Knocked for a Loop

A John J. Malone Mystery

Craig Rice

CHAPTER 1

Something unpleasant was going to happen, something incredibly and overwhelmingly unpleasant. John J. Malone was sure of it.

This conviction had not come to him by instinct, or during a quick conference with a crystal ball. He knew it by the way the owner, manager and bartender of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar was gazing at him solicitously. Indeed, Joe the Angel had just bought him two drinks in rapid succession, and that clinched it.

“If this is just a bad dream,” the little lawyer said gloomily, “I wish I could tune in on another channel.”

“Malone,” Joe the Angel said in a worried voice, “maybe it would be better that you don’t go.”

Malone shook his head. The impending appointment in his office was one that he had to keep, in spite of his friend’s gloomy predictions and his own uncomfortable premonitions. It might solve a kidnaping. It might prevent a murder. It might settle a lot of questions, many of them political and all of them complicated and disagreeable. Furthermore, it might even make money for John J. Malone.

He looked up at the clock over the bar. It was still early, but for once in his life he wanted to leave the pleasant shelter of Joe the Angel’s. It wasn’t that he was looking forward to the next hour or two, but Joe the Angel’s reaction to his having been picked as the go-between in the Commanday affair had unnerved him. In fact, the whole situation had unnerved him. He was used to walking into trouble and to knowing that it was going to be there waiting for him. But he did like to know in advance what particular kind of trouble it was going to be.

He sighed unhappily, finished his rye, and went out into the night that was heady with warm spring winds whispering of far more agreeable activities than keeping a business appointment. The mellow fights of neon signs made a nice substitute for technicolor moonlight, and the sounds from the loudspeaker of a nearby phonograph shop could have been the music of the spheres. But not for Malone, not that night. Moonlight and this particular business appointment wouldn’t mix.

It was five past ten and the appointment was set for ten-thirty. Malone decided to go on up to his office and do his worrying in private. For just a moment he paused and stood looking from across the street at the somewhat dingy and far from pretentious building that had housed his office since the time he’d finished night law school, passed his bar examinations, and given up driving a taxi, more years ago than he cared to remember.

On a sudden and completely unreasonable impulse, one that he was never able to explain later, even when it became important, he went down the alley, unlocked a rear door, and made his way up to his office floor on the self-service freight elevator. The hallway was not only dark and deserted, but downright melancholy. Almost ominous. Malone fit a cigar, gave himself a brief but very stern talking to, opened the door, and switched on the light. Then for a moment he stood silent, his cigar going out unnoticed.

Something like this had been bound to happen sooner or later. The amazing thing was that it had not happened before. Malone looked down at the body of Leonard Estapoole, at the carefully planted signs of a mild struggle, and reflected that whoever had framed him for murder had done an excellent job.

But his private guardian angel had done an excellent job too, in getting him here a good fifteen minutes early. Because this was one of the times when he was going to have to act fast and think about what to do after he had done it.

Leonard Estapoole, financier, solid citizen and sterling character, anti-crime crusader and committee member, had appointed himself a one-man anti-Malone committee as well. Now he lay sprawled on the floor of John J. Malone’s private office, bludgeoned to death with the conventional blunt instrument—in this case, a heavy bronze Buddha from Malone’s desk.

Leonard Estapoole had been a tall, skinny, ascetic-looking man with skimpy pale hair, eyes like ice-blue eggs, a long, squeamish nose, and a thin, almost lipless mouth that had smiled only at park dedications and cornerstone-laying ceremonies. He didn’t look any better dead, either.

But this was no time to think about the murdered man’s lack of charm, Malone reflected; the immediate problem was what to do with him for the next few hours. The little lawyer looked around the room thoughtfully. Moving the late Leonard Estapoole was going to be a heavy job, but not impossible, and the fire escape seemed to be the best and simplest solution.

He opened the window and hauled the body through it and down to the next landing. He tucked it carefully in the narrow space between the fire stairs and the windowpane, so it wouldn’t be noticed by a casual glance from above. Then he climbed back to his office, puffing, and reflecting that it was a damned good thing Leonard Estapoole hadn’t been a bigger man.

That done, he set himself to a fast job of straightening up the office. He righted the two overturned chairs and the wastebasket. He picked up the bronze Buddha and put it exactly, where it had always been on the desk. It was probably thick with fingerprints, but he wasn’t in the least concerned about that now. His prints would be all over it, and so would be those of Maggie O’Leary, his secretary, any number of visitors over a long period of time, and Mrs. Budlicek, the cleaning woman.

Luckily there was no blood to be washed off the Buddha. Apparently it had been thrown at the late Leonard Estapoole, had done its deadly work, and bounced off. The blood, and there wasn’t very much of it, was on the floor. Malone blew on the bronze Buddha to dispose of any possible stray pale hairs, wet a handful of paper towels, and scrubbed ineffectually at the spot on the floor.

A few minutes later he flung the sodden mass of towels in the wastebasket and decided that desperate, even heroic, measures were needed. The stain was lighter, but it looked definitely and unexplainably wet. Malone opened the file drawer marked EMERGENCY, lifted out a bottle of Dollar Gin that was more than half full, took one last, parting gulp, and poured the rest regretfully on the floor. Then, just in case any fuller explanation was needed, he smashed the bottle, scattered the finer fragments over the stain and its vicinity, and tossed the rest in the wastebasket.

One last look around the office assured him that the scene had been convincingly reset, and very prettily too. His desk was cluttered with correspondence, notes, a couple of last week’s Racing Forms, legal and legal-looking documents, advertising and other unread matter, and a miscellany of pencils, a few of them sharpened. The copious ash tray was overflowing with ashes and dead cigar stubs. Yes, everything was not only in perfectly normal order, but downright homelike.

Suddenly he thought of one more detail, went out into the hall and rang for the elevator. It came up at last with a sleepy-eyed Marty Budlicek, night elevator operator, watchman, and husband of Sophie, at the helm.

“Evening, Malone,” Marty Budlicek said in a reproachful voice. “You come up the freight elevator again. You ain’t supposed to do that and you know you ain’t supposed to do that.” He stretched his neck and said, “Happens all the time.”

“That’s all right,” Malone said. “If anyone asks, you brought me up yourself, understand? Just be careful to be sure of that.”

“Have to be,” Marty said gloomily. “It’s my job.”

“Don’t worry,” Malone promised. “I’ll back you up.” He handed Marty a cigar and added very casually, “Anyone else come up tonight?”

Marty Budlicek nodded. “Coupla fellas. Both for other floors. One of ’em is still here.” He scratched his ear. “Thanks for the cigar, Malone. And don’t you forget, I brought you up.”

“About an hour ago,” Malone said. “Maybe less.”

He went back into his office, thinking the whole thing over. Yes, one of the couple of fellows who had ridden up with Marty was still here. And would be until Malone was able to shift his thinking from the pressing present into the immediate future.

It had been very neatly done. It was probable that the late Leonard Estapoole had been advised to get off on another floor and walk either down or up, in case he was being watched. The killer had come along a little later, doing the same thing, conked Leonard Estapoole with Malone’s bronze Buddha and left him dead on the floor of Malone’s office, finally overturning a few chairs and the wastebasket to set the scene.

The little lawyer wondered unhappily and unsuccessfully just who could dislike him enough to go to all that trouble.

He looked at his watch again. Company would be coming along any minute now. He wondered what member of the police department would have gotten the tip, and hoped that it would be someone he knew. Right now, he didn’t feel like making pleasant small talk with a couple of perfect strangers.

Finally he sat down behind his desk, relit his cold cigar, and waited. It was a minute or two—perhaps five—after ten-thirty, the hour of his appointment with Leonard Estapoole, when he heard the elevator door clang down the hall. He picked up one of the more important-looking papers from his desk and became extremely busy going over it.

It wasn’t a perfect stranger. It was Daniel von Flanagan, of Homicide, with Klutchetsky and Scanlon hovering unobtrusively in the background. Malone put down the important-looking paper and looked up in genuine and pleased surprise.

Von Flanagan showed even more surprise, but he appeared to be more puzzled than pleased. He returned Malone’s greeting a little vaguely, accepted a cigar and the invitation to sit down, and sniffed the air.

“Gin,” Malone explained. “Dropped a bottle of it. Seemed to fly right out of my hand.”

“Too bad,” von Flanagan said, in tones he might have used in speaking of the death of a very dear friend or close relative.

“Oh, there’s more,” Malone said unconcernedly. He flicked an ash from his cigar, glanced at the two plain-clothes men in the doorway, and said, “Professional call?”

“Oh no, no,” von Flanagan said, “just dropped by.” He paused, coughed, and went on uneasily, “The guys came along because we thought we might go bowling if you weren’t in.” “That’s right,” Scanlon said helpfully.

No policeman, Malone reflected, could lie convincingly enough to fool a retarded year-old aborigine, and that went double for von Flanagan.

“But since you are here—” von Flanagan said. He paused again. “Of course, if you’re busy—”

“Not a bit of it,” Malone said cheerfully, sticking the papers in a desk drawer. “In fact, I was just finishing up.”

Von Flanagan cleared his throat noisily, tried not to look self-conscious, and finally said, “Well, I’ll see you boys later.” Scanlon said, “Sure thing,” with false heartiness, and Klutchetsky just managed a vague and slightly silly grin. They went away with what they mistakenly considered an air of debonair nonchalance and aplomb.

Malone said, “Well, since this is a purely nonofficial call, and since I only broke one of them—” He walked over and reopened the EMERGENCY drawer.

A few minutes later von Flanagan seemed to relax a little. He puffed at his cigar, looked into his glass, and said, “As a matter of fact, Malone, I did want to ask you about something.”

Malone looked at him questioningly and maintained a discreet silence, knowing perfectly well what it was.

“The Commanday kidnaping,” von Flanagan said. “If there is a Commanday kidnaping. Leonard Estapoole’s stepdaughter, I mean.”

The little lawyer knew he was expected to say something, and he went right on saying nothing. He wished von Flanagan would come to the point, get through with what he had to say, and go away fast. Because something had to be done, and soon, about that body on the fire escape. The chances were that nothing would be noticed before daylight, but this was no time to be taking unnecessary risks.

“You understand,” von Flanagan said, pure misery in his voice, “not one single word has been said officially, anywhere or to anybody. Nobody in the police department has been told anything. The Estapoole family doesn’t know anything. Nobody seems to know anything.” His broad face began to deepen in hue. “And now, damn it,” he said angrily, “you don’t know anything.”

“In that case,” Malone said soothingly,‘aiming his cigar ash inaccurately at the ash tray, “what’s all the screaming and hollering about?”

“Who’s screaming?” von Flanagan roared. He gulped down his drink, ran a big pinkish hand across his mouth, and said, now entirely too calmly, “Understand, Malone, this is just a friendly visit in the hope that you might have picked up some information here or there, and that you’ll give it to me as an old, old friend. Unofficially, of course.” He paused hopefully.

“Of course,” Malone said, and let things go at that.

