The Fourth Postman

by Craig Rice

  She said, “How much money do you want for not telling the police that it was Huntleigh who assaulted and kidnaped you last night?”

  “My dear young lady!” Malone paused to catch his breath. He wondered if it was possible that the devotion between the Lacy family and its butler could be mutual.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Gay Lacy said. “Think how it would have looked in the newspapers. Or perhaps you don’t realize the position of the family.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Malone said, “I realize it very well, Miss Lacy.” For an insane moment he’d been on the verge of telling her just how well he realized it. But he’d promised Huntleigh.

  “In that case,” she said, “perhaps you’ll answer my question.” She puffed nervously at her cigarette, spilled ashes on the floor. “How much, Mr. Malone?”

  Malone thought about it. Even a very small sum would rescue the mutt from a future with Joe the Angel, would pay the office rent, Maggie’s salary, and take care of a few odds and ends. On the other hand, in a situation like this, one didn’t ask for a small sum. It had to be big, or it had to be nothing.

  And it would ultimately come out of Huntleigh’s pocket.

  “Nothing, my dear young lady,” he said gratefully, making a sweeping gesture with his cigar and wondering if his heart was breaking. He decided it was time for a good, time-honored platitude and added, “You can’t buy everything with money.” He brushed cigar ashes from his rumpled vest and tried, fast, to think of something money wouldn’t buy.

  “No,” she said, “but it helps.” A small, weary smile crossed her face.

  In spite of himself, Malone felt a sudden pang of pity for her. It couldn’t have been fun to grow up as a rich and very homely girl—at least thinking she was rich, and knowing she was homely. With a handsome father everyone adored, and who was bitterly disappointed in her. With a mother who admitted to being an unpleasant woman, and who had wanted a beautiful daughter to compensate for her own lack.

  Before he realized what he was saying, he had asked her, “How long have you been in love with Kenneth Fairfaxx?”

  “As long as I can remember.” Her sallow cheeks turned faintly pink. Evidently she too had spoken without thinking first.

  That added into the picture too, Malone reflected. Kenneth was undeniably an attractive young man. And he’d whipped off and married Glida, who was a more than attractive young woman, and who’d doubtless been a thorn in Gay Lacy’s flesh when they were growing up as cousins.

  Malone wondered if Gay Lacy had had anything to do with Kenneth and Glida’s divorce.

  Well, at least she had him now. He wished that he could hope she’d be happy with him.

  It was Gay who broke the silence, saying, “And besides, he’s a Fairfaxx, of course.”

  That did it. The pang of pity vanished back to wherever it had come from.

  “Mr. Malone,” Gay Lacy said, “about last night. You must realize that Huntleigh didn’t know what he was doing when it happened.”

  “Just a sudden, mad impulse on his part,” Malone murmured, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Please, Mr. Malone. I’m very serious about this.”

  “So am I,” he told her, “and that line is one that’s worked like a charm with more juries than I could count.”

  She frowned. “I’m worried about Huntleigh. He’s been with us a long time. Since before I was born, in fact. Mother and I, we—we’re—” She fumbled for a word.

  “You’re devoted to him,” Malone said, nodding wisely. “Go on.”

  “He acts strangely, sometimes,” Gay Lacy said. “I don’t know exactly how to explain it.”

  Malone said, “Hitting an inoffensive lawyer over the back of the head and nailing him to the wall of a cellar in a deserted house might be construed as acting strangely.” He threw his burnt out match inaccurately at the waste-basket. “Shall we call it, quote, a mad impulse, unquote?”

  Gay Lacy rose and said stiffly, “I don’t know why I came here.”

  “Sit down,” Malone said. “I do.”

  She sat down.

  “You came here,” Malone told her, chewing savagely on his cigar, “to make sure that no one would know, especially the newspaper-reading public, that the Lacys’ butler had suddenly gone mad. Because that might reflect on the Lacys’ social position. Or,” he paused and looked at her closely, “was it for some other reason?”

  He walked around his desk and sat down on the corner of it. “Was it because you thought he might have gone sufficiently mad to murder three quite inoffensive postmen?”

