by Craig Rice
No, there had to be some other reason. The boys had been sent on a genuine errand. But someone else had gotten there ahead of them, and done exactly what they had been supposed to do—except that they were only supposed to knock Jackson Kornblum cold, and the someone had struck with intent to kill.
Had it just happened that way?
No, that would be asking the long arm of coincidence to bend its elbow a little too much.
There was still the matter of the late Mr. Kornblum’s unexpected appearance in Rico di Angelo’s Undertaking Parlor, and the reappearance of the ten thousand dollars.
“I’ll think of something,” the little lawyer said out loud.
“You always think of something, Malone,” Joe the Angel said admiringly.
“Let’s hope this doesn’t prove to be the exception that proves the rule,” Malone said. He looked at his watch. Time for Charlie Stein to be getting back. He took a fourth drink, waved good-bye to Joe the Angel, and headed back to the office.
It wasn’t long before Charlie Stein arrived.
“Easy job, boy, easy job. I ought to give you half your money back.”
Malone grinned. “That would be a day! What’s the answer or answers?”
“This guy Kornblum, he acts poor and he lives poor. Well, not poor exactly, boy, but not rich. He thinks he’s an artist, he’s—he’s—”
“Eccentric?” Malone said.
“That’s the word, boy. He owns his house. He also owns about half a million bucks worth of stocks and bonds. But he keeps it a secret, and he makes his wife go out and earn her own living and most of his. Anything else you want to know?”
Malone shook his head. “You’re a genius at finding out stuff, Charlie.”
Charlie Stein smiled modestly. “I have my sources. See you, boy.”
Malone thought for a moment, picked up the phone and called von Flanagan again. This time the police officer was in his office.
“Malone,” he roared over the phone, “I got your message but I’ve been busy. Funny murder case. Tell you about it sometime.”
“Do that,” Malone said pleasantly.
“Your note says it’s a matter of vital importance. What’s up, Malone?”
“I’ve got two tickets to the wrestling matches tonight,” Malone said, “and I wanted to invite you to go with me.”
There was a moment’s silence, then a burst of profanity from von Flanagan shook the receiver.
“Vital importance! Wrestling matches! And I’m a busy man!” There was another silence, and then in a milder tone, “That’s very nice of you, Malone. I think I can make it. When and where?”
“Meet you at Joe the Angel’s at seven-thirty,” Malone said. “I’ve never seen lady wrestlers in action, and I think I’ll need to build up my strength.”
The idea still hadn’t jelled.
It was still formless when the two young di Angelos came in. They looked considerably more cheerful than when Malone had seen them last.
“You find out who killed him, Mr. Malone?” Eddie asked excitedly.
“Not yet,” Malone said, with confidence he hoped wasn’t false. “But you don’t need to worry. No one saw you go there. No one saw you there. No one saw you leave there. So just relax, and don’t do it again.”
They grinned at him silently.
He picked up the tickets Maggie had gotten for him and handed them over. “I’d like you to come and watch the matches tonight.”
“Gee!” Frankie said.
“That’s swell!” Eddie said.
They said “Thanks!” in unison.
Malone said very casually. “I’d like to have a word with you outside after it’s over. Oh now, don’t look worried. There’s no trouble involved. You just may be able to do me a favor, that’s all.”
“Gee, sure,” Frankie said.
“Any time, Mr. Malone,” Eddie said.
They grinned at him again from the door by way of goodbye.
Two drinks past seven-thirty, von Flanagan began to get confidential about his day’s work.
“Everybody goes out of his way to make things hard for me,” the big red-faced police officer said. It was a familiar complaint, but Malone listened. “A nice clean straight killing, I can understand. But something like this, it just makes a lot of unnecessary work for the police department.”
He went on to tell about the nude body of a murdered artist found in a secluded house, on a tip given from some unknown source.
