by Craig Rice
“Malone, I swear by—” Von Flanagan’s face began to turn scarlet. “Malone. For the last time. I’m giving you a chance only because you’re an old friend. Where are they?”
“Where are what?” Malone said crossly, reaching for his gin.
“The hands and the feet!” von Flanagan roared.
Joe the Angel dropped his bar rag, picked it up, and stared at Malone.
Malone said, “Oh, that,” very cheerfully. But the premonition of an unpleasant chill was beginning to creep into his bones.
“Because,” the big police officer went on relentlessly, “we’ve got the rest. Torso and legs, anyway.”
The little lawyer took his drink down in one gulp, and put his glass down very slowly and carefully while his hand was still reasonably steady.
“And the head,” von Flanagan said. “Malone, what have you done with the head?”
Malone said nothing. He was beginning to wonder just what he was going to do with his own.
Von Flanagan drank his bourbon and began muttering bitterly, apparently to himself. The legal aspects of obstructing justice. Withholding vitally important information. Concealing necessary evidence. No consideration for years of friendship. Probably hiding out material witnesses. Making trouble and work for the whole police department. Ought to be tossed in jail. His voice trailed off at last into what became a deathlike silence.
Malone said nothing. He stared, bewildered, at nothing. Joe the Angel refilled both glasses and looked at Malone expectantly. Von Flanagan looked at Malone with a mixture of hopefulness and badly suppressed rage.
At last, in the icy silence, the city hall janitor drained his beer glass, rose, stretched, walked to the door, paused and said, “I remember once in the old country, they found a head. Like from a mummy. It was in a blue box.” He went away, closing the door silently behind him.
“Box,” Malone said suddenly. “Boxes. Lots and lots and lots of boxes.”
“Malone,” von Flanagan said anxiously, “are you all right?”
“No,” Malone said. “Tell me about this torso. Where did you find it?”
“Klutchetsky found it,” von Flanagan told him. “In a coffin.”
Another box. Malone closed his eyes.
“It was in a storage warehouse,” von Flanagan went on. “Night man, making his rounds, noticed it. Didn’t think it belonged there. Called in. Klutchetsky got the call, went right to the warehouse. Opened up the coffin. Malone, it had been embalmed.”
“Damn it,” Malone said. “Of course it had been embalmed. I knew that.”
“Fine,” von Flanagan said. “But what else do you know?”
“I’m not sure,” Malone said slowly, and very wearily. His stomach had decided to skip the wet concrete stage and turn directly into ice. “I’m not sure what I know and I’m not sure that I’m going to like it.” He finished his gin in the hope that it would, at least, warm him a little. It didn’t. He’d become painfully and suddenly sober now. “No, I don’t like it even a little bit.”
Von Flanagan said, “Well—” a little uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, Malone, I suppose we’d better go look at it.”
“I suppose we had,” Malone said miserably, and shivered a little.
They went out the door without bothering to nod good night to a worried Joe the Angel and got in von Flanagan’s official car. Malone somehow managed to get a cigar lighted and puffed at it, looking out the window with unseeing eyes. He was terribly tired now, tired beyond all belief, and frightened, and very cold. There was unknown and unguessed-at horror in the darkened windows that they passed, horror in the deserted streets, horror in every light and every shadow. The walls knew it, and the alleys, and the winds that whistled around the corners knew it, and they whispered it back to him over and over.
He said nothing, and he found himself trying to move very silently, his footsteps no more than quiet whispers as he followed von Flanagan down the seemingly endless corridors, through doorway after doorway.
The girl, whoever she was, had been beautiful. Malone took one long, despairing look, and closed his eyes for an instant.
“The hands,” von Flanagan murmured hoarsely. “The hands, and the feet.”
Malone glanced quickly, closed his eyes again, and said, “Yes. Yes, they could. But I couldn’t swear to it. Not yet.”
