by Craig Rice
“Let me try,” Malone said. He waited a few minutes before calling again. A flat-voiced secretary at the other end of the wire informed him that Mr. Conway was out, no one knew when he would be in, no one knew where he was. Malone dug a little notebook from the drawer of the bed table and called the private line to Jesse Conway’s apartment, then the desk of the apartment hotel where Jesse Conway occasionally visited. He made discreet inquiries of clerks in various Loop hotels and a number of night clubs. As a last resort, he called an intimate friend in the police department. Then he gave up.
“I have a feeling,” he told Anna Marie, “that Jesse Conway has gone to Bermuda for a vacation. Or maybe South America. Or Grand Canyon. Because he isn’t in Chicago and he hasn’t been found dead.”
She stared at him. “I might have expected it.”
“I don’t blame him,” Malone said. “And don’t worry. As far as clothes and anything else you need from your apartment are concerned, I had a client once who was an expert burglar, and he taught me a lot of tricks. And until you can walk right up to the counter of your bank and cash a check, as far as money is concerned”—he paused, swallowed hard, and said—“I can manage.” At least, he hoped he could manage.
“You’re being damned helpful,” she said, with just the right note of appreciation in her voice.
“The regular service to all my clients,” Malone said. He slung his topcoat over his arm and reached for his hat. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t answer the phone, and I’ll hang out the ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign. And while I’m gone, you can be thinking of every bit of information that might be helpful to us.”
She rose and smiled at him, her eyes warm. “Such as a list of the people who wanted to murder Big Joe?”
“No.” His hands touched her shoulders, tightened there. “That would take too long,” he said hoarsely. “Just make up a list of the people who wanted to murder you.”
Chapter Seven
John J. Malone strode into the anteroom of his office in the dingy building on West Washington Street and said, “Good morning, Maggie,” as blithely as though it weren’t two o’clock in the afternoon. “Any calls?”
The black-haired office girl laid aside the book she’d been reading, looked at him coldly, and said, “Several.” She picked up the list. “The bank called. It seems that—”
“All right, I’m overdrawn again,” Malone said hastily. “I knew that.”
“A Miss Fontaine from the Toujours Gai Lingerie Shop called, and that yellow chiffon negligee has arrived in the size-sixteen you ordered—”
“Never mind,” Malone said. “I don’t want it now.”
“A Mr. H. M. Wirtz called—a traffic violation case—”
Malone sighed. “Call Harry back, and tell him I’ll get it fixed for him. Any more?”
“Francis Herman. His brother Mick has been picked up on another burglary rap.”
“Get Fran Herman for me,” Malone said, starting for the door of his private office.
Maggie looked up hopefully. “Are you going to take Mick Herman’s case?”
“No,” Malone said, “but I might want to borrow his tools.” He swung open the door.
“Wait a minute,” Maggie said. “One more. Jesse Conway has called three times.”
Malone stopped, turned, and stood frozen in the doorway.
“He didn’t ask you to phone back. He said he’d call again.”
“If he does,” Malone said, “I’m in, and don’t spare the horses. Or if you can locate him for me, I want to phone him back—”
She made a notation on the desk pad. “Anything else?”
“Just a minute,” Malone stood, one hand on the doorknob, thinking. After all, he reminded himself, he was a businessman, and if he was going to turn over a new leaf and make a respectable fortune, this was a good time to start.
“Several things,” he said. “Get hold of Herman and find out if he wants a lawyer or an alibi, and, in either case, how much he’ll pay. Call Judge Seidel and fix Harry Wirtz’s ticket, and send Harry a bill for twenty-five bucks. No, wait a minute, make it fifty.” He paused. “Oh, yes. Call Miss Fontaine and ask her if she has that same negligee in gray chiffon, size”—and he did some quick mental calculations—“in size twelve.”
Maggie sniffed and said, “Only one woman in a million looks well in gray.”
“In this case,” Malone said, “one in a million is an understatement.”
The telephone rang before Maggie could answer. “Mr. Malone’s office. Who’s calling, please? Mr. Malone just went down the hall, I’ll see if I can catch him for you.” She looked up at Malone and mouthed, “Tom McKeown.”
