by Craig Rice
Von Flanagan confirmed what he’d been thinking by saying, “If the knife had been here, I would of said that she’d been having a couple of drinks with him, blew up over something, or maybe he got nasty or something, and she forgot herself and stuck him. But when she scrammed, she took the knife along, which makes it look different, or something.”
Different, Malone thought, from the way the murderer had perhaps intended it to look, giving Susie the possible break of a manslaughter rap. Nice of the murderer, if that was the case. And now, he’d had to go and mess it up. Then he reminded himself of her alibi, and promptly felt much better. One thing he had to do, though, the minute he could break away from von Flanagan, was to telephone Susie and warn her that the script had been rewritten a little.
He sat down, as inconspicuously as he could in the farthest corner, and rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers, while the experts and technicians went to work on the evidence and the corpse, and von Flanagan went to work on Leo Roback.
The apartment-house owner was a graying, slightly rotund little man in a shabby suit of old dead mouse color gray, with a congenitally mournful face and eyes that might have been more becoming to a bloodhound. Malone dimly remembered him as the owner of more than one small apartment building, plus a miscellany of small lunchrooms, candy stores and newsstands. Reputedly, Leo Roback was a good guy who would and could lend you five dollars any time you could guarantee to pay five-fifty back and had good security, and who put more faith in a rubber banded roll of greasy bills than in the most solid bank. He was also reputed to be considerably sharper than he looked and sounded.
Right now he was obviously deeply and genuinely grieved over the murder which had involved his most beautiful and favorite tenant.
“Susie is such a nice, nice girl,” he was telling von Flanagan, wringing his plump hands. “Susie would not do such a thing to anybody.” He went into more details about Susie’s general niceness and consideration and ended shyly with, “She gave me her picture once.”
“All right,” von Flanagan said, “I’ll take your word for it. But I want to know what happened last night?”
Leo Roback lifted his round shoulders and looked helpless. “How do I know? I was out a little bit. I went to some night clubs. With a lady. Murielle di Paulo, with two ll’s and an e. I took her home sometime.” He lifted his shoulders again. He looked very helpless and very, very sad. “Sometime? It was early; it was late. I came home; I went to bed; I slept.”
No, he had heard nothing. He’d seen nothing. He hadn’t noticed whether Miss Snyder’s lights were on or off. He knew nothing.
When von Flanagan gave up, the newspapermen pounced on him, for a description of the discovery of the body. Leo Roback completely collapsed and waved at Malone.
The little lawyer had been hoping that a minor miracle would keep him from the attention of the press. But he realized that he had apparently used up his quota of miracles for the morning. He told them with simple and becoming modesty that, for some unknown reason, some unknown person had telephoned him with the news of the murder. He’d come right over, seen the body, and been just about to notify the police when they arrived, having similarly been notified and having responded immediately, with great speed and efficiency. He came in fortissimo on the last words.
They let him alone then and he settled back to try and organize his thoughts.
In spite of the fact that Susie was going to be safe, thanks to his fast move and Lola Merchant’s friendship, this was going to be rough on her just the same. He could visualize the headlines right now. Well, maybe she’d told him the truth when she’d said that she was sick and tired of modeling housewares. Maybe what she wanted was to settle for modeling them in real life.
He wondered just how serious the split with good-looking Nick Cahalan was. His next thought was to wonder if Nick himself had played any part in this stage-set murder. He didn’t like to think so. He reasoned that the big prize-fight manager and ex-prize-fighter wouldn’t think of arranging this sort of thing, even if by any mad chance he had wanted to involve Susie. If he’d wanted, or needed, to murder Dale McDowell, or anybody else, he’d have done it quickly and simply and, very likely, publicly. And if he’d ever gotten that sore at Susie he’d probably have beaten her up enthusiastically, and then bought her a few dozen American Beauty roses and a new bracelet.
