by Craig Rice
“Mr. Malone—” Marty Budlicek began anxiously.
Malone gestured him to silence with a wave of his cigar. “Later, Marty, later.” He scowled disapprovingly at von Flanagan and said, “Is there any purpose in this little gathering here, or is it purely social?”
“Plenty of purpose,” von Flanagan said. “Frank here is gonna show us just how he done it. And seeing as how it is your office, we thought you would appreciate being here.”
“My office and my client,” Malone said. He turned to Marty Budlicek and said, choosing his words carefully, “And just what did you tell the police?”
Marty looked very unhappy. He hesitated a moment, caught Malone’s warning look, and said, “Just what happened, Malone. Alter you and this other fella—von Flanagan—after you went out. It was quite a little while after. This guy that was killed, real skinny guy he was, he come up. Got off the floor below this. Guess he must of walked up. Then this here fella—” he pointed at the glum-faced Frank McGinnis—“he come up and he got off the floor below too. Guess he must of walked up likewise. Right behind the first fella, he was.”
“See?” von Flanagan said triumphantly.
“I do,” Malone said. “And you keep out of this.” Von Flanagan momentarily forgot he was the police officer doing the questioning, and subsided almost apologetically. “And then what, Marty?” Malone asked.
“Well, this here fella—” again he pointed at Frank McGinnis—“he come down again after a while. But the other fella, he never did come down.”
“No, Marty,” Malone said very softly. “He never did.”
There was a little silence.
“Look here,” von Flanagan said, suddenly remembering who he was, “when this guy here came down, how did he seem? I mean, was he in a hurry, or excited, or anything like that?”
“You mean, did he act like he’d just killed the other fella?” Marty Budlicek asked. “Huh-uh. He just come right down.”
The big police officer looked disappointed for only a moment, then highly pleased. “See, Malone? He didn’t show any signs of emotion whatever. Just a cold-blooded killer.” Malone said three very rude words.
“Malone,” Marty Budlicek began again, even more anxiously, “Mr. Malone, listen—” The little elevator man turned pleadingly to von Flanagan. “Can I see Mr. Malone alone for just one minute?”
“No,” von Flanagan said.
“Stop picking on him,” Malone said. “He’s not the one under arrest. He’s the witness, remember? But never mind. I know what he wants to say anyhow. He’s scared to death because he’s mixed up in a killing. His information led you to make an arrest. And how does he know that between now and the time of the trial—assuming you can make this absurd charge stick—he won’t be killed, or his wife won’t be killed, or his little home won’t be dynamited—”
“The police,” von Flanagan said stiffly, “always give proper protection.”
Malone snorted. “The police,” he said in a very nasty voice, “did one hell of a fine job of protecting my carpet!”
“Now look here, Malone—” von Flanagan began.
Malone ignored him. “Don’t worry, Marty,” he said soothingly. “In an important case like this—a very important case like this—with a big shot like Mr. Leonard Estapoole found murdered, and a lot of political implications involving a lot of people, the police really do protect their witnesses.”
Von Flanagan opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.
“The police,” Malone went on, flicking an ash from his cigar, “put up their important witnesses—like you and Sophie, for instance—in some fine, luxurious hotel, under an assumed name, and with a twenty-four-hour police guard.”
Marty Budlicek’s watery blue eyes widened incredulously.
“You have to stay there, of course,” Malone said, “but you have all kinds of comforts. Send out for anything you want to eat and drink. Have a radio and a TV set installed. The works, Marty.”
Von Flanagan glared at Malone, who glared right back at him. It was Malone who won.
“Oh, all right,” von Flanagan said wearily. “Klutchetsky, you see to it.”
Marty Budlicek gulped twice and said, “Yes, but Malone—”
“Another time,” Malone said. “Right now, I want to hear what kind of fantastic story these cops have rigged up.”
“Fantastic, hell!” von Flanagan said. His face had been slowly turning a deep magenta. Now it was working toward purple. “It’s his story. Let him tell it.”