Malone silently thanked the Unknown Source, and wished he could raise her salary. That reminded him of an unpleasant fact. In a feeling of warm goodwill he’d paid up half the office rent, paid Maggie part of her salary, and from his remaining one hundred dollars, he had a little over eleven left. Maybe Joe the Angel—no, this was not the time.
Von Flanagan was still going into details, and Malone paid polite attention, reflecting that he was still two steps ahead of von Flanagan.
The police officer finished his third drink and said, “Can’t figure out what happened to his clothes. Let’s go, Malone. Always wanted to see a lady wrestler.”
On their way, Malone wondered about sending flowers to her—he supposed they would call it, dressing room. There was a florist where he still had credit. What kind of flowers? Tiger lilies might be appropriate. Or maybe it wasn’t etiquette to send flowers to a lady wrestler. He decided against it.
When she appeared in the ring, she seemed even bigger and prettier than she had in his office. She wore what looked to him like a tight-fitting bathing suit, a restrained shade of red. Her blonde hair was pinned around her head in braids.
The crowd cheered for “Nadine!”
Her opponent stepped into the ring. She was just as big and just as pretty, but her suit was a bright green, and her hair was just a bit on the reddish side.
The crowd sent up a cheer for “Daphne!” This, he gathered from his program, was Daphne Flowers.
It was, Malone had to admit, a performance. He was not a ballet fan himself, preferring a good chorus line, but under duress he had attended a few. This was as close to ballet as he had ever seen. A combination of ballet and sheer mayhem. He watched, fascinated.
Once or twice he heard von Flanagan murmur a discreet “Wow!” under his breath.
Malone pulled his notebook from his pocket, scribbled a quick note. “Will you have supper with me? Malone.” He grabbed an usher, handed him the note and a dollar bill. That brought the bankroll down to ten.
When it was over, and Nadine had been pronounced the winner, he led a dazed-eyed von Flanagan down to the street. He stood there for a moment in the milling crowds, looking around. At last he spotted the two of them.
“Wait here,” he told von Flanagan, and shoved through the crowd to the two young di Angelos.
“That’s her, all right,” Eddie said excitedly. “The one in the green suit.”
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “Green suit?”
“Green,” Frankie said.
“Sure you’re not colorblind?” Malone demanded.
“Green suit,” Eddie said, “and sort of reddish hair. I’d know her any place. And Malone, she should of won that match.”
“How about the other babe,” Malone asked.
“Lady,” Frankie muttered.
“Never saw her before,” Eddie said.
Malone said, “Well thanks, kids, and don’t worry any more. Hope you enjoyed the show.” He went back to von Flanagan and said, “C’mon, let’s take a lady wrestler out to supper.”
Von Flanagan’s eyes brightened. He said, “Are you kidding?”
“Who,” Malone said, “me? Where do you think I got the tickets?”
She was waiting for them, superbly dressed and made up, and—so was Daphne. “I hope you don’t mind if I brought a friend along.” She introduced Daphne.
“I hope you don’t mind if I did,” Malone said. He introduced von Flanagan.
Nadine, it seemed, had her car. They took off for a restaurant
on the near north side. Malone fingered the remaining ten dollar bill, and hoped for the best. Lady wrestlers probably ate like horses.
Daphne ordered a bowl of clear soup and a small glass of domestic wine.
Nadine ordered a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of skim milk.
“Got to keep our weight down,” Daphne explained. She not only looked big, and pretty, she also looked charming and smart.
“Next match, Pittsburgh,” Nadine said, “and Daphne is the winner.”
“We take turns,” Daphne added.
“From looking at you in the ring,” von Flanagan said, “I’d never of thought you were the best of friends.”
“Little do you know,” Nadine said. “In fact, I’ve been staying with Daphne since my husband threw me out.” Suddenly she shut up fast.
Malone looked at her and decided to pitch an inside curve. He hoped she wouldn’t pitch the bowl of cornflakes. The idea in his mind had not only jelled now, it had whipped cream and a strawberry on it.
