by Craig Rice
Arlene Goudge was still sitting hopefully by the telephone when they climbed back up to the Enterprise office. It developed that the evening’s calm had been marred by only two events. Buttonholes had discovered an enterprising citizen showing visitors the scene of the murder in the courthouse for ten cents a head, and had called the police. An hour later the police discovered Buttonholes showing visitors the scene of the crime for twenty-five cents a head, and threw him in the city jail.
Tom Burrows waved to the wistful Arlene to join them and led the way to the intersection of Main and Second Streets. Here the pressure of the crowd reminded Malone of Bathhouse John’s on Election Eve, save that this crowd was a little rougher. They managed to shove a path through to the center, where the newscaster, a round-faced, perspiring young man, was talking rapidly into a portable microphone, while his equally perspiring assistant tried to push back the crowd.
“We’ve missed the overture,” Helene whispered.
By the time they were within hearing distance, Mr. Goudge was being interviewed. He declared that he had known Senator Peveley, man and boy, for fifty years, “and a finer, more Christian gentleman you couldn’t ask to find. A member of our Brotherhood of Churchmen, and a pillar of the community. His death is a great loss to Jackson County.”
The newscaster explained that he only wanted to know if Mr. Goudge had any theories about the murder.
At this point a perspiring third assistant ran up and handed the newscaster a sheet of paper.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this interview for an important news bulletin. We have just received the information that Sheriff Marvin Kling has arrested District Attorney Jerry Luckstone and lodged him in the county jail, for the murder of Senator Gerald Peveley—”
Ed Skindingsrude, who had been standing on the platform, forgot the nation-wide radio audience.
“No,” he shouted. “No, Jerry didn’t kill him.”
Chapter Eight
The crowd milled around excitedly, their din making it impossible to hear what was being said on the platform.
Arlene Goudge clutched desperately at Tom Burrows’ arm and began crying, “He didn’t do it, he didn’t do it,” over and over.
Malone took one look at the girl and said, “Get her out of here. Jake, you edge up there and hear what the old guy has to say. Come along, Helene.”
They pushed through the crowd and half dragged the girl back to the office of the Enterprise. She was still repeating, “He didn’t do it,” when Helene kicked the door shut behind them.
Tom Burrows shoved her into a chair, slapped her roughly, and said, “Stop that!” Then as a flood of tears threatened, he whipped out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and said, “You poor baby.”
She looked up at them, her eyes wild. “You’ve got to do something. Can’t you get Jerry out of jail? Can’t you prove he didn’t do it, or find out who did, or—something?”
“My dear young lady,” Malone began.
This time she really burst into tears, curled up in the chair, buried her face in her arms, and cried like a kitten. It was the last straw for Malone.
“Don’t cry,” he roared at her. “I’ll do something. I’ll do anything. I’ll get him out of jail. For the love of Mike, stop it!”
She paused long enough to blow her nose on Helene’s handkerchief, push back her hair, and say, “Oh, Mr. Malone!”
“Now look here,” Malone said, with a vague attempt at sounding stern.
She blew her nose again and looked at him with wide, miserable eyes. “Jerry didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”
“Womanly intuition isn’t enough,” Malone said. “Or do you know, for sure?”
She pinned back the last strand of damp hair. “He was trying to make friends with Senator Peveley. Because he was engaged Florence. And Senator Peveley didn’t like him. He told me so.”
“Senator Peveley?” Malone asked, trying to keep up.
“No. Jerry. He was engaged to marry Florence, and the Senator didn’t like him, and so he was trying to make friends with him, and so of course he wouldn’t have murdered him.”
“That’s perfectly right,” Helene said sympathetically. “That isn’t the way I make friends with people, either.”
It seemed to Malone that there was a grain of logic there somewhere, but he couldn’t just put his finger on it. He started to ask another question, when Arlene Goudge rose, tucked her compact in her purse, and opened the door. She was beginning to cry again.
