by Craig Rice
She was beautiful in death. It was, Malone thought, almost as if she were sleeping. He put his hand over her heart and held it there until he was convinced.
He looked up at George Weston. Very softly, he said, “How?”
George had remained near the door, but now he closed it behind him and took two tentative steps toward Malone. “Her neck’s broken,” he said thickly.
Malone put his fingertips to the back of Kathy’s head and moved them slowly downward. He felt the break, the small bump where there should be no bump.
He got to his feet and stood very still, looking at George.
“You touch her?”
“I put the sheet over her.”
“And what else?”
“I straightened her head. It was all …” His shoulders slumped and he put a hand out to the foot of the bed as if for support. “I couldn’t stand to see her look that way.”
Malone nodded. “Sure, George,” he said.
George turned and pulled the bench out from the vanity and sat down. Malone walked to the window and stood staring out into the night. He would have gone through a thousand hells to be able to help George Weston now. But there was nothing he could do for him, and nothing he could say to make it any easier for him.
George was speaking now, almost as if to himself. “I loved her. Nobody will ever know how much I loved her.”
Malone cleared his throat. “George, isn’t it about time we called the police?”
George nodded. “Yes. I guess so, Malone.” His eyes were sick. “This was our anniversary. It was fifteen years today.”
Malone felt an utter hopelessness that was alien to him. In most situations, he knew what to do, and how to do it. But not this time. His grief was not as great as George’s, of course, but it was profound.
“I hate to ask this, George,” he said gently. “But have you got any ideas? It had to be one of your guests. You know that.”
George was silent a long moment. Then, “No, Malone. It couldn’t have been. Everybody loved her. There’s never been anybody like her, Malone. Everybody …”
Malone tried to get a stern tone into his voice, but he failed. His words came out as gently as before. “You found her without any clothes on? Where are they?”
“Under the bed,” George said. “They were in a heap beside her, but I pushed them under the bed. I don’t know why. I guess I just didn’t want anybody to know what had happened to her.”
Quickly then, Malone went around the bed once more and bent down. The dress Kathy had worn earlier was in tatters, and her underclothing had obviously been ripped from her body. Malone dropped them to the floor and went back to lean against the wall near George Weston.
“Killing her wasn’t enough,” George said. “They had to do that, too.”
For the first time in several minutes, Malone felt as if he was capable of coherent thought.
“George,” he said, “I’ll promise you something. Except for you, no one thought more of Kathy than I did. I’m going to find out who killed her, George—if it takes me the rest of my life.”
“You can’t bring her back,” George said dully. “Nobody can do that.”
“No. But we can find out who did it. It had to be somebody downstairs, George. Now, can you think of anyone who might have any reason at all to want to …” He paused. “Think hard, George.”
George shook his head. “No. Nobody.” His face was very white. “I can’t stay in here any longer, Malone. I—I’ve got to have some air. I feel sick.”
“Sure,” Malone said. “We’ll go down the back stairs.”
As they walked between the trees in the huge back lawn, John J. Malone, for once, kept his silence. He was thinking back a good many years, back to the first time he had seen George and Kathy Weston.
There had been a carnival on the outskirts of Chicago that year, and one of the feature attractions was the Cage of Death. Malone had watched two young daredevils wheel a pair of motorcycles into a giant globe fashioned of steel mesh. He had been across the midway at the time, and it was not until he got much closer that he discovered one of the riders was a girl. Her companion had ridden his motorcycle in small circles around the bottom of the cage, until he had gained sufficient momentum to suspend him and his vehicle horizontally. And then, defying gravity, he had increased the speed and looped-the-loop a dozen times.
Then the girl had done the same thing. And, at the climax, both riders were at the top of the mesh sphere one moment, and at the bottom the next, both of them looping-the-loop at the same time, and in opposite directions.
Malone had never seen anything like it. He waited around, and when the young riders came out, he told them so. That was the beginning, and Malone haunted the carny lot and the Cage of Death every night thereafter, until the carnival moved to the next town. He and the two young riders—George and Kathy—had become friends instantly. The next year, Malone had renewed the friendship. He had been watching them the night they collided head-on at the very top of the cage.…
Kathy had suffered a broken arm and severe bruises, and that was all. But George had been badly mangled. During the four days when his chance of life was fifty-fifty, after the long sessions of surgery, Malone had haunted the hospital just as he had the carny lot.
He remembered the way George had tried to smile when he told him he was all right now, but that he could never ride again, and the way Kathy had cried when George said that.
But they had saved a good deal of money, and George had started dabbling in Chicago real estate. Now, on their fifteenth wedding anniversary, they were in the upper income bracket.
They’d been one of the happiest, most devoted couples Malone had ever known. They’d kept close touch with him, and he with them, and his one sure cure for the blues was an evening with George and Kathy.
Malone glanced sideways at George. “You feel like going back now?”
“In a minute,” George said.
“We’ve got to call the police.”
“Yes, I know. In just a minute.”
