The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

“We’ll wait,” Gerda Powell said firmly. She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, oddly incongruous in the shabby room. Malone lit a cigar and sat down in the chair nearest to her.

  It was a half hour or so before the man known as Bad Luck Bradley came in. Malone looked at him curiously. There was certainly nothing about his appearance to suggest that he was a carrier of misfortune. He was a plump, middle-aged man with an amiable, rosy face, friendly blue eyes, and white, curly hair. He trotted in cheerfully, an armful of cigarette cartons under his arm.

  “Well, good evening, my friends.”

  There was only a murmured and perfunctory greeting in answer. A couple of the older bums turned their faces away. Bradley didn’t seem to notice.

  He put the cartons down on the table and said, “I tried to get all the different brands. And I know you boys always need a little spending money, so I left a couple of dollars apiece for you out at the desk.”

  There were a few muttered “Thank you’s.” Gerda Powell got up, walked across the room and said, “Mr. Bradley?”

  He looked at her curiously and said, “Yes.”

  She took the photograph out of her purse and handed it to him. “That’s my brother. I’m looking for him. They told me you got him a job.”

  “Oh, your brother. Quite a resemblance.” He handed back the picture. “Too bad.”

  “What do you mean, too bad?” Malone asked.

  “I’m afraid,” Bradley murmured, “your brother is not a very—very responsible type. Yes, I did get him a job.” He sighed. “He impressed me as a worthwhile and merely unfortunate young man. I outfitted him, got him a shave and a haircut, gave him some money for expenses, and told him to come to my office yesterday morning. He never showed up.”

  “Have you any idea—?” Gerda began.

  Bradley shook his head. “None whatsoever. He must have taken the money and—skipped. I’m really very sorry.”

  “So am I,” she said grimly. She turned to Malone and said, “Well, I guess we’ve come to a dead end.”

  “Maybe,” the little lawyer said. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a minute. “Let’s go back to civilization and buy a drink. And if you’ll meet me somewhere tomorrow morning, maybe I’ll have some ideas.”

  He took two steps toward the door, then paused and turned back. “Pardon the curiosity, Mr. Bradley. But what do your initials stand for?”

  The philanthropist frowned, puzzled. “Bruce Lawrence. Why?”

  “Idle curiosity,” Malone said.

  “Why bother me,” Daniel von Flanagan of the Homicide Division asked wearily. “It’s strictly for the Missing Persons Department.” He glared at Malone, looked admiringly at Gerda Powell, and added, “I’m a busy man.”

  “Missing Persons is no good,” Malone said. “All they do is take a name and description and do a routine investigation. But if you take it to Missing Persons, and put a little pressure on, maybe they’ll do some work.”

  The big, red-faced police officer tried not to beam at the implied compliment.

  “We hate to bother you,” Gerda Powell said, “But—” She smiled at him.

  Von Flanagan coughed and said, “No bother. Glad to help.”

  Malone grinned. It was what he’d expected. This morning Gerda Powell had on a bright blue, close-fitting dress with a big silver pin. Her gray sandals exactly matched her kidskin coat.

  Von Flanagan squinted. “Funny, these stories you told me about Bradley. The ideas that bums can get!”

  “I found out a little about him this morning,” Malone said, lighting a cigar. “He’s a retired broker, a rich philanthropist and a very unlucky man. Maybe that’s what started the stories. He has a beautiful young wife who’s a helpless invalid. His stepson by a former marriage was killed in an auto crash lately. And his brother died about six months ago when his house was burned down. Everything bad seems to happen to him. That—plus his initials being B. L.…” He paused. “Good thing I’m not superstitious myself.”

  “Neither am I,” von Flanagan said quickly.

  Malone scowled thoughtfully. “It’s a damn funny thing, though. He seems to be on the up-and-up. But when a guy gets jobs for flophouse bums, and invariably they disappear—”

  “Yeah,” von Flanagan said. “Only I don’t know how—”

  The telephone interrupted him. He picked it up, said, “Yeah?” and sat listening, saying only, “What?” “Uh-huh,” “Which district?” and finally, “What address?” Suddenly he raised his eyebrows, looked at Malone, and said into the phone, “No, I’ll go over myself.”