“Miss Sapphire,” he said in a light voice, “what time last night did you decide to murder your husband—Jackson Kornblum?”
Across the table he could see von Flanagan sober up as though someone had poured oxygen into him.
“It was—” She caught herself, “Why you stinking—”
Malone ducked the bowl of cornflakes.
“My dear girl,” he said, “nothing’s going to happen to you, because I’m your lawyer. Now both of you listen to me, and you too, von Flanagan.” He turned to Daphne. “You’re a good friend of Nadine Sapphire. You knew she’s had trouble with her husband, that he was holding on to ten grand that belonged to her. Am I right?”
“Right so far,” Daphne murmured. She had a soft gentle voice.
“You had the bright idea of sending a couple of young punks out to collect that ten grand, even if they had to sock him—not too hard—to collect it Right again?”
“Go to the head of the class,” Daphne said.
Malone said, “I’m just making this up as I go along, but I know it’s right, and it has to check. You used to drop in at Joe the Angel’s for an occasional glass of wine. It occurred to you he might get you some fast hired help, and he did. You briefed them and went back to your apartment. You told Nadine what you’d done. But Nadine got to brooding. She didn’t trust your hired help. And maybe she’d found out that with Jackson Kornblum dead, she’d inherit half a million bucks cash money.” He turned his head. “Am I right, Nadine?”
She called him a very unpleasant name.
“Say that again,” the little lawyer told her, “and I won’t take your case.”
Von Flanagan said, “Malone, what gives?”
“You missed the opening of the picture,” Malone said, “But I’m giving you the ending of it. The least you can do, with my cleaning up your case for you, is to buy us a drink.”
Von Flanagan waved to the waiter and gave the order. Two double ryes with beer chasers, one glass of milk, one plain seltzer water.
“Nadine,” Malone said, “drove out to the house, went in through the window, sapped her husband, picked up the money, and came back to your apartment, Daphne. She told you what she’d done, and you knew what a fool she’d been. Daphne, there have been times in my life when I’ve wished I had a friend like you. You took Nadine’s car keys and the money. You drove up to the house, got in, put the money back in the tin box, and decided to dispose of the body.”
Von Flanagan said hoarsely, “Malone, is any of this, probable truth?”
Malone hoped it was, and didn’t answer. He smiled at Daphne and went on talking. “Why did you pick Rico di Angelo’s undertaking parlor?”
She smiled at him. Malone decided he liked Daphne. “The name di Angelo stuck in my mind. I was going through the undertaking parlors in the classified, and I saw di Angelo. I stuck the little jerk’s body in the back of the car, broke into the place and parked him on the slab.”
“His clothes?” Malone asked.
“They’re at the bottom of the drainage canal. I thought it might help if he weren’t identified too soon. And the logical place to hide a body is in an undertaking parlor. I hope it didn’t make Mr. di Angelo too much trouble.”
“It didn’t,” Malone assured her. Suddenly he felt very tired. “Nadine, did you know your husband had about half a million dollars you would inherit?”
“I—” She shut up fast and reached for the sugar bowl.
“Don’t throw it,” Malone advised her, “it’s against the law. And you’re talking to your lawyer now.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Don’t worry my dear, I never lost a client yet.”
She relaxed a little. Her eyes smiled at him, just slightly. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to get my ten thousand dollars back. I guess I hit him a little too hard.”
“You don’t know your own strength,” Malone said in a sympathetic voice.
“Just like you said, I told Daphne. I went to sleep. She came back and told me not to worry, but she’d gotten your name from Mr. Joe di Angelo. I thought it would be smart if you went out with me and helped discover the body. I thought it would be there, and the money gone, and I could blame it on these two young punks. But there was no body, and the money was there. I’ve got it right here.”
Von Flanagan cleared his throat, drank half a glass of water, and said, “Miss Sapphire, I’m sorry, but you’re under arrest. I’ll have to take you with me.”
