The Right Murder

by Craig Rice

  “Why?”

  “I’m damned if I’ll tell you.” A little color began to come back into her cheeks. “But it wasn’t for any of the reasons you’re thinking about.”

  Malone said hastily, “Of course not.” He fumbled through his pockets for a cigar, finally found one, lit it, and said, “How come you’re broke, or are you damned if you’ll tell me that, either?”

  “That’s part of the reason why I left Jake. Did you say there was a drink in the house?”

  Malone located another glass under an old straw hat in the closet, dusted it, got the bottle of rye, and divided it into two equal parts. He could see it wasn’t going to be enough. After a moment’s reflection he picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said, “Louie? Malone speaking. Send me over a couple of quarts of rye, right away. What’s that? Oh, is it? It must have slipped my mind. I’ll send you a check right away. Hurry up with the rye.”

  He banged down the telephone. “I’m broke, too.”

  “How chummy,” Helene commented. “So you finally met a girl who liked jewelry.”

  “It was furs,” Malone said, coloring a little, “but how did you know?”

  “I’ve been taking lessons in mind reading.” She picked up her glass, gazed at it, finally said, “The devil with everything,” and emptied it.

  Malone decided to adopt a fatherly attitude. “People are bound to have these little differences at first. You’ll get over it. When you’ve thought things over for a few days—”

  “Stop stammering,” she said, setting the glass down hard. “I’ve left him and I do mean for good. You can save the commentary.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your funeral. Why did you come back to Chicago?”

  “I’ll tell you why I came back to Chicago.” A dangerous light came into her eyes. “It’s because of that bet Jake made with Mona McClane. You remember. She bet him the deed to the Casino she could commit a murder and he couldn’t pin it on her.”

  Malone nodded gloomily. “I remember. We traipsed all over Chicago and damn near broke our necks as soon as some guy got murdered, only to find out it was somebody else murdered him.*

  “But you know what Mona said afterwards,” she reminded him. “It was the wrong murder. I’m going to find the right one and win that bet.”

  “Suit yourself, but why?”

  “Because,” Helene said firmly, “it’s the only way I can ever prove to Jake that I’m not just a spoiled, pampered rich brat who can’t think of anything to do but wire her old man for dough when the wrong horse comes in.” Her cheeks suddenly flamed scarlet. “Not that I care what he thinks.”

  “So Jake had a little trouble with the horses,” Malone murmured. He decided it was wiser to say nothing more.

  “I’ll show him,” Helene said, “I’ll find out who Mona murdered, and how, and why, and produce enough evidence to convince a gross of juries. Then I’ll send him the deed to the Casino, and the devil with him.”

  Malone looked at her thoughtfully. A very wide, dark-brown felt hat framed her pale, exquisite face; below her throat a mass of fluffy, light-brown furs fell apart to reveal a triangle of caramel-colored silk. Her slender, delicate fingers played with gloves that were exactly the same shade as her hat; the sheer stockings on her lovely long legs were the color of white clover honey.

  Scenes raced through his mind as he looked at her. Helene, driving her big, imported car over ice-covered pavements with a speed and abandon that would have petrified an Indianapolis speedway driver of long standing. Helene, personally engineering the jailbreak of a possible murderess. Helene, in a little trouble with the police over a matter of suspected arson, and turning up in a borrowed black wig and beribboned eyeglasses. Helene, talking Jake out of a jam with von Flanagan with an inspired, spur-of-the-moment falsehood. Helene, married to Jake and going off to Bermuda on the dawn plane. Now, Helene back from Bermuda, with that look of grim resolution in her blue eyes. Definitely not the good old days.

  The delivery boy from Louie’s arrived with the rye just in time to save John J. Malone from bursting into reminiscent tears.

  He found a small handful of change in his overcoat pocket, tipped the boy, said, “Tell Louie I’m sending him a check,” and began opening one of the bottles. “Just how do you propose going about winning this bet?”

