by Craig Rice
Malone promised that he would, and went on into Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx’s study with von Flanagan, wondering what his new client was going to be like.
He wasn’t like anything Malone had expected. The little lawyer had met a number of assorted murderers in his lifetime, but none of them remotely resembled this one. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was a gentle-looking old man, even shorter than his nephew, and very frail, with wispy, snow-white hair and tired, rather vague blue eyes. The room he was in seemed incongruously large for so small an occupant, with its wide paneled walls and massive furniture, yet it was a warm, cheerful, sunlit room for all that.
The old man greeted them at the door and said, “I must apologize for keeping you waiting. I’ve been busy cataloguing my stamp collection and I was just putting it away. I suppose you want to see me about that wretched postman business.”
“That’s right,” von Flanagan said. He looked unhappy and embarrassed. Finally he introduced Malone.
“Oh yes,” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Kenneth said something to me about arranging for a lawyer. I didn’t quite understand it. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying very close attention.”
Malone mentally damned von Flanagan up, down, cross-ways and sideways, for being afraid to make the pinch, and said, “I’m your lawyer, Mr. Fairfaxx, because you’re under arrest, for suspicion of murder. Don’t worry because I’ll get you out of it, and don’t say anything in front of this—” He caught himself just in time and glared at von Flanagan.
“Murder?” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx said questioningly. His mild old eyes widened. “But I haven’t murdered anybody.”
“There seems to be an impression,” Malone said, “that you murdered three postmen.”
The old man looked more puzzled than alarmed. “But that’s quite absurd. Why should I? Why should anybody want to murder a postman?”
“Why indeed,” von Flanagan said, with what tried to pass for cheerfulness. “Just the same, you’re under arrest.”
Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx submitted to the arrest very amiably, bewildered, but anxious to be agreeable, and in no way worried. Once he said, “I suppose if you say I murdered those men, it must be so, but I assure you—” And von Flanagan’s eyes met Malone’s in a significant look.
That was his only protest. He locked up his stamp collection. He rang for Violet, who came in looking more than ever like a badly-cared-for ghost, and asked her to pack a few things for him. She nodded and went away. Malone found himself wondering if she ever spoke at all, or if her conversation was limited to nods and shakes of the head.
At last they were ready to leave. Rodney Fairfaxx told his niece and nephew not to worry, bade them an affectionate farewell and then said, almost apologetically, to von Flanagan, “Would you mind waiting a few more minutes? The afternoon mail is almost due, and I’m expecting a letter—”
They waited. There was no letter for Rodney Fairfaxx.
*The Lucky Stiff.
3
Little old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx proved to be a charming and agreeable companion, even in a police car. He asked genuinely interested questions regarding the way the siren would sound from inside the car, and received a brief demonstration.
In return, he commented favorably on the efficiency of the police department, and added, “I don’t get out very much, you know. In fact, it’s been years since I left my house. This is quite an experience for me.”
Malone’s eyes met von Flanagan’s across the little man’s head. Quite an experience indeed, to be carted off to jail, as a murderer.
At one point on Lake Shore Drive, Mr. Fairfaxx looked out the window and exclaimed, “The old McClane mansion! The last time I was there was Mona’s first marriage, that must have been—heavens and earth!—twenty years ago!” He beamed at Malone and said, “If I’m not mistaken, you handled a very difficult situation for Mona, and handled it expertly.” He smiled shyly and said, “You see, I do read the papers!”
“It wasn’t so very difficult,” Malone said modestly. “An open and shut case of self-defense.”
“Self-defense!” Rodney Fairfaxx closed his eyes for a moment. “I suppose, if I should be tried for murder, I ought to claim it was in self-defense. That’s rather standard, isn’t it? Except, I don’t know why postmen would go around attacking people.”
Again Malone’s eyes met von Flanagan’s. The big policeman’s mouth framed the words, “Behavior Clinic.” Malone shook his head and his lips said silently, “I’ll pick the alienist.”
