by Craig Rice
A gleam came into von Flanagan’s eyes. “I’d like to do that. What’s the show tonight?”
“I won’t tell,” Jake said, “because it’s going to be a surprise. But it’s going to be terrific.”
“Yes, I’d like to do that,” the police officer repeated. “Tonight, you say? Sure, I’ll drop around.”
“Swell!” Jake said heartily.
Malone picked up his hat and said, “In that case, we’ll be seeing you later.”
“Wait a minute,” von Flanagan said quickly. “I ain’t through yet. These here murders. And closing up the Casino until I get them settled.” He paused. “Well, I won’t close it up tonight yet. But”—he looked at Malone—“you think you can find out who did these murders, huh?”
“Easiest thing in the world,” Malone said, blowing a smoke ring.
“Well, in that case,” von Flanagan said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He paused, thought for a moment, and a near-angelic smile spread over his face. “After all, you two guys are pals. And I like your wife, Jake. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you twelve hours. I won’t touch the Casino tonight. But,” he added grimly, “if Malone here don’t do what he says he can do inside of those twelve hours, I’ll close up the joint so tight that you won’t have any more customers than—than—”
“Than a hen has teeth,” Malone said helpfully.
Von Flanagan leaped to his feet. “Don’t talk about hens to me!” he roared. “Get the hell out of here, the pair of you.”
Out in the hall, the door closed hastily behind them, Malone muttered, “Twelve little hours. Sixty little minutes to an hour. What does that guy think I am, a magician?”
“No,” Jake said, “he’s the magician. Do you know who the murderer is, Malone?”
Malone said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Jake groaned. “Do you think you can find out, inside of twelve hours?”
“Sure,” Malone said. “If during those twelve hours I’m suddenly struck with second sight.” He puffed at his cigar and snapped, “Leave me alone! I’m trying to think.”
Jake was silent until they reached the sidewalk. There they paused.
“Von Flanagan won’t close up the Casino tonight,” Jake said miserably, “because he’s going to be a guest there. But tomorrow night”—He gulped, and said, “Tonight’s receipts won’t be enough to settle with Max Hook, if the place is closed up even for a couple of days.”
“Shut up,” Malone said. “I’m still thinking.” He waved at a cab. “Toward the Loop,” he told the driver.
As the cab crossed Van Buren street, the little lawyer turned to Jake. “Twelve hours. I think I can make it.” He leaned forward and told the driver to drop him at his hotel. “Where are you going, Jake?”
“I’m going to an agent’s office on Randolph street,” Jake said. “And if after that I’m still stuck with tonight’s show, I’m going out to the end of Navy Pier.”
“The water’s damn cold for jumping,” Malone said. “It’s April. But give all the little fish my love.”
The cab stopped in front of Malone’s Loop hotel. Malone got out.
“Wait a minute,” Jake said. Malone leaned in through the window. “You said—you thought you could make it. Do you have any idea—”
“I’ve got plenty of ideas,” Malone told him, “but none of them have to do with the midget’s murder.” He glanced at Jake’s drawn face, and added quickly, “But all I need is a good, quick hunch, and everything will be okay. If I could only remember what”—He paused, and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll come to me.”
“I hope you aren’t referring to second sight,” Jake said.
“The thing I’ve forgotten,” Malone said. “The hunch. The tip-off. If I just sit down and review the whole thing in my mind”—He stood upright, still resting one hand on the cab door. “Don’t forget you have a guest coming to the Casino tonight, to see the show. And he’s expecting a surprise.”
“The surprise,” Jake said sourly, “will be if there is any show.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The tip-off, Malone told himself, riding up in the elevator. The give-away. The one thing that would tell him what he needed to know.
He had to think of it. He had to remember it. Because it was going to lead him right to the man or woman who had murdered Jay Otto, and Mildred Goldsmith, and Johnny Oscar. Because it was going to keep von Flanagan from closing up Jake’s Casino. Because it was going to give Jake enough time to pay up what he owed Max Hook. Because of Helene.
