The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

  He paused, sneezed twice, and went on, “But he also knew that it wasn’t easy to make murder look like suicide. Especially to—” he paused again for a second or two—“very smart cops like von Flanagan here. Therefore, his prospective victim had to make several unsuccessful attempts at suicide.” He sneezed once more. “My grandmother always said whiskey was the best thing to ward off a cold. Oh, thanks, pal. Very kind of you.”

  “I would of believed it,” von Flanagan said slowly. “In fact, after those first coupla’ tries—I mean, what looked like tries—if she’d of fell off that window ledge, with ‘Good-bye, good-bye’ wrote all over the mirrors, I’d of said suicide. And then when it looked like she jumped off of the pier, right at the place where her old lady jumped off years ago, after finding her step-pa’s body and figuring out her old lady must of bumped him off and buried him there, and with her leaving a note saying right where he was—” He stopped, ran a handkerchief over his broad red face and said, “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Malone said. “I know what you were supposed to think.”

  “But that note,” von Flanagan said. “Why did she write it?”

  “She didn’t,” Malone told him.

  The police officer scowled. “It was in her handwriting. (Dig, dig, dig. And—under the willow tree in the garden.)”

  “It was dictated to her,” Malone said. He signed, and added, “You’re not up on popular songs, von Flanagan. You check this with her and see if I’m not right. The murderer telephoned her and recommended a couple of songs that would be particularly good for her style of singing. He told her to write down the titles and get copies. She did. Then on his next visit he tore the leaf from the telephone pad and stuck it in her diary. Remember, she trusted him, and he probably had the run of the house.”

  Von Flanagan shook his head sadly. “The things some people will do!” He scratched the back of his neck.

  “Remember, he had to have the body found,” Malone said, “or else he couldn’t inherit. This would have looked like her last suicide note. It would have built up her reason for the suicide—her remorse for her mother’s having committed a murder. That must have been preying on her mind for years. That’s why she was willing to keep all these appointments, because she was told she’d find out the truth.”

  “And what was the truth?” von Flanagan asked. “Why did her old lady bump off this guy?”

  There was a second or two of silence. “Because,” Malone said at last, “from all I’ve been able to learn, he was a no good son-of-a-bee who was wrecking her life and her career, and who should have been murdered years before.” He wondered if it would do him any serious damage to smoke a cigar, decided he might as well try, reached in his pocket and encountered a repulsive, soggy mass of wet tobacco.

  “Have one of mine,” Jack Apt said quietly.

  It was a fine Havana cigar. Malone accepted it with thanks, and privately wished it was one of his own favorite two-for-a-quarter brand.

  “Only,” von Flanagan said, “how did you know for sure she really hadn’t meant to jump off that ledge?”

  The little lawyer sneezed and sighed on the same breath, nearly strangling himself. “Because of the ‘good-bye, good-bye,’ written on the mirrors.”

  “I don’t get it,” von Flanagan said.

  “You will,” Malone told him, “if you’ll think of Doris Dawn’s coloring—and the color of lipstick that was used to write on the mirrors. No woman in her right mind would wear that shade with a skin like Doris’s.”

  Von Flanagan rose and said admiringly, “I wish I knew how you find out such things.”

  “Even if I could trust you with the truth,” Malone said, “you wouldn’t believe it.”

  For a few minutes after von Flanagan had gone he sat hunched in his blankets, brooding. He’d found a murderer, he’d saved a life, he’d seen what looked like the beginning of a very happy marriage. But he still didn’t have carfare home.

  Suddenly Malone had enough of it—a bellyful. He turned and stared at Jack Apt. Apt stared back, uncomfortably. Then Malone said, “If I sit here much longer, I’ll get double pneumonia and have to be shot full of penicillin. Besides, the whiskey’s gone, this cigar stinks—come on, Apt, break down and spill the truth. Or shall I?”

  Jack Apt said softly, “How did you know I murdered Robert Spencer?”

