The Lucky Stiff

by Craig Rice

  “It’s very simple,” she said. “The top of the door is hollowed out. Then a piece of wood is fitted in. If anyone runs his fingers along the top of the door, it feels perfectly smooth.”

  She climbed down from the footstool. There was a piece of notepaper in her hand.

  “This is all there was.”

  “Put it in your handbag,” Malone said, “and read it later. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait,” Helene said. There was a thoughtful look in her eyes. “There’s no hurry. Maybe we ought to look at that paper before we leave. It may not be as easy to break in here a second time.”

  “The key!” Anna Marie said unexpectedly. They stared at her.

  “That’s right,” Malone said scowling. “The young man in the raincoat had a key to the apartment. How did he get it? And”—he nodded toward the late Jesse Conway—“how did he get in?”

  “The young man—his key—” she paused. It was a good half minute before she said, “There’s only two people he could have gotten it from. Jesse Conway, and—Big Joe.”

  “That’s nice,” Malone said. “And neither of them is going to tell us a thing. How many keys were there to this apartment?”

  “Only two,” she said. “Big Joe had a special lock made. A pair of them, just alike, one for the back door and one for the front. He had—well, there were people who didn’t like him. He enjoyed feeling—safe!”

  She paused again, and there was an awkward silence. Finally Malone said with forced cheerfulness, “Well, maybe that’s why he didn’t get murdered long before.”

  Anna Marie smiled at him, a faint smile. “There were two keys made. Very special ones, with engraved initials. His on one, mine on the other. And a little design in chip diamonds.”

  Malone decided immediately that if he was ever able to manage that little house in Winnetka or Wilmette for Anna Marie, he’d do something fancy in the way of door keys. Only he wouldn’t use little chip diamonds.

  “I gave my key to Jesse Conway,” Anna Marie said, “when I went to—jail.”

  Malone knelt beside the body with a faint grimace of repulsion. “There’s a chance he may still have it.” A moment later he added, “He did.”

  He handed the ornamental little key to Anna Marie and said, “Then the young man who dropped in to visit must have the key that belonged to Big Joe. I think it’s safe to assume Big Joe must have been carrying the key when he was killed. What happened to it after that?”

  “That question can wait until later,” Helene said firmly. “Personally, if that piece of paper Anna Marie found is worth that searching job upstairs, I’d like to know what it is.”

  They looked expectantly at Anna Marie. She unfolded the paper, looked at it for nearly a minute, and frowned.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” she said at last. She gave the paper to Malone. It was an ordinary piece of inexpensive notepaper. At the top was written, “Dear Anna Marie.” That had been scratched out. A few lines below was, “Dearest Anna Marie: If I weren’t ill—” That, too, had been scratched out, and still farther down the page, “Anna Marie, my darling—forgive me for what I must—” That was all.

  “Big Joe’s writing?” Malone asked.

  Anna Marie nodded. “But I don’t understand—”

  “It looks like the first draft of a letter,” Malone said slowly. “Evidently a letter to you. I’d say that probably he was interrupted before he could finish it, and stuck it away in the hiding place so that no one would see it before he had a chance to finish it.” He handed the letter back to her. “For the last time, let’s get out of here. We can talk somewhere else.”

  “You’ve got to call Von Flanagan,” Helene reminded him again.

  The little lawyer nodded and said, “Yes, but not on this telephone. I don’t want to ruin what may be a lovely set of fingerprints.”

  Suddenly Jake said, “Furthermore, Malone, you aren’t going to call him.” His eyes were flickering with excitement. “Maybe you’ve all forgotten my profession before I became a respectable saloonkeeper.”

  He turned to Anna Marie and put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “My dear ghost—what you need now is a good press agent.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “There are some things some people know more about than some other people,” Jake said. “And one of the some things I know some more about than some people I could name is publicity.”

  “You mean, some publicity,” Helene said scornfully, swinging the convertible into Clark Street.