  He put down the phone and said: “Here’s another funny one. Some guy phoned the fifth district station and said to come right over, he was going to be murdered. Then he hung up, or somebody hung up for him. They traced the call, though. It came from Mr. J. A. Truax’s house on North State Street, and Mr. J. A. Truax is Bad Luck Bradley’s nephew.”

  Malone and Gerda Powell looked at each other. “It may not mean a thing,” Malone said, “but we’re going with you.”

  The three arrived at the address just thirty seconds behind the squad car. It was von Flanagan who rang the bell.

  It was several minutes before a thin, gray-haired woman in neat, housekeeper’s black opened the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of the police.

  “Somebody here sent for the cops,” von Flanagan said.

  She shook her head, her face bewildered. “Oh, no, sir. There must be some mistake.”

  “Ain’t this the Truax house?” one of the squad car cops said. She nodded, and he said. “This is the place all right. We’re going in.”

  “Wait,” she said, wringing her hands. “Wait, I’ll call the doctor …”

  Von Flanagan said, “What the hell?” and waited.

  A moment later a tall, dark-haired distinguished-looking man came to the door. “What seems to be the difficulty here?”

  “Who are you?” one of the cops said.

  “I’m Dr. Stark. I was Mr. Truax’s physician.”

  “Was?” Malone said.

  The doctor nodded. “He died—three hours ago—of injuries received in a skiing accident yesterday.”

  “Where’s the body?” von Flanagan demanded.

  “It’s already been taken away—to the chapel at 1419 North Woodring Street.”

  Von Flanagan wrote it down, and then said, “Look, somebody phoned from this house for the police and said he was being murdered.”

  “Impossible,” the doctor said. “There’s been some mistake. I assure you, no one has made any telephone calls from this house, and there’s been nobody but the housekeeper and myself.” He smiled. “However, if you care to search …”

  “We do,” von Flanagan said. He pushed on into the house, followed by the squad car cops.

  The search was a thorough one, took half an hour, and revealed nothing. The house was in perfect order. There was nothing to indicate there had been a murder, attempted murder, or even a call to the police. There was nothing to do but apologize and leave.

  The squad car cops were already down the steps when Gerda said brusquely, “Say, while I’m here …” She pulled out the photograph and said, “Look, Doc. Ever see that map before?”

  He eyed it curiously and said, “Why?”

  “He’s my brother,” Gerda said, “and I’m looking for him. Mr. Bradley gave him a job, fixed him up with some clothes and dough, and he scrammed. Have you any ideas?”

  The doctor looked at the picture for a long time, then at Gerda for a longer one. “It’s possible I may be able to find out. If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll inform you if I am able to learn anything.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “that’s very kind of you.” She wrote down the phone number and handed it to him. Malone managed to look over her shoulder and memorize it, while she was writing.

  “Sorry to have troubled you,” von Flanagan said. He led the way down the steps, his broad face an ominous shade of crimson. He waited until they were in the car
before he said, “Following up a call like that would be a routine district matter. You come in with some cockeyed story about some rich guy who goes around making bums disappear and I fall for it and end up asking silly questions and getting sillier answers.” He gave Malone a nasty look. “I hope some time you get arrested so I can personally give you the third degree.”

  “You do,” the little lawyer said smoothly, “and I’ll tell your wife about that time in South Chicago when you left a glove—”

  “That’s blackmail,” von Flanagan growled, “and I’ve got a witness. I could arrest you right now.”

  “You could,” Malone said, “but you won’t.” He turned to Gerda and said, “You see how easy it is to cooperate with the police?”

  She smiled at him wearily, said nothing.

  Malone leaned forward and said to the driver, “Inspector von Flanagan has to investigate a murder in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. So, let us out there and beat it. He’ll take a taxi back to the office.” He beamed at the sulking von Flanagan and said, “the least I can do is to buy you a drink.”

  The taxi pulled up at the Clark Street entrance of Joe the Angel’s. Gerda Powell leaned forward and said, “I’m not getting out here, driver. You can take me to 1766—”

  “You can’t do this to me,” Malone began.

