by Craig Rice
“One question, fast,” he said, sinking into the nearest chair. “Why did you let Kenneth divorce you?”
“Please, Malone.”
“Never mind,” he said, “I can guess. Pride. Pride goeth before the spring. I mean, pride springeth into fall. I mean, spring—”
Helene said, “Go on, Malone.”
Glida sat, tight-lipped, and said nothing.
“Things were tough,” Malone said. “You knew Kenneth was unhappy. I mean, you thought Kenneth was unhappy. There wasn’t much money, and there were twins. A hell of a lot of twins. And you were made to realize that Kenneth missed the luxury he had been lapping up. So you got a job, as a hat-check girl, without telling him.”
“How did you know?” Glida said, in a very small voice.
“I didn’t,” Malone said cheerfully. “I just guessed. But that kind of job meant your being seen around night clubs, and being out late in the evening without explanation. Someone began bringing stories back to Kenneth. He accused you, and you told him to go to hell. Am I right?”
Glida nodded and said, “I thought—if he loved me—he ought to trust me—”
“You were out till all hours,” Malone said, “you were seen around night clubs. Because you were earning luxuries and comforts for the man in your life. But you thought if he loved you—he ought to trust you.” He groaned. “You’re wasting your life as a hat-check girl. Write for the confession magazines and let me be your agent, and we’ll both retire in ten years.”
Her face turned red. “But it’s true, Malone.”
“I know it,” Malone said. “So are the confession magazines. Suppose you take it from there. He finally walked out on you, and then what?”
Glida said, “I was told—Uncle Rodney was very upset about it. That he might cut Kenneth out of his will if it looked in any way that he were at fault. I didn’t want that to happen. Because Kenneth was used to—being comfortable. And besides, I didn’t want him back unless he—asked first.”
“Pride,” Malone said, “We can sell this to ten confession magazines, under ten different names.” He added, “So, when there wasn’t enough evidence for Kenneth to divorce you, you faked some. You kept thinking he’d—ask you first.”
“Malone,” Glida said, her eyes blazing at him, “don’t you ever tell him. Not ever!”
“I won’t,” Malone promised, “and I hope you never will. But there was someone who talked to you, and someone who talked to him, and—”
Glida opened her mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “Yes.”
“And that someone was—?” Malone said.
Glida looked at him unhappily and said nothing.
“It’s all right,” Malone told her gently. “You can tell, now. It was Gay, wasn’t it?”
Glida nodded, mutely.
The little lawyer slid the cellophane from his cigar. “I knew that as soon as I knew that she was the killer.” He stood there for a moment, thinking of Gay Lacy. A girl with a lovely name. An ugly, awkward girl nobody wanted, perhaps a girl with dreams of being beautiful and being loved, a girl who had wanted so much and had so little, who had been loving Kenneth Fairfaxx for so long in her secret heart, a girl who wanted lovely things and knew that the money that paid for them came from her mother’s butler, a girl unloved, unbeautiful, and unwanted, who had died, not long since, who had died, her blood spilling over the soot-darkened snow, for all she had lived for. A chill ran down his spine, despite the warmth of the pleasant room.
“She must have—” He caught himself. He took a very long time to light his cigar. Yes, Gay must have known about the family finances. Someday he’d check that point with Orlo Featherstone. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Gay had been a smart girl, and able to find out about a lot of things. Smart enough, too, to use Huntleigh when she needed to. He finally managed to get the cigar lit, and went on: “Curiously enough, it was Helene who told me.”
Helene gasped and said, “I thought—Elizabeth—”
“I know you did,” Malone said, “and Jake thought so too. For a few hours, so did I. Then, you pointed out to me the fact of the street numbers having been changed. Once I realized that letters addressed to the Fairfaxx house by someone who didn’t know that the numbers had been changed would automatically go to the Lacy house—I knew it couldn’t be anyone but Gay.”
The room was very still. Too still. Malone rose, walked to the cheerful little fireplace and stood leaning on the mantel.
“I’m making this up as I go along,” he said, “but two will get you five that I’m right. Gay Lacy knew that Annie Kendall was alive. We’ll never know how. It was Gay who brought about the divorce between Glida and Kenneth—because Gay had been in love with Kenneth”—he smiled wryly, remembering—“as long as she could remember. She would have done anything to bring about that divorce. But—she also wanted the money Kenneth would inherit if Annie Kendall never turned up.”
He took a very long time to light his cigar. “Gay must have known that she was really very poor. She wanted to be rich, and married to Kenneth.”
Glida poked up the fire and said, “It’s cold in here.”
Malone ignored her and went on. “It must have started by accident. As most things start. When Annie Kendall found herself alone, and broke, she wrote to Rodney Fairfaxx. We’ll never know what she wrote him, or how she explained the years between, but we can guess. Annie must have been a girl with imagination, along with rare charm. To be on the safe side, she sent her first letter registered. But—not knowing the street numbers had been changed—she sent it to the wrong address.