“There’s no identifying mark of any kind,” von Flanagan said. “Except this. Right above the knee. As though she’d habitually worn garters. Jeweled garters, Doc Flynn says. Even the very good embalming job didn’t completely take out the mark.”
Another line of the song began to run insanely through Malone’s troubled mind.
She wore a diamond garter—
“Rings,” Malone said. “Rings on her fingers.”
“For the love of God, Malone,” von Flanagan breathed, “this is no time for singing!”
The little lawyer shook his head. “The ring, von Flanagan. That was it.”
Von Flanagan grabbed his arm and steered him quickly and firmly back through the dreary corridors, and out into the street. The night was beginning to vanish in the dawn now, a drab December dawn that threatened snow. Not soft and whitely falling snow this time, though.
“Don’t you see, damn you,” Malone said angrily. “There wasn’t any ring.” He paused. “Ring. The bird. The parakeet. Telephone.”
“Malone,” von Flanagan asked in an anxious voice. “Don’t you feel well? Do you want to lie down somewhere?”
“I never felt better in my life,” Malone said, lying in his throat. “And I never expect to. And where is the nearest telephone?”
Von Flanagan, his broad red face one big confused scowl, pointed out an all-night lunchroom. Malone thumbed hastily through the telephone book for the number of Charlie Swackhammer’s home.
The voice that answered was sleepy, then angry, and at last, bewildered.
“Do you know where Maybelle is?” Malone demanded roughly.
“Yes. Yes, of course I know where she is. And listen you, do you know what time—”
“I do,” Malone said. “It’s time for you to get up. Don’t let Maybelle out of your sight. Do you understand? Don’t let her out of your sight for as much as five seconds.”
“All right,” the cross, sleepy voice said. “All right, I won’t. But what’s the reason? What are you trying to do, Malone?”
“I’m trying to save her life, that’s what,” Malone said wearily. “Because she’s the one who was going to be murdered.” He hung up and turned around to face von Flanagan, swaying a little with what was near exhaustion now. “There isn’t going to be any head. And there hasn’t been any murder. There isn’t going to be any murder. That torso—”
“Death by natural causes,” von Flanagan said. “Doc Flynn told me that already. It was—”
Before he could go on, Malone said, “Of course it was death from natural causes. I should have known it from the beginning. Because of the ring.”
“Malone—” Von Flanagan paused, scowled, went on with, “But who was she?”
“Who knows?” Malone said in a curiously flat voice. “It doesn’t matter now, von Flanagan. Somewhere, there’s a coffin that was buried without a body in it. Or shortly to be buried. If you’ll check with all the recent funerals of very beautiful young women, you’ll find it.” He shook his head, as though trying to clear it. “The ring,” he repeated, whispering to himself “That was the oversight.”
“Are you sure you feel well?” von Flanagan said, the anxiety now turning into deep concern.
“Perfectly,” Malone said. “Von Flanagan, you’ve got to believe me, now. I’ll deliver the hands and the feet to you. But I can’t do it before tomorrow. Understand?”
Von Flanagan nodded. He’d known Malone a long, long time. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Things,” Malone said, in that tired, listless voice.
“Various things. To check facts and conclusions.
Ends that don’t justify the means. Or something. Tomorrow, remember. And I’ll deliver someone, too. But not to you.”
Von Flanagan started to protest. Malone stopped him with a shake of the head.
“Because it’s not in your department, von Flanagan.”
Chapter Twenty
For a little while Malone stood on the windswept street corner, wondering what to do next. He thought about going back to his hotel, a tub full of hot water, a quick nap, a shave, and a change of clothes. Then he decided against it. He thought about ham and eggs, and fried potatoes, golden toast lavish with butter, about strawberry jam, about a pot full of steaming coffee. He decided against that too. He thought about the still half-full bottle of dollar gin in the filing drawer marked Confidential, but it too had no appeal for him now.
