The Big Midget Murders

by Craig Rice

“His mother—visited him as often as she could,” Pen Reddick whispered, “without ever telling him who she was. He became—quite fond of her. She was very lovely, you know. And she wrote to him. He kept—a few of her letters.”

  Helene said gently, “You don’t need to tell us anything more, if you don’t want to.”

  “I do,” Pen Reddick told her. “You know this much: I want to tell you the rest.” He paused. “He grew up, hating everybody. Because he was a midget, and—other people weren’t. By the time he was twenty-one, he was an orphan, and a—very handsome trust fund had been set up for him. The lawyer who informed him about it—didn’t tell him who his parents had been. Just that they had left the money to him—and that it would come to him every month.”

  He paused to light a cigarette. “That made him worse than ever. To realize that he came from a rich, and probably prominent family—who’d hidden him away, and not even let him know who they were, because he was a midget. He went on the stage. He didn’t need to, he had plenty of money. But he wanted to. It was an outlet for his—hate. His imitations—you know. They were cruel as hell.”

  “Decidedly,” Malone said.

  Helene asked, “But how did he find out who he was?”

  “He set himself out to,” Pen Reddick said, “devoted himself to the job. He had a few clues. He knew his family had been rich, and he knew how his mother had looked. And he knew how old he was. It wasn’t hard to fit a description of his mother to—the late Mrs. Pendleton Reddick II—who’d had two sons—of whom the elder had died when—quite small.”

  He smiled wryly. “He got a copy of his birth certificate. Jay Reddick. And he had those samples of his mother’s handwriting.”

  “But”—Jake frowned—“what was his idea? Just curiosity? You said he never blackmailed you.”

  Pen Reddick shook his head. “It wasn’t money he wanted, it was revenge. Revenge for—having been a midget. He wrote to me, and told me what he’d learned. He told me that he didn’t want a thing from me. And he told me that someday—he didn’t know just when, but someday—he’d tell the world who he was. And that in any event—when he died, the world would know who he had been.

  “I’d been told about him, of course. I knew that he’d been well provided for. And—I’d promised both my parents—that I would never let people know.

  He got up and began to pace the floor.

  “He did that—for the same reason that he did everything else. For the same reason that he worked out this elaborate marriage-annulment scheme. He didn’t need the money it brought him. He was—getting his revenge. It was for the same reason that he had an oversize bed and elaborate silk pajamas and an enormous limousine and the tallest man he could find to work in his act. The same reason that—his secretary jumped out of a New York hotel window, and no chorus girl that he dated would ever go out with him twice.”

  He paused. “He was the most completely evil creature I have ever known. The very incarnation of evil.” He slipped his hand in his pocket. “I’ll write your check, Mr. Malone. For finding the box.”

  He sat down at the desk, wrote the check, gave it to Malone and walked to the door. “I’ll give you the other check,” he said, “when you find out who murdered him.”

  Malone said, “Wait a minute.” He looked at the check, blew on it, and put it in his pocket. “If he was all those things—why are you so anxious to find out who murdered him?”

  Pen Reddick smiled. “Because after all,” he said, “he was my brother.” He opened the door, said “I’ll see you at the Casino tonight. Hope you have a good show,” and was gone.

  Helene stared at the door for a moment. “The poor little guy,” she whispered.

  “Little!” Jake said. “He’s five-foot ten if he’s an inch.”

  “I don’t mean Pen Reddick,” she said. “I mean—the midget.”

  “Yes,” Malone said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  The phone rang. It was the hotel manager. What was to be done with the furnishings of the midget’s suite?

  Jake said, “Oh hell, I don’t know. Wait a minute.” He left the phone and said, “Malone, run down the hall and see if you can catch Pen Reddick by the elevator, and bring him back here.” Returning to the phone, he said, “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Malone, a little breathless, came back with Pen Reddick.

  “Look,” Jake said. “He left you everything in his will. What’s to be done with all that stuff in his suite downstairs? The bed—the pictures—”

  “Oh Lord,” Pen Reddick said. “Do anything you like with it. Keep it yourself. Burn it up. Give it to the Salvation Army. I don’t want to hear of it again.”