The big police officer looked deeply grieved. “You’ve held out on me a lot of times, Malone, but have I ever held it against you? No. You’ve made a lot of trouble for me at times in the past, but have I ever complained?”

“Yes,” Malone said, grinning.

“Only in the line of duty,” von Flanagan said stiffly. He scowled. “This is different, Malone. A child’s life may be at stake. A dear little child with blue eyes and golden curls.”

“Have you ever seen her?” Malone asked.

“No,” von Flanagan growled, “but that’s beside the point.”

“And anyway,” the little lawyer said dreamily, “it isn’t official.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about this presumed kidnaping—if I can.”

“Well,” von Flanagan said, clearing his throat again, “well, it’s like this. There’s a rumor going the rounds that this Commanday kid has been kidnaped. The family, the Estapoole family, isn’t saying anything to anybody. There’s likewise a rumor the family is going to make a deal. Nobody’s saying anything about that either. And finally there’s a rumor you were picked to handle the deal.” He stopped and looked hard at Malone. His expression said, hopelessly, that he expected Malone wasn’t going to say anything either.

Things do get around, Malone said to himself. Out loud he said, “I’ve heard the same rumors. But that’s all. And if they were true, and the little one had been kidnaped, and the family had decided to make a deal, and I had been picked to handle it, why, it would be my duty to the family and society, in order to save the life of a beautiful blue-eyed child with golden curls and long eyelashes, to keep my big mouth shut until the deal was completed.” He smiled bleakly at von Flanagan.

“I was afraid you’d see it that way,” von Flanagan said. He sighed. “But that wouldn’t be your duty to the police department.”

“You said this was unofficial,” Malone reminded him gently.

Von Flanagan nodded and looked unhappy. “Well, that was it, Malone,” he said at last.

It failed to explain, Malone reflected, how he’d just happened to arrive a few minutes after half-past ten, with two plain-clothes men in tow.

Von Flanagan rose, turned his hat around a few times, and said, “If you’re just finished, come along to Joe’s and I’ll buy you a beer.”

The little lawyer hesitated for only a moment. It would be far easier to shake von Flanagan once they were out of the office. If the big police officer hoped to pry more information loose from him over a gin-and-beer, that was just a dirty shame. If he’d planned to have Scanlon and Klutchetsky sneak back for an unofficial search of the office, that was just another dirty shame, unless they happened to go prowling around on the fire escape.

He stacked the important-looking papers into some semblance of neatness and led the way to the elevator.

Going across Washington Street, von Flanagan remarked, “Another thing I’ve heard is that Leonard Estapoole likes you the way he’d like a red-haired visiting cousin with the itch.”

“That,” Malone said with a bitter grin, “was no rumor.”

CHAPTER 2

Joe the Angel looked up with an expression of relief at seeing Malone safe and in reasonably good company. He asked a question with one eyebrow, and Malone answered it with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

They ordered gin-and-beers and talked aimlessly. The races. A minor scandal in the vice squad. Gadenski’s fifth baby. The coming baseball season. The party last weekend at Judge Touralchuk’s. The new show at the Casino. And conversation lagged.

“Raining yet?” Joe the Angel asked helpfully.

They discussed the weather for a little while and ran that subject into the ground too.

Malone resisted every impulse to look at his watch, accepted three gin-and-beers he didn’t particularly want, and wondered how soon he could tactfully make the first move toward breaking up. Finally he yawned conspicuously and remarked that tomorrow was going to be a very busy day.

“For me too,” von Flanagan said, not getting up.

A little later Malone observed that he really ought to be getting along to bed.

“Me too,” von Flanagan said again. He ordered another gin-and-beer. “I suffer from insomnia though.”

Malone asked sympathetically, “Does a drink make you go to sleep?”

“No,” von Flanagan said. “But I don’t mind staying awake quite so much.”

Conversation came to another standstill. It showed every indication of standing still all night. At last it was von Flanagan who couldn’t endure it any longer.

“Know anything about the Estapoole family?” he asked, with elaborate casualness.

Joe the Angel immediately found a spot on the bar right next to them that needed a great deal of polishing.

“Not very much,” Malone said, every bit as casually. “Understand Estapoole’s wife is a good deal younger than he is. There’s a nephew, too, I think.”

“Hammond Estapoole,” von Flanagan said, a little too promptly. He went on, “He’s a polo player. Very good-looking guy. Mrs. Estapoole used to be married to Ridgeway Com-manday, the furniture store millionaire. Guess when a girl marries one millionaire it gets to be a habit. He got hit by a car and died a couple of years back. She used to be a model.”

“Italian girl,” Joe the Angel said glowingly. “Beautiful. Like this.” He made appreciative, curving gestures with both hands. “She used to be Carmena Bordreau.”

“That’s not Italian,” Malone objected.

“Her first husband,” Joe the Angel said, “was a rich millionaire too. He got drunk and fell out a tenth-story window and died from it.”

Carmena’s husbands, Malone reflected, seemed to have had uniformly bad luck.

This time conversation not only seemed to be standing still, but to have died in its tracks.

Malone’s patience was rapidly narrowing toward its vanishing point when von Flanagan picked up the ball again.

“That friend of yours, Helene Justus,” he remarked, very idly, “wasn’t she a great friend of Commanday’s first wife?”

Malone stiffened. For Helene to be mixed up in this would be just a little more than he could bear right now. “I have no idea,” he said cautiously. “Helene has a lot of friends.”

He was glad that von Flanagan dropped it at that, even if talking did help to pass the time. It occurred to him that the big police officer had been doing a lot of research about the Estapoole family. Entirely too much.

At last, von Flanagan looked at his watch, seemed to be greatly surprised, and remarked, “By now, I should have been home over two hours ago.” He stood up.

By now, Malone realized bitterly, Scanlon and Klutchet-sky must have finished giving the office a good going-over and be waiting downtown to report to von Flanagan.

“Drive you home or anywhere?” von Flanagan asked agreeably.

Malone nodded glumly. It was six of a half-dozen, he told himself, wondering if that was exactly what he meant. Anyway, either he waited here brooding long enough for von Flanagan to get safely out of the neighborhood, or else he went back to the Loop hotel that had been his home since he first opened his law office, and walked back to his office. He decided it would be simplest to go back to the hotel, through the lobby, out the side entrance, and back up to Washington Street.

At least, that was his theory.

A dark sedan was parked near the entrance to his hotel. The little lawyer paid no attention to it as he got out of von Flanagan’s car, waved good night, and started across the sidewalk. The sedan waited until von Flanagan had driven away and then moved up a few feet.

A voice called, “Hey, Malone!”

Malone turned around and took a few steps back.

The rear door of the sedan opened, and the voice said, “Get in.”

The little lawyer hesitated. He had important things to do, and this was no time for interruptions, either business or social. Besides, it was an unfamiliar and not too pleasant voice.

“I said, Malone, get in!”

Malone decided promptly that the unfamiliar voice was probably backed up by at least light artillery, and obediently got in.

The car moved away fast. There were two men in the front seat. Malone couldn’t remember ever having seen either of them before, and he wasn’t getting a very good look at them now. But they seemed to be adequate for the occasion.

There was a little girl beside him. He turned his head to look at her and decided right away that he wasn’t going to get along at all well with her.

Even in the dim light of the street as they rode along, he could see that she was about nine or ten years old, skinny, deeply tanned, wiry, and probably mean. She had mouse-colored hair in braids, braces on her teeth, and a nasty look. She made a face at him and he resisted an impulse to make one right back at her.

“Where do you want us to take her, Malone?” one of the men asked.

“Home,” Malone said hastily. “Wherever that is.”

The other man laughed.

“This isn’t any time for bad jokes,” the first man said. “Don’t you know the Commanday kid when you see her?”

Malone took a second glance at what represented a rumored hundred grand plus what the legal mind would call other valuable considerations. He wondered if the late Leonard Estapoole could possibly have been out of his mind.

“I don’t like you,” the child said.

“Good,” Malone said. “We’re going to get along fine.”

“Look here,” the driver said. “We can’t drive around Chicago all night while you two make friends. She was delivered to us to deliver to you, and we’ve done it. Now where do you want us to take her?”

“Just keep driving a few more minutes,” Malone said. “I’ve got to think.”

Think and think fast, he told himself. The matter of Leonard Estapoole’s body on his fire escape required immediate attention. But so did the matter of Leonard Estapoole’s kidnaped stepchild. He knew that the sensible thing to do would be to drop her like a heated penny on the Estapoole doorstep. But perhaps this wasn’t the occasion that called for the sensible thing.

He turned to her and said, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Bertie,” she said, with just a slight touch of a lisp, and a voice like a bad-tempered mosquito. “For Alberta. My name is Alberta Commanday, and I’ve been kidnaped, and I can’t be taken home because I’ve been kidnaped, and I don’t want to be taken home because I don’t like it there anyway, and if you do try to take me home I’ll kick and scream and bite and tell everybody you kidnaped me and beat me and wouldn’t give me any food, and you’ll go to jail and be hanged by the neck until you’re dead.”

“Shut up,” Malone said, almost absent-mindedly, and amazingly, she did.

Yes, Alberta Commanday would undoubtedly do exactly that. And in any case, there would be an interminable amount of explaining to be done—far, far more than his limited time budget allowed. Of course, he could simply deposit her in front of her home and drive away fast.

He turned to her again. “Where do you live?”

“In Lake Forest,” she said promptly. “I bet you don’t live in Lake Forest. I bet you live right here in dirty, horrid old Chicago, like a lot of other dirty horrid people. I don’t like Chicago. But I don’t like Lake Forest either.”

This time he didn’t even bother to tell her to shut up. He said, “Don’t worry, you’re not going there right now.”

It would have to be Lake Forest, he thought unhappily, which, as far as his immediate plans were concerned, and the limited time he had to carry them out, might just as well be the Cape of Good Hope.

Besides, it could be a wise idea to hang on to Alberta Commanday until he knew a little more of what was going on. He doubted if she herself knew much, if anything, about her own kidnaping. Certainly even less about her stepfather’s murder, and the elaborate frame-up job. But having her on hand and available could just possibly put him in a nice bargaining position, especially in view of some ideas that were beginning to form in his mind about the identity of the murderer.

“Well, where to, Malone?” the driver asked again.

Malone had a sudden inspiration and gave them an address that was not too far away. Ma Blodgett wasn’t going to like being awakened after midnight, but that was one of the multitude of problems that could always be solved with money.

“You’re kidnaped,” he told Alberta Commanday grimly, “and you’ve got to keep quiet and stay where I put you. Or I’ll destroy you.”

“I’d like that,” Bertie said.

“Not the way I have in mind,” Malone told her.

There was a light showing in the window of Ma Blodgett’s front room. The driver of the black sedan stopped in front of the old frame house, reached around to open the door to let them out, and then drove away without a word. A soft, warm spring rain was beginning to fall.

