughts as he suddenly came face to face again with the Greek Orthodox priest, who stared past him through thick, tinted spectacles. The little lawyer hesitated and was lost. Throwing caution to the winds, he yanked vigorously at the beard. But it was an orthodox beard, attached in the orthodox manner. Its owner let loose a blast which just possibly might have been an orthodox Greek blessing. Malone didn’t wait to find out.

  His ears were still burning when he stepped into a vestibule and ran head on into Miss Hildegarde Withers. He nodded coldly and started past her.

  “Ah, go soak your fat head!”

  Malone gasped.

  “It’s the parrot,” Miss Withers explained, holding up the caged monstrosity. “It’s been making such a racket that I’m taking it to the baggage car for the night.”

  “Where—where did you get that—bird?” Malone asked weakly.

  “Why, Sinbad is a legacy from the aunt whose funeral I just went back to attend. I’m taking him back to New York with me.”

  “New York!” Malone moaned. “We’ll be there before I find that—”

  “You mean that Mr. Larsen?” As he stood speechless, she went briskly on. “You see, I happened to be at a family farewell party at the table next to yours in the Pump Room, and my hearing is very acute. So, for that matter, is my eyesight. Has it occurred to you that Larsen may be wearing a disguise of some sort?”

  “That it has,” admitted Malone sadly, thinking of the Greek priest.

  The schoolteacher lowered her voice. “You remember that when we had our little chat in the club car some time ago, there was an obviously inebriated sailor dozing behind a newspaper?”

  “There’s one on every train,” Malone said. “One or more.”

  “Exactly. Like Chesterton’s postman, you never notice them. But somehow that particular sailor managed to stay intoxicated without ordering a single drink or nipping at a private bottle. More than that, when you suddenly left he poked his head out from behind the paper and stared after you with a very odd expression, rather as if he suspected you had leprosy. I couldn’t help noticing—”

  “Madam, I love you,” the lawyer said fervently. “I love you because you remind me of Miss Hackett back in Dorchester High, and because of your hat, and because you are sharper than a tack.”

  Miss Withers sniffed, but it was a mollified sniff. “Sorry to interrupt, but that same sailor entered our car just as I left it with the parrot. I just happened to look back, and I rather think he was trying the door of your drawing room.”

  Malone clasped her hand fondly. Unfortunately it was the hand that held the cage, and the parrot took advantage of the long-awaited opportunity to nip viciously at his thumb. “Thank you so very much—some day I’ll wring your silly neck” was Malone’s sincere but somewhat garbled exit line.

  “Go boil your head in lard!” the bird screamed after him.

  The maiden schoolteacher sighed. “Come on, Sinbad, you’re going into durance vile. And I’m going to retire to my lonely couch, drat it all.” She looked wistfully over her shoulder. “Some people have all the fun!”

  But twelve cars, ten minutes, and four drinks later, Malone was lost again. A worried porter was saying, “If you could only remember your car number, sah?” A much harassed Pullman conductor added, “If you’d just show us your ticket stub, we’d locate you.”

  “You don’t need to locate me,” Malone insisted. “I’m right here.”

  “Maybe you haven’t got a stub.”

  “I have so a stub. It’s in my hatband.” Crafty as an Indian guide, Malone backtracked them unerringly to his drawing room. “Here’s the stub—now where am I?”

  The porter looked out the window and said, “Just coming into Altoona, sah.”

  “They lay in the wreck when they found them, They had died when the engine had fell…” sang Malone happily. But the conductor winced and said they’d be going.

  “You might as well,” Malone told him. “If neither one of you can sing baritone.”

  The door closed behind them, and a moment later a soft voice called, “Mr. Malone?”

  He stared at the connecting door. The Rose of Tralee, Malone told himself happily. He adjusted his tie, and tried the door. Miraculously, it opened. Then he saw that it was Miss Hildegarde Withers, looking very worried, who stared back at him.

  Malone said, “What have you done with my redhead?”

  “If you refer to my niece Joannie,” the schoolteacher said sharply, “she only helped me get my stuff aboard and rode as far
as Englewood. But never mind that now. I’m in trouble.”

  “I knew there couldn’t be two parrots like that on one train,” Malone groaned. “Or even in one world.”

