The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

  Good-bye Forever. A heartbreaking eternal good-bye from beyond the grave.…

  A cold little hand slipped into his. Malone turned and saw a very frail blonde girl who looked at him from behind terrified eyes.

  “Mr. Malone,” she whispered, “please don’t let anything happen to him. He—”

  Malone resisted an impulse to put his arm around her. Instead, he patted her hand and said, in his best cellside manner, “My dear girl, there’s nothing to worry about!”

  He didn’t know her from Eve’s other apple, and he didn’t have the faintest idea who he was, but with all his heart he hoped that what he had told her was true. Maybe because of the way she looked. A little like a pale yellow moonbeam. Soft, fair hair that looked as though it would curl endearingly around his finger, wide eyes that promised to turn violet at any moment.

  Suddenly he remembered who she was. Mrs. Larry Lee. The wife Larry Lee’s smart little press agent, Betty Castle, kept under wraps. Because five million bobbysoxers would secede from their union if they knew that America’s Number One glamor boy had a kitchen with a wife in it.

  All at once the music caught up with them. He watched the band through the plate-glass window.

  Two clarinet players rose. They might have been any two clarinet players in any band in the world. One of them was short, squat, oily-haired. The other was tall, blond and slender. Somehow, the microphone managed to match them up for size.

  Those four notes, that had been so skillfully hidden in the orchestration that no one would know what he was playing, until he had played it—

  “Good-bye—forever—”

  The high, fluting notes were almost a pain in Malone’s ears. For just one moment, he closed his eyes. He heard one of the control-room engineers mutter something that might have been a prayer, but probably wasn’t. Then he looked into the studio.

  The black and silver clarinet slipped from the hands of Art Sample as though it were a discarded toy. For one instant his eyes were wide with something like surprise. Then slowly, terribly slowly, he crumpled to the floor.

  Larry Lee’s frantic signaling to the orchestra for more volume was of no use. The sounds of the instruments died out, one by one. First the bass player, then the brasses, then the woodwinds and strings, and at last the pianist, one hand suspended in the middle of a rolling chord.

  Technicians in the control room did frantic things with push buttons and telephones. Music on the network began again, but not from Studio B, where Larry Lee stood as still as though he’d been left over-night in a deep freeze, where the musicians were silent, and where Art Sample lay on the floor, his clarinet-six inches away from his head.

  Nobody moved. It was as though everyone had forgotten how to move. Even the page boy stood still. The flawless mechanism of the network didn’t have any rules or procedures to cover situations like this one.

  Then suddenly everybody started at once, and Malone moved first. He shoved Mrs. Lee away from his shoulder, shook the page boy into something remotely resembling consciousness, and said, “Which door leads into the studio?”

  Automatically, the page boy said, “You can’t go in there, sir.”

  “Prove it,” Malone said. He picked what he hoped was the right door and shoved it open.

  In the studio, life stood still. It was as though everybody had expected this, and now that it had happened, everybody stopped like figures on the screen when the projector goes dead. A stranger walking in would have thought everyone in the place had been stuffed and mounted, and looking as un-lifelike as art could make them.

  Suddenly everybody started to move at once, and again Malone moved first. Nina Shields, the vocalist whose voice was almost as well known from coast to coast as her face and figure, was frantically demanding that someone call a doctor. Jack Shields, her big-time gambler-husband who insisted on accompanying her to every broadcast, was looking around for a target for the temper he was about to lose. Betty Castle had the bright idea of bringing Art a Dixie cup of water and pouring it into his mouth. Larry Lee, remembering first aid from two years with the Boy Scouts and one as a lifeguard, started to turn Art Sample over and was about to apply artificial respiration, while telling his hysterical wife to shut up, when Malone reached the group.

  “Stand back,” Malone said. “Once a man is dead, the police protect him right down to his last collar button.”

  Someone said, “Police?” in a shocked voice.

