by Craig Rice
She’d explained to Mr. Prince that her mother in Terre Haute, Indiana, was very ill. She had to fly there, immediately. She’d have to hire a very expensive specialist. So he, Mr. Prince, had bought the jewelry. Should he ask questions? Poor girl, and so young and pretty. Was he to know she was going to be murdered? Maybe it was for the money he’d given her, nine hundred dollars, and he’d cheated himself. Nine hundred dollars was a lot of money. People had been murdered for a lot less.
He might have seen Dennis Morrison sometime, he might not. Maybe yes, and then again, maybe no. He saw so many people, he couldn’t swear to it, and he was an honest man, he wouldn’t want to perjure himself. The girl, though, yes. He remembered her very well. So pretty. So young. Too young and too pretty to be murdered. Nothing could shake his story. Probably, Malone thought, because it was the truth. He could tell that Arthur Peterson believed it, too.
Al? Mr. Prince wasn’t sure. He might have seen him before, he might not. The same was true of Howie Lutts. Maybe he’d come in the store, maybe he hadn’t. He, Mr. Prince, couldn’t swear to one or the other.
Could he investigate everybody who came in the shop to pawn a dollar watch? If a young man came in to sell a necklace left him by his grandmother, could he, Mr. Prince, take time out to read the grandmother’s will? He tried to be an honest businessman, but he had to make a living, didn’t he? If a customer said his name was Smith, should he, Mr. Prince, ask for a birth certificate?
Yes, he did have the receipt for the money, signed by the young lady. He located it among a fat bunch of papers in his wallet and handed it to Arthur Peterson.
Jake edged over to Peterson’s desk, looking over his shoulder. It was a standard form, dated April 8, 1943. Received of Mr. Harry Prince, the sum of $900 for merchandise—
It was written with an indelible pencil, it was signed in violet ink, Mary Brown. There might be a lot of girls who used violet ink, Jake reflected, but that delicate, angular handwriting had belonged to Gloria Garden. He was no handwriting expert, but he’d been reading her letters all evening, and he knew.
“Frankly,” Malone said to Arthur Peterson, “I don’t think you can pin a thing on this guy.”
Mr. Prince looked happily at the little lawyer and said, “Believe me, I’m an honest businessman—”
Arthur Peterson called in someone from another department. It turned out that Malone was right. There were no charges against little Mr. Prince. He’d bought jewelry that had belonged to a murdered woman. He’d bought them from a woman who’d been murdered shortly after the transaction. But he’d bought them, paid for them, and made out a receipt to sign, all in good faith. He was in the clear. The hard-faced man, Al, said he didn’t know Mr. Prince from a hole in the ground, and how soon could he call up his lawyer? Howie Lutts, looking white and scared, said that maybe he’d hocked his watch once at Mr. Prince’s establishment, but he couldn’t be sure.
“None of this is in my department,” Arthur Peterson said. “I’m only concerned with evidence bearing on the murder. However”—he beamed at Helene—“if you wish to prefer charges against this man—”
It turned out that Helene couldn’t, even if she’d wished to. She’d seen Al offering her dime-store diamonds for sale to Mr. Prince, but she hadn’t seen Mr. Prince offering to buy them. The honest businessman wanted to go home. He reiterated his evidence regarding Bertha Morrison’s jewelry to a police stenographer, and signed it. There was a little difficulty over the matter of the jewelry itself. Mr. Prince wanted either the jewelry—impounded as evidence in a homicide case—or his money, which had last been seen stuffed into Gloria Garden’s purse. He finally settled for a receipt made out and signed by Arthur Peterson, and left in the company of a plain-clothes man, threatening suit.
The hard-faced man and Howie Lutts answered more questions, willingly, but not very satisfactorily. Howie Lutts hadn’t seen Bertha, his cousin, for years. He hadn’t even known she was married. Al, the hard-faced man, had never seen her in his life. Never knew there was such a dame till he read about her in the papers. Neither of them remembered anything helpful about Dennis Morrison. Al repeated that Dennis had worked for the escort bureau at one time but had left about a year ago. Howie Lutts repeated that he’d met Dennis Morrison a few times, but hadn’t known him very well. Malone, chewing savagely on his cigar, reflected that Howie Lutts and Al were probably telling the truth. Particularly Howie, with his scared eyes, and his police record. Howie would have talked, if he’d known anything to talk about.
