by Craig Rice
“Modern setting. Ghost is a beautiful girl. Then we give it terrific publicity. Invitation-only première in the Casino, the night club where a huge audience of people once saw an actual, honest-to-God ghost! Not just one person saw the ghost, dozens did. Hundreds. First authentic case like that in history.”
He paused and looked at Jake, his eyes narrowed.
“Look, Jake. Tell me. It wasn’t all just a publicity stunt for the Casino, was it?”
Jake said, “It was not just a publicity stunt for the Casino.”
“Not that the box-office customers would care,” Berg said. “If only somebody could have gotten a picture of her. Spirit photograph, I suppose it would have to be.” He sighed. “Oh well, you can’t have everything.”
“In this set up you seem to have damn near everything,” Jake said, “except the ghost herself. How would you like to have her in the picture?”
Lou Berg said, “Are you kidding?”
“No,” Jake said. “Why shouldn’t a beautiful ghost have a screen career?”
“Jake,” Helene said, “you’re a genius!” She looked reproachfully at Lou. “And you said he was slipping.”
“I’m beginning to think he’s nuts,” Lou said. “What d’ya mean, Jake? Get somebody to impersonate this ghost and try to pass it off as the real thing?”
“I mean, use the real thing,” Jake said. “As I understand it, a ghost can materialize any time or anywhere it wants to. This one would probably be tickled pink to materialize in Hollywood. Maybe she can’t act, but who cares? There’s a real exploitation!”
“I’ll be damned!” Lou Berg said. He was silent for a moment. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”
“I am not,” Jake said firmly.
“How the devil do you go about getting in touch with a ghost?”
Jake said, “I imagine the thing to do would be to hang around places she seems to haunt. If that don’t work we could always call in a medium.” He added, “If you could get her to Hollywood, you might have trouble photographing her, but—”
“I know cameramen who could photograph anything,” Lou Berg boasted. He scowled. “It’ll be a hell of a contract to draw up, but I got the best lawyers.”
Helene looked at Jake and her eyes said, “Jake, you’re wonderful and I love you!”
There was a loud knock on the door. Helene opened it apprehensively. The knock had had a familiar sound.
Von Flanagan stepped into the room and said, “Where’s Malone?”
Helene thought for approximately two seconds and then said, “In there,” pointing to the bedroom, “but you mustn’t try to wake him.”
“Wake him? What’s the matter? Is he sick?”
“He had a collapse,” Helene said very solemnly. “He didn’t get any sleep last night. He got into a fight with somebody and got all banged up.”
“Nothing serious,” Jake said. “The doctor said it was nervous exhaustion and gave him a couple of sleeping pills. I doubt if you could wake him if you tried.”
Von Flanagan opened the bedroom door, peered in at the motionless man, and closed the door softly. “Poor guy. Hope he feels O. K. How long has he been sleeping?”
Jake and Helene looked at each other. “Since—oh, I don’t know exactly,” Helene said. “It’s been a long time. You remember Lou Berg, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Von Flanagan said. “Suspected him of murdering a radio producer once. Wouldn’t blame him if he had, some of the programs we hear.” He turned back to Helene and said, “Would you say Malone had been sleeping since before six o’clock?”
Helene thought, nodded, and said, “Yes, he could have been. We’ve been sitting here talking for simply ages. You know how it is—talking about old times.”
“What happened at six o’clock?” Jake said very casually.
“It was sometime between six and seven,” Von Flanagan said. He mopped his brow. “Malone sprung two clients this afternoon. Two mugs that tried to put the pressure on an undertaking parlor. They left the jail with Malone.”
Helene said quickly, “He must have come directly here from getting them out of jail.”
“Go on,” Jake said.
“Well, about six o’clock somebody throws a bomb in the undertaking parlor, which catches fire and burns all to hell. Three guys are out in the alley. The owner of the joint—he ain’t hurt, just bruised—and the two mugs. One of ’em died in the hospital, the other’s hurt bad. And no sign of Malone.”
He sighed deeply and said, “The things people do to make life hard for me!”
