by Craig Rice
Malone felt himself grinning. “I asked Mr. Justus for help,” he said, relieved that at last he could explain Jake’s presence, “because of his newspaper connections. And it just occurred to us,” he went on cautiously, “that you might have some idea who was behind it. Someone who doesn’t like her.”
“Gosh,” Swackhammer said. “That would take in too many people for me to list.”
“Well,” Malone said, “it’s nothing very important. I was just a little curious myself.” He got up. “Thanks for all the information.”
“Think nothing of it,” Cuddles Swackhammer said. He beamed at Jake. “So you’re the big television feller. Like to have a talk with you sometime. Always thought I could do something myself.”
Jake said, “Sure. Any time.”
“Soon as I’m an old married man,” Swackhammer said happily. “Sorry Maybelle isn’t here. Like you to meet her. Maybelle Bragg, that is. Maybelle Swackhammer to be. Used to work for Hazel. Wonderful, wonderful girl.” He glowed like a postcard sunrise, and invited them to come in again, adding with a professional laugh, “But not as a customer.”
They managed a hollow laugh between them, and went away. Outside in the taxi, Malone said, “Bragg. Used to work for Hazel Swackhammer.”
“Gertie Bragg,” Jake said.
Malone said, “Face.”
They were silent hallway to the Loop.
“The thing about this,” Jake said at last, “is that the more you find out, the less you know.”
“And the less you know,” Malone said, “the more confused it all gets.” He noticed that the black sedan was still discreetly following them, just as it had all the way to Swackhammer Brothers.
“Myrdell Harris,” Jake said, out of the blue. “You couldn’t find out anything from her, but I bet I can.”
The little lawyer muttered something scathing about Jake’s way with women.
“You forget,” Jake said, “she’s a thwarted actress. And I’m a big-shot television producer.”
Malone conceded that Jake might have something there. At any rate, it wouldn’t do any harm for Jake to try.
The taxi stopped in front of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. Evidently the owner of the black sedan had used a shortcut and found a parking place, because he was waiting on the sidewalk for them.
“Look here,” he said coldly to Malone. “There’s too much business with undertaker type guvs getting mixed up in this.” He spotted Jake getting out of the taxi.
“Listen, you,” he said, “I am not a type guy who goes around apologizing. But—”
“Neither am I,” Jake said happily. This time, he swung first.
For a minute, Malone looked down at the fallen gunman. Then he looked up at Jake. “Millions of people in the world,” he said bitterly, “and only two of them are my clients. And you have to sock one of them.”
Chapter Fifteen
“All right now,” Malone said. “It’s all settled. You’ve had one punch each, and you’re even. Neither of you has apologized, so you’re still even. So let’s have no more trouble.”
“Not in here,” Joe the Angel added, in an ominous voice. He said in a milder tone, “Drinks on the house.”
Gus Madrid’s nose had stopped bleeding. He put his handkerchief away in his pocket and sat down on a bar stool. Jake stopped rubbing his knuckles and sat down on another. Malone sat down between them and hoped for the best. The small cluster of curious pedestrians had gone on their way, the customers of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar had returned to their various occupations. The city hall janitor hadn’t even looked up from his beer.
“Just the same,” Gus Madrid said glumly, “if it wasn’t for your wife—”
“What’s that about my wife?” Jake demanded.
“He just means,” Malone said hastily, “he’s treating you with the respect due a married man.”
There was a cold and indignant silence.
At last Jake said, “Well, I’m going to phone Myrdell and make a date for after working hours.”
Gus Madrid said, “A nice type wife like you got, you oughtn’ta go making dates.”
“You leave my wife out of this,” Jake said furiously.
Joe the Angel reached under the bar. Malone said, “Shut up, guys, or you’ll get me thrown out of here.” The parakeet suddenly yelped, “Ring, ring, ring,” and Malone added in a rage, “And you keep out of this!”
“I throw you all out,” Joe the Angel said. He yelled at the city hall janitor, “And you too!”
Malone decided it was time to leave anyway and managed a dignified departure, Gus Madrid close behind him. Jake had headed into the telephone booth. The city hall janitor hadn’t paid any attention.
