The Fourth Postman

by Craig Rice

Malone looked around the room again.

  There was Kenneth Fairfaxx, worried and bewildered.

  Violet, half-hidden in the shadows.

  And Huntleigh, standing, white-faced, not caring what happened to him now.

  Malone said quietly, “Sit down, Huntleigh.”

  Huntleigh said, “But Mr. Malone—” and then sat down stiffly on the edge of the nearest chair.

  “Relax,” Malone said. He looked closely at the butler. There was no trace of fear on the tired old face, no sign of remorse for anything that had been done or had not been done. “Violet,” Malone said, “will you bring Mister Huntleigh a drink, please. A stiff one.”

  “Damn it, Malone,” von Flanagan said, “you can’t do this.”

  “Shut up,” Malone said pleasantly. He wished that he were taller, or that the others in the room were shorter. “A lawyer is allowed to confer with his client. Huntleigh!”

  The old butler looked up. “Yes, Mr. Malone?”

  “When did you first begin to feel this uncontrollable urge to strike people? Wasn’t it when you were a boy in school?”

  Huntleigh gulped.

  “Tell the truth,” Malone went on relentlessly. “Wasn’t there first a mad impulse to strike any moving object—and then—”

  Huntleigh gulped again. At that moment Violet slipped a drink into his hand. As he downed it, Malone managed to catch his eye.

  “Well, Mr. Malone,” he said at last, “I had a very unhappy childhood—”

  Malone relaxed a little himself, and signaled Violet to slip a drink into his hand.

  “Look here, Malone,” von Flanagan complained, “you can’t get away with this.”

  “As I said before,” Malone said, even more pleasantly, “shut up.” He saw Jake come back into the room. Jake nodded at him. The nod said, “Okay.” Malone nodded back “Thanks.”

  “Jake,” Malone said, “I remember you used to take shorthand. Just for the hell of it, take down a record of all this.”

  Von Flanagan turned to Kluchetsky and said, “Take this down.”

  For a long moment Malone stood clinging to the back of the chair, swaying a little, and wishing that he’d never gotten into this. Because there had to be some way out of it without breaking the heart of anyone in the warm, cheerfully lighted living room.

  “Huntleigh,” he said softly, “you never wanted to kill anyone or anything, did you? It was just that you wanted to strike someone, or something, wasn’t it?”

  Huntleigh got the idea. “Yes, Mr. Malone. It was like that.”

  “Just a feeling that came over you suddenly—and sometimes not always suddenly—”

  “Well—yes, Mr. Malone.”

  “Stop it,” von Flanagan snapped. “Malone, you’re leading the witness—”

  “This isn’t a court of law,” Malone said smoothly. “This is a conference between a lawyer and his client.” He smiled reassuringly at Huntleigh and said, “Just answer my questions.” He managed a quick wink at Huntleigh. He knew that the old butler really had the idea now.

  “Huntleigh,” Malone said very gently, “why did you kill that postman?”

  Huntleigh stared at him, blankly and innocently. “I never killed anyone in my life.”

  “But you struck him on the head,” Malone went on relentlessly, “and you left him lie there in the cold, to die.” He paused, “Wasn’t it because you had to hit someone on the head? Anyone? Even some perfect stranger?”

  Abby Lacy said suddenly, “Mr. Malone, must I listen to this?”

  “Yes,” Malone said. His heart told him this was no time to be gentle with an ugly old woman whose only daughter had just been unpleasantly murdered. “Yes, I’m afraid you must.”

  Von Flanagan said, “All right, Malone, if you’re all through, let me take him down and book him.”

  “I’m not all through,” Malone said, “I’m only beginning.” He went on, “Huntleigh, you’ve never killed anybody, have you?”

  Huntleigh shook his head and said, “No, Mr. Malone.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, Mr. Malone.”

  “You’ve never wanted to kill anybody?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Malone.”

  “But Huntleigh, you have wanted to strike people?”

  “I—yes. I’ve—”

  “You’ve wanted to hit people with hammers, clubs, any kind of weapon?”

  “I—may have. I’m not—sure—”

  “Why did you hit those postmen on the head?”