He went on to his office, slowly, wearily, unhappily. There was going to be trouble, and he hated trouble, for anybody. Especially, he reflected, for himself.
The office seemed more deserted than any place had ever been; the dim glow that came in through the windows sent unfriendly shadows moving over the floor. Malone quickly switched on every light in the room. It didn’t help.
How could any place be so silent?
He sat thinking moodily for a while. There were things that he had to do. None of them unpleasant, but all of them important. All routine things. He considered sending for Maggie, and then decided to let her sleep. Somebody around the place had to get some sleep.
At last he lit his first cigar of what he had decided might as well be a new day. He was still sitting looking at it when the telephone rang, alarmingly loud in the dead silence.
It was Helene. “Malone! What are you doing at your office at this hour?”
“Never mind,” the little lawyer growled. “What are you doing calling my office, or anywhere else, at this same hour?”
“Because I called everywhere else, and couldn’t find you,” she told him, with a calm serenity which, he knew, probably spelled trouble. “I called a lot of places, a lot of times. I left messages everywhere. Finally I just decided to try the office. Malone, come right out here. Because I need you.”
“Come right out here where?”
“Rogers Park,” Helene said.
Malone scowled at the telephone. “What the hell are you doing there?”
“Trying to talk my way out of jail,” Helene said. “And I don’t seem able to do it by myself. That’s why I need you.”
This time Malone swore at the telephone. Finally he said, “I’ll be right out.” He added unnecessarily, “Wait for me.”
Well, at least it was a diversion. He managed to locate a taxi in spite of the hour, and caught a brief and uncomfortable nap on the way.
When he got there Helene not only looked serene, she looked almost pleased with herself. It was an expression Malone didn’t like, no, not the least bit.
The charge, it seemed, was not just a little matter of speeding, but of assaulting an officer.
Malone looked at the officer in question, a big, burly, pink-faced man who might have been an ex-wrestler.
“Malone,” the officer said, “she slapped me.” He looked a little puzzled. “Then when we got here, she wanted me to apologize to her.” With that, he looked not only puzzled but mildly hurt.
Malone felt not only puzzled, but mildly infuriated.
“Not only that,” another policeman said, “while she was trying all those calls to reach you, she won practically all the money in the place playing blackjack.”
“But I meant to give it back to you,” Helene said virtuously. “That’s why I didn’t use it to put up bail or pay a fine or something.”
Helene, Malone felt sure, had been having the time of her life. He sighed, went away, spent a little time on the telephone, talked to a few people, paid a small fine, and everything was settled.
Helene tucked her hand through his arm and gave the offended officer a smile that would probably have elected her mayor. He promptly offered to give the discussed apology. Helene waved it away with another smile, as Malone rushed her through the door. A few more minutes, he reflected, and they’d probably have offered to give the fine back.
Out in her car, he looked at her sternly and said, “I hope Jake beats you up. How did you get into this in the first place? And,” he added hastily as she started down the street, “don’t get pinched for speeding again here in the same territory.”
“Well,” Helene said, expertly weaving her way around pre-dawn truck traffic, “it was partly because of Myrdell. But partly because of Eula Stolz, too.”
Malone sighed, relit his cigar, leaned back in his seat and tried to relax.
Helene told him, in detail, of her visit to the dreary little apartment where Eula Stolz had lived. “Malone, I had to talk to you, right away. All those clothes. She’d just gone off and left them, like—like the first two. But when I did finally find you—you told me about Myrdell. And I knew I had to find out about the last ones. I had Gertrude Bragg’s address. So I decided I’d drive right out here. I was in a hurry. The cop stopped me. The rest,” she said dramatically, “the rest you know.”
“The rest, I don’t know,” Malone said. “You should have taken a ticket from him and gone on your way.”
“I lost my temper,” Helene said, looking as though she wouldn’t lose her temper if someone burned down her home, wrecked her car, and threw rocks at Jake. “Well anyway, it’s all right now. Or, that is—I still haven’t done anything about Eula Stolz.”