There were a number of other people who would have enjoyed murdering Dale McDowell, with or without fancy trimmings, but he’d think about them later.
Time finally came when the technicians were through, when the newspaper people were through, and von Flanagan turned to Malone and said, “Well, what are you planning to do, Malone?”
Malone yawned and stretched. “I’m going to get a shave,” he said amiably, “and some breakfast. And then go to my office.”
“You only think you are,” von Flanagan said. “You’re going with me.”
“Oh,” Malone said, raising his eyebrows. “On what charge?”
Von Flanagan scowled at him. “I’m not making any charge. But you’re going to be right where I can keep an eye on you, just the same.”
“Perfect nonsense,” Malone said briskly. “I don’t know anything more about this than you do. I don’t know why I was tipped off. If you arrest Susan Snyder, and if she wants me to defend her, I’ll be glad to, naturally. And that’s all.”
“You know damned well I’m going to arrest Susan Snyder the minute I find her,” von Flanagan said. “And if she doesn’t want you to defend her, she’s—” He caught himself on the verge of a compliment, stopped short and said, “I just want to know where you are and what you’re up to, Malone.”
It would be simpler not to argue, Malone decided. Besides, he too wanted to know what was going on. He did put up a mild argument just for the looks of the thing, and ended by going along with von Flanagan. As long as he could manage a telephone and a little privacy, it wasn’t going to matter materially. Could, in fact, be even better, if he was in touch with everything right up to the minute Susie Snyder turned up.
In the car going into the Loop, Malone announced plaintively that he was hungry. Von Flanagan remarked that it was too bad and that he felt very sorry for Malone. Malone sat back in his corner and sulkily refused to discuss the murder of Dale McDowell, the seventh at Pimlico, Susie Snyder, last Thursday’s fight card, Judge Touralchuk’s new Cadillac, the weather, or anything else. Von Flanagan lost his temper. Malone went right on sulking.
“Oh, all right,” von Flanagan said irritably, “I haven’t had breakfast myself.”
The sight of ham and eggs, a stack of hot buttered toast, black raspberry jam and a pot of coffee lifted the little lawyer’s spirits. Seldom had he felt so comfortably secure about a client’s welfare. He beamed happily at von Flanagan.
“Too bad it had to be the girl who killed him,” von Flanagan said. “All kinds of people might of liked to knife this McDowell guy. Still, she’ll stand a better chance in front of a jury than some of them would.”
If it ever got to a jury, Malone thought contentedly. They idly discussed the various known habits, behavior and business enterprises of the victim. Dale McDowell had started as a small-time columnist for a neighborhood weekly. He’d been fired over an untimely crack at one of the better advertisers and immediately talked his way into a job on one of the leading dailies. There he got along all right for awhile. His professional charm and glib way with words combined to enable him to pry out assorted secrets and present them for exciting breakfast table reading. About the same time, he’d discovered the lucrative potentialities of a little blackmail on the side.
It had been only a matter of time, though, until his editor caught up with him. He’d then shifted his operations to a small, but noisy “fan” magazine, and a nightly chat on one of the lesser radio stations.
“Would take more than a fist full of fingers to count the people would of liked to use that knife,” von Flanagan said, pouring a third cup of coffee. “Jac
k Fleming, Lee Merchant, Mike Medinica, a bunch of people.”
“Lee Merchant?” Malone asked very casually.
Von Flanagan nodded. “Maybe you know Lee Merchant ran one little candy store into a string of ’em. This McDowell guy made some little cracks about candy stores and the policy racket, and then suddenly shut up. Maybe Lee Merchant paid him off.”
Malone said “Oh.”
“Funny thing,” von Flanagan said. “Lee bought that first candy store from Leo Roback.”
Again Malone said, “Oh.” But Lee Merchant could be trusted in this. He had to be. Right now there wasn’t anything else to do; there wasn’t anyone else to trust.
Suddenly, von Flanagan said, “I wonder why she took the knife with her,” changing the subject abruptly and throwing Malone into a moment of confusion.