  “There’s worse than parrots on this train,” snapped Miss Withers. “This man Larsen for whom you were looking so anxiously—”

  The little lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Just what is your interest in Larsen?”

  “None whatever, except that he’s here in my compartment. It’s very embarrassing, because he’s not only dead, he’s undressed!”

  “Holy St. Vitus!” gulped Malone. “Quiet! Keep calm. Lock your door and don’t talk!”

  “My door is locked, and who’s talking?” The schoolteacher stepped aside and Malone peered gingerly past her. The speed with which he was sobering up probably established a new record. It was Larsen, all right. He was face down on the floor, dressed only in black shoes, blue socks, and a suit of long underwear. There was also a moderate amount of blood.

  At last Malone said hoarsely, “I suspect foul play!”

  “Knife job,” said Miss Withers with professional coolness. “From the back, through the latissimus dorsi. Within the last twenty minutes, I’d say. If I hadn’t had some difficulty in convincing the baggage men that Sinbad should be theirs for the night, I might have walked in on the murderer at work.” She gave Malone a searching glance. “It wasn’t you, by any chance?”

  “Do you think I’d murder a man who owed me three thousand dollars?” Malone demanded indignantly. He scowled. “But a lot of people are going to jump to that conclusion. Nice of you not to raise an alarm.”

  She sniffed. “You didn’t think I’d care to have a man—even a dead man—found in my room in this state of undress? Obviously, he hasn’t your money on his person. So—what is to be done about it?”

  “I’ll defend you for nothing,” John J. Malone promised. “Justifiable homicide. Besides, you were framed. He burst in upon you and you stabbed him in defense of your honor…”

  “Just a minute! The corpse was your client. You’ve been publicly asking for him all through the train. I’m only an innocent bystander.” She paused. “In my opinion, Larsen was lured to your room purposely by someone who had penetrated his disguise. He was stabbed, and dumped here. Very clever, because if the body had been left in your room, you could have got rid of it or claimed that you were framed. But this way, to the police mind at least, it would be obvious that you did the job and then tried to palm it off on the nearest neighbor.”

  Malone sagged weakly against the berth. His hand brushed against the leather case, and something slashed viciously at his fingers. “But I thought you got rid of that parrot!” he cried.

  “I did,” Miss Withers assured him. “That’s Precious in his case. A twenty-pound Siamese, also part of my recent legacy. Don’t get too close, the creature dislikes train travel and is in a foul temper.”

  Malone stared through the wire window and said, “Its father must have been either a bobcat or a buzz saw.”

  “My aunt left me her mink coat, on condition that I take both her pets,” Miss Withers explained wearily. “But I’m beginning to think it would be better to shiver through these cold winters. And speaking of cold—I’m a patient woman, but not very. You have one minute, Mr. Malone, to get your dead friend out of here!”

  “He’s no friend of mine, dead or alive,” Malone began. “And I suggest—”

  There was a heavy knocking on the corridor door. “Open up in there!”

  “Say something!” whispered Malone. “Say you’re undressed!”

  “You’re undressed—I mean, I’m undressed,” she cried obediently.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” a masculine voice said on the other side of the door. “But we’re searching this train for a fugitive from justice. Hurry, please.”

  “Just a minute,” sang out the schoolteacher, making frantic gestures at Malone.

  The little lawyer shuddered, then grabbed the late Steve Larsen and tugged him through the connecting door into his drawing room. Meanwhile, Miss Withers cast aside maidenly modesty and tore pins from her hair, the dress from her shoulders. Clutching a robe around her, she opened the door a crack and announced, “This is an outrage!”

  The train conductor, a Pullman conductor, and two Altoona police detectives crowded in, ignoring her protest. They pawed through the wardrobe, peered into every nook and cranny.

  Miss Withers stood rooted to the spot, in more ways than one. There was a damp brownish-red spot on the carpet, and she had one foot firmly holding it down. At last the delegation backed out, with apologies. Then she heard a feeble, imploring tapping on the connecting door, and John J. Malone’s voice whispering “Help!”

  The maiden schoolteacher stuck her head out into the corridor again, where the search party was already waiting for Malone to open up. “Oh, officer!” she cried tremulously. “Is there any danger?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Was the man you’re looking for a burly, dark-complexioned cutthroat with dark glasses and a pronounced limp in the left leg?”

  “No, lady. Get lost, please, lady.”