  After he had gone, Jake called the manager back. “Put it all in the storeroom for the time being,” he said. “I’ll be responsible for it. Yes, you can store it under my name.” He hung up, came back, and said, “It’ll probably stay there for the rest of our lives.”

  “Oh Jake,” Helene said. “Do you mean you aren’t going to hang up those lovely pictures in here?”

  He blushed. “That’s the last I want to hear of those lovely pictures.”

  Malone strolled to the window and pulled back the blinds. It had begun to grow dark outside, the snow had stopped falling, and the sky had cleared. It promised to be a warm, mellow April evening.

  “Nightfall,” he reported.

  “Damn,” Jake said. “Tonight’s show at the Casino—” Again he called Angela Doll’s apartment.

  Miss Doll was somewhat better, but it was still uncertain as to whether or not she could appear that night.

  Jake looked at his watch. “My interest in murder is ended for the day,” he reported. “From now on, I’m a business man.” He began putting on his coat.

  “Where are you going?” Helene demanded.

  “To make one last stab at getting something good to replace the midget. You stay here and look after Annette. One member missing from the Casino chorus is enough.”

  “And take very good care of her,” Malone added, “because I’ve questions to ask her, and they’re important.”

  “You’ve questions to ask Ruth Rawlson, too,” she reminded him, “and they’re just as important.”

  “I will,” Malone said crossly. He too put on his overcoat, and said, “I’ll go downstairs with you, Jake.”

  “And as Pen Reddick said,” Helene called after them, “see you at the Casino.”

  Left alone, she wandered restlessly about the apartment for a few minutes. Annette Ginnis was still asleep, looking like a kitten curled up in a basket. She would be awake, and feeling like herself again, in time for tonight’s show.

  Helene yawned, carried the ash trays into the kitchen, emptied, washed, and replaced them. She tried to read, but her mind persisted in wandering. She turned on the radio, and turned it off again in thirty seconds.

  At last she turned down the lights and stretched out on the davenport, lit a cigarette, and lay staring at the ceiling. It had been more than twelve hours now since she and Jake had come home, to find the empty fiddle case leaning against their door. Twelve crowded hours.

  Her mind kept returning again and again to the fiddle case. What had been the idea of moving it from the midget’s dressing room? And especially, what had been the idea of bringing the midget’s body home and putting it to bed?

  Suddenly she remembered another thing. Who had called the desk at four o’clock that morning and left a call for the midget, for seven-thirty? And, in heaven’s name, why—when certainly, whoever called knew that the midget was dead?

  She put out her cigarette, closed her eyes for a moment, and opened them again. Perhaps a little nap was the thing right now. Then a big leisurely bath and a little work on the face and hair. Same recipe for Annette, when she woke up. If Jake didn’t get back in time, she’d have a tray of dinner sent up for Annette and herself. Annette’s clothes were in pretty bad shape, but she’d change into costume as soon as she got to the Casino. She y
awned, and told herself that everything was taken care of very nicely.

  Again she closed her eyes.

  Half asleep, she opened them again. There was something—something she knew, and yet couldn’t quite remember. It was there, just beyond her mind’s reach. Perhaps if she went to sleep, she’d dream of it. Whatever it was, she had to bring it back to mind. Because when she did, she’d know who murdered the midget.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jake punched the elevator button and said, “Things aren’t so bad. I’ve seen worse.” His voice was gloomy.

  “You mean,” Malone said, “things are never so bad that they can’t get worse.”

  “Hell,” Jake said. “You have two thousand bucks that you didn’t have this morning. You probably won’t have it by day after tomorrow, but you’ve got it now. Pen Reddick has his box, and he’s happy. Betty Royal’s brother isn’t in any trouble, and she’s happy. I still own the Casino and all I have to do is find something to replace the midget in tonight’s show.”