“A murder by bomb must be a hard problem to solve,” Helene said sympathetically.
“That ain’t it,” Von Flanagan said. “One of the mugs carried a gun. They gave it back to him when he was released, he has a permit for it. Damn fools in the department didn’t check it while they had it. O.K., the gun’s on him when he’s killed, and it’s turned over to me. I send it to ballistics, and what do I find?”
“All right,” Helene said, “what do you find?”
“It’s the gun that killed Jesse Conway, and Garrity, and the Dale girl,” Von Flanagan said, his face beginning to turn purple. “And now the guy’s gone ahead and died in the hospital, and I can’t even question him!”
“That is too bad,” Jake said.
“It’s too bad,” Von Flanagan said, “but it ain’t the worst of it. At the time the Dale girl was killed the guy was in the jail and so was the gun that killed her.” He glared at the three people in the room as though it were in some way their fault. “It’s not only too bad,” he repeated in a roar, “it’s impossible!”
Chapter Thirty-One
Malone waited till the murmur of voices ceased and the door to the corridor closed. He waited until, from far down the hall, he heard the elevator door clang. Then he waited ten minutes more, just to be on the safe side.
He sat up experimentally. Then he swung his short, hairy legs over the side of the bed. Finally he stood up and took two steps.
No doubt about it, he felt fine.
He felt under his pillow for the two capsules, and considered leaving them on the table with a caustic note. His feeling of resentment returned in full force. No, he’d drop them down a drain, and let Jake and Helene be mystified about how he could have gotten up, dressed, and gone out with a double dose of sedative in his system.
He wrapped Jake’s bathrobe around him and went out to the kitchen, the robe trailing on the floor. He filled the coffee pot with water, put in a double measure of coffee, and put the pot on to boil. Then he returned to the bedroom to dress while it was cooking.
A lot of cold water on his face made him feel even better. He examined his clothes and made up his mind that when he located the man who’d thrown the bomb, he would stick him for the price of a new Finchley suit and a Sulka tie. But these would have to do until he could get back to his hotel and change into something else.
While he dressed he thought over Von Flanagan’s revelation. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. The man who had thrown the bomb, or had arranged for it to be thrown, had decided to kill two birds with one bomb. Get rid of a troublesome individual—whether himself, or Perez, or Wilks—and plant responsibility for the three murders.
It might have worked, too; if the bomb thrower hadn’t overlooked—or hadn’t known—the fact that at the time Milly Dale was murdered, both Louis Perez and his gun had been safely in jail.
Save for that, it would have been a simple matter to race into the alley after the explosion and switch guns on a dead, or dying, man. Probably making sure, at the time, that he was dead or dying.
Malone scowled. He remembered the footsteps in the alley at the time he was lying, half dazed and stunned, on the pavement. That’s when it must have happened. If he’d only opened his eyes—
If he had, he might not be here now.
Rico may have seen the man. No, Rico would have told him. And if the man had thought that Rico had seen him, Rico would be dead n
ow, too. The murderer made some foolish mistakes, but they weren’t due to squeamishness about multiple killings.
Not that it mattered any more whether Rico had seen him or not. Malone didn’t need to be told, now.
The coffee was done by the time he’d finished dressing. He sat out in the kitchenette and drank every drop of it.
He borrowed a topcoat of Jake’s. It came nearly to his ankles, but it hid his tattered clothes. He pulled his hat brim over his black eye, and went down the freight elevator.
Out on the sidewalk he stood for a moment, deciding on his next move. He didn’t want to talk to Von Flanagan on the telephone, but something had to be done about that gun. And he had a hunch he was going to need Von Flanagan’s help before the night was over.
He walked over to State Street and headed south until he reached a Western Union office, where he wrote a telegram to Von Flanagan.
CHECK OWNERSHIP GUN PLANTED ON LOUIS PEREZ. THIS IS URGENT.
MALONE
To be on the safe side, he sent it both to Von Flanagan’s office and to his home.
Maggie always got the address and phone number of everyone who ever visited the little lawyer’s office, and she kept a spare notebook of them at her home, for just such emergencies. Malone stopped in a corner cigar store, called Maggie, and got Al Harmon’s number. Then he called Al Harmon.