  Malone sneezed again. “Cut it out, Apt. I may be all wet—but not in the brain. Add it up this way: you were Diana Dawn’s manager. You must have been in love with her. Everyone who ever saw her was. You knew what he was doing to her—so you killed him. What you didn’t know was that she loved him and that she would kill herself from anxiety over his disappearance.”

  “I killed him,” Jack Apt said, “and I buried him. Young Bob Spencer wormed the truth about his burial place out of me. I didn’t know the reason why he wanted to find it out. Perhaps you’d better call von Flanagan back here, and tell him.”

  Malone yawned and said, “von Flanagan gets on my nerves sometimes.” He sneezed a double one this time. “It must have been hell for you all these years, after she killed herself. So why bring the cops in now?”

  “It was hell,” Jack Apt said, pulling on a pair of tan leather gloves. “It will continue to be. May I drive you anywhere, Malone?”

  “No, thanks,” Malone said. “I’ll call a cab.” He remembered his lack of cabfare. “Or maybe I’ll walk.”

  The door opened and Maggie, his secretary, walked in. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were blazing.

  “I’ve been looking all over town for you. You owe me seven and a half hours overtime. That burglar has decided he will have you enter a not-guilty plea. He waited hours for you, and then sent his retainer over by messenger. All in cash.”

  “Call me a cab,” Malone said, “before pneumonia carries me off.”

  “And,” Maggie said, “A girl has been calling you for hours. She just said to tell you she’s That Blonde.”

  Malone leaped up, blankets falling to the floor. “Call her back and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I change my clothes.”

  “But Mr. Malone,” Maggie wailed, “you’ll catch cold.”

  The little lawyer paused at the door. “Who, me? I never catch cold.” He waved, said a cheerful “Good-bye, good-bye,” and walked out whistling The Willow Tree In The Garden.

  THE BAD LUCK MURDERS

  “My wild Irish Rose, the su-weetest flower that grows—” John J. Malone leaned his elbows on the bar and sang it softly, under his breath. It would be only a matter of time, he knew, before some barroom baritone would join in. Then a third voice would be added, and a fourth. One more round, and they’d tackle some really ambitious offerings.

  The pudgy little lawyer was celebrating, and with good reason. Only that afternoon one of his favorite clients, one Max Lipsitch, had been acquitted on the charge of maintaining a gambling establishment. Praise had been lavish and the fee large. Malone made a mental resolution not to take any of the fee to Max’s place. He’d learned by experience that the wheel was crooked.

  The celebration had begun with a tour of the better nightclubs. From there it had moved to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, after the redhead from the chorus of a current hit show had abandoned Malone in favor of a more prosperous companion. Now it had reached the third, and next to the final stage, among the West Madison saloons, where whiskey came two drinks for a quarter and it wasn’t safe to take your hand off your glass long enough to light a cigar.

  My Wild Irish Rose failed to produce results. Malone ordered another drink, resolving to try again, louder, in a few minutes. Perhaps those two bums on his immediate right, who were splitting two bits worth of whiskey between them. No, they were deep in talk.

  “… but I tell you, when Bad Luck Bradley does you a favor, you’re done for.”

  Malone abandoned his song project and shamelessly eavesdropped.

  The younger of the two bums expressed his scorn with an ugly word. “Look w
hat he did for that Williams guy. Had his teeth fixed, bought him clothes, got him a swell job—”

  “Yeah! Whatever’s happened to him?”

  There was a little silence before the younger man said, “Why—I don’t know.”

  “There you are,” the old bum said. “Bad Luck Bradley buys you clothes, gets you a job—and that’s all anyone ever hears of you. Nobody knows where you’ve gone.”

  “If you two stewbums ain’t gonna buy another drink, then scram,” the bartender said.

  Malone swung quickly around on his stool. “May I buy you another drink, chums?” he said.

  The offer was accepted promptly, but with the natural reserve and suspicion of the West Madison Street habitué. It took three drinks, and fifteen minutes of idle conversation, before the suspicion was sufficiently allayed for Malone to ask casually.

