by Craig Rice
He consoled himself with the reminder that he had a client—and what a client! The little lawyer closed his eyes and thought about Mona Trent.
Furthermore, he’d managed to borrow thirty-two dollars from Maggie, his long-suffering secretary, and he had planned and rehearsed a magnificent gesture of returning it to Mona. She, of course, would offer him a handsome retainer for whatever she wanted him to do. Given just the right poker game, he could easily run that retainer into important money. Then there would be another magnificent gesture when he returned the retainer to her, along with a well-chosen present.
It was a wonderful dream.
In a moment of utter madness he tipped the cab-driver fifty cents, and regretted it immediately.
The sight of the building in which she lived raised his spirits a good inch and a half. It was in a block of houses once built by multi-millionaires, later inhabited by mere millionaires, finally turned into apartments rented by semi-millionaires, and eventually taken over by just plain citizens who could afford that much rent.
The maid who opened the door was just a shade less gorgeous than Mona herself. Malone began thinking about a suitable present for her, and reflected that her French accent was so flawless that she must be the product of a high-class dramatic school.
“Mees Trent ees een zhe leeving room. Zhall I eentrodooce you?”
“I’d rather surprise her,” Malone said.
But it was Mona Trent who surprised him.
The French accent slipped off the lovely little maid like a hunk of butter sliding off a hot pancake. She said, “What the heck goes on here?”
Malone paused for just one minute in the doorway. It was daytime, but the lights were on and the shades were all drawn. He looked at Mona Trent and had the momentary sensation of just having swallowed an ice-cube, complete with all four corners.
She was sitting in a big chair near the window, and the coat for which an untold number of mink had lived and died was tossed carelessly on the nearby sofa. There was a neat little bullet hole in her forehead, and she was as dead as yesterday’s newspapers.
“She’s dead, isn’t she!” the maid whispered just back of Malone’s left ear. Almost automatically she pulled up the window shades.
“If she isn’t,” Malone said grimly, “the coroner is going to be the most surprised man in the state of Illinois. Now, where is the phone?”
“I’m a citizen and a taxpayer, and I know my rights,” Malone said indignantly. “Look, von Flanagan, it isn’t every day I get a client like this, and you let her get killed.”
Captain von Flanagan of Homicide stared glumly at the mirror over Joe the Angel’s bar and said nothing. It was an eloquently profane silence.
“The least you can do,” Malone went on relentlessly, “is to find the murderer and recommend me as defense lawyer.”
“Find the murderer,” von Flanagan said. He sighed deeply.
The Medical Examiner’s report had been that Mona Trent had been killed by a .22 caliber rifle bullet penetrating the brain. The time? Probably around five in the morning.
Malone scowled at his beer and said, “A fine, efficient police department! People in the neighborhood reported hearing shots at five in the morning. A couple of dumb lugs in a squad car make a routine investigation and that’s all. When they could have probably picked up the murderer right in her apartment.”
“She was shot through the window,” von Flanagan reminded him.
“Just the same,” Malone said insistently, “they might have noticed someone carrying a rifle.”
The big police officer waved for more beer. “They made an arrest,” he said.
Malone snorted with indignation. “Sure. They pick up Louis Perino. Just because he’s a small-time racketeer. Then you smart cops find out he never heard of Mona Trent in his life, doesn’t own a .22 caliber rifle and probably wouldn’t know how to fire one, and you let him go.”
Joe the Angel poured two beers and said, “This is on the house. Louis Perino, he works for a big-shot gambler named Eddie Carter. Mona Trent, she used to be Eddie’s girl, and the boys say he didn’t like it when she quit him for some rich society guy.”
Malone and von Flanagan stared at Joe the Angel and then at each other. Von Flanagan lunged for the phone booth. Malone finished his beer and said, “Joe, sometimes I think you ought to be head of Homicide.”
“Well,” Maggie said acidly as Malone walked in his office, “I see you lost a client.”
Malone muttered something about not rubbing it in.
