by Craig Rice
Helene rushed off. Jake whispered fiercely to Malone, “Don’t you dare, ever, say one word to Helene.”
Malone was about to whisper, “And don’t you,” when Helene came back. She spilled most of a paper cup of water over the stricken man and said, “Darling!” Jake groaned, but made another and successful try at standing up. Helene promptly shoved him into a chair and announced that Jake still had to be rushed to a hospital.
“I tripped,” Jake said at last. “I tripped and hit my head on the corner of the desk. Right there.”
Helene rushed over and examined the corner of the desk. As long as she didn’t examine the mark on Jake’s head, and its location, Malone reflected, everything would be well. He announced that he had to be getting along. Jake and Helene both had an I’m-coming-with-you look in their eyes, and both of them kept quiet, each warily watching the other.
Finally they compromised; Jake would go home and lie down for half an hour, and Helene would keep him company.
Malone breathed a little easier and hoped they’d keep off dangerous conversational topics, that neither of them would let a whole litter of kittens, all named Delora Deanne, out of the bag.
He stood in front of the Wrigley Building, thinking things over. The sky had begun to clear and the sun flirted in and out from clouds that had become fluffily pale and opalescent around their edges. The snow crunched and chirruped satisfactorily underfoot, and the air was snapping with cold.
At last he hailed a passing taxi. What he had left of his bankroll, after discovering that Gus Madrid was one of the best poker players in the city of Chicago, wasn’t going to make even a slight dent in the future evening’s activities anyway. That problem he would get to later. He noticed the black sedan in traffic, but right now that didn’t worry him either.
Malone was headed for the office of Inspector Daniel von Flanagan, Homicide, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was going to say, or ask. Things were now at that delicate and perilous stage where he had to be highly considerate of his client’s wishes, and at the same time, he had a feeling that any hour now he might need at least information and, quite possibly, help.
The box that had come through the mail yesterday morning could just possibly be traced. But that would have to be done through official channels, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. Also, it would take time, and time was one thing he didn’t think he had.
Somewhere in the confusion of all he had learned in the last two days there were a couple of facts that belonged together like Romulus and Remus, or Damon and Pythias, or gin and beer. Separately, they meant nothing. Taken together, they might mean something important, something he badly needed to know.
The only trouble was that he couldn’t remember what they were.
He closed his eyes as the taxi whipped through traffic, and tried to think. Then he gave that up, and tried to doze. He was just beginning to succeed when the taxi stopped.
He found von Flanagan in an amiable mood. The big police officer yawned, put his newspaper aside, stretched, and said, “Been trying to get you on the phone for two days.”
“Been busy,” Malone said, and waited warily.
Von Flanagan said, “Tickets for the fights Thursday night?”
“I’ll take care of it,” the little lawyer said. “It’s as good as done.”
Von Flanagan yawned again. There seemed to be nothing else in particular on the calendar of his mind. He said, “Everything quiet ’n peaceful, ’n then you come in. So why don’t you just go away and leave it like that?”
“Just a purely social call,” Malone said, taking out a cigar. “With a purely hypothetical question to put to you.”
“Shoot it,” von Flanagan said, “and I’ll probably give you a purely imaginary answer.”
“Hands and feet,” Malone said. He looked thoughtfully at the cigar. “Suppose somebody sent a pair of human hands through the mail? And then sent a pair of human feet by messenger?” No point, he told himself in adding the details of gloves and shoes.
“Dead?” von Flanagan asked.
“Naturally,” Malone told him.
Von Flanagan thought for a moment. “Wrapped up?” he asked.
“Also, naturally,” Malone said.
“Breaking the law,” von Flanagan said. “But not in my department.” He scratched the side of his nose. “Through the mail, that would be a federal matter. By messenger, that would be transporting a dead body, or any part thereof, through the streets without a permit. I can get it looked up for you, if you want me to.”
“It’s not that important,” Malone said lazily.