“About these guests of yours,” Malone said. “I got their first names when you introduced me, and that’s about all. Give me a quick run-down on them.”
George stopped walking. He sat down on a stone bench and shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. He rolled it around in his fingers absently, then suddenly broke it in two and flicked it away.
“There are four guys and three women in there,” Malone said. “Who are they, and what are they?”
“None of them did it,” George said.
“Never mind. What about them?”
“There’s Eddie Marcheck. He’s the short one with the crew cut. He was a talker with the carny at the same time we were with it. His wife is the tall blonde. The guy with the freckles is Del Esterly. He’s in insurance. He and his wife—that’s the girl with the glasses—have an agency.” He shook his head. “But there’s no point in this, Malone. None of them—”
“Go on,” Malone told him.
“I don’t feel much like talking.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But this is important. What about the others?”
“Well, the other couple are Mark and Jen Stevens. They’re neighbors, and Mark is sales manager for a sporting goods firm down near the Loop.”
George’s voice was thin and tired, and Malone was beginning to dislike himself a little for putting him through the paces at a time like this. But—it had to be.
“And the solo guy?” he asked. “Who’s he?”
George hesitated a moment. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely audible. “His name’s McJanet,” he said. “Les McJanet. He’s a guy I used to know—from school.”
Malone took a fresh cigar from his pocket and began, very slowly, to unwrap it, his eyes on George Weston. There had been a subtle change in George’s voice when he spoke of McJanet, something quite apart from its sudden softness. Malone put the cigar in his mouth, unlit. Around it, he said, “Is there something spec
ial about this guy McJanet?”
“No. Why?”
“I think there is,” Malone said. “I think there’s something special about him. What is it?”
George looked up at Malone, and then moved away again hesitantly.
“He’s an ex-con. He’s out on parole now. I hadn’t seen him in years, and then, this afternoon, I ran into him on State Street. I invited him to our anniversary party. He said he’d come, but that there was something he wanted me to know first.”
Malone bit the tip from his cigar and spat it out and glanced toward the house. “And that’s when he told you about being out on parole?”
George nodded. “I told him it didn’t make any difference. And it didn’t.”
Malone stared up at the window of the bedroom where Kathy Weston lay with her neck broken and a sheet across her naked body.
“What was McJanet in for?”
George stood up and started walking back toward the house. Malone fell into step beside him.
“I didn’t hear what you said,” Malone prompted.
“Assault and rape,” George said. “He swore it was a frame-up.”
“And you believed him?”
“Yes, I believed him. I’ve known him most of my life. He couldn’t do anything like that.” His tone was flat. “And now let me alone, Malone.”
Malone drew in deeply on his cigar and said nothing.
They went in through the side door, and George started walking through the hallway to the living room. “Everybody seems to be in the kitchen,” he said. “I’m going to try to call the police right now.”
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “I want to take one more look in that room.”
“Why?”
“Just a hunch. Maybe we can save the police a little work.”
George turned to look at him. His eyes were level, his voice steady. “It isn’t McJanet, and it isn’t anyone else here. I know you think so, but you’re wrong. Kathy went upstairs for a minute, and somebody had either sneaked in and was in the bedroom, or they got in through the side entrance while she was up there. I know that—”
“You don’t know anything,” Malone said sharply. “You’re in something pretty close to shock, and you can’t even think. It was somebody at this party, and I know it, even if you don’t.”
He caught himself. This was a hell of a way to talk to a good friend, a man whose wife had just been murdered. He knew how much George had always worshipped Kathy, how he had worked like a dog to build up his real estate business. And he knew, beyond any question, that George had never so much as looked at another woman—no more than Kathy had looked at another man. George had loved his wife with an intensity that was rare in Malone’s experience, and worshipped was the only word to describe the way he’d felt about her.
He had loved her so much that her death had temporarily deranged him. All this talk about innocent guests came from the part of George’s mind that was trying desperately to catch on to something, anything, that it could deny. His mind couldn’t deny Kathy’s death, but the need for denial was so great that George had somehow channeled it toward something else.
Malone tried to manage a grin for his friend, but it wouldn’t stay on his lips. If I’d told George that this wasn’t Chicago, instead of that one of his guests had murdered his wife, Malone thought, he’d have denied that too. Right now, his mind can’t accept things. The poor lug.…
George studied Malone’s face a moment, his eyes cloudy and remote. He shrugged. “All right, Malone.” He turned and started up the back stairs. “But I can’t go in. I—”
“I know,” Malone said. “It’ll only take a minute—and then we’ll call the cops.”
At the door to Kathy’s bedroom, George suddenly put his hands up to his face, his head bent, his shoulders shaking.
It hurt Malone to see George this way, but there was nothing he could do.
“I—I think I’m going to be sick,” George said. He turned in the direction of the bathroom and half ran toward it.
Malone wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and went into the bedroom. From the direction of the bathroom, he could hear George Weston being very sick. He closed the bedroom door and walked slowly around the bed and stood looking down at Kathy.
