by Craig Rice
“I know where Miss Rawlson will be later in the afternoon,” Malone said. He spoke slowly, and as though he were controlling his temper with a great effort. “I shall have words with Miss Rawlson later, and endeavor to learn how she knew that the midget was dead. In the meantime I have had no sleep, and I have things on my mind, and if you heckle me any more, Mrs. Justus, I am going to wring your damned neck.” He tossed the cigar out the window and lapsed into a gloomy silence.
Helene giggled.
“By the way,” Jake said suddenly. “Annette Ginnis. Where the hell was she while all these things were going on? She left the Casino early, and for an hour or so she was seen in and out of a bunch of night clubs with her intended victim. But where did she and the intended victim part, and why, and under what circumstances?” He drew a long breath. “There’s a lot of things I’d like to ask Annette Ginnis.”
“Me too,” Helene said. “And I’m going back there after a little while, because I’m the person she’ll give the answers to.” She was silent while she turned off Michigan avenue. “I’ve a whole lot of things I want to know. For one, will we be able to talk von Flanagan out of this silly notion of holding Allswell McJackson?”
“For another,” Malone growled, “are we going to be able to keep our part in last night’s affair quiet, or am I going to end up as usual, running around bribing cops? And if I am this guy McJackson’s lawyer, will I be able to get any dough out of him.”
“For one more,” Jake said unhappily, “what am I going to use to replace the midget in tonight’s floor show at the Casino?”
“Malone,” Helene suggested, “giving a lecture on legal ethics.”
There was silence the rest of the way to von Flanagan’s office.
At the homicide officer’s door, Malone paused. “Let me do the talking, remember. He can’t legally hold McJackson, but it may be hard to make him realize it.”
“Making von Flanagan realize things,” Helene said, “has never been child’s play. But we’ll keep our mouths shut, if that’s what you’re leading up to.”
They passed through the anteroom. Malone tapped on the door to von Flanagan’s office. A voice beyond it called, “Come in.” The little lawyer opened the door just as a large white egg rolled across the floor and crashed against the leg of a chair.
Von Flanagan said, “Hell’s bells!” in a voice that was more despairing than angry.
“You see, Captain,” Allswell McJackson said mildly, “I told you that you should practice it with blown eggs instead of raw ones.”
“Haven’t time,” von Flanagan growled. He glared up at the trio who had just come in. “Shut that door. What the devil do you want?” Before anyone could speak, he went on, “As a matter of fact, you’re just who I wanted to see. Would you mind running out and getting me a dozen large, well-shaped eggs?”
“Not at all,” Malone said calmly. He tossed his overcoat over the back of a chair. “How have you been feeling lately, von Flanagan?”
“There’s a couple more eggs here,” Allswell McJackson said.
“How do you feel, Allswell?” Helene asked, in a sympathetic tone.
Von Flanagan’s desk was littered with a miscellany of string, handkerchiefs, playing cards, an upturned derby hat, and the ruins of another egg. Jake stared at the collection for a moment, then strolled across the room to where Allswell McJackson was leaning his six-foot-six against the wall, and looked at the title of the book in his hand.
“How to Become a Magician,” he read aloud.
“Look, Jake,” von Flanagan said. He picked up the playing cards. “Watch me very closely. Now pick a card. Any card.”
“No, no, no,” Allswell McJackson said. “You aren’t doing it right.” He took the cards from the policeman. “Now, Mr. Justus.” He assumed all the airs of a great magician. “Will you be so kind, sir, as to take a card? Any card, any card at all. I thank you, sir. And now watch very closely”—The pack of cards he was carefully riffling suddenly seemed to explode in his hands and scatter over the floor. A look of comic despair came over the big man’s face. “They slipped,” he explained in a small voice, stooping to gather them up again.
“But the one I picked?” Jake said.
“You must have it in your hand,” Allswell McJackson said sadly, looking up from the floor. “That’s the only place it can be.”
Helene giggled.