Malone rang the bell and waited, holding firmly to Bertie’s small hand until Ma Blodgett appeared. She wore a gray flannel wrapper, and cold cream glistened on her heavy, still handsome face. Her thin, dyed black hair had been hastily pinned back. She looked at Bertie without much interest, and at Malone questioningly, but without surprise.

“I don’t like you,” Bertie said.

“That’s okay,” Ma Blodgett told her.

Malone fished out the two biggest bills in his wallet, reflecting that it was fortunate that last night’s poker game had turned out so successfully.

“Just keep her for me for a while,” he said.

“That’s okay,” Ma Blodgett said.

“I’ve been kidnaped,” Bertie said triumphantly. “So you’ve got to keep me.” She made a face at Ma Blodgett, who didn’t seem to notice it.

“She has been,” Malone said hastily. “And just where I fit into things, I don’t quite know yet. But I’ve got to park her out of sight somewhere until I do find out. So you’ll have to keep her out of everybody’s way.”

“That’s okay,” Ma Blodgett said. She steered the unprotesting Bertie toward the door.

“You’ll hear from me,” Malone called to her.

He went down the steps, drawing a deep breath of relief. At least that problem was oiï his hands for a little while. He hoped that disposing of the other and more important problem was going to be anywhere near as easy.

He went down the street trying to find a taxi and thinking the whole thing over. What had started out as a simple little frame for murder had now developed into a very complicated frame indeed. First the victim of murder turned up on his hands. Now he was stuck with the victim of kidnaping.

Suddenly he had the disquieting thought that Jake and Helene Justus might be somehow involved in all this. Von Flanagan had dropped Helene’s name just a little too offhandedly. And they had an unfortunate—well, he had to admit, sometimes fortunate—habit of getting involved in just such situations. But neither of them, his two best friends, would set out to implicate him, deliberately, in murder and kidnaping.

Then he remembered that they were far away in Wyoming and immediately felt much better about that aspect of things.

But not about the other. It was, he could see, all part of some carefully worked out and obviously elaborate plan that he didn’t understand yet and wasn’t going to like in the least when he did.

There was the disheartening fact that someone not only wanted to murder Leonard Estapoole—which was not surprising; from what Malone had heard, any number of people might have—but that someone had wanted to involve, and doubly involve, Malone. Even to the extent of, after having carefully built up the frame, planting the rumor that he was to make the deal on the kidnaping, and finally, getting a tip direct to von Flanagan’s office that Leonard Estapoole had been murdered in Malone’s office. Or perhaps the tip hadn’t been planted that way, only that there was to be a payoff. But von Flanagan was head of Homicide and kept to his own department. The little lawyer turned the whole thing around and around and tried to look in every possible window, but found nothing but darkness.

Perhaps, through von Flanagan, he could trace the source of that tip. But not until he’d arranged for the safe removal of Leonard Estapoole’s body from its present resting place.

He had walked nearly a block down the deserted and dimly lighted street before he began to feel that he was not alone. Pure imagination, he told himself, and the soft, whispering sound of the rain falling everywhere. He began to walk a little faster. If there actually were footsteps behind him, he told himself sternly, it didn’t have to mean a thing. He just didn’t happen to be the only person who was out late, that was all.

He walked still faster, somewhat reassured by the fact that there were street lights shining just a little way ahead of him now. And if the person behind him was walking faster too, why it only meant that person was in a hurry. No, it didn’t mean a thing, and it was nothing to worry about.

He whirled around suddenly to face his pursuer, just as the sound of footsteps came close behind him.

It was too dark, and everything happened too suddenly for him to see his assailant’s face. But even as he started to fall, he knew that he would recognize the fist that had struck him, even if he met it in his dreams.

CHAPTER 3

It was a long time before Malone even tried to figure out where he was. At first, he was too occupied trying to figure out how he was. It seemed to be a matter of opinion whether he was alive or dead, and if alive, whether or not he would ever be able to move again.

He opened his eyelids several tentative times before they agreed to stay even partly open, moved his head once or twice experimentally, and finally decided it wasn’t going to come completely off and go bouncing around by itself.

The room he was in was an unpleasant one, little and dingy and grayish, with the irreducible minimum of furniture, an unwashed window, and a two-month-old calendar on the fly-specked wall.

A streetcar went clanging by outside. Malone winced and closed his eyes again. He had a feeling that the next time he opened them the whole room would begin to spin in perfect rhythm with his complaining stomach.

Suddenly memory returned in a horrifying rush and he sat up on the bed, wide awake now. The room spun only for a moment or two, and he realized that it was one in a very cheap hotel. He pulled himself up, made his way to the battered dresser, and looked apprehensively in the tarnished mirror. He wasn’t the least bit pleased with what he saw.

It wasn’t just that he needed a shave, and badly, but that the unshaven face showed distinct signs of considerable wear and tear. There was a very small mouse under one bloodshot eye, a bruise on his chin, and a small cut on his puffed lip. His suit was something that would have been scorned not only by a cleaning and pressing establishment but would have been turned down by any self-respecting old-clothes drive. His Sulka tie was a miserable and irreparable ruin, and there was a combination of blood, rainwater stains, and old mud on his handmade shirt.

The sudden realization that bright daylight was streaming in through the dirty window took his mind completely off the badly damaged image in the mirror.

He walked hastily to the window and looked out. There were vaguely familiar landmarks outside. Madison Street. West Madison Street.

But how had he gotten here?

He felt anxiously through his pockets. Yes, everything was intact, including what little money he had left after paying Ma Blodgett last night.

Action was obviously called for, but just exactly what action, and in what direction, was something he couldn’t quite figure out just yet. He looked at his watch and groaned. It was nearly seven.

Well, at least he might be able to find out how he’d gotten here, and then what had been happening while he had been, so to speak, away from it all.

He brushed off a little of the mud, ran a comb ineffectually through his tangled hair, tried to straighten his demolished tie. Then he went down a flight of stairs to a dingy little lobby and made highly discreet inquiries at the desk.

A bleary-eyed clerk grinned wickedly at him and said, “You must have had a wonderful time!”

“I’m sure I did,” Malone said. “And how did I get here, and how much do I owe you?” He hoped it wasn’t much.

The clerk said it was two dollars, and that a friend had brought him in late last night. No, no particular description of the friend. He hadn’t paid much attention. Would he recognize him again? Well, he might, and then again, he might not. He couldn’t be too sure about it.

Malone thanked him and went out into a morning that was bright with spring sunlight and sweetened with a hint of tomorrow’s summer in the soft wind that managed to reach all the way in from the lake, but dismal with the forebodings of the day ahead. That brief encounter in the dark and deserted street had cost him vital time, and he didn’t need to have a reminder shouted at him that that had been its purpose. Nor that the purpose had undoubtedly been accomplished long before now.

He paused at a corner cigar store and telephoned his office experimentally. An unfamiliar male voice answered. Malone hung up without speaking and went unhappily on down Madison Street. Its frowzy citizens were just beginning to crawl, dispirited and filmy eyed, out of flophouses and alleys, and his encounters with them cost him, roughly, two dollars in small coins.

He stopped at the next corner cigar store and tried another experiment, this time calling his hotel. He recognized the voice of George, the desk clerk, and said very cautiously, “Mr. Malone?”

George’s voice said promptly, “Mr. Malone isn’t in. There are several gentlemen here waiting for him.”

He thanked George politely for the warning and hung up fast. Then for a few minutes he stood, trying to think and wondering if the morning newspapers already carried an unflattering front-page photograph of him as a wanted man.

He went on out to the street, glancing casually at the newsstand. No, there was nothing yet. But any edition now, there would be. He hoped it wouldn’t be the one taken of him years ago in the McJackson trial.

The brief pause on the sidewalk cost him another quarter, and he decided it would be cheaper to do his thinking in a taxi.

The first and immediate problem was rest, a bath, a shave, fresh clothes, a lot of food, and a comfortable place in which he could keep out of sight long enough to decide what to do next. He considered Ma Blodgett’s and gave up that idea in a hurry. He had enough worries this morning without teaching Alberta Commanday good manners. If Jake and Helene weren’t in Wyoming, his problem would be no problem at all. But they were, and that was that.

John J. Malone, Chicago lawyer, wanted for murder and kidnaping. Well, he’d seen worse things happen to plenty of his friends in the past, and he’d always known exactly what to do. This time, when he himself was in the same situation, he didn’t have as much as the faintest hint of an idea.

But it was a leadpipe cinch he couldn’t go riding around in a taxi for the rest of his life.

Then another and even more difficult problem hit him. He suddenly realized that after paying the hotel bill, making two telephone calls, and providing eye-opener money for assorted citizens of West Madison Street, he didn’t have taxi fare to practically anywhere, let alone for riding around and thinking.

For a while he stood by the newsstand, considering the problem from all angles. There had to be some solution to it. The only trouble was that at the moment he simply couldn’t seem to think of one.

An occupied cab drew up at the stand, its door opened, and a pleasantly throaty feminine voice asked for the morning American. Malone gallantly handed one to the owner of the voice, collected the money, and handed it to the bewildered newsdealer.

The girl in the taxi was a compact, violet-eyed blonde, in a wispy orchid evening dress and a fluffy pale-yellow wrap that came close to matching her fluffy, pale-yellow hair. She looked at the little lawyer, reached in her rhinestone evening bag, took out a quarter, and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Malone said solemnly. “I’m saving up for taxi fare to the Loop.”

The blonde gave him a long, second look, and followed it with the smile most people, blond or not, had for John J. Malone. “You’d better get in.”

Malone got in and said, “Thank you again.”

“Now look here, lady,” the driver began, in an anxious voice.

“Don’t worry about me,” the blonde told him. “My mother tends to all my worrying.” She flashed the smile at Malone again, and asked, “Where to, pal?”

A few minutes earlier Malone would have replied, “The river!” in a voice that would have been both hollow and sepulchral. Now he said, “Just keep driving in a general west-northeasterly direction until I think of a roof I can pull over my head.”

The driver shook his head in a disapproving maimer, and the taxi moved on toward the Loop.

“My name,” the blonde said, “is Bernice Storm. But my friends call me Tommy.”

“Good morning, Tommy.” He lifted his somewhat battered hat. “And mine is John J. Malone.”

Her violet eyes widened just a little. “I’ve heard about you.” She looked him over from head to foot.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not at all. Just wondering if you’re on the lam from an assault and battery charge.”

His fingers explored his cheek, and he winced. “No. Murder. And probably kidnaping.”

“You look as though you’d had a wonderful time at it. Would you like to have breakfast with me?”

Malone thought that was a superb idea, and immediately said so. She leaned forward and gave the driver an address on East Walton Place.

The address turned out to be that of a pleasantly remodeled town house, half a block from Michigan Boulevard. Tommy Storm led him up a flight of stairs, opened a pink-painted door marked 2-B, and ushered him into a brightly pleasant little living room.

Suddenly he realized how tired he was, how terribly, unbearably tired, how painfully his head throbbed, and how seemingly insurmountable the obstacles ahead of him were. He leaned against the closed door and shut his eyes for just a second.

