The Fourth Postman

Craig Rice

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

To the anonymous postman who brought me the postcards from Fred Dannay which inspired this story.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

CAPTAIN DANIEL VON FLANAGAN, of Homicide, who hadn’t wanted to be a policeman in the first place and whose life is made difficult by the methodical murder of postmen

JOHN J. MALONE, fast-talking criminal lawyer, chronically short of funds, who gets involved in detective work

MAGGIE, his long-suffering secretary

RODNEY FAIRFAXX, gentle and wealthy eccentric, still expecting a letter from his sweetheart, lost at sea more than thirty years ago

BRIDIE, the tearful Fairfaxx maid

KENNETH FAIRFAXX, Rodney’s nephew and an heir to his fortune, who is up to his neck in woman-trouble

ELIZABETH FAIRFAXX, Rodney’s beautiful niece, who has a motive for the crime

VIOLET, faded and silent housekeeper of the Fairfaxx ménage, who reminds Malone of someone he has seen before

A STRAY MUTT, looking for a home

HELENE JUSTUS, who snarls up activities and insists that her friends the Fairfaxxes couldn’t have done it

JAKE JUSTUS, Helene’s husband, who comes down with a spectacular case of the chicken pox and makes a find

MRS. ABBY LACY, neighbor of the Fairfaxxes, who’s unpleasant and knows it

GAY LACY, her homely daughter, engaged to Kenneth Fairfaxx

UNCLE ERNIE FAIRFAXX, who has information to impart and is hit by a brick wall

GLIDA, irrepressible mother of six twins

DR. MCSMITH, irate physician, who turns up on the most convenient occasions

BOB ALLEN, seedy-looking actor, on whom Elizabeth Fairfaxx is sweet

HUNTLEIGH, the Lacy butler, who could make a living as Boris Karloff’s stand-in and whose devotion knows no bounds

1

The sound of a dead body falling is like no other sound on earth, as any effects technician who has tried to create it in a radio studio will tell you. (Effects men differ, sometimes angrily, as to whether it should be a bumping sound, a plopping one, or a dull thud.)

Actually, it is all of those in one, and more. It is incredibly soft, unless the body has fallen a great distance. It is accompanied by a curious little sigh, as of the last breath leaving the body. It is, unmistakably and unforgettably, the sound of a man dying.

The killer waited, weapon in hand, and thought about the sound. It had become a familiar one. This would be the third time.

In the house nearby, a clock chimed ten. The killer stiffened, every nerve alert. It would be a matter of minutes, now. The victim, unaware of what was waiting for him, was on his way up the street, probably whistling.

A sudden pang of pity brought an almost anguished groan from the killer’s throat. Poor old man, he’d never harmed anybody in his life. No doubt he had a wife and family. Grandchildren, too, most likely. Probably lived in a modest bungalow somewhere in the suburbs, had a few cronies in for beer on Saturday nights, and went to church Sunday morning. Undoubtedly he looked forward to retiring on his pension, and raising chickens or rabbits in the back yard.

Perhaps—no, there could be no turning back. Once engaged in so difficult and dangerous a business as murder, one had to go on with it.

And there would, inevitably, be other murders in the days ahead.

There it was, the cheerful, mid-morning whistle. “Rose-Marie—I love you—” The killer’s eyes closed for a moment, and saw the imagined victim. A short, stocky man, past middle age, with thick gray hair under his cap, and plump, rosy cheeks. A man who whistled on his way up the street, and whose footsteps were brisk as they came along the walk.

For one last moment the killer speculated as to what the victim’s name might be.

A man who loved his wife, children and grandchildren, who had a few friends in for beer on Saturday night, who shepherded his family to church on Sunday morning and probably passed the collection plate, who had only a few more payments to make on his tiny suburban bungalow, in which he had great pride, and who planned to raise chickens or rabbits when he retired on his pension.…

The cheerful whistle was drawing near.

The killer’s hands tightened on the weapon.

At least, death would be quick and practically painless.

There was one blow, perfectly aimed.

And then that sound again, the soft sound, with the faint, expiring sigh.

2

“Can you imagine anybody,” Captain Daniel von Flanagan said, “going around murdering postmen?”

“Easily,” John J. Malone told him. He added, thoughtfully, “Particularly around the first of the month.”

Captain von Flanagan, of the Homicide Bureau, laughed heartily, too heartily, and ordered a couple more drinks. “When the first one got bumped off,” he said, “we figured it was somebody had some personal grudge against him. After all, even a postman has to have a private life. And then when the second one came along, I didn’t pay as much attention as I might of, on account of being busy with those racket murders and the girl ghost.* You remember.”

Malone nodded. He remembered entirely too well. In fact, he was engaged at present in trying to forget it.

“But,” von Flanagan finished, “when the third postman gets killed, and all three of them in the same territory, I begin to get suspicious.”

The little Irish lawyer sighed and rested his elbows on the polished surface of Joe the Angel’s City Hall bar. He suspected that the big police officer was angling for some free advice, even some free detective work. He was one hundred per cent right. He had already made up his mind that he would have nothing to do with the affair. There, he was one hundred per cent mistaken.

“Why the hell,” von Flanagan said, getting back to his original theme, “would anybody want to murder a postman?”

Malone didn’t know, and in spite of his present state of mind, he was intrigued. He could imagine anybody wanting to murder a policeman, or a bank teller, or a chorus girl, or a millionaire, maybe even a lawyer. But a postman—no. Not, at least, in his official capacity as a postman.

“Robbery?” he suggested at last.

Von Flanagan shook his head. “Nothing none of those guys carried had been touched,” he said. “Nothing had been stolen.” He scowled into his gin-and-ginger ale. “All three of these guys were killed in the same place, and in the same way, and at the same time of day,” he said. “A very swell neighborhood, too.”

It seemed to offend him a little that murder should take place in a very swell neighborhood.

“They have a regular route they all follow,” he went on, gloomily. “Four big houses in one block. One vacant. Then they go up an alley between two of the houses. That saves half a block’s walking getting to the next house. It was in the alley they got killed. Clubbed, every one of them. Hit square on the head. We never found the club yet.”

He drew a long, profane-sounding breath. “A gun you can trace, maybe. Knives, too, sometimes. But a club or a blackjack is the very devil of a thing to find.” He sat silent for a moment. “Damn it all,” he said at last, “why do people have to go out of their way to make things hard for me?”

Malone didn’t know that, either, and didn’t especially care. He was mostly concerned with whether or not von Flanagan was going to pay for the drinks. He was cherishing the crumpled five-dollar bill in his pants pocket in the hopes of considerably enlarging it that night in a poker game. And Joe the Angel had extended about all the credit that could reasonably be expected. On the other hand, if von Flanagan did pick up the check, there would be a certain moral obligation to give a little advice in this matter of the three murdered postmen.

“I never wanted to be a cop,” von Flanagan said, mournfully, “and most of all I never wanted to get promoted to the homicide squad. Now on top of that, why do people deliberately try to make my job worse than it is already?” He had a profound conviction that murderers attempted to conceal the evidence of their crimes as a personal affront to himself.

“Well, anyway,” he said at last, “we’re gonna go pick up this guy. He must of done it. Bring us a couple more, Joe. He’s a cracked old bird. His sweetie went off on a boat someplace about thirty years ago—the Titanic, I guess it was—anyway, it got sunk and she got drowned. Only he thinks she’s still a tourist over in England and she’s gonna write to him. So every day he goes down and asks the postman, does he have a letter from her. I figure he must of decided the postmen were holding out on him, so he bops them on the head, one after another. The post office is having a hell of a time getting guys to take that route.”

“Sure,” Malone said, with forced enthusiasm. “That’s the way it must have been. You’ve got your murderer, with a motive for murdering nobody but postmen, so what are you worrying for, and bothering me?” He knew why. He knew that for some reason, not yet confided, von Flanagan wasn’t sure of his case.

“Well, you see,” the police officer said, “this guy ain’t got no lawyer yet, so I thought maybe you’d like to come along. Hell, I’m just trying to do you a favor.”

Malone sat up straight. The office rent was due again, not this month’s, but last month’s. Maggie, his secretary, was beginning to look decidedly wistful about her salary. And he couldn’t really depend on that poker game tonight. Here appeared to be a ready-made client. “Tell me,” he said, “has this guy got any money?”

“Money!” von Flanagan exploded. “He’s got half the money in Chicago. This guy is Mr. Fairfaxx. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx.”

Malone downed his drink and bounded to his feet. “Well, then,” he said, “what are we waiting for?”

He rushed to the door, strategically, while von Flanagan paid for the drinks.

There were four houses in a row in the block just east of North State Parkway. On the east corner of the block was a brick wall enclosing a garden belonging to a big house on Astor Place, and between the wall and the last of the three houses was a narrow alley, leading back to the next street south. It was possible to see into the alley from the windows of the house that bordered it, or anyone passing by on the street could see into it. Across the street was another large enclosed garden. The alley was admirably secluded, Malone observed, in case anyone wanted to use it for a murder.

The little lawyer reflected that, swell neighborhood or not the alley was just as littered with rubbish, waste paper empty bottles, tin cans and battle-scarred cats as the far less aristocratic alleys only a mile to the south. He didn’t disapprove of the condition. Indeed, it was a democratic touch which rather pleased him.

“Every one of ’em was lying right there,” von Flanagan said pointing. “Heads stove in. None of ’em ever knew what hit him.”

Malone looked at the spot indicated on the paving. It didn’t tell him much.

“Who found them?” he said at last.

“The post office found the first one,” von Flanagan said. “People farther along his route began calling up and squawking on account of their mail wasn’t delivered yet. And he didn’t get back to the sub-station. So the post office sent out a guy to trace him, and that guy caught up with him, here in the alley. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and he must of lay here an hour, but nobody noticed him. I guess people don’t look into alleys much.”

He shook his head sadly. “Kenneth Fairfaxx, the old guy’s nephew, found the second one. He lives here with his uncle.” Von Flanagan indicated the house next to the alley. “It was a little earlier, about ten-fifteen. The postman usually gets here right at ten. Mr. Kenneth Fairfaxx, he was going to drive downtown; his car was parked in front of the house and he headed into the alley to turn around, and saw the body. And old Mr. Fairfaxx, he says he found the other one. He says he thought he heard a noise, and he looked out of his window, right up there”—he pointed to a small overhanging bay on the second floor. Its curtains were tightly drawn.

Malone looked up at the window, then down at the alley again. “Well,” he said at last, “let’s go in and get him.”

A pleasant-faced, pretty Irish maid opened the door. She looked tired and worried, and her face paled perceptibly when she saw von Flanagan.

“Oh, sir,” she said anxiously, “there hasn’t been another!”

“Nope,” von Flanagan said, “and there won’t be.” He turned to Malone. “This is Bridie. She phoned me when old Mr. Fairfaxx claimed to find the third body.”

Bridie said, “Oh!” Then she said, “I’ll tell Mr. Fairfaxx you’re here,” and fled, leaving them in the big, shadowy hall.

A handsome, young man in light tan tweeds came through the double doorway leading to a big sunlit room, a pipe in his hand. He was short—not much taller than Malone—and slender, but he looked as though he might have useful muscles. A good-looking guy on a small scale, Malone thought. He grinned at von Flanagan and said, “Hullo! You again!”

“Afraid so,” von Flanagan said. He added to Malone, “This is Mr. Kenneth Fairfaxx. He found the second body.” Then to the young man, “This is Mr. Malone. I was able to talk him into—talking with your uncle.”

“Oh, good,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said. He grinned at Malone, and said, “Maybe I ought to have a chat with you first.”

“Maybe you had,” the lawyer said noncommittally.

A tall, beautiful, long-legged girl with tawny hair, a lightly tanned face, and a slight band of freckles across her nose, came into the room from the other side of the room, walking like a young collie. She too said, “Hullo,” to von Flanagan.

The police officer greeted her and introduced her to Malone. “Miss Elizabeth Fairfaxx.”

A tall woman in black was standing unobtrusively behind her. She had a thin face, with deep-set eyes, and stringy hair that was a blond-gray. She vaguely reminded Malone of someone, but he couldn’t think who it was. From her dress and manner, she might have been the housekeeper, or a poverty-stricken unmarried aunt.

“This is Violet, Mr. Malone,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said, as though that explained everything.

Violet acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx cleared things up by adding, “Violet’s been our housekeeper for years.” She held out a cordial hand and said, “How do you do, Mr. Malone.”

“How do you do,” Malone said. “And what body did you find?”

“I’ve found quite a number,” she said, “but none of them dead.”

It was the kind of retort he might have expected from her. “I’m Rodney Fairfaxx’s niece. No,” she added, as she saw Malone look from her to Kenneth Fairfaxx and back again, “we aren’t brother and sister. We’re cousins. My father had the foresight to marry a woman half a head taller than he was.” She glanced at Kenneth Fairfaxx as though she were tossing him a hint but he didn’t seem to notice it. Then she said, apparently irrelevantly, “We both live here. In fact, we all live here.”

Bridie reappeared and said tearfully, “Will you come in, please.”

Kenneth Fairfaxx held out a restraining hand and said, “But I thought first—Mr. Malone—” He drew the hand back and quickly said, “Well, never mind. You’ll have to take him away with you, I suppose. But will you come back, as soon as you can? I want to have a word with you.”

Malone promised that he would, and went on into Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx’s study with von Flanagan, wondering what his new client was going to be like.

He wasn’t like anything Malone had expected. The little lawyer had met a number of assorted murderers in his lifetime, but none of them remotely resembled this one. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was a gentle-looking old man, even shorter than his nephew, and very frail, with wispy, snow-white hair and tired, rather vague blue eyes. The room he was in seemed incongruously large for so small an occupant, with its wide paneled walls and massive furniture, yet it was a warm, cheerful, sunlit room for all that.

The old man greeted them at the door and said, “I must apologize for keeping you waiting. I’ve been busy cataloguing my stamp collection and I was just putting it away. I suppose you want to see me about that wretched postman business.”

“That’s right,” von Flanagan said. He looked unhappy and embarrassed. Finally he introduced Malone.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Kenneth said something to me about arranging for a lawyer. I didn’t quite understand it. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying very close attention.”

Malone mentally damned von Flanagan up, down, cross-ways and sideways, for being afraid to make the pinch, and said, “I’m your lawyer, Mr. Fairfaxx, because you’re under arrest, for suspicion of murder. Don’t worry because I’ll get you out of it, and don’t say anything in front of this—” He caught himself just in time and glared at von Flanagan.

“Murder?” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx said questioningly. His mild old eyes widened. “But I haven’t murdered anybody.”

“There seems to be an impression,” Malone said, “that you murdered three postmen.”

The old man looked more puzzled than alarmed. “But that’s quite absurd. Why should I? Why should anybody want to murder a postman?”

“Why indeed,” von Flanagan said, with what tried to pass for cheerfulness. “Just the same, you’re under arrest.”

Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx submitted to the arrest very amiably, bewildered, but anxious to be agreeable, and in no way worried. Once he said, “I suppose if you say I murdered those men, it must be so, but I assure you—” And von Flanagan’s eyes met Malone’s in a significant look.

That was his only protest. He locked up his stamp collection. He rang for Violet, who came in looking more than ever like a badly-cared-for ghost, and asked her to pack a few things for him. She nodded and went away. Malone found himself wondering if she ever spoke at all, or if her conversation was limited to nods and shakes of the head.

At last they were ready to leave. Rodney Fairfaxx told his niece and nephew not to worry, bade them an affectionate farewell and then said, almost apologetically, to von Flanagan, “Would you mind waiting a few more minutes? The afternoon mail is almost due, and I’m expecting a letter—”

They waited. There was no letter for Rodney Fairfaxx.

*The Lucky Stiff.

3

Little old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx proved to be a charming and agreeable companion, even in a police car. He asked genuinely interested questions regarding the way the siren would sound from inside the car, and received a brief demonstration.

In return, he commented favorably on the efficiency of the police department, and added, “I don’t get out very much, you know. In fact, it’s been years since I left my house. This is quite an experience for me.”

Malone’s eyes met von Flanagan’s across the little man’s head. Quite an experience indeed, to be carted off to jail, as a murderer.

At one point on Lake Shore Drive, Mr. Fairfaxx looked out the window and exclaimed, “The old McClane mansion! The last time I was there was Mona’s first marriage, that must have been—heavens and earth!—twenty years ago!” He beamed at Malone and said, “If I’m not mistaken, you handled a very difficult situation for Mona, and handled it expertly.” He smiled shyly and said, “You see, I do read the papers!”

“It wasn’t so very difficult,” Malone said modestly. “An open and shut case of self-defense.”

“Self-defense!” Rodney Fairfaxx closed his eyes for a moment. “I suppose, if I should be tried for murder, I ought to claim it was in self-defense. That’s rather standard, isn’t it? Except, I don’t know why postmen would go around attacking people.”

Again Malone’s eyes met von Flanagan’s. The big policeman’s mouth framed the words, “Behavior Clinic.” Malone shook his head and his lips said silently, “I’ll pick the alienist.”

The necessary formalities were gone through quickly and as painlessly as possible. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was interested in and delighted with everything. He even agreed that the cell would be pleasantly comfortable. But there were three things he had to say to Captain von Flanagan.

“I’m sure I haven’t murdered anybody. Of course I am absent-minded, but I wouldn’t forget a thing like that, would I? Are you sure you aren’t making a mistake?”

Von Flanagan cleared his throat and said, “You’d better discuss that with Mr. Malone.”

“And another thing. In the haste in which we left my home, I neglected to leave a forwarding address. Could you arrange that for me? You see, I’m expecting a rather important letter.”

Von Flanagan, looking very unhappy, assured him that it could be managed very easily.

“Just one more question, if you don’t object. I’ve read about you in the papers, and I’ve always been extremely curious about one thing. Von Flanagan is a very unusual name. Would you mind telling me exactly how you acquired it?”

“I’ll tell you,” Malone said. “This guy never wanted to be a policeman. He got to be a policeman by accident. He got promoted to captain of his division by more accidents.”

Daniel von Flanagan growled, but said nothing.

“It was bad enough to be a cop,” Malone went on relentlessly, “but he couldn’t stand having a name, Dan Flanagan, that sounded like a cop’s name. So he went to court and had it legally changed to von Flanagan.”

Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx nodded, smiled and said, “Very wise of him. My grandfather went to court and had the extra ‘x’ added to our name, to avoid being confused with a Josiah Fairfax who ran a second-rate saloon back in Connecticut. I’m sure none of the family have ever regretted it.” He sat down on the edge of his bunk.

“Well—” Malone said. He looked at the cell. It didn’t compare very favorably with the paneled library. “Are you sure you have everything you want?”

“I’m quite comfortable,” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx reassured him. “Except that I would like to have a picture of Annie. Perhaps Kenneth or Elizabeth will send one to me. And I would like to talk with you about Annie, when you have time. Too bad I can’t have my stamp collection with me, but it’s far too bulky. However, you will see to it that my mail is forwarded to me here? It’s such a very important letter—”

Malone promised that he would, and practically fled down the corridor in the wake of von Flanagan.

In von Flanagan’s office he borrowed the phone, called his secretary and said, “Maggie? Chase out and buy all the latest magazines for stamp collectors. I want to take them, as a present, to a client of mine.” He hung up quickly—before Maggie could explain that she’d have to pay for them with her own money—took out a cigar and began to unwrap it.

“See what I mean?” von Flanagan said. “This is going to be a cinch for you, Malone. No jury in the world would convict him. And he can play with his stamp collection, and wait for his mail in some expensive sanitarium.” He paused, scowled, and said, “I still think—the Behavior Clinic—”

“You try it,” Malone said, “and I’ll have a belt and fancy wallet made out of your hide. He’s my client and I’m going to protect him. I’m going to hire the best alienists in the country. He can afford the best.”

“And the best lawyers, too,” von Flanagan muttered, sitting down behind his impressive desk. He added under his breath a remark about such-and-such shysters.

Malone ignored this, lit a cigar and said, “As a matter of fact, perhaps you could handle this yourself. Last time I talked with you, you were taking up the study of psychiatry.”

“No future in it,” von Flanagan said, gloomily. “All my wife’s relatives would want me to take them on as patients. For free. No, I’ve settled on something to do when I retire, and I’m not going to tell you what it is.”

“Maybe you ought to go back to your original idea of raising mink,” Malone said. He strolled over to the window and stood looking down on the dreary, muddy street. It was a depressing-looking world, he decided, and Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was well out of it, in his nice, comfortable cell. He fingered the wrinkled five-dollar bill in his pocket and wondered just whom he ought to go after for his retainer.

Von Flanagan said, “Don’t get sore, Malone. You ought to be grateful to me for giving you a made-to-order client like this.”

“Grateful, hell,” Malone growled. “Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to split fees.”

He went moodily out to the street, considered riding a streetcar to the Fairfaxx home, and gave up the idea when a taxi came within hailing distance.

Something was very wrong about this case.

He’d had clients who were slightly cracked or very cracked. He’d had clients who had beaten the rap on an insanity defense. But Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx puzzled him. Malone had a definite and uncomfortable feeling that this client was sane.

It looked like one of these open and shut cases. A poor old guy who’d been just a little tetched ever since his girl friend went down on the Titanic. That could be enough reason for being just a little tetched, and for just going along all these years, believing that she’d never taken the boat at all and was alive and well somewhere in England, and going to write a letter to him any day now.

Yes, a guy could lose his sense of time, in a case like that. He could forget that it had been thirty years and believe it had been only a few months. He could, eventually, go completely off the beam and start murdering the postmen who didn’t bring the letter he had been waiting for all this time.

A story like that would make any jury break down and bawl, and acquit a double-ax murderer.

Only, it wasn’t true.

Malone had seen murderers putting on an act for an insanity defense; indeed, he’d more than once coached them in the act. He knew that Rodney Fairfaxx wasn’t acting.

For the same reasons he knew that while Rodney Fairfaxx had withdrawn from the world to wait for a postman bringing one certain letter, he was otherwise perfectly sane.

Von Flanagan had handed him a perfect case. Only the trouble was, he knew that von Flanagan didn’t believe it either. That was what was really wrong. Because he didn’t know just why von Flanagan didn’t believe it.

Malone broke the five-dollar bill with a pang of regret and paid off the driver in front of the Fairfaxx home.

Suddenly, he decided to go up the alley for one more look at the scene of the crime.

It still didn’t tell him much. Just an alley, like any other alley in the world. Except that three postmen had been found murdered on its badly littered pavement.

Malone sighed, and looked up at the house. That bay window belonged to the paneled library where Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx had been arrested this afternoon. The old man insisted he had looked down from that window and discovered the body of the third postman.

Von Flanagan’s theory was that Rodney Fairfaxx had crept down the back staircase and lain in wait for his victim. Then, having committed his third murder he’d hurried back up to his library and pretended to make the discovery.

At least, von Flanagan claimed that was his theory.

A hungry, obviously homeless mutt strayed up the alley in search of food. Malone instinctively and absent-mindedly patted him, whereupon the mutt, recognizing a friend, set up a loud, joyful and frenzied barking.

About two seconds later a good-sized stone came hurtling over the garden wall, missing Malone by inches and frightening the mutt into a hasty and noisy flight. Malone stared at the stone for a moment, then picked it up and hurled it back over the wall.

There was a loud and angry roar. A fat, red, bad-tempered face appeared over the top of the wall.

“What the hell do you mean?” the indignant face asked, furiously.

“What the hell do you mean?” Malone said, as calmly as he could. “Throwing stones!” He added insultingly, “And at your age, too.”

The man on the other side of the wall clenched his teeth, unclenched them again and said, “I threw it at a dog. I don’t like dogs.”

“I’m not a dog,” Malone said, “I’m a lawyer.”

“Makes no difference,” the angry man said, “I don’t like lawyers, either. As a matter of fact, they’re worse.” He disappeared.

Malone considered climbing the wall and giving the red-faced man a good punch in the nose. On second thought, he gave it up. Right now, he didn’t have time to waste on frivolous pleasures. Besides, it would be undignified. And anyway, he didn’t know just how big the man was.

Could a stone thrown over a garden wall kill a man? Chances were that it could. Properly aimed and timed, of course.

The little lawyer continued his exploration of the alley. He reminded himself that the series of unfortunate postmen had been killed by a blow on the head from someone on the side of the wall that surrounded the house of Fairfaxx. It had to be that way, unless every technician in the police department had slipped up, possibly in a moment of madness. Madness might affect a few technicians, but not all of them.

No, there was no doubt, from the way the body had been found. Someone had reached over the Fairfaxx wall and clubbed the postmen to death.

He made another mental note, that he would certainly have to inspect the other side of that wall.

But meantime—some investigation should be made of the unpleasant character who lived on the other side of the alley. There were plenty of good-sized stones lying about. The angry man evidently had a definite dislike of dogs. Or, perhaps, of postmen.

He could have got away with it the first time, of course. “I was pruning my roses. I heard a dog barking in the alley and I threw a rock at him. Unfortunately, it hit this poor man on the head and—”

Accident? Possibly, if it had happened only once. A stone thrown at a dog had hit an unfortunate postman on his head and killed him. The red-faced man had kept quiet about it because he disliked publicity. He looked, Malone reflected, as though he disliked everything, just on general principles.

But for that accident to happen three times, in reasonably rapid succession, and invariably at the same time of the day, would be a coincidence Malone wouldn’t believe if he watched it happening.

Of course, it might have been planned as an elaborate alibi. Only that, too, would work only once. If tried a second time, there might be a faint lifting sound, as of eyebrows raising. On a third occasion there might be embarrassing questions asked by the police.

Perhaps a few tactful questions. Something apparently quite unofficial. Obviously, under the circumstances, Malone could not ask the questions himself. He doubted if he and the red-faced man would ever be on the footing of casual friendship. Something would have to be done, but meantime—

Malone made a mental note to find out if there was any city ordinance against throwing rocks into alleys, or throwing rocks at homeless mutts. Perhaps the S.P.C.A. could give him some help there.

People who don’t like lawyers, Malone said to the wall, shouldn’t throw glass houses.

He considered collecting the stones and taking them to the fingerprint department, then gave up the idea. There were too many of them. They would be too hard to transport, anyway. They would probably all have the red-faced man’s fingerprints on them, and that wouldn’t prove a thing except that the red-faced man didn’t like dogs or lawyers. Besides he wasn’t going to spend any more money on taxi fare until he’d collected a retainer.

That reminded him it was time to call on the house of Fairfaxx. He picked up one medium-sized rock from the alley and stuck it into his pocket for possible future evidence. Or a possible future weapon if need be. He brushed the snow from his knees and, as he turned from the alley into the sidewalk, made an unsuccessful attempt to straighten his tie.

Three seconds after he pushed the doorbell a pink-eyed Bridie came to the door and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Malone, the family is expecting you.”

He brushed a few cigar ashes off his vest as he went in through the wide doorway. The family? He’d already met Kenneth and Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Just how much more of the family would he have to meet? And who was going to pay that retainer?

Coming into the house from the blazing early afternoon November sunlight was like walking into a cave. He stood for a moment just inside the door. Bridie touched his arm and said, “This way please, Mr. Malone.”

The room into which she guided him seemed at first like a great pool of shadows. Malone blinked again and the effect of the sunlight began to leave him.

The room was enormous and magnificent, yet curiously, at the same time, pleasant. The furniture was large enough not to be dwarfed by the two-story ceiling, but it looked comfortable. The fireplace at the far end of the room was undoubtedly a priceless museum piece, but a friendly little blaze glowed in it.

Malone paused for a moment just inside the room. He felt uneasy. It was the very pleasantness of the atmosphere that oppressed him. He had a curious feeling that the Fairfaxx house should be dark and gloomy, festooned with spider webs, with doors that creaked and windows that rattled after dark. Instead, it was cheerful and warm, and somehow the very cheerfulness was frightening.

Malone damned himself for being a superstitious Irishman, took two more steps into the room, and realized that it was full of people.

At the far end of the room, one of the most beautiful blond girls in the world sat in a wing-chair, her exquisitely shaped head resting back on its cushions. Her hair was the color of corn silk in August, that pale and that shining. Her slender lovely legs wore stockings that matched her hair. The rest of her wore a close-fitting dress of some soft woolen stuff the color of old oak leaves, and a lot of fluffy dark brown fur was thrown over her shoulders.

She jumped up and walked across the floor to meet him. Malone winced. He’d seen electric sparks like those in her eyes before.

“You rat, Malone!” Helene Justus said. “I’m ashamed of you. The idea of taking nice old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx off to jail when you knew perfectly well he was innocent!”

4

“I have trouble enough on my hands,” Malone said indignantly, “without you showing up to complicate everything.”

He wouldn’t have admitted it for anything on earth, but secretly he was very glad to see her. Helene had caused him a lot of trouble in the past; she also had been a great deal of help to him.

He’d met her for the first time in rather similar circumstances. A corpse had been involved and a friend of Helene’s had been carted off to jail. For just a moment the present scene blurred a little before his eyes and he visioned Helene as he had first seen her—clad in ice-blue satin lounging pajamas, a fabulously beautiful fur coat and—galoshes. She’d had Jake Justus with her. In fact, that had been the day she and Jake Justus had met.

It suddenly occurred to him that Jake would be the ideal person to interview the red-faced man next door. If the interview turned out one way, Jake—ex-reporter, ex-press agent—would be able to collect a lot of helpful information. If it turned out the other way, Jake would undoubtedly shove the red-faced man’s teeth right down his throat. Whichever way it turned out was going to be okay by Malone.

As a matter of principle, however, he glared at Helene and added, “And I didn’t take Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx off to jail. The police did that. I’m only his lawyer.”

The two young Fairfaxxes, Elizabeth and Kenneth, had risen from the conference at the far end of the room and come to greet Malone. From their appearance and manner no one could have guessed that the head of the house had just been arrested for murder.

“Good to see you, Mr. Malone,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx smiled at him and said, “I don’t believe you’ve met all these people.”

It was all very ordinary, very normal. But before Elizabeth could begin introducing him around, Kenneth laid a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Malone. This is—frightful,” the young man said. “Frankly—we can hardly realize it.” He poured bourbon into a glass, aimed the siphon inaccurately at it and said, “Oh damn!” Then, “Mr. Malone, tell me—surely they realize—nothing can be done to him—I mean—they must realize that he didn’t know what he was doing—”

Malone caught the glass just in time, handed it back to him and said, “My dear boy, you have no need to worry. Your uncle couldn’t be in better hands.” He spoke with all the assurance in the world, with what his friends and enemies usually referred to as his “cell-side manner.”

Yet he felt uneasy even as he spoke. It was the very pleasantness of the atmosphere, the even tones of the voices that worried him.

The two young people were much too calm, much too easy. He’d seen that kind of calmness and ease before. Usually, in witnesses just before they collapsed on the stand. Here were two charming youngsters who must have been devoted to old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, who had seen him arrested for murder and carted off to jail, and they were being calm and easy about it.

Perhaps, he told himself, that was what came of being brought up on the right side of Chicago Avenue. Malone himself had been raised south of Twelfth Street, back of the stockyards. He instinctively expected people to swear, cry, or get drunk and beat up a policeman when a beloved relative was dragged off to jail.

He had an uncomfortable suspicion that as soon as the house was empty of visitors Kenneth Fairfaxx was going to swear and Elizabeth Fairfaxx was going to cry. And a good thing for the both of them, too.

As for getting drunk and beating up a policeman, he’d attend to that himself. Preferably, the policeman involved would be von Flanagan.

“What would you say to tea?” Elizabeth Fairfaxx asked, “or a drink?”

“To the first,” Malone told her, “I’d say ‘Heaven forbid!’ To the second, ‘Heaven be praised!’”

She laughed easily and pleasantly and mixed him a drink that was considerably more bourbon than soda. “I hope this isn’t too strong.”

“Personally,” Malone said reassuringly, “I always put the soda in with an eye-dropper.”

She smiled again and said, “I’ll take you around.” Then she paused, her hand on his arm. “Mr. Malone, I hope you don’t think I—I mean, there’s no point in going to pieces just because someone—Uncle Rodney—” She paused once more, swallowed hard, and said, “It seems much more practical to be up and doing, and have all your wits about you.”

“Much more practical,” Malone said, resisting an impulse to pat her hand. If she’d been only a few years younger he’d have had to resist an impulse to take her out and buy her an ice-cream cone.

He liked Elizabeth Fairfaxx, liked everything about her; her long-legged, graceful walk, her loosely combed tawny hair, the scattering of freckles on her well-shaped nose, and the fact that she could carry off a situation like this one with such magnificent aplomb. On a witness stand, she’d be a sensation. He hoped she’d never be on one. Most of all, he hoped she hadn’t murdered three inoffensive and insignificant postmen.

It was definitely a relief to sit down beside Helene after his tour of the room.

She put down her drink and said accusingly, “You haven’t answered my question. Why did you let them take nice old Mr. Fairfaxx off to jail?”

“I had my reasons,” Malone whispered ominously. “Now answer one for me. What the hell are you doing here?”

Helene glared at him, a dangerous light in her blue eyes. “Where else do you think I’d be at a time like this? I’ve known the Fairfaxx family all my life.” She added indignantly, “Old Rodney Fairfaxx was my mother’s godfather. Elizabeth went to school with me. She was captain of the hockey team and president of the Junior class. I’ve still got a scar where she nicked me accidentally in a practice game.”

“That makes you practically cousins,” Malone said. “Yes, at least that. She’s a nice girl and I admire her. Do you think she murdered those three postmen?”

“Damn you, Malone!”

“I was only asking,” the little lawyer said mildly. “After all, somebody murdered them. I don’t really think Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx did, and von Flanagan doesn’t really think so, either, and I know you don’t.”

“She could have,” Helene whispered, looking at Elizabeth Fairfaxx, “but she didn’t. She—”

“Shut up,” Malone said. “You talk too much. Just answer a few questions for me. When Elizabeth Fairfaxx dragged me around the room, meeting people, I got a lot of names, but not any details.”

He glanced around the pleasant room, and noticed that Violet was standing near the tea table, like a slightly disapproving spectre, her thin, pale hands folded in front of her, her shadowy eyes watching Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Her hands, Malone suddenly realized, were graceful and beautiful. They looked strong, too. Again he was puzzled by the feeling that he’d seen her before. Nonsense? Since she’d been the Fairfaxx housekeeper for years and years, as Elizabeth had said, is was impossible that he could have seen her before. He put her out of his mind and began looking around at a few of the others.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx was offering a cup of tea to Mrs. Abby Lacy. A cup of tea, a cigarette, a well-bred smile. Mrs. Lacy accepted all three, without a change of expression.

She was a short, spare woman, with a Persian lamb coat and an expensive hat. Meticulous and determined, Malone decided. If the house next door to her burned down, she would be the first to call the fire department and start carrying out rugs and draperies. But if she’d never met the householders socially, she’d be careful to wear a hat and carry gloves while she dragged them out of their inferno.

She had a tight little mouth, shut like a mousetrap, with the mouse inside it, and cold, squinty, weasel-gray eyes.

“She’s very rich,” Helene volunteered. “They’re the railroad Lacys. She’s been a widow for years. And her daughter is devoted to her.”

“That’s nice,” Malone said. “Nice for Mrs. Lacy, I mean.” He tried to imagine being devoted to Mrs. Abby Lacy, gave up and turned his attention to the daughter in question.

“Her name is Gay,” Helene reminded him. “Gay Lacy. Her father had a very romantic nature. All the Lacys did.”

Malone looked thoughtfully at the girl whose name sounded like an 1890 musical comedy star and tried unsuccessfully to imagine her having a romantic nature. Unlike her mother, she was tall, so that sitting beside the older woman she appeared even more gawky than she actually was; and where her mother’s hair was a dull, rather muddy gray, Gay’s was a dull and rather muddy brown. Otherwise they looked very much alike, especially as far as the look of grim determination was concerned.

“They live next door,” Helene added. “They share a garden and the wall. Rodney Fairfaxx and Mr. Lacy were very close friends. That’s why they built their houses this way. Albert Lacy was a sweet person. I was just a kid when he died, but I remember how much I liked him. He used to take me to theaters. Real theaters, not kid stuff.”

Malone relit his cigar and asked, casually, “What did he die of, or do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Helene said. There was an almost acid note in her voice. “I suspect he was just tired to death.”

Malone glanced again at Mrs. Lacy and decided the diagnosis was quite probably correct.

“And I’m sure,” Helene said in a smugly catty voice, “that Gay and Kenneth are going to be very happy together.”

Malone remembered with a start that Elizabeth had explained the homely angular young woman as “Miss Lacy—Kenneth’s fiancée.” The little lawyer sighed. There wasn’t anything so very special about Kenneth, but it seemed like a darn shame anyway.

“And you met Uncle Ernie, of course,” Helene went on. “Ernest Fairfaxx, I mean. Everyone has always called him Uncle Ernie as long as I can remember. He’s Rodney’s half-brother. Something of a problem to the more conservative members of the family.”

Malone gazed at the tall silvery-haired, handsome man leaning gracefully, though a bit unsteadily, against the mantelpiece. “Wife? Children? Home?”

“None of them,” Helene told him. “No money, either. Ernie raised so much hell when he was a young man that his old man decided to leave him in Rodney’s charge. He lives here.” She added, “But I never heard of his having any particular dislike for postmen.”

“Nobody dislikes postmen,” Malone said. “That’s why it’s so extraordinary when somebody murders three of them.”

He looked up at the oil painting over the fireplace and momentarily lost interest in the people in the room. It showed a delicate, pretty girl in the clothes and hairdress of 1910. She had a softly rounded face, a smiling gentle mouth; her wild, lovely eyes matched the blue of her dress. Even in the painting, her yellow hair looked exquisitely soft. Her hands, folded in her lap, were tiny and very pale. For a moment, Malone wondered why the face was so familiar. Then he remembered. He’d seen it looking out at him from the large framed photograph in the library.

“That was Annie,” Helene whispered, seeing Malone’s glance. “Annie Kendall. Uncle Rodney’s sweetheart. There’re pictures of her all over the house.”

The little lawyer nodded slowly. It pleased him that her name should be Annie and not Anne. It seemed proper, somehow. He said, “I can understand any man not wanting to believe that girl was dead, and waiting for a letter from her all these years.”

“You men!” Helene said scornfully. “Annie Kendall was a bitch on wheels. The only thing she liked about Rodney Fairfaxx was his money, and everybody who liked him was greatly relieved when she went down on the Titanic. Maybe it did make him a little cracked, but at least he’s been better off than if she’d come back and married him.”

Malone muttered something in which women and cats were unflatteringly compared.

At this point, Mrs. Abby Lacy turned her small hard eyes on the little lawyer and said, “Well, Mr. Malone. What are you going to do about it?”

“Everything possible,” Malone said. “I assure you everything possible is being done to make Mr. Fairfaxx comfortable.”

She sniffed and said, “I consider Rodney Fairfaxx’ being in jail in the worst possible taste.”

“It’s a damn shame,” Malone said agreeably, “but only a few weeks ago the police department lost their copy of Emily Post.”

Uncle Ernie considered that very funny. Mrs. Lacy considered it to be nothing of the sort. She also considered Uncle Ernie to be a disgrace, and said so. Under cover of the resulting heated conversation, Malone slipped unnoticed across the room to Elizabeth Fairfaxx.

“I hate to abandon such an unusually pleasant gathering,” Malone said, “but it would help me tremendously if you’d show me around the grounds.”

She grinned. “I don’t like it here, either,” she said. “Wait a minute till I get a wrap.”

As they reached the bottom of the front steps, he said, “I really do want to look at the grounds, you know. And,” he added, “it really was a pleasant gathering.”

“I like you much better when you’re telling the truth, Mr. Malone,” she said. Suddenly her hazel eyes flashed. “I can’t bear the thought of Ken marrying that awful woman’s daughter.” She caught her breath and said it over again, “That awful woman’s awful daughter.”

“Maybe it’s love,” Malone said coyly. “Maybe she’s Miss Right.”

Elizabeth Fairfaxx expressed her opinion of that theory with a very unladylike noise.

“Of course,” Malone said, fishing for information, “you’ve probably known her a lot longer than I have.”

“I’ve know her all my life,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said. “She was a repulsive little girl.”

“Was she on the hockey team at boarding school, too?” Malone asked. If so, he reflected, Helene might be able to provide still more personal information.

“She was,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx snapped. “And by that time, she was a repulsive big girl. Let’s not talk about her. Which would you like to see first, the rose garden or the pool?”

Malone looked around the dreary vista of half-drifted snow, dead grass, withered plants and barren trees. “I’ll save the roses until later,” he told her. “Right now, I’d like to see the spot where someone stood to kill three postmen.”

In the neighborhood where Malone had grown up, the fortunate and looked-up-to families were those who had back yards. Those yards were usually about twenty by thirty, hemmed in by high board fences. Sometimes they showed a pathetically unsuccessful attempt at gardening. Far more often they were decorated mainly with vacant tin cans, ancient rubbish, and tired cats, but at least they were places in which to keep the younger children of the family off the streets. Malone himself had learned to walk in just such a yard which belonged to a kindhearted neighbor. Usually, however, there was no yard at all, only a tiny cement-paved areaway.