At the anteroom to Malone’s office, Gus Madrid paused. “Malone. Undertakers—”
“Have their living to earn, even as you and I,” Malone said. He added in what he hoped was a mollifying tone, “Charles Swackhammer was Hazel Swackhammer’s husband. I went to see him just in case he might know anything. He didn’t. But somebody will. And don’t worry.”
“Oh,” Gus Madrid said. He showed every intention of settling down to stay.
Malone met Maggie’s puzzled gaze. He said, “And don’t you worry.” He went on into his private office and slammed the door.
Late afternoon sunlight glared at him across the snow-topped roofs outside his window, and he glared right back at it, suppressing a childish impulse to kick the wastebasket. Finally he sat down behind his desk, looked at the fine Havana cigar he’d allowed to go out no more than half smoked, threw it in the wastebasket, and reached for one of his own two-for-fifteen cent brand.
Everything he added together seemed to leave him more on the minus side. Charles (Cuddles) Swackhammer owned a large piece of Delora Deanne, and he was hardly one to go around deliberately damaging his own best interests, especially to the point of possible murder and mutilation. Cuddles was playful, but not that playful.
Cuddles was just about to marry one Maybelle Bragg, ex-employee of Hazel Swackhammer, and a sister, cousin, aunt, mother or daughter of Gertie Bragg, the face. For some reason he couldn’t explain to himself, the imminence of the Bragg-Swackhammer nuptials bothered him. He didn’t know, and couldn’t even guess why, but he was bothered and apprehensive just the same.
He looked up the telephone numbers of Gertie Bragg, Eula Stolz and Rita Jardee in the telephone directory and called them all. No answer. He slammed down the telephone and scowled at it, wondering what he’d have said if there had been an answer. But there was no one at home. No one at home anywhere any more. And right now there might be a new and even more terrible offering on its way to Hazel Swackhammer by mail or by messenger. Worst of all, there didn’t seem to be a single thing he could do about it.
He rose and began to prowl restlessly around the room, straightening the large steel engraving of Stephen A. Douglas and the framed photograph of the Oblong Marching Society, moved the ash trays around, stared unseeingly out the window, tore last week’s pages off the desk calendar, eventually did succumb and kick the wastebasket.
Hazel, and her jealous, grasping ways, and her almost mad devotion to the Delora Deanne she had created. Otis Furlong, and the curious note that had crept into his voice when he spoke of his ex-wife, Rita Jardee. Dennis Dennis, and his unpublished lyrics, and his alimony payments to a good woman. Cuddles Swackhammer, and his bride-to-be. The beautiful hands of Eva Lou Strauss, the generous wanton, and the beautiful feet of Louella Frick, the farm girl and homebody. And all five of the Deloras missing.
The photographs in Otis Furlong’s studio, and the softly falling snow transmuted into words in Dennis Dennis’ typewriter. Myrdell Harris, and her vague smile and her too many voices, and her untold knowledge of—something. Tamia Tabet, who would probably giggle and grow affectionately tender at a touch. Ned McKoen and his sly column items. Cosmetics used in embalming. Damn!
It all added up to something, but he seemed to be working all the wron
g problems in the wrong arithmetic book. Something that was right there in the confusion and fear and premonitions of terror yet to come. Some one fact, intangible, tantalizing, maddening. He knew it, and still he didn’t know it; he could feel its frightening and revealing presence, and yet he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
The telephone rang sharply, and he jumped. Maggie came in to announce anxiously that it was von Flanagan. The little lawyer looked apprehensively at the instrument, sighed deeply, rubbed a hand over his sweating face, and finally answered.
Von Flanagan just wanted to know if Malone had gotten the tickets for the fights yet, because if he hadn’t, he had a friend on the sports desk of the Tribune who wanted a couple of traffic charges fixed up. He added, just a shade too casually to please Malone, “And what goes on with your friend, the practical joker?”
“I told him I’d see him in jail,” Malone said, and hung up fast. He said to Maggie, “I will, too.” Right now, though, he didn’t have the faintest idea who, or when, or how.