“This is serious,” von Flanagan said sternly. “Never mind the cards. I’ll show ’em the egg trick.” He took one of the remaining eggs from the paper bag on his desk. “Now you look what I’m gonna do.” He pulled the derby hat closer to him, and spread out the handkerchief. A look of almost devotional concentration came over his large, red face. “This is gonna be good. Now look.” He slipped the egg into his pocket, and said, “Hell, you guys know I’ve got an egg here. So I ain’t gonna act like it comes out of the hat by itself. But just watch what happens.” He began monkeying with the handkerchief.
“Not like that!” Allswell McJackson exclaimed, in the tones of a wounded artist. “Look, I’ll show you again. And show them, too.” He took the remaining egg from the paper bag and put it into his own pocket. Then he made a new arrangement of the string, the handkerchief, and the derby hat. “Ladies and gentlemen: The question has long been debated, which came first, the chicken or the egg. Tonight I shall attempt to answer it for you, by producing an egg without the aid of a chicken—indeed, with no more than an ordinary derby hat and a handkerchief borrowed from this gentleman in the audience.” He was making motions with the hat and the handkerchief as he spoke. “I will appreciate your watching very closely.” He took one corner of the handkerchief between his teeth. An unconcealed loop of string began to move slowly; he hastily tucked it out of sight. Suddenly a triumphant look came into his eyes. Still holding the handkerchief in his mouth, he cried out, “Kut-kut-kut-ka-daw-kut!” in a fair imitation of a Rhode Island Red hen with something to announce. The handkerchief fluttered slightly, the egg bounced lightly into the derby hat, and bounced out again, landing on Allswell McJackson’s vest at the exact moment that the amateur magician lost his balance, tripped over the edge of the rug, and slid across the floor to land at Jake’s feet.
“Wonderful!” Malone said. “I never saw a better trick in my life.”
Allswell McJackson shook his head sadly. “I knew we should have used blown eggs. Or hard-boiled ones.” He began dabbing at his vest with the handkerchief.
“Just the same,” von Flanagan said indignantly, “it’s a hell of a good trick, and with a little more coaching from my pal here, I can learn to do it.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Malone said. “But why?”
The big policeman sat down behind his desk and lit his pipe. “I don’t know if I ever told you or not,” he began slowly, “but I never wanted to be a cop. And it ain’t my fault I turned out to be a cop.”
“I know the story,” Malone said wearily. “You never would have been a cop, only some politician owed your old man dough, so you got appointed to the force, and you’ve been trying to get off it ever since.”
Von Flanagan looked hurt. It was his story, and he wanted to tell it.
“You were going to retire and run a mink ranch,” the little lawyer went on mercilessly. “All you’d have to do, you said, was buy two mink and just wait. Then you were going to buy a Georgia pecan grove and raise nuts. And then it was to be a country newspaper. You wanted to be a journalist.” He paused for breath.
“Look,” von Flanagan said unhappily. “For any one of those things you have to have an investment. And with kids in school, and the kind of tastes my wife has, and with all my relatives, and all her relatives, and”—He sighed heavily. “But you don’t have to have an investment,” he finished, “to go on the stage.”
“So that’s it,” Jake said.
“It’s an easy life,” von Flanagan said. “You don’t have much work to do, you don’t have to get up in the morning early, and you get to travel all the
time. And when you travel, you don’t have all your inlaws trailing along with you.”
“I see exactly what you mean,” Helene said sympathetically.
He beamed at her. “Only,” he said, “I couldn’t decide what to do. I can’t be an actor, I’m not the type. I’m too fat to dance. And I can’t sing.”
“I don’t know about that,” Malone said, relighting his cigar. “I’ve heard you do some surprising things with ‘My Wild Irish Rose.’”
Von Flanagan ignored him. “And it takes too long to learn to be an acrobat. What was left?”
“A magician!” Helene exclaimed. “Just the thing!”
“Jake,” von Flanagan said, with feeling, “you’ve got a wonderful wife. I hope you appreciate her.” He drew a long breath. “I got this little book, and I been practicing. But it’s hard to figure those tricks out for yourself. So when I found out the professor here is a magician—”
“For the hundredth time,” Allswell said weakly, “I’m not a professor.”