Arthur Peterson muttered something about efficiency and the need for departmental reorganization, and sent Howie Lutts and Al away, in charge of a policeman from another department. Jake yawned, and muttered something about going home. Arthur Peterson yawned, and said it was a good idea. Birnbaum turned up, looking pale and worried. Seemed he’d dropped into the drugstore for a bottle of soda mints, and missed Jake’s exit from the hotel. Arthur Peterson gave him a sleepy lecture and sent him home. O’Brien and Schultz had already gone off duty, with starry-eyed farewells to Helene. Malone looked at his watch and observed that it was late. Helene rubbed her eyes and said that she was tired, very tired. Stan Sczinsky said happily that his cab was parked right outside. The meeting adjourned.
In the elevator, Jake put his arm around Helene. She drooped her head against his shoulder, like a sleepy child. He tightened his arm, and brushed his lips lightly against the tip of her ear. In just a little while now, they’d be home. Maybe then, he’d tell her—
They had to wait, downstairs, until Stan Szcinsky brought his cab up to the door. A young man came racing down the hall, calling, “Hey wait, Mr. Peterson!” Jake told himself not to listen. Home. Helene. He listened, anyway. The young man had a teletype message in his hand. He was out of breath. He said, “Gee, glad I caught you, Mr. Peterson. They identified that guy in the hospital. The attempted murder case.”
Arthur Peterson frowned. “I don’t know anything about any attempted murder case.” He took the teletype message and said, “That’s in another department, anyway.”
“Not now it ain’t,” the young man said. “Because they finally got the victim identified.” He paused, caught his breath, and said, “He’s still alive, Mr. Peterson, so you’d better hurry over there.” He paused again, panting. “I hadn’t ought to run up these stairs so fast. He sure as hell is in your department, Mr. Peterson. Because he’s the husband of that babe.” He finally got his breath and said, “You know. Dennis Morrison.”
26. Assault with Attempt to Kill
“Luckily, it was only a superficial wound,” the tired-eyed doctor said, “and very little water entered the lungs. The patient could have gone home several hours ago, except that he is suffering from shock.” Malone remarked that every time someone tried to murder him, he suffered from shock, too. The doctor managed a laugh, a feeble one, but still pretty good for that hour in the morning. “He’ll be able to go home tomorrow, unless you want us to hold him, Mr. Peterson.”
Arthur Peterson said coldly, “I don’t know what we could hold him for.”
“Except being a damned fool,” the doctor said.
“How is he, doc?” Malone said. “I’m his lawyer.”
“He’s sleeping,” the doctor said, “peacefully.”
“You ought to have let us know before,” Arthur Peterson said to the doctor.
“We didn’t know who he was,” the doctor told him. ‘He was brought in about half-past six or seven. There wasn’t any identification on him. We made a routine report, unidentified man. Assault with attempt to kill. You should have gotten the report.”
“Attempt to kill isn’t in my department,” Arthur Peterson said. “Neither is identification.”
“Well, anyway,” the doctor said, “when I came back on duty about an hour ago, there was a new assistant here. He’d seen Morrison’s picture in the papers and he recognized him. We checked, and it was him, all right. He came to finally and told us who he was.”
�
�But what had happened to him?” Helene demanded.
“Why, some guy tried to kill him,” the doctor said mildly. “He was standing on the edge of the platform at South Ferry, waiting to take the boat. It was rush hour, and there was a crowd. Somebody standing behind him stuck a knife in his back. Lucky, right that minute the ferry bumped hard against the slip. It was just enough to jar the knife to one side. Gave him a nasty cut under the arm, but nothing serious. Then this guy gave him a shove and he fell into the water. Good thing the ferry had gotten stalled against the slip or he’d have been smashed when it came in. Somebody dived in and pulled him out. That’s all.” He lit his pipe. “There wasn’t any arrest. The guy got away in the crowd and the excitement.”