“Go ahead,” Malone told Frank McGinnis.
“It was self-defense,” Frank McGinnis said, and then clammed up.
“Go on,” von Flanagan said in exasperation. “Go on!” He gave Malone a cold look. “And you keep out of this!” He turned back to his prisoner and said, “Leonard Estapoole had an envelope full of valuable papers with detailed information that might—that would—get you and your pals in a lot of hot water, right?”
“It was self-defense,” Frank McGinnis said.
“You wanted those papers, didn’t you? You had to have those papers? You didn’t want them just to protect yourself, but because you could make a little money off them, right?”
Frank McGinnis began examining his fingernails with an air of complete absorption.
Von Flanagan drew in his breath. “You’d been following Leonard Estapoole, looking for a chance to get that envelope away from him, weren’t you?”
Frank McGinnis yawned.
“You followed him here to this building. You watched the elevator indicator and saw where he got out. Then you took the elevator to the same floor. You realized that he had climbed the stairs to the floor above. Or maybe you knew where he was going. So you climbed the stairs to the next floor. You saw that he’d gone into this office. So you came on into this office.”
Von Flanagan’s eyes gleamed. Frank McGinnis varied his routine with a mute shrug of his thin shoulders.
“You either did or didn’t pull a gun on him,” von Flanagan went on relentlessly.
This time Frank McGinnis paid enough attention to shake his head.
“All right. Before you had a chance to pull a gun, Leonard Estapoole, realizing what you were up to, tried to protect himself, naturally. There was a struggle. Chairs were overturned. You were afraid he was getting the best of you. So you picked up that heavy, bronze paperweight from the desk. You grabbed it and slugged him with it.” He paused dramatically.
Frank McGinnis said, “Self-defense,” very bored with it all.
“A nice story,” Malone said approvingly. He paused and looked at Frank McGinnis. “And with all that fuss and bother—not to mention your having to defend yourself—you didn’t get the papers after all, did you?” It was more or less of a question.
Frank McGinnis made a wide and highly expressive gesture indicating not only the total absence of any papers, but making very plain exactly what he thought of the whole proceedings.
“Leonard Estapoole probably expected just some such attempt, and has all this valuable information put away in a safe place,” von Flanagan grumbled.
“That may be, and it may not be,” Malone said. “And right now, it doesn’t matter too much. What does matter is that this is as clear a case of self-defense as I ever saw, in a lifetime of practice. Why, just look at it! My client here was fighting for his life!”
He stood up from behind his desk. “Leonard Estapoole wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t exactly an old one, either. And he probably kept himself in the best of physical condition. Easily more than a match for my friend McGinnis, here. And for all McGinnis knew, he was armed. It would have been the logical thing to assume.”
He warmed to his subject as he went on. “A man carrying valuable documents—highly incriminating documents—and alone at night, would almost certainly be armed. My client felt sure that he was armed. Why, the chances are that Leonard Estapoole happened to make some move which caused my client to think he was reaching for a gun. Isn’t that so, McGinnis? Didn
’t you think Estapoole was reaching for a gun?”
Frank McGinnis nodded with unbounded enthusiasm and said, “Sure thing, Malone.”
“There you have it,” Malone said in triumph. “My client, battling to save his life, was sure he saw his adversary, Leonard Estapoole, reaching for his gun. In sheer desperation he clutched at the first object that came to hand—it happened to be a bronze Buddha paperweight—and struck a blow in self-defense. Not a blow intended to kill, mind you, but in self-defense.” He paused and mopped at his brow with his pocket handkerchief.
Von Flanagan made an elaborate pretense of looking all around the room, behind the door, and even under the desk. “Funny thing,” he said nastily, “I could have sworn there was a jury in here somewhere.”
“Just as you could have sworn,” Malone told him blandly, “there was a case against my client in here somewhere. I’m sorry. But that’s the way it was, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”
The big police officer shrugged his shoulders. “What happens when it gets to a courtroom,” he said, “is not in my department.”
