Eight Faces at Three

by Craig Rice

  “When someone wakes up in the night with a stopped clock, what does he do? Frets until he finds out what time it is. Glen knew that you would worry about the time, and about the alarm ringing that had wakened you, and that you would get up and go to his room. You would find him gone, his bed not slept in. You would worry, be upset. Then you would hear a clock ringing in Parkins’ room. You would go to the Parkins’ room and find them gone, and their bed not slept in. Everywhere you saw a clock, that clock would be Stopped at three. And finally, another alarm clock rang, in your Aunt Alex’s room. It would take a great deal, he knew, to drive you into that room in the middle of the night, but he estimated that would do it. And it did.

  “He knew that you would be weak from the effect of the drug, and that you would be near collapse when you went into that room and found the old woman dead. And you were. He planned everything so that it would look like the working of a disordered mind. That’s the reason for the three wounds instead of one—to match the clocks. He planned it so even you would wonder what really did happen that night. And you did. He planned it so that all of us would assume that you had gone mad. And all of us did.”

  “All but one,” said Jake Justus.

  She smiled at him gratefully.

  “It must have been a blow to him,” Malone added, “when he came back and found the window open. That didn’t fit. It must have been another blow when Nellie told him about the safe. But he carried out his plans, made your bed before the police came, took the alarm clocks from where he had hidden them and destroyed them, probably threw them into the lake. It must have been more of a blow when you so inexplicably disappeared from jail.”

  Hyme Mendel had the grace to blush.

  “But how,” said Andy Ahearn, “how did you find all this out?”

  Malone grinned at him. “I didn’t. I made it up.”

  “What the hell?”

  Malone nodded. “I’ve given you a theory, based on certain inescapable facts. You can see how, in view of those facts, the theory cannot help but be correct. Nellie will probably confirm it when she is able to talk.

  “The first thing that stuck in my mind was the scarcity of suspects. Holly, Glen, the Parkinses, Miss Brand. Of them, only Holly had a motive. Glen, rather than having any reason for wanting his aunt out of the way, had the best of reasons for wanting her to remain alive—if she was going to disinherit Holly, as we all believed.

  “Everything in this case went by threes. The clocks all stopped at three. Three wounds in each murder. Finally, three deaths. And—is it pure coincidence, I wonder—there were three keys that unlocked the truth of what happened.

  “The first was Holly’s dream. I knew it was important, but I couldn’t understand how for a long time. Holly’s dream of being hanged, and of being in a coffin standing on end. That, and the narrow clothes closet with the clothes bar, just off her room, hinted that she might have been in the closet during the time she was so mysteriously missing. When she told me tonight that there had been actual bruises where the rope had held her, I knew that theory was correct.

  “The second was the telephone. We all assumed that the telephone did ring and that Glen and Parkins both heard it. In fact we assumed that Parkins had probably answered the phone, and called Glen—that would be the normal procedure in the household. No one actually said as much, but it was implied. Implication is much more convincing than fact, as you, Mr. Mendel, being a lawyer, will know. Similarly it was implied so strongly that Parkins knew the old woman was alive when they left the house, that all of us assumed she was alive. When I knew what I had already wondered about, that the telephone could not be heard ringing on the second floor of the house, though Glen claimed he was wakened by its ringing—you see?”

  “You said,” Jake interrupted, “the only person who could have imitated Holly’s voice was Holly herself. But why—”

  “What I meant,” Malone explained, “was that no one had tried to imitate her voice. Therefore, nobody had telephoned at all.” He continued.

  “At the very beginning of the case I tried to build a theory on Alexandria Inglehart being dead when Glen and Parkins left the house. But that theory worked only if Glen were the murderer, and I could find no sound motive for Glen murdering his aunt. That was where the third key came into the puzzle and finally unlocked it—Lewis Miller, who was the motive for the crime, and died because he was.”

  There was a longish pause.