  “Mr. Malone.” She looked straight at him. “If he should be arrested for murder, would you defend him? I’d pay your fee, regardless of how much it was.”

  “My dear girl,” Malone said, “right now if Huntleigh were arrested for burning down an old ladies’ home, I’d be glad to defend him.” He started to add, “I’d even do it for free,” and caught himself just in time.

  She rose again, this time with at least an attempt at being graceful, and said, “Thank you. That’s what I really came here to ask.”

  “Anytime,” Malone said. “And I’ve never lost a client yet.”

  For a few moments after she had gone, Malone sat at his desk, brooding. There was a possibility that Gay Lacy’s diagnosis of Huntleigh was perfectly correct. There was a possibility that it was all wrong.

  He called to Maggie to bring up a bottle of beer and a saucer when she went for the coffee, and then got to work on the telephone. It took two calls to locate the elderly and highly dignified lawyer (he preferred the word “attorney”) Orlo Featherstone, who handled the legal and financial affairs for a choice group of clients who moved in the same circles as the Fairfaxxes and the Lacys.

  Orlo Featherstone protested that Malone’s inquiry was highly irregular.

  Malone countered with the remark that Orlo Featherstone’s behavior at a certain young lady’s apartment had been even more irregular.

  Orlo Featherstone stated that Malone’s conduct was strictly unethical.

  Malone’s answer covered not only Orlo Featherstone’s ethics, but the ethics of his ancestors back to his great-great-grandfather. A few remarks about the ancestors’ personal lives were thrown in.

  By the time Maggie returned, Malone had the information he wanted. Huntleigh had told the truth.

  The little lawyer poured a saucer of beer for the mutt, gulped his coffee, and was preparing for another nap when Maggie burst in the door.

  “Mr. Malone, there’s a man here to see you. He seems to be angry about something—”

  Maggie was shoved aside. Dr. McSmith strode into the room. He was definitely angry.

  “What are you doing here?” the red-faced man demanded.

  Malone looked at him helplessly, gestured at the desk, and murmured something about office hours.

  Dr. McSmith said sternly, “Lie down.” He walked over to the couch, pushed the mutt down on the floor, and said to Malone, “Will you walk over here, or do I carry you?”

  The mutt barked indignantly.

  Dr. McSmith snapped, “Shut up.”

  Maggie watched, fascinated, from the door.

  Meekly, Malone walked over to the couch and lay down as directed. Firm, but gentle fingers explored the back of his head.

  “I told you to go to bed for three days,” the doctor’s voice said furiously. “I’ve chased all over the town finding you. Lie still, will you.”

  “But Dr. McSmith,” Malone protested feebly.

  “I feel a certain responsibility to my patients,” the angry voice said. “Even though I dislike Irishmen, lawyers, and dogs, in the order named.”

  Malone said, “Ouch!”

  “Keep quiet,” the doctor said. “And your mongrel dog is biting my ankle. I hope you have liability insurance.”

  “He doesn’t,” Maggie said from the doorway.

  “Then take the dog away,” Dr. McSmith said.

  Maggie resourcefully poured the r
est of the bottle of beer into the saucer. The mutt retreated to behind the saucer, but went on eying Dr. McSmith with suspicion.

  “If you hadn’t such a thick skull, you’d be dead by now,” Dr. McSmith said. “All right, you can sit up.”

  Malone sat up, brushed the hair out of his eyes, made an attempt to straighten his tie, and said, “Have a cigar?” The mutt walked over and curled up beside Malone, prepared for anything. Malone struggled to his feet, walked over to the desk and said, “Have a drink?” The mutt sat down beside his saucer of beer, defying Dr. McSmith to touch it.

  The doctor declined both offers and pretended to ignore the mutt. “Mr. Malone, I have just come from examining Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx. The blunt instrument which rendered you unconscious was definitely not the one with which he was attacked. I would say that you were struck with a stone.”

  Malone remembered something. He reached in his pocket. “Like this one that I found in the alley?” he asked innocently.

  Dr. McSmith scowled. “Possibly.”