In this neighborhood, he knew, land itself was worth fabulous sums per foot. When a bit of it was sold for a luxurious apartment hotel to be constructed, the transaction was important financial news. Thus the fact that the Fairfaxxes and other families in the neighborhood hung on to big, walled-in spaces around their homes for the sole purpose of raising grass, trees and rose bushes struck him as not only unpardonable arrogance, but unforgivable waste.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Uncle Rodney wanted to sell this place a few months ago,” she said. “He loves it, he’s always loved it, but he said it was a nuisance to keep up and entirely too extravagant in this day and age. Not that he can’t afford it. He’s very rich, you know, but he said that in the modern world, waste space was a sin and a shame.”

Malone looked a trifle startled. The statement didn’t seem quite to fit Rodney Fairfaxx, the gentle little man who collected stamps, made no protest at being taken to jail, and still waited for a letter from a long-dead sweetheart. “Why didn’t he sell then?” the little lawyer asked.

“Abby Lacy wouldn’t let him.” Elizabeth Fairfaxx kicked savagely at a stone and sent it hurtling down the walk. “When Uncle Rodney and Mr. Lacy built these houses, they signed an agreement that neither one of them, nor their heirs, would sell unless the other agreed.” She scowled. “And if something should happen to Mrs. Lacy, Gay is just mean enough that she wouldn’t let Uncle Rodney sell.” Her manner changed abruptly. She smiled and said, “Sorry to bore you with all this. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

The Fairfaxx house was set in the center of its walled-in garden. Malone walked all the way around it, not only because he wanted to show proper appreciation to his guide, but because he also wanted to discover every possible way someone from outside could enter or leave the grounds. On the side away from the alley were the now desolate rose garden, some uncomfortable-looking concrete benches, and a tiny circular pool filled with mud, dirty water, and half-melted ice and snow. A pleasant enough spot in the summer, no doubt, Malone reflected, but right now—well, he’d seen a lot of far more cheerful graveyards. Beyond it was a house dimly seen through the trees. Malone pointed to it and said, “Who lives there?”

“Nobody,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, in a curiously tight voice. “It’s been empty for years.” She walked on abruptly, too abruptly. Malone followed, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. The ivied wall, he could see, extended clear through to the street on the other side without a break.

Between the Fairfaxx house and the Lacy house was a large open space with more concrete benches, landscaped flower beds, and a tiny fountain in the exact center. Malone looked at the naked cherub holding an enormous fish in the fountain, shivered and remarked that it was unusually cold for November.

“The other half,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, waving a hand toward the Lacy house, “is very much like this.”

Malone peered around the corner of the house and saw another high iron grillwork fence. “I presume Mrs. Lacy always keeps her front gate locked,” he ventured.

“She certainly does,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said.

“And the Fairfaxx gate?”

“Always locked.” She frowned. “Are you suggesting that someone—some outsider—”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Malone said. “I’m just asking foolish questions.” He smiled at her. “And getting sensible answers.”

The garage building, opening off the alley, was shared by the Lacy household and the Fairfaxxes. It was a two-story structure, with apartments above.

“I imagine the garage doors are also always kept locked,” Malone said.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx nodded. For a moment their eyes met and hers were suddenly dark with misery.

“No,” Malone said very gently, “I’m sorry, but there really isn’t any way. Not if all the doors and gates were locked, and they must have been. Or unless someone climbed over the wall from the alley. That’s physically possible, but why would an outsider go to all that trouble when he’d have to hide and then get out again, and when it would be just as easy to wait for the victim somewhere in the alley itself.”

He knew there would be tears in her eyes and he looked away. In fact, he deliberately turned his back on her and walked along the wall that shut out the unpleasant alley with its tin cans, overflowing trash bins, and a homeless mutt. By pulling himself to the top of the wall by his elbows, he was able to get a clear view of the full length of the alley, and mark, in relation to the garden, the spot where the postmen had been standing when they fell. The homeless mutt came darting out from behind a garbage can and whined ingratiatingly. “I’ll see you later,” Malone promised as he let himself down.

Right there, just this side of the high boxwood hedge, and partly sheltered by it, just beyond where the flagstone path which came from the side door of the house, curved away into the little formal garden. That was where the killer must have waited.

Malone didn’t want to lift himself to the top of the wall again. It was too much effort, and besides, he didn’t want to engage in too detailed a conversation with the homeless mutt. He closed his eyes, remembering the police-drawn chalk lines showing how the body had fallen and exactly where it must have been before it so unexpectedly became a body. Malone knelt down and examined the ground. No footprints. That was not unexpected, considering the thickness of the grass. He ran his fingers carefully over the turf. No indentations, either, such as would have been made by even a fairly light weight man standing on something that would enable him to see, and reach, over the top of the wall.

He rose to his feet and faced Elizabeth Fairfaxx. The marks of tears were still in her eyes.

“But don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “your Uncle Rodney didn’t kill three postmen.”

He felt, rather than saw, the way her long, athletic body stiffened and then relaxed. He did see a fresh flood of tears threaten to come to her eyes and then go back where it came from. Her smile, when it came, was a little tremulous, but still a smile.

“What were you looking for, there on your hands and knees?” she demanded. “We don’t have rabbits, and we keep our mice in the cellar.”

“I was looking for a ladder,” Malone said, very solemnly. He took her arm and strolled toward the front of the house. “Did you ever hear about the man who fell off a boat in mid-ocean with only a tube of shaving cream in his hand?”

Her hazel eyes widened with wonder. She said, “No! What did he do?”

Malone adopted a deliberately phony Irish brogue and said, “Shure and he made himself a ladther and climbed up the side of the boat! And it’s cold out here, and let’s go in and get a drink!”

There was a slight commotion at the front door as they approached it. A girl was arguing noisily, vehemently, and a trifle drunkenly, with the worried Bridie. Helene, her furs thrown carelessly over her shoulders, was doing her best to help. Elizabeth Fairfaxx took in the scene in one glance, loped across the remaining few feet of lawn and said, “Gilda! What are you doing here?”

“Read the papers,” the girl said. “Came here right away. I love him and my place is by his side.”

Helene, Bridie, and Elizabeth looked at each other helplessly, and Malone looked at the girl Gilda. She was what his grandfather would have described as a comfortable little lapful. Her hair was red, not auburn, nor titian, nor red-gold, but just plain ordinary red. It was curly and there was a lot of it, falling down the back of her brown fur coat. She had a nice little face, not beautiful nor glamorous, nor even pretty, but agreeable. Right now, it didn’t have much make-up on it and what there was, was smudged with tear stains. Her nice compact little figure made Malone want to pick her up and hug her, the way one would hug a kitten or a pet rabbit, or a stuffed teddy-bear.

“Gilda!” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, helplessly. “Mrs. Lacy is here.”

Gilda discussed Mrs. Lacy with phrases usually reserved for the inhabitants of chicken yards.

“And her daughter,” Elizabeth added.

On the subject of Mrs. Lacy’s daughter Gilda chose terms customarily used for the discussion of ill-bred and not too young horses.

Helene flashed Malone a look of distress.

Malone said, reprovingly, “Now, Gilda, that wasn’t very nice.”

She turned to him and he realized that her dark brown eyes were enormous, lovely, and framed in lashes long enough to clip and make into a shaving brush. Tears spilled out of them again and the last pretense of make-up vanished from her pale face.

“Love him,” she mumbled. “Read about everything in papers. Came here immediately.” She struck an attitude and said magnificently, “My place is by his side.”

“Right now,” Malone said gallantly, “your place is by my side.” He signaled to Helene with his eyes, smiled a farewell to Elizabeth Fairfaxx, grabbed Gilda by the elbow and had her halfway down the walk to Helene’s car before he remembered he’d forgotten to collect the retainer, which had been his main reason for visiting the house of Fairfaxx.

5

Helene swung her car into Lake Shore Drive and said, “I love dumb animals, Malone, and he’s particularly charming, but exactly what are you going to do with him?”

Malone patted the mutt who had jumped into the front seat of the car before he’d been able to close the door and said, “Never mind, I’ll take care of him. He’s an important witness in a murder case, and I’ve always been able to find housing for my witnesses.”

Helene glanced at the dog whose nose rested trustingly on Malone’s knee and suggested, “I could take him to the veterinary’s for a bath and keep him in our apartment until you find a home for him.”

Malone was about to say, “That’s a wonderful idea and many thanks,” when the mutt gazed up at him with grief-stricken eyes and emitted a small, low moan, which obviously meant, “For Pete’s sake, no!” So Malone said, rather stiffly, “Thanks a lot, Helene, but I’m sure I can manage.”

Helene sniffed and said, “All right, if you want to keep that poor little doggie woggie in your hotel room.”

The mutt looked up adoringly at Malone and thanked him with one brief yelp.

“Not,” Malone added hastily, “that I wouldn’t like to find a place for him to stay permanently.”

The mutt stuck a wet, hopeful nose against Malone’s hand.

Helene said, “He’s really a very grand dog. And you know we could give him a nice home.”

The mutt howled briefly.

“I’m sure of it,” Malone said stiffly, “but he’s my dog and when I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”

Gilda, who had been slouched between them on the front seat, opened her eyes halfway and said, “I like little dogs. I like all kindsa’ dogs.”

Malone said, “Thanks, and I like you, too, but I wish you’d tell me your name.”

She giggled and said, “Gilda.”

“I know that. What’s your last name?”

“Lily.” She nudged him and said, “You mus’ know the expression, Mr. Malone. Gilda Lily.”

While Malone was thinking it over, she went on, “No, my last name’s really Cage, Mr. Malone.” She warbled, “I’m only a bird in a Gilda Cage.”

Malone drew a long, slow breath and said, solemnly, “Ah, but all is not gilda glitters.”

Helene said, “I’ve heard better at the old Rialto. If the dog only had puppies, and you two comics could train them, you might be able to whip up a fairly good fourth-rate vaudeville team.”

“That reminds me, Mr. Malone,” Gilda said. “I have twins. Six twins.”

“No, no, no,” Malone said. “Twins are two.”

“Not these twins,” Gilda said firmly. “These are six.”

Malone relit his cigar and said, “You mean they’re six years old?”

Gilda shook her mane of bright red hair, giggled again and said, “Six twins.”

“You mean sextuplets,” Malone said.

“No,” she hiccoughed. “But it helped.”

Malone was trying to figure six twins on his fingers. He said, at last, “You mean you have twelve children?”

“No,” Gilda said. “I told you, six. Six. Six!”

“I’m going to be six myself in another minute,” Helene snapped. “I’m going to park this car in the first vacant lot I see, hang my head out the window and be very, very six. Now, do you see what I mean about a fourth-rate vaudeville act?”

The dog howled, and Helene said consolingly, “Not you, just them.”

Malone and Gilda rode in an insulted silence for twelve blocks. At last Gilda said, rather timidly, “Mr. Malone, I really do have six twins.”

“For the love of Mike,” Malone said, “let’s not get into that routine again. Let’s just find a nice quiet bar where we can talk this whole thing over sensibly.”

“We’re meeting Jake,” Helene told him, “in a very refined saloon where I hope you two will carry on that lousy routine in low-pitched voices. I, too, have my pride.”

Gilda sniffed indignantly, moved closer to the little lawyer and said, “Another thing, Mr. Malone. My name isn’t really Gilda.”

“Please,” Malone said, “I think I’d rather talk about the twins.”

“It’s really Glida,” she went on, ignoring him. “My father wanted to name me Gilda, after Gilda Gray. He was mad about her. But at the hospital, they misspelled it on my birth certificate. So my name is really G-L-I-D-A, pronounced Gilda.”

“I’m probably risking my life,” Malone said, “but what is your last name?”

She seemed surprised that he didn’t know. “Fairfaxx, of course.” While Malone was still blinking, she went on. “Before that, it was Lacy. Glida Lacy, pronounced Gilda.” She added, “That broken-down old rear half of an illegitimate Shetland pony is my beloved aunt, damn her soul to hell.”

“Now, Gilda,” Malone said, “you’ll give people the impression you don’t like her.” He saw by the look in Gilda’s eyes that she was about to add to her thumbnail description of Abby Lacy, and he changed the subject hastily. “I suppose you went to the same boarding school as Helene, and played on the same hockey team.”

“I went to the same boarding school,” Gilda said, “but I didn’t play hockey. That’s for sissies.”

“She didn’t play hockey,” Helene said bitterly, “because she was spending all her time doubling her allowance by shooting craps with the janitor.”

Malone decided that he and Gilda were going to get along fine, in spite of the six twins. Perhaps, if he got that subject settled once and for all—

“About those twins,” he began, a trifle timidly.

“Look, Mr. Malone,” she said, “two and two makes four.”

“I’ll go along with you that far,” Malone said.

“And four and two makes six.”

“You’re improving all the time,” Malone assured her.

“Therefore,” she said, beaming, “six twins!”

Malone sighed and decided to try another approach. “How old are your twins?”

She smiled happily at his show of interest, and said, “Three, five, and seven. Six twins.”

“Maybe it would be simpler,” Helene said, “if you two just started this routine from the beginning and did it all over again. I keep having a feeling that one of you has left out a page.”

“Let me alone,” Malone growled. “I’m just trying to figure out if she has six twins or seven. Somehow, we got into odd numbers.” He tossed his cigar out the window and said, “I’m beginning to get the idea that you have one set of twins aged seven, one set of twins aged five, and another set of twins aged three.”

She looked at him almost worshipfully and breathed, “Oh, Mr. Malone, you’re so smart!”

“My friends say I’m pretty, too,” Malone said coyly.

The mutt chose that moment to howl and Helene said she knew exactly how he felt.

“Now that we have the twins settled,” Malone said, “one more question. How come your name is Fairfaxx?”

“Because I’m Kenneth Fairfaxx’ ex-wife,” she said, calmly. “I’m his ex-wife and he’s going to marry the daughter of that—”

“Never mind the compliments,” Malone said quickly. He looked at her searchingly for a moment or two before he said, “You’re a pretty fair actress, Mrs. Glida, pronounced Gilda, Fairfaxx, but you should have added one note of realism.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

“You should have poured about a teacupful of whiskey over your charming person before you put on that otherwise convincing drunk act. I might say the trouble with your performance was that it didn’t smell.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “That was stupid of me, but I’ll do better next time.” Her face grew sober. “I figured it this way. I knew what had happened. I wanted to be with Kenneth. You see. I knew better, probably better than anyone in the world, how much he thought of his uncle. I knew, too, that if I just walked up and rang the doorbell, I’d never get in the house. So I decided to put on the big drunk act and make such a scene at the front door that they’d have to let me in before the neighbors started looking out of their windows.” She grinned ruefully. “I admit it wasn’t a very great idea, but it was the best I could think, driving down from Wilmette.…”

There was a small silence. Then Malone said, very quietly, “You read about Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest in the newspapers, and promptly came dashing in from Wilmette. Is that right?”

She nodded and said, “Yes. I live in Wilmette. You can’t raise six twins in an apartment house.”

“Gilda,” Malone said, “you’re a good actress, but you’re a lousy liar.”

She gasped.

“Because,” he went on relentlessly, “I doubt very much if the news of Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest is even out on the Chicago newsstands yet, and it certainly wouldn’t have been in Wilmette.”

She caught at his arm and said, “Look—Mr. Malone—please—”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Malone assured her. “Dismiss it from your mind. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think up a better story than that, and whatever it is, I bet it will be worth waiting for.”

6

“No dogs,” the bartender said. He smiled amiably. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Justus. Nice to see your friends, too.” The smile died away, “But no dogs.”

“He isn’t my dog,” Helene said. “He’s Mr. Malone’s dog.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Malone,” the bartender said, “but no dogs.”

“He isn’t my dog,” Malone said. “I’m just trying to find a good home for him.”

The mutt sat down on the floor and complained mournfully about the bitterness of life. He gazed up at the bartender with wistful eyes. Instinctively, the bartender reached down and patted him.

“He’s a good dog,” said the bartender. “How much you want for him?”

Malone said, “I don’t want a nickel for him.” The mutt parked his nose on Malone’s shoe, looked up and moaned. “I mean,” Malone said hastily, “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for him. And he goes where I go. Bring us a drink and bring him a couple of hamburgers.”

The bartender was sufficiently unnerved to forget that dogs were not allowed in the bar. Malone led the way to one of the brown-painted booths and sat down. The mutt lay down in front of the booth and gazed at him adoringly.

It was a small, dingy room, with cobwebs on the ornamental tin ceiling. The bar was small and the stools were of the ordinary kitchen variety. The mirror behind the bar was fly-specked.

“If this is a very refined saloon,” Malone said coldly, “I’m the Gay Gnani of Gingalee.”

“Your private life is your own business,” Helene said. “But I do think you might be grateful. Lew Browne may run a very stinky saloon, but at least he never lets in the cops.”

“I’m not worried about them,” Malone said unconvincingly. He added, “What cops?” and glanced instinctively toward the door.

“Don’t worry,” Helene soothed him. “Even if he knew you were here, Lew wouldn’t let him in.” She flashed a smile. “Would you, Lew?”

“No cops,” Lew said firmly. “I don’t like.”

“Even if who knew I was here?” Malone demanded frantically.

“While you and Elizabeth were romping around the garden,” Helene said, “the telephone rang. Bridie was weeping at the time, so I answered it. It was von Flanagan.”

“Was he looking for me?” Malone asked apprehensively.

“To quote his exact words,” Helene told him, “he wanted to know ‘Where the hell is Malone?’” She beamed at him. “I told him you’d gone out to get a drink. He’ll call Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar first, try all your usual haunts and then start working his way through the classified telephone directory.”

“That’s fine,” Malone said. “But in view of the last named contingency, couldn’t you have picked a saloon run by someone named Zwicker?”

“By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Helene said, “we will have moved back among the A’s.”

“By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Malone said, “I will be home in bed, I hope. And which do we do in this saloon, buy a drink, or pay rent?”

They were interrupted by Jake’s arrival. The tall, rangy, freckle-faced and red-haired ex-newspaper man, ex-press agent, and ex-author strolled up to the table and said, “I already own a saloon, so why should we pay rent on another one?” He grinned at the bartender and called, “Lew! Lew! Beer!” He glanced at Gilda and said, “You again!”

“I’m busy with the hamburger,” Lew called from the back room.

“Raw!” Malone called back to him, in a loud voice.

Jake scowled. He was about to comment on people who wanted raw hamburger in the middle of the afternoon, when the mutt looked up and greeted him with a particularly sad sigh.

“For the luvva’ Mike,” Jake said, “where did you find that thing? And what are you going to do with him?” He reached down and scratched the mutt behind his ears.

“I’m going to find a home for him,” Malone said.

The mutt licked Jake’s hand. Jake said, thoughtfully, “You know, we could use a dog like this.” The mutt howled.

Malone said hastily, “I already have other arrangements for him. And how did you happen to find us in this rat’s nest?”

Helene explained, “I asked Jake to meet us here, because he knows Gilda. In fact, he helped Gilda with her hoax.”

“With what?” Malone said, blinking, and wishing the bartender would bring the beer.

Jake said solemnly, “It was one of the greatest things that ever happened to the theatrical world.”

Gilda leaned across the table, giggled, and said, “Didn’t you ever hear about my hoax, Mr. Malone?”

Malone looked her straight in the eye and said, “Great hoax from little acorns grow!”

He was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of Lew Browne with the beer and a saucer of raw hamburger.

The mutt sniffed at the hamburger, looked displeased, rose wearily to his feet, placed his front paws on the table, sniffed again, this time not scornfully, and gave a low-pitched, hopeful whine.

“That dog,” the bartender said, “I betcha’ that dog’s a beer hound. I seen a dog once before was a beer hound.” He waddled over to the bar, found another saucer, filled it with draught beer, carried it back to the mutt and laid it on the floor. The mutt cleaned out the saucer in two gulps, laid his nose on his paws, and went contentedly to sleep.

“See what I mean?” the bartender said as he walked away.

Malone sighed and said, “Maybe we just better talk about the hoax.”

“You must have read about it,” Jake said earnestly. “The beautiful red-haired French singing star, the toast of Paris, the toast of Rio, the toast of Australia, the toast of Honolulu—”

Malone did remember it, vaguely. The girl had been a brief—but very brief—sensation, and then vanished from sight.

Jake turned to Gilda, “If you’d just told me you were only fifteen at the time,” he said savagely, “it would have saved a lot of bother.” He lit a cigarette and flipped the match halfway across the room. “Of course,” he added, “there was the fact that she couldn’t sing, and couldn’t speak French.”

“To you, as a press agent,” Malone said, “those things would not have been handicaps.”

“No,” Jake admitted, “but just after we’d finished having her coached and I’d arranged her first appearance at the Chez Paris, what did she do? She went off and got married.”

“And had twins,” Malone said gloomily. “Six twins.”

“Tell it your own way,” Jake said. He lapsed into an insulted silence.

Gilda gazed into his eyes and said, “Mr. Justus, you know something? My name isn’t really Gilda—”

Malone rose with great dignity, picked up his beer with one hand, took Helene’s elbow with the other and said, “I suggest we adjourn to the bar, where there’s a chance that we may be able to enjoy some intelligent conversation.”

The mutt rose, shook himself, yawned and followed Malone to the bar.

“Two beers in glasses, and one in a saucer,” Malone told the bartender. He turned to Helene and said, “Suppose you give me the low-down on these people, including the six twins.”

Helene said, “The important thing is Gilda’s personality.”

“Let’s don’t be catty,” Malone said hastily.

“Gilda,” Helene said, “has always been an impulsive child.”

Malone reflected that impulsive might he stretched to fit Gilda’s personality.

“Her family had millions of dollars,” Helene said, “millions and millions. The first time I saw her she was three years old. My mother went over to call on her mother, between divorces. My mother’s divorces, I mean. The Lacy family doesn’t believe in divorce unless they can benefit by it. She had two nurses and one of them made me wash my hands and face before I could play with her. They finally permitted her to go to a very select school for little girls, but her governess brought her there and called for her.”

“Sounds dull,” Malone said.

“Not for Gilda,” Helene assured him. “There was a public school just around the corner and Gilda used to sneak out the gymnasium window at recess time and go play in the public school yard. But eventually her family began complaining about skinned knees and elbows, mud on the pretty little white dresses, and occasional visitations of insect life in the pretty little red curls. After the inevitable investigation, there was a new governess and Gilda stayed home from school. I could describe her career in boarding school, but I think you can guess.”

Malone nodded. “And then her family lost all their money. I remember that.” His eyes narrowed. “Her father, who must have been a swell guy if he named his daughter after Gilda Gray, and Abby Lacy’s husband, who evidently was one of the same, were brothers. Both of them lost every blessed cent they had in a crooked stock market deal. Gilda’s uncle had a rich wife, but all Gilda’s father had was an open window in a forty-four story building.”

“I thought you’d remember,” Helene said softly.

Malone relit his cigar. “Then came the hoax,” he said.

“She didn’t want to be dependent on Abby Lacy,” Helene said, “so she decided to earn a living. But Kenneth Fairfaxx came along and didn’t want the girl of his dreams to earn a living, and they ran off to Crown Point and got married.”

“The family must have loved that,” Malone said. He took a fresh cigar from his pocket and began unwrapping it. “How old did you say she was then?”

“I didn’t say,” Helene told him, “but she was sixteen. The family started to arrange for an annulment right away. Abby Lacy was her guardian and trustee.”

Malone nodded solemnly and said, “Trustee for the money which Glida, pronounced Gilda, didn’t have any of. Did the annulment take?”

“The annulment,” Helene said, “was called off abruptly.”

“I know,” Malone said, “twins.” He signaled to Lew Browne and prayed that Jake would offer to pay for the drinks.

“They settled the young couple in a charming little bungalow in the suburbs,” Helene said. There was bitterness in her voice. “Abby Lacy’s lawyers found Kenneth a job of sorts as an assistant to an assistant of a vice-president. And Abby Lacy helped out by coming out every day to help Gilda with the management of the little cottage, and to see that the dishes were clean, the beds made and the groceries ordered. If they weren’t, she very kindly explained to Gilda just what mistakes she was making and how to avoid them in the future. The impediment to the annulment finally arrived and Abby Lacy was outraged. No one in any of the associated families had ever had twins, and she considered it a disgrace.”

“Whereupon,” Malone said, “two years later, Gilda had another pair of twins, probably just to spite Mrs. Lacy.”

“That shows how much you know about women,” Helene said scornfully. “Gilda adores children, and she adores her husband—ex-husband—I mean.”

“That brings up another point,” Malone said, “How did husband become ‘ex’?”

Helene scowled. “I’m not sure of the details,” she said slowly. “I just know that somehow Kenneth discovered his pretty young wife was running around with other men, drinking heavily, and losing a lot of his hard-earned money at the races. For some reason, Gilda refused to defend herself. The last set of twins was born after the divorce. Kenneth hasn’t any money, you know, but I don’t think she’d have taken a cent from him if he’d been the richest man in the world. She refused any support from the Fairfaxx family or the Lacys. Even before the last twins were weaned, she had a job and she’s kept it ever since.”

Malone gazed across the room at the red-haired girl and said, “What kind of a job?”

“She’s a hat-check girl,” Helene said. “She owns a flock of concessions now, and has half a dozen hat-check girls working for her. She works at the Casino herself, and she’s made enough to buy a little house in Wilmette and take damned good care of the twins. And she’s still madly in love with Kenneth Fairfaxx, and what are we going to do about her?”

Malone gazed dreamily at the fly-specked mirror. “I have a feeling,” he said, “that Gilda can handle her problems without any help from us. Furthermore, I have a faint hope she’s going to be a great help in handling some of our problems. The main one of which is Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx.”

He rose, and flicked ashes from his cigar. The mutt rose, too, and stood wagging his tail and watching Malone. “Much as I hate to leave you charming people,” the little lawyer said, “I have a few trans-Atlantic telephone calls to make.”

“You’ll run into von Flanagan,” Helene reminded him.

“If I do,” Malone prophesied, “he’ll be very, very sorry.” He waved a finger under Helene’s nose and said solemnly, “I’m not at all satisfied with the evidence in this case. There’s more to the eye than this meets.”

“You mean an eye for an eye and this for a that,” Helene said. “Malone, you’re drunk.”

“And about time, too,” Malone agreed. He added earnestly, “Before I talk to you again, think of everything you know about all the Fairfaxxes and all the Lacys and Gilda.”

“Anything in particular you want to know?”

“Yes,” Malone said, “I’d like to know who would go so far as to murder three inoffensive postmen in order to keep old Rodney Fairfaxx from finding out that his long-lost sweetheart Annie was still alive and writing to him.”

7

Malone tried his office door. It was locked.

He breathed a long sigh of relief. Maggie had gone home early.

He looked down at the mutt and said, “Best luck I’ve had today.”

Maggie would never have approved of the telephone calls he was about to make. Not with finances in their present state. He doubted that she would have approved of the mutt, either.

He opened the door, switched on the lights and said to the mutt, “Make yourself at home.”

There was a folder on his desk, marked “MR. MALONE. IMPORTANT.” He opened it, glanced at it, saw the words “Mr. Malone, the building agent called about the office rent and …” He closed the folder and stuffed it in a desk drawer. The mutt curled up at his feet and went to sleep. Malone sighed, picked up the phone.

Nearly an hour later he pushed the phone away, rose and walked to the window. The snow had stopped falling and had given way to a mist that was turned a lurid orange by the reflected light from electric signs. He looked at a dismal vista of roof-tops and wondered if there was a moon, somewhere too far away to be seen.

There was something about this case he didn’t like, and he didn’t know for sure what it was.

“The trouble with me,” he said to the mutt, who had come over to look out the window with him, both front paws on the sill, “is that I hate to see unpleasant things happen. Even to people.”

Unpleasant things were going to happen, and he knew it. To people he liked.

At that moment the mutt gave out with a long, sorrowful howl.

“Damn you,” Malone said. “Let’s don’t both of us be superstitious.”

He turned away from the window, thinking. There was nothing, now, he could do till morning. Except, of course, go home and get a good night’s sleep. He looked at the desk clock a friend in the city hall had given him last Christmas. Too late for dinner, and too early to go to bed. Not enough cash on hand to get into a poker game.

The mutt looked up at him and whined hopefully.

“Don’t worry,” Malone told him reassuringly. “We’ll go somewhere and do something.”

It occurred to him that perhaps if he explained his prospects to Joe the Angel, he still might be able to manage that poker game. Not that right now he felt like engaging in a poker game. But it would be something to take an unpleasant premonition out of his mind. And besides, with only reasonably good luck, he wouldn’t need to worry about his retainer from the Fairfaxx family until another day.

The night elevator man said, “Say, Malone, there was a cop here looking for you.”

“I hope he found me,” Malone said. He walked through the lobby, past the closed magazine stand, and paused just inside the door to the street.

Von Flanagan was looking for him. Malone wasn’t sure just why. But he didn’t want to become involved with the police department right now. Not until he’d had a good night’s sleep.

He pushed open the door, glanced out into the street, and drew back.

He felt a sudden sense of fear, a feeling of terror. Through the glass doors he could see the pale snow beginning to fall again. Out there was a street he had seen a hundred, and a thousand, and a thousand-thousand times before. Now, suddenly, it frightened him.

The mutt whimpered.

“Are you a dog or a mouse?” Malone asked indignantly. He kicked the door open and strode out into the white-streaked darkness. For just a moment he paused, then he turned in the direction of Washington Street. The mutt, complaining softly about the snow underfoot, followed close at his heels.

Half a block later the mutt let loose a low, ominous growl. Malone slowed down, glanced in a reflecting store window. He walked on, glanced in another window. As he reached a third window, there was another low-pitched growl from the mutt.

There was no doubt about it. He was being followed.

The fourth reflecting store window revealed that he was being followed by a man or woman who was extremely tall and extremely thin, and clad in black. Malone walked a little faster, and the mutt scuttled in front of him.

“Perfect nonsense,” Malone told the mutt. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Another glance in a store window showed a black-clad monster moving through the gently falling snow. About nine feet tall, Malone estimated. He quickened his steps. The mutt began to trot. The monster kept right up with them.

Malone made a quick turn into an alley near the Sherman Hotel to see if the following monster would pass by. He waited there a good five minutes, the mutt quivering at his heels. Then he poked his head gingerly around the corner. There was a dark shadow down the street.

Malone nudged the mutt and said, “Let’s go!” It wasn’t far to Joe the Angel’s.

The something followed. Experimentally Malone slowed down. The something slowed down with him. Malone speeded up, and so did his follower.

The lights were bright on LaSalle Street, and people were walking and chattering on the sidewalks. Malone reminded himself that he had been followed before, by experts with lethal intent. But never before by a thing.

He didn’t dare look behind him.

At last he turned one more corner, saw the lights of Joe the Angel’s bar, and ran like a rabbit.

The mutt was ahead of him by the time they reached the door. Malone slammed it shut behind him, caught his breath, slid onto a barstool and said, “Joe, I’m being followed.”

Joe the Angel leaned over the bar and said, “By the dog-catcher?”

“By a monster,” Malone said, still breathing hard. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Joe slid a drink in front of him and said, “By the cops, too.” He added, “Nice little dog. Where you steal him?”

“He stole me,” Malone said. He gulped his drink and said, “Give him a saucer of beer. On me.”

“On me,” Joe said. “For the little dog, a drink on the house.” He patted the mutt and said, “I would like a little dog like that. Malone—”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Malone said. He shoved his glass across the bar. “And Joe, will you see if there is anyone—outside?”

Joe nodded reassuringly, refilled Malone’s glass, walked to the door and peered out. Suddenly he slammed the door shut and hurried back to his post behind the bar.

“Someone standing,” he told Malone.

“Standing?” Malone said.

“Watching,” Joe the Angel said. “Big. Tall.”

“How tall?” Malone asked, not really wanting to know.

Joe the Angel stretched his arm up and said, “So tall.” He poured a drink for himself and said, “All black. Malone, you go home now, and I will take care of the little dog.”

“I will not go home now,” Malone said, “and I will take care of the little dog.”

“The police, too,” Joe the Angel said. “They want to know—” He looked around the bar, made sure that no one was listening, and said softly, “You are in trouble, Malone.” He nodded toward the phone booth where a very ordinary-looking man in a tan overcoat was making a phone call.

“That’s no novelty,” Malone growled. He too had recognized the man in the tan overcoat, who obviously was now calling von Flanagan to say “Malone is here.”

Joe the Angel poured beer in the mutt’s saucer and said, “Malone, I am your friend. Drink up and go home.”

“See if the tall someone is still outside,” Malone told him.

Joe took a quick look, and nodded. He glanced anxiously toward the phone booth.

“I wish I knew why von Flanagan wants me,” Malone said. He downed his drink and said, “Or maybe I’m glad that I don’t know.”

“When he was here looking for you,” Joe volunteered, “he says you stole something from the scene of a crime.”

Malone scowled. He couldn’t remember stealing anything from the scene of a crime, or from anywhere else.

At that moment the man in the tan overcoat emerged from the telephone booth and sat down in the back room, next to the rear door. Malone and Joe the Angel looked at each other helplessly.

The mutt chose that instant to snap at the ankle of a stranger who was lingering over a short beer. The stranger aimed an inaccurate kick at the mutt. Malone promptly aimed an unpleasant and possibly accurate name at the stranger, who immediately hurled the remains of his beer at Malone.

Thirty seconds later Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar was the scene of a small-sized riot, with every customer joining in impartially and joyously. The man in the tan overcoat rushed back to the telephone booth, and Malone seized that opportunity to escape through the rear door.

He paused to pat the mutt and say, “Nice quick thinking, chum,” and then headed down the alley.

Von Flanagan was looking for him. It was something that could be straightened out in a hurry, but he didn’t feel like wasting time with von Flanagan right now. And out in front of Joe the Angel’s a monster, probably eight feet tall, was waiting for him. Or, if not a monster, a someone. Right now, either one was bad enough. The little lawyer had no idea why anyone should be following him, but at the moment he didn’t want to know.

He decided that the safest place to head for right now was Jake and Helene’s apartment.

At the end of the alley he hailed a passing cab, got in fast and said, “The Ambassador West.”

8

“I feel perfectly all right,” said Jake indignantly. “All I need is a few minutes rest before dinner.” He sneezed. “Perhaps a gargle would be a good idea.”

“I am going to call the doctor,” Helene said.

“You make a move toward the phone and I’ll reach it first and call my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer,” Helene told him, “is probably sleeping in the back end of a saloon somewhere.” She looked at him, her eyes softened, and she said, “Would you like an aspirin, darling?”

“No,” said Jake. “I told you I’m perfectly all right. Or I would be if you’d let me alone.” He cleared his throat with difficulty. “Do we have any aspirin, dear?” He lifted himself on one elbow and said, “Stay away from that telephone.” He sneezed again. Then he coughed. Then he said, “Helene, would you fix a gargle for me?”

Helene scowled. “I’m not sure if you should gargle, sweetheart. They say that if you’re getting pneumonia—”

“For the last time,” Jake said, “I’m perfectly all right, and will you fix that fact in your little mind? It’s simply that I need a little rest before dinner, that my throat feels like an old piece of sandpaper, and that someone seems to have left a dead horse in my nose.”

Helene said, “What you need is a drink. Do you mind if I take your temperature while I’m getting it?”

“I do mind,” Jake said. “Wave a thermometer at me, and I’ll eat it, that’s what I’ll do. Just get me the drink, and forget that you’re a frustrated nurse.”

As she started toward the kitchen, he added, “You know at that it might not be a bad idea to take my temperature. Sometimes these very minor ailments—”

Again Helene said, “I’m going to call the doctor.”

Again Jake said, “All I need is a little rest before—” He was silenced by the thermometer stuck under his tongue.

“Meantime,” she said, “I’ll fix you that drink. Rye, Scotch, Bourbon, rum and coca cola, or a hot lemonade?”

Jake signified the last named. Helene said, “I’m going to call the Mayo Brothers.”

Jake mumbled around the thermometer that she’d better bring him the hot lemonade first. On second thought, he added that she’d better put plenty of gin in it. Then he lay back on the sofa cushions, his eyes half closed, listening to the pleasant sounds of tinkling glass from the kitchenette and reflecting on what a lucky guy he was, the luckiest, in fact, in the whole world. Yes, in spite of the splitting headache, the scratchy throat, the aching bones, and the dead horse in his nose, he was still the luckiest guy in the world. He, and he only, had Helene.

He absent-mindedly puffed at the thermometer, reached for a match and started to light it before he remembered what it was. Then he settled back on the cushions again. These women! Let them have their little whims. If Helene wanted to take his temperature, that was all right with him. In spite of the fact that all he needed was a little rest before dinner.

He half opened his eyes, gazed around the room and wished that he were a tomcat. Tomcats could purr and he wanted to purr. Here he was, just another Iowa-born newspaper man, who’d been a good press agent—hell’s bells—a magnificent and superlative press agent, probably the best press agent in the world, and who now owned the best, the most magnificent, the most superlative night club in the world, and who was married to the most beautiful, the most magnificently superlative woman in the world! He might feel a little on the lousy side right now, but there wasn’t a thing the matter with him that a little rest before dinner wouldn’t fix up fine.

Helene yanked the thermometer from his mouth just before he dozed off into what would undoubtedly have been pleasant dreams. She stared at it blankly for a moment.

“I think you’re supposed to read it with your back to the light,” Jake said feebly, through a thick throat.

Helene backed up to a floor lamp, looked at the thermometer, gasped and said, “Where the hell did we get this thing? The damn thing’s in Greek.”

Jake sat up, pushing aside the blanket Helene had draped over the davenport. “Give it to me. I had two years of Greek in high school.”

Helene handed him the thermometer. Jake blinked at it and said, “That isn’t Greek. That’s Russian.”

Helene looked over his shoulder and said, “You’re holding it upside down.”

“You were holding it upside down,” Jake said. “Let me get a good light on this thing.” He held the thermometer up to the light bulb for a moment, stared at it, handed it back to Helene and said weakly, “I do seem to have a little fever.”

“According to the thermometer,” Helene said, “You have a temperature of 122! And Jake, nobody ever lived who had a temperature of more than 108.”

“Give me that thermometer,” Jake demanded. He fairly snatched it from her hand. It was one solid line of mercury.

“Now, Jake,” Helene said soothingly, “there’s probably something wrong with the thermometer. All you need is a little rest before dinner and a hot lemonade.”

Jake pushed her aside and said, “That shows how much you care about me!” He grabbed the phone and said, “Get me the long distance operator.”

“Jake!” Helene said. “There’s a perfectly good doctor here in the apartment building.”

“Don’t bother me,” Jake said, “I know what I’m doing. No, operator, I wasn’t talking to you. I want you to connect me with the Mayo Clinic. If you can’t reach that, see if you can get the Johns Hopkins Hospital. And rush it! This is an emergency call.”

He hung up the phone, staggered back to the couch and sat down, shivering in every limb. Helene eased him back on the cushions, tucked the blanket around him and handed him the hot lemonade, reminding him, in her gentlest voice, that he was perfectly all right.

Jake sneezed again, sniffled, gazed at her unhappily and said, “Oh, my darling, I wish I’d been kinder to you.”

“Sometimes I wish the same thing,” Helene said, “and drink your lemonade.”

There was a knock at the door.

“The Mayo Clinic got here fast,” Helene commented, crossing the room.

Malone was at the door, the mutt at his side. He looked into the room and said, “What the hell’s going on?”

Jake rolled anguished eyes toward the little lawyer and said, “Thank Heaven, you’re here. I just realized I’ve never made my will.”

Helene said, “Jake has a slight temperature.” She patted the mutt and said, “I suppose he’s hungry.”

“Not hungry,” Malone said, “but thirsty. I hope you have some beer.”

Helene led the mutt toward the kitchenette and Malone walked over to inspect the patient. Jake motioned to the little lawyer to bend down close.

“I don’t want Helene to know,” Jake whispered, “but I’m a very sick man. I’ve got a temperature of 122.”

Malone grabbed the thermometer, gazed at it for an instant, and said, “How do you know? This damn thing’s printed in Yiddish.”

“Upside down,” Jake murmured, “upside down.”

Malone rushed to the kitchen for a dishpan. He explained in frantic tones to Helene, who went on placidly feeding beer to the mutt, that it looked to him like acute appendicitis, and that she wasn’t to worry, he would take charge of everything, including getting a doctor. Then he rushed back into the living room with the dishpan.

Jake looked at the dishpan, shook his head limply, and said, “No.”

“Good God!” Malone said. “Perhaps you’ve been poisoned.” He abandoned the dishpan, rushed to the telephone and said, “Send up the house physician right away. A man here has been poisoned and besides he has acute appendicitis and a temperature of 122.” He stood holding the receiver for a few minutes, and then said, “Oh, he’s out of town, is he? How about his assistant? I see. He doesn’t have an assistant. Can’t you understand this is an emergency? You’ve got to find a doctor. Any doctor. Look, the man is dying—”

Helene appeared at the door of the kitchenette and said, “All he needs is a little rest before dinner.”

Malone said, “Thank you very much,” to the telephone, and “Shut up!” to Helene. He rushed across the room, took her hand and said, “I told you, don’t worry.”

Helene looked at Jake and said, “If I worried any less, I’d be dancing in the streets. Make him drink that hot lemonade while I fix him a gargle.” She walked over to the couch, laid her hand on Jake’s forehead and murmured something about a poor ittsy bittsy boy having a sore throat. Jake grabbed her hand and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”

Malone pulled a chair close to the couch and again remarked that no one needed to worry about a thing.

The mutt, having finished a soup plate of beer, wandered out from the kitchenette, leaped up on the davenport, scratched a few stray fleas, and went placidly to sleep on Jake’s feet.