His hostess shoved him into the nearest chair and said, “Don’t faint on the floor and wake the neighbors.”

“Or your mother,” Malone said. “The one who does your worrying for you.”

“She lives in Kansas,” Tommy Storm said. “She worries from there. Here, I’m all alone in the world. And how do you like your eggs?”

“With gin,” Malone said. He struggled to keep his eyes open, gave up for a moment and then got them open again. “It isn’t just the gravel that bothers my eyelids,” he complained, “it’s the gravity.”

She smiled at him, dropped the fluffy yellow wrap on the nearest chair, pinned a gaily printed dishtowel around her waist, and pushed back her bright hair. “Just relax, Malone, and forget all of your troubles.”

“Gin and breakfast,” Malone said faintly, “in the order named.”

She said, “Do you want to tell me all about it now, or wait until you’ve been fed?”

“After,” Malone said. “And the eggs sunny side up and lightly basted.”

Several minutes later, gratifying and heartening odors began to drift out from the kitchenette. Malone settled himself more comfortably in the chair and began to think back.

One small item had been overlooked last night, but there hadn’t been time for it in the first place, and in any case it was too late now, and besides, it might not have been important anyway. That was the little matter of searching the body.

The late Leonard Estapoole had been not only a one-man anti-Malone committee, he had been a whole convention full of one-man committees—anti-vice, anti-crime, anti-gambling, anti-bribery, and probably also anti-malicious mischief, anti-walking on the grass, and anything else you cared to name, not forgetting anti-spitting on the sidewalk. As such, and acting in his purely unofficial capacity as a solid citizen and sterling character, he had collected a dangerous amount of information, complete with names and numbers, which he proposed to turn over to a Grand Jury, the newspapers, and the public at large.

That information, or at least the most dangerous part of it, should have been on his person last night. Obviously, Malone reminded himself now, when it was too late, he should have looked for it. On the other, and more consoling, hand, there was the fact that if he had looked for it, it undoubtedly wouldn’t have been there anyway. The stranger who had so expertly conked the solid citizen and sterling character with Malone’s bronze Buddha would very probably have looked for it himself and taken it away with him. In fact, that was probably why the whole affair had been arranged in the first place.

Malone felt a great deal better immediately. Now there remained only the matter of finding out who had conked the one-man anti-practically everything committee, and getting that envelope of information back.

He had no doubt in his mind that Leonard Estapoole had had it with him. The information had been, according to reliable report, complete enough to cause sleepless nights all over Chicago and even a few sudden vacation trips to faraway places. Newspaper speculation about it had moved up to page one, and report and rumor had made it the number one topic of conversation in various Chicago circles.

Then Leonard Estapoole’s stepchild had been kidnaped. The asking price had been a hundred grand and the envelope of highly charged information. Leonard Estapoole, adoring husband and devoted stepfather, had agreed to make the deal.

He’d have had to be pretty damned adoring and devoted to ransom that stepchild, Malone thought. And that reminded him of something else he had to do.

He picked up Tommy Storm’s telephone, called Ma Blodgett, and inquired after her young visitor.

“She’s okay,” Ma Blodgett said.

Malone said, “Find out if she knows me. Find out if she knows my name. Or if she recognized me. If she doesn’t, give her bus fare and turn her loose.”

There, that much was off his mind. Bertie Commanday would make her way home safely, he felt sure of that. Or some kind soul would take her home. Nothing had even been whispered, officially, to the police so far, and now the chances were that they wouldn’t be. There hadn’t been any kidnaping, and there wasn’t going to be any kidnaping charge against Malone.

The world was getting visibly brighter with every passing minute, the ache in his head was promising to go away, it was full and glorious spring outdoors, and at that very moment Tommy came in with a tray of breakfast which she placed on the low coffee table in front of him.

There were eggs fried exactly the way he liked them, pink ham that curled up delicately at the edges, a golden mound of fried potatoes, a plate of crisply hot buttered toast, a jar of strawberry jam, a steaming pot of coffee, and a pitcher of thick, yellow cream.

Half an hour later Malone looked up from the empty dishes and sighed happily. He unwrapped a cigar with loving care, lighted it, and looked appreciatively at the bright-haired, violet-eyed Tommy, at the delightfully comfortable little living room with its gaily patterned curtains, its cheerful prints on the wall, and its big, welcoming chairs. He wished with all his heart that he had nothing at all to do all that day, and quite possibly the next.

Tommy Storm poured herself a second cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and said, “Well?”

“The police are looking for me,” he said with serene unconcern. “And quite probably the whole city of Chicago, if it’s made the newspapers by now. For murder.”

“Fine thing,” she scolded him affectionately. “And you hide out here in my apartment and give a hard-working, if unemployed, chorus girl a bad reputation.”

“Not only that,” he told her blandly, “but probably there’s attempted extortion on the list. And there may still be kidnaping to worry about. Excuse me—”

He called Ma Blodgett again. No, Alberta Commanday didn’t know him from Clark Gable. She didn’t have the faintest notion who’d kidnaped her, and never in her young life had she heard anything of John J. Malone.

The little lawyer breathed a sigh of relief. “Turn her loose,” he ordered.

“She won’t go,” Ma Blodgett said.

Malone swore indignantly into the telephone. “Tell her she’s got to go. Tell her that her mother is worrying herself sick. Tell her the whole city of Chicago is worrying about her. Tell her she’s in danger. Tell her it’s against the law.”

“I did,” Ma Blodgett said. “She won’t go.”

Malone swore again. “Then get a taxi and take her. Don’t tell her where you’re going. Take her somewhere and lose her. Somewhere in the general direction of Lake Forest. Then forget her.”

“Okay,” Ma Blodgett said.

“That takes care of the kidnaping,” Tommy observed. “Ale you going to do anything about the murder?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Malone said. He lapsed into silence, thinking hard. She watched him for a moment, shrugged her shoulders, and went into the next room.

An idea was slowly beginning to form in Malone’s mind. It might work, and it might not. But it was the only idea he had right now. And he’d better start laying the foundation for it this very minute.

He picked up the telephone book and went through it. Marty Budlicek.

CHAPTER 4

A very sleepy and very irritable Sophie Budlicek answered Malone’s caH. Her voice immediately changed to amiable and more than a little anxious when she recognized Malone’s.

Was anything wrong in the office? She’d cleaned in kind of a hurry last night but—

“No, not a thing,” Malone lied cheerfully. Evidently Sophie Budlicek didn’t know what had been going on in that office since she’d cleaned it in the early evening. But for that matter, he reminded himself, neither did he.

He just wanted to know—didn’t Marty have a brother who lived in Waukesha, Wisconsin? Fine. He thought so. Now, just let him talk to Marty.

Marty sounded even more sleepy and even more anxious. Had someone found out about Malone’s occasional misuse of the freight elevator?

No, Malone reassured him, it was nothing like that. He just wanted to give the pair of them a little vacation, starting right now. A visit, in fact, to the brother in Waukesha.

It took a little persuading. There was more than the promise that Marty and Sophie wouldn’t lose their jobs, not with Malone such a close friend of the building superintendent. There was also the mention of a fair-sized sum of money to be paid for the expenses of the trip. Finally there was an appeal to old-time friendship and a reminder of the time he’d gotten young Steve Budlicek out of jail without its costing a cent, to convince them both that they really ought to visit the brother in Waukesha and to do it today.

And it was particularly important, he added, that they should go immediately, before any police officers came around asking questions.

That was the clincher. He could picture Marty Budlicek moving to beat the speed of sound at the merest mention of the police. They had been largely responsible for Marty’s rapid decline from high income brackets as a beer-runner to his present insignificant job of piloting an elevator, an old elevator, in an old building.

“But Malone,” Marty did begin to protest. “I wanted to tell you. Last night—”

“Never mind last night,” Malone said testily. “I’ll talk to you later and explain what’s going on. Has your brother a telephone? Good. His address? Fine. I’ll send you money there.” Where the money was going to come from, he couldn’t even speculate about right now. But he reminded himself of the ravens and Elijah and felt considerably better. “Now, move fast!”

“I’m moving,” Marty said, already breathless. “But Malone-”

“I said, move!” He hung up fast.

Tommy had come back from the bedroom, dressed now in a pale green wool suit that would have made a jaded octogenarian think blissfully about springtime.

“You really are thinking fast,” she commented, “for a man who’s had little or no sleep.” She finished fastening the buttons of her jacket. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not on my way out to call a cop. I’m just going out to get the later papers and see exactly where we stand.”

“We?” Malone said, feeling a little dazed.

“Remember Lee Merchant? You got him out of a murder rap. The girl he married afterward used to be my roommate. They’re very happy.” She smiled at him. “There’s another reason, too, why I like you, but it’ll keep.”

Malone reflected that it wasn’t always true that bread cast upon the waters came back all wet.

The front pages of the newspapers she brought in told him almost everything he needed to know, including the fact that he didn’t photograph well.

“It’s a very old picture,” he told her apologetically. “Taken at the time of the McJackson trial.” He hoped, though, that there wouldn’t be a new one soon, captioned “LAWYER TAKEN INTO CUSTODY,” or “JOHN J. MALONE ARRESTED.”

The body of Leonard Estapoole had been discovered in John J. Malone’s private office by Miss Mary Margaret O’Leary, John J. Malone’s private secretary, shortly after her arrival at the office. It had not been discovered immediately, according to the story, because she had had no occasion to go into the inner office when she first arrived.

The murdered man had been found on the office floor, having been struck on the head by some undetermined heavy object. John J. Malone was being sought by the police for immediate questioning. There would be more details later.

Malone smiled grimly. This, he knew, was just the first, quick flash; the details later would be more damning. The smile became less grim when he thought of Maggie. Her first act on getting to the office was invariably to open the doors and windows of the private office, in the usually vain hope of getting rid of some of the smell of stale cigar smoke. This morning she’d undoubtedly spent the next half-hour or so frantically trying to locate him by telephone, trying all the places he could possibly be, and finally decided she couldn’t postpone discovering the body any longer.

He made a mental note to give Maggie a raise. Or at least to make a determined effort to pay up her back salary.

But nowhere was there any mention of the kidnaping. Nor was there any speculation as to what the late Leonard Estapoole had been doing in John J. Malone’s office in the first place. The gist of it was “Leonard Estapoole Found Murdered, Malone Sought.” He sighed and tossed the paper away.

One thing was certain. He needed to know more, a vast amount more, about the entire Estapoole setup. Carmena Estapoole, ex-Carmena Commanday, ex-Carmena Bordreau, was a person worth investigating. But how, from his present situation, was a matter for serious study.

Suddenly he remembered von Flanagan’s too casual question. Hadn’t Helene known Ted Commanday’s first wife? A rather distant link, but right now the only link he could find.

He looked at Tommy Storm thoughtfully. “I don’t usually ask my hostess if I may make a long-distance call on her telephone when I don’t have the cash on my person to pay for it—” Or anywhere else, right now, he thought.