“Just a minute,” von Flanagan said, suddenly sitting up straight. “Did these hands and these feet come off of the same person?”
“That,” Malone said airily, and blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, “remains to be seen.”
A suspicious look came slowly over von Flanagan’s broad, red face. “Presumably this person, or persons, is or are dead?”
“Or in damned bad shape,” Malone agreed.
“This is in my department,” von Flanagan said. He scowled at Malone. “Malone—” his eyes narrowed just a little—“exactly what is going on?”
“I told you it was a hypothetical question,” Malone said amiably. He added, “A friend of mine just wants to know.”
“Well, advise your friend not to do it,” von Flanagan said, relaxing again. “And don’t forget the fights Thursday night.”
“A date,” Malone said. “Gadenski still over in Missing Persons?”
Von Flanagan nodded. The look of suspicion began to come back. “More hypothetical questions, Malone?”
The little lawyer shook his head. “Owe him a little money,” he lied cheerfully.
He located Gadenski, a tall, thin, dark, perpetually worried-looking man, and explained that this was purely a personal favor, very strictly unofficial, and to be treated as such, and that he, Malone, would be delighted to return with practically any favor, practically any time.
It was a matter of a girl. Well, several girls. He went on with names, descriptions, probable clothing, where last seen, previous addresses and possible destinations of Eva Lou Strauss and Louella Frick. Then, while he had the unofficial service available, he added Gertie Bragg, Eula Stolz and Rita Jardee for good measure.
Gadenski noted it all down, promised he’d do his best, and said in a cheerful grumble that certain persons seemed to think he had nothing better to do than keep track of their women for them.
Malone went away, thinking gloomily that he didn’t expect anything really helpful in the way of information, but at least he’d proved that he was still right in there trying.
Gus Madrid was waiting for him when he returned to the office. The check from Hazel Swackhammer wasn’t. Jake had telephoned that he felt much better and would be down in a little while. Nothing had been heard from Helene.
He ushered the big gunman into the inner office, broke out from the emergency drawer a bottle he reserved for important clients and visiting dignitaries, and said cheerfully, “I assure you, as a client of mine, you haven’t a thing to worry about.”
Gus Madrid accepted the glass, sat down, and said, “Thanks, Malone. I always heard you was the very best lawyer type guy. Only I never knew lawyer type guys went around finding missing girls for their guys.”
“You’d be surprised at what some lawyers have to do for their clients,” Malone assured him, and wondered if the big gunman could guess at even a fraction of it. He decided to let the subject of fees wait till a little later, and said, “Tell me about her.”
In the next half-hour he learned that Eva Lou was a real swell type girl, didn’t like to go out, but liked to have a swell time to home, that her folks were Polish and she didn’t know where they were at and hadn’t for years, that she’d married a no-good type guy named Strauss who’d left her stranded in Milwaukee, that she’d come to Chicago and got her this job with this cold-cream factory, he didn’t know what it w
as, that she’d had another guy on the string, a businessman type guy but he, Madrid, had pretty well cut him out, and that was all he knew. He was willing to spend some real cash type money to find this girl, but also he was a careful type guy and there would be some strings to it.
Malone sighed and hoped that Eva Lou wouldn’t turn up a deceased type corpse.
That was about all the information Gus Madrid had. He hadn’t dated Eva Lou night before last, he’d had some important business to take care of. Malone caught himself about to ask what type business, and decided it was none of his concern. There was nothing else Gus Madrid knew, including the name of the businessman type guy, and from here on in, it was all up to Malone.
Malone cleared his throat delicately and brought up the little matter of money. Gus Madrid took out his wallet but held on to it.
“It’s like this, Malone. I’m a cautious type guy. I give you money now. But this is not such a simple business type transaction. Maybe you don’t find my girl.” He laid five hundred-dollar bills on the desk. “Down payment.”
Not finding Eva Lou Strauss was probably considerably beyond the mere maybe point, Malone reminded himself. He looked very thoughtfully at the bills.