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said almost indignantly, and slammed the door on her way out.
For a good thirty seconds nobody said anything. Tom Burrows turned white, then red, then white again. Suddenly he dived out the door, as it slammed they could hear him saying, “Wait, Arlene. But, Arlene—”
Malone stood blinking at the door. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“You can get books that explain it,” Helene said. “It’s just like the flowers and the little fish.”
“I mean,” Malone said patiently, “what does that have to do with the murder of Senator Peveley?” He mopped his brow. “The thing I like about little towns,” he said, “is that they’re so quiet and peaceful. Nothing ever happens.”
“Listen, Malone,” Helene said. “I’m trying to figure out whose girl she is. This afternoon when she telephoned Tom Burrows she said something about having promised not to call him up again. And she cried about it. But he looks completely flabbergasted about the whole thing. And here she is all of a flutter to get Jerry Luckstone out of jail, and he’s engaged to another girl anyway.” She sighed. “They certainly do everything the hard way in Jackson County.”
“Don’t bother me,” Malone growled at her. “I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying over who’s in love with whom, and who is the father of Arlene Goudge’s child. All I want to do is get you and Jake out of this mess and get back to Chicago.”
“You promised—” Helene began.
“She was hysterical,” Malone muttered. “She won’t hold me to it. Besides,” he paused and added, “I didn’t promise to get this guy out of jail. I promised to do something, but I didn’t say what it was.”
Before Helene could make any comments, Jake arrived, hot and breathless.
Ed Skindingsrude, he explained, had refused to enlarge on his startled and startling statement.
“Probably,” Helene said, “he did it himself.”
“My money’s on Phil Smith,” Jake said. “Anybody who has the reputation of being the gentlest soul in town must have the seeds of murder in him somewhere. Besides, losing a job teaching Greek, Latin, and classical history is a swell motive.”
Malone frowned. “Motives are bound to pile up, probably suitable for half a dozen murders, as we begin to dig into the private lives of this town,” he began.
“We?” Jake demanded.
“A slip of the tongue,” the little lawyer said, blushing. “Don’t give it another thought. Now that the worthy sheriff has clamped somebody in jail, especially somebody as important as the D. A. himself, he won’t want any further truck with you. Tomorrow morning we’ll kiss the dust of Jackson County good-by off our heels, and be on our way.”
“You mean another heel bites the dust,” Helene said.
Suddenly the door of the Enterprise office opened, and a red-haired girl strode in, followed by a short, plump little man with a rosy face and curly white hair.
“I thought I’d find you here,” the girl said.
Jake stared at her. She wasn’t a pretty girl, in fact her dead-white face was definitely on the plain side, but she certainly was a striking one. She was tall, even taller than Helene, and her hair was like a prairie fire. She was dressed in slightly soiled denim slacks.
“Were you looking for us?” Malone asked politely.
“I told her she shouldn’t come here,” the little man said anxiously. “I told her it didn’t look well for her to go wandering all over, especially dressed t
he way she is.” His face wrinkled unhappily.
“You seem to know us,” Jake said. “How about a little reciprocity?”
“l’m Florence Peveley,” the girl said, “and this is Uncle Henry.”
“You see?” Uncle Henry said. “Here her father’s only been dead since one-fifteen this afternoon, and she’s going all over town, dressed like that.” He looked appealingly at Malone. “What will people think?”
“I don’t give a good red damn what people think,” Florence Peveley said impatiently. “Never have, and I don’t intend to start in now. Look here, you”—she was addressing Malone—“I know all about you. One of those reporters told me your life history, practically. Thank God you’re here. You’ve got to do something about this.”
Malone blinked. “About what?”
She scowled at him. “That insane sheriff locking Jerry up for murder. It’s absurd. Jerry’s the damnedest fool I ever knew in my life, but he wouldn’t murder anybody, especially Pa.”
“That’s a fine way to talk about the man you’re engaged to,” Uncle Henry said disapprovingly.