The necessary formalities were gone through quickly and as painlessly as possible. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was interested in and delighted with everything. He even agreed that the cell would be pleasantly comfortable. But there were three things he had to say to Captain von Flanagan.
“I’m sure I haven’t murdered anybody. Of course I am absent-minded, but I wouldn’t forget a thing like that, would I? Are you sure you aren’t making a mistake?”
Von Flanagan cleared his throat and said, “You’d better discuss that with Mr. Malone.”
“And another thing. In the haste in which we left my home, I neglected to leave a forwarding address. Could you arrange that for me? You see, I’m expecting a rather important letter.”
Von Flanagan, looking very unhappy, assured him that it could be managed very easily.
“Just one more question, if you don’t object. I’ve read about you in the papers, and I’ve always been extremely curious about one thing. Von Flanagan is a very unusual name. Would you mind telling me exactly how you acquired it?”
“I’ll tell you,” Malone said. “This guy never wanted to be a policeman. He got to be a policeman by accident. He got promoted to captain of his division by more accidents.”
Daniel von Flanagan growled, but said nothing.
“It was bad enough to be a cop,” Malone went on relentlessly, “but he couldn’t stand having a name, Dan Flanagan, that sounded like a cop’s name. So he went to court and had it legally changed to von Flanagan.”
Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx nodded, smiled and said, “Very wise of him. My grandfather went to court and had the extra ‘x’ added to our name, to avoid being confused with a Josiah Fairfax who ran a second-rate saloon back in Connecticut. I’m sure none of the family have ever regretted it.” He sat down on the edge of his bunk.
“Well—” Malone said. He looked at the cell. It didn’t compare very favorably with the paneled library. “Are you sure you have everything you want?”
“I’m quite comfortable,” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx reassured him. “Except that I would like to have a picture of Annie. Perhaps Kenneth or Elizabeth will send one to me. And I would like to talk with you about Annie, when you have time. Too bad I can’t have my stamp collection with me, but it’s far too bulky. However, you will see to it that my mail is forwarded to me here? It’s such a very important letter—”
Malone promised that he would, and practically fled down the corridor in the wake of von Flanagan.
In von Flanagan’s office he borrowed the phone, called his secretary and said, “Maggie? Chase out and buy all the latest magazines for stamp collectors. I want to take them, as a present, to a client of mine.” He hung up quickly—before Maggie could explain that she’d have to pay for them with her own money—took out a cigar and began to unwrap it.
“See what I mean?” von Flanagan said. “This is going to be a cinch for you, Malone. No jury in the world would convict him. And he can play with his stamp collection, and wait for his mail in some expensive sanitarium.” He paused, scowled, and said, “I still think—the Behavior Clinic—”
“You try it,” Malone said, “and I’ll have a belt and fancy wallet made out of your hide. He’s my client and I’m going to protect him. I’m going to hire the best alienists in the country. He can afford the best.”
“And the best lawyers, too,” von Flanagan muttered, sitting down behind his impressive desk. He added under his breath a remark about such-and-such shysters.
Malone ignored this, lit a cigar and said, “As a matter of fact, perhaps you could handle this yourself. Last time I talked with you, you were taking up the study of psychiatry.”
“No future in it,” von Flanagan said, gloomily. “All my wife’s relatives would want me to take them on as patients. For free. No, I’ve settled on something to do when I retire, and I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“Maybe you ought to go back to your original idea of raising mink,” Malone said. He strolled over to the window and stood looking down on the dreary, muddy street. It was a depressing-looking world, he decided, and Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was well out of it, in his nice, comfortable cell. He fingered the wrinkled five-dollar bill in his pocket and wondered just whom he ought to go after for his retainer.
Von Flanagan said, “Don’t get sore, Malone. You ought to be grateful to me for giving you a made-to-order client like this.”
“Grateful, hell,” Malone growled. “Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to split fees.”