  “And all I have to do is find out who murdered the midget,” Malone said, “and I have another two thousand bucks.” He glanced at his watch. “I can probably catch Ruth Rawlson now. And this time, I’ll get the truth out of her.”

  Jake said, “If I hurry”—he paused to step into the elevator—“I can still fix up tonight’s show. Al Omega won’t like this last-minute business, but it can’t be helped.”

  “Sure,” Malone said reassuringly. “Everything’s okay now.”

  Down in the lobby Jake said, “Where are you going? Oak street? I’ll drop you there on my way downtown—”

  “Oh, Mr. Justus,” the switchboard girl called. As Jake walked over, she said, “A call came in for you, just this minute.”

  Jake picked up a phone and said, “Hello?” hoping for the best.

  It was von Flanagan. Jake would please come down to his office right away, and no monkey business. Yes, and bring that lying Irishman Malone, if Jake could lay his hands on him.

  “But damn it!” Jake said. “I’ve got important things to attend to, right now.”

  If Jake didn’t hustle right down to the office, he’d attend to those important things in a better world, courtesy of von Flanagan’s bare hands.

  “But wait a minute,” Jake said. “What’s it all about?”

  If Jake had any questions to ask, he’d ask them down in von Flanagan’s office. But he’d better be there to ask them pretty damn quick.

  Jake swore, slammed down the receiver, rejoined Malone, and told him what was up.

  “I wonder what the hell has made him mad this time,” Jake said.

  Malone muttered, “He probably found out you tried to hide the midget’s body last night. Or that we were romping out of Johnny Oscar’s house a few minutes before his body was discovered. Stop trying to look so innocent, and call a taxi.”

  They rode down to von Flanagan’s office in a dismal silence.

  “If he asks you anything you can’t answer,” Malone said outside the door, “just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”

  There was a strange sound from the other side of the door. Malone swung it open, to have a large, enraged Rhode Island Red hen fly up in his face. He sheltered his face with his arms and yelled, “Help!”

  Jake slammed the door shut and batted at the hen, who retired indignantly to the corner behind von Flanagan’s desk.

  “I told you,” Allswell McJackson said patiently, “it’s no good unless you use a trained hen. Or at least a tame one.”

  “This was the only hen I could get,” von Flanagan growled.

  The hen, from her corner, stated plainly what she thought of them both.

  Jake threw his hat on the floor. “Listen,” he said, “if you dragged me all the way down here to watch a lousy vaudeville act—”

  Von Flanagan glared at Jake. “Sit down,” he said, “and shut up. The professor here just came down tonight to teach me the hen-in-the-basket trick.”

  “Only,” Allswell said, “it has to be a tame hen.”

  “All right,” von Flanagan said. “We’ll try it again tomorrow. I’ll get one of my sister-in-law’s hens. Now you can take that wild buzzard out of here.”

  “Right away,” Allswell said.

  They had reckoned, however, without the hen. Jake forgot his own troubles while he watched the chase. If Allswell McJackson had not been so large and so clumsy, or if the hen had not been so uncooperative, it would have been just another man catching a hen. But twice Allswell fell on his face, and once the hen lit on his head, adding her vituperative comments to the confusion. By the time von Flanagan’s office had been reduced to a shambles, Allswell McJackson was standing in the center of the room, triumphantly holding the protesting hen by one leg.

  “Got her!” he exclaimed. Then, evidently touched by her protests, he managed to get her into an upright position in his arms, stroked her back, and, in an excess of sympathy, chattered a moment’s baby talk to her.

  The hen looked up at him and let loose a cackle that was almost a coo.

  “What shall I do with her?” Allswell McJackson asked.

  “Anything,” von Flanagan bellowed, “but get her out of here.”

  “If I were you,” Jake said, “I’d keep her for a pet.”

  After the door was closed behind Allswell McJackson and the hen, Malone mopped his brow, looked at von Flanagan and said, “That hen should be on the stage, not you. What the hell did you bring us down here for, anyway?”

  Von Flanagan blew a couple of feathers off his desk blotter.

