Having Wonderful Crime

by Craig Rice

  The bedroom walls were pale gray. The bed was enormous, its padded headboard was an obscene pink, and it was covered with a heavy lace spread. The windows were curtained with thickly gathered chiffon of the same unpleasant pink. There were mirrors everywhere. At one wall was an immense dressing table placed artfully against a mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, bordered on both sides by curtains that matched those at the windows, mirror-topped, and covered with immense jars, perfume bottles and atomizers. There were half a dozen large paintings on the walls, brilliant in color, slightly Oriental in tone, and all dealing with the facts of life.

  The room was heavy with perfume. On the floor around the immense bed ran what seemed to be a strip of silver; it turned out to be a plate-glass mirror, set in the carpet. Jake felt like murmuring an apology as he closed the door. He wondered what O’Brien, Birnbaum, and Schultz had made of the furnishings and decorations of the bedroom, and what Arthur Peterson had thought of the pictures on its walls. Jake grinned.

  He opened the door to the bathroom; it smelled of cologne, bath salts, perfumed soap, and shaving cream. There was a design of tropical fish along the edge of the dark-green tiling. The towels were thick and enormous, monogrammed with an immense G.

  Jake stood in the hall, frowning. So far the apartment had told him a great deal about Gloria Garden, née Hazel Puckett. It had told him, among other things, that she had a husband or a boy friend, and that she was hell-bent on keeping him by one means or another. But it hadn’t told him why Gloria Garden had been found murdered in a suite in the St. Jacques Hotel, dressed in a pale-blue satin nightgown, and neatly decapitated.

  Suddenly his nerves tightened; he paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. The clothes hanging in the closet at the St. Jacques certainly hadn’t belonged to Gloria Garden, no, none of them. Then what had happened to her clothes? She must have gone to the St. Jacques alive. But she hadn’t gone dressed in a blue satin nightgown. Besides, the nightgown had belonged to Bertha Morrison.

  Jake finished lighting his cigarette and called himself several kinds of a fool for not remembering that before. The clothes Gloria Garden must have worn to the St. Jacques that night were not in the suite where she’d been murdered. Had the murderer carried them away? Or worn them away?

  He prowled around restlessly, his face knitted into a scowl. There was something wrong about this place, too, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  He went, almost aimlessly, from room to room. In the bathroom he opened the big mirrored medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, iodine, hangover remedies, odds and ends of medicine. But no razor, and no shaving cream. That was it. The bathroom smelled of shaving cream, but there wasn’t any in the medicine cabinet, and no razor.

  Jake went back into the bedroom and flung open the closet door. Dresses, furs, a ski suit, riding clothes, negligees. He looked through the bureau drawers. Lacy and embroidered lingerie, blouses, filmy stockings. But nowhere any shirts or ties or pajamas. That was all wrong. This apartment had been lived in by two people, one a man. Even if the man had maintained his official home somewhere else, which was likely, there should at least have been a dressing gown. And a razor. Had there been a quarrel before Gloria Garden’s murder; had the man packed his belongings and left? There were empty hangers in the closet that might have been used for a man’s clothes, and there was a blank space on the shelf reserved for shoes and slippers.

  He finally reached Gloria Garden’s little mahogany desk, went through it, and stood looking at it reflectively. There was a half-empty bottle of violet ink, a pen, and a well used blotter. There was a package of pale-gray writing paper with the name Gloria Garden. But save for a few receipted bills, there were no letters, not anywhere. That too was a wrong note. A girl like Gloria Garden wrote letters and received them and, what was more, kept them. There should at least have been letters from her family. The letters might have been carried away, or Gloria Garden might have hidden them. Jake thought it over. Either one was possible, if the letters contained anything of value. The missing letters might tell him a great deal that he needed to know, answer a great many questions.

  Jake looked at his watch and sighed. Helene would be waiting. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He lit another cigarette and settled down to search in earnest.

  21. For You to Figure Out

  “There’s no point in our telling the police that Dennis Morrison’s beat it again,” Malone said crossly. “They’ll find it out soon enough. And there’s no point in our trying to find him ourselves, because New York is a big city, and I’m tired. Maybe he just got another irresistible yen for those ferry boats.”

