The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

  “If I’d been brought up differently,” Maggie said, “I’d say that—” She caught her breath. “All right, what do I do?”

  “First, don’t let Eric know that I’m McNabb, and that McNabb is me. And make sure that Mici doesn’t tell him. Register at the Drake Hotel, and keep the two of them safe and out of mischief.”

  Maggie said, scowling, “You said—safe?”

  “They don’t know it, but they’re an important clue to my murder,” Malone told her. “Meantime, you take this.” He handed her the small case.

  “Oh, no,” Maggie said weakly. “I—wouldn’t be caught dead with it.”

  “I sincerely hope you won’t be,” the little lawyer said. “So be careful. Take it to Captain von Flanagan of the homicide bureau, and ask him to find out everything he can about the contents—and to do it within the next few hours. Tell him it was my dying wish.”

  Maggie shuddered slightly and, against her better judgment, picked up the case.

  “And when we land, just don’t recognize me, and make sure Mici doesn’t either.”

  “But, Malone.… What are you going to do? And where are you going to be?”

  “Duck, to the first question,” Malone said gloomily, “and to the second—I wish I knew. But you’ll hear from me.”

  After Maggie had gone back to her own seat, Malone carefully pulled his coat collar up over the checkered shirt. The ten gallon hat presented a problem. He hated to abandon it, since it was the first and probably last he’d ever owned, but this was a time for prudence. He solved the problem by asking the stewardess if she had a small brother which, providentially, she had.

  Through the window he could see that this was one of the Chicago early spring days that made solid citizens dream of holidays in Bermuda. He could also see a few scattered people waiting to meet incoming passengers. Eric was there, tall and husky-looking. But there was no sign of Rufus Cable.

  Malone considered waiting on the plane until everyone was gone, then changed his mind and decided to try losing himself in what was an inconveniently small crowd. He reached the walk outside the airport without difficulty and was heading toward a taxi when he spotted the tall, thin form of Rufus Cable a few feet away.

  But Rufus Cable was looking for two things. One, a red-and-green checkered vest and a yellow shirt. The other, a small traveling case. He moved through the crowd, not toward Malone, but toward Mici.

  It was, Malone realized, no time to offer help. Maggie would manage somehow. He moved just close enough for a little cautious eavesdropping.

  Rufus Cable said, “What are—I didn’t expect to see you here.” He added, “What a pleasant surprise!”

  It was Mici who took over, and introduced Maggie.

  “You should have wired that you were coming,” Rufus Cable said pleasantly. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Drake,” Maggie said, and she took a firmer hold on the little bag she had.

  Mr. Rufus Cable regretted that he couldn’t drive them into the Loop. It seemed he had to meet a plane from San Francisco.

  That was too bad, everyone agreed, but they would all get together later. Oh, definitely.

  Malone moved on. Again he reflected that there were several disadvantages to being the victim of a murder, the main one right now being a financial one. His appearance at the hotel where he’d lived for more than twenty years would cause a disturbance, to say the least. So would a visit to any of the acquaintances who would be good for a light touch. On the other hand, he felt that the victim of a murder deserved nothing but the best.

  “Ambassador East,” he told the driver.

  By the time J. J. McNabb, San Francisco, had been comfortably installed in his room, there was just enough cash on hand for one more cab ride. Still, he reflected, that would be all he would need.

  The little lawyer gazed longingly at the bathtub and the bed. Sleep on a plane was better than no sleep at all, but not much better. “Later,” he promised himself. With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone.

  The first call was to Rufus Cable’s office. Mr. Cable had not come in yet. “Tell him,” Malone said, “that Mr. McNabb called. Circumstances prevented my looking for him at the airport. He’ll understand what I mean. I’ll meet him at the Di Angelo Undertaking Parlor on West North Avenue—” He glanced at his watch. “At two this afternoon.”

  The second call was to an old friend and client, one Charles Firman, who had worked his way up from a modest horse parlor to selling stock in imaginary mines. Charlie had not been surprised to hear of Malone’s murder; he was not surprised now to hear of Malone’s resurrection. He was even less surprised that Malone wanted a favor.

