by Craig Rice
“And Mr. Malone, there was a man telephoned twice. He said it was urgent—”
Malone waved to her to shut up. “I don’t want to talk to him.”
She banged the door shut again, and he mopped his brow with a soiled and rumpled handkerchief. On top of everything else, someone calling up about that check that had bounced. He’d have to do something about that, too. Just because he’d met some charming people at a bar, at a time when he didn’t have any cash with him, and had forgotten what his bank balance was—
From the drawer marked “Confidential” he drew out a dingy sheet of paper which constituted his sole bookkeeping department, and began poring over it. Its record consisted of people who owed him money, people who had owed him money and had paid it and were therefore crossed off, people to whom he owed money, people to whom he had owed money and had paid it back, likewise crossed off.
The bookkeeping department didn’t tell him anything encouraging. Still, there was one item—“Mr. Fairchild, $25, for services rendered.” That would be better than nothing. He began looking for Mr. Fairchild’s telephone number, just as Maggie reappeared.
“Mr. Malone, it’s the same man, and he insists on talking with you.”
“Tell him I’m not here,” Malone growled. “Tell him I’m in Little America. Tell him you never heard of a Mr. Malone. Tell him to go to hell.”
She shut the door again, and he went on looking for Mr. Fairchild’s number. Finding it at last, he called and was told that Mr. Fairchild had not come into the office yet. He was expected any minute, the impersonal female voice at the other end of the line volunteered.
“Tell him to call me the minute he comes in,” Malone said. “Tell him it’s urgent.” He added, “I don’t suppose you have any idea how long it will be?”
The impersonal voice said that Mr. Fairchild should be in within the next fifteen minutes.
Malone hung up, and looked at his watch. One-forty-five. If Mr. Fairchild called back by two o’clock, Maggie could dash over and pick up the check and cash it by the time the banks closed.
Maggie returned to announce, “I told him everything you said, Mr. Malone, and he said he’d be right over here anyway.”
“When he gets here,” Malone said grimly, “throw him out. You’re a good strong girl.”
He dragged himself over to the closet, threw open the door, and stared at himself in the mirror. An eighteen-hour growth of beard was faintly blue on his chin, his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his cheeks were haggard. A fine-looking guy to be taking Ruth Rawlson out tonight!
“Call that a map?” he asked the mirror indignantly. “I’ve seen better ones in an extra edition of a two-cent newspaper.” He peeled off his coat and tie, tucked in his collar, filled the bowl with hot water, soaked a towel, and held it against his face.
In a minute the phone would ring. Mr. Fairchild. Meantime—Malone sighed into the towel. Who could have killed that little guy last night? He ran over a list of names in his mind. Artie Clute. Would he have wanted to get back his bull fiddle badly enough to have murdered the midget? Yes, he would. But if he’d murdered the midget, he’d have carried away the bull fiddle. Or would he? It would have cast suspicion on him, if he had. Allswell McJackson and Angela Doll. They alibied each other. Allswell must have hated the midget who bullied him, and Angela was sore as a goat over the burlesque of her act. Annette Ginnis. She had motive enough. But at the time when the midget was killed, she was doing the hot spots with Ned Royal.
Do all these people have names beginning with “A”? Malone asked himself, looking at his lathered face in the mirror. Not forgetting Al Omega, the band leader, he thought. If the midget had stumbled onto the runnings-around of Al Omega and Lou Goldsmith’s wife, that could have led to murder.
“Get on to the ‘B’s,’” he muttered, starting to shave. Betty Royal. Did she have reasons, and did she have the opportunity, or, more important, the determination? Who had a name beginning with “C”? Nobody. A, B, C, D, E, F, G—Malone, he told himself sternly, all this has obviously unhinged your mind. Or maybe you just need a good night’s sleep.
He hummed the first twelve letters of the alphabet to the tune of “Skip to My Lu”—and paused suddenly. Pendleton Reddick. The midget had something in that box of his that Pen Reddick wanted, and wanted bad. Pen Reddick was supposedly out with Betty Royal, looking for her brother, at the time of the midget’s murder, but you never could tell about those things. He went on humming. P, Q, R—Ruth Rawlson.