It might have been five minutes, or it might have been an hour, before there was a loud pounding on the door. Helene and Malone reached it almost simultaneously, the mutt retired under the davenport, and Jake merely groaned. The man at the door was short, stocky, red-faced and familiar to Malone. He said, “I’m Dr. McSmith. I have with me a stomach pump. Where is the patient?”

Helene and Malone pointed, speechlessly, to Jake.

“You’d best help me move the patient into the bedroom,” Dr. McSmith ordered, “and leave me alone with him for a bit.”

While Malone and the doctor assisted the staggering Jake towards the bedroom door, Helene confided to the doctor that she was not sure if a stomach pump would be necessary. The doctor informed her that he would use his own judgment as to that. The bedroom door closed with an air of grim finality. Helene and Malone sat down on the davenport, looking at nothing. Helene said, in a very small voice, “Would you like a drink?”

Malone said, “No, thank you.”

A few moments later, Malone said, “Would you like a drink?”

Helene said, “No, thank you.”

The mutt came and sat consolingly between them. That reminded Malone of something.

“He throws rocks at dogs,” Malone said.

Helene gasped. Her face was very pale. “Do you mean there’s something mentally wrong, too?”

“There must be something mentally wrong with a man who throws rocks at dogs,” Malone said dourly.

Helene gasped. “I can’t imagine him doing such a thing.”

“You could,” Malone said, “if you’d seen him this morning. It was brutal. The poor dog didn’t have a chance.”

“Don’t!” Helene whispered. “I’d rather not know the details, Malone. Why, it might have been a helpless little dog like this one.”

“Like this one!” Malone said. “It was this one, only he was smart enough to duck.” The mutt looked up and howled faintly.

“In spite of his illness,” Helene said, “I can’t believe it of Jake.”

Malone had started to say, “But Jake wasn’t there—” when the bedroom door opened and Dr. McSmith came out. He signaled to Helene and said, “There are a few instructions I must leave with you, Mrs. Justus. Also, I regret that I must inform the Health Department.”

Helene stood up and gasped, “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” Dr. McSmith said. “It is necessary in these cases.” He reached down, snapped shut the clasp on his bag, and said, “I don’t think it’s too late to get cocoa butter.” He cleared his throat and said, “Your husband, Mrs. Justus, has chicken pox. It is uncomfortable, but not fatal.”

All Helene could say was, “Thank you very much, Doctor—”

“McSmith,” the doctor said stiffly. “And I’ll leave my bill at the desk.”

Malone rose, strolled across the room, button-holed Dr. McSmith and said, “How do you feel about postmen, doctor?”

“I regard them as necessary evils,” the doctor said, “but I don’t go so far as to batter them over the head with lead pipes. I trust that answers your question, sir?” He turned to Helene and said, “You can have these prescriptions filled at the corner. And don’t forget the cocoa butter. It’s very helpful in chicken pox cases. I trust your husband will be feeling much better in the morning.”

At that moment, the mutt, who had been lurking behind the door, dashed out and growled at the red-faced doctor, who said a hurried, “Goodnight,” and pulled the door shut. The mutt struck a pose, looked at the door and made a remark about people who threw rocks at dogs.

9

“Don’t you dare come near that door!” Jake said hoarsely. “Either of you! Helene, go away! Go away!”

“My poor baby,” Helene said, ignoring him. “Does he have the nasty old chicken pox?”

“Get away,” Jake said. “Helene! Don’t you dare come near this bed.” He gave an anguished moan and hid his head under the covers.

Helene said consolingly, “Darling, I don’t care how you look. I love you anyway.”

“It’s contagious,” Jake said, in a muffled voice. “Terribly contagious.”

“Of course it is,” Helene said cheerfully. “I gave it to the entire freshman class at Miss Winch’s School for Girls the week before the annual school dance.”

Jake peered around the covers with one eye, and said, “You mean you’ve had the chicken pox?”

“Naturally,” Helene told him. “Everybody’s had chicken pox. Except, apparently, you.”

“I don’t believe it,” Jake said skeptically, still with only one eye peering from under the covers. “Chicken pox leaves people with scars.”

“I’ve got one scar,” Helene said, “and I’ll show it to you for proof. Turn your back a minute, Malone.”

A moment later, Jake sat up in bed and said indignantly, “Well then, if you’ve had chicken pox and you can’t catch it from me, why aren’t you busy nursing me instead of just standing there, and where is my cocoa butter?”

“I’m going after the cocoa butter right now,” Malone said. “And to get the prescriptions filled. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes,” Jake said, “an evening paper, some dinner, and a quart of gin.”

Malone made a vain attempt to leave the mutt behind. After the resulting melancholy wail, he relented and said, “Oh, all right, come along, but you’ve got to behave yourself.” The mutt preceded him down the corridor, yelping with glee.

The little lawyer paused for a moment at the desk, where the stony-faced clerk informed him that dogs were not permitted in the building.

“I’m just keeping him until I can find a good home for him,” Malone said, “and where is the best drugstore in the city.”

The mutt whimpered unhappily.

The clerk leaned anxiously over the desk and said, “I hope the poor little doggie isn’t sick? Say, that’s a mighty fine animal, Mr. Malone. How much do you want for him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said airily. “How much would you offer?” The mutt put his nose on the toe of Malone’s shoe and wept miserably. The little lawyer added hastily, “I haven’t time to talk about it now. Just tell me the best drugstore in the city.”

The clerk named an address on Wabash Avenue, and Malone hurried out to a cab. The cab driver, a loquacious soul, and evidently a world traveler of renown, remarked that he had been everywhere and seen everything, but only once before in his life had he seen a dog even remotely resembling that one, and that had been in Australia. It was none of his business, chum, but would Malone mind telling him if that was an Australian dog.

“It is,” Malone said stiffly, “and a very famous breed. This is an Australian beer hound.”

The cab driver looked over his shoulder, missing the rear end of a truck by inches, and said, “Can you imagine that! I don’t suppose you know where I could find one like him?”

“As far as I know,” Malone said, “this is the only one of its kind in the United States.”

“Can you imagine that!,” the cab driver said again. “I don’t suppose you’d part with him for any money.”

“Not for any money in the world,” Malone said. Not, he reminded himself, that he wasn’t going to try and find a good home for the Australian beer hound, tomorrow. It was just that the cab driver didn’t seem like quite the right type.

The drugstore clerk filled the prescriptions, reached for the cocoa butter and said, “If it’s for the little dog, we have a flea paste that will work much better.”

“It isn’t for the little dog.” Malone said indignantly. “It’s for a very good friend of mine.” He added, “But perhaps you’d better give me the flea paste, anyway.”

Back at Jake and Helene’s apartment, Malone found Helene sitting on the edge of the bed with a pencil and paper in her hands. “I’m counting the spots as they come out,” she announced. “We have a bet on, odds or evens, including everything down to the collar bone. Would you care to place a small wager?”

“I would not,” Malone said. He was reminded of an unpleasant fact. The twenty dollars he had borrowed that afternoon from Joe the Angel had gone fast, what with beer for the mutt, taxi fares, and other odds and ends. Perhaps he’d better go back and have a further conference with the niece and nephew of his client. After all, it was his duty to keep in touch with them at a time like this, and regardless of how late it might be, he knew at least four reputable gambling joints where he could get a check cashed. “This is all very pleasant,” he said to Helene. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than attending a case of chicken pox. But I’ve got a client on my hands, and what I always say is, ‘Business before pleasure.’” He added, “And would you mind looking after the dog for me until I get back?” He hoped the mutt wouldn’t complain too bitterly while he was away.

Helene sighed. “If you must desert us at a time like this, go right ahead, and as long as you’re not worried about the mutt catching chicken pox, we, don’t mind. I’ll feed him beer, and if he gets lonesome, I’ll read aloud to him. But at least, wait until I fix Jake’s cocoa butter.” She bustled off to the kitchenette.

When she was out of earshot, Jake said, “Tell me the truth, Malone. How do I look?”

“You look fine,” Malone lied.

The big red-haired man’s face had always been covered with a fine collection of freckles. It was now also covered with an even finer collection of red dots, which, unfortunately, went very badly with the shade of his hair.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone said, heartily. “The cocoa butter will fix you up fine.”

“Malone,” Jake said again, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“If it’s about making your will,” Malone said, “I haven’t time to bother with it right now.”

Jake waved that aside. “Come here, Malone. Quick. Before Helene gets back. It’s really for her sake, too, but she wouldn’t admit it.”

Malone walked over to the bedside, wondering if chicken pox was ever accompanied by delirium.

“Don’t mess in this Fairfaxx case,” Jake whispered. “No, damn you, I’m not out of my head. I mean it. Helene went to the same school with her, and it would break her heart. Besides, old man Fairfaxx isn’t going to the chair for this. The worst that can happen to him is an insane asylum. You saw yourself he was willing to take the rap, and if he is, I think you ought to let him have his own way.”

Malone said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m not sure you do.”

“You might even be able to get him off,” Jake whispered. “Not that it would matter to him. He has nothing to live for, Malone.” His voice dropped a tone lower. “Keep remembering that. Nothing to live for.”

“Perfect nonsense,” Helene said briskly, walking in the door, “you have everything to live for. The doctor said you’d feel much better tomorrow.” She set a tray with a plate on it on the table by his bed.

Jake looked at the plate suspiciously. It contained perfectly triangular pieces of toast, covered with a revolting looking yellow mess. “What’s that for?” Jake demanded.

“For you, dear,” Helene said. “Eat it. It’ll keep you from having scars. The doctor said so.”

Jake obediently picked up one triangle, bit into it tentatively, dropped it with an anguished howl and said, “What the hell is this stuff?”

“Cocoa butter,” Helene said in a surprised voice. “I couldn’t think of any other way to feed it to you except on toast.”

“Helene,” Malone said sternly, “I, too, have had chicken pox, and evidently my memory is better than yours. You don’t feed him the cocoa butter, you rub it on him.”

Helene turned pale and said, “But I thought the stuff in the other package was what I am supposed to rub on him.”

“No, no, no,” Malone said. “That’s the flea paste.”

“But Jake doesn’t have fleas.”

“I didn’t say he did,” Malone roared, “but the Australian beer hound does. Look, try to get this straight. You rub Jake with the cocoa butter. When I return, I will rub the dog with the flea paste.”

“In the meantime,” Jake said weakly, “suppose you just get me a drink of gin, and we’ll call it square.”

Helene fled toward the kitchenette, carrying the tray.

“Don’t worry,” Malone said, “I’m sure you’ll pull through in spite of her nursing.” He unwrapped a fresh cigar, flicked the wrapper inaccurately toward the waste basket, and said, “About the Fairfaxxes. You said old Rodney didn’t have anything to live for. I suspect—I should say—I know, that you’re wrong. You see, I really did make those transatlantic phone calls.”

Jake sat up in bed and said, “You mean she’s been alive all this time?”

“Naturally,” Malone said. He lit the cigar and added, “Unless you believe that she’s been resurrected within the last year.”

At that moment, Helene came flying in from the kitchenette with a bottle of gin and a glass, and a frantic-voiced announcement that the mutt was avidly eating the toast and cocoa butter.

10

Malone reached a finger towards the bell beside the beautiful wrought iron gate in front of the Fairfaxx grounds. His finger was just half an inch from the bell when a cheerful, but official-sounding voice said, “Hello, Mr. Malone, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Malone wheeled around and looked into a familiar face, shadowed by a snapbrim hat. The man had on a rather well-worn suit and carried a folded newspaper under his arm.

“Hello, Gadenski,” Malone said, holding out a welcoming hand. “I haven’t seen you for a long time. Not since you discovered that body up in Lincoln Park. Nice to know you’ve been promoted.”

“Thanks,” Gadenski said. His eyes narrowed. “How did you know I’m still with the police department?”

“For one reason,” Malone told him, “you’re carrying a Manual of Police Procedure in your overcoat pocket. For another, you have your hat pulled down halfway over your eyes; for a third, you’re wearing conspicuously inconspicuous clothing; and for a fourth, you’re carrying a newspaper, so that if you have to follow me on the streetcar, you’ll be able to conceal yourself by pretending to read.”

Gadenski said, with a false laugh, “I just happen to have on my old clothes tonight, Malone, and I was carrying the newspaper because I wanted to catch up on my reading.”

“Well, good luck,” Malone said. “I hope you do catch up with it sometime. I knew a man once who happened to miss the daily newspaper on, I believe, July 27th, 1922, and ever since then, he’s been reading yesterday’s newspapers, because he’s never had time to catch up. It’s been nice seeing you again, Gadenski, and be sure to send me a Christmas card.”

“Now, Malone,” Gadenski said, in a hurt voice, “I’m only doing my duty. My boss said you’d turn up here and I should come here and wait.”

“Are you supposed to stick with me,” Malone asked, “or just trail me?”

“Just trail you,” Gadenski said, “until he has you picked up later.”

“That’s fine,” Malone said. He bit the end off a cigar and added, “Do you get the job of picking me up?”

“Oh, no,” Gadenski said. “I don’t know who’s supposed to pick you up.”

“When you find out,” Malone said, “see if you can get me his autograph.” He added, “It’ll probably be Garrity. It’s always Garrity since Kluchetsky got his promotion. Sorry to leave you out here in the cold, but I don’t think I’m supposed to take you in with me.”

“I’m not supposed to go in,” Gadenski said stiffly. He whipped a small blue-covered book from his pocket, ran his thumb down the index, turned to a page about two-thirds of the way through the book, glanced at the page for a moment with lips moving quietly, and finally said, “No. I wait out here and trail you, and then tell Garrity where you are.”

“Fine,” Malone said, “and be sure to tell him I’m wearing a brown suit and a green tie.”

“Garrity’s color blind,” Gadenski said in a gloomy voice.

“I’ll buy a carnation,” Malone promised, “and wear it in my buttonhole.” He pushed the button beside the gate. Thirty seconds later, Bridie’s voice answered. Malone identified himself. A minute and a half later, a buzzer sounded and the gate swung open.

Malone waved cheerfully to detective Gadenski and strode on up the walk towards the Fairfaxx mansion. The iron gates clanged shut behind him. He paused for a moment, halfway up the path, with a trapped, half-nightmarish feeling. Suppose he wanted to get out of this place? It was walled in on all sides. And even if he were to rattle the wrought iron gates and yell for help, Gadenski could not do more than offer him sympathy, since the gates could be opened only by the electric gadget which operated from somewhere inside the house.

There would be places in which to hide from a possible pursuer, but the pursuer would know the locations of all of them. There would be avenues of escape, but the pursuer would know in which direction they led.

No, it was definitely not a place in which to be trapped by someone who had murdered three postmen and would obviously, if needs be, be willing to murder a lawyer. Malone decided to keep certain information to himself. He walked up to the door, rang the bell, and said, “Hello!” to the still swollen-eyed Bridie who admitted him.

The Fairfaxx living room was well-lighted and cheerful. A tiny fire blazed in the grate. Lamps were glowing. A coffee service was set out on the table. But the atmosphere was not reassuring to Malone. This pleasant chintz-hung room smelled of murder and one of the people sitting around the cozy little blaze was a murderer.

He reminded himself sternly that he had come here not to collect evidence but to collect a retainer.

It was Kenneth Fairfaxx who greeted him just inside the room and said, “We’ve been hoping you’d drop in. What will you have, rye, Scotch or Bourbon?”

Malone resisted an impulse to say, “One of everything,” and said, “Whatever you’re drinking will be fine for me.” He wondered if Kenneth would be the one to make out his check.

What had ever happened to separate Glida, pronounced Gilda, and her six twins from Kenneth Fairfaxx? Somebody must have put in some particularly dirty and determined work. Kenneth looked as though he would be a notable success as the father of six twins, or even eight twins, or ten twins. He looked like someone that Glida, pronounced Gilda, might quite reasonably be in love with. And Gilda looked like someone that anyone with just ordinary intelligence would be in love with. Therefore, why was Gilda breaking her heart, and why was Kenneth preparing to marry a girl with a face like an ill-bred horse, and the disposition of an insulted hyena?

Malone reminded himself just in time that he was a lawyer and not Dorothy Dix, accepted the drink, and advanced across the room.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx took a few steps toward him and said, “Nice to see you again.”

“It’s always nice to see you again,” Malone said, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. She had on a long black dinner dress, which made her look even taller than she actually was. Malone wondered if she was in mourning for three murdered postmen, or for her uncle’s being in jail. Or, if she’d picked it because it accentuated her particular tawny, long-legged beauty. He noticed that she used very little makeup, wondered why, and then realized it was because she was smart enough to know she didn’t need it.

An unpleasant little chill went up his spine, and then down again, and he gulped his drink fast.

A young man had risen along with Elizabeth Fairfaxx from the big blue brocade sofa. He didn’t look as though he belonged beside Elizabeth Fairfaxx, except that he was as tall as she—well, perhaps half an inch taller. To be perfectly frank about it, Malone reflected, he seemed more like the man who had called to truck away the trash. His head looked like an old skull on which someone had left a shock of straw-colored hair, which apparently hadn’t been combed since Grant took Richmond. His eyes were deep set, dark gray, and seemed to threaten that at any moment he would start quoting some of the lesser known passages from Hamlet. The rest of his face reminded Malone of a doubtlessly underpaid and otherwise worthy high school principal who had once gotten him into a great deal of trouble with the truant officer.

This tall young man was wearing a pair of faded corduroy slacks, slightly worn at the knee, canvas shoes stained with rain, snow, and mud, a nondescript looking sports jacket, a sport shirt with two buttons missing, open at the neck, and no tie.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “Mr. Malone, this is Bob Allen.” She didn’t add anything. She didn’t say, for instance, “Bob Allen, my fiancé.” Or, “Bob Allen, the most wonderful man in the world.” Or, “Bob Allen, the man I’m backing to run for Mayor next year.” But her tone of voice and the look in her eyes implied all those things. If Bob Allen really was the man who trucked away the trash, chances were he’d probably find Elizabeth Fairfaxx waiting on a pile of yesterday’s newspapers.

“He’s an actor,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx added proudly.

Malone smothered a wistful little sigh. It always worked out that way. Take any girl with beauty, charm, brains, and probably money, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred it turned out she was in love with an unemployed actor, who was trying to get her to back a play for him.

He shook Bob Allen’s hand enthusiastically and said, “This is a great privilege, Mr. Allen. It isn’t every day of my life I get a chance to meet an actor. Are you appearing in anything in Chicago at present?”

Bob Allen dropped Malone’s hand and said, “No.”

Malone said, “Oh,” and looked around for a chair.

Violet silently motioned him toward one. It didn’t look comfortable. For that matter, neither did she. He wondered why she was invariably present at every family gathering, yet never actually took part in one.

“Right over here, Mr. Malone,” a pleasant masculine voice said.

Malone turned in the direction of the voice and saw Uncle Ernie posed gracefully in a wing chair, a glass in his hand.

“I have something to tell you when you have a moment to spare. In private,” Uncle Ernie added.

Abby Lacy’s rasping voice interrupted with, “Young man!” and Malone all but jumped out of his skin.

To his great relief, Elizabeth Fairfaxx tucked her hand under his arm, led him to a rose satin loveseat, sat down beside him and said, “Kenneth will bring you another drink in a minute.”

Malone looked at her with warm affection and said, “If I were twenty years older, I’d ask you to marry me. As it is, I just ask you. Questions, I mean. Tell me all about you and Kenneth.” He thought this was a tactful way to lead up to the question of who would make out his check.

“Oh,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “we’re just the poor relations.”

She said it a little too lightly, Malone thought.

“My pa fought it out with the stock market and lost, back in ’29. Uncle Rodney was very generous about the school bills, so the least I could do was come and keep house for him when I finally broke out of college. My pa died a few years ago, of discouragement, I guess. My ma was a movie actress. She left pa and me for an Italian count, when I was a baby. We haven’t heard from her since. I think she’s living on a Motion Picture Relief Fund pension, somewhere out on the West Coast.”

Malone suddenly remembered. Liza Lavender. He’d gone to see her pictures again and over again. Back in his high school days. In an era of tiny, curly-headed stars, she’d been tall, graceful, scornful, and magnificent. He’d hidden pictures of her under his pillow when he was seventeen, and tacked them on his wall when he was eighteen.

He started to say, “You look like her,” to Elizabeth Fairfaxx, but his voice died in his throat. He could see Liza Lavender in her, the same tawny hair, the lovely, almost square-shaped mouth, the high-arched eyebrows, and the slender, willowy hands. With an effort, he remembered that he was supposed to be listening.

“The very least I could do,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx repeated, “was to come and keep house for Uncle. After all, he’d done everything for me. Not out of duty, but out of affection. And believe me, Mr. Malone, it’s been pleasant. Pleasant and happy, until—this happened. Of course Uncle didn’t entirely approve of Bob, but I’m sure that’s only because they didn’t have a chance to get acquainted properly.”

Malone said nothing for a moment. He took a cigar from his pocket and unwrapped it, very slowly and carefully. He crumpled the cellophane into a little ball and played with it between his fingers before he tossed it in the general direction of the nearest ashtray. He lingered over the lighting of his match. But, at last, a puff of smoke had to be exhaled and he laid a burnt match carefully down on a magazine on the end table.

“Tell me,” he said, very quietly, “when is the last time you remember seeing your mother?”

“I don’t remember ever seeing her,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said. Her voice was a little harsh. “I wasn’t very old, you see, when she—well, when she left us.” She laughed. The laugh seemed a bit too shrill to Malone. “After all, it isn’t as though she had been a member of the family.”

Malone looked at the end of his cigar and said, “She must have been well acquainted with your family.”

“As a matter of fact, she wasn’t,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx told him. “I don’t think even Uncle Rodney ever met her, and I know none of the others did.”

“I thought not,” Malone said. He felt her arm stiffen next to his, and saw that the drink in her hand rippled just a bit. “I mean,” he added hastily, “I felt it. You mustn’t mind me, Miss Fairfaxx, I’m psychic. You may not realize it, to look at me, but I had a Welsh grandmother.”

He was relieved to hear her laugh. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew that the tall, gaunt-faced, gray-haired housekeeper, who’d been in the Fairfaxx house for “years and years,” was the once famous and fabulous Liza Lavender, her mother.

11

“Young man!” Abby Lacy said again.

Malone was not pleased. If Elizabeth Fairfaxx, or Glida, pronounced Gilda, or any member of a burlesque show chorus had called him “young man” he would have purred. But that wasn’t the way Mrs. Abby Lacy meant it. He pretended he didn’t hear her.

“You’d better go and talk to her,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx warned. “She can be unpleasant when she doesn’t get her own way.”

Malone thought that she would probably be just as unpleasant if she got it. He said, “That may be, but I’ll bet I can manage her.” Just the same, he decided it would be wise to obey the summons.

He didn’t want Mrs. Abby Lacy or anyone else to be unpleasant to Elizabeth Fairfaxx, and besides there was just one chance in a thousand he might learn something of importance. The little lawyer was halfway across the room when Uncle Ernie stopped him. The tall, handsome man was swaying, only slightly.

“Mr. Malone,” he whispered, “I want to talk to you, in private.”

Malone instinctively suggested meeting in the nearest bar.

Uncle Ernie shook his head. “Glad to meet you in a bar any time,” he went on in the same whisper, “for a drink or two and some lively conversation. But this has to be strictly private, understand? Can’t even let a bartender overhear it.” He scowled. “Tell you what, meet you out in the garden before you go.”

On a sudden inspiration, Malone named the spot where someone had stood to murder three postmen. It would be interesting, he reflected, to find out just how Uncle Ernie would react to the scene.

Uncle Ernie said, “It’s a deal,” and wandered vaguely away.

Malone sat down beside Mrs. Lacy, turned on his most ingratiating smile—the one he usually saved for a jury of middle-aged housewives—and said, “My dear Mrs. Lacy, you wanted to talk to me?”

“I do,” Abby Lacy snapped. “But not here.”

Malone resisted an impulse to ask her if she would meet him at the nearest bar, and said, “I am completely at your service.”

She came within an inch of her life of smiling back at him, and said, “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to accompany me to my house.” The words she chose were gracious, but the manner in which she stood up was a command.

Malone said that he would be delighted, and meant it. He was anxious to see the inside of the Lacy house. His mental picture of it included a full-length portrait of Boris Karloff and a pair of tame bats.

It turned out that he was wrong about the bats, but the butler who came to the door to let them in could have made a living as a stand-in for Karloff in a horror picture role. He was an enormous, ugly man, with long ape-like arms, a completely bald head and a mask-like face. Neither Abby Lacy nor her daughter paid any attention to him as he opened the door. Undoubtedly an old family retainer. Malone reflected. He looked as if the architect had built him into the house. The rest of the architectural design was, from what he saw of it, the duplicate of the house he had just left.

In every other respect, however, it was as different as night from day. There was no cozy chintz-covered furniture, only heavy pieces of undoubtedly costly walnut. There were no gay, bright-colored draperies, only heavy velour of a distressing shade of maroon, and there was not the faintest sign of a drink—not anywhere. Malone sat down gingerly on what he mistakenly hoped would be a comfortable chair, and discovered that a large bronze statue holding a glass-shaded lamp was leering at him unpleasantly from across the room. He turned around hastily, but remained unhappily aware that the monster was staring at the back of his head. Perhaps, he told himself, he should have turned down that last glass of gin. But Mrs. Lacy said, “Young man!” again, and Malone jumped.

“I could not talk to you in that house,” Mrs. Lacy went on. She made it sound as though that house were used for an illegal but highly profitable way of making a living.

“Mother means,” Gay Lacy said, “she didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Gay!” Mrs. Lacy said, “I’m perfectly capable of telling Mr. Malone what I mean. Go to your room.” She added, “And tell Huntleigh I want him.” Gay squeaked and fled. Malone wondered who Huntleigh might be and was only partially relieved to discover he was the alarming-looking butler.

“Huntleigh,” Mrs. Lacy said, “bring this gentleman whiskey and soda, and an ashtray.”

Malone murmured his thanks, took out a cigar, and began to unwrap it. He murmured more thanks when Huntleigh came back with a tray containing a bottle, syphon and a glass.

“I suppose,” Mrs. Lacy said, “you think I’m a very unpleasant woman.” Malone started to protest. She shook her head at him. “The fact is, I am a very unpleasant woman, but please remember I’ve had a very unpleasant life.”

She looked around the room. “As you know, my husband and Rodney Fairfaxx were devoted friends. You’ve observed that the two houses are alike—in certain respects. Not in decoration. I decorated this house. My house.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Albert never really liked this room. Sometimes, I think he never liked me either. And I know he, too, was very much disappointed in Gay.”

Malone, who’d begun to wonder if she’d invited him over to tell him the story of her life, glanced up sharply at the “too.” Abby Lacy saw the look.

“Yes,” she said, “I’d always hoped if I had a daughter, she’d be pretty. I wasn’t. Albert was sorry for me because I wasn’t pretty. He had a very sympathetic nature, but sympathy is not enough of a basis for marriage.”

Malone nodded. Abby Lacy had really said very few words, but he knew her story from beginning to end. He resisted an impulse to pat one of her beautifully manicured, thin, little hands. There seemed to be nothing to say. He mixed another drink and sat watching her.

“Albert spent most of his time at the other house,” Abby Lacy went on, “especially in his last few years. I think he rather envied Rodney. Albert was not only sympathetic, but he had a rather romantic disposition. There was something almost fascinating to him in Rodney’s tragedy—if you can call being saved from a thoroughly unsuitable marriage a tragedy.” Her voice turned hard again on the last phrase.

Malone suddenly remembered Helene’s comments on Annie Kendall. He said delicately, “You mean because of the young lady’s background—or—?”

“I mean because of the young lady’s nature,” Abby Lacy said, in a grim voice. “The Fairfaxxes were always making unsuitable marriages. You know about Elizabeth’s father. Annie Kendall was perfectly suitable as far as her background went. She didn’t have any money, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that she’d have made his life a perfect hell.”

Malone said, “She looks very gentle in her pictures.”

Mrs. Lacy snorted like an indignant horse. “She had a mean, grasping, calculating heart—if you can call it a heart at all. Frankly, we were all relieved when—it happened.” Her voice softened again and she said, “I’ve always been very fond of Rodney Fairfaxx.”

Malone wondered if she were fond enough of Rodney Fairfaxx to commit murder in order to preserve his illusion.

“Perhaps,” he said, watching Mrs. Lacy from the corner of his eye, “in that case, it’s just as well she went down on the Titanic.”

He was not surprised when Mrs. Lacy snorted again, this time scornfully. “I’m not only an unpleasant woman,” she said, “but I’m smart enough to know what you’re doing. You’re perfectly well aware of the fact that Annie Kendall is alive and you probably figured it out the same way I did.”

Malone knocked ash off his cigar and said, “Why?”

“Because of the three postmen,” Mrs. Lacy told him.

Malone was silent for a moment. He could follow Abby Lacy’s line of reasoning in his mind, because it was very like his own. There could be but one conceivable reason for murdering three separate and individual postmen, and that was to prevent something from being delivered to the person for whom it was intended. And that something must have been a letter from Annie Kendall, or the news that she was alive.

“I always imagined,” Mrs. Lacy said, “that for some reason she wanted to stay in England. Probably because she’d met a man with more money. The sinking of the Titanic made it conveniently possible for her to do so without having to inform Rodney. She would do it that way.” She glanced at Malone and added, “You’ve undoubtedly checked and verified all this.”

“I have,” Malone said, “and you’re perfectly right. The question is what to do now about telling Rodney—that is, if he should be told or not. And the other question is who would be sufficiently anxious to keep Rodney Fairfaxx from finding out to murder three otherwise inoffensive postmen.”

“Any number of people have any number of reasons,” Abby Lacy told him. “You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.” She paused for a moment. “If Annie Kendall comes back and Rodney marries her, she’ll get every cent of the Fairfaxx money.”

Malone had a feeling that that was the principal thing she’d wanted to impress on his mind, the reason for the visit, the whiskey and soda, and the ashtray.

“I’m sure,” she said, “you’ll handle the entire situation in the best manner for all concerned. And if, for any reason, the Fairfaxx family should decide to make—other arrangements—I feel sufficient personal interest in the case to engage you myself.”

Malone suddenly remembered he had still done nothing about his retainer, but Abby Lacy was not the person to discuss it with, yet. He wondered how much of her “personal interest” in the case had to do with the fact that Kenneth Fairfaxx was apparently destined to be her son-in-law, and that she might not like to see the Fairfaxx money go elsewhere. True, the Lacy family was wealthy, but it had been Malone’s experience that the more money people had the more grimly determined they were to make sure that other prospective money didn’t get away from them. On the other hand, if Kenneth Fairfaxx inherited the dough, he might change his mind about marrying Gay. He might even go back to Gilda, and the six twins. The little lawyer wondered if Abby Lacy had thought of that angle.

“And please remember,” Abby Lacy said, “that I consider Rodney Fairfaxx’ being in a public jail most unsuitable.”

Malone agreed with her that it was most unsuitable and promised to do something about it immediately. The other aspects of the case, he assured her, would be adequately dealt with. “Believe me, my dear Mrs. Lacy,” he said, “it couldn’t be in better hands.”

He went away with the vague and uncomfortable feeling that there was something more Mrs. Lacy wanted to tell him. He knew that she wouldn’t until she was good and ready, and that no amount of questioning or coaxing on his part would do any good.

He consulted his watch and realized that Uncle Ernie was waiting for him.

Again the little lawyer felt an icy shiver in the pit of his stomach as he walked—this time alone—through the grounds surrounding the two houses. It was not a place where he would like to encounter anyone with lethal intent. It especially wasn’t a place where he would like to encounter Huntleigh, regardless of his intent.

He rounded the corner of the Fairfaxx house and walked toward the meeting place. At first, he decided that Uncle Ernie had forgotten the appointment or else had grown tired of waiting and gone back inside. Then he saw the crumpled figure at the foot of the wall.

His first thought was that Uncle Ernie had passed out. His second thought was that Uncle Ernie had been killed. It turned out he was wrong both times.

12

“A NASTY BLOW on the head,” Dr. McSmith said briskly, “but he’ll live. Anyone know how it happened?”

Nobody spoke for a moment. Kenneth and Elizabeth looked at each other and then at Malone.

“How soon will he be able to talk?” Malone asked.

Dr. McSmith gave him a look that said very plainly, “It’s you again!”

“Because,” Malone said, “he may be able to tell us what hit him.”

“You mean who hit him,” snapped Dr. McSmith. “That blow was no accident—as I shall report to the police.”

“Now wait a minute,” Malone said hastily. “Let’s talk this over. Uncle Ernie—Mr. Fairfaxx—had been drinking heavily. He went out for a walk to clear his head, slipped on the icy pavement and bumped his head against the wall.”

Kenneth and Elizabeth said, almost in unison, “That’s what must have happened.”

“That injury,” Dr. McSmith said, “was not made by a wall. I say Mr. Fairfaxx was hit on the head with a blunt instrument.”

“And I say,” Malone roared, “that Mr. Fairfaxx was hit on the head with a wall.”

Dr. McSmith said, “You’ve no witnesses and you can’t prove it.”

“There are always witnesses,” Malone said, “to everything.” He added, “Even the eyes have walls.” He paused for a moment and said, “The ears have eyes.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dr. McSmith said, “and I suspect very much that you’re drunk, and I’m going to call the police.” He reached for the phone.

“I may be drunk,” Malone said indignantly, “and I think it’s a good idea, too, but I still say there’s no reason to call the police. All they can do is ask us a lot of silly questions and keep us up awake all night.”

He noticed Violet nudging the again tearful Bridie as he spoke. Bridie stepped forward and said, “I’m sure Mr. Malone is right, doctor. No one would have wanted to hurt nice Mr. Fairfaxx.”

Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “Besides, we were all here in the house at the time, and there’s no way a prowler could have gotten into the grounds.”

“This man was not in the house at the time,” Dr. McSmith said pointedly.

“This man,” Malone growled, “is not in the habit of hitting the relatives of his clients on the back of the head.” Especially, he reminded himself, when he had not yet collected that retainer. Just the same, he thought it over. No amount of argument was going to impress Dr. McSmith. Besides, arrangements had already been made to take Uncle Ernie to the hospital for X-rays in the morning, and the hospital would raise the same embarrassing questions. He said, “But if that’s the way you feel about it, I’ll call the police myself.” He picked up the phone before Dr. McSmith could reach it and called von Flanagan.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “Oh!” in a small voice and sat down in the nearest chair.

Malone smiled at her reassuringly and said, “Now don’t worry.” Then into the phone, “I wasn’t talking to you, von Flanagan. Yes, I am talking to you now. There’s been an attempted murder at the Fairfaxx house. Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx. No, I don’t know who, but a very suspicious character lives across the alley.… Mr. Fairfaxx was inside the wall, but this character could have reached over the top of it with a club.… No, I won’t be here when you get here. I’m already late for a very important engagement.… Yes, I know it’s the middle of the night, but it’s still a very important engagement.” He listened for a moment and said, “That remark was very, very rude, von Flanagan,” and hung up.

Dr. McSmith said, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going home.”

“Go, if you must,” Malone said cheerfully, unwrapping a cigar, “but you can’t elude the police forever. It may take years, and they may have to cover every inch of the globe, but sooner or later they’ll catch up with you, McSmith.”

Dr. McSmith picked up his bag, strode to the door, paused long enough to glare at Malone and yell angrily, “You’re drunk!” and went out, slamming the door.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx looked up helplessly and said, “Oh, Mr. Malone, what shall we do now?”

“Now, we mix me a drink,” Malone said. “The doctor, alas, was mistaken in his diagnosis.”

He looked down at Uncle Ernie’s white face for a moment. Elizabeth Fairfaxx apparently understood what was in his mind. She said, “Violet is an excellent nurse, and the doctor said he probably wouldn’t stir for hours. Let’s go downstairs.”

Down in the living room, he sank into a comfortable chair and thankfully accepted the drink Kenneth put into his hand.

“Mr. Malone,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said again, desperately, “what are we going to do? When the police come, I mean.”

“That fool of a doctor,” Kenneth said explosively, “anybody could see this was an accident.”

“Anybody could see that it was not an accident,” Malone said in a tired voice. “The only thing to do in a case like this is to tell the truth.” He drank half the contents of his glass and closed his eyes for a moment. It had, he realized, been a very long time since he’d slept and a lot had been happening. He wanted nothing in the world but to go home. He remembered that the Australian beer hound was trustfully waiting for him.

“Which truth?” Kenneth Fairfaxx asked.

The little lawyer opened his eyes again and relit his cigar. “The real truth. I had been with Mrs. Abby Lacy, questioning her in the interests of my client. Returning. I stumbled on Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx lying unconscious by the garden wall, apparently the victim of an accident. I called for assistance. We moved Mr. Fairfaxx into the house and sent for Dr. McSmith.” He paused to finish his drink. “Dr. McSmith, being a muddle-headed, opinionated old fool, and probably wanting to get some free publicity, maintained that the unfortunate man had been the victim of an attempted murder.”

“Please,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “was he?”

“Obviously,” Malone said.

“Then why,” she demanded, “did you say what you did to Dr. McSmith?”

“Because.” The little lawyer closed his eyes for just one more moment. He didn’t want to say what was in his mind; he didn’t even want to think about it. “Because, I don’t want—” He paused again. He couldn’t say that he didn’t want to see these two nice people, Kenneth and Elizabeth Fairfaxx, deeper in this case than they already were. “Because Dr. McSmith throws rocks at dogs.”

“This isn’t a laughing matter,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said sharply.

“Neither is throwing rocks at dogs,” Malone told him. “Neither is being arrested for attempted murder.” With an effort he sat upright and asked, “You have keys to the front gates—to the garages gates—both of you?”

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes puzzled. Kenneth said, “Why yes, of course. Why?”

“The man who hit Uncle Ernie on the head,” Malone said, “was standing on the other side of the wall. Anyone able to get out of this enclosure and back again—is a suspect.”

The two young Fairfaxxes thought that over for a moment. Then Elizabeth said, “But in that case—it could have been someone from—from outside.”

“It could have been,” Malone agreed, “but it wasn’t.” He rose, put down his glass. “It would be pleasant to think that this—series of events—came from outside, happened because of things outside. We might as well face the fact that it isn’t true. The police are bound to figure out that either of you two could have gone into the alley, lain in wait for Uncle Ernie—knowing that he had made an appointment with me to divulge something of, as he put it, great importance—conked him, and come back inside without anyone being the wiser.”

Elizabeth Fairfaxx sat up very straight. “We were here together,” she said, as though she was a self-conscious little girl reciting the Preamble to the Constitution, “my cousin Kenneth and myself. Violet was making us some coffee. We heard you call for help.” She paused.

“We found Uncle Ernie by the wall,” Kenneth picked it up. “I helped carry him into the house. The nearest doctor was Doctor McSmith, an opinionated old fool who saw an opportunity to get some cheap publicity by calling it murder. Anybody could see that poor Uncle Ernie, who wasn’t too steady on his pins, slipped on the ice and cracked his head against the wall.”

“You’re both doing fine,” Malone said, “and stick together and don’t let them shake that story.”

He paused at the door. “In case either of you did sock Uncle Ernie, it might save a lot of time and trouble if you told me about it now. Just so I can cover up for you with the police.”

Elizabeth Fairfaxx turned pale and gasped.

Kenneth Fairfaxx turned pink and said, “Sir!”

“Don’t mind me,” Malone said, “I’m only trying to help.”

Bridie opened the front door for him and said, “Goodnight, Mr. Malone,” in a voice as lugubrious as though she never expected to see him again until the night of his wake. She added, in the same voice, “Shall I unlock the gate for you, Mr. Malone?”

He shook his head and told her, “No, thanks. I’ll bite it open.”

She gave a frightened little yelp and banged the front door shut.

Malone stood on the steps for a moment, shivering. Snow, soft, light, wind-swirled snow, was beginning to fall now.

He still hadn’t collected that retainer. He swallowed a sentenceful of profanity, and turned back towards the house. No, too late to ring the doorbell now. Von Flanagan would be here any minute.

Tomorrow, he would come back and collect the check. Meantime, he could grab a cab at Division Street, ride down to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar and borrow more cash money from Joe—enough to attend to the cab and his various other important needs.

But there was still another problem. Sergeant Gadenski was still waiting outside the gate where Captain von Flanagan would be coming in, any minute now. Sgt. Gadenski was a man of great determination, and right at this time, Malone didn’t want to become involved with the police department. Not until he’d talked with a number of people—the nearest cab driver and the nearest bartender being his first choice. It occurred to him that he could leave the premises without being seen by Sergeant Gadenski. A few words of explanation to Mrs. Abby Lacy, and she’d doubtless have the gates on her side of the double lot opened for him. He turned and began to make his way through the desolate gardens.

The space—only the width of a shallow city block—between the Fairfaxx gate and the front of the Lacy house, suddenly seemed like a great, an incredible distance. The little lawyer found himself remembering old stories of prospectors lost in the northern snows, fighting off sleep and fears, and finally freezing in some lonely snowdrift. He plowed on doggedly.

Every bush, every tree seen through the pale, wind-driven snow, was a threatening monster. Every shadow was a giant-sized enemy.

He heard footsteps behind him, whispering in the snow.

Malone stopped dead in his tracks, convinced himself that he’d been deceived by some trick of the wind, and went on.

It was not a trick of the wind. Malone paused. The footsteps paused. Then he ran like a rabbit.

The falling snow blinded him. He had an idea and a hope that he was running in the direction of the Lacy house, but he couldn’t be sure.