Malone grinned wickedly. “You caught me.” He went on into his office, closing the door just as Maggie said, “One minute, Mr. McKeown.”
The little lawyer slung his hat on the worn brown leather couch, dropped his topcoat on a chair, sat down at his battered desk, and leisurely lit a cigar before he picked up the receiver. “Hello, Tom. What’s new?”
There were certain conversational formalities to be gone through. Nice to hear from you again. How’s the family? What do you hear from Herb? Ran into a friend of yours in the LaSalle the other day. How about coming out for dinner some night? What do you say we have lunch a week from Thursday?
Through the formalities, Malone noticed delightedly, there was a strained, even anxious, note in Tom McKeown’s voice.
“By the way, Malone, maybe you’d know. What’s this wild story some of the boys are telling around about something that happened in Joe the Angel’s bar last night?”
Malone counted ten and said, “Story? What story? Have I missed something?”
He waited, grinning, while McKeown also counted ten. “Oh, some crazy business,” McKeown said. “Someone said you were there and I thought maybe—” There was an even longer pause. “Tell me, Malone, did you see anything?”
“See anything?” Malone asked innocently.
“Well,” McKeown said, “Harve Reed. You know how Harve is. He’s half Welsh, and you know how those Welshmen are. Superstitious. Well, anyway, Harve, he thought he saw—something—in Joe the Angel’s bar last night, and he talked to a few other guys, and”—Malone could hear McKeown gulping—“well, the story is all over town that Joe the Angel’s bar is haunted, and you know how stories like that can spread, and how much harm they can do, and, well, Harve said you were there last night, and I just wondered—” His voice trailed off.
“Oh,” Malone said. “Oh, that.” He pictured Thomas J. McKeown gripping the receiver, waiting. “You know,” he said in a thoughtful voice, “there was something strange. Just what did Harve claim he saw?”
“He—” Tom McKeown paused. “Malone, what did you see?”
“It’s a funny thing,” Malone said dreamily. “But—well to be frank, Tom, I was a little high. Been to a wake. Fact is, I don’t remember much. But I could swear I saw—Oh, well, it’s too silly to talk about.”
“Malone, what did you see?”
“I saw—I mean, I thought I saw—a girl in a gray suit.”
There was a long silence, and then Thomas J. McKeown said, “Imagine that. You must have been high.”
“She was a darn pretty girl, too,” Malone said. “Had on a cute little hat with a big pink veil. I’d like to meet her some time.” He leaned back in his desk chair and propped the telephone on his chest. “Is that the girl Harve was talking about?”
“I didn’t say anything about a girl,” McKeown said warily.
“Sorry,” Malone said. “Must have misunderstood you. What did Harve see?”
“Oh, nothing,” McKeown said. “You know how Harve is. I’ve been telling him for days he ought to go on the wagon. He passed out in Joe the Angel’s bar last night, and woke up this morning with a wild story about seeing a ghost.” A falsely hearty laugh came over the phone. “Poor Harve. I suppose it’ll be a little green elephant next. Malone—”
“Huh?” said Ma
lone, trying to sound as though he’d been deep in a thoughtful silence. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Well, frankly, I don’t believe in ghosts, myself. Just a minute—” He leaned away from the telephone and said loudly, “I’m busy, Maggie. I don’t care if it is the mayor’s office. I’m talking on the other phone.” Then, back at the mouthpiece, “Sorry I was interrupted. Don’t forget, lunch a week from Thursday. Let’s meet at Joe’s, O. K.? My regards to the wife. Thanks for calling.”
He hung up and yelled, “Maggie!”
She stuck her head around the corner of the door and said in a resigned voice, “My name is not Maggie.”
“All right, Marguerite. Make a note to remind me to call Tom McKeown a week from Wednesday and break a lunch date.”
“Yes, Mr. Malone. And Lew Altman is on the wire.”
Lew Altman didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “Hello, Malone? Say just what the hell did go on in Joe the Angel’s bar last night?”
“Weren’t you there?” Malone asked warily.
“No, but a pal of mine was.”
