The Right Murder Craig Rice

Chapter One THE PUDGY, RED-FACED MAN SITTING ALONE at the bar was crying into his gin. From time to time he raised his glass, drank from it, stared into it as though it were a crystal ball reflecting all the sorrows of the world, and set it down again. It didn't matter to him that the other customers in Joe the Angel's City Hall Bar-most of them his friends, too-were having a wonderful time. Even the loud trio at the 26-Game table didn't distract him. Once he did lift his head when he realized that the group of men next to him was celebrating the election. He lifted his head because it puzzled him. The election had been over two months ago. Then he discovered it was Cleveland's election they were celebrating, and returned again to his incipient melancholia. The short, stocky, red-faced man was John J. Malone, Chicago's most famous criminal lawyer. At the moment, he was also the unhappiest man on earth. It wasn't just because the long-legged brunette from Chez Paree had hocked his expensive Christmas present and gone off to New York with a new prospect. It wasn't because he had reached that stage of being broke where the only thing he could afford to do was to get expensively drunk. Nor was it because this was New Year's Eve and he was all alone in the big city. It was just that the two people he liked best in the world had gone off to Bermuda on their honeymoon, and he missed them. Malone pushed the thinning, damp black hair back from his forehead, mopped his face, shoved his empty glass and a five-dollar bill at Joe the Angel, and said, "Let me know when this is used up." If Jake were only here. Red-haired Jake Justus was the greatest press agent alive, just as, by his own admission, he'd been the greatest reporter on earth until the Examiner fired him. If Helene were only here. Helene-blonde, beautiful, rich, glamorous, the terror of the traffic department and the delight of every bartender between Lake Bluff and Gary. But Jake and Helene were honeymooning in Bermuda. John J. Malone hoped Jake and Helene were having a wonderful time, and cried into his gin. The four men to his immediate right began singing Did Your Mother Come from Ireland? The little lawyer roused himself long enough to wonder why it was that whenever four men sing in a barroom, three of them turn out to be Irish. A city-hall hanger-on chose that inauspicious moment to edge up to him and say chummily, "Say, I hear you certainly were a lot of help in clearing up those State and Madison shootings." Malone said, "Sorry, I'd like to buy you a drink, but-" "That's O.K., pal. Did the girl really confess to you that she'd done the killings?" The morose man stemmed the flood of questions with a long, cold, and perfectly vacant stare. "You're John J. Malone, aren't you?" "Hell no," the lawyer said. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm Admiral Byrd." The intruder took the hint and went quietly away. John J. Malone heaved a long, indrawn, and outgoing sigh that would have pulverized a heart of stone, ordered another gin, and wished that the subject of murder hadn't been called to his mind. He knew he would have to make one more mental excursion over the events of the past few weeks. The day Jake and Helene had been married, Jake had made a bet. The other half of the bet had been the much married, magnetic social leader, aviator, author, explorer, millionairess-Mona McClane. She had bet Jake that she could commit a murder, and Jake would never find it out. The stake had been the far-famed Casino, Chicago's favorite drinking and dancing spot. Then someone had been murdered, several people, in fact, and Malone, Helene, and Jake had worn themselves to a frazzle pinning it on Mona McClane, only to find out that it was somebody else's murder all the time, which was okay, except that Mona insisted they had followed the wrong corpse. Now Malone found himself in the uncomfortable position of knowing that a murder had been committed and knowing the identity of the murderer, without knowing the identity of the victim. It irked him. It wasn't his bet, and it wasn't his business, but it bothered him just the same. If Jake and Helene were only here. Malone discovered he was crying into an empty glass. He called for another gin and said, "Remember, Joe, I want to go home at five minutes after twelve, even if it is New Year's." He knew that he wouldn't. Joe the Angel's City Hall Bar was small and far from ornate, but it was handy. One longish, narrow room, the bar running from end to end, the extra space occupied by the 26-Game table, a few small tables and chairs, and a telephone booth-that was all. But it was located in the very heart of Chicago's Loop, and you couldn't toss a stone in any direction from its doorway without hitting a politician who probably deserved it. If you wanted to bet on a horse, cash a check, get an interview with the mayor, meet the buxom, red-haired girl in the Rialto chorus, or just buy a drink, Joe the Angel could fix you up. He was one of John J. Malone's closest friends, and he knew enough to keep the gin flowing and his mouth shut. The group at John J. Malone's right had stopped singing Did Your Mother Come from Ireland? and were trying to remember the opening bars of Killarney's Lakes and Dells. The little lawyer sighed again. On top of all his other troubles, he could foresee exactly how the night was going to end. He was going to be drawn into conversation with some of the men at the bar. People would start buying drinks for each other. He would lend his silver-plated tenor to There's a Little Bit of Heaven, and be coaxed into reciting the "Elegy for Robert Emmet." They-he and his new found friends-would move to a number of other bars, ending up in Cicero. There would be a fight and he would get the collar torn off his shirt by some perfect stranger from Rock Island. He would wake up eventually, either jailed for disorderly conduct or in some woman's apartment at least a forty-five-minute train ride from the Chicago Loop. He knew the night was going to end that way, because that was the way they always did. John J. Malone held out his glass to be refilled, emptied it with one breath, and reminded himself that tomorrow morning was the beginning of a new year, and he was going to start life all over again. He heard the door open and close. He looked up and saw Joe the Angel's face whiten a shade and then freeze grotesquely into an expression of horror. "Malone!" The voice that screamed it was strained, hoarse, terrible, a travesty of a voice. Malone wheeled around on the bar stool. A man had come in the door and stood there clinging to the knob with one white-knuckled hand. He was a stranger to John J. Malone. He was hatless, and tiny bits of snow glistened on his smooth, black hair. He was a tall man, lean and angular, dressed in a mustard tweed suit, with a badly worn but expensive camel's hair topcoat thrown back on his shoulders. There was a deep tan on his big-boned, deeply lined face, but the color now was a hideous, bloodless gray. He took two steps into the room. "Malone- " There was a ghastly, bubbling sound in the voice. The crowd in Joe the Angel's bar was still as death. The man took one more step, and held out his hand. Almost automatically, without thinking, John J. Ma-lone reached out his own hand to grasp it. The hand clasped his and loosened again. He felt something hard and cold slip into his palm. Then the stranger began to fall. First his knees buckled-slowly-so that he sank to the floor in an attitude of prayer, his hands outstretched in front of him. A look of horror and incredulity came over his colorless face. Then he fell backward, his head striking the wood floor with a strange, hollow sound. One knee unbent, the foot flying out in a curious, springing movement; the other leg remained crooked under him. There was a sudden, horrible twitching that shook his entire frame and then, just as suddenly, he lay still. John J. Malone was the first to move. He slid off the bar stool, lurched only a trifle, and knelt beside the twisted figure on the floor. After a divided second he rose, drew a nickel from his pocket, and threw it on the bar. "Gimme a slug." Joe the Angel handed him a telephone slug. No one else moved. The little lawyer crossed the narrow room to the telephone booth, dropped the slug in the telephone, and dialed POL-1313. "Send a squad car to Joe the Angel's, on Dearborn Street. There's a dead man on the floor." He slammed down the receiver after missing the hook on the first try. At exactly that moment hell broke loose. The radio back of the bar began to let forth sounds that rocked the little machine. Outside, whistles began to scream, bells clanged, and the off-pitch roar of voices was heard all the way from State Street where the crowds were gathered. It was twelve o'clock on New Year's Eve, the beginning of a new year. John J. Malone swallowed the gin he had left on the bar. When it had set the blood moving in his veins again the little lawyer opened his hand and looked at what the stranger had slipped there in the last moment of his life. It was a key. An ordinary key, with the number 114 printed on its handle. Chapter Two "I TELL YOU I never saw the guy before," John J. Malone repeated. "I haven't the faintest idea who he was. He came into Joe the Angel's bar and dropped dead on the floor at exactly two minutes to twelve, and that's every last thing I know about him." "Don't try to give me that noise, Malone." Daniel von Flanagan of the homicide division scowled heavily. He was a tall, big man, somewhere near middle age, with a large moon face and thinning, gray hair. "You must've known him because he knew you. He made it to Joe the Angel's bar from some place up the street with a knife in his ribs, and hollered 'Malone.' " "He mistook me for someone else," the lawyer said- Von Flanagan snorted loudly. "Come on, who was he? A client? Or just somebody a client of yours was using for target practice?" "He was a perfect stranger to me," Malone insisted. He added under his breath, "And I wish to God you were." It was sometime between two and three by the big electric clock in von Flanagan's office. The first squad car had arrived at Joe the Angel's bar just as the last echoes of the twelve o'clock racket were dying away. The deadwagon had arrived from the morgue thirty seconds later. That was routine. However, since it was New Year's Eve, locating anyone in authority had taken a little time. The deadlock in von Flanagan's office was only starting its second hour now. John J. Malone was even unhappier than before, and in addition he felt terrible. It had been two hours and twenty-five minutes since the last drink of gin, and the aftereffects of the preceding gins were beginning to take hold. He felt that his arms, legs, and head were a little too heavy for the rest of him, and he had a vague notion that small green men were sitting on his shoulders, poking miniature battering rams into his ears. "Why pick on me," he said morosely, "just because I happened to be sitting quietly in a barroom when some bum gets mixed up in a knifing?" "He was no bum," von Flanagan said. "Not that guy. He had over four hundred bucks in his kick and a fancy Swiss watch strapped on his wrist." "All right," Malone said, with an attempt at amiability. "He wasn't a bum. That proves I couldn't have known him. Let's call the whole thing off. If you ask me, police headquarters is one hell of a place to spend New Year's Eve." "You should talk," von Flanagan growled. "What if you had my job? Damn it, Malone, I never wanted to be a cop. As soon as I get enough dough saved up to buy a little weekly newspaper some place in the country, I'm gonna quit. This just goes to show you. Here I was at a New Year's party at my brother-in-law's-" He paused, looked thoughtful, and added, "Not but what it wasn't a stinking party, anyway. What'dya say, Malone, when I get through with this mess-I think we could still make the last floor show at the Grand Terrace?" The little lawyer's face brightened. He looked at his watch and said, "I guess we could." "Fine," von Flanagan said heartily. "Now about this guy-" He scowled. "Why couldn't he of fell over right where he was, in some place where somebody might of known him, instead of walking all over town just to make it hard for me. Somebody stuck him in the ribs, just below his right shoulder blade. If it'd been on the other side, he probably would of died right then and there. But no, he has to-" "How far does the doc think he walked?" Malone interrupted. "Hell, he can't say. Chances are he didn't get more'n a coupla blocks before internal hemorrhage carried him off, but that don't prove 'nothing." Von Flanagan spoke bitterly. "Well, I was only trying to help," the lawyer said in an injured tone. Suddenly he frowned. "Funny he wouldn't have any kind of identification on him. This is none of my business, but do you mind if I take a good look at his clothes?" "Not a bit," von Flanagan told him, a shade more hopefully than before. "Take another look at him, too. I've got to go back to the morgue anyway and you might as well come along to keep me company." "Remember, though, I'm not mixing up in this," Malone said, as he struggled into his overcoat. "Oh, sure," the police official assured him, almost too heartily. "As long as you're positive you don't know who he was, and why he came into Joe the Angel's bar hollering for you, why it's none of your affair. You're just helping me out a little tonight, that's all. You're not mixed up in it a bit." The lawyer hoped von Flanagan was right, but he didn't believe it. The stranger who had stumbled into Joe the Angel's bar had been a handsome and impressive figure. He appeared so even now, in the gloomy austerity of the Cook County morgue. He had been tall, big-boned, and muscular, with a lean, large-featured face. It had been a hard face, almost cruel; seen even now against the white-sheeted table, it had an expression of grim, inexorable force, a determination that persisted even in death. "Tough-looking mug," von Flanagan needlessly commented. The-dead man's hair had been chestnut brown, almost black, coarse and heavy, and perfectly straight. The skin on his chest and upper arms was delicately white, almost womanish, but where it had been exposed to sun and wind it was a deep, leathery brown. Malone guessed that his eyes had been either gray or blue, probably gray. "Sure you don't know him?" von Flanagan asked hopefully. The lawyer shook his head. "Not from Adam. Never saw him in my life." He felt almost entirely sober now, but still extremely uncomfortable. He wished he had a drink. The spectacle of the unidentified man starting the new year in the Cook County morgue depressed him. "Let's look at his clothes," he told von Flanagan. The camel's hair topcoat and mustard tweed suit were piled together untidily on a nicked brown wooden table. Malone poked at them absently, picked up the white broadcloth shirt and examined it, ran a finger over the heavy tan brogues. Suddenly he stood stock-still, his face expressionless, staring at the heap of clothing. "What time did it stop snowing tonight?" Von Flanagan blinked. "Sometime around midnight. I can find out exactly when it was, if you want me to." "I do," the lawyer said. While von Flanagan telephoned to the weather bureau, he continued to stand by the table, his eyes fixed on the dead man's clothing, yet seeing something twenty blocks away. Von Flanagan came back and reported, "It stopped snowing at eleven-forty. Can you make something of it?" "Twenty minutes to twelve," Malone said absent-mindedly. He was silent for a moment, then spoke almost dreamily. "When this guy came into Joe the Angel's bar, it was three or four minutes before twelve. He had snow on his shoes, plenty of it, so he'd been walking. But there wasn't any snow on his clothes, so it hadn't been snowing when he was walking. Snow would have stuck to that fuzzy topcoat." He drew a long breath. "This guy walked to Joe the Angel's from someplace under seventeen or eighteen minutes walking distance, maybe less, but certainly not more. The medical examiner said he'd had a drink or two just before he was killed, not many, but one or two. Now you can try all the places where he might have got a drink within a few blocks of Joe the Angel's, and see if you can find anybody who remembers him." Von Flanagan looked at him. "I never would of thought of that." "I think of everything," the lawyer said smugly. He picked up the mustard tweed trousers and examined them, ran a quick glance over the camel's hair topcoat. "He fell down, once or maybe twice. Mud on his knees and elbows, a little on the front of his coat, fresh mud. Fell down, maybe lay there a few minutes, dished himself out a last batch of energy and got up again." "Finding you must have been pretty important," von Flanagan said softly. Malone ignored him. He picked up the coat of the tweed suit in one hand and one of the tan brogues in the other. "These clothes tell something else, too, if you weren't too dumb to see it for yourself." The police officer blinked. "I'm just a cop. What else?" "These shoes were bought in England and the suit was made there. You can't get either in this country. Neither are very badly worn. He hasn't been wearing them more than two months at the most. You might try to find out if some guy looking like this came into the country within the last couple of months and maybe you can find out who he was." "Thanks, Malone," von Flanagan said explosively. "I want you to know I really appreciate-" He paused, scowled, and said, "But I can't figure out why he came into Joe the Angel's and bawled for you." "I never saw him and I never heard of him," Malone said crossly. One hand slipped into his coat pocket and felt of the key the stranger in his last moment of life had put in his hand. He wished he had a chance to take it out and examine it. "Let's get the hell out of here, I want a drink." Von Flanagan nodded and muttered something about the last show at the Grand Terrace, then said, "Too bad those friends of yours, Jake Justus and that crazy blonde wife of his, aren't along." Malone sighed and nodded. He too had been wishing for Jake and Helene. He had an uncomfortable premonition that he was going to need them. The late show at the Grand Terrace was all Malone had anticipated, but it didn't seem to improve his state of mind. Switching from gin to rye didn't help much, either. If only von Flanagan would give him a chance to examine that key! But the police officer stuck to him like a summons server. At the next stop, a second-rate black and tan, the floor show wasn't as good, but it was noisier. Malone tried following the rye with beer, and felt that an upswing was beginning at last. Von Flanagan reminded him that if anything should be asked in the future, they'd spent the whole night attending to the matter of the murdered stranger, and added, "Boy, I wish I had a wife like the one Jake Justus got. Some guys have all the luck." Malone agreed with him, and wished he would stop talking about Jake and Helene. He didn't like to admit how much he missed them. It was forever, too. They would come back from their honeymoon and Jake would get a job, probably some nine-to-five affair, and he and Helene would settle down to quiet domesticity. In time they would move to the suburbs and he, Malone, would be occasionally invited out to dreary, interminable Sunday dinners. The old days were done now. Of course, if only Jake had won that bet with Mona McClane, and had the Casino to play with-but no use thinking about that now. Unless- He stopped and reminded himself sternly that Jake was a married man now, with responsibilities, and no time to go around mixing up in murder cases, even to win crazy bets. At the next black and tan the floor show was not as noisy, but it was dirtier. Malone tried alternating gin and rye, and began to feel that the world was almost livable again. Von Flanagan was reminded of some incident in the courtship of Jake and Helene, and Malone offered him a poke in the nose if he didn't change the subject. There were no more floor shows anywhere, but at the bar on North Clark Street, Malone consented to sing three verses of Molly Darling. The sun rose that morning of January first at 7:24. No one of importance noticed it. Malone and von Flanagan had returned to Joe the Angel's bar for what both agreed would be a last quick one before going home to bed. The police officer's face had taken on an oddly mottled tone. Now it suddenly became grimly determined. He leaned close to the little lawyer. "Now," he said in an ugly voice, "maybe you'll tell me why that guy came in here and hollered for you after he'd been stabbed, or do I have to throw you in the can as a material witness?" Malone blinked once, and called von Flanagan a colorful collection of names that ran all the way down the alphabet. He dwelt on the subject of the police officer's family tree, including the questionable behavior of two unmarried great-aunts. Some perfect stranger standing at the bar turned to the lawyer and said angrily, "He's m'friend. Y'can't say that t'him, y'drunken bum." "Bum!" Malone roared wildly. His face was purple. "I'll show you from drunken bums!" His left missed the stranger by a good two inches, but as he swung, his foot caught von Flanagan's ankle and toppled the big man to the floor. At the same instant the stranger's right landed on Malone's nose. The lawyer let out an anguished howl, butted the stranger in the stomach, grabbed a chair, and aimed it at von Flanagan, who had got to his feet. Someone else at the bar decided the odds were unfair and joined the fray on Malone's side. Von Flanagan slung a beer bottle at Malone with deadly intent, missed him, and knocked out the stranger who had precipitated the brawl. By that time Malone and his ally had forgotten who was fighting whom, and were scuffling on the floor. Joe the Angel called the police. The little lawyer, a few inches of his unknown ally's necktie between his teeth, was still offering to fight anyone who would come within reach when he was booked for disorderly conduct. By the time he had reached the jail, however, he was peacefully quiet. All he wanted was a nice, comfortable place to sleep, and the bunk in his cell looked as good a place as any. It was even homelike. Just as the door clanged shut, however, he had one last flash of sober thought. At last he was going to have a minute to himself. He waited artfully until the last footsteps had died away, and then felt in his pocket for the mysterious key. It was gone. Chapter Three IT WAS thirty minutes past eleven on Thursday, the second of January, when John J. Malone arrived at his office, pale and a trifle shaken, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Extricating Captain Daniel von Flanagan of the homicide squad from the clutches of the law had taken a little doing. On leaving his office that New Year's Eve, the police official had carefully removed his credentials and other identification from his pockets, explaining to Malone that the force was fairly crawling with his relatives nowadays, and that you never knew what might happen. The desk sergeant who had booked them had failed to recognize the officer, but von Flanagan had spotted him immediately as a friend of his brother-in-law, and had announced himself as one Junius P. McGillicuddy of Little Rock, Arkansas. Another desk sergeant, with no personal connections with von Flanagan's wife's kin, had refused to accept any further explanation. He stated that von Flanagan was the fourteenth guy that night who had claimed to be an official of the police department. The result had been that the chief of the homicide division had remained in jail until Malone managed to locate identification that would release him without incriminating him in the eyes of his in-laws. Outside of that, there had been no trouble. The little lawyer's pretty, black-haired secretary looked at him with grim disapproval as he came in the door. Sixteen hours sleep, a shave, and a fresh suit had helped his appearance a little, but not much. "Never mind the remarks," Malone said, kicking the door shut behind him. "Just add up my check stubs again and make sure what my balance is. You may have had it wrong the last time." "I doubt it," she said gloomily. "And Captain von Flanagan has been calling you for the past two hours." "If he calls again, tell him I'll keep my mouth shut for ten dollars cash," the lawyer said. He went on into his private office. He tossed his hat and overcoat on the sofa, rummaged through a file marked "Information," and located a tumbler and a half-full bottle of rye. After a moment's indecision he put the tumbler back in the drawer, put the bottle to his lips, and drank deeply. Then he replaced the bottle, slammed the file drawer shut, and sat down at his desk. On top of the heap of correspondence that had been collecting for the last four days was a pile of postcards. Malone ran a finger over them, saw that they all bore the same picture; an overcolored reproduction oÂ£ sea, sky, and two trees. He counted them. There were exactly forty-eight. He turned them over, noted that all forty-eight had the same postmark and the same message: "Having wonderful time, wish you were here." Twenty-four of them were signed "Jake," the other twenty-four were signed "Helene." The little lawyer laid them in a neat stack, sighed deeply, and turned his attention to the rest of the mail. Advertisements went in the wastebasket, so did three smallish envelopes, addressed in three different feminine handwritings. He opened four business letters, noted the dates and the signatures, and placed them in the file marked "Unread Correspondence." He glanced through a fifth business letter and placed it in the file marked "Unanswered Correspondence." The rest were bills. He opened the bill from Saks, saw that the long-legged brunette from Chez Paree had put six pairs of stockings and a girdle on his charge account before going to New York with an unemployed clarinet player, crumpled the bill into a tight little wad, and threw it under the worn leather couch. He took a quick look at the bill sent by the building management, read the politely worded note written in fine, Spencerian handwriting, and made a resolution to pay up the rent as soon as he had some money. He stuffed that bill in his coat pocket, swept the rest into the wastebasket, folded his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair to think things over. The pretty, black-haired secretary stuck her head in the door and said, "I've gone over all the check stubs and the bank statement. You're overdrawn exactly seventeen dollars and fifty cents." "That's just dandy," Malone said icily. "Call up all the people who owe me money and see where we stand." She sniffed at him. "If you didn't run around with women all the time-" "I don't spend money on women," Malone roared. She made a rude, horselike noise, said, "You spend more money on women accidentally than most men do on purpose," and slammed the door. The lawyer shook his head sadly, glanced toward the window, saw that it was raining outside, and sighed. The postcards on his desk caught his eye, and he sat staring gloomily at the brilliantly blue sky and sea. At least Jake and Helene were happy. There they were right at this moment, basking in the sunshine, thinking only of each other, while he was here all alone. He sighed again. The stranger and the key. The stranger who had breathed his last in Joe the Angel's bar. Malone scowled. That key had been in his right-hand pocket all through the evening and he hadn't had a chance to examine it. Now it was gone, and he would never know what it might unlock. The hell with the whole thing! He had been jumping over conclusions, that was all. Or was it "up" conclusions? Anyway, the truth was probably something like this. The stranger, realizing that he was dying, had headed for the first door in sight, which had turned out to be Joe the Angel's. Staggering in, he had tried to say "telephone," meaning, of course, to telephone for help. As far as the key was concerned, the stranger had meant to hand a nickel, or a slug, to the first person he saw, and had got his key by mistake, being, even then, in his last moment of consciousness. Obviously that was the explanation. The stranger had been a dying man; he couldn't have spoken clearly. He, Malone, had been drinking; he couldn't have been expected to hear clearly. Between those two facts, it was easy to see how the word "telephone" had sounded like "Malone." The lawyer muttered the two words over a few times. "Malone, 'Iphone. Malone. 'Iphone." Of course that was it. Finally the stranger had slipped the key, believing it to be a coin, into his hand because it had been the first hand offered him. John J. Malone felt so pleased with this entirely reasonable explanation that he reopened the file drawer marked "Information" and took down half the remaining rye. Life was not altogether bad. He hummed a few bars of Just a Garden in the Rain, returned to his desk, remarked to the forty-eight post-cards "I wouldn't be in Bermuda for five million bucks," drew a long breath, and bawled loudly for Maggie. The black-haired secretary appeared in the doorway. "When that bank statement showing the overdraft came, did you tear the envelope open?" "No. I lifted up the flap with a penknife. You told me always to do that with letters from the bank." He nodded approvingly. "Bring me the statement and the envelope." He took one glance at the bank statement, shuddered, and replaced it in the envelope. Reaching for a bottle of mucilage, he carefully resealed the flap, making sure that to all appearances it had never been opened. Then he dipped a small sponge in the ink bottle, squeezed just enough ink on the envelope to obscure the street address and the initials of his name, waited for the blot to dry, and then, in pencil, wrote the word "misdirected" across the front of the envelope. "Drop this in the mail box just after the last pickup. By the time it's gone through the post office, back to the bank, and back again to me, three days will have gone by." "And then?" "A lot can happen in three days," he told her happily. The little lawyer looked gravely at a postcard signed "Helene" and told it, "The trouble with being born rich is that you miss all the fun of being broke." When von Flanagan called again, he decided to answer. The police officer deserved to know the explanation of the events of New Year's Eve. Von Flanagan spoke first. "It's about time you got to your office. I've been trying to reach you all day." Before Malone could answer, he added in an outraged tone, "Will you come over here and talk, or do I have to have you picked up and brought in for questioning?" Malone scowled at the telephone. "What in the hell are you talking about?" A low, indignant growl came from the receiver. "I knew you were holding out on me. I followed up your hunch about that guy who was stabbed, and checked all the bars within three blocks of Joe the Angel's. He'd been in eight of 'em, all hangouts of yours. No one had seen him before in any of 'em. Bought himself four drinks altogether. In every single place he went, he asked if you'd been there or where he might find you." The lawyer held his breath and counted ten before he said "Listen, von Flanagan, so help me I never saw-" "He was out looking for you," von Flanagan bellowed. "I've put up with a lot from you, but this is too much. Will you come over here and talk, or shall I send Kluchetsky over to-" Malone said quickly, "Do you want me to call your house and leave a message for you that I've found your gloves that you left at Bertha Daly's-" "I never in my life!" von Flanagan roared, stopped abruptly, and said in a milder tone, "Have a heart, Malone. If you'll only drop in at your convenience and give me the low-down on this guy, I'll see to it you're not involved in any way. Damn it, I'm only trying to do the best I can, and with the newspapers on my tail and the police commissioner-" "All right," Malone said wearily. "I'll be in as soon as I can." He banged down the receiver before the police officer could say another word. A beautiful theory all shot to hell. It had seemed so wonderfully logical, too. If he only knew what had happened to that damned key. It had been in his pocket until just before the fight, he was fairly sure of that. At least, as sure as he was of anything that had gone on in the last few hours before daylight. Had the fight been deliberately started to enable somebody to get it away from him? He wrinkled up his brow, closed his eyes, and tried to remember the stranger who had precipitated the brawl. No one he knew. He opened his eyes again, shook his head sadly, and reflected that Joe the Angel might know. It was possible, too, that the police had lifted it, on von Flanagan's orders, while they were taking him to the wagon. Whatever had happened, the key was gone. What good would the key be to him anyway, when he didn't know what it unlocked? Malone was still staring moodily into space, trying to find some reason why the man who still lay unidentified in the Cook County morgue had called his name with his last breath, when Maggie came to the door. "There's a collect cable for you from Bermuda." "Collect?" "That's right." Malone blinked, swore under his breath, and took out his wallet. It contained one crumpled dollar bill, a United Cigar Store coupon, and a slip of paper marked "Louise, SHEL-7466." "Is there anything in the petty cash?" he asked sheepishly. "Nothing but receipts." She looked at him disapprovingly for a moment, finally said, "It's lucky I brought some money with me this morning," and went back to the reception room. A minute later she reappeared, put the cable on his desk, said, "I'll add the cable charge to my back salary," and went away again. Malone tore open the cable and saw that it was from Jake. WIRE ME RETURN FARE TO CHICAGO IMMEDIATELY WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING ON ARRIVAL "He could have gotten it into five words," the lawyer growled. The cable didn't make sense. He stared at it angrily, Jake had gone to Bermuda with all the money he needed for any reasonable purposes. Besides that, he had just married Helene Brand, who had half the money in Chicago. "Will explain everything on arrival." Malone thought of every possible explanation, found none that seemed to fit, and decided the only thing to do was raise the money somewhere and wait for reasons till Jake could give them in person. He had just reached that decision when he heard a mild commotion in the reception room. There were voices, one of them feminine and with a familiar ring. He raced across the office and opened the door. Helene Brand-no, Helene Justus now-stood by Maggie's desk, exquisitely gowned and furred, her blonde hair beautifully and perfectly in place. Her small-boned, patrician face was deathly pale, her ocean-blue eyes were shadowed, and heavy with weariness. What worried Malone most, however, was the fact that she seemed entirely sober. There was a cab driver in the office, too. "Hello, Malone," she said calmly. "It's nice to see you. Would you mind paying the cab driver, so he'll go away?" It was Maggie who rose to the occasion. "You go on in Mr. Malone's office, Mrs. Justus," she said. "I'll take care of the taxi." She reached for her pocketbook. In the office, Malone stared at his visitor. "Where's Jake?" He wondered if his voice really squeaked or if it only felt that way. "I haven't the faintest idea," Helene said, peeling off her gloves. "As far as I'm concerned, he can stay there. Is there a drink in the house?" Chapter Four "BUT YOU CAN'T have left Jake," Malone said stupidly. "You've just married him." Thad to, in order to be able to leave him," Helene said coldly. "And I haw left him." She sat down on a corner of the desk and lit a cigarette. "Why?" "I'm damned if I'll tell you." A little color began to come back into her cheeks. "But it wasn't for any of the reasons you're thinking about." Malone said hastily, "Of course not." He fumbled through his pockets for a cigar, finally found one, lit it, and said, "How come you're broke, or are you damned if you'll tell me that, either?" "That's part of the reason why I left Jake. Did you say there was a drink in the house? If there isn't, you may be stuck with the expense of burying me." Malone located another glass under an old straw hat in the closet, dusted it, got the bottle of rye, and divided it into two equal parts. He could see it wasn't going to be enough. After a moment's reflection he picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said, "Louie? Malone speaking. Send over a couple of quarts of rye, right away. What's that? Oh, is it? It must have slipped my mind. I'll send you a check right away. Hurry up with the rye." He banged down the telephone and said, "I'm broke, too." "How chummy," Helene commented. "So you finally met a girl who liked jewelry." "It was furs," Malone said, coloring a little, "but how did you know?" "I've been taking lessons in mind reading." She picked up her glass, gazed at it, finally said, "The devil with everything," and emptied it. Malone decided to adopt a fatherly attitude. "People are bound to have these little differences at first. You'll get over it. When you've thought things over for a few days-" "Stop stammering," she said, setting the glass down hard. "I've left him and I do mean for good. You can save the commentary." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's your funeral. Why did you come back to Chicago?" "I'll tell you why I came back to Chicago." A dangerous light came into her eyes. "It's because of that bet Jake made with Mona McClane. You remember. She bet him the deed to the Casino she could commit a murder and he couldn't pin it on her." Malone nodded gloomily. "I remember. We traipsed all over Chicago and damn near broke our necks as soon as some guy got murdered, only to find out it was somebody else murdered him.* * The Wrong Murder.-* "But you know what Mona said afterwards," she reminded him. "It was the wrong murder. I'm going to find the right one and win that bet." "Suit yourself, but why?" "Because," Helene said firmly, "it's the only way I can ever prove to Jake that I'm not just a spoiled, pampered rich brat who can't think of anything to do but wire her old man for dough when the wrong horse comes in." Her cheeks suddenly flamed scarlet. "Not that I care what he thinks." "So Jake had a little trouble with the horses," Malone murmured. He decided it was wiser to say nothing more. "I'll show him," Helene said. "I'll find out who Mona murdered, and how, and why, and produce enough evidence to convince a gross of juries. Then I'll send him the deed to the Casino, and the devil with him." Malone looked at her thoughtfully. A very wide, dark-brown felt hat framed her pale, exquisite face; below her throat a mass of fluffy, light-brown furs fell apart to reveal a triangle of caramel-colored silk. Her slender, delicate fingers played with gloves that were exactly the same shade as her hat; the sheer stockings on her lovely long legs were the color of fresh-strained white clover honey. Scenes raced through his mind as he looked at her. Helene, driving her big, imported car over ice-covered pavements with a speed and abandon that would have petrified an Indianapolis speedway driver of long standing. Helene, personally engineering the jailbreak of a possible murderess. Helene, in a little trouble with the police over a matter of suspected arson, and turning up in a borrowed black wig and beribboned eyeglasses. Helene, talking Jake out of a jam with von Flanagan with an inspired, spur-of-the-moment falsehood. Helene, married to Jake and going off to Bermuda on the dawn plane. Now, Helene back from Bermuda, with that look of grim resolution in her blue eyes. Definitely not the good old days. The delivery boy from Louie's arrived with the rye just in time to save John J. Malone from bursting into reminiscent tears. He found a small handful of change in his overcoat pocket, tipped the boy, said, "Tell Louie I'm sending him a check," and began opening one of the bottles. "Just how do you propose going about winning this bet?" "I'm not sure of all the details yet. First, I'm going to move in with Mona. She's asked me to stay with her a number of times, and my being alone in town is enough excuse. Then I'm going to find out all the people she might have wanted to murder, nose around until I find one of them who's been murdered, and find out how and when she did it." "You make it sound so wonderfully easy," Malone said admiringly. She made a rude face at him. "You may have to help." "I wouldn't be at all surprised," the lawyer said in a wry voice. His eye fell on the cablegram that was still on his desk. He hastily stuffed it into his pocket, and said, "I'm going to need a lot of money. Leave me in peace now while I telephone." "What do you need a lot of money for?" "None of your damned business." He picked up the telephone and called exactly fourteen numbers, one after another. Of the first thirteen calls, five people were out of town, two were in jail, six were broke, and one had had his telephone disconnected. The fourteenth call was to the apartment of the head of a local gambling syndicate, named Max Hook. Malone addressed him familiarly as "chum." The gambler declared he would be delighted to lend Malone the money. More, if necessary. He would send it over right away by messenger. "Don't worry about paying it back, Malone. You may be able to do a few things for me." Malone said hastily, "I don't do business that way, pal. I'll pay you back inside of twenty-four hours." He put down the telephone, looked at it, and said, "I'd damned well better, too. If you borrow money from crooks, first thing you know you're in business with them. Still, if you borrow it from an honest man, he charges you ten per cent interest." He poured rye into Helene's glass, said, "Stay here, I'll be right back," and went out into the reception room. The black-haired secretary laid down her copy of The Nation and looked up at him hopefully. "Maggie, I have three hundred bucks coming in a few minutes. Wire two hundred to Jake Justus at this address"-he handed her the cablegram-"and do it fast. Save me fifty bucks for cigars, and pay your self some salary with the rest." "How about the overdraft at the bank?" "Later," he told her firmly. He went to the door paused, and said over his shoulder, "Call von Flanagan and tell him that I have a slight touch of delirium tremens, and I'll drop in at his office first thing in the morning." As he slammed the door, Helene looked up with a new show of interest. "Did I hear the name of von Flanagan?" "You did. He wants to talk with me about my murder." "Yours?" He nodded. "My very own personal murder." He sat down at his desk and told Helene the story of the man who had died in Joe the Angel's bar on New Year's Eve. She was silent for a while after he had finished, a puzzled frown wrinkling her pale forehead. "Usually it's the murderer who wants to see you after the crime, not the victim." "That's what puzzles me," Malone told her. "Obviously, this guy was looking for me before it happened. Then somebody stuck a knife in his back, and he went right on looking for me. But before he could tell me anything, he kicked off." "The key," she said thoughtfully. "I wonder-what kind of key was it, Malone?" "Just an ordinary key. I didn't get a very good look at it. What's more, I don't care if I never get another look at it. All I care about is getting out of this mess." He paused. "Just the same-" He knocked the ashes from his cigar, frowned, and said, "Maybe it was this way. There were two guys out to knife each other. This guy was one of them. Somebody tipped him off that if he was going to murder anybody, it was a smart idea to engage a damn good lawyer in advance, and advised him to come to me. But while he was looking for me, the other guy got to him first." "Sounds logical," Helene said. "Now all you need to do is wait and the other guy'll come in as a client." "I hope so," Malone said prayerfully. "I could use one." He heard voices in the reception room and knew that the money had arrived. He looked at his watch. "What next, Malone?" "You'd better go and get settled at Mona McClane's and get a good night's sleep. You look as if you need it. Tomorrow morning we'll get together and see what's what." She said dreamily, "There couldn't have been so many people Mona McClane wanted to murder." "Tomorrow," he said firmly. He took her arm and led her to the reception room. "If you should hear from Jake-" she began, and stopped. "I'm damned if I'll tell you," he told her. He paused by Maggie's desk long enough to up five ten-dollar bills. "The other matter is taken care of," Maggie said Malone nodded, stuffed four of the bills in his pocket and handed the other to Helene. "You'll need cab fare. Come on downstairs and I'll put you in a taxi." "But what are you going to do now?" she demanded. The little lawyer drew a long sighing breath. "Me?" He pushed the elevator call. "I'm going out and find a poker game." Chapter Five THE LOUD KNOCKING annoyed Malone for at least fifteen minutes before it woke him. He had a vague, dreamy notion that a violent bombardment was going on in the hall, but he wasn't interested in it. He only wished that whoever was shooting off seventy-fives outside his door would go away and let him sleep. At last he woke enough to open one eye and shout, "Go to hell." A voice outside the door said, "It's Jake Justus." "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Justus," Malone called, and went back to sleep again. Fifteen seconds later the name Jake Justus seeped through the layers of sleep in his brain, and he was instantly wide-awake. He bounded out of bed, unlocked the door, and dived back under the covers again. "Well, come in and shut the door," he said complainingly. He poked his head out from the covers until one pink-rimmed eye, a few inches of ruddy forehead, and a tuft of black hair showed, and regarded his visitor. Malone saw a tall, very thin young man, only slightly stoop-shouldered, and dressed in a badly mussed tweed suit. He had an unruly thatch of red hair, and a lean, bony face, pleasantly freckled by the Bermuda sun, that was usually amiable and grinning. It was not amiable now. It was a disturbing combination of grim and haggard. Jake Justus looked around the room, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and