“She had nothing whatever to do with it,” he said aloud.
The phone rang and he leaped to answer it, his face half-covered with lather.
It was not Mr. Fairchild. It was Jake.
Angela Doll was ill. Nothing serious wrong with her: just passed out. Apparently from shock, the hotel doctor had said. What was he, Jake, going to do about tonight’s show if, on top of the midget’s murder, he had to fill in an act to replace Angela Doll?
“Get von Flanagan to come down and do card tricks,” Malone growled, and slammed down the receiver.
He glared at the phone for a moment; at last dialed Mr. Fairchild’s number again. Mr. Fairchild was not in yet. Malone returned to his shaving.
A lot of questions bothered him. Why had the midget been strangled with eleven silk stockings, all different sizes? Did it mean that eleven members of the chorus had combined to carry out his murder, and if so, which one had been left out? There was a reason, an important reason, for those eleven silk stockings, but he couldn’t figure it out. Then, who had moved the fiddle case, with the midget’s body, out of the Casino, and put the midget carefully to sleep in his own bed, and left the fiddle case outside Jake’s door?
The phone rang, and he dropped his razor to answer it. Mr. Fairchild must be in by now.
It was Helene.
“Malone,” she said, “I can’t get hold of Jake. He’s busy somewhere. And I’m terribly worried about Annette Ginnis.”
“Go to sleep,” Malone snapped. “And if you’ve got to worry about someone, worry about me.” He hung up. After a moment’s deliberation he dialed Mr. Fairchild’s number again. After all, it was five minutes till two.
Mr. Fairchild had not come in yet.
Malone swore, kicked an inoffensive wastebasket, and went back to his shave.
There was another thing. The midget’s body had been concealed in the fiddle case; then someone had carried it out of the Casino; then it had reappeared at the hotel in the early morning. But there was a whole collection of people who’d found out about the midget’s murder before it had been officially announced. Angela Doll, Annette Ginnis, Ruth Rawlson, Artie Clute. How did they know?
Back of all the questions he asked himself and tried to answer, there was one he didn’t ask because he didn’t know what it was. Something that bothered him, that he told himself he knew, and yet couldn’t just put a finger on. It was as important as hell, but he couldn’t remember it. If he’d just once be able to think of it, he’d know who’d murdered the midget. He might not know the answers to the other questions that bothered him, but he’d know that one.
The little lawyer finished shaving, dabbed a little talcum powder on his cheeks, combed his hair, and put on his coat and tie. “You’re still a terrible-looking guy to be taking Ruth Rawlson out tonight,” he told the mirror. Taking Ruth Rawlson out! And with what?
The phone rang. There! That must be Mr. Fairchild now. He grabbed the receiver, looking at his watch. Five after two. Well, Maggie could still make it with the check.
It was not Mr. Fairchild on the phone. It was Maggie, calling from the outer office.
“Mr. Malone, the man who called you is here.”
“Tell him to wait a minute,” Malone said. He felt a sudden coldness of the skin as he dialed Mr. Fairchild’s number once more.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Malone, but I’m afraid that Mr. Fairchild isn’t coming in today. No, I don’t know where we could reach him. If he should call in at the o
ffice, I’ll ask him to phone you. Otherwise, I’m sure he’ll call you tomorrow.”
Malone put the phone down gently and said, “Tomorrow I’ll be in a better world, I hope.”
Well, the man who’d come to see about the check could be managed. An apology—“Just an oversight, you know how it is”—a glance at the watch—“I’m afraid it’s too late to get to the bank today, but”—and a promise—“I’ll straighten it out first thing in the morning.”
That wouldn’t take care of the real problem, of course. Ruth Rawlson. Tonight.
Malone squared his shoulders, picked up the phone, and said to Maggie, “Send the gentleman in, please.”
The gentleman was Pen Reddick.
“I hope you weren’t busy,” Pen Reddick said, “because this is really important.”
“Me? Busy?” Malone said with a hollow laugh.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for the past couple of hours,” Pen Reddick went on. He sank into the nearest chair. “But your secretary didn’t seem to know where you were.”