  Von Flanagan tactfully started across the sidewalk.

  “—and you aren’t going to walk off like this. You asked me to help find your brother, and I’m going to find him, alive, dead or indifferent.”

  One corner of her mouth smiled. “Forget it. It looks like he’s got in another jam, and I hope this is a fatal one. If he hasn’t, well, I’ve been thinking it over and I’ve decided all I have to do to find him is stay home. Sooner or later he’ll turn up to make a touch. I’ve enjoyed knowing you, Mr. Malone, and thanks for the help.”

  “Wait a minute,” Malone said, shoving the cab driver away from the door. “Don’t forget my fee. After all, when you hire a lawyer—”

  “Send me a bill,” she said. This time both corners of her mouth smiled.

  “I’ll give it to you right now,” Malone said, “By way of fee, let me take you to dinner tonight, at L’Aiglon.”

  This time her eyes smiled, too. “Maybe I’d better retain you on a permanent basis,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the L’Aiglon bar at seven.”

  Von Flanagan was waiting just inside the door. “Next time you want to impress a dame—” he began indignantly.

  “You’re all wrong,” the little lawyer said in his smoothest voice. He shoved the police officer on through the bar and said, “We’ll take a booth. You’re not supposed to drink on duty.”

  Von Flanagan slid into the booth, muttering something about Malone’s upbringing, when the waiter arrived. “Gin and beer.”

  “Make it two,” Malone said. He leaned across the table and said, “How could a man who’s been dead for three hours call up the cops and yell for help?”

  “Some practical joker,” von Flanagan growled.

  “‘Some practical joker’ is the police department’s favorite alibi,” Malone said. He gulped his gin, chased it down with a small beer, and shuddered. “Except that you traced the call and found it really did come from Truax’s house. And Truax is dead, and after he was dead he called the cops and said he was going to be murdered. And he was a nephew of Bad Luck Bradley, who seems to have the evil eye.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” von Flanagan said. He mopped his brow with a slightly shaking hand. “I told you before, I’m not superstitious.”

  “This guy was making practice jumps because he was going to enter a championship meet,” Malone went on relentlessly. “He seems to have been an expert. Not very many people were around. No one was paying very much attention at the time of the accident. He was making a pretty simple jump—easy stuff for an expert—when he—fell.”

  “If you’re implying he was pushed,” von Flanagan said, “who pushed him?”

  “That’s for me to ask, and you to find out,” Malone said coyly.

  “He was hurt in an accident out at Fox Grove,” von Flanagan said. “Died of the injuries. Couldn’t have been murdered. He was dead before that phone call came in. And, anyway, who the hell would have wanted to murder him?”

  Malone lit a fresh cigar, gazed at the ceiling, and said nothing.

  “He didn’t have a wife or girl friend or enemy, as far as we can find out,” von Flanagan went on. “He didn’t have much of any money. Carried a thirty thousand dollar life insurance policy, with his uncle, B. L. Bradley, as beneficiary. Can you imagine a rich guy like B. L. Bradley murdering his nephew for a measly thirty thousand?”

  “You never know,” Malone said. “It takes all kinds of people to make a world. While you were doing what you like to call investigating at the undertaking parlor, I did a little work on the telephone. All the members of the Bradley family who’ve kicked off lately, one way or another, carried good-sized insurance policies, with the old man as beneficiary. Thirty grand may not be much to a guy like him, but thirty grand here, fifteen grand there, twenty grand another place—it adds up, as the chorus girl said when she told how she got the mink coat.”

  “Nonsense,” von Flanagan said. There was no conviction in his voice.

  “Perfect nonsense,” Malone agreed. “But it would be fun to find out where old man Bradley was when the accident occurred. Or maybe Bradley’s wife.”

  “She’s an invalid,” von Flanagan said. “Never leaves the house.” He sighed, and said, “All right, we’ll go there. But if you get me into another dead end—”

  “If I do,” Malone said, “I’ll pay for the taxi.” He let von Flanagan pay for the drinks, though.