scowled at Malone waiting for him to speak. Malone opened the other eye. "How did you get here?" he said a little stupidly. He blinked once or twice at his room, and said, "For that matter, how the hell did I get here?" "I flew," Jake Justus said. He added crossly, "I don't know how you got here, but judging by the way you look, I'd be willing to bet you flew, too-right through the window." "Flew? Oh yes. I know. I wired you the fare." The lawyer sat up in bed, exposing a broad expanse of brown, hairy chest. "A fine thing, wiring me for money when I was dead broke." "Broke," Jake repeated. "Are you kidding me?" "I am not kidding you. I borrowed three hundred bucks from Max Hook and I've got to pay it back today, God knows how." The red-haired man stared at him in wide-eyed incredulity. "Have you lost your mind?" "I've been talking about money," Malone said indignantly. "But the mind checked in here with me." "Then what the hell are these doing here?" Jake picked two badly crumpled hundred-dollar bills off the dresser, smoothed them out, and waved them under the lawyer's nose. Malone looked at them for a good sixty seconds, then sank back on the pillow and pulled the covers up to his chin. "I feel terrible." "You look terrible," Jake said unsympathetically. He located a pint bottle of gin, nearly full, on the floor beside the wastebasket, poured a good two inches of it into a glass, and handed it to the stricken lawyer. "Pull yourself together." He looked thoughtfully at the bottle and finally held it to his lips for a good long count of ten before recapping it. Malone set the glass down where he mistakenly believed the bed table to be, shuddered, and lay still for a few minutes. At last he rose slowly and swung his legs off the bed. "Now why on earth do you suppose I went to bed with my socks on?" He put on a brilliant green brocaded bathrobe, reached for a cigar, and lighted it on the second try. "I can't figure where those two C's came from. Maybe I'd better look around." "Maybe you had," Jake Justus agreed. He sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed and watched as the little lawyer prowled around the room. "I played some poker last night," Malone said meditatively, "and I dimly remember going to the roulette room at the Casino. There is something else, too, but it seems to be a little confused." He paused by the bed table, looking down at it. There was his watch, two empty match folders, a fifty-dollar bill and a ten. These he laid beside the two hundred-dollar bills. "There may be more, for all I know." He went into the bathroom, located a pocketknife, a nail file, and a little greenish wad on the wash-stand. The wad, when unrolled, proved to be two twenty-dollar bills. There were three more crumpled up beside a handful of cigars on the smoking table. "I must have had a swell time undressing last night." Jake decided to join in the search. He lifted up the pillow and found a little heap of wrinkled one-dollar bills. There were two more on the floor by the bed and five stuffed into one of Malone's shoes. Malone, meantime, had found another fifty tucked under the door key on the dresser. "That seems to be the total," the lawyer said, giving a last glance around the room. "Too bad. This game is fun." Jake shook his head. "We'd better go through your suit. You may have missed something last night." He picked up the coat and felt in all its pockets. There was nothing except a pair of very sheer and lacy stockings, of an exotic rose-tan shade, in one side pocket. Malone examined them, noted that they had been worn, and said, "Nice, expensive ones. I wonder who was in them." The vest was empty. Jake dropped it on a chair, looked around for the pants, and found them on the floor in the corner. When he picked them up, they seemed surprisingly heavy. There was a curious, jingling noise. "Sounds like we'd struck ore," Jake said. He picked the pants up by the cuffs and shook them vigorously. There was a prolonged, loud, metallic clatter, and a heap of quarters rolled on the floor, more of them than Jake had ever seen in any one place at any one time. Malone sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at them. "Now I remember. There was a roadhouse. In Wheeling. There was a slot machine there. I hit the jackpot." He scowled. "How in blazes did I get out to Wheeling? Oh well, it's not important. What's the total?" Jake ran hastily through the collection. "Four hundred and twenty-eight bucks in paper," he reported. "I'm damned if I'll count all those two-bit pieces." "Not bad," Malone said. "When I went out to play poker yesterday, all I had in mind was winning enough dough to pay back Max Hook. I don't mind borrowing from him, but I hate like hell to owe him anything. I meant to stop when I had three hundred, but apparently I got a little enthusiastic." "Listen Malone?" Jake began. The lawyer picked up the telephone, set it down again, said "Helene is?" stopped himself, and said instead, "Where is Helene?" "Damned if I know," Jake said. "Damned if I care, either. She's probably down in Havana with her old man." "Gone back to father," Malone said acidly. "After a week of honeymoon. That ought to establish a record of some kind." "She left me," Jake said. "Why?" "That's none of your business." "That line is getting monotonous," Malone said cryptically. He rose and began pulling on his clothes. "What brought you back to Chicago, besides my money?" "That bet with Mona McClane," Jake said. Malone paused in the act of looking futilely for a clean shirt. There was something oddly reminiscent about the conversation. "What about that bet?" "I'm going to win it," Jake said grimly. "I'm going to get that deed to the Casino. I'll show her." "You'll show who what?" "I'll show Helene I can get along all right without any help from a rich father-in-law." "So that's the way it is," Malone said. "Damn it, Malone, I've got to win that bet." The lawyer nodded gravely, buttoning his shirt. "I wouldn't be at all surprised. How are you going to do it, or hasn't the giant brain bothered with that detail?" "First, I'm going to check on everything Mona McClane has done since that bet was made. Then I'm going to check back on every murder committed in Chicago in that time. Sooner or later those two lines will meet." That wasn't all that would meet sooner or later, Malone reflected. The possibilities of the situation disturbed him a little. "I may need some help," Jake added. "I knew that would come up sooner or later," Malone said sourly. He finished adjusting his tie. "Now listen, Jake." He adopted a very serious tone. "These little quarrels don't mean a thing. Maybe you were a trifle hasty. When you've thought it over for a day or so, it'll all seem different. I'm older than you, Jake, and I want to tell you that women-" Jake snorted. "What you know about women-" he began scornfully. "What I know about women," the lawyer told him, "would start a chain of banks." He thought of the Chez Paree brunette, and sighed deeply. "Oh well, I'll lay off the advice. You do your own worrying, and I'll do mine." He paused, then added, "You really think she's in Havana?" "I'm positive of it," Jake said, "and I hope she stays there." He set his chin hard. "I'm going to get on Mona McClane's trail and win that bet, and then I'm going to wrap up the deed to the Casino and send it to her. And then the hell with it all." "You make it all sound so wonderfully easy," Malone said for the second time in two days. He put on his hat, took it off again, picked up the telephone, and said, "Get me a messenger boy right away," and then called his office. "Anything going on that I should know?" Maggie reported, "Captain von Flanagan has been calling you every fifteen minutes since ten o'clock. The young lady who was in yesterday called and said she'd be in your office at three o'clock." "I'll be there at three," Malone said. He hung up. There was a large envelope on his desk; he sealed two hundred-dollar bills and two fifties in it, and addressed it to Max Hook. Above the name of his hotel in the corner he wrote, "John J. Malone." When the messenger boy had arrived, taken the envelope, and gone away again, the lawyer put on his hat and overcoat. "We might as well-" A thunderous knock on the door interrupted him. Malone opened the door and saw a large, red-faced detective from von Flanagan's office. "Well, well, Kluchetsky," the lawyer began in a pleasant tone. "Von Flanagan wants to see you," Kluchetsky said. "He says he hopes your D.T.'s are better. He says anyway he hopes you're able to be up and around because if you aren't he's gonna send an ambulance for you." He eyed the hat and overcoat. "I guess maybe you'd just better come along with me." Chapter Six DANIEL VON FLANAGAN had been losing his temper by slow degrees ever since nine in the morning, when he had learned from "well-informed sources" that Malone's alleged illness had permitted him to spend the evening playing poker and roulette at the Casino. The temper was progressing nicely when he dispatched Kluchetsky to bring Malone in. By the time the lawyer and Jake Justus walked into his office, his face had attained an ominous, deep mulberry shade. "A fine thing," Malone snapped crossly, beating him to the draw. "You couldn't wait till I came in by myself. You had to send this big lug over to wake me up and drag me out of bed." Kluchetsky glared at him. "I suppose you always sleep in your clothes," he said nastily, "and your hat and overcoat." "Sure," Malone told him, just as nastily. "I have to. I need to be prepared for having some dumb cop break in and insist on my going somewhere." He looked indignantly across the desk at von Flanagan. "And you-" he paused suddenly. Von Flanagan's face had, amazingly, faded to its normal bright pink and was wreathed in smiles. "Jake Justus!" he said happily. "You're exactly the guy I wanted to see." Jake looked at him in bewildered surprise. "I thought it was Malone you wanted to see." "Malone!" The police officer made a one-armed gesture that seemed to ask who the hell would ever want to see Malone. "I've been wishing you'd show up." He reached in his desk drawer and took out a small but ponderous-looking book. "I bought this, along with some others, and I want you should tell me if it's any good or not." Jake reached for the book. It was Essentials of Journalism, by H. F. Harrington. "Sure it's a good book," he said, tossing it back on the desk, "but it's got quite a few four-syllable words in it." Von Flanagan replaced the book in the desk drawer, clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned perilously far back in his chair. "It's like this, Jake. I never wanted to be a cop. I've never liked being a cop. There never was a day when I didn't wish I'd been a high-class undertaker, like I'd always meant to be. Well, the alderman owed one of my relatives money, so I got to be a cop. But I hate cops. I even went to court and changed my name from just plain Flanagan to von Flanagan, so it wouldn't sound so much like a cop's name." Jake listened in respectful silence. He knew the recital by heart, backwards, forwards, and sideways. A beatific expression came over von Flanagan's face. "Now," he said happily, "I'm gonna retire. Any day now. Maybe as soon as I can get this case off my desk. And when I retire, I'm gonna buy me a country newspaper someplace and be an editor. That's what I'm gonna do, by God!" He brought one enormous fist down on his desk with a thump that set everything in the room rattling. "Hear, hear," Jake said inadequately. "Right now, I don't know nothing about the business," von Flanagan went on, "but from some of the reporters I've known-no offense, Jake-I don't think it would be so much to learn. You know," he confessed, "I've always had a kind of yen to be a newspaperman. Almost as much as to be an undertaker. Anything but a cop." Suddenly he brought the front legs of his chair down with a loud bang. "It wouldn't be so damned bad being a cop. It's being promoted to be head of the homicide squad that makes me sore. Everybody tries to make it hard for me." His voice began to grow louder. "Take this guy that was killed on New Year's Eve. Could he have fell down dead right where he was when he was stabbed, so's we'd have some idea of the scene of the crime? No, he has to walk all over the Loop and finally die in Joe the Angel's bar. Could he have carried a driver's license, maybe, or a club card, or anything that would tell who he was? No. Not one damned thing. Could he have stayed put in one place before he was stabbed, so's we might of known who was hanging around him? No, he goes all over town looking for Malone." His voice had become an angry roar. He looked accusingly at the little lawyer. "Then this son of a bitch has to go and hold out information on me." He sat back, apparently rendered speechless by these injustices. "I'm not holding out information," Malone said indignantly. "I haven't any to hold out. You know more about this guy than I do." "Hell," von Flanagan growled; "I don't even know who he is yet. You'd think a well-dressed, good-looking guy like that would have some friends who'd turn up and identify him." "Not if he just came to the city," Malone suggested mildly, "as his clothes seemed to indicate. Maybe he didn't know anybody in Chicago." "If he didn't know anybody, why was he going all over town looking for you?" von Flanagan demanded. "Maybe he wanted my autograph," Malone said. "How the hell should I know? Maybe he was lonesome and he wanted to make friends." He unwrapped a cigar slowly and carefully and lighted it. "If that's all you wanted to see me about, I'd like to go out and get some breakfast." "For two cents," von Flanagan growled, "I'd throw you in the can as a material witness. Come on, Malone. Tell me why this guy was looking for you, and I'll protect you, or any friends or clients of yours. I'll forget you had any part in it, and I won't bother you again. Be a pal. Have you seen the panning I'm getting in the papers?" The little lawyer sighed deeply. "I tell you, I don't know why he was looking for me." "Then, by God," von Flanagan said, "you'll stay right here until you can remember why." Malone looked at him, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again without saying a word. Jake said helpfully, "What makes you so sure this guy knew Malone, anyway?" "He must of known him," von Flanagan said stubbornly, "or he wouldn't have been looking for him." "Listen," Malone said angrily, "I tell you I never-" Jake interrupted him with a gesture. "That doesn't prove a thing. I bet Malone didn't know him, anyway." "When I want your advice-" the police officer began. He paused and said, "What'dya mean, Malone didn't know him?" "It's like this," Jake said firmly. "The man who was killed wasn't the one Malone knew. Then why was he looking for Malone? Because Malone knew the guy who did the killing." Von Flanagan blinked once or twice. "It sounds like it ought to make sense and still it doesn't seem to." Malone took it up. "Sure. The fact that I didn't know the man who was killed proves that I know the man who did the killing." "I wish you'd both get the hell out of here," von Flanagan growled. "You're confusing me. Wait a minute," he added hastily as Malone reached for his hat. "If you know the man who did the killing, who is he?" "I don't know," Malone said promptly. The police officer raised his eyes to heaven and talked eloquently about Malone. "Look here," Jake said persuasively, sitting down on a corner of the desk. "The killer must have known where this guy was going, in order to catch up with him and trail him so easily. Isn't it logical to assume he knew his intended victim was out looking for Malone-because he himself had sent him to Malone?" Von Flanagan's brow wrinkled. "Let's have that again," he said suspiciously. "It's like this," Jake explained. "Malone didn't know the victim. The victim didn't know Malone. But for some reason he needed a lawyer. O. K. so far?" "Sure," von Flanagan said, nodding. "He was looking for Malone because he needed a lawyer. Then what?" "The killer," Jake went on slowly, "knew Malone. He told his intended victim that Malone was a good lawyer and that he probably could be located in some downtown bar. Then he trailed this guy on his search for Malone, waited till he got in some dark, secluded spot, and ran a knife into him." He paused, made an expressive gesture, and said, "It's that simple." "But I don't see-" von Flanagan began. "Jake's right," Malone said quickly. "I didn't know the victim, but the killer must be someone I know. It makes sense that way." After a very long time von Flanagan said, "Yes, I guess it does." "There you are," Jake said. He slid off the desk. "Anything else you want to know?" "Yes," von Flanagan growled. "What's the name of the murdered man?" Jake shrugged his shoulders. "Ask the murderer, when you find him. He ought to know it." The police officer still had a dubious look in his eye. "All I have to do is find the murderer and ask him, when I still don't know who the guy he murdered is." "Oh God," Jake said, "you make it so hard. Look here. Make a list of all the people Malone knows who are criminals." "That means all the crooks in Chicago," von Flanagan said. "Well, that gives you a wider field. Narrow it down to Malone's ex-clients. Start checking on their New Year's Eve activities. Then go to work on those who were unaccounted for and could have been in the vicinity of Joe the Angel's bar around midnight. Your boys know how to make a suspect talk." Jake looked up, pleased with himself. There was a new, hopeful gleam in the policeman's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, that might do it. I don't know how you ever thought of it." Malone rose. "If I can be of any further help-" he began, buttoning his overcoat. "Don't worry, you'll hear from me," von Flanagan said quickly. "You're not entirely in the clear in this thing yet." He turned to Jake. "I want you to know I appreciate-" "Glad to help," Jake said briefly. "Any other time you need advice on how to run your department, call me in." Von Flanagan let that pass. "And say-" Jake paused at the door. "Yes?" "If you think of any more books an editor ought to read," von Flanagan said, "let me know." Chapter Seven OUT ON THE SIDEWALK, Jake said, "A very nice piece of work, if I do say so myself. Somehow von Flanagan seems to have gotten the notion that you didn't know the murdered man." "A swell story," Malone grunted. "Too bad it wasn't the truth." "How do you know it isn't?" The lawyer shook his head. "I didn't know the murdered man, but he knew me all right. I couldn't tell you this on the way down here, with that fat-faced Kluchetsky in the car, but-" He told Jake the story of the key. "There were ten or twelve people at the bar. When this guy came in and hollered 'Malone,' everybody turned around. He didn't pay any attention to anybody else, he headed straight for me and slipped the key into my hand." "That doesn't mean he ever saw you before," Jake said. "Whoever sent him to look for you probably said, 'This Malone is a short fat guy, with a small paunch, a dirty collar, his necktie under his ear, a cigar in his mouth, and a bald spot." "You shut your trap," Malone growled. "It's a damned small bald spot." "Anyway," Jake said, "von Flanagan's going to be busy for the rest of the month checking up on all the crooks you know in town. That'll keep him off your tail. You ought to be grateful to me." "Sure," Malone said, "unless he runs down the one who did the killing." "I don't think he will. This murder doesn't look to me like the work of a criminal." "Murder is a crime too," the lawyer reminded him. "I'm talking about professional criminals. I don't think this killer was one." "Neither do I," Malone said, "and I don't care who he was. Just the same, I'd give a nickel to know who has that key, and maybe two nickels to get it back." "Why?" "Because, in the first place, if I stick around I may get a client out of this, and because, in the second place, if I do get involved I want to know what goes on." He looked around, spotted a drugstore, and said, "Come on, I want to telephone." He telephoned to the first-district police station, talked to someone named Andy, apparently an old friend, and learned that the policemen who had picked him up in Joe the Angel's bar were named Oscar Kieck and Joe Mulcahey, and that both were off duty this afternoon. He stood thinking over both names for a moment, finally dropped another slug into the phone and called Max Hook. "Hello, chum. Did your three hundred bucks get back O. K.? That's good. Oh sure, sure, I knew I didn't have to hurry, but I had the dough and I thought I might as well get it paid up. This time I'm after information. Know anything about a cop named Oscar Kieck?" A long pause. "You don't, huh. How about a Joe Mulcahey?" A shorter pause. "That's more like it. Look, chum, I've got to pry some personal information out of Mulcahey and I'd like to make sure he'll give it to me." A very long pause punctuated by occasional "uh-huhs" and "you-don't-say-sos." When the little lawyer hung up, he thumbed through the phone book, noted down an address, and said, "Let's go call on this Mulcahey guy." Before Jake could answer, he called a taxi. Policeman Mulcahey lived in an ornate apartment hotel near Lincoln Park. Malone paused for a moment by the elevator to gaze admiringly around the lobby and comment, "Wonderful to be able to manage all this on a policeman's salary!" Jake said, "Maybe you ought to phone up to him first." "Maybe I should," Malone agreed, "but I'm not going to." He stopped by the desk and said, "Mr. Mulcahey is in room 1217, isn't he?" "No sir," the clerk said, shaking his head. "It's 1102." "Thanks," Malone said, pushing Jake toward the elevator. Apartment 1102 was at the front of the building. Malone pounded on the door and waited a long time. Finally a masculine voice called, "Who's there?" Malone knocked again and said, "Come on, Joe, open the door." There was a murmur that might have been, "What the hell," the door opened, and a tall man dressed in blue silk pajamas and a dark-red brocade dressing gown stared at them. "You know me, don't you?" Malone said. "Oh sure, Mr. Malone. Didn't recognize you for a minute. Come right on in." He led them into a large, over-furnished living room with an incredible number of lamps and elaborate end tables. A short, chubby brunette was curled up on the sofa, cuddling a glass in one hand. "Marge, this is Mr. Malone, the lawyer. Miss Pizzner, Malone. And Mr. -" "Justus," Jake supplied. "Oh, sure. You used to be with the Examiner. Have a drink." "This is a business call," Malone said. "Hell, have two drinks." He poured out generous shots of Haig and Haig Pinchbottle. "Beat it, Marge. This is a business call." The chubby brunette rose, giggled, and said, "He'll tell me all about it after you're gone, Mr. Malone," lurched slightly, and disappeared into what Jake guessed was the bedroom. Mulcahey looked a little uneasy. "Don't pay any attention to her." "I never pay attention to dames," Malone assured him. He settled himself comfortably in an enormous overstuffed chair. "You sure do yourself pretty well. Nice place you have here." "I like it," Mulcahey said warily. "I have a few investments that bring me in a little dough now and then." Malone said, "Sure. Max Hook told me about "em." He watched the policeman from the corner of one eye, and added, "I was talking to Max today about a little business matter-I don't know how your name happened to come up." Mulcahey looked intently at the carpet. "If I'd known you were a friend of Max Hook's when I took you into the station the other night-" "Forget it," Malone said hastily. "If you hadn't, I'd probably still be fighting those guys." He sipped his Scotch, gazing into the glass between times. "You know, if I wanted some information from you, and you didn't give it to me, Max would raise hell. Or if you didn't give it to me straight, he'd raise more hell." "Oh sure," Mulcahey said quickly. "What'dya want to know?" "I just want to know if you frisked me on the way to the station that night." The policeman stared at him for a minute, then turned pale. "Look here, Malone, I never took a dime off anybody in my life. If you don't believe me, ask Max Hook. He'll tell you I'm as honest as the day is long." "I'm not talking about money," Malone told him. "If you frisked me you were acting under orders, and you were looking for something else." Mulcahey shook his head slowly. "I didn't. And that's straight." "I'll take your word for it," Malone said. "I had a little notion that fight was started as an excuse for calling the cops, so I could be searched on the way to the station." "You got it wrong. It was a legitimate pinch. Hell, I didn't even know who you were till I got you to the desk." "O. K.," Malone said. "I owe von Flanagan an apology he'll never get." "Did you lose something?" Mulcahey asked casually, rising to refill the glasses. "A key," Malone told him. "Nothing important." "Where was it?" "In my right-hand coat pocket." The policeman shook his head. "Then you lost it before we picked you up. There wasn't anything in your coat pockets." Malone set his glass down slowly and carefully. "How do you know?" A faint blush appeared on Mulcahey's broad face. "It's like this, Malone. When we picked you up, I was out of cigarettes. The Dutchman-Kieck-didn't have any, he doesn't smoke. I knew you wouldn't mind if I borrowed one from you, so I looked in your coat pockets. You didn't have any. In fact, you didn't have anything in your coat pockets except a handkerchief in one of them." Malone was silent. "I'm sorry as hell-" the policeman began. "That's all right," Malone said. "I'm glad you looked. It tells me what I came here to find out." He drained the rest of his Scotch, rose, and put on his hat. "What happened to the guy who started the fight?" "Him?" Mulcahey said. "He beat it before we got there." "Know who he was?" Mulcahey shook his head. "Never saw him. Joe the Angel might know." He followed them to the door. "Anytime I can do anything for you-" "Thanks," Malone said. "I'll remember you to the Hook next time I see him." He was very silent on their way down the elevator. In the lobby he stopped in the phone booth and called Joe the Angel. Joe was very sorry, but he didn't know the stranger who had started the fight. He'd never been in the bar before that night, and hadn't been in since. Probably from out of town. In case Malone didn't remember him very well, he'd been a big, beefy guy with gray hair. Wore a brown suit and a loud tie. He'd dropped in at the bar about two that morning and been there the rest of the night. Malone scowled, said, "Thanks, Joe, be seeing you." "Wait a minute," Joe the Angel began. But Malone had hung up. Out in the taxi, the little lawyer borrowed a match from Jake and lit a new cigar. "Damn it, I had it all figured out this bird started the fight in order to get hold of the key. Now I guess he didn't." "How do you know?" "He'd been at Joe the Angel's since two in the morning. He couldn't have known I was coming back there. Hell, I didn't know it myself. If he'd really been after the key, he'd have been trailing me instead of sitting in Joe the Angel's." Jake said, "Well, it's been a very entertaining day, but this isn't doing me any good. I'm going to spend the rest of it checking up on all the murders in town since Mona made that bet with me." "You really think you can win that bet?" the lawyer asked. "I've damned well got to." "Well," the lawyer said, "as long as I get a client out of it, I should worry. Where are you staying?" "At the apartment we took. As long as I paid the rent for it, I might as well live there till the month is up. It's a heluva big lonely place, though." "What you need is a wife," Malone told him. Jake said nothing. The lawyer looked at his watch. It was quarter of three. "I have an appointment at three o'clock." "With a dame, I suppose," Jake said gloomily. "Well, phone me at the apartment when you're through." "You're damned right it's a dame," Malone said. "You should only see her." He drew a long breath. "But I'm going to be very careful that you don't." Chapter Eight MALONE FOUND Helena pacing the floor in his office. "You're ten minutes late." She sat down on a corner of the desk. "You ought to be glad I got here at all," he told her. "Von Flanagan wanted to hold me as a material witness." He tossed his hat and overcoat on a chair, sat down at his desk, and looked at her. She had a curiously military air, enormous shiny buttons marched in two rows down her close-fitting, navy-blue coat; her hat, patterned after those worn by Australian soldiers, had a bright red cord around its dark-blue felt crown. Her delicate featured face, always pale, seemed almost colorless; there were faint shadows around her eyes. "I don't suppose you've heard from Jake, have you?" Malone looked surprised and answered that with a question. "Why? Did you expect me to?" "No." She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I just thought maybe you had." "Don't worry about Jake," Malone told her. "He's probably having a wonderful time." For just an instant her eyes blazed. Malone decided not to press his advantage. "Have you found Mona's murder yet?" She shook her head. "I've got to find her motive before I can find the murder. The police may not know anything about the murder yet." As Malone raised an inquiring eyebrow, she went on, "For all we know, maybe the body hasn't been discovered. She might have hidden it somewhere. Or maybe it was made to look like a death from natural causes." Helene sighed. "You're forgetting the terms of the bet," Malone said. "The terms that she laid down herself. Remember? 'Someone I have a motive for murdering-shot down in the public streets-with plenty of witnesses.' "* She was silent for a moment. "That's right. I had forgotten. Still-I may be going at everything backward, but dammit, the whole thing's backward. We know Mona McClane murdered somebody, but we don't know who, or when, or why. Usually it's just the other way when people get murdered." "Backward murders for backward people," Malone said crossly. She paid no attention to him. "That's why, instead of beginning with the murder, I'm beginning with Mona. I'm not going to find people she might have murdered. I'm going over her life history like a gossip writer and find people she might have had a â€¢ From The Wrong Murder. motive for murdering, and see if any of them are recently dead." "It looks to me as if you'd mapped out a life work for yourself," Malone grunted. Both were silent, thinking the same thing. Mona McClane had one of the world's greatest fortunes and an assured social position on all the known continents. Her marriages, divorces, romances, and scandals had made Sunday-supplement history. She had flown the Atlantic solo in an evening dress and wearing the famous McClane emeralds because she expected to land (and did) just in time for a party in Paris. She had climbed farther up Mt. Everest than any other woman, and she had personally captured two tigers for the Brookfield zoo. She had won the Casino, Chicago's famous dining, dancing, and gambling spot, from the head of the city's gambling syndicate, Max Hook, in three evenings at roulette. She had a married daughter living in respectable and wealthy suburban obscurity, and she was, incredibly, a grandmother. Now she claimed to have committed a murder, on a bet, and the Casino was the stakes. Malone stamped out his cigar under the desk. "You're going to be a very busy girl. Have you accomplished anything yet?" She shook her head. "Give me time. Say, have you got any money?" "Sure." He reached for his wallet. "How much do you need?" "I don't need any. I thought you might. After all, you were broke yesterday. I played bridge last night." "I played poker," Malone said, putting the wallet back. "Then that's all right," she said in a relieved tone. "How's your own murder coming along?" "It's not my murder," he told her, "and it's not coming along." He told her of the day's developments, carefully omitting Jake's part in the affair. When he had finished, Helene said, "Either the cop or Joe the Angel is lying, and it must be the cop. A bartender wouldn't tell a lie." "Neither would this cop," Malone said. "He takes too many bribes from Max Hook to be anything but honest." He lit a fresh cigar. "Oh well, as long as von Flanagan leaves me alone, I don't care. When are you going to make up with Jake?" She gave him a look that set his teeth on edge. "I'm going to send him the deed to the Casino, and that's the finish." She fastened the top clasp of her coat and picked up an enormous fox fur from the arm of her chair. "Mona told me to bring you back with me for a cocktail. She has a few house guests, and there may be a few others in." Malone stared at her and said, "Hell, I can't go running around to Gold Coast cocktail parties. What are you trying to get me into, anyway?" "I'm just passing on Mona's invitation. I think you have a fatal fascination for her." "Well," Malone said slowly, "I'd have to put on another shirt." Helene snorted. "Mona knows you have another shirt. Come along." "All right," Malone said crossly, "but I won't stay long." He put on his hat and overcoat and made an ineffectual effort to straighten his tie. He paused in the anteroom to say, "Maggie, go home." The black-haired girl looked at him silently and disapprovingly. "And don't tell me I ought to stay in the office and tend to business. The only business we've had in two days has been phone calls from von Flanagan." He swept Helene out to the elevator. In the taxi he asked, "What kind of house guests has Mona McClane?" "Assorted. A little brown-haired wench named Lotus Allen. Really named Lotus. The perfect Eastern debutante. Mr. and Mrs. Michael Venning, just back from the Orient. You know the Venning family. He's very dull, but she's rather sweet. She has a lady companion named Louella White who looks like a trainer for wrestlers and knits like a machine, nothing but gray sweaters. Then there's a young man named Pendley Tidewell. I'll let you find out about him for yourself. There's another young man, Ross McLaurin, but I don't know much about him because he's been on a drunk since New Year's. Oh, and a Mr. Tuesday, whom I haven't met. He just came today. Mona said she especially wanted you to meet him." "Why?" "I don't know. He sounds rather mysterious and interesting to me." Malone grunted, and stared out the window at a dreary vista of early January mud. The afternoon didn't look promising, except for Mona McClane. He wished Jake were along. Jake, and a quart of rye. The cab left them at the entrance of the McClane mansion on Lake Shore Drive that, to Malone, was always like a combination of a high-class undertaking parlor and an 1880 government building. Helene pushed the bell and said, "When I'm alone I use the key Mona gives her house guests and go in the side door, but you're company." A trim colored maid opened the door and told them that Mona McClane was in the living room. Helene said, "I'm going up to change my dress. Go on in and talk to Mona. I'll be right down." She disappeared up the ornately carved and decorated stairway. Malone stood for a moment in the hall, looking after her. For some reason he could not explain, he felt uncomfortable and unhappy about being in this house. Perhaps it was that on his first visit he had come with Jake and Helene, a few days after their marriage. Now Helene was here, believing Jake still in Bermuda, and Jake was here, believing Helene to be in Havana, and each of them refusing to talk about the other. Or perhaps it was because on his last visit to this house he had stood in this very hall and watched a murderer make a last, desperate, and unsuccessful break for escape. He told himself that was the reason, and all the time he knew that wasn't it. It might have been a feeling in his bones, it might have been some heightened perception developed from years of contact with those who had broken the law, it might have been some inexplicable premonition, but whatever it was, he knew that the old McClane mansion had not yet given up its last tragedy. He was, he told himself, a damned superstitious Irishman, and he went on into the living room. Chapter Nine MONA McCLANE sat in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, her head thrown back against its cushions, her eyes closed. There was something oddly Chinese about her dress, with its long, straight sleeves, its high-throated, close-fitting collar, and the intense blue of its heavily brocaded silk. She wore an exquisitely carved white jade medallion on a long, delicate silver chain, and a dozen slender, white jade bracelets. Her black hair was cut short, with a heavy bang falling over her pale forehead; below the bang her gamin face was very white, save for the wide, odd-shaped scarlet mouth. At first Malone believed her to be alone in the room and walked toward her. He was halfway across the rug when a loud voice startled him. "Hey, you. Keep out of the way." He looked up, and saw a young man lying fiat on his stomach on top of one of the massive bookcases. The young man glared at him balefully. "You stay right there, whoever you are." "I'm John J. Malone," the lawyer said, "and I'll be glad to stay right here, but why?" "Because I'm taking her picture, that's why," the voice from above told him. He aimed the smallest camera Malone had ever seen at Mona McClane. "Don't mind Pendley," Mona McClane said without moving a muscle in her face. "He'll be through right away." "I will not," the young man said peevishly. A moment later he climbed down from the perch with an agility a trapeze performer would have admired, and stood fiddling with his camera. "This is Pendley Tidewell, Mr. Malone," Mona McClane said. "He's a camera addict." "I thought maybe he just liked high altitudes," Malone said mildly. The young man said nothing at all. To Malone he seemed at least ten feet tall, now that he was down on the ground level, and exceedingly thin. He was dressed informally in corduroy trousers, a stained tan sweater, and sneakers. A heavy lock of straw-colored hair fell over his bony, freckled face. Malone guessed that he was barely out of his teens, if that. "Just pretend I'm not here," Pendley Tidewell said at last. "Just go on acting as if I didn't exist. I want to try for something very natural." Mona McClane waved Malone to a chair. The young man seemed to disappear. "It's good to see you again," Mona McClane said. "What a shame Jake and Helene have split." There was just the right touch of sympathetic regret in her voice. Malone murmured something polite and noncommittal. She reached for a cigarette. "I really thought they were much too well suited to each other to be happily married," she said. Before Malone had puzzled that out, she went on, "Still, a happy marriage is something very hard to attain. I've been extremely fortunate myself. All my marriages have been happy." "Jake is-" Malone began. "Don't move," said a loud voice right under his feet. The lawyer looked down and saw the six feet of Pendley Tidewell twisted around the small table by his chair. The tiny camera was held to his eye, and his head was almost on Malone's knee. Malone didn't move. He resisted an impulse to pat the young man's head. After a moment the photographer unwound himself from the end table and bounded to his feet. "Thanks awfully, Mr. Malone. I've never photographed a lawyer before." He grinned. "Mona's told me about you." Malone relaxed and mopped his brow. "I didn't know lawyers were so hard to snap." Pendley Tidewell's grin widened. "Not as hard as Michael Venning is. He's got a phobia about cameras. Chased me out of his bathroom the other night all ready to break my neck." "Maybe he'd rather bathe alone," Mona suggested. "He is reactionary," the young man admitted. "And he does hate cameras. Don't you remember, Mona, he smashed the camera of a ship news photographer when they docked in San Francisco? That's why I'm so anxious to get a picture of him, no one ever has." He looked almost reverent. "Maybe I could even sell it to the newspapers." "I'd like to see some of your pictures," Malone said, trying to sound as if he really meant it. Pendley Tidewell's face fell. "I haven't made any good ones yet. But maybe these will turn out well. I'm going upstairs and develop them right away." He grinned at Malone again. "Mona's made me a darkroom upstairs. Come and see it sometime." The room seemed much larger and far, far quieter after he had raced up the stairs. "He's really a nice boy," Mona said. "Probably a heart of gold," Malone agreed. "He's Editha Venning's nephew," she told him, "an orphan, and penniless. The Vennings educated him. I imagine he feels greatly relieved that Michael Venning's going to be fifty day after tomorrow, though he doesn't seem to care anything about money, only about his camera." Before Malone could figure out what she meant, there was a mild commotion in the hall as two people came in the front door. One of them, a man in an ugly, but expensive yellow and green plaid overcoat, came into the room to greet Mona McClane. In his hand he carried a dark-green slouch brim trimmed with a jaunty feather. "Editha's ruined her coat in the rain. She'll be right along." He went back into the hall. Malone caught the sound of wraps and overshoes being shed. The man returned, without the overcoat, a woman with him. Mona McClane introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Michael Venning, and began mixing Scotch and sodas. "Frightful weather," Mr. Venning said. His well-bred voice had just the right tinge of British. "After living in the tropics for twenty years, one feels it." He laughed, not too loudly. "Chicago seemed amazingly strange to me, considering I was born here." Michael Venning, Malone thought. The name seemed familiar. He searched his memory. Oh yes, old Michael Venning had made a great fortune in real estate at the turn of the century, and then married the only daughter of one of the wealthier North Shore families. This was their one child. He looked at Michael Venning with a new interest. He was a tall man, big-boned, heavy around the shoulders, and evidently just beginning to put on weight. His dark hair was starting to gray a little above the temples, and he was deeply tanned. To Malone he seemed to be one of the Americans who, after spending twenty years in the Orient, come home far more British than any of the British themselves, having apparently concentrated on adopting only the more objectionable habits. Mrs. Venning took a drink and said, "Poor Michael does feel the cold so badly." Malone turned to look at her. She too was tall, a trifle rangy. Malone thought most people would be attracted to her, especially those who liked horses. She had that kind of well-built muscular solidity that looked well in any kind of clothes or without them, and moved with the unconscious and unstudied grace that some athletic women develop. Her face, though, was deeply lined, haggard; her dark eyes seemed unhappy and almost frightened. There was one wide streak of pure white that began at one side of her forehead and waved back through her dark-brown hair. Malone asked her politely if she too came from Chicago. "Yes indeed. I was born here, and I grew up here. We've only lived in the Orient all this time because Michael liked it." She spoke in an oddly jerky, nervous manner. Malone had a sudden notion that however Michael might have felt, she hadn't liked the Orient much. "We went over to Europe now and then," Venning said, as though he didn't expect anyone to care. Malone's attention wandered. He thought of Pendley Tidewell and wondered how he was getting on with his developing. Another woman entered the room and sat down close to Editha Venning. Mona McClane introduced her as Louella White. This was Editha Venning's companion, Malone remembered. She looked about as companionable as a soldiers' and sailors' monument. Louella White was a large woman, wide-bosomed, with flat, substantial feet, thick ankles, and muscular arms, dressed in an unbecoming and perfectly plain brown satin dress. Her big, expressionless face was as hard, uncompromising, and undecorated as the alley side of a Loop building, save that her eyebrows were plucked to fine, curved lines. Her crimped hair was a reddish brown, probably dyed, Malone thought. She opened a knitting bag, took out some shapeless article and a mass of heavy dark-gray yarn, and began to knit, with machinelike rhythm. "Red Cross?" he asked politely. She lifted her eyes to his face for a fraction of a second, looked back at the knitting again, and said, "No." He had a vague and uncomfortable notion that he ought to make conversation with her, everyone else in the room seemed to be occupied in talk. "Are you making a sweater?" "Yes." This time she didn't look up. He was a little discouraged, but couldn't resist the challenge. He tried again. "I suppose you're glad to be back in Chicago." "Yes." "Or did you enjoy living in the Orient?" "No." Malone had just admitted defeat when Helene returned. She had changed into a clinging, soft wool dress the exact color of ripe wheat, and rearranged her sleek, pale-gold hair. Malone wished fervently that Jake could get one look at her right now, just one. The girl who came into the room with Helene was introduced as Lotus Allen. She would have been better named Jane, Malone thought. Her smooth, well-brushed hair was just plain hair color and was drawn back from her face into a heavy coil on the back of her neck. There was something pleasantly and indescribably ordinary about her. She had what were usually described as good features and a healthy skin; she was of average height, with a trim, well-organized figure. Any man who did take a second look at her would probably take a great many more, and approving ones. It was the second look that would be the hurdle. "I don't think Ross will show up," she said to Mona McClane. Mona McClane raised one eyebrow slightly. "Again?" The girl nodded. "He's been plastered now since New Year's. It's almost a record." She picked up a tall glass, sat down, lit a cigarette, and smiled impartially at everybody in the room. Mona McClane said, "But where is Mr. Tuesday?" Nobody answered. Then she added, "I forgot none of you have met him." She rang for the maid. "I'm so anxious for you to meet him." Malone had the feeling that Mona was talking for his benefit. He wondered why.