“Sorry,” Malone murmured. He glanced at the young man from the corner of his eye, while he fumbled with the wrapping of a cigar. Pen Reddick’s front tooth appeared to be back in place, but his face was pale and very weary.
“It’s that box,” Pen Reddick said. “I’ve got to get it, you understand. Not because of myself, but because—well, other people. That’s why I came to see you. You do understand, don’t you?”
Malone nodded as if he’d been paying attention. “Of course, of course,” he said, in his best professional tone. He glanced at his watch and realized that if, by some miracle, Mr. Fairchild did call now, Maggie wouldn’t be able to make it to the bank and cash his check unless she went on a rocket ship. And meantime he had to sit listening to Pen Reddick chattering about his damned box.
“I know a lot about you,” Pen Reddick said. “I think that if anyone can get that box for me, you can. What’s more, I think you can find out who murdered—the midget. That’s more important than you think. I can’t explain why, but it is.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Malone said. He wondered if Maggie had any money he could borrow, in a pinch.
“If you’ll take the case,” Pen Reddick said, leaning his elbows on his knees, “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars if you find the box, and another thousand if you find out who murdered him—the midget, I mean.” He stared at Malone for a moment and, getting no answer, said, “I know that isn’t enough, not for a man like you. I’ll double it.”
Malone looked at him for a moment, laid his cigar down in the ash tray with exquisite care, wheeled his chair around and gazed out the window for several seconds, his arms clasped behind his head, and at last turned around to face Pen Reddick with a grave and scowling look.
“These cases are frequently difficult, Mr. Reddick,” he said seriously. “I can’t promise you anything. But I’ll try. I’ll do the best I can.”
Pen Reddick said, “Oh, thank God!” He didn’t say it to Malone.
“Of course,” Malone said, “you understand there are bound to be expenses—”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” Pen Reddick said hastily. “I’ll want to give you a retainer. Will two hundred dollars be enough, for the present?”
Malone caught his breath and then said, slowly, “Yes, I think so.” He looked at his watch. Maggie could still make it to the bank with a check, if she took a cab.
“Good,” Pen Reddick said. He drew out an alligator-skin wallet, took out four fifty-dollar bills, and tossed them across the desk to Malone.
“I’ll find your box,” Malone said hoarsely, “if I have to dig it out of the subway excavations with my bare hands. And I’ll find who murdered the midget if I have to wring a confession out of the mayor.” He tucked the bills into his own wallet and stood up, a sympathetic smile on his face. “My dear young man, you’ve been through a bad time. What you need is a drink. Suppose we go out for one, and then you can tell me everything I’ll need to know about this business.”
“That’s a very good idea,” Pen Reddick said with a wan grin.
Malone picked up his hat and overcoat and opened the door for his new client. “Believe me,” he said feelingly, “you couldn’t be in better hands.”
The telephone was ringing as he stepped through the office door. In the anteroom Maggie stopped him.
“Oh, Mr. Malone. A Mr. Fairchild on the wire.”
The little lawyer beamed at her. “Tell Mr. Fairchild to go straight to hell,” he said pleasantly. “And tell him I’ll send him a greeting card there, sometime.”
Chapter Twenty
“Go to sleep, darling,” Jake whispered. “Pretend it’s night instead of day. Wash your face and brush your hair and take a big bath and climb into bed, and if you can’t drop off right away, well—count sheep.”
He looked at Helene through the half-open door and wondered how anyone could look so flawlessly beautiful at two o’clock in the afternoon, after missing a night’s sleep. Her face was pale, but it was the pallor of flower petals. One shining strand of hair had slipped from its moorings and fallen across her cheek, and he resisted an impulse to become maudlinly poetic about it. There was a tiny smudge of soot on her right cheek. He felt that if he kept on looking at it he would burst into childish tears.
“Wash your face and brush your hair,” he repeated gruffly. “You look like a hag.”