  “For you,” he said warmly, “anything.”

  Malone told him quickly what he wanted. All there was to know about the Eva Cable estate, and who had handled it before Eva Cable’s death. “And,” he finished, “by two this afternoon.”

  “For me, kindergarten stuff,” Charlie Firman said confidently.

  “I’ll call you,” Malone promised, and hung up.

  Charlie Firman had an incredible ability for digging up information about people’s most private financial affairs.

  Malone’s last call was to the Drake Hotel. No, Miss Mary Margaret Gogarty was not registered there. That worried him a little, until he remembered her stop at Captain von Flanagan’s office. Anyway, Maggie had demonstrated more than once in the past that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Malone gave the address of Rico di Angelo’s and said, “Tell her to be sure to be there at two o’clock, and to bring her friends with her.” He combed his hair, straightened his tie, and took a taxi to Rico di Angelo’s undertaking parlor.

  Rico di Angelo shook hands with him twice, held him off at arm’s length to stare at him, then shook hands again.

  “Ever since your body arrived, I have been expecting to hear from you. Tell me, Malone, is it for your life insurance?”

  “You might call it that.” Malone said. “Insurance that I’ll stay alive, anyway.” He gave Rico a brief outline of what had happened. “And how is my body, anyway?”

  “Beautiful,” Rico said, with professional pride. “Everything the best. And the flowers—” He motioned Malone to follow.

  The softly lighted room was filled with flowers, tastefully arranged around an expensive coffin. Malone examined the cards thoughtfully. The names ranged from important political characters to West Side bookies. He was going to enjoy buying drinks for his friends when this ended.

  “These just came,” Rico said. “These” were a delicate bouquet of daisies, with a card attached—BECAUSE DAISIES NEVER TELL. MAGGIE.

  Malone grinned. “An old sweetheart,” he explained. He turned to Rico. “There’s a few other people we want here at two o’clock, and since I’m officially in my coffin, you’ll have to call them. Make it urgent.” He wrote down Rufus Cable, Edward Cable, and Captain von Flanagan. “And then,” he finished, “if you’ve got any money and someone we can send out for a quart of gin, let’s have lunch.”

  Everyone was prompt. By two o’clock Captain von Flanagan was already there. Maggie arrived with Mici and Eric; the two Cables came in almost at her heels. Rico greeted everyone with sorrowful respect, expressing how upsetting murder always was.

  “Mr. di Angelo, I don’t understand—” Rufus Cable began, in what was hardly a respectful voice.

  Rico said softly. “This is hardly the time or place for—”

  “I say it is. I don’t understand why you—”

  Just then Captain von Flanagan, who had strolled near the coffin, said with a heartfelt sigh, “Looks lifelike, doesn’t he?” And in the next moment Maggie gasped and Mici screamed.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for murdering me?” Malone said in a hollow voice, sitting up in his coffin. “And by mistake, too!”

  There was a minute of frozen silence. Then Eric screamed, “You told me it would just put him to sleep for a whil
e; you told me it wasn’t dangerous!” and flung himself at Rufus Cable, just as Rufus Cable yanked out a small revolver and fired at Malone. The bullet smashed into a vase, von Flanagan dived at Eric, and Rico dived indiscriminately at everybody. In the ensuing melee, a basket of calla lilies was overturned and dumped gracefully over Malone’s chest.

  Just as suddenly it was all over. Rufus Cable sat groggily on the floor, guarded by Rico. Von Flanagan, his face gray, had Eric’s arms pinned behind his back. Ed Cable closed his eyes and began swaying, and Maggie eased him into a chair. Mici stared at Malone, who brushed a lily from his vest and instinctively reached for a cigar.

  “Do you know how much chloral hydrate it takes to kill a man?” Malone demanded.

  Eric shook his head. “He told me—the contents of the bottle would just put him to sleep—until after he was taken off the plane. I had to do it because—” He stopped suddenly.

  “Because you were already in it up to your neck,” Malone finished for him. He turned to Rico. “Is there an emergency exit to this thing?”

  Rico helped him out of the coffin silently. Captain von Flanagan retrieved Rufus Cable’s revolver from the floor.

