by Craig Rice
“Compromise on two drinks,” Helene said.
Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar was just opening after the customary brief pause between the patrons who left at five in the morning and the new bunch who dropped in before breakfast. Joe himself was out in back, swearing over a small job of bookkeeping. There was no one in the place except a dapper young man from the state’s attorney’s office, who was getting a few quick ones before showing up at the office, and a solitary and morose drunk left over from the night before.
Malone called for three cups of strong black coffee with two jiggers of Cuban rum poured into each, and looked at his watch. It was just nine o’clock. He asked the bartender for a slug went into the phone booth, and called Mona McClane.
“I thought you might like to know Ross McLaurin is alive and doing nicely.”
“Thank heaven,” she said. “I was worrying. Where is he?”
“In Henrotin Hospital, but don’t worry any more. He’ll pull through.”
There was just the barest pause before she said, “Have you seen the papers?”
“No.”
“You might look at them. We had a burglary last night.”
She hung up before the lawyer could ask any more questions.
Malone swore angrily, asked the bartender for a paper, and pored over it while he reported the conversation to Jake and Helene.
“There it is,” Jake said, pointing to a small paragraph that told of the attempted burglary of the McClane mansion. Nothing had been taken, and the intruders had got away. However, Mrs. Michael Venning, the former Editha Putnam, who was a guest of Mrs. McClane, and who discovered the burglars, had been slightly injured by a blow on the head.
“Well,” Helene said, after looking at the paper for a long time, “then she wasn’t planning to explore Maple Park last night.”
Jake finished the last of the rum and coffee and went to the telephone.
“I called a pal at the Chicago Avenue police station,” he said when he returned. “Apparently the burglar was in Michael Venning’s room. Venning was out. Out of the house. The cops don’t know where he was. She—Mrs. Venning—went into his room, got conked on the bean, and before the alarm could be given, the burglars got clean away.”
Malone was silent for a moment. “As you yourself said the other day, it’s wonderful how they go on falling for that old burglary gag after all these years. Too bad Pendley wasn’t on the scene. He probably never had a chance to photograph a burglar before.”
Helene frowned. “It’s about time I was going home anyway. Maybe I can find out more of what happened. What are you two going to do?”
“We’ll go up to Jake’s apartment,” the lawyer announced. “There won’t be any cops waiting there, I hope. A quick shave and a shower, a little breakfast, and we’ll be ready to tackle a new day.”
Before he could go into any more details, Joe the Angel appeared from the back room.
“Say, Malone, where’ve you been keeping yourself? I been trying to get in touch with you.”
“Did you try calling my office?” Malone asked.
“Sure. But your girl there, she always says you’re out and she don’t know when you’ll be back.”
“She probably thinks you’re someone I owe money to,” Malone said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I guess you don’t know it, but you lost sumpin here the other night. The night that fella was killed, it was. It musta fell outa your pocket. I figured it wasn’t important or you’da been in here looking for it. I got it around here someplace.”
He hunted on top of and behind the cash register, through his pockets, and in all the drawers back of the bar, before he triumphantly produced a key, just an ordinary key, with the number 114 printed on its handle.
Chapter Thirty-One
“That’s mine, all right,” Malone said. “I guess I didn’t know I lost it.”
“That’s a good one on you,” Joe the Angel said. “You’d better have one on the house, just to start the day right.”
Malone heartily agreed with him.
After the drink was poured, Jake said indignantly, “Of course, this is the one place you wouldn’t think of looking for it.”
“It probably fell out of my pocket during the brawl,” Malone said, almost apologetically.
“That wouldn’t occur to you either,” Helene said in an accusing tone.
“Well, damn it,” the lawyer said, “I can’t think of everything.”
Jake and Helene said simultaneously, “Now you’ve got it back, let’s have a look at it.”
Just as the little lawyer tossed the key down on the table, the radio back of the bar announced that the time was exactly nine-thirty. Malone was out of his chair as though he’d been shot at and dived in the direction of the door.