She grinned. “I don’t usually pick my guests up on West Madison Street corners, either. But you’re Malone, and that makes everything different.”

For a mad moment he considered dropping everything and going back to his idea of staying here for the rest of his natural life. Then she handed the telephone to him and the moment was lost. But not forever, he promised himself.

It was a long time before a very sleepy Jake Justus, roused by the dude ranch manager, answered his phone. Malone remembered suddenly and guiltily about the difference in time. No matter, this concerned at least life or death. He was about to ask for Helene when Jake became very wide awake at the sound of Malone’s voice.

“Thank goodness, Malone. Have you found her?”

Malone blinked and said, “The little girl? She’s all right.”

There was a pause. “What do you mean, little girl? She’s no little girl.”

This time, Malone paused. Then, “Just what are you talking about?”

“Helene,” Jake said, a little stupidly. “I’m talking about Helene. Is she there?”

Malone said, “No,” and wondered what to say next. He started to say, “Is she there?” which was obviously foolish, and finally managed to ask, “Where is she?” It wasn’t exactly in a calm voice, but it was the calmest voice he had.

“I don’t know,” Jake said anxiously. “I thought you were looking for her.”

A number of highly unpleasant convictions were beginning to creep into Malone’s mind, and he could only hope that at least most of them were wrong. He said, “Let’s try to get this straight. Why did you think I was looking for Helene?”

“Because,” Jake said, “I asked you to.”

One of the more unpleasant convictions was that Jake had suddenly and unaccountably gone mad.

At this point Jake said, “Malone, are you crazy?”

The little lawyer drew a long, slow breath. “Let’s deal with each subject as it comes up. When did you ask me to look for Helene, and why?”

“Last night,” Jake said. “In a telegram. Because she isn’t here. Because I don’t know where she is, and I’m worried about her.” From the sound of his voice, he was terrified.

“That explains that,” Malone said with relief. “I simply didn’t get your telegram.” No need to worry Jake right now with his reasons.

“Well, then,” Jake said, a little easier, “Helene went tearing off to Chicago a day or two ago. Some old school friend wanted her to fly back for some kind of special party or something. But she was very mysterious and funny about it. You know Helene.”

Yes, indeed, he did know Helene, and he knew exactly what Jake meant.

“She didn’t come back yesterday,” Jake said, “and I haven’t heard from her. And I tried to reach her and I couldn’t. She hadn’t been seen at the apartment or anywhere else. I called everyone I could think of, and nobody had seen her. Then I tried to call you and I couldn’t find you either, and so I sent a wire to you, and where is she, Malone?” It was an anguished gasp, coming over thousands of miles of wire.

“At the moment,” Malone said, “I don’t know. But don’t worry.” What could have happened to Helene? “I’ll find her,” he promised. And repeated, “And don’t worry.”

“You always say that,” Jake said bitterly. “I’m flying to Chicago. Today. Right now. Right this very minute.”

“Better get dressed first,” Malone said, and hung up.

For a few minutes he sat scowling. It was a very slim chance that Helene might be mixed up in this. Even so, it was enough to worry him. Somebody had to worry, he told himself. And even if Helene weren’t in any way involved in the current problem, she was still missing and, handicapped as he was, he had to start looking for her.

That brought him back to the idea he had been working on since before breakfast. He smiled at Tommy and said, “And now, I’ve got things to do.”

“Whatever they are, you’d better shave first and take a bath,” she told him. “Unless you want to add a vagrancy rap to murder and kidnaping. There’s a razor and things in the bathroom.”

It was an excellent and expensive razor, and so were the rest of the shaving things. Malone looked them over thoughtfully and decided it would be more polite not to remind his hostess that she was all alone in the world.

Half an hour later, not only did the world seem to be a far better place, but he felt almost able to face it. Tommy Storm looked him over critically.

“Outside of the fact that your clothes look as though you’d been sleeping under some stranger’s sofa, you’ll do,” she reassured him. “But what are you going to do about the cops?”

“Avoid them,” Malone said grimly. “Until I can throw them a fish, that is.” There was some fine meaning there, he felt, if he could only take time to explain it.

“Of course,” she said, “you can always wear pink sunglasses or a green beard or something. Unless you can think, quick and offhand, of a better disguise.”

“I can,” he told her cheerfully. “Far better. I’m going to disguise myself as an innocent man.” He smiled at her.

She smiled back. “Malone. I’d like you to spend a night here.”

He stared at her.

“Last night,” »she said. “All of it, and practically all of today.”

He went right on staring.

“And don’t say what you were going to. You were going to say that I couldn’t do that. Well, I can. And I will.”

He finally managed to say, “It may not work. And perjury—” “Not only my reputation,” she said, still smiling, “but my neck, too. All right, Malone. You were here.”

He felt that anything he could say now would be not only inadequate, but probably downright silly. He straightened his tie again, did his best to brush off his hat, and paused at the door to tell her he’d be back, alive and well.

“Don’t ever forget, Malone,” she said slowly, “that I’m on your side now.”

CHAPTER 5

Malone thought that remark over as he went down the steps into the bright sunlight. There was something about it he didn’t quite understand. Understand or, for that matter, like. It hinted just a little at circumstances he didn’t know about yet and would probably learn about under unhappy conditions.

Probably, he tried to console himself, he’d reached that stage of nervous anxiety where everything seemed ominous and threatening. Tommy Storm’s remark had meant nothing more than simple friendliness. Just as Helene’s disappearance had nothing to do with the murder of Leonard Estapoole.

The little lawyer did his best to sell himself that idea, and then reminded himself that right now he had better concentrate on the important task ahead of him.

There was always the chance that a corner cop would recognize him, or a passing prowl car would pick him up. But that was the chance he had to take. He walked to the Drive slowly and leisurely, wearing an air of great unconcern. There was no point, he reasoned, in avoiding the main thoroughfares. If he was going to be picked up, well, he was going to be picked up.

No one noticed him. A fine thing, he thought, almost indignantly. Here a man, wanted as a murder suspect—an important murder suspect—with his picture all over the front page, could go strolling about in broad and sunny daylight, with absolutely no one giving him a second glance. He made a mental note to bring the subject up with von Flanagan the next time they met.

A traffic cop reproved him mildly for starting against the lights when he crossed the Drive. Outside of that, no one spoke to him. He continued on his way and finally turned into a tall apartment building whose address was known from coast to coast, and not too politely.

The elevator operator, who doubled as a bodyguard, greeted him cordially with, “Swell morning, Malone,” and no mention of a little trouble in the morning papers. As usual, the elevator made no stops until it reached the floor that had been occupied for fifteen years by the man who owned a number of varied enterprises, including a profitable string of gambling establishments and, just to make everything homelike, the building itself.

As always, Max Hook welcomed the little lawyer like a long absent friend, and, as always, Malone paused to look around the big room and admire and be amazed at the product of the latest in a long series of interior decorators. This one had gone in heavily for Early Colonial, and Max Hook, a pinkfaced mountain of fat behind the battered, roll-top, golden oak desk that had come with him from back of the Yards, didn’t look as though he liked it.

“Having a little difficulty?” the big gambler asked very casually as Malone sat down.

Malone took out his third cigar of the day and began to unwrap it slowly. “You might call it that. What happened?”

“You ask me?” Max Hook said with faint surprise. “You probably know as much about it as I do.” He took out a violet-tinted, gold-tipped, and probably perfumed cigarette and lit it delicately. “The Commanday kid. Family hasn’t said a word. Nothing about it in any of the newspapers, either. But you know, and I know, and the police and a lot of people and smart operators know that the kid was snatched. She’s been missing since day before yesterday.”

Malone said nothing. If Ma Blodgett had done her stuff promptly and properly, the Commanday kid wasn’t going to be missing long. In fact, she was quite possibly home by now. But there was no point in telling Max Hook everything that he knew. Not at this stage of things, anyway.

“So you got picked as go-between,” Max Hook said. “Why you? Because some of the dirt old man Estapoole had dug up, and had agreed to turn over to you, involved some of your clients.”

It was more of a question than a statement. Malone said nothing, rolling his cigar around in his fingers.

“And because somebody had to be framed,” Max Hook went on, “and you were a likely prospect. Old man Estapoole was laying for you, and everybody knew it. So it would look logical for him to turn up dead in your office. Suddenly dead, not planned ahead dead. And with the stuff he was to turn over to you missing.”

Well, that answered that question. Malone began to feel a little better about not searching Leonard Estapoole’s body when he had the chance. “For a man who hasn’t left his apartment in ten years,” he said admiringly, “you get around.”

“I have sources,” the big man said modestly.

Malone nodded acknowledgment. “The question in my mind,” he said, “is not just why I was picked as the go-between, but who picked me?”

“I know,” Max Hook said. His voice was soft with sympathy. “A guy hates to think some other guy would deliberately frame him like that. I mean, if a guy murders another guy, well, that’s that, but if a guy goes out of his way to frame another guy, that’s bad. Unless,” he added with false cheerfulness, “it was accidental.”

They tacitly left it at that. Malone finally lit his cigar and gave a quick account of what had happened during the night, beginning with the appointment, made by Leonard Estapoole himself, and including the well-timed visit of von Flanagan and his two aides. He omitted only the details of Alberta Commanday’s being planted on him because that angle required a little more private thought, and of Tommy Storm’s rescue because he considered that purely his own business.

“So you see,” he concluded, “sometime during the night someone came back to the office and moved everything back the way it was. Leaving me what might be lightly termed a fugitive from justice. Or maybe a fugitive from injustice. I don’t know.”

“Tough,” Max Hook said. Then he looked at Malone expectantly and waited.

“The point is,” Malone said, “I’ve been framed. And now the only way I can be free to get places and do things is to frame someone else.” He caught Max Hook’s beginning of a scowl and added quickly, “With his consent, of course, and with suitable compensation and protection.” The protection he could manage, the compensation was something he’d have to worry about later.

There was a long and intent silence. Then Max Hook said slowly, “It’s important to me, too, to get a-hold of that stuff old man Estapoole had dug up. There’s a list of nice little business places of mine in there. All nice, quiet little places. I always like to have things nice and quiet. I wouldn’t want to have the managers and the customers bothered, or anything like that. So naturally, Malone, I’d like that list.”

“Easy,” Malone said, with impressive and wholly false confidence. “Just a little business of finding out who took it from Leonard Estapoole’s body, and getting it back.”

There was an even longer and more pregnant silence. At last Max Hook said, “It’s worth a little investment on my part to get it back. I think that other little matter can be fixed up very easily for you, Malone.”

The little lawyer sighed with relief and said, “The rest can be left up to me.”

It took a little time and a little doing. George La Cerra, better known to Malone as Little Georgie the Cherry, came in with a tray of bottles, glasses, and a box of cigars, offered Malone his sympathy and wished him luck, took a few orders from Max Hook, and went away again.

Max Hook mixed himself an appalling-looking pinkish concoction, tasted it, looked at it, poured it in the wastebasket, threw the violet-tinted and gold-tipped cigarette in after it, said, “The hell with that,” ignored the box on the table, accepted one of Malone’s cigars, and poured himself gin with a beer chaser.