  “But,” said Hyme Mendel uneasily. “The second murder. Why, Glen was here in the room with me. Miller couldn’t have been killed before nine o’clock. He was seen in a drugstore in Maple Park at quarter of nine. Glen Inglehart couldn’t have murdered him. I was right here with him from nine o’clock till nearly three. Your whole theory falls apart.”

  “Were you here?”

  “Of course I was. He never left the room.”

  “How do you know what time it was when you got here?”

  “I looked at the clock. There’s three clocks in the room.”

  “Not your watch, but at the clocks?”

  “Of course. A man doesn’t bother to take out his watch when there’s three clocks in the room.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Malone. “Glen knew that. He knew also that when a man looks at a clock—three clocks—and they all say nine o’clock, he doesn’t bother to investigate and see if the clock had been set back or not. Glen knew you were coming here because he telephoned and invited you. He had time to get down to the summerhouse and back—Parkins having been gotten out of the house to fix the neighbor’s oil burner—and then had time to set back the clocks—”

  Jake glanced at Hyme Mendel. He was blushing again.

  Jake remembered something. “But Malone. The next day, when we came here—the clocks in this room were stopped—at three.”

  Malone nodded. “After Hyme here left, Glen set the clocks to three and stopped them again. He wanted us—someone—to find out that the clocks had been stopped deliberately—so that it would be believed Holly had done it.”

  “But why would she have stopped the clocks? She wouldn’t have had any reason to,” Hyme Mendel said stupidly. “Why—it would have been insane.”

  “Exactly,” said Malone softly. “You know,” he said after a thoughtful pause, “I still think you could have brought her to trial with the evidence you had and I could have gotten an acquittal on the first ballot with an insanity defense—”

  An immediate and furious professional argument followed.

  Jake was not interested. He shifted himself painfully and looked toward the window.

  Helene was gone.

  Chapter 33

  “Hell, you should kick,” said Jake thoughtfully pouring rye into a glass. “You’re only starting your honeymoon a few days late.”

  “Has it only been a few days!” Holly murmured.

  “It seems like an eternity,” Dick said platitudinously.

  “An eternity that I spent in the Blake County jail and at Ma Fraser’s.”

  “Malone works fast,” Jake said. “I hate to think what his bill is going to be.”

  “It’s worth it,” Holly said, “it’s worth anything. Where is Malone, anyway? I haven’t seen him since last night, when he told his story.”

  “Out celebrating,” Jake said. “He may not show up for days.”

  “And Helene?” Dick asked suddenly and tactlessly.

  “God knows. I gave up trying to locate her hours ago.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  Jake sighed and poured another drink. “Everything settled. Holly out of jail. Dick recovering from his wounds. The case closed. Dick a hero with a bandage on his bean. Holly a beautiful heiress. Dick and Bride Leave for Honeymoon. World Wishes Happiness to America’s Sweethearts. God, the publicity, Pictures! Whew!”

  “You go to hell,” Dick said.

  “I’ve posed for pictures till I feel like a Hollywood star,” Holly said, “or a baby panda.”

  “None
of my business, but where are you going?”

  Dick and Holly looked at each other and laughed.

  “We have reservations for Bermuda,” Holly said.

  “But we’re leaving for Grove Falls, Iowa,” Dick said, “my home town. My blessed old aunt has forgiven me since all this happened.”

  “Forgiven you?” Jake asked. “Weren’t you speaking?”

  “She’s a music teacher,” Dick told him. “She thinks my band is lousy.” He sighed. “For two weeks. Two blessed weeks in a little town. Steve is taking the band. You’re managing everything.” He suddenly became businesslike. “Keep Steve away from monkey weed if you can. Don’t let them play that corny arrangement of Turkey in the Straw. I’m leaving yon authority to tear up Nelle Brown’s contract if she gets a better offer from radio or Hollywood. She’s too good for a band singer. But don’t hire another canary till I get back. I want one that can sing. You’d probably audition her on a casting couch.”

  Jake made an unpleasantly rude noise with his lips.