He tripped and fell; as he hastily pulled himself to his feet, he saw something behind him. Something pale and tall and glistening. Malone had a mad idea that it was transparent, and moving at least a foot above the ground.

He managed to go on running. Then something struck him on the back of the head.

The last words that ran through his mind as he fell forward were, “… hit on the head with a brick wall.…”

13

The Australian beer hound rested his head on the toe of Helene’s lime green sandal, and began complaining, softly and sadly, about the many injustices that occur in a dog’s life.

“I know just how you feel,” Helene said, patting his head sympathetically. “I’ve waited for Malone myself. People have been known to grow long white beards, just waiting for Malone.”

The beer hound sniffed mournfully, and began to pursue a flea.

Helene looked again at her watch. Half past one. She was considerably more worried than she cared to admit. True, Malone had never been famous for his punctuality, but it had been early evening when he left for what, presumably, was to be a brief visit to the Fairfaxx house.

She rose suddenly and walked softly to the bedroom door, whispering a stern warning to the mutt, who displayed an inclination to leap on the bed and lick the cocoa butter from Jake’s face. Jake was soundly and innocently—too soundly, and too innocently—asleep. She suspected that he was avoiding another application of cocoa butter, which, unlike the mutt, he definitely did not like.

“Jake—?” It was the very softest of whispers. “Are you awake?”

“No.” Jake whispered back.

She sighed, “I’m worried about Malone.”

“I’m dying,” Jake murmured, not opening his eyes, “and you worry about Malone. A fine wife! Let the mutt worry about Malone.”

“No, really—” She paused. “Jake, are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Jake said firmly.

Helene sighed again and walked back into the living room. The place seemed unpleasantly cold and empty. She walked the length of the rug a few times, closely followed by the mutt, gazed out the window at the veil of falling snow and wished that she didn’t have such firm prejudices against drinking alone.

At that moment the mutt gave a low, heart-rending whine. Helene looked down at his wistful eyes and said, “Now I know why people keep pets. All right, you flea-bitten lush, come along.”

Out in the kitchenette she poured him a bowl of beer. Then she went back to the sofa, picked up a magazine and tried to read, telling herself that nothing ever had happened to Malone, and therefore, nothing ever would.

The magazine didn’t make any sense. Finally she gave up and laid it aside. She could think of nothing but that tightly locked enclosure around the Fairfaxx and Lacy houses, and of Malone, somewhere in there. There was a murderer inside that enclosure too, one who might not have any scruples about disposing of interfering lawyers.

When a knock finally came at the door, she was off the sofa and across the room in record-breaking time. The mutt was a close second.

It wasn’t Malone. It was Glida, her red hair glistening moist with melting snow.

She looked around the room. “I thought Malone would be here.”

“So did I,” Helene said. “I’ve been thinking that for five hours now. Come in and help me wait for him.”

Glida shed a fluffy black coat that made her look like a small and very amiable kitten, sat down on one end of the sofa, glanced at the mutt and said, “You again!”

“He’s waiting for Malone, too,” Helene called from the kitchenette. A moment later she came with a tray. “It’s none of my business, but this is an odd hour of the night to be looking for a lawyer. Or is it just Malone’s irresistible charm?”

“I know it’s late,” Glida said. She put a small satchel down at her feet. “I was around collecting receipts after the Casino closed. We did a terrific business tonight. The Casino was packed and so were all the other joints. There’s so damn much cash in that satchel it scares me.”

“Money never scares me,” Helene said, “and don’t call the Casino a joint. And you still haven’t said why you wanted to see Malone.”

Glida tossed her red hair back from her forehead and said, “I want to tell him something. Something important. Where’s Jake?”

“Jake’s asleep,” Helene said, hoping it was true. “He—” she hesitated. Jake undoubtedly would not like to have the fact of his suffering from chicken pox to be common knowledge. It would give her a nice opportunity to blackmail him into behaving himself if she kept her mouth shut. “He isn’t feeling very well.”

“Too bad,” Glida said absently, patting the mutt. “He ought to stick to good liquor.”

Helene looked at her thoughtfully. Glida was putting up a good front, but her face was pale; there was a deep line between her eyebrows, and a tiny mustache of sweat on her upper lip.

“Perhaps,” Helene said, “you could tell me.”

Glida frowned and said, “Old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx didn’t murder those postmen.” She reached for a cigarette with an air that indicated she’d had her say.

“If that’s all,” Helene said, “you might as well have embroidered it on a sampler and sent it to him by slow freight. Because he already knows it, and I know it, and I very much suspect the police know it, though they won’t admit it.” She paused and added, “However, if you know who did—!”

“Then will the police let him out of jail? I hope not.”

Helene blinked. “Why?”

“Because whoever murdered the postmen,” Glida said, “might murder him. And I like Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. I like all the Fairfaxxes. They’re the only ones who were ever really nice to me.”

Helene picked up her glass and stared into it. “This is just idle curiosity,” she said, “but why did you let Kenneth divorce you on those very obviously false charges, when you could have defended yourself?”

“Kenneth didn’t think they were false,” the girl said almost defensively. “They seemed real. I guess I ought to know, considering I made them up myself.”

Helene gasped and all but dropped her glass. “Why the hell?”

“I can’t tell you why,” Glida said stubbornly. “Helene, do you think they suspect—?”

She was interrupted by another knock at the door.

Again, Helene raced across the room.

Again, it was not Malone. It was Gay Lacy, wrapped in an expensive mink coat that was exactly the wrong shade for her sallow skin.

“How nice,” Helene said brightly, wishing with all her heart that Jake was up and around to help cope with this. “Come in and have a drink.”

Gay Lacy came in and said, “No, thank you.” She looked at Glida and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking bourbon and water and patting a dog,” Glida said. “The same to you and many of them.”

“I’m looking for Malone,” Gay Lacy said to Helene. She sat down stiffly.

“Who isn’t?” Helene said with a touch of bitterness.

Gay Lacy noticed the mutt. “What on earth is that?” she asked.

“An Australian beer hound,” Helene said. “A very rare species. I doubt if there’s another one like this in the whole United States.”

“How interesting. Is he worth much?”

“He’s fabulously valuable,” Helene assured her solemnly.

“How much do you want for him?” Gay Lacy asked.

The mutt retreated behind the sofa and complained loudly.

“He’s not mine to sell,” Helene said in haste. “He belongs to Malone.”

“And where is Malone?”

“I don’t know,” Helene admitted. She frowned. “I’ll phone the Fairfaxx house.”

“I tried that,” Gay Lacy said. “He’d left there ages ago.”

“Then he’s probably home in bed,” Helene told her. She added pointedly, “After all, it is late.”

“I called his hotel,” Gay Lacy said. “He hadn’t been in all day. I thought he might he here. It’s very important that I see him. I’ve something to tell him.”

“I know,” Glida said solemnly, nodding her head. “You want to tell him that Mr. Fairfaxx did not murder three postmen, in fact, he never even murdered one postman.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Gay Lacy said coldly.

“Too bad you haven’t,” Glida told her. “A few drinks couldn’t make you any worse, and they might—”

Helene said hastily, “Never mind. We’ve got to find Malone. Something may have happened to him.” She scowled. “I hate to wake people up, but I think I’d better start with the Fairfaxx house.”

It turned out that she didn’t wake anyone. A sniffling but wide awake Bridie answered the phone. Yes, Mr. Malone had gone. She’d let him out herself, and she’d pushed the buzzer that unlocked the gate, in spite of a very uncalled-for remark Mr. Malone had made. No, she hadn’t actually seen him go out through the gate. “And Mrs. Justus. The house is full of policemen.”

“Keep them there,” Helene said, “you might need them sometime.” She hung up and sat frowning at the telephone.

Suddenly she picked up the receiver, said, “I hate to do this, but—!” dialed police headquarters and asked for von Flanagan.

Von Flanagan wasn’t in. He was investigating an attempt at murder. Just this minute left. Where? The Fairfaxx residence.

Helene slammed down the telephone and said, “That settles it. We’re going there. We’ve got to find him.”

She tiptoed to the bedroom door and opened it cautiously. Jake was sleeping peacefully. Funny, she could have sworn she had heard a sound in the bedroom just a moment before. Oh, well, she’d leave a note for him.

There was a notepad and pencil on the dresser. She considered what to say. “Dear Jake, I have gone to look for Malone.” No, that would worry him. “Dear Jake, I have gone out.” Obviously, he could see she had gone out. “Dear Jake, I will be back as soon as I can.” He’d know that without being told.

Finally, she penciled, “Dear Jake, I love you.” He knew that, too, without being told, but she liked writing it. “Back soon.” She took her lipstick and drew a row of X’s on the bottom of the note, and propped it up on the bed table. She slid into a fur coat, tied a scarf around her head, and with a last look at his serene, though spotted, face, tiptoed from the room.

Glida and Gay were staring at each other, silent and hostile.

“Let’s go, girls,” Helene said. “My car’s downstairs.” The mutt sent up a mournful howl. “Oh, all right. You too. But behave yourself.”

Jake waited until he heard the elevator door clang faintly in the distance. Then he sat up in bed indignantly.

Treat him like an invalid, would they? He’d show them!

He felt fine.

A little shaky in the knees, of course. He walked out into the kitchen and took a stiff drink of gin. That made him feel much steadier.

Helene running around at this hour of the night, with no protection! The idea of her thinking he’d allow a thing like that!

He decided to move the bottle of gin into the bedroom while he dressed.

I am not groggy, he told himself. Not even the least bit weak. Perfectly able to cope with anything that might come along.

Dressing was something of an effort. Clothes felt uncomfortable next to his skin. A lavish application of cocoa butter helped. At last, he tied his tie, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Something would have to be done about that face! Nothing the matter with that face that a turned-down hat brim and a dark scarf wouldn’t conceal.

At last he stepped into the hall, decided against a too conspicuous appearance in the lobby, and went down the freight elevator, muttering to himself, “Leave me alone, will they? They’ll be sorry!”

14

Jake tied the dark scarf over his face in the style made popular by pictures of the late Jesse James, turned up his coat collar, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The falling snow stopped him for an instant. What happened to chicken pox patients who went romping around in near-blizzards? Something unpleasant, no doubt. Probably pneumonia. What had that red-haired doctor said—“Keep warm!”

He stood there looking at the snow and thinking about Helene. Remembering her as he’d first seen her, with soft snow melting on the pale fire of her hair. Remembering too that she’d gone off and left him with nothing but a bottle of gin and a cake of cocoa butter to console him in what might easily be his last illness.

He pictured himself, his pale face smiling at her from his pillow, and whispering “I forgive you!”

He’d show her!

He stepped resolutely out into the snow.

After the first few steps, it wasn’t too bad. He considered walking to the Fairfaxx house. No, on second thought, there was no point in deliberately asking for pneumonia. As he reached the main entrance of the building he spotted a waiting taxi, hailed it, climbed in and named the corner nearest the Fairfaxx house, hoping against hope that the cab driver would be a stranger.

“Okay, Mr. Justus,” the driver said.

Jake sighed and said nothing.

At the next stop-light the driver turned around. “What you got that on your face for, if it’s any of my business, which it ain’t.”

Jake sighed again and whispered, “I’m disguised.”

The cab driver thought that over so long that he missed the next light. Then he said “As what?”

“I’m on my way to a masquerade,” Jake told him. “This is a costume.”

“I’ll be damned,” the cab driver said. He drove on, and paused at the next corner. “Who are you supposed to look like?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. He thought as fast as he could under the circumstances and added, “As a matter of fact, I’m just playing a harmless little joke on Mrs. Justus. Going to meet her and pretend I’m a bandit.”

This time the driver just said, “Oh.”

Jake did some more thinking. As the cab pulled up at its destination he said, “And by the way. Any time you happen to see Mrs. Justus, please don’t tell her I left the hotel tonight. She’s not supposed to know about it.” He added a generous tip to the fare.

The driver moved on, muttering something about just plain old-fashioned nuts.

Jake walked slowly down the street, considering the situation. Obviously, walking up to the gate and ringing the bell was exactly the wrong thing to do. Helene would promptly drag him back to the apartment, smear him with more cocoa butter, and then, likely as not, abandon him again.

He sneezed.

For a moment he considered going back to the hotel all by himself. Back to the hotel and back to bed. After all, he was practically a dying man.

No, he couldn’t do that. He remembered that Malone had been the victim of an attempted murder. He couldn’t let that happen to Malone. And there was the little matter of Elizabeth Fairfaxx. It would break Helene’s heart if she were arrested for the murder of three postmen.

He tried to remember why he knew that old Rodney Fairfaxx was innocent. It was something important. Something that also permitted the possiblity of Elizabeth Fairfaxx being guilty. He wished he could remember what it was.

Jake wondered if it was the gin or the chicken pox that made everything so vague and fuzzy. Probably the chicken pox. Mere gin certainly wouldn’t affect anyone that way. He wished he’d thought to bring the gin with him. It would help ward off this impending pneumonia.

He started slowly down the street, trying to think out a plan of action.

The alley. That was the idea. Perfect. Why hadn’t he thought of it in the first place! He improvised a song about it. “Through the alley and over the wall, to grandmother’s house we go.” Only it wasn’t grandmother’s house, it was the Fairfaxx house.

He reminded himself that he had to be careful. And very crafty. Crafty and wise. That, he reflected, should be the name of a Real Estate firm. Crafty and Wise. Could do very well in Los Angeles, from all he’d heard. He wondered if he’d ever get to Los Angeles. He wondered if he’d ever get to the end of the alley.

He began to wonder if he’d ever get home.

There it was. The alley. He turned into it and walked cautiously, close to the wall. Craftily and wisely, he reminded himself.

Over there, on the other side of the wall, was the Fairfaxx house, the Lacy house, and that strange, deserted house. And also, over there, was Helene, and Glida and Gay Lacy, a combination that should make for, at least, mayhem—especially with Kenneth Fairfaxx being present. There was Elizabeth, too. They were all there, and Captain von Flanagan was there, and here he was, on the wrong side of the wall.

Jake felt very sorry for himself.

But Malone, his pal, was there too. Attempted murder. Jake couldn’t imagine Malone being the victim of an attempted murder. A successful one, perhaps, but—

He hoped Helene was taking good care of the mutt.

Halfway down the alley he paused. Perhaps if he grabbed hold of the top of the wall, he could hoist himself up and see into, at least, the yard. It was worth a try.

Suddenly he realized that he was standing on the very spot where the three murdered postmen had been found. He looked up at the wall.

For just one frightening moment he remembered the reason why old Rodney Fairfaxx couldn’t possibly be guilty of murder. In the next moment, he’d forgotten again.

Jake looked over the wall. All at once he stiffened. The garden beyond the wall was ghostly, pale with the snow and dark with the shadows. In the garden a figure was moving, the figure of a woman. She seemed to be searching for something.

A tall woman. He couldn’t tell if it was Gay Lacy, or Elizabeth, or even Helene. Possibly the Fairfaxx’s housekeeper.

He watched, breathlessly. Something seemed to frighten the woman, whoever she was. She stopped her search and ran back into the shadows.

Jake waited. The woman did not reappear. Jake took hold of the edge of the wall and tried to vault over it. Then he felt his grasp slipping, he grabbed at the vines along the top of the wall, he found what at the moment seemed to be a trapeze bar in his hand, then vine and trapeze bar gave way at the same moment and he slid to the ground.

It took a few seconds for him to catch his breath. Then he realized that the trapeze bar was a hammer, an ordinary hammer which had somehow gotten entangled in the vines.

“Never know when you can use a hammer,” Jake told himself. He decided he would take it home and show it, proudly, to Helene.

Somehow he got to his feet and went on down the alley. Again he debated ringing the bell and demanding admittance to the Fairfaxx house, again he decided it would be exactly the wrong thing to do. No, he would walk very casually by the gate, slowly enough to glance in through it and the lighted windows beyond.

There was a plainclothesman by the gate, one who looked unpleasantly familiar.

What was the penalty for breaking quarantine? Jake wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it was probably dreadful. Alcatraz, or Leavenworth. He decided to walk briskly past and pretend to be minding his own business.

“Just a minute, you,” the cop said. “What’s the idea of—”

At that moment the scarf slipped. Jake looked straight into the cop’s face, and said “BOO!”, and ran. He was halfway up the block before he realized that the cop had given one terrified scream and fled.

The rest would be easy. Just walk back to the hotel, that was all. Go up the freight elevator. Undress and get into bed. Helene would never know he’d left the room.

He concentrated doggedly on what he had to do. Hotel. Freight elevator. Undress. Cocoa butter. Get into bed. Pretend to be asleep when Helene got home. Stay awake, but pretend to be asleep. Hide the hammer, to surprise Helene.

He somehow managed all of the schedule save for two items. He was sound asleep a fraction of a second after his head hit the pillow. And he went to sleep with the hammer in his hand.

15

“Can’t I have one quiet little attempted murder without you butting in?” von Flanagan growled, glaring at Helene. Neither the growl nor the glare meant a thing. Helene had given him plenty of trouble in the past and probably would again, but he had a secret fondness for her in spite of it. Besides, he’d learned that she was a helpful person in a crisis.

He glanced down at the carpet and blinked. “What in the name of the Saints is that thing?”

The mutt gave him a dirty look.

“That thing,” Helene said coldly, “is a very rare dog. An Australian beer hound.”

The mutt expressed his inbred dislike of policemen with one brief remark.

“Don’t tell me,” von Flanagan said. “Say, the police department could use a mascot like that.”

Feeling that he was otherwise among friends, the mutt, instead of retreating, made another, and even more pungent remark, and sat down. The big police officer made a gesture towards patting him on the head.

“Don’t do that,” Helene warned. “He’ll chew your finger up to the collar bone.” She was thankful for the momentary diversion and reminded herself to buy the mutt an extra beer. From the way Glida and Gay were looking at each other, and from the startled expression on Elizabeth’s and Kenneth’s faces, she had an uncomfortable feeling that von Flanagan was going to have another attempted murder on his hands. Any minute now.

“How much do you want for him?” von Flanagan said.

“He isn’t mine,” Helene said. “He belongs to Malone.”

“And where is Malone?” von Flanagan roared, forgetting all about the mutt.

Helene stared at him, her face pale. “Don’t—you—know?” She sat down suddenly on the nearest chair.

Kenneth Fairfaxx bounded to her side and said, “Mrs. Justus, are you all right?” He was obviously managing not to look at Glida.

“No,” Helene said truthfully. She closed her eyes for a moment. Elizabeth. Kenneth. Kenneth’s bride-to-be, Gay Lacy. Kenneth’s ex-bride, Glida. But no Malone. She decided she was going to scream. At least that would break the silence.

Elizabeth beat her to breaking the silence by saying, “Glida, let me take your coat. This is such a pleasant surprise.”

The well-bred Fairfaxxes, Helene thought, her eyes still closed. Well-bred except when they murdered postmen, committed blackmail, and probably robbed the U.S. mails.

“Thank you,” Glida said, in an equally well-bred voice. “I should say, pardon the intrusion.”

Helene shuddered.

“But I’m damned if I will,” Glida said. “And what you really meant to say is, ‘Why the hell are you here?’ All right, I’ll tell you why I’m here. I’m looking for Malone.”

Gay Lacy said acidly, “Elizabeth, I’m very sorry about this. I’m not responsible for this—for her forcing her way in here. I would not have come along and caused you this embarrassment except that I—”

“She’s looking for Malone too,” Helene said wearily. “And so am I. And so is von Flanagan. And will someone please tell me who attempted to murder who or whom, and in this age of scientific marvels, how did he or she happen to fail?” Her voice seemed to be coming from very far away, and it seemed to be going on and on without any help from her. “And where is Malone? What have you done with him?”

She felt fingers slip a glass in her hand, opened her eyes and looked up into Violet’s calm and friendly face. She downed the drink gratefully, smiled at Violet, and lit a cigarette.

“No one’s done anything with Malone,” von Flanagan told her. “And what’s the matter with you, anyway?”

Glida looked up at him, braced her fists on her hips and said, “I don’t know who you are, but you look like a cop. All that’s the matter with her is that her husband’s dying of some strange disease, her lawyer’s disappeared, she’s at the scene of an attempted murder, and I’m embarrassing her. Isn’t that enough to be the matter with anybody?”

Von Flanagan said, “Who asked you any questions?” and Kenneth Fairfaxx said, “Darling—I mean Glida—please—” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said quickly, “Helene, my dear, is Jake seriously ill?” and Gay Lacy said, “Doesn’t anyone know where Malone is?”

“I can think of a number of places Malone might be,” von Flanagan said angrily, “and not more than two of them that I’d mention in the presence of ladies. I’m here because of an attempted murder, not a misplaced lawyer.”

Gay Lacy adjusted her unbecoming furs and said very coldly, “Since there is no need for my remaining, in that case—I’ll be at home if Mr. Malone shows up.”

No one asked her to remain. In fact, no one paid much attention to her departure.

Von Flanagan sat down heavily and mopped his round pink face.

Helene drew a long, slow breath. At least the victim of the attempted murder wasn’t Malone. “Just what did happen here tonight, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Someone hit the old—” von Flanagan paused, coughed, and went on. “Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx on the head.”

“Uncle Ernie?” Helene gasped. “Who’d want to murder poor old Uncle Ernie?”

“Looks like the same person that murdered three postmen,” von Flanagan said with a growl. “The wound looks like it was made with the same weapon. Only this time it wasn’t fatal. He’ll be okay in a couple of days. These old drunks are tougher than they look.” Again he paused, looking suddenly apologetic.

“That’s all right,” Helene assured him. “Every good family has at least one drunk in it.”

“And,” von Flanagan said, “the postmen were hit when they were on the other side of the wall. This—Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx—was on this side of the wall.”

Helene said, “Well obviously, you wouldn’t expect him to go out into the alley to get hit on the head, just to make things easier for you.”

“Nobody ever makes things easy for me,” von Flanagan said. “People go out of their way to make things hard for me. I never wanted to be a policeman anyway.” He sighed, and then scowled. “But from the way he fell down, and from where his head was hit, the person who hit him must of been on the other side of the wall too … the opposite of the person who killed those three postmen.”

There was a long and very uncomfortable silence.

Kenneth began, in an almost too-steady voice, “We were here together. My cousin Elizabeth and myself. Violet was making coffee. We heard Mr. Malone call for help—”

“We found Uncle Ernie by the wall—” Elizabeth went on with it.

“I’ve heard all that,” von Flanagan interrupted. His tone made it very clear that he didn’t believe it.

“Look, you,” Glida said. “I don’t like you, but you might have some sense. If the guy who conked Uncle Ernie on the bean was outside the wall—” She paused. “Wait a minute. If this is the same guy who bumped off those three postmen, it can’t be Uncle Rodney, because you’ve got him in jail. So you’d better get him out and get him right home.”

Von Flanagan glared at her. “Just exactly who do you think you are?”

“I was Mrs. Kenneth Fairfaxx,” she told him coldly. “My first name is G-l-i-d-a, pronounced Gilda, and I have twins. Six twins.”

The police officer looked bewildered and even more unhappy. “Six—?”

At that moment the doorbell rang long, loud, and frantically. Bridie’s scurrying steps were heard in the hall. The door was opened and a white-faced, trembling Gadenski burst into the room.

“Masked man,” he gasped. “Horrible face. Spots. A leper.”

Von Flanagan snapped “Leopard?”

“Leper. Like—” He made futile gestures with his hands.

“Catch your breath,” Helene said. She poured a straight drink and handed it to him.

The plainclothesman shook his head. “On duty.”

“Take it,” von Flanagan said. “What about this masked man?”

Officer Gadenski more than made up in imagination and dramatic style for what he lacked in literary approach. The man had been extremely tall. Almost a giant. He was wearing a mask that covered his whole face except his eyes. Then the mask had come off, and the face underneath had been terrible beyond all description. Exactly like what Gadenski imagined leprosy looked like.

“I was following instructions and watching the house,” he said, warming to his audience, “waiting for Malone to come out. Making myself inconspicuous, like it says in the police manual. Only I couldn’t read a newspaper account of it was too dark, and anyway who’d be standing reading a newspaper in a snowstorm. This—this monster—approached me. I—”

“Did he speak to you?” Helene put in suddenly.

Gadenski nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Justus. He yelled something at me in some foreign language. I couldn’t tell what language it was, but I knew for sure it was foreign.”

Helene relaxed. Jake didn’t know any foreign languages save pig Latin remembered from high school.

“Go on,” von Flanagan said impatiently.

“Well,” Gadenski said. He gulped. “I thought it best to come in and report to you.”

Von Flanagan started to swear, remembered where he was, and said, “You should have caught him first and then reported to me.”

“Captain von Flanagan,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said suddenly. “Couldn’t that have been the murderer? Some prowler—some madman—loose in the neighborhood?”

“Could be,” the officer said. Obviously he didn’t think so any more than she did. “May I use your telephone?”

As he waited for his connection, he added, “But there aren’t many prowlers around in this kind of weather.”

He gave headquarters a slightly modified description of the masked man.

“Von Flanagan!” Helene said, as he put down the phone, “He said—he was waiting for Malone!”

Everyone looked at Gadenski. There was a long pause.

“Bridie said she let him out the gate,” Helene said.

“He didn’t come out the gate,” Gadenski said. “I was to watch for him and trail him and tell Garrity where he was, account of von Flanagan wanted to see him and Malone’s hard to get an appointment with. So I know he never came out the gate.”

Von Flanagan turned to Elizabeth Fairfaxx. “There are other ways of getting out of here?”

The other ways were promptly checked. No one had gone through the Lacy gate. The Lacy butler, Huntleigh, was positive about that. No one had gone through the garage. And there was no other way.

This time, von Flanagan did swear.

“He’s here somewhere,” Helene said. “Anything might have happened to him. You’ve got to find him.”

“We will,” von Flanagan said grimly. He stood up and began buttoning on his overcoat. “Come on, Gadenski.”

Kenneth Fairfaxx said, “I’ll go with you.”

“Good,” von Flanagan said. “You know your way around these grounds. I don’t think we’ll need anyone else.” He looked sternly at Helene and said, “You stay right here, or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice.”

It was a long wait. Helene sat lighting cigarettes and putting them right out again. Violet made a fresh pot of coffee, which nobody touched. A saucer of beer was brought for the mutt, who sat looking at it disconsolately.

Once Helene telephoned the hotel. No, Mr. Justus had not left the hotel. There was, she reminded herself as she hung up, the freight elevator. But no, even Jake wouldn’t venture into a snowstorm with a case of chicken pox. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.

At last the three men returned, wet with snow and shivering with cold. Malone had not been found.

The Fairfaxx house and the Lacy house had been gone over from cellar to roof. The abandoned house next door was securely locked and boarded up. The garages and the gardens had been searched inch by inch. There was not the slightest sign of Malone, not anywhere.

“And the worst of it is,” von Flanagan said bitterly, “there’s so much snow falling, if there ever had been any tracks, we’d never find them now.”

“He just might have gotten out,” Helene said, in a very small and unconvincing voice. “He might be sitting in some nice warm bar right now, while we—”

“Impossible,” Kenneth said. “There’s no way of getting out of this enclosure. Unless someone let him out.”

A faint gray light was beginning to come through the windows. The lamps in the Fairfaxx living room had lost their cheerfulness.

“He’s been—wherever he is—for hours!” Elizabeth Fairfaxx whispered.

At that moment the mutt let go with a very long and very mournful howl.

Helene started to scream. Instead, she jumped to her feet, a blue light flickering in her eyes. “Von Flanagan!”

“He’s not a bloodhound,” von Flanagan said dismally.

“No. He’s a beer hound. An Australian beer hound. But—von Flanagan, he’s our last hope of finding Malone.”

16

Malone groaned, and wished he were dead. Obviously someone had exploded a cannon cracker inside his skull, and he could still taste the fumes.

He tried experimentally to move, and decided that he was dead. No, on second thought, only partially so. He could move his legs, with a little difficulty. But his feet didn’t seem to quite touch any solid substance. There was something solid down there, but it was maddeningly out of reach.

He opened his eyes. Utter darkness.

He sniffed the air. There was an odor of musty wood, damp concrete, and old mice.

After a few minutes, he decided that he was alive. Just where, and why, he wasn’t sure. There was a splitting ache in his head, but he could move it. After a few tries, to make sure it would still turn and nod, he decided to leave it as quiet as possible.

His hands would move, too. And his legs and his feet. The rest of him seemed to have been bound.

Could he speak? He swallowed hard, drew a long breath, and said experimentally “Hello?”

A faint echo said “Hello” right back at him, in an unpleasant tone of voice.

“This is just a nightmare,” Malone told himself firmly. “Shut your eyes and go back to sleep, and when you wake up again, it will be gone.”

He shut his eyes for a moment. The nightmare didn’t show any intentions of going away.

“You’re not only alive,” Malone told himself, “you’re awake.”

He wished he were asleep. He wished that he could open his eyes, somewhere in a warm, comfortable bed, and whisper “Where am I?”

As a matter of fact, where was he?

It felt like a tomb, and smelled like a cellar. An old, and long unused cellar. Otherwise there would have been odors of furnaces, and coal-bins, and trash to be carried out in the morning. It would have been warmer, too.

What was holding him upright? For one giddy instant he’d wondered if he were vertical or horizontal. Then he’d known, something was holding him up, his feet not quite touching the floor below.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

Before he could adequately worry about those two questions, another one struck him.

How do I get out of here?

He struggled vainly, kicking his heels against the wall. No use.

Maybe no one would ever come and release him. Maybe no one would ever find him. John J. Malone, disappeared. Presumed dead, after seven years.

There was one moment of frantic terror, of kicking and screaming in the dark, not knowing where he was, or why.

Then, suddenly, there was a light in the room.

Malone opened his eyes at once. It was, as he had guessed, a disused cellar. Someone was watching him from the other side of the electric torch. That didn’t seem to matter just then. He tried, through a frozen throat, “Where am I?” and got no answer.

It was then that he discovered what had been holding him. A simple device, as he realized later.

His coat had been nailed to the wall of the cellar. He was in the coat. And the coat had been neatly buttoned.

“Mr. Malone,” a voice said, “I’m sorry, but—”

“I could get down myself,” Malone said, “only I’m not tall enough.”

That was important, somehow. He wasn’t just sure why. Again, for a long, and slightly more pleasant moment, he decided that he was asleep after all. He was dreaming it all, and any second now he was going to wake up. Then the moment passed.

“Would you mind unbuttoning my coat?” Malone asked calmly.

“I’m really very sorry, Mr. Malone,” the voice said.

Malone recognized the voice. Huntleigh, of course. He should have known it would be Huntleigh. He remembered those last moments out in the snowstorm, and the butler’s voice croaking—

As though an echo of Malone’s thoughts, Huntleigh said, “Mr. Malone, where is she?”

Malone started to ask who “she” might be, caught himself, and said cagily, “Get me down from here, and I’ll tell you.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you to tell me first, sir,” Huntleigh said. His voice was almost incredibly well-bred.

Malone struggled once more against his bonds, then relaxed. He knew when he was licked.

“All right,” he said resignedly. “I’ll tell you on one condition. That you tell me first which she you mean. I know so many of them.”

There was a little silence. Evidently Huntleigh was making up his mind whether or not he was being kidded.

“I’m referring to Miss Lacy,” he said at last, in a very stiff, formal voice. “Miss Gay Lacy.”

Malone drew a long breath. “Believe me,” he said, “I don’t know where she is.” He hoped he was saying the right thing. He found himself remembering the early Karloff pictures, and his first impression of Huntleigh. The electric torch came a little nearer, and he closed his eyes.

“Tell me,” the little lawyer said feebly, “what makes you think I might know?”

“She left the house to find you, sir,” Huntleigh said. He paused and added, “I would be delighted to kill anyone who brought any harm to Miss Lacy, sir. I am devoted to Miss Lacy. I refer, of course, to Miss Gay Lacy.”

“I’m sure she appreciates it very much,” Malone murmured. He tried to sort out a few things in the squirrel cage his mind seemed to have turned into during the last day. Everybody seemed to be devoted to somebody. Gay Lacy and the butler. Elizabeth Fairfaxx and the unemployed actor. Glida, pronounced Gilda, and Kenneth Fairfaxx. While he, Malone, was only devoted to Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. (He wondered if he would ever collect that retainer, and live to spend it!) And only the mutt was devoted to him. (He hoped Helene was taking good care of the mutt.)

He wondered why Gay Lacy had been looking for him.

“Look, chum,” he said in his most soothing tone, “I think you’re just overtired. Overwrought. You need a good rest.” He wished with all his heart that he had one hand free, and a cigar in it. Or, preferably, both hands free and a drink in the other one. “I don’t know why you’re so convinced that I had anything to do with Gay Lacy’s disappearance, but I can assure you, I didn’t even know she had disappeared.”

Maybe, he told himself, with rare good luck he could talk Huntleigh into turning him loose.

The electric torch was pretty close to him now. Malone opened his eyes, saw Huntleigh’s face in the reflected glare, and closed them again.

“Just consider,” the little lawyer said. “I left the Lacy house and went back to the Fairfaxx house. On the way I found Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx who had—who had fallen and been injured. I called for help and from that moment on, I was in the Fairfaxx house. Leaving, I—” He decided to omit the reason for his crossing the desolate gardens, “—I ran into you. Or rather, you ran into me. Just when did I have time to abduct Miss Gay Lacy and do her even the slightest harm?”

He’d gotten clients off before a tough jury with less convincing arguments. He looked, and saw that the torch was wavering a little.

“And if you don’t believe me,” he went on for a clincher, “chances are Miss Lacy is home and in bed by now. You just might investigate and find out.” He wondered if that was the right way to put it. “Or you might check on the times involved.”

“Mr. Malone,” Huntleigh said, “I may have made a great mistake—”

“You have,” Malone said, “and now get me down from here.”

“—but my devotion to Miss Lacy—”

“If she wants to see me,” Malone said, “she’ll undoubtedly be devoted to you if you unbutton my coat, help me unnail it from the wall so I can wear it, and take me to her.”

“But if what you say is true, Mr. Malone—”

“It is,” Malone said hoarsely, “and—”

“—I can find it out very easily—”

“Damn it,” Malone said, “get me down!”

“—which I will do immediately, sir. If you don’t mind waiting—”

“I do mind.”

The electric torch receded. There was a slight pause. Then Huntleigh said, “But if I may say so, Mr. Malone, this places me in a rather difficult position—”

“If you think you’re in a difficult position,” Malone said fervently, “think of me.”

There was an even longer pause. The electric torch played around the walls of the old cellar. Then Huntleigh picked up a thick slab of wood, and placed it carefully under Malone’s feet.

“I trust that makes you more comfortable, sir,” the butler said.

The torch moved toward what Malone assumed was a door. It flickered and went out there. “Mr. Malone. I would not like to leave you under any misapprehension as to my feeling for Miss Gay Lacy. It is purely one of—one of—”

“Of devotion,” Malone said. “I heard you the first time. Now go make sure she’s all right, and then come back and get me out of here.”

“Good night, sir.” There was the sound of a heavy door closing. The distant click of a latch.

Well, at least he was a little more comfortable than he had been.

But the chances were that Huntleigh would never return. He wouldn’t take the chance of being arrested for assault, kidnaping, and burying alive.

Again Malone struggled frantically against his bonds, again he gave up. That, he told himself, was what he got for buying expensive clothes. A cheap coat would have ripped to shreds by this time. Then all he’d have had to contend with would have been getting out of—out of—where?

“Where am I?” Malone demanded of the darkness.

This time the darkness didn’t even bother to send back an echo.

The back of his head ached. His arms and back and shoulders ached.

Suddenly he knew where he was, and the chances of his being found diminished. Diminished, in fact, to almost zero. Someday, ten, or fifteen, or twenty years from now, this old house would be torn down. His skeleton would be found in the cellar, a very worn out skeleton by that time. But the coat of his Capper and Capper suit would be as good as new, except for the nail holes.

Against his will, he dozed. He even dreamed. A dream in which he ordered a new suit with built-in nail-holes. A dream in which Huntleigh brought him a tray of whiskey and soda, and turned into a puff of smoke, vanished into the bottle, and emerged again as a streak of skywriting reading, “Where am I?”

“But I know where I am,” Malone said aloud, and woke up.

He realized that he must have slept for some time. When he opened his eyes he could see three little oblongs of windows, pale and gray. Then suddenly he realized he was hearing voices, a number of voices. More than that, a sharp little barking. The mutt.

Malone drew in his last bit of breath to yell, “Here!” No sound came out.

The barking was frantic now. There was a scratching somewhere on a door.

There was Helene’s voice. There was von Flanagan’s. He remembered suddenly that he was dodging von Flanagan. That didn’t matter now.

Vaguely, he heard the door burst open. He heard a joyous yelp from the mutt. Then there was only confusion, and half-heard voices, and the pale gray light of a winter dawn in Chicago.

Someone said, “Get a hammer. A claw hammer.” Someone else said, “Just open his coat and slide him out of it.” Other voices said things he couldn’t quite hear and never did remember. Then suddenly he was released, a pair of expert hands were examining him and a voice he couldn’t entirely remember except that he disliked it was pronouncing him alive.

Followed a dim recollection of being carried through trees and bushes that dripped wet snow, under an unfriendly gray sky. Then a few moments of blessed oblivion.

He woke in the warm soft bed of which he’d dreamed. Gentle, soothing hands were doing something to the back of his head, where the ache was. Any minute now, the ache would go away.

Something wet and rough touched his hand. He recognized it as the mutt’s tongue.

There were voices all around him. He opened one eye tentatively and saw that he was in a room full of people. Helene, Glida, Elizabeth and Kenneth Fairfaxx, Violet, Gay Lacy and her cross-looking mother. The frightened Bridie, her eyes filled with tears. And Huntleigh.

Malone closed his eye again.

He heard two well-recognized voices. Von Flanagan and Gadenski.

Someone held a glass to his lips. He drank automatically, spluttered, sneezed, and tried to sit upright. The same someone pushed him down on the pillows. Malone opened both eyes, wide, and gazed into the angry red face of Dr. McSmith.

And this time Malone managed to whisper, weakly, “—Where am I?”

17

Someone held a cool glass to his lips. Malone opened his eyes and looked into the calm, still-lovely face of the woman who called herself Violet, and who had been Liza Lavender.

He sipped slowly and wondered where she had learned that recipe. Cool and sharp, with a faint taste of coffee, an overtone of rum, and just a whisper of herbs. He sipped again, and the aches began to recede. A third sip, and he wanted a cigar. She lit one for him, puffing incongruously and femininely on it, and held it to his lips.

“For a man who’s just been buried alive,” Malone said, “I feel fine.” He propped himself up on one elbow and said, “Well? Would someone mind telling me what’s happened while I was reading the works of Sir Rider Haggard in King Solomon’s Mines?”

“Oh, Malone,” Helene said, “we thought you were dead!”

“That’s funny,” Malone said, “so did I.” He gasped at the cigar. “Did you find out what happened to Ernest Fairfaxx?”

Von Flanagan came over and said, “He recovered consciousness for a few minutes. He says he left the house to meet you, that he had just reached the meeting place, someone hit him, and that’s all.” He added, “He’ll pull through all right, but he doesn’t remember who hit him, or what.” He paused, and said, “But there’s no doubt he was hit on the head with a hammer. Looks like the same hammer that—” He realized there were ladies present, coughed, and was silent.

“That bashed in the heads of three innocent postmen,” Malone finished for him. “And speaking of hammers, one must have been used to nail me to the wall. Or doesn’t anyone care?”

“It’s about time you told us what happened to you,” von Flanagan said indignantly. “We woke up everybody in the neighborhood to search, and—”

There was a pause. The cigar slipped from between Malone’s limp fingers. Violet hastily retrieved it from the carpet.

“Malone,” von Flanagan said, “Malone, are you feeling all right?”

Malone didn’t move or speak.

“Damn you, Malone, talk to me,” von Flanagan roared. “Say something.”

There was no response.

“I got him into this,” von Flanagan said brokenly, “and he’s gotten himself killed. Dr. McSmith—”

“He’s perfectly all right, outside of a slight bump on the head,” Dr. McSmith said.

“Dr. McSmith is a damned liar,” Malone murmured, his eyes still closed. “Obviously I’m a dying man.” He’d had time to think now. He sat up suddenly, a pain shot through his head and he ached in every limb. “I wish I knew what happened to me.”

Violet put the cigar back between his fingers and relighted it for him. He smiled at her gratefully.

“Incidentally,” Malone said, “was I hit with this particular hammer?”

Dr. McSmith said stiffly, “I would say, no.”

“What happened, Malone?” von Flanagan demanded.

Malone said, “I’ll tell you the simple honest truth. After I left the house here I—” He thought fast. No, this was no time to confide that he’d been trying to dodge Gadenski at the front gate. “I thought I’d take another look around the grounds. Something hit me on the back of my head. The next thing I knew, I was nailed to the wall in somebody’s cellar.”

“Malone,” von Flanagan said hoarsely, “if you could tell us who hit you—”

Malone looked across the room at Huntleigh. The ugly butler’s face was expressionless.

“I’d tell you if I could,” Malone said, “but frankly, I don’t know. I couldn’t even guess.”

“Mr. Malone—” Huntleigh said suddenly.

Malone said, “Yes?”

There was a pause, and Huntleigh said, “Would you like some hot coffee, sir? You might be getting a bad chill, after your—experience.”