She sent the maid to ask Mr. Tuesday to step down-stairs, and said, "He only arrived in town this morning. He's very charming and interesting." Malone suddenly became conscious of the fact that Louella White was managing to watch everyone in the room, without seeming to take her small, beady eyes off her knitting. "Where's Mr. Tuesday from?" Lotus Allen asked. Mona said, "He's also from the Orient. I'm sure he and the Vennings will have so much in common." The maid reappeared a moment later. Her carefully restrained face was very pale. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but Mr. Tuesday isn't coming down." Lotus Allen put down her glass and said, "Good God. Don't tell me he's plastered, too." "No, Miss Allen." The maid turned back to Mona McClane. "I'm sorry, ma'am. But I'm afraid Mr. Tuesday's dead." Chapter Ten MR. TUESDAY-MR. GERALD TUESDAY, Malone learned later-had not been dead very long. The little lawyer, mounting the steps three leaps ahead of everyone else, found him slumped over a small writing desk. The fingers of one of his hands were curled around the telephone, which lay crookedly in its hook as though it had been carelessly replaced there. His body was awkwardly in the chair, half falling. The fingers of the other hand loosely held a crumpled bit of paper. There was a knife wound in his back, just below the right shoulder blade. Malone suddenly realized that the other guests had collected just inside the door. Mona McClane took a few steps into the room. "What a shame." There was no emotion in her voice save polite regret. "I had so wanted you to meet Mr. Tuesday." Malone glanced at her face, hoping to find the emotion so curiously absent from her voice. She was pale, but serene. Helene pushed her way into the room and caught at the lawyer's arm. "Malone, he's been murdered!" "I noticed it," Malone said coldly. He straightened up from a brief examination of the body and faced the group by the door. "Before we call the police, does anyone here want to consult me professionally? I'm considered the best defense attorney in the city of Chicago." There was a tiny gasp-he couldn't tell where it came from-and then silence. Malone sighed, shook his head, and signaled to the maid. "All right, you'd better call the police. Tell them there's been a murder in the house." The maid said, "Yes, sir," automatically, and scuttled down the hall. Malone took out a cigar, began to unwrap it slowly and with exquisite care, suddenly glanced at the dead man, and put it back in his pocket. "You'll find it helpful later," he said very casually, "if, before the police get here, you get your stories straight. It'll save you a lot of bother." Michael Venning looked surprised and a trifle annoyed. "You don't fancy the police will need to ask us a lot of questions, do you?" Helene said, "You'd be amazed at the questions the police can ask. You'd better take Malone's advice." "But look here," Venning said. "None of us had even met the beggar. I'd never been introduced to him." "The police," Malone said wearily, "have never accepted lack of a formal introduction as proof of innocence." He looked at Venning coldly. "This man has only been dead a few minutes. Less than a half-hour, anyway. Where had you been before you came in the house just now?" Venning frowned. "Oh, very well, if you think that it's necessary." He pronounced it "necess'ry." "My wife and I were walking, out on the Drive. We went out immediately after lunch. Editha wanted to do a bit of shopping, and then we walked up to the Park and back." "That's right," Editha Venning said. "We've been out ever since lunch." "Who has been in the house this afternoon?" Ma-lone asked. "I have," Mona McClane said. "I rested awhile after luncheon, and then until you arrived I was conferring with the cook about tomorrow's dinner. I haven't been upstairs since about three o'clock, though I don't suppose I could prove that if I had to." "How about you?" Malone asked Lotus Allen. "I've been in all afternoon. I was doing my nails when I heard Mrs. Justus come up the stairs. Then I went down the hall to see what kind of shape Ross was in, and I found he'd passed out cold. When I came back from seeing about him, I met Mrs. Justus coming out of her room, and came downstairs with her." Malone nodded approvingly. Lotus Allen-he kept thinking of her as Jane-was a good, practical girl. "What about this Ross?" "His name's Ross McLaurin," Mona said. "He was a little drunk at lunch, but not unusually. As far as I know, he's been shut up in his room with a bottle of bourbon all afternoon." "Where's the candid-camera fiend?" Mona McClane said, "He's probably been locked in the darkroom ever since he ran upstairs with his camera." Malone nodded and glanced around the room. His eye fell on Louella White. A swell candidate for a murderess, he thought, except that she'd probably do her murdering in a haunted house, and with an ax. "Were you in the house all afternoon, Miss White?" "Yes." "Had you been downstairs before you came into the living room?" "No." "You were upstairs all afternoon?" "Yes." "Just exactly where?" She looked at him indignantly, drew a long breath, and said, "My room." At least he'd got two words out of her, Malone told himself. Hearing von Flanagan trying to question the hard-faced companion would be well worth the price of admission. "Well," he said, "this man may have been murdered before Mrs. Justus and I arrived, or after. But if-" "It was after," Helene said suddenly. Everyone stared at her. "I came up the stairs to change my dress." There was a curiously flickering light in her eyes. "His door is right at the head of the stairs, and when I came up, it was open. He was sitting there at the desk, his back to me, looking in the telephone book." "Alive?" Michael Venning said incredulously. "Obviously," Helene said. "Was he alive when you came downstairs again?" Malone asked. "I don't know. His door was closed. He might have been-being murdered-right then. I suppose the murderer would have closed the door." This time the gasp came from Editha Venning. Her husband said, "Look here, we won't all have to stay up here with that. I'm going downstairs and have a drink." "Me too," Lotus Allen said weakly. "We all will," Mona McClane said. "We might as well be comfortable while we wait for the police." She smiled almost impishly. "What to do until the policeman comes." She led the way into the hall. Malone observed that Louella White took Mrs. Venning's arm. More like a police matron than a companion, he thought, but the very rich had funny tastes. He took another look around the room. The position of the telephone puzzled him a little. The scrap of crumpled paper had half slipped from the dead man's fingers; almost absent-mindedly Malone picked it up and smoothed it out. There was nothing on it save a number: "114." He crumpled it up again, dropped it back where he had found it, and followed the others downstairs. One-fourteen. There was something maddeningly reminiscent about that. Something to do with a murder, too. He could hear the sound of excited conversation from the living room. Everyone seemed to be trying to outtalk everyone else. He heard Michael Venning's carefully modulated voice saying, "I remember once in Calcutta, in 1929," and Lotus Allen's New Englandish voice cutting across it with, "Well anyway, Ross won't be suspected, he must have been passed out for hours," and the maid saying, "Scotch or bourbon, Mrs. Venning?" Mona McClane was waiting for him on the bottom step. "You didn't plan this, by any chance, when you invited me over?" he asked. She smiled at him as though he didn't mean it. "No, I didn't. I did plan something, but this has spoiled it. I didn't murder that man, either, if that's what you were going to ask." "I wasn't," he told her. "Who was this Gerald Tuesday?" "Just a house guest," she said lightly. "Someone I'd met abroad. Mutual friends wrote me he was coming to Chicago, and so of course I invited him to stay here." "All right," Malone said. He took the cigar out again, this time he finished unwrapping it. "If that's your story, I hope it'll stand up." "It will," she said coolly. He had started to follow her into the living room, when Helene came down the hall and clutched at his arm. "Malone!" It was a low, insistent whisper. "This isn't-or is it?" "Don't ask riddles and don't hiss. What do you mean?" "Mona's murder." He looked at her a moment before answering. "You're forgetting the terms of the bet again. This man wasn't shot down in the public streets, with plenty of witnesses. He was stabbed, just like the other-" He paused and stood staring at the wall. "Like the other what?" "Man-who-was-stabbed," he said automatically. He had just remembered why that number, 114, was familiar. "Malone-" "Never mind now. How do the telephones work in this house? What kind of a system is it?" "Extension phones. A call can be picked up on any telephone. Or you can pick up any telephone and call an outside number. There are three lines, in case one is busy, and every telephone has a little switch connected with it." "Then you could make a telephone call from any phone in the house, without anyone else knowing it?" "Yes, unless someone happened to pick up another phone hitched to the same line while you were making it. When that happens, the person picking up the phone is supposed to press the little switch, unless he's curious and feels like eavesdropping." "Thanks," Malone said. He was silent a moment. "Now I want to make a call. Where's the nearest phone?" She led him to a little closet down the hall. He said, "Wait for me," closed the door, and dialed the number of his office. After a minute Maggie's voice answered. "I was just going home, Mr. Malone. You told me to go-" "Go ahead. Tell me first, have I had any calls in the last hour or so?" "Two. One from Louie, about his check. I don't know who the other was from." "What do you mean, you don't know?" "I mean whoever it was didn't say. I answered the phone and a funny-sounding voice said, 'Malone.' It sounded like a voice from Mars. I started to say you weren't in, and the voice said, 'Malone. One-fourteen. One-fourteen.' Then before I had a chance to say another word, he hung up. Just like that." Back in the hall, Malone told Helene, "I think I know who he was looking for in the phone book." "Who?" "Me." Before either of them could say another word, there was a sudden sound from the dead man's room, and another. Someone was moving about. For just an instant they stared at each other, then Malone raced up the steps, two at a time. At the door to the room he paused, one hand clutching the door jamb, then pushed it open. The six-foot Pendley Tidewell, camera in hand, was stretched flat on the floor in the middle of the room, engaged in photographing the murdered man. Before Malone could say a word, his attention was distracted by a thin sliver of white paper protruding from under the desk blotter. While Pendley Tidewell apologetically gathered up his photographic equipment, the little lawyer had slipped the paper out from under the blotter into his own pocket. Not until the young photographer had gone did Malone examine his find. Then he read it through-silently, his face expressionless, and handed it to Helene without a word. It appeared to be the second page of a letter, written in a decisive, vertical handwriting. "No one can pin a crime on a man who's been dead for twenty years." Malone said, "He probably was writing it when he heard someone in the hall, and slipped it under the blotter." His brows drew together in a heavy scowl. "If you ask me what it means, it'll be the last thing you ever ask me." He stowed the note carefully in an inside pocket and led the way downstairs. Chapter Eleven ". . . according to John J. Malone, prominent attorney, who happened to be in the house at the time of the tragedy. It is believed that Tuesday was the victim of a burglar. Captain Daniel von Flanagan promises an early arrest. . . ." Jake Justus crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor. "It's just unbelievable how they go on falling for that old burglary gag after all these years." Malone poured an inch of rye into his glass. "Hell, von Flanagan had to tell the papers something. He could hardly say, 'There were a bunch of people in the house when this Tuesday .guy got knocked off, but I'm damned if I know which one to pick.' " He sipped his rye and reviewed in his mind the floor plans of the McClane mansion. There was the big staircase that went up from the central hall. Gerald Tuesday's room had been at the head of it, in a little ell, with its door toward the stairs. Helene's room was down the hall to the right. Lotus Allen's room was across from it, and Louella White's next door. Ross McLaurin's was down at the end of the hall, just past the little staircase that ended near the side door. Pendley Tidewell's darkroom was at the very end of the hall, toward the rear. Those five had been upstairs when Gerald Tuesday was killed. Downstairs- He sighed, and refilled his glass. There was the time element to consider, too. Helene had seen Tuesday alive, sitting at his desk, just after their arrival. That had been at five minutes after four. She had just come downstairs when the maid was sent to Tuesday's room and found him dead. That had been at twenty-five minutes after four. During those twenty minutes in which Tuesday had been killed, Mona McClane had been downstairs-he had been in the same room with her-Helene, Lotus Allen, young McLaurin, Tidewell, and Louella White had been upstairs. The Vennings had been out walking on the Drive during most of that time. When they came in -he had heard them himself-they had come straight into the living room, without going upstairs. Jake interrupted his reverie, asking very casually, "You haven't heard anything from Helene, have you?" "Would you expect me to hear from Helene?" Malone asked innocently. Jake turned faintly pink and said, "Well, I thought she might have sent you a postcard from Havana." "She probably hasn't had time," Malone told him. "You know what those Cubans are." Keeping Helene's name out of the newspaper accounts of the murder had taken a little doing, but Malone had managed it. He considered it well worth the effort. The little lawyer had come to a very positive conviction about the situation. The rock in Jake and Helene's progress had been pride, which was not only a sin, but a lot of damned foolishness. However, there it was. If, he reasoned, they could be kept from running into each other too soon, everything would be all right. In the meantime, keeping them apart was going to be a tricky business, which was just the kind of business he liked. Jake scowled at the newspaper. "Who are all these people?" Malone drew a long breath. "Even you ought to be familiar with the Venning estate. Michael Venning is the Venning estate. He's never done anything for it except cash the checks. Just returned to this country for his first visit in twenty years. Been living in the Orient-India, Singapore, Shanghai-because he liked it there. Big, beefy guy, looks as though he might have an ugly temper and no brains worth mentioning. His wife is a tall, graceful dame with a figure like a very beautiful horse. Looks like Lady Macbeth with a bad hang-over. Can't figure if she has this granite-puss nurse just to keep her company or because she's a dopey. She's of the Putnams, of Lake Forest and Charlevoix." Jake made an insulting, clucking noise with his teeth and said, "We could bill you as Genevieve Malone and get you a job writing society columns. Hand me the bottle and go on with your story." "The McLaurin boy was still passed out when I left. Good-looking even when cockeyed, in an appealingly revolting sort of way. He was the only child of the sort of dame who buys six pairs of British-made shoes, finds a nice island in the Mediterranean, and lives there the rest of her life. He was brought up there and in swanky private schools. Mamma kicked the bucket about a year ago, and the cutting of the apron strings was a nasty sock. Mona McClane was a close pal of his old lady, so she's taken him under her wing." Jake muttered something to the effect that anyone under Mona McClane's wing had better have a parachute along, and said, "Don't let me interrupt you. How about this Lotus Allen?" "She's the sort of expensive Massachusetts girl who instinctively wears the right clothes on every occasion. Damned good-looking, in a restrained sort of way. Imported tweeds, hand-knit sweaters, sport scarves, and black chiffon underwear. The sort of girl who wouldn't seem like a prig if she didn't drink, but she does, and she probably spits and swears, too." "Did you make a date with her?" Jake asked interestedly. Malone said, "She has her eye on McLaurin. I suspect that's why she's visiting Mona McClane." "That does up the suspects," Jake said. "Now who was the corpse? Outside of being a Mr. Gerald Tuesday." "Nobody seems to know," Malone said, "including Mona McClane. She'd met him somewhere in Europe a few years ago-Paris, I guess. Got acquainted with him there. Some mutual friend wrote Mona that he was coming to Chicago, and she got in touch with him and invited him to stay with her. That's about all anyone knows. After all, he'd just arrived in town, and nobody in the house had met him except Mona McClane. Von Flanagan's losing his mind trying to find out about him now." Jake scowled. "His murder doesn't fulfill the terms of Mona's bet. But there must be some connection. He was murdered in her house. His dying act was to try to telephone you. Evidently he knew about the bet." Jake drew a long breath and said, "I want to talk to Mona. I think I'll go over there right now." Involuntarily Malone exclaimed, "Oh no, you can't do that," and stopped suddenly. "Why can't I go to see Mona McClane?" "She's suffering from shock," Malone said quickly. "You're full of little bananas. That woman wouldn't suffer from shock after a mass dynamiting." "She's just had a murder in her house. That's bound to be a little upsetting." "All right, so she's upset. You always said yourself you could get more out of people by talking with them when they were upset." "It's late and I'm tired." "It's nine o'clock, and if you're that tired, I'll go alone." "No, no, no," Malone said. "If you insist on going, I'll go with you." He was thinking fast. For Jake to run into Helene at Mona McClane's so early in the game might imperil the chances of a future reconciliation. And if Jake discovered that Helene's presence in the city had been kept from him, there would be hell to pay, with Malone on the paying end. He went on thinking fast all the way down in the elevator. There was no way he could get Helene out of the McClane house. He could hardly explain the situation to Mona McClane, even if he could manage a private telephone call on the way. They hailed a taxi in front of the apartment hotel and Jake gave the Lake Shore Drive address of Mona McClane. Malone leaned forward and said, "But first, driver, go to Rickett's." Jake said, "What's the idea?" "I haven't had any dinner yet. Mona's Scotch on top of an empty stomach, and I'd fall flat on my face. We'll get some food first, and then go and have a long talk with her." Jake sighed heavily, and leaned back against the cushions. It seemed good to be out of the apartment he had taken for his and Helene's return to the city. Not that it wasn't a nice apartment, but it was too damned reminiscent. All in all, it had been a dreary day. "Do you want to hear what I found out about the Chicago homicides of the past three weeks?" "Later," Malone said. The cab dropped them in front of Rickett's. At the door leading to the bar Malone paused, one hand resting on the knob. He had seen a certain shade of blonde hair among the heads at the bar. Of course there might be other women in the city with hair that particular pale gold, but he wasn't taking any chances. Suddenly he wheeled around, took Jake by the arm, and started west on Chicago Avenue. "Where the hell are you going?" "Just remembered. Gotta make a phone call." "Couldn't you make it from Rickett's?" "Not this call." At the corner drugstore he went in, bought a slug, and walked back to the phone booth. Jake, looking very dubious about the whole thing, hovered by the door to the booth. After a moment of thought, Ma-lone had a flash of inspiration and called the weather bureau. He wanted to know if it had been snowing that afternoon. No, it had not been snowing. The thermometer had hovered around forty-five degrees. Then had there been any rain? Yes, there had been one short, heavy rainfall during the afternoon. "There," Malone said happily. "That's the one I mean. Exactly what time did it occur?" It was a little while before the weather bureau reported that the rain had started falling at four-ten, rained hard for fifteen minutes, and stopped falling at about four-thirty-five. Malone thanked the weather bureau profusely and hung up. He tried to think of someone else he might call, but inspiration refused to deliver. Jake said in anguished exasperation, "Come on and get your damned dinner and let's get up to Mona's. This may not seem important to you, but it is to me." The little lawyer allowed himself to be led out to the sidewalk. He was just asking providence to suggest the next move, when he saw a little group of people getting into a car halfway down the street. His eye caught the gleam of electric light on pale-gold hair. "All right, but let me eat in peace. Don't heckle me." There was a chance that Rickett's would be crowded, and it would take a long time to be waited on. It was not. They had barely reached the table before a waitress appeared. "Three double ryes," Malone said. "I mean two triple ryes. Anyway, hurry." The girl fled toward the bar. Jake said crossly, "I thought you wanted food." "I do," Malone assured him. "Alcohol is a food. Do you know how long it's possible for a human being to exist entirely on alcohol?" "No," Jake said. "Someone always sobered me up before I had a chance to find out. But you said you hadn't had any dinner. You said-" "That's right," Malone said hastily, remembering. He looked over the menu, found a special steak that took thirty minutes to prepare, and ordered it when the girl returned. "Wait a minute." He downed the rye in one shuddering gulp, handed her the glass and said, "Fill this up first. It's an emergency." It was just a matter of using up time, now. Jake sat silent, watching the little lawyer anxiously. There was something about his behavior that didn't seem quite normal. Eventually the steak arrived. Malone glared at it. "I said well done." "You very positively said rare," the girl told him. Malone scowled at her, poked a fork into the steak and lifted it up so that a broad stripe of scarlet showed. "Call this rare? Call this even cooked?" He flopped it down disgustedly. "Damn it, I've seen steers hurt worse than this, and get well." The waitress drew a long breath. "Do you wish me to take it back, sir?" "Bring it to me well done," the lawyer said firmly. "And when I say well done, I mean crisp." She stared at him and picked up the steak. "And bring another rye while I'm waiting." Jake leaned across the table, his face wrinkled with anxiety. "Malone, how have you been feeling lately?" "Never felt better in my life," Malone assured him. Jake opened his mouth and closed it again. The steak returned at last. Malone eyed it distastefully. Rickett's evidently didn't want anyone to go away hungry. He thought regretfully of the corned beef he had shared earlier in the evening with von Flanagan, the corned beef and fried potatoes and apple pie, and sighed regretfully. "Did you say something?" Jake asked. "I said if we starve to death, it won't be for lack of food." Thirty minutes later he had consumed exactly three square inches of the steak. Then he pushed the plate away from him and shook his head. The cause of true love was a good one, and deserved great self-sacrifice, but he was damned if he could manage another mouthful. Jake said, "Don't you want any more?" The lawyer shook his head. "Don't know what's the matter with me. I've been off my feed lately. Maybe we'd better have one more drink, and then go." By the time they were at the door, it was just twenty minutes to eleven. "It's late," Jake said regretfully, "but Mona McClane won't mind. We'd better go right up there now." Malone shook his head. "You don't know what you're going to say when you do get there. You need information before you can ask questions. If you'll just let me get you one more piece of information to go on, you can ask her all the questions you want." "All right," Jake said after a minute, "but make it snappy." The lawyer bounded across the sidewalk and into a cab. Jake followed him and slammed the door. "The Roosevelt Road elevated station," Malone told the driver, "and drive like mad!" The cab was halfway to the Michigan Avenue bridge before Jake recovered enough breath to ask, "But why the hell-" Malone said, "Sssh!" put his fingers to his lips, shook his head, and pointed to the cab driver. At Madison Street Jake leaned over and whispered, "But why-" Malone whispered back, "Because of the clock," and shook his head again. "Don't ask me so many questions. I know what I'm doing." "You're drunk," Jake said indignantly. "I still know what I'm doing." There was another difficult moment just inside the doors of the elevated station, and Malone had another quiet conference with providence. In the midst of it, his eye fell on the station clock. He motioned to Jake not to disturb him, took out his watch, examined it as carefully as if he suspected it of being an infernal machine, and then stood, holding it in his hand, looking first at it and then at the station clock. He stood perfectly still, doing this, for exactly fifteen minutes. At the end of that time he closed his watch and put it back in his pocket. Jake had completely forgotten Mona McClane. "Look here, Malone. Are you sure you feel all right? Wouldn't you like to lie down for a little while?" Malone decided providence had had an idea of its own. "Maybe I would like to lie down," he said gratefully and a little weakly. "Just for a few minutes. It must have been something I ate." He allowed Jake to lead him to a taxi. Jake gave the driver the address of Malone's hotel, and added, "Drive rather slowly." "Drive very slowly," Malone said, sitting bolt upright and tapping the driver on the shoulder. "Please drive very slowly and carefully. My wife's going to have a baby." He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. The driver, turning onto Michigan Avenue, caught Jake's eye in the rear-view mirror and tapped his forehead questioningly. Jake shook his head and made the gesture of a man holding a bottle to his lips. "I am not," Malone said indignantly, without opening his eyes. The driver nodded sympathetically to Jake, and drove on. In his hotel room, Malone allowed Jake to help undress him and get him into bed. By the time the covers were tucked under his chin, the time was quarter to twelve. He sighed with relief. Jake wouldn't call on Mona McClane at this hour of the night. "You'll be all right after a night's sleep," Jake assured him. "Will you promise to stay in bed and not go roaming around?" "Promise," Malone said, shutting his eyes. Out of the corner of one of them he could see Jake carefully hiding all the pants, taking a last look around the room, and going out quietly, closing the door behind him. The little lawyer drew a long breath. It had been a busy evening, but he'd warded off a possibly disastrous meeting between Jake and Helene. Tomorrow would be another day, but he'd meet it as it came. He was just dropping off to sleep half an hour later when the telephone rang. Helene's voice, breathless and excited, came from the receiver. "Malone, I'm down in the lobby. Come down right away. I've got a newsboy driving the car around the block." He couldn't think of anything better than, "Huh?" "Are you awake? Then listen, you blockhead. I've kidnapped the man who murdered Gerald Tuesday." Malone counted to ten slowly and then said calmly "Is there a reward?" He heard an indignant and unintelligible sputtering noise at the other end of the wire. "Where is he now?" "In the back of the car, under some blankets. I knocked him out." Malone sighed. "Maybe I'd better come right down." "Maybe you had," Helene told him, "and maybe you'd better hurry. Because I'm driving a stolen car." She hung up. Chapter Twelve "HE WON'T MOVE AN EYELASH for another hour," Helene said, referring to the passenger in the back seat. "But what's the best thing to do with a stolen car?" "To stop driving it up and down State Street," Malone said crossly. She swung into the lower level of Wacker Drive, and he breathed easier. "It's a good thing for you I'm able to get dressed in a hurry. I was in bed." "I will say you made it in record time." "That," he told her, "is what comes of always being calm and cool-headed. It's when you get excited that you get into trouble. I never forget what I'm doing." Helene said, "Just the same, I can't help wondering why there's two inches of pajama pants showing below your trouser cuffs and why you only have one sock on." Malone was indignantly silent. She crossed the river and turned west on Grand Avenue. "How did all this happen?" the lawyer asked at last. "The house had pretty well quieted down for the night. Everyone was in bed. I couldn't sleep. Something on my mind, I guess. Anyway, I prowled around downstairs for a while and finally decided to go up to my room. When I got up the stairs I found this dope wandering around looking for Mr. Tuesday's body. He seemed to think he'd mislaid it somewhere." "Didn't he know the police had taken it away?" Malone asked. "He didn't even know the police had found it. Remember he was passed out cold all that time." "Oh," Malone said. "That's who you have stowed away back there. Ross McLaurin." "Who the devil did you think it was? Shirley Temple?" "But Ross McLaurin couldn't have murdered anybody," Malone said. "He was drunk." "People can do funny things when they're drunk. I remember once-" "Never mind," Malone said hastily. "I mean he'd passed out. The Allen girl said she went to call him, and he was as cold as a clam." "He could have been giving himself an alibi, couldn't he? Or he could have come to after she left. People do." "Did he tell you he'd murdered Tuesday?" "He seemed to have a vague impression he'd murdered several people, but he wasn't just sure who they were. One of them sounded like Gerald Tuesday to me. He confided that he didn't know the people he'd murdered." "My God," Malone said. "You've kidnapped a lunatic." "No, a drunk. There's a distinction." She turned north on Franklin Street, dark and deserted at this hour. "Let's not quibble, but how did you happen to kidnap him? Was it an accident?" "Not entirely. My first thought was to bring him to you, so he couldn't go babbling his story to some perfect stranger. It would be a shame to have him fall into the hands of the police. He's such a nice boy, and I think Lotus Allen is in love with him. You feel very sympathetic about people in love when your own love life has just been ended forever." Malone made a rude, raucous noise with his lips and tongue. "I mean it," Helene said indignantly. "So do I," Malone said, "but go on with your story. Begin with where you decided to bring this guy to me." "He seemed to want a drink, so I told him I'd just looked and there wasn't one in the house. I knew I couldn't get him to come along quietly and see you, in the mental condition he was in, but I felt pretty sure he'd go out with me to look for a bar, and he did." "Where did the car come into this?" "The car was a gift from providence." Malone sighed. "The police are going to have one terrible time arresting providence. Go on." "We started walking down Bellevue Place, and I saw this car standing at the curb with the keys in it. 'Here's my car,' says I, 'hop in.' He hopped in and away we went. Then I made the error of trying to explain to him where we were going, and he objected. Rather strenuously, too. I couldn't have him jumping out of the car in the middle of Michigan Avenue, so I took my slipper off and conked him one with the heel. He's been peaceful as a child ever since. I drove up an alley and shoved him over into the back seat and covered him with a blanket. That brings us up to date, and what do we do now?" "We might try returning your kidnap victim and your stolen car," Malone said coldly. "That's no good. He's my property and I won't let him go. And we need the car. My own is in the garage of the apartment building where Jake and I were going to live." She was silent for a few minutes. "I know what we'll do. We'll get my car and return this one, and take this guy up to that apartment. I still have a key to it." "Good God, no," Malone said hastily. "You can't do that." "Why not?" "I know that building. They're fussy as the devil about having kidnap victims kept there." She snorted indignantly. "Damn it, Malone, we've got to take him somewhere." "Why?" Malone asked plaintively. "Maybe when I get a look at him I won't like him." "He'll stumble into a policeman and get arrested for murder. Besides, I have a hunch that murder had something to do with Mona McClane. After all, it happened in her house, even if she couldn't have done it. I want to find out what this guy knows. I think my idea of taking him up to that apartment is a good one, and I'm going to do it." "No!" Malone said. It was almost a roar. "It's too risky." "Then you think of something." "Get rid of the car first," Malone said. "You may get pinched at any street corner." "The police probably don't even know it's been stolen yet." The little lawyer sighed. "That's easy enough to find out. Park in the first alley you come to, and I'll telephone." She found one halfway up the next block. Malone went into a corner drugstore, bought a slug, called the police, and wanted to know if a dark-green Buick sedan bearing the license plates 607-871 had been reported stolen. It had. Malone said, "Well, I'm calling from a store at 63rd and Cottage Grove. The car is in the neighborhood. I thought the men in it were acting suspiciously and that the car might have been stolen to use in a holdup. Yes, four men. No, I didn't get a good enough look at them to describe them. They just went west on 63rd. My name? Tuesday. Gerald Tuesday." He hung up fast and ran back to the car. "Yes, the car's hot. We have to get rid of it. Let me think a minute." Helene picked up the bottle on the seat beside her and took a drink. Then she handed the bottle to Malone. "I feel better. Let me think for a while." There was a brief silence. The man in the back seat moaned slightly and murmured something that might have been either "mother" or "murder." "I guess our friend is waking up," Helene said. Suddenly she sat up. "I do have an idea. I know the bartender in a place over on Huron Street, not a block from here. This guy isn't heavy. I think the two of us can haul him that far." She climbed out of the car and opened the door to the back seat. Malone sighed and followed her. "Then what?" "You'll see. Help me get him out of here. And don't forget the gin. I took it with me just in case." Malone looked happy for the first time. "Say," he said, "that's an idea. I could use a case. Maybe this drunken lunatic is it." When Ross McLaurin was stood upright and firmly supported, his feet moved. Conveying him turned out to be a simple matter of guiding him and keeping him from falling on his face. By the time they reached the end of the alley, he was muttering something under his breath. Malone caught the word "dying" and leaned close to him, anxious to hear the rest. Ten paces farther he realized their prisoner was reciting Kipling's Boots. A few steps more, and Helene joined in. Malone, having a vague fear of attracting attention to himself by his silence, decided to recite along with them. His contribution was rendered less valuable by the fact that he could only remember the refrain. Besides, he consoled himself, it wasn't good poetry, anyway. They reached the last line of Boots and the corner bar at the same moment. It was a small place, more intimate than ornate, decorated with stuffed birds and animals. Malone noticed the tail of a stuffed squirrel, waving lightly, and shuddered, before he discovered it was directly in the path of an electric fan. All they wanted was a taxi with an honest driver, Helene explained to the bartender, addressing him familiarly as "Armen." Before the words were out of her mouth, five taxi drivers ranged along the bar offered their services. It ended with Helene picking their names out of a hat, selecting one, and explaining their friend needed to be taken home, as anyone could see. Well, maybe just one quick one, while they waited for the cab to be driven around to the front door. Five minutes and two drinks later they were in a cab headed for the Drive. "Toward the Loop," Helene directed. Malone said in a low voice, "I seem to be in this whether I like it or not. In the past I've often kept witnesses hidden out in my hotel; the management is always very helpful." He called to the driver, "Stop at a drugstore, I want to make a phone call." He returned to report that the management would have the room next to his ready. They would take the unconscious man in at the side entrance and up the freight elevator without any trouble. "Now I know why you're considered a damned good lawyer," Helene said admiringly. "It's people like you that make damned good lawyers necessary," Malone said in a cross voice. He added, "I also called the police and told them a dark-green Buick sedan, license number 607-871, was parked in an alley just off St. Clair Street. The owner just might want to use his car." At that moment their prisoner woke up about two degrees more. "Want to talk to police," he reported. "Sure," Helene said soothingly, "but you want a drink first." "That's right. Want a drink." "For the love of Mike, give him one," Helene said. Malone held the gin bottle to their prisoner's lips as long as he dared without actually drowning the man. There was a faint, gurgling sound, a little, satisfied sigh, and a reassuringly peaceful silence. The taxi driver and a bellboy evidently accustomed to Malone's occasional troubles with witnesses carried the slumbering man to the freight elevator. Malone and the bellboy put him to bed. "Now," Malone said, when the boy had gone, "you go home." "Try and make me, after all the trouble I went to bringing him here." She gazed sympathetically at the young man on the bed. He seemed little more than a boy, sleeping like a tired child. He was slender and not tall, with a pale, handsome face, and wavy blond hair that tumbled loosely over his forehead. Suddenly he stirred, moaned softly, murmured something undistinguishable, and opened his eyes. They were blue eyes, young and guileless, and apparently aware of what was going on. Before Helene or Malone could move, he was sitting up in bed. "I killed two men," he said thickly but intelligibly. "I don't know who they were or why I killed them. But I know I must have killed them. With a knife. I don't understand it." He stared up at the two watching him as though their faces might give him some explanation. He rubbed the palm of his left hand on his forehead. "I can't remember." Then he lay back on the pillow and went to sleep. "There, you see?" Malone said after a moment. "We won't get anything out of him till he's sobered up. In the meantime, if both of you are found inexplicably missing from Mona McClane's-" Helene sighed regretfully. "I suppose you're right. I'll go home. But I'll be back here tomorrow. He ought to be sobered up enough to talk by that time." "He will be," Malone said grimly. "Can you get into Mona McClane's without waking up the whole household?" "Easily. Mona gives all her house guests keys to the side door." He nodded approvingly. "Go on home, then, and get some sleep." She paused at the door. "Take good care of him, Malone. He does look so goddamned young." She was gone. Malone looked at the figure on the bed. It was going to be a long and arduous job. He glanced at his watch. Three o'clock. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd missed a night's sleep in a good cause. He phoned a detailed order to the drugstore, called the restaurant to send up pots of coffee at hourly intervals, went into his own room, and collected the remaining quart of rye. That was for himself. For only a moment he wrestled with temptation. Perhaps just an hour's sleep-No, sleep would have to wait. He sighed heavily and regretfully, took off his coat, rolled Up his sleeves, went into the bathroom, and began filling the tub with ice-cold water. Chapter Thirteen IT WAS EIGHT IN THE MORNING when Malone called Maggie and told her he probably wouldn't show up at the office till afternoon, if at all. In the meantime, she could reach him at his hotel. By that time Ross McLaurin was sleeping, but it was the normal, sober sleep of pure exhaustion. Then he phoned Jake, and arranged to meet him at Gordon's for breakfast, at nine. Jake hung up the receiver and sat on the edge of his bed, one sock on, the other dangling from his hand. Malone's telephone call had found him awake. He had, in fact, been awake all night. He put on the other sock slowly and thoughtfully, without noticing that it was inside out. The apartment was a mess. In twenty-four hours he had managed to make it look like the bottom of a squirrel cage. What it needed now was a woman's hand. He had come to this original conclusion at two o'clock that morning. Jake put on one shoe, tied it, and then decided to straighten up the apartment. He picked up a mass of shirts, underwear, and socks, about half of them clean, from the floor and dumped them out of sight in a bureau drawer. He assembled a heap of yesterday's newspapers knee-high around the wastebasket. The living room, with its long windows and deep, cushiony chairs, had been designed for cheerfulness and informal comfort. To Jake it looked about as cheerful as a lonely stretch of swampland in a fog. A thin, gray January rain slid down the windows, curtaining the room to a gloomy half-darkness. Chairs and tables all seemed to be in the wrong places. On every table was a revolting little litter of empty match folders, tiny scraps of wastepaper, crumpled cigarette packages, and overflowing ash trays. Jake's tie hung limply over a bridge lamp, his overcoat was flung over one end of the sofa. There were unread magazines everywhere, a half-empty bottle of Scotch was on the floor beside the biggest chair, and a full bottle of gin stood on the bookcase. Jake stood in the middle of the desolation and remembered. Helene, at the party here in this room, the day of their marriage. It had been at that party Mona McClane had made her damned bet. Helene, in the big blue chair by the window. Helene mixing a drink in the kitchenette. Helene adjusting her hat by the mirror near the door. Helene everywhere. Jake decided not to clean up the apartment. The hell with it. He felt terrible. The two of them could have had a swell time here in this apartment. He poured himself three quarters of an inch of Scotch, went back to the bedroom, and put on the other shoe. Twenty minutes later he faced Malone across a table in Gordon's. "I hope you had a better night's sleep than I did," Jake growled. Malone started to say he hadn't had any kind of night's sleep, good or bad, thought better of it, and said, "Sure, swell." After the waiter had gone, Jake looked at his watch. He said, "When it's nine o'clock here, it's nine o'clock in Havana, too. I suppose Helene is just waking up now." Malone heard the last words, said, "She was-" and caught himself just in time. "More likely she's just getting to bed. What do you care?" "I don't," Jake said grimly. "Funny, though, that you wouldn't hear from her. You'd think she'd send you a postcard." "Nobody ever has time to send postcards from Havana," Malone said, pouring cream lavishly into his coffee. "I don't see why they even bother to sell postcards down there." He stirred vigorously. "Maybe I ought to drop her a note and tell her you're looking well." Jake dropped his spoon with a noisy clatter. "Look here, Malone. If you do write to Helene now, or any other time, I don't want you to mention me at all. Not even mention my name. See?" "Sure, sure, sure," the lawyer said hastily. "Why don't you make up with her?" "You go to hell and mind your own business." "Both, or do I get a choice?" Malone sipped his coffee and pondered the problem of the day. Helene would show up before long to help pry evidence from Ross McLaurin. Somehow Jake had to be kept out of the way for the time being. A vague idea began to form slowly in his mind. Jake stared gloomily at his omelet. "That damned woman!" "Helene?" "No, Mona McClane. Yesterday I checked up on all the homicides between the day she made that bet and the present." He drew a soiled and wrinkled paper from his pocket. "There were eleven. Two of those we know about.