  “Right,” Malone said. “I’m calling them right now. Because the murdered man was my client.”

  Von Flanagan was angry. That, in itself, was nothing new. The big red-faced police officer was angry most of the time, usually at people who were inconsiderate enough to commit murders, for the purpose, he believed, of creating more work for him. He said indignantly, “A guy drops dead in a radio studio and you have to holler for homicide.”

  “You still don’t know what killed him,” Malone said. He waved to Joe the Angel for two more beers and hummed a bar of Good-bye Forever.

  There was an uncomfortable silence until the beers arrived. Joe put them down and said, “It could of happened that way. I knew a fella once—”

  “Go away,” Malone said unhappily.

  After another, and longer silence, von Flanagan snorted indignantly. “Dog whistles!”

  Malone pulled himself together, stared at the police officer, and said, “Have you been getting enough rest lately? Taking vitamins?”

  “Dog whistles,” von Flanagan repeated, ignoring him. “I read about it. You can’t hear ’em, I can’t hear ’em. Because they’re too high up. They sound too high up, I mean. But the dog can hear em because he’s got a different kind of ear.”

  The little lawyer nodded. “A sound—so high-pitched—or low-pitched—or something—that it would kill anyone hearing it. It could be possible—”

  “With a clarinet, anything is possible,” von Flanagan assured him. “My brother-in-law Albert—”

  “Another time,” Malone said. He scowled. “But why wouldn’t everybody hearing it drop dead, not just the clarinet player?”

  Von Flanagan didn’t answer that one. He finished his beer and said, “But you can’t expect me to believe that just because four notes of a song—” He broke off, looked up, and said brightly, “Oh, hello!”

  The moonbeam blonde, still pale and frightened, clung to Larry Lee’s arm. Malone suspected she’d been crying. If her eyes had been close to violet before, fear had deepened them to purple.

  Larry Lee dismissed her with “My wife, Lorna,” and waved her to a chair. Malone considered punching the band leader in the nose for treating her so casually, then changed his mind. Not only was Larry Lee a potential client, but he was a lot bigger than Malone.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Larry Lee said. He signaled to Joe the Angel for replacements.

  Malone, having already switched from rye to beer, decided it was time to switch from beer to gin.

  “A terrible thing,” Larry Lee said.

  “About what you expected to happen?” Malone asked.

  The orchestra leader shuddered. “I didn’t really expect anything. That business with the music—”

  “I suspected it was a press-agent gag all along,” Malone said. “But to make it really good—why me? You should have had a doctor in the control room instead.”

  “We couldn’t think of one who would—” Larry Lee paused, and said, “Betty Castle said a lawyer would do just as well, and she suggested you.”

  “Nice of her,” Malone murmured. He wondered who was going to pay his fee.

  “And of course, nobody had any idea anything—” Larry Lee paused again, lit a cigarette, and went on, “Lorna said that you said something about Art Sample being your client.”

  Malone glanced briefly at Mrs. Larry Lee. “It was something about the ownership of a song. He was in to see me for a few minutes, but he didn’t have time to go into details.” He thought Larry Lee looked relieved. He got back to the ori
ginal subject with, “You just said—‘nobody had any idea.’ In other words, everybody was in on the gag?”

  Larry Lee nodded. “I knew I could trust everybody in the show.”

  “You should have trusted at least one of them not to drop dead,” Malone said.

  “Mr. Malone, there is such a superstition,” Larry Lee said. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another. “But I simply can’t believe that just because we played four notes from Tosti’s Good-bye—”

  “Dog whistles—” von Flanagan began.

  Malone kicked him under the table and said quietly, “It’s about time somebody found out what actually did kill him.”

  Von Flanagan rose, gave him what was probably the dirtiest look in a lifetime of dirty looks, and said, “I’ll phone and find out if there’s been any report yet.”