Von Flanagan said, “Just give him a drink.” He gulped and said, “You mean, Malone, you don’t know who attacked you?”

“How could I?” Malone said innocently.

“Perhaps a glass of hot milk?” Huntleigh said.

Abby Lacy rose. “Perhaps the man would like some rest, and a little less conversation. I trust you will feel better in the morning, Mr. Malone.”

“So do I,” Malone said. “Any morning.”

Somehow Abby Lacy made her five foot one tower over everyone else in the room. She said, “Come, Gay. Come, Huntleigh.” And achieved an exit that would have made even the best of actresses turn a pale shade of green.

A moment later Glida jumped up and said, “The twins. I’ve got to go home.”

Kenneth Fairfaxx reddened and said, “But darling—”

Helene said, “Jake is terribly sick, and I’ve got to get home—”

“Hell,” Malone said, “let’s all go home. There’s nothing more we can do here except abuse these people’s hospitality and drink their liquor.” The mutt nipped his finger, gently. “All right,” Malone told the mutt, “I’ll buy you a beer.” He looked at von Flanagan. “Of course you’re releasing Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, under the circumstances.”

The big police officer opened and shut his mouth silently a few times and then said, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Malone said. “It may lead to trouble.” He stood up. For a moment his knees threatened to fold like a pair of old concertinas.

Suddenly he remembered something. “By the way,” he told von Flanagan, “I understand you’ve been looking for me. Now that you’ve found me—”

“You’re damned right I have,” von Flanagan said. He drew a long breath and the resolution to keep his temper showed in every line of his face. “Malone, we did a little questioning in the neighborhood this afternoon. A Dr. McSmith, next door—what did you say?”

“Nothing,” Malone growled.

“He stated that he saw you pick up something in the alley, examine it carefully, and put it in your pocket. Malone, if you’re concealing evidence—”

“Rocks,” Malone muttered.

Von Flanagan’s face turned purple.

“A rock,” Malone added. He fished through his pockets, finally found it and handed it to von Flanagan. “You can have it if you want it. But I don’t think it’s exactly evidence.”

The police officer examined it and said, “What were you keeping it for?”

“I’m going to train a dog to throw it at Dr. McSmith,” Malone said. “And if that’s all—” He yawned.

“I’ll drive you home,” Helene said sympathetically.

Suddenly everyone said at once, “Mr Malone—I must talk to you.” It was said in a number of variations by everybody except Violet, and her eyes said the same thing.

“Office hours nine to five,” Malone said. “Call for appointment. Number in phone book.” He picked up the mutt and let Helene lead him out to the car.

The snowstorm had been followed by a brilliant sky. The magnificent old houses had been brushed with snow as a cake is brushed with powdered sugar. Malone blinked at the blazing beauty.

Helene swung the car into Lake Shore Drive and said, “I hope Jake is all right.”

“I hope I’m all right,” Malone said indignantly. “And don’t take me to my hotel. Just drop me at Joe the Angel’s.” He had suddenly remembered that he still hadn’t collected that retainer.

Helene said, “It isn’t just that everything I can think of has happened to you. It isn’t that I think you need a good night’s sleep. It’s just that I don’t think you ought to take that sweet little doggie woggie with you into a saloon.”

“This is not a doggie woggie,” Malone said. “This is an Australian beer hound. And my brief pause at Joe the Angel’s is purely a business matter.”

Helene watched while he led the mutt across the sidewalk into Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. Then she started up the street. Malone and the Australian beer hound would be in good hands. But Jake—

She’d left him alone all this time. Was chicken pox serious for a grown man? No, she was thinking of something else. But perhaps he’d wakened and found himself all alone, and not found her note. Besides, he must have needed more cocoa butter by this time. She hoped the mutt hadn’t eaten it all.

She swung the car into the garage and all but raced to the elevator. There was that uneasy feeling in the back of her mind. The masked man outside the gate. Oh no, Jake wouldn’t have—

She flung open the door of the apartment. She closed it quietly behind her.

From the bedroom she could hear Jake’s slow, steady breathing.

The very idea, imagining a thing like that!

She tiptoed into the bedroom. Jake was sound asleep.

She could stand a little sleep herself.

After all, it was a long time past dawn.

She unclasped her furs and let them slip onto the nearest chair. She ran a tired hand through her pale blonde hair.

And then she saw it. The hammer. It was in Jake’s hand.

It seemed like hours before she reached Malone on the telephone and told him that she’d found the murder weapon.

Malone said sleepily, “Fine. Throw it in the lake.”

18

“Mr. Malone,” Maggie said disapprovingly as he came in the office, “the building manager has called again about the rent. The stamp magazines for your client came to four dollars and eighty-five cents, which I paid for out of my own pocket. And there are a lot of phone calls—” She paused, gasped, and said, “What on earth?”

“It’s a dog,” Malone said. “A very rare and expensive breed of dog.”

Maggie sniffed. “It probably has fleas.”

“It does have fleas,” Malone told her. “Very rare and expensive fleas.”

The mutt looked wistfully at Maggie.

“He’s cute!” Maggie said. “My little brother has been wanting a dog—”

“I’ll discuss it later,” Malone said hastily. “Right now he isn’t really my dog.”

It was true. The financial transaction with Joe the Angel had been long and difficult. Joe had finally agreed, for old times’ sake, to let the bar bill ride for twenty-four hours, and to advance ten dollars in cash money. But if the account wasn’t paid, Malone was to turn over the mutt. The little lawyer glanced down at the trusting eyes, winced, and hoped that the mutt hadn’t understood any of the transaction. Somehow he’d have to collect that retainer in the next twenty-four hours. Not, he reminded himself, that he didn’t want to find a home for the mutt. It was just that Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar didn’t seem like quite the right environment.

“Maggie, I’m a very tired man,” Malone began. He looked longingly at the worn leather couch in his inner office.

“No,” Maggie said firmly. She picked up the notepad that lay beside a pile of fan magazines on her desk. “Captain von Flanagan called you three times. Mrs. Justus called twice. And all these people want to see you as soon as possible, and they all say it’s very important.” She read off the list of names: “Miss Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Mr. Kenneth Fairfaxx. Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx, who is in Passavant Hospital. Miss Gay Lacy. And someone named Huntleigh.”

“Such popularity,” Malone muttered. He wished he’d obeyed his impulse not to come down to the office at all.

“Also,” Maggie said, “Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx wishes you to come to his home this afternoon. He has something to confess to you, and he would like to make a new will.”

Malone yawned.

“I’ll call these people and make appointments,” Maggie said sternly. “And comb your hair and straighten your tie. You look as though you’d fallen down a well.”

“I did,” Malone said, “only it was a cellar. Handle those appointments carefully. I don’t want these people to run into each other.”

He went into the inner office, followed by the mutt who promptly curled up on the couch Malone had been eying, and went sound asleep. Malone looked at him bitterly and murmured something about the end of a beautiful friendship.

The little lawyer sat down behind his desk, took out a cigar, unwrapped it very slowly and thoughtfully, folded the strip of cellophane into a lover’s-knot and laid it on his desk.

A moment ago he’d been tired beyond all belief. His shoulders still ached, and there was a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head. He’d caught exactly sixty minutes of sleep at his hotel and tried to augment them with a shower and a shave. But now, suddenly, he was wide awake again.

The whole thing was a tangle of lover knots. For a moment he closed his eyes and tried to visualize it as a wallpaper pattern. Very pretty, he decided, but the average person would miss the significance.

Old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, and his lost Annie. Abby Lacy, who’d wanted to be lovely, and had married a man who admired lovely women. The fabulous Liza Lavender, who had deserted Elizabeth Fairfaxx’s father for an Italian count when Elizabeth was a baby, and then returned as housekeeper in the house of Fairfaxx. Elizabeth herself, and her unemployed actor. Glida and Kenneth, so obviously in love with each other, and so irrevocably separated.

Love, money, and murder. The three things always seemed to go together.

Maggie walked in. Malone looked up from his cigar and said, “I’ve just discovered a new eternal triangle.”

Maggie sniffed. “Here’s your list of appointments. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx is expecting you at four. Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx at three-thirty. I asked Mrs. Justus to come in at two-thirty. I thought that might save you cab fare.”

“Smart woman,” Malone said.

“I mean,” Maggie said, “I thought it might save you borrowing cab fare from me. And Captain von Flanagan’s on the phone again.” She slammed the door as she went out.

Malone sighed, relit his cigar, and picked up the telephone.

“Glad to know you’re all right again,” von Flanagan’s voice said. “I suppose you know that we’ve released Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx.”

“I do,” Malone said grimly. He drew a long breath, gripped the telephone hard, and said, “My pal, giving me a client one day, and taking him away from me the next. Couldn’t you have kept him in jail long enough for me to collect a retainer from him?” He went on with several minutes of an indignant description of what he thought of such unethical proceedings.

There was an awkward pause.

“Malone,” von Flanagan said. “I really called up to talk to you about the little dog—”

“The little dog will never be surrendered to the police department,” Malone said. “Not even if he makes a full confession.” He hung up fast.

The receiver was barely on the hook before Maggie came in. “Miss Elizabeth Fairfaxx is here. With a—gentleman.”

The gentleman turned out to be Bob Allen. He was still wearing the faded corduroy slacks, the stained canvas shoes, the old sports jacket. He had, however, added a soiled and badly worn raincoat to the combination. He sat down in the nearest chair and acted as though he were pretending to be in the next room.

“You remember Mr. Allen,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, with that breathless note.

Malone resisted an impulse to ask Mr. Allen if he’d mind emptying the wastebaskets while he was waiting, and said, yes he did indeed remember Mr. Allen.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx sat down beside the mutt and began stroking his ears. Malone looked at her appreciatively. It was obvious that she had dressed hastily. Her face was almost blank of make-up, and her tawny hair was tied in a knot on the back of her head. The jacket of her green tweed suit was only half buttoned. There was a run in one of her stockings. And she was one of the loveliest things Malone had ever seen.

“Mr. Allen,” Malone said, “do you mind if I talk with Miss Fairfaxx alone?”

Bob Allen rose, looked at Malone for a long moment, said, “No,” and went out.

“Frankly,” Malone said, after the door had closed, “what do you see in him?”

“Mr. Malone—” There was a light in her eyes that almost hurt him. “Maybe you don’t understand—”

“Oh yes I do,” the little lawyer said quickly. He picked up his neglected cigar and relit it. It took a little time.

“Kenneth couldn’t have done it,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said.

“Of course he couldn’t,” Malone said. “Neither could Rodney Fairfaxx.” He decided to throw the cigar away and start another one.

“But,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, “I lied to you last night. And so did Kenneth. We weren’t together at the time Uncle Ernie was—was almost killed.” Her voice broke.

Malone rose, walked over to her, took the clean handkerchief he’d tucked in his breast pocket that morning and handed it to her.

“Twist it,” he said.

She looked up at him helplessly.

“When I have a woman witness on the stand,” Malone said, “I always give her a handkerchief to twist. Not only because it makes a good impression on the jury, but because it takes her mind off what’s she’s saying. You’re on the stand now, so go ahead.”

Elizabeth smiled at him wanly. “You think I’m still lying to you, don’t you? I’m not, honestly.” She began twirling the handkerchief between her fingers. “I was frightened after you left the house. I don’t know why. Maybe just nerves. Or maybe because of Uncle Ernie. I knew you were going to meet him, and I didn’t know what he was going to say to you.” The handkerchief tightened. “I didn’t know what he might say to you.”

“You’re doing fine,” Malone said. “Go on.”

“I went out in the yard. I didn’t know just what I was going to do, or why. It didn’t seem to matter, just then. It was—well—it was just a crazy impulse—” The handkerchief tied itself in a knot.

Again Malone rose. He patted her shoulder and said, “I’d love to have you on a witness stand sometime.”

“I was frightened,” she said. “Terribly frightened. Out there in the yard, I mean. The snow was falling so fast. I couldn’t see Uncle Ernie. Or anybody. And then I saw—I mean, I thought I saw—Glida’s mother’s ghost, in the snow.”

Malone said, “Ghost?” He wondered if his voice sounded the way it felt.

She went on in a breathless rush. “Glida’s father killed his wife before he—died. It was because he loved her. She’d always had everything and he couldn’t bear the thought of her being poor. Everybody thought she’d run away, and then they found her body in the cellar of the house next door.”

“It’s a nice cellar, as they go,” Malone said. “You’d better have a drink, Miss Fairfaxx.”

“I don’t need one, thank you,” she said. The handkerchief was beginning to be shredded now.

“I do,” Malone said hoarsely. “While I pour it, go on about your ghost.”

“It was just something—in white,” she whispered. “Tall—Glida’s mother was tall—and white—and glistening—I ran back in the house—”

Malone held the drink he’d poured for himself to her lips. She gasped, choked, rewarded him with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Malone. I—didn’t get much sleep last night.” She picked up the handkerchief. “But, I wasn’t with Kenneth at the time it happened. So, I could have attacked Uncle Ernie. Kenneth can’t alibi me.” She rose, dropped the handkerchief, smiled vaguely and said, “That’s all I came here to say.”

“And you can’t alibi him,” Malone said. “Sit down.”

She stared at him, sank back on the couch.

“I’ll have you arrested,” Malone said, “if that’s what you want. And I’ll be your defense attorney and get you off. But—” he picked up a scrap of ruined linen from the floor. “You’ll have to buy your own handkerchiefs. And right now I’d rather talk about something else.”

He found a cigarette, lit it, and put it between her fingers.

“Tell me something about Violet,” he said softly. “Have you ever heard her speak?”

Elizabeth Fairfaxx stared at him. It was a long moment before she answered. “I started to say No, but that would have been a lie, too. I’ve never heard her speak with people present, but—” She paused. “Maybe I’m dreaming this. Maybe I’m insane. But I’d swear I’ve heard her whisper to me. Last night—this morning—she tucked me in bed. I don’t know what she was saying, but I knew she was whispering to me. She’s always been so good to me. I dream about her sometimes, and the dreams don’t make much sense, but—” She paused again and said, “Mr. Malone, I’m so tired. I’d better go home.”

Her face was as white as Malone’s face felt. She got to her feet.

“Kenneth couldn’t have done it,” she said.

“No,” Malone said, his heart aching, “but you could.” He kicked the buzzer under his desk. Maggie was in in a flash, the unemployed actor right behind her.

“I didn’t, Malone,” she breathed into his ear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, “but you have a motive.”

He watched while Bob Allen escorted the exhausted girl to the elevator. Then he returned to the office.

“Am I making a motive out of a mountain?” he asked Maggie, “or am I making a monkey out of a male heel?”

19

“I don’t know just how to begin,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said miserably.

Malone yawned in spite of himself. He had made an attempt to get a quick nap between appointments, curled up uncomfortably on the chair. The mutt had looked so contented sleeping on the couch that the little lawyer hadn’t had the heart to disturb him. The attempt at napping hadn’t been successful.

“Suppose you begin by telling me,” he said, “that you and Elizabeth weren’t together at the time Uncle Ernie was hit on the head, and that therefore you can’t alibi each other?”

Kenneth Fairfaxx stared at him. “How did you know that?”

“I’m psychic,” Malone said, “but don’t tell my friends. My enemies know it already.” He stifled another yawn.

“I wanted to think,” the young man said. “I wanted to get away by myself for a few minutes, and think. Do you understand, Mr. Malone?”

Malone rose, strolled to the window and gazed for a moment across the dreary Chicago rooftops. Under the blazing sunlight, last night’s snow was already a tired gray, when it should have been glistening.

“In every murder I’ve encountered,” Malone said, “there was always some idiot, usually young, who needed an alibi. Invariably it turned out that when the murder was committed, he had gone away somewhere to think. Or was taking an unobserved nap.” He killed another yawn at birth. “Or had gone for a walk in the park to look at the moon. Or was in the men’s room at the Union Station.”

He turned around and walked back to the desk.

“Mr. Malone,” Kenneth said, even more miserably, “do you think it would help if I confessed to knocking out Uncle Ernie? And to everything else?”

Malone sat down, puffed furiously at his cigar, and said, “No, I don’t. Because no one would believe you. Especially, myself.”

“Well,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said, “I thought I’d ask. You see—” He was suddenly very silent.

“You must be pretty tired,” Malone said. “You missed a night’s sleep. You’d better have a drink.”

“No, thank you,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said. A moment later as Malone put a glass in his hand he said, “Well—” And then added, “You must be pretty tired too.”

Another moment later Malone said, “I was.”

“About Elizabeth,” Kenneth said. “It’s like this. We were brought up together. We didn’t go to the same schools, but we spent our vacations together, and we were both orphans, and we didn’t have any brothers and sisters, and when I wanted to marry Glida she thought it was fine and she helped us elope, and when the first set of twins was born she waited with me in the hospital, and while the rest of the family didn’t quite approve of Bob Allen, I think he’s a grand guy. No, thanks, Mr. Malone—well then—just a short one—”

He gulped down the drink and said, “I took a fish-hook out of Elizabeth’s thumb when she was six years old.”

“I bet it hurt,” Malone said, “and I bet she didn’t cry.”

“She didn’t,” Kenneth said. “And when I was about eight, Gay Lacy said something nasty about my father, and Elizabeth knocked two of her teeth out. Funny that it should have been Gay Lacy.” He sighed and said, “Mr. Malone, everything seems terribly complex.”

“It does,” Malone said, chewing savagely at the cigar, “and it would help no end if you’d uncomplex a little of it for me. Especially if you’d help me sort out what members of your family are related to who. Pick an ancestor who watched George Washington chop down the cherry tree, or attended the Lincoln-Douglas debates, or went to the World’s Fair in ’93, and take it from there.”

The young man smiled wanly. “It was Herald Fairfaxx,” he said. “Herald, not Harold. And he wasn’t a misprint, and he wasn’t named for a newspaper. He was named for a hymn.”

“‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,’” Malone said approvingly.

“And he did go to the World’s Fair of ’93. He also made all the money in the family. It was very simple, really. He just bought a lot of real estate when it was very cheap, and sold it when it was very expensive. I wish I could think of as easy a way to make money as that.”

“So do I,” Malone said fervently.

“He got married,” Kenneth said, “and he had Uncle Rodney. I don’t know much about Uncle Rodney’s mother, but I’ve seen her picture. She was pretty. She died, and he got married again, and had Uncle Ernie. That wife died too. He got married again—”

“This begins to sound like the first chapter of Matthew,” Malone said. “But go on.”

“Well,” Kenneth said, “my father was born. My grandmother named him Cedric.” He looked embarrassed. “After Little Lord Fauntleroy. And then Elizabeth’s father was born.”

“And what was he named?” Malone asked.

“John,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said. “Just plain John.”

“The family imagination evidently got senile,” Malone said. “Now that we’re out of the Begats—”

“The Lacys,” Kenneth said. “You see, it’s all sort of mixed up together. Uncle Rodney’s mother’s brother was Albert Lacy. He was named for Prince Albert, like the tobacco. And the coats.”

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. He relit his cigar. “In one more minute I’ll have to start putting this down on paper.”

“He got married too,” Kenneth went on, “and he had a son. Named Albert.”

“Obviously,” Malone said, “named for his father, and for—indirectly—Prince Albert, and for the coats.” He added, “And the tobacco.”

“And then another son,” Kenneth said, “named—”

“Edgeworth,” Malone said. “It couldn’t have been anything else.”

Kenneth Fairfaxx stared at him. “Are you really psychic, Mr. Malone? That was very close. It wasn’t actually Edgeworth, it was Edward.”

“Let’s leave it right there,” Malone said, hastily, “before we get into the reason he was named Edward. Who inherited all of Hark the Herald Angels Sing’s dough?”

“Uncle Rodney. He felt very guilty about it, I think. Because he’s always taken very good care of Uncle Ernie. And Elizabeth’s father got married, and Elizabeth was born, and her mother—she was an actress—left him, and her father died and Uncle Rodney adopted her. And my father got married, and I was born, and I was about six when both my parents got killed in a car wreck, and Uncle Rodney adopted me too. He’s always been wonderful to us both.”

The young man drew a long breath. “And I fell in love with Glida and we were married, and we got divorced, and the family sort of wanted me to marry Gay, so we got engaged, and Elizabeth is in love with this actor and they’re going to be married, and Uncle Rodney has been in love with Annie Kendall all these years and won’t believe she’s dead.”

“Knots,” Malone murmured.

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” Malone said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Kenneth blinked. A pair of moments later he said, “You ought to know. Albert Lacy and his brother were pretty swell guys. I think Albert Lacy would have liked me to marry his daughter, Gay.”

Malone said gently, “Maybe his brother would have liked to see you stay married to his daughter Glida.”

There was a long silence.

“I’m afraid I’ve taken up too much of your time, Mr. Malone,” Kenneth said stiffly.

“Stick around,” Malone said, “while I take up some of yours. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx has all the Fairfaxx dough, which must amount to something worth while, with or without inflation. Who is going to inherit that?”

“Why,” Kenneth said, “except for Uncle Ernie’s trust fund, Elizabeth and I will.”

Malone picked up his cigar, gazed at it, and said slowly, “But suppose Annie Kendall should be alive?”

Kenneth’s chair fell over backward with a loud clatter as he stood up. “Mr. Malone! Is there a chance that she might be?”

Malone said nothing. Kenneth strode across the room and gripped the edge of the desk.

“Mr. Malone, if she is—and if she can be found—” He paused, gasped. His face lighted up like a neon sign. “Think what that would mean to Uncle Rodney! He’s loved her so much, all these years. And she’s so beautiful—I’ve never seen her, but I’ve practically grown up with her pictures—”

He paused again. “I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean. There is a lot of money involved. But if you think Elizabeth or I would—would keep him from knowing—You know what I mean, Mr. Malone. I’m not as much of a stinker as you think I am.”

“Go away,” Malone said wearily. “It’s been a very pleasant and instructive half hour, but I’m a tired man. I’ve got another appointment five minutes from now, and with rare good luck I can catch four minutes sleep in between. And I still don’t know what you came here for.”

Kenneth Fairfaxx walked to the door, paused and said “Elizabeth. Uncle Ernie. The postmen—”

There was no answer until the mutt growled at him. It was a whispered growl. Because John J. Malone was asleep.

20

“Gentlemen of the jury,” Malone began.

The judge barked at him. There was a sound of pounding.

The little lawyer sat up and blinked. The mutt was barking and someone was knocking at the door.

“Come in, your honor,” Malone called sleepily.

Maggie came in, closing the door behind her.

“I was having the most wonderful dream,” Malone said. “I dreamed I was asleep.”

She sniffed. “Try dreaming you’re awake.” Her eyes softened momentarily. “I’ll run down and get you some coffee. And there’s a Mr. Huntleigh to see you.”

Malone yawned. “Five will get you ten he’s wearing a black derby.”

“I won’t bet with you,” Maggie said.

“I know. Because I’m psychic.”

“No,” Maggie said coldly, “because you’re broke.”

He yawned again, shook some of the sleep from his eyes, and sat up straight. He did his best to look not only wide awake but cordial, when Huntleigh came in.

He’d been sight about the black derby.

“Mr. Malone,” Huntleigh began, “I feel that I have done you an injury.”

“You sure as hell did,” Malone said, as cheerfully as he could. “My head aches, I’m lame all over, and I missed a night’s sleep. No hard feeling, though.”

“I gathered the impression that there were no hard feelings,” Huntleigh said, “when you refrained from informing the police that I had been responsible for what we may call last night’s little incident.”

“Oh boy,” Malone said admiringly. “You should have been a lawyer and landed in the Supreme Court. You’ve got a nice way with the words.”

Huntleigh sat down stiffly, twirled his derby and said modestly, “Thank you, Mr. Malone. If I may take the liberty of saying it, the same to you.”

Malone beamed and said, “Have a cigar.”

Huntleigh confided that he didn’t smoke. No, he didn’t drink, either. Malone caught himself on the verge of saying, “What do you do?”

“Mr. Malone, if you please. May I ask, why?”

“Why didn’t I turn you over to the cops?” Malone asked. “Very simple. It would have wasted a lot of time for both of us. You’d have been dragged off to jail, and I’d have had to spend half the morning signing a complaint. Besides, you have a lot of questions to answer, and I’d rather ask them myself than let the police do it. Now it’s my turn to ask, why?”

“I am devoted to Miss Lacy—”

Malone said hastily, “Let’s not go into that again. Or maybe we should. Why are you devoted to Miss Lacy?”

“Because,” Huntleigh said, “I was devoted to Miss Lacy’s father.” He sighed. “I suppose, in view of last night’s unpleasantness, you are entitled to a certain amount of explanation.”

“You’re damned right I am,” Malone said grimly, rubbing the back of his head. Suddenly he stared at Huntleigh. “Wait a minute.” Tall. Very thin. Dressed in black. Long, ape-like arms. “While you’re at it, you might as well explain why you were following me around downtown Chicago last night.”

It was Huntleigh’s turn to stare. Finally he said stiffly, “I was not aware that you saw me, Mr. Malone.”

“I did,” Malone said, recalling his flight with a shudder. “Again, why?”

“Because,” Huntleigh repeated, “I am devoted to Miss Lacy.”

Malone said wearily, “You’d better go on with the explanation. And it had better be good.” He added mentally, “And it had better be quick.”

“Mr. Malone,” Huntleigh began, “I was not what you would call an attractive child.”

The little lawyer looked up at Huntleigh and reflected that he had just heard the understatement of a lifetime.

“My grandfather was a man of great integrity. He had the honor to be employed as butler by the famous Shakespearean scholar—”

Malone leaned back and allowed himself to doze a little. From time to time he opened one ear. He gathered that Huntleigh’s father had also been a terrific guy and also picked up a few odds and ends about the English language. Huntleigh, however, had been a complete failure practically from the moment of his arrival. The little lawyer opened both ears just long enough to listen for the phrase “—that only a mother could love.” He got it.

But if Huntleigh had been a failure as a candidate for a “Man of Distinction” portrait, he had become a great success as a butler.

“It was just thirty years ago, Mr. Malone, that I was engaged by the late Mr. Albert Lacy.”

Malone slid down in his chair and resigned himself to listening to the history of the past thirty years. Huntleigh didn’t disappoint him. Everything from women’s fashions to world-shaking events, and thumbnail reviews of the better books was included. It was restful. It was almost as good as a nap.

A picture of the Albert Lacy who had been named for the prince, the coat, and the tobacco began to emerge. Handsome, of course. Tall and slender. Just a bit on the impractical side. A romantic, who had named his daughter Gay, and who lived Rodney Fairfaxx’s tragic romance as if it had been his own. A friendly, generous man who took the neighborhood children to the theater. A sympathetic, kindly soul who had inspired devotion in his unloved and unlovable butler.

No wonder, Malone thought, that Albert Lacy had spent so much of his time away from the gloomy atmosphere of the Lacy house. He must have hated it.

“And then,” Huntleigh was saying, “Mr. Lacy lost all his money.”

Malone sat up, wide awake. “Wait a minute. This is Albert Lacy you’re talking about, not Edward.”

“Quite right, sir.” Huntleigh said, nodding. “Mr. Albert made a series of unfortunate investments. To be quite truthful about it, I took the liberty of advising him against them. However, he would persist. I fear that poor Mr. Albert was sadly lacking in business judgment. It was most regrettable.”

“Let me get this straight,” Malone said hoarsely. “Edward Lacy lost all his dough in the stock market crash. He killed his wife and himself, leaving Glida an orphan.”

“That is correct, Mr. Malone.” Huntleigh paused. “Mr. Edward, if I may say so, was a very charming gentleman, and extremely sensitive.”

“No doubt,” Malone said, puffing on his cigar. “But Mr. Albert also went down in the crash?”

“Regrettably,” Huntleigh said.

Malone rose, strolled to the window, and looked out over the expanse of dirty roof-tops. Snow was beginning to fall again. He wished that murders wouldn’t invariably happen in such bad weather.

“In other words,” Malone said, “Mrs. Abby Lacy had money of her own?”

“No, Mr. Malone.”

The little lawyer turned around, took a fresh cigar from his pocket, and began unwrapping it. “Just how has Mrs. Lacy managed, all these years?”

Huntleigh cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. “I was present at the late Mr. Albert’s deathbed, sir. He was not then aware of the extent of his financial losses. He requested me always to look after his daughter. Naturally, I looked on it as a sacred responsibility.”

“In other words,” Malone said, “you’ve been supporting the household.”

“You might put it that way, Mr. Malone. It was merely a matter of making an arrangement with the trust company to continue paying the income from the Lacy interests to Mrs. Lacy.”

“Merely,” Malone muttered. “Very merely. And just how were you able to make this arrangement?”

Again the butler cleared his throat. “It had happened that I had been able to make some very fortunate investments.”

Malone sat down behind his desk. He lit his cigar on the third try. “You certainly were devoted to Mr. Lacy,” he said after a long silence.

“I always tried to do my best, sir,” Huntleigh said.

Again there was a silence while Malone thought the whole thing over. He wondered if Huntleigh had been sufficiently devoted to the Lacy family to murder three postmen in order to insure the inheritance of Gay Lacy’s fiancé.

“I assume,” Malone said at last, “that no one except yourself knows about this arrangement.” He wondered if he was beginning to talk like Huntleigh.

“And yourself, sir,” Huntleigh said.

“Don’t worry,” Malone said. “I won’t tell.” He looked at the end of his cigar. “I bet you’re a hell of a good butler, too.”

Huntleigh repeated, “I always try to do my best.” He rose. “I shall appreciate it if you do not mention my visit, Mr. Malone. And I am sincerely glad that there are no hard feelings.”

“None at all,” Malone said, “but wait a minute. Do you go to the movies? Or the theater?”

Huntleigh shook his head. He looked bewildered.

“Nightclubs?”

“No, sir.”

“Gambling?”

“After my successful venture in the stock market, I decided not to—ah—push my luck, Mr. Malone.”

“And you don’t drink, and you don’t smoke. Don’t you do anything for fun?”

“Oh yes, sir.” A light came into Huntleigh’s eyes. “I collect rare butterflies.”

“Well, well, well,” Malone said. “That must be very interesting.”

A smile broke over Huntleigh’s face. It was like sunrise over a movie set for Frankenstein’s Castle. “I’d be delighted to show you my collection, Mr. Malone. I’ve just acquired a very unusual specimen of Teinopalpus Imperialis.”

“Some other time,” Malone said hastily. He puffed furiously at his cigar. “As a butterfly specialist, I don’t suppose you know anything about fleas?”

Huntleigh looked at the mutt. The smile stayed on his face. The mutt looked at Huntleigh and wagged his tail.

“I should suggest soap and water, sir,” Huntleigh said. He added, “If by any chance you’re looking for a home for the little dog—”

“He’s not mine,” Malone said. “I—am keeping him for a friend.”

The butler said, “If that will be all, Mr. Malone—”

“It will not,” Malone said, suddenly remembering. “I still don’t know why you were following me last evening.” He placed a mental bet on Huntleigh’s first words, and won.

“The Lacy family—” Huntleigh paused. “The Fairfaxx family is, in a sense, a part of the Lacy family. I am devoted to old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. I was deeply concerned over the fact of his being accused of murder. It occurred to me that you might be able to—to put my mind at ease about him.”

“So you were following me,” Malone said, puffing on his cigar.

“Frankly, Mr. Malone—I was attempting to arouse sufficient courage to speak to you.”

Malone stared at him. Finally he said, “Always be brave Huntleigh.” He wondered how much of what the butler had told him, last night and today, was the truth.

The door opened. Maggie came into the office, very quietly, closing the door behind her. She handed Malone a slip of paper.

Malone glanced at it and said, “Thank you, Maggie.” He turned to Huntleigh and said, “Would you mind leaving by my private door? There’s someone—” He paused, managed to look coy, and finished—“A woman.”

“I quite understand,” Huntleigh said, with just a suggestion of a wink. As Malone opened the door for him, he said, “And anytime you’d like to see my collection—”

“I’ll call you,” Malone promised. He closed the door, mopped his brow with a slightly wrinkled handkerchief, and said, “That was close!”

Maggie sniffed indignantly, opened the other door, and said in her sweetest voice, “Mr. Malone will see you now.”

It was Gay Lacy who walked into the room. Her stringy hair was tucked under an unbecoming hat. She wore a pale blue raincoat that just might have looked well on a beautiful blonde. There was a look of severe determination on her face.

“Well, Mr. Malone,” she said sharply, “let’s not waste any time. How much do you want?”

21

Malone quickly repressed an impulse to say, “How much have you got?” Instead he gave her the smile he usually reserved for difficult juries, held out a cordial hand and said, “My dear Miss Lacy! How nice to see you! Won’t you sit down!” Over Gay Lacy’s shoulder he could see Maggie’s scornful glance as she closed the door.

Gay Lacy sat down stiffly. “I don’t want to waste your time. I repeat, how much do you want?”

Malone said, “Would you care for a cigarette? Could I send out for some coffee? It’s a very bad day out. May I take your coat?”

She loosened her coat but showed no signs of giving it up. She took a cigarette case out of her bag, helped herself, took out her lighter and beat Malone’s offered match by a good ten seconds.

Malone sighed, sat down behind his desk, and picked up his cigar. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Huntleigh would have approved of that speech, he reflected. “And just what did you mean? How much what, and for what?”

She said, “How much money do you want for not telling the police that it was Huntleigh who assaulted and kidnaped you last night?”

“My dear young lady!” Malone paused to catch his breath. He wondered if it was possible that the devotion between the Lacy family and its butler could be mutual.

“Don’t be absurd,” Gay Lacy said. “Think how it would have looked in the newspapers. Or perhaps you don’t realize the position of the family.”

There was a brief silence. Then Malone said, “I realize it very well, Miss Lacy.” For an insane moment he’d been on the verge of telling her just how well he realized it. But he’d promised Huntleigh.

“In that case,” she said, “perhaps you’ll answer my question.” She puffed nervously at her cigarette, spilled ashes on the floor. “How much, Mr. Malone?”

Malone thought about it. Even a very small sum would rescue the mutt from a future with Joe the Angel, would pay the office rent, Maggie’s salary, and take care of a few odds and ends. On the other hand, in a situation like this, one didn’t ask for a small sum. It had to be big, or it had to be nothing.

And it would ultimately come out of Huntleigh’s pocket.

“Nothing, my dear young lady,” he said gratefully, making a sweeping gesture with his cigar and wondering if his heart was breaking. He decided it was time for a good, time-honored platitude and added, “You can’t buy everything with money.” He brushed cigar ashes from his rumpled vest and tried, fast, to think of something money wouldn’t buy.

“No,” she said, “but it helps.” A small, weary smile crossed her face.

In spite of himself, Malone felt a sudden pang of pity for her. It couldn’t have been fun to grow up as a rich and very homely girl—at least thinking she was rich, and knowing she was homely. With a handsome father everyone adored, and who was bitterly disappointed in her. With a mother who admitted to being an unpleasant woman, and who had wanted a beautiful daughter to compensate for her own lack.

Before he realized what he was saying, he had asked her, “How long have you been in love with Kenneth Fairfaxx?”

“As long as I can remember.” Her sallow cheeks turned faintly pink. Evidently she too had spoken without thinking first.

That added into the picture too, Malone reflected. Kenneth was undeniably an attractive young man. And he’d whipped off and married Glida, who was a more than attractive young woman, and who’d doubtless been a thorn in Gay Lacy’s flesh when they were growing up as cousins.

Malone wondered if Gay Lacy had had anything to do with Kenneth and Glida’s divorce.

Well, at least she had him now. He wished that he could hope she’d be happy with him.

It was Gay who broke the silence, saying, “And besides, he’s a Fairfaxx, of course.”

That did it. The pang of pity vanished back to wherever it had come from.

“Mr. Malone,” Gay Lacy said, “about last night. You must realize that Huntleigh didn’t know what he was doing when it happened.”

“Just a sudden, mad impulse on his part,” Malone murmured, rubbing the back of his head.

“Please, Mr. Malone. I’m very serious about this.”

“So am I,” he told her, “and that line is one that’s worked like a charm with more juries than I could count.”

She frowned. “I’m worried about Huntleigh. He’s been with us a long time. Since before I was born, in fact. Mother and I, we—we’re—” She fumbled for a word.

“You’re devoted to him,” Malone said, nodding wisely. “Go on.”

“He acts strangely, sometimes,” Gay Lacy said. “I don’t know exactly how to explain it.”

Malone said, “Hitting an inoffensive lawyer over the back of the head and nailing him to the wall of a cellar in a deserted house might be construed as acting strangely.” He threw his burnt out match inaccurately at the waste-basket. “Shall we call it, quote, a mad impulse, unquote?”

Gay Lacy rose and said stiffly, “I don’t know why I came here.”

“Sit down,” Malone said. “I do.”

She sat down.

“You came here,” Malone told her, chewing savagely on his cigar, “to make sure that no one would know, especially the newspaper-reading public, that the Lacys’ butler had suddenly gone mad. Because that might reflect on the Lacys’ social position. Or,” he paused and looked at her closely, “was it for some other reason?”

He walked around his desk and sat down on the corner of it. “Was it because you thought he might have gone sufficiently mad to murder three quite inoffensive postmen?”

“Mr. Malone.” She looked straight at him. “If he should be arrested for murder, would you defend him? I’d pay your fee, regardless of how much it was.”

“My dear girl,” Malone said, “right now if Huntleigh were arrested for burning down an old ladies’ home, I’d be glad to defend him.” He started to add, “I’d even do it for free,” and caught himself just in time.

She rose again, this time with at least an attempt at being graceful, and said, “Thank you. That’s what I really came here to ask.”

“Anytime,” Malone said. “And I’ve never lost a client yet.”

For a few moments after she had gone, Malone sat at his desk, brooding. There was a possibility that Gay Lacy’s diagnosis of Huntleigh was perfectly correct. There was a possibility that it was all wrong.

He called to Maggie to bring up a bottle of beer and a saucer when she went for the coffee, and then got to work on the telephone. It took two calls to locate the elderly and highly dignified lawyer (he preferred the word “attorney”) Orlo Featherstone, who handled the legal and financial affairs for a choice group of clients who moved in the same circles as the Fairfaxxes and the Lacys.

Orlo Featherstone protested that Malone’s inquiry was highly irregular.

Malone countered with the remark that Orlo Featherstone’s behavior at a certain young lady’s apartment had been even more irregular.

Orlo Featherstone stated that Malone’s conduct was strictly unethical.

Malone’s answer covered not only Orlo Featherstone’s ethics, but the ethics of his ancestors back to his great-great-grandfather. A few remarks about the ancestors’ personal lives were thrown in.

By the time Maggie returned, Malone had the information he wanted. Huntleigh had told the truth.

The little lawyer poured a saucer of beer for the mutt, gulped his coffee, and was preparing for another nap when Maggie burst in the door.

“Mr. Malone, there’s a man here to see you. He seems to be angry about something—”

Maggie was shoved aside. Dr. McSmith strode into the room. He was definitely angry.

“What are you doing here?” the red-faced man demanded.

Malone looked at him helplessly, gestured at the desk, and murmured something about office hours.

Dr. McSmith said sternly, “Lie down.” He walked over to the couch, pushed the mutt down on the floor, and said to Malone, “Will you walk over here, or do I carry you?”

The mutt barked indignantly.

Dr. McSmith snapped, “Shut up.”

Maggie watched, fascinated, from the door.

Meekly, Malone walked over to the couch and lay down as directed. Firm, but gentle fingers explored the back of his head.

“I told you to go to bed for three days,” the doctor’s voice said furiously. “I’ve chased all over the town finding you. Lie still, will you.”

“But Dr. McSmith,” Malone protested feebly.

“I feel a certain responsibility to my patients,” the angry voice said. “Even though I dislike Irishmen, lawyers, and dogs, in the order named.”

Malone said, “Ouch!”

“Keep quiet,” the doctor said. “And your mongrel dog is biting my ankle. I hope you have liability insurance.”

“He doesn’t,” Maggie said from the doorway.

“Then take the dog away,” Dr. McSmith said.

Maggie resourcefully poured the rest of the bottle of beer into the saucer. The mutt retreated to behind the saucer, but went on eying Dr. McSmith with suspicion.

“If you hadn’t such a thick skull, you’d be dead by now,” Dr. McSmith said. “All right, you can sit up.”

Malone sat up, brushed the hair out of his eyes, made an attempt to straighten his tie, and said, “Have a cigar?” The mutt walked over and curled up beside Malone, prepared for anything. Malone struggled to his feet, walked over to the desk and said, “Have a drink?” The mutt sat down beside his saucer of beer, defying Dr. McSmith to touch it.

The doctor declined both offers and pretended to ignore the mutt. “Mr. Malone, I have just come from examining Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx. The blunt instrument which rendered you unconscious was definitely not the one with which he was attacked. I would say that you were struck with a stone.”

Malone remembered something. He reached in his pocket. “Like this one that I found in the alley?” he asked innocently.

Dr. McSmith scowled. “Possibly.”

The mutt snarled.

“But Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx,” the doctor went on, “was definitely struck with a hammer.”

Malone said stubbornly, “I still say he was hit on the head with a brick wall.”

“A hammer,” Dr. McSmith said, twice as stubbornly.

At that moment Helene burst into the room. Her pale blonde hair hung loose over the dark fur of her coat, spangled with melting snowdrops. Her eyes were shadowy with weariness.

“Malone,” she said, “I’m sorry to be early. But I couldn’t wait to bring this to you.”

There was a hammer in her gloved hand.