There was still, he reflected, the thirty-two dollars. But he had already decided to spend that on flowers for Mona’s funeral. Joe the Angel’s younger brother, who ran an undertaking parlor, could probably get them for him at a cut rate.
“Cheer up,” Maggie said. “You’ve got another client. A pair of them. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Cartwright. They’re waiting in your private office.”
Malone frowned at her. No client or prospective client was ever ushered into his private office without his presence and considerable ceremony.
“They didn’t look like the sort of people to be kept waiting in an anteroom,” Maggie said.
“Good girl,” Malone said approvingly. Maggie could smell money two miles off—three miles on a clear day.
He went in with his best professional smile and greeted them cordially. “So sorry to have kept you waiting!”
“Quite all right,” Paul Cartwright said. “You had no way of knowing we were here.”
Malone sat down behind his time-battered desk and quietly looked them over. He guessed Mrs. Cartwright would be in her early forties. Once, she must have been almost a beauty, in a thin, well-bred sort of way. Her hair was brown. Just plain hair-color, Malone described it to himself. Her eyes were an undistinguished blue, her skin on the pale side. Her obviously expensive suit was exactly what the well-dressed woman will wear to a lawyer’s office.
Her husband was a big man, gray-haired, deeply tanned. He looked as though he should have been posing for an advertisement, with a whiskey glass in his hand and a hunting dog asleep at his feet.
Mr. Malone,” Paul Cartwright said, “what is the penalty for shooting birds in the city of Chicago?”
Malone blushed. “I don’t think there is any,” he said, “and if there is, it ought to be repealed at once.” He detested birds.
A smile of relief crossed Mrs. Cartwright’s face.
“There, Leonora,” her husband said, “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
“But I did worry,” she said. She turned to Malone. “I suffer terribly from insomnia. And for weeks the birds outside my window have been keeping me awake in the early morning. They start in chirping at the crack of dawn, and keep it up for hours. This morning, I was frantic and—I shot one of them.”
“You deserve a bounty,” Malone assured her.
The Cartwrights rose to go. Paul Cartwright murmured something polite about Malone’s bill. Malone gestured magnificently and said, “If you’ll leave your address with my secretary, I’ll have her send you a bill.”
The door had barely closed behind them when Maggie came in, her eyes blazing. “You could have collected it in cash!”
“These do not look like the type of people from whom one collects in cash,” Malone said.
She sniffed. “Here’s the latest edition of the newspapers. I paid for them with my own money. Just because I thought you’d be interested.” She slammed the door when she went out.
Malone looked thoughtfully at the headlines. Eddie Carter and Louis Perino had been picked up for questioning in connection with the murder of ex-show girl Mona Trent. After a minute or two, Malone picked up the phone and called von Flanagan.
“Tell Eddie Carter not to talk to anybody until I get there. And be sure to tell him I’m his lawyer. Oh, yes, you will! Do you want me to tell your wife about that time in the road-house near Wheaton—?” He hung up the phone with a smile.
The anteroom outside vo
n Flanagan’s office was jampacked with reporters and photographers. They leaped at Malone like a pack of undernourished wolves spying a rabbit.
Malone said coyly, “I have no statement to make beyond the fact that Eddie Carter is my client and that he is innocent.” He paused, winked, and said, “And if you’d like to interview Eddie Carter in person, stick around until I open the door.”
As he walked into von Flanagan’s office, he heard the police officer saying “… it’s no use, Carter. Perino has talked.”
Malone slammed the door shut and said, “And just what did Perino say?”
“None of your business,” von Flanagan said. On a quick double-take he added, “Oh, all right. He admitted Carter, here, was paying him to hang around this babe’s apartment and—”
“Don’t call Mona no babe,” Eddie Carter snarled.
Eddie Carter had been a jockey, a good or bad many years ago, and he still looked like one—except that no jockey had ever been able to afford the clothes, jewelry, and checkbook that Eddie Carter had on his person.
He turned to Malone and said, “Unnerstand you’re defendin’ me, Malone. Damn good thing, too. On account of—”
“Perino’s confessed,” von Flanagan said, in the weary voice of one who had repeated the same words a hundred times.
