The Name Is Malone

by Craig Rice

  Malone shrugged, looked after the departing cab, and walked over to Clark Street to take a streetcar, by way of personal chastisement. By the time he’d reached his hotel and begun a leisurely bath, he’d come to the conclusion that von Flanagan was right. Well, anyway, he had a date tonight with the most fascinating girl …

  He cut himself shaving, and spent fifteen minutes fumbling with his tie in nervous anticipation.

  At five minutes to seven he was in the L’Aiglon bar. He ordered a whiskey sour and sat watching the door.

  It was seven-fifteen when he ordered a second whiskey sour and sent a boy out for newspapers. Women were always late, and Gerda Powell would be no exception.

  When seven-thirty came he began to suspect she was going to stand him up. He called for a third drink and went to the telephone booth.

  Gerda Powell’s maid answered the phone. “Mist’ Malone? Miss Powell she say, if yo’ call, she’s goin’ be a li’l late. She was jes’ fixin’ t’leave when somebody call her. She say yo’ll unnerstan’ when she tell yo’ how come, and she ain’ goin’ be mo’n half a hour late.”

  Malone started on his third drink. It was now seven-forty-five. The half hour had already stretched a little. He resolved not to wait for her longer than eight o’clock.

  Meanwhile, he unfolded the newspapers and began glancing through them. The tragic death of Jack Truax, society sportsman, popular bachelor and ski champ, was all over page two. There were photographs of Jack Truax, photographs of Bad Luck Bradley, wealthy philanthropist, and Stella Bradley—the latter photograph having been taken before her illness.

  Malone looked at the pictures for a long time. Then he called the bartender and completely upset the refined equilibrium of L’Aiglon by ordering a double rye with a beer chaser.

  Seeing the pictures, he’d realized the resemblance that had bothered and troubled him. Stella Bradley—save that her hair was a pale blonde—looked like Gerda Powell. Jack Truax looked just a little like the photograph of Gerda Powell’s brother.

  Malone gulped his rye, paid his check, and headed for the phone booth. He called Dr. Stark’s residence. The doctor wasn’t in.

  “Where can I reach him, right away?” Malone said. He managed to get a convincing quaver into his voice. “We didn’t expect the baby quite so soon, but—”

  The efficient female voice at the other end of the wire said, “Just a minute.” Then, “You can reach Dr. Stark at the Bradley home. I’ll give you the number.”

  Malone said, “Never mind,” hurried out of the phone booth, out to the sidewalk, and hailed a taxi.

  He might be wrong, he told himself. Indeed, he even hoped that he would be wrong. But he didn’t dare take a chance on it.

  The taxi stopped in front of the Bradley house. Malone flung a bill at the driver and ran up the steps. He didn’t have any plan of action in his mind, he just had to be there. It was Bad Luck Bradley himself who opened the door.

  “I’m looking for Miss Powell. Gerda Powell. I think she came here to see Dr. Stark.”

  “You must be mistaken. I don’t know any Miss Powell. Dr. Stark—he’s—” The philanthropist’s face was gray and beaded with sweat. “I’m sorry—you’ll have to excuse me …”

  Malone shoved his foot through, pushing Bradley back, and went into the hall. “I’ve got to see Dr. Stark,” he said.

  “You can’t. He’s—there has to be an emergency operation. On my wife. Her chances aren’t good. He couldn’t even move her to a hospital. They’re going to operate right now. Upstairs. You can’t see him now. Not until it’s over. Don’t you understand?”

  “You’re damned right I don’t understand,” Malone said grimly. “And that’s why I’m going upstairs.”

  He’d reached the bottom of the staircase before Bradley tackled him. He sprawled on the floor, picked himself up, and butted Bradley in the stomach. Bradley rose to his knees. Malone landed a blow on his jaw. The white-haired man collapsed quietly on the floor, and Malone raced up the stairs.

  The house seemed to be deserted. Not a servant in sight. The little lawyer tried one door after another, finally opened one into a room that was blazing with lights.

  “You can’t come in here,” Dr. Stark’s voice said.