  “I’m a very patient man,” he began quietly, “in spite of all the troubles I’ve got”—he scratched violently at one ear—“in spite of all the people who go out of their way to make life hard for me.” He scratched behind the ear. “I try to make allowances for human weaknesses, like it said in a book I read once, but when my own friends—” He whisked his hand past his ear. It came up with a chicken feather caught between two fingers. Von Flanagan stared at it for a moment, turned a light cerise, and for the next two minutes talked forcibly and colorfully to God about Allswell McJackson’s hen.

  When he paused for breath, Malone said, “As the professor said, you should have used a trained hen. And what does that have to do with whatever you dragged us all the way down here for?”

  Von Flanagan drew a long breath, with the expression of a man who is counting, slowly, to ten. Then he picked up where he’d left off. “When my own friends hold out on me—” He drew another breath, this time a quick one, and said, “I’ve got the Commissioner after me. I’ve got the D. A.’s office after me. I’ve got the newspapers after me. And then my own friends—” He rose to his feet and shook an indignant forefinger at Jake. “Damn it!” he roared, “I’m perfectly justified in closing up your joint, and if you don’t like it, you can—”

  “Wait a minute,” Jake said quietly. “What’s this about closing up the Casino? What’s the idea? What does the Casino have to do with this business?”

  “Everything,” von Flanagan said, breathing hard. He sat down again and glared at Jake from behind the desk. “Look, Jake. This little guy, the midget—the doc tells me he took some kind of dope before he was killed. All right. He works at your joint. Now, this dame, the Goldsmith dame, she was hung with a couple of silk stockings. All right. Your wife went in and found her body. Then Johnny Oscar, he was hung with a bunch of silk stockings. All right. Now the doc says he was full of the same kind of dope as the little guy. And just to make it one nice big package, I was tipped off that there was some kind of tie-up between Johnny Oscar and the little guy. So the whole thing has to do with your joint, and by God, I’ll have it closed up until I find out what the blue-bang hell is going on—” He snorted. “I mean, pending further investigation.”

  “But you can’t do that,” Malone said.

  “That’s one man’s opinion,” von Flanagan said.

  There was a long silence. Then Jake began, “Look here. Y
ou wouldn’t do a thing like that to me—”

  “I would,” von Flanagan interrupted him, “and I will.” He looked sadly and reproachfully at Jake. “I know you guys are holding out on me. I don’t mind that so much. Your business is your business. But maybe you know who murdered the little guy and those other two, and you aren’t telling. I mind that because the Commissioner and the D. A.’s office and the newspapers are all on my tail. So, since the whole damn shebang is tied up with your joint, why I’m closing it up until I find out who did murder those guys and that dame. I don’t give a hoot what else has been going on, I just have to find out who bumped them off, because while I don’t like being a cop, this is all the job I got.”

  Jake had a sudden vision of hordes of cash customers turning away from the locked doors of the Casino. The vision had sound effects with it: Max Hook asking for his money, and Helene as the wife of the press agent of an ice-skating troupe.

  “For the love of Mike,” he said, “give us a little time.”

  “Time?” von Flanagan demanded. “For what?”

  Malone stepped up to von Flanagan’s desk. “Time to deliver the murderer to you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  The big police officer beamed. “Now you’re talking,” he said in a happier tone. He paused, grew serious, and looked fixedly at Malone. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” the little lawyer said. “I don’t know any more than you do. But”—he took out a cigar and slid off the cellophane jacket—“I think I can find out.” He blew into the cellophane jacket. It soared up near the ceiling and floated down gracefully to rest on one end on top of von Flanagan’s inkwell.

  “Now there,” von Flanagan said admiringly, “is a trick. Can you do it again?”

  “Sure,” Malone said. “Only I’ve got a superstition: I never use the same cigar jacket twice.” He lit the cigar with an airy gesture.

  Jake, sensing a change in the atmosphere, said, “Say, pal, why don’t you drop in at the Casino tonight?” He added hastily, “As my guest, of course. You know, a guy who’s going on the stage ought to get around and see a few shows.”