He went moodily out to the street, considered riding a streetcar to the Fairfaxx home, and gave up the idea when a taxi came within hailing distance.
Something was very wrong about this case.
He’d had clients who were slightly cracked or very cracked. He’d had clients who had beaten the rap on an insanity defense. But Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx puzzled him. Malone had a definite and uncomfortable feeling that this client was sane.
It looked like one of these open and shut cases. A poor old guy who’d been just a little tetched ever since his girl friend went down on the Titanic. That could be enough reason for being just a little tetched, and for just going along all these years, believing that she’d never taken the boat at all and was alive and well somewhere in England, and going to write a letter to him any day now.
Yes, a guy could lose his sense of time, in a case like that. He could forget that it had been thirty years and believe it had been only a few months. He could, eventually, go completely off the beam and start murdering the postmen who didn’t bring the letter he had been waiting for all this time.
A story like that would make any jury break down and bawl, and acquit a double-ax murderer.
Only, it wasn’t true.
Malone had seen murderers putting on an act for an insanity defense; indeed, he’d more than once coached them in the act. He knew that Rodney Fairfaxx wasn’t acting.
For the same reasons he knew that while Rodney Fairfaxx had withdrawn from the world to wait for a postman bringing one certain letter, he was otherwise perfectly sane.
Von Flanagan had handed him a perfect case. Only the trouble was, he knew that von Flanagan didn’t believe it either. That was what was really wrong. Because he didn’t know just why von Flanagan didn’t believe it.
Malone broke the five-dollar bill with a pang of regret and paid off the driver in front of the Fairfaxx home.
Suddenly, he decided to go up the alley for one more look at the scene of the crime.
It still didn’t tell him much. Just an alley, like any other alley in the world. Except that three postmen had been found murdered on its badly littered pavement.
Malone sighed, and looked up at the house. That bay window belonged to the paneled library where Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx had been arrested this afternoon. The old man insisted he had looked down from that window and discovered the body of the third postman.
Von Flanagan’s theory was that Rodney Fairfaxx had crept down the back staircase and lain in wait for his victim. Then, having committed his third murder he’d hurried back up to his library and pretended to make the discovery.
At least, von Flanagan claimed that was his theory.
A hungry, obviously homeless mutt strayed up the alley in search of food. Malone instinctively and absent-mindedly patted him, whereupon the mutt, recognizing a friend, set up a loud, joyful and frenzied barking.
About two seconds later a good-sized stone came hurtling over the garden wall, missing Malone by inches and frightening the mutt into a hasty and noisy flight. Malone stared at the stone for a moment, then picked it up and hurled it back over the wall.
There was a loud and angry roar. A fat, red, bad-tempered face appeared over the top of the wall.
“What the hell do you mean?” the indignant face asked, furiously.
“What the hell do you mean?” Malone said, as calmly as he could. “Throwing stones!” He added insultingly, “And at your age, too.”
The man on the other side of the wall clenched his teeth, unclenched them again and said, “I threw it at a dog. I don’t like dogs.”
“I’m not a dog,” Malone said, “I’m a lawyer.”
“Makes no difference,” the angry man said, “I don’t like lawyers, either. As a matter of fact, they’re worse.” He disappeared.
Malone considered climbing the wall and giving the red-faced man a good punch in the nose. On second thought, he gave it up. Right now, he didn’t have time to waste on frivolous pleasures. Besides, it would be undignified. And anyway, he didn’t know just how big the man was.
Could a stone thrown over a garden wall kill a man? Chances were that it could. Properly aimed and timed, of course.
The little lawyer continued his exploration of the alley. He reminded himself that the series of unfortunate postmen had been killed by a blow on the head from someone on the side of the wall that surrounded the house of Fairfaxx. It had to be that way, unless every technician in the police department had slipped up, possibly in a moment of madness. Madness might affect a few technicians, but not all of them.
No, there was no doubt, from the way the body had been found. Someone had reached over the Fairfaxx wall and clubbed the postmen to death.