  Malone went in anyway and kicked the door shut behind him. The room—evidently a guest bedroom—had been made into an improvised operating room. Blinding lights were streaming down from the ceiling. There was a stretcher-table in the middle of the room, on it a white-swathed mummy with a gauze binding over its mouth. There were two nurses and Dr. Stark.

  “I’m sorry—Mr. Bradley wanted me to come up and see how it was going …”

  “Tell him everything’s all right,” Dr. Stark said. His eyes were deepset and anguished. “Frankly—don’t tell him this, his heart is bad, and he’s mentally unstable—there isn’t much hope.”

  Malone said, “Oh!” The lovely invalid in the wheelchair, with the pink afghan over her knees. The pale, tragic face. Now, not much hope. “I’ll not—tell Mr. Bradley.” He took a few steps toward the operating table. A pair of terrified brown eyes stared at him from over the gauze bandages. A wisp of the pale, blonde-gray hair showed under the headcovering. There was horror in the eyes, and desperate appeal. Then the lids closed.

  “Good luck,” Malone whispered. His voice was hoarse. “I’ll—stay with Mr. Bradley—till it’s over.” He fled into the hall.

  Stella Bradley’s eyes were blue. Gerda Powell’s were brown. There was that resemblance …

  Malone had once had a client who was an expert shoplifter. He came away from the improvised operating room with a pair of rubbler gloves and a surgeon’s knife.

  He put on the gloves. There was a floor lamp in the hall, plugged into the wall. Malone slashed savagely at the wire. There was a blinding flash, and the upstairs lights went out.

  In the downstairs hall there was another light. He short-circuited it with another slash of the knife, and the front downstairs lights went out. A third light shone in the kitchen and he disposed of that. There were anxious cries from upstairs and feet running in the hall.

  Malone grabbed the phone in the butler’s pantry and hastily dialed von Flanagan. “The Bradley house. Murder. Get here fast.” Then he dived down the back stairs into the basement.

  Malone grabbed the box of live fuses on top of the box and hurled it through the window. In the same moment little, soft, whispering footsteps came up behind him. He started to whirl around, but a blow came down on the back of his head, bright whirling sparks flashed before his eyes, and he fell into a pit of darkness.

  The first voice he heard was von Flanagan’s. It had an anxious note in it, but it said, “Don’t worry, he’ll be okay. Malone’s tough.”

  Then Gerda Powell’s voice said, “Oh! Please! Do something! Call an ambulance! Call a doctor!”

  Malone opened one eyelid an infinitesimal fraction of an inch. Gerda Powell still had on the operating gown, and the gauze headcovering. Her face was white, and lovely. The gown didn’t come together all the way, and he confirmed his earlier conviction that her figure was as lovely as her face.

  “You’d better go get your clothes on,” he said, “because you have a dinner date, and you’re late for it. Remember?”

  “Poor old Bad Luck Bradley didn’t have a thing to do with it,” Malone said. “He was just an unknowing stooge.” He dug a fork into his salad. “That dame, Stella Bradley, was the real brains behind the racket. Dr. Stark was just taken in like a minnow in a net.”

  Von Flanagan said, “That’s all very fine, but I still don’t see—”

  “They were going to murder me tonight,” Gerda whispered. “That Dr. Stark phoned me and said my brother was at the Bradley house. I went there, they bound me and bleached my hair. Then they tied me on the operating table I was to be operated on, and—die.” She choked over her drink.

  “Never look at the past,” Malone said hastily, “when the future is so bright.” He waved at the wait
er and said, “Bring three more, while we wait for the dessert.” Then he lit his cigar and said, “Poor old Bad Luck Bradley thought he was being a philanthropist. While behind his back Stella Bradley and her boy friend, Dr. Stark, did the dirty work. They picked bums who faintly resembled someone else, did some hairdye jobs, and arranged accidents, cashing in on insurance policies. Those accidents all happened to kinfolk of Bradley, who’d taken out policies with him as beneficiary. Your brother—” he turned to Gerda—“happened to look like Jack Truax. Truax pretended to be hurt in a skiing accident. Someone looking like Truax died of injuries inflicted by Dr. Stark. Your brother happened to get loose long enough to phone for help, but it was too late.”