“Maybe I find her myself” Gus Madrid went on. “Every half-hour, all day and all night, I call up account maybe she’s come home.” He paused. “And maybe somebody else finds her.” He paused again. “And maybe she never does get found at all.”
Malone had winced at every “maybe.” He said nothing.
“So in that case,” Gus Madrid said, “in any one of those cases, then I get my money back.”
He rose, looked at Malone. “Tomorrow,” he said. At the door he turned back and added, “Meantime, I keep my eye on you, Malone.”
After he had gone, the little lawyer sat looking at the money for quite a while. The bargain had been made, and he knew that it was irrevocable now. But suddenly he’d remembered Gus Madrid’s particular occupation. He was what was known popularly—more often, not so popularly—as an enforcer.
Chapter Fourteen
“No matter where you’re going,” Jake said, “I see absolutely no reason why I can’t go with you. After all, we’re in this together.” His expression added, “To the finish, and up to the neck.”
“Oh, all right,” Malone said in a cross voice. There simply was no way to tell Jake of the danger that Helene might turn up at the most inopportune moment. Jake had said she’d gone to visit a friend, and immediately Malone had begun to worry about whose friend it was.
There was nothing to do about it now. He struggled into his topcoat, brushed at a few cigar ashes on his vest, made a determined effort to straighten his tie and led the way into the anteroom.
He paused there to hand Maggie a hundred-dollar bill. “Pay yourself some salary and pay a little on the rent.” He hurried Jake through the door, avoiding Maggie’s startled eyes. There went the first of Gus Madrid’s money. With a sigh, he realized that he was now entirely committed to doing the impossible.
A search through the telephone book had told him that the main location of Swackhammer Brothers, Morticians, was out on Milwaukee Avenue and he gave the address to a taxi driver.
Jake looked at him curiously. “Malone, do you—”
“Shut up, or go away,” the little lawyer growled. “I want to think.” He chewed angrily on his cigar.
The facade of Swackhammer Brothers resembled a cross between a small-scale national monument and a branch bank, and they stood admiring it for a moment before going in. The whole Swackhammer family, ex-wives included, obviously had a great leaning toward decorative fronts. Malone tried again to straighten his Sulka tie and brush a few more cigar ashes from his badly wrinkled hand-tailored suit.
Charles Swackhammer was a large, cordial man, with grayish hair that had once apparently been sandy, cheerfully bright blue eyes, a briskly businesslike air, and a warm handclasp. He had indeed heard of John J. Malone, and of Mr. Justus, and was delighted to meet them. He certainly hoped that Malone was not there either on sad personal business of his own, or as the bearer of unpleasant legal tidings.
Malone said with hearty assurance that he was neither, and, with Jake, followed the big man into his private office.
“If it’s legal business,” Charles Swackhammer said, offering Malone an expensive Havana cigar, “it’s probably Hazel. It almost always is. But I’m used to it.”
“Well,” Malone said hesitantly, “it is, in a way, and in a way it isn’t.” He was wondering exactly just how much he dared to confide.
“Well, don’t worry about it, whatever it is,” Swackhammer said expansively. “Because it isn’t important.” He pushed a button on the intercom box on his desk and said, “Darling, bring me in that folder on the Deanne stuff.”
He beamed at them both and said, “You gentlemen called on a very happy day. Tomorrow there will be a new Mrs. Swackhammer.”
They murmured something congratulatory, and Malone wondered if the future Mrs. Swackhammer called him Cuddles. Then a pert-looking brunette popped in with a manila folder of papers, laid it on the desk, and popped right out again.
“This is something Hazel will never forgive, when she knows about it,” the big man went on. He opened the folder on his desk and pointed to it. “I trust you. And anyway, it doesn’t matter now whether Hazel knows about it. She may already, for all I know.” He added to Malone, “You’re a lawyer. Go ahead. Look it over.”
Malone went quickly through the contents of the folder. Brief and to the point, they made it very plain that Charlie Swackhammer owned forty-five per cent of Delora Deanne.
