The Lucky Stiff

by Craig Rice

  At last he called Anna Marie. “I’ll be over pretty soon. Get all dressed up, we’re going out.” He resisted the impulse to call her “darling.”

  He took one drink, put the bottle back in the file drawer, and went out.

  But he didn’t go straight to his hotel. He called a cab, drove to Anna Marie’s apartment, and said, “Wait here.” He went to the second floor apartment, and the cab driver had to wait a long time before he came out again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “I hate leaving Malone all by himself,” Helene said in a worried voice.

  “He’ll be all right,” Jake told her. “The doctor said he wouldn’t bat an eye until tomorrow. Besides,” he added, “Malone’s a big boy now.”

  “But suppose he did wake up?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Maybe that bomb was intended for Malone. Suppose the murderer goes up to the apartment while we’re gone, and Malone is asleep and helpless—”

  “For Pete’s sake!” Jake exploded. “In the first place the murderer wouldn’t know he was there. In the second place he wouldn’t be able to get in.”

  “And in the third place,” Lou Berg said, “from all I remember of Malone, he could take care of himself even if he was asleep.”

  Helene sighed and was silent. She swung the big car and headed south. “Jake, you said you’d stop by Malone’s hotel and pick up his mail.” She nudged him.

  “That’s right,” Jake said. “We’ll go there first.” As she parked the car, he said, “You two wait here, I won’t be a minute.”

  He took the elevator up to the floor where Malone had lived for years, and where he maintained a room to hide out important witnesses. He knocked softly on the door of the latter room and called out softly, “It’s me, Jake Justus.”

  “I’m in bed,” Anna Marie called back.

  “Get dressed then, quick. This is something important,” Jake said.

  “Wait a minute.”

  He heard footsteps, and a moment later the door opened. Anna Marie stood there, wrapped in a deep rose bathrobe, her hair loose over her shoulders. There was the remains of dinner on a tray, the pillows were propped up against the head of the bed, and a book lay face down on the covers.

  Jake went in and sat down on the arm of the one easy chair.

  “I know it’s early,” she said, “but you’ve no idea how tired I am. Everything that’s happened has exhausted me—and last night was just too much. I thought that as soon as the dinner tray went downstairs I’d turn out the light and sleep just hours and hours.”

  “You thought wrong,” Jake said. “You’ve got some very important things to do.”

  She frowned and said, “Where’s Malone? I was going to leave a note for him, telling him I’m sleeping.”

  “Malone’s been in a little accident.”

  Her eyes widened prettily with surprise and horror. “Tell me!”

  “Now don’t be worried,” Jake said hastily. “He’s all right. He’s up in our apartment. The doctor gave him some sleeping pills and told us he’d sleep till morning and be perfectly all right in a day or two.”

  “But what happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said. “He’ll tell us when he wakes up.” He decided against adding what he did know about the bombing of Rico di Angelo’s. “The important thing is that he’s all right.”

  She drew a long, quivering breath of relief. “I was really scared for a minute!”

  “Now,” Jake said, “about you.”

  “Please, Mr. Justus.”

  “Jake.”

  She smiled. “All right, Jake. I’m really desperately tired. And even if I weren’t I couldn’t go anywhere—appear anywhere—without Malone.”

  “You’ve got to,” Jake said.

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Look, your whole future depends on it.” He went into details. Lou Berg. Hollywood. Exploitation. He even included the première at the Casino. “When Lou finds out that you’re not a real ghost, he’s going to be surprised, but he isn’t going to be sore. It’s just as good exploitation when the whole story finally breaks.”

  “But—” She frowned.

  Jake went on hastily, “When you finish with this—little business—of yours, you’re going to have to do something with your life. What would you have done a year ago if somebody had offered you a chance like this?”

  “I’d have jumped at it,” she said. She paused. “Can’t it be done tomorrow night?”

  “No. I know Lou. He’s impatient.”

  “Let me think for a minute.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and stared at the end of it. At last she looked up, smiled at him, and said, “O. K., you win.”