“Malone—” Maggie began in an unhappy voice, “Malone, that Mr. Madrid—”
“Don’t worry about him,” he told her, hoping he sounded more reassuring than he felt. “We’re playing on the same team.”
“And Malone.” He was pleased to note the anxiety was gone. “My brother Luke—”
“Tomorrow,” Malone said, waving her away. “Right now I have things to do. A great many of them.”
He telephoned Gadenski. Gadenski was gone for the day. He telephoned Otis Furlong; there was no answer. He telephoned Dennis Dennis; he had gone to the broadcasting studio. He telephoned Hazel Swackhammer. No, there had been no messages, nor—anything. And what was Malone doing?
“A great deal,” Malone told her confidently. He telephoned Myrdell Harris, at the office and at home. She was at neither place. Once more he telephoned Gertie Bragg, Eula Stolz and Rita Jardee. Once more there was no answer.
Finally he telephoned Tamia Tabet to remind her of tonight’s date, and hung up feeling better. He patted the wallet in his pocket, and felt still better. True there was still tomorrow to worry about, and Gus Madrid to worry about, but that was another day.
“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” he told Maggie, “and Tamia is tonight. The devil fly away with Hazel Swackhammer,” Malone said almost gaily. “And with Dennis Dennis, and Cuddles, and with Otis Furlong, Ned McKoen, von Flanagan, and Delora Deanne. And with all the hands and feet in the city of Chicago, except those belonging to Tamia Tabet.”
“Malone,” Maggie said, in a worried voice, “do you know what you’re talking about?”
“I do indeed,” Malone told her, “and stand aside for a man in a hurry.” He put on his overcoat, set his hat at a jaunty angle, and headed for Joe the Angel’s like a whole flock of homing pigeons.
Forty-five minutes later, he settled accounts with the owner, manager, bartender and headwaiter of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. Now, no matter what happened next, he’d reestablished credit where he was likely to need it most.
Two hours and a shave, haircut, massage and manicure later, he paused briefly to admire his freshly pressed suit and new Countess Mara tie, and was on his way. Now the snow fairly sang merrily underfoot, a half moon was already adding glistening magic to streets and buildings, and Tamia Tabet was ready and waiting for him when he rapped softly at the door of her little apartment in a remodeled mansion on upper Rush Street.
She had on an entertainingly cut dress of more or less the same color as Otis Furlong’s borrowed pink bathtub, and so extremely simple in design that he immediately knew either she hadn’t bought it on a receptionist’s salary, or had made it herself. She also wore a smile that made him momentarily consider abandoning the evening’s plans for the suggestion of a quiet evening at home. But, he reminded himself sternly, this evening was planned to be more than a purely social one, and he still had to earn that check, regardless of how much or how little it might be. Moreover, there was the little matter of the task he’d taken on for Gus Madrid—
Right now he refused to think of those items, as he tucked Tamia Tabet’s arm in his own and waved down a taxi. In fact, he almost waved a cheery greeting at Gus Madrid in his black sedan.
Nothing was going to interfere with his definitely un-mouselike but best-laid plans for the evening ahead. And he simply refused to remember how many times he’d been dead wrong about such predictions in the past.
Chapter Sixteen
“It isn’t that you’re being unreasonable,” Jake said, “it’s just that you won’t listen to reason.”
He suddenly realized that he’d come perilously close to being cross with her, and gulped. Finally he added, realizing its inadequacy, “Darling!”
Helene smiled at him and said, “I’m perfectly willing to listen to reason. It’s just that I don’t quite see what Myrdell Harris has to do with it.”
“Look,” Jake said with something like desperation. “It’s like this. Myrdell Harris—she’s this Swackhammer woman’s executive assistant.”
“Secretary,” Helene said.
“All right. She’s her secretary. As such, she’s obviously an inside track to Hazel Swackhammer. As such, she can obviously be a help in selling a Delora Deanne television program. And as such—” he stopped himself just in the nick of time.
“As such,” Helene said very calmly, “it’s imperative that you talk with her tonight. Alone. When you haven’t even assembled a show yet. When you don’t even know if Otis Furlong can come up with a means for doing a composite on television. Otis Furlong, or anybody.”