“Hazel only has forty-five per cent,” Charlie Swackhammer said. “And I can lay my hands on the other ten per cent any time I want to. Fact is, I’m planning to do it before I leave on my honeymoon.”
That was something new to think about. Malone scowled. Obviously Charlie Swackhammer was in a position to oust his ex-wife from her enameled and gilded nest any time he felt in the mood.
“Simplest thing in the world,” Swackhammer said. “After I left her, she had to have money to keep the business going. Easy for me to see that friends of mine put it up, and then quietly buy ’em out. And don’t look down a moral, legal nose at me, Malone, if you’re planning to. Because I could—at any time—have had lawful possession of the formulas she got from me.”
The little lawyer lifted his brows and said, “Formulas?”
“Naturally,” Cuddles Swackhammer said, gesturing with his cigar. “You don’t just whip up a little batch of some so-called magic cosmetic like you were stirring up a cake. Not that they aren’t practically magic at that. I’m the one who ought to know. Because I developed ’em.”
“But—” Malone said, and then stopped. Confusion seemed to be piling up. At last he went on to repeat a condensed version of the story of Delora Deanne cosmetics as it had been told to him the day before, beginning with the old New England grandmother. “Of course,” he finished, “the story used in the Delora Deanne advertising, about the lovely Southern belle—”
“New England grandmother, my foot!” Cuddles Swackhammer said. “And sweet Southern belle, my other foot! Far’s I know, Hazel never had a New England grandmother. But those formulas came out of one of the finest embalming establishments in the country, if not in the world!” He emphasized this point by bringing a pink, well-manicured fist down on his desk, hard.
There was a little silence. Jake cleared his throat. “Of course,” he began tentatively, “I know from my own experience in the advertising business—”
“The advertising business,” Cuddles Swackhammer said, “would make a liar, if not a damned liar, out of George Washington. No offense meant, Mr. Justus. I use advertising myself.” He beamed at Jake, and then said, “When I married Hazel, she worked right along with me and helped me. We had a lot of use for special cosmetics, you understand. Just by way of example—now you take this special make-up that’s supposed to hide every facial blemis
h except cross-eyes.”
“Delora Deanne Magic Mask,” Jake remembered out loud.
“That was Hazel’s first hit,” Swackhammer said, nodding. “All her suckers went for it, whether they needed it or not. Well, that was developed right in my little back room, with her looking on. You see, in a case where I’m confronted with multiple bruises and contusions—”
“I understand perfectly,” the little lawyer said hastily.
“Of course,” Cuddles said. “And then there were lip colorings and—well, about everything you care to name. All good stuff—it has to be good in my business. And all kinds of formulas for the hair, naturally. No matter how bad the hair is, matted, tangled, stained, I have to turn out a good-looking result. Then, for instance, sometimes we get a case where there’s been a prolonged immersion in water—”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Malone said.
The big man grinned. “Happens all the time. But as I was saying, I never wanted to have any big dust-up with Hazel. Running her little business kept her happy and kept her from doing too much worrying and stewing about Maybelle and me. Otherwise, she’d have figured out some way to get even with Maybelle, if I know Hazel. And as it worked out, I could just sit back and collect my percentage of the proceeds without her knowing it, and she did all the work and worrying. Nice deal.” Yes, Malone thought, a very nice deal. Except that it only made his present problem more complex than ever.
“Well, anyway,” Cuddles Swackhammer said, “just what did Hazel want you to see me about?”
“Nothing,” Malone said truthfully. He hesitated a moment. “She called me in because she’s been a little disturbed— annoyed—by some items in the newspaper columns—a newspaper column—that might have been construed as applying to her Delora Deanne.” He paused, still choosing his words carefully. “I should say, or one of them.”
Swackhammer chuckled. It was a friendly, heart-warming chuckle. “Know the item you refer to. Saw it myself. Disturbed! Annoyed!” He chuckled again. “I’d like to have seen Hazel’s face when she read it.”