Malone started to ask a question and stopped himself. After all, Dennis Morrison was, in a sense, a client of his. No use making the case any harder for himself. It turned out though that the same question had occurred to Arthur Peterson. He said, “Doctor, could he have arranged this thing himself?”
“Huh-uh,” the doctor said. “Oh, sure he might have got some guy to pretend to stick a knife in him. But not to shove him into the ferry slip. Because the guy wouldn’t have had any way of knowing the ferry was going to jam for a minute against the palings. And if he had been shoved into the ferry slip, and the ferry hadn’t jammed there, he’d have been squashed like a—” He remembered Helene’s presence, coughed, and said, “No, this was a legitimate murder attempt, all right. It couldn’t have been framed.” He looked sympathetically at Arthur Peterson. “I know what you mean. A guy who’s suspected of murder arranges it so it looks like somebody tried to murder him. Only that wasn’t it this time. Somebody sure as hell did try to murder this Morrison boy. Why, Peterson, did you have him under suspicion?”
Arthur Peterson said, “No.” Just plain no. Malone sighed. He knew exactly how Arthur Peterson felt.
Arthur Peterson thanked the doctor for his co-operation, stated that he wanted a word with Dennis Morrison before he was sent home tomorrow, and remarked again that it was late. Stan Sczinsky was waiting outside with his taxi. It was, he explained, past time for him to turn in his hack and go home, but he’d waited to take his friends home first. He hoped he’d have the pleasure of driving them again sometime.
It was almost daylight. The sky was a dirty gray. Stan turned west on Thirty-fourth Street and drove toward Fifth. Malone glanced once out the window and decided he didn’t like Thirty-fourth Street. It was dreary. Helene had curled up in Jake’s arm, she looked half asleep, childlike, and happy. The cab turned into Fifth Avenue. Malone glanced out the window again. This was the street heroes and heroines rode down on the tops of busses in all the magazine stories he’d read in dentists’ anterooms. He didn’t like it, either. The April rain had begun to fall again, thin and drizzly and cold-looking. Malone closed his eyes and pictured Michigan Avenue, or even State Street, at this hour, rain or no rain.
He pretended he was there. The cab was going south on Michigan, crossing the bridge, stopping for a red light at Randolph Street. There was Grant Park beyond Randolph Street, and a glimpse of the lake, cold and gray now, but threatening to turn pink when the sun rose. The cab would turn west on Madison Street and stop for another light under the shadowy el. And then—
Someone shook him. Malone opened one eye and said, “Changed my mind. Just take me to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, up on Clark and—”
“You’re in New York now,” Jake said, shaking him again.
Malone blinked, stumbled out of the cab, and said, “Yeah, that’s the trouble.”
Jake carried Helene across the lobby, shocking the desk clerk and surprising the elevator boy. The green chiffon dress hung in ribbons, her face was dirty, and she was fast asleep. He saw to it that Malone got off at the right floor and headed toward his room, then he took Helene home. He bathed her face with warm water and she woke up. She said, half awake, “Dennis Morrison would have known about that pawnshop. But he couldn’t have taken Bertha Morrison’s jewels there. How did Gloria Garden get them? Gloria Garden couldn’t have murdered her, she was murdered herself, the same way. Now, someone’s tried to murder Dennis.” She was half swaying with weariness.
Jake said, “Listen. Keep out of that mess, understand? It’s none of your business. Stay away from Dennis Morrison, and don’t go monkeying around in other people’s affairs.”
She stared at him, wide awake now. He looked angry; his face was pale. She said, “Don’t be silly. We’re involved in it already, because we picked Dennis up that night. Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”
“You do as I say,” Jake said. He looked at her. She was pale, he’d washed the make-up from her face along with the dirt, her lovely hair was disheveled, and her dress was a wreck. She was the most beautiful thing in the world. He made his voice as stern as he could. “I mean it. Stay out of that business, completely out.”
She wasn’t too sleepy to be angry. “It’s my affair whether I stay out of it or not.”
Jake said, “Damn it, Helene—”
Her eyes misted over, she gazed at him through a fog of unshed tears. Here they were quarreling, the last thing in the world she wanted to have happen, the thing she’d been trying most to avoid. Especially, right now.