  The mutt snarled.

  “But Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx,” the doctor went on, “was definitely struck with a hammer.”

  Malone said stubbornly, “I still say he was hit on the head with a brick wall.”

  “A hammer,” Dr. McSmith said, twice as stubbornly.

  At that moment Helene burst into the room. Her pale blonde hair hung loose over the dark fur of her coat, spangled with melting snowdrops. Her eyes were shadowy with weariness.

  “Malone,” she said, “I’m sorry to be early. But I couldn’t wait to bring this to you.”

  There was a hammer in her gloved hand.

  22

  “You didn’t really mean for me to throw it in the lake, did you?” Helene demanded. She paused, and then said, “Oh, hello, Dr. McSmith. My husband’s much better. He itches, but he’s much better.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Dr. McSmith said coldly. “Young lady, let me see that hammer.”

  Malone muttered something bitter about perfect timing.

  Helene looked at Malone, at Dr. McSmith and then said brightly, “Oh no, I couldn’t do that! Because it doesn’t belong to me.” Her fingers tightened on the hammer handle.

  Dr. McSmith took a step forward. Helene took a step back. The mutt rose to his feet and growled menacingly.

  “Don’t touch it,” Helene said. “It’s probably crawling with germs.”

  Dr. McSmith looked at her coldly.

  “Go ahead, look at it,” Malone said wearily. “But she’s probably right. You hadn’t better touch it. It may not be crawling with germs, but it may be crawling with fingerprints.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. McSmith said. He walked up to Helene. The mutt stopped growling, but watched suspiciously.

  “I’m no expert,” Dr. McSmith said at last. He turned to Malone. “You’re turning this over to the police immediately, of course.”

  “Of course,” Malone reassured him.

  The red-faced doctor scowled, then said, “Perhaps I’d better go along with you. Just to make sure.”

  Malone said, “Fine,” wishing that he’d died in his cradle.

  “Oh, Dr. McSmith,” Helene gasped, “I was so upset when I came in that I didn’t really recognize you. My husband—Mr. Justus—”

  “You said he was feeling fine,” the doctor said.

  “I was talking to Mr. Malone. I didn’t want him to worry. But his—I mean Mr. Justus’s—temperature went up this morning, and he seems to be having trouble breathing, and—” She went into a list of symptoms that would have put any medical journal into the best-seller list.

  “He should have been moved to a hospital,” Dr. McSmith said, picking up his bag.

  “Oh, I know it,” Helene said miserably, “but I couldn’t reach you, and you said last night it wasn’t serious, so I didn’t think a temperature of a hundred and three was so much, but when he started sort of choking—”

  Dr. McSmith had reached the door. “I’ll be right there,” he said. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “But mind you, that hammer goes to the police.”

  “It will,” Helene breathed, “oh, it will! And after you’ve seen Jake, will you call us? We’ll be at police headquarters—von Flanagan’s office—”

  Sixty seconds later Malone said, “And they drown kittens!”

  “Quiet,” Helene said. She picked up the telephone, called the hotel, and got Jake on the wire.

  “Darling, I hate to wake you,” she said, “but you’re a very sick man. I said, you’re a very sick man. Dr. McSmith was here, and he wanted to go to headquarters with us, but I told him how sick you are. He’s on his way up to see you.” She paused. “Jake, that was a very bad word.” She repeated the list of symptoms.

  “That takes care of Dr. McSmith for the next few hours,” she commented as she hung up the receiver.

  “It also takes care of Jake for about the next sixty days,” Malone growled, “unless I’ve forgotten everything I ever knew about the quarantine laws. And I’m a very tired man, so do you mind if I take a short nap?”

  He buried his head in his arms for thirty seconds, then sat up and said, “All right. Let’s go.”

  The mutt bounded from the couch, ready to go with them.

  “If you’re really going to police headquarters,” Maggie said from the doorway, “you’d better either leave him here or buy him a dog license on the way—that is, if you can get him one.”

  Malone said, “He goes where I go. And if he can’t get a dog license, I’ll have him admitted to the bar.”