“Well,” Jake said, “there’s Maggie’s brother Luke’s camera.”
The expression on Helene’s face told exactly what she thought of both Otis Furlong and Maggie’s brother Luke’s camera. But she said warmly, “Of course, Jake. Something’s bound to work, sooner or later.”
Jake breathed easier. “Another thing,” he went on, trying to divert the course of the subject while still staying on it.
“Malone told us she has a perfect imitation of the Delora Deanne voice. Suppose something happened to Rita Jardee. Like laryngitis or something.” Or sudden death, he thought.
Helene thought the same thing and hoped Jake had meant exactly what he’d said, and no more.
Jake looked at her. Deloras or no Deloras, there was only one Helene in the world. Right now she wore a smoothly sleek dress of some shiny, satiny stuff with unexpected tiny sparkles here and there, a stuff almost the exact color of her soft, corn-silk-color hair, and not a bit more glowing. In that one look he seemed to see her again in every time he’d ever seen her, from the very first sight of her, clad then in ice-blue lounging pajamas, a fur coat, and loose galoshes. He saw her busy, indolent, happy, anxious, loving, furious, and even frightened, and all one Helene.
“Darling,” he said again. Repetitious and inadequate or not, it was exactly what he meant. “I’ll give it all up for you. I’ll give up the whole damn television business for you. Anything.” Anything, except give up and live on her father’s fortune.
“Don’t be silly,” Helene said briskly. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You know perfectly well I’m having more fun than two ants at the same picnic, and if you ever dare give up television, I’ll leave you.”
The brief moment in which they were several universes apart had passed.
Helene picked up a sleek brown wrap for which hundreds of small animals had lived and loved, threw it carelessly around her shoulders, and said, “Get going, you lazy bum. Locate your Myrdell Harris. What’s more, I’m not going to insist on your taking me with you.”
The tall, red-haired man cocked an eyebrow. “Oh,” he said, “you trust me.”
“No,” Helene said serenely, “but I’ve got plans of my own.”
For just one moment, Jake hesitated, ready either to confess the whole thing, or to give it up. Whatever happened, even if he had to go hunting for a press-agent job, Helene mustn’t get mixed up in this—this thing, whate
ver it was. But if he confessed even a part of it, Helene would exuberantly insist on plunging right in to help. He couldn’t guess at what the results of that could be, indeed, he didn’t even want to.
Helene said, “I’m going to call on a perfectly respectable lady.” Her kiss was as quick and as light as a snowflake, and yet as warm as sudden flame. Then she was gone.
Down in the car, she began to worry about the whole situation. She felt reasonably sure that Jake’s reasons for seeing Myrdell Harris were exactly what he’d said they were. But if Myrdell Harris did know anything of what was going on, there was always the chance that she’d confide in Jake. Women of all ages were inclined to confide in Jake, given the slightest opportunity.
Oh, well, there was nothing to be done about it now. She told herself she was getting to be a worse worrier than Malone, and started the car.
The address, far out on the northwest side, was a shabby, two-apartment building, of badly weathered wood. There was an infinitesimal yard, where there might have been grass and even flowers, a very long time ago, and a sagging flight of steps. Helene looked at it for a few minutes before she left the car and went up to ring the doorbell.
It was a little while before the door was opened by a big-bellied man in carpet slippers, baggy slacks, an undershirt and one suspender. He looked at Helene as though she were personally responsible for all the troubles he and everyone else had ever had, and said, “Well?”
“I’m looking for Miss Eula Stolz,” Helene said.
“Eula ain’t here,” the man said. He continued to block the door with his body and didn’t seem disposed to add anything more.
A thin complaining voice from somewhere inside said, “What is it, Frank?”
“Lady here wants to see Eula,” the man called back, still eyeing Helene unpleasantly.
“Well, tell her to come in,” the voice called, “Eula ain’t here, but tell her to come on in.”
The man stepped aside. Helene hesitated a moment, and then went on in. There was a dark, narrow hall, and a lighted kitchen at the end of it, a kitchen that apparently, from its well-worn furniture, served as a general sitting room. There were dishes in the sink, a cluster of empty quart beer bottles to one side, and a freshly opened one on the table.