Malone told himself that he still had to do something about that knife. And about Susie.
He ordered another pot of coffee and said, “While we’re waiting, I’ll just call the office and tell Maggie where I am.”
Von Flanagan, engrossed in spreading jam on toast, merely nodded.
He did call his office, told Maggie what was going on and what might be expected. Then he called the Lee Merchant house.
It was a very sleepy and surprised Lola who answered the phone. She woke up fast.
Susie wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there. They’d taken her home last night, all the way up to her bedroom. That was the last they’d heard from or about her.
Malone swore softly.
“Malone, is anything wrong?”
“Yes,” Malone said quickly, one eye watching von Flanagan through the phone booth glass, “a great deal is wrong, and I don’t want you to know anything about it.” He paused. What had happened to Susie? There had been time for her to get to Wilmette—hell, halfway to Milwaukee by now! He said, “I hope she turns up at your place. Lola, I sent her there almost two hours ago, told her to stay put, and let you bring her into town late in the morning. She is supposed to have stayed with you all night.”
“Oh,” Lola said anxiously. “But she isn’t here, Malone!”
“You said that,” Malone snapped. “Look, however it works out use your judjment. I don’t know what or how, but—”
“You can trust us, Malone,” she said.
He hoped that he could.
“Malone, she was all upset last night. Over Nick. We took her out to cheer her up. But she was still upset when she got home. You don’t think she could have done anything foolish?”
Like stabbing Dale McDowell? No, his clients didn’t lie to him. They didn’t have any reason to and it was safer not to. Susie Snyder knew that.
“Malone,” she said, “I’m worried.”
“You’re worried!” Malone said, and hung up.
Von Flanagan had gotten up from the table and was coming to meet him. You must have been giving Maggie a history of the world.”
“Important business,” Malone said.
Important, Malone thought, wasn’t quite the word for this particular business. The problem was going to be getting away from von Flanagan. That could be solved in an hour, simply by a telephone call from Maggie. He’d told her to call him periodically, in case he needed just such an out. But could he spare an hour right now? Susie might be anywhere. Anything might have happened to her.
He was not reassured when von Flanagan’s first move, on arriving at his office, was to check into the progress of the search for Susie Snyder. And he was only a little reassured, that there hadn’t been any progress so far.
Susie could have changed her mind. Susie could have been kidnapped. Susie could have run away. Susie could have decided to go back to the apartment. Susie could have dropped dead.
Malone was still sitting, chewing unhappily on his cigar, when the first call from Maggie came through. He said “Yes” and “No,” several times, threw in “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, but I can see how this development would increase his anxiety,” to impress von Flanagan, and finally said, “Tell him I’ll be there right away.”
“What’s all this?” von Flanagan said suspiciously.
“Important client,” Malone said cheerfully. “Very important matter just came up.” Well, Susie was an important client. In fact, the only one he had right now. And her disappearance was more than merely important, it was well-nigh catastrophic.
“Now look here,” von Flanagan said, “you can’t do this.”
“Oh, yes I can,” Malone said, buttoning his topcoat. “Matter of life or death.”
They were still glaring at each other, silently, when the phone rang again, this time for von Flanagan.
There had been a little trouble. Malone caught two details, “Cab driver in hospital” and “Susan Snyder coming right in.” He promptly unbuttoned his coat and sat down again.
“The matter of life or death?” von Flanagan said.
Malone waved a casual hand. “You need me,” he said sententiously.
It was Klutchetsky who ushered Susie in through the door. She looked very fragile, very pale, very hung-over and mussed, and still a very nice, very pretty girl. And, very scared.
Malone tried to signal to her without moving his face or even his eyes, and hoped he was registering. He did say, “Don’t worry, Susie,” in a meaningful tone.
“You keep out of this,” von Flanagan roared, “or go home!” He added hastily, “Sit down and stay here!”