  “I’m not sure of all the details yet. First. I’m going to move in with Mona. She’s asked me to stay with her a number of times, and my being alone in town is enough excuse. Then I’m going to find out all the people she might have wanted to murder, nose around until I find one of them who’s been murdered, and find out how and when she did it.”

  “You make it sound so wonderfully easy,” Malone said.

  She made a rude face at him. “You may have to help.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” the lawyer said in a wry voice. His eye fell on the cablegram that was still on his desk. He hastily stuffed it into his pocket, and said, “I’m going to need a lot of money. Leave me in peace now while I telephone.”

  “What do you need a lot of money for?”

  “None of your damned business.” He picked up the telephone and called exactly fourteen numbers, one after another. Of the first thirteen calls, four people were out of town, two were in jail, six were broke, and one had had his telephone disconnected.

  The fourteenth call was to the apartment of the head of a local gambling syndicate, named Max Hook. Malone addressed him familiarly as “chum.”

  The gambler declared he would be delighted to lend Malone the money. More, if necessary. He would send it over right away by messenger.

  “Don’t worry about paying it back, Malone. You may be able to do a few things for me.”

  Malone said hastily, “I don’t do business that way, pal. I’ll pay you back inside of twenty-four hours.” He put down the telephone, looked at it, and said “I’d damned well better too. If you borrow money from crooks, first thing you know you’re in business with them. Still, if you borrow it from an honest man, he charges you ten per cent interest.”

  He poured rye into Helene’s glass, said, “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” and went out into the reception room. The black-haired secretary laid down her copy of The Nation and looked up at him hopefully.

  “Maggie, I have three hundred bucks coming in a few minutes. Wire two hundred to Jake Justus at this address”—he handed her the cablegram—“and do it fast. Save me fifty bucks for cigars, and pay yourself some salary.”

  “How about the overdraft at the bank?”

  “Later,” he told her firmly. He went to the door, paused, and said over his shoulder, “Call von Flanagan and tell him that I have a slight touch of delirium tremens, and I’ll drop in at his office first thing in the morning.”

  As he slammed the door, Helene looked up with a new show of interest. “Did I hear the name of von Flanagan?”

  “You did. He wants to talk with me about my murder.”

  “Yours?”

  He nodded. “My very own personal murder.” He sat down at his desk and told Helene the story of the man who had died in Joe the Angel’s bar on New Year’s Eve.

  She was silent for a while after he had finished, a puzzled frown wrinkling her pale forehead. “Usually it’s the murderer who wants to see you after the crime, not the victim.”

  “That’s what puzzles me,” Malone told her. “Obviously, this guy was looking for me before it happened. Then somebody stuck a knife in his back, and he went right on looking for me. But before he could tell me anything, he kicked off.”

  “The key,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder—what kind of key was it, Malone?”

  “Just an ordinary key. I didn’t get a very good look at it. What’s more, I don’t care if I never get another look at it. All I care about is getting out of this mess.” He paused. “Just the same—” He knocked the ashes from his cigar, frowned, and said, “Maybe it was this way. There were two guys out to knife each other. This guy w
as one of them. Somebody tipped him off that if he was going to murder anybody, it was a smart idea to engage a damn good lawyer in advance, and advised him to come to me. But while he was looking for me, the other guy got to him first.”

  “Sounds logical,” Helene said. “Now all you need to do is wait and the other guy’ll come in as a client.”

  “I hope so,” Malone said prayerfully. “I could use one.” He heard voices in the reception room and knew that the money had arrived. He looked at his watch.

  “What next, Malone?”

  “You’d better go and get settled at Mona McClane’s and get a good night’s sleep. You look as if you need it. Tomorrow morning we’ll get together.”

  She said dreamily, “There couldn’t have been so many people Mona McClane wanted to murder.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said firmly. He took her arm and led her to the reception room.

  “If you should hear from Jake—” she began, and stopped.

  “I’m damned if I’ll tell you,” he told her.

  He paused by Maggie’s desk long enough to pick up five ten-dollar bills.