  The Bradley mansion was a big, old-fashioned mansion a block from Lake Shore Drive. Bad Luck Bradley’s study, where he received them, was a dark, gloomy room, lined with books. The philanthropist himself, plump and pink-faced, seemed a little out of place, Malone thought. He should have had a chintz-hung room with big windows and a lawn outside.

  Mr. Bradley was delighted to be of any possible service to the police. He regretted, however, that he wasn’t able to tell much about the terrible accident to his favorite nephew. He’d been out of town when it happened.

  The insurance policy? Well, a year or so ago—no, maybe less—Jack Truax had borrowed thirty thousand dollars from him. Lost that in his business, poor devil. The policy had been taken out by way of security.

  Von Flanagan apologized for the intrusion, glared at Malone, and rose.

  “Mr. Bradley,” Malone said suavely, “Would you mind if we interviewed Mrs. Bradley?”

  “Why …” Bradley paused and frowned. “I’ll ask Dr. Stark. He’s with her now. I don’t know …” Suddenly he looked anxiously at von Flanagan. “You don’t think there was anything strange—about Jack’s death?”

  “Of course not,” the officer said.

  “Purely routine check-up,” Malone added hastily. “In case of accidental death—you understand.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bradley said. “Yes, naturally.” He frowned again. “I’ll ask Dr. Stark …”

  Dr. Stark was a little dubious about the interview with Stella Bradley. Of course, if it was necessary—well, be careful not to upset or excite her. He led them upstairs to her room, paused at the door.

  “I’m sure you understand,” he said in a very low voice. “She—Mrs. Bradley—well, she’s far more ill than anyone knows. Certainly far more than her husband knows, I think—she realizes the truth, but just the same …” His handsome face contracted momentarily into a pained grimace. “She’s still so young. And she was so lovely.” He opened the door and ushered them in.

  It was a large, luxurious room, shadowy and quiet. The walls were gray and had a few paintings, good ones. The curtains of thick rose damask were drawn over the windows. Walking on the blue and rose carpet was like walking on a new-mown lawn. There was a strange odor in the room, an odor of perfume and medicin
e, cosmetics and choloroform, fresh-cut flowers and hospital alcohol.

  Stella Bradley sat in a chair near one of the curtained windows, a dusty-pink afghan over her knees. She looked up and smiled at them as they tiptoed across the room. Her face was lovely and very pale, almost blue-white. In the semi-darkness it was impossible to tell if her hair was ash-blonde or silver.

  There was something about her that bothered Malone. He felt that he’d seen her before. Her, or someone who was very like her.

  Von Flanagan was speechless, and even in the dusky shadows, his broad face was red. Malone scowled. Obviously, it was impossible to ask Stella Bradley where she’d been at the time Jack Truax met his accident. It was just as impossible even to think that—Malone drew a long breath, walked boldly up to her chair and took her hand.

  “This is an unpardonable intrusion,” he said softly.

  “Quite all right,” she whispered. She smiled at him faintly. The smile, too, reminded him of someone. He couldn’t think for the life of him who it was.

  None of the questions he’d intended to ask fitted the occasion. Von Flanagan was standing, tongue-tied and embarrassed, fumbling with his hat. Malone had to think of something. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know any reason why Jack Truax would have wanted to take his own life?”

  Her blue eyes widened with surprise. “Jack? Never! He was so alive. So happy. The very day of his—accident—he came in to see me, on his way to Fox Grove. He was vital and gay, and—joyous. He told me he was sure he’d win the championship at the ski meet. He kissed me on the cheek here—” one frail hand trembled up to touch her white face—“and made some silly little joke, and went away to—” her voice became a little moan—“to his death.”

  There was a little silence in the room. Dr. Stark signaled them toward the door with his eyes. Malone bowed over her and said, “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Out on the street in front of the Bradley mansion, von Flanagan said furiously, “This is twice today you’ve stuck my neck out. The second and last time. The next time you start haying delusions, call a doctor, not the police.” He leaped into the waiting taxi, slammed the door in front of Malone’s nose and shouted one last, profane comment through the window as the cab drove off.