  Lorna Lee had been doing things to her hair and makeup. The result would have been good on anyone, but on her it was terrific. She smiled a little shakily at Malone and said, “I suppose you think we’re heartless, but Larry believes in carrying on as usual. We’d planned to go to the Pump Room after the show, and we’d love to have you join us—”

  “You couldn’t keep me away with an injunction,” Malone assured her with his best non-professional smile. If Larry Lee was going to be coy about fees for legal services, at least he was going to have to pay for some very expensive drinks.

  Von Flanagan came back from the phone booth, his broad face an ominous scarlet. “He was murdered,” he growled, as though the fact were a personal affront. “Poison.” He glared at them all and added, “Aconite.”

  “Well, at least,” Malone said, after the long silence that followed, “it wasn’t dog whistles. Or a song.” He glanced at Larry Lee. “Or an arrangement of a song.”

  Maggie looked up coldly and disapprovingly as Malone walked into the office. “It’s after eleven,” she announced. “The landlord has been strolling up and down the hall twirling a padlock. You look as if you had a hangover. And three women have called to make appointments with you.”

  “I know what time it is,” Malone said amiably, “and the hangover can be considered a legal fee well earned. Who are the women?”

  “Betty Castle, Nina Shields and Lorna Lee. Malone, what did happen to that musician last night?”

  “I lost him as a client,” Malone said, “and von Flanagan has him as a problem.” He relit his cigar and added, “And we both have him as a headache.”

  He went on into his private office and considered the advisability of taking an aspirin tablet. No, he decided, the butterflies in his stomach would probably start playing ping-pong with it. He finally settled for an inch and a half of gin from the bottle in the file drawer marked Confidential.

  It was regrettable, he reflected, that he knew so little about his late client. Only that he had been a nervous, superstitious, and very handsome young man who played the clarinet, had written some songs, according to his story, and was dead.

  He was still wondering about him when Betty Castle walked in, sat down in the exact center of the big leather couch, and planted her tiny feet as solidly on the floor as if she were waiting for an earthquake. Malone smiled at her reassuringly and tried to picture her without the glasses, with a different hair-do, and wearing make-up, plus something specially good in the way of a wardrobe. Right now she reminded him of a particularly inconspicuous mouse.

  “I’m his widow,” she stated, without preliminaries.

  Malone caught his breath and said, “Would you say that again?”

  “Art Sample’s widow.” Suddenly she began to cry, not helplessly nor attractively, but like a bad-mannered and furious child. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know what I can do about it now,” Malone said. It seemed to him that the conversation was getting a little ahead of him.

  “We’d been married almost a year.” She sniffled and went on. “I didn’t mind it being kept a secret. In his job, his being attractive to women was important. You know what I mean.”

  “If I don’t,” Malone said, “I can ask the little birds to tell me.” He added, “Stop crying.”

  She blew her nose and obeyed. “Art introduced me to Larry Lee, and that’s how I got the press-agent job. I’m good at it, too.”

  “I bet you are,” Malone said, looking at her thoughtfully. “And I bet you were behind his playing that particular clarinet phrase.”

  “Art was the best clarinet player since—” she paused. “But it wasn’t the music that killed him.” Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she fumbled inside her purse.

  This time Malone said, “My poor, dear girl!” and whipped out one of the clean handkerchiefs he kept for just such emergencies. He wondered if she could afford a lawyer even more than he wondered why she needed one. He crooned reassuringly, “It isn’t true that the police automatically suspect the widow first.”

  “They couldn’t suspect me!” Betty Castle said. “And nobody knows we were married. Not even Larry Lee. No, that isn’t why I came to see you.”

  Malone sighed. “Well—?”

  “It’s about the money,” she said. “From the songs everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote. You see, they aren’t Larry Lee’s at all. They were Art’s.”

  “You mean your husband wrote them?” Malone asked.

  She nodded. “All of them. Words and music. He didn’t know they were going to be hits. He got a bang, a kick, that’s all, out of hearing the band play them. But when they did make a lot of money, Larry Lee kept stalling, putting off settling with him. That’s why Art came to you. To find out how he could prove he’d written them. And now it’s too late. Or—is it?”