  “The other matter is taken care of,” Maggie said.

  Malone nodded, stuffed four of the bills in his pocket and handed the other to Helene. “You’ll need cab fare. Come on downstairs and I’ll put you in a taxi.”

  “But what are you going to do now?” she demanded.

  The little lawyer drew a long sighing breath. “Me?” He pushed the elevator call. “I’m going out and find a poker game.”

  *The Wrong Murder. (Popular Library Book No. 45)

  Chapter Five

  The loud knocking annoyed Malone for at least fifteen minutes before it woke him. He had a vague, dreamy notion that a violent bombardment was going on in the hall, but he wasn’t interested in it. He only wished that whoever was shooting off seventy-fives outside his door would go away and let him sleep.

  At last he woke enough to open one eye and shout, “Go to hell.”

  A voice outside the door said, “It’s Jake Justus.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Justus,” Malone called, and went back to sleep again. Fifteen seconds later the name Jake Justus seeped through the layers of sleep in his brain, and he was instantly wide-awake. He bounded out of bed, unlocked the door, and dived back under the covers again.

  “Well, come in and shut the door,” he said complainingly. He poked his head out from the covers until one pink-rimmed eye, a few inches of ruddy forehead, and a tuft of black hair showed, and regarded his visitor.

  Malone saw a tall, very thin young man, only slightly stoop-shouldered, and dressed in a badly mussed tweed suit. He had an unruly thatch of bright red hair, and a lean, bony face, pleasantly freckled by the Bermuda sun, that was usually amiable and grinning. It was not amiable now. It was a disturbing combination of grim and haggard.

  Jake Justus looked around the room, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and scowled at Malone.

  Malone opened the other eye. “How did you get here?” he said a little stupidly. He blinked once or twice at his room, and said, “For that matter, how the hell did I get here?”

  “I flew,” Jake Justus said. He added crossly, “I don’t know how you got here, but judging by the way you look, I’d be willing to bet you flew, too—right through the window.”

  “Flew? Oh yes. I know. I wired you the fare.” The lawyer sat up in bed, exposing a broad expanse of brown, hairy chest. “A fine thing, wiring me for money when I was dead broke.”

  “Broke,” Jake repeated. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I am not kidding you. I borrowed three hundred bucks from Max Hook and I’ve got to pay it back today, God knows how.”

  The red-haired man stared at him in wide-eyed incredulity. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’ve been talking about money,” Malone said indignantly. “But the mind checked in here with me.”

  “Then what the hell are these doing here?” Jake picked two badly crumpled hundred-dollar bills off the dresser, smoothed them out, and waved them under the lawyer’s nose.

  Malone looked at them for a good sixty seconds, then sank back on the pillow and pulled the covers up to his chin.

  “I feel terrible.”

  “You look terrible,” Jake said unsympathetically. He located a pint bottle of gin, nearly full, on the floor beside the wastebasket, poured a good two inches of it into a glass, and handed it to the stricken lawyer. “Pull yourself together.” He looked thoughtfully at the bottle and finally held it to his lips for a good long count of ten before recapping it.

  Malone set the glass down where he mistakenly believed the bed table to be, shuddered, and lay still for a few minutes. At last he rose slowly and swung his legs off the bed.

  “Now why on earth do you suppose I went to bed with my socks on?”

  He put on a brilliant green brocaded bathrobe, reached for a cigar, and lighted it on the second try. “I can’t figure where those two C’s came from. Maybe I’d better look around.”

  “Maybe you had,” Jake Justus agreed. He sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed and watched as the little lawyer prowled around the room.

  “I played some poker last night,” Malone said meditatively, “and I dimly remember going to the roulette room at the Casino. There is something else, too, but it seems to be a little confused.” He paused by the bed table, looking down at it. There was his watch, two empty match folders, a fifty-dollar bill and a ten. These he laid beside the two hundred-dollar bills.

  “There may be more, for all I know.”

