by Craig Rice
“Please, Malone …”
The lawyer said, “Don’t bother me.” He looked at the grave. Suddenly he snapped, “Give me that flashlight,” and climbed down into it again. For a moment he ran the light over the sides, felt of them, dug at snow that had drifted about on the bottom. Then he clambered up again.
“That isn’t a new grave,” he said, scowling at it. “It was dug a long time ago. There’re a few bits of wood at the bottom, old wood, that’s been in the ground a long time. Marks on the sides, too. It was dug, and filled in, and dug out again. I can tell from the shovel marks. Holy Mahoney, I’m an archeologist all of a sudden!” He turned to Jake. “Is that the right name for it?”
“It isn’t the right name for what I think you are,” Jake said, blowing on his hands. “What do we do now, call the cops?”
“I guess so,” the lawyer said thoughtfully. “This is in Blake County, too, which means calling in Andy Ahearn. This is his territory and the other two murders were in von Flanagan’s, which means we’re going to have one hell of a mess. If this guy had to get himself killed, why couldn’t he have picked a civilized part of the world to do it in?”
“Maybe he did,” Jake suggested. “Maybe he was stabbed down in Chicago and his body was moved up here.”
“It’s possible,” Malone said. “I’d like to have had it happen that way. Of course, we could simplify everything by moving him back to Chicago and having him found there.” He looked into the grave again. “He was put there before the really heavy snow began to fall, because there’s no footprints showing around the grave. Still, it’s next to impossible to guess at the time. It stopped snowing about—when?”
“Somewhere around seven o’clock,” Helene said.
Malone scowled. “That’s no help, though. The wind has been blowing ever since. Our own footprints will be gone half an hour after we walk away from here. It’s the drifting snow that’s wiped out everything.”
“He’s been missing most of the day, according to what Mona McClane said,” Helene said.
“That’s no help either. The murderer may have spent hours trying to find out how much he really did know, before he risked doing him in. Then he gave up and killed him, either here or somewhere else, and placed him in the grave which was so conveniently waiting for him. He either didn’t have time to fill in the grave, or he didn’t have the right implements with him.”
Jake said, “Save your mental processes for a later date. It’s damned cold out here. What are we going to—” He stopped short, staring at Malone.
The little lawyer’s face had been pale, now it had turned ashen. In the weird glow of the flashlight, his wide, round eyes were gleaming like balls of ice. His mouth was open, with a word half formed and frozen there.
“Malone!” Jake cried. “What—”
There was no answer. Jake stared at him for an instant, then turned the flashlight in the direction in which the lawyer’s eyes were fixed. Helene screamed.
The corpse of Ross McLaurin was climbing, slowly and laboriously, out of its grave.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Lie still,” Malone said sternly. “You mustn’t move.”
For an insane moment Jake was reminded of playing soldiers and Indians when he was a small boy, and of crying out, “Hey, you ain’t allowed to move. You’re dead.”
“Give me your overcoat, Jake,” the lawyer said. He had already tucked his own under the body of Ross McLaurin. Helene’s immense fur muff was under his head.
Jake peeled it off obediently, almost unconscious of the biting wind. Malone laid it gently over the wounded man, knelt beside him and felt his pulse again.
“You haven’t any business being alive,” he grumbled, “but, by all that’s holy, you are.”
Ross McLaurin’s eyes met his for an instant of recognition and closed again.
“This is a hell of a mess,” Malone said. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital quick. And I’m trying to keep all this damned case inside von Flanagan’s jurisdiction. Let Andy Ahearn or the Maple Park police department get mixed up in it, and I’ll lose my mind.”
“How bad is he?” Helene demanded.
“I don’t know. He’s got a hole in his back. But there can’t be any severe internal hemorrhage or he wouldn’t have lasted this long. Evidently the knife didn’t hit any main artery. Still, we’ve got to move him, fast.”
Jake said, “I know a guy who owns a hearse. Runs a cut-rate undertaking parlor in Rogers Park. He’s a crook, but we can trust him.”