“The postman brought that so important letter to the Lacy house, intending to carry it to the house next door. But before he could do so, Gay found out about it. She destroyed it, after reading it, and then made Huntleigh swear that he’d never seen it. Furthermore, she made him swear that he would watch for any such letters in the future.”
Glida said, “Huntleigh was always devoted to Gay—to everyone in the family—”
“You’re damned right,” Malone said, “and you’ll never know how damned right you are.” He drew a long breath and went on. “But the postman was always a danger. At any time he might discover he’d delivered a registered letter to the wrong house. He might even ask old Rodney Fairfaxx if he’d received it. Gay Lacy didn’t dare take chances. There was only one thing for her to do. Heaven only knows how she ever got up the courage, but somehow she did it.”
He flicked an imaginary ash from his cigar and said, “But then there was a second letter. And a third. So, three postmen died.”
“But Malone,” Helene said sudddenly. “How did she know which postmen to kill? I mean, there would have been two deliveries a day. Did she intend to kill every postman who came around the block?”
Malone said, “Remember, she’d told Huntleigh to watch for registered letters for Rodney Fairfaxx. They kept on coming to the wrong house. When those letters turned up, the rest was easy.” He paused. “It’s a good thing Annie Kendall died when she did and those letters stopped coming. Or the mortality rate among Chicago postmen would have broken all records.
“Then—” he smiled bitterly, “it became necessary to keep old Rodney Fairfaxx from knowing that Annie Kendall was dead. There was a letter telling of her death on the way. But—luckily—the fourth postman didn’t die.”
“Uncle Ernie!” Helene said suddenly. “Did she—”
Malone said, just as suddenly, “The ghost of—” He caught himself, managed to drop his cigar on the rug, and spent a good six seconds picking it up. Elizabeth Fairfaxx had seen a ghost in that tragic garden. And so had he. He knew, now, that it had been Gay Lacy, in that long, pale blue raincoat.
“Gay heard him making an appointment with me. She was afraid of what he might say. But Uncle Ernie was going to be inside the wall. She must have gone out through one of the gates, struck him down, and then waited.”
“For what?” Helene demanded.
“For comes the dawn,”
Malone said. He yawned. Some day he would tell Jake and Helene, over a quiet beer-and-gin, of the ghost in the snow who had been Gay Lacy, and of Huntleigh who had wanted to give Gay Lacy an alibi among many and so had pretended a reason for having followed him through the dark streets, and for carrying him into the haunted cellar and nailing him to the wall, and telling him a wild and charming story about why he had done it.
“Huntleigh,” Glida said in a faint whisper.
“He couldn’t let the police take her,” Malone said. “He knew the truth all along. It was better for Gay Lacy to die, and for him to be arrested for murder. It was his final act of devotion.”
He added, after a long pause, “I don’t think Huntleigh would want me to tell the police—or the newspapers—the truth. And I think he’s earned his right to silence.” He yawned and said, “And I think I’ve earned the right to forty-eight hours of sleep.”
The doorbell rang, loudly.
Malone said, “And I also think—”
Glida blushed. It was a beautiful blush, old-fashioned scarlet, clashing violently with her carrot-red hair.
“We were just going,” Helene said.
Kenneth Fairfaxx scarcely noticed them leaving as he burst in through the front door.
Out in the front yard were the six green-clad gnomes and an ecstatically happy mutt.
“Don’t look now,” Helene said, “but I think you’ve just lost a dog.”
Six voices said, almost in unison, “Can we keep him?”
The mutt gave Malone an imploring look.
Malone drew a long breath and said, “Yes.”
Six twins and one mutt returned joyously to romping in the snow.
The snow didn’t seem like frozen tears any more. It seemed like tiny falling stars.
They were halfway into Chicago when Helene looked at her watch, and switched on the car radio. There was a sign-off announcement, a station break, a singing commercial, and a blast of music. Then a voice declared, “Bob Allen! Coming to you today from Chicago—”
Malone sat up and said, “What the hell?”
Helene said, “You mean you didn’t know?”
Jake said, “For Pete’s sake, don’t you ever listen to the radio?”
“No,” Malone said feebly. He reached out a trembling hand and shut it off. “Bob Allen. Actor. Those clothes—”
“Those clothes are considered very swanky in Hollywood,” Helene said.
“And Bob Allen’s salary would be considered very swanky anywhere,” Jake said. “A couple of thousand a week, just to make those noises over the microphone.”
Malone shut his eyes. He thought about Bob Allen. He thought about the check from Rodney Fairfaxx, which had been honored at the bank. He thought about the events of the last few days.
“I always knew there must be an easier way of making a living than being John J. Malone,” he said at last.
Then he leaned his head back and went to sleep.
About the Author
Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1948 by Craig Rice
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4855-2
This edition published in 2017 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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