by Craig Rice
And all these people, Malone realized, were waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of his whiskers.
He pulled it out fast. “Paul Palmer was murdered,” he said flatly.
Warden Garrity looked faintly amused. “A bunch of pixies crawled into his cell and tied the rope around his neck?”
“No,” Malone said, lighting a cigar. “This murderer made one try—murder by frame-up. He killed Paul Palmer’s uncle for two reasons, one of them being to send Paul Palmer to the chair. It nearly worked. Then I got him a new trial. So another method had to be tried, fast, and that one did work.”
“You’re insane,” Orlo Featherstone said, “Palmer hanged himself.”
“I’m not insane,” Malone said indignantly, “I’m drunk. There’s a distinction. And Paul Palmer hanged himself because he thought he wouldn’t die, and could escape from prison.” He looked at Bowers and said, “Watch all these people, someone may make a move.”
Lillian Claire said, “I don’t get it.”
“You will,” Malone promised. He kept a watchful eye on Bowers and began talking fast. “The whole thing was arranged by someone who was mercenary and owed money. Someone who knew Paul Palmer would be too drunk to know what had happened the night his uncle was killed, and who was close enough to him to have a key to the apartment. That person went in and killed the uncle with Paul Palmer’s gun. And, as that person had planned, Paul Palmer was tried and convicted and would have been electrocuted, if he hadn’t had a damn smart lawyer.”
He flung his cigar into the cuspidor and went on. “Then Paul Palmer was granted a new trial. So the mercenary person who wanted Paul Palmer’s death convinced him that he had to break out of prison, and another person showed him how the escape could be arranged—by pretending to hang himself, and being moved to the prison hospital—watch her, Bowers!”
Madelaine Starr had flung herself at Dr. Dickson. “Damn you,” she screamed, her face white. “I knew you’d break down and talk. But you’ll never talk again—”
There were three shots. One from the little gun Madelaine had carried in her pocket, and two from Bowers’ service revolver.
Then the room was quite still.
Malone walked slowly across the room, looked down at the two bodies, and shook his head sadly. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he said. “They’d probably have hired another defense lawyer anyway.”
“This is all very fine,” the Statesville County sheriff said. “But I still don’t see how you figured it. Have another beer?”
“Thanks,” Malone said. “It was easy. A song tipped me off. Know this?” He hummed a few measures.
“Oh, sure,” the sheriff said. “The name of it is, “The Statesville Prison.’” He sang the first four verses.
“Well, I’ll be double-damned,” Malone said. The bartender put the two glasses of beer on the table. “Bring me a double gin for a chaser,” the lawyer told him.
“Me too,” the sheriff said. “What does the song have to do with it, Malone?”
Malone said, “It was the crank on the adding machine, pal. Know what I mean? You put down a lot of stuff to add up and nothing happens, and then somebody turns the crank and it all adds up to what you want to know. See how simple it is?”
“I don’t,” the sheriff said, “but go on.”
“I had all the facts,” Malone said, “I knew everything I wanted to know, but I couldn’t add it up. I needed one thing, that one thing.” He spoke almost reverently, downing his gin. “Paul Palmer said ‘It wouldn’t break’—just before he died. And he looked terribly surprised. For a long time, I didn’t know what he meant. Then I heard that song again, and I did know.” He sang a few lines. “The sheriff took his shiny knife, and cut that of rope through.” Then he finished his beer, and sang on, “They hanged him for the thing you done, you knew it was a sin. You didn’t know his heart could break, Lady, why did you turn him in.” He ended on a blue note.
“Very pretty,” the sheriff said. “Only I heard it, ‘You knew that his poor heart could break.’”
“Same thing.” Malone said, waving a hand. “Only, that song was what turned the crank on the adding machine. When I heard it again, I knew what Palmer meant by ‘it wouldn’t break.’”
“His heart?” the seriff said helpfully.
“No,” Malone said, “the rope.”