22

“You didn’t really mean for me to throw it in the lake, did you?” Helene demanded. She paused, and then said, “Oh, hello, Dr. McSmith. My husband’s much better. He itches, but he’s much better.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Dr. McSmith said coldly. “Young lady, let me see that hammer.”

Malone muttered something bitter about perfect timing.

Helene looked at Malone, at Dr. McSmith and then said brightly, “Oh no, I couldn’t do that! Because it doesn’t belong to me.” Her fingers tightened on the hammer handle.

Dr. McSmith took a step forward. Helene took a step back. The mutt rose to his feet and growled menacingly.

“Don’t touch it,” Helene said. “It’s probably crawling with germs.”

Dr. McSmith looked at her coldly.

“Go ahead, look at it,” Malone said wearily. “But she’s probably right. You hadn’t better touch it. It may not be crawling with germs, but it may be crawling with fingerprints.”

“Thank you,” Dr. McSmith said. He walked up to Helene. The mutt stopped growling, but watched suspiciously.

“I’m no expert,” Dr. McSmith said at last. He turned to Malone. “You’re turning this over to the police immediately, of course.”

“Of course,” Malone reassured him.

The red-faced doctor scowled, then said, “Perhaps I’d better go along with you. Just to make sure.”

Malone said, “Fine,” wishing that he’d died in his cradle.

“Oh, Dr. McSmith,” Helene gasped, “I was so upset when I came in that I didn’t really recognize you. My husband—Mr. Justus—”

“You said he was feeling fine,” the doctor said.

“I was talking to Mr. Malone. I didn’t want him to worry. But his—I mean Mr. Justus’s—temperature went up this morning, and he seems to be having trouble breathing, and—” She went into a list of symptoms that would have put any medical journal into the best-seller list.

“He should have been moved to a hospital,” Dr. McSmith said, picking up his bag.

“Oh, I know it,” Helene said miserably, “but I couldn’t reach you, and you said last night it wasn’t serious, so I didn’t think a temperature of a hundred and three was so much, but when he started sort of choking—”

Dr. McSmith had reached the door. “I’ll be right there,” he said. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “But mind you, that hammer goes to the police.”

“It will,” Helene breathed, “oh, it will! And after you’ve seen Jake, will you call us? We’ll be at police headquarters—von Flanagan’s office—”

Sixty seconds later Malone said, “And they drown kittens!”

“Quiet,” Helene said. She picked up the telephone, called the hotel, and got Jake on the wire.

“Darling, I hate to wake you,” she said, “but you’re a very sick man. I said, you’re a very sick man. Dr. McSmith was here, and he wanted to go to headquarters with us, but I told him how sick you are. He’s on his way up to see you.” She paused. “Jake, that was a very bad word.” She repeated the list of symptoms.

“That takes care of Dr. McSmith for the next few hours,” she commented as she hung up the receiver.

“It also takes care of Jake for about the next sixty days,” Malone growled, “unless I’ve forgotten everything I ever knew about the quarantine laws. And I’m a very tired man, so do you mind if I take a short nap?”

He buried his head in his arms for thirty seconds, then sat up and said, “All right. Let’s go.”

The mutt bounded from the couch, ready to go with them.

“If you’re really going to police headquarters,” Maggie said from the doorway, “you’d better either leave him here or buy him a dog license on the way—that is, if you can get him one.”

Malone said, “He goes where I go. And if he can’t get a dog license, I’ll have him admitted to the bar.”

“I doubt if there’s a bar anywhere he couldn’t get into by himself,” Helene said, “but come on.”

As they waited for the elevator, Malone said, “Seriously, how is Jake?”

“He feels fine,” Helene said. “And he looks terrible.”

“He doesn’t deserve to feel fine,” Malone said. “Walking around in a snowstorm can bring on complications. Including hammers.”

They rode down the elevator in silence. In the lobby, Helene said, “How did you know he was walking around in a snowstorm?”

“Because of the hammer,” Malone said.

Five minutes later in Helene’s car, she said bitterly, “I wish I’d taken your advice the first time, and thrown it in the lake.”

Malone said, “Someone would have found it sooner or later. And watch out for that truck. And don’t forget to stop at the dog license bureau.”

Thirty minutes and one dog license later, Helene said, “Malone, it’s just that all these people are friends of mine.”

The little lawyer sighed. “There are times when I wish I’d obeyed my first impulse when I met you, and thrown you in the lake.” He scratched the mutt behind the ears and said to him, “Well, now you’re legally mine.” At least, he reflected with a slight pang, until he and Joe the Angel reached a day of reckoning.

“They’re friends of mine, and people I like,” Helene said stubbornly.

“But one of them is going to be arrested for murder,” Malone said. “Might even go to the chair, or to prison for life, without a good lawyer such as myself.”

Helene shuddered. Malone watched her miss the end of a taxi-cab, and shuddered for reasons of his own. The mutt stuck his head out the window and made a series of indignant remarks to the retreating taxi.

“That’s a good little doggie woggie,” Helene said approvingly.

“I said before, don’t call him a little doggie woggie,” Malone said in his crossest voice.

Helene sniffed and said, “Well, if you won’t give that poor little doggie woggie a name—”

The mutt moaned gratefully, and rested his head on Helene’s knee.

“See what I mean?” Helene said.

Malone looked hurt, and said nothing.

A few minutes later, Helene said, “Malone, I’m really serious about this.”

“So am I,” Malone said, “but thinking of just the right name for him is going to take a little time.”

“Damn you, Malone. You know what I’m worrying about.”

“I do,” Malone said. “And your worrying isn’t going to help. Suppose you let me worry about it. That’s what I hope I’m going to be paid for. You just worry about helping pick out a name for—” he caught himself on the verge of saying “little doggie woggie”—“for him.”

Helene maneuvered around a truck. The truck driver complained to Helene, and the mutt complained to the truck driver. Luckily, the lights changed just in time.

Two blocks ahead of the truck, Helene said, “But Malone. Supposing something happens to Jake.”

“Right now,” Malone said sourly, “I’ll be disappointed if something doesn’t.” He paused to puff savagely on his cigar and added, “if he hadn’t found this hammer, I could be having a nice comfortable nap right now. For two cents, I’d let you explain this to von Flanagan.”

“For two cents, I would,” Helene said.

Malone held his breath while Helene beat a stop light, and then said reverently, “Praise be, I don’t have two cents. You keep your mouth shut until I signal you to let it open.”

They reached the anteroom to von Flanagan’s office just in time to hear a ring on the telephone.

“A call for you, Malone. From some guy who calls himself—”

Malone grabbed the phone, an unpleasant premonition chilling his spine.

“This is Dr. McSmith,” the voice at the other end said. “I’m glad to learn you’re at police headquarters, and I trust you have the hammer with you. Mr. Justus is missing.”

“Oh?” Malone said, noncommittally.

He listened with a sinking heart while Dr. McSmith went on. There had been no answer from the Justus apartment over the house phone. There had been no answer to his knock on the door. The apartment, when opened with a pass key, had revealed no sign of Mr. Justus. There had been a note on the dressing table reading, “Helene, I love you too. Jake.”

“Good thing you caught me at police headquarters,” Malone said very casually. “I’ll report it right away.”

Dr. McSmith’s voice rasped on, “If he’s gone out into this weather, I will not answer for the consequences. And it may be that he’s not gone away of his own volition.”

“You’re quite right,” Malone said.

“And are you going to do something about it?” The angry doctor’s voice boomed through the receiver.

“Of course I am,” Malone said soothingly. “I’ll do something about it right away. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

He hung up fast.

“Malone.” Helene began.

The little lawyer looked at her, at her pale, delicate face, her hair that was the color of corn-silk, now slightly windblown, at her eyes that were already shadowed with worry.

“Just some guy wanting me to fix a parking ticket,” Malone said. “Let’s go give von Flanagan his little hammer.”

23

“There are laws against concealing evidence,” von Flanagan said coldly.

Malone unwrapped a cigar. “There are also laws against murder,” he said, “but no one seems to enforce them.” He spoke in his suavest voice. “Anyway, I haven’t concealed any evidence, and neither has any of my clients.”

He paused to light his cigar, slowly and with maddening deliberation.

“What’s more,” he said at last, “if they had, you couldn’t prove it.”

Von Flanagan’s broad face changed from pink to magenta.

“What the hell do you call this?”

“A hammer,” Malone said promptly.

The magenta began to turn purple. “Dammit, any fool can see it’s a hammer. But just how do you account for the fact—”

The big police officer paused, gulped, glared at Malone. Suddenly he rose, strode to the door, carrying the hammer. A few minutes later he returned and sat down behind his desk.

“You’ll stay right here until we get a report from the lab,” he said grimly.

“Of course you know that’s illegal procedure,” Malone said. He relit his cigar.

“I suppose your procedure was strictly legal,” von Flanagan said bitterly. “I should have known better than to get you into this.”

Malone stared serenely at the ceiling through a cloud of cigar smoke, and said nothing.

Von Flanagan turned to Helene and roared, “All right, why were you concealing the evidence?”

“I didn’t know it was evidence,” Helene said innocently, “and I wasn’t concealing it. You see, it was just that we needed a hammer.”

“Why?”

Helene looked at him with wide, unhappy eyes. “Why does anyone need a hammer?”

“Maybe she was planning to build a house,” Malone put in.

“You shut up,” von Flanagan told him. He drew a long, slow breath, pulled himself together and spoke very gently to Helene. “Tell me, my dear. Why did you have that hammer in your possession?”

“I was planning to build a house,” Helene said promptly.

Captain Daniel von Flanagan rose, walked to the window and stood gazing out for one minute of silent profanity. The silence was due to Helene’s being present. The profanity was also due to Helene.

“I’m sorry,” Helene said in a very small voice. “But after all, we are going to build a house someday. And if people are building a house, well, you never know when you are going to need a hammer.” She paused and added in an even smaller voice, “If I’d had the faintest idea for even one minute that it was evidence, you know I’d have turned it over to you immediately.”

Von Flanagan knew better, but he also knew better than to press the point.

“Tell me,” he said hoarsely. He turned away from the window and stood gripping the back of his chair. “Where did you find this hammer?”

“I didn’t find it,” Helene said. “Jake gave it to me.”

“WHY?”

“Because someday we’re going to build a house, and—”

“Where did Jake get it?”

“I don’t know,” Helene said unhappily. “He didn’t tell me.”

Von Flanagan groaned, sat down, and said, “All right, I’ll ask Jake. Where is he?”

“You can’t talk to him,” Helene said. “He’s terribly sick. He’s quarantined. Chicken pox.” Tears began to form in her lovely eyes. “He can’t talk to anybody. Not even me.”

For a moment von Flanagan stared at her. The angry purple faded from his face, so did the magenta and eventually, the pink, leaving him an interesting shade of gray. Suddenly he reached out and switched on the intercom set and pushed a button.

“Kluchetsky,” he bellowed, “get busy and find me the best medical authority on chicken pox. If you’re too dumb to find out for yourself, call Dr. Harry Hoffman. And work fast, this is an emergency.”

He switched it off.

Helene said tearfully, “It’s so wonderful of you to do this. I’d never have thought of it myself—”

Von Flanagan ignored her. He said, “Do you realize that if Jake—I mean, if anything should happen to Jake—we’d never find out where he got that damned hammer?”

“But people don’t die of chicken pox,” Helene said. “They just itch. Didn’t you ever have chicken pox?”

“I had everything,” von Flanagan said gloomily. “And as I remember chicken pox—” He paused. After a moment he reached for the intercom and yelled, “Kluchetsky. Never mind.”

Malone said, “As a matter of fact, right now it isn’t so important—finding out just where Jake picked up that hammer. For all we know, someone may have mailed it to him. After all, he was sick in bed. Or maybe—”

He relit his cigar. “Maybe the hammer has nothing to do with the case. It may be something Jake picked up at an auction. Helene came home this morning and found Jake sound asleep with the hammer in his hand. Maybe he’d been planning to hang a picture.”

Von Flanagan opened his mouth to speak. Malone said hastily, “When Jake is able to talk, we can find out about the hammer. That is, if it turns out to be the murder weapon. In the meantime, the thing for you to do is arrest the killer. Then, later you can produce the weapon and tell where it was found.”

Von Flanagan growled something unintelligible under his breath.

“Because of the circumstances of the crimes,” Malone went on, “obviously the murderer has got to be one of five persons.” He drew a long breath and began ticking off names on his fingers. “Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx. Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Gay Lacy. Violet, the Fairfaxx housekeeper. Huntleigh, the Lacy’s butler.”

“I can’t arrest all of ’em,” von Flanagan muttered. He added, “Besides, butlers don’t commit murders.”

“You’d be surprised at what butlers will do,” Malone said.

“You’d be surprised at what newspapers will do,” von Flanagan said abruptly. “There was a front-page editorial this morning, complaining about how we made no progress with these postmen murders. A postman is a public servant, it says, and people don’t have no right to murder him, and if a person does murder a postman, something has got to be done about it. And here we got three postmen murdered, and all we’ve done so far is arrest a prominent citizen, who we had to let go on account of his being innocent.”

Helene said sympathetically, “I read it, and I think it’s a shame. Especially their spelling your name wrong.”

“I don’t want the publicity for myself,” von Flanagan said. “It’s just the lack of principle of the thing. I wish Jake wasn’t in bed with chicken pox. He always knew how to handle this sort of stuff.”

His voice sounded as though he had just come from being a pall-bearer at Jake’s funeral.

“But look,” Helene said, stars sparkling in her voice, “suppose that hammer does turn out to be the murder weapon. Why, you’ll be a public hero!”

“That’s right,” Malone put in, taking a cue from her eyes. “You’ll get the lab report in a few minutes. Then you call in the press. You don’t tell how you found the weapon. You just announce dramatically that you’ve found it. You give out the report. You pose for the photographers, holding the hammer.”

“Yeah,” von Flanagan said thoughtfully. “Yeah.” He tried out a few poses with an imaginary hammer. Then he scowled. “But those guys are sure as hell going to want to know how I found it.”

“You can’t tell them,” Malone said. “Not yet. You promise them startling developments within a few days.”

“Act mysterious,” Helene said. “I know that you can act.”

Von Flanagan gazed at her. A dreamy look came into his eyes. “You know,” he said, “it’s funny that you should say that. For a long time now, I’ve been thinking about retiring. I never wanted to be a cop. I wanted to be an undertaker. Only the alderman owed my uncle so much money that I almost had to go on the force.”

What followed was a familiar story. Malone and Helene sat through it respectfully.

“Only I never could decide what I should do when I did retire,” von Flanagan said.

“I remember the mink ranch,” Helene said, “and the Georgia pecan grove.”

“Not practical,” von Flanagan said, with a wave of the hand. “I finally made a survey. Like a person does if he’s going into a business. I figured out what people make the most money with doing the least work.”

“You tell us,” Malone said, “and we’ll go into business with you.”

Von Flanagan ignored him. “Actors,” he said happily.

Helene blinked. “You mean, you’re going to retire and be an actor?”

“As a matter of fact,” he confided, “I’m taking a correspondence course right now.” He pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out a thick notebook. “Would you like to hear some of this?”

“We’d love it,” Helene breathed, avoiding Malone’s eyes.

Von Flanagan rose, straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and opened the notebook. At that moment the buzzer sounded. The big police officer said, “Hell,” sat down again and switched on the intercom.

“We got the report,” a voice said. “It’s the hammer, all right. But no fingerprints that would stand up in court.”

“Bring it back here,” von Flanagan said. “Also, you can let the newspaper guys in after it gets here.”

For several minutes he practiced posing with an imaginary hammer. Sitting down, and standing up. He tried a pose perched on the corner of his desk.

“Make it good,” Malone said. “You’ve got to think of your public.’”

Von Flanagan abandoned the imaginary hammer. “That reminds me. Since nobody knows how I got this here now hammer, you two better get out of here. Also, you better go out through Kluchetsky’s office, so as nobody will see you.”

“Nothing could make us happier,” Malone said.

He ushered Helene to the side door. Von Flanagan said goodbye with a nod. He seemed almost oblivious of their leaving.

Through the doorway they could see him, trying another pose.

“I cannot reveal who found this hammer.” Pause. “I cannot reveal how this hammer was found.” Another pause. “I cannot reveal how I found this hammer.”

With another pose: “I can promise you some startling developments!”

Malone closed the door softly.

“It’s going to be a great show,” he said. “If only he doesn’t forget his lines.”

24

A thin, angular, well-dressed woman was standing beside Helene’s convertible. She glared at them as they approached and said, “I’m going to call the police.”

Malone glanced back over his shoulder at the doorway from which they had just emerged and said, “Lady, I don’t know why. But you couldn’t have come to a better place for it.”

“Locking that poor little puppy-dog in a car, without food and water—”

“He’s not hungry, and he won’t drink water,” Helene said, opening the door, “but we left him a beer.”

The woman snatched at the saucer on the floor of the car sniffed it, and said, “I will call the police. Feeding beer to a little puppy dog!”

The mutt answered with a menacing growl. The woman retreated. The mutt growled at her again, even more menacingly, and bared his teeth. The woman screamed.

“I am going to call the police. Harboring a vicious dog—!”

Malone slid into the car, with an idea of protecting the woman from the vicious dog, or vice versa. Helene turned on the smile usually reserved for guests at cocktail teas. She walked around the car, got in, shut the door gently, leaned across Malone and the mutt, and said, “Pardon us if we leave. You see, this man is a murderer and I’m helping him escape from jail, so we can’t waste any time. It’s been nice meeting you.”

The convertible raced down the street. Malone glanced apprehensively over his shoulder and saw the woman standing on the curbstone, her jaw dropped down to her wishbone.

“That was nice fast thinking,” Helene said.

“Any faster thinking,” Malone said, “and I’ll be in Alcatraz. Turn right at the next corner, go two blocks, turn right again, go half a block, turn left into the alley and park there.”

“Why didn’t you say you wanted to go to Milt’s?” Helene said indignantly. “I know a much quicker way to get there.”

She demonstrated it.

Thirty seconds after she had brought the car to a halt, Malone caught his breath and said, “I just want to make a quick phone call. You wait here.”

Helene and the mutt said, “No,” almost simultaneously.

“All right,” Malone said wearily, “I’ll wait here. You and the mutt go in for a couple of beers, while I sit here and admire the snow falling.”

He leaned his head back and half closed his eyes.

Jake was missing. Jake had found the hammer, and perhaps someone knew he’d found it. But Helene mustn’t know, not yet.

Or Jake might have developed some bright idea of his own and gone out to follow it up. Malone wasn’t just sure about the effect of mid-winter weather on chicken pox, but he felt fairly certain it wouldn’t be good.

Or Jake might have gone off his head, and be wandering around almost anywhere. Malone didn’t remember chicken pox as ever being that serious, but complications might have set it. Especially since Jake had obviously been out in last night’s snowstorm.

Or. Jake might just have gotten bored with staying in bed and headed for the nearest bar.

The important thing was to find Jake, fast, and to keep Helene from knowing he was missing until he was back in bed safe and sound.

Helene said, “We’ll compromise. We’ll all three of us go in, and the mutt and I will promise not to eavesdrop while you call up this blonde.”

“Not a blonde,” Malone said, getting out of the car. “A brunette.”

He was telling the truth; Malone’s first call was to Joe the Angel. His second was to a city hall politician, his third to a well-known racketeer, and his fourth to Max Hook, the gambling boss. The message was the same in each case.

The little lawyer returned to his table, serene in the knowledge that inside of an hour, at least a hundred people would be on the lookout for Jake, in every conceivable place he might be. The police department never even need know Jake had been missing.

He felt just slightly less worried as he slid into the booth where Helene and the mutt were engaged in spirited conversation.

“Helene,” he said, after signaling to the bartender, “just how did Jake get that hammer?”

“We’ll drive up to the hotel and ask him,” Helene said.

“We haven’t time,” Malone said quickly. “You can tell me.”

“But I don’t know,” Helene said. “Jake said—” She frowned. “He said it was a present for me. Then he said it was a trapeze that turned into a hammer. And then he went back to sleep.”

Malone said consolingly, “Chicken pox doesn’t necessarily affect the mind. Maybe it was a trapeze. Had Jake been out while you were away?”

“Naturally,” Helene said. “We don’t keep trapezes that turn out to be hammers that turn out to be murder weapons around our apartment. Besides, his shoes were muddy and his overcoat was damp.”

“Thank God, he at least knew enough to wear an overcoat,” Malone said.

“Malone, we’ve got to get back there right away,” Helene said with a little gasp. She started to rise.

“Sit down,” the little lawyer said. “The mutt hasn’t finished his beer.” He looked at her thoughtfully through his cigar smoke. “Of course, if you’re really worried, I’ll call Dr. McSmith. And I intend to charge you a nickel for the phone call.”

This time he left the door of the phone booth wide open, and talked loudly.

“Dr. McSmith? How did you find Mr. Justus?”

“I didn’t find him, ye drunken Irishman. I trust you’re having a search made for him.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Malone said smoothly. Through the glass of the booth he could see Helene watching him anxiously. “Sleeping soundly, you say. Of course we’ll see that he’s not disturbed.”

“Have you gone completely out of your mind?”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you,” Malone said. Then, louder, and very distinctly, “But I didn’t want Mrs. Justus to worry.”

A brief silence, and then, in a lower tone, “Mr. Malone, is there a search for him?”

“Of course,” Malone said. “He won’t be disturbed. In fact, I told them at police headquarters that he was ill in bed and couldn’t see any one.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing. And mind you, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

“Thanks so much, doctor,” Malone said. “I’m sure Mrs. Justus will feel greatly relieved.” He hung up fast.

He’d straighten things out with Dr. McSmith later, he consoled himself.

“Just the same,” Helene said, “I ought to be there in case he does wake up. I’ll drop you anywhere you want to go, Malone, and get back to the hotel—”

“Fine,” Malone said, trying to think of new strategy. “Only I’m going to the hospital to see Uncle Ernie, and I wish you’d take a few minutes and come along. After all, Jake’s asleep and Uncle Ernie isn’t, and seeing you might cheer him up. Besides,” he added craftily, “you have friends involved in this. Uncle Ernie may have—hell, must have—important information. You’ve known him a long time, and I haven’t. He’ll probably talk much more freely if you’re along.”

He watched her anxiously. Indecision hovered like a momentary shadow over her lovely face.

“Well,” she said at last.

At the hospital, the plump receptionist told them coldly that dogs, even Australian beer hounds, were not allowed inside the hospital. She took a second look at the mutt and volunteered to take very good care of him while they were upstairs.

Uncle Ernie was propped up on pillows. There was a very small bandage at the back of his head. He welcomed them warmly. He announced that he felt fine, that it was a beautiful day outside, and that he was glad to see both of them looking so well. He added that he’d like to find out who had hit him on the head. No, no idea of reprisals. He’d like to present a small reward.

“First good night’s sleep I’ve had in years,” Uncle Ernie said.

Malone said, “You had something to tell me?”

“Three things,” Uncle Ernie said. “Do you have a match? Thanks. The first one is, Rodney didn’t kill those postmen.”

“The police know that already,” Malone said. “He’s back home.”

“Good. The second, I’ve known all along that Annie Kendall was alive.”

“We know that too,” Helene said. “That she was alive, I mean.”

“Splendid. But I doubt if either of you know this. Annie Kendall was—as a matter of fact, is—my wife.”

25

It was a full minute before Helene said weakly, “Will somebody please drop a pin?”

Uncle Ernie said, “I beg your pardon?”

Malone said, “What’s that?”

A nurse at the doorway looked at Helene as though she were a prospective patient, but for a different ward.

Helene said apologetically, “It’s just that I’ve always wanted to hear a silence you could hear a pin drop in, and now I have.” She beamed at the nurse and said, “I feel fine.”

The nurse sniffed, and came into the room. She was carrying a large paper-wrapped object which she plopped on the table beside Uncle Ernie’s bed. Then she looked at Uncle Ernie and gave him a smile which made it obvious that, after only a few hours of consciousness, he was a favorite on that floor.

“It’s for you, Mr. Fairfaxx,” she said, beaming. “Shall I unwrap it?”

“Please do,” Uncle Ernie said, beaming right back at her.

She removed the brown paper wrappings as though she expected to see the crown jewels of all Europe. Underneath them was a basket of uninteresting looking and slightly dusty fruit.

“How nice,” she said brightly. She picked up the accompanying card and read it. “From Rodney. How very nice.” She acknowledged Uncle Ernie’s murmured thanks with another toothpaste advertisement smile, smirked at Helene and Malone, and said coyly, “Now, you mustn’t stay too long. We must have our rest,”—to Uncle Ernie—“mustn’t we?”

Malone waited till her footsteps had receded down the hall and then said, “Frankly, I think she’s trying to marry you for your money.”

“She could do worse,” Uncle Ernie said.

“As Annie’s husband,” Malone said, “you’d inherit a hell of a lot of dough. But with or without the dough, you could do a lot better than that nurse.”

“Thank you,” Uncle Ernie said, with a faint ghost of a grin. He began pawing through the basket, discarding decaying grapes, discolored peaches and slightly mangy pears. At last he pulled out a bottle of Bushmill’s Irish whiskey.

“One thing about Rodney,” he said, “he may have a few faults, but he never lets you down.” He paused to pull the cork out with his teeth, and passed the bottle to Helene. “And knowing that no one ever eats the fruit sent to hospitals, he didn’t bother with finding something edible.”

Helene passed the bottle on to Malone and said softly, “When did you marry Annie Kendall?”

Malone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gave the bottle back to Uncle Ernie and said, “And why didn’t you ever tell?”

Before Uncle Ernie could answer, the little lawyer went on, “It was just about a year ago that you saw her, wasn’t it?”

Uncle Ernie sat bolt upright, the bottle clutched in his hand. By comparison with his face, the hospital sheets looked a healthy pink.

“My spies are everywhere,” Malone said cheerfully. He heard footsteps outside the door. “Lie down!”

Uncle Ernie lay down. Malone grabbed the bottle of Bushmill’s and shoved it under the bedcovers.

“He’s fine,” Malone said to the nurse who pushed open the door, “but I expect a relapse any minute.”

The door swung shut. Helene rose and said, “I can see this has got to be a private, uninterrupted conversation. Pardon me, while I fix everything.”

She walked out into the corridor.

“What’s she going to do?” Uncle Ernie whispered.

“I’d rather not know,” Malone said. “But whatever it is, you can bet that we won’t be disturbed. Pass me that bottle when you’re through with it, and start telling me about gentle Annie.”

He reached out his hand and said, “Thanks, pal. Believe it or not. I need this worse than you do.”

Helene returned, looking pleased with herself. She reported, “There won’t be any interruptions.”

Uncle Ernie tucked the bottle back in the fruit basket and rearranged the tired grapes and dingy oranges over it.

“If men knew half as much about women as women think they know about men,” he said wearily, leaning back against the pillows, “life could be a lot more simple.”

“Definitely,” Malone said, with feeling.

Uncle Ernie went on, “But this time, it was Annie who was fooled. You see, she thought I was the one who had all the money.”

“I did too,” Helene said. “You used to buy me pineapple sodas.”

Uncle Ernie smiled and closed his eyes. “It isn’t hard to understand. In those days I was what—in, well, those days—people used to call a gay young blade. Rodney was always very generous with me.”

He paused to dig the bottle of Bushmill’s from the basket.

“Is very generous, I should say,” Uncle Ernie said. Again he closed his eyes. “But try to picture those days. Rodney, bless his dear kind heart, a gentle and self-effacing young man, even then a stamp collector. Me, the—the—”

“The Glamour Boy,” Helene said helpfully. She caught her breath and added, “And you still are.”

“And always will be,” Malone said with fervor. He handed the bottle back to Uncle Ernie, who put it back in the basket.

“Gentle Annie,” Uncle Ernie whispered. “That’s the perfect name for her.” He opened his eyes and gazed at something far beyond human sight.

“There are some people in the world who are very rich,” Uncle Ernie said. “Some of them collect stamps. Some of them collect charities. Some of them collect wives. Some of them—” He paused suddenly. “There are some who are very, very poor. They collect coal from the sides of railroad tracks, and once in a while, see their children die of starvation. Then there are the in-between people, who have little bank accounts, and somehow manage to have their children’s teeth attended to, and their tonsils taken out.”

He drew a long, sighing breath. “And then there are the people who are so close to being rich that—it’s like being close to the smell of warm gingerbread, and not being able to touch it. Annie was one of those.”

Malone sat silent, his cigar dead between his fingers.

“Gentle Annie,” Uncle Ernie whispered, gazing at the ceiling. “She was lovely, lovely and delicate, and gentle. Somehow she had the rare quality of making every man believe that he was the first one who had ever held her in his arms. There always seemed to be a shyness about her passion, as though it were something she had suddenly discovered, like a baby finding its first toy under the Christmas tree. Surprised—and delighted with it.

“Then suddenly she would press her sweet, sweet face against your shoulder, warm tears would touch your skin, and all at once you would have the feeling that—well, that I suppose a person would have who had raped a child.”

He paused and said, “May I have a cigar, Mr. Malone?”

Malone woke quickly from a dream of gentle Annie, reached in his pocket.

“Thanks,” Uncle Ernie said. “A light?” A moment later he said, “Thanks again.”

Helene said suddenly, “Uncle Ernie—listen—”

He ignored her. He puffed at the cigar and said, “She was the most vicious little bitch I’ve ever known.” He puffed again and added, “And I haven’t lived what you’d call a sheltered life.”

Malone rose, strolled to the window, and muttered something about a nice view.

Thirty seconds later Uncle Ernie said, “She was like the first crocus in the spring, bursting its frail little head through the snow. Like the first star in the sky after sundown. Like the first timid snowflakes, drifting down in the fall.”

Helene said softly, “You must have loved her.”

“Hell,” Uncle Ernie said, “we all loved her. Rodney. Albert Lacy. Edward. Me. All of us. Only, she married me because she thought I had all the money.” Again he closed his eyes. “We were dancing. A waltz, I think. Suddenly I found myself begging her to elope with me.”

“And like a smart girl, she said yes,” Malone said, turning away from the window.

“You must have known a few women like her,” Uncle Ernie said.

“Sometimes I think he invented them,” Helene said grimly. “Go on, and don’t let him interrupt you again. Where did you elope to, Crown Point?”

“Elkhorn,” Uncle Ernie said.

“At least you showed originality,” Helene commented. “And don’t tell me, let me guess. You honeymooned at Lake Geneva. I hope to Heaven there was a moon.”

“There was.” A faint smile crossed Uncle Ernie’s pale face. “And I’d borrowed some money from Rodney. I didn’t tell him what it was for, and he naturally didn’t ask. I filled the room with roses. Not red or white, but pink roses. They seemed right for her. And for twenty-four hours, I was the happiest man in the world.”

“And she was the happiest girl,” Malone growled, “because she thought she’d married half the money in Chicago.” He chewed savagely on his cigar. “Then she found out the mistake she’d made, and the honeymoon was over.” He stalked back to the window and glared out at the sky. It was, he reflected, a damned dismal day.

“The scene that followed was not a pretty one,” Uncle Ernie said quietly.

He didn’t add any details, and Helene and Malone didn’t ask for any.

After a while, Uncle Ernie said, “No one knew anything about it. She went home to her family with some perfectly plausible story of having spent the time with a girl friend.”

The little lawyer raised a questioning eyebrow and Helene said, “Hell, Malone, they were getting away with that in the stone age. Go on, Uncle Ernie.”

“I went away on a trip,” Uncle Ernie said. “They were doing that in the stone age, too. Now and then I wondered how we were going to manage a quiet annulment. And now and then, wished there wouldn’t be one. Finally, I came home.”

“You came home,” Helene filled in for him, “and found that her engagement to Uncle Rodney had been announced. Gentle Annie was never one to waste any time. According to convention, the wedding had to be set months in advance, and the bride-to-be shipped off to visit relatives for most of the intervening time. There’s something left over from the stone age about that, too, but I can’t just seem to think what it is.”

Malone strode back from the window. “Now we come to a couple of important questions,” he said. He dug into the fruit basket, helped himself from the bottle of Bushmill’s and said, “Thank Rodney for me. Or I’ll thank him myself, rather, about half an hour from now.”

“Rodney Fairfaxx,” Uncle Ernie paused. “I’ve always been—” He paused again.

“You’ve always been devoted to Rodney Fairfaxx,” Malone said grimly. “And never mind how I know. Just go on.”

“By that time, I didn’t care if Annie Kendall lived, died, or had ever been born,” Uncle Ernie said. “But I didn’t want to see Rodney married to her. I warned her. I told her to find some kind of life for herself in England, make some excuse to Rodney that wouldn’t hurt his feelings too much, and never come back. Otherwise I was going to produce our marriage certificate and—well, people felt differently about divorce in those days. She tried to buy me off. It didn’t work.”

Malone nodded sagely. “She could have sued you for divorce,” he said, “but you’d probably have filed a counter-suit that would have permanently wrecked her chances.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Uncle Ernie said. “It was a bluff, but she didn’t know that. She went off to England, and I knew she’d land on her feet. Women like that always do. I admit I was a trifle worried when we heard she was returning. But when the news of the shipwreck came, and her name was on the passenger list—” He paused, grinned, and said, “I didn’t have the faintest idea she’d ever been on that boat. I did wonder how she’d managed it.

“Years later, I found out. She’d done just as I expected, found a rich sucker, and married him fast. To avoid explanations here, she’d actually taken passage. The idea would be that she’d fallen overboard somewhere enroute. But, with Annie’s usual luck, the ship went down.”

There was a little silence.

Helene said gently, “Then when you went to England last year, you looked her up.”

Uncle Ernie nodded. “Remember, I’d been with Rodney all these years while he waited for her letter. I had a mad, romantic, and very drunken idea of forgiving her and bringing them together.” He caught his breath. “She was old, and fat, and ugly, and bloated. Her hair was brassy-dyed. But she was still Annie Kendall.” He smiled. “She was taking exquisite care of her very rich invalid husband. Because it seemed that he’d carefully tied up his fortune in trusts, so that when he died, there wouldn’t be a red penny for gentle Annie.”

“Someone should say something at this point about Justice,” Malone muttered, “but I’m damned if I will.”

“Now,” Uncle Ernie said, “the rest is up to you. You can guess what Annie would do when she found herself broke. And how Rodney would react.”

“We can,” Helene said softly. “And having been around Rodney, and his collection of pictures of Annie all these years, you’d go to almost any length to keep him from seeing her when she was old, and fat and ugly.” She rose and kissed Uncle Ernie on the forehead. “I’m devoted to Rodney myself.”

There was a little silence. Malone continued to stare out the window. Uncle Ernie lay with his eyes closed.

Helene looked at her watch. “Fun is fun.” she announced, “but I’ve a sick husband at home. And the gentleman across the hall may want his sign back.”

Malone wheeled around. “I’ve been wondering how we had all this privacy.”

For answer, Helene pulled open the door and took down a large sign which proclaimed:

DO NOT ENTER SPECIAL NURSE ONLY

Across the hall, a young man in gay pajamas was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. Helene tiptoed across the hall, stuck the sign back on his door, waved at him gratefully and received a cheerful wave in return.

“He’s hiding from a process server,” she explained, “and the ‘special nurse’ is his girl friend. I found that out when I peeked in to see how sick he was, when I took the sign down.”

“You’ll go far in this world,” Malone predicted. “Sometimes I would like to suggest how far.” He began fastening his overcoat.

“Just a minute,” Uncle Ernie said unexpectedly. “I’ve decided to tell you the rest of it.”

They waited, breathlessly.

“I suggest,” Uncle Ernie said, “that you find out just what is in Rodney’s will. There might be some members of the family who would be more than glad to have gentle Annie turn up alive.”

Malone said, “Do you happen to know what’s in the will?”

“I do,” Uncle Ernie said. He smiled wryly. “I might not be such a bad catch for that nurse, at that.”

26

Malone rescued the mutt from a half dozen pretty nurses and the plump receptionist, who assured him almost tearfully that she would love to find the little dog a good home. The mutt, considerably shaken by his experience, complained bitterly all the way to the car.

“That was very interesting,” Malone said, as Helene swung the car away from the curb. “I hope it was true.”

“If it is,” Helene began. She paused.

Malone said, “If Rodney Fairfaxx learned that gentle Annie was alive, he’d send for her and marry her. Obviously, Annie knows that, or she wouldn’t have sent him three registered letters telling him she was alive, a widow and penniless. And three innocent postmen wouldn’t have been killed.”

“If that happened, and Uncle Ernie kept his mouth shut,” Helene said, “Annie would be a bigamist.”

“No novelty to her, by this time,” Malone pointed out. “But under the circumstances, it might have been worth something to her for Uncle Ernie to keep his mouth shut. And maybe Uncle Ernie has figured that out himself.”

“But in that case,” Helene said, “Uncle Ernie would be the first one to want Uncle Rodney to know that she was alive.”

Malone sighed. “It’s too complicated for a man who needs sleep. Stop somewhere, I want to make a phone call.”

“You can get a drink, and the mutt can have a beer, at the apartment,” Helene said.

“I really do want to make a phone call.” Malone growled.

“We have a telephone too,” Helene said.

“It won’t do for this phone call,” the little lawyer said.

Helene glanced at him. His suit was mussed, his tie was working towards his left ear, his face was dirty, and he needed a shave. “All right,” she said, softening, “we’ll stop at Joe the Angel’s. But only for five minutes.”

“No, no, no,” Malone said hastily. “Anywhere else.”

“Why?”

“It’s out of our way,” Malone said.

She looked at him again. “You do need a good night’s sleep.” She swung off Michigan Boulevard, drove a few blocks toward the lake and parked neatly in front of a small frame building labeled “Frank’s.” “I hope this will do.”

Helene and the mutt headed for the bar while Malone shut himself in the phone booth. Five minutes later he emerged. The search for Jake was going on, but so far there were no results. Jake had apparently vanished from the face of the earth and it was still up to Malone to keep Helene from finding out about it.

He walked into the bar, trying desperately to think of ways and means.

“This is on me,” Helene informed him, “I just matched Frank for the next two drinks.”

“Everytime she comes in, I lose money,” Frank said. He didn’t sound displeased. “How much you want for the little dog?”

“I’m just keeping him for a friend,” Malone said. Sooner or later Helene would have to know the truth. He’d have to think of a way to handle that, too.

“You have worries, Malone?” Frank asked sympathetically.

“Future worries,” the little lawyer said. “I always believe in crossing my barn doors after the bridge has been stolen. Make mine gin.”

“Malone,” Helene said, “I’ve got to get back to Jake. Right away.”

Malone ignored her. “Suppose Annie came back and married Rodney Fairfaxx. Then suppose Rodney Fairfaxx died. He’s bound to, eventually. Annie would inherit most of the Fairfaxx dough.”

“None of that seems like a legal problem to me,” Helene said. “It seems like first grade arithmetic.”

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “There would be a legal tangle that would get top billing in the American Weekly. Because Annie’s marriage to Rodney, being bigamous, would be automatically non-existent. Vamoosed. Spurlos versenkt. And where would that leave the money? To all the heirs and prospective heirs, all of whom would hire high-priced lawyers.”

“And the Fairfaxx money would also go down the versenkt,” Helene said. “I know a little about lawyers myself. Finish that drink, and let’s go.”

“All this,” Malone went on dreamily, “would leave Uncle Ernie with two things. No money. Annie. Right now I don’t think he wants to be left with either of them.”

“Malone. Hurry up.”

“However,” Malone said, “if Annie should turn up, and Uncle Rodney should marry her and leave her all his dough, and if something should then happen to Uncle Rodney—Uncle Ernie just might overcome his natural delicacy and marry her, never mentioning the fact that he’d already been married to her for some forty years. I wish I knew what was in that will.”

“Finish your drink, Malone.”

“It gives him—Uncle Ernie—a perfect motive for two future murders. Uncle Rodney’s, and, in time, gentle Annie’s. But a perfect lack of motive for murdering three postmen.” He took a very long time unwrapping a cigar. “Why did he go to such great lengths to call it to my attention? Or did he know I’d find it out anyway? Or is he just covering up for somebody else by calling a lot of attention to himself? And in that case—”

Helene suddenly reached over, held his mouth open, poured the rest of the gin down his throat, poured the beer chaser after it. Half of it went up his nose. He sputtered, gulped, and sneezed.

Before he’d quite recovered himself, he was in the car, the mutt sympathetically licking his face.

“I’ll drop you wherever you want to go,” Helene said, “and then I’ve got to get back to Jake.”

“The Fairfaxx house—” Malone gave a feeble little moan and leaned back against the cushions. The mutt howled mournfully.

Helene jammed on the brakes and slid over to the curb.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Malone whispered, “but I’m a very sick man. I’m not as young as I was when I was born. Last night—was a little too much for me—”

He opened one eyelid a fraction of an inch and could see her face bending over him, pale with anxiety.

“I’m taking you straight to a hospital,” Helene said.

“No. Duty to clients first. Must go to Fairfaxx house. Then you can take me anywhere.” Maybe by that time, Jake would have been found. “But go with me.”

“Of course I will,” Helene said, sympathetically. “Did you think I’d desert you?”

She drove on slowly, asking him at half block intervals how he felt. By the time they reached the neighborhood of the Fairfaxx house, he had recovered sufficiently to sit up and look around.

It was a dismal, mid-winter late afternoon. The snow that had stopped falling hours before had already become muddied and soot-shadowed heaps. The sky was dark with clouds and a premonition of an early twilight.

“Slow down a minute,” Malone said.