Jake’s throat contracted. He stopped speaking; for a moment, he almost stopped breathing. He’d only quarreled once with Helene since they’d met, he’d promised himself it would never happen again. And especially, now—
“Jake!” she whispered. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, like a sleepy child.
Daylight slowly invaded the room. It was pleasant, sometimes, Jake thought, to go to sleep like this, by day, Helene beside him. He felt guilty and apologetic. He should have told Helene the truth long before this. He was a louse, keeping secrets from Helene. And there were a lot of things that needed to be straightened out. A lot of questions he wanted to ask. Helene’s going out tonight. He hadn’t believed for one minute that story about her being lonely and calling up the escort bureau. Any more than he’d believed Malone’s story about beating up a pair of holdup men. Maybe the whole thing ought to be talked over right now. He’d tell her about his book, about everything. And then he’d ask his questions. “Helene,” he whispered. “Helene, listen. I want to tell you—”
There was no response. He raised up on one elbow and looked at her. She was asleep.
Well, he’d tell her when she woke. He’d explain everything. He yawned. Maybe they could even pack and catch a train back to Chicago tomorrow. He yawned again. Or maybe they’d stay, and see his project through to the end. It didn’t really matter, as long as Helene knew. He slept. He slept like the dead.
When he woke, she was gone. Her beige wool suit with the lynx fur was gone too, and the wide-brimmed brown felt hat. There was coffee in a thermos jug by his bed. There was a note propped up on the dresser.
“Will meet you and Malone at Miss Williams’ for dinner. Have important business to attend to meanwhile.
Love, Helene.”
27. “We Are Deliriously Happy”
A thin, acidulous female voice said over the telephone, “Mr. Malone?”
Malone doubled the pillow under his head, rested the phone on his bare chest, and said, “Yes.”
“Mr. Proudfoot calling,” the voice said. “One moment please.”
Malone hung up the phone and pretended he was going back to sleep. A minute later the phone rang again. “Mr. Malone, this is Mr. Proudfoot’s office calling,” the voice said. “We were disconnected.”
“We weren’t disconnected,” Malone growled. “I hung up, and I’ll hang up every time you call. Unless you bother me too much, in which case I’ll come down to your office and stick the telephone—” He caught himself just in time and said, “Down Mr. Proudfoot’s throat.”
He slammed down the receiver and reached for the cigar he’d providentially left on the bed table the night before. Calling a man up at this hour of the morning!
He lighted the cigar and lay staring up at the ceiling, wiggling his toes under the covers. Who did Abner Proudfoot think he was, anyway? He let the phone ring for a good thirty seconds before he answered it again. He picked up the receiver and heard a male voice saying, “Let me talk to him,” and the thin female voice saying, “Yes, sir.” He waited fifteen more seconds and then said, sleepily and lecherously, “H’lo, sweetheart. Z’at you? ’Member, you said you’d call me soon’s you wake up—”
There was the sound of a throat being cleared noisily at the other end of the wire. Then Mr. Proudfoot said coldly, “I fear that you are mistaken, Mr. Malone. This is Abner Proudfoot calling.” There was a forced pleasantness in his voice. “I trust you’re feeling well this fine morning.”
“I’ve got one foot in the grave and the other on a piano stool,” Malone said. “How do you feel?” He added coyly, “I thought we weren’t friends any more.”
“After considering the situation,” Mr. Proudfoot said, “I have reached the conclusion that I was unnecessarily hasty in my statements of last night. In short, I have reconsidered my decision. To put it briefly, I sincerely hope that you will consent to ignore the little contretemps and continue our thoroughly pleasant and satisfactory relationship as previously agreed upon.”
Malone didn’t answer for a minute. He wanted to tell Mr. Proudfoot to go jump in a tree. Or did he mean, go climb a lake? On the other hand—there was a potential $4500 he still might collect, with any reasonable luck, and besides—Something must have happened between last night and this morning to change Mr. Proudfoot’s mind. Malone was curious.
The silence seemed to worry Mr. Proudfoot. He said, “I greatly regret any little unpleasantness which may have occurred during our conversation, and I trust that you will accept my apologies. May I have the pleasure of conferring with you at my office this morning? There will be a young lady present who may be able to give you information of great interest and considerable value.”