He paused outside his door. Lou Goldsmith was in there, sleeping off his drunk. And Lou Goldsmith, who wanted to murder his wife, didn’t know that his wife had been murdered. He, Malone, had to wake him up and tell him.
The worst of it was that he was going to have to probe Lou Goldsmith for information about the murdered woman. It was going to be like going into an open wound with an iodine swab.
He relit his cigar, fumbled in his pocket for a key, and opened the door.
Lou Goldsmith was sitting up in a chair by the radio, wide awake. The room was full of cigar smoke. There was a crumpled newspaper on the floor.
“Sorry to have been so long,” Malone said cheerfully, as though he’d been late for a luncheon engagement. He glanced at the front page of the newspaper, took off his coat and hat, and flung them over a chair, crushed out his cigar in the nearest ash tray, and said, “I see you’ve heard all the news.”
Lou Goldsmith looked up at him through the blue smoke. His face was perfectly composed. “Sure, I heard about it.”
“Well,” Malone said, in the same cheerful tone, “that saves me the trouble of telling you about it then. How about a drink?”
“Okay,” Lou Goldsmith said.
Malone located a half-empty bottle of gin on top of a pile of soiled laundry in the closet, rinsed out two glasses in the bathroom, and carefully poured two drinks, keeping a watchful eye on Lou Goldsmith. He handed the big man his drink, lit a fresh cigar, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Thanks,” Lou Goldsmith said.
Malone sat perfectly still, holding his glass in his hand, watching Lou Goldsmith’s impassive face. He was remembering an afternoon back in the old days, when Lou Goldsmith’s speakeasy had been the focal point of a little trouble over territorial jurisdiction. There had been that same look on Lou Goldsmith’s face when the first gun barked.
“I had a good sleep up here,” Lou Goldsmith said. “Thanks, Malone.”
“That’s all right,” Malone said. “Glad to do it.”
There was another long silence.
“When I woke up,” Lou Goldsmith said, “about an hour ago, I turned on the radio to see what time it was. I hit a news broadcast. So then I had a newspaper sent up.”
“Well,” Malone said noncommittally, “that’s one way of finding out what’s going on.”
Suddenly Lou Goldsmith put down his empty glass, leaned forward, and ran a big, hairy hand over his forehead.
“Tell me, Malone. When I talked to you today—you didn’t know about it?”
“How could I?” Malone said. “It hadn’t happened. Or,” he added grimly, “it was just happening.” He downed his gin, fast. “Happening just about that time.” He eyed the big man closely.
Lou Goldsmith had been in love with his wife, and his wife was dead. Lou Goldsmith had wanted to murder his wife, and someone else had murdered her. What the reaction would be, Malone reflected, was anybody’s guess. He sat tight, and waited.
It was a long time before Lou Goldsmith looked up and said, “Well, somebody saved me a lot of trouble and a lot of lawyer’s fees.” His eyes were puffed and red-rimmed.
“That’s the way to think about it,” Malone said, looking at his cigar.
“If this hadn’t happened,” Lou Goldsmith said, “what I told you—would have still held. You know what I mean? Last night—”
Malone twirled his cigar in his fingers. “What about last n
ight?” he asked very quietly.
“Right after the show,” Lou Goldsmith told him, “we went backstage. Milly said she had to go in her dressing room for a minute. So I waited a few minutes and then I knocked on the door, and she wasn’t there. So I started looking for her. I went in one place and it was this damn midget’s dressing room.”
“Was he there?” Malone asked, feeling a sudden quickening along his spine.
“Sure, he was there. Standing up in front of his dressing table, just pouring himself a big slug of liquor. I said, ‘Pardon me, pal, I was just looking for my wife.’ He took his drink and turned around and said, ‘Pardon me, pal, but if I were you, I’d kill my wife.’”
Malone continued to look at his cigar. “Why?”
“Because”—Lou Goldsmith looked at the floor, talking like a man in a trance. “Well, he told me all about—what she’d been doing. This racket of getting some rich young dope to marry a cheap chorus girl when he was full of liquor, and then hitting him for the big money to put through a bribed annulment. It seems the midget had got wise to the whole scheme somehow.”