“You may not be a professor,” von Flanagan said to him, “but you sure as hell are a magician.”
The giant blushed. “I learned a lot of magic tricks once. Used to do them at the college shows. Only,” his brow contracted, “I never seem to do them quite right.”
“That’s okay, pal,” von Flanagan told him affectionately. “You know how, and that’s the thing.”
Malone cleared his throat. “Fun is fun,” he said, “and all that. But we didn’t come down here to watch a vaudeville show.” He assumed his sternest look. “Now look here, von Flanagan,” he said in a loud voice, “you can’t hold this man in jail, and you know it.”
Von Flanagan looked up, surprised. “Sure I know it. I don’t need a lawyer to tell me that. The doc says that the midget couldn’t have been killed later than two o’clock, from what was in his stomach, and what the headwaiter at that joint of Jake’s says he ate last. Besides, he wasn’t killed at his apartment. He was killed someplace else and took there. So it wouldn’t have had to be someone with a key to the apartment, because there would be the midget’s own key, right in his pocket. And that Doll dame gives the professor an alibi for all the time up to three in the morning.”
He knocked his pipe against the side of the wastebasket. “Besides, a swell guy like the professor wouldn’t murder anybody. He could have gone home a coupla hours ago if he’d wanted to, only we been busy.”
Malone glanced around the littered office and said, “I hope you’ll pardon us for disturbing you.”
Helene settled herself on a corner of von Flanagan’s desk, and smiled at him. “Do you have any idea who did murder the midget, or oughtn’t I to ask?” Her voice was dangerously sweet.
“I ain’t saying,” von Flanagan told her. “Not yet. But I got my eye on somebody. One of the Hook’s boys. Name of Johnny Oscar. He was mixed up with the midget someway, and he’s the kind of a guy who would murder a midget.”
Helene nodded slowly. “It’s wonderful of you to be able to figure that out,” she breathed.
Von Flanagan seemed about to purr. “Professor,” he said, “show the lady that dollar-bill trick.”
“Some other time,” Allswell said modestly.
“Oh no,” Helene said. “I’d love to see the dollar-bill trick. And I’m sure these gentlemen would, too.”
“Very well,” the giant agreed. “Has anyone here got a dollar bill?”
It developed that only Malone could oblige.
“I’ll give it right back to you,” Allswell promised. He took two Official Business envelopes from von Flanagan’s desk, placed the dollar bill in one and a slip of paper in the other. Then he turned his back on them for a moment. When he turned around again only one envelope was in his hand. “Your attention, please. Do not take your eyes from me for even a second. But the flight of a dollar bill, ladies and gentlemen, can be quicker than the eye.” He laughed hollowly, made a few quick motions with his handkerchief. “Money to burn, ladies and gentlemen, money to burn.”
It was a familiar routine, and Allswell performed it expertly, complete with the burning of the envelope before their eyes, and ending with the mysterious reappearance of the envelope under Malone’s coattail.
“See?” von Flanagan said triumphantly. “I told you so!”
“Like the phoenix from the ashes,” Allswell McJackson said, “it returns, unharmed. Your dollar bill, Mr. Malone.” He handed over the envelope with a flourish. “Of course,” he added in his normal tones, “you had to see me fix the dummy envelope that I burned. But then you probably know how it’s done anyway.”
“You mystified me,” Malone said.
The little lawyer tore open the envelope. It contained the blank slip of paper. “Is this part of the trick?” he asked.
Allswell McJackson’s eyes bulged, almost filled with tears. He shook his head, his jaw dropping. “Oh my God!” he moaned. “I burned up the wrong envelope!”
It developed that the big amateur magician could not leave with them. Von Flanagan was going to keep him there for another hour’s lesson if, he growled, he had to arrest him all over again.
As Jake closed the door after them, they could hear von Flanagan saying, “Now, professor, you take a card—”
“I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in weeks,” Jake said. For the first time that day, his voice sounded cheerful.