“Old man Estapoole was getting to be a real pest,” he said, amiably and sociably. He went into a lengthy and colorful description of the various ways in which the murdered man had been making himself a pest and a menace to good business. Then, with a little encouragement from Malone, he launched into a discourse on the Estapoole family.

Carmena, it appeared, was not only a doll, but a real living doll. For an ex-model and an ex-chorus girl from the old Rialto, the little girl had done right well for herself. Old man Estapoole had been married before, too. No family, though, except a niece and a nephew.

“Another pest, the nephew,” Max Hook said. “Owes dough to at least four of my joints. Never got tough with him because of his uncle, and he knows we wouldn’t. Now, things are going to be a little different.” He said that with a certain grim satisfaction that sent a slight shiver down Malone’s back. “Does all right with the dames, though. He’s a good picker, like his uncle was.”

Malone nodded, only half interested. He recalled that the name of Hammond Estapoole did turn up with unsurprising frequency in the gossip columns.

“Understand the latest one’s a real cutie blonde,” Max Hook said, turning his glass around and around in his hand. “Name of Tommy Storm.”

Malone sat absolutely still and said absolutely nothing. He was beginning to be convinced now that something was extremely wrong, and he didn’t have the faintest idea what it was. The fluffy-haired blonde’s coming along that morning had seemed to be providential, now it was seeming more and more to have been deliberately providential. He had no idea how she had fitted herself into his private puzzle, and even less hope that he was going to like her reasons when he found them out. But the big point was that, at this moment, she constituted his one and only, alibi.

And just how much Max Hook knew about it was another thing he couldn’t figure and didn’t think ought to be brought up in conversation, not right now.

Then Max Hook dropped another casual remark. “Speaking of blondes, what’s going on with Helene and Jake Justus?”

Malone thought over answering that one, too. He finally said noncommittally, “They’re at a dude ranch in Wyoming,” and wondered what Max Hook had in mind.

“Oh,” Max Hook said. He paused. “Funny place for a guy like Jake Justus.”

“Partly business,” Malone said, and let it go at that. What business was Jake’s own affair and none of Max Hook’s. At least it was one thing that had nothing to do with the murder of Leonard Estapoole.

Before he could do much worrying about that, or anything else, Little Georgie came back with a handsome, dark-haired man in a Hollywood style suit whose color came dangerously close to being purple. Malone recognized him as Frank McGinnis, first cousin of Harry (Swiveleye) McGinnis, and occasional business associate of Mike Medinica.

Frank McGinnis had had the situation explained to him and was willing to go along with the gag, for suitable compensation to be supplied by Max Hook, and a legal document telling the whole story and promising absolute protection, to be drawn up and signed by Malone and kept in Max Hook’s safe. But only, he made very plain, for twenty-four hours, or less. The longest he’d ever been in jail was one day, and he didn’t want to spoil his record.

Well, twenty-four hours was better than nothing, Malone reminded himself. If he couldn’t straighten things out in that time, he could always go to Guatemala and, he reminded himself sternly, he might as well.

“You’ll be picked up at your hotel on a tip,” Malone explained to Frank McGinnis. “The elevator operator in my office building will recognize you. Then you’ll break down and talk. Von Flanagan then will promise you the world and an all-expense luxury-liner round trip to Mars, if you talk. He’ll want to know who hired you.”

“Who did?” Frank McGinnis asked.

“Nobody,” Malone said. “This was a free-lance operation. You’d heard that Leonard Estapoole had all this dirt he’d dug up, and you wanted it. You wanted to get anything about you that just might be in his collection, and you knew you could peddle the rest, very profitably, to your pals and elsewhere. Are you following me so far?”

“Every inch of the way,” the handsome man said cheerfully.

“You’d heard that Leonard Estapoole was meeting me, at my office. You got there sometime after midnight—not much after. Nobody was around. He was evidently waiting for me. There was an argument, and he put up a struggle—not much of a one. You bashed him on the head. Maybe you didn’t mean to hit him so hard. Maybe you didn’t think he was dead. I leave that to you. Anyway, you got the envelope, went home, and completely destroyed it. Got it?”

“Got it,” Frank McGinnis said. He grinned again.

There was a brief three-way discussion as to whether the twenty-four hours should begin right now, or when the cops arrived to pick him up on the tip that would be artfully planted by Little Georgie. Malone and Max Hook outvoted him, and the deal was made.

“Just act natural,” Malone said.

Then there remained the minor matter of sending Little Georgie up to Waukesha to contact Marty Budlicek, who was probably thoroughly confused and worried by now. Again there was a little matter of compensation, which Max Hook handled on a slightly smaller scale than Frank McGinnis’.

The instructions were simple ones. Marty Budlicek had taken Leonard Estapoole, or someone closely resembling him, up to Malone’s floor shortly after midnight. A while later—he would be very vague about times—he’d taken up someone closely resembling Frank McGinnis. Frank McGinnis had come down a little later. He, Marty Budlicek, had gone off duty and gone to sleep. Today he’d taken the day off and he and his wife had gone to visit his brother in Waukesha. But when the morning papers had come out, he’d realized that he ought to come straight back and tell the police what he knew, like a good citizen.

“You’d better make sure he rehearses it,” Malone told Little Georgie. “It’s pretty complicated for Marty.”

Just to make everything secure, he telephoned Marty Budlicek in Waukesha and told him everything, what and whom to expect, and just what to do.

“Anything,” the anxious Marty said. “Anything you say, Malone. But listen a minute, Malone—”

Malone said he didn’t have a minute right now, and whatever it was, it could wait.

He hung up the phone, crushed out his cigar, started to unwrap a fresh cigar and said, “Twenty-four hours isn’t much, but it’ll have to do. So don’t worry.” He poured another gin-and-beer, and prepared to be on his way.

“Who worries?” Max Hook said. But he added, “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

Malone didn’t have the faintest idea in the world, and wasn’t going to say so. “Sleep,” he said, and blinked drowsily.

He could use a little compensation himself right now, he considered. As long as the police were looking for him, there wasn’t any way for Maggie to get money to him, and none for her to get to him even if there had been a way. Only yesterday she’d reminded him of the pitiful condition of not only the bank account, but of the Emergency Fund. There was always Joe the Angel, but getting to him was out of the question now too. And he was damned if he was going to ask Max Hook.

“You’ll be working for me as well as for yourself,” the big gambler said. “So I should pay half the expenses.”

Malone murmured something appreciative, and politely refrained from glancing at the folded bills before slipping them into his pocket.

Twenty-four hours. No, it wasn’t much. Maybe some remote Pacific isle would be a pleasanter place than Guatemala to spend his declining years.

CHAPTER 6

After a little consideration, Malone decided to take a chance on riding a taxicab. Even if the driver did know him by sight, and a remarkably large number of drivers did, there was a far better than even possibility that he would be a good guy and a pal and refrain from as much as mentioning the headlines in the morning papers.

He happened to draw an unfamiliar one, however, and gave the address of Tommy Storm’s apartment.

Halfway there he looked at the compensation Max Hook had slipped him and told the driver to stop at a liquor store. Not only did he dislike the idea of returning to Tommy Storm empty-handed, but he wasn’t going to ask a strange cab driver to change a hundred-dollar bill, not on a morning when he was doing his best to remain inconspicuous.

The store’s lone clerk was leaning on his elbows, reading an early edition of an afternoon paper when Malone went in. But it was too late to turn around now.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, straightening up and smiling.

Malone made a second stop at a florist’s for an armful of roses. There he met an equally gratifying but unflattering lack of recognition.

At the corner of Walton Place the cab became momentarily involved in a traffic jam. The cab driver took advantage of the pause to comment on the murder of Leonard Estapoole, the fact that from all accounts, Leonard Estapoole had been going around asking for it, but that it was a terrible thing just the same.

Malone agreed with him that it was, indeed, a terrible thing.

The traffic jam melted and the cab moved on. The driver went on to remark that he, for one, didn’t believe that lawyer had had anything to do with it. “That John J. Malone, if he was that sore at anybody, he wouldn’t bother with murder. He’d think of something else, something real smart.”

“You know him?” Malone asked timidly.

“Know him!” the driver said, stopping expertly in front of the remodeled mansion. “I should say I do know him! What a guy—and what a spender! Why, the tips that guy gives—!”

Malone tipped him a dollar and fled up the steps, telling himself that the front-page newspaper photograph had evidently been even worse than he’d thought.

Inside the shelter of the apartment, he looked at Tommy Storm thoughtfully. She’d been properly appreciative of his small offerings, and had installed him in the most comfortable chair, with a drink and an ash tray at his elbow. What was more, she had tactfully refrained from asking questions about where he had been and what he had done, and what he intended to do next. He decided that before too long he would follow up the small offerings with something more substantial, preferably from Van Cleef and Arpels.

There was nothing that could be done immediately. It was going to take a little time for the carefully planted tip to reach the proper ears, for Frank McGinnis to be picked up at his hotel, for Marty Budlicek to come down from Waukesha and give his clinching testimony, and most of all, for Frank McGinnis to be properly coaxed into breaking down and telling everything.

Meantime, here he was, he reminded himself, in a cozy little nest, with spring sunlight streaming in the windows. He had a king-size breakfast under his belt, a gin-and-beer at his elbow, and a cigar in his hand. In a little while he wouldn’t have anything in the world to worry about, at least for twenty-four hours. He had cash money in his pockets; of course eventually he’d have to earn it, but eventually was not right now. And he had time to kill with an unusually delightful little blonde.

He knew he should relax and be content. But he also knew that he couldn’t do either one.

He got up and began to prowl around the room, restlessly and aimlessly. Too many distinct and different things were wrong, not the least of them being Helene’s unaccountable disappearance.

And what had to be accomplished in the next twenty-four hours suddenly loomed up as an almost insurmountable problem. Someone had lured the late Leonard Estapoole to his office through the kidnaping of his stepchild, killed him, taken the dangerous folder of papers—always assuming that Leonard Estapoole had had it with him—and arranged what should have been a foolproof frame. That it hadn’t been successful, Malone thought modestly, was entirely due to a hunch, quick thinking, and some rare good luck.

It was a double frame, he meditated, and built to fit him as snugly as a pair of storm windows. First, the murder of Leonard Estapoole. Then the planting on him of the kidnaped Alberta Commanday. And finally, the little business of knocking him out and parking him in a West Madison Street hotel. That last was to have tied everything very nicely together. The clerk at the hotel wasn’t going to remember him, and the “friend” who had brought him in just wasn’t going to be found. And in any case, there would be the question of just what time he had arrived at the hotel.

The purpose of knocking him cold and tucking him securely away for the rest of the night had been not only to keep him from providing himself—however unknowingly—with an alibi, but, since the original frame hadn’t worked, to keep him from removing the body of the late Leonard Estapoole and the accompanying evidence for a second time, and more permanently.