Susie Snyder began to weep. Slightly and prettily. She didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t know why she was brought here. She didn’t know anything about anything. She just wanted to go home.
Von Flanagan promptly forgot—momentarily—that she was his prize and also only suspect, patted her shoulder, and said, “There, there little girl,’ in his most soothing voice. Then he became aware of Klutchetsky’s disapproving look and said, “Well, what happened?”
It developed that Susie Snyder had been going somewhere in a taxi, driven by one Les Schwegler, and some unknown person had fired a shot into said taxi, sending it into a spin, Les Schwegler into the hospital with a broken arm and a bad concussion, and Susie Snyder into hysterics.
Von Flanagan turned back to Susie. “And where were you going in a taxi at this hour of the morning, in that get up?” But he said it gently. He added almost absentmindedly, “Blow your nose.”
“I was going home,” Susie Snyder wept. “I just felt like getting up and going home. You know how it is sometimes.”
Von Flanagan started to say that he certainly did know how it was sometimes, caught himself and said sternly, “Where had you been?”
Malone held his breath.
Susie Snyder gulped. “I—was out pretty late last night. I guess I—didn’t feel very well. So the people I was with took me home with them. Then I woke up early and I just felt like getting up and going home.”
Malone closed his eyes, for a moment. Then he drew a long, slow breath, relaxed, and relit his cigar.
“Please,” Susie said in a very small-girl voice. “Maybe if I had some coffee …”
Von Flanagan sent for coffee in the same tone he’d have used to call a rescue squad.
Smart girl, Malone reflected, giving herself a chance to think. Giving him one, too. What was more, a chance to create a necessary diversion until he could get things back in control.
“What’s the rest of this deal about somebody shooting at her?” he demanded of Klutchetsky.
“Was a lousy shot,” Klutchetsky said critically. It had been fired from another car, but at very close range. Even a very poor shot could have found a mark at that distance, but this was a really lousy shot. Schwegler just might have seen something or somebody, but he was out cold and might stay that way for hours, even days, so he wouldn’t be able to tell anybody anything.
Including, Malone reflected with satisfaction, the fact that he’d been taking Susie to, not from, Wilmette. So far the question of which way the cab had been headed hadn’t
come up, and, with good luck, it wouldn’t until he’d had time for a few more moves. Meanwhile, though he had no idea who had fired the shot—he’d get to that later—there was no doubt in his mind as to why.
The immediate and pressing problem was talking to Lola Merchant before von Flanagan did. So far the diversionary tactics had worked, but he couldn’t count on them for much longer.
Susie Snyder took a gulp of her coffee and said, “Thank you so much,” in a voice that would have softened a far harder heart than von Flanagan’s.
“Now, young woman,” von Flanagan said, in a voice that was intended to be stern and only succeeded in sounding fatherly, “you tell me—”
“Wait a minute,” Malone broke in quickly and smoothly. He turned to Susie. “My dear, this all involves a very serious matter, and you ought to have a lawyer present. If you want me to act for you—”
“Oh, I do,” she said plaintively. “I do, Malone!”
Von Flanagan growled something in his throat.
“Good,” Malone said. “Now, last night—”
“You wait a minute,” von Flanagan interrupted. “I ask the questions here.”
Malone shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, all right. But I can think of more interesting ones.” Something had to occur to him, and fast.
Von Flanagan had decided to use an oblique approach. “How well did you know Dale McDowell?”
“You mean—” There was what sounded like honest puzzlement in her voice. “The radio announcer?”
“Commentator,” Malone said.
Von Flanagan nodded. “How well did you know him?”
“Oh—hardly at all. I’d met him. I’d seen him around a little. Why?”
“Never mind why,” von Flanagan said. “Because I’m asking why. If you didn’t know him at all well,” he momentarily forgot she was small, weak, tearful and pretty, and from sheer force of habit roared at her, “why did you murder him?”
