She was a tall, angular person who somehow suggested a fairly well–dressed scarecrow. Her face seemed faintly familiar, and Malone wondered if they'd met before. Then he decided that she reminded him of a three–year–old who had winked at him in the paddock at WashingtonPark one Saturday and then run out of the money. Topping the face – as if anything could – was an incredible headpiece consisting of a grass–green crown surrounded by a brim of nodding flowers, wreaths and ivy. All it seemed to need was a nice marble tombstone.
She looked up suddenly from her magazine. “Pardon me, but did you say something about a well–kept grave?” Her voice reminded Malone of a certain Miss Hackett who had talked him out of quitting second–year high school. Somehow he found himself strangely unable to lie to her.
“Madam, do you read minds?”
“Not minds, Mr. Malone. Lips, sometimes.” She smiled. “Are you really the John J. Malone?”
He blinked. “How in the – of, of course! The magazine! Those fact–detective stories will keep writing up my old cases. Are you a crime–story fan, Mrs. – ?”
“Miss. Hildegarde Withers, schoolteacher by profession and meddlesome old snoop by avocation, at least according to the police. Yes, I've read about you. You solve crimes and right wrongs, but usually by pure accident while chasing through saloons after some young woman who is no better than she should be. Are you on a case now?”
“Working my way through the second bottle,” he muttered, suddenly desperate. It would never do for the redhead to come in and find him tied up with this character.
“I didn't mean that kind of a case,” Miss Withers explained. “I gather that even though you've never lost a client, you have mislaid one at the moment?”
Malone shivered. The woman had second sight, at least. He decided that it would be better if he went back through the train and met the Rose of Tralee, who must certainly be on her way here by this time. He could also keep an eye open for Steve Larsen. With a hasty apology he got out of the club car, pausing only to purchase a handy pint of rye from the bar steward, and started on a long slow prowl of mile after mile of wobbling, jerking cars. The rye, blending not unpleasantly with the champagne he had taken on earlier, made everything a little hazy and unreal. He kept getting turned around and blundering into the long–deserted diner. Two or three times he bumped into the Greek Orthodox priest with the whiskers, and similarly kept interrupting four sailors shooting craps in a men's lounge.
But – no redhead. And no Larsen. Finally the train stopped – could it be Toledo already? Malone dashed to the vestibule and hung over the step, to make sure that Steve didn't disembark. When they were moving again he resumed his pilgrimage, though by this time he had resigned himself to the fact that he was being stood up by the Rose of Tralee. At last, he turned mournfully back toward where his own lonesome cubicle ought to be – and then suddenly found himself back in the club car!
No redheaded Rose. Even The Hat had departed, taking her copy of Official Fact Detective Stories with her. The car was deserted except for a bridge game going on in one corner and a sailor – obviously half–seas over – who was drowsing in a big chair with a newspaper over his face.
The pint was empty. Malone told the steward to have it buried with full military honors, and to fetch him a cheese on rye. “On second thought, skip the cheese and make it just straight rye, please.”
The drink arrived, and with it a whispered message. There was a lady waiting down the corridor. Malone emptied his glass and followed the steward, trying to slip him five dollars. It slipped right back.
“Thanks, Mr. Malone, but I can't take money from an old classmate. Remember, we went through the last two years of KentCollege of Law together?”
Malone gasped. “Class of '45. And you're Homer – No, Horace Lee Randolph. But – ”
“What am I doing here? The old story. Didn't know my place, and got into Chicago Southside politics. Bumped up against the machine, and got disbarred on a phony charge of subornation of perjury. It could have been squared by handing a grand to a certain sharper at City Hall, but I didn't have the money.” Horace shrugged. “This pays better than law, anyway. For instance, that lady handed me five dollars just to unlock the private lounge and tell you she's waiting to see you there.”
The little lawyer winced. “She – was she a queer old maid in a hat that looked like she'd made it herself?”
“Oh, no. No hat.”
Malone breathed easier. “Was she young and lovely?”
“My weakness is the numbers game, but I should say the description is accurate.”
Humming “But 'twas not her beauty alone that won me; oh, no, 'twas the truth ...” Malone straightened his tie and opened the door.
Lolly Larsen exploded in his face with all the power of a firecracker under a tin can. She grabbed his lapels and yelped: “Well, where is the dirty –?”
“Be more specific. Which dirty –?” Malone said, pulling himself loose.
“Steve, of course!”
“I don't know, but I still hope he's somewhere on this train. You joining me in the search? Nice to have your pretty face among us.”
Lolly had the face of a homesick angel. Her hair was exactly the color of a twist of lemon peel in a glass of champagne brut, her mouth was an overripe strawberry, and her figure might have inspired the French bathing suit, but her eyes were cold and strange as a mermaid's. “Are you in this with Steve?” she demanded.
Malone said, “In simple, one–syllable words that even you can understand – No!”