“The hell with all that,” the red-haired girl said. “Are you going to do something, or aren’t you?”
“What do you want him to do?” Helene asked helpfully.
“Find out who the hell—pardon me, who killed Pa, and get Jerry out of jail. can’t have my fiancé in jail, it looks like the devil.” She smiled at Helene. “I like you, you look as if you had sense.”
“Thanks,” Helene said, “I have. I like you, too. I always wished I had red hair.”
“Do you? It’s a terrible nuisance in weather like this, there’s so much of it.” She turned back to Malone. “You can practically name your fee, I have plenty of money. At least I hope I have.” She looked at the worried Uncle Henry. “Pa never did change his will, did he?”
The white-haired man shook his head speechlessly.
“Thank God. If I’d thought he really meant it, l’d have shot him myself. How much do you think it ought to set me back, Mr. Malone?”
“I am planning to go back to Chicago tomorrow morning,” the little lawyer began stiffly.
She interrupted him with two startling syllables, and added, “A thousand, two thousand, whatever it’s worth to you. Name it.”
“Ten thousand,” Malone said recklessly.
“That’s pretty steep. How about five?”
“l’ll split the difference,” he said instinctively.
“O. K. Seventy-five hundred. But start now, and make it snappy. Come on, Uncle Henry.” She turned toward the door.
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “I haven’t said I’d do anything yet.”
“Nonsense, nobody ever turned down seventy-five hundred bucks. Come and see me first thing in the morning, and I’ll give you all the dope on Pa.”
Helene said, “Wait, Miss Peveley. It isn’t settled yet.”
“Of course it’s settled,” the girl told her. “And I’ve got to beat it home, or one of those God-damned photographers is liable to catch up with me. I don’t want my picture on the back page of the Tribune in these pants.” She opened the door, said, “See you in the morning, Mr. Malone,” and was gone, followed by Uncle Henry.
Jake waited sixty seconds, and said, “Whew!”
“The hell with her,” Malone said, “and the bell with her seventy-five hundred bucks. Still,” he added after a moment, “that would buy a lot of pork chops.”
“What you do is your own business,” Jake said firmly. “But we are not staying in Jackson County.”
“Now look here,” Malone roared. “You got me up here and got me into this.”
“l’ll give you a reasonable fee for legal advice and your bus fare,” Jake said, “and for the love of Mike, go back to Chicago and don’t mess with small-town murders.”
“I guess I know my own business,” Malone sad angrily, “and seventy-five hundred bucks—”
“Is a lot of money,” Tom Burrows said, Corning in the door. “For that, you can buy the Jackson County Enterprise. Or for half that.”
“I don’t want it,” Malone said. He lighted a cigar. “How’s the girl?”
“All right, I guess. She was pretty well calmed down when I left her at the corner near her house. Her old man doesn’t approve of boy friends bringing her home. I mean, he just doesn’t approve of boy friends.” The young man fanned himself with a copy of last week’s Enterprise. “Look here, I don’t quite know what you think. I mean, about—” he stopped and seemed to wonder what to say next.
“Well, are you?” Helene asked politely.
He frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’m not. I don’t know, though—”
“Make up your mind,” Helene told him.
Tom Burrows frowned. “It’s a kind of long and complicated story.”
He didn’t have a chance to tell it. The door opened again and the well-tailored, gray-haired Miss McGowan walked in, accompanied by a gangling, stoop-shouldered deeply sunburned man. Malone guessed this was the farmer brother. Seen at dose range Ellen McGowan appeared more marvelously efficient than ever.
“You’re Mr. Malone, aren’t you?” she said crisply. “l’ve been hearing about you.”
The little lawyer bowed. “I’m Mr. Malone,” he said, “and what you’ve been hearing about me is probably correct. But if you’re here to ask me to get Jerry Luckstone out of jail, you’re wasting a lovely evening. Because I’m going back to Chicago on the next bus I can get.”
