The Lucky Stiff

by Craig Rice

  He lifted his eyes to hers. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. Her face was very pale.

  “It pleased him to have her framed for the murder of her boy friend,” Malone said. “You can see, Von Flanagan, it was just a matter of psychology.”

  “Psychology, hell,” Von Flanagan growled. “I say the guy was crazy.” He rose and said, “I better get back there and start digging out that evidence.” He nodded to the bartender, who started toward the hallway.

  Al Harmon rose, said, “I’m in on this, too,” and followed them.

  Helene waited until they were out of earshot before she asked, “Now, you Irish shyster, how did you really know it was Bill McKeown?”

  “For the reasons I gave Von Flanagan,” Malone said. “Do you think I’d lie to a policeman?” He added, “When Louis Perez was dying, he told me the name of the head of the protection racket. Only he said, ‘Guillermo.’ That had me stuck for a while.”

  “Guillermo,” Helene repeated thoughtfully. “That’s—”

  “That’s the Spanish version of William,” Malone said. “Perez was Spanish. When he was dying, he instinctively lapsed back into his native tongue. As soon as I remembered that Guillermo meant Bill, I had everything straight.” He stretched, yawned, and said, “The bartender’s busy, so we might as well go home. Anna Marie, I’ll get a cab, help you pack, and see that you get to the airport by six.”

  Everyone rose. Lou Berg said ecstatically, “She’s a wonderful Little Girl. She’s going to have a great future.”

  Malone went out to the sidewalk to hail a cab. Rain was falling in a thin, unpleasant drizzle. Only a few weary drunks were staggering up Clark Street. Electric and neon signs shone, dismally in the rain.

  He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see that Helene had followed him to the sidewalk.

  “Malone,” she said, “when are you going to tell us what really happened?”

  He looked at her for a minute. “The chances are,” he said, “that I never will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Malone,” Anna Marie said softly, “just because I’m going to Hollywood—it doesn’t mean—”

  Malone sat back in the darkness of the cab and said, “I’m afraid it does. But don’t let that bother you.”

  He glanced at her, at the way her smooth, tawny hair caressed her shoulders, at the pale, delicate line of her cheek, at the way dark, curling lashes framed her eyes. Something happened to his throat that kept him from speaking for a moment.

  Suddenly she looked out the window and said, “Malone, we’re going in the wrong direction.”

  “I’ve got to stop somewhere before we go to the hotel,” Malone said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you to the airport on time. Time, and time to spare.”

  He patted her hand and said, “You’re a wonderful Little Girl with a great future ahead of you, and by all means don’t let me stand in your way.”

  “But Malone—”

  “Never mind.”

  “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Later.” There was one way of keeping her from talking until he wanted her to talk, and he used it, fast. The cab was slowing for a stop before she could catch her breath.

  Then she said, “I don’t have to go to Hollywood. I haven’t signed any contracts.”

  Malone thought of the little house in Winnetka, or possibly Wilmette; the house that would be like a jewel box. He thought of the diamond studded key he’d have made. He thought of Anna Marie.

  The cab stopped. He reached for the door handle. “You’re going to love Hollywood,” he told her.

  She stepped out, looked at the building in front of her, and gasped. “What’s the idea of bringing me here?” She’d almost said, “home.”

  “I left something here,” Malone said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I? After all, I used to live here.”

  “That’s right,” Malone said in a flat, emotionless voice. “We may be a few minutes,” he said to the cab driver. “Please wait.”

  Anna Marie said, “I’ll wait in the cab.”

  “No,” Malone said.

  He looked at her. Again the breath caught in his throat, almost in a sob, just at the sight of her. “It isn’t very long until six o’clock. I’d like to have you with me for every minute.” He added, “You’re not afraid to go in there with me, I hope.”

  “Of course not,” she said. She laid a hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t be afraid to go anywhere with you.” She walked up the steps by his side.

  Malone flung open the door, ushered her in, and said, “I’m sorry—I don’t know where the light switch is for the hall.”