  “Say, who’s Bad Luck Bradley?”

  The two bums froze silent, glancing first at Malone, then at each other. The little lawyer waited, but without much hope. Evidently the acquaintance hadn’t progressed as far as he thought.

  “Who’s he?” one of the bums said at last.

  Almost simultaneously, the other one said, “Never heard of him.”

  Malone shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know him. Just heard the name somewhere.”

  Tension was eased a little after that, but it wasn’t long before the older man said, “Well, thanks for the drinks, mister,” and slid off the barstool. The younger one added, “See’ya again,” and the two left.

  Malone sighed. He should have known better. The West Madison Street bum was a difficult person to extract information from, wary, suspicious, and secretive. Bartenders and taxi-drivers were always easier sources.

  The musical plans were completely forgotten now. He leaned on the bar and addressed the man behind it.

  “Did I say the wrong thing to those guys? Who is this Bad Luck Bradley?”

  The bartender went on polishing a beer glass. “Don’t ask me. They say he’s a sucker for a touch. Probably just flophouse talk. Have one on the house?” He spoke cautiously, not looking at Malone.

  “Thanks,” Malone said.

  “You know how superstitious these bums are,” the bartender added, warming up a little. “They say if you take a favor from Bad Luck Bradley, you’re done for. Just superstition.”

  Malone nodded, agreeing with him. He reflected, though, that so widespread a superstition usually had some reason for being. This was none of his business, but he was curious.

  He polished off the raw, fiery whiskey and decided it was time to go home. He swung halfway around on the bar-stool, changed his mind, and swung back.

  A girl had come in and taken the stool beside him. That would have been enough to cause him to stay, until she was safely out and in a taxi. West Madison Street was no place for an unaccompanied girl, especially a pretty one in expensive clothes.

  A second look at the girl would have made him stay, anyway, regardless of place or circumstances. She was what he privately called a “warm blonde,” with dark gold hair, brown eyes, dark lashes and a peach-colored skin. She had the face and figure of a cover girl. She wore a bright red wool dress, red suede sandals—in spite of the snow and slush outside—and a fur coat. Her voice, when she ordered a rum and coke, was uncultured but pleasant, and she didn’t give the impression she’d led a cultured life. Finally, she looked worried.

  She took a gulp of her drink, lit a cigarette, and signaled the bartender to come over.

  “Listen you, can you tell me something, Who’s Bad Luck Bradley?”

  Malone and the bartender looked at each other. The girl caught the look and turned to Malone.

  “What’s the gag, buddy?”

  “No gag,” Malone said, “and a nice girl like you shouldn’t be in a joint like this.”

  The bartender, instead of being insulted, agreed with him.

  “I’m not here because I like the atmosphere,” she said. “I’m here because I’m looking for somebody. Maybe you two guys can help; if you can, I’ll be very grateful.” She took a photograph from her red suede purse. “Have you ever seen him around this saloon?”

  Malone had never seen the face before, but he studied it with interest. It showed a weakly vicious young man, with an unpleasant leering smile, light hair and dark eyes. Strangely, it resembled the blonde girl, though there was nothing even remotely weak or vicious about her.

  “Sorry,” Malone said, giving it back. “Kin of yours?”

  “Brother,” she said, handing the picture to the bartender.

  “I’ve seen him,” the bartender said, nodding. “Been in here a few times. Once in a while he had dough, but most of the time he was cadging drinks.” He broke off and said to the girl, “Sorry, lady, I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.” She put the picture back in her bag. “I’m trying to find him. No luck so far. A flophouse keeper said that Bad Luck Bradley might have got him, but he wouldn’t tell me anything more. So, I’m still looking.”

  “Lady,” Malone said gallantly, “let me help.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. John J. Malone was hardly a prepossessing sight. His thinning black hair was mussed, and he’d acquired a small cut over one eye during a brief discussion with a taxi-driver. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie had worked up under one ear, and there were cigar ashes on his wrinkled vest.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but who are you?”