He waved at the bartender and said “Two more of the same.” Then to the sheriff, “He expected the rope to break. He thought it would be artfully frayed so that he would drop to the floor unharmed. Then he could have been moved to the prison hospital—from which there had been two escapes in the past six months. He had to escape, you see, because his sweetheart had written him that she was in terrible trouble and danger—the same sweetheart whose evidence had helped convict him at the trial.
“Madelaine Starr wanted his money,” Malone went on, “but she didn’t want Paul. So her murder of his uncle served two purposes. It released Paul’s money, and it framed him. Using poor old innocent Orlo Featherstone, she planted in Lillian Claire’s head the idea of holding up Paul for money, so Paul would be faced with a need for ready cash. Everything worked fine, until I gummixed up the whole works by getting my client a new trial.”
“Your client shouldn’t of had such a smart lawyer,” the sheriff said, over his beer glass.
Malone tossed aside the compliment with a shrug of his cigar. “Maybe he should of had a better one. Anyway, she and her uncle, Dr. Dickson, fixed it all up. She sent that note to Paul, so he’d think he had to break out of the clink. Then her uncle, Dickson, told Paul he’d arrange the escape, with the rope trick. To the world, it would have looked as though Paul Palmer had committed suicide in a fit of depression. Only he did have a good lawyer, and he lived long enough to say ‘It wouldn’t break.’”
Malone looked into his empty glass and lapsed into a melancholy silence.
The phone rang—someone hi-jacked a truck over on Springfield Road—and the sheriff was called away. Left by himself, Malone cried a little into his beer. Lillian Claire had gone back to Chicago with Orlo Featherstone, who really had called her up for a date, and no other reason.
Malone reminded himself he hadn’t had any sleep, his head was splitting, and what was left of Joe the Angel’s hundred dollars would just take him back to Chicago. And there was that letter from the bank, probably threatening a summons. He took it out of his pocket and sighed as he tore it open.
“Might as well face realities,” Malone said to the bartender. “And bring me another double gin.”
He drank the gin, tore open the envelope, and took out a certified check for five thousand dollars, with a note from the bank to the effect that Paul Palmer had directed its payment. It was dated the day before his death.
Malone waltzed to the door, waltzed back to pay the bartender and kiss him good-bye.
“Do you feel all right?” the bartender asked anxiously.
“All right?” Malone said. “I’m a new man!”
What was more, he’d just remembered the rest of that song. He sang it, happily, as he went up the street toward the railroad station.
“As I passed by the ol’ state’s prison,
Ridin’ on a streamline’ train,
I waved my hand, and said out loud,
I’m never comin’ back again,
I’m never comin’ back a—gain!”
GOOD-BYE FOREVER
The girl was small and if she did have an interesting figure her inexpensive clothes were doing their best to keep it a secret. She wore brown, from her tiny but substantial oxfords to the rims of her thick-lensed glasses.
She put her glass of beer down on the bar, looked at John J. Malone anxiously, and said, “I hope you’ll know what to do.”
“Do or die,” the little Chicago lawyer said, “and frankly I don’t feel very enthusiastic about either prospect.” He wondered how he would have felt if Betty Castle had been the girl he would have picked to be marooned with on a desert is
land, along with a case of canned goods, two bottles of rye and a copy of the Kinsey report. Instead, she was the press agent for the Number Two band on the Hit Parade and was bringing him a possible client at a time when the office rent was three months overdue.
“If Larry would only tell me what it’s all about—” Betty Castle said. “But there are some things you just cannot pry out of him without—”
“Say no more,” Malone said. “I understand. You’re not that kind of a girl. But just what did you mean when you said that you hoped I’d be—as you put it so delicately—drunk?”
Betty Castle said, “Mr. Malone, I thought that if you were—he’d talk to you more freely. In fact, I told Larry you probably would be. I hope you don’t mind.” She looked at him and said, “But you’re—”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone assured her. “As a hobby I’ve taken up impersonating myself.”
“Another thing, Mr. Malone—” Betty Castle finished her beer and said, “I didn’t tell him I was going to talk to you first.”
“In that case,” Malone told her, “you’d better make yourself inconspicuous and get out of here.”