  She reached in and clicked the light switch. The hall and stairs were suddenly flooded with light. “Thanks,” Malone said, “I’d hate to go up these stairs in the dark.”

  He had taken three steps when she caught at his arm. He turned and looked down at her. “Malone,” she said, almost whispering, “there’s nothing upstairs.”

  Malone stared down at her. Suddenly he caught her face between his hands and kissed her, almost roughly, on the lips, the forehead, the cheeks, and the chin. He covered her face with kisses just as he had covered it more than once in his dreams.

  He said, “Anna Marie, I don’t care what you do to me as long as you don’t lie to me. Now, come on upstairs.”

  He put his arm around her and led her up to the second floor. The door to the upstairs apartment was slightly ajar. Malone pushed it open and reached for the light. The bare, unfurnished room seemed fairly to blaze. Malone glanced around it, remembered the room below, and shuddered.

  Anna Marie stood close by the door, watching him. He walked over to the door to the kitchenette and reached up to the top of it.

  “I should have brought along a chair to stand on,” he complained, “but I think I can make it.”

  He ran his hand along the top of the door. A thin strip of wood sprang up as his fingers touched it. He reached in, stretching and standing on tiptoe, and drew out a small black book, on the front of which was printed “One Year Diary.”

  Anna Marie sprang at him, her eyes blazing. He caught her by the shoulders and held her fast.

  “Why bother?” the little lawyer said.

  She relaxed against his shoulder. He kissed her very tenderly and said, “You’re going to Hollywood, remember? And the diary ought to be burned, anyway.”

  Anna Marie stood flat against the wall, bracing herself with the palms of her hands. She whispered, “How did you know it was there?”

  “Because I dreamed about identical twins—identical in every respect, even to the fillings in their teeth. You made a hiding place for Big Joe in the apartment downstairs, but when the time came that he wanted to hide his diary from you, he made one just like it in the upstairs apartment. The two apartments were exactly alike in every other way, so naturally they would be alike in the matter of a hiding place.”

  “He told me—that he’d destroyed the diary,” Anna Marie whispered.

  “He told you that,” Malone said, “to spare you the trouble of looking for it. Because he was writing things in it that he didn’t want you to see. He hid it from you just as he hid those notes for a letter that never was written.” He paused, smiled bitterly, and quoted, “‘Anna Marie—Forgive me for what—’” He broke off, stared at her, and said, “You knew what he was going to do that called for your forgiveness.”

  She said nothing, but stood there watching him, her face as expressionless as the wall.

  “Do I need to read you the last pages of Big Joe’s diary,” Malone said, “or do you know what he must have written? Do you need to be reminded that Bill McKeown was your lover? Do you need me to tell you that you were the real brains behind the protection racket?”

  She said hoarsely, “You can’t prove a thing!”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything,” Malone said. “I don’t need to. Because Bill McKeown’s dead. I’d sort of like t
o think you’re sorry, but I know you aren’t.” He glanced at her. “You were in love with him, once. Or—were you?”

  Her lower lip curled unpleasantly. “He didn’t try to save me from the electric chair—remember?” She took a cigarette from her purse and lit it. There was bitterness and resentment in her voice when she spoke again. “He wanted the money. He wanted to have the racket all to himself. There’s a lot of good-looking dolls running around loose, but damn few rackets as sweet as this one. If he hadn’t—” She paused. “Hell, yes, I’d have killed him myself.”

  “With your own little lily-white hands,” Malone said. He sighed. “Hate isn’t good for people, Anna Marie. You’ve hated too many people in your lifetime.”

  He began walking up and down the unfurnished room, his cigar held limply between his fingers. “Maybe Von Flanagan ought to be in on this. He’s the guy who’s reading the book about psychology. Me, I just make it up as I go along. Hate, and ambition. That’s a bad combination.”

  Anna Marie looked at her watch and whispered, “I’ve got to pack. It’s getting late.”