Any one of those men down there could have done it, he thought. Not the women, because only a man could break someone’s neck quickly enough to avoid getting clawed and bitten. It took a lot of strength to break a neck; a hell of a lot of strength.
And motive? That would come out later. It always did. Right now he wanted the personal satisfaction of having a hand in finding the man who had killed a woman he loved dearly. His own deep reaction—the thing George was going through now—would come later, he knew.
He circled the room several times, and each time his eyes missed nothing. His brain was in high gear now, and his thoughts came quickly and clearly, the way they had before in similar situations. He looked for the obvious thing, the thing that seemed slightly wrong somehow. There was nothing. He came back to the sheet-covered body, and then, with the strongest reluctance he had ever felt toward anything, he bent and pulled away the sheet.
He looked down at Kathy Weston a full minute, his eyes covering every line and curve of her body. He stood wholly without movement, his face as devoid of expression as if it had been a wooden mask.
But, inside him, deep in the pit of his stomach, something tightened and drew into a hard, pulsing knot. And then, carefully, and with infinite gentleness, he drew the sheet back across Kathy’s body and left the bedroom.
He walked to the bathroom. The door was open, and George Weston was not inside. Malone went to the stairway and down the stairs to the living room.
The party was gay no longer. Everyone was in the living room, and all were watching George Weston at the telephone. A quick glance at their faces told Malone that they knew what had happened, that George had told them. George put the phone down and looked at Malone. “I’ve just called the police,” he said.
Malone nodded. He took a folder of matches from his pocket and lit his cigar. “Maybe it’s just as well, George. A few minutes more, either way, wouldn’t make any difference.”
“I got to thinking,” George said. “Up there in the bathroom. I guess you were right when you said I couldn’t think, before.” He glanced quickly toward a broad-shouldered man, in his middle thirties, with thinning blond hair and a pinched, sallow face. “And I guess you were right in saying there was something special about Les McJanet. It must have been him, Malone. He just got out of prison for doing almost the same thing he did to Kathy.”
The blond man lunged forward, but two of the other men caught his arms and held him. “What the hell is this?” Les McJanet shouted. “What are you trying to pull, Weston?”
Malone put his cigar down in a tray. If there was going to be action, he wanted no tobacco coals in the air.
“It wasn’t too difficult to kill Kathy,” Malone said. “With people going upstairs to the bathroom, and one thing and another, it wasn’t hard to get to Kathy and break her neck and get down again without being missed.”
“Goddam it!” Les McJanet yelled. “Let go of me.”
“In just a moment,” Malone said. “When you’re calmer.” He looked around at the others. No one moved or spoke. All eyes were upon him. He turned back toward George Weston. “You can’t go through with it, George, and you know it. You’re not made that way. I don’t know exactly when you decided to kill Kathy, but it must have been just a few seconds after you discovered she was going to have a baby.”
George’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “A—a baby?”
Malone nodded. This was hurting him; this was tearing his heart out. “Yes, George,” he said. “A baby. You couldn’t stand it. You really loved Kathy, George. You practically lived for her. You felt you had to kill her, and the child too.”
For the space of ten heartbeats, George Weston’s eyes stayed locked with M
alone’s—and then George looked away. His whole body seemed to slump. His head drooped.
“You know you can’t go through with it, George,” Malone said. “You thought you could, but you can’t.”
George wet his lips, and now his face had gone slack and his eyes were sick again.
Malone stood very still, waiting.
“Yes,” George whispered. “Yes. That’s the way it was. I killed her … and I thought I could make it look like Les … but I can’t. The minute I knew Kathy was dead, I didn’t care about anything else. She’s dead.” His voice was slowly gaining strength. “And now I want to die, too. Do you hear? I want to.”
Malone nodded to the two men holding Les McJanet. “Let him go,” he said. McJanet took a step backward, gazing in stunned horror at his lifelong friend.
Out in the street, a car braked to a fast stop in front of the house.
“That would be the police,” Malone said.
“I want to die,” George Western shouted. “I want to.”
“No, George,” Malone told him. “You do now, but time will change that. You wanted to die a long time ago, too, as I remember.” He looked away from George’s tortured face. “Don’t worry too much about dying. I’ve saved worse than you from the death house—and I can do it again. Things will be bad, George—but not that bad.”
There was a heavy knock on the door, a heavy, official knock.
Les McJanet suddenly found his voice. “But how—how’d you know Kathy was—was going to have a baby?”
“I saw her, McJanet. Her breasts, the slight swell of her stomach—not enough to show when she was dressed—but the signs were unmistakable. She was going to have a baby, all right.”
“But why should George …? I mean … what’s wrong with a baby? Why should he kill …?”
“George used to ride a motorcycle in a big cage with a carnival,” Malone said softly. “One day he had an accident. It was a bad accident, the way it can be when a motorcycle almost rips you down the middle.”