* Five can be checked off because the slayers have been picked up-routine stuff like stickups and tavern brawls. Of the remaining four, one is a Negro found up an alley off 4151 Street, with his throat cut, one is a laundry driver named Oscar Zaudtke who was dragged from his truck and slugged, and the other two were your unidentified guy who was stabbed on New Year's Eve and Mr. Tuesday." He put the list back in his pocket. "I doubt if Mona McClane cut the Negro's throat or slugged the laundry driver," Malone said. "Your list isn't very promising." Jake sighed, cut a square inch off his omelet, picked * The Wrong Murder. it up on his fork, and put it down again. "Those two I named last would be very promising, only they don't conform to the terms of the bet." "Shot down in the public streets, with plenty of witnesses," Malone murmured. "Witnesses!" Jake shoved the omelet to one side, once and for all. "Those two guys. The unidentified one and Tuesday. I know now who they were and why they died." Malone strangled on his coffee. "I wish people wouldn't startle me. All right, who were they?" "They-were the witnesses!" Jake said triumphantly. "Maybe I'm just backward, but I don't get it," Malone said. "Mona committed her murder according to specifications. These two guys witnessed it. Then they started blackmailing her, or threatening to expose her, and she had to do them in." "A very pretty notion," Malone said, "but where's the original corpse?" "Damn it, I don't know," Jake said angrily. "Maybe it hasn't been discovered yet." "A murder done right out in public, as the bet specified, and the corpse still lying around undiscovered?" "A corpse can be moved, and witnesses can be bribed." "Suit yourself," the lawyer said wearily. "All you have to do is search the Chicago area for a lost and unknown corpse. Maybe you'd better check up on Milwaukee too, and Gary. There weren't any specifications about locale." Take looked at him gloomily and was silent for a moment. "Malone, do you need any of your two hundred bucks back?" "Not right away," Malone said. "Do you need any dough?" "No. I thought you might. While I was checking up on the local homicides yesterday, I got into a crap game with some Times photographers." "I've had all I can stand this early in the morning," Malone said crossly. "Finish your breakfast and leave me in peace." Jake was silent for two minutes and then said, "Say, there was a funny item in the paper this morning. Some guy had his car stolen last night. A phony call went in to the police reporting it seen way down on the south side." "That's nothing," Malone said. "Whenever a car is reported stolen on the police radio, there's half a dozen calls from cranks who think they saw it." "Yes, but wait a minute. The guy who made the phony call said his name was Gerald Tuesday." "Pure coincidence," Malone assured him. "It was another Gerald Tuesday." Jake said, "I'll believe there was one Gerald Tuesday. I'm damned if I'll believe there were two of them." Malone leaned across the table, looked around as though spotting eavesdroppers, and said in a low voice, "Jake, do you believe in spiritualism?" Jake dropped his spoon again, stared at the lawyer for a moment, then rose, kicking back his chair. "Let me out of here!" The two men paused for a moment just outside the door, standing in the shelter of the entrance. Jake looked at his watch. "Well, it's another day. I might as well go over and call on Mona McClane." "Listen," Malone said quickly, "along the line that Mona McClane's murder may not have been committed in the Chicago area, I picked up a tip for you. Blake County is covering up a homicide." "What's that?" Malone was thinking up details fast. "I don't know the reason it's being covered, but I do know no news is being given out to the public. You know how Blake County is, with all those rich and influential guys living there." Jake nodded and said slowly, "Mona McClane's country place is in Blake County, too. Where did you pick this up?" "From a bookie who lives up there. Ran into him at the city hall." "It might be something," the red-haired man said very thoughtfully. Malone told his conscience that everything would be all right in the end. He said, "Well, you know Andy Ahearn, the sheriff out there. You ought to be able to pry information out of him if anyone could." Take nodded again. "Yes, I could. If I step on it, I can make the next North Shore train." He waved at a passing taxi. "Thanks, Malone." "That's all right. Call me when you get back." He watched until the taxi had vanished down Rush Street. It was a dirty trick, but it would keep Jake out of the way for a few hours, and Malone needed those hours badly right now. After a moment's thought, he hopped in a cab and drove to his hotel. There was no sign of Helene in the lobby. He looked up at the clock. Five minutes to ten. She should have been here by now, to find out what Ross McLaurin remembered, sober. Oh well, she'd be along. The little lawyer went up to his room, shaved and changed his shirt, and went down the hall to the room he had taken for Ross McLaurin. The young man still slept, a faint pink flush on his young cheeks. He might sleep for hours, Malone reflected, and there was no use waking him in the meantime. There was nothing to do but wait. He decided to call Helene. The maid at the McClane house informed him that she had gone out, at least an hour ago. No, she hadn't left any message as to when she would be back. Malone hung up the receiver and yawned deeply. There was no telling when Helene might show up. There was no telling when Ross McLaurin might wake up and remember what he knew about the murders. In the meantime- He slipped off his shoes, loosened his tie, and sank down in the easy chair. After all, it had been a long night. In two minutes he was sound asleep. Chapter Fourteen "I'M SORRY AS HELL, Jake," Andy Ahearn, sheriff of Blake County, was saying. "It'd never have happened if I'd been here myself. I'm sorry you got thrown in the jail. But Joe's impetuous. He's only been a deputy for a coupla months, and he loves his work." Jake said, "Well, maybe I oughtn't to have busted him one in the nose. But he made me sore. He said I was either drunk or bats, and I lost my temper. Disorderly conduct, the dirty bum! I ought to bust him again for throwing me in your damn jail." "Joe's an awful nervous fellow," Andy Ahearn said apologetically. "Besides," Jake Justus added bitterly, "I lost two bucks playing pinochle with the jailer." "He's a good pinochle player," Andy said. He added, as though offering reparations, "Have a drink?" "Sure," Jake said, hoping the quality of Andy Ahearn's gin had improved since his last visit. It hadn't. "I really am sorry about this, Jake," the sheriff said again. "Joe, he's sorry too. If I'd been here myself-" "Sure, we're all sorry," Jake said. "You're sorry, he's sorry, I'm sorry, nobody's happy but the jailer, he won two bucks. Forget it. It's a swell jail. Now come clean about this murder you've had out here and we'll call it square." Andy Ahearn stared at him. "Jeez, Jake, maybe you are nuts." "Come on, Andy, I've done favors for you in the past. Besides, I'm not working for any newspaper now. I got a reliable tip you'd had a homicide out here that wasn't breaking into print." "Where did you get the tip?" "Fellow I know." Jake hesitated, then shook his head. No use dragging Malone into this. "No one important." "All right," Ahearn said, "you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But the only murder we've had out here was three months ago when some goon got his dome split in a tavern brawl." "Is that the honest-to-God?" Jake demanded. "You don't think I'd lie to you?" Andy Ahearn asked in a hurt voice. He added, "Hell, things have been so quiet out here the boys have been arresting each other just to keep in practice." He poured a generous slug of gin into his visitor's glass. "Thanks," Jake said. Andy Ahearn went on, "If you don't believe it, you can look through every record in the place." Jake shook his head. "I'll take your word for it. Somebody gave me a lousy steer, that's all." "Too bad," the sheriff said sympathetically. They spent a few minutes in reminiscent talk, and Jake rose to go. "Say," Andy Ahearn said. "I hear you married that blonde girl from Maple Park-Miss Brand. Congrats." "That's all over now," Jake said. "We split up." He wondered how many years it would be before he'd be able to say it calmly and mean it that way. "So?" Andy Ahearn said. He paused. "You don't tell me." He paused again. "Well, that's what I always say about marriage. Here today and gone tomorrow. Have a drink." Outside the courthouse, Jake paused and looked around. He considered telephoning Malone and calling him a few names, and then decided it would be far more satisfactory to wait and do it more fully in person. Andy Ahearn could have been lying to him. And if he were covering up, the records wouldn't show anything. He'd been suspiciously willing to show those records. Jake decided that since he was already out here, there was no harm in nosing around a little. The McClane estate was only a few miles away, in Maple Park. He didn't know what might be found there, but it couldn't hurt to take a quick look. He hailed one of the local taxis and told the driver to leave him near the McClane place. Then he leaned back and tried to decide what to do when he got there. He not only didn't know what he expected to find, he didn't even know where to look for it. Signs of a struggle, perhaps? With two feet of snow on top! Or a body, just carelessly left around. He reminded himself that such a murder wouldn't conform to the terms of Mona's bet anyway. No sense in tramping all over a square mile or two of snow, looking for the guy Mona McClane had murdered. It might not even be a guy. Might be a gal. Might be the Siamese twins. He wondered what Helene would do if she were here. Helene, he knew, would probably insist on going over every square inch of the place with a magnifying glass. The two sides of the McClane estate that bordered on the street were bounded by a high grillwork fence. Jake walked along it until at last he came to a small service gate that was unlocked, in spite of the fact that the house was closed up for the winter. He went in, closing the gate behind him, and stood wondering where to go first. Ahead of him, a wide, dazzling expanse of unbroken white swept up to a little rise in the ground, where the house stood, a massive, gray-stone affair, pleasantly softened by the drifted snow. The trees around it were bare and leafless; here and there heaps of discolored snow indicated the location of shrubs and bushes. As far as he could tell, no one had been here for weeks. A narrow path, showing faintly through the snow, led along the side of the iron fence, and he followed it, looking for any indication he might find of some recent visitor. There was none. The path finally passed through a little clump of trees, and Jake found himself confronted with a high stone wall that separated the McClane estate from the one immediately south of it. That would be the Venning place, Jake remembered. He followed the path along the wall until he reached a small iron gate set in the stone. It was unlatched. He hesitated a moment, then pushed it open and entered the Venning grounds, on a sudden, unexplainable impulse. He remembered that the Vennings were staying in town with Mona McClane and had been members of the household at the time of the murders-not only the two murders he knew about, but the one he wanted to find out about. In the center of the Venning grounds was an immense, wooden house. Jake looked at it curiously and wondered if it might have been put there to frighten architects. It was almost too ugly to be pleasantly funny; it had a kind of sinister, gloomy horror. Immediately before it was what he guessed might be a patterned garden in summer, now a series of bulges and depressions in the snow. He looked again at the house and reflected that it was no wonder Michael Venning had stayed away for twenty years. He walked across the lawn, swearing impotently at the snow that crept up under his trouser leg, and skirted the house. Behind it, an archway in a yew hedge led into another of the broad lawns that seemed to characterize the Maple Park landscape. He took a few steps across it and stopped suddenly. There was a woman, tall, and dressed in black, standing just before a grove of trees that ran along one edge of the lawn. He stared at her for a moment, wondering if she were real, or something cooked up by Andy Ahearn's gin. The leafless trees behind her were dark and shadowy, before her the snow was an unbroken, dazzling white. Suddenly he became conscious of the murky gloom of the day and the heavy clouds that hung low overhead. The woman took a few steps forward. Even at a little distance he saw that her lined, haggard face had once been beautiful. He remembered Malone's descriptions of Mona McClane's house guests and realized that this might be Editha Venning. "Who are you?" she asked, looking at him with a puzzled frown. "I'm Jake Justus." "Oh. I've heard of you from Mona McClane." "You're Mrs. Venning, aren't you?" She nodded, looking past him at the clouds. "I saw the gate was open," Jake said, "and I thought I'd just take a look at the place here. I hope you don't mind." She shook her head. "I'm very interested in landscape gardening," Jake told her. She didn't seem to care. She didn't seem to object to his presence, indeed, she seemed almost to welcome it. She nodded again, slowly, as though he had explained everything satisfactorily. "I came out here-" She paused, hesitated a moment, and then said, "I'm looking for something." "Perhaps I can help you." Jake said politely. She stared at him with her immense, tragic eyes as though she had already forgotten who he was. Jake waited a minute and then said, "May I help you?" "I'm looking"-again she hesitated-"for my husband's grave." Jake blinked. "I'm afraid I don't know where that is," he said gently. "I've never been out here before. But I'll be glad to help you look." She smiled at him gratefully. "Please do. I'm a little timid about being here alone. And I have heard about you from Mona, so we aren't really strangers." The smile faded. "I think it's down this way, through the trees." They had gone at least twenty steps down the path before Jake suddenly realized what she had said. Her husband's grave. The last he had heard, Michael Venning was alive and apparently in the best of health. He wondered just what to do under the circumstances. The woman seemed to know what she was doing. Or did she? He had an unnerving thought that he might be alone in these gloomy woods with a madwoman, just after two murders had already been committed. She looked good and strong, too. He resisted an impulse to call out and ask, "Pardon me, Mrs. Venning, but are you sure it's your husband's grave that you're looking for?" If she was nuts, best not to argue. He resisted an even stronger impulse to turn around and run like hell for the gate. The woods that bordered the Venning estate grew thicker. Half neglected as they had been for twenty years, they were heavy with underbrush and weeds. Jake discovered that, looking back, he could just barely see the expanse of lawn and only a vague outline of the old wooden mansion. Ahead of him, Mrs. Venning paused suddenly. "Someone has been here ahead of me." Jake looked where she was pointing. There were heavy tracks in the snow, a man's tracks. It looked as though someone had passed through here, not once, but several times. "A gardener?" he suggested hopefully. "Caretaker?" She shook her head. "There's one caretaker in the winter but he only looks after the house. No one would ever come out here unless"-she frowned-"he was looking for the same thing." Jake's uncomfortable suspicion that Editha Venning was mad was followed by an even more uncomfortable one that she was sane. "Perhaps you'd like to go back?" he asked anxiously. "No. I want to see for myself." She went on through the trees, following the tracks already made in the snow. After a moment's hesitation, Jake followed her. He hoped that whoever had made those tracks was gone now. Once or twice she paused for a moment, as though listening. Jake paused, too. These woods were uncomfortably cold. He wished he had a drink, even Andy Ahearn's gin. He wished Helene were there. Or he wished that he were anywhere else in the world, and Helene were there, too. A heavy clump of bushes suddenly appeared to bar their progress. He had a faint hope that his companion would turn back now. Instead, she examined the obstruction for a moment, discovered an opening where the previous visitor had evidently pushed his way through, and went on. Jake groaned and followed. At the other side of the bushes, he stopped dead in his tracks. Editha Venning was standing in a little clearing hedged by the bushes, and she was looking down on a grave. It was an open grave, and an empty one. Chapter Fifteen "I SEE YOU'VE FOUND it," Jake said inadequately. Editha Venning didn't answer. He watched her for a moment as she stood there, her face pale, her immense, deep-set eyes dark and shadowy. It was real. It had to be real. Andy Ahearn's gin wasn't that potent. He said to himself firmly, "I am Jake Justus." It sounded rather convincing, but not entirely. He picked up a pinch of snow in his fingers. It felt cold. And reassuring. He took a closer look at the grave. It must have been a tough job to dig it. Someone had had to use a pickax on that frozen ground. There were piles of rain-spotted snow around it, but only a faint sprinkling of snow in the grave itself. Jake tried to remember when the last snow had fallen. Not since he had been back in Chicago. Ma-lone had mentioned that it had snowed on New Year's Eve. Since then there had been a few rains, but no snow. Then the grave had been dug sometime since New Year's. Who could have dug it? Certainly not Editha Venning herself. She was a tall, muscular woman, but not strong enough for that job. Besides, she hadn't known where the grave was; she'd had to look for it. Or had she put on an act for the unexpected witness? Suddenly she turned and began retracing her steps, without a word. Jake followed, wondering what questions he dared ask. Where the path widened, he stepped up beside her, taking her arm to help her over the rough patches, and stealing occasional glances at her face. She was very pale, and apparently deep in thought, but her expression was not one of sorrow, nor of regret. There was a kind of unhappy resignation and perplexity, nothing more. If the grave had not been there, Jake told himself, he would have gone back to his original theory; that Editha Venning had blown her top. But the grave was there. He'd seen it himself. He was rather sorry that it was. It would have been a lot easier to understand the other way. He walked with her as far as the gate leading to the street. There she paused, with an air of dismissal. "Can I get you a taxi?" Jake asked. She shook her head. "It's only a few steps to the North Shore station. I'd rather walk." He had an idea she didn't want him to accompany her. She stood for a moment, hesitating. "Thank you for coming with me. I didn't like going through those woods alone. But I did want to see it, for myself." "Look here," Jake said. He drew a quick breath. "Wouldn't you like a drink? Maybe a cup of tea? It's beastly cold and raw out here. I'd like a chance to talk-" "No, thank you." She smiled at him, her great dark eyes two blank curtains. "I'd like it very much, but" -she consulted her wrist watch-"it's quarter of three now, and I'm meeting my husband down in the Loop at four." She nodded to him graciously and went down the street. Jake lit a cigarette and stood looking after her. "I'm Jake Justus," he said again, out loud this time. "How do you feel?" He drew a long breath and answered, "I feel fine." It didn't sound convincing. "I'm looking for my husband's grave." "I'm meeting my husband down in the Loop at four." The grave had been there, and Editha Venning appeared sane, certainly more sane than Jake felt at the moment. He wondered if he ought to go back and tell Andy Ahearn about it. This was in his jurisdiction. But that wouldn't do any good. There was no law against digging a hole in the ground, even if that hole was in the shape of a grave. Perhaps the person to tell would be Michael Venning himself. Still, it would be a rather delicate subject to broach. "Look here, old man, did you know your grave had been dug?" Anyway, what good would that do? Unless Venning might want to go out and shovel the dirt back again. True, the man ought to be warned, but of what, and how? For a mad moment Jake considered sending an anonymous note, signed "Your Friend," or "Well-wisher." Something like: "Dear Mr. Venning. Your grave is waiting for you-" Venning would undoubtedly think it was a crank letter. And no wonder, Jake decided. Men as wealthy as Venning were always getting warning notes, signed "Friend," and fraught with nonsense. Jake decided to do nothing until he had talked it over with Malone. Before he left Maple Park, however, there was one thing he wanted to do. He wanted to take one more look at those footprints in the woods. Jake dropped his cigarette in the snow, again walked around the old Venning house, and crossed the lawn leading to the woods. A cold wind had come up from the lake, and a few drops of rain were beginning to fall. For a moment he considered giving it up and turning back. Oh well, it wouldn't take long to find out where those footprints led. He followed the path to the point where the footprints first appeared. From this point on, they led to the open grave that was hidden in the bushes. They had been made since the snowfall, but they had been there several days at least, and through several of the intermittent rains. He bent down and examined them. They were a man's prints, large ones, made by some kind of heavy shoe, probably a sports shoe. A bloodhound could make a lot more out of them than he could, Jake thought, but he looked at them closely. They were deep prints, evidently a heavy man. Tall, too, if the size of his feet were any indication. Now, to find out where they led. He stood up, brushing the snow from his knees, and looked around him. This would be a hell of a time to get lost in the woods. There was the path, leading back toward the lawn, and there were the footprints, plus Editha Venning's and his own, leading toward the open grave. From this point on the mysterious footprints had traveled on another path, leading along the wall that separated this from the McClane estate. Jake asked himself crossly just what the devil he expected to find out from those footprints anyway. Probably they led to the main road, or to a gate, or to some other place that wouldn't tell him a thing. If they did lead to a house, or a garage, or some spot where a car had been parked, he would still be in the dark. Besides, his shoes were uncomfortably full of snow, and he was getting damnably cold. He was sick of playing games by himself. No, he'd come this far, he might as well go on. He hated to quit on such an inconclusive note. This path was narrower than the other had been and not so well cleared. Clumps of weed and bramble, half buried in the snow, caught at his ankles; wet branches brushed against his face. One particularly obnoxious branch, evidently taking a personal dislike to him, snatched the hat from his head, and Jake picked it out of the snow, swearing indignantly. Whoever the guy was who had made those footprints, Jake didn't like him. Perhaps he'd lose sight of the footprints and get lost in the woods. People did, sometimes. The woods on the Venning estate were only about a half-mile square, but that would be enough, neglected and tangled as they were. He might get somewhere in the center of them and begin going around in a circle. It would get dark after a while, and colder. He'd wander around for hours, trying to find his way out, and at last he'd lie down in the snow to go to sleep, and freeze there. He wondered if the robins would come and cover him over with leaves. No, it was the wrong season for robins. They'd find him in the spring, right where he'd gone to sleep. He wondered if Helene would be sorry. She'd make a beautiful widow, though. Ex-widow, he thought sadly. The path followed the wall for a long way. As long as he kept sight of that wall, Jake told himself, he was all right. Then another cluster of bushes barred his way, and when he had pushed it aside he found that the path had led him to a little opening in the wall. He stepped through it and found that he was back on the McClane grounds again. There were more woods on this side of the wall, the opening was right at the edge of them. On one hand, what were probably the kitchen gardens stretched up toward the high iron fence that bordered the McClane estate; beyond them he could see the house itself. On the other side, the woods stretched away in the direction of the lake, better tended than those on the other side of the wall, but still dark and thick and mysterious. The footprints led into them. Jake stood a moment, deciding what to do next. He could see the gate that led to the street up there beyond the kitchen gardens; right now it looked wonderfully inviting. But those footprints might lead to almost anything, even an explanation of the hidden and unoccupied grave. Without warning, while he stood there, the sound of a shot rang out; he heard the soft plop of a bullet in the snow near him. Instinctively he threw himself on his face and looked cautiously around. The bullet had come from the direction of the woods into which those footprints led. Jake lay there in the snow for a minute, thinking it over. Someone shooting at birds, or squirrels, or rabbits, or whatever kind of fauna might inhabit Maple Park. Mona McClane's caretaker, most likely. He began to get up very slowly and cautiously. He was halfway to his feet when he heard another shot. This time the bullet made an unpleasant singing noise as it passed his ear. Jake had a vague notion that he had probably overtaken and passed the bullet as he ran for the opening in the wall. Rabbits, hell! Someone was shooting at him, and someone who was a damned good shot. To scare him away, of course. No, not to scare him away! There was another shot as he dived through the opening in the wall and raced back along the path. Jake had never had any idea a human being could get through a patch of woodland so fast. At the dividing point of the path he caught his breath. He had an uncomfortable premonition that whoever had fired at him had taken up the trail. In that case, that broad expanse of pure white lawn beyond the woods would make him a perfect target for even a poor shot. He continued his flight, following the path in the direction of the open grave. What he would do when he got to the end of it would be decided on later. He was concerned now only with getting far away from the source of those shots as fast as possible. Sooner or later those woods must lead to a point from which he could reach the street again. He raced on through the woods, shoving twigs and branches aside as he passed. As he reached the ring of bushes surrounding the open grave, he dived into the opening, realizing only when he was halfway through that someone was in the clearing. Breathless and panting, he gathered all his strength for a flying tackle at the figure in the clearing, with a blind hope of bringing it to earth before another shot could be fired. In one flash it had occurred to him that his mysterious enemy had reached the clearing by another route. There was a brief, frantic struggle in the snow. Suddenly Jake felt himself falling. Blindly he clutched his assailant as he fell, rolling, tumbling, crashing, down into the depths of the empty grave. For a moment both were still. Then Jake reached to brush the snow from his eyes and said loudly, "If you move, I'll strangle you." "I won't move," said a small voice. Jake sat bolt upright in Michael Venning's grave, forgetting that someone out there in the woods might still be shooting at him, and stared incredulously into the wide blue eyes of Helene Brand Justus. Chapter Sixteen "THANK GOD!" JAKE said soulfully, blowing the snow out of his mouth. "You know the neighborhood," he added unromantically. "Is there any way to get out of this place without going back the way I came?" He began climbing cautiously up to ground level. "Yes. Straight ahead through the woods. Forest Avenue is on the other side of the wall. But why-" "Come on, then. What the hell are you waiting for?" He hauled her out of the excavation, grabbed her arm, and started through the woods. "But Jake-" "This is no time to be Professor Quiz," he told her grimly. The path beyond the empty grave had not been used for a long time. Now, covered with snow, it was little more than a space between the trees. Jake followed it as best he could, helping Helene over roots and branches, swearing at unfriendly stones that tried to trip him. Halfway to the wall he paused, listening. "Jake-why-" "Shut up!" he said in a fierce whisper. "Do you hear anything?" From somewhere in the distance they could hear the faint sounds of someone pushing through bushes. "We're getting out of here!" He half dragged her the remaining distance to the wall. There, with the help of a few rocks and a convenient tree, he scrambled to the top, pulled her up beside him, jumped down on the other side, and helped her to the sidewalk. For a moment he stood leaning against the wall, catching his breath. There was something wonderfully reassuring about the sight of paved streets and lampposts, sidewalks, and distant houses, after those haunted woods. Heavy snow was beginning to fall, in great, soft, feathery flakes. It looked as though it might go on falling for a long time. "Damn it," Jake said bitterly, "that snow is going to cover everything. It's covering up the footprints and it's probably going to fill in the grave. Now we'll never be able to find out where those footprints led or where that guy was." "You're feeling all right, aren't you?" Helene asked, in a soothing voice. "No. I feel terrible. And I wasn't mistaken for a rabbit, either. It was me. He was shooting at me. Because of Michael Venning's grave." "You've been drinking," Helene said. "Not yet," Jake said wildly, "but I'm sure as hell starting in as soon as I can find a bar." He glared at her as though it were all her fault. "It made me sore when that bastard started shooting at me. I don't like it." "Who was shooting at you?" "I don't know," Jake roared, "and now that it's started snowing again, I probably never will know. But whoever the-" He broke off suddenly and stared at her, seeing her for the first time. "And what the hell are you doing here?" "I followed Editha Venning. She-" "That's not what I mean. You're supposed to be in Havana." "You're supposed to be in Bermuda." "Well, I'm not. I came back here to win that bet with Mona McClane." "So did I." Jake stared at her, speechless. She seemed pale and very tired. A small, close-fitting cap of some clipped dark-brown fur that matched her loose, big-pocketed coat, framed her small, delicate face. "Look here," he said suddenly, "this is no time to talk. When does the next North Shore train start back to civilization?" She consulted a schedule taken from her purse. "Three-forty-seven." He looked at his watch. "It's three-forty-three right now. I hope to heaven it isn't far." "A couple of blocks. Right down Forest Avenue and-" He grabbed her hand. "Don't stand there talking about it. Come on." They raced down Forest Avenue through the gently falling snow, wheeled left for the last block to the North Shore station, and covered it in a final sprint. Just as Jake piloted her down the cindered path leading to the track crossing and over to the other side, they could hear bells clanging as the pedestrian gates began to swing shut. In the distance the rattling two-car suburban limited hurled itself at the station, trying to look as much as possible like a crack streamliner. As Jake started for the edge of the platform, Helene caught at his arm and pulled him back behind the shelter of the little group of suburbanites waiting to take the train. "Jake! Look there!" He saw a tallish, heavy-set woman in a navy-blue reefer coat, a small, flowered felt sailor set slightly awry on her head. Her broad face was set in grim, determined lines, her small eyes seemed to be trying to peer everywhere at once. In spite of the hat, there was nothing even remotely comic about her. "I see her, but who is she?" "Editha Venning's companion-Louella White. Don't let her see us." Louella White. He remembered Malone's description of her, and peered over the sealskin shoulder of a Maple Park matron for a second look. It didn't make him like her any better than the first one had. Helene said breathlessly, "This morning at Mona's I was trying to watch everybody at once. I had an idea Editha Venning was trying to get off somewhere on her own, and kept my eye on her, but I had a dirty feeling everybody else was keeping an eye on her too." "What were you doing at Mona McClane's?" "Never mind. Anyway, Editha got away downtown, saying she was going to the oculist. I made some excuse and went after her, and I have a hunch this marble-map companion did, too. But I know she lost the companion before we got down to the Loop. She headed right for the North Shore station at Adams Street, and so did I, but I got snagged up in traffic and when my cab dumped me at the door, she had already bought a ticket and was halfway up the stairs. I got up to the platform just in time to see her grab a train, but not in time to catch the same one. I knew she must be coming out here, so I waited thirty minutes for the next train and came on out myself." "But why did-" Jake began. He was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the Shoreline special, halting abruptly before the platform with all the self-importance of a midget coming onstage in a silk hat. In the ensuing confusion of passengers getting on and off, Jake managed to keep an eye on Louella White, and saw that she got onto the second car. He carefully steered Helene in the direction of the first one and led her up to the smoking compartment in the very front. "I don't think she saw us." The train started with a jerk and began hurtling down the track. The smoking compartment was deserted save for an elderly drunk sleeping in one corner and a uniformed young man from Fort Sheridan deep in a movie magazine. Jake took off his hat, brushed the snow from the brim, mopped his brow, and put it on again. He took out a cigarette, lit it very leisurely and deliberately, and took a long, slow drag on it. Then he settled back in his seat and fixed his eyes on Helene. "Darling," he said, "are you an unidentified corpse?" Helene said sadly, "Do I look that bad?" "You look wonderful. Only Malone sent me out to Blake County hunting a corpse, and look what I found." "I'm sorry to disappoint you." Helene's voice was wistful. "Now what are you going to do?" "Two things," Jake said firmly. "First I'm going to shock the pants off the rest of the passengers here, and don't ask me how. Second, I'm going to find Malone and knock his block off." Helene smiled. "Malone can wait. And it looks to me as though these passengers would love to be shocked." Chapter Seventeen MALONE STIRRED UNCOMFORTABLY, opened one eye in the direction of the window, shut it quickly, muttered something incoherent about someone named Macbeth and the murder of sleep, and dozed off again. A few minutes later he opened both eyes, groaned, saw that the light in his room was a deep, melancholy gray, and reached for the watch on the table beside him. Just a little past four o'clock. A hell of a time to wake up. He buried his face in his arm and pretended that if he kept his eyes closed long enough, he would automatically drop off again, and when he opened them once more it would be hours and hours later. It didn't work. At last he gave it. up, sat up, and scratched his face meditatively. He wondered why he had gone to sleep with all his clothes on. For that matter, he wondered why he had gone to sleep in the chair. Besides, who was sleeping in his bed? Some guy-Ross McLaurin. It wasn't four in the morning, it was four in the afternoon. That light from the window was darkened by falling snow, not by the shadows of dawn. He moved experimentally. One arm and part of one leg were paralyzed, probably for life. Outside of that, he felt fine, except that apparently while he slept some practical joker had come in and glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Maybe with a little patience he could go back to sleep again, or better yet, just die peacefully. Five minutes later he decided to give it up. Where was Helene? Where was Jake? Something should have happened since morning. He reached for the telephone and called the McClane number. The maid told him that Helene had not been heard from since she left the house after breakfast. He called Jake's apartment hotel and was told that Mr. Justus had not come in. There were no messages for him at the desk downstairs. He rose slowly and uncomfortably from his chair and examined Ross McLaurin. The young man still slept, peacefully and contentedly as a child. Malone envied him bitterly. A change of clothes might help. Sleeping in the easy chair hadn't improved these any. He took one last glance at Ross and tiptoed out of the room. Back in his own room, he was just buttoning a clean shirt, when the telephone rang. It was Jake. "Malone, I can't thank you enough for giving me that tip to go out to Blake County." The little lawyer blinked at the telephone. "How's that again?" "Wait till I tell you what I ran into out there. I'm phoning from the drugstore downstairs, and I'll be up to see you inside of five minutes." Before Malone could say a word, he heard the receiver click at the other end of the line. His mind, still dazed from sleep, could only cope with one thing at a time. Jake was coming up here. That wouldn't do. Helene might be along at any minute, to find out if Ross McLaurin was in talking condition. Somehow he must get Jake away from here, and in a hurry. As if to confirm his worst fears, just as he was adjusting his suspenders, the phone rang again. It was Helene. "Malone? I'm down in the lobby. I'll be right up." "Wait a minute-" But she had hung up. When Jake and Helene opened the door to the little lawyer's room, they found him sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes shut tight, and his fingers in his ears. Malone opened one eye timidly, said, "I see you've met before," and closed it again. "We met out in Maple Park, you damned old fraud," Helene said indignantly. "You can't blame me for wanting to give you a bad moment for deceiving us like this." He opened both eyes, glanced at their faces, and was reassured by what he saw there. "What's more," Jake added, "we're still going to win that bet with Mona McClane. We have a side bet, too, on who will win it first, but I'm damned if I'll tell you what it is." Malone decided not to press his luck. He changed the subject. "What did you run into, out in Maple Park?" "Besides Helene," Jake said, "plenty." A bright, glittering light came into his eyes. "That bastard, shooting at me. Bet or no bet, I wouldn't give up now." Malone located a bottle of gin under his bed. He was feeling very guilty over having sent Jake out to Blake County and decided to drown remorse as quickly as possible. "He meant to shoot at me, too," the red-haired man said. Malone sighed. "Maybe you'd better tell me about it from the beginning. First, though, I want to apologize to you." "Why? Were you shooting at me?" "For letting you go out there on a wild-goose chase." Jake stared at him for a minute and then began to laugh. "It was no wild-goose chase. I found everything I needed for a good murder, except for one item that's been consistently missing. The corpse." He began at the beginning and told the lawyer the whole story. When he finished, Malone was silent for a while, half hidden in a cloud of blue cigar smoke, and deep in thought. "You're sure she said-her husband's grave?" "Positive. She spoke of it several times. At first I thought she'd gone off the rails. But the grave really was there." "She's sane all right," Malone said gloomily, "but I'm beginning to wonder if I am." He sighed again. "Let's go talk to Ross McLaurin. He ought to be fit to wake up by now." He led the way down the hall to the other room. "He had a bad night," Malone said, "but I think he ought to be ready for the operating table." He looked at Helene and added bitterly, "The next time you find me a client, I wish you'd find a sober one." He slipped a key into the door of room 1106 and opened it softly. Ross McLaurin still lay in bed, his eyes closed, his young face pale. "Handsome guy," Jake commented. The young man in the bed stirred faintly, moaned a little, and opened his eyes. He opened and closed them several times, at last focusing his gaze on the tall, slender blonde girl beside his bed. "How do you do?" he said pleasantly. His voice had a vaguely foreign sound. "Did you bring me here? Ever so good of you. But where am I, and how did I get here?" Helene sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of his hands in both of hers. "Don't you remember?" she said softly. "We started out to get a drink together. I brought you here because I was afraid the police would pick you up. Mr. Malone here is a lawyer, the best defense lawyer in the city." Ross McLaurin frowned. "Police? Lawyer? What do I need a lawyer for? Have I done anything wrong?" Malone leaned over the bed. "Don't you remember telling this young lady about the two murders you committed?" he asked gently. The young man sat up in bed, his eyes wide. "Murders? What are you talking about?" He stared at them for a moment, and then laughed. "This is some stupid kind of joke. I never murdered anybody in my life." Chapter Eighteen "PLEASE TRY TO remember," Helene begged. "It's to help you, you know." "I am trying," Ross McLaurin said wearily. "But it isn't any use. I simply can't remember anything. Not anything at all." Malone sighed. "Let him rest, Helene." Jake poured another cup of coffee. "Take your time, kid. Maybe it'll come to you." It was nearly five in the afternoon. In the intervening time the pale young man had been acquainted with the events of the night before, with his statements to Helene, and with the circumstances of the murder of Gerald Tuesday and the man who had died in Joe the Angel's bar on New Year's Eve. Ross McLaurin set the empty coffee cup down on the bed table. "It's all news to me," he said at last. Helene sat down beside him. "Listen, Ross. What did you do on New Year's Eve?" He wrinkled his brow. "There was a party of us. I'd just arrived in town the day before. Let me think. There was Mona, and the Vennings, and Lotus, and some movie-actor chap who was very devoted to Mona -he left early though, had to catch a plane at ten." He rubbed his brow. "His name-let's see. I'm not very familiar with American actors, you know." He thought for a minute and then mentioned a name that made them all blink. "And Miss White, and Pendley Tidewell, and a young chap from the East who made me angry hanging around Lotus-I guess that's all." "Where did you go?" Malone asked. "We had dinner at some club, and then stopped at the Casino for a few drinks, and then we went to the Panther Room at the Sherman. I guess that's the name, isn't it?" He wrinkled his brow again. "I was a little dizzy by that time. It's funny, but I can't remember the exact time when I stopped remembering, if you know what I mean. There was dinner, and the Panther Room, and then things get vague. I remember kissing Lotus in a cab, but I guess that was on the way down from the club. Something about being in some strange bar all by myself. That's all." He was silent for a moment. "No, there is something else, but I can't just put my finger on it. I don't know what it was. But it was something horrible, ghastly." "That was the murder," Helene told him. He smiled wanly at her. "But, my dear young lady, I never knew anyone who answered the description Mr. Malone gave me. Never in my life." "All right," Malone said gently, "let it go. What about yesterday?" "I woke up not feeling very well. I was terribly"-he seemed to be looking for a word-" terribly hung over." "How's that again?" Jake asked. "Never mind," Helene said. "It's exactly the right word. Go on." "Very depressed. Damned if I know why, but I was. So I took a few drinks when I got up. Look here, I'm not making excuses for getting drunk, but I was depressed." "That's all right," Jake said. "There's five million reasons, and that's as good a one as any." "But by lunchtime I felt pretty good," the young man went on, "a little buzzy, but pretty good. After lunch I felt depressed again and very solitary. You know. Like the old bird who stayed up on the pillar all that time. Simon Something-or-other." "The original flagpole sitter," Malone said. "What did you do, go climb up a telephone pole?" Ross McLaurin grinned. "I went up to my room and had a few drinks." The grin faded. "I don't- things get vague again. For some reason lately I seem to forget what happened when I was drinking. Yesterday-" He frowned. "I had a word with Lotus. Don't recall what about. There's something else, too. About a man-he was black-haired, I think, curly hair, and he wore eyeglasses." "That was Tuesday," Malone said. The young man made a despairing gesture. "I tell you, I never knew a Tuesday in my life. Do you think I'd forget knowing a man named Gerald Tuesday?" "Don't worry about it," Helene said soothingly. "Go on about yesterday." "That's all," Ross McLaurin said wearily. "There just isn't anything else. It's as though I'd been sleeping all that time. No, wait. There is something. Wait-" They waited, and breathlessly. "I remember," he said triumphantly. "I remember reciting Kipling's Boots." After sixty seconds Helene said, "Wonderful! Now can you tell me how the second verse goes? I've always wanted to know." "I'll be glad to. It's-" The young man lay back on his pillow, muttering to himself. "I'm afraid I've forgotten it." "Maybe if you started with the first