  “I’ll help you pack,” Malone said. “I’ll get you to the plane on time. You’ll get to Hollywood, and you’ll be a big success, but I don’t think you’ll be happy there. I don’t think you’ll be happy anywhere. Remember the dream you had, when you thought you were going to the chair? It was a dream of glory. A magnificent gesture. You dreamed of being noticed. And the statement Garrity gave the press at your order. ‘Anna Marie died at midnight, with a smile on her lovely lips—’ You’re going to be a success as an actress, Anna Marie.”

  “Please,” she murmured. “Malone, don’t hate me.”

  Malone said, “I’m crazy about you, and you know it. You’re the one who’s been doing the hating, as long as you could remember. You hated your father for deserting your mother. You hated the people in Grove Junction who had all the things you wanted. You hated grandmother, because all she left was a mortgaged house, a garnet necklace, and a pair of silver earrings.”

  “Other girls,” Anna Marie began. Her voice broke off suddenly.

  “Other girls had things you wanted,” Malone said. “Expensive clothes, and a house without a mortgage. And dates with boys whose parents approved of them. I can understand why you hated them. I can understand why, later, you hated Bill McKeown. I can’t understand, though, about Big Joe Childers.” He looked at her closely, his eyes narrowed. “Or maybe I can.”

  “There isn’t any point in this,” she said. Her voice was a faint whisper. She looked around for a place to put out the cigarette, finally dropped it on the floor and stepped on it.

  “No, there isn’t,” Malone said. “But we’ve a little time left, and I’d like to hang on to every minute of it. It doesn’t matter now, but I’d like to reconstruct what did happen.”

  She sat down on the windowscat, looked out through the soot-streaked window, and said. “Go ahead.”

  “You were framed for Big Joe’s murder,” Malone said. “You were arrested for it. Bill McKeown’s own brother told you not to worry. Jesse Conway turned up as your lawyer, and he told you not to worry. You didn’t really believe either of them, but you had to play along with them. They promised you an acquittal, and they promised to cover up your part in the protection racket.”

  “You’re guessing,” Anna Marie said faintly.

  “Of course I’m guessing,” Malone said, “and stop me if I guess wrong. It wasn’t until after the conviction—hell, even after you were sentenced—that you realized Bill McKeown had given the orders to let you stay framed.”

  She turned to face him. “Malone, what could I do?”

  “That’s just it,” Malone said. “You couldn’t do a damned thing. You knew who’d framed you—you must have known by that time. But you couldn’t find the proof, not while you were sitting in that cozy little cell in the deathhouse.”

  “Don’t!” She shivered.

  Malone took her face very tenderly between his hands and kissed her. “It’s over now,” he said. “You’re free.”

  He opened the window, tossed his cigar end out, took out a fresh cigar and began to unwrap it. “You couldn’t even talk to anybody. Warden Garrity saw to that. Your own lawyer wouldn’t come near you. You were trapped.”

  Again he began pacing up and down the unfurnished and chilly room. “One person guessed. Milly Dale. But she didn’t dare speak. She didn’t even dare sing that song, the ‘Girl-with-the-Gun’ number, after Bill McKeown told her to lay off—because some smart person might have realized it proved you couldn’t have shot Big Joe.”

  Suddenly he wheeled around to face her. “The night Ike Malloy was killed and made his confession, Jesse Conway and Bill McKeown had to work fast. There was a chance the confession might in some way involve them. It didn’t, but it exonerated you, and Bill McKeown wanted you safely and quietly out of the way. He sent Jesse Conway up to the prison to make sure you were executed. And you knew it.”

  “I only guessed it,” Anna Marie gasped.

  “I’m guessing, too,” Malone reminded her. “This is guess night, on the Malone hour.” He felt deathly weary almost ill. “It’s a curious thing how traits come out in a person’s personality at a time like that. Maybe Von Flanagan could explain it. Like the way the hatred came out in yours, and the decency came out in Jesse Conway’s, at the last. Because, when it came right down to it, he couldn’t see you go to the chair, and he forced Garrity—who had his own reason for wanting you to die—to play along. He was sure he could keep you from talking, once you were free. But he didn’t see far enough ahead to realize you would turn things around and trap them.” He felt his face muscles moving into a smile. “Why did you decide to play ghost, Anna Marie?”