Halfway there, he called back, “Look at it yourselves. Thirty minutes to get my suit pressed, get shaved, and be at old man Featherstone’s office. That’s one appointment I’ve got to keep.”
After she had caught her breath, Helene said, “Well, we’ve got the key, anyway.” She looked at it closely and handed it to Jake. “See what it is?”
Jake nodded slowly. “United Parcel Lockers,” he read aloud.
“It opens one of those dime-in-the-slot baggage lockers you find in railway stations,” Helene said. “I’ve always thought one of them would be a swell place to hide something safely.”
“I wonder what’s hidden there,” Jake said.
“Maybe another Gerald Tuesday,” Helene said crossly. “Let me think.”
Jake called for more coffee and sat watching her anxiously.
“We have the key,” she said at last, slowly, “but that’s only part of it. No matter what’s in that parcel locker, a lot is still unaccounted for. The whole trouble is there’s too much stuff that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with any other stuff.”
“Too much stuff,” Jake muttered, “and too many stiffs. Who wanted to do in Editha Venning badly enough to feed her bodyguard knockout drops?”
“Who wants to murder Michael Venning?” Helene countered.
“All right,” Jake said indignantly, “if you’re thinking up questions, think up a bunch of good ones and we’ll send ’em to Quiz Kids. While you’re about it, who were the two Gerald Tuesdays and who murdered them, and, last but not least, who did Mona McClane murder.”
She sighed. “You make it all sound so complicated.”
“Helene, let’s forget the whole thing. Lou Silver is taking his band out on the road next week, and I can go along as press agent. We could have a wonderful time.”
“You can go if you want to,” she said gloomily, “but I’m going to stay right here and win that bet. How do you like this one? Mrs. Venning gets her husband’s estate when he dies, and Pendley Tidewell is her heir. Pendley plans to murder them both, and Mrs. Venning, suspecting it, hires herself a bodyguard.”
“Very pretty, but how about the Tuesdays?”
“That’s a different affair entirely and has nothing to do with the Vennings.”
“I don’t like it,” Jake said. “Try again.”
“Michael Venning plans to murder his wife so he can marry another girl—no, that leaves too much unaccounted for. Editha Venning plans to murder her husband so she can have his dough. That’s a better starting point.”
“How about the Tuesdays again?”
“They were his bodyguards and she did them in.”
“How about the grave?”
Helene sighed. “Well, she has it ready for him.”
“You forget,” Jake pointed out, “that grave has been dug for a long time.”
“Maybe she’s just been waiting for a good opportunity and believes in preparedness. But what does his fiftieth birthday have to do with it?”
“The fact is,” Jake said slowly, “we can’t do a great deal until Malone gets through talking with the Venning lawyer. We just don’t know enough.”
Helene looked at her watch. “Meantime, I’m going back to
Mona McClane’s and change my clothes, and see if I can find out what’s been going on there. I’ll meet you at Malone’s office later.”
Jake said, “I could do with a change of clothes myself, and a shave. Not that I can’t think of a better way to spend the time.”
“When the bet is settled,” she said firmly, “I’ll meet you at Malone’s office after lunch, and for the love of God, don’t lose that key.”
It was afternoon when Jake arrived at Malone’s office. He found Helene there, looking as clear-eyed and fresh as though she had never missed a night’s sleep in her life, in a dark-green suit with enormous quantities of soft brown fur, and a tiny brown fur hat perched jauntily just above one eyebrow. Malone was staring out the window, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, surrounded by a mist of cigar smoke.
“He doesn’t want to talk,” Helene said, indicating Malone.
Jake nodded. “What did you find out at Mona Mcclane’s?”
“Editha Venning has a bump on her bean and a bad headache, but nothing serious. She says she went into her husband’s room last night to get some sleeping tablets—”
“A hell of a reason,” Jake said, “but go on.”
“He was away. Didn’t feel like turning in after leaving the Casino and went out hell raising. She went into his room and was looking for the sleeping tablets—without turning on the light, God knows why—when she found someone was in the room. She was about to let out a scream when a ton of bricks landed on her head, and that’s all she knows.”