Malone snorted. “I’m glad you did.”
“Why, Malone?” Helene began.
“Not only,” the lawyer roared, “do you get me a client who probably can’t ever pay me a cent. Not only do you do that: you have to get me one who burns up my last one-dollar bill!”
Chapter Nineteen
“I know a good trick I’d like to see done,” Malone said crossly, “and that’s to make the whole damn shebang of you disappear, so I could go home and get some sleep.” He lit a fresh cigar and tossed the match out the window of Helene’s car. “As a matter of fact, my only interest in this mess was the client you wished on me, and he’s in the clear now. So that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned.”
“You can’t do that to us,” Helene objected. “How about who murdered the midget?”
“None of my business,” Malone said.
“How about Pen Reddick’s box?”
Malone said slowly, “Say, that’s a thought. Maybe I can talk Reddick into bringing action against Jake for assault and battery. He’s rich enough to be a first-class client, and,” he added generously, “I’d even split the fee with Jake.”
“You’re a very wicked man,” Helene said severely. “How about Annette Ginnis?”
“A charming girl,” Malone said, “but not exactly my type.”
“How about Ruth Rawlson?”
“You leave her out of this,” Malone snapped. He added in a milder tone, “And you’d better leave yourselves out of this, too, or you’ll get into more trouble.”
“Malone’s right,” Jake said slowly. “There’s nothing we can do except sit tight and say nothing. So we’ll drop Malone at his office. He probably has other things to tend to besides our affairs. And I’ve got to see about tonight’s show, and publicity, and a million other things. And you’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Don’t we all,” Helene said bitterly. She sighed, swung the car into Clark street, and said, “Have it your way, but I’ve a hunch you’re going to be sorry. Remember, von Flanagan knows the midget wasn’t murdered in his apartment and that his body was moved there. And he isn’t so dumb. Suppose he stumbles on the fact that we hid the midget’s body in that fiddle case?”
“We’ll tell him we were practicing a magic act,” Jake said wearily, “and try to teach it to him. Don’t bother me, woman. I’ve got things on my mind.”
It was a worn and haggard Malone who left the car at the corner of Clark and Washington streets and walked the few steps to his office building. Losing a night’s sleep was nothing serious. It had happened before and would happen again. But he was depressed, puzzl
ed, and worried. Not over the murder of Jay Otto, the Big Midget, but over a little matter of raising enough money to entertain Ruth Rawlson in the style he’d dreamed of, back there in 1921.
He glanced at a clock in a shop window and realized he’d have to work fast, too. The banks would be closing in a couple of hours. Meanwhile—
“There’s always a way of handling things,” he told himself sternly.
There was a heavy frown on his face as he rode up to his office. But by the time he opened his office door, he beamed at the plump little black-haired office girl, and was brisk and businesslike.
“Good morning, Maggie.”
She laid down her magazine and looked at him disapprovingly. “Out all night again.”
He pretended not to have heard her. “Maggie, I’ve a little errand for you to do, if you don’t mind. Take a check out and get it cashed for me. Not at the bank, but anywhere you can get it cashed.”
She sniffed. “The bank called up this morning,” she said coldly, “to say that the fifty-dollar check you cashed at the Club Alabam night before last just came in and bounced.”
Malone looked mildly surprised. “Oh, it did, did it? I forgot about that check.”
He went into his office, threw his hat on one corner of the couch and his overcoat on the other, sat down at his desk, and rested his forehead on his hands.
This was what came, he told himself, of letting unscrupulous women play on his sympathies. Of going back again and again to a gambling joint he knew was crooked. Of being an easy touch. Of taking the fat fee he’d collected from that bookie he’d defended last week and lending it to a policeman’s widow, instead of spending it extravagantly on himself. This was how things turned out. You worked and saved and drove a hack to send yourself through law school, only to end up twenty years later with a date with Ruth Rawlson, and exactly sixteen cents in your pants.
The little lawyer sighed and unlocked the desk drawer marked “Confidential” just as Maggie opened the office door and peeked in.