  “Because on my way back from the diner I saw a man like that. He leered, and then followed me through three cars.”

  “The man we’re looking for is an embezzler, not a mental case.” They hammered on Malone’s door again. “Open up in there!”

  Over her shoulder Miss Withers could see the pale, perspiring face of John J. Malone as he dragged Steve Larsen back into her compartment again.

  “But, officer,” she improvised desperately, “I’m sure that the awful dark man who followed me was a distinct criminal type—” There was a reassuring whisper of “Okay” from behind her, and the sound of a softly closing door. Miss Withers backed into her compartment, closed and locked the connecting door, and then sank down on the edge of her berth, trying to avoid the blankly staring eyes of the dead man.

  Next door there was a rumble of voices, and then suddenly Malone’s high tenor doing rough justice to “Did Your Mother Come from Ireland?” The schoolteacher heard no more than the first line of the chorus before the Jello in her knees melted completely. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Malone holding a dagger before her, and she very nearly fainted again.

  “You were so right,” the little lawyer told her admiringly. “It was a frame-up all right—but meant for me. This was tucked into the upholstery of my room. I sat on it while they were searching, and had to burst into song to cover my howl of anguish.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Miss Withers.

  He sat down beside her, patted her comfortingly on the shoulder, and said, “Maybe I can shove the body out the window!”

  “We’re still in the station,” she reminded him crisply. “And from what experience I’ve had with train windows, it would be easier to solve the murder than open one. Why don’t we start searching for clues?”

  Malone stood up so quickly that he rapped his head on the bottom of the upper berth. “Never mind clues. Let’s just find the murderer!”

  “Just as easy as that?”

  “Look,” he said. “This train was searched at the request of the Chicago police because somebody—probably Bert Glick—tipped them off that Larsen and a lot of stolen money were on board. The word has got around. Obviously, somebody else knew—somebody who caught the train and did the dirty work. It’s reasonable to assume that whoever has the money is the killer.”

  There was a new glint in Miss Withers’s blue-gray eyes. “Go on.”

  “Also, Larsen’s ex-wife—or do I mean ex-widow?—is aboard. I saw her. She is a lovely girl whose many friends agree that she would eat her young or sell her old mother down the river into slavery for a fast buck.” He took out a cigar. “I’ll go next door and have a smoke while you change, and then we’ll go look for Lolly Larsen.”

  “I�
�m practically ready now,” the schoolteacher agreed. “But take that with you!”

  Malone hesitated, and then with a deep sigh reached down and took a firm grasp of all that was mortal of his late client. “Here we go again!”

  A few minutes later Miss Hildegarde Withers was following Malone through the now-darkened train. The fact that this was somebody else’s problem never occurred to her. Murder, according to her tenets, was everybody’s business.

  Malone touched her arm as they came at last to the door of the club car. “Here is where I saw Lolly last,” he whispered. “She only got aboard at the last minute, and didn’t have a reservation.” He pointed down the corridor. “See that door, just this side of the pantry? It’s a private lounge, used only for railroad officials or big-shots like governors or senators. Lolly bribed the steward to let her use it when she wanted to have a private talk with me. It just occurred to me that she might have talked him into letting her have it for the rest of the night. If she’s still there—”

  “Say no more,” Miss Withers cut in. “I am a fellow passenger, also without a berth, seeking only a place to rest my weary head. After all, I have as much right in there as she has. But you will be within call, won’t you?”

  “If you need help, just holler,” he promised. Malone watched as the schoolteacher marched down the corridor, tried the lounge door gently, and then knocked. The door opened and she vanished inside.

  The little lawyer had an argument with his conscience. It wasn’t just that she reminded him of Miss Hackett, it was that she had become a sort of partner. Besides, he was getting almost fond of that equine face.

  Oh, well, he’d be within earshot. And if there was anything in the inspiration which had just come to him, she wasn’t in any real danger anyway. He went on into the bar. It was half-dark and empty now, except for a little group of men in Navy uniforms at the far end, who were sleeping sprawled and entangled like a litter of puppies.

  “Sorry, Mr. Malone, but the bar is closed,” a voice spoke up behind him. It was Horace Lee Randolph, looking drawn and exhausted. He caught Malone’s glance toward the sleeping sailors and added, “Against the rules, but the conductor said don’t bother ’em.”