verse and led into it," Helene suggested hopefully. Ross McLaurin opened his mouth once or twice, finally said, "I'm sorry, I can't recall any of it. Something about boots, though." Malone swore indignantly and said, "Maybe we ought to adjourn to the Public Library. Can't you remember anything more about yesterday?" Ross McLaurin looked at the ceiling for a long time. "Not a thing," he said at last. Helene turned to the little lawyer. "Maybe if-" Malone gestured her to silence. "Listen, McLaurin," he said very positively. "What does the number one-fourteen mean?" The young man stared at him. "One-fourteen. One-fourteen. I don't know. Is it supposed to mean anything?" "Never mind," Malone said. "What do you think of when you think of a key?" "A keyhole," Ross McLaurin said promptly. Malone sighed. "No, no, no. Some specific key." McLaurin thought for a moment. "Key West?" he suggested helpfully. "Drop it, Malone," Jake said. "He hasn't got your key." Helene lit a cigarette and sat staring through its smoke. "Maybe we're beginning at the wrong end. Maybe we're going backward." "You mean like putting the horse before the barn door after the cart has been stolen?" Jake asked. She frowned at the cigarette. "Perhaps if we reviewed this guy's life, we might hit on some pertinent fact. How about a thumbnail sketch of yourself, Ross?" He smiled at her, wan against the pillows. "My name is Ross McLaurin. My people come from Boston. My great-grandfather was the Ross McLaurin who-" "Never mind all that," Helene said hastily, "start with the present generation." "I was born in Boston. My mother was a Wescott. She had an artistic nature, and studied painting in Paris when she was a girl." Suddenly his young eyes grew dark and glistening. "You know, if she'd had any real encouragement, she'd have been a great artist. I know she would." "I'm sure of it," Helene said gently. "Go on." "My father died when I was just a baby. Then we lived in Paris until I was nearly five, and then we moved to Majorca. I really grew up there. I went to school in England a few years, but most of the time I had a tutor. Francesca wanted me with her." "Francesca is a city," Jake said. "San Francesca." Ross McLaurin shook his head. "That's what I always called my mother. Her name was really Frances, but she called herself Francesca. Her soul was entirely one with the spirit of the old Italy." Malone hastily smothered a whistle, and said, "This is extremely interesting." "Francesca painted a great deal, but she never finished anything. She was like a willful child. She used to say to me, 'Ross, I'm still like a willful child. You seem more to me like a father than a son.' Of course it didn't matter that she never finished anything, because we had a lot of money and she didn't need to sell any pictures anyway. Francesca was a very fascinating woman. I wish you might have known her." "I wish so, too," Jake said warmly. "We never knew very many people, because she was very solitary. But we did know Mona McClane. She visited us a number of times." Helene said, "Did you know any of Mona McClane's present house guests then?" "No, none of them. I'd met Lotus before I came here, but that was after Francesca-" He paused, and said, "She hanged herself. It was the day that war broke out, September third, 1939. In her studio, before the statue of the Venus de' Medici. It was a plaster cast of the statue, of course, but it was a very good one." "Tell me," Malone asked casually, "did you do much drinking when you lived on Majorca?" "No. None at all. Francesca didn't drink, and she was a vegetarian. She lived mostly on nuts. And, of course, I did what she wanted me to do. I was all she had left in the world." He drew a quick breath and said, "I wish she were here now. She'd know what to do." "She might at that," Helene said reverently. "Did you leave Majorca then?" "Yes, I did. But I didn't know where to go. There was plenty of money, of course. Finally I went to Paris, and there was the war, and I met a lot of people. One of them was Lotus. Then Paris was taken, and I left, and there was a lot of trouble getting away. I remember walking for miles and miles carrying some woman's dog that had its leg broken by a machine-gun bullet, and finally I got over here." He paused a moment and then said, "I guess it was somewhere along in there that I started drinking. I don't just remember when." He scowled and said, "Francesca would have remembered all this better. She had a wonderful memory. Anyway I got over to this country on the Clipper, and I remembered Mona McClane, so I wired her from New York, and she invited me to come and visit her and here I am. I guess that's everything." "One question more," Malone said very gently. "How old are you?" "I'm twenty-two. But I'll be twenty-three in a few months. Why?" "I just wanted to know," Malone said, in a curiously soft voice. He crossed the room and stood looking out the window. "That brings us up to the present," Helene said. "You came to Chicago to stay at Mona McClane's. You'd never met nor heard of Gerald Tuesday. You don't know anything about the man who was killed on New Year's Eve. Yet in a cockeyed moment last night you confided to me that you'd slaughtered both of them." "But I couldn't have," Ross McLaurin declared. "Don't you see? People don't go around murdering perfect strangers. Not well-bred people." She lit another cigarette. "There's something in your mind that we can't seem to pry loose. Maybe we're using the wrong approach." She turned to Jake. "How can you expect a man when he's sober to remember what happened when he was drunk?" Jake shook his head. "He couldn't." "Then the only thing to do is to get him just as drunk as he was when these murders happened. Maybe we'll get somewhere that way." Malone wheeled around from the window. "You may be right. There should be a certain stage where he'll remember everything that took place when he was at the same stage before." He bounded from his place by the window, patted McLaurin's shoulder as he passed the bed, shook Jake's hand, kissed Helene noisily on the forehead, and vanished through the door. Ross McLaurin stared after him. "Tell me something. What do they do to murderers in this country?" "Not a damned thing," Helene said soothingly, "when they have Malone for a lawyer." He smiled at her gratefully. "I seem to have so few friends. Except you two, and Malone, and Lotus, and Mona McClane." "That's a hell of a lot of friends for one person," Jake said. Five minutes later Malone returned, a paper-wrapped bottle under each arm. "Now maybe we'll get somewhere," he announced triumphantly, as he set down the packages and began unwrapping one of them. "The trick is to feed him drinks until he hits exactly the stage he was in when the murders took place. Then he'll be able to answer any questions we can think of." "If," Jake said gloomily, "you can think of any questions to ask by that time." He took the unwrapped bottle from Malone, uncapped it, and poured two fingers of rye into a water glass. "Drink this, McLaurin. Then just relax and leave the rest to time." The young man on the bed curled his fingers around the glass. Twice he lifted it to his lips, holding his breath the second time. "Maybe you'd rather have bourbon," Helene said anxiously. She unwrapped the bottle, found another glass, half filled it and handed it over. Ross McLaurin sniffed at it with the expression of a man who has just seen a mouse come out of the wall. Malone muttered something profane about educated tastes, darted out the door and down the hall to his own room, returning with a half bottle of gin and a full bottle of Scotch. The young man tried the Scotch, turned a shade more pale and shoved it aside, took the glass of gin, managed one tentative sip, and set the glass down on the bed table. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I just can't get it down." He looked deeply sorry and apologetic. "I'd be glad to help you, but I just can't do it. I can't drink. I'll never touch the stuff again as long as I live." Chapter Nineteen HELENE POURED A LITTLE GRENADINE into the glass she was holding, giving its warm amber a faintly rosy glow. She stirred the mixture gently and tasted it. "Anybody ought to like this. Try it, Ross." Ross McLaurin took the glass obediently and managed a tiny sip. Then he handed it back. "I'm sorry." "That's all right," Helene said patiently. "I'll try another one." She picked up an empty glass and began measuring liquids into it. "It isn't the flavorings," the young man said unhappily. "It's the alcohol I can't seem to stand." "Never mind," Jake said consolingly. "I've felt the same way a lot of times. You'll get over it." Malone groaned. "We aren't getting anywhere at all. Of all the insane ideas-" "Have you a better one?" Helene asked severely. "No," he admitted. "Then I'll go right on trying." Malone mopped his face. It was now seven o'clock, and Helene had been inventing new cocktails since half-past five. In that time the young man on the bed had managed to down less than an ounce of liquor. The collection of bottles on the bureau would have done credit to a high-class bar. Malone reflected that he'd have them on his hands when this affair was over. He hadn't decided yet whether to drink them himself or just open a saloon. In the midst of his reflections, the telephone rang. It was von Flanagan. "Malone, I'm bringing that whole bunch from Mona McClane's down here," the police officer reported. Malone said, "You're doing what?" "I want all those people to take a gander at the guy who was killed New Year's Eve. Maybe one of them will recognize him." "Good idea," Malone said noncommittally. "When are you doing this?" "They're on the way right now. I want you to come along. And do you know where the hell that blonde dame might be?" Malone said, "Huh? Who? Oh yeah. Sure. Yeah, I know." "Stop stuttering," von Flanagan growled, "can you bring her down here with you?" "Easiest thing in the world." "Then do it, and make it snappy." Malone put down the telephone. Helene was just taking a tallish glass, containing some poisonous-looking green mixture, away from the young man. "This was a very special one, too. Shame to waste it. Well, if you don't want it, I do-" "Put that glass down," Malone said sharply. "You've got a date with von Flanagan, right now." "Why, what have I done?" "I'll tell you on the way. Put on your hat and coat." "I'm going anywhere Helene goes," Jake said firmly. "All right, you can come, too." "If I'm going to have a session with von Flanagan," she said thoughtfully, "I'm going to need that drink." She emptied the glass quickly, put on her coat, and adjusted the pert little brown fur hat. "Will you promise to stay right here until we get back?" Ross McLaurin nodded. "I promise. I know you're trying to help me. I'll do anything you say." Malone said, "We won't be long. If you want anything, pick up the phone and ask for it." On the way to von Flanagan's office he explained the reason for the visit. "I wondered how long it would take von Flanagan to tumble to that," she commented. "Those two killings are cut out of the same paper, and with the same pair of scissors. Malone, where the devil do you suppose that key went to?" "The murderer has it. He trailed me the night of the first murder and picked my pocket." "It's possible," Jake said. "Or this Tuesday trailed me and picked my pocket, and then the man who murdered him took it from him." "I like the first one better," Helene said. "Or it fell out of my pocket somewhere and was lost down a grating." "That's dull and probably what happened," she said. "I imagine it unlocked something damned important, too. Oh well, no use crying over spilled keys." She reached for Jake's hand and held it tight. They were the last to arrive at von Flanagan's office. Mona McClane was there, looking very impressive and very small and very chic, in something black, tailored, and expensive. Lotus Allen was sitting in a straight chair, smoking a cigarette in a brown amber holder, seeming very cool and self-possessed. Jake noted and approved her camel's hair coat, her small brown hat and trim little oxfords. The Vennings sat side by side on the worn leather couch. Michael Venning's face was pink and a shade indignant. Editha Venning seemed more pale and haggard than before. Gray squirrel and blue felt were certainly not becoming to her, Jake decided. Still, she must have been a howling beauty once. She met his gaze across the room with just the faintest smile of friendly recognition. Louella White sat beside her in a big leather chair, her broad face impassive, but her small eyes watching everything that went on in the room. Jake wondered if she had been shooting at him there in the woods. She looked to him as though she would shoot at almost anybody, on very little provocation. He recognized Pendley Tidewell from Malone's description. The tall, pale young man was leaning against the wall, one hand deep in his overcoat pocket. Take suspected it was resting on his camera. Von Flanagan was just awed enough by the assemblage to be angry. "Where in the hell is that young man, McLaurin?" Everyone looked vague. "He's probably out on a drunk," Lotus Allen said at last, speaking delicately. Von Flanagan grunted. "I'll have him picked up. When I want someone here, I want him." He looked crossly around the room. "All right, we'll all go have a look at this guy. No funny business, now. All I want is to know who he is." At the morgue the members of the party went in one by one, accompanied by von Flanagan, while Ma-lone sat on one of the battered wooden desks, smoking a cigar. Mona McClane went first, was gone several minutes, and returned without a trace of expression on her face. "No, I didn't know him," she said, answering Malone's look. She pulled her coat close around her shoulders. "I'd expected this to be a far more gloomy place. It really isn't half bad." Lotus Allen went next, her face very white, her chin high. She came back, shaking her head. Helene followed, and then Editha Venning, who returned sniffing a small bottle of ammonia the attendant had given her. She was followed by Michael Venning, then the hard-faced Louella White, and finally young Pendley Tidewell. It was while the latter was viewing the unidentified body that a terrific commotion broke loose in the inner room. Von Flanagan's angry roar seemed to shake the building to its foundations. Pendley Tide-well had attempted to take a few candid-camera shots. Somehow Malone managed to calm things down. "I'm sorry," Pendley Tidewell said apologetically. "I never had a chance to-" He looked at von Flanagan's face and shut up fast. Of all the party, no one reported knowing the man who had been murdered on New Year's Eve. Von Flanagan thrust his hands in his pockets and scowled. "Someone in this crowd is a liar. Because the same person who murdered the man in Mrs. McClane's house murdered this guy." Malone knocked the ashes from his cigar. "You're making a wild guess," he said scornfully. "Just because the two men both happened to have had their shoes made by the same London shoemaker." "So you noticed that, too," von Flanagan growled. "It doesn't mean a thing," Malone began blandly. "It ain't just the shoes," von Flanagan roared. "It ain't just the shoes, or the suits or the shirts. It's the names." "The names?" Malone repeated. He wondered if he looked as blank as everyone else in the room. "I didn't bring this mob down here because this guy hadn't been identified," von Flanagan said, "but because he had been. Because I found out there's more connection between these two than having the same shoemaker. Because they're the same guy." He paused. His face was slowly turning a rich magenta. Suddenly he turned, walked across the room, and opened a door at the far end. "Mr. Dickett, you come in here now." Chapter Twenty MR. DICKETT CAME IN, A THIN, anemic, frightened young man with mouse-colored hair. He stood helplessly just inside the door, his pale eyes moving from one to another of the group. Von Flanagan's voice and coloring had returned to almost normal. He assumed a stance copied from a representative collection of prosecuting attorneys. "Mr. Dickett, what do you do?" The unhappy young man gulped. He mumbled something that sounded like "hotel clerk." "Where?" "The LeGrand Hotel." "That's a small hotel," von Flanagan explained, "outside the Loop." Again he fixed his eye on Mr. Dickett. "Did you view the unidentified body of the man who was stabbed on New Year's Eve?" Mr. Dickett nodded. "It's the same one." Jake couldn't stand it any longer. "The same as what?" "As the man at the hotel." Mr. Dickett drew a long breath. "He registered there the last day of December and took a room. Then he went out and never came back. He's the one in-in there. When I saw the name in the paper I went to the police." "When you saw what name?" Malone demanded irritably. "Gerald Tuesday." Everyone stared at the young man. A look of grim satisfaction began to creep over von Flanagan's broad face. "Let's get this straight," Malone said. "This man -who was murdered on New Year's Eve-was the one who registered at your hotel?" When Mr. Dickett nodded, he went on, "Under what name?" "Gerald Tuesday." "You see?" von Flanagan said. "This guy was named Gerald Tuesday, and the guy who was murdered up at Mrs. McClane's place was named Gerald Tuesday." "It's a mistake of some sort," Malone managed feebly. "You're damned right it's a mistake. It's a mistake for anyone to think he can put over a thing like this on me." The police officer scratched his nose vigorously and went on, "That murder in Mrs. McClane's house was done by somebody who belonged there. Nobody broke in from outside. Mrs. McClane was downstairs when the murder was done, Malone was with her. Mr. and Mrs. Venning were out for a walk, out of the house." He paused and looked angrily around the group. "There were five people upstairs in that house when that murder was committed. Miss Brand-I mean Mrs. Justus-didn't have nothing to do with this guy. I know all about her." "We must compare notes some time," Jake muttered. Von Flanagan glared at him. "This McLaurin guy was passed out cold, and you"-he looked indignantly at Pendley Tidewell-"were shut up in a darkroom. I got a nephew who's one of these damn camera nuts. So I don't think you'd come out of a darkroom even to murder some guy." He focused his baleful eye on Louella White. "Where were you?" "Upstairs." She looked at him coldly. "Did you go in this guy's room?" "No." "Did you go out in the hall between four and four-thirty?" "No." "Then you were in your room all that time?" "No." Von Flanagan's face was beginning to turn a deep crimson. Malone felt a little happier. "You were upstairs?" "Yes." "And you didn't go out in the hall?" "No." "But you weren't in your room?" "No." "Then," von Flanagan roared, "where in the hell were you?" She looked at him indignantly for a full thirty seconds before answering. "In the toilet." Well, Malone reflected, von Flanagan had broken the record. He'd got Louella White to speak three consecutive words. The police officer managed to swallow his rage. "You'll talk all right on the witness stand." He drew a long breath. "There is just one person who could have murdered this guy and she did. She's here under a phony name, not the same one that's on her passport. I guess this guy was going to give her away." He turned to Lotus Allen, who had turned very white. "You're under arrest, Miss, for the murder of Gerald Tuesday." Now it was Mona McClane who turned white. She jumped to her feet. "You can't arrest her!" "What the hell do you mean, I can't arrest her," von Flanagan roared. "I'm an officer of the law!" Mona McClane made a weary little gesture. "She didn't even know him. She'd never seen nor spoken to him in her life. She couldn't possibly have murdered Gerald Tuesday, or anyone else." "That ain't for you to say, lady," von Flanagan said in a milder tone. "That's what they have juries for." "You can't take a child like that off to jail," Editha Venning said. She was weeping unbecomingly into a borrowed handkerchief. The mascara around her big, tragic eyes was beginning to run. Jake wondered why her paid companion, Louella White, was making no attempt to console her. Michael Venning cleared his throat. "Really, officer, you can't do this sort of thing," he said in a patronizing, clipped voice. "You're overlooking the fact that Miss Allen is hardly the type of person who would commit a murder." Von Flanagan appeared to be subduing an impulse to commit a murder of his own. "If you're referring to the fact that she's a lady," he said in a voice that was restrained almost to the exploding point, "I just want to say that the last real refined lady I met had murdered three people with an ax." Editha Venning gave a little scream and shuddered. Through it all, the center of discussion, Lotus herself, had said nothing. She stood stock-still in the middle of the room, her face dead white and expressionless, her back as straight and stiff as a board. There was not a trace of fear or horror or sorrow or any other feeling in her well-shaped brown eyes. Mona McClane brushed absent-mindedly with her slender fingers at the black bang that covered her forehead. "This is all a stupid mistake, Lotus my dear, but it will be straightened out very quickly. In the meantime, you'll have the best of legal counsel available." She looked appealingly at Malone. "You will take the case, won't you?" "Take it," Malone said, "I'm already working on it." He turned to von Flanagan. "Miss Allen is my client. She isn't to say one word until I've had a chance to talk with her in private, and I want that chance right now." "Hell, I don't care," von Flanagan said. "After I arrest 'em, I'm through. I hope you get her off, she's a nice girl. You can take her in the next room and talk to her till you bust, if you want to." "Thanks," Malone said, shifting the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. "Maybe the rest of you will be good enough to wait for me. Come, my dear." He reached for her arm. Lotus Allen seemed to come to life suddenly. "No. It's very good of you, but no." "Don't argue with your lawyer," Malone said pleasantly. "But that's it. You aren't my lawyer. I-can't have a lawyer. You see-" Her face turned, if anything, a shade whiter. "I haven't any money to pay for a lawyer. Not any money at all. Not any. Do you understand?" "Who the hell said anything about money?" Malone said crossly. He took her arm firmly. "This door, von Flanagan? Thanks." He led the girl out of the room, conscious that every pair of eyes was following them, and closed the door. It was a small, dingy room, with two battered chairs and a table. Malone shoved the girl into one of the chairs, threw his cigar butt into the cuspidor, sat down on the table, and began to unwrap a fresh cigar. "Tell me, kid. Did you murder this bird?" She shook her head, her teeth clenched. "I didn't think you did. Not that it makes any difference." He lit the cigar, watching her from the corner of his eye. In about sixty seconds that beautiful self-possession would crack. Suddenly he remembered the half-pint of gin in his pocket, carried for emergencies. He whipped it out, unscrewed the cap quickly, and shoved it into her hand. "Take a couple of good big swallows. It'll bring the color back into your face. Your type always looks like the devil when you're pale." He lighted a cigarette for her while she obeyed, and slipped it between her unresisting fingers. "That's better. Maybe I ought to apologize for it's being cheap gin. You're probably not accustomed to it." She laughed unexpectedly, a strange, hoarse laugh. "Not used to it? I was raised on cheap gin." She took a long, deep drag on her cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it out under the heel of her trim little oxford. "The whole truth is bound to come out, no matter what happens. So it doesn't make much difference whether I murdered anybody or not. I haven't committed any crimes, but I might as well go to jail. I won't have anywhere else to go." Malone was silent, waiting. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her coat, stuck her feet out in front of her, and looked up at him. "My name was originally Lotus Angelo. I was born in a Boston slum. My father was a Portugee. There are brown-haired, light-skinned Portugees, you know. By the time I was ten I'd decided I was going to do things, be somebody. Even then I was reading magazines at the library, learning how to dress and how to talk and act. I was bound I was going to make a lady out of myself." "You did a swell job," Malone said quietly. "Thanks. Underneath, though, I'm still Lotus Angelo from a Boston slum." Her pleasantly well-bred voice suddenly seemed oddly incongruous. "I took a business course in high school and a lot of other things besides. I got a job right after I got out of school, and in a year I was secretary to a grand old man named Newton Abbot, one of the old Boston families, and stinking rich. He was swell to me, and so was his wife. After he died, she took me on as a companion-secretary." She paused, again her teeth were set hard. "May I have another cigarette please?" Malone lit one and handed it to her without a word. "Thanks. Well, we went to Paris. That was three years ago. She treated me like a daughter. Everywhere she went, I went with her. All of a sudden, I was in. See?" A curious, grim note came into her voice. "Don't get this wrong, Mr. Malone. I wasn't good to her and didn't take good care of her just for what I could get out of her. I'd have taken care of her as though she was my own mother, if she hadn't had a dime. I'd have gone out and worked to support her. She was the only person who'd ever been good to me, she and her husband. Just before he died he told me to stay with her and take care of her, and I did. I would have anyway. She was the only person I ever cared anything about." "I understand," Malone said quickly. "Of course I do." He looked at her closely and handed her the gin again. "Thanks. Then after about a year and a half, she died. I found she'd left me ten thousand dollars, with a little bit of advice to invest it for my future. Well, I invested it all right. I stayed on in Paris, not living high, but correctly, if you know what I mean. Keeping in touch with the people I'd met through her. Like Mona McClane." "That's how you met Mona McClane," Malone commented. She nodded. "She visited us. She was a friend of Mrs. Abbot. She invited me to come and visit her if I ever got to Chicago. I met Ross McLaurin there, too." "Now," Malone said, drawing a long breath, "we're getting somewhere." "You see, I'd figured on making that ten thousand last until I married somebody and made myself solid in the place I wanted to be. He looked like a wonderful opportunity, a kid right out of the bushes and still crying over his mother. I'd never paid much attention to men before, but I paid plenty to him, and it took. When he beat it back to this country, I followed as soon as I could. I'd hitched up with an ambulance unit at the outbreak of the war, but in the fall I was at loose ends again. I got over to this side and found he was staying with Mona McClane. So I remembered her invitation." She smiled, a wan, bitter smile. "I blew the last of the bankroll on clothes, dropped Mrs. McClane a little note, was invited to come right along, and here I am. I've got exactly twenty-four dollars left in the world. That didn't worry me when I arrived, because I figured Ross and I would tell it to a justice of the peace before long. It would have happened, too, except for these murders." Suddenly she leaned forward, her face half hidden in one hand. "I'm not as bad as I sound. I'm in love with him." Malone waited nearly five minutes before he said, "I see," in the gentlest of tones. She sat upright again, her chin high. "Well this seems to have done it up. I haven't murdered anybody, but I might as well have." "Somehow," Malone said, "I have a feeling that if Ross McLaurin ever does hear that story, it isn't going to make any difference." Lotus Allen smiled with just one side of her face. "Suppose it doesn't. I'm still under arrest for murder." "Leave that to me," he told her. "That's what lawyers are for." He slid off the table and began pacing the floor, his hands in his pockets. "You never met this man Tuesday?" "Never in my life. And I never met that man-in there." "Ever meet the Vennings?" She shook her head. "Not until I came here." He paused and leaned against the table. "Listen, my dear. I want you to tell me exactly what happened on New Year's Eve. Everything. If it sounds incriminating to young McLaurin, tell it anyway. Half my job right now is keeping him out of the hands of the police." She drew a long breath. "We all went to dinner at Mona's club and ended up at the Panther Room. Ross had been drinking. There was some young friend of Mona's-I can't even remember his name- who was along, and he paid a lot of attention to me. Ross didn't like it, and did some more drinking. All of a sudden I came off the dance floor-I'd been dancing with this other man-and Ross was gone. We hunted around for him after he'd been missing nearly a half-hour, and finally someone told us he'd been seen in the bar. But when we looked there, he'd disappeared. Finally Mona said not to worry because nothing could happen to him, and that he'd turn up. He did. I don't know just when, but he was at Mona's the next morning." Malone scowled at his cigar. "That isn't much help, but it'll have to do. Now about yesterday. The afternoon, I mean." "There isn't anything I can add to what I told you then. Ross had been drinking again. I'd been in my room all afternoon, when I heard Helene come in. I went to see if Ross was in any condition to come downstairs and found him passed out cold. I met Helene in the hall and went down with her. That's all." "Did you notice Tuesday's door being open or closed?" "No." "Did you see him any time after his arrival?" "No. The first time I saw him was when we went up-and found him dead." Malone was silent for a while. "How long has he been drinking like this?" he asked at last. She knew that he meant Ross McLaurin. "Not long. He used to drink a little now and then, but not much. Once in a long time he'd get to thinking about what a poor willful child Francesca was"-she managed not to make it sound catty-"and went on a bender. That didn't happen often, though. It's really just since New Year's Eve." "I wish it hadn't been just since New Year's Eve," Malone said gravely. She stared at him. "It had been, though. And when he drank, he seemed almost dazed. As though something had happened that night that-" she stopped suddenly, her eyes wide and dark. "Could it be that? The something that happened-" "It could," Malone said. "But don't worry about it. No jury in the world-" He paused, frowned, and repeated, "It could, very easily. But I'm damned and double damned if I think it is." The relief in her eyes was pitiful. "You're pretty well alibied for New Year's Eve," he began slowly. She started to nod, stopped suddenly, and turned pale. "No, not entirely. I went off looking for Ross and spent nearly a half-hour at it." "What time was that?" "I don't know exactly what time I left. It was just before twelve when I got back to the Panther Room." The little lawyer groaned. "You might have made it harder for yourself, but I can't imagine how. Don't worry, though. I'll get you out of this." She smiled at him, with lips and eyes both. "I don't know how you'll do it, but I believe you." "Thanks. Now get this. No matter who asks you what, stick to your story about New Year's Eve and yesterday afternoon, exactly as you've told it to me. Don't get rattled and don't get scared." He eyed her speculatively. "I don't think you will. Be good to die newspaper guys, especially the photographers. When they take pictures let them pose you, they know how. Look brave and sad, and use a shade more lipstick than you usually do. A little leg in the picture won't hurt, either. I hope none of this is necessary, but everything helps in case this ever does come before a jury." He patted her shoulder. "Don't worry about Ross. I'll take care of him." He took her arm gently and led her back to the other room. "She's yours, von Flanagan. But not for long." He stood buttoning his overcoat and looked around the room. A sudden thought made him wince. Of all the possible suspects who had been in the house at the time of Gerald Tuesday's murder, he would have to get, for a client, the only one who didn't have any money! Chapter Twenty-One HELENE AGREED THAT A QUICK COCKTAIL or two at Mona McClane's would be a good idea, though she added that she, Jake, and Malone would have to rush away before long. They had important business to attend to. No one spoke on the way. As Mona McClane's big black town car drew up before the house, Mona leaned over toward the lawyer and said softly, "You're sure she'll be all right?" "Not a thing to worry about," Malone assured her. "I've never lost a client." She smiled faintly. Standing outside the car she turned to him again and said, "Another thing-as far as your fee is concerned-" "Forget it," Malone said quickly and gruffly, and immediately kicked himself on the ankle. A fire was roaring cheerfully in the black marble fireplace in the immense McClane living room. Everyone gathered around it, gazing into the brilliant blaze as though for comfort. A maid appeared with a tray, with big glasses of some scalding-hot and pungent drink. Mona McClane had on a dress of vivid violet beneath her black coat. She ran her fingers through her short black hair, smoothed out the heavy black bang over her forehead. For an instant as she sat in her high-backed brocade chair, she looked to Malone like some exquisite Japanese doll. "I don't see-" Helene began and stopped suddenly. It seemed to Jake as though the silence could be cut up into pieces. Everyone was waiting for someone else to speak first. What seemed like hours later Mona McClane said, "The curious thing about it is that the man in the morgue actually looked a little like Gerald Tuesday." Pendley Tidewell blinked and goggled. "He was Gerald Tuesday." She made an impatient gesture. "They couldn't both be Gerald Tuesday." "Why not?" Malone asked, reaching for one of the glasses. "Look at the number of people named Henry Olsen. Why couldn't there be two Tuesdays?" "It's like having a month of Sundays," Pendley Tidewell said. He laughed, noisily, and completely alone. There was another uncomfortable silence. Michael Venning rose, walked to the fireplace, and leaned one elbow gracefully on the mantel. "This ghastly rain," he said, filling his pipe. "I don't see how people stand it." Mona McClane smiled at him gratefully. "The weather has been frightful, hasn't it?" In another minute, Malone thought, someone would start discussing the Cubs' chances in the next season's play. Venning looked at the windows streaked with gray and then at Malone. "I suppose we'll be forced to stay here until this business is over. Witnesses and all that sort of thing." "I'm afraid you will," Malone told him, "and it may take months, the way things are dragged out in Chicago." He hoped heaven would forgive him for being malicious. The tall man frowned at the fireplace. "The day it's over, we go to Florida. Mona, your hospitality is matchless, but I can't endure this infernal weather." "It has been beastly for January," Mona said, managing to sound politely apologetic without taking the blame. "That reminds me, Editha. I have bad news for you. The cleaner reports your coat was ruined." "My coat?" The pale, haggard woman's face was faintly puzzled. "The one you had on yesterday when you got caught in the rain." "Oh, that. It doesn't matter, I never liked it." She smiled weakly. "I was simply drenched. It came down like a burst faucet for a few minutes. Mona, that drink was delightful, but may I have a Scotch?" "Help yourself," Mona McClane said. Malone noticed that she poured out a good three fingers. She looked like a very well-preserved but artistic ruin, he decided. That single white plume in her dark hair undeniably gave her a certain distinction. He observed that Louella White's watchful eyes measured the Scotch in the glass down to the last drop, but she made no move to interfere. Then evidently a mild touch of dipsomania wasn't the trouble. "We had all kinds of rain in the Orient, of course," Michael Venning was saying reminiscently. "But it was different. That had a kind of melodramatic quality to it. This is simply dreary. Everything was different there. Really, you know, when one has such a short life to live, why shouldn't one live it in the colorful and dramatic places of the world?" There seemed to be a faintly defensive note in his voice. "It's a good thing everyone doesn't feel the same way," Helene said, "or the Orient would be even more overcrowded." "I was terribly homesick there," Editha Venning said unexpectedly, downing the Scotch. Without any warning tears began to stream down her face, leaving great streaks in her pale powder. Everyone tried to look as if nothing unusual were going on, and in a moment she dried her face on a huge handkerchief handed to her by Louella White. "How about you, Louella?" Venning said, with an attempt at lightness. "How do you like the Chicago climate?" "I don't mind it," the large woman said. Malone stared at her. She was becoming downright talkative. He noticed that she had taken out her knitting again, methodically and rhythmically working on the ugly gray garment. For some reason it gave him a slight touch of the horrors. Mona decided it was time to get the conversation off the weather. "I'm so glad to see you and Jake together again," she said to Helene. "Oh, but we aren't," Helene said brightly. "Just because we can be in the same room without tearing at each other's throats doesn't mean a thing, you know." "But Helene-" Jake began. He felt Helene's heel on his instep and was silent. "We never meet unless our lawyer's present," Helene added. Jake felt someone crawling around back of his chair. It turned out to be Pendley Tidewell. "Would you mind if I took a picture of you sitting beside your ex-wife?" he asked hopefully. "I never got a picture before of-" He paused, and blushed. "Go right ahead," Jake said amiably. "When Helene and I finally get into court, you can probably sell it to the newspapers for a lot of money." Mona McClane managed to keep everyone talking about the floor show at the Chez Paree for five more minutes. Then Jake, Helene, and Malone said good-bys all around and left. "Another five minutes and my hair wouldn't have just turned white, it would have fallen out," Helene said, leaning back against the cushions in the taxi. "You can't blame well-bred, sheltered people for feeling edgy when hell breaks loose in their midst," Malone told her, lighting a cigar. "And another thing," Jake said indignantly. "What was the idea of telling Mona McClane-" "Use your head. I'm staying at Mona McClane's because I've left my husband. It's the only inside wire we have to what goes on in the McClane household. I've got to stay there." "You mean you're not coming home with me?" "Not until we win that bet," she said firmly. "I've got to have some excuse for staying on as Mona's guest, and this is the only one I have." "But damn it, Helene," Jake complained. "You can't-" "After the bet is settled," she said. "For two cents," Jake growled, "I'd punch you in the nose." "Bargain day," Helene said. "Or the second episode in the family life of the Justuses." Malone decided it was a good time to tell the story of Lotus Allen, nee Angelo. When he had finished it, Helene's deep blue eyes were wide and almost misty. "Malone, you've got to get her out of this. The poor kid-she can't be more than twenty-one or twenty-two. And he's just twenty-two. A couple of babies." "Lost babies in the woodsies," Jake said gravely. "Malone, are you going to get her out of jail?" "She's my client, isn't she?" the little lawyer demanded indignantly. Helene said, "Now that we're alone, what about this business of the two Gerald Tuesdays?" "Yes," Jake said. "What do you think about these two guys?" "I think they're dead," Malone said sourly. "Leave me alone." "Both of them died the same way," Helene said thoughtfully. "Both of them tried to get a message to you before they died. Some message concerned with a key, and the number 114." "If we only knew what had happened to that key," Jake said. "Even if we did," Malone said, "there must be a hundred thousand doors in the city numbered 114." Helene sighed. "None of it seems to fit together, but it must. There must be some link, but we don't know what it is." Suddenly her eyes flickered. "There is one link that we do know. Every person concerned in this business came here from somewhere else." "Louder please," Malone said. "Lotus Allen and Ross McLaurin came from Europe. The Vennings came from the Orient. They were driven back here by the war. The two Tuesdays had come here from somewhere else. They had shoes bought from a London bootmaker. Clothes made by a London tailor. But maybe they didn't come here from London. They might have come here from anywhere." Malone tossed his cigar butt out the window. "It's true. While the people involved in this all seem to have come from very different parts of the world, the fact remains that they all came here from some other country. The link may be there, though we can't see it. All but Mona McClane, and she doesn't come from places, she goes to places." He paused, reached for another cigar. "The first man called himself Gerald Tuesday when he registered at the LeGrand Hotel-" He broke off suddenly, dropped the cigar, and called to the driver. "Stop at the corner. I've got to make a phone call!" "Malone-" Jake began. The lawyer didn't hear him. "Wait for me in the cab. I'll be right back." He grabbed the cigar off the floor as he got out, darted across the sidewalk, and disappeared. Jake shook his head. "I don't want even to guess." Three minutes later the little lawyer returned. He was scowling heavily. "It wasn't it. It was 726." "What was?" "The number of the room the first Gerald Tuesday got at the LeGrand Hotel. It wasn't 114." "Oh," Helene said. "Just plain oh." It was the last anybody said until the taxi pulled up before Malone's hotel. "If we can only get this boy to talk," Helene murmured. "If we could only get him plastered again, he would," Malone grunted. He paused at the desk, learned there were no messages, and ushered them into the elevator. "I bet it's tough being married to Michael Venning," Helene observed on the way up. "I bet it's tougher being married to his wife," Jake said. "She looks like a combination of Willie the Weeper and the last act of East Lynne, to me." Malone said, "I don't know. I suspect she has more stamina than shows on the surface. These tall, horsy-looking women are always tougher than you think they're going to be. I know." At the door of the room he had taken for Ross McLaurin, he started to reach for the key. Helene clutched at his arm. "Malone! How are you going to tell him about- Lotus?" "With my vocal cords, tongue, lips, and teeth," he said crossly. "What's the matter? Are you afraid he'll scream and faint?" "No, but-" She frowned. "It's going to be awful, Malone. He's so helpless. She's arrested for murder and in jail, and there won't be anything he can do about it." "Maybe the shock will jolt his memory back to work," Malone said grimly. "God knows, something has got to." Jake sighed. "If it doesn't, maybe we can coax him to take a drink by this time." Malone grunted, and opened the door. Halfway through it he stopped dead. Jake grabbed Helene's arm, pulled her into the room, and shut and locked the door. Ross McLaurin was sitting up in bed. His boyish face was pinkish, and there was a cheerful, carefree light in his eyes. A collection of empty glasses was strewn on the bedcover, and he was holding a partly empty bottle of Old Crow in his hand. "C'mon in and have a drink," he invited them happily. "You're m'friends. You're m'only friends. Coin' help me clear fine ol' name of McLaurin of murder charge." He shook his head. "Don" know why I murdered those men, but mus' have had good reason. Com'n n' have drink." He waved the bottle of Old Crow at them. "Holy Jumping Judas!" Malone said in an awestruck voice. "He's gone and done it all by himself!" Chapter Twenty-Two "I DON'T KNOW HOW I could've done it," Ross McLaurin assured Helene gravely. "Never wanted murder anyone in m'whole life. Can't understan' why I murdered man I didn' even know." He had discarded the use of glasses now, and was punctuating his remarks with sips from the bottle. "Never even heard of man named Gerald Tuesday. Couldn' forget man name like that. Could anybody forget man name Gerald Tuesday?" "Never," Helene said solemnly. She was sitting on the foot of the bed, a glass of rye in one hand, and a chicken leg in the other. "But maybe he wasn't really named Tuesday." Ross McLaurin gestured with the bottle. "Whatever's name was. Never knew the man in whole life." Malone picked up his bottle of gin. He too had given up glasses half an hour ago. "Nuts. You never murdered anybody in your life, either." The young man stared at him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I never did." For a moment he seemed sober, completely, painfully sober. "Oh God, if I only could remember." Jake said, "Take it easy, kid." "You can remember," Helene said convincingly. "You were just about to tell me what happened on New Year's Eve." "I met this man in a bar. I was so damned mad, this man hanging around Lotus. Not the man we're talking about, another man. Gosh, you know what I mean."