  “I—”

  “It was an uncontrollable impulse, wasn’t it? You didn’t want to kill anyone, did you? Or hurt anyone? You just wanted to hit someone—or something—”

  “That’s right, Mr. Malone.”

  “Now why,” Malone said, in his softest voice, “did you strike Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx on the head?”

  Huntleigh stared at him, confused and wide-eyed. “Strike Mr. Ernie? I could never do anything like that? Mr. Ernie is a fine gentleman, sir. Kind and considerate. Honest as the day is long.”

  “Let’s just say the day is long,” Malone said, “and leave Ernest Fairfaxx’s private life out of this.”

  Uncle Ernie said, “Now Malone—”

  “Now you shut up,” Malone told him crossly. “You were probably born with a silver spoon in your pocket.” He relit his cigar, braced himself on the back of the chair and hoped that neither he nor the chair would collapse. “Huntleigh. You did strike someone on the head. It might have been Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx.”

  “I—I don’t remember,” Huntleigh mumbled.

  “You have a lot of bad headaches, don’t you,” Malone said sympathetically.

  Huntleigh nodded.

  Elizabeth Fairfaxx stood up suddenly and said, “Malone, must you do this?”

  “Yes,” Malone said, “and sit down. Huntleigh, tell me. Why did you strike me on the head, and nail me to the wall in the cellar next door?”

  “I don’t know,” Huntleigh said. He was on the point of breaking down. “I just don’t know. I don’t seem to remember.”

  “It was just another uncontrollable impulse, wasn’t it?” Malone said.

  “Yes sir. That’s right.”

  Von Flanagan broke in, “You mention one more of those impulses, and I’m going to have one myself.”

  “Just one more question, and I’m through,” Malone told him. “Huntleigh, you’re among friends, remember. Do you have any personal interests? Any—well, hobbies?”

  Huntleigh’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes, Mr. Malone. I collect butterflies.”

  Malone’s look at von Flanagan said, well, there you are.

  “That’s enough,” von Flanagan said. “Kluchetsky and Garrity, you take him downtown.”

  “And remember I’m his lawyer,” Malone added, “and no one talks to him till I get there. And we’ll pick our own psychiatrists.”

  Before von Flanagan could answer, Bridie burst into the room, her tearful eyes wide with fright.

  “There’s a lot of people from the newspapers here,” she announced tragically. “They want me to let them in, and they won’t go away. I don’t know what to do.”

  Malone caught Jake’s eye with a look that said, thanks, pal. He cleared his throat and said to von Flanagan, “Of course you could take him out the back way, but—” He paused, sighed, and said, “What a scene for an actor!”

  Von Flanagan glared at him and said, “Why, you—” He remembered there were ladies present just in time. He turned to Rodney Fairfaxx and added, “Perhaps it might be wise to let the press in—briefly. Naturally none of you will need to be present, but—”

  The old man smiled and said, “I suggest the hallway. It has a good background for pictures. And we can close the double doors and be undisturbed.”

  For a moment the room seemed strangely still, after von Flanagan and his aides had led Huntleigh into the hallway. The heavy double doors slid shut, noiselessly. Then, from behind them, came a faint murmuring of voices. Von Flanag
an’s voice was heard twice. “Uncontrollable impulse … he collects butterflies.…”

  “Good God,” Jake said at last, “no jury in the world would convict him of stealing cheese from a mousetrap.”

  Malone didn’t hear him. He drew a long breath, braced himself, dared moving away from the chair, and managed to walk across the floor. He took Abby Lacy’s cold little hand in his.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said.

  It might have been a smile that flickered across her face.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” she said. She rose and walked toward the door. It was amazing, Malone thought, how so small a woman could appear to be so tall.

  Elizabeth jumped to her feet and said, “Abby—wait till I get a wrap, and I’ll go with you—”

  “It isn’t necessary,” Abby Lacy said.

  Kenneth said, “But you mustn’t be all alone—Huntleigh—”

  Elizabeth added quickly, “I’ll send Bridie over—”

  “Please,” Abby Lacy said. “I’m quite capable of managing without anyone’s help. Except—” she pulled her furs closer over her shoulders—“Mr. Malone, would you have the kindness—”

  “Delighted,” Malone said. He didn’t dare look back as he escorted her to the door, and he felt her arm stiffen under his hand as they walked through it.