  “But the insurance money went to Bradley,” Gerda said.

  “Sure,” Malone said. “And Bradley had a lovely blonde niece in New York, who was his only living relative. He really did have that niece once, but she’s probably in a concrete coffin in the bottom of the East River now. Stella Bradley was able to manage a double life, the time she presumably spent in sanatoriums, she really spent building up the phony character as Bradley’s niece.”

  “If I owe you an apology,” von Flanagan said, “you can take an I.O.U. for it, and try to collect.” He rose, held out a hand to Gerda, and said, “Dance?”

  Malone strolled up to the bar, ordered a drink, and stood watching approvingly. She was lovely, very lovely. Her hair was like a silver mist. She danced like a flower in the wind. Von Flanagan would probably go home pretty soon now. Then he and Gerda would begin to make plans.

  He killed a little time losing four dollars in a crap game with the bartender. When he looked around again, Gerda was gone, and so was von Flanagan.”

  The doorman was surprised and helpful. “The young lady? She left fifteen minutes ago, with Mr. von Flanagan.”

  Malone went back to the bar. Life was altogether sour. Still, there was a guy two stools down who looked as though he might sing a healthy baritone and there was a promising looking tenor over at the pinball table.

  The little lawyer sighed, called for drinks for the house, and began singing, softly, and under his breath.

  “Did your mother come from Ireland—”

  It would only be a matter of time he was sure before someone would join him.

  THE END OF FEAR

  Fear followed her like a little black cat padding along behind her, ready to pounce and spring, all claws out, set to strike at any moment. She pushed it aside as she would have pushed away a shadow, pulling the furs a little closer around her throat, puffing so nervously at a cigarette that it became a flaming torch between her chilled fingers.

  Was anybody looking at her?

  Yes. Everyone was. She could feel the impact of their eyes. Casual strangers, people going home from the movies, from the corner drugstore, from the liquor store. They were staring at her. Their eyes were burning holes in her cheaply carried poise just as her cigarette had burned a hole in the brown blanket she’d thrown away so casually on the beach.

  People were looking at her and she was trying to look right back at them, trying to tell them with her eyes, I’m not afraid of you.

  She found a phone booth at last, fumbled through her coin purse for a dime and said to herself, as she dialed the number, things are getting pretty tough, when I have to pay out good money to call a cop.

  In a quiet, controled voice she said, “Police department?” She paused to catch her breath. “I want to report a body on the beach. Near the foot of Colorado Avenue.”

  She hung up fast. And the little black cat began to follow her again.

  She stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach from the overpass. There were lights on the beach how where there had been no lights before. Yellow lights, like cats’ eyes. Little cats, black cats in the dark.

  They would find him any minute now.

  She realized suddenly it might be wise to wash the wet sand and blood from her hands and forearms. It was a quick trip down the stairs from the overpass and up the ocean walk to the little bar where she was know as Mrs. Gabrielle. No time to smile at the bartender now. She paused at the cigarette machine, went on to the room marked HERS and looked at herself in the mirror.

  “Not too bad,” she told herself. Then all at once it was behind her again, the little black cat whose name was Fear.

  The scratch on her face wasn’t going to show too much. She powdered over it as well as she could, braced herself for the walk through the crowded bar, told herself, “I’ve made it this far, I’ll make it the rest of the way.”

  The doorknob was cold and wet in her hands. She clenched it and whispered through her teeth, “Please, in return for all the nickels I ever put in the collection plate in Sunday School, get me out of this.” It was a prayer. “Everybody’s looking at me!”

  She walked through the smoky, crowded bar as calmly and as proudly as the Queen Mary cutting her way through the waves of the Atlantic. Then once the door was closed behind her, she ran crazily through the wet sand of the next door parking lot.

  Why was it that everything she touched was wet? Wet and sticky, like the sand under her feet right now. Fear and the wet sand were holding her back, until she could reach the ultimate safety of her little sheltered room.

  She flung herself through the door and saw his huge bulk waiting, in the little modernistic tin chair in the corner.