"Sure," Jake said, "I know exactly what you mean." "I got so mad I walked out 'onna party. I must've been drunk to do thing like that. Wandered around and got into a bar. There was a man came in, good-looking young man. Dead now, poor devil. He called the bartender and said he was looking for man named Malone." "That's me," the lawyer said. Ross McLaurin stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Your name Malone? Imagine that. It's a small world, isn't it?" "Getting smaller every minute," Malone assured him. "Go on," Jake said patiently. "This man came into the bar asking for Malone-" "Name sounded familiar. Remembered Mona had talked about a Malone. Told me about him. So I went up to this chap. I went right up to him and I said, 'I know of a Malone. Heard all about him. John Joseph Malone. Irresistible to women. Wonnerful lawyer." "That's still me," Malone said, reaching for the gin. "Shut up," Helene said. "Go on, Ross. What did he say?" "He says that was the man he was looking for." "See," Malone said triumphantly. "I told you so." This time Helene ignored him. So did Ross McLaurin, now absorbed in the telling of his story. "I said, 'I'll help you look for him.' He said, Tine,' so I had a drink and out we went. Together. There's a very good song with that for a title." He decided to sing it. "We'll stroll along-together-" Jake said, "Listen, Ross. Skip that. Do you remember what happened to you on New Year's Eve?" "New Year's Eve? I'll never forget it. I was at the Panther Room with-" "Not now you aren't," Helene said. "You're out with a man who was killed later that night, looking for a lawyer named Malone." "So I was," Ross McLaurin said. "We went to some bar. Had a couple of drinks there while he asked the bartender for some man. Malone, I think his name was." "That's me," Malone said. No one heard him. "I stopped for one more drink and this chap-don't know who he was-went on without me. That made me mad. Here he'd gone off and left me, and I was only trying to help him find some chap-can't think what his name was-" "Malone," the lawyer said. "That's it, Malone. Unusual name. Anyway, I was mad. So I went out after him. Saw him going in barroom up the street. Caught up with him there and I said to him, 'Look here, I know a lawyer named Malone. Be glad to help you find him.' He didn't pay any attention to me. Acted as though he thought I'd been drinking and didn't know what I was doing. Just walked off and left me there. I was mad. So I finished my drink and went after him. Only wanted to help, and chap wasn't even civil to me." "Imagine that," Helene said sympathetically. She threw the chicken bone at the wastebasket. "So what did you do?" "I kept after him. Went different places. Still looking for this Malone. Think he'd have been tired of it by that time. Can't remember what places he went. Can't remember how long it took." Suddenly he paused, breath half indrawn. "There's something else, too." For another brief moment, he seemed entirely sober. "But I can't think what it was. Something ghastly. I can't remember it. Everything gets mixed up. I remember following some man to a lot of different places because he was looking for someone named Malone, and I'd heard of someone named Malone, and going in and out of places and the snow out on the street and something that was terrible but I can't think what it was, and that's all. And it's all mixed up and I can't remember what happened when." He drew a long, shuddering breath, buried his face in his hands, and said something that sounded like "Mamma!" After a while he looked up again. "I can't remember." "Don't try," Jake said quietly. After a very long silence, Helene said gently, "What you need, Ross, is a drink." He looked at her gratefully. "That's right. Maybe we'd better go out and get one." Helene glanced at the array of bottles on the bureau and said, "Maybe we'd better stay right here." She picked up the bottle of Old Crow and handed it to him. "Ross, what happened the day Gerald Tuesday was murdered?" A light came into his eyes. "I remember. That wasn't very long ago. There was this man Tuesday. And something about some man named Malone." "That's me," the little lawyer said feebly. The young man turned to Helene. "Funny how many men there are named Malone." "Funny is no word for it," Helene said grimly. "Was Mr. Tuesday looking for a Malone?" "That's it. I was all alone in my room. Been drinking a little. All alone, nobody even cared where I was. Somebody knocked on my door. Man came in. Said his name was Gerald Tuesday. Looking for telephone book. He said, 'I'm sorry to trouble you, old man, but I'm looking for a telephone book.' " Ross McLaurin paused and said wistfully, "Where's the best place to get a drink?" "Right here," Jake said hastily, handing him the bottle again. "Did you have a telephone book?" He nodded. "Sure I had a telephone book. Why, you want one? No? Well, this man did. I picked it up and said, 'What name d'ya want? Be glad to look it up for you.' He acted as though he thought I was drunk. That made me mad. I said, 'Don't you think I can find a name in the telephone book?' He said he was looking for a man named Malone. I said, 'That's funny, I know of a man named Malone-'" Helene put a hand firmly over Malone's mouth and said, "Did you find the name for him?" Ross McLaurin shook his head vigorously. "He looked it up himself. Said thanks and went away. Then I sat down and had a drink and I got to thinking. Here this man was looking for a Malone. Now by a funny kind of coincidence on New Year's Eve I'd met another man looking for some Malone. Did I tell you about that?" Jake and Helene nodded in unison. "You did," Helene said grimly. "Tha's right, guess I did. Well, anyway, I got to thinking about it, and I came to the conclusion I'd better tell this Gerald Tuesday about the whole thing. Didn't like him, but thought I'd better tell him. So I took a drink to steady my nerves and went down to his room." There was an anxious silence. "Well?" Jake said at last. "I didn't stop to knock. Just opened the door and went in." There was another pause, agonizingly long. "You opened the door and went in," Helene said, when she couldn't stand it any more, "and then what?" "I-" the young man sat straight up in bed, staring at her. The color began to recede from his cheeks. "I haven't forgotten. I do remember. I remember everything, exactly as it was." Suddenly he lay back on the pillow, his eyes closed. "Yes, I do remember. I went in there-" His voice trailed off into silence. "Ross," Jake said sharply, and then louder, "Ross!" There was no answer. "Oh Lord!" Helene wailed, "he's died on our hands!" Malone rose laboriously from the floor, bent over the bed, and carefully examined the motionless figure. "No," he said wearily, "he's not dead. But he's dead to the world. He probably will be, for hours to come. And we still don't know what the hell he remembers." Chapter Twenty-Three "SURE I COULD SOBER HIM UP enough to talk," Malone said wearily. "But what good would it do?" "It wouldn't do any good," Jake said. "The trick is to start with him completely sober and bring him back to just a certain stage." "The hell with it," the lawyer said. "Considering the many and varied collection of things he probably drank while we were out, it would take two days to unscramble him enough to get him sober." "Wait a minute!" Helene said. "Let me think." She was silent for a moment or two. "Malone, fill up the bathtub again and go to work on him. I have telephoning to do." "Helene, what horrible thing is forming in your mind?" "Don't ask questions. I know what I'm doing. Just get him moving and talking again." The lawyer groaned. "I wish I was asleep." "Do you want me to phone von Flanagan and tell him you've been keeping Ross McLaurin hidden out here since yesterday evening?" "All right," Malone said wearily, "I know when I'm licked." He went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water. "I don't know what you're going 'to do, but whatever it is, I won't like it. Lend me a hand, Jake." Between them they hauled the unresisting young man into the bathroom and closed the door. When they returned, Helene was just setting down the telephone. "Is our young friend restored to life?" "He walks and talks, if that's what you want to know. But you can't get any information out of him." "We can't," Helene said, "but Dr. Leonardo T. Hennessey can." Jake's eyes widened. "Not really!" "Doctor which?" Malone asked suspiciously. "The lie-detector man," Helene said. "You've read about him in the papers. He's going to give Ross a lie-detector test." "When?" Malone asked, hoping it was sometime next week. "Right now," Helene said. "As soon as we can get him over to the office. Dr. Hennessey didn't like the idea of coming downtown at ten o'clock at night, but I told him it was an emergency case. He'll be there by the time we arrive. Help me get this guy's shoes on." "Put on m'own shoes," said Ross McLaurin in a hurt voice. "See," Helene said, "he's practically sober." Jake snorted. "You're thinking of 'That guy ain't drunk, I just saw his eyelids flicker.' What do you expect to learn from this lie-detector test, anyway?" "Who murdered Gerald Tuesday." "Much more of this," the lawyer growled, "and I'll, confess to it myself." Twenty minutes later, Ross McLaurin walking stiffly between Jake and Malone, they faced a ground-glass door on which appeared: -202- DR. LEONARDO T. HENNESSEY PSYCHO-PSYCHOLOGIST Below it was the picture of a wide, blue, and uncomfortably realistic-looking eye, with rays streaming out from it. "What the hell is a psycho-psychologist?" Jake demanded. "It looks like double trouble to me," Malone growled. "Or maybe it's the hair of the dog that bit you." He opened the door. The anteroom of Dr. Hennessey was spacious and subdued. A dove-gray carpet covered the floor, the walls were alternating panels of pale-blue brocade and plate-glass mirrors, all with cabalistic signs engraved in the corners. The furnishings were restrained and expensive, copies of Esquire, Harper's Bazaar, and The New Yorker were on the table. It looked like the waiting room of a fashionable specialist, with just a slight touch of overdressing. On the wall, in lieu of pictures, were charts with zigzag lines, like cardiograms. One door bore the legend private, another laboratory and the word caution, flanked by two lightning bolts. Malone looked around instinctively and uncomfortably for hidden dictaphones and high-voltage wires. "We go in here," Helene said, moving toward the door marked private. "Just a minute," Jake said. "Does Dr. Hennessey know what he's testing this guy for?" She shook her head. "He doesn't know he isn't perfectly sober, either." She opened the door. The inner room was likewise spacious, but far from subdued. The walls were hung with heavy black cloth, but interior decoration had stopped there. Electrical gadgets of all kinds were piled pell-mell on top of each other, like a combination of a Rube Goldberg cartoon and a Hollywood horror picture. Malone definitely expected Boris Karloff to appear through the black curtains. Instead, it was Dr. Hennessey. He was a gray-haired, gray-suited gentleman, looking not unlike the portraits in the science sector of Time magazine, with a reassuringly medical manner, and nothing to suggest his strange profession save a searching gleam in his eye. It was a little like the eye painted on the door. "How nice to see you again, Miss Brand," the doctor said cheerfully. "Did your father ever get his watch back from that young woman?" Helene said, "No," and blushed faintly. "Doctor, this is Mr. Justus, my-" "Jake Justus, as I live and breathe!" exclaimed Dr. Hennessey happily. "Still with the Examiner, I presume. Will there be a photographer coming?" Jake started to explain he was no longer a reporter, decided it would be more tactful not to mention it, and just said, "No, no photographer this time." "Too bad," said Dr. Hennessey. "This is Ross McLaurin," Helene went on. The young man said, "How do you do, doctor," in an automatic and polite voice. "And this is Mr. Malone," she added. "Ah yes," the doctor said pleasantly. He cleared his throat. "I usually don't come down to my laboratory in the evening, but I gathered from your conversation on the phone that this was definitely urgent. Some of these loss-of-memory cases are very sad." He smiled sympathetically and laid a hand on Malone's shoulder. "This would be our patient, I presume." "No, no, no," Helene said. "Over there." She indicated Ross McLaurin. "Ah yes," Dr. Hennessey said, with magnificent aplomb. "Mr. McLaurin. Yes indeed. Now if you'll just come right over here-" The chair in which the patient was to sit seemed to be the focal point of all the electrical gadgets in the room. Ross McLaurin sat down in it obediently, though a bit hesitantly, and rested his hands, as directed, on the rubber pads at the end of each arm. It was when the doctor was strapping an electrode on the upper part of his arm that he looked up protestingly at Helene. "You promised me if I'd talk to Mr. Malone, they wouldn't do this to me." "It's not the electric chair," Helene said. "It only looks like one." "Ha, ha, ha," the doctor said humorlessly. "All my patients comment on that similarity. Now there's nothing to hurt you, young man. Nothing at all. Just sit back, quite comfortably. That's right." Over the chair, placed where the patient couldn't see it, was a red and blue dial, marked "True" on the blue side and "False" on the red. "First I balance the patient," explained Dr. Hennessey. "Quiet. Quiet, now. That's fine." He added, pointing to the dial, "See how that needle is balanced, right in the center? The patient is at ease." "At ease," Jake muttered under his breath. "He's probably petrified." The doctor didn't hear him. "Now I begin with simple questions." He addressed the young man, who was beginning to droop a little. "Where are you?" There was a long silence. "Where are you?" the doctor demanded, a shade louder. Ross McLaurin looked at him and threw everything into confusion by answering, "Here I am. Where are you?" Dr. Hennessey decided to try another simple question. "What day of the week is it?" The young man was very thoughtful for a minute. "Sunday?" he suggested. Helene looked up at the dial. It registered "True." "Well, damn it," she said, "he thinks it's Sunday. What day is it anyway, Friday?" "Monday," Malone said. The doctor shook his head. "It's Saturday." He looked searchingly at Malone and then at the young man in the chair. "Are you in a doctor's office?" he asked, eagle-eyed. Ross McLaurin mumbled something unintelligible. "I didn't hear you," the doctor said sternly. He repeated the question. The young man mumbled again. This time the words "home on the range" were faintly distinguishable. The doctor turned to Helene. "It's difficult to get much out of him." Helene nodded vigorously. "He's not a very talkative person." "I'm going to try a few trick psychological questions." He fixed an eagle eye on his patient. "Tell me. How far can a dog run into the woods?" This time there was no response at all. "How far can a dog run into the woods?" the doctor demanded in a louder tone. Still no response. "Woods," the doctor shouted desperately. "Dog!" Ross McLaurin looked up obediently and helpfully and barked. The doctor turned to Helene a little dubiously. "I'm afraid the patient is inebriated. We can't go on with this." "Oh yes we can," Helene said firmly. "It isn't scientific," Dr. Hennessey objected. "No," Jake murmured, "but it's lots of fun." So far the needle on the red and blue dial had only performed a faint tremolo. "Just ask him-just say one word," Helene implored. "Tuesday." The psycho-psychologist frowned. "I've already asked him that. He thinks it's Sunday." "No, no, no," Jake put in. "Tuesday. It's a name." "Two Tuesdays in every week," Helene added. In his corner Malone began singing, "Every day'll be Tuesday by and-by." This time the look Dr. Leonardo Hennessey gave Malone was definitely fearful. Finally he drew a long breath and shouted, Tuesday!" as though he were crying "Boo!" Nothing happened. "You see-" the doctor began, turning to Helene. "Try another name," she suggested. "Try 'Malone.' " Dr. Hennessey's face was beginning to turn a deep cerise. He focused a hypnotic eye on his patient and yelped, "Malone!" Suddenly Ross McLaurin seemed like a man recalled to life. He lifted his head and looked up, his eyes bright. "That's me!" he exclaimed triumphantly. Dr. Hennessey mopped his brow. He turned to the lawyer. "I don't seem to be getting very far. Perhaps if you would ask him a few questions yourself-" His voice was a little hoarse. Malone said, "I'll try," very skeptically. He walked over to the young man and looked at him fixedly. "Tell me, Ross. Did you murder Gerald Tuesday?" For a moment there was silence. Everyone watched the patient, with varying degrees of anxiety. At last his lips began to move, slowly and rhythmically, and a faint sound came from them. "Count-the bullets-" the rest was indistinguishable. "But this was a stabbing," Malone began. Helene hushed him. "Louder, Ross," she said. The mumble grew louder, though not clearer. The listeners caught the words "Forty thousand million." "There's not that much money in the world," Jake said disgustedly. "It's a motive, anyway," Helene murmured. Even Dr. Leonardo Hennessey began to look excited. He leaned over the patient, his eyes blazing. "Six weeks-in hell-" Ross McLaurin went on in a faint whisper. There were a few words lost, and then, "Five-devils-dark-" "Good God!" Helene said. Her face was very pale. They all leaned forward breathlessly to catch the patient's next words. In a triumphant outburst the young man finished, "Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again! There's no discharge in the war!" The needle on the dial swung far over to the side marked "True." Ross McLaurin had remembered all of Kipling's Boots. A few minutes later, in the taxicab, Jake turned to Helene. "Well," he said solemnly, "I've heard of the patient making the doctor sick. But this is the first time I ever saw anyone drive a psycho-psychologist double nuts!" Chapter Twenty-Four "I AM IN A DOCTOR'S OFFICE," Jake said. "I am not in a doctor's office." The sound of his own voice wakened him. He was pleasantly reassured to find that he was in his own room and his own bed. It had been a very bad dream. He looked around the room, just to make sure. After the visit to Dr. Leonardo Hennessey, Helene and Ross McLaurin had been delivered back to Mona McClane's. The task of digging out what the young man continued to forget to remember seemed hopeless. In addition, his prolonged disappearance was likely to cause embarrassing questions. Helene had still insisted on remaining at Mona McClane's. On a little reflection Jake could see the wisdom of it, but he still didn't like it. Here all the differences between them were made up, and so far he hadn't managed anything more than a kiss in a taxicab, and a crowded taxicab at that. He was brooding over this when the telephone rang. It was Helene. "You ought to be asleep in bed," he growled into the phone. "I'm awake and down in the lobby. It's ten o'clock in the morning." "Come on up." "I don't want to compromise you. Remember, we're separated. Besides, there isn't time. Mona-" "Mona won't do. I like blondes." "Jake, have you lost your mind?" "If I have, I left it at Dr. Hennessey's. Are you coming up here?" "No." He sighed into the telephone. "Then wait for me in the coffee shop. I'll be right down." He had one sock on by the time the receiver had settled on the hook. Helene was staring moodily into a cup of coffee. "I've seen people take longer dressing to leave a burning building." "You sounded as if it was an emergency. Besides, I was in a hurry to see you again." He waved to the waitress to bring more coffee. "I'm in a hurry to win that bet, so we won't have to keep up this separation stuff. Helene. wouldn't you like to drop up and just take a look at the apartment, to see if you still like it?" "I remember how it looks," she said firmly, "and there isn't time to get my hair combed again. Things are happening. Mona McClane and von Flanagan." "An interesting combination. Have they eloped, shot each other, or what?" "He's putting her on the pan. Malone phoned me. He's meeting her there, and he suggested we come along." "Cordial of him, but why?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Ask Malone. He said there was something he wanted to show us, afterward. I don't know why von Flanagan's picking on Mona, unless he found out the Tuesdays were people Mona knew and she'd been holding out on him." "That might be it," Jake said. "Let's go over and find out." They found von Flanagan in very bad humor. He had been glaring at a collection of papers on his desk when they arrived. Now he glared at them instead. There was no sign of Mona McClane. "It's bad enough when people commit murders and cause me a lot of trouble," he said gloomily. "But then when they lie to me about it, I get sore." "I don't blame you;" Helene said amiably. "Who's been lying to you now?" "I'm not sure, but I think everybody has." He scowled heavily. "A nice, clean, straightforward shooting or knifing, I can understand. People are impetuous. Those things are bound to happen. But this sort of thing makes me mad." "What sort of thing?" Jake asked. "This sort of thing," the police officer repeated, pounding on his desk. "Like none of those people saying they knew that guy yesterday over in the morgue, when Mrs. McClane at least must have known him. It's bad enough to have to be a cop. But when people go and do these things just to make it tough for me-" He paused and looked at Helene. "Now do you see why I want to quit this job and buy a little country newspaper some place and settle down?" "I've always understood," she said sympathetically. "Have you picked out a paper yet?" He smiled at her gratefully. "I've got my eye on a couple. One's in a little town in Iowa, population twelve hundred. Name of the paper's The Enterprise. Something about that name that appeals to me." He drew a long breath and quoted a glowing description of the newspaper's standing in the community and its potential profits. Jake grunted. "If it's such a swell newspaper, why does the owner want to sell it?" "He's retiring from business to become chief of police," von Flanagan told him. "Well," Helene said, when she'd caught her breath, "poetic justice." "Anyone who wants to be a policeman," von Flanagan said, "is nuts, so probably this guy is poetic at that." Malone arrived, his eyes pink and swollen from lack of sleep. "Mrs. McClane will be here in a minute. Who were you just saying was nuts?" He began shedding his overcoat. "Anyone who wants to be a policeman," von Flanagan repeated. He looked complainingly at Malone. "Now you take this guy who was killed New Year's Eve. If he was gonna be killed, why couldn't he have had his passport on him, or a driver's license, or even a calling card? No. Not a damn thing. So I have to go to all the trouble of finding out who he was. When I do find out, then what? More trouble." Malone observed platitudinously, "Man is born to be the spark that flies upward to meet trouble halfway." Before he could add any more details, Mona McClane arrived. She stood for just a moment framed in the doorway, looking around the room. Even Daniel von Flanagan seemed to feel that she didn't belong there, as he sat looking at her admiringly. He was reflecting that if Mrs. von Flanagan ever got a look at that coat, she was going to become violently dissatisfied with last year's mink. He had been saving up a furious, indignant, and possibly profane tirade on the subject of people who withheld important information from the police. Now he rose, looked polite and embarrassed, and said, "It's very good of you to come here, Mrs. McClane," in a tone he usually reserved for visitors from the mayor's office. She smiled at him. "I was delighted to come." She sounded as though she really meant it. Von Flanagan sat down at his desk and began to return to normal. "Mrs. McClane, who was that young man I took you to see over in the morgue yesterday?" Her odd-shaped, greenish eyes widened. "I haven't the faintest idea. I told you, I never saw him before in my life." Von Flanagan shook his head reprovingly. "Now, ma'am, you aren't helping yourself or anybody else by sticking to that. I'm not insinuating I don't believe you, y'understand, but this time I want you to tell me the truth." "But it is the truth. I never did see him." He sighed heavily. "All right, maybe you can do better with this one. How well did you know that guy who was murdered up at your house?" She looked faintly troubled. "I told you-not well. We had mutual friends-and I'd met him a few times. That's all." Von Flanagan scowled and said, "There couldn't have been two guys named Gerald Tuesday." Mona McClane said nothing. He tried something else. "How well do you know the rest of the mob staying up at your place?" "The Vennings-I knew when I was a little girl. But I hadn't seen either of them for years until-oh, about a year ago, in India. Neither of them have been in this country for-ages and ages. Michael made a flying trip here in 1921, and that was the last." "I know all that," von Flanagan said wearily. "What I want to find out is-could either of the Vennings have known these two Tuesday guys?" She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I don't think so. Of course, I can't be sure." "How well did you know Ross McLaurin?" "I've known him all his life. I was a close friend of his mother. But I don't think he'd ever heard of Gerald Tuesday-of either Gerald Tuesday." "This young camera nut?" "Pendley? He's a nice young man, just out of college, and no job yet." She smiled faintly. "Though he stands a fair chance to inherit all the Venning money some day-if Michael lives to be fifty. And he'll be fifty tomorrow, so-" "What's all this?" Malone asked. "The Venning will," Mona said, as though everyone knew all about it. Von Flanagan ignored that. "Now this Allen girl. Did you know she was a phony?" "Look here," Malone said suddenly. "What's all this about? You've got a case, you've made an arrest. Aren't you satisfied?" "Sure I'm satisfied. But I'm sore. I'm sore as hell. Pardon me, Mrs. McClane. But it's bad enough to hold this job, without everybody making it tough for me by holding out information." He was launched into his lecture. By the time he had finished, he evidently decided that nothing further would be learned from Mona McClane. Three minutes later Malone was ushering Jake and Helene into a taxicab. "Rosedale cemetery," he told the driver. "Listen," Jake said, "I've had enough of cemeteries, private or otherwise, to last me till I need one." "And why-" Helene began. "I want to see it with my own eyes," Malone said cryptically. "What's more, I want witnesses along when I do." "See what?" she demanded. "You'll find out when you get there." He stared moodily out the window and refused to say another word. Jake sighed. The day was dreary, muddied snow was packed down on the streets, and a gloomy mist had produced a semidarkness that made forlorn rows of houses seem even dingier than they actually were. The way to Rosedale cemetery led through a monotonously depressing part of town. Jake wished he were anywhere else in the world. Rosedale cemetery stretched over a square mile or so, one side of it backed up against the elevated. The taxi stopped at a gate where Malone poked his head into the small attendant's booth and bawled loudly for "Henry." Henry proved to be a gnomelike little man, cheerfully garrulous, who greeted Malone like an old friend. Malone had, it appeared, managed the release of one of Henry's kinfolk from jail at some time in the past. That was why, Henry explained, when he'd read in the papers that Malone was concerned in these Tuesday murders, he'd called up the latter immediately to tell him about the tombstone. "What tombstone?" Jake asked crossly. Henry grinned, "You'll see." He hobbled off down one of the winding lanes. They followed him for a long way, between drifts of soot-encrusted snow, picking the way carefully between pools of slush. In a far corner of the cemetery Henry paused beside a gray stone that stood somewhat apart from the rest, looking as proud as though he were showing off a personal achievement. Malone brushed the snow away from the stone, read it, and pointed to it silently: GERALD TUESDAY b. Oct. 12, 1892 d. July 2, 1921 "I 'membered it was there," the old man cackled. "Know every stone in the place, like it was one of my own kin. Didn't tell the p'lice though. Just Mr. Malone, because he's my friend." Malone hadn't seemed to hear him. Suddenly he knelt down and began pawing at the snow that had drifted over the grave. Jake noticed then that the snow had an oddly rough, almost bumpy appearance. He watched Malone with growing excitement. Helene's hand clutched his arm and held it tight. At last the little lawyer rose to his feet. "Somebody has been digging." He turned to Henry. "I suppose it would be possible for someone to have come in here and dug around without being discovered." Henry nodded. "There's just one watchman here besides me at night, and most of the time he's asleep, down at the other gate. This ain't a place that would need much watching, ordinarily." Malone stared silently at the snow-covered mound for a moment. Suddenly he reached for his wallet and took out a ten-dollar bill. "In that case, I suppose it might be possible for someone else to come in here-say, tonight-and do a little more digging-just to find out what happened here." The gnomelike man's eyes glittered. "If they was friends of yours, Mr. Malone, and if they came in at the east gate, I'm sure nobody'd see a thing." His withered old fingers closed over the bill, "I don't suppose I should tell anybody else about this." "Not a soul," Malone told him. Not until they had reached the street again did the lawyer offer any comment. When he did speak, there was a kind of awe in his voice. "If that isn't an achievement, then I don't know one when I see it. To murder a man who's been dead for more than twenty years." He paused and added, "And what's more-to do it twice!" Chapter Twenty-Five "THERE COULD HAVE BEEN three men named Gerald Tuesday, you know," Helene said. Malone nodded. "There could," he said gloomily, "but I don't believe in Santa Claus, either." They were sitting in a small north-side bar, drinking beer and worrying about their discovery. After half an hour and three beers, they hadn't come to any conclusion. "Maybe we'll know more," the lawyer said, "after I have a couple of boys I can trust break into that grave and find out what's there. It'll probably turn out to be empty." "If it is," Jake pointed out, "what was the idea of someone else digging it up-and incidentally, who did the first digging?" "I just ask the questions," Malone said. "I don't answer them." He scowled. "Still, there must have been a burial permit and a death certificate, when that stone was set up. A little research in the city records may tell something about Gerald Tuesday." "I'd feel better about the whole thing if I thought Mona McClane was lying," Jake said thoughtfully. "But I have an uncomfortable suspicion that she's telling the truth." Malone said, "Don't forget that these Tuesday murders-and only God knows which one was Gerald Tuesday-may have nothing to do with Mona McClane and her bet." "You depress me," Helene said, "but you don't discourage me." She lit a cigarette. "Maybe Gerald Tuesday was an assumed name." Jake shook his head. "No one would ever deliberately assume the name of Gerald." She sighed heavily. "Malone, you suggest something." "I suggest another beer," the lawyer said. He signaled to the bartender. "No," he said as the latter approached. "I'm bored with beer. Bring three gins." "Three for each of us," Helene said. "Malone, remember the note you found?" "I've already remembered it," he said grimly. He produced it. "'You can't pin a crime on a man who's been dead for twenty years.' " "But," Jake demanded, "who has been dead for twenty years?" Malone stared at him. "I forgot you couldn't read. The name on that tombstone was Gerald Tuesday." Helene gazed at Malone through the smoke of her cigarette. "What are you going to do with Lotus? Leave her in the calaboose?" "There's worse places," Malone said noncommittally- "Von Flanagan just has her held for questioning. No formal charges against her yet. When he cools off a little, I can get her out without any trouble. He doesn't really think she murdered Gerald Tuesday, but he just got mad and had to arrest somebody." "I hope you're right," Helene said. "She's a nice girl." Malone said, "He hasn't enough evidence to hold her for the grand jury and he knows it. He doesn't know any more about who murdered those two guys than we do. Trouble is," he added gloomily, "he knows about as much." "Malone, could anybody have slipped into the house and murdered him and gone away again?" "Not unless he went down the chimney," the lawyer said. "And Christmas was over ten days ago." "Then either Lotus or Louella White or Ross McLaurin or Pendley Tidewell or I murdered him. Take your pick." Jake scowled at his gin. "Are you sure he was alive when you passed his door?" "Positive. Besides, Malone knows he was alive when he telephoned his office." "That's right," Malone said. "That fixes the time of his death to the minute. Maggie always makes a note of the exact time when calls come in; we've found it damned useful sometimes in faking alibis. It was nineteen minutes after four." "At nineteen minutes after four," Helene said, "I was in my room changing my dress. Ross was in his room, cold as a fish. Lotus-tell me Malone, what if she did murder him?" "Temporary insanity," Malone said, waving to the bartender as though he were the jury, "or self-defense. Don't worry, I'll fix it up." "She might have known him before he came to Chicago. After all, we only have people's word for it that he was a perfect stranger to everyone except Mona McClane. Lotus might have been trying to keep her origin from Ross McLaurin so she could bring about wedding bells, and this guy knew all about her and threatened to spill the soup. So she stabbed him." "She did a nice neat job of it," Malone said. He called, "Three small beers for chasers." Helene sighed. "Malone, what are you going to do about her?" "Spring her from the can tomorrow, if nothing happens meanwhile." "And then?" "Then I suppose I'll have to find out who really did the stabbing before von Flanagan gets sore at something and arrests her again." He looked alternately at the gin and the beer, deciding which to use as a chaser. "I'll spring her first. Then I'll just spit on my sleeves and roll up my hands and go to work." He paused. "Roll on my hands and spit up my sleeves." "Never mind," Helene said, "I liked it better the first time. Then you don't think she did do it?" "Hell no," Malone said, "I've never thought so." He downed the gin and ignored the beer. "You keep overlooking Louella White," Jake complained. "I bet she'd murdered half a dozen people before she was ten years old. She isn't getting half enough attention. She could have slipped into that guy's room, stabbed him, and slipped out again without anyone noticing her." "Besides," Helene said, "I'm very doubtful about her. She claims to have been Editha Venning's companion for a number of years. But I'd be willing to place a small bet she's never been in the Orient." "Why?" Jake demanded. "I'll tell you why," Helene said. "I had a chance to snoop around her room this morning before breakfast, and I took it. There isn't one single imitation jade Buddha or fancy-carved ash tray. Not even a hand-embroidered kimono in five natural colors. You can't tell me that woman would spend even a week in the Orient without bringing home mementoes." She lit a cigarette. "I'm even willing to bet there is no such person as Louella White." "I saw her myself," Jake objected. "I have occasional nightmares, but I don't have delusions." "I mean her name may not be Louella White. It may be something else." "Probably Geraldine Tuesday," Jake muttered. She ignored him. "Another thing, she's about as companionable to Editha Venning as a Frigidaire. All she does is watch her all the time. But why? Editha Venning seems of sound mind. She drinks, but she's not a dipso." "Maybe she's a dopey," Jake said. "I don't think so," Malone said, "she hasn't any of the behavior. No, Helene's right. This companion business is some kind of gag, but I'm damned if I know what kind." Helene frowned. "In the rush back to this country during the war, a lot of identities may have gotten scrambled. Lotus Angelo turns up as Lotus Allen. Louella White might be anybody. These two guys turn up as Gerald Tuesday, and now this grave-" "It might even be coincidence," Jake said. "One of them is Oscar Q. McOscarvitz from Australia, and the other one is Richard Roe from Sturgeon's Bay. For reasons best known to themselves, they both decide to change their names, and pick names out of books. Both of them happen to read the same book, and so we have two Gerald Tuesdays. Then both of them get murdered, and by the long arm of coincidence-way back in 1921-" Helene said acidly, "Coincidence has a long arm, but not quite that many elbows. One of them slipped Malone a key marked 114, which he immediately got drunk and lost, and the other one tried to telephone Malone before he died, and had a paper with 114 written on it in his hand. Both of them were killed in exactly the same manner with a knife-" "Or maybe one of Louella White's knitting needles," Jake put in. She ignored him. "Malone, what's happened to the knife? Where's the weapon?" "The murderer kept it," Malone said, finishing his gin. "He's saving it." "What for?" "To murder more Gerald Tuesdays. Put your coat on, we're going to my office. Murder or no murder, I've got to write a nice letter to the building manager promising to pay the rent some day." Chapter Twenty-Six IT WAS SNOWING AGAIN, GREAT WHITE, wet feathers that clung to the window in Malone's office. While the little lawyer peeled off his overcoat, and Helene settled down in the most comfortable chair, Jake stared moodily out across the roofs that were being rapidly buried in white. "This damned snow," he said angrily. "Now we'll never be able to find out where those footprints led out in Maple Park." "Forget it," Malone snapped. "I don't have enough trouble on my mind, but you want me to go look at footprints. What do you expect me to do-take a gander at them with a magnifying glass, and tell you right off who murdered Gerald Tuesday and-Gerald Tuesday?" Jake said, "Let's go out to Maple Park anyway. I want you to see that grave." "Thanks," Malone said. "I've just seen one. Besides, von Flanagan has phoned me five times in the three hours since I was there, and I'd better call him back." He dialed the number and leaned back in his chair, the telephone in his hand. Von Flanagan complained loudly into the telephone that murder was bad enough, but the things that people would do- "You know that guy that was murdered up at Mona McClane's. Well, we got a report on him from a Loop bank. The morning he came to town-yesterday-he went to this bank to deposit a big check and open an account. And what do you think he used for identification?" "Don't tell me," Malone begged. "Let me read about it in the papers." "A passport," the police official said. "And what name do you think was on the passport?" "I can't guess," the lawyer said wearily. "Gerald Tuesday." "Listen," Malone said, "I'll tell you something. I'm getting very psychic. No, no, no, I never felt better in my life. I mean I can tell what's going to happen in the future. I can tell you the name of the man who murdered those two guys." "What is it?" von Flanagan asked suspiciously. Malone said, "Gerald Tuesday," and hung up quick. He reported the whole conversation to Jake and Helene. "It would be a swell joke on you if the murderer really was named Gerald Tuesday," Helene said. "It wouldn't surprise me," Malone told her. "This business is driving me nuts. Every time I think of Gerald Tuesday I start seeing double." "Nothing makes sense," Jake complained. "Two guys named Gerald Tuesday, both murdered the same way. Some drunk thinking he murdered both of them, and not able to remember any details. This dame looking for her husband's grave, and then trotting off downtown to meet her husband. And the grave being there, and some dope shooting at me from the trees. The key, and those two guys trying to talk to you before they cashed in. And Gerald Tuesday buried in Rosedale cemetery in 1921. None of it makes any sense." "I'm afraid it does," Malone said meditatively. "I almost wish it didn't, but it does. Diabolical sense, and in the working of some sane mind, too. Anything that seems as crazy as this is bound to make sense." "In the meantime," Jake demanded, "who the hell did Mona McClane murder?" The lawyer sighed. "There must be some connection between these two murders and Mona McClane," he said. "All we need to do is find out what it is." He scowled at the paper on his desk. It was a copy of the death certificate of one Gerald Tuesday, born in Elkhart, Indiana, in 1892, and dead of heart disease in Chicago in 1921. "The name of the doctor who signed that certificate seems familiar," Jake said, frowning. "It should," Malone said. "He was sent to jail about five years ago for performing a facial operation on an escaped convict. The name of the undertaker should seem familiar, too. He was messed up with the gang war, and got himself shot about 1930. A nice brace of lowlifes." "Meantime," Helene said, "what is in that grave in Rosedale cemetery?" "I don't know," Malone said. "But maybe I will tomorrow-after a couple of boys I can trust break in there tonight and find out. Meantime," he sighed again, "maybe I can find out more about these Gerald Tuesdays-if the birthplace named on this certificate is correct." "If only you hadn't lost that key," Helene wailed. "Malone, isn't there any chance of finding it?" "I might have lost it in a taxi, or on the street, or in any one of a dozen places," Malone said gloomily. "It would take a miracle to find it again." "Have you thought of the want ads?" "No. No, I haven't." "Well, do," Jake said cordially. "It's an easy way to start that giant brain working." Malone sat thinking for a few minutes, then called for Maggie. "Run this want ad in all the papers. Lost, on New Year's Eve, key marked 114. Large reward." She wrote it down. "You'd better give some idea of where you lost it." "We couldn't afford the space," Malone said. "Go on, run it the way it is." After she had gone, he said, scowling, "Suppose we do get the key back. What the hell do you think we're going to unlock with it?" "Something marked 114," Jake said smugly. Malone snorted. "Sure. That clears it all up." He frowned. "Venning is mixed up in this, too. The business of the grave, and that frozen-faced companion who watches his wife every minute, and a crack Mona McClane made-wait a minute, let me think." For a few minutes he stared dreamily into space. "We were talking about Pendley Tidewell. She said he was Editha Venning's nephew. She said-he'd feel greatly relieved that Michael Venning was going to be fifty day after tomorrow-that's tomorrow now-although he, meaning Pendley, didn't seem to care anything about money." "Try thinking some more," Helene advised. "You sound a little confused." The lawyer paid no attention to her. "Pendley Tidewell is Venning's nephew by marriage, and he should be glad that his uncle is going to be fifty tomorrow. Something to do with money. I wonder," he said thoughtfully, "how much money Venning has and who is going to inherit it." "He has plenty," Jake said. "It's one of the big Chicago fortunes." Again Malone called Maggie. "Find out who Michael Venning's lawyer is, and pray to heaven that I know him." "I'll find out," she said tartly, "but you handle your own prayers." "Why do you care?" Jake asked. "A large-sized inheritance might be an adequate reason for murdering him." "He hasn't been murdered," Helene pointed out. "No, but his grave has been dug." Five minutes later Maggie returned. "I called the office of the Venning estate and asked for the correct spelling of the name of Mr. Venning's lawyer." "Thank you," Malone said, "I hope it turned out to be Smith." "It turned out to be Featherstone," she said, "O. O. Featherstone." Malone drew a sigh of relief. "Heaven be praised, I do know him. He was old lady Inglehart's lawyer. Call him up, Maggie, and make an appointment for me." "I remember him," Jake said. "He was the lawyer that had the ethic." Maggie made the call and reported that Mr. Featherstone was just leaving his office for the day, but he would be glad to see Mr. Malone at ten in the morning. "We adjourn till ten in the morning," Malone said. "Maybe by that time we'll have an answer to my want ad, and I can see Mr. Featherstone. In the meantime, there's not one damned thing we can do." "We could go out and show you Michael Venning's grave," Helene said. "I'm glad to take your word for it that it's there," Malone said. "Don't be a defeatist," Helene said. "We could go try to pump something more out of Lotus Allen." "She doesn't know anything I haven't already learned." Jake said, "We could see if Mona's personal maid couldn't be bribed to talk about her past." "She doesn't bribe," Helene said. "It's been tried." "We could go out looking for that key." "With a pocket flashlight and a small broom, up and down the streets of Chicago," Malone said scornfully. "We could get hold of Ross McLaurin again and see if we could get him drunk enough to remember some more about the murders." Malone's silence was more than eloquent. Jake sighed heavily. "All right, damn you," he said crossly, "we'll get drunk ourselves. That's always good." Helene rose. "I'll tell you what we are going to do. Mona's taking her household to the Casino tonight, partly to celebrate Michael Venning's coming birthday and partly to take their minds off the homicides in the house. She asked me to bring you two along." "Why?" Malone asked. "Is she expecting another homicide?" "If she has one," Jake said, "I hope it's Louella White. That woman worries me." "I know how you feel," Malone said, "but I'm afraid it'll be someone else. All right, Helene, we'll go-" "I'll meet you there," Helene said, fastening her furs