“If it ever gets to a courtroom,” the little lawyer said, with serene confidence. “I’ll have him out in—” he consulted his watch—“considerably less than twenty-four hours from now. And now if you don’t mind—I’d like to use my office for a while.”
Von Flanagan shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Klutchetsky, you and Scanlon take the prisoner down in the car. And be careful with him.”
“He won’t try to escape,” Malone said coolly. “Not with a lawyer like he’s got.”
“And take this little guy along too,” von Flanagan said, ignoring Malone. “Get him and his wife put up in a nice hotel. Put a guard on’em. That’s all.”
He waited until they had gone, and then turned to Malone. “No hard feelings, Malone?”
“Hell, no,” Malone said. “You got a suspect, I got a client. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t try to stick me for a commission.”
“That wouldn’t be legal,” von Flanagan said absent-mindedly. “Funny thing, it happening right here in your office, isn’t it?”
Malone agreed that, yes, it was a very funny thing.
“And right after we’d gone out, too,” von Flanagan said, musing. “And right after we’d been talking about Estapoole and the rumor that he was coming to see you. Remember?”
Malone did indeed remember.
“And he did come to see you, and he got murdered.” Von Flanagan shook his head and sighed.
“Small world,” Malone said. “Good thing I was with you at the time it must have happened.” He smiled pleasantly.
“Oh,” von Flanagan said, shocked. “I never would have suspected you, Malone. Never. The early newspapers may have had some wild kind of story, but it didn’t mean a thing. I never would of given out such a story.”
“Of course not,” Malone said warmly.
“Funny thing though, about the kid. Estapoole’s stepkid, I mean. Nothing ever has been said anywhere, officially. Maybe the whole thing was just a rumor. But it was a pretty definite rumor that she’d been snatched.”
He paused and looked thoughtfully at Malone. “Gadenski, he’s in Missing Persons now, traced things down a little, unofficially of course. Seems the kid was last seen with an unidentified but gorgeous blonde.”
Malone said wearily, “I know a lot of blondes.” He thought about several of them. “Where was this, and when?”
“Day before yesterday. At the Museum in Jackson Park. Then they both disappeared. At the coal mine.”
Malone blinked, shook his head to clear it fast, and then remembered. The Museum of Science and Industry had a real coal mine on exhibit. “A mine cave-in?” he suggested helpfully.
Von Flanagan pretended to find that very amusing. Then he went on, “If the kid hadn’t been snatched, and you hadn’t been picked as a go-between, then why would old man Estapoole be coming to see you?”
Malone said nothing. He was thinking that this night’s work was only at the beginning.
At that moment there was a mild commotion in the waiting room. Then the door was flung open and Jake Justus burst into the office, his lean, lightly freckled face pale, his red hair tousled. “I came here straight from the airport,” he said breathlessly. He paused, looked around the office and said, “Where’s my wife?”
“She’s all right,” Malone said quickly. “I don’t know where she is yet, but don’t worry—”
Jake stared at them, wild-eyed. “What’s been going on? I saw a newspaper—”
Von Flanagan and Malone both tried to tell him simultaneously, each with a slightly different version. All that came out clearly was the word “murder,” and a few names.
“Estapoole!” Jake said. “Malone! That’s the name of the people Helene flew east to see!”
CHAPTER 8
Malone closed his eyes for a moment and tried to imagine that he was somewhere else, preferably some place in the South Seas, and to pretend that this was another time, another day, perhaps even another year. This was the just one more thing that was all he needed to make life not only complicated beyond belief, but beyond endurance. It was, he informed himself, the last straw that broke the drowning man’s back.
Jake and von Flanagan were just standing there, staring stupidly at each other, saying nothing. At last Malone decided that eventually somebody had to speak first, and it might as well be he.
“We’ve had a little murder here,” he said.
“So I read,” Jake said. He was beginning to get the idea that what he had to discuss with Malone was better saved for private conversation.