  “Two weeks!” Dick said blissfully. He kissed Holly happily.

  “Go away,” said Jake fretfully. “You make me sick.”

  Holly looked at him with sudden sympathy. “It is rather a shame. You did most of the work. You took most of the risks. You got everything all straightened out for us and now you’re being left behind.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank Malone,” Jake said. “Of course, you could always take me on your honeymoon instead of Dick. I’m not so good-looking, but I’m more fun.”

  He poured another round of drinks.

  “To your happiness and all that stuff.”

  He poured another.

  “To John Joseph Malone.”

  A third.

  “To Ma Fraser ”

  “Yes,” said Holly, “and what am I going to do with the two dozen hand-embroidered dish towels that she gave me for a wedding present—with hand-crocheted edges that she made herself—living in hotel rooms with a traveling band leader?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dick, “I’ll buy you a dish to wash some day. What am I going to do with the live lamb the orchestra boys gave us for a wedding present? The manager says we can’t keep it in the hotel basement any longer.”

  “I’ll fix that,” Jake promised. “I’ll give it to Malone for his fee.”

  Holly poured the fourth drink.

  “To you, Jake.”

  “Thank you.”

  They told him good-by and went away. He sighed deeply and looked around his hotel room. It was suddenly a dreary place. Nothing to do. Everything all settled. No more frantic driving around Chicago with an escaped murder suspect wrapped up in bandages. No more wild ideas to carry out. No more fights on the edges of cliffs. Nothing to do but keep an eye on the damn band and see to its publicity and keep Steve out of jail and Nelle Brown out of the papers. Nothing to do but get drunk.

  He opened the new bottle of rye.

  There was a timid knock on the door.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened slowly. There stood Helene, as he had seen her for the first time, fur coat, blue satin pajamas, galoshes. And drunk as a camel.

  He hauled her through the door and shoved her into a chair.

  “Where the hell did you go?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Give me a drink, Jake.”

  He handed it to her and repeated his question.

  She turned her face away from him. “I just sort of wanted to be away somewhere, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I have a rough idea.”

  “I mean after all, when a girl’s known a guy all her life, and she’s sort of considered marrying him, and all of a sudden he turns out to be a murderer and falls off the edge of a cliff, it’s sort of surprising anyway.”

  “Sure,” said Jake sympathetically, kneeling by the chair and putting his arms around her very gently.

  “So I just went home and put on my pajamas to settle down and think about it, and then I got restless, so I got the car out and I’ve been driving around.”

  “Ever since?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still alive!” He regarded her admiringly.

  “What’s happened to that guy Malone? I need him.”

  “He’s probably out on a bender,” Jake said. “It’s the close of a case. Why?”

  “I’ve got more damned tickets. Speeding, reckless driving, every other thing. I’ll be in jail for life.”

  “You sure as hell do need a lawyer,” Jake told her, “on a permanent basis. I think you need a manager, too.” He looked at her meditatively.

  Conversation lagged for the space of two drinks apiece.

  “You know,” said Jake suddenly, “I tried to save him.”

  Pause.

  “I know you did,” said Helene. “I’m glad you didn’t. It was better the way it happened. Quicker. Cleaner.”

  Longer pause.

  Jake moved to the arm of her chair.

  “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s like this. We’ve found the murderer, the case is closed, Holly is out of trouble, she and Dick have left for their honeymoon, as far as I know the band is doing all right, and it looks as though we might have an evening to ourselves. Can you think of any possible interruptions?”

  She shook her head.

  He took the glass from her hand, set it on the dresser, extinguished his cigarette.

  “In that case—” said Jake Justus.

  For the second time he noticed how those blue satin pajamas seemed to grow warm under his touch. Helene lifted her face to his.

  At that instant there was a sudden, thundering knocking at the door.

  They looked at each other for a moment, then Jake opened the door to admit John J. Malone, his tie under his ear, a bottle under each arm.

  “Fate!” said Jake to Helene. “This is the end!”