She frowned. “I certainly hope you don’t mean that,” she said. “And if you do, I hope you’ll change your mind. Nobody in this county has the sense of a chicken, and Jerry’s got to be gotten out of that jail.” She set her lips in a firm line.
“Why?” Malone asked politely.
“Because,” she said, “he didn’t murder Senator Peveley. And what’s more, I know it.”
Chapter Nine
“There seems to be a popular impression in Jackson that I’m omnipotent,” Malone said slowly. “It’s very flattering except that I’m afraid I can’t deliver the goods. Really, there’s nothing I can do to free this young man except blow up the jail.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary.” Miss McGowan smiled wanly. “Can’t you find out who did murder Senator Peveley?”
“I’m a lawyer, not a detective,” Malone said.
She made an impatient gesture. “I’ve read about you in the papers. And one of those reporters here today told me about your exploits in the past. So I know what you can do, and heaven knows, nobody else here can do anything.”
“What makes you so sure this young man didn’t do the murder?” Jake asked curiously.
“I know he didn’t.” There was a hard glitter in her gray eyes. “I know, because I was talking with him when I heard the shot.”
“Hell,” Malone said, “why don’t you tell the sheriff that? You’re all the alibi this guy needs to get out of jail.”
“That isn’t enough,” Miss McGowan said. She frowned slightly. “That doesn’t tell who murdered the Senator.”
Malone said casually, “Why do you care? Is it any of your business?”
“Civic affairs should be everybody’s business,” she said firmly. “If they were, there wouldn’t be slot machines, and public graft, and murders.” She drew a long breath. “And roadhouses.” She spoke of the latter as though they were far, far worse than murder.
“Oh come now,” Tom Burrows said pleasantly.
She fixed a cold eye on him. “A disgrace. That’s what they are. Senator Peveley’s daughter was seen out at the Den last night, the night before her poor father was murdered.”
‘Well,” Helene said mildly, “maybe she doesn’t have second sight.”
Malone lit a cigar and snapped the match inaccurately toward a cuspidor. “You say you were talking with Jerry Luckstone when the shot was fìred. Do you remember where anyone else was at the time?”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t n
oticing. Jerry was by the court reporter’s desk in the middle of the room. I was just about to leave when I remembered I wanted to talk to him, so I started over that way. I called to him, but before he could answer, there was the shot.”
A nice, concise report, Malone thought approvingly. She’d make a good witness.
“You ought to trot over and tell that to the sheriff,” he said quietly. “That’s all you need to do.”
“He won’t believe me. Or if he does, he’ll pretend not to believe me, out of pure spite.”
The little lawyer raised his eyebrows.
“Miss McGowan and the sheriff have had a mad on for two years,” Tom Burrows told him. “She fought him all over the county when he was up for election, and since then she’s had the women’s clubs on his tail.”
“Marvin Kling is a vicious character,” the woman said, pressing her lips together. “He and that deputy of his have handed the office back and forth long enough.”
“Sheriff can’t hold office more than two successive terms,” Tom explained. “Marv Kling has a chief deputy, Joe Ryan. Marv holds the office two terms, then Joe runs in the next election and he holds office two terms with Marv as chief deputy. They’re in the tenth year now.”
“That’s not bad going,” Malone said admiringly.
“It’s disgraceful,” Miss McGowan said. She looked disapprovingly at Malone.”
“Still,” the lawyer said hastily, “the sheriff can’t refuse to believe you just because he doesn’t like you.”
“He can,” she told him, “and he would.” She added. “But you can find out who did murder the Senator, and prove the sheriff is unfit to hold office.”
Jake said, “That holds great appeal to me.”
Malone sighed. “I’ll think about it overnight. I need to amble down and see this sheriff tomorrow morning anyway, to bust this silly material-witness business for my friends here. Maybe it’ll give me some ideas.”
Miss McGowan nodded. “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with that.” She nodded and left, her silent brother followed her out of the room.