  Detective Frank Espinoza said, “Okay, Mrs. Gabrielle, where is it? The gun, I mean.”

  Suddenly—maybe it was just that the little cat had gone to chase someone else through the darkness of ultimate terror—fear left her like a coat. Not a coat dropped carelessly on the floor, but a coat carefully placed on a hanger and hung in a closet.

  She said, “You’ll find it out on the sand.”

  “And the briefcase?”

  “You’ll find it out on the sand too,” she told him. “Intact.”

  Espinoza chuckled. He pulled himself up from his chair and said, “I’ll be back, little sweetheart.” He lurched through the door into the darkness. She followed him silently.

  For one moment she tried to remember some of the things people had liked about Espinoza. There weren’t enough of them to swing the balance.

  Was someone following behind her? Imagination, she told herself. But she didn’t dare look around.

  Perhaps the last mistake Espinoza had made in his life was being a trusting fool. At least he might have searched her for the gun. It felt like a kiss in her hand as she squeezed it.

  She thought she heard another gun. No, it must have been an echo of her own.

  Espinoza’s two hundred and eighty pounds hit the wet sand like a sack dropped from a balloon.

  This was a time to pause, she said to herself. This is the time to think things over. No one was going to bother her for a little while, a while long enough to get moving, get going. She lit a cigarette, walked into the kitchenette and poured herself a glass of water. No one lived near enough to the little beach house to have heard the shot and the village’s quota of cops were busy two miles down the stretch of sand at the foot of Colorado avenue, looking for the body of Jack Barrone.

  She pulled the briefcase from behind the sofa, stuck it in her suitcase, piled clothes, lingerie, makeup kit, on top of it. She went through the place, carefully destroying everything that might prove she had ever been there. Then she dressed and made up carefully, slowly.

  A cab? No, better do this on foot. She climbed the stairs again, but not as breathlessly now. The lights were still flashing up and down the beach, but now she could ignore them. She walked into the bus station, bought her ticket.

  There was no more fear.

  But it wasn’t until the bus was an hour out of town, roaring through the darkness, that she knew for sure she was going to get away with it.

  Everything about the room was brown, including its antiseptic smell, left there by the cleaning woman who had gone an hour before.

  The scrubby lit
tle man at the desk lit a new cigarette, threw the match inaccurately at the wastebasket and said, “All right, Espinoza was killed. For my money, he should have been strangled at birth. But that’s beside the point. We’ve got an all-points out for the babe and we’ll get her. And I’m going to pin one small medal on her thirty seconds before they close the door on the gas chamber.”

  “How about the other guy?” a lazy-eyed, husky man asked.

  “Not identified yet. We got a bullet out of him, got one out of Espinoza and dug a third out of the piling in front of her beach house. Ballistics is working on them now. They’ll match.”

  A tall thin man in a brown suit stirred in his chair and said, “It says in the Bill of Rights, or some place, that the babe is innocent until proven guilty. She probably had a good reason for shooting Espinoza.”

  The man behind the desk laughed and said, “Who didn’t!” He laughed again and spat on the floor.

  A fourth man, carrying a camera, said, “Okay Andy, let’s save Espinoza’s personality for the obit column, and give me the straight dope on the story. Because right now I’ve only got until seven A.M., and tomorrow’s my day off—I hope!”

  Jerry, you’ve got as much as we have,” Detective Andy Connelly said. “The gal is named Mrs. Gabrielle, as far as we know. We have reason to believe she has more names than you can tattoo on your fat left arm, and believe it or not, the one at the top of the list is Mary Smith.”

  The tall, thin man blew smoke through his nose. “Of the Minnesota Smiths. Iron mines. She didn’t inherit all the money in the world, just half of it.”

  “In that case, Mr. Brown,” Andy said, “why does she bother with smuggling narcotics and shooting people?” His voice was cold. He didn’t like private detectives.

  “Just an impulsive child,” Mr. Brown said dreamily. He didn’t like cops. His face became serious. He turned to the newspaper man. “She is impulsive. The estate trustees hired me a few years ago to stick around her, either keep her out of jams, or get her out of them.”