“Charge?” Malone asked.
“Murder,” von Flanagan said. “She’ll sign a confession.”
“She’ll sign nothing,” Malone said. “I’m her lawyer, and if there’s any pushing-around done, I’ll tell your mother-in-law about that night in the dice house in Wheaton—”
“You’ll be treated kindly,” von Flanagan told Nadine, “and you can see your lawyer first thing in the morning.” He turned to Malone. “How did you know all this?”
“I didn’t,” Malone said. “I just guessed.”
Two minutes later Daphne waved at the waiter, ordered a drink for Malone and a seltzer for herself. She said, “You’re really going to defend Nadine?”
Malone nodded.
“You probably need a retainer. She left this with me—in case anything like this happened.” She opened her purse. There were the ten thousand dollar bills. “Don’t worry, they’re safe with me.” She slipped one of them into his hand. “Can you get her off?”
Malone looked at her, at the thousand dollar bill. He found a slip of paper and a pen in his pocket, and wrote her a receipt.
“I never lost a.…” He didn’t finish.
There was a certain fascination about Daphne.
“Tomorrow night,” she said, “at Joe the Angel’s, at eight. I want to know how things worked out.” Her eyes swam at him. “And meantime—”
Two hours before dawn he dropped in at Joe the Angel’s, ordered a fast rye and beer, and laid a thousand dollar bill on the counter.
“No change,” Joe said.
“All right, I owe you.” Malone said.
Joe stuck the bill in the cash register and said, “You get your change in the morning.” He poured out the rye and beer. “What are you singing about?”
Malone looked up at him happily. “Life—can be wonderful. This program comes to you through the courtesy of the Sunshine Florists, whose cheerful thought for this morning is—tomorrow, will be another day.”
GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE!
A woman in the crowd gasped, almost screamed. Near her, a man in a gray topcoat covered his eyes with his hands. Half a block away an overdressed, overpainted and very pretty girl sank to her knees on the concrete sidewalk and prayed. But most of the crowd stared upward in silence in half-horrified, half-delighted fascination.
On a narrow ledge twenty-two stories above the street, there was what seemed, from this distance, to be a small dark blob. The crowd knew that the blob was a girl in a mink coat, that she had been crouched on the ledge for
hours, and that a minister, a policeman and an eminent psychiatrist were pleading and reasoning with her through the open window.
John J. Malone was not one of the crowd. He was only trying to push his way through it to the entrance of the hotel, where a profitable client was waiting for him, one who was ready to hand over a fat retainer before giving himself up on a burglary rap which John J. Malone knew he could beat in five minutes even before a prejudiced jury.
The important business of collecting that retainer was one reason why he didn’t notice the crowd at first. A lone, crumpled five dollar bill was in his right pants pocket, and he had a date with a very special and very expensive blonde just half an hour from now. And this particular client would pay the retainer in cash.
Malone was beginning to lose his temper with the crowd when he suddenly realized that the space in front of the hotel was roped off. That was when he looked up.
“Been there for hours,” a man next to him murmured, almost dreamily.
For a minute he stood there, horror-frozen. His mind took in what was being said around him, even though he wasn’t conscious of hearing it, and he became aware of the whole story—the fire department, the police, the minister and the psychiatrist.
There was a lump of ice where his stomach had been just a little while ago. Life was so wonderful, even with the remains of yesterday’s warmed-over hangover, even with only five bucks in your pants and a blonde waiting for you. If he could only explain that to the undecided dark blob clinging to the ledge twenty-two stories above. Undecided—! That was it. That was the key.
Suddenly he pushed his way, ruthlessly and almost blindly, through the rest of the crowd, ran past the roped-off space where the fire department was holding life nets, past the frightened young cop who tried to bar his way into the building, and through the deserted lobby. He yelled for a boy to operate one of the empty elevators, finally got attention by threatening to operate it himself, and was shot up to the twenty-second floor.