He made another mental note, that he would certainly have to inspect the other side of that wall.
But meantime—some investigation should be made of the unpleasant character who lived on the other side of the alley. There were plenty of good-sized stones lying about. The angry man evidently had a definite dislike of dogs. Or, perhaps, of postmen.
He could have got away with it the first time, of course. “I was pruning my roses. I heard a dog barking in the alley and I threw a rock at him. Unfortunately, it hit this poor man on the head and—”
Accident? Possibly, if it had happened only once. A stone thrown at a dog had hit an unfortunate postman on his head and killed him. The red-faced man had kept quiet about it because he disliked publicity. He looked, Malone reflected, as though he disliked everything, just on general principles.
But for that accident to happen three times, in reasonably rapid succession, and invariably at the same time of the day, would be a coincidence Malone wouldn’t believe if he watched it happening.
Of course, it might have been planned as an elaborate alibi. Only that, too, would work only once. If tried a second time, there might be a faint lifting sound, as of eyebrows raising. On a third occasion there might be embarrassing questions asked by the police.
Perhaps a few tactful questions. Something apparently quite unofficial. Obviously, under the circumstances, Malone could not ask the questions himself. He doubted if he and the red-faced man would ever be on the footing of casual friendship. Something would have to be done, but meantime—
Malone made a mental note to find out if there was any city ordinance against throwing rocks into alleys, or throwing rocks at homeless mutts. Perhaps the S.P.C.A. could give him some help there.
People who don’t like lawyers, Malone said to the wall, shouldn’t throw glass houses.
He considered collecting the stones and taking them to the fingerprint department, then gave up the idea. There were too many of them. They would be too hard to transport, anyway. They would probably all have the red-faced man’s fingerprints on them, and that wouldn’t prove a thing except that the red-faced man didn’t like dogs or lawyers. Besides he wasn’t going to spend any more money on taxi fare until he’d collected a retainer.
That reminded him it wa
s time to call on the house of Fairfaxx. He picked up one medium-sized rock from the alley and stuck it into his pocket for possible future evidence. Or a possible future weapon if need be. He brushed the snow from his knees and, as he turned from the alley into the sidewalk, made an unsuccessful attempt to straighten his tie.
Three seconds after he pushed the doorbell a pink-eyed Bridie came to the door and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Malone, the family is expecting you.”
He brushed a few cigar ashes off his vest as he went in through the wide doorway. The family? He’d already met Kenneth and Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Just how much more of the family would he have to meet? And who was going to pay that retainer?
Coming into the house from the blazing early afternoon November sunlight was like walking into a cave. He stood for a moment just inside the door. Bridie touched his arm and said, “This way please, Mr. Malone.”
The room into which she guided him seemed at first like a great pool of shadows. Malone blinked again and the effect of the sunlight began to leave him.
The room was enormous and magnificent, yet curiously, at the same time, pleasant. The furniture was large enough not to be dwarfed by the two-story ceiling, but it looked comfortable. The fireplace at the far end of the room was undoubtedly a priceless museum piece, but a friendly little blaze glowed in it.
Malone paused for a moment just inside the room. He felt uneasy. It was the very pleasantness of the atmosphere that oppressed him. He had a curious feeling that the Fairfaxx house should be dark and gloomy, festooned with spider webs, with doors that creaked and windows that rattled after dark. Instead, it was cheerful and warm, and somehow the very cheerfulness was frightening.
Malone damned himself for being a superstitious Irishman, took two more steps into the room, and realized that it was full of people.
At the far end of the room, one of the most beautiful blond girls in the world sat in a wing-chair, her exquisitely shaped head resting back on its cushions. Her hair was the color of corn silk in August, that pale and that shining. Her slender lovely legs wore stockings that matched her hair. The rest of her wore a close-fitting dress of some soft woolen stuff the color of old oak leaves, and a lot of fluffy dark brown fur was thrown over her shoulders.