  “No,” Malone told her, “he means, you can fool all of the people all of the time, and you can fool all of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

  “Jake knows what he means,” Helene said. “Malone, you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not,” the little lawyer said indignantly, “but it’s not a bad idea. Anna Marie—”

  “Later,” Anna Marie said. “Right now I’ve got to talk to my press agent.”

  “Right now,” Jake said, “you’ve got to talk to Von Flanagan. Where’s the nearest telephone booth?”

  Helene answered by slamming on the brakes and skidding the convertible to a stop in front of a corner drugstore. “There you are, smart guy. Now, does Anna Marie wear her raincape, or does she change with me?”

  “Neither,” Jake said. “That’s what I mean by her needing a press agent. Right now, Anna Marie could stroll in there walking on her hands, with a rose in her teeth, and nobody would notice her.”

  Anna Marie stepped out of the car, waved her eyelashes at Jake, and said, “Mr. Justus, you underestimate me.”

  “My apologies,” Jake said. “I meant, nobody would recognize you. And my friends call me Jake. Let’s go make that phone call.”

  It was a dinky little drugstore, four stools in front of the discolored marble soda fountain, flyspecked displays of bath salts, antiseptics, toothpastes; a few shelves of cheap liquors, a green-curtained doorway leading to the prescription department, and one phone booth. Nobody noticed Anna Marie. Jake bought a handful of phone slugs for her and a lemon coke for himself. From where he stood he could hear every word from the phone booth.

  “Captain von Flanagan, please.” Pause. “But it’s very important. I must reach him right away. About a murder.” Pause. “This is Anna Marie St. Clair calling.” Long pause. “From a phone booth.” Another long pause. “Whose murder? Mine, of course.” Very long pause. “His home phone number? Thank you.”

  Jake sipped his lemon coke and grinned, imagining the confusion at the other end of the line.

  Anna Marie had a little trouble after that. Captain von Flanagan wasn’t at home, he was at an anniversary party. He’d left the anniversary party with one of his in-laws. He wasn’t at the in-law’s house, he’d gone to a night club in Cicero. No, he was at a friend’s apartment in Rogers Park, and there she got him on the phone.

  “Captain von Flanagan?” Anna Marie’s voice was smooth, mellow, and soft. “This is Anna Marie St. Clair. Jesse Conway has been murdered, in my apartment. I thought I’d better call you direct.”

  Jake shoved away the lemon coke and wished with all his heart that he could hear what Von Flanagan was saying.

  “But this is Anna Marie St. Clair. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  That ought to get him, Jake reflected. Anna Marie did have a voice that no one could forget.

  “It’s Jesse Conway. He telephoned the police just before he was killed and said he was being murdered. How do I know? He told me, just now. Captain, I think you’d better get right over there. Good-by—” The last word trailed off into an ethereal whisper.

  Out in the car Jake said, “It’s a good thing Von Flanagan’s psychology-conscious these days. He’ll be able to practice it on himself.”

  “How about tipping off the newspapers?” Helene asked, starting the car.

  “Not yet. I know what I’m doing. Just because you married a press agent doesn’t mean you are one.”

&nb
sp; “Every woman is a born press agent,” Helene said. “But you’re the boss. Where to?”

  “The Casino,” Jake said happily, “and leave everything to me. Anna Marie, can you still sing that song—‘My Lonely Little Room’?”

  “I could sing it in my sleep,” she assured him.

  The ensuing scene at the Casino was a memorable one. Jake, Helene, and Malone were at their usual table. The lights were dimmed for Milly Dale’s first number. She slipped out from between the curtains, smiling at the audience.

  Then there was a scream, Helene’s scream, above the applause. The orchestra automatically went on playing, but another voice took up the song.

  When I’m sitting in the gloom—

  Of my lonely little room—

  Milly Dale looked in the direction of the voice, then fainted. The audience didn’t notice her. They were staring at the doorway to the left of the stage.

  The instruments of the orchestra stopped one by one. The lovely voice began to grow softer, dying away into the faintest shadow of a sound. Then it was gone completely, and so, in the same instant, was the vision.