A shadow couldn’t have slipped out of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar more inconspicuously if it had used the rear entrance. Malone had a few quiet words with Joe the Angel, who nodded understandingly and warned Malone that pretending to be drunk was going to be far, far more difficult than doing what came naturally.
Malone began rehearsing. Three times he tried to put his elbow on the bar and four times he missed. He made a noble try at sitting upright with only reasonable success. Finally he heard the magic voice listened to every week by radio listeners from coast to coast.
The voice said, “You’re John J. Malone, aren’t you?”
“If I’m not,” Malone said, “I’m certainly going to be surprised when I wake up in the morning.” He fumbled through his pockets for a non-existent cigar. “Who you are, the hell? Or do I mean whom? I mean, who the hell you are, and may I buy you a drink?”
Joe the Angel said, “You can’t buy anyone a drink, Malone. Not without—”
“I know,” the lawyer said bitterly, “a slice of the root. The root of all evil.”
The newcomer with the golden voice said, “I’d like to buy Mr. Malone a drink, if I may.”
Joe the Angel managed an almost surreptitious wink at Malone and said, “Okay, what’ll it be?”
“Same thing,” Malone said. He decided that one more drink of plain ginger ale was going to be more than he could survive, but he managed to get the stuff down in one quick gulp, turned around, and said belligerently, “I’ll fight any hat in the place at the drop of a man.”
“Mr. Malone, I need your help.”
“Never can resist a pal asking for help,” Malone said. “Are you a pal? Did you pay for the last drink? Then you’re a pal, pal.” He paused to sing a line from Kathleen Mavourneen. “Which one of us is Damon, and which one of us is Pythias, and what is your name anyway?”
“My name is Larry Lee. And I’d like you to listen to a piece of music.”
“Always glad to oblige a friend, friend,” Malone said. “I hope it’s By Killarney’s Lakes and Dells.” He whistled a bar of it. While whistling he stole a glance at Larry Lee. The handsome young orchestra leader looked as if he had just left a haunted house.
“We can’t talk here,” Larry Lee said hoarsely.
Malone was about to suggest the Public Library when Joe the Angel tactfully indicated the back room. Malone allowed himself to be navigated into one of its booths. A moment later Joe the Angel arrived with a tray, slid a big cup in front of Malone, a glass in front of Larry Lee, and said, “One cuppa coffee, Mister, and Malone he’s sober like a dead judge.”
Malone lifted the cup gingerly. It contained straight rye. He wondered what was in Larry Lee’s glass.
Larry Lee said, “Do you know a song called Good-bye Forever?”
Joe the Angel, not noticing that the question had been addressed to Malone, squared off like a basso about to boot the prompter up into the balcony and kicked off. His voice shivered Malone’s teacup.
The famous Larry Lee moaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Terribly afraid.” He emptied his glass and said, “I think I’ve killed somebody.”
“Happens all the time,” the little lawyer said sympathetically. “Good thing you came to me.” He shoved the empty glass and cup at Joe the Angel and said, “You better refill these,” then added, “and don’t sing.”
“He isn’t dead,” Larry Lee said, “but that song—”
Malone nodded. “Good-bye Forever by a guy named Tosti. No good for quartet singing unless your tenor has a broken heart and a good beginning on tomorrow’s hangover.”
The replacements arrived fast, and went down faster. Larry Lee shoved a bill at Joe the Angel and said, “I’m due at the broadcast. I hope you’ll come with me, Mr. Malone. My car’s right outside.”
‘Sure,” Malone said. “Anything for a pal, pal.” He allowed himself to be led through the bar, across the sidewalk, and into the car, which moved gently forward with a sound like a contented cat.
“Studio,” Larry Lee said.
Malone leaned back against the custom-made cushions and prepared to listen. He began to wonder if this was a press-agent gag that Betty Castle had dreamed up.
“There’s a stupid superstition among some musicians,” Larry Lee said, his face pale in the shadows, “that—that song—or any part of it—and especially those first four notes—can never be played in a radio broadcast without some—well, some terrible disaster happening immediately.”