“That’ll do it,” Malone said. “Where’s a telephone?”
“There’s an all-night tavern open near the station, about four blocks from here.”
“Make it on the run,” Helene said, “and tell your pal to hurry. We can’t let this guy die on us.” She called after him, “We’ll try to keep him warm till you get back. I’d build a fire, but Maple Park would probably call out the coast guard.”
Jake sprinted the entire distance between the grave in the woods and the little tavern near the North Shore station. There he made his telephone call, got one Harry Kowalke out of bed and induced him, with a finely balanced combination of bribery and blackmail, to drive out to Maple Park at top speed. He bought a quart of rye, found that the tavernkeeper, who lived above his place of business, had an extra blanket and bought that too, and ran every step of the way back.
“Here,” he said breathlessly, holding out the rye. He tucked the blanket over the still form. “How is he?”
Malone tore the top off the bottle and took a good two inches out of it in one breath before he handed it to Helene. “The wound isn’t a bad one. Knife evidently hit a rib and slid off without doing much harm. Exposure’s the main trouble.”
“Unless,” Helene said, peering at the patient, “he’s just passed out.”
“Give him a drink,” Jake said, taking one himself. “I’m no doctor, but it’ll keep him warm. Maybe I’d better take another one, I haven’t my overcoat on.” He handed the bottle to Helene.
“I’m not so darn warm myself,” Helene said, taking the top off the bottle. “Did you phone your pal?”
“He’s on his way,” Jake told her. He turned to Malone. “He’ll park right by the little gate. Can we carry this guy that far?”
“Easy,” Malone said. He spread the blanket out on the snow, folded down the middle, and, with Jake’s help, slid Ross McLaurin onto it. Then he spread the two overcoats over the still form and said, “You take two corners, and I’ll take two, just like a stretcher. I always knew I’d get some good out of that Boy Scout training.” He handed the flashlight and the bottle to Helene, adding, “For the love of Mike, don’t trip over anything. That bottle of rye is all the liquor we’ve got.”
They carried the unconscious Ross McLaurin back through the eerie darkness of the woods, across the broad, white expanse of lawn, and up to the little gate, by easy stages.
There they paused, waiting for the arrival of Harry Kowalke and his hearse. Malone took advantage of the pause to light a cigar and retrieve the bottle of rye.
“Of course,” Helene said, “we came out here to watch for Editha Venning. Maybe Malone ought to stay out here and keep his eyes open, while we take Ross back to Chicago.”
Fortunately Malone’s reply was lost.
Ross McLaurin stirred faintly and murmured something about, “Pale hands, pink-tipped, like lotus buds that floated—on scented waters where we used to dwell—” and lapsed into unconsciousness again.
“He’s talking about his girl friend,” Helene said gently.
“If he lives,” Malone said grimly, “when he comes to, he’ll tell us what happened to him. He’ll know who knifed him. Then, heaven be praised, the case will be practically closed.” He handed the rye to Jake.
“He’s got to do better than live,” Jake said grimly. “He’s got to live and remember. Have you forgotten Dr. Leonardo Hennessey?”
A few minutes later a long, black hearse, moving quietly a
nd without lights, slid up to the gate. A tall, thin, pale-faced man in a black Chesterfield overcoat and a derby hat emerged. Malone gave him most of the remaining rye while Jake lifted the stretcher from the back of the conveyance. It was only a matter of minutes before Ross McLaurin was safely and comfortably on board.
“We’re in a hurry,” Helene said. “I’ll drive.”
Harry Kowalke looked at her skeptically.
“She’s right,” Jake said. “Don’t argue with her.”
“O. K., pal,” Kowalke said, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. “I’ll get in back with the patient. Where are we going?”
“The first hospital inside Chicago—” Malone began. “No, wait a minute.”
“You can’t do that,” Jake said. “The police are going to ask why the hell you didn’t call them, instead of this guy.”
“That’s right. Go on toward Chicago I’ll think of something before we get there,” Malone said. He glanced at the bottle. “You’d better pause at an all-night liquor store if you can find one. This is damn-near empty.” He climbed into the back of the hearse with its owner and the unconscious McLaurin.