  Helene sighed, and tossed her furs over the back of a chair. “I wish I knew where Jake is.”

  There had been a message waiting at the desk of the St. Jacques. Jake had been unavoidably delayed, by important business, but he’d be back by four. It was now a little past five, and there had been no further message.

  “I wish I was back in Chicago,” Malone said, in a gloomy voice. “I wish I’d never left Chicago.” He didn’t want to admit to Helene that he was worried about Dennis Morrison. Indeed, he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He had enough on his mind without it.

  “I’ve sent downstairs for a fresh bottle of bourbon and the afternoon papers,” Helene said. “They ought to have a wonderful time writing about your discovery. Malone, where do you imagine the other body is?”

  “I have no further interest in the case,” Malone lied stiffly. “I went there today because of a feeling of responsibility for Dennis Morrison. Since he ran out on us this afternoon, that feeling of responsibility has ceased to exist. The bourbon is a timely thought, but I am not concerned about what the newspapers have to say.” He managed to pretend, when they arrived, that he was reading them only to humor Helene.

  The newspapers made a great to-do over the discovery, which they attributed to detective work on the part of that brilliant young police inspector, Arthur Peterson. Malone grinned, again reflecting that cops were cops, wherever you found them. The newspapers were particularly excited over the fact that the body, which they unanimously assumed to belong to Bertha Morrison, could not be identified. They speculated on the whereabouts of the head and on whether it would ever be found. There were more pictures of Bertha Morrison and Gloria Garden, and a slightly smudged picture of old Dr. Puckett leaving police headquarters. Helene pushed aside the last newspaper and shook her head sadly. “I had it all figured out so nicely,” she complained. “Gloria Garden was an ex-girl friend of Dennis’. She went to see Bertha that night, they had a quarrel, and Bertha killed her and then ran away. This shoots it all to hell.”

  “It wasn’t a very good theory, anyway,” Malone told her consolingly. He didn’t add that he’d had the same one himself. “It left too many things unexplained.”

  “I was leaving those for you to figure out,” Helene said. “Malone, where do you suppose Bertha’s head is?”

  “It’ll probably turn up in a trunk in the baggage room of the railway station in Keokuk, Iowa.” He was wondering if, once the body was identified as Bertha Morrison’s, he could collect half the fee from Abner Proudfoot. Probably not. Abner Proudfoot would probably hold out for all of Bertha or nothing.

  “Malone, who could have murdered both those women and switched them around like that?”

  “It isn’t who that interests me,” Malone said, “but why. That is, if I were interested at all, which I’m not, that would be the most interesting,” He added hastily, “Stop bothering me with stupid questions.”

  Helene giggled. “It is funny, though, about that dinner jacket,” she said slyly.

  “Damned funny,” the little lawyer murmured, without thinking. “I can’t help wondering if—”

  He caught Helene’s eye, glared at her furiously, and snapped, “I said leave me alone.” He poured himself a drink, crushed out his cigar, and began unwrapping a fresh one.

  “Just the same,” Helene said, “I bet I c
an find out who it belongs to.”

  “Bet you can’t,” Malone said automatically.

  “Watch me,” Helene said. “I bet I can find the owner of that jacket, and how Dennis Morrison got it, before you find the murderer.”

  “I’m not looking for the murderer,” Malone said. He frowned. “Dennis Morrison—” He paused. Their eyes met.

  “If he murdered Bertha,” Helene said slowly, “he did it for her money. But the murderer disposed of her head so that she couldn’t be identified. Whether that was his reason or not, I don’t know. Dennis wouldn’t have done it. Because with Bertha unidentified, he couldn’t inherit her money.” She frowned. “Still, he could have known both Bertha Morrison and Gloria Garden.”

  Malone shook his head. He aimed his cigar ashes at the tray; most of them landed on his vest. “That look on his face when he came out of the murder room that morning was genuine. He couldn’t have been acting.”

  “And,” Helene added thoughtfully, “his hangover was genuine. I’d swear to that. The problem is to find someone who wanted to murder Bertha and didn’t want her body to be identified.”