  The Casino was deathly still for a minute. Jake jumped up from his chair, raced to the doorway and on into the hall that ran along backstage. Then everybody in the room began to talk at once, but nobody got up to leave. The headwaiter had the presence of mind to carry Milly Dale off the stage, but he took her to a couch in the ladies’ lounge instead of her dressing room.

  A moment later Jake reappeared. He was mopping his brow and he looked pale. There was another sudden hush.

  Jake said loudly, “I assure you, there’s no one—nothing—backstage. It must have been an optical illusion. Something about the lights.” He paused. “I regret that Miss Dale will not be able to finish her appearance tonight. The floor show, however, will continue as scheduled.”

  The orchestra began to play, a little shakily at first. The chorus came out on the stage. Its members didn’t dance particularly well tonight—or any night, for that matter—but no one paid much attention to them, anyway. The buzz of conversation all but drowned out the music. A few minutes later Jake, Helene, and Malone slipped out through the side door. Anna Marie was waiting for them in the car.

  “You even convinced me,” Malone told her. “And you looked beautiful.”

  “Tomorrow night,” Jake said, “the Casino will be jammed.”

  Helene sniffed. “I thought that press-agenting job wasn’t purely altruistic. What do we haunt now?”

  “Home,” Jake said. “Fun is fun, but there’s no point in overdoing it. Besides, there’s a lot of things that need to be talked over.”

  “And,” Malone said, “I need a drink.”

  They took Anna Marie up the back elevator. The telephone was ringing when they reached the door. Jake answered it.

  “Sorry,” he said after a moment of listening, “no statement.” Another moment, and, “Yes, Harry, I know we’re pals. But there’s no statement I can make. I don’t even know what I saw. Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts myself.”

  As he hung up the receiver he said contentedly, “That was the Examiner.” The phone promptly rang again, and as he reached for it he said, “That will be the Trib.” It was.

  All the papers had called by the time Helene came out from the kitchenette with a tray of dishes and a golden brown omelet that sent out an aroma of bacon, onion, tomato, and green pepper. Malone began mixing drinks.

  “Everything is going fine,” Helene said. “As long as nobody gives the show away. We won’t, and Jesse Conway can’t. But—”

  The telephone rang again.

  Jake said into it, “Hello, Von Flanagan, what are you doing up at this hour of the night? Malone?”

  The little lawyer shook his head furiously.

  “Sorry,” Jake said. “I don’t know where you could find him. He left the Casino with us, but—he wasn’t feeling very well.”

  The sound of Von Flanagan’s voice could be heard all over the room, a profane roar. Jake said, “I’ll be damned!” and, “You don’t tell me!” and, “I’ll try to locate him for you!” and, “Well, it’s pretty late—suppose we drop in tomorrow morning?” and finally, “Yeah, that’s right. Just psychology.” He hung up.

  “I take it,” Helene said, serving the omelet, “that Von Flanagan has found the late Jesse Conway.” She glanced up, saw Jake’s face, and said, “What?”

  “Von Flanagan has not found the late Jesse Conway,” Jake said. His face was pale, his eyes very bright. “Von Flanagan was tipped off—he doesn’t say by whom—that Jesse Conway had been murdered. But when he got to the scene of the crime, Jesse Conway—the late Jesse Conway—wasn’t there.”

  No one spoke for a good sixty seconds. Then Helene said, “Impossible.”

  “But,” Jake went on, “there was blood on the carpet in the place where he was supposed to find the late Jesse Conway. And he’s removed the telephone for fingerprint tests.”

  Malone scowled. “Whoever moved Jesse Conway’s remains may have had the presence of mind to wipe off the telephone.”

  “That isn’t all,” Jake said. “Von Flanagan has a very important murder on his hands.” He reached for a drink, gulped it down in one breath. “The wreckage of a car was found by state police on the highway south of Gary. It looked at first as though the driver had been killed by the wreck. But it turns out there was a bullet hole in his body.”