The three almost identical houses looked like three bored vultures squatting behind a wrought iron fence. Malone shivered.

“Malone, what’s the matter?”

“I just wanted to get a good look at them by daylight,” the little lawyer said. There, the first in the row, was the deserted house whose cellar he never wanted to see again. He looked at it closely. Suddenly he said, “Hey!” Then, “But this is the Fairfaxx house.”

“Maybe I had better take you to a hospital,” Helene said.

“I’m perfectly all right,” Malone said indignantly, forgetting himself. “But the number of the Fairfaxx house is 1217. And that house number is 1217.”

“You’re crazy,” Helene said without conviction. She peered through the window of the car. “It can’t be.” Suddenly she laughed.

“There’s nothing funny about it,” Malone complained.

“They just didn’t change the numbers when they changed the numbers,” Helene said.

“Now you’re crazy,” Malone said.

“I am not,” Helene said. She drove on and parked in front of the Fairfaxx house. “Look at the number. 1217.”

Malone looked and said, “Well, one of us is.”

“Ten years ago all the street numbers in this section were changed,” Helene said. “Originally the Lacy house was 1209, the Fairfaxx house was 1213, and that one was 1217.”

“What happened to 1211 and 1215?” Malone demanded.

“They didn’t exist,” Helene told him. “I mean, they were gardens. Vacant lots.”

“Sinful waste,” Malone muttered.

“Then when the numbers were changed,” she went on, “1209 became 1213, 1213 became 1217, and 1217—well, nobody lived there so nobody bothered to change the number on the gate post. See how simple it is?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” Malone said. “I suppose 1211 became 1215. But what did 1215 become?”

“Nothing,” Helene said. “It doesn’t exist.”

“If it’s for sale, I’ll buy it,” Malone said. He got out of the car stiffly, the mutt at his heels. “And let’s keep Uncle Ernie’s confidences to ourselves.”

Walking into the Fairfaxx living room, Malone reflected, was like walking into the middle of a movie he’d seen several times before. The same scene—cheerful lights, a warm glow in the fireplace, bright curtains drawn against the gloominess outdoors. The same cast, Elizabeth, Kenneth, Abby Lacy and her daughter Gay. Violet. No, not quite the same cast, he told himself. Uncle Ernie wasn’t here. Rodney Fairfaxx was. And the portrait of Annie Kendall smiled at them all from over the fireplace.

During the little flurry of greetings, in which Bridie picked up the mutt, cooed at him, and bore him off to the pantry, Malone struggled with a mad impulse to blurt out everything he’d learned and then run like mad. The impulse lost. He accepted a drink from Elizabeth and a light for his cigar from Kenneth. He declined the offer of a comfortable chair from Violet. This time, he told himself, he’d do better thinking on his feet.

He also had a vague feeling that if he ever sat down, he’d never get up again.

Old Rodney Fairfaxx, sitting in a big wing chair near the fireplace, at the far end of the room, seemed to dominate everyone as though he were eight feet tall and had eyes like balls of fire.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Malone,” Rodney Fairfaxx said pleasantly. “It was good of you to drop in.”

“Nice to see you out of jail, chum,” Malone said instinctively. He heard a muffled gasp from Abby Lacy, and remembered too late which side of the tracks he was on.

He also remembered that he’d done nothing worth noting towards getting Rodney Fairfaxx out of jail. And that he had a little less than two dollars in the world. To say nothing of the arrangement with Joe the Angel, and the mutt having been put up as security.

“As a matter of fact, I found it an interesting experience,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. “Frankly, I believe I’ve led too secluded a life. Up to yesterday, that is.”

“Good God,” Helene exploded, “didn’t they at least give you a private cell?”

The little old man smiled at her and said, “Yes, and a very comfortable one. Being there gave me a chance to think realistically, and that’s why I asked all of you to be here this afternoon.” He paused. “It’s unfortunate that Ernie can’t be with us. And Glida. But I know they will understand.” He turned to Kenneth. “Do you have that paper?”

Kenneth, his face an unhealthy gray, nodded, gulped, and dug an envelope from his pocket.

“Would you be so good as to hand it to Mr. Malone?” Kenneth nodded again, said, “Here,” and thrust the envelope into Malone’s hands as though it were a squirming rattler.

“According to that paper,” old Rodney Fairfaxx went on, “none of these three houses can be sold without the consent of the owners of all three. I, for instance, cannot sell this house nor the house next door, which I acquired after the death of its owner, without the consent of Mrs. Abby Lacy or, in the event of her death, her heirs. Nor could she sell her property without my consent. Is that correct, Mr. Malone?”

Malone had taken a quick look through the letter. “Yes it is.”

“But, Mr. Malone, is there anything in that agreement which prevents any party to it giving away his or her property.”

There was a long silence. Finally Malone said, “No.”

Old Rodney Fairfaxx sighed. “I want you all to know that I have been a stupid and stubborn old man. But I realize, now, that Annie Kendall,”—he paused for a moment, glanced up at the portrait, then looked back at the occupants of the room—“that Annie is dead.” He paused again, and said, “I must have known it all along.”

Violet put a cup of tea into his hand. He thanked her with a smile.

“Abby, my dear,” he said, “I wonder if I might borrow Huntleigh’s services for a few moments.”

Abby said, “Rodney Fairfaxx, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. But I’ll have Bridie send for him.” She signaled Gay, who rose and went to send Bridie.

“Uncle Rodney,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said unhappily, “You’ve had—I mean—you ought to be resting—”

“I’ve just had a very good rest,” Rodney Fairfaxx reminded her.

There was an uncomfortable silence until Bridie returned with a puzzled Huntleigh.

“Huntleigh,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “would you be good enough to climb up on a chair and take down the portrait from over the fireplace?”

This time the silence was not only uncomfortable, but shocked.

Bridie came flying in with a little kitchen ladder. Huntleigh mounted it solemnly and with great dignity. The portrait of Annie Kendall was lifted carefully from its hooks and carried gently to the floor. The big square of wall where it had been was a curious combination of bright and dusty, as compared to the rest of the wall. Bridie gave a frightened squeak, grabbed the ladder and flew back to the kitchen.

“Thank you, Huntleigh,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. “Pack it very carefully. There will be a much better place for it.” He smiled impartially at everyone in the room.

“Fortunately,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “I have no dependents, in the strictest sense of the word. Ernie will always be well provided for, by a trust fund. My dear Elizabeth, who has been like a daughter to me, will soon be married, with my approval, to a young man who will assume the responsibilities of her future.”

Malone thought briefly of Bob Allen, and had a horrible mental picture of Elizabeth driving the wagon while her husband picked up the ash cans.

“Kenneth,” Uncle Rodney went on, “who is as dear as my own son could be, has reached an age where he can make his own fortune. He has the talent for it, too.”

Malone glanced quickly at Gay Lacy. He didn’t like the lack of expression on her face.

“In short,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “there is no one who needs anything from me.” Suddenly he stood up, and seemed to be taller than anyone in the room.

“Mr. Malone will draw up the papers,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “but I do want you to know what will be in them. Now that I know Annie is dead, I’m leaving everything, save for Ernie’s trust fund and a few minor bequests, to the Annie Kendall Memorial Hospital. I’m giving this house, and the house next door, and the land involved, to be the site of the hospital.”

He walked to the library door, paused, and said, “Mr. Malone—?” It was a command.

Malone reached the door by the time Rodney Fairfaxx had opened it. Right then, leaving that room was like leaving a badly managed wake.

The door closed quietly behind them. Old Rodney Fairfaxx motioned Malone to a comfortable chair and said, “I’ve neglected to thank you for the stamp magazines. Believe me, I enjoyed them very much.”

Malone indicated with a gesture that it was nothing, and he’d been glad to do it. He noticed that Annie Kendall’s photographs had disappeared from the room.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Malone said, “but frankly, I think you’ll run into a little trouble with the zoning laws.”

Old Rodney Fairfaxx nodded and looked pleased. “I’d thought of that. A cigar? You’re welcome. Yes, I’d thought of that, and besides, this neighborhood is no place for a hospital. But I can give the ground to the Foundation and let a couple of apartment buildings be put up here. The income from them ought to keep the Foundation out of the red.”

He paused, and added, “Abby may not like having an apartment building practically in her yard. In that case I’ll buy her property, for a reasonable sum. She will have enough to live on, even after the mortgages are paid.”

Malone looked up sharply. How much, he wondered, did Rodney Fairfaxx know of the financial condition of the Lacy family?

“Perhaps this is none of my business,” Malone said, “as a matter of fact, it isn’t. But suppose it should turn out that she—Annie Kendall—is still alive?”

For a moment, the silence in the beautifully paneled room could have been cut with a dull knife and spread on cold toast.

“In that case,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “in that case—” He smiled at Malone. “One of two things would happen. She would return, and marry me. Then, as my wife, she would inherit the bulk of the Fairfaxx estate. Or, if she didn’t marry me, my original will would remain in force.”

“All this reminds me,” Malone said. “I’m still your lawyer, so you might as well tell me. Who does benefit by your present will?”

The old man smiled. “Outside of a few bequests—Kenneth and Elizabeth and their—what is the phrase? Heirs and assigns. Ernie Fairfaxx has his trust fund, and aside from that, those two are all the family I have.”

“And who knows what’s in your present will?” Malone went on.

“Oh—everybody in the family.” Rodney Fairfaxx shrugged his thin shoulders. “There’s never been any secret about it.”

Malone said hoarsely, “All this talk of wills and inheritance. You talk like a man who expects to die.”

Rodney Fairfaxx reached for an exquisitely carved pipe, examined it, filled it, lit it. “Who doesn’t?” He rose, strolled to the oriel window that overlooked the garden, and gazed at the softly falling snow. “Mr. Malone, I’ve been stupid and I’ve been—unkind. This is a kind of confession. I understand it’s permissible to make a confession to one’s lawyer.”

He didn’t wait for Malone’s startled nod; he went on:

“I suppose you think I’m a sentimental old fool, Mr. Malone.”

Malone said, “Being sentimental and being a fool are exact opposites, and your age is your own business.”

Rodney Fairfaxx smiled. “You see, I’ve known all along that Annie Kendall was dead.”

The little lawyer played with an unlighted cigar and said nothing.

“Perhaps,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “I should enlarge on that statement. At first, I didn’t believe that she was dead. I couldn’t.” He paused, drew a long breath. “You must understand, Mr. Malone, that I was always the uninteresting member of the family. Ernie was frivolous and fascinating to women. Albert and Edward were—romantic young men. I was simply—well, I’ve never been handsome, and I’ve always been shy, and I collected stamps. And I was the most surprised person in the world when Annie said she’d marry me.”

Malone reflected that if anyone ever told Rodney Fairfaxx just why Annie had consented to marry him, he, personally, would see to it that there was another murder.

“When she—died,” Rodney Fairfaxx said, “it was the first time in my life that I’d ever had a lot of attention. And, I really didn’t believe it at first. All of them—Albert particularly—encouraged me in my delusion. So that when I finally did realize that she was dead, I couldn’t—it wasn’t that I couldn’t let them down—it was—well, I wanted to go on being a romantic figure. So all these years I’ve let everyone believe that I thought she was alive, and that I was waiting for her letter.”

Malone opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again, fast. He wasn’t going to be the one to tell old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx the truth.

Rodney Fairfaxx said crisply, “Therefore, Mr. Malone, I’m as guilty of the murder of those innocent postmen as if I’d struck them down with my own hand.”

He walked back to his chair, sat down, smiled again and said, “Forgive me for boring you with all this, Mr. Malone. I trust you will keep it in confidence. Now about these papers—”

“A little out of my line,” Malone said. “Remember, I’m a criminal lawyer.”

“Quite right,” old Rodney Fairfaxx said. “I’ll have Orlo Featherstone draw them up. A doddering old fool, but thorough.” He drew a three-tiered checkbook from the desk drawer, dug a fountain pen from another drawer and began writing. “If there are any additional expenses, Mr. Malone, please bill me.”

Malone rose and said, “Hold it, chum. You don’t owe me anything. So far, I haven’t done a damned thing for you, and I get the general impression I’m fired, as of now. I’ll draw up an expense account and I think it will come to about thirteen dollars and eighty cents.”

“I believe in paying my debts,” old Rodney Fairfaxx said, rising. He handed Malone the check, tactfully folded.

“Well,” Malone said. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then slipped the folded paper into his pocket.

“Believe me, you’ve earned it,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. He smiled again and said, “If anyone in this household should be tried for the murder of those three unfortunate postmen, I would like to engage you for the defense. For a suitable fee, of course.” He opened the door into the living room.

It seemed to Malone as though everyone had been playing a game of living statues. No one had moved. The mutt had been brought back from the pantry and was sitting at Helene’s knee, waiting hopefully for Malone. Otherwise, everything was the same.

“Mr. Malone and I have decided,” Rodney Fairfaxx said pleasantly, “that Orlo Featherstone should draw up the necessary papers for the Annie Kendall Foundation. Which severs the business relationship between Mr. Malone and myself—or, I should say, ourselves—unless at some time in the future we should find ourselves in need of a criminal lawyer.”

It seemed to Malone that the vacant space above the mantel looked bigger than the Grand Canyon on a rainy day, and just about as dismal.

Then suddenly everybody began to talk at once. Helene gave Malone a despairing look. He walked over to her, little old Rodney Fairfaxx at his side.

“Jake,” Helene said.

“Right away.” Malone said, reassuringly, wishing with all his heart that something would happen to delay their departure.

“You’ll have a drink before you go,” old Rodney Fairfaxx said cordially.

Helene shook her head silently.

“It’s cold outside,” Malone said.

The mutt gave a wistful whimper.

Helene shook her head again, and reached for her furs. “I’ve got to get back to Jake. He’s sick.”

Malone crossed his fingers. It worked. Bridie appeared, her face pale.

“Mr. Malone. ’Tis the police. The Captain von Flanagan. He says y’re to be at headquarters faster than possible. And that the Mrs. Justus should be drivin’ you down, if she’s at all available.”

“She is,” Helene said, in the startled silence that followed.

Old Rodney Fairfaxx went to the door with them. “Sorry you couldn’t have stayed for that drink,” he said cordially. And then, with a parting smile, “But I have a feeling we’ll meet again, and soon.”

27

“Someday I must make my will,” Malone said dreamily. “And remember von Flanagan handsomely.”

Helene glanced at him anxiously. “Malone, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep—”

“I’m perfectly sane,” Malone said, “And sometime I’ll tell von Flanagan why he’s remembered in my will. I might even tell you.”

The little lawyer switched his mind to a more cheerful subject. That neatly folded check in his pocket. He wondered how much it was. It hadn’t seemed quite delicate to look at it in Rodney Fairfaxx’s paneled library, and since then he hadn’t had an opportunity. He had a curious feeling that he wanted to be alone when he did look at it.

He hoped that it would be enough to settle accounts with Joe the Angel, and some left over.

Von Flanagan seemed unusually subdued. He smiled almost absent-mindedly at Helene, said a polite word to the mutt, and then said, “I’d like a word with you in private, Malone.”

Helene said, “While I’m waiting, I’ll just phone Jake and see how he is.”

“No, no, no,” Malone said hastily. “You’ll wake him up. Remember, the doctor said he wasn’t to be disturbed.” He added, “And anyway, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He walked into an adjoining office with von Flanagan and shut the door. The big police officer mopped his brow.

“Malone,” he began, “you’ve known me a long time. What makes you think you can keep secrets from me?”

Malone looked surprised, started unwrapping a cigar, and said nothing.

“Have you had any luck finding Jake?” von Flanagan asked.

This time Malone really did look surprised.

“I know all about it,” von Flanagan said irritably. “You’ve got half the guys in town looking for him. I know this unofficially, you understand. And Max Hook said you were trying to keep her from finding out he was missing until you found him. That’s why I said she should come down here with you. I thought it’d give you a little more time.”

“By God,” Malone said, “I am going to remember you in my will!” He added, “Never mind, I’ll explain that later. Mind if I use your phone?”

Half a dozen phone calls later, he faced von Flanagan defeated.

“He’s got to be somewhere,” von Flanagan said. His broad face paled. “Him with all the things wrong with him she was telling that doctor this morning, walking around in weather like this!”

Malone chewed on his cigar and said nothing.

Von Flanagan muttered something about the Missing Persons Bureau.

Malone shook his head. “If these guys can’t find him, nobody can,” he said. “And right now there’s no point in making this official.” He glanced toward the closed door.

“But Malone.” The big police officer’s face was furrowed with anxiety. “What are you going to tell her?”

“Don’t worry,” Malone said. “When the time comes, I’ll think of something.”

“It’s not that I give a damn what’s happened to the bum,” von Flanagan roared. “It’s just that I want to know where he got that hammer.” He reached for the doorknob. “Tomorrow, Malone, we start looking for him.”

Helene looked up from removing a flea from behind the mutt’s right ear. “Looking for who?”

“Von Flanagan thinks his department ought to have a mascot,” Malone said. “He’s going to start looking for a dog just like this one.”

“There isn’t another one like this in the world,” Helene said, “but good luck.”

Von Flanagan sat down behind his desk. “It’s like this.” he said. “We are all through with these postmen being murdered. It was our case on account of, it was figured they got murdered as private individuals and not in their official capacity as postmen. Because, nothing had been stolen. Only now, it looks like somebody might of wanted to rob the United States mails but had been scared off.”

Malone opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

“So,” von Flanagan said, “naturally we’ll cooperate with the Federal guys if and when they ask us to, but meantime we got nothing official to do with the case, and that means, Malone, you got nothing to do with it either. You got Mr. Fairfaxx out of jail, and that was all you was engaged to do, so I figure that winds up your connection with the case, and I hope you got paid.” He drew a long breath.

“I did,” Malone said.

Helene said, “But—” and then stopped short.

“If you should find out where Jake got that hammer,” von Flanagan said, “I’d thank you very kindly if you’d let me know. Not on account of it’s any of my business anymore, but on account of I’m curious.”

“I will,” Helene promised. She rose, stood scowling, opened her mouth to speak, shut it again, and finally said, “Well, it must be a load off your mind to have this case off your shoulders. Come on, Malone, I’ve got to go home and see how Jake is.”

Malone and von Flanagan exchanged a last anxious look as Helene opened the door.

“Three more unconvincing liars I never did see,” Helene complained on the way to the car. “The answer to the murder of those three postmen is in the Fairfaxx house, and you know it, and von Flanagan knows it, and I know it.”

Malone said, “Look, we have nothing more to do with it, according to von Flanagan. Let’s just forget that it ever happened.”

Helene sniffed. As she slammed the car door she said. “This time I am going home, and no nonsense about it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Malone said miserably. “I’d like to see how Jake’s feeling.”

A few blocks later he said, “Would you like to stop somewhere for a drink on the way home?”

“Well have a drink at the apartment,” Helene said firmly.

Malone sighed. Six blocks later he said timidly. “I really ought to stop at my hotel and pick up a clean shirt. Maybe gel a shave.”

“Both Jake and I have seen you in dirtier shirts,” Helene said, “and you can borrow Jake’s razor, if you’re really that fussy.”

He made one last, hopeless try as they crossed the Michigan Avenue bridge. “Let’s stop somewhere so that I can pick up some cigars.”

“We’ll send a bellboy out for them,” Helene said. “This time I’m going home, and no stops.”

The little lawyer rode the rest of the way in an unhappy silence. For the first time in his life, he knew, he was going to be at a loss for words. But he was going to have to say something to Helene when she walked into the apartment and found Jake unaccountably missing.

Perhaps he could think of some plausible excuse. Some place that Jake might be.

No. Helene would see through that in a minute. She’d insist on talking to Jake in person, no matter where he was.

Perhaps he ought to warn her in advance. Prepare her for the news.

“Helene,” he said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Later,” Helen said. “Right now I’m in a hurry.”

She skidded around a few corners, pulled to a stop in the hotel garage, and was half way to the elevators before Malone and the mutt could catch their breath.

There wasn’t to be even a moment’s respite. Malone realized. The elevator shot up to Helene’s floor without so much as a single stop.

The little lawyer braced himself as Helene unlocked and opened the door. The mutt gave a faint, worried whine.

“Jake—”

She moved toward the bedroom door. Malone closed his eyes for an instant, then followed. At the door he paused, frozen to the floor.

There in the bed was Jake, looking very well and very comfortable, a tall glass in his hand. In the chair by the bed sat Glida, a glass in her hand. Spread out on the covers was the remains of a gin rummy game.

“Darling,” Jake said. “I thought you’d never get home.” He looked up. “What did you say, Malone?”

“I said,” Malone muttered, “neither did I.”

28

Everyone agreed that Jake looked much better. Jake described, in detail, how much better he felt. Everyone agreed that Malone looked terrible. Malone scowled and said nothing. The mutt jumped up on the bed and began licking cocoa butter from Jake’s neck. Glida displayed her gin rummy winnings, and announced that visiting the sick was a far more profitable practice than she’d dreamed.

Not until Glida had gone into the kitchen to mix a tray of drinks, and Helene had gone to the telephone to order dinner, did Malone trust himself to speak.

“Where—were—you?”

Jake blinked. “Right here. Why?”

Malone told him, briefly and profanely, what had gone on during the day, and about the search that was being conducted even at this moment.

“I didn’t want that damned doctor bothering me.” Jake said. “Especially after the list of symptoms Helene gave him. So I simply hid in the closet. After he’d gone, I came out and went back to bed.”

Malone described, in unpleasant detail, exactly what he was going to do to Jake as soon as the latter was up and on his feet again. He broke off suddenly as Helene came back in the room.

“Don’t mind me,” Helene said serenely. “And I don’t blame you.” As Malone stared at her blankly she added, “Of course I knew it all the time. While you were making those first phone calls, I found another phone and called Jake.”

For the second time that day, Malone was speechless.

Helene went away and returned a few minutes later in a long rose housecoat that whispered softly when she walked and that was approximately the color of sunrise over a minor Alp. Her pale hair was brushed loose and shining over her shoulders. Malone took one look at her and decided to forgive everything.

Glida came back from the kitchen with a tray of martinis and a saucer of beer. She looked like an amiable teddy-bear. Malone had nothing against her at the moment, but he decided to forgive her too, just in case he ever had reason to.

By the time dinner arrived he’d had a warm bath, a shave, and three of Glida’s martinis. Dinner was the final touch to restore sunshine to a sorrowful and snow-bound world. That, and the pleasant knowledge of the check tucked in his pocket. He still wondered how much it was.

“So the case is all over,” Jake said at last. “And you and von Flanagan can forget it. Must be a great relief to you.”

Malone shifted uneasily in his chair, and stared at the lighted end of his cigar.

“It isn’t over,” Glida said suddenly. “It’s only beginning!”

“Look,” Malone said, unconvincingly. “Officially, it’s over, as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I’m glad of it.”

There was a little pause. Helene said coldly, “I never knew you to give up that easily before, Malone.”

“I’m not giving up,” Malone told her. “I’ve been given up. There’s a distinction.”

Helene looked away, and said nothing.

“Damn it,” Malone said. “I’m a lawyer, not a policeman. If someone is arrested for the murders, and if I’m called on to handle the defense—”

He paused. No one said anything. Glida opened her purse and began repairing her make-up. Jake stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. The mutt took his nose off Malone’s left shoe, walked to a corner, curled up and went to sleep.

“Besides,” Malone said defensively, “right now, there’s nothing I could do.”

Helene rose and patted Malone on the cheek.

“It’s all right,” she said soothingly, “we understand.” She began picking up the glasses. “It isn’t really any of your affair now.” She carried the tray into the kitchenette, her housecoat whispering flattering remarks to her perfect ankles as she walked.

“You just need a good night’s sleep,” Glida said in a warm and sympathetic voice.

“And besides,” Jake said, “curiosity is a vice, and a dangerous one. Look at the cat.” He paused. “I’ve always wondered what the cat was curious about.”

The mutt came back from the corner, put his head back on Malone’s foot and went to sleep again.

“It is a funny thing,” Malone said thoughtfully. “Everybody in this mess seems more than anxious to give me information. Only, none of it gets me anywhere.”

“You have nothing more to do with the case,” Helene reminded him, coming back with a refilled tray.

“I can dream, can’t I?” Malone growled. He looked at Glida. “Tell me something, now that it’s all over. Just who telephoned you and told you that Rodney Fairfaxx was going to be arrested for murder, and that Kenneth might need you?”

Glida stared at him. Her face turned pale.

“You can trust him,” Helene said. “As long as you can see him, that is.”

“It was—” She caught her breath. “It was Rodney Fairfaxx himself. Of course.”

“I thought so,” Malone said. He brushed a few ashes off his vest, relit his cigar, and went on. “And why did you not only let Kenneth divorce you but, when you thought he wouldn’t have enough evidence, go out and deliberately manufacture more?”

Glida jumped to her feet, upsetting her drink. “Helene, you rat—”

“Sit down and shut up,” Malone said. “Helene never said a word to me. And that’s a terrible way to waste good liquor, even if it does keep moths out of the carpet.” The mutt rose, strolled across the room, and began licking the carpet. “I just happen to know Kenneth’s lawyer, and my curiosity got the best of me.”

“Kenneth doesn’t know it,” Glida said.

“No,” Malone said, “and if you don’t tell him, I won’t. All I want to know is, why?”

Glida looked at her watch, made a pretty pretense of a gasp, and said, “I’m going to be late at the Casino.” She salvaged her coat from the back of a chair, threw it over her shoulders, and raced to the door. “I’ll talk about this with you another time, Malone,” she said. One hand on the doorknob, she added, “And it wasn’t Rodney Fairfaxx.”

The door slammed behind her.

“For a man who isn’t even curious,” Jake said at last, “you seem to be doing fine.”

“It isn’t curiosity,” Malone said. He drew a long, slow breath. “Say that it’s—well, that I’m just trying to get myself a client. Because eventually, someone is going to be arrested for murder.”

He rose, picked up his overcoat, wincing slightly as he thrust his arms through the sleeves. Every inch of his body seemed to have a separate and distinct ache.

“Malone,” Helene said suddenly. “The business this afternoon. The Annie Kendall Memorial. What’s going to happen if Uncle Rodney finds out she’s still alive?”

“If?” Malone said, “you mean, when. He’s bound to find out sooner or later, even if the city runs out of postmen. Or some lucky fool catches up with the killer.”

“But what will happen, Malone?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said, “But I hope I live to see it.”

He gave a last glance into the warm and cheerfully lighted apartment. Jake comfortably tucked up on his pillows. Helene, in the rose-colored housecoat, smiling at him.

Malone closed the door softly and said to the mutt, “Never mind. We have a home of our own.”

There was a very brief argument with the cab driver as to whether or not the mutt was allowed to ride in the cab. The mutt settled it with a plaintive remark about the weather and the hardships of a dog’s life.

Malone leaned back against the cushions, and gave the address of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. There was still a dollar bill in his pocket, that would pay for the cab. Joe the Angel would either cash the check for him, or hold it until tomorrow, meantime tearing up the mortgage on the mutt and even allowing a small advance.

Perhaps he and the mutt might go out and see a little of the town. It was still early. He felt that he owed the mutt a little entertainment. And perhaps he deserved something of the sort himself.

The check!

Malone felt in his pocket, drew it out and looked at it.

“Stop,” he called to the driver. “Stop under a streetlight.”

The driver pulled over to the curb, stopped and said anxiously, “I hope the pooch isn’t feeling carsick.”

“He feels fine,” Malone assured him. He looked again at the check, in the bright glare of the light. “And I feel finer. Drive on.”

The check was for ten thousand dollars.

29

“So YOU bring me the little dog,” Joe the Angel said cheerfully. “Have a drink on the house, Malone, no?”

“I’ll have a drink on the house, yes,” Malone said, “But I do not bring you the little dog. I just dropped in to pay my bill.”

For the first time in his life, Joe the Angel looked displeased at the prospect of a bill being paid. He poured a drink for Malone, and put a saucer of beer down on the floor.

“Malone,” he said earnestly, “a hotel is no place for a dog to live.”

“I live there,” Malone said defensively. “And for that matter, a saloon is no place for a dog to live, either.”

“You live here too,” Joe the Angel said. “Almost, you live here.”

“Look,” Malone said, downing his drink. “I am going to find the dog a nice home. Not a hotel. Not a saloon. A nice place in the country, perhaps.”

The mutt looked up from his beer and whimpered.

“Someplace where he’ll have a bed of his own,” Malone went on enthusiastically. “Three meals a day. A family to love him. Children to play with.”

The Polish janitor from the City Hall looked up from his glass of beer and said, “Cats.”

The mutt barked enthusiastically.

“It is in the nature of dogs,” the janitor said, folding up the Racing Form and sticking it in his pocket. “In my neighborhood there are many cats for a good dog to chase.” He walked to the door, and said, “Cats!”

The mutt bounded enthusiastically toward him.

“Come back here,” Malone said.

The mutt hesitated for a moment, then came back slowly.

“Traitor!” Malone said accusingly. He pushed his glass across the bar for a refill and said. “I’ve got a check here that’s too big for you to cash. But I’ll endorse it and leave it with you. You can advance me a few dollars against it, and tomorrow we’ll take it to the bank. Then I’ll pay you the bar bill and the advance.”

“All the advances,” Joe the Angel said.

Malone took the check from his pocket and looked at it lovingly. He wished he didn’t need to cash it. He wished he could frame it and hang it in his office. Finally he borrowed Joe the Angel’s pen, endorsed it and shoved it across the bar.

Joe looked at the figure and said “Wow!” He added, “Now I know I should have been a lawyer instead of a saloonkeeper!”

“Just a grateful client,” Malone said modestly.

“How much cash you want, Malone?”

The little lawyer thought fast. Five dollars would handle taxi-fares and breakfast. On the other hand, he knew where a poker game was going on, and the night was still young. Besides, it didn’t seem quite appropriate for a man owning a ten thousand dollar check to ask for a mere advance of five dollars cash.

Joe the Angel laid two twenties and a ten on the bar, and gazed again at the check, with the expression of an art lover gazing at a newly discovered masterpiece. Suddenly he put a heavy hand down on the money and glared at Malone.

“Malone, how long we have been friends?”

Malone blinked. “I don’t know. A long time. As long as I can remember.”

“Thirty years,” Joe said. “And you trust me, and I trust me. Now you come in after thirty years and try to gyp me with a bum check.”

“You’re crazy,” Malone said. “The check’s all right.”

“Malone,” Joe the Angel said accusingly, leaning on the bar, “when do you think I am born? Yesterday? You think I’m poor ignorant fella, I can’t read the newspapers?”

Malone said “Listen. That check is made out to me. It’s dated today. It’s properly signed, by Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. What the hell do you think is the matter with it?”

“Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx,” Joe the Angel said. “Malone, I read in the newspapers all about Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. He’s crazy. Tomorrow we take the check to the bank, the man at the bank looks at the check and says ‘Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, he’s crazy. Take the check away.’ Thirty years or no thirty years, you don’t give me a check from a crazy man, Malone.”

He put the bills back in the cash register, slammed the drawer shut and said, “He goes around killing postmen.”

“Now wait a minute,” Malone said. “The police let him go. He didn’t kill any postmen.”

Joe the Angel sniffed and said, “He thinks his sweetheart is still alive, when she was drowned almost forty years ago.”

“Damn it, she is alive,” Malone said.

“You’re crazy too,” Joe the Angel said. He looked at the check again and said, “And he gives you ten thousand dollars. That proves he’s crazy.” He handed the check to Malone. “The drinks I cannot take back. I put them on your bar bill. And I will keep the little dog.”

“The hell you will,” Malone said, reaching for an empty beer bottle.

Joe leaned across the bar and aimed, inaccurately, at Malone’s nose. A Times reporter at a nearby table abandoned his drink to come to Malone’s rescue. A bookie at another table came to Joe’s rescue. A perfect stranger joined enthusiastically and impartially in the battle, just for the joy of it. A man from the coroner’s office and another perfect stranger started a fight of their own to one side. The mutt ran around happily, biting everybody except Malone.

Someone called the police, and Malone decided to withdraw gracefully. He felt in his pocket for the check; it was safe. Scooping up the mutt, he headed for the sidewalk.

Behind him, inside Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, the sounds of combat were still going on. A squad car came screaming up to the curb.

“What’s going on in there?” one of the cops asked Malone.

Malone shrugged his shoulders. “Fight of some kind, I guess.”

He took a few steps down the street, paused, and felt through his pockets. A dime, a nickle, and two pennies. Seventeen cents, and, a ten thousand dollar check.

The sensible thing he told himself, was to walk back to his hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and take the check to the bank in the morning.

Of course, there might be a few dollars in the petty cash box in his office. Enough, at least, to get him into that poker game. No, he remembered, he’d investigated that earlier today.

There were plenty of people he could borrow from, but somehow borrowing a five or a ten seemed beneath the dignity of a man who had a ten thousand dollar check in his pocket.

After all, he probably should go home to the hotel. The mutt was undoubtedly tired.

At that moment a taxi stopped in front of him. The driver leaned out and said, “Hi, there. Going anyplace, Mr. Malone?”

Malone hesitated for one half of a second and said, “Yes, Charlie.” He pulled open the door and got in. The mutt curled up comfortably beside him.

“Nice dog you got there,” Charlie said. “Like to have a dog like that myself. Where to, Mr. Malone?”

The little lawyer thought for the other half of the second.

“Anywhere,” he said. “Anywhere that a man with ten thousand dollars can buy a drink.”

30

“Be reasonable, Fred,” Malone said. “The check’s perfectly good. And I’m not asking you to cash all of it for me. Just a few hundred dollars.”

Fred, manager and part owner of the Blue Star, shook his head. “Have one on the house, Malone?”

“Thanks,” Malone said. “Now look, I’ve done you a few favors. Remember that business about your brother-in-law and the—”

“I’d be glad to oblige you, Malone,” Fred said. “But the guy’s nuts. I take his check around to the bank tomorrow and they’ll laugh at me.”

Malone sighed and said, “Well, thanks anyway. And thanks for the drink.”

“Of course, if you want to borrow some dough—” Fred said.

“No, thanks,” Malone said. “I’ll get this cashed somewhere.”

He glanced at the clock over the bar. Twelve-thirty. So far he’d visited nine night clubs, saloons and restaurants. He’d received nine drinks on the house, and nine turn-downs on cashing even part of the check.

Going home to bed was still the sensible thing to do. But now he had a noteworthy cab bill to reckon with.

He got back in the cab and said, “Let’s try the Casino.”

“It’s getting late,” Charlie said.

“I know,” Malone said. “It always does, this time of night.”

He didn’t like going to the Casino, for two reasons. One, because it was Chicago’s smartest night spot, and he knew he needed a clean shirt. Another, that it belonged to Jake, and asking its manager to handle the check problem for him was like asking Jake a favor.

He left the mutt with Charlie, straightened his tie, and walked in.

The manager was polite, and apologetic. He bought Malone a drink. He explained that he would be glad to cash the check, but it would have to have Jake Justus’s okay. And it was impossible to reach Mr. Justus by telephone. Mr. Justus was ill.

Malone walked out into the main room of the Casino, glanced briefly at the end of the floor show, then picked his way between the tables. Suddenly a voice hailed him. He turned around and saw Elizabeth Fairfaxx and Bob Allen a few feet away.

He walked over to greet them. Bob Allen, he noticed, was wearing a tux. Probably Elizabeth had bought it for him, to celebrate. It seemed to be dark green, and the tie appeared to be maroon. For a moment Malone wondered if he was going color-blind. Otherwise, the lanky young man was unchanged. He still looked as though he were there to empty the ash trays. Malone noticed that people at surrounding tables were staring at him. No wonder, with a bottle-green tuxedo.

Elizabeth said, “Please sit down and have a drink with us. We’re all so grateful to you, Mr. Malone.”

“It was nothing,” Malone said airily. “I’ll have rye and soda, thanks.”

He looked appreciatively at Elizabeth Fairfaxx and reflected on how much he liked everything about her, especially the freckles. Yes, for her sake, he’d even strain himself and like her unemployed-actor fiancé. He hoped he wouldn’t have to defend her in a murder trial.

“Uncle Ernie came home tonight,” Elizabeth said. “He feels fine. I think maybe it did him good. What do you think about Uncle Rodney’s memorial idea? I think it’s wonderful. Even if she isn’t worth it, it’s wonderful anyway.”

“Except that it seems to leave you stranded,” Malone said.

She beamed and said, “That doesn’t matter. I have Bob.”

“How about Kenneth?” Malone asked.

“He’ll get along fine,” Elizabeth assured him. “In fact, we’ll all get along fine.”

Malone finished his drink, tried to think of something to say and finally managed, weakly, “That’s fine.”

When he left, Bob Allen said his first word of the evening. It was, “Goodbye.”

Glida was behind the hat-check counter. She winked at Malone as he went by. He winked back, and wondered what would happen if he asked her to cash a ten thousand dollar check for him. She’d probably manage it. Only somehow he didn’t want to ask Glida.

Out in the cab, he put in a few minutes concentration, while Charlie looked alternately at his watch and at the meter. At last Malone named an address in South Chicago.

He got the same answer at the address in South Chicago. A drink on the house. The offer of a loan. And refusal to touch a check that had been signed by Rodney Fairfaxx.

He gave Charlie another address.

Charlie said, “Jeez, Malone, that’s almost to Evanston.”

It was a long ride, and at the end of it, he got the same answer, and another drink on the house.

In desperation, Malone consulted his address book. The resulting trip led to Desplaines, to Maywood, to Cicero, and to an obscure address on West Lawrence Avenue.

Charlie made only three complaints.

One was, “I never saw a guy drive so far to get a drink.”

The next (acidly), “Malone, I know a nice saloon in Boston, if you’d care to drive that far.”

Finally (plaintively), “Malone, I don’t know about you, but I got to get up in the morning.”

By that time the sky had turned a faint and dismal gray. The mutt had been sound asleep for hours. And the meter charge, including waiting time, had reached $62.30.

“One more stop,” Malone said. “This will be the last.” He gave the address of Max Hook’s apartment. It would be the last stop, too.

Regardless of the hour, he knew that the fabulous gambling ruler would be up and around. Max Hook never went to bed until the last reports came in. Malone hated to ask Max Hook for a favor, even a little favor like cashing a ten thousand dollar check, but right now, it looked like the only thing to do.

Riding up the private elevator, Malone found himself wondering, not for the first time, how many occupants of the apartment house on Lakeshore Drive knew the identity of its owner, who lived in the two-storied penthouse. But it was too late for any serious wondering. The little lawyer closed his eyes and slept for the last six floors.

He opened his eyes as the elevator operator slid back the door that led into Max Hook’s living room, blinked, and said, “I must have gotten on the wrong train.”

“Nice, isn’t it, Malone,” Max Hook said. He smiled from behind the big golden-oak desk that had accompanied him on a series of travels and through a series of experiences with interior decorators. “Like a little of old Mexico.”

Malone said, “Very nice.” He stared at a pottery jar, from the top of which a cactus plant leered at him insultingly. “What happened to all the little pink lampshades?”

Max Hook explained that he had a new interior decorator. No more little pink lampshades. Now, it was a little bit of old Mexico.

“Expensive,” Max Hook said, “but you know me. I always like to have everything nice.” He glanced around at the room. “Just between us, Malone, I don’t like it.”

Malone decided to look at Max Hook instead of the room. The Hook was enormously fat, and almost entirely bald. His huge pink face was deceptively friendly.

“I’m glad that Mr. Justus is all right,” Max Hook said. “You had me worried for a while. And where is the little dog?”

Malone spoke before he had a chance to think. “Downstairs in the taxi.”

“In weather like this?” Max Hook gasped. He pushed one of the many buttons on his desk, called into the phone, “Joe, bring the little dog upstairs from Mr. Malone’s taxi. Thank you.”

“How did you know about the dog?” Malone demanded.

“My boys get around,” Max Hook said, smiling. He pushed another button and said, “Bring Mr. Malone a gin and beer.” He glanced around at the decorations and said, “I suppose I’ve got to drink tequila. The hell with it. Bring me a gin and beer too, also a saucer of beer for Mr. Malone’s dog.” Pause. “Yes, I said saucer. And, dog.”

Malone said, “Look, Max, I wish I had time to have a drink with you, and to let you pat my dog, but—I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs, and I just dropped by to see if you could cash a check—”

“Sure,” Max said. “Anytime. How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” Malone said.

Max Hook said, “Want it all in big bills, or small money.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Malone said. He stopped on the verge of saying, “Just enough to pay off the cab.”

Max Hook pushed another button and said, “Georgie? Open the safe and get me nine G’s, nine C’s, and a fistful of change. Gotta cash a check for a friend.”

The elevator boy walked in with an indignant mutt.

“Scrappy, isn’t he?” Max Hook said. “Ever think of entering him in a show?”

The mutt growled.

Max Hook pushed one of the buttons again and said, “Bring in a saucer of cream along with that saucer of beer. And rush it. Malone has a taxi waiting.”

The fat man beamed at Malone across the desk and said, “So you have Ernie Fairfaxx on your client list now. I hope you rook him for plenty.”

The little lawyer pulled a cigar from his pocket, started unwrapping it, and said, “He’s not exactly a client of mine. It’s none of my business, but why?”