around her throat. "Sometime around nine." "Wait a minute," Jake said. "In the meantime-" "You forget we're still officially separated," she told him. "But Helene-" "I've got to go on staying at Mona McClane's and you know it. Wait until the bet is settled. And then- I'll be looking for you with the deed to the Casino in your hand." Chapter Twenty-Seven THE CASINO WAS A LARGE ESTABLISHMENT, occupying all of a completely remodeled mansion. The exterior, save for a coat of white paint, a chaste neon sign, and two artificial trees placed on either side of the entrance, had suffered the least change. Inside, however, the ghost of the original owner would have wandered around lost. On the third floor, in the gambling rooms, the old marble fireplaces remained, and the original staircase still led up from the ground floor, but that was all. Lou Silver's orchestra was holding forth in the main room of the first floor when Jake and Malone arrived. It was a spacious, softly lighted place, in which the decorator had worked, not altogether unsuccessfully, for the effect of a formal Georgian drawing room. Instead of the usual night-club decorations, the walls were covered with a simple, almost severe paneling. The upholstery on the benches along the walls was dove gray. Mona McClane and her party had not yet arrived. A fair-sized crowd was on the dance floor. Lou Silver recognized Jake and Malone as they came in, waved at them, and went on leading his band through his own version of Nobody's Baby. Eventually a waiter arrived with two double ryes. Malone looked around. At the table to their left was one of Chicago's handsomer young socialites and heir to a notable fortune, in a gray business suit that badly needed pressing. With him was a red-haired girl whom Malone recognized as an ex-hat-check girl from a Dempster Street roadhouse. He had once handled a small breach-of-promise suit for her. To their right he saw one of the higher-ups of the city's gambling syndicate, in impeccable evening clothes. Malone thought he was probably the only man in the place who was there with his own wife. Lou Silver came over for a drink and asked Jake if the band didn't sound swell. Jake said yes, it was a swell band. Lou Silver said it was swell Jake thought so, bought another drink, and went away again. The cigarette girl, a plumpish brunette, recognized Malone, sold him two packages of fifteen-cent cigarettes for a dollar, and made a tentative date with him for Thursday. Then Mona McClane's party arrived. There was a brief confusion of chairs being moved, and when it was over Jake found that Helene was at the end of the table farthest from him. Still, he could look at her. She was easily the best-looking girl in the place if not in the world, in that shiny black dress and the tiny black hat with its curving feather. Ross McLaurin was not present. "He's vanished again," Mona said, in answer to Malone's question. "Since this morning. Don't worry, he'll turn up." The early floor show, toned down for Sunday night, was brightened considerably by the presence of an internationally famous dialect comedian. Malone, who considered himself a fair judge of chorus girls, approved highly of the Casino line-up. More couples swarmed onto the floor after the show. Subdebs, in Sunday-night dresses from Powell's, dancing with collegiate-looking young men, business girls out with friends of the boss, two well-known movie actresses who attracted far less attention than a plain, brown-haired girl who was rumored to be the girl friend of a powerful union head. Malone looked at Louella White, sitting next him, and wondered about her. "Are you from Chicago originally?" "No. From the East." A few drinks, Malone decided, had made her downright talkative. Maybe he could take advantage of it. "What part of the East?" "Jersey City." He tried another approach. "How do you like Chicago?" "All right." "I suppose it's very different from the Orient." "Yes." Suddenly he said, "I bet you never were in the Orient in your life." She looked at him coldly. "So what?" Damn it, he thought, you couldn't even jolt the woman. "Are you a relative of Mrs. Venning?" "No." "Of Mr. Venning?" "No." He sighed. "All right. Let's reverse. You ask the questions and I'll think of the answers." She turned her small, guarded eyes on him and made the longest speech of her career. "What do you want to ask questions for?" "I'm writing a book," Malone said, and decided to watch the dance floor. Five minutes later the manager arrived, apologizing for a little trouble Pendley Tidewell had had with the bouncer. It seemed to be against the rules to try to take photographs in the chorus girls' dressing room. "I'm terribly sorry," Pendley Tidewell said, sliding his six-feet-one back into his chair. "I never had a chance to photograph a-" Malone looked thoughtfully at the blond youth and wondered if he really didn't care about money, whether anybody could be so simple-minded, and what difference Michael Venning's becoming fifty years old was going to make to him. The party began to wander. Helene and Michael Venning went upstairs to the gambling rooms. Pendley Tidewell took pictures of Mona McClane dancing with a sleek-haired young actor from a current Loop hit. Editha Venning vanished somewhere, followed by the watchful Louella. Malone and Jake drifted into the bar. The Casino bar was small, intimate, and informal. There were two or three tiny tables, all occupied. A cheerful young man sat at a half-pint piano, singing impudent and picturesque ballads of his own composition to a highly appreciative group of listeners. Ma-lone pushed his way to the bar, shook hands with a star of the legitimate stage, slapped the back of the mayor's left-hand man, and said, "Hello, chum," ordered two ryes, and said to Jake, "This is a very nice joint. You're going to have a wonderful time when you own it." Jake grunted, nodded a greeting to half a dozen acquaintances, downed his rye, and said, "Let's go upstairs." The staircase of the Casino had been part of the original mansion, a wide, massive affair, with magnificently carved balustrades and newel posts. Malone looked at it critically and said, "I do think, though, if I were you, I'd have that mauve carpeting changed to something nearer mulberry." Jake's answer was something nearer raspberry. The gambling rooms of the Casino were crowded. Malone argued Jake out of a crap game and resisted an impulse to see what he could do with the rest of his bankroll. Mona McClane appeared beside him. He looked at her admiringly. She was just the right size to wear Chinese red. "Tomorrow's such an important day for so many people," she said confidingly, smiling at him. Before he could answer, she had moved up to the roulette table. For a while he watched and tried to keep track of her winnings. He had an uncomfortable premonition that tomorrow might be an important day for himself. Editha Venning came upstairs, looking interestingly haggard, and entirely sober. Louella White seemed to have disappeared. A thin girl in a blue dress borrowed a dollar from Malone for taxi fare home, and Malone won ten dollars at the 26-Game table. Pendley Tidewell was politely put out of the room for trying to photograph a crap game. Michael Venning lost his temper with a waiter. Malone was considering trying just one fling at the wheel, when Helene tapped him on the arm and led him off to a quiet corner. "I think we have a little trouble." "I think we have a lot, but what now?" "Louella White. I just went into the ladies' room. She was lying down on the couch. The maid thought that she'd passed out. But I knew she hadn't had more than two drinks, so I managed a quick and inconspicuous look." "Well?" "She's dead, Malone." Not a muscle moved in the little lawyer's face. After a moment he said, "Don't make a fuss. Tell Mona quietly, and let Jake know. No one else. I'll go talk to the manager." Five minutes later, when Helene brought Mona McClane and Jake downstairs, the frightened colored maid was standing in front of the door marked ladies, informing everyone very unconvincingly that the plumber was inside making a minor repair, and the door would be opened in just a minute. A moment later the manager came out, his face pale. "Mrs. McClane, I don't know what-" "That's all right," Mona McClane said. Jake was reminded suddenly that she owned the Casino. "Mr. Malone thinks she'll be all right-" "Then she's not dead?" Helene gasped. The manager stared at her. "Dead? No. Unconscious. Mr. Malone thinks it was knockout drops. Just a minute-" He dived back into the ladies' room. Jake reached for Helene's hand and held it tightly. Another moment and Malone appeared, mopping his brow. "Everything's O. K. No need for any fuss." He looked at Mona McClane. "Just have your car brought around, get your party together, and we'll have her quietly carried out to the car. In twelve hours she'll be as good as new." Mona McClane nodded and walked away quickly. She didn't seem to want any explanations. Helene followed her. The manager, still pale, said, "I don't know how to thank-" "That's all right," Malone said. "I'll have one on the house." He led Jake toward the bar. "Is she really O. K.," Jake demanded, "or are you saving the Casino from a nasty jam?" "She's really O. K. Somebody slipped her a Mickey Finn. Wait for the rest till we get outside." They paused at the bar on the way out. Malone seemed to need that drink. The McClane party had gone when they reached the sidewalk, but a taxi, its door open, was waiting in front of the door. The two men were inside it before they discovered Helene sitting back in the shadows. "I ducked away," she explained. "What happened, Malone?" He gave her the explanation he had given Jake. "But that's not all. Louella White is a he." "How's that again?" Jake said. "I looked through her-his-handbag while I was in there. He's Lou White, from a shady New York detective agency." The taxi had gone half a block before Jake said, "Well, I always thought no woman could be as un-talkative as that. But who was he working for?" "Your guess is as good as mine," the lawyer said. "All I know is that he was watching Editha Venning, God knows why." Helene leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "Then she doped her-him, I mean. Because for some reason she wanted to be free tonight." She was silent for a moment. "Now we sure as hell are going out to Maple Park." "No," both men said simultaneously. "Oh yes we are. There's something out there-I don't know what it is-but the first time she was able to slip away from her watchdog-yesterday-she headed straight out there. She'll do it again tonight, and we'll be out there to find out why." "I'd hate to be mistaken for a rabbit again," Jake said gloomily. "All right, you two big strong men go home to bed. I'm going out to Maple Park." She leaned forward and said to the cab driver, "The Adams Street North Shore station, and hurry." "What do you expect to find out there?" Malone growled. "I don't know. But I hope it's Mona's murder." Jake sighed. "All right, we'll go along. But I have an uncomfortable premonition of what we'll find." "All right," Malone grunted, "you tell us, and we won't have to go." "We'll find Pendley Tidewell," Jake said, "with his camera. He's never had a chance to photograph a grave before." Chapter Twenty-Eight THE NORTH SHORE TRAIN WAS ALMOST deserted. A few late commuters slept in their seats, or glanced uninterestedly at tomorrow's Tribune. Jake fingered the pocket flashlight they had picked up at an all-night drugstore and wondered if this would turn out to be a wild-goose chase. "Perhaps," he said as he passed through Evanston, "we're going the wrong way. Perhaps we ought to go back to Mona McClane's and pick up the dame's trail there." "Hell no," Malone growled. "I've bought a round-trip ticket to Maple Park, and I'm going to get my money's worth." He scowled. "I wonder who Lou White was working for." "Mona McClane, Michael Venning, or Pendley Tidewell," Helene said promptly. The lawyer grunted. "Or Gerald Tuesday or Gerald Tuesday." The platform at the Maple Park station nearest the Venning and McClane estates was desolate and deserted. The sky was clear and brilliant with stars now, but occasional flurries of loose snow still blew across the dingy boards of the platform and whitened the walks that had been cleared earlier in the evening. It was well past midnight, and Maple Park was like a ghost town. Malone looked hopefully around for a taxi and saw none. The streets were empty, as were the sidewalks. Only a few lights burned here and there in houses seen dimly through the trees. Jake looked at his watch. "There'll be a Loop-bound train along in about five minutes," he began wistfully. Helene shook her head. "We're out here and we're not going to turn back." They started walking up a winding street in the direction of the Venning estate. Streets in Maple Park turned, curved, straightened out, and turned again with no apparent rhyme or reason, and this one was no exception. By the time they had gone two blocks, Malone began looking expectantly around every corner they came to, half wondering when he was going to meet himself headed in the other direction. "That's Mona McClane's," Jake said, as they came to the iron fence. "Do we turn in here?" "Not yet. This damned snow will have covered any tracks there were, and I'd never find that opening in the wall from this side." He led the way to the high stone wall that bordered the Venning estate. The small, service gateway was unlocked, and he pushed through it, holding it open for Helene and the lawyer. The Venning house, in the starlight and the drifted snow, looked like a gingerbread house, fantastic and incredible, against the sky. Touches of white clung to cornices and lines of iron lacework and outlined the curious angles and cupolas of the huge wooden structure. "It isn't there," Malone complained. "It's painted on a piece of scenery. Painted damned badly, too, if you ask me. Now where do we go?" Jake led him around the old house and through the archway in the yew hedge, now a deep, mysterious blue in the starlight. Beyond it, the wide lawn was a startling, almost blinding expanse of unbroken white, smooth and crusted over. Jake turned on the flashlight, and it reflected on the snow as though it shone on powdered glass. "There's where Editha Venning stood," Jake said, "right over there." He pointed the flashlight in the direction of the trees. Malone looked quickly, half expecting to see some dim, shadowy figure waiting for them. He was a little reassured to see only trees, but not very much. "Heaven only knows what kind of reception committee may be waiting for us out here," he complained. "I'm not at all nervous about being shot at, but the sound of gunfire always gives me an earache." "Put cotton in your ears," Helene said grimly. They picked their way gingerly across the snow to the point where the path entered the woods. The path seemed narrower now than it had by day, a white ribbon of snow winding on into the grove. The entrance was like the door to a cave of black and white, dark old trees, bent here and there by the weight of snow on their branches, thick, shadowy bushes feathered with whiteness, and only an occasional star showing overhead through the treetops. Jake turned the flashlight oh the path, said, "Watch your step," and went on ahead. Helene and Malone followed, the latter muttering about the snow in his shoes. At the point where the footprints had joined the path, Jake paused and knelt to look for them. There was only the unbroken snow, drifted back and forth over the surface. "I knew that snow would have wiped them out," Jake said bitterly. "I think I could find my way back to where I parted company with them, but that's about all, and it wouldn't tell us anything, anyway." He rose, brushing the snow off his knees, and led the way in the direction of the open grave. The flashlight added an eerie touch to the scene, casting unexpected shadows over the snow, lighting up curious cavernlike little clearings in the trees, and reflecting a weird glow on small, snow-frosted twigs and branches. They came to the obstruction across the path formed by the cluster of bushes, and for a moment Malone stood stamping his feet and muttering indignant profanities under his breath, while Jake and Helene hunted for the opening. Jake found it suddenly and pushed his way through with a loud crackling of twigs and underbrush, Helene at his heels. Malone drew a long breath and followed, striking aimlessly at branches that scratched his face. The little clearing in the grove was fantastic and unreal in the glow from the flashlight, like something from a half-forgotten dream. In the center of it, piles of snow-covered earth indicated the location of the open grave. "This is it," Jake said calmly, picking his way carefully over the frozen ground. Malone came up beside him, stumbling once or twice, and paused at the edge. Jake turned his flashlight down into it. "That's a grave all right," Malone said quietly. "But it isn't empty now." For only a moment he stood looking into it, at the snow that had blown in and frosted the rough sides, at the little drifts that had formed in curious shapes and designs, and at what had first appeared to be a dark shadow at the bottom. Then, carefully and laboriously, he let himself down into it, took off his muffler and used it as a broom to sweep away the drifted snow, and made a quick examination of the body of Ross McLaurin. Above him, Jake put an arm around Helene, who buried her face in his shoulder. The lawyer climbed up out of the pit. "Stabbed in the back, just like the others," he reported. "Stabbed right through an overcoat, suit coat, vest, and shirt. Somebody has a fairly powerful arm." The flashlight caught his face for a moment, and Jake saw that it was gray white and very tired. "I shouldn't have let this happen," Malone said slowly. "I should have known. The right number of drinks, and he would go out looking for someone to; listen to his story, friend or stranger, just as he started talking to Helene the other night. This time he just happened to start talking to the wrong guy, and here he is. I never should have let him out of my sight." He drew a long breath. "I'm to blame. This one is on me." Jake shivered uncomfortably. He had suddenly become conscious of the January cold. Helene lifted her head from his shoulder. "Please, Malone . . ." The lawyer said, "Don't bother me." He looked at the grave. Suddenly he snapped, "Give me that flashlight," and climbed down into it again. For a moment he ran the light over the sides, felt of them, dug at snow that had drifted about on the bottom. Then he clambered up again. "That isn't a new grave," he said, scowling at it. "It was dug a long time ago. There're a few bits of wood at the bottom, old wood, that's been in the ground a long time. Marks on the sides, too. It was dug, and filled in, and dug out again. I can tell from the shovel marks. Holy Mahoney, I'm an archeologist. all of a sudden!" He turned to Jake. "Is that the right name for it?" "It isn't the right name for what I think you are," Jake said, blowing on his hands. "What do we do now, call the cops?" "I guess so," the lawyer said thoughtfully. "This is in Blake County, too, which means calling in Andy Ahearn. This is his territory and the other two murders were in von Flanagan's, which means we're going to have one hell of a mess. If this guy had to get himself killed, why couldn't he have picked a civilized part of the world to do it in?" "Maybe he did," Jake suggested. "Maybe he was stabbed down in Chicago and his body was moved up here." "It's possible," Malone said. "I'd like to have had it happen that way. Of course, we could simplify everything by moving him back to Chicago and having him found there." He looked into the grave again. "He was put there before the really heavy snow began to fall, because there's no footprints showing around the grave. Still, it's next to impossible to guess at the time. It stopped snowing about-when?" "Somewhere around seven o'clock," Helene said. Malone scowled. "That's no help, though. The wind has been blowing ever since. Our own footprints will be gone half an hour after we walk away from here. It's the drifting snow that's wiped out everything." "He's been missing most of the day, according to what Mona McClane said," Helene said. "That's no help either. The murderer may have spent hours trying to find out how much he really did know, before he risked doing him in. Then he gave up and killed him, either here or somewhere else, and placed him in the grave which was so conveniently waiting for him. He either didn't have time to fill in the grave, or he didn't have the right implements with him." Jake said, "Save your mental processes for a later date. It's damned cold out here. What are we going to-" He stopped short, staring at Malone. The little lawyer's face had been pale, now it had turned ashen. In the weird glow of the flashlight, his wide, round eyes were gleaming like balls of ice. His mouth was open, with a word half formed and frozen there. "Malone!" Jake cried. "What-" There was no answer. Jake stared at him for an instant, then turned the flashlight in the direction in which the lawyer's eyes were fixed. Helene screamed. The corpse of Ross McLaurin was climbing, slowly and laboriously, out of its grave. Chapter Twenty-Mine "LIE STILL," MALONE SAID STERNLY. "You mustn't move." For an insane moment Jake was reminded of playing soldiers and Indians when he was a small boy, and of crying out, "Hey, you ain't allowed to move. You're dead." "Give me your overcoat, Jake," the lawyer said. He had already tucked his own under the body of Ross McLaurin. Helene's immense fur muff was under his head. Jake peeled it off obediently, almost unconscious of the biting wind. Malone laid it gently over the wounded man, knelt beside him and felt his pulse again. "You haven't any business being alive," he grumbled, "but, by all that's holy, you are." Ross McLaurin's eyes met his for an instant of recognition and closed again. "This is a hell of a mess," Malone said. "We've got to get him to a hospital quick. And I'm trying to keep all this damned case inside von Flanagan's jurisdiction. Let Andy Ahearn or the Maple Park police department get mixed up in it, and I'll lose my mind." "How bad is he?" Helene demanded. "I don't know. He's got a hole in his back. But there can't be any severe internal hemorrhage or he wouldn't have lasted this long. Evidently the knife didn't hit any main artery. Still, we've got to move ' him, fast." Jake said, "I know a guy who owns a hearse. Runs a cut-rate undertaking parlor in Rogers Park. He's a crook, but we can trust him." "That'll do it," Malone said. "Where's a telephone?" "There's an all-night tavern open near the station, about four blocks from here." "Make it on the run," Helene said, "and tell your pal to hurry. We can't let this guy die on us." She called after him, "We'll try to keep him warm till you get back. I'd build a fire, but Maple Park would probably call out the coast guard." Jake sprinted the entire distance between the grave in the woods and the little tavern near the North Shore station. There he made his telephone call, got one Harry Kowalke out of bed and induced him, with a finely balanced combination of bribery and blackmail, to drive out to Maple Park at top speed. He bought a quart of rye, found that the tavern-keeper, who lived above his place of business, had an extra blanket and bought that too, and ran every step of the way back. "Here," he said breathlessly, holding out the rye. He tucked the blanket over the still form. "How is he?" Malone tore the top off the bottle and took a good two inches out of it in one breath before he handed it to Helene. "The wound isn't a bad one. Knife evidently hit a rib and slid off without doing much harm. Exposure's the main trouble." "Unless," Helene said, peering at the patient, "he's just passed out." "Give him a drink," Jake said, taking one himself. "I'm no doctor, but it'll keep him warm. Maybe I'd better take another one, I haven't my overcoat on." He handed the bottle to Helene. "I'm not so darn warm myself," Helene said, taking the top off the bottle. "Did you phone your pal?" "He's on his way," Jake told her. He turned to Malone. "He'll park right by the little gate. Can we carry this guy that far?" "Easy," Malone said. He spread the blanket out on the snow, folded down the middle, and, with Jake's help, slid Ross McLaurin onto it. Then he spread the two overcoats over the still form and said, "You take two corners, and I'll take two, just like a stretcher. I always knew I'd get some good out of that Boy Scout training." He handed the flashlight and the bottle to Helene, adding, "For the love of Mike, don't trip over anything. That bottle of rye is all the liquor we've got." They carried the unconscious Ross McLaurin back through the eerie darkness of the woods, across the broad, white expanse of lawn, and up to the little gate, by easy stages. There they paused, waiting for the arrival of Harry Kowalke and his hearse. Malone took advantage of the pause to light a cigar and retrieve the bottle of rye. "Of course," Helene said, "we came out here to watch for Editha Venning. Maybe Malone ought to stay out here and keep his eyes open, while we take Ross back to Chicago." Fortunately Malone's reply was lost. Ross McLaurin stirred faintly and murmured something about, "Pale hands, pink-tipped, like lotus buds that floated-on scented waters where we used to dwell-" and lapsed into unconsciousness again. "He's talking about his girl friend," Helene said gently. "If he lives," Malone said grimly, "when he comes to, he'll tell us what happened to him. He'll know who knifed him. Then, heaven be praised, the case will be practically closed." He handed the rye to Jake. "He's got to do better than live," Jake said grimly. "He's got to live and remember. Have you forgotten Dr. Leonardo Hennessey?" A few minutes later a long, black hearse, moving quietly and without lights, slid up to the gate. A tall, thin, pale-faced man in a black Chesterfield overcoat and a derby hat emerged. Malone gave him most of the remaining rye while Jake lifted the stretcher from the back of the conveyance. It was only a matter of minutes before Ross McLaurin was safely and comfortably on board. "We're in a hurry," Helene said. "I'll drive." Harry Kowalke looked at her skeptically. "She's right," Jake said. "Don't argue with her." "O. K., pal," Kowalke said, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. "I'll get in back with the patient. Where are we going?" "The first hospital inside Chicago-" Malone began. "No, wait a minute." "You can't do that," Jake said. "The police are going to ask why the hell you didn't call them, instead of this guy." "That's right. Go on toward Chicago. I'll think of something before we get there," Malone said. He glanced at the bottle. "You'd better pause at an all-night liquor store if you can find one. This is damn-near empty." He climbed into the back of the hearse with its owner and the unconscious McLaurin. Helene drove two blocks slowly and with the lights off, then switched them on full. "Let 'er rip!" came Harry Kowalke's voice from the back, and she stepped on the gas. The ride back to Chicago had a nightmarish quality about it. The snow, packed down on curving roads by the early evening traffic, had melted here and there, and then frozen into patches of treacherous ice. Once the hearse skidded insanely for half a block, turned halfway around, and came to rest in the driveway of a startled citizen. At the border of Evanston, Helene discovered that, as an auxiliary ambulance, the vehicle was permitted to carry a siren. The discovery brought out a really inspired performance. Just beyond Howard Street, Malone said, "I don't know any of these north-side cops very well. Take the outer drive and go like hell down to Chicago Avenue." Helene carried out instructions to the letter. At Chicago Avenue, as they turned west, Jake caught his breath for the third time in sixty blocks. "Drive past Clark Street," Malone said, "turn left, and you'll find an alley halfway down the block. We'll get out there." It was exactly half-past three by the clock on the dashboard when they turned into the alley. Ross McLaurin, still unconscious, was lifted out of the hearse and laid on the pavement. Malone gave Harry Kowalke his card and said, "Send me a bill. Take the rest of the rye to drink on the way home." "And thanks," Jake added. Harry Kowalke said, "Anything for a pal," got in the hearse, and drove away. Malone examined the young man, saw that his breathing was a little more regular and his pulse stronger. "Now," he said, "Jake, you beat it up to the nearest phone and call the Chicago Avenue police station. We've been out looking for this guy since midnight, and just found him lying in an alley. I'll stay here with him till you get back." While Jake was gone, he squatted down beside the still figure. Ross McLaurin's face was expressionless and pale, the color of chalk. Suddenly he gasped, seemed to choke a little, and opened his eyes. "You're O. K.," Malone said, vaguely and helpfully. The look in the young man's eyes changed to one of recognition. "I remember now. You're-Malone." "That's me," the lawyer said. "Don't try to talk," Helene said, bending over the young man. "I remember," Ross McLaurin whispered. "I followed-the man who was killed-up the alley near the parking lot-near the Sherman Hotel." He drew a slow, painful breath. "He didn't want me-with him -but I wanted to help him-find you. I saw him- killed. I thought I did it myself. But I know now- I didn't-" "And the other one?" Malone said quietly. "I-didn't kill him. I went into his room and- found him dead." Helene knelt down beside him. "What happened to you this afternoon, Ross?" "I remembered-what I've just told you. I wanted to-find you-or that girl-or someone-and tell-" His breath began to come slowly. "We-were going out to find you-and then-" He paused. "Go on," Malone said hoarsely. "Who stabbed you?" Ross McLaurin's white lips formed a word, but no sound came. His blue eyes met the lawyer's in one brief glance, and closed as gently as the folding of a bird's wing. Chapter Thirty "HE'LL PULL THROUGH, BUT HE MAY be unconscious for hours," Malone said, chewing savagely on his cigar. "We might as well get out of this place before they decide to roll out beds for us, too." It was eight in the morning. The two-hour nap in the hospital waiting room had helped Malone a little, but he had a vague and uncomfortable notion that creeping paralysis was beginning to get under way. Ross McLaurin's injury, as the lawyer had guessed, was not serious, but he was suffering badly from exposure. Rest and quiet were indicated right now. Malone wished someone would prescribe rest and quiet for him. The three walked over to Clark Street and headed south toward the Loop. The sky had clouded over again and was a cold, dismal gray. Streetcars rattled by, crowded with the first influx of workers headed for eight-thirty jobs. Clark Street itself was dreary and half deserted. Taverns advertising "Two Shots for 210" and cheap dance halls were being swept out. Even the pawnshops were closed. A few bums were having "Coffee and Two Doughnuts, 5c," in the hole-in-the-wall lunchrooms. Ahead of them, the towers and spires of the Loop reached up, massive and forbidding against the sky. "It's just as I thought," Malone said. "This guy got to wandering around and he started talking to the wrong person. Whoever he started talking to evidently lured him off to some secluded spot, tried to pump him for information, finally got him out to Maple Park, and stabbed him. The murderer evidently figured if he wasn't done for already, the cold weather would finish the job." He turned up his coat collar. "Where the hell are we going, and why don't we take a taxi?" "The air feels good," Jake said crossly. Helene said, "Do you suppose the mail has arrived at your office?" "Not this early," Malone said. "Anyway I don't think there will be any answers to that want ad in the first mail." He walked half a block and said, "I ought to go home and change my clothes. My suit looks as if I'd been sleeping in it." "You have been," Helene said, "or don't you remember? What's von Flanagan going to say when he hears about this attempted murder?" "He's going to say that everyone conspires to make life hard for him, and that he's going to retire and run a weekly newspaper. Only he isn't going to say it to me, because until this mess is straightened out, I'm going to avoid him as though he were just coming down with bubonic plague." They were silent for a few blocks. All around, Chicago was beginning to wake up for the day. Alarm clocks were ringing right now, Jake reflected, from Gary to Evanston, from Oak Park to the lake. Some people were just settling down for a second sleep. Others, and he wished he were one of them, were just getting to bed. Somewhere, though, was a man or a woman who wasn't waking and wasn't sleeping, because Mona McClane had murdered him. It wasn't either of the Tuesdays and it wasn't Ross McLaurin. Jake began to wonder if it wasn't tempting providence to ask for another corpse. They had reached the bridge across the Chicago River before anyone spoke. Halfway across, looking down on the great cakes of dirty ice that floated on the slimy green water, Malone said, "I'm glad she's in jail." "I'm glad, too," Jake said. "Who?" "Lotus. Evidently the killer isn't taking any chances with accidental witnesses. Lotus was on the same floor of Mona McClane's house when the second murder was committed." "So was I," Helene reflected. "For that matter, so was Louella White-pardon me, Lou White-and Pendley Tidewell." "McLaurin is a lucky guy," Jake said. "He's going to pull through, and probably they'll sober him up while he's in the hospital. He has all kinds of money, and he has a swell girl waiting for him as soon as you can get her out of jail." "You have me," Helene pointed out. Jake snorted. "Except that the only time I spend with you is on elevated trains or in taxicabs." "Never mind. Wait till we win that bet." "If we win it," Jake said gloomily. Half a block later he said, "Malone, do you suppose you'll get any answers to your want ad?" "At least a dozen," Malone said, "and all of them worthless." "You have an appointment at ten with Michael Venning's lawyer. Do you suppose you'll learn anything from him?" "I might learn about Michael Venning's murderer," Malone said. "But Michael Venning hasn't been murdered," Helene complained. "I'm looking out for the future," the lawyer said. "Heir today and guns tomorrow, I always say." Jake sighed again and was silent. They paused in a cigar store that was just opening up for the day's trade and phoned Malone's hotel. Captain von Flanagan had telephoned the lawyer four times since half-past six, and a large, red-faced policeman was now sitting in the lobby. "That would be Kluchetsky," Malone said thoughtfully. "Von Flanagan evidently wants to know how we happened to stumble over Ross McLaurin's unconscious form in a near-north-side alley last night." "Or," Jake said, "von Flanagan wants to find me and have me pick out some more journalism textbooks for him." "Much more of this," Helene said, "and he'll be cutting up papers instead of editing one." They had reached Washington Street. Suddenly Malone said, "I don't know how you feel, but I need a drink." Jake realized that he was tired and hungry and cold. "I need a drink and twenty hours' sleep." "Compromise on two drinks," Helene said. Joe the Angel's City Hall Bar was just opening after the customary brief pause between the patrons who left at five in the morning and the new bunch who dropped in before breakfast. Joe himself was out in back, swearing over a small job of bookkeeping. There was no one in the place except a dapper young man from the state's attorney's office, who was getting a few quick ones before showing up at the office, and a solitary and morose drunk left over from the night before. Malone called for three cups of strong black coffee with two jiggers of Cuban rum poured into each, and looked at his watch. It was just nine o'clock. He asked the bartender for a slug, went into the phone booth, and called Mona McClane. "I thought you might like to know Ross McLaurin is alive and doing nicely." "Thank heaven," she said. "I was worrying. Where is he?" "In Henrotin Hospital, but don't worry any more. He'll pull through." There was just the barest pause before she said, "Have you seen the papers?" "No." "You might look at them. We had a burglary last night." She had hung up before the lawyer could ask any more questions. Malone swore angrily, asked the bartender for a paper, and pored over it while he reported the conversation to Jake and Helene. "There it is," Jake said, pointing to a small paragraph that told of the attempted burglary of the McClane mansion. Nothing had been taken, and the intruders had got away. However, Mrs. Michael Venning, the former Editha Putnam, who was a guest of Mrs. McClane, and who discovered the burglars, had been slightly injured by a blow on the head. "Well," Helene said, after looking at the paper for a long time, "then she wasn't planning to explore Maple Park last night." Jake finished the last of the rum and coffee and went to the telephone. "I called a pal at the Chicago Avenue police station," he said when he returned. "Apparently the burglar was in Michael Venning's room. Venning was out. Out of the house. The cops don't know where he was. She-Mrs. Venning-went into his room, got conked on the bean, and before the alarm could be given, the burglars got clean away." Malone was silent for a moment. "As you yourself said the other day, it's wonderful how they go on falling for that old burglary gag after all these years. Too bad Pendley wasn't on the scene. He's probably never had a chance to photograph a burglar before." Helene frowned. "It's about time I was going home anyway. Maybe I can find out more of what happened. What are you two going to do?" "We'll go up to Jake's apartment," the lawyer announced. "There won't be any cops waiting there, I hope. A quick shave and a shower, a little breakfast, and we'll be ready to tackle a new day." Before he could go into any more details, Joe the Angel appeared from the back room. "Say, Malone, where've you been keeping yourself? I been trying to get in touch with you." "Did you try calling my office?" Malone asked. "Sure. But your girl there, she always says you're out and she don't know when you'll be back." "She probably thinks you're someone I owe money to," Malone said. "What's on your mind?" "I guess you don't know it, but you lost sumpin' here the other night. The night that fella was killed, it was. It musta fell outa your pocket. I figured it wasn't important or you'da been in here looking for it. I got it around here someplace." He hunted on top of and behind the cash register, through his pockets, and in all the drawers back of the bar, before he triumphantly produced a key, just an ordinary key, with the number 114 printed on its handle. Chapter Thirty-One "THAT'S MINE, ALL RIGHT," Malone said. "I guess I didn't know I'd lost it." "That's a good one on you," Joe the Angel said. "You'd better have one on the house, just to start the day right." Malone heartily agreed with him. After the drink was poured, Jake said indignantly, "Of course, this is the one place you wouldn't think of looking for it." "It probably fell out of my pocket during the brawl," Malone said, almost apologetically. "That wouldn't occur to you either," Helene said in an accusing tone. "Well, damn it," the lawyer said, "I can't think of everything." Jake and Helene said simultaneously, "Now you've got it back, let's have a look at it." Just as the little lawyer tossed the key down on the table, the radio back of the bar announced that the time was exactly nine-thirty. Malone was out of his chair as though he'd been shot at and dived in the direction of the door. Halfway there, he called back, "Look at it yourselves. Thirty minutes to get my suit pressed, get shaved, and be at old man Featherstone's office. That's one appointment I've got to keep." After she had caught her breath, Helene said, "Well, we've got the key, anyway." She looked at it closely and handed it to Jake. "See what it is?" Jake nodded slowly. "United Parcel Lockers," he read aloud. "It opens one of those dime-in-the-slot baggage lockers you find in railway stations," Helene said. "I've always thought one of them would be a swell place to hide something safely." "I wonder what's hidden there," Jake said. "Maybe another Gerald Tuesday," Helene said crossly. "Let me think." Jake called for more coffee and sat watching her anxiously. "We have the key," she said at last, slowly, "but that's only part of it. No matter what's in that parcel locker, a lot is still unaccounted for. The whole trouble is there's too much stuff that doesn't seem to have anything to do with any other stuff." "Too much stuff," Jake muttered, "and too many stiffs. Who wanted to do in Editha Venning badly enough to feed her bodyguard knockout drops?" "Who wants to murder Michael Venning?" Helene countered. "All right," Jake said indignantly, "if you're thinking up questions, think up a bunch of good ones and we'll send 'em to Quiz Kids. While you're about it, who were the two Gerald Tuesdays and who murdered them, and, last but not least, who did Mona McClane murder." She sighed. "You make it all sound so complicated." "Helene, let's forget the whole thing. Lou Silver is taking his band out on the road next week, and I can go along as press agent. We could have a wonderful time." "You can go if you want to," she said gloomily, "but I'm going to stay right here and win that bet. How do you like this one? Mrs. Venning gets her husband's estate when he dies, and Pendley Tidewell is her heir. Pendley plans to murder them both, and Mrs. Venning, suspecting it, hires herself a bodyguard." "Very pretty, but how about the Tuesdays?" "That's a different affair entirely and has nothing to do with the Vennings." "I don't like it," Jake said. "Try again." "Michael Venning plans to murder his wife so he can marry another girl-no, that leaves too much unaccounted for. Editha Venning plans to murder her husband so she can have his dough. That's a better starting point." "How about the Tuesdays again?" "They were his bodyguards and she did them in." "How about the grave?" Helene sighed. "Well, she has it ready for him." "You forget," Jake pointed out, "that grave has been dug for a long time." "Maybe she's just been waiting for a good opportunity and believes in preparedness. But what does his fiftieth birthday have to do with it?" "The fact is," Jake said slowly, "we can't do a great deal until Malone gets through talking with the Venning lawyer. We just don't know enough." Helene looked at her watch. "Meantime, I'm going back to Mona McClane's and change my clothes, and see if I can find out what's been going on there. I'll meet you at Malone's office later." Jake said, "I could do with a change of clothes myself, and a shave. Not that I can't think of a better way to spend the time." "When the bet is settled," she said firmly, "I'll meet you at Malone's office after lunch, and, for the love of God, don't lose that key." It was afternoon when Jake arrived at Malone's office. He found Helene there, looking as clear-eyed and fresh as though she had never missed a night's sleep in her life, in a dark-green suit with enormous quantities of soft brown fur, and a tiny brown fur hat perched jauntily just above one eyebrow. Malone was staring out the window, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, surrounded by a mist of cigar smoke. "He doesn't want to talk," Helene said, indicating Malone. Jake nodded. "What did you find out at Mona McClane's?" "Editha Venning has a bump on her bean and a bad headache, but nothing serious. She says she went into her husband's room last night to get some sleeping tablets-" "A hell of a reason," Jake said, "but go on." "He was away. Didn't feel like turning in after leaving the Casino and went out hell raising. She went into his room and was looking for the sleeping tablets-without turning on the light, God knows why-when she found someone was in the room. She was about to let out a scream when a ton of bricks landed on her head, and that's all she knows." "It's a fair story, but definitely amateur," Jake said. "Why was she prowling around without any lights?" "Maybe she can see in the dark. Anyway, that's the way she tells it. Venning came in about an hour later." "Did he find her?" "No. The maid went down the hall and saw the door to the room was open. She investigated and found Mrs. Venning on the floor. The burglars had evidently escaped." "Through the chimney, I suppose," Jake said acidly. "You asked for the story and I'm giving it to you without a cent of profit. But that's not all. Pendley Tidewell was under the bed all the time." "Under whose bed?" "Michael Venning's. That wasn't given to the police. Mona refuses to discuss that or let anyone else. Lou-or Louella-White has a headache and looks very grim. Pendley has locked himself in his darkroom and won't come out. He must have gotten better shots of those chorus girls than we thought." She turned to the lawyer. "Malone, what was in that grave in the Rosedale cemetery?" "A coffin that had been there twenty years, and the skeleton of a man who hadn't been embalmed." She gasped. "Then there were three murders?" "He might not have been murdered. There's no way of telling, at this late date." He turned around and walked over to the desk. He was pale and very tired. "There's the key," Jake said, tossing it on the desk. Malone picked it up, looked at it, and tossed it down again. "I don't know what we need it for," he said gloomily. "I know what we'll find." "You mean that you-what the hell do you know?" "I know who committed two-and-a-half murders," Malone said. "I think I know what Mona McClane has to do with it, too." Jake swore angrily and said, "How do you know who committed the murders?" "Because of the weather," Malone said laconically. "What about Mona McClane?" Helene demanded. The little lawyer didn't seem to have heard her. "You'd better forget the whole thing. Jake, you can pick yourself up a job-" "But the bet-" "Call it off," Malone said. "Let justice be done." Jake stared at him for a moment and then burst into an indignant