So, he concluded, it was a damned good thing that he was alert, quick thinking, agile, sagacious, and well nigh brilliant. Industrious, too, he added modestly.

“Another five minutes of this,” Tommy Storm observed amiably, “and you’ll owe me for a new rug.”

He smiled at her warmly and sat down.

It was pure coincidence, he mused, that she was a girl-friend of Hammond Estapoole. Lots and lots of blondes undoubtedly were. It was likewise nothing in the world but coincidence that she’d just happened to be in West Madison Street at that hour of the morning. She’d just been going home from a very late party somewhere in the suburbs, and maybe her taxi driver had gotten lost. And the fact that she’d stopped for a newspaper at that particular corner was, without question, one of the happiest coincidences of his lifetime.

Her offering him a ride, and her inviting him in for breakfast, had been nothing more than perfect hospitality and the deed of a very good Samaritan. No, there was nothing even remotely suspicious, let alone sinister, about the situation, and even if there had been, this was no time to worry about it. Besides, she was smiling at him right now. Malone sighed happily.

The sun was just getting around to setting before Malone began to wonder about the unexplained remark she’d made. “Don’t ever forget, Malone—I’m on your side, now.” What had she meant by that? But this was obviously no time to bring it up.

Spring twilight was settling down comfortably over the gardened back yard seen through her windows when she went out for the evening papers. Malone took one look at the front page and began to breathe easier.

Everything had fallen into place perfectly and according to plan. The astute police, acting on an undisclosed source of information, had brought one Frank McGinnis, who gave his occupation as “broker” and his age as thirty-four, in for questioning. The night elevator operator of Malone’s office building had been located near Milwaukee at the home of his brother, Joe Budlicek, where he had been preparing to hurry back to Chicago, having realized that he had been practically a witness to murder.

Now under police protection, Marty Budlicek had told of taking Leonard Estapoole up to Malone’s office floor very late in the evening, and of taking Frank McGinnis up a little later. McGinnis had come down again, but not Estapoole. He positively identified McGinnis. No one else had entered or left the building after John J. Malone had gone out about eleven o’clock, in the company of Lieutenant Daniel von Flanagan.

Von Flanagan had explained his presence to the press with the statement that he and John J. Malone were old friends, and that the visit had been of a purely personal nature.

Faced with the elevator operator and his story, Frank McGinnis had then given up. Yes, he’d gone to Malone’s office. He had been following Leonard Estapoole. He’d been hearing about the anti-everything information Leonard Estapoole had dug up at his own expense, and he wanted to get his hands on it. Murder, though, had been the farthest thing from his mind.

His idea had been simply to hold up Leonard Estapoole, get the papers or whatever else he had, tear up anything pertaining to himself that might be included, and peddle the rest among his friends and, as he put it, business associates. For that reason only he’d trailed Leonard Estapoole right to John J. Malone’s private office. But the solid citizen and sterling character had made a dive at him unexpectedly and, as the newspaper quoted it, in a threatening manner. He’d grabbed up the first thing he could reach—a bronze Buddha paperweight—and thrown it in self-protection.

He hadn’t even known Leonard Estapoole was dead until he read about it in the newspapers.

It was, he maintained stoutly, purely self-defense.

And that was that.

Malone put down the paper, yawned, and said, “Frank McGinnis takes an even worse newspaper picture than I do.” He stretched, reached for a cigar, and added, “I’d better go right down and go to work as his attorney. Clearly, self-defense. And at the very worst, obviously manslaughter.”

Tommy’s violet eyes widened another fraction of an inch. “You’re really going to do just that?”

“He seems to need a good lawyer,” Malone said. “In fact, he needs the best.”

On a sudden impulse, he picked up the telephone, dialed police headquarters, and asked for von Flanagan. The voice that came out of the receiver was an indignant roar.

“Malone! Where the hell are you? Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m right here,” Malone told him cheerfully. “I’ve been here right along. What’s this about a murder in my office? Where were the police? What do we pay taxes for?”

For a moment, the receiver threatened to melt in Malone’s hand.

“I’ve been trying to reach you since this morning,” von Flanagan finally calmed down enough to say coherently. “Your hotel—your office—Joe the Angel’s—”

“Simmer down,” Malone said. “Simmer down. You just tried the wrong places, that’s all. Fact is, it got a little late out last night, after I left you. So today I’ve been catching up on some lost sleep, while you let murders go ahead and happen right in my office.”

“Damn it, Malone, where are you?”

Malone asked with his eyebrows if it was all right to reveal where he was, and Tommy Storm answered with her eyes that it certainly was and to go right ahead. He said into the telephone, “I’m in Tommy Storm’s apartment on Walton Place.” “Get right down here,” von Flanagan snapped at him. “Right away. No, wait, Malone.” He paused. “Meet me in your office. And I mean fast.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Malone said and hung up. He grinned wickedly at the telephone and said, “In just about the time it takes for him to look up the number in the telephone book, he’s going to call right back.”

Roughly two minutes later, he did. “Malone?”

“Yes?”

“I just thought—Oh, never mind. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

The receiver clicked dead again.

“A skeptical and cautious character,” Malone said, almost gaily. “Well, at least he’s convinced now that I’m really here.”

“I hope you know what you’re going to do, Malone,” Tommy Storm said, a shade apprehensively.

“So do I,” Malone said. He looked thoughtfully at the telephone. There was one thing he’d better check on, just to be on the safe side. He called Ma Blodgett.

There was instant relief in her voice when she recognized his.

“Good thing you called, Malone. She came back.”

Malone swore softly into the telephone.

“All the way from Howard Street,” Ma Blodgett said. “Just a little while ago, she came back. Now she won’t go again.”

This time, Malone swore with more enthusiasm. “I’ll take care of her,” he said at last, wondering just how. “Keep her there until I can tend to it.”

“Can’t do anything else,” Ma Blodgett said, and hung up.

The little lawyer unwrapped a cigar and scowled at it. “I’m still a kidnaper. How the hell do you get a kidnap victim to go home when she won’t go?” That was a problem to be dealt with later, though. Right now, other things were immediate and pressing. And the bruise under his eye was beginning to throb again, and even his bones were complaining with weariness. He sighed, and poured himself another gin.

If Tommy Storm was going to volunteer any information, right now was the time for her to do it. He waited. She didn’t.

“Well,” he said at last, and hesitantly, “thank you for the hospitality. And the alibi.” He finished his gin, set the glass down hard, and said explosively, “Damn it all, what did you mean this morning—that you were on my side now?”

“Just exactly that.” She put her cigarette out, looked at it, and nervously lighted a new one. Suddenly she looked up at him. “All right, Malone. I told you the girl Lee Merchant married was my best pal. Let’s say I heard a rumor around town you might be in some kind of a jam, last night or this morning, and thought I’d keep an eye on you and see if you might need a helping hand. You did. So shall we leave it at that, Malone?”

He looked hard at her for a moment. “Yes. Let’s leave it at that.”

There were any number of questions he wanted to ask. For instance, there was the matter of Hammond Estapoole. But none of his questions seemed to be quite the proper etiquette, under the circumstances, and he was thinking of considerably more than a mere business of infringing on hospitality.

But he’d be seeing her again, and not too much later, either. And in the meantime it wouldn’t be against the rules of perfect behavior to pick up a little discreet information here and there. He mentally measured her wrist for something suitable in the way of a more complete “thank you” and was on his way.

CHAPTER 7

A pale and frightened relief elevator attendant told him, in a quite unnecessary whisper, that the police were waiting for him in his office. The police and, he added, quite a lot of other people.

The other people included a white and anxious Maggie, a worried-looking Marty Budlicek, and a professionally dour Frank McGinnis. Malone paused at the door and took a quick glance around the private office.

There were chalk marks on the floor where the late Leonard Estapoole’s body had been. The little lawyer glanced at them and then glanced away delicately. The head, he observed, had been in the exact spot where he had adroitly spilled the gin. Whoever had reset the scene last night had done a very expert and exact job, and Malone admired it. Only one detail was missing, and that was the little bronze Buddha, evidently taken away as evidence.

“No reporters?” he said pleasantly, coming in.

Von Flanagan mopped his brow with a slightly soiled and damp-looking handkerchief. “This here is private,” he said. He looked unhappily at Malone. “This isn’t just a nice, quiet, simple little murder, Malone. This is a big murder. This guy Estapoole was a very important personage. Everybody has been on my neck this morning. Everybody. And where have you been all this time? Sleeping.”

“I was tired,” Malone said. He relit his cigar. Somehow he managed to catch Maggie’s eye for a smile, and to signal Marty Budlicek with an assurance he didn’t come anywhere near feeling.

“But it happened right here in your office,” von Flanagan said accusingly.

“Is that my fault?” He gave von Flanagan an indignant glare. “Where were the police while this was going on? I ought to sue the city. Look at that rug!”

Before von Flanagan could catch his breath and think of an answer, Maggie said, “Malone, I didn’t know what to do. I went into your office to leave some papers on your desk—I don’t know exactly what time it was—”

“Nine forty-six,” Officer Scanlon said.

Malone beamed at him approvingly. “Nice to see you again. You too, Klutchetsky. How was the bowling?”

“Fair,” Klutchetsky said.

“Damn it,” von Flanagan began angrily. “We’re here on business—”

“Malone,” Maggie went on fast, “I found the body. And—well, I didn’t know what to do. And I didn’t know where you were. So I called the police.”

“Quite right,” Malone said. His eyes met hers in a long look of silent appreciation for the time she’d spent trying to reach him before she called the police. “Always call the cops when you find a body, Maggie. That’s one of the first rules of the book.”

He tossed his hat inaccurately toward the hatrack, and sat down behind his desk, taking full command of the situation. “But it’s too bad you weren’t able to reach me, and I regret it. This young man should have had an attorney with him right at the beginning. Then he wouldn’t have been bullied and browbeaten into making a confession under duress.”

“He did no such thing,” von Flanagan said furiously. “Nobody laid a finger on him. Nobody said anything to him.” He drew in a long, slow breath. “However, confronted with the incontrovertible evidence of an unimpeachable witness placing him at the scene of the crime, he made a voluntary confession.”

Malone said admiringly, “Wow!”

“And besides,” von Flanagan said, in a very cross voice, “you’re not his lawyer.”

“I am now,” Malone said calmly. He looked reassuringly at Frank McGinnis and said, “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Mr. Malone—” Marty Budlicek began anxiously.

Malone gestured him to silence with a wave of his cigar. “Later, Marty, later.” He scowled disapprovingly at von Flanagan and said, “Is there any purpose in this little gathering here, or is it purely social?”

“Plenty of purpose,” von Flanagan said. “Frank here is gonna show us just how he done it. And seeing as how it is your office, we thought you would appreciate being here.”

“My office and my client,” Malone said. He turned to Marty Budlicek and said, choosing his words carefully, “And just what did you tell the police?”