“That guy,” Max said admiringly.” That Ernie Fairfaxx! Wish he were working for me! Took my places for about two hundred grand. Took a friend of mine in Vegas for almost as much. And in New York—”

Malone looked around the room for a place to drop the cigar wrapping, gave up and stuffed it in his pocket. “Max, we’re old friends, but you’re making it all up. Nobody who drinks like Ernie Fairfaxx—”

“Drinks?” Max Hook stared at Malone. “We’re not talking about the same Ernie Fairfaxx.” He paused. “Or maybe we are.”

The door burst open and a small ball of feline fury bounded in. A young man shoved her aside with one foot and put a tray on Max Hook’s desk. Max Hook picked up the saucer of beer and the saucer of milk, and put them on the floor beside his desk. The gray kitten snarled an insulting remark to the mutt. The mutt responded with an even more insulting remark.

“Leave them alone,” Max Hook said. He shoved the gin and beer at Malone.

Malone said desperately, “Max, thanks for the drink and for everything, but I do have a taxi waiting, and if you can just cash this check for me—” He downed the gin and beer.

“Right away,” Max said. “Anything for an old friend.” He shoved at a button and said, “Georgie, hurry up.”

A moment later Georgie hurried into the room. He spread the money on Max Hook’s desk. Nine thousand-dollar bills. Nine hundred-dollar bills. Four twenty-dollar bills. A ten-dollar bill, and two fives.

Malone wondered where he was going to hide most of it overnight. He said, “Here’s the check. All endorsed.”

Max Hook looked at the check. Then he looked at Malone. Then he shoved the money across the desk and put the check on top of it.

“Just call it a loan,” he said.

Malone shoved the money back and said, “What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean the check is no good,” Max Hook said. “I hear things. I don’t get around, but my boys do. The guy is crazy as a nine-dollar bill, and I’m not going to touch any check of his. I’ll lend you the ten grand, Malone, but cashing the check? No.”

Malone picked up the check, stuffed it in his pocket, and shoved the money back across the desk.

“No loan, Max.” He knew from experience that borrowing money from Max Hook was like selling one’s soul to the devil, only more expensive.

“Suit yourself, Malone,” Max said. “If you want the money, there it is. Pick it up.”

Malone managed what he hoped was a smile and said, “Thanks again, Max, but I don’t need it.”

He stood up and turned toward the door. In the center of the room were two saucers, both licked empty. One had held beer, the other cream. Not far away, the mutt was sleeping peacefully. Curled up next to him was the scrawny kitten, no longer angry.

“You see,” Max Hook said. “Now, no one is hungry, so there is no trouble. But tomorrow, when they are hungry again—?” He shrugged his massive shoulders.

Malone said coldly, “I’m sorry, Max, but I do have a cab waiting downstairs. Thanks for the drink.” He nudged the mutt, who followed him to the door. The kitten lifted its head, wailed a protest at the mutt’s departure, and went to sleep again.

The memory of ten thousand dollars, in cash, haunted him all the way down the elevator. For one moment he considered going back. Saying, for instance, “Mind lending me a hundred bucks for cab fare, chum?” No. Not with Max Hook.

But something had to be done. He climbed into the cab. The mutt curled up and put his nose on the little lawyer’s shoe.

“Mr. Malone,” Charlie said, “I gotta turn the cab in and go home.”

“I know it,” Malone said. “Just take me down to the hotel first.”

He still had fourteen cents in his pocket. And a check for ten thousand dollars. Perhaps the hotel would take care of the cab bill. But he doubted it.

“Honesty,” he told the mutt, as the cab stopped at the hotel entrance, “may not be the policy, but it’s always been spoken of very highly.”

Charlie opened the door. Malone got out and stood on the edge of the curb.

“Honesty is the best policy.” He mumbled to himself. Then, “Charlie, I don’t have any money.”

Charlie grinned and said, “That’s okay, Mr. Malone. I’ll come up to your office and pick it up tomorrow. Do you need any cash in the meantime?”

It was as simple as that.

31

Malone groaned, turned over, and suddenly sat up in bed. The mutt looked at him apologetically.

“All right,” Malone agreed. “I know it’s time to get up.” He yawned, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone.

“No matter what time it is,” he said, “I don’t want to be told.” He hung up fast and looked at the mutt. “It was dawn when we came home,” he said, “and it’s only shortly after dawn now.”

The rumpled bed looked warm and inviting. Malone reflected wistfully that there was no reason for shaving, dressing, breakfasting, and going down to the office. In fact the mutt would probably enjoy a good nap, too.

No, today he did have to wake up. Because there was that still uncashed check in his pocket. And Charlie would be coming in to collect for last night’s cab bill.

As he shaved and stood under the shower, he told the mutt how happy he was that the Fairfaxx case was closed. Now, there could be a vacation in Bermuda, or a trip to Hollywood, perhaps a flight to the Hawaiian Islands. He assured the mutt that both of them would enjoy the Hawaiian Islands.

At the entrance to the hotel, the doorman beamed and said, “Morning, Mr. Malone. Taxi?”

Malone felt in his pocket. Fourteen cents and a ten thousand dollar check.

“No, thanks. We’ll walk.”

Maggie looked up from her magazine as he walked in the door.

“About time you got here, Mr. Malone. Mr. and Mrs. Justus are in your office. They got here a few minutes ago. A Mrs. McClane has been calling you from London since noon yesterday. The bank has been calling you since nine this morning, and the office rent has to be paid by noon. There’s a Mr. Steve Wray called about your fixing a traffic ticket for him. And, Mr. Malone—”

The little lawyer took the now badly rumpled check from his pocket and laid it on her desk.

“Call Judge Williams and fix Wray’s traffic ticket. Bill Wray for twenty bucks. Put a call through to Mona McClane in London. Then take this down to the bank, deposit it, pay the office rent, your back salary and everything else.” He paused. “And can you lend me five bucks cash?”

He walked into the inner office.

Jake and Helene were sitting on the leather couch, holding hands.

“Go away,” Malone said wearily. “Don’t go away mad, just go away.” He patted the mutt and said consolingly, “Not you. Them.”

Helene stared at him. Her exquisite face was pale and shadowed with weariness.

Jake said, “I suppose I’m breaking quarantine or something, but I had to be in on the finish of this.” He added, “Isn’t it wonderful what pancake make-up will do for a case of chicken pox?”

The little lawyer hid his face in his hands and said, “I have nothing more to do with the case. Nothing. Now, or ever.”

“Now, Malone,” Jake began.

Maggie popped her head in the door and said, “Mr. Malone, I have your London call for you. And I’ll tend to the rest of the things—”

Malone yawned and said, “Remind me to pay your salary sometime. And don’t forget to lend me the five bucks.” He picked up the phone.

There was a series of delays. He waited through them, watching Jake and Helene, and wishing with all his heart that Helene’s dearest friends were not involved in the series of murders which, he reminded himself, he had nothing more to do with.

It was all over, as far as he was concerned. Maggie was banking the check. Little Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was out of jail. Uncle Ernie was out of the hospital. He, Malone, was through.

Helene said, a note of desperation in her lovely voice, “Malone, I’m afraid they’re going to arrest her—”

Malone said pleasantly, “Shut up. And you’ll find a drink in the second drawer of the filing cabinet. Under Confidential.”

“Damn it, Malone,” Jake rose. “Don’t you want to know where I found that hammer?”

“Frankly, no,” Malone said. “I’m through with all of this. All I want right now is a nap—”

The phone rang. He grabbed it. There was another brief delay.

The little lawyer said into the phone, “Yes, it is. Thank you, operator.” Then, “Mona?” There was a very long pause. Malone’s face turned from pink to pale, to gray. “When did she die?”

There was another long pause. Helene moved closer to Jake’s comforting warmth.

Malone was saying, “Who—knows?” Another pause. “No,” Malone said, “it’s all right. You should have told—”

He slammed down the receiver and dialed frantically.

“Von Flanagan,” Malone said hoarsely, “quick. Dig up your records. What time is mail delivered at, or near the Fairfaxx house? Well, get the hell in a squad car, and meet me there. Don’t use your siren, and park quietly. We might just be in time to head off the murder of the fourth postman.”

32

“The first three postmen were killed because Annie Kendall was alive,” Malone said. “This one is in danger of being killed because Annie Kendall is dead.” He puffed at his cigar and said, “Damn it, Helene, won’t this car go any faster?”

“Why?” Helene demanded.

“Because I’m in a hurry, that’s why,” Malone told her.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Helene said indignantly. “I’m talking about the postmen. And Annie Kendall. And your phone call from Mona.”

“It’s because of the Annie Kendall Memorial Foundation,” Malone said. “And watch out for that truck!”

Helene glanced at him briefly. Malone’s face was pale with fatigue, and shadowed with unhappiness. She’d seen that look on his face before, and she recognized what it meant. Malone knew something that he wished he didn’t know.

Several blocks later she said gently, “I know nobody wants to go to jail, Malone. But the postmen didn’t want to be murdered, either.”

He flashed her a grateful look.

Just as she turned off Lake Shore Drive, Malone said, “I knew Mona McClane was in London. It was Mona who found out that Annie Kendall was alive, plus a few more interesting details of her life. Then when Annie suddenly up and died, Mona called to let me know.”

Jake said plaintively, “I wish I knew what this is all about.”

“You will,” Helene said.

The squad car, without sirens, passed them at that moment. Helene said indignantly, “They can’t do that!” The next moment, they had passed the squad car.

The street in front of the three houses was deserted, gray with melting snow. Helene slid expertly to a stop in front of the iron gates. The squad car stopped just behind her.

A plump little postman, whistling cheerfully, was just about to turn the corner into the alley.

Malone got out of the car fast. He saw von Flanagan running up the sidewalk towards him, Kluchetsky at his heels. He had a vague feeling that Helene, Jake, and the mutt were behind him, but he couldn’t be sure.

The snow was beginning to fall again, thick, wet snow.

The little postman was going up the alley, still whistling. But by now the snow was like a veil.

Suddenly Malone saw the weapon, poised over the wall. He opened his mouth to cry a warning. But before he could utter a sound, something tripped him and he fell forward into the snow. As he fell, he heard the sound of furious barking, saw the little postman wheel around just in time for the weapon to graze the side of his head. He saw the weapon drop into the alley.

Three seconds later he was up on his feet again. Von Flanagan was bending over the little postman. The mutt was still barking.

A familiar, red, and angry face looked over the wall.

Dr. McSmith roared, “What’s all this—” He saw Jake, paused and said, “Why aren’t you home in bed?”, saw the postman, and vaulted over the wall.

The mutt growled at him.

“Shut up,” Dr. McSmith said to the mutt. He knelt down and examined the little postman. “No damage done. He’ll come to in a minute. A bit of plaster on his ear, and he’ll be able to go along on his route.”

Helene said breathlessly, “If the little dog hadn’t barked—”

“He’d have been dead,” Malone said.

“Dogs don’t like postmen, and postmen don’t like dogs,” Dr. McSmith said. “And personally, I don’t like either. Shall I patch him up?”

“Do that,” von Flanagan said. “Hang on to him. I want to talk to him later.” He glared at Malone. “Another minute, and we’d have seen who was on the other side of the wall. Now, the party has had time to get back in the house.”

“You have another murder weapon,” Helene said consolingly. “Or do I mean, another attempted murder weapon.”

Von Flanagan had wrapped the weapon carefully in a scarf and handed it to Kluchetsky. Now he turned his glare on Helene. “A big place like this must have a lot of hammers.”

“We’d better go inside the gates,” Malone said. “And we weren’t too late, von Flanagan. You’d better get ready to make an arrest.”

They trudged back to the iron gates, where Malone pushed the bell.

It took only a few minutes to assemble the members of the Fairfaxx household and the Lacy household in the warm and pleasant living room of the Fairfaxx house. Von Flanagan glared impartially at all of them, and said, “I want to know where every one of you was for the last half hour.”

Old Rodney Fairfaxx said, with mild surprise, “Why, I was in my library, cataloguing some new stamps—my collection has been rather neglected for the last few days—”

“I don’t know who cares,” Uncle Ernie said, “but I was taking a bath. Hospitals are wonderful institutions, but why they don’t have decent soap, I will never know.”

Kenneth had been in his room, writing a letter.

Bridie put in tearfully that she’d been making a pot of coffee for Mr. Ernie, and that Violet had been checking the laundry.

Violet nodded assent.

“We were—talking about something,” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said. She smiled at Bob Allen. “Bob dropped in to—talk about it with me.” The stars in her voice made a pleasant contrast to the atmosphere in the room.

Gay Lacy said she’d been in her room, reading a book.

Mrs. Abby Lacy said indignantly, “I consider this highly irregular procedure, and I am under no obligation to tell anyone where I have been, or what I have been doing. And I also consider this entire situation in the worst possible taste.”

Huntleigh said he had been polishing the silver.

“Not a usable alibi among the bunch of you,” von Flanagan growled.

Malone rose to his feet. He ached in every bone, and he suspected that about a quart of snow had packed itself around each of his ankles.

“I hate to ask you to go out in weather like this,” he said wearily, “but I think we can settle this much better outdoors.”

During the little flurry of getting coats, scarves and galoshes, von Flanagan hissed at him, “I certainly hope you know what you’re doing.”

Malone muttered, “So do I.”

The falling snow had obscured any footprints that might have been left in the little square of yard near the alley. The mutt romped cheerfully over the snow and barked insultingly at the wall, as though he suspected that Dr. McSmith might be on the other side of it.

“Some of you might as well go back in the house,” Malone said, “unless you want to hear. Mr. Allen, you weren’t here at the time the first three postmen were killed, so you might as well go away. Mrs, Lacy, Kenneth, Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, Bridie—”

Elizabeth Fairfaxx broke in suddenly. “Mr. Malone, what are you getting at?”

The little lawyer sighed. “After the murder of the third postman, I examined the ground very carefully. Footprints would have meant nothing. But, the marks of a ladder, or an upturned box, or even an ordinary kitchen chair would have meant that the killer was not tall enough both to see and reach over the wall.”

Von Flanagan said excitedly. “Sure, Malone. That’s why I knew Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx couldn’t of done it even if he’d of tried, which I don’t think he would of.”

“Thanks,” Malone said. He brushed a snowflake off his nose. “Of the five remaining suspects, three were in one house, and two in the other. The big mistake we made was in assuming the killer was in the wrong house—”

He saw a sudden movement in the snow.

Gay Lacy cried out, “Mr. Malone!” and ran toward him.

There was another sudden movement, followed by the sharp crack of a pistol.

She fell almost at his feet, a crumpled heap. Her face looked up at him. Blood began to stain the snow.

“Mr. Malone—I knew—”

Von Flanagan was shouting, “Don’t let him get away!”

Malone closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t wanted it to happen this way. He was dimly aware of voices. It was just as he opened his eyes again that he heard one of them say:

“Don’t worry. I haven’t the slightest intention of trying to get away. And I trust Mr. Malone will defend me.”

33

“You’re damned right I’ll defend Huntleigh,” Malone said. His tone indicated that he’d defend Huntleigh with his life, if necessary.

He glared at von Flanagan and said, “At the beginning of this mess, you told me yourself that the murderer must be crazy.”

“I did nothing of the kind,” von Flanagan roared. “I just said that—” He caught himself. He turned to Kluchetsky, pointed a bushy eyebrow at Huntleigh, and said, “Take him down to headquarters. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

Malone said, “No!”

It was so loud a no that even Kluchetsky hesitated.

The little lawyer braced himself against a chair and told himself that he wasn’t really tired. For a moment, the people in the room moved around him like tropical fish in a circular bowl. Old Rodney Fairfaxx in his big wing chair. Uncle Ernie, leaning against the mantel. Abby Lacy, her face like old marble, on the sofa.

Elizabeth, lovely, disheveled, and a little frightened, clinging to Bob Allen’s hand.

Jake and Helene. He could always depend on them. Even with the make-up covering Jake’s chicken pox, and the pallor on Helene’s lovely cheeks.

He didn’t dare try to cross the room to talk to Jake. Two steps away from the reassuring chair, and he was going to fall on his face. He signaled Jake frantically with his eyes.

The room was so still that it seemed to him that his faint whisper to Jake must have sounded like a loud-speaker system. Jake listened, nodded, whispered, “I get the idea,” and tiptoed out of the room.

Malone looked around the room again.

There was Kenneth Fairfaxx, worried and bewildered.

Violet, half-hidden in the shadows.

And Huntleigh, standing, white-faced, not caring what happened to him now.

Malone said quietly, “Sit down, Huntleigh.”

Huntleigh said, “But Mr. Malone—” and then sat down stiffly on the edge of the nearest chair.

“Relax,” Malone said. He looked closely at the butler. There was no trace of fear on the tired old face, no sign of remorse for anything that had been done or had not been done. “Violet,” Malone said, “will you bring Mister Huntleigh a drink, please. A stiff one.”

“Damn it, Malone,” von Flanagan said, “you can’t do this.”

“Shut up,” Malone said pleasantly. He wished that he were taller, or that the others in the room were shorter. “A lawyer is allowed to confer with his client. Huntleigh!”

The old butler looked up. “Yes, Mr. Malone?”

“When did you first begin to feel this uncontrollable urge to strike people? Wasn’t it when you were a boy in school?”

Huntleigh gulped.

“Tell the truth,” Malone went on relentlessly. “Wasn’t there first a mad impulse to strike any moving object—and then—”

Huntleigh gulped again. At that moment Violet slipped a drink into his hand. As he downed it, Malone managed to catch his eye.

“Well, Mr. Malone,” he said at last, “I had a very unhappy childhood—”

Malone relaxed a little himself, and signaled Violet to slip a drink into his hand.

“Look here, Malone,” von Flanagan complained, “you can’t get away with this.”

“As I said before,” Malone said, even more pleasantly, “shut up.” He saw Jake come back into the room. Jake nodded at him. The nod said, “Okay.” Malone nodded back “Thanks.”

“Jake,” Malone said, “I remember you used to take shorthand. Just for the hell of it, take down a record of all this.”

Von Flanagan turned to Kluchetsky and said, “Take this down.”

For a long moment Malone stood clinging to the back of the chair, swaying a little, and wishing that he’d never gotten into this. Because there had to be some way out of it without breaking the heart of anyone in the warm, cheerfully lighted living room.

“Huntleigh,” he said softly, “you never wanted to kill anyone or anything, did you? It was just that you wanted to strike someone, or something, wasn’t it?”

Huntleigh got the idea. “Yes, Mr. Malone. It was like that.”

“Just a feeling that came over you suddenly—and sometimes not always suddenly—”

“Well—yes, Mr. Malone.”

“Stop it,” von Flanagan snapped. “Malone, you’re leading the witness—”

“This isn’t a court of law,” Malone said smoothly. “This is a conference between a lawyer and his client.” He smiled reassuringly at Huntleigh and said, “Just answer my questions.” He managed a quick wink at Huntleigh. He knew that the old butler really had the idea now.

“Huntleigh,” Malone said very gently, “why did you kill that postman?”

Huntleigh stared at him, blankly and innocently. “I never killed anyone in my life.”

“But you struck him on the head,” Malone went on relentlessly, “and you left him lie there in the cold, to die.” He paused, “Wasn’t it because you had to hit someone on the head? Anyone? Even some perfect stranger?”

Abby Lacy said suddenly, “Mr. Malone, must I listen to this?”

“Yes,” Malone said. His heart told him this was no time to be gentle with an ugly old woman whose only daughter had just been unpleasantly murdered. “Yes, I’m afraid you must.”

Von Flanagan said, “All right, Malone, if you’re all through, let me take him down and book him.”

“I’m not all through,” Malone said, “I’m only beginning.” He went on, “Huntleigh, you’ve never killed anybody, have you?”

Huntleigh shook his head and said, “No, Mr. Malone.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, Mr. Malone.”

“You’ve never wanted to kill anybody?”

“Oh no, Mr. Malone.”

“But Huntleigh, you have wanted to strike people?”

“I—yes. I’ve—”

“You’ve wanted to hit people with hammers, clubs, any kind of weapon?”

“I—may have. I’m not—sure—”

“Why did you hit those postmen on the head?”

“I—”

“It was an uncontrollable impulse, wasn’t it? You didn’t want to kill anyone, did you? Or hurt anyone? You just wanted to hit someone—or something—”

“That’s right, Mr. Malone.”

“Now why,” Malone said, in his softest voice, “did you strike Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx on the head?”

Huntleigh stared at him, confused and wide-eyed. “Strike Mr. Ernie? I could never do anything like that? Mr. Ernie is a fine gentleman, sir. Kind and considerate. Honest as the day is long.”

“Let’s just say the day is long,” Malone said, “and leave Ernest Fairfaxx’s private life out of this.”

Uncle Ernie said, “Now Malone—”

“Now you shut up,” Malone told him crossly. “You were probably born with a silver spoon in your pocket.” He relit his cigar, braced himself on the back of the chair and hoped that neither he nor the chair would collapse. “Huntleigh. You did strike someone on the head. It might have been Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx.”

“I—I don’t remember,” Huntleigh mumbled.

“You have a lot of bad headaches, don’t you,” Malone said sympathetically.

Huntleigh nodded.

Elizabeth Fairfaxx stood up suddenly and said, “Malone, must you do this?”

“Yes,” Malone said, “and sit down. Huntleigh, tell me. Why did you strike me on the head, and nail me to the wall in the cellar next door?”

“I don’t know,” Huntleigh said. He was on the point of breaking down. “I just don’t know. I don’t seem to remember.”

“It was just another uncontrollable impulse, wasn’t it?” Malone said.

“Yes sir. That’s right.”

Von Flanagan broke in, “You mention one more of those impulses, and I’m going to have one myself.”

“Just one more question, and I’m through,” Malone told him. “Huntleigh, you’re among friends, remember. Do you have any personal interests? Any—well, hobbies?”

Huntleigh’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes, Mr. Malone. I collect butterflies.”

Malone’s look at von Flanagan said, well, there you are.

“That’s enough,” von Flanagan said. “Kluchetsky and Garrity, you take him downtown.”

“And remember I’m his lawyer,” Malone added, “and no one talks to him till I get there. And we’ll pick our own psychiatrists.”

Before von Flanagan could answer, Bridie burst into the room, her tearful eyes wide with fright.

“There’s a lot of people from the newspapers here,” she announced tragically. “They want me to let them in, and they won’t go away. I don’t know what to do.”

Malone caught Jake’s eye with a look that said, thanks, pal. He cleared his throat and said to von Flanagan, “Of course you could take him out the back way, but—” He paused, sighed, and said, “What a scene for an actor!”

Von Flanagan glared at him and said, “Why, you—” He remembered there were ladies present just in time. He turned to Rodney Fairfaxx and added, “Perhaps it might be wise to let the press in—briefly. Naturally none of you will need to be present, but—”

The old man smiled and said, “I suggest the hallway. It has a good background for pictures. And we can close the double doors and be undisturbed.”

For a moment the room seemed strangely still, after von Flanagan and his aides had led Huntleigh into the hallway. The heavy double doors slid shut, noiselessly. Then, from behind them, came a faint murmuring of voices. Von Flanagan’s voice was heard twice. “Uncontrollable impulse … he collects butterflies.…”

“Good God,” Jake said at last, “no jury in the world would convict him of stealing cheese from a mousetrap.”

Malone didn’t hear him. He drew a long breath, braced himself, dared moving away from the chair, and managed to walk across the floor. He took Abby Lacy’s cold little hand in his.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said.

It might have been a smile that flickered across her face.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” she said. She rose and walked toward the door. It was amazing, Malone thought, how so small a woman could appear to be so tall.

Elizabeth jumped to her feet and said, “Abby—wait till I get a wrap, and I’ll go with you—”

“It isn’t necessary,” Abby Lacy said.

Kenneth said, “But you mustn’t be all alone—Huntleigh—”

Elizabeth added quickly, “I’ll send Bridie over—”

“Please,” Abby Lacy said. “I’m quite capable of managing without anyone’s help. Except—” she pulled her furs closer over her shoulders—“Mr. Malone, would you have the kindness—”

“Delighted,” Malone said. He didn’t dare look back as he escorted her to the door, and he felt her arm stiffen under his hand as they walked through it.

Outside the house, he said gently, “Yes, people were looking at you when you left the room. And people will be looking at you all the rest of your life. You might as well start getting used to it now.” He decided it wasn’t the time to be gentle, and went on ruthlessly, “Most of them will be perfect strangers, who will also be people with perfect manners. They’ll wait until you’re out of earshot before whispering, ‘Isn’t that the Abby Lacy who—’”

She was silent, but her small frail hand tightened into a fist.

“You’d better face it now,” Malone said. “Always, people will be saying, ‘Look. There’s Abby Lacy.’”

Thirty seconds later she said, “That will be almost the same as having people say, ‘My, isn’t that a pretty woman.’ At least, Mr. Malone, I’ll be looked at. And now will you be good enough to escort me home?”

The little lawyer tried to shut his eyes to the haunted gardens as they walked in silence to the great front door of the Lacy house. He opened it for her.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Mr. Malone,” Abby Lacy said. “I’ve always hated this house. But I’m free of it now. I can leave it for some little apartment in some place where it’s warm and sunny—Mr. Malone, when you return, will you tell Rodney that this house is for sale?”

Malone squeezed her hand by way of answer. Then he said, “You’d better tell me another secret, and I promise you it will be kept as one. Last night you told me that—you would engage me to go ahead with the case. But even then—you must have known.”

He heard her long, indrawn sigh, “Oh, course, Mr. Malone. Or shall I say—I believed. You see, Mr. Malone, I have known all these people a great deal longer than you. I knew what some of them were capable of doing—and not capable of doing. I didn’t know, but I suspected the truth.”

“Then, why?” Malone said, almost desperately. “Why didn’t you ask me—hell, even beg me—to drop it?”

Again she smiled. “Mr. Malone. I would not have liked to spend the rest of my life suspecting, but not knowing the truth of it.” She touched his hand gently and said, “Thank you for bringing me home.”

Malone stared at her for a divided second. Then suddenly, almost without knowing what he was saying, “You’re so beautiful—” Almost before he realized it, he was kissing her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Malone lied. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you.” He pressed her hand tightly and said, “Goodnight—”

The little lawyer closed his eyes for a moment. He hated the picture of Abby Lacy going, alone, into the bleak, ugly, and empty house. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

He was glad to get back to the warm and brightly lighted living room of the Fairfaxx house, even though an uncomfortable silence seemed to have been waiting for his return.

At last Ernest Fairfaxx rose from his comfortable chair and said, “Malone—I suppose you want to know what I’ve done with those winnings of mine. The Hook told me that he’d talked to you.”

Malone said, “I think I can guess. You sent them to a certain person so that she’d stay where she was. But she was too greedy for you.” His thoughts went on, “And now she’s dead, poor greedy little person.” Against his will his eyes strayed up to the great blank square where her portrait had hung.

It was little old Rodney Fairfaxx who broke the spell. He stood up, stared at the blank wall and said softly, “The memory of gentle Annie is enough for her memorial.” He smiled at everyone in the room and said, “Secrets are made to be kept.” Then, “Mr. Malone, may I have a word with you before you leave.”

In the warm, lamp-lit, paneled library, the little old man faced Malone and said, “Frankly, I knew the truth all the time. The fault is really mine. May I undertake the financial burden of Huntleigh’s defense?”

There was a silence while Malone had a fierce but brief struggle with his better self. “Yes,” Malone said. “But you can answer one question for me. Why did you let Glida know that you were about to be arrested for murder, and make sure that she’d rush down here?”

The old man smiled and said, “I believe in love, Mr. Malone. Kenneth—Glida—it seemed like a device to bring them together.”

“It may work yet,” Malone said. “And speaking of bringing people together—”

“I know what you mean,” Rodney Fairfaxx said. He walked to the door, opened it and called, “Violet! Will you come in, please? And Elizabeth—”

Malone waited until the library door was closed, until Violet had seated herself stiffly on a straight-backed chair, and Elizabeth had perched on the arm of old Rodney Fairfaxx’s chair.

“All right, Liza Lavender,” he said coldly. “Let’s hear your voice.”

He waited breathless, his eyes tight shut, for the voice he’d remembered from the days when he’d gone without lunch to save up nickels and dimes for tickets to the theater. The magnificent, unforgettable voice of Liza Lavender.

“How did you guess?”

Hearing her, Malone was speechless.

It was Rodney Fairfaxx who said, “How could anyone fail to guess? I knew all along. But—secrets are meant to be kept—”

Violet said, in that well-remembered voice, “I wanted to be with my baby. I knew it would never be allowed. So—I managed to obtain a position as housekeeper, in order to be near her. I never spoke, for fear my voice would give me away—”

Elizabeth jumped up. The look on her face was like a bright sunrise after a month of rain. “You’re—my mother!”

Old Rodney Fairfaxx exchanged a glance with Malone. They walked quietly from the room, unnoticed.

34

It was Helene who said, “All right, Malone. Now tell us what really happened.”

“Three beers,” Malone said, ignoring her.

Joe the Angel, said, “Malone. The little dog.”

“I paid you,” Malone said. “And so the little dog is mine.”

“I mean,” Joe the Angel said with a long sigh, “you want four beers.”

“All right, four beers,” Malone said gloomily.

“Damn you, Malone,” Jake said, “I’m a sick man. Talk. Tell all.”

The lawyer signaled to Joe. “Make that three straight ryes and one beer in a saucer.” He turned his haggard face to Jake. “I’m trying to save time. We’re driving out to Glida’s house. Because I’ve always wanted to see six twins. And because I have a question to ask her.” He gulped his rye and added, “And because I want to talk to her before Kenneth does.”

The drive to Wilmette was something Malone hoped he would forget and was afraid he would remember. Snow was falling again, soft, gentle snow. Snowflakes like frozen tears, he thought.

“Malone,” Helene said suddenly. “Huntleigh.”

“A harmless madman,” Malone said, “but an interesting one.”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Helene said.

Malone sighed and said, “Don’t worry about him. Most perfect insanity defense case I’ve ever seen. Hell, he almost convinced me. And a comfortable suite in an expensive boobyhatch will probably be a lot pleasanter than buttling for Abby Lacy.”

“Who’s going to pay for it?” Jake asked. “And for his defense?”

“You’d be amazed,” Malone said coyly.

Helene told the world what she thought of Malone, in exactly four well-chosen words. The mutt growled.

Malone ignored her. He said dreamily, “I rather suspect that Huntleigh is a very happy man, right now.” He added, “He was devoted to Albert Lacy.”

“Malone, what are you talking about?”

“Someday I’ll get drunk and tell you,” Malone said. He gazed out at the snow and wondered if Huntleigh’s “arrangement” would remain in effect in spite of what happened to him. Or perhaps Abby Lacy would realize enough from the sale of the gloomy old house to live out her life, preferably in some sunny and pleasant place. He hoped it would be that way.

Glida’s house looked exactly as he’d imagined it. A gingerbread house, straight out of a fairy tale or a movie set. Six gnomes in the front yard paused in the process of building a snowman and stared at Malone. They were all dressed in bright green snowsuits. Except for differences in size, they all looked alike, and they all looked like Glida. There was no doubt in Malone’s mind that they all had red hair.

Helene said, “Jake, stay in the car or you’ll give them all chicken pox.”

One of the largest gnomes announced triumphantly, “We’ve had it. And we’ve had mumps and German measles and whooping cough.”

“If you haven’t had fleas,” Malone predicted, “you soon will.” The mutt tumbled joyously through the opened door of the car.

The six pounced on the mutt with yelps of glee. Malone shuddered and hoped for the best.

Glida met them at the door and said, “I’ve already heard about it. Kenneth is on his way out.”

“I thought he might be,” Malone said. He looked around the warm little living room. It was cluttered from end to end with toys, comic books and general litter. He liked it.

“One question, fast,” he said, sinking into the nearest chair. “Why did you let Kenneth divorce you?”

“Please, Malone.”

“Never mind,” he said, “I can guess. Pride. Pride goeth before the spring. I mean, pride springeth into fall. I mean, spring—”

Helene said, “Go on, Malone.”

Glida sat, tight-lipped, and said nothing.

“Things were tough,” Malone said. “You knew Kenneth was unhappy. I mean, you thought Kenneth was unhappy. There wasn’t much money, and there were twins. A hell of a lot of twins. And you were made to realize that Kenneth missed the luxury he had been lapping up. So you got a job, as a hat-check girl, without telling him.”

“How did you know?” Glida said, in a very small voice.

“I didn’t,” Malone said cheerfully. “I just guessed. But that kind of job meant your being seen around night clubs, and being out late in the evening without explanation. Someone began bringing stories back to Kenneth. He accused you, and you told him to go to hell. Am I right?”

Glida nodded and said, “I thought—if he loved me—he ought to trust me—”

“You were out till all hours,” Malone said, “you were seen around night clubs. Because you were earning luxuries and comforts for the man in your life. But you thought if he loved you—he ought to trust you.” He groaned. “You’re wasting your life as a hat-check girl. Write for the confession magazines and let me be your agent, and we’ll both retire in ten years.”

Her face turned red. “But it’s true, Malone.”

“I know it,” Malone said. “So are the confession magazines. Suppose you take it from there. He finally walked out on you, and then what?”

Glida said, “I was told—Uncle Rodney was very upset about it. That he might cut Kenneth out of his will if it looked in any way that he were at fault. I didn’t want that to happen. Because Kenneth was used to—being comfortable. And besides, I didn’t want him back unless he—asked first.”

“Pride,” Malone said, “We can sell this to ten confession magazines, under ten different names.” He added, “So, when there wasn’t enough evidence for Kenneth to divorce you, you faked some. You kept thinking he’d—ask you first.”

“Malone,” Glida said, her eyes blazing at him, “don’t you ever tell him. Not ever!”

“I won’t,” Malone promised, “and I hope you never will. But there was someone who talked to you, and someone who talked to him, and—”

Glida opened her mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “Yes.”

“And that someone was—?” Malone said.

Glida looked at him unhappily and said nothing.

“It’s all right,” Malone told her gently. “You can tell, now. It was Gay, wasn’t it?”

Glida nodded, mutely.

The little lawyer slid the cellophane from his cigar. “I knew that as soon as I knew that she was the killer.” He stood there for a moment, thinking of Gay Lacy. A girl with a lovely name. An ugly, awkward girl nobody wanted, perhaps a girl with dreams of being beautiful and being loved, a girl who had wanted so much and had so little, who had been loving Kenneth Fairfaxx for so long in her secret heart, a girl who wanted lovely things and knew that the money that paid for them came from her mother’s butler, a girl unloved, unbeautiful, and unwanted, who had died, not long since, who had died, her blood spilling over the soot-darkened snow, for all she had lived for. A chill ran down his spine, despite the warmth of the pleasant room.

“She must have—” He caught himself. He took a very long time to light his cigar. Yes, Gay must have known about the family finances. Someday he’d check that point with Orlo Featherstone. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Gay had been a smart girl, and able to find out about a lot of things. Smart enough, too, to use Huntleigh when she needed to. He finally managed to get the cigar lit, and went on: “Curiously enough, it was Helene who told me.”

Helene gasped and said, “I thought—Elizabeth—”

“I know you did,” Malone said, “and Jake thought so too. For a few hours, so did I. Then, you pointed out to me the fact of the street numbers having been changed. Once I realized that letters addressed to the Fairfaxx house by someone who didn’t know that the numbers had been changed would automatically go to the Lacy house—I knew it couldn’t be anyone but Gay.”

The room was very still. Too still. Malone rose, walked to the cheerful little fireplace and stood leaning on the mantel.

“I’m making this up as I go along,” he said, “but two will get you five that I’m right. Gay Lacy knew that Annie Kendall was alive. We’ll never know how. It was Gay who brought about the divorce between Glida and Kenneth—because Gay had been in love with Kenneth”—he smiled wryly, remembering—“as long as she could remember. She would have done anything to bring about that divorce. But—she also wanted the money Kenneth would inherit if Annie Kendall never turned up.”

He took a very long time to light his cigar. “Gay must have known that she was really very poor. She wanted to be rich, and married to Kenneth.”

Glida poked up the fire and said, “It’s cold in here.”

Malone ignored her and went on. “It must have started by accident. As most things start. When Annie Kendall found herself alone, and broke, she wrote to Rodney Fairfaxx. We’ll never know what she wrote him, or how she explained the years between, but we can guess. Annie must have been a girl with imagination, along with rare charm. To be on the safe side, she sent her first letter registered. But—not knowing the street numbers had been changed—she sent it to the wrong address.

“The postman brought that so important letter to the Lacy house, intending to carry it to the house next door. But before he could do so, Gay found out about it. She destroyed it, after reading it, and then made Huntleigh swear that he’d never seen it. Furthermore, she made him swear that he would watch for any such letters in the future.”

Glida said, “Huntleigh was always devoted to Gay—to everyone in the family—”

“You’re damned right,” Malone said, “and you’ll never know how damned right you are.” He drew a long breath and went on. “But the postman was always a danger. At any time he might discover he’d delivered a registered letter to the wrong house. He might even ask old Rodney Fairfaxx if he’d received it. Gay Lacy didn’t dare take chances. There was only one thing for her to do. Heaven only knows how she ever got up the courage, but somehow she did it.”

He flicked an imaginary ash from his cigar and said, “But then there was a second letter. And a third. So, three postmen died.”

“But Malone,” Helene said sudddenly. “How did she know which postmen to kill? I mean, there would have been two deliveries a day. Did she intend to kill every postman who came around the block?”

Malone said, “Remember, she’d told Huntleigh to watch for registered letters for Rodney Fairfaxx. They kept on coming to the wrong house. When those letters turned up, the rest was easy.” He paused. “It’s a good thing Annie Kendall died when she did and those letters stopped coming. Or the mortality rate among Chicago postmen would have broken all records.

“Then—” he smiled bitterly, “it became necessary to keep old Rodney Fairfaxx from knowing that Annie Kendall was dead. There was a letter telling of her death on the way. But—luckily—the fourth postman didn’t die.”

“Uncle Ernie!” Helene said suddenly. “Did she—”

Malone said, just as suddenly, “The ghost of—” He caught himself, managed to drop his cigar on the rug, and spent a good six seconds picking it up. Elizabeth Fairfaxx had seen a ghost in that tragic garden. And so had he. He knew, now, that it had been Gay Lacy, in that long, pale blue raincoat.

“Gay heard him making an appointment with me. She was afraid of what he might say. But Uncle Ernie was going to be inside the wall. She must have gone out through one of the gates, struck him down, and then waited.”

“For what?” Helene demanded.

“For comes the dawn,” Malone said. He yawned. Some day he would tell Jake and Helene, over a quiet beer-and-gin, of the ghost in the snow who had been Gay Lacy, and of Huntleigh who had wanted to give Gay Lacy an alibi among many and so had pretended a reason for having followed him through the dark streets, and for carrying him into the haunted cellar and nailing him to the wall, and telling him a wild and charming story about why he had done it.

“Huntleigh,” Glida said in a faint whisper.

“He couldn’t let the police take her,” Malone said. “He knew the truth all along. It was better for Gay Lacy to die, and for him to be arrested for murder. It was his final act of devotion.”

He added, after a long pause, “I don’t think Huntleigh would want me to tell the police—or the newspapers—the truth. And I think he’s earned his right to silence.” He yawned and said, “And I think I’ve earned the right to forty-eight hours of sleep.”

The doorbell rang, loudly.

Malone said, “And I also think—”

Glida blushed. It was a beautiful blush, old-fashioned scarlet, clashing violently with her carrot-red hair.

“We were just going,” Helene said.

Kenneth Fairfaxx scarcely noticed them leaving as he burst in through the front door.

Out in the front yard were the six green-clad gnomes and an ecstatically happy mutt.

“Don’t look now,” Helene said, “but I think you’ve just lost a dog.”

Six voices said, almost in unison, “Can we keep him?”

The mutt gave Malone an imploring look.

Malone drew a long breath and said, “Yes.”

Six twins and one mutt returned joyously to romping in the snow.

The snow didn’t seem like frozen tears any more. It seemed like tiny falling stars.

They were halfway into Chicago when Helene looked at her watch, and switched on the car radio. There was a sign-off announcement, a station break, a singing commercial, and a blast of music. Then a voice declared, “Bob Allen! Coming to you today from Chicago—”

Malone sat up and said, “What the hell?”

Helene said, “You mean you didn’t know?”

Jake said, “For Pete’s sake, don’t you ever listen to the radio?”

“No,” Malone said feebly. He reached out a trembling hand and shut it off. “Bob Allen. Actor. Those clothes—”

“Those clothes are considered very swanky in Hollywood,” Helene said.

“And Bob Allen’s salary would be considered very swanky anywhere,” Jake said. “A couple of thousand a week, just to make those noises over the microphone.”

Malone shut his eyes. He thought about Bob Allen. He thought about the check from Rodney Fairfaxx, which had been honored at the bank. He thought about the events of the last few days.

“I always knew there must be an easier way of making a living than being John J. Malone,” he said at last.

Then he leaned his head back and went to sleep.

About the Author

Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1948 by Craig Rice

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-4855-2

This edition published in 2017 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

THE JOHN J. MALONE MYSTERIES

FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

FIND OUT MORE AT

WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

FOLLOW US:

@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.

The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.

58 Warren Street

info@mysteriousbookshop.com

(212) 587-1011

Monday through Saturday

11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

FIND OUT MORE AT:

www.mysteriousbookshop.com

FOLLOW US:

@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop

SUBSCRIBE:

The Mysterious Newsletter

Find a full list of our authors and

titles at www.openroadmedia.com

FOLLOW US

@OpenRoadMedia

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedciation

Cast of Characters

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

About the Author

Copyright Page