tirade in which only the words, "Bet, Casino, Mona McClane, and murder," were plainly audible. "Shut up," Malone said. "I'm a very tired man." He drew a long breath. "I've just come from talking with Michael Venning's lawyer," he said slowly. "It took a little doing to get anything out of him, but I learned what I wanted to know." He rose, walked to the window, and addressed himself to the roofs outside. "Old man Venning, the present Michael Venning's father, left a crazy will-God knows why people will do these things." "But what-" Helene began, caught herself, and waited for him to go on. "He left the income from the Venning estate, some five million bucks, to his only child. If that child-Michael-died before the age of fifty, his widow was to receive an income of two thousand a year for life. His children, if any-and there are none-two thousand a year for life, and the rest was to go to a collection of hospitals. However, if Michael lived to the age of fifty, the whole shebang was to pass to him, he could spend it, will it to anybody, give it away, or do anything he damn pleased with it. He's fifty today." "What does that have to do with the Tuesdays?" Helene asked. "And Mona McClane?" "Everything." He stared at the key. "It's no go. Call off the bet with Mona McClane and forget the whole thing." "Malone, have you lost your mind?" "No," he said, "but with a little coaxing, I will." Helene sat down on a corner of the desk and lit a cigarette. "That bet is going to be won," she said firmly. "Do you think we'd give it up now, after all the effort that's been spent-" He looked at her crossly. "Effort? I've spent the past two hours on the long-distance phone, learning the past history of the Tuesdays. It'll take me ten years to work out the telephone bill. And now that I have all the information together, I say the hell with it." He sighed heavily. "You may still win your bet with Mona McClane. But you'll have to wait a while to do it." Helene drew a quick breath. "Whom did Mona McClane murder?" Before Malone could answer, the telephone rang. Malone called out, "I'll answer it, Maggie," picked up the receiver, and said, "Hello? Oh, hello, von Flanagan." Sixty seconds later, he said, "I didn't call you because it was three in the morning and I didn't want to disturb you. I've been busy all day. Anyway, there was nothing I could do. When the boy recovers consciousness, he'll tell you who stabbed him." This time there was a three-minute pause. Evidently a short speech on the troubles of a policeman was coming over the wire. At intervals Malone said, "Yes, yes, I know," in an irritated voice. Then suddenly, "Why the hell did you let her out of jail. Yes I know she couldn't have stabbed McLaurin if she was in jail and whoever stabbed him did the other two, but-" A pause, and then, "Who insisted on your letting her go? I'm her lawyer-" A shorter pause, and finally, "All right, damn it, she's out of jail." He hung up. He shoved the key across the table to Jake. "Start on the downtown railway and bus stations. There can't be more than a dozen or so. Take that key and start looking, and work fast. When you find the one numbered 114 that this key fits, take out what you find in the locker and bring it to me at Mona McClane's as fast as you can. Get going, and don't ask questions." Jake started putting on his overcoat. "What about Helene?" "I want her to go on to Mona McClane's with me," the lawyer said. "Come on, this is no time to stand around talking." Halfway down the elevator- he said indignantly, "Damn von Flanagan! Of course he had to let her out of jail, but why the hell did he have to do it right now?" Helene stared at him. "Aren't you glad Lotus is out of jail?" "No," he snapped. "Because of the person who called von Flanagan and insisted on her being freed, and got away with it." He drew a long breath. "There's one crime that I want to prevent and one that I don't want to prevent, and right now I'm afraid there's nothing to do but prevent both of them." He refused to say another word. Chapter Thirty-Two CHICAGO'S FAVORITE SHOW PLACE, the old McClane mansion on Lake Shore Drive, was a blaze of lights. From a little distance it looked like a house on an ornamental Christmas card. The afternoon's heavy snowfall had left great white drifts on the lawn and outlined every cornice and crevice with a soft, pale dusting. The sky was clear now and brilliant with stars. Below it, Lake Shore Drive was digging itself out of the snow. Helene stole a glance at Malone. The little lawyer was gray-faced; indeed, he seemed close to exhaustion. She wished he would tell her what he had in mind, but she knew there was no use in asking questions. Whatever it might be, he was, at the same time, excited about what he was going to do and unhappy over the necessity of doing it. For all the welcoming lights of the McClane mansion, she shivered a little at the sight of it. Something unpleasant was going to happen, and she didn't know what it was. "I wish Jake were here," she said under her breath, just loud enough for Malone to catch. "So do I," the lawyer said grimly. "If Jake doesn't find the right luggage locker and arrive here with the contents in time, the whole show will blow up." They found Mona McClane in the living room, curled up on the chimney seat, her small, pointed chin resting on her fist, staring into the coals. Helene was reminded suddenly of a black kitten crouched by the fire, stretching and curving its paws and blinking at the flames, half hypnotized by them. The room was in semidarkness, the long windows still admitted the faint gray of a Chicago twilight, and only the fireplace and one soft light glowed in the room. Mona McClane rose from her seat by the fireplace to greet them. Her small, triangular face was very pale. "I rather expected you to drop in this afternoon. Lotus has been anxious for a chance to thank you." Then they saw that Lotus Allen had been standing half in the shadow of the curtains, gazing out one of the long windows. She turned around and came over to the fireplace. Her aplomb had not been shaken, but her manner, even her walk and gesture, was not Lotus Allen but Lotus Angelo, the Portuguese girl from a Boston slum, self-educated and self-taught. It was Helene, though, not Malone, who understood the change in her coloring. Lotus Allen had used make-up and heavy powder to subdue the glowing color in her cheeks and the warm brown of her skin. She had been a handsome, well-groomed girl. Now Lotus Angelo, bright-cheeked and bright-lipped, was a colorful beauty. "We're all so relieved that Lotus is out of this mess," Mona McClane said smiling. Malone didn't smile in return. "She might have been safer in jail." "What do you mean?" Lotus demanded. "I came here," Malone said, addressing Mona McClane, "to make sure that you wouldn't find this girl tonight, the victim, perhaps, of a carefully arranged suicide-or of another burglar. Because the person who murdered two men, and almost made it three, isn't going to take any chances." He paused. "It might be Lotus, or it might be someone else-" Mona McClane's face was almost dead white. "I wouldn't like to see that happen." "I didn't think you would," Malone said. He stood looking into the fireplace. "I understand your motive, of course. I even sympathize with it. But, unfortunately, in this world only the police department can assume the prerogatives of divine justice." Helene said, "Malone, what is it all about?" It was almost a cry. No one answered her. No one seemed to hear her. Mona McClane turned to the brown-eyed girl and said, "Lotus dear, will you run up and ask the Vennings to drop down for a cocktail? Tell them Malone is here. You'd better ask Pendley down, too." After the girl had gone, Malone said, "I'd like to send a note to Louella White, too, if I may." He scribbled something on the back of an envelope and handed it to the maid. "For Miss White." Mona McClane looked at him. "Lotus told me all about herself. The whole story. As though I hadn't known it all the time." "You knew it?" Malone said, his eyebrows up. "Of course I did. Old Mrs. Abbot told me all about it before she died, when she and Lotus were in Paris. That's why I've tried to keep an eye on the girl, she deserves it." "It was good of you," Malone murmured. She said sharply, "After all, the McClanes came over in the steerage, too." She rose and stood before the fireplace, her hands thrust deep in the huge side pockets of her black wool dress. "In the steerage, but one of the best boats." Helene said almost desperately, "Malone, I can't wait any longer. While the three of us are alone here, tell me-" She was interrupted by the return of Lotus. The Vennings were only a few steps behind her. Michael Venning was in tweeds and held a pipe in one hand. Helene thought to complete the picture he should have had a thoroughbred setter prowling at his heels. Editha Venning showed no signs of her experience of the night before and wore a show of outward calm, but the light in her eyes was almost a glitter, and two spots of color burned high on her cheeks. "Pendley will be down in a minute," Lotus said. Malone glanced at his watch again. He wondered if he ought to stall for time until Jake arrived. "Tea?" Mona McClane asked politely, "or cocktails." Only Lotus took tea. "How is young Ross McLaurin getting along?" Editha Venning asked. There was a faint, fluttering overtone in her voice. "He's improving," Malone told her. "I hope he's the last. There seems to have been something of an epidemic." This is it, Helene told herself. She wondered how everyone could be so calm. Damn Jake, for not getting here before this. "The only way to stop an epidemic," Malone added very quietly, "is to trace the carrier of the infection, and remove it." No one spoke. Suddenly he set his cocktail glass down hard, rose, and kicked at the firelog. "I don't know what the devil I'm doing this for," he said almost angrily. "This isn't my role. I'm going against my own interests when I prevent a crime. My business is to wait until the crime has been committed and the police have done their work. Then I have myself a client, a trial, an acquittal, and a fee. That's how it's supposed to work." He wheeled around to face them. "Just the same, I've got to prevent this crime. I can't let her do it." He looked hard at Michael Venning. "You know, of course, that she's planned to kill you, don't you?" Michael Venning jumped up, dropping his glass. "I don't believe it." "It's true," Malone said wearily. He gestured at the big man who sat down again, sitting very straight on the edge of his chair. "She planned to, but it can't happen this way." Editha Venning said, "You must be insane!" in a hoarse, strained voice, and suddenly was quiet. Malone didn't seem to have heard her. Before he could say another word, Pendley Tidewell came racing down the stairs and paused in the doorway, a small strip of pictures in his hand. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "It worked! Aunt Editha, it shows-" he paused. "What the hell is the matter with everybody?" "I think I know what those pictures show," Malone said calmly. "Just hold on to them for a minute." He added, "You must have taken them with an ultraviolet light." "I did," Pendley said. "But how did you know?" "I guessed," the lawyer told him. "There had to be some reason why you were under Michael Venning's bed last night. Only you didn't know what you were going to get in the way of a picture-or did you?" For a moment he stared hard at the young man. Then he mopped his brow. "It might have been better," Malone said slowly, "if I'd never been drawn into this. It might have been better if I hadn't been in Joe the Angel's bar the night when Gerald Tuesday was stabbed." He paused. "Gerald Tuesday-but not the same Gerald Tuesday who murdered Michael Venning." "Malone, have you gone mad?" Helene exclaimed. "For God's sake," Lotus Allen said almost harshly, "tell us what you mean." "Do you know what you mean?" Pendley Tidewell demanded. Mona McClane said nothing. She sat looking away from the group as though she were not really a member of it, but only happened to be there. Malone reached in his pocket and drew out a folded document. "That's a copy of the will of the late Michael Venning, Senior," he said. "I imagine that everyone concerned here knows its contents." He looked at Mona McClane. "Yes, you were justified. Five million dollars is enough of a stake to be worth making a determined play for." He stole another glance at his watch. If Jake didn't get here- Lotus said, "Do you mean Gerald Tuesday murdered that Michael Venning?" Malone shook his head. "No. His son. Michael Venning, Junior-for whom a grave was prepared in a desolate corner of the old Venning estate in-" A cry from Helene and a sudden movement interrupted him. There was a moment of insane confusion in which one of the party darted across the room, threw open one of the French windows, and vanished through it into the twilight. Before Malone could move, Mona McClane cried out, "Stop it, you fool!" She ran toward the window. "Stop it! He isn't going to-" The rest was lost as she leaped out onto the terrace. Helene was only a few steps behind. Malone made a sudden dive for her, missed, and followed. He was dimly aware that the others of the party were right behind him, but it was happening too quickly for him to see everything that was going on. Helene screamed, "No!" and ran out onto the terrace. He followed her, almost blindly. In the semidarkness it was hard to distinguish the figures that moved across the McClane lawn. One was halfway to the side gate; that, he knew, must be the fugitive. A smaller figure, Mona McClane, was following. Helene was running down the steps from the terrace. A burly, gray-suited man had appeared at the front door, grabbed Editha Venning, and held her back from going out to the lawn. At the same instant, a taxicab stopped before the gate and a tall, red-haired man alighted, a large envelope under his arm. He came through the gate and stopped still for a moment. In the twilight,- a shot rang out. It came from the fugitive, missed Mona McClane. Helene screamed as the bullet whizzed narrowly past her ear. Suddenly the red-haired man came to life. Dropping the envelope in the snow, he raced across the lawn in the direction of Helene. There was another shot. It came from the little gun in Mona McClane's hand. The fugitive staggered, took two more steps, and pitched forward into the snow. Mona McClane stood motionless, in the snow and the deepening shadows, the gun still in her hand. Malone walked over to her and took it, very gently, from her unresisting fingers. "You're a damned good shot," he said quietly. Jake put an arm around Helene's waist and held her very tight. Suddenly Mona McClane smiled at them. "I said- in the public streets, with plenty of witnesses, didn't I. But I didn't really intend that you should be the witnesses!" Chapter Thirty-Three "AS PRETTY A CASE of self-defense as I ever saw," Malone said. "According to you, it always is," von Flanagan said. Malone sighed. "All murder is a form of self-defense, if you'll stop to think about it. But in this case- I don't think there's any possible doubt. All of us"- he made a sweeping gesture that included everyone in Mona McClane's living room- "saw him shoot at her first." "His bullet bent my permanent wave the wrong way," Helene said complainingly. The police officer sipped suspiciously at the drink Mona McClane's maid had offered him. "Just the same, I'd like to know if Mrs. McClane always carries a gun around in her dress pocket, or if this was some kind of special occasion." "Only when she wears a dress with pockets," Malone snapped. "Usually she tucks it into her stocking." He reached for a cigar. "Be reasonable. You've got the whole case cleared up. What the hell more do you want, a newsreel and Mickey Mouse? You might be nervous enough to pack a gun too, if one of your house guests had been murdered and another damn near it." "I was only asking," von Flanagan grumbled. "What did this Venning guy want to go murdering people for, with all the dough he had?" "Money isn't the only reason for murder," Malone said. "No, but it's the best one I know," the police officer said. "What the hell-pardon me, Mrs. McClane-what's it all about, anyway, Malone?" "Venning got into some shenanigans in the Orient," the lawyer said rapidly. "That's right, isn't it, Mrs. Venning? Yes, I thought so. You know, von Flanagan. The effect the tropics have on some people. The Tuesday brothers got onto it and were blackmailing him." Helene stole a glance at Editha Venning. She was pale, but perfectly composed. The glittering light had gone from her eyes. "On New Year's Eve," Malone went on, "Venning spotted the younger of the two in the Dome at the Sherman Hotel. He figured that New Year's, with everybody a little hazy anyway, would be a swell time for a homicide. So he left the party for a short time-am I correct about that, Mrs. McClane?" Mona McClane nodded and said, "Yes. For half an hour or so. Of course, in a party like that, you don't pay much attention-people wander away and come back pretty much as they want to. But he was gone about that long. He got back just as the twelve o'clock whistles blew." "That would make it," Malone said. "Venning spotted this guy in the Dome about eleven-thirty. That was no place for a nice quiet stabbing, so he trailed him to two or three other bars and finally caught up with him in an alley somewhere-we'll never know exactly where it was-ran a knife into him, wiped off the knife, stuck it back in his jeans, and returned to the Panther Room as good as new. He couldn't have figured the guy would be tough enough to walk a block or two with a hole in his back." He paused to light his cigar, observed a thoughtful look beginning to form in von Flanagan's eyes, and spoke rapidly. "Tuesday probably fell when he was stabbed and got up again. There was mud on his knees and elbows, you remember. While he was down, Venning went through his pockets for incriminating papers. He didn't have much time and just carried away everything. That's why there was no identification on the body when it was found." The thoughtful look was deepening in the police officer's eyes. "Then," Malone went on, not daring to pause for breath, "the other Tuesday wangled an invitation to Mona McClane's through a previous acquaintance with her. It must have been a nasty shock to Venning to find him moved in here, but he didn't lose any time. Tuesday had only been here a few hours when he was murdered." Whatever von Flanagan had been thinking about, he forgot it. "But look here," he said indignantly, "Venning was out walking when that guy was murdered. You heard him come in yourself." Everyone looked hopefully at Malone. "I heard him come in the second time," Malone said, rolling his cigar in his fingers. He turned to Editha Venning. "He left you for a few minutes while you were outside, didn't he?" She nodded. "Just before we came in. He wanted to run up to the drugstore for something, so I waited for him on the corner." "He didn't go to the drugstore," Malone told her. "He came back here, entered by the side door with the house key Mona McClane gives all her guests, went up the stairs, murdered the second Tuesday, went out again by the side door, met you, and came back to the house again with you. That's when you were caught in the rain. You were outside waiting for him when that sudden rainfall came down. Your coat was ruined-I heard Mona McClane speaking of it. But he didn't get rained on at all. He walked into the room before taking off his hat and coat-and the feather in his hat was a dead giveaway. It wasn't even moist." He turned to von Flanagan. "That rainfall came down during the only time Tuesday could have been killed," he said, "between the time when Helene went past his door and saw him alive and when we all went upstairs and found him dead. I checked the time with the weather bureau." Jake said suddenly, "Oh, that's what you were doing when you called up the weather bureau that night. I thought you'd lost your mind." Malone sniffed. "You might have had a little more confidence in me," he said stiffly. "But why did he try to murder this McLaurin?" von Flanagan demanded suddenly. "Where does that fit in." "He was afraid McLaurin might have seen him come upstairs the afternoon of the second murder," Malone said. "He couldn't know for sure, but he wasn't taking any chances." Von Flanagan shook his head. "He was a regular one-man crime wave." Suddenly he remembered the presence of the widow, his face sobered, and he said, "Pardon me, Mrs. Venning," in a respectful tone. "Well, a blackmailer usually deserves the worst he can get. Blackmail-if you ask my opinion-that's criminal!" "So is murder," Malone murmured, "in its way." The police officer either didn't hear or ignored him. "One thing more, Mrs. Venning. What were these men blackmailing your husband about? What had he been up to?" There was a moment's anxious silence in the room. Editha Venning's immense eyes grew shadowy. Her lips quivered. "It was-really, just the usual sort of thing. The Orient-women-" She bit her lip. "Opium- Oh please, can't it be forgotten? The Venning name is so-well known-there really isn't any use in-dragging all that up for the public-" Malone thanked heaven for a woman who could think fast, and said, "She's right, von Flanagan. This is a murder case, not blackmail. As long as you know who killed the two Tuesdays, the case is closed. Let's just let lying dogs sleep." Before von Flanagan could say anything, he added, "Venning tried to protect his wife. He even hired a bodyguard to keep these men away from her. That's correct isn't it, Lou White?" The burly man in the rather tight gray suit met Malone's eyes for an instant. "Yes," he said. "That's right." "You see?" Malone said to the police officer. "If you don't believe me, you have Lou White's word for it, and he's a licensed private detective of the state of New York." He saw the thoughtful look beginning to form again in von Flanagan's eyes and said quickly, "You owe a great debt of gratitude to Mrs. McClane. If it wasn't for her, you'd be out chasing a murderer right now, with a good chance of having pot shots taken at the men on your staff." The police officer beamed suddenly. "I'm sure grateful, ma'am. And I wonder-there's a bunch of newspaper guys waiting outside-if you would mind having your picture taken with me-maybe showing me the gun you done it with-" "I'd be delighted," Mona McClane said, rising to the occasion. "By all means, let's have in the press." At that, Pendley Tidewell uncoiled himself from the big chair in the back of the room like a serpent coming out of a magician's basket. "If there's going to be any pictures taken-" he began hopefully. The old McClane mansion on Lake Shore Drive hadn't seen so many photographers together since the time twelve years ago when Mona McClane had run (unsuccessfully) for Congress. When the excitement was all over, von Flanagan was the last to leave. There had been a puzzled frown on his face for the past five minutes, as though he were trying hard to remember something that had slipped his mind. "You'll all have to appear at the inquest, of course," he said in a faraway tone. For a moment he was silent, rubbing one ear. Then suddenly he scowled heavily at Malone. "That's all very well," he said indignantly, "but you still haven't told me why that guy was looking for you the night he came into Joe the Angel's bar and fell over dead." "Oh, that," the little lawyer said, as though it was so unimportant he had forgotten it. "At first, Venning decided to deal with the Tuesdays. He intended to have me act for him, and told them so. He didn't know any Chicago lawyers except those connected with the Venning estate, and Mrs. McClane had mentioned me." He paused to relight his cigar. "The first Tuesday didn't want to lose any time getting negotiations under way, so he decided to look me up himself and start the ball rolling. He found out what bars I usually frequent, and went out hunting for me. Venning ran into him in the midst of it. That's why Venning knew he had to act fast, that very night, in fact." Von Flanagan thought that over for a few minutes before he said, "Oh." After he had gone, the room was quiet for a little while. At last Malone shook his head. "I think of everything. I don't know how I do it." Suddenly he grinned at Lou White. "I liked you better with the wig on. Where the hell did you ever learn to knit?" The stocky, bald-headed man glared at him. "I never liked a job less in my life. Believe me, I was glad when the maid brought your note up to me, saying the game was up and I'd better switch back to my regular clothes." Helene reached for Jake's hand and held it tight. Editha Venning rose to her feet unexpectedly. "But he believed all that! He believed every word of it!" "Sure," Malone said. "It'll go down in the records that way. Officially, justice has been done, and the case is closed." He paused, and added admiringly, "I can twist my little finger around von Flanagan, just like that." She stared at him. "What made you do it?" She drew a long, almost sobbing breath. "Why didn't you tell him the truth?" Malone laid down his cigar very slowly and deliberately. "And do you out of five million bucks?" His voice was halfway between indignation and incredulity. "That would be unethical! What the hell kind of a lawyer do you think you've got?" Chapter Thirty-Four THE BIG ROOM WAS DEATHLY still. Darkness had fallen outside, but only the fireplace and the one soft lamp lighted the faces of the little group around the fireplace. Editha Venning was very calm now. There was no trace of tears in either her eyes or her voice. "How much of the truth do you know?" she asked softly. "All of it," Malone said. "Beginning with the murder of Michael Venning by Gerald Tuesday." "Listen, damn you," Jake said indignantly. "You're losing your mind. It was Venning who murdered Tuesday." The lawyer shook his head. "Michael Venning was murdered years ago. The man in the room tonight was Gerald Tuesday." The red-haired man stirred uneasily. "I'll believe in one Gerald Tuesday," he said. "I'll stretch a point and believe in two. But I'm triple-damned if I'll believe in three." "There were three Tuesdays," Malone told him, "only one Gerald. The other two were Gordon and George." He turned to Editha Venning. "Correct me if I make any mistakes. I had to dig up a lot of facts in a hurry." He lit a cigar and sat watching the smoke curl toward the lamp. "The three Tuesdays came from Elk-hart, Indiana. They were daring, enterprising men, all of them great opportunists. About 1919 they went to the Orient and engaged in various commercial enterprises there, not all strictly honest. That I learned from a News reporter who was out in the Orient in those years. Michael Venning was there, with his young wife, planning to stay a year or so. As far as the world knew, he stayed twenty years." "He was murdered?" Helene asked in a whisper. "They told me it wasn't murder," Editha Venning said. Her voice was very low. "They told me it was an accident. It must have been." She drew a long, sighing breath. "Michael and the Tuesdays became acquainted in Singapore, and Michael consented to back them in an importing business. It was a matter of a hundred thousand dollars. At the time I rather suspected Michael was being taken in, but it was his affair." "He came back here with Gerald Tuesday in 1921, didn't he?" Malone said. It was more of a statement than a question. She nodded. "You know how Michael's money was tied up by the will. He had to come all the way back here to deal with the trustees. Gerald came with him. I stayed in Singapore. It was a flying trip-not half a dozen people knew about it. Then I got a cable saying Michael was returning. Just that, no more. Later there was another cable, asking me to meet him in Tokyo. I went there and when his boat docked-it was Gerald Tuesday who came down the gangplank. He told me Michael was dead." Helene gasped, started to speak, and was silent. Jake squeezed her arm gently. "Gerald said-it had been an accident-the day of their arrival. It was summer-they went out to the Venning estate in Maple Park. No one was there but the caretaker. Going up the stairs Michael tripped, fell-and broke his neck. Gerald buried him out there, secretly. Then he took Michael's passport- they looked just enough alike so he could get away with it-practiced writing Michael's signature, and started back to the Orient." Lotus Allen, nee Angelo, gasped. "You mean-he decided to become Michael Venning?" It was Malone who answered. "I said he was a great opportunist. If it really was an accident, not murder, probably that day at the house, with Venning lying dead at the foot of the stairs, he thought it all over. Not only was it true that with Venning dead his chance of the hundred grand to put into his business was gone. But this was a God-given chance to be a millionaire for the rest of his days. No one knew Venning had been in this country, save a very few and unimportant people. He could bury Venning secretly, impersonate him, and collect the monthly checks from the trustees of the estate without any trouble. All he had to do was stay away from people who knew him or knew Venning." He looked at Editha Venning. "Of course he had Venning's widow to reckon with. But old Venning's will was a powerful argument in his favor." She stared at the fire. "If I'd had any money of my own-but I didn't. That will allowed two thousand a year to Michael's widow as long as she lived. If I had it to do all over again now-" She paused, passed one hand over her eyes, looked up, and said, "I don't know. I might do the same thing." "It was a hard decision," Helene said gently, looking away. Editha Venning sighed faintly. "It was really very simple. For a few years we'd go to places where we were strangers-Australia, Java, Indo-China. In time, Gerald figured, enough people would forget how Michael looked so that when Gerald turned up in his place it would be thought that a few years in the Orient had changed him a little, nothing more. They were about the same height and build and coloring, and not so unlike in appearance." She paused, frowning. "Once I'd agreed, I'd let myself in for it. After that, I couldn't give him away without giving myself away." Mona McClane reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. "It was horrible," the woman said suddenly. Her voice broke only a little. "Not only being an outcast-living in all the faraway places of the world, but he-" She paused again, and Jake could see the muscles tightening in her throat. "He was pretty bad." "I rather imagined so," Malone said quietly. She went on, "There was always the business of dodging people who'd known Michael. When people like that came to wherever we were, he would be away on a hunting trip, or ill. But we were beginning to be afraid that people would start to wonder, if no one ever saw him." The color began to recede from her cheeks. "Then the war came. We took a chance on coming back here. He felt sure that no one would remember Michael after so long. Mona had seen us in India the year before, and accepted him as Michael Venning, so when Mona's invitation came, we decided to accept it. He felt sure that if Mona introduced him as Michael Venning, and believed he was Michael Venning, everyone else would." Her face was colorless now. "I hated it so over there. I was so lonely, always lonely. I couldn't stand him any longer-" That was when her voice did break. "All right," Malone said gently. "You don't need to talk any more. Let Mona tell it." He knocked the ashes off his cigar. "Or shall I?" Mona McClane lighted a cigarette with white, nervous fingers and sat looking at the end of it. In the dim light her face was pointed, shadowy, a little pale triangle in the darkness. "I planned to kill him," she said simply. "There was no other way. He was the man I meant to murder." Jake and Helene turned their heads to look at each other at exactly the same moment. She said, "I had always been so fond of Editha." That was all. Malone rose and stood leaning one elbow on the corner of the mantel. "She told you the whole story after she came here," he said to Mona McClane. "Michael Venning-the real Michael Venning-would soon have been fifty. If on, or after, that birthdate the man believed to be Michael Venning died, and the truth never came up, not only would Editha Venning's part in the deception never be known, but she would inherit the estate. He had treated her abominably all these years, and he deserved to die." He flicked his ashes into the fireplace. "Besides, he had murdered the real Michael Venning. It wasn't an accident." Jake leaned forward suddenly. "But that bet-when you made that bet with me-" "I had planned it then," Mona McClane said. "I learned the whole story from Editha very soon after her arrival-Michael wasn't afraid to let Editha talk alone with me. He didn't think she would dare tell the truth to anyone. After all-she couldn't expose him without incriminating herself. After she'd told me the story, I could think of only one thing to do." She smiled at Jake and Helene. "I'd made up my mind the day we got into that insane conversation and the bet came up. The idea amused me. I'd gambled on almost everything else in my life, so why not murder? I didn't really mean to interfere with your honeymoon, either. You were expected back in Chicago by Michael Venning's birthday, and his impersonator had to remain alive until then." She lifted her shoulders delicately. "It would all have gone off according to schedule, if only the other two Tuesdays hadn't complicated everything." Helene looked up suddenly. "That's right. Where were they, all this time their brother was impersonating Michael Venning?" "Traveling around the world, living on the fat of the land," Malone said. "Gerald split with them, because they knew the truth. But when he came back here he decided to cut them out. There already was a grave in Rosedale cemetery with a stone marked 'Gerald Tuesday' and the dates. The grave was empty-probably because he didn't have a chance to put Michael Venning's body in it. The body stayed in that grave out in Maple Park all those years. But his first act when he came back was to transfer it." "But," Helene said, and paused. "What was the idea of the gravestone in the first place?" "There had to be some way to account for the fact that two men came here from the Orient and only one went back," Malone said. "When Gerald Tuesday decided to become Michael Venning, he put up a stone marking the death of Gerald Tuesday." He paused to relight his cigar. "He figured that once he'd gotten Chicagoans who'd known the real Michael Venning to accept him, and reburied the real Michael's bones in the Rosedale grave, his brothers wouldn't dare yelp. But he didn't know their persistence." He looked at Mona. "How much did you help them?" "I sent them to you," Mona said, "with the proof." She stopped suddenly. "Where is it now?" "I'm sitting on it," Jake said unexpectedly. He pulled the big manila envelope out from under him and handed it to Malone. "Baggage locker 114, in the State Street bus depot." Malone drew out a small handful of letters, faded and yellowed around the edges, and glanced through them hurriedly. "This would have done it," he said quietly. He handed them to Jake and Helene. "Letters to George Tuesday, who was in Singapore at the time the real Michael Venning and Gerald came over here. Some are from Venning, discussing arrangements of the business they were to go into and referring to the fact that Gerald was with him. One-I didn't read it closely but I gathered enough-is from Gerald, hinting that a more satisfactory arrangement would be made and asking George to stay in Singapore to handle things there. The final clincher is a letter written after Venning's death in which Gerald asked George to pave the way for his return to the Orient in his new character of Michael Venning." Mona McClane said, "The man we knew as Gerald Tuesday came here asking for Mr. Venning. He was out. When the man said his name was Gerald Tuesday, I called him in and told him that I knew the truth. I advised him to put his proof in a safe place and go to you to act as intermediary. I knew that if Venning-the false Venning-discovered that his brother were here, there would be murder done. Then the police would be called in, everything would come out-you see? But I thought that if you had been drawn into the affair, you could handle anything that came up." "Thanks," Malone said. The tips of his ears were pink. "The other Tuesday-the one who was killed first-went out looking for you. By the way, I was telling the truth when I said I never saw him before. I only saw the one we knew as Gerald. New Year's Eve, Venning-I can't think to call him anything else-saw his brother and trailed him." "Yes, it must have been that way," Malone said. "He trailed the first Tuesday to some lonely spot in an alley and stabbed him. Then Tuesday lived just long enough to find me and give me that key. The second Tuesday's dying act was to try to telephone me. They wanted me to find that locker and its contents, and avenge their deaths. They were a hardy bunch, those boys." "After New Year's Eve," Mona McClane went on, "the man I knew as Gerald Tuesday came to me, to blackmail his way into my house. He knew, then, that I was trying to protect Editha, and he threatened to tell the whole story to the police. I warned him that the false Venning had done one murder and wouldn't hesitate at a second-but he said he'd take his chance on that. Well, he took it." Malone said, "You had some other reason, too. You can't tell me you can be blackmailed that easy." She smiled faintly. "I thought that if Tuesday carried out his plan and came here, his brother would murder him. That might give me the opportunity to carry out my plans that it did give me-today." "It turned but all right in the end, anyway," Malone said gently. "Well, that does it up. The murders of the first and second Tuesdays-the attempted murder of young McLaurin because the murderer feared he knew the truth-the open grave." He relit his cigar. "The false Venning's first move when he arrived here was probably to dig up the remains of the real Michael Venning and dispose of them." He smiled at Editha Venning. "You gave Jake a bad moment when you turned up looking for the grave." "Somebody else gave me a much worse moment," said Jake. "That must have been Michael Venning the Second shooting at me out in the woods. Or was he just having a little quiet target practice?" Editha smiled wanly. "I was so relieved to see you out there. I was sure Michael had followed me. You were protection. I hadn't realized how desperate he was. He must have thought the open grave would be a dead giveaway." Jake sighed. "I guess I've lost my most appreciative audience, the only person who ever thought I was a mastermind." Mona McClane said, "Let's all have a drink." Malone looked at the letters in his hand. "I don't think we need these any longer," he said. He laid them in the fire. A brilliant blaze lighted the room and died down again. The little lawyer looked up at Pendley Tidewell. "You'd better give me that picture, too-the one you took in Venning's room last night. Where were you, anyway?" "Under the bed," the young man said meekly. "I'd been trying to get a picture of him ever since he got here. Yesterday I got one of those lamps and rigged it up in his room and hid there. I figured I could get a picture of him without his knowing it. Then Aunt Editha came in and began prowling around. I took one of her, and just then he came out of the wardrobe and bopped her one and ducked out the door and down that side stairway. But I got a couple of pictures of him." "If we'd needed any proof-" Malone, said. He sighed. "Toss them in the fireplace, son." Pendley Tidewell seemed on the verge of tears. "But gosh. They're the first good pictures I ever took." Jake said, "Never mind. I'll fix it so you can get a candid-camera shot of Mayor Kelly. You never had a chance to photograph a mayor before." A second blaze sprang up in the fireplace. "What were you looking for in that room?" Malone asked Editha Venning. "Not that it matters now." "I knew Michael-Gerald-had murdered his brothers. I figured he must have gotten back the proof they had of the deception. So when I thought he was going to be away last night, I doped Miss White-Mr. White-and went to search the room. But he suspected something was up, and got there ahead of me." "A good thing you did," Jake said. "He evidently planned to go out to Maple Park and fill in the grave where he'd so conveniently placed Ross McLaurin. If you hadn't delayed him, we might have had to shoot it out with him right then and there, and the only weapon we had was a bottle of rye." "That reminds me," Malone said. "Lou White-am I right that Venning engaged him when you got to this country, to keep an eye on you, just in case, without telling him what it was all about?" Editha Venning nodded. "I don't know what he told White-but it wasn't the truth." "O.K.," the lawyer said. "I warned White to tell the police exactly what I told him, and he's doing it now. I threatened that if he didn't, I'd tell every private dick in New York that Lou White knew how to knit." There was a brief and pleasant confusion around the cocktail table. In the midst of it the maid suddenly appeared and announced, "The hospital just called. Mr. McLaurin is conscious and asking for Miss Allen." Lotus Allen, nee Angelo, said "Thank you," and was out of the room almost before the sound of her voice had died away. A light came into Mona McClane's eyes. "It's going to be fun. There hasn't been a wedding in the house in years." She paused, smiled. "Though there does seem to have been everything else!" Chapter Thirty-Five "MURDER IS A FORM OF SELF-DEFENSE," Malone said dreamily. "People defend themselves against other things than death. Murder is a defense against some condition that has become intolerable. In the case of the murder of Michael Venning, twenty years ago, Tuesday was defending himself against the intolerable condition of not having five million dollars. When he murdered his two brothers and attempted to murder Ross McLaurin, he was defending himself against the intolerable condition of losing five million dollars that was within his grasp. When Mona McClane murdered him tonight-" He paused, and realized that his audience was paying no attention, was not, in fact, even hearing him. He sighed deeply and called, "Joe! Three more of the same." They were sitting in Joe the Angel's City Hall Bar. The preceding hours had been spent moving Helene's luggage from Mona McClane's to the apartment Jake had been living in alone. Now Jake and Helene were just sitting, looking at each other. Malone cleared his throat. "Self-defense-" he began. Helene looked up suddenly. "Damn you, Malone. Everything is not explained. I want to know which Tuesday was which. Was Gerald Gordon, or was Gordon George, or was- Oh hell, Malone, straighten it out or I won't be able to sleep for weeks." The little lawyer drew a long breath. "Who cares, now?" "I do," she said firmly. "There were two reasons," Malone said. "The first was explained in the note I found at the time of the second murder." He drew it from his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully. "No one can pin a crime on a man who's been dead for twenty years." "Evidently," Malone said, "that was part of a note he was writing to his brother-the false Michael Venning. When the two brothers came to Chicago, they must have decided to assume the name of a man who had-presumably-been dead for over twenty years. Then the false Venning couldn't call any attention to them-without also calling attention to that tombstone out in Rosedale cemetery. There was a second reason, too. They must have figured that if two men turned up, calling themselves Gerald Tuesday, it would scare the real Gerald Tuesday into doing what they demanded. Do I make myself clear?" "Not very," she said, "but it'll do." Malone cleared his throat. "All murder-" he began again. Jake said, "Say, have you got any money?" The little lawyer felt in his pockets, produced two crumpled one-dollar bills and a handful of small change. Helene dumped ninety cents in nickels and dimes out of her handbag. Jake dug up three dollars and a half. "Hell," Malone said, "we're rich. Besides, my credit is good with Joe the Angel, and from now on I'm in the bucks." "What do you mean, you're in the bucks?" "Wait till you see the bills I'm sending Mona McClane and Editha Venning for legal services." Jake muttered something under his breath. "Blackmail is a nasty word," Malone said indignantly. "Besides, I earned every nickel of it." "They'll agree with you, too," Helene said. The dreamy look came into Malone's eyes again. "She was justified, if anyone ever was," he began. "Mona McClane was not only defending herself against bullets when she killed him, but against the intolerable condition of-" He paused and saw that his audience had tuned him out again. He sighed once more. He could foresee exactly how the evening was going to end. Jake and Helene would go home, leaving him alone. He was going to be drawn into conversation with some of the men at the bar. People would start buying drinks for each other. He would borrow twenty bucks from Joe the Angel. He would assist in an impromptu quartette arrangement of There's a Little Bit of Heaven, after which no one could stop him from reciting the "Elegy for Robert Emmet." He and his new-found friends, none of whom he would remember later, would move to a number of other bars, ending up in some obscure place, probably in Cicero. There would be a fight, and he would get the collar torn off his shirt by some perfect stranger from St. Louis, and he would end up either jailed for disorderly conduct or waking up in some woman's apartment that would turn out to be a forty-five-minute train ride from the Loop. He knew the night was going to end that way because that was the way it always did. Before all that started happening, there was one thing still to be done. He reached in his pocket and drew out the long white envelope Mona McClane had given him just before they left the house and gave it to Jake. Jake took his hand off Helene's warm shoulder just long enough to open it. It was the deed to the Casino.

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