  THE END

  Turn the page to continue reading from the John J. Malone Mysteries

  Chapter 1

  Everything in the big, shabby room was painfully familiar. Not one thing had been changed in the months since she had seen it last. There were the same faded tan curtains at the window, one still hanging a little askew; the same pictures; even the same discolored spot on the wall over the fireplace.

  She stood for one moment, listening. Nothing stirred. Yet for that moment she had found herself waiting for someone to speak.

  It was a room she had never thought to see again. Certainly not on such an errand. Suddenly she shuddered, one hand grasping a sharp corner of the mantel for support, remembering the last time she had seen it, when she had walked out swearing it was the last time.

  Involuntarily her eyes turned toward the floor of the kitchenette. The light from a tarnished bridge lamp reflected on the little pool of blood that seemed like a shadow reaching out toward the room. Once more she resisted an impulse to turn and flee.

  Was someone watching her?

  No, that was impossible. She had shut and locked the door. There was no one, could be no one, save herself, alive in the room.

  Yet everywhere she turned, she could feel eyes following.

  Suddenly she noticed that the tips of four pale fingers showed beneath the dingy green curtains of the kitchenette. For an instant, she clung to the mantel, fighting back the waves of weakness and nausea that threatened to engulf her. What if she should faint, here in this room, alone with that thing in the kitchenette? What if someone should come in and find her here?

  For the barest breath of time, she decided in favor of flight.

  But she knew there could be no escape from the things she still had to do. It was the voice coming from the radio set that reminded her. Suddenly she was aware that it was still going on. All this time the radio had been going, dance music, voices, crazy rhythms, singing, laughter.

  Had it been turned on, she wondered, an hour before?

  She detached her fingers slowly from the edge of the mantel and walked over
to the window, telling herself that right now in ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million rooms, loud-speakers were still turned on, families still gathered before their radio sets. Not so very long ago switches had clicked and listeners had settled back in their easy chairs to wait for her voice. Right now, out on the Pacific coast, more listeners were eyeing their clocks, making ready to tune in on the rebroadcast.

  Now, between broadcasts, there was the thing she must do.

  One long indrawn breath, her eyes closed, and then she walked slowly around the room, carefully avoiding the soiled green curtains of the kitchenette, reassuring herself with the touch of familiar objects, the look of familiar things.

  Suddenly a voice, deep, warm, chocolatish, came from the loud-speaker.

  “You’re nobody’s sweetheart now.…”

  She wheeled to stare at the object of wood and wire, and, as she turned, a grotesque flicker of light momentarily transformed the finger tips below the kitchenette curtains into living, curling, and then uncurling things.

  “It just don’t seem right, somehow,

  That you’re nobody’s sweetheart now.…”

  With one quick frenzied movement, she clicked the singing thing off in the middle of a word.

  In the unsuspected silence, the harsh, indisputable ticking of a clock reminded her that she had very little time left. At the sound of it, her strength seemed to return. All at once she ceased to be the great radio star, the photographed and glamorous personality, the wife of a well-known socialite, the protected darling of the fan magazines. She was back in her childhood again, back in the days when every mouthful of food depended on resource and cunning, when each day’s living had to be fought for with desperation. She could still fight, she reminded herself, with the same cunning, the same desperate frenzy.

  Resolutely she wrenched her eyes away from the kitchenette and began searching the room, hurriedly, frantically, but still with a sort of disordered efficiency. No one in the world—no one alive in the world—knew that room better. She searched the imitation spinet desk, with the long cigarette burn still showing on the veneer, remembering with a little shudder the night it had been made there. Nothing in the desk but newspaper clippings and unpaid bills. The chest of drawers in the closet was only a confusion of soiled shirts and socks. She hunted through the bookshelves, filled with inexpensive and unread editions of standard classics, and pulled out one book after another, shaking it, reaching behind the rows. She felt under the pillows of the double bed that disguised itself as a studio couch, extended experimental fingers under the mattress.