“And you’re not going to do anything about Eula Stolz,” Malone said, “or anyone else. You’re going to go right home and stay there, I hope. You need to sleep occasionally too.”
Helene sniffed and remarked that he was a fine one to talk about sleep.
“I’ve already had some,” Malone said, thinking of the half-hour in the taxi. He looked long and admiringly at Helene. Her pale gold hair was beautifully in place, her face, with its exquisite profile, looked as though she’d just come from a long nap and the best possible beauty parlors.
“Eula Stolz is all right,” he told her. “In feet, everybody is all right.” Then he told her of the encounter with Rita Jardee the night before—had it been only that short a time ago?
“Which is all very well, except that it knocks the voice out of Jake’s television show, when he gets it organized.” This was no time to say if.
“With Myrdell gone—” She paused. “But when the time comes, Jake will talk Rita Jardee into providing the necessary voice. Jake,” she said, with beautiful confidence, “could talk any woman into doing anything.”
Malone hoped she was right, but reserved opinion.
“But the other girls, Malone—the ones that are missing—” She missed a trucks fender by inches and said, “Sorry, Malone,” She went on, “And something still may happen to Rita.”
“Listen, Helene—” He thought for a minute. “I’ll fill in all the details in due time. But right now, you’ve got to take my word for one thing. All the Deloras are all right. Don’t ask any questions now. Just believe me. In time, I’ll prove it. Perhaps even today.”
She drove in silence for a while. Then, “If that’s the way things are—if some way can be found to make them all combine into one girl on a TV screen—then Jake—” Her voice trailed off into a hopeful silence.
“Then Jake has a show,” Malone said. He threw away the cigar and thought about starting a new one. “Providing, of course, he has the mastery over women you credit him with having.”
A few minutes later she swung the big convertible north on State Street. Malone protested that his office was in the opposite direction.
“I’m taking you home for breakfast,” she told him firmly, “and don’t argue. It’s too early for anybody to be going to any office, anyway.”
He thought that over and decided to give in gracefully. He did remind her that one speeding ticket in one day was considered par for the course.
“I’m worried about
Jake,” Helene said. “I’m worried about Jake worrying about me.”
“Then why didn’t you call him up hours ago?”
“Because,” she said, with what seemed to Malone like perfect logic at the time, “I didn’t want him to worry about me.”
On the way up in the elevator, she murmured something about poor Jake, pacing the floor, not able to sleep, wondering where she was, making telephone calls, going half out of his wits. There was a mist of repentance in her cornflower-colored eyes.
She opened the door to the apartment, stopped, and muttered, “The rat!” under her breath.
Jake was there all right. He was sitting very comfortably on the big divan, Otis Furlong on one side and Rita Jardee on the other. In front of them on the coffee table was a tray of bottles and glasses.
He smiled up at her as she came in and said, “Hello, darling. I was just beginning to wonder when you’d get in!”
Chapter Twenty-one
“But I had no idea it was so late,” Jake repeated bewilderedly. “I got home and I had a drink, and I thought a while, and then they got here, and we talked, and I tell you,” he said for now the fourth time, “I had no idea how late it was.”
Suddenly he scowled. “Where have you been?” His face softened just as suddenly, turned a little pale. “Helene darling, are you all right?”
She looked at him with affection whose warmth fairly made the whole room glow. “Just a little traffic ticket. Malone fixed it all up.”
Malone sat down in a comfortable chair and started to go to sleep. He moved quickly to a straight chair and sat bolt upright. If he let himself go to sleep now, he would go right on sleeping until sometime tomorrow, or quite possibly sometime next week.
“Myrdell—” Jake looked at him anxiously.
“It was natural causes,” the little lawyer told him. “Something in her heart. Or something not in her heart. Anyway, it wasn’t murder. I talked to Dr. Stonecypher.”