  “The problem,” Malone said gloomily, “is to get back to Chicago.”

  “But, on the other hand, if it isn’t Bertha’s body, and it might not be, whose is it?”

  “Little Red Hooding Ride’s,” Malone said.

  “Malone, what happened to Bertha’s jewels? There was about two thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry missing from the bridal suite.”

  “The murderer found he’d left his fingerprints all over it,” Malone said, “so he dropped it down the toilet. If you don’t change the subject pretty damn quick, I’m going out to the movies.”

  She sighed. “You’re a very mean man, Malone. I can’t help wondering, though, why Dennis left us so suddenly and unceremoniously, and where he went.”

  “I wonder if there’s a good Western picture showing anywhere,” Malone said.

  Helene muttered something about unsympathetic Irishmen. “How do you suppose the murderer got Gloria Garden’s head up here? A recently severed human head is an awkward thing to carry through a hotel lobby, even at night.”

  “He dressed up like an all-American fullback and carried it under his arm,” Malone said. He paused and scowled. “Maybe Gloria Garden was murdered right here in the hotel.”

  “In that case, where is her body, and where is Bertha Morrison’s head?”

  “This is where I came in,” Malone said, “and this is where I go out.” He looked at his watch. “If Jake doesn’t get here pretty soon, I suppose I’m stuck with taking you out to dinner again.”

  She looked at him icily. “I could always call up an escort service.” Suddenly she was silent, staring at him. “Malone!”

  “Oh, no you can’t,” the little lawyer said, getting to his feet.

  “Oh, yes I can,” Helene said. “Can, and will.” She began thumbing through a pile of notes on her desk. “I have the name of the one Dennis Morrison worked for written down here somewhere.” They argued about it while she looked for and located the telephone number, though Malone knew it was a losing argument. Finally she gave the number to the operator, and said to Malone, “Get out of here while I dress. And don’t you dare tell Jake where I’ve gone.”

  “I won’t,” Malone said. “And I don’t care if you never come back, either.” He slammed the door as he went out. As he walked down the hall, he reflected on the futility of arguing with a woman, especially Helene. Not, he admitted, that she’d had such a bad idea. Well, anyway, he could unobtrusively follow her and make sure that she was safe.

  The telephone was ringing when he reached the door of his room. Malone flung open the door, switched on the light, and glared at the telephone for a moment. Still, it might be Jake. He grabbed up the receiver. It was a thin nasal masculine voice. The voice said, “Mr. Malone? This is Mr. Proudfoot’s secretary. Mr. Proudfoot wishes you to come to his home.” The voice named an address in the East Sixties. “And, at once.”

  Malone said, “Listen, you tell Mr. Proudfoot to—”

  But the voice had hung up.

  22. “Once I’m Hired—”

  Malone spent a futile fifteen minutes trying to get Abner Proudfoot’s secretary back on the phone. Mr. Proudfoot’s residence, it appeared, had an unlisted phone, and the offices of Proudfoot, Schwartz, Van Alstine, and Proudfoot failed to answer. Malone talked to a succession of telephone operators, supervisors, and superintendents about the importance of talking to Abner Proudfoot at his home. Finally, after threatening to call in a medium and talk to Alexander Graham Bell in person, he gave up and slammed down the receiver. He spent an equally futile, but somewhat more satisfactory fifteen minutes talking profanely and colorfully about Mr. Abner Proudfoot’s private life, personal habits, and probable future.

  It would take a while for Helene to dress. Malone peeled off his coat, tie, and shirt, and began a comfortable, leisurely shave. He was torn between temptation and his sense of responsibility. The summons from Abner Proudfoot constituted the temptation. It wasn’t just that he was curious as to what Abner Proudfoot had to tell him so urgently. But there were a few things he was looking forward to telling Abner Proudfoot.

  On the other hand, he knew Helene’s proclivity for getting into trouble, and this wasn’t Chicago, this was New York. At various times in Chicago she’d managed to get herself kidnaped, arrested, and nearly murdered. Heaven only knew what might happen here.