Helene drove two blocks slowly and with the lights off, then switched them on full. “Let ’em rip!” came Harry Kowalke’s voice from the back, and she stepped on the gas.
The ride back to Chicago had a nightmarish quality about it. The snow, packed down on curving roads by the early evening traffic, had melted here and there, and then frozen into patches of treacherous ice. Once the hearse skidded insanely for half a block, turned halfway around, and came to rest in the driveway of a startled citizen.
At the border of Evanston, Helene discovered that, as an auxiliary ambulance, the vehicle was permitted to carry a siren. The discovery brought out a really inspired performance.
Just beyond Howard Street, Malone said, “I don’t know any of these north-side cops very well. Take the outer drive and go like hell down to Chicago Avenue.”
Helene carried out instructions to the letter. At Chicago Avenue, as they turned west, Jake caught his breath for the third time in sixy blocks.
“Drive past Clark Street,” Malone said, “turn left, and you’ll find an alley halfway down the block. We’ll get out there.”
It was exactly half-past three by the clock on the dashboard when they turned into the alley. Ross McLaurin, still unconscious, was lifted out of the hearse and laid on the pavement. Malone gave Harry Kowalke his card and said, “Send me a bill. Take the rest of the rye to drink on the way home.”
“And thanks,” Jake added.
Harry Kowalke said, “Anything for a pal,” got in the hearse, and drove away.
Malone examined the young man, saw that his breathing was a little more regular and his pulse stronger.
“Now,” he said, “Jake, you beat it up to the nearest phone and call the Chicago Avenue police station. We’ve been out looking for this guy since midnight, and just found him lying in an alley. I’ll stay here with him till you get back.”
While Jake was gone, he squatted down beside the still figure. Ross McLaurin’s face was expressionless and pale, the color of chalk. Suddenly he gasped, seemed to choke a little, and opened his eyes.
“You’re O. K.,” Malone said, vaguely and helpfully.
The look in the young man’s eyes changed to one of recognition. “I remember now. You’re—Malone.”
“That’s me,” the lawyer said.
“Don’t try to talk,” Helene said, bending over the young man.
“I remember,” Ross McLaurin whispered. “I followed—the man who was killed—up the alley near the parking lot—near the Sherman Hotel.” He drew a slow, painful breath. “He didn’t want me—with him—but I wanted to help him—find you. I saw him—killed. I thought I did it myself. But I know now—I didn’t—”
“And the other one?” Malone said quietly.
“I—didn’t kill him. I went into his room and—found him dead.”
Helene knelt down beside him. “What happened to you this afternoon, Ross?”
“I remembered—what I’ve just told you. I wanted to—find you—or that girl—or someone—and tell—” His breath began to come slowly. “We—were going out to find you—and then—” He paused.
“Go on,” Malone said hoarsely. “Who stabbed you?”
Ross McLaurin’s white lips formed a word, but no sound came. His blue eyes met the lawyer’s in one brief glance, and closed as gently as the folding of a bird’s wing.
Chapter Thirty
“He’ll pull through, but he may be unconscious for hours,” Malone said, chewing savagely on his cigar. “We might as well get out of this place before they decide to roll out beds for us, too.”
It was eight in the morning. The two-hour nap in the hospital waiting room had helped Malone a little, but he had a vague and uncomfortable notion that creeping paralysis was beginning to get under way.
Ross McLaurin’s injury, as the lawyer had guessed, was not serious, but he was suffering badly from exposure. Rest and quiet were indicated right now. Malone wished someone would prescribe rest and quiet for him.
The three walked over to Clark Street and headed south toward the Loop. The sky had clouded over again and was a cold, dismal gray. Streetcars rattled by, crowded with the first influx of workers headed for eight-thirty jobs. Clark Street itself was dreary and half deserted. Taverns advertising “Two Shots for 21c” and cheap dance halls were being swept out. Even the pawnshops were closed. A few bums were having “Coffee and Two Doughnuts, 5c,” in the hole-in-the-wall lunchrooms. Ahead of them, the towers and spires of the Loop reached up, massive and forbidding against the sky.