  “If he’d hit me, I don’t know what you could have done,” Malone said. “Is there a penalty for killing an already murdered man?” He finally got the cigar lit.

  “Malone—please!” Maggie said in exasperation.

  “You told me the motive when you said there wasn’t any,” Malone told her. He smiled at Mici. “Too bad, my dear, that there isn’t any money. But at least you inherit the jewelry.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “Here’s all the information, Captain von Flanagan. Rufus Cable, managing all the late Eva Cable’s financial affairs over the past ten years, sunk everything in investments of his own. Eva Cable was old and ill, and not expected to live very long. With her estate left jointly to both the Cable brothers, Rufus Cable faced prison when the inevitable accounting came. So he roped Eric in.”

  “He told me it wasn’t his fault—losing the money,” Eric said. “But he said there would be enough to make it worth my while—enough for Mici, and for me. Mici didn’t know anything about it.”

  Malone nodded. “So—he visited Eva Cable and coaxed her into making a new will leaving everything to the daughter of her beloved old friend. It must have been easy for him. Soon after, Eva Cable died, of natural causes.”

  Both Maggie and von Flanagan started to speak and stopped.

  “But Cable had made the mistake of hiring a private detective to keep an eye on things. He kept too good an eye on things, found out the whole plot, and decided to blackmail Cable. So Cable arranged McNabb’s murder, using Eric as a dupe. But again something went wrong. McNabb, smelling danger, and knowing that I was flying to Chicago, fixed it to strike up acquaintance with me at the airport bar, and switch tickets with me. He probably figured that the danger would be waiting for him in San Francisco.”

  “How do you know?” Maggie asked.

  “I don’t,” Malone said. “I’m just guessing.” He added hastily, “But that was his fatal mistake. Eric spotted him at the bar while I was downstairs checking our flight time, bought him a drink and slipped the poison in it.”

  “He told me it wasn’t poison,” Eric howled.

  “Shut up,” Malone said pleasantly. “Don’t talk until you’re alone with your lawyer. That’s me.” He went on, “But McNabb had an important appointment with a—friend, in San Francisco. He wired him to meet him in Chicago instead and to bring ‘it’ with him.”

  Again Maggie and Captain von Flanagan started to speak at once, and again Malone waved them to silence. “As a clincher for a nice permanent blackmail setup,” he said, “McNabb told Rufus Cable he had proof that Eva Cable was poisoned, and could buy the proof and deliver it to him to be destroyed. Rufus Cable knew he hadn’t poisoned her, but he wanted the proof anyway.”

  Malone grinned at Captain von Flanagan. “What was in that bag, anyway?”

  “A stomach,” Captain von Flanagan said, his face beginning to turn purple. “But not a trace of poison. And it wasn’t even a human stomach; it was a calf’s stomach. Damn it, Malone, I—”

  “Ssh,” Malone said, “remember where you are.” He went on, “The only person whose plans went right was a guy named Linberry.” He wished now he’d made Linberry split with him. “Linberry, a smart con man, sold McNabb a pig in a poke—rather, a calf’s stomach in a traveling case. He’s probably on his way to Australia right now. McNabb was going to go on blackmailing Rufus Cable with what he thought he was buying from Linberry, and Rufus Cable thought he could get away with murdering McNabb.”

  The little lawyer laughed. “Yes, all the plans went wrong, except mine. I did everything I set out to do.”

  Ed Cable nodded. “I engaged you to find out if the will was valid and if Eva died a natural death. You did both, and very well. I’ll send you a check.”

  “Might as well give it to me now,” Malone said casually, “and save a stamp.”

  He turned to Mici, who was weeping on Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, my dear. Eric has the best defense lawyer in the world, starting now. And the jewelry is really magnificent. I’ve seen it.”

  “The next time I see you off on a plane,” Maggie said grimly, “I’ll get there early.”

  “The next time,” Malone said, “you’d better come along.”

  Once more he surveyed the display of flowers. He put a rosebud in his lapel.

  “And now,” he said happily, “let’s start calling all our friends and issuing invitations. All my life, I’ve wanted to go to my own wake!”