“He had, had he?” Malone murmured.
Yes, that would be one of the midget’s tricks. The midget, who hated big men. Lou Goldsmith was a big man. Tell Lou Goldsmith about the whole works, leaving himself out of it, of course, and putting the whole blame on Lou Goldsmith’s wife.
Lou Goldsmith went on, “He poured himself another drink—it seemed funny as hell to see a little bastard like that drinking liquor—and then he told me how she—Milly—had teamed up with one of the Hook’s boys to work this racket. Then all of a sudden he passed out. You know, a little guy like that shouldn’t drink. I would have stayed and looked after him, but so help me, Malone, I had other things to think about. And I figured that big guy who worked for him would be along any minute. So I just left him there, sprawled out over his dressing table, and I beat it back to the men’s room to think it over. Finally I decided I’d better have it out with her—Milly—and I started looking for her again. I looked all over the place for her—I didn’t go back in his dressing room again—and all of a sudden she turned up, right by the door that led out front.”
“You don’t know where she’d been in the mean-time?” Malone interrupted.
Lou Goldsmith shook his head. “No idea. I said ‘Milly, I want to talk to you,’ and she said, ‘Not now.’ That’s all I could get out of her all the rest of the evening: ‘Not now!’ So finally we went home and I figured then I could have it out with her. But she ducked into her room and changed her clothes and ducked out again, and that’s the last I saw of her.”
Malone sat silent, puffing at his cigar. Mildred Goldsmith hadn’t murdered the midget, because she herself had been murdered by the same method. All the time Lou Goldsmith had spent looking for her, she’d been arranging the last details of Annette Ginnis’ elopement with Ned Royal. And she’d changed her clothes and gone out to make sure that nothing would go wrong.
But Lou Goldsmith had probably been the last person to see the midget alive, save the murderer.
“I didn’t mind her staying on in the chorus,” Lou Goldsmith said, “though she didn’t need to. And I knew she was running around with Al Omega now and then, and I didn’t mind that. After all, I guess I’m no patent-haired movie lover. As long as she came home to me, I didn’t kick. And when she’d get sore at me, I never talked back. But a business like that—” He drew his breath in between his teeth, stood up, and said, “Whoever did it, she had it coming to her. I’m sorry it wasn’t me.”
He peeled off his coat, vest, and shirt, and said, “I’m going to have to talk to the cops about this, I suppose. Mind if I stick my head under your shower, pal?” He vanished into the bathroom, closing the door.
Malone sat on the edge of his bed for a while, still looking at his cigar. He was thinking of big, tough Lou Goldsmith, and of Mildred Goldsmith, cold as ice and hard as nails. Then at last he began to think of the midget, of the Casino, of Jake, and of what he still had to do.
There were things he had to learn from Ruth Rawlson. Things that couldn’t wait until tonight. And maybe he could be a little more firm over the phone than he could be in her presence.
He searched through his coat for the telephone number he copied down from the hall phone in her rooming house, found it, and called her.
Her voice over the phone was the voice of Ruth Rawlson as he remembered it from twenty years ago. He steeled his mind against the picture of ivory skin and rippling, red-gold hair, and said, as sternly as he could, “No funny business this time. How did you learn that the midget was dead?”
A faint little gasp came over the wire; then, “Why Mister Malone!”
“Can anybody overhear you where you’re talking? No? Fine. Then pay attention. Nobody telephoned the midget’s apartment last night until three o’clock, and by then you weren’t telephoning anybody.”
“Oh!” she said. A pause, and, “I must have been thinking of another time.”
“You must have been,” Malone said. He hated to do this, but it was the only way. “Remember, I know something about this business too. How did you find out the midget was dead? And this time, tell me the truth.”
There was just a tiny wait before she said weakly, “I saw him.”
“You—saw him?” Malone said.
“Please,” she whispered over the wire. “I didn’t want anybody to know. I didn’t want to be involved. I knew a girl once in the East who got involved in something like that, perfectly innocently, and her whole career—”
“Never mind that,” Malone said hoarsely. “You won’t be involved. Where did you see him, and when?”