Marty looked very unhappy. He hesitated a moment, caught Malone’s warning look, and said, “Just what happened, Malone. Alter you and this other fella—von Flanagan—after you went out. It was quite a little while after. This guy that was killed, real skinny guy he was, he come up. Got off the floor below this. Guess he must of walked up. Then this here fella—” he pointed at the glum-faced Frank McGinnis—“he come up and he got off the floor below too. Guess he must of walked up likewise. Right behind the first fella, he was.”

“See?” von Flanagan said triumphantly.

“I do,” Malone said. “And you keep out of this.” Von Flanagan momentarily forgot he was the police officer doing the questioning, and subsided almost apologetically. “And then what, Marty?” Malone asked.

“Well, this here fella—” again he pointed at Frank McGinnis—“he come down again after a while. But the other fella, he never did come down.”

“No, Marty,” Malone said very softly. “He never did.”

There was a little silence.

“Look here,” von Flanagan said, suddenly remembering who he was, “when this guy here came down, how did he seem? I mean, was he in a hurry, or excited, or anything like that?”

“You mean, did he act like he’d just killed the other fella?” Marty Budlicek asked. “Huh-uh. He just come right down.”

The big police officer looked disappointed for only a moment, then highly pleased. “See, Malone? He didn’t show any signs of emotion whatever. Just a cold-blooded killer.” Malone said three very rude words.

“Malone,” Marty Budlicek began again, even more anxiously, “Mr. Malone, listen—” The little elevator man turned pleadingly to von Flanagan. “Can I see Mr. Malone alone for just one minute?”

“No,” von Flanagan said.

“Stop picking on him,” Malone said. “He’s not the one under arrest. He’s the witness, remember? But never mind. I know what he wants to say anyhow. He’s scared to death because he’s mixed up in a killing. His information led you to make an arrest. And how does he know that between now and the time of the trial—assuming you can make this absurd charge stick—he won’t be killed, or his wife won’t be killed, or his little home won’t be dynamited—”

“The police,” von Flanagan said stiffly, “always give proper protection.”

Malone snorted. “The police,” he said in a very nasty voice, “did one hell of a fine job of protecting my carpet!”

“Now look here, Malone—” von Flanagan began.

Malone ignored him. “Don’t worry, Marty,” he said soothingly. “In an important case like this—a very important case like this—with a big shot like Mr. Leonard Estapoole found murdered, and a lot of political implications involving a lot of people, the police really do protect their witnesses.”

Von Flanagan opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.

“The police,” Malone went on, flicking an ash from his cigar, “put up their important witnesses—like you and Sophie, for instance—in some fine, luxurious hotel, under an assumed name, and with a twenty-four-hour police guard.”

Marty Budlicek’s watery blue eyes widened incredulously.

“You have to stay there, of course,” Malone said, “but you have all kinds of comforts. Send out for anything you want to eat and drink. Have a radio and a TV set installed. The works, Marty.”

Von Flanagan glared at Malone, who glared right back at him. It was Malone who won.

“Oh, all right,” von Flanagan said wearily. “Klutchetsky, you see to it.”

Marty Budlicek gulped twice and said, “Yes, but Malone—”

“Another time,” Malone said. “Right now, I want to hear what kind of fantastic story these cops have rigged up.”

“Fantastic, hell!” von Flanagan said. His face had been slowly turning a deep magenta. Now it was working toward purple. “It’s his story. Let him tell it.”

“Go ahead,” Malone told Frank McGinnis.

“It was self-defense,” Frank McGinnis said, and then clammed up.

“Go on,” von Flanagan said in exasperation. “Go on!” He gave Malone a cold look. “And you keep out of this!” He turned back to his prisoner and said, “Leonard Estapoole had an envelope full of valuable papers with detailed information that might—that would—get you and your pals in a lot of hot water, right?”

“It was self-defense,” Frank McGinnis said.

“You wanted those papers, didn’t you? You had to have those papers? You didn’t want them just to protect yourself, but because you could make a little money off them, right?”

Frank McGinnis began examining his fingernails with an air of complete absorption.

Von Flanagan drew in his breath. “You’d been following Leonard Estapoole, looking for a chance to get that envelope away from him, weren’t you?”

Frank McGinnis yawned.

“You followed him here to this building. You watched the elevator indicator and saw where he got out. Then you took the elevator to the same floor. You realized that he had climbed the stairs to the floor above. Or maybe you knew where he was going. So you climbed the stairs to the next floor. You saw that he’d gone into this office. So you came on into this office.”

Von Flanagan’s eyes gleamed. Frank McGinnis varied his routine with a mute shrug of his thin shoulders.

“You either did or didn’t pull a gun on him,” von Flanagan went on relentlessly.

This time Frank McGinnis paid enough attention to shake his head.

“All right. Before you had a chance to pull a gun, Leonard Estapoole, realizing what you were up to, tried to protect himself, naturally. There was a struggle. Chairs were overturned. You were afraid he was getting the best of you. So you picked up that heavy, bronze paperweight from the desk. You grabbed it and slugged him with it.” He paused dramatically.

Frank McGinnis said, “Self-defense,” very bored with it all.

“A nice story,” Malone said approvingly. He paused and looked at Frank McGinnis. “And with all that fuss and bother—not to mention your having to defend yourself—you didn’t get the papers after all, did you?” It was more or less of a question.

Frank McGinnis made a wide and highly expressive gesture indicating not only the total absence of any papers, but making very plain exactly what he thought of the whole proceedings.

“Leonard Estapoole probably expected just some such attempt, and has all this valuable information put away in a safe place,” von Flanagan grumbled.

“That may be, and it may not be,” Malone said. “And right now, it doesn’t matter too much. What does matter is that this is as clear a case of self-defense as I ever saw, in a lifetime of practice. Why, just look at it! My client here was fighting for his life!”

He stood up from behind his desk. “Leonard Estapoole wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t exactly an old one, either. And he probably kept himself in the best of physical condition. Easily more than a match for my friend McGinnis, here. And for all McGinnis knew, he was armed. It would have been the logical thing to assume.”

He warmed to his subject as he went on. “A man carrying valuable documents—highly incriminating documents—and alone at night, would almost certainly be armed. My client felt sure that he was armed. Why, the chances are that Leonard Estapoole happened to make some move which caused my client to think he was reaching for a gun. Isn’t that so, McGinnis? Didn’t you think Estapoole was reaching for a gun?”

Frank McGinnis nodded with unbounded enthusiasm and said, “Sure thing, Malone.”

“There you have it,” Malone said in triumph. “My client, battling to save his life, was sure he saw his adversary, Leonard Estapoole, reaching for his gun. In sheer desperation he clutched at the first object that came to hand—it happened to be a bronze Buddha paperweight—and struck a blow in self-defense. Not a blow intended to kill, mind you, but in self-defense.” He paused and mopped at his brow with his pocket handkerchief.

Von Flanagan made an elaborate pretense of looking all around the room, behind the door, and even under the desk. “Funny thing,” he said nastily, “I could have sworn there was a jury in here somewhere.”

“Just as you could have sworn,” Malone told him blandly, “there was a case against my client in here somewhere. I’m sorry. But that’s the way it was, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

The big police officer shrugged his shoulders. “What happens when it gets to a courtroom,” he said, “is not in my department.”

“If it ever gets to a courtroom,” the little lawyer said, with serene confidence. “I’ll have him out in—” he consulted his watch—“considerably less than twenty-four hours from now. And now if you don’t mind—I’d like to use my office for a while.”

Von Flanagan shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Klutchetsky, you and Scanlon take the prisoner down in the car. And be careful with him.”

“He won’t try to escape,” Malone said coolly. “Not with a lawyer like he’s got.”

“And take this little guy along too,” von Flanagan said, ignoring Malone. “Get him and his wife put up in a nice hotel. Put a guard on’em. That’s all.”

He waited until they had gone, and then turned to Malone. “No hard feelings, Malone?”

“Hell, no,” Malone said. “You got a suspect, I got a client. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t try to stick me for a commission.”

“That wouldn’t be legal,” von Flanagan said absent-mindedly. “Funny thing, it happening right here in your office, isn’t it?”

Malone agreed that, yes, it was a very funny thing.

“And right after we’d gone out, too,” von Flanagan said, musing. “And right after we’d been talking about Estapoole and the rumor that he was coming to see you. Remember?”

Malone did indeed remember.

“And he did come to see you, and he got murdered.” Von Flanagan shook his head and sighed.

“Small world,” Malone said. “Good thing I was with you at the time it must have happened.” He smiled pleasantly.

“Oh,” von Flanagan said, shocked. “I never would have suspected you, Malone. Never. The early newspapers may have had some wild kind of story, but it didn’t mean a thing. I never would of given out such a story.”

“Of course not,” Malone said warmly.

“Funny thing though, about the kid. Estapoole’s stepkid, I mean. Nothing ever has been said anywhere, officially. Maybe the whole thing was just a rumor. But it was a pretty definite rumor that she’d been snatched.”

He paused and looked thoughtfully at Malone. “Gadenski, he’s in Missing Persons now, traced things down a little, unofficially of course. Seems the kid was last seen with an unidentified but gorgeous blonde.”

Malone said wearily, “I know a lot of blondes.” He thought about several of them. “Where was this, and when?”

“Day before yesterday. At the Museum in Jackson Park. Then they both disappeared. At the coal mine.”

Malone blinked, shook his head to clear it fast, and then remembered. The Museum of Science and Industry had a real coal mine on exhibit. “A mine cave-in?” he suggested helpfully.

Von Flanagan pretended to find that very amusing. Then he went on, “If the kid hadn’t been snatched, and you hadn’t been picked as a go-between, then why would old man Estapoole be coming to see you?”

Malone said nothing. He was thinking that this night’s work was only at the beginning.

At that moment there was a mild commotion in the waiting room. Then the door was flung open and Jake Justus burst into the office, his lean, lightly freckled face pale, his red hair tousled. “I came here straight from the airport,” he said breathlessly. He paused, looked around the office and said, “Where’s my wife?”

“She’s all right,” Malone said quickly. “I don’t know where she is yet, but don’t worry—”

Jake stared at them, wild-eyed. “What’s been going on? I saw a newspaper—”

Von Flanagan and Malone both tried to tell him simultaneously, each with a slightly different version. All that came out clearly was the word “murder,” and a few names.

“Estapoole!” Jake said. “Malone! That’s the name of the people Helene flew east to see!”

CHAPTER 8

Malone closed his eyes for a moment and tried to imagine that he was somewhere else, preferably some place in the South Seas, and to pretend that this was another time, another day, perhaps even another year. This was the just one more thing that was all he needed to make life not only complicated beyond belief, but beyond endurance. It was, he informed himself, the last straw that broke the drowning man’s back.

Jake and von Flanagan were just standing there, staring stupidly at each other, saying nothing. At last Malone decided that eventually somebody had to speak first, and it might as well be he.

“We’ve had a little murder here,” he said.

“So I read,” Jake said. He was beginning to get the idea that what he had to discuss with Malone was better saved for private conversation.

“Clearest case of self-defense I ever saw,” Malone said. “