“Clearest case of self-defense I ever saw,” Malone said. “Man was fighting for his life. Frank McGinnis, I mean.” He shook his head in a kind of awe. “Never would have dreamed old Leonard Estapoole had it in him!”
Von Flanagan found a word to say. Just one, but he roared it. Then he stalked to the door and went out, slamming it until it shook. Before Jake or Malone could speak, he had opened it again. “Did you say your wife is missing?”
Jake nodded, a little dazed.
“Good,” von Flanagan growled. “Then there’s one less person to make life hard for me!” He slammed the door a second time.
“Touchy, isn’t he?” Malone said. He sighed. “I can’t altogether blame him.” He paused, thought fast, and then said, a little lamely, “He’s had a busy day.”
“He must have had,” Jake said grimly. “So have I. Malone, just what did happen here?”
Malone hesitated a moment. He knew he could trust Jake to be helpful. That was the whole trouble. If he could only trust Jake not to be helpful—
He sighed deeply, and decided to tell Jake the story exactly as it had appeared to von Flanagan. When he had finished, Jake thought the whole thing over, shook his head sadly and said, “It’s a mess.”
“You can double and redouble that remark,” Malone said. “Now, what’s happened to Helene?”
“If I knew,” Jake said wildly, “if I only knew, do you think I’d be here, instead of back on that silly dude ranch in that outlandish state of Wyoming?”
“I never knew why you were in Wyoming in the first place,” Malone reminded him.
This time, it was Jake who sighed. “To try and sign up Nelle Brown for a television series before anybody else does,” Jake said. “She’s still beautiful, she can still outsing practically anyone I know, and besides, she’s the only one the prospective sponsor wants.” He added, “She sent you her love.”
Malone smiled reminiscently. “It’s been a long time.” His mind went back to those days when Jake was doing his best to marry Helene, and being interrupted by a little of everything, including murder. “Frankly,” he said, “there are times when I wish you were still a press agent.”
“There are times,” Jake said, the grim note coming back, “when I wish I were still a babe in arms and had it all to do over again. I’d never let Helene out of my sight for more than five minu
tes.”
“All right,” Malone said, “tell me just what happened.” He added automatically, “And don’t worry.”
“Me, worry?” Jake said, looking half out of his mind. He drew a long breath. “Day before yesterday—” he paused—“day before day before yesterday. She got this telegram and said she had to go tearing back to Chicago for a day. She said it was a party. I asked her who it was. She said it was the Estapooles.” He paused again. “She said it was a special kind of a party.”
“Apparently it was,” Malone said, and this time his voice was grim. “A very special kind of a party.”
“Malone, what are you going to do?”
“Find her,” Malone said, a little wearily.
“How?”
“Never mind,” Malone said. No point in telling Jake that he didn’t know. Certainly not right now. He looked thoughtfully at his visitor. The tall, red-haired man was swaying on his feet. “But I’ll start at Joe the Angel’s. It’s as good a place as any to start for anywhere.” He remembered everything that had happened since the last time he started from Joe the Angel’s, the night before. Oh well, a run of bad luck couldn’t last forever.
Maggie came into the office, dressed to go home. “If you don’t need me any more—” she began. She knew perfectly well he didn’t. “Malone, I thought—” Her voice broke off. “You did have an appointment with him. About the—child.”
“I know,” Malone said.
“This morning when I walked in and—saw him—I thought you—” Again her voice broke off. “I didn’t know what to think. I stalled. I tried to reach you, Malone. I tried to call every place I thought you might be. No luck, anywhere. I was frantic. Then I finally had to give in and call the police—” Her eyes and her voice were mournfully apologetic.
“You did right,” Malone said, trying for a really big smile. “And remind me to give you a raise in pay.”
She managed to smile back. “Just remind yourself to pay me once in a while. And by the way, Malone—”
“Whatever it is,” he told her, “don’t bother me with it now.” He sat silent for a few minutes. For a while he considered telling them everything that had happened to him, beginning with his discovery of the body. Then he decided against it once and for all. They both had worries enough of their own.