  He was just rubbing after-shave lotion into his cheeks when the phone rang again. He dried his hands on his shirt, mistaking it in his haste for a towel, and ran to answer it. The nasal voice said, “This is Mr. Proudfoot’s secretary calling back. Mr. Proudfoot wants to know what’s detaining you.”

  “Tell Mr. Proudfoot my secretary hasn’t finished washing my neck and ears,” Malone snarled, “and that I only make appointments a week in advance.” This time he managed to hang up the phone first.

  He selected a clean shirt and changed leisurely into his navy-blue suit. The phone rang twice during the process; he ignored it. He moved his possessions from the pockets of his brown suit to those of his blue suit, fussed with his tie, and brushed his hair. He stuck the slip of paper with Abner Proudfoot’s address on it into his vest pocket. Maybe tomorrow morning he’d call on Abner Proudfoot, if he felt in the mood. He picked up the phone and called Jake and Helene’s suite. Helene answered, and he said, “Well, how about dinner?”

  “Not tonight,” Helene said. “I have a date.”

  “Is Jake there?”

  “Not yet.” Her voice was almost gay. “I’m leaving a message for him. See you tomorrow, Malone.” The receiver clicked sharply in his ear.

  All right, then he’d follow her. He stuffed a heavy glass ash tray in the toe of an old sock, knotted the sock, and placed it conveniently in his right-hand pants pocket. Not that he anticipated any trouble, but it was always well to be prepared. He put on his topcoat, fished his hat from under a chair, and went out. Damn New York. Damn Abner Proudfoot. Damn everybody. Damn Helene.

  She was ahead of him, in the lobby, cashing a check at the desk. Her long, full-skirted chiffon dress was the pale-green color of a field of new wheat; over it she wore a gleaming evening coat the color of gold. The net scarf over her shining hair was dotted with golden flecks.

  Yet—had she dressed hastily, or in anger? There was too much make-up on her exquisite face, carelessly applied. She wore earrings and four bracelets of diamonds, and a diamond chain from which was suspended a glowing emerald. Helene, wearing all that jewelry? He couldn’t understand it. Particularly, with the golden evening coat, and gold-flecked scarf.

  She moved toward the door; he followed, keeping her in sight. Near the door she paused to greet a big, handsome, blond bruiser in evening clothes. The blond bruiser showed her a card, she beamed, rested her hand on his arm, and sailed out the door beside him.

  Malone reached the sidewalk just as they stepped into a waiting cab.
The cab moved away, Malone raced across the sidewalk and dived toward the next cab, just drawing up. The doorman said, “Sorry, sir,” and elbowed him aside. A party of four got in the cab and drove off. Malone gritted his teeth and started for the next cab and was nearly knocked to the sidewalk as the doorman opened the cab door for a white-bearded gentleman in an opera hat. A hurried young man with a brief case under his arm got the third cab. “Sorry sir,” the doorman said, “you’ll have to wait your turn.”

  Malone, speechless and growling, pointed in the direction Helene’s cab had taken. “There’s three ahead of you,” the doorman said. I’m sorry sir, but—” Helene’s cab was now out of sight.

  Malone considered giving the doorman a punch in the nose, and then decided against it. It might make him feel better, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Besides, he suspected (rightly) that Helene had bribed the doorman. After all, he told himself, Helene was over twenty-one, and she hadn’t been raised in the backwoods.

  He went up to the desk. Had Mr. Justus come in yet, or had there been any message?

  Mr. Justus had not come in, and there had not been any message. But there had been several calls for Mr. Malone from a Mr. Proudfoot. Mr. Malone stopped at the cigar stand, replenished his supply, and made a mental note to get acquainted with the cigar-stand girl as soon as he had the time. He went out to the street again and called for a cab. This time he got it right away.

  He didn’t like the looks of Abner Proudfoot’s house any better than he’d liked Abner Proudfoot. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk, after the cab had driven away, regarding it. It was four stories high, one of them an English basement, with a narrow front. There were ornamental iron grilles over the windows, and the shades were all tightly drawn. There was another iron grille set in the heavy wooden door. Malone found the bell with a little difficulty, and rang it. There was a long wait, during which the little lawyer’s patience wore down to its last thread before a middle-aged butler opened the door and announced that Mr. Proudfoot was not at home.