He closed the door and went on down the hall toward the elevator. No man had a right even to wish for a girl like Helene to fall in love with him and marry him, and if by a miracle one did—well, then he certainly ought to surround her with all the most wonderful things in the world. “At least,” he said to himself grimly, punching the elevator button, “you ought to keep her in night clubs.”
Something had to be done about tonight’s show, and done fast.
But what? Substitute something for the midget’s act, and ignore the whole situation? Call off tonight’s whole floor show and make a publicity stunt of it? Or, he thought with a wry smile, interrupt the show for a minute of silence? In this case, perhaps, a half-minute of silence.
There was Max Hook’s loan, that had to be paid back in a hurry. There was Angela Doll, having tantrums. There was the question of who murdered the midget—not that he, Jake, cared a hoot. There was Pen Reddick and his damned box. There was—
“I could do with a few sheep to count myself, right now,” he said.
The elevator operator grinned at him as he opened the door. “ ’Morning, Mr. Justus. We sure have a lot of excitement around here, haven’t we?” He closed the doors but, before starting the car down, he turned around to Jake and asked in a quiet voice, “Say, just between us guys, is it the straight dope that one of his babes did him in?”
“I don’t know,” Jake said, fumbling for a cigarette, “but could be.”
“Beats me,” the operator said, shrugging his shoulders. He put one hand on the lever. “What would you imagine a babe would see in a little feller like that? You’d think”—He coughed, and started the elevator downward. “Maybe guys like us just don’t know about the babes. Time and time again I’ve brought him up in the car with some gorgeous-looking dame. Betcha he’s brought home every damn gal in the Casino chorus, one time or another. What he did with ’em when he got ’em home, I don’t even wanna guess.”
“Oh go ahead,” Jake said. “Go on and guess. Don’t be a reactionary.”
The operator stopped the elevator two floors down, opened the doors and peered out. “False alarm,” he announced. Then, his hand on the lever, he turned to Jake. “Can you imagine it? Beautiful babes like that, all foxed up in swell clothes and furs, and these fancy hair-dos, and figures like”—he whistled—“and this bastard, three feet tall if he stretched himself—” He shook his head. “Well, maybe we just don’t know about the dames, Mr. Justus.” He started the car down again.
“You certainly see what’s going on,” Jake said politely, thinking of everything el
se in the world.
“Listen,” the elevator operator said in a low voice, “I could tell you more dirt if I wanted to!” He stopped the car at the fifth floor, without opening the doors. “I bet you any money this midget was putting the bite on Al Omega and Mrs. Goldsmith. Why? Because once when the midget and Al Omega were riding up in the elevator together, I heard the little feller say, ‘If he knew about this, he’d kill her with his own bare hands, and you know it.’ And I’ve taken Mrs. Goldsmith up to Al Omega’s floor more’n once. For that matter, I’ve taken her up to the midget’s floor more’n once.”
“Well,” Jake said, without conviction, and encouragingly, “it’s none of our business.”
The elevator shot down to the first floor. When it stopped there, the door still closed, the operator turned around and looked confidingly at Jake.
“Sure it’s none of our business,” he said in a low voice, “but Mr. Justus, I do wanna tell you one thing. You know a guy hears a lot that’s being said, running an elevator up and down. Well, one night this midget said a very funny thing.”
Jake said, “If it’s funny enough, I’ll laugh.”
“This Mrs. Goldsmith was with him,” the operator continued. “And just when she got in the elevator she was saying, ‘Aren’t you afraid of anything?’” He paused for dramatic effect.
“And was he?” Jake said.
“The little guy,” the operator murmured, “he said, ‘Yes, I am.’ And she said, ‘Oh, you are! What is it?’” He paused for breath, then went on. “You wouldn’t believe how well I can remember everything I overhear in this elevator. Like what you said to Mrs. Justus the time she got arrested for speeding up near Waukegan. You said—”
“Never mind,” Jake told him hastily. “I believe you. What did the midget say he was afraid of?”
“He—” The operator paused, scratched one ear, and then said, “I remember exactly the words he used. He said, ‘I’m only afraid of one man. And he’s closer to me than any other person in the world.’” He put one hand on the elevator door. “Who do you suppose he meant by that, Mr. Justus?”