  He went into the bathroom, located a pocketknife, a nail file, and a little greenish wad on the washstand. The wad, when unrolled, proved to be two twenty-dollar bills. There were three more crumpled up beside a handful of cigars on the smoking table.

  “I must have had a swell time undressing last night.”

  Jake decided to join in the search. He lifted up the pillow and found a little heap of wrinkled one-dollar bills. There were two more on the floor by the bed and five stuffed into one of Malone’s shoes.

  Malone, meantime, had found another fifty tucked under the door key on the dresser.

  “That seems to be the total,” the lawyer said, giving a last glance around the room. “Too bad. This game is fun.”

  Jake shook his head. “We’d better go through your suit. You may have missed something last night.” He picked up the coat and felt in all its pockets. There was nothing except a pair of very sheer and lacy stockings, of an exotic rose-tan shade, in one side pocket.

  Malone examined them, noted that they had been worn, and said, “Nice, expensive ones. I wonder who was in them.”

  The vest was empty. Jake dropped it on a chair, looked around for the pants, and found them on the floor in the corner. When he picked them up, they seemed surprisingly heavy. There was a curious, jingling noise.

  “Sounds like we’d struck ore,” Jake said. He picked the pants up by the cuffs and shook them vigorously.

  There was a prolonged, loud, metallic clatter, and a heap of quarters rolled on the floor, more of them than Jake had ever seen in any one place at any one time. Malone sank down on the edge of the bed and stared.

  “Now I remember. There was a roadhouse. In Wheeling. There was a slot machine there. I hit the jackpot.” He scowled. “How in blazes did I get out to Wheeling? Oh well, it’s not important. What’s the total?”

  Jake ran hastily through the collection. “Four hundred and twenty-eight bucks in paper,” he reported. “I’m damned if I’ll count all those two-bit pieces.”

  “Not bad,” Malone said. “When I went to play poker yesterday, all I had in mind was winning enough dough to pay back Max Hook. I don’t mind borrowing from him, but I hate like hell to owe him anything. I meant to stop when I had three hundred, but apparently I got a little enthusiastic.”

  “Listen Malone—” Jake began.

  The lawyer picked up the telephone, set it down again, said “Helene i
s—” stopped himself, and said instead, “Where is Helene?”

  “Damned if I know,” Jake said. “Damned if I care, either. She’s probably down in Havana with her old man.”

  “Gone back to father,” Malone said acidly. “After a week of honeymoon. That ought to establish a record of some kind.”

  “She left me,” Jake said.

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “That line is getting monotonous,” Malone said cryptically. He rose and began pulling on his clothes. “What brought you back to Chicago, besides my money?”

  “That bet with Mona McClane,” Jake said.

  Malone paused in the act of looking futilely for a clean shirt. There was something oddly reminiscent about the conversation. “What about that bet?”

  “I’m going to win it,” Jake said grimly. “I’m going to get that deed to the Casino. I’ll show her.”

  “You’ll show who what?”

  “I’ll show Helene I can get along all right without any help from a rich father-in-law.”

  “So that’s the way it is,” Malone said.

  “Damn it, Malone, I’ve got to win that bet.”

  The lawyer nodded gravely, buttoning his shirt. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. How are you going to do it, or hasn’t the giant brain bothered with that detail?”

  “First, I’m going to check’ on everything Mona McClane has done since that-bet was made. Then I’m going to check back on every murder committed in Chicago in that time. Sooner or later those two lines will meet.”

  That wasn’t all that would meet sooner or later, Malone reflected. The possibilities of the situation disturbed him a little.

  “I may need some help,” Jake added.

  “I knew that would come up sooner or later,” Malone said sourly. He finished adjusting his tie. “Now listen, Jake.” He adopted a very serious tone. “These little quarrels don’t mean a thing. Maybe you were a trifle hasty. When you’ve thought it over for a day or so, it’ll all seem different. I’m older than you, Jake, and I want to tell you that women—”

  Jake snorted. “What you know about women—” he began scornfully.