  “Good girl,” Jake said. “Get dressed, and we’ll work out some plans.”

  “You’ll have to leave the plans to me,” she told him. “But I promise they’ll be good ones.” She looked at her watch. “Where can I phone you a little later?”

  Jake thought for a moment and said, “The Casino.”

  “You’ll hear from me. I’ll tell you where I’ll be and what to do.”

  “When you’re a Hollywood star,” Jake said, “don’t forget to send me your autograph.” He grinned at her and went out.

  On his way to the lobby a thought struck him. Anna Marie might try to phone Malone. He paused in a phone booth, called the apartment hotel, and left strict orders not to put any calls through. Malone, he reflected, would probably sleep through the last trumpet, doped as he was, but Jake wasn’t taking any chances.

  Lou Berg grumbled, “It sure took you long enough to pick up a little mail at the desk.”

  “Ran into someone I knew,” Jake said smoothly. He caught Helene’s eye and nodded slightly.

  She smiled at him, started the car, and said, “Well, guys, where to?”

  “The Casino,” Jake told her. As she started the car, he added, “Best floor show in town, and no cover charge.”

  Berg said, “Used to have a great band there, once. Fella by name of Lou Berg.”

  “Personally,” Jake said, “I thought his band was strictly a stinker.”

  They squabbled amiably all the way to the Casino. The floor show had just started, and by the time their drinks arrived it had reached the spot where Milly Dale had always appeared.

  Helene suddenly said, “Jake!”

  He reached across the table and gripped her hand, hard. “I know,” he said, “she was a swell kid.”

  “It’s not only that,” Helene whispered. Her eyes were bright with excitement. “I’ve remembered.”

  “You’ve remembered what?”

  “Yesterday, when I was in The Happy Days saloon, and I heard Bill McKeown warning her not to sing that song—the strip-tease one about the gun.”

  “Bill McKeown’s a good egg in some ways,” Jake said, “but he has no taste in music.”

  “Damn you,” Helene said, “that isn’t it. Jake, don’t you remember—she dropped that song and didn’t sing it for a long time. I think night before last was the first time she’d sung it since—just after Big Joe Childers’ murder.”

  Jake stared at her. “I don’t get it.” He scowled. “The ‘Girl with the Gun.’ Did Milly Dale shoot Big Joe Childers and frame her friend Anna Marie? Then who shot Milly Dale?”

  “I don’t know,” Helene said. “I don’t know who shot who or why, but I do know that song has something to do with it, and I know Bill McKeown has.” She added, “Why the hell did Malone pick this particular night to get himself blown up in a bombing!”

  “Don’t be impatient,” Jake told her. “We can talk to him tomorrow.”

  “There’s been too many murders,” she said firmly. “There might be another one. We ought to do something now.”

  “Look,” Lou Berg interrupted. “I don’t mind you two going ahead and having a good time, but with me, this is strictly business.”

  “That’s right, Helene,” Jake said.

  She s
ighed and was silent.

  “And if that ghost of yours was going to show up,” Berg went on, “it would’ve been in that spot where the other babe sang. So, where do we go now?”

  “We stay here,” Jake said. “Last night it appeared during the second floor show. And this is as good a place to get drunk in as any you can name.”

  “We ought to go to the apartment and see how Malone is,” Helene said.

  “No,” Jake said very positively.

  The second floor show was half through when Jake was called to the telephone. When he returned, Lou Berg said, “She didn’t show up this time, either. Your ghost must be playing a different circuit.”

  “We’ll find her,” Jake said confidently. “Right now, we’re going somewhere else. The Happy Days saloon.” He turned to Helene. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe someone should be there with Malone. Suppose we drop you at the apartment and join you there later.”

  “Oh, no,” Helene said. “You don’t put that over on me. You said yourself he’d be perfectly all right. If you think for one minute I’m not coming along—”

  “Helene,” Jake said, “be reasonable.”

  “Jake,” she said, “be sensible. Don’t argue with me. You always lose.”