“I went in his dressing room. I—you know, he’d told me—anytime I was looking for a drink, to walk in—and help myself—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Malone said. “Go on.”
“I knocked, and he didn’t answer. So I went in. And he was there.” She paused, and said in a very small voice, “Mr. Malone, he’d been hanged.”
Malone said gently, “I know all about that. So what did you do?”
“I shut the door. I went into the ladies’ room and thought about it. Then I went into the phone booth and called up Angela. I thought she’d want to know, and I thought she’d know what to do. Dear Angela, she’s been such a friend to me! But she didn’t seem to care about this. Then I went back in the ladies’ room and sat there a long while, wondering what I ought to do. Finally, I decided I had to have a drink—just to steady my nerves, Mr. Malone—and the only thing I could think of to do was go back in his dressing room and help myself. So I went back there, and Mr. Malone, he was gone.”
“You don’t say!” Malone said.
“So I took a drink—well, I guess a couple of drinks. Really, Mr. Malone, my nerves were badly shattered—and then I came out and Mr. Justus got me a cab and sent me home, and that’s all I know.”
Malone said, “Thanks.” He counted ten, and then said, “Of course, the whole thing could have been a hallucination, you know.”
There was a little gasp. “Oh, do you really think so?”
“I really do,” he assured her. “You dreamed the whole thing. Don’t ever think of it again, and,” he added pointedly, “don’t ever tell another soul.”
“Never,” she breathed, “I never, never will!” He could hear her relieved sigh over the wire. “I’m so glad it was all just a bad dream.”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” Malone assured her. “And tonight—”
“Tonight!” she said.
He hung up the phone and relit his cigar. There was no doubt that this time he had the straight story. Ruth Rawlson couldn’t have made up that bit about the midget being hung. But that didn’t help him with the problem of who’d murdered the midget. It only made it tidier.
And in the meantime—twelve hours. Suddenly he was plunged in gloom.
Lou Goldsmith came out from the bathroom, his face still glistening, his hair wet, and began putti
ng on his shirt and tie.
“Well,” he said. He fastened his tie and reached for his vest. “Well, that’s that.” He buttoned his vest and put on his coat. “Thanks for everything, Malone.” He put on his overcoat and picked up his hat. “I’ll go home now, and let the cops and the reporters talk to me.”
“That’s the stuff,” Malone said, with false heartiness.
The big man paused at the door, one hand on the knob, his face a mask. “Malone, if they find out who murdered her, I want to talk to you. I want you to defend him. And I’ll pay the bills.”
Malone looked up at the first ray of sunshine he’d seen for hours.
“Now,” he said, cheerfully, “now you’re talking sense!”
Chapter Thirty
Everything was okay, Malone told himself. Everything was going to be swell.
He glanced at himself in the mirror beside the entrance to the Casino. A fine figure of a man, he told himself. That new Finchley suit really did him proud. The wallet in his pocket was a reassuring bulge against his ribs. And he was meeting Ruth Rawlson, any minute now.
It was true, there were a few odds and ends of things to settle. Just a little matter of finding out who’d murdered the midget. A mere trifle. And making sure that Max Hook didn’t decide he was going to own the Casino, not Jake. Or that von Flanagan didn’t close up the Casino, at this crucial time. Nothing, really, for a man like himself, who had a date with Ruth Rawlson, to worry about. Why, there was the nice fat fee he’d get from Lou Goldsmith just as soon as he’d attended to the item of finding the defendant. Everything was hunky-dory.
He took one more glance at himself in the mirror and wished he could convince himself that all those things were true. His tie was beginning to creep toward one ear, and there were cigar ashes on the vest of the Finchley suit. Von Flanagan had said twelve hours, and nine of them were left, now. He wondered what Jake had been able to do about tonight’s show.
“I’m expecting a young lady to meet me,” he told the headwaiter. “A Miss Rawlson.”
The headwaiter’s eyebrows didn’t even quiver, let alone lift. “Yes, Mr. Malone.”