  “I doubt if there’s a bar anywhere he couldn’t get into by himself,” Helene said, “but come on.”

  As they waited for the elevator, Malone said, “Seriously, how is Jake?”

  “He feels fine,” Helene said. “And he looks terrible.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to feel fine,” Malone said. “Walking around in a snowstorm can bring on complications. Including hammers.”

  They rode down the elevator in silence. In the lobby, Helene said, “How did you know he was walking around in a snowstorm?”

  “Because of the hammer,” Malone said.

  Five minutes later in Helene’s car, she said bitterly, “I wish I’d taken your advice the first time, and thrown it in the lake.”

  Malone said, “Someone would have found it sooner or later. And watch out for that truck. And don’t forget to stop at the dog license bureau.”

  Thirty minutes and one dog license later, Helene said, “Malone, it’s just that all these people are friends of mine.”

  The little lawyer sighed. “There are times when I wish I’d obeyed my first impulse when I met you, and thrown you in the lake.” He scratched the mutt behind the ears and said to him, “Well, now you’re legally mine.” At least, he reflected with a slight pang, until he and Joe the Angel reached a day of reckoning.

  “They’re friends of mine, and people I like,” Helene said stubbornly.

  “But one of them is going to be arrested for murder,” Malone said. “Might even go to the chair, or to prison for life, without a good lawyer such as myself.”

  Helene shuddered. Malone watched her miss the end of a taxi-cab, and shuddered for reasons of his own. The mutt stuck his head out the window and made a series of indignant remarks to the retreating taxi.

  “That’s a good little doggie woggie,” Helene said approvingly.

  “I said before, don’t call him a little doggie woggie,” Malone said in his crossest voice.

  Helene sniffed and said, “Well, if you won’t give that poor little doggie woggie a name—”

  The mutt moaned gratefully, and rested his head on Helene’s knee.

  “See what I mean?” Helene said.

  Malone looked hurt, and said nothing.

  A few minutes later, Helene said, “Malone, I’m really serious about this.”

  “So am I,” Malone said, “but thinking of just the right name for him is going to take a little time.”

 
“Damn you, Malone. You know what I’m worrying about.”

  “I do,” Malone said. “And your worrying isn’t going to help. Suppose you let me worry about it. That’s what I hope I’m going to be paid for. You just worry about helping pick out a name for—” he caught himself on the verge of saying “little doggie woggie”—“for him.”

  Helene maneuvered around a truck. The truck driver complained to Helene, and the mutt complained to the truck driver. Luckily, the lights changed just in time.

  Two blocks ahead of the truck, Helene said, “But Malone. Supposing something happens to Jake.”

  “Right now,” Malone said sourly, “I’ll be disappointed if something doesn’t.” He paused to puff savagely on his cigar and added, “if he hadn’t found this hammer, I could be having a nice comfortable nap right now. For two cents, I’d let you explain this to von Flanagan.”

  “For two cents, I would,” Helene said.

  Malone held his breath while Helene beat a stop light, and then said reverently, “Praise be, I don’t have two cents. You keep your mouth shut until I signal you to let it open.”

  They reached the anteroom to von Flanagan’s office just in time to hear a ring on the telephone.

  “A call for you, Malone. From some guy who calls himself—”

  Malone grabbed the phone, an unpleasant premonition chilling his spine.

  “This is Dr. McSmith,” the voice at the other end said. “I’m glad to learn you’re at police headquarters, and I trust you have the hammer with you. Mr. Justus is missing.”

  “Oh?” Malone said, noncommittally.

  He listened with a sinking heart while Dr. McSmith went on. There had been no answer from the Justus apartment over the house phone. There had been no answer to his knock on the door. The apartment, when opened with a pass key, had revealed no sign of Mr. Justus. There had been a note on the dressing table reading, “Helene, I love you too. Jake.”

  “Good thing you caught me at police headquarters,” Malone said very casually. “I’ll report it right away.”

  Dr. McSmith’s voice rasped on, “If he’s gone out into this weather, I will not answer for the consequences. And it may be that he’s not gone away of his own volition.”