  “I don’t like it,” Jake said unhappily. “It isn’t safe.”

  “It’s as safe for me as it is for you. I don’t have any particular desire to be a widow.”

  “Hell,” Lou Berg said, “lay off the argument and let’s get going. I know Helene. She’d be safe in a den of wildcats, but heaven help the wildcats.”

  Helene flashed him a grateful smile and slid into her coat. Jake sighed and gave up.

  It was a short drive to The Happy Days. Helene parked the big car on Ontario Street, just off the alley, and they walked around the corner.

  At the door Jake made one last try. “Maybe you’d better stay in the car and keep the motor running in case we want to leave in a hurry.”

  She didn’t even answer that one.

  The Happy Days was far’ from crowded. The bartender was polishing glasses, the bouncer stood leaning against the wall. A couple at one of the tables were drinking beer and arguing. A lone customer in one corner was drinking a gin rickey and playing solitaire. And Al Harmon was leaning against the bar.

  “Jake,” Helene whispered. She dug her fingers into his arm.

  “I see him,” Jake whispered back. “The young man in the tan raincoat. But remember, as Lou pointed out, we’re here strictly on business.” He led the way to a booth.

  The bartender stared at them, so did the bouncer. Helene waved cheerily at the bartender, who came slowly over to their table.

  “Three ryes,” Jake said.

  After the ryes had been brought, Al Harmon strolled very casually over to their booth and leaned on it.

  “Friend of yours is down the hall talking to Bill McKeown,” he said. “Lawyer, name of Malone.”

  Helene almost upset her drink. Jake said, “That’s impossible. He’s in bed, full of sleeping pills, and he won’t wake up for hours.”

  “You’re all wrong, pal. I talked to him myself, about an hour and a half ago.”

  Helene’s lips set in a firm line. “The damned Irishman! I should have made sure he swallowed those capsules!”

  Jake started to rise. “He’s in no condition to be out and around.”

  “I wouldn’t interfere,” Al Harmon began.

  The front door opened, and Von Flanagan came in. He had a plain-clothes man with him. He saw Jake and Helene and Berg, glared at them, and said, “How the hell do you manage to turn up everywhere?” He walked to the bar and said, “Where’s McKeown?”

  The bartender jerked his head toward the hall and said, “Office.”

  The police officer and the plain-clothes man strode down the hall. Jake, Helene, and Lou Berg followed. As they reached the door, they heard Malone’s voice.

  “Louis Perez told me,” Malone was saying. “You can’t get out of it, McKeown.”

  Von Flanagan walked in. Malone looked very tired and pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was swaying slightly. Von Flanagan ignored him as he tossed a gun on the desk.

  “Is this your gun, McKeown?”

  Bill McKeown said nothing.

  “Talk!” Von Flanagan said.

  “You might as well admit it,” Malone put in. “He’s had it traced to you.”

  Suddenly Bill McKeown’s eyes stared at something over their shoulders. Von Flanagan gave one quick glance.

  There in the semidarkness of the hallway, framed against the dark wooden door of the room marked “Ladies,” was the pale, misty, beautiful vision of Anna Marie St. Clair.

  Von Flanagan gave one blood-curdling yell and fled toward the front of the building, followed by his plain-clothes man. Lou Berg stared in open-mouthed admiration.

  No one noticed Bill McKeown’s fingers closing over the gun.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Now, Von Flanagan,” Helene said, “it’s just psychology. You didn’t really see anything.”

  “I suppose they didn’t see anything, either,” the big police officer grunted, pointing to the bartender, the bouncer, and the few customers, who were huddled together out on the sidewalk.

  “It’s mass psychology,” Helene said firmly.

  The plain-clothes man said uneasily, “There’s nothing in the police manual about dealing with cases of this kind.”

  “Malone wasn’t scared,” Helene said.

  “Who said anything about being scared?” Von Flanagan said. “I was startled, that’s all.” He peered anxiously down the hallway. There was no sign of Anna Marie. Jake, Al Harmon, and Lou Berg were staring at the place where she had been.