  Outside the house, he said gently, “Yes, people were looking at you when you left the room. And people will be looking at you all the rest of your life. You might as well start getting used to it now.” He decided it wasn’t the time to be gentle, and went on ruthlessly, “Most of them will be perfect strangers, who will also be people with perfect manners. They’ll wait until you’re out of earshot before whispering, ‘Isn’t that the Abby Lacy who—’”

  She was silent, but her small frail hand tightened into a fist.

  “You’d better face it now,” Malone said. “Always, people will be saying, ‘Look. There’s Abby Lacy.’”

  Thirty seconds later she said, “That will be almost the same as having people say, ‘My, isn’t that a pretty woman.’ At least, Mr. Malone, I’ll be looked at. And now will you be good enough to escort me home?”

  The little lawyer tried to shut his eyes to the haunted gardens as they walked in silence to the great front door of the Lacy house. He opened it for her.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Mr. Malone,” Abby Lacy said. “I’ve always hated this house. But I’m free of it now. I can leave it for some little apartment in some place where it’s warm and sunny—Mr. Malone, when you return, will you tell Rodney that this house is for sale?”

  Malone squeezed her hand by way of answer. Then he said, “You’d better tell me another secret, and I promise you it will be kept as one. Last night you told me that—you would engage me to go ahead with the case. But even then—you must have known.”

  He heard her long, indrawn sigh, “Oh, course, Mr. Malone. Or shall I say—I believed. You see, Mr. Malone, I have known all these people a great deal longer than you. I knew what some of them were capable of doing—and not capable of doing. I didn’t know, but I suspected the truth.”

  “Then, why?” Malone said, almost desperately. “Why didn’t you ask me—hell, even beg me—to drop it?”

  Again she smiled. “Mr. Malone. I would not have liked to spend the rest of my life suspecting, but not knowing the truth of it.” She touched his hand gently and said, “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  Malone stared at her for a divided second. Then suddenly, almost without knowing what he was saying, “You’re so beautiful—” Almost before he realized it, he was kissing her cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” Malone lied. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you.” He pressed her hand tightly and said, “Goodnight—”

  The little lawyer closed his eyes for a moment. He hated the picture of Abby Lacy going, alone, into the bleak, ugly, and empty house. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

  He was glad to get back to the warm and brightly lighted living room of the Fairfaxx house, even though an uncomfortable silence seemed to have been waiting for his return.

  At last Ernest Fairfaxx rose from his comfortable chair and said, “Malone—I suppose you want to know what I’ve done with those winnings of mine. The Hook told me that he’d talked to you.”

  Malone said, “I think I can guess. You sent them to a certain person so that she’d stay where she was. But she was too greedy for you.” His thoughts went on, “And now she’s dead, poor greedy little person.” Against his will his eyes strayed up to the great blank square where her portrait had hung.

  It was little old Rodney Fairfaxx who broke the spell. He stood up, stared at the blank wall and said softly, “The memory of gentle Annie is enough for her memorial.” He smiled at everyone in the room and said, “Secrets are made to be kept.” Then, “Mr. Malone, may I have a word with you before you leave.”

  In the warm, lamp-lit, paneled library, the little old man faced Malone and said, “Frankly, I knew the truth all the time. The fault is really mine. May I undertake the financial burden of Huntleigh’s defense?”

  There was a silence while Malone had a fierce but brief struggle with his better self. “Yes,” Malone said. “But you can answer one question for me. Why did you let Glida know that you were about to be arrested for murder, and make sure that she’d rush down here?”

  The old man smiled and said, “I believe in love, Mr. Malone. Kenneth—Glida—it seemed like a device to bring them together.”

  “It may work yet,” Malone said. “And speaking of bringing people together—”

  “I know what you mean,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. He walked to the door, opened it and called, “Violet! Will you come in, please? And Elizabeth—”

  Malone waited until the library door was closed, until Violet had seated herself stiffly on a straight-backed chair, and Elizabeth had perched on the arm of old Rodney Fairfaxx’s chair.