“Jeez,” Al Harmon said, “I thought you were dead, pal. I thought you’d been blown into such small pieces they couldn’t find a trace of you in the ruins.”
“I was,” Malone said, “but I pulled myself together. Can you meet me in my office in ten minutes?”
“I’ve got a date with a blonde,” Harmon began.
“This is urgent.” He hung up.
He called a cab and reached the office ahead of Harmon. While he waited he called Eva Childers.
“I just may be on the trail of something,” he told her very casually. “Can you tell me the name of your late husband’s doctor?”
She hesitated a moment. “Why? Is it important?”
“It may be,” Malone said.
“Well—it was Dr. Fitzgerald. Why do you want to know?”
“I’ll tell you,” Malone said, “when I tell you who hired your husband’s murderer.” He hung up and waited for Al Harmon, deep in his thoughts and not happy with them at all.
Al Harmon came in breezily and said, “This had better be important, pal.” He looked at Malone and said, “You don’t look half bad.”
“Not half as bad as I feel,” the lawyer growled. “Sit down.” He scowled at the top of his desk. “Are we still working together?”
“We were the last I heard. By the way, I don’t suppose you’ll ever be able to collect from those two mugs now. Too bad. I’d thought maybe you’d split the fee with me.”
“I’m thoroughly ethical,” Malone said primly. “I never split fees.” He took out a cigar and began unwrapping it. “I may be able to wind everything up, for you and me both, if you’ll tell me a couple of things.”
“Chum,” Harmon said, chain-lighting a cigarette, “I’m the original quiz kid. Ask anything you like.”
“What were you talking about with Mrs. Childers in The Happy Days saloon, and when you went to the St. Clair girl’s apartment last night, why did you go upstairs first?”
Al Harmon stared at him for a moment in sheer amazement. Then he grinned.
He said, “I’m beginning to think you’ve got second sight. O. K., here’s the works.” He leaned back in his chair. “While I was mousing around this protection racket, I tumbled to a couple of things. One, Big Joe had heard about it, and he didn’t like it. It was the sort of thing he wouldn’t stand for, especially not in his territory. I had a hunch Big Joe found out who was back of it. Two, Big Joe was killed in The Happy Days saloon. Catch?”
Malone nodded and said, “You cast two and two upon the waters and it came back cake.”
“Right, pal. So I figure, suppose the babe isn’t guilty. Suppose Al Harmon makes like a detective, finds out who is guilty, saves the babe, and is a hero all over the place—just as a little sideline to the main job, see? Only it don’t work out so good.”
“So,” Malone prompted him, “you decided to go to work on Mrs. Childers.”
“Right again. But I had the murder all figured out, see. Big Joe wanted to smash this nice, profitable racket. He got bumped, and his girl friend got framed. Her lawyer, who was mixed up with the racket, helped frame her. Why frame her? Well, she must have known too much about the racket. Big Joe probably confided things to her.”
“Only,” Malone said, “if she did—why did she keep her mouth shut after he was killed?”
“At that point,” Al Harmon said cheerfully, “I am stuck.” He lit another cigarette. “And when I first went to work on Mrs. Childers, I was stuck. As far as she was concerned, the verdict was correct, the case was closed, everything was settled, and the hell with it.” He paused.
“And yesterday?” Malone asked.
“Yesterday she comes looking me up at The Happy Days. She sees everything different now. Her eyes have been opened. Justice must be done. I say, O. K., and pressure her to give with the facts. The facts she gives me you can put in your right eye and still have room for a camel. While we’re having this pleasant little chat over a couple of short beers, something happens which throws The Happy Days crowd into a spin. We beat it out, she tells me she’ll see me later, and scrams.”
“What was the incident that occurred?”
“This babe comes in,” Al Harmon said. “Mrs. Justus. Her angle is, she’s supposed to be meeting her husband there. As if a guy in his right mind would pick a joint like The Happy Days to meet his wife in. Especially one that looks like her.” He whistled admiringly and blew a kiss toward the ceiling.