  “Even if it were real,” Helene said, “I never thought you’d let a mere ghost intimidate you.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Von Flanagan said. He jerked his head toward the hallway and said, “Go ahead, Mike. I’ll follow you.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, either,” the plain-clothes man said, “but I’ll follow you.”

  Helene sniffed, said, “Shame on both of you,” and led the way down the hallway. Von Flanagan and Mike trailed after her.

  There was a sudden movement at the far end of the hallway. Malone came backing out of McKeown’s office. Jake and Lou Berg suddenly moved away from the door.

  Von Flanagan forgot all about ghosts and/or psychology, and yelled, “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  Bill McKeown came out of his office. The gun was in his hand.

  “Don’t make the mistake of trying to rush me,” he snarled.

  “You crazy fool,” Von Flanagan said in a very quiet voice. “You can’t get away. You can’t shoot down six people before somebody grabs you.”

  “No,” McKeown said, “but I can shoot her first.” He had the gun about six inches from Helene and pointed at her.

  Jake said, “Damn you, McKeown—” and started to make a move.

  “Don’t, Jake,” Helene said quietly. “He means it.”

  “You’re a sensible babe,” McKeown said. He moved around to the alley door, always keeping the gun aimed squarely at Helene.

  “Now, listen,” Von Flanagan said. He spoke very patiently. “There’s no reason for you to try and make a break. I’m not arresting you for anything. I simply came in to establish ownership of the gun. Even if you admit it’s yours, that isn’t enough for me to arrest you for murder.”

  Al Harmon added quickly to McKeown, “Don’t be a dope, pal. He can’t hang a murder rap on you.”

  Bill McKeown laughed harshly and didn’t say a word.

  Malone said wearily, “Unfortunately, I made the mistake of letting him know I had other evidence. Not only enough to hang a murder rap on him, but a few other things. Including extortion by intimidation, perjury, first degree arson, and illegal transportation of a dead body. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my big mouth shut until I had a couple of cops along.”

  “You can’t
get away,” Von Flanagan said to McKeown. “I’ve got this place surrounded. You’ll be stopped before you get ten feet from the door.”

  “Not with this beautiful babe along, I won’t be,” Bill McKeown said. He grinned evilly at Helene. “I bet you’re a good driver. “Wanna take me for a little spin?”

  “Why you—” Jake began, starting forward.

  Al Harmon grabbed him by the arm. Jake wheeled and swung on Harmon, who staggered back against the wall.

  “While you boys scrap it out,” McKeown said, “the babe and me are leaving. Don’t worry, she’s not going to get hurt. Not if she’s a good little girl.”

  He opened the door. Jake made another frantic move and again Al Harmon grabbed him, this time by both arms.

  “Thanks, Al,” McKeown said. “Let’s get going, babe.” He stepped out sideways, keeping Helene in front of him. “Don’t try to come after us if you don’t want the babe to get shot.”

  The door swung shut.

  The alley was dark and deserted. Helene looked around. Not a soul in sight. The gun nudged her in the ribs.

  “Where’s your car?” McKeown demanded.

  “In the garage. We came in a taxi.”

  “C’mon. I said, where’s your car?” The gun nudged her harder.

  “Right down here. On Ontario Street.”

  “Head for it. And no tricks, now.”

  Helene walked down the alley, crossed the sidewalk, unlocked the door of the car, got in and slid under the wheel. McKeown followed her and slammed the door.

  “Where to?” Helene said, starting the motor.

  “Straight ahead across Clark Street and keep going west. South on Wells Street, west on Washington Street, and then head right along unless I tell you different.”

  The big car shot forward, dodged Clark Street traffic and swung into the comparative quiet of West Ontario Street.

  “You’re a pretty cool character,” McKeown said, glancing at her.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m not scared,” Helene said, slowing for an intersection.

  It was almost true. She had been nearly paralyzed with terror in the moment when she stepped into the alley. But the fear was practically gone now, and in its place was growing a serene confidence that she’d think of some way out of this jam.