“Well,” Malone said, “as a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering myself what did go on—”
He used the mayor’s-office-on-the-wire routine to get rid of Lew Altman and, a few minutes later, of Butts O’Hare. In the meantime he congratulated himself, he’d been just properly vague about the curious occurrence in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. He’d just finished using it on Ed Bateman and was relighting his cigar when Maggie came all the way into the office and said, “Mr. Malone, the mayor’s office on the phone.”
“That’s very funny,” Malone said, tossing the match toward the wastebasket. “But stop listening in on my telephone conversations.”
She looked at him disapprovingly for a moment and said, “The mayor’s office is on the wire.”
Malone stuck his cigar in the ash tray and grabbed the phone.
It wasn’t the mayor. It was Herb Shea, one of the mayor’s confidential secretaries. Nice to talk to Malone again. Stinking weather lately, wasn’t it. Say, did Malone know a cop named Klutchetsky?
“Him? Sure,” Malone said, picking up the cigar again. “Known him all my life. Went to St. Joseph’s with him, two terms. Threw him in the drainage canal once. Swell fella.”
Klutchetsky had gone crazy. Maybe Malone could straighten him out. It seems that last night—
Malone listened to the end and then said gravely, “Herb, I don’t want this to get around. Klutchetsky isn’t crazy. I saw the same thing.” He waited a minute and then said, “How did he say she looked?”
“Misty,” Herb said in a small voice. “Just misty. Says he could see right through her. Says she seemed to sort of melt into the air, like cigar smoke.”
“Yup,” Malone said. “That’s how it was. Tell me, Herb, this girl didn’t have anything against Klutchetsky, did she?”
“Hell, no,” Herb said. “He was kind of sweet on her, in fact. Used to take her cigarettes in jail.”
“You just tell him to quit worrying,” Malone said reassuringly. “She wasn’t there to bother him.” He certainly didn’t want a good guy like Klutchetsky to go around unhappy. “Tell him to pray for her soul.” No harm in that, either. Anna Marie might need a few prayers before she was through. “Better keep this quiet, Herb. You know how it is when people get to talking.”
“Oh, sure, sure, sure,” Herb said. There was a short pause and then, “Malone, have you any idea who—it—was looking for last night?”
“None at all,” Malone said with what he hoped sounded like a forced and hollow laugh. “Maybe it was me.”
He sat for a while, tipped perilously back in his desk chair, gazing at the ceiling. It hadn’t taken long for the story to get around. Now, the trick was to produce Anna Marie looking misty, at just the right time and place.
Maggie came in and reported.
“I got Mr. Wirtz’s ticket fixed. I sent Mr. Wirtz a bill for seventy-five dollars. He’ll pay at least forty of it. Fran Herman says his brother is innocent, he never was near the place, nobody saw him, and he didn’t leave any fingerprints. He wants an alibi. I’ve already arranged with Mrs. McDonald to fix him up, and I told Herman I’d let him know the cost as soon as I found how much trouble and expense it would be to you. Miss Fontaine does have that negiligee in gray, size twelve. Do you want rose, blue, or green ribbon ties, and do you want it wrapped as a gift?”
“Green,” Malone said, “and just tell her I’ll wear it home. Maggie, you’re wonderful.”
“You mean invaluable,” she said icily, “and my name is not Maggie. I’ve not been able to reach Jesse Conway, and Mr. Justus is waiting in the office.”
“You’re fired,” Malone said cheerfully. He bellowed, “Jake!”
The tall, red-haired man came in slowly, almost wearily, and closed the door. He said, “Hello, Malone,” in a dull voice, and sat down heavily on the couch. He fumbled for a cigarette.
Malone looked at him thoughtfully. He’d known Jake for a long time. In fact, since quite a while before Jake had met Helene. He’d seen Jake through a number of things, ranging from murder to matrimony. He was going to have to see Jake through something now, he sensed, and he crossed his fingers that it wouldn’t be anything serious this time. “Something on your mind?” he said calmly.