“You’re a dirty liar,” Eddie Carter said.
“Just a minute,” Malone said. “I’m in charge here.” He took a cigar from his pocket, slid off the cellophane wrapper, and said to von Flanagan, “I trust you understand that there are a few things sacred between a lawyer and his client.”
Von Flanagan’s broad face turned purple. He clenched his teeth as though he were holding back words that would not be sacred under any circumstances. Finally he said, “Okay, Malone, you want to talk to him about the size of his retainer. I have to go to the barber shop anyway.” He left the office through his private door.
Eddie Carter said, “Honest t’Pete, Malone, I didn’t have nothin’ t’do wit’ it, but that crazy Perino”—he reached for his checkbook and said, “How much?”
“Use your own judgment,” Malone said, hoping for the best. “But here’s what I want you to do—”
Five minutes later he opened the door to the anteroom and said softly, “Okay, boys.”
Flashbulbs and questions popped simultaneously at Eddie Carter, who sat with his face buried in his hands. At last he looked up, his face wet, mopped at his cheeks with a handkerchief which had just made a quick trip to von Flanagan’s water cooler, and sobbed. “I’ll get d’guy who killed her if it takes d’rest of my life.”
He looked at the handkerchief, threw it on the floor, and said “Any a’you guys got sumpin I can blow my nose on?”
Malone whipped his own out fast and said, “Take it easy, Eddie.”
Eddie Carter blew his nose noisily, stood up, and said, “Okay, whatcha wanna know? I loved her. She was a wunnerful girl. Sure, I had Louie keep an eye on her. Why? Because I wanna know she’s happy, see? That’s all.”
He sank down in the chair again and buried his face in Malone’s handkerchief. More flash-bulbs popped. Inspired, Eddie decided to add a line of his own. He looked up and said, “Even if I had of wanted to kill her, I wouldn’t of done it.”
The mob rushed out. Buddy McHugh of the Herald-American paused long enough at the doorway to murmur to Malone, “If you ever get tired of being a lawyer, you ought to move to Hollywood. You’d be a great director!”
The door closed. Eddie Carter mopped his brow, handed Malone back his handkerchief, and said, “I hope I done all right. And here’s your dough.”
Malone said, “You did swell.” He looked at the figure on the check, and leaned against von Flanagan’s desk just in time to save himself from fainting.
And at that moment von Flanagan burst into the office, his red face beaming.
“Well, Mr. Carter, I guess you can go,” he said happily, “and you won’t need a lawyer. We’ve got a woman in here who has confessed to murdering Mona Trent. We’ve checked her story, and it’s absolutely foolproof. I’m sorry we’ve put you to so much trouble. Mr. Perino is waiting for you in the lobby, and we’ve ordered a car to drive you home.”
Malone finally caught his breath, and said hoarsely, “You realize, my client here can sue you for false arrest.”
“Forget it,” Eddie Carter said. “Y’just gimme d’check back.” He all but snatched it from Malone’s hands and was out of the office faster than a cat can climb a telephone pole.
It was a good two minutes before Malone was able to say, “At least, you might have waited to break the news until I’d had time to cash the check.” He threw the remains of his cigar inaccurately at the cuspidor, broke out a new one, and said, “At least, you might tell me who she is.” He lit the new cigar and added, “She probably needs a good defense lawyer.”
“I’m giving you a break,” von Flanagan said. “You’re going to meet her right now.”
The woman who was escorted through the door was Leonora Cartwright, very pale, and wearing exactly what the well-dressed woman will wear when confessing to murder.
Malone noticed with satisfaction that von Flanagan also rose as she came in the door. What was it Maggie had said? “Not the sort of people to be kept waiting—”
She acknowledged von Flanagan’s introduction with a very wan and very forced smile and said, “I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Malone.”
Then suddenly her well-bred self-assurance fell away from her, like a wrap handed to the maid at the door, and she said, “Oh, Mr. Malone, I’m sorry, so terribly sorry, that I lied to you today. You see, I knew that I had killed that—that Miss Trent.”