  THE TEARS OF EVIL

  It was, John J. Malone decided, a most satisfactory party. For one thing, George and Kathy Weston had invited only a few people to help them celebrate their crystal wedding anniversary; and, for another, none of the guests had yet expressed amazement over his personal taste in beverages. Straight gin with a beer chaser had never seemed an unusual combination to him, and it was a relief not to hear it referred to in incredulous tones by people who didn’t know what they were missing.

  Malone bit the end off a cigar, lit it, and inhaled it deeply. Fifteen years married, he thought. A long time. And it couldn’t happen to two nicer people than George and Kathy.

  He had stationed himself by the table on which the liquor had been set out, and now, as he glanced around the Westons’ luxurious living room, he discovered with some surprise that he was alone. Then he heard laughter from the direction of the kitchen: and now the question was, should he stay here and guard the liquor, or should he go out to the kitchen and join the others?

  He had no choice, of course. He leaned his hip against the liquor table, sighed, and broke the seal on a fresh bottle of gin. To stand guard duty properly, a man needed strength.

  The clear liquid had just reached the brim of his glass when Malone glanced up and saw George Weston coming toward him from the direction of the stairs. There was something about George’s handsome, flat-planed face that, somehow, made Malone forget his drink. He put the glass and cigar down slowly, while a strange tenseness stiffened his short body and tightened the muscles across his stomach. George was walking toward him as if every step was an effort, as if he were half drunk. But he was not drunk, Malone knew. George Weston was a teetotaler. And yet he was walking across his own living room almost as if he were lost in it.

  When he was within a few feet of Malone, George stopped. His eyes came up to meet Malone’s.

  “Malone,” he whispered. “Malone … for God’s sake …”

  Malone pushed away from the table and stepped close to his friend. He’d seen men in shock, and in hysteria; he’d seen men in most of the ways a man can be—but he’d never seen anyone with the expression that George Weston wore now. The nearest thing to it had been the look on the face of a punch-drunk prize-fighter he had watched, an instant before the fighter went down from a knockout punch.

  “Damn it, George,” he said sharply. �
��What’s wrong with you?” He put both hands on George’s shoulders and shook him. “What’s wrong?”

  George wet his lips. “It’s Kathy,” he said. “She’s—” He looked at Malone, and his lips moved, but there was no sound.

  Malone shook him again. “She’s what? Speak up, George!”

  “She’s … dead.”

  The floor beneath Malone’s feet seemed to tilt, and for an instant George Weston’s face blurred out of focus. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and the word dead sickened through him.…

  George’s eyes moved slowly toward the stairs and back again.

  “She’s upstairs,” he said. “Malone, she’s …”

  Malone’s fingers came up to tighten around George’s arm. “Come on,” he said. He tugged George around and headed him toward the stairs.

  “Where is she?” Malone asked.

  “In her bedroom. She isn’t just dead, Malone. She’s—she’s been murdered.”

  “George, you’re out of your mind!”

  George shook his head. They started up the stairs. “No,” George said. “Somebody’s killed her. Somebody’s killed my wife.”

  Malone caught his lower lip in his teeth, and said nothing. Of all the people he knew, George and Kathy were two of the ones he’d liked the best. If Kathy was dead, then a little part of him had died too. Kathy. Lovely, gracious Kathy.…

  At the top of the stairs, George turned to the right and stopped before the second door. “In there, Malone,” he said hoarsely.

  Malone twisted the knob and stepped inside. It was a large room, bright and infinitely feminine. It was in perfect order, and even the bottles on Kathy’s vanity seemed to have been arranged in some whimsical order of her own.

  Malone took in the entire room at a glance. He turned quickly to George. “Where is she?”

  “On—on the other side of the bed,” George said. “On the floor.”

  Malone went around the bed fast. Kathy lay on her back, the blue-black waves of her long hair in contrast vividly with the smooth white arm thrown out behind her head. One slim ankle was crossed over the other, and above them her stockinged legs tapered up to swelling thighs. A sheet had been spread over the body from shoulders to hips, but it took Malone no second glance to know that, except for the sheet, and her shoes and stockings, she was completely naked.