“Damned right,” Jake said. He lit the cigarette, took one puff, and put it out again. “Malone, I’m—look. I couldn’t tell Helene anything about it because she wouldn’t ever agree with my handling it that way, and I know now she’d have been right, but it’s too late. And nobody hates the protection racket worse than I do, but you know how it is, once in a while a guy gets in a spot where he can’t fight, at least I didn’t dare take the chance, because I want Helene to have everything she wants in the world, but believe me, Malone, I would have fought it even if I’d lost the Casino and everything else if I’d known the girl was going to die. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Malone said.
“Malone,” Jake said. “Believe me. I’m haunted.”
Malone jumped in spite of himself. He stared at Jake. The ex-reporter’s face was pale and haggard, his naturally unruly red hair was mussed more than usual, his eyes were tired and red-rimmed.
“That’s no haunt,” Malone said with forced cheerfulness, “that’s a hangover. What you need is a drink.”
He started searching his office. There should be a half-full bottle of gin somewhere in the file drawer marked “Unanswered Correspondence.” Before he could locate it, Maggie came in quietly, a paper in her hand.
“Here’s those figures you wanted, Mr. Malone.”
Malone looked. The scribbled note read: “Mrs. Justus phoned she’s on her way here and if Mr. Justus should call you are not to let him know.”
The little lawyer nodded. “Those look all right to me. Let me check them over to make sure.” He dug through his pockets, found a chewed pencil stub, and wrote hastily, leaning on the filing case. “Stall her in the anteroom until he’s out of here.” He handed her the paper and said, “Yes, those are right,” smiled at Jake and said, “Just some important investments of mine,” and went on searching for the gin. Finally he located it in a file marked “Contracts,” rinsed out a couple of glasses, and poured two drinks.
Jake took his, held it between his hands, stared at it.
“Are you going to drink that,” Malone said crossly, “or pretend you’re a crystal gazer?”
Jake put the drink, untasted, on the table by his chair. He took out another cigarette, After wasting half a dozen matches that shivered out in his shaking hands, he threw it away.
“You see, Malone,” he said hoarsely, “I knew all the time who killed him.”
Chapter Eight
Helene dressed slowly, and with special care. She always did when there was something on her mind. Somehow an extra job of make-up and hair-do seemed to help her think.
She glanced through the window at the heavy, late autumn fog. One of those combinations of dampness, d
reary darkness, and unseasonable, almost oppressive, warmth that sometimes struck Chicago at this time of year. It might rain and it might not. She decided on the tan suede coat with the wide belt and long, slightly flaring lines. The high-heeled calfskin oxfords with the matching gloves and purse. The broad-brimmed tan suede hat that went with the coat.
No, the combination was much too drab. She studied it for a moment. Then she knotted a flaming scarlet scarf around her throat, tucking the ends behind the lapels of her coat, and changed the purse and gloves for a pair that matched the scarf. She brightened her lipstick a trifle. There. Much better.
Damn Jake. When anything worried him and he decided to keep it a secret, you might as well try to get clam juice out of a turnip, as Malone would say.
After that one admission—if she could call it that—last night, he’d shut up and refused to say another word. She’d coaxed. She’d reasoned. She plied him with champagne and then with scotch. She’d even tried that old gag of pretending she knew all about it anyway and only wanted to discuss certain aspects with him. Nothing worked.
At last she rose and surveyed herself appraisingly in the full-length mirror. The effect was wholly pleasing, marred only by the slight frown between her eyebrows.
“I am not,” she told herself firmly, “the kind of wife who pries into her husband’s personal and business affairs.” Except, of course, on an occasion like this. Whatever Jake was brooding over was obviously serious, and it was up to her to find out what it was.
Something to do with that girl, Anna Marie. Helene stood thinking for a moment, tapping a cigarette against her thumbnail. Something that had been going on for a long time, and growing in intensity. Since—suddenly she frowned, remembering when Jake had first begun acting strangely, pretending not to be worried and going off on unexplained errands. That had been before Big Joe Childers had been murdered.
Was Jake mixed up, somehow, in Big Joe’s murder? No. In that case, he’d have gone straight to Malone. Or would he? There was no predicting what Jake might or might not do. That, she reminded herself, was one more reason why she adored him.