  “Who?” Anna Marie demanded.

  “Warden Garrity,” Jake said.

  The room was very still. Helene pushed aside her plate and lighted a cigarette. “Well,” she said, “he won’t give the show away, either.”

  “That’s just the point,” Malone said. “Two people knew Anna Marie is alive. Both of them have been murdered.” He frowned and said, “That may mean—that there’s somebody else—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It probably doesn’t mean a thing,” Helene said. “Just because someone happened to murder Jesse Conway, and someone happened to murder Garrity—” She paused and began refilling glasses.

  “Your tone of voice lacks conviction,” Malone said. He chewed on his cigar for a minute. “But I’ll play along with your theory. Purely coincidence, that’s all. In spite of the fact that Jesse Conway was killed in Anna Marie’s apartment, and Garrity seems to have been rushing to Chicago immediately after Conway’s murder. These little coincidences are happening all the time. I remember once in St. Louis—”

  Helene made a brief, unflattering remark about Malone, then said, “All right, we’ll play it your way. Who knows that Anna Marie is alive?”

  “More to the point,” Jake said, “who knew that Conway and Garrity knew it? And—” He caught the look on Malone’s face and was suddenly silent.

  “I can think of a lot of questions beginning with Who,” the little lawyer said gloomily. An inch of cigar ash landed on his vest, he brushed at it ineffectually, and went on, “Now, if I could only think of the answers to them, I could go home and get some sleep.”

  “They can wait until tomorrow,” Anna Marie said.

  Malone shook his head. “Not these questions.”

  “And I never knew the day,” Jake said acidly, “when his needing sleep couldn’t wait until tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow.”

  “Or even the week after next,” Helene added.

  “I’m becoming a respectable businessman,” Malone told her firmly. “Bookkeeping. Office hours. From now on, it’s early to bed for me. Remember about the early worm turning over a new leaf.”

  Helene said, “You mean it’s a long worm that has no turning.”

  “Don’t rattle me,” Malone said. “I know what I mean. It’s the healthy bird—I mean the wise worm—hell! I mean, the early leaf—”

  “You mean,” she said, “the old worm is turning over the last leaf.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “No—!” He paused. “Never mind.”

  He looke
d at his watch. Two-fifteen. He remembered his resolution to get to the office every morning at nine and shuddered. Maybe he was making a big mistake. Then he looked at Anna Marie, sitting in the exact center of Helene’s pale blue satin sofa, and became twice as determined about the resolution as he’d been before. After all, he reflected, he could just stay up all night for the first few times, until he got used to the new routine.

  “The important question beginning with Who,” Anna Marie said, “is who hired Ike Malloy?”

  “Uh-uh,” Malone said. “That’s important, but it’s only one question. I’ve got a whole set. Who planned an elaborate job of framing you? Who shot Jesse Conway? Who shot Warden Garrity? Who has been running the protection racket? Who sent Mr. Tan Raincoat to search that building?”

  Helene said, “One name might answer all those.”

  “Might,” Malone said. He relit his cigar, “But not necessarily. In fact, I have a feeling that it’s going to take more than one name to answer those Who questions.”

  “How do you know?” Helene demanded.

  “I don’t know. I told you it was just a feeling.”

  “It’s bad enough you have to be a respectable businessman,” Jake said in a complaining tone, “on top of that, you have to be psychic.”

  Malone ignored him and went on. “The most important Who to me is still, who might have hated Anna Marie enough to have arranged this whole thing so that she would not only die, but be tortured for weeks before she died?”

  He looked across the room at Anna Marie. Her lovely face was pale, and this time it wasn’t a matter of makeup.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I simply don’t know. Why would anyone hate me that much?”

  Helene brought Anna Marie a fresh drink, handed her a cigarette, and said, “How about Eva Childers?”

  “Possible, but only remotely,” Malone said. “I doubt if Big Joe meant that much to her. And, anyway, even if that were the motive—getting rid of a rival—it seems to me like an awfully roundabout way for a woman to go about it.”