Von Flanagan’s politeness fell away even faster, and he roared at Malone, “You mean, this woman came to see you about this, and you didn’t tell me?”
“She came to see me,” Malone said, “about shooting a bird. So help me, until this minute, I had no idea she had anything to do with the case.” He smiled at her reassuringly and said, “Go ahead, you can say anything you want to, because you’re in the presence of your lawyer, and I’ll deny every word of it in court anyway.”
This time her smile was more wistful than wan. She said, “Part of it was true. About the birds, I mean.”
Malone looked at von Flanagan and said, “Call in a stenographer. My client, Mrs. Paul Cartwright, is about to dictate a confession, which, on my advice, she will sign.” He smiled at her while von Flanagan was busy on the intercom, and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve never lost a client yet.”
She looked at him the way a small child looks at a dream of Santa Claus.
She told the story just as she had told it to Malone a few hours before, but this time there were more details.
“I, Leonora Cartwright, make this confession of my own free will and—”
“Never mind the prelude,” Malone said, chewing savagely on his cigar. “The stenographer will fill that in. Just tell the story.”
“I’ve been suffering terribly from insomnia,” she said, in that lovely, limpid voice. “Especially just about daylight. That’s the time of day when one most wants to sleep. And those birds—” She paused, smiled, and said softly, “Sometimes it seemed as though they were talking. I could fit words to the sounds they made—”
“Look here, Malone,” von Flanagan roared, “if you’re trying to build up an insanity defense—”
“Shut up,” Malone said calmly. “Let her tell her story. I haven’t heard all of it yet, and I’d like to.” He smashed out his cigar, reached for another one, and said gently, “Go on, Mrs. Cartwright.”
“Last night was—particularly bad. There was a frightfully noisy party going on next door. Finally, I took a sleeping pill. I fell asleep, but the birds woke me, at dawn. I was—a little groggy, I think. You know how it is when you’ve taken a sleeping pill, and something wakes you. I was, honestly, frantic. I got up and woke Paul, and told him I was going to shoot those birds. He was pretty slee
py too—but he handed me the rifle and said, ‘Go ahead and shoot.’”
She paused and caught her breath. “I should have known better. And I’m a notoriously poor shot. I fired. Twice. And then I was frightened. Paul put the rifle away and helped me back to bed.”
Again she smiled, that wistful, almost childlike smile. “I slept, then,” she said.
After an almost unbearably long silence, the stenographer said, in a brisk, professional voice, “Yes, Mrs. Cartwright?”
“This morning,” Leonora Cartwright almost whispered, “I learned about—that—about Miss Trent. And I knew I’d killed her. That’s all.” She smiled at the stenographer and said, “I’ll sign that when it’s ready. And thank you.”
Von Flanagan said, “Yes, but how about your going to Malone’s office to establish the fact that you had been shooting at birds?”
“Paul thought it was wise. I realized later that it wasn’t. That’s why I came down here.”
Malone finished lighting his cigar and said, “See? The best you can do with this is accidental death.”
“The best I can do with this,” von Flanagan said coldly, “is first-degree murder.” He turned to Leonora Cartwright and said, “There are a few facts you left out of that so-called confession. One, Mona Trent was your husband’s—shall we say—friend? Two, he insisted on that particular apartment you lived in, because it was next door to Mona Trent’s—so he could not only visit her more conveniently but also watch her apartment through the windows, and make sure that she was—well, let’s say—behaving herself.”
Leonora Cartwright moaned, very softly.
Von Flanagan went on relentlessly, “Three, you bitterly resented the taking of that apartment, because you were insanely jealous of Mona Trent. And finally,” he gave Malone a triumphant look, “you discovered that at one time your husband had been married to Mona Trent, and there was considerable doubt as to whether their divorce had been legal. She wasn’t blackmailing him—she was too smart for that. But she knew you wouldn’t like it if she tried to pin a bigamy rap on him. It wouldn’t look good in the newspapers.”