“It’s just as I thought,” Malone said. “This guy got to wandering around and he started talking to the wrong person. Whoever he started talking to evidently lured him off to some secluded spot, tried to pump him for information, finally got him out to Maple Park, and stabbed him. The murderer evidently figured if he wasn’t done for already, the cold weather would finish the job.” He turned up his coat collar. “Where the hell are we going, and why don’t we take a taxi?”
“The air feels good,” Jake said crossly.
Helene said, “Do you suppose the mail has arrived at your office?”
“Not this early,” Malone said. “Anyway I don’t think there will be any answers to that want ad in the first mail.” He walked half a block and said, “I ought to go home and change my clothes. My suit looks as if I’d been sleeping in it.”
“You have been,” Helene said, “or don’t you remember? What’s von Flanagan going to say when he hears about this attempted murder?”
“He’s going to say that everyone conspires to make life hard for him, and that he’s going to retire and run a weekly newspaper. Only he isn’t going to say it to me, because until this mess is straightened out, I’m going to avoid him as though he were just coming down with bubonic plague.”
They were silent for a few blocks. All around, Chicago was beginning to wake up for the day. Alarm clocks were ringing right now, Jake reflected, from Gary to Evanston, from Oak Park to the lake. Some people were just settling down for a second sleep. Others, and he wished he were one of them, were just getting into bed. Somewhere, though, was a man or a woman who wasn’t waking and wasn’t sleeping, because Mona McClane had murdered him. It wasn’t either of the Tuesdays and it wasn’t Ross McLaurin. Jake began to wonder if it wasn’t tempting providence to ask for another corpse.
They had reached the bridge across the Chicago River before anyone spoke. Halfway across, looking down on the great cakes of dirty ice that floated on the slimy green water, Malone said, “I’m glad she’s in jail.”
“I’m glad, too,” Jake said. “Who?”
“Lotus. Evidently the killer isn’t taking any chances with accidental witnesses. Lotus was on the same floor of Mona McClane’s house when the second murder was committed.”
“So was I,” Helene reflected. “For that matter, so was Louella
White—pardon me, Lou White—and Pendley Tidewell.”
“McLaurin is a lucky guy,” Jake said. “He’s going to pull through, and probably they’ll sober him up while he’s in the hospital. He has all kinds of money, and he has a swell girl waiting for him as soon as you can get her out of jail.”
“You have me,” Helene pointed out.
Jake snorted. “Except that the only time I spend with you is on elevated trains or in taxicabs.”
“Never mind. Wait till we win that bet.”
“If we win it,” Jake said gloomily. Half a block later he said, “Malone, do you suppose you’ll get any answers to your want ad?”
“At least a dozen,” Malone said, “and all of them worthless.”
“You have an appointment at ten with Michael Venning’s lawyer. Do you suppose you’ll learn anything from him?”
“I might learn about Michael Venning’s murderer,” Malone said.
“But Michael Venning hasn’t been murdered,” Helene complained.
“I’m looking out for the future,” the lawyer said. “Heir today and guns tomorrow, I always say.”
Jake sighed again and was silent.
They paused in a cigar store that was just opening up for the day’s trade and phoned Malone’s hotel. Captain von Flanagan had telephoned the lawyer four times since half-past six, and a large, red-faced policeman was now sitting in the lobby.
“That would be Kluchetsky,” Malone said thoughtfully. “Von Flanagan evidently wants to know how we happened to stumble over Ross McLaurin’s unconscious form in a near-north-side alley last night.”
“Or,” Jake said, “von Flanagan wants to find me and have me pick out some more journalism text-books for him.”
“Much more of this,” Helene said, “and he’ll be cutting up papers instead of editing one.”
They had reached Washington Street. Suddenly Malone said, “I don’t know how you feel, but I need a drink.”
Jake realized that he was tired and hungry and cold. “I need a drink and twenty hours’ sleep.”