“Never mind that,” Malone said. “Go on.”
“Well, Justus was one of the guys in The Happy Days when Big Joe was shot. He gave a lot of trouble afterward. Now she turns up. Acts nosy as hell. Finally she asks where the john is and heads down the hallway. Everybody scrams. The relief bartender and the relief bouncer come in, and a new batch of customers. Because the bunch that were there happened to have been the same bunch that were there when Big Joe got shot. Actually, I don’t think a damn one of ’em knows anything about the murder, but that bunch don’t ask for trouble if it can duck.”
Malone thought of Helene, alone and unprotected, in The Happy Days saloon, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He knocked the ash off his cigar and said, “So you didn’t learn anything from Mrs. Childers?”
Al Harmon sighed and said, “I’m doing an awful lot of talking, pal.”
Malone rose, got the bottle out of the file drawer, and poured two drinks.
“Thanks,” Al Harmon said. “I do like to meet a guy who can take a hint.” He downed his drink, lit a cigarette and said, “Big Joe kept a diary from the time he was a kid. Always kept it hid. After he got bumped, all the volumes from about the year one turned up in a safety deposit box. All, that is, except the last one.”
“It looks,” Malone said thoughtfully, “as though he had a hiding place for the current volume, and as soon as he finished one, he put it in the safety deposit box. Question is, where is that last volume?”
“Brother,” Al Harmon said, “if you can answer that one, I’ll give you a drink.”
“Could he have destroyed it?”
“Now, I ask you,” Harmon said, “when a guy has saved all his diaries since he was twelve years old, does he throw away the last one?”
“Suppose he decided to stop keeping a diary?”
“Then why not burn up the whole bunch and save paying for the safety deposit box?”
“All right,” Malone said wearily. “It must be somewhere.”
“O. K. So Mrs. Childers slips me her husband’s key to this chick’s apartment. She’s searched every inch of the official Childers’ residence, and it ain’t there. It ain’t in what used to be his office.
Well, I get hold of a pal of mine who really can search. He could find a—”
“A camel in your right eye,” Malone said.
“Right. I figure Big Joe ain’t gonna leave his secret diary around where his girl friend can find it. He also has the top floor apartment. So, we start there and, brother, we search! Finally we give up. We don’t start on her apartment because—there was a slight interruption.”
“I know,” Malone said. He frowned. “I think the diary will turn up.”
“Anything else you want to know, pal?” Al Harmon asked.
“No. But a couple of things I want you to do,” Malone told him. “You’ve got official papers and I haven’t, and I’ve got an idea and you haven’t. So maybe you’d better call on Big Joe’s doctor and ask him a few questions.”
“No need,” Al Harmon said, grinning. “I can tell you right now. Big Joe had cancer of the stomach. He’d have been dead, anyway, in a few months.”
Malone sat silent for a long moment. “How do you know?”
“When I got this idea of mine,” Al Harmon said, “I didn’t miss a thing. I went over Big Joe’s life like I was going to write his life story to be played by Don Ameche. I know how many fillings he had in his teeth, when he had his eyes tested last, and the lovelife of his cook. Naturally, I talked to his doctor.” He paused. “But, so what?”
Malone didn’t answer.
“Nobody murders a guy because he’s got cancer of the stomach, unless he happens to be a terribly good pal, and in that case he doesn’t frame the guy’s girl friend for the murder.”
“That’s right,” Malone said. He added, “Well, I thought it might be important.”
“What’s the other thing you want me to do?” Al Harmon asked.
“You know the layout of The Happy Days saloon. Duck over there to spend the evening. You know the door leading to the alley. Unlock it, and see that it stays unlocked. That’s all. And hang around.”
“I’ll be there,” Al Harmon said. He rose, poured himself another drink, and walked to the door. “You know, pal,” he said, “sometimes you puzzle me.” He went out.
For a few minutes Malone sat at his desk, his head resting on his hands. He felt tired and indescribably depressed. A lot of things were going to happen before the night was over. He knew all about them, and he didn’t like any of them.