Lolly suddenly relaxed, swaying against him so that he got a good whiff of brandy, nail polish and Chanel Number 5. “I'm sorry. I guess I'm just upset. I feel so terribly helpless – ”
For Malone's money, she was as helpless as an eight–button rattlesnake.
“You see,” Lolly murmured, “I'm partly to blame for Steve's running away. I should have stood by him at the trial, but I hadn't the courage. Even afterward – I didn't actually promise to come back to him, I just said I'd come to his party. I meant to tell him – in the Pump Room. So, please, please help me find him so I can make him see how much we really need each other!”
Malone said, “Try it again, and flick the eyelashes a little bit more when you come to `need each other.`”
Lolly jerked away and called him a number of things, of which “dirty little shyster!” was the most complimentary. “All right,” she finally said in a matter–of–fact tone. “Steve's carrying a hundred grand, and you can guess how he got it. I happen to know – Glick isn't the only one who's been spying on him since he got out of jail yesterday. I don't want Steve back, but I do want a fat slice for keeping my mouth shut. One word from me to the D.A. or the papers, and not even you can get him off.”
“Go on,” Malone said wearily. “But you interest me in less ways than one.”
“Find Steve!” she told him. “Make a deal and I'll give you ten per cent of the take. But work fast, because we're not the only ones looking for him. Steve double–crossed everybody who was at that party this afternoon. He's somewhere on this train, but he's probably shaved off his moustache, or put on a fright–wig, or – ”
Malone yawned and said, “Where can I get in touch with you?”
“I couldn't get a reservation of any kind.” Her strange eyes warmed hopefully. “But I hear you have a drawing room?”
“Don't look at me in that tone of voice,” Malone said hastily. “Besides, I snore. Maybe there'll be something available for you at the next stop.”
He was out of there and back in the club car before Lolly could turn on any more of the charm. He decided to have one for the road – the
New York Central Road
, and one for the Pennsy too. The sensible thing was to find Steve Larsen, collect his own hard–earned fee, and leave Lolly alone. Her offer of ten per cent of the blackmail take touched on a sore spot.
Malone began to work his way through the train again, this time desperatel
y questioning porters. The worst of it was, there was nothing remarkable about Larsen's appearance except curly hair, which he'd probably had straightened and dyed, a mustache that could have been shaved off, and a briefcase full of money, which he'd probably hidden. In fact, the man was undoubtedly laughing at everybody from behind a false set of whiskers. Such were Malone's thoughts as he suddenly came face to face again with the Greek Orthodox priest, who stared past him through thick, tinted spectacles. The little lawyer hesitated and was lost. Throwing caution to the winds, he yanked vigorously at the beard. But it was an orthodox beard, attached in the orthodox manner. Its owner let loose a blast which just possibly might have been an orthodox Greek blessing. Malone didn't wait to find out. His ears were still burning when he stepped into a vestibule and ran head on into Miss
Hildegarde Withers. He nodded coldly and started past her.
“Ah, go soak your fat head!” Malone gasped.
“It's the parrot,” Miss Withers explained, holding up the caged monstrosity. “It's been making such a racket that I'm taking it to the baggage car for the night.”
“Where – where did you get that – bird?” Malone asked weakly.
“Why, Sinbad is a legacy from the aunt whose funeral I just went back to attend. I'm taking him back to New York with me.”
“New York!” Malone moaned. “We'll be there before I find that – ”
“You mean that Mr. Larsen?” As he stood speechless, she went briskly on. “You see, I happened to be at a family farewell party at the table next to yours in the Pump Room, and my hearing is very acute. So, for that matter, is my eyesight. Has it occurred to you that Larsen may be wearing a disguise of some sort?”
“That it has,” admitted Malone sadly, thinking of the Greek priest. The schoolteacher lowered her voice. “You remember that when we had our little chat in the club car sometime ago, there was an obviously inebriated sailor dozing behind a newspaper?”
“There's one on every train,” Malone said.
“One or more.”
“Exactly. Like Chesterton's postman, you never notice them. But somehow that particular sailor managed to stay intoxicated without ordering a single drink or nipping at a private bottle. More than that, when you suddenly left he poked his head out from behind the paper and stared after you with a very odd expression, rather as if he suspected you had leprosy. I couldn't help noticing – ”
“Madam, I love you,” the lawyer said fervently. “I love you because you remind me of Miss Hackett back in Dorchester High, and because of your hat, and because you are sharper than a tack.”
Miss Withers sniffed, but it was a mollified sniff. “Sorry to interrupt, but that same sailor entered our car just as I left it with the parrot. I just happened to look back, and I rather think he was trying the door of your drawing room.”
Malone clasped her hand fondly. Unfortunately it was the hand that held the cage, and the parrot took advantage of the long–awaiting opportunity to nip viciously at his thumb.
“Thank you so very much – some day I'll wring your silly neck” was Malone's sincere but somewhat garbled exit line.