  She rose and stood facing him. The light glared on her white face. “It was a gag,” she told him. “A little fun—scaring a few people.”

  Malone shook his head and said, “No.”

  “Well—all right, you had it O. K. I’d guessed who hired Ike Malloy and framed me. I thought I could scare someone into turning up the proof.”

  Malone shook his head and said, “It’s still no.”

  Anna Marie shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s your question, you answer it.”

  “It was a damned convenient way to keep out of the public eye,” Malone said. “If Jesse Conway, and Warden Garrity, and, eventually, Bill McKeown had been murdered shortly after your release, the police might have asked some embarrassing questions. Only by playing ghost could you get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?” A harsh note had come into her voice.

  “Why,” Malone said amiably, “getting rid of the people you hated, grabbing off all the money you could, and quietly disappearing.” This time he intended the smile. “You were luckier than you thought you’d be. You discovered you didn’t have to disappear quietly—you could reappear publicly with your face all over the front pages and a chance at a Hollywood career.”

  “Go on,” she said coldly.

  “Anna Marie,” Malone complained, “don’t use that tone of voice with me. I’m only telling you what happened. You got in touch with Bill McKeown as soon as you got back to Chicago. You told him you were alive, and you told him how and why. You pretended you didn’t know anything about his part in the frame-up. But you warned him that Jesse Conway was about to crack. You put Jesse on the spot for Bill McKeown by calling him and telling him to come to your apartment. You told McKeown that Garrity was ready to spill the whole story, and you put him on the spot by calling him, telling him to drive to Chicago and to get in touch with me right away.” He paused and relit his cigar.

  “You told me you were guessing,” Anna Marie reminded him.

  “But I’m guessing right, now,” Malone said, not looking at her. “Jesse Conway wouldn’t have come to your apartment unless you asked him to. I can do a little more guessing, and correct me if I guess wrong. Milly Dale knew about you and Bill McKeown. She may have suspected the rea
l truth. You went out the day of her death and talked to McKeown. You told him to follow her and make sure she wasn’t going to talk. When he was afraid that she was going to talk, he killed her. In a way, you put her on the spot for him, too. Killing Louis Perez and Earl Wilks was probably his own idea, but it wouldn’t have been necessary if it hadn’t been for you.”

  She walked out into the middle of the room and said, “There’s a telephone in the apartment downstairs in case you want to call the police.”

  “Why should I,” Malone said, “when you’re a wonderful Little Girl with a great future ahead of you? It would break Lou Berg’s heart, and I like Lou Berg. What good would it do him, for instance, if I told the police and the world the reason Eva Childers set not one, but two men, on the trail of what had actually happened to Big Joe—that she hated you, suspected the truth, and wanted the world to know it.”

  Anna Marie said very calmly, “Then you know who hired Ike Malloy to murder Big Joe and frame me.”

  “It’s all in the diary,” Malone said, slapping the little book with the palm of his hand. “There’s only one person in the world it could have been. Big Joe Childers himself!”

  He turned and faced her. “That’s why he started to write a letter beginning ‘Forgive me.’ He wanted you to read it—afterward. Because he loved you, even on the day when he’d arranged his own murder—but arranged for you to suffer and die for it. And you knew all the time, didn’t you? And Jesse Conway knew. And Garrity knew because he was Big Joe’s brother-in-law, and Big Joe had confided in him. And Bill McKeown knew.”

  Anna Marie murmured, “What are you going to do about it, Malone? Tell the story to the whole world?”

  “Why should I,” Malone said again, “when such a number of otherwise useless people died to keep it from being told? It would be a shame for their deaths to be wasted as much as their lives were. What good would it do for me to tell Daniel von Flanagan that Big Joe Childers was heartbroken and desperately ill, that he knew he could live only a few more months, that he’d discovered that the girl he adored was cheating on him, and even worse than that, that she was the brains behind a particularly nasty racket.”