  “I,” Malone said magnificently, “am a lawyer. I am the best damn lawyer from the sunny shores of Maine to the rock-bound coasts of California. I have never lost a client yet, and if anybody can find your brother, I can. My name,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “is John Joseph Malone.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” she said. “Okay, you’re on.” She finished her drink. “If we just keep combing the dives and flops around here, we’re bound to run him down.”

  The bartender was interested now. He, too, had heard of John J. Malone. Not a bad idea to get on the right side of a guy with Malone’s City Hall connections. He parked his elbows on the bar, and began offering suggestions.

  The suggestions were good ones, but the girl had been to most of the places mentioned already. Finally he rubbed his chin and said, “Well, there’s a place run by the city, two blocks up and on a side street. The bums don’t go to it except as a last resort, because they make ’em wash and register for jobs. And Bad Luck Bradley goes there regularly—”

  The girl’s eyes met Malone’s. “It’s worth trying,” the little lawyer said.

  Out on the sidewalk, Malone looked at the muddy slush and at the red sandals. “Your shoes,” he began.

  “The hell with it,” she said. “I got twenty more pairs at home. By the way, my name’s Gerda Powell.”

  “Short for Gertie?” Malone asked innocently. She gave him a wicked grin and didn’t answer.

  They walked in silence down the gaudy shabbiness of West Madison Street and along the dismal and under-lighted side street. At the door of the shelter, the girl paused.

  “By the way, it’s nice of you to help.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Malone said, happily. He was wondering how soon he could ask a few personal questions and suggest a dinner date. “Anyone would be touched at the spectacle of a lovely girl trying to find her brother.”

  To his surprise, she laughed. It was a shrill, harsh, unpleasant laugh. “You don’t get it, mister. I’m not trying to help my little brother who’s down and out, through no fault of his own. He’s the world’s prize louse, and all I want to do is fix it so he can’t cause any more trouble. He just got out of jail last week, and that’s the sixth time since he was fifteen and went to reform school. He was paroled when my old man died, and a week later he stole my old lady’s insurance money and scrammed. She took sick and died before I even could get there. Once I thought he’d reformed, he convinced me he was on the up-and-up, and I took him in. He
beat it with every piece of jewelry in the place, and then tried to blackmail one of my boy friends. If I find him, the chances are good that I’ll kill him.” She looked straight at Malone. “Does that clear things up?”

  “Completely,” Malone said calmly. “If you do, I’ll get you an acquittal. Have you got any money?”

  “I have, and nobody’s keeping me either. I own a chain of beauty shops.”

  That was why the name had been faintly familiar. Malone remembered the little shops with modernistic fronts, and GERDA’S written across the plate glass.

  He opened the door for her and they went into the dreary building, clean, and smelling of cheap disinfectants. There was nothing in the hall but a registration desk. To the left an open door revealed a slightly more cheerful room with a few wicker armchairs, an upright piano, and a table piled with magazines. Above the door a plaque read, “Recreation Room. Donated by B. L. Bradley.”

  “B. L. Bad Luck.” Malone shuddered slightly, and crossed his fingers.

  The man at the desk didn’t seem surprised to see John J. Malone and a girl in a fur coat come in. He’d been there too long to be surprised at anything. Yes, he remembered the young man of the photograph. He’d stayed there three days. That was as long as anyone was allowed to stay in the shelter. No, no idea where he’d gone when he left day before yesterday. Maybe some of the boys in the recreation room would know.

  The “boys” in the recreation room were all either very young men, obviously down on their luck for the first time, or decrepit old bums who were too tired to care whether they stayed in the city shelter or a two-bit flop. It was one of the latter who remembered Joe Powell.

  “Bad Luck Bradley got him a job.” He spat on the floor. “Too bad, lady. You’ll never see him again.”

  “Nonsense,” Malone said.

  The bum turned away and went on reading a battered magazine.

  “Where can we find Bad Luck Bradley?” Malone demanded.

  Another man spoke up. “You’ll find him right here, if you wait. He drops around every night and dishes out cigarettes.”