  While Malone was straining for an answer, the door flew open and Larry Lee stormed in. Over his shoulder, Malone could see Maggie’s face signaling. “Don’t blame me!”

  Larry Lee began, “I came right in because—” He saw Betty Castle and paused. Instead of, “What are you doing here?” he said, “Where have you been all day?”

  “I’ve been home,” she said. “I went straight home last night, right after the police let us all go. Mother gave me a sleeping pill. It was—terribly upsetting—”

  “Me too, I’m pretty upset,” Larry Lee said. “The papers aren’t giving me the breaks they should. Which is what I pay you for.” His eyes softened suddenly, and he said, “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a picnic for any of us.”

  “I think the man wants you to take the day off, Betty” Malone said.

  She shook her head. “I’m all right now.” She looked at Larry Lee like a small dog seeing his first bone. Malone wondered if she’d ever looked at Art Sample that way. “I haven’t even seen the papers. I just stayed home and tried not to think about it.”

  “Malone,” Larry Lee said abruptly, “I want to talk with you—” He glanced at Betty Castle, paused a moment, and said, “Betty might as well hear it, I know I can trust her. It’s about the songs.”

  “Songs, songs?” Malone said innocently.

  “He wrote ’em,” Larry Lee said. He went on to tell essentially the same story Betty had told a moment before. But he added, “I wanted to work out a settlement with him. Some arrangement that would be fair to both of us. The main thing was—you can’t let the public down. They looked on me as a band leader and a singer and a songwriter. But by rights, all the money was Art’s. Only now, it’s too late.”

  Malone asked quickly, “What kind of money was involved?”

  “Enough. Enough to be a motive for murder.” Larry Lee looked grim. “The police found out about it, and they want to question me again. That’s why I came to you first.” He went on, fast, “About your retainer—”

  Malone fingered the lone five dollar bill in his pocket and said magnificently, “We can discuss that later.” He rose and reached for his hat. “We can talk the rest over on the way to von Flanagan’s office. Remember, I’m your lawyer, and leave everything to me.” He smiled and said in a voice that just missed runni
ng for office, “Believe me, my boy, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Von Flanagan said, “This guy Sample had a married sister somewhere in Iowa, and she wrote him asking for money. He wrote back about all these songs he’d written, and how everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote ’em. Soon as Larry Lee pays off to him, he says, he’ll send her some money. Today she hears about him being murdered, and right away she calls us and reads me his letter.” He glared at Larry Lee and said, “Well?”

  “We can explain everything,” Malone said smoothly. He went on, fast, to repeat Larry Lee’s explanation, coloring it a little wherever he thought it would help. “Larry Lee was going to pay Art Sample the money, and he’d told him so.”

  “Yeah,” von Flanagan said coldly, “but did Art Sample believe him?” He added, “Do I believe him? Furthermore, Sample was running around with Larry Lee’s wife.”

  The tall band leader’s smile was almost a laugh. “She was like a sister to all the boys in the band. It didn’t mean a thing.”

  Von Flanagan muttered something about motives.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Malone said quickly. “Just how was Art Sample poisoned? Aconite acts fast. He didn’t eat or drink anything, or even smoke, just before he died.” He paused to light a fresh cigar. “As soon as you bright boys find out the answer to that one, let me know. Meantime, forget talking about motives, and quit bothering my client.”

  “I’ve got enough on him now to hold him,” the big police officer growled, but without conviction.

  “Do,” Malone said pleasantly, “and make yourself the most unpopular man in the world with the millions of fans who listen every week to Larry Lee.”

  Back in his office, the little lawyer began to feel unhappy about the whole thing. Larry Lee did have a motive, several of them. The matter of the songs. The fragile Lorna Lee, with her moon-colored hair. Malone remembered her frantic whisper as the broadcast had begun.