“An earthquake?” Malone said hopefully. “We’ve had everything else in Chicago.”
‘This isn’t funny, Mr. Malone,” Larry Lee said, in a voice that was entirely too calm. “It means—death.”
The car turned right into Wacker Drive. Larry Lee laughed nervously.
“I don’t believe in superstitions myself,” he said. “No intelligent person does.”
Malone crossed his fingers behind his back and said, “Of course not.”
Larry Lee looked at his watch. “I’d better tell you this fast. I have a new song coming out. Looks like—a hit. Mr. Malone, I don’t need to tell you what that means to me—as far as money is concerned.”
“I’d rather guess,” Malone said, “and I don’t handle income tax matters.”
“The name of the song,” Larry Lee said, “is—Kiss Me Good-bye Again. We’re featuring it in tonight’s show. I worked up a special arrangement, using Tosti’s Good-bye. The boys in the band refused to play it—even to rehearse it. Especially Art Sample. He’s a nervous guy anyhow. All clarinet players are nervous and he’s the best in the business. Both ways. And superstitious—”
“I know,” Malone said sympathetically. “He wouldn’t walk under a black cat if a ladder crossed his path.”
Larry Lee said, “Mr. Malone, I’m an even-tempered man. But once in a while I don’t like to be exed up. Crossed, that is. Especially by the boys in my own band.”
The wind from Lake Michigan became frighteningly cool.
“I wrote another arrangement,” Larry Lee said. “It was a a last-minute job. On purpose. Too late to rehearse. Art Sample may be the top clarinet player in the country, but me, I’m the top arranger. I worked in those four notes from Tosti’s Good-bye so skillfully that nobody—nobody—would know what he was playing until he’d already played it. And that especially goes for Art Sample.”
Malone started to whistle the four notes, caught himself just in time, and said, “It couldn’t be such a bad arrangement that you had to have a lawyer along.”
His companion managed a nervous laugh. “Understand, Malone. Building a band is like building a house. Every brick, every stone, every timber has got to be in exactly the right place. If one of them should slip, the whole building would fall. See? That’s why I’ve taken out such heavy insurance on all the boy
s.”
“Anything particular you expect to happen to any one of the boys in the band?” Malonet asked as casually as he could.
“No! No, no, no!” Larry Lee buried his face in his slender, beautiful hands. “But if something should happen because of my stubborn insistence about—getting in those four notes of music—I’d be a murderer!” He managed what Malone suspected was a well-rehearsed sob, looked up quickly, and said, “I’m sorry to bother you with all this. But if you don’t mind coming to the broadcast, and watching it from the control room—”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” Malone assured him, “from a flagpole on Mars.” He wondered what kind of a legal fee he should charge for services like these.
Seventeen minutes later, in the steaming glass box of the control room, Malone decided the fee would have to be a large one. A last spasm of rehearsal sent people milling around the studio, loping earnestly in and out of the control room. The ones who had the bewildered look were, Malone suspected, relatives of Larry Lee’s sponsor.
The others joked and laughed, but their eyes weren’t in it. Underneath the chatter and the buzzing Malone sensed a kind of silent terror, rising and trembling like the pointer on a pressure gauge. Now and then words and phrases bounced back from the plate-glass wall. “—I hear they’re picking him up for another twenty-six weeks—” Then a sound engineer began to swear methodically at a telephone, a pencil dropped noiselessly to the floor, a female voice shrilled, “Well, if she hasn’t sense enough to see that—” Always there was the overtone of the control-room engineer quietly swearing at sounds that never came just right.
Then there was silence. The red hand of the clock began its last warning circle. Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. A blast of laughter from the preceding program. Ten seconds, and the red hand still moving.
Malone wished he were anywhere else in the world.
A sweet ruffle of violins, and the program was on the air. For a few moments, Malone didn’t seem to hear anything. Then he began to feel the quietness in the hot little control room. It was quiet, but too uneasy to be that quiet. There was something in the performance coming over the loudspeaker that he didn’t quite like. And then Larry Lee’s band swung into the song he had been waiting for.