“Go boil your head in lard!” the bird screamed after him.
The maiden schoolteacher sighed. “Come on, Sinbad, you're going into durance vile. And I'm going to retire to my lonely couch, drat it all.” She looked wistfully over her shoulder.
“Some people have all the fun!”
But twelve cars, ten minutes, and four drinks later, Malone was lost again. A worried porter was saying, “If you could only remember your car number, sah?” A much harassed Pullman conductor added, “If you'd just show us your ticket stub, we'd locate you.”
“You don't need to locate me,” Malone insisted. “I'm right here.”
“Maybe you haven't got a stub.”
“I have so a stub. It's in my hatband.” Crafty as an Indian guide, Malone backtracked them unerringly to his drawing room. “Here's the stub – now where was I?”
The porter looked out the window and said, “just coming into Altoona, sah.”
“They lay in the wreck when they found them. They had died when the engine had fell ...” sang Malone happily. But the conductor winced and said they'd be going.
“You might as well,” Malone told him. “If neither one of you can sing baritone.”
The door closed behind them, and a moment later a soft voice called, “Mr. Malone?”
He stared at the connecting door. The Rose of Tralee, Malone told himself happily. He adjusted his tie, and tried the door. Miraculously, it opened. Then he saw that it was Miss Hildegarde Withers, looking very worried, who stared back at him. Malone said, “What have you done with my redhead?”
“If you refer to my niece Joannie,” the schoolteacher said sharply, “she only helped me get my stuff aboard and rode as far as Englewood. But never mind that now. I'm in trouble.”
“I knew there couldn't be two parrots like that on one train,” Malone groaned. “Or even in one world.”
“There's worse than parrots on this train,” snapped Miss Withers. “This man Larsen for whom you were looking so anxiously – ”
The little lawyer's eyes narrowed. “Just what is your interest in Larsen?”
“None whatever, except that he's here in my compartment. It's very embarrassing, because he's not only dead, he's undressed!”
“Holy St. Vitus!” gulped Malone. “Quiet! Keep calm. Lock your door and don't talk!”
“My door is locked, and who's talking?”
The schoolteacher stepped aside and Malone peered gingerly past her. The speed with which he was sobering up probably established a new record. It was Larsen, all right. He was face down on the floor, dressed only in black shoes, blue socks, and a suit of long underwear. There was also a moderate amount of blood. At last Malone said hoarsely, “I suspect foul play!”
“Knife job,” said Miss Withers with professional coolness. “From the back, through the latissimus dorsi. Within the last twenty minutes, I'd say. If I hadn't had some difficulty in convincing the baggage men that Sinbad should be theirs for the night, I might have walked in on the murderer at work.” She gave Malone a searching glance. “It wasn't you, by any chance?”
“Do you think I'd murder a man who owed me three thousand dollars?” Malone demanded indignantly. He scowled. “But a lot of people are going to jump to that conclusion. Nice of you not to raise an alarm.”
She sniffed. “You didn't think I'd care to have a man – even a dead man – found in my room in this state of undress? Obviously, he hasn't your money on his person. So – what is to be done about it?”
“I'll defend you for nothing,” John J. Malone promised. “Justifiable homicide. Besides, you were framed. He burst in upon you and you stabbed in defense of your honor ...”
“Just a minute! The corpse was your client. You've been publicly asking for him all through the train. I'm only an innocent bystander.” She paused. “In my opinion, Larsen was lured to your room purposely by someone who had penetrated his disguise. He was stabbed, and dumped here. Very clever, because if the body had been left in your room, you could have got rid of it or claimed that you were framed. But this way, to the police mind at least, it would be obvious that you did the job and then tried to palm it off on the nearest neighbor.”
Malone sagged weakly against the berth. His hand brushed against the leather case, and something slashed viciously at his fingers. “But I thought you got rid of that parrot!” he cried.
“I did,” Miss Withers assured him. “That's Precious in his case. A twenty–pound Siamese, also part of my recent legacy. Don't get too close, the creature dislikes train travel and is in a foul temper.”
Malone stared through the wire window and said, “It's father must have been either a bobcat or a buzz saw.”
“My aunt left me her mink coat, on condition that I take both her pets,” Miss Withers explained wearily. “But I'm beginning to think it would be better to shiver through these col
d winters. And speaking of cold – I'm a patient woman, but not very. You have one minute, Mr. Malone, to get your dead friend out of here!”
“He's no friend of mine, dead or alive,” Malone began. “And I suggest – ”
There was a heavy knocking on the corridor door. “Open up in there!”
“Say something!” whispered Malone. “Say you're undressed!”
“You're undressed – I mean, I'm undressed,” she cried obediently.
“Sorry, ma'am,” a masculine voice said on the other side of the door. “But we're searching this train for a fugitive from justice. Hurry, please.”
“Just a minute,” sang out the schoolteacher, making frantic gestures at Malone.
Detective Duos Page 33