“It’s a fair story, but definitely amateur,” Jake said. “Why was she prowling around without any lights?”
“Maybe she can see in the dark. Anyway, that’s the way she tells it. Venning came in about an hour later.”
“Did he find her?”
“No. The maid went down the hall and saw the door to the room was open. She investigated and found Mrs. Venning on the floor. The burglars had evidently escaped.”
“Through the chimney, I suppose,” Jake said acidly.
“You asked for the story and I’m giving it to you without a cent of profit. But that’s not all. Pendley Tidewell was under the bed all the time.”
“Under whose bed?”
“Michael Venning’s. That wasn’t given to the police. Mona refuses to discuss that or let anyone else. Lou—or Louella—White has a headache and looks very grim. Pendley has locked himself in his darkroom and won’t come out. He must have gotten better shots of those chorus girls than we thought.” She turned to the lawyer. “Malone, what was in that grave in the Rosedale cemetery?”
“A coffin that had been there twenty years, and the skeleton of a man who hadn’t been embalmed.”
She gasped. “Then there were three murders?”
“He might not have been murdered. There’s no way of telling, at this late date.” He turned around and walked over to the desk. He was pale and very tired.
“There’s the key,” Jake said, tossing it on the desk.
Malone picked it up, looked at it, and tossed it down again.
“I don’t know what we need it for,” he said gloomily “I know what we’ll find.”
“You mean that you—what the hell do you know?”
“I know who committed two-and-a-half murders,” Malone said. “I think I know what Mona McClane has to do with it, too.”
Jake swore angrily and said, “How do you know who committed the murders?”
“Because of the weather,” Malone said lacomcally.
“What about Mona McClane?” Helene demanded.
The little lawyer didn’t seem to have heard her. “You’d better forget the whole thing. Jake, you can pick yourself up a job—”
“But the bet—”
“Call it off,” Malone said. “Let justice be done.”
Jake stared at him for a moment and then burst into an indignant tirade in which only the words, “Bet, Casino, Mona McClane, and murder,” were plainly audible.
“Shut up,” Malone said. “I’m a very tired man.” He drew a long breath. “I’ve just come from talking with Michael Venning’s lawyer,” he said slowly. “It took a little doing to get anything out of him, but I learned what I wanted to know.” He rose, walked to the window, and addressed himself to the roofs outside. “Old man Venning, the present Michael Venning’s father, left a crazy will—God knows why people will do these things.”
“But what—” Helene began, caught herself, and waited for him to go on.
“He left the income from the Venning estate, some five million bucks, to his only child. If that child—Michael—died before the age of fifty, his widow was to receive an income of two thousand a year for life. His children, if any—and there are none—two thousand a year for life, and the rest was to go to a collection of hospitals. However, if Michael lived to the age of fifty, the whole shebang was to pass to him, he could spend it, will it to anybody, give it away or do anything he damn pleased with it. He’s fifty today.”
“What does that have to do with the Tuesdays?” Helene asked. “And Mona McClane?”
“Everything.” He stared at the key. “It’s no go. Call off the bet with Mona McClane and forget the whole thing.”
“Malone, have you lost your mind?”
“No,” he said, “but with a little coaxing, I will.”
Helene sat down on a corner of the desk and lit a cigarette.
“That bet is going to be won,” she said firmly. “Do you think we’d give it up now, after all the effort that’s been spent—”
He looked at her crossly. “Effort? I’ve spent the past two hours on the long-distance phone, learning the past history of the Tuesdays. It’ll take me ten years to work out the telephone bill. And now that I have all the information together, I say the hell with it.” He sighed heavily. “You may still win your bet with Mona McClane. But you’ll have to wait a while to do it.”
Helene drew a quick breath. “Whom did Mona McClane murder?”