  “All right, Liza Lavender,” he said coldly. “Let’s hear your voice.”

  He waited breathless, his eyes tight shut, for the voice he’d remembered from the days when he’d gone without lunch to save up nickels and dimes for tickets to the theater. The magnificent, unforgettable voice of Liza Lavender.

  “How did you guess?”

  Hearing her, Malone was speechless.

  It was Rodney Fairfaxx who said, “How could anyone fail to guess? I knew all along. But—secrets are meant to be kept—”

  Violet said, in that well-remembered voice, “I wanted to be with my baby. I knew it would never be allowed. So—I managed to obtain a position as housekeeper, in order to be near her. I never spoke, for fear my voice would give me away—”

  Elizabeth jumped up. The look on her face was like a bright sunrise after a month of rain. “You’re—my mother!”

  Old Rodney Fairfaxx exchanged a glance with Malone. They walked quietly from the room, unnoticed.

  34

  It was Helene who said, “All right, Malone. Now tell us what really happened.”

  “Three beers,” Malone said, ignoring her.

  Joe the Angel, said, “Malone. The little dog.”

  “I paid you,” Malone said. “And so the little dog is mine.”

  “I mean,” Joe the Angel said with a long sigh, “you want four beers.”

  “All right, four beers,” Malone said gloomily.

  “Damn you, Malone,” Jake said, “I’m a sick man. Talk. Tell all.”

  The lawyer signaled to Joe. “Make that three straight ryes and one beer in a saucer.” He turned his haggard face to Jake. “I’m trying to save time. We’re driving out to Glida’s house. Because I’ve always wanted to see six twins. And because I have a question to ask her.” He gulped his rye and added, “And because I want to talk to her before Kenneth does.”

  The drive to Wilmette was something Malone hoped he would forget and was afraid he would remember. Snow was falling again, soft, gentle snow. Snowflakes like fro
zen tears, he thought.

  “Malone,” Helene said suddenly. “Huntleigh.”

  “A harmless madman,” Malone said, “but an interesting one.”

  “That isn’t what I mean,” Helene said.

  Malone sighed and said, “Don’t worry about him. Most perfect insanity defense case I’ve ever seen. Hell, he almost convinced me. And a comfortable suite in an expensive boobyhatch will probably be a lot pleasanter than buttling for Abby Lacy.”

  “Who’s going to pay for it?” Jake asked. “And for his defense?”

  “You’d be amazed,” Malone said coyly.

  Helene told the world what she thought of Malone, in exactly four well-chosen words. The mutt growled.

  Malone ignored her. He said dreamily, “I rather suspect that Huntleigh is a very happy man, right now.” He added, “He was devoted to Albert Lacy.”

  “Malone, what are you talking about?”

  “Someday I’ll get drunk and tell you,” Malone said. He gazed out at the snow and wondered if Huntleigh’s “arrangement” would remain in effect in spite of what happened to him. Or perhaps Abby Lacy would realize enough from the sale of the gloomy old house to live out her life, preferably in some sunny and pleasant place. He hoped it would be that way.

  Glida’s house looked exactly as he’d imagined it. A gingerbread house, straight out of a fairy tale or a movie set. Six gnomes in the front yard paused in the process of building a snowman and stared at Malone. They were all dressed in bright green snowsuits. Except for differences in size, they all looked alike, and they all looked like Glida. There was no doubt in Malone’s mind that they all had red hair.

  Helene said, “Jake, stay in the car or you’ll give them all chicken pox.”

  One of the largest gnomes announced triumphantly, “We’ve had it. And we’ve had mumps and German measles and whooping cough.”

  “If you haven’t had fleas,” Malone predicted, “you soon will.” The mutt tumbled joyously through the opened door of the car.

  The six pounced on the mutt with yelps of glee. Malone shuddered and hoped for the best.

  Glida met them at the door and said, “I’ve already heard about it. Kenneth is on his way out.”

  “I thought he might be,” Malone said. He looked around the warm little living room. It was cluttered from end to end with toys, comic books and general litter. He liked it.