Before Malone could answer, the telephone rang, Malone called out, “I’ll answer it, Maggie,” picked up the receiver, and said, “Hello? Oh, hello, von Flanagan.” Sixty seconds later, he said, “I didn’t call you because it was three in the morning and I didn’t want to disturb you. I’ve been busy all day. Anyway, there was nothing I could do. When the boy recovers consciousness, he’ll tell you who stabbed him.” This time there was a three-minute pause. Evidently a short speech on the troubles of a policeman was coming over the wire. At intervals Malone said, “Yes, yes, I know,” in an irritated voice. Then suddenly, “Why the hell did you let her out of jail. Yes I know she couldn’t have stabbed McLaurin if she was in jail and whoever stabbed him did the other two, but—” A pause, then, “Who insisted on your letting her go? I’m her lawyer—” A shorter pause, and finally, “All right, damn it, she’s out of jail.” He hung up.
He shoved the key across the table to Jake. “Start on the downtown railway and bus stations. There can’t be more than a dozen or so. Take that key and start looking, and work fast. When you find the one numbered 114 that this key fits, take out what you find in the locker and bring it to me at Mona McClane’s as fast as you can. Get going, and don’t ask questions.”
Jake started putting on his overcoat. “What about Helene?”
“I want her to go on to Mona McClane’s with me,” the lawyer said. “Come on, this is no time to stand around talking.”
Halfway down the elevator he said indignantly, “Damn von Flanagan! Of course he had to let her out of jail, but why the hell did he have to do it right now? The damn fool!”
Helene stared at him. “Aren’t you glad Lotus is out of jail?”
“No,” he snapped. “Because of the person who called von Flanagan and insisted on her being freed, and got away with it.” He drew a long breath. “There’s one crime that I want to prevent and one that I don’t want to prevent, and right now I’m afraid there’s nothing to do but prevent both of them.”
He refused to say
another word.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chicago’s favorite show place, the old McClane mansion on Lake Shore Drive, was a blaze of lights. From a little distance it looked like a house on an ornamental Christmas card. The afternoon’s heavy snowfall had left great white drifts on the lawn and outlined every cornice and crevice with a soft, pale dusting. The sky was clear now and brilliant with stars. Below it, Lake Shore Drive was digging itself out of the snow.
Helene stole a glance at Malone. The little lawyer was gray-faced; indeed, he seemed close to exhaustion. She wished he would tell her what he had in mind, but she knew there was no use in asking questions. Whatever it might be, he was, at the same time, excited about what he was going to do and unhappy over the necessity of doing it.
For all the welcoming lights of the McClane mansion, she shivered a little at the sight of it. Something unpleasant was going to happen, and she didn’t know what it was.
“I wish Jake were here,” she said under her breath, just loud enough for Malone to catch.
“So do I,” the lawyer said grimly. “If Jake doesn’t find the right luggage locker and arrive here with the contents in time, the whole show will blow up.”
They found Mona McClane in the living room, curled up on the chimney seat, her small, pointed chin resting on her fist, staring into the coals. Helene was reminded suddenly of a black kitten crouched by the fire, stretching and curving its paws and blinking at the flames, half hypnotized by them. The room was in semidarkness, the long windows still admitted the faint gray of a Chicago twilight, and only the fireplace and one soft light glowed in the room.
Mona McClane rose from her seat by the fireplace to greet them. Her small, triangular face was very pale.
“I rather expected you to drop in this afternoon. Lotus has been anxious for a chance to thank you.”
Then they saw that Lotus Allen had been standing half in the shadow of the curtains, gazing out one of the long windows. She turned around and came over to the fireplace. Her aplomb had not been shaken, but her manner, even her walk and gesture, was not Lotus Allen but Lotus Angelo, the Portuguese girl from a Boston slum, self-educated and self-taught. It was Helene, though, not Malone, who understood the change in her coloring. Lotus Allen had used make-up and heavy powder to subdue the glowing color in her cheeks and the warm brown of her skin. She had been a handsome, well-groomed girl. Now Lotus Angelo, bright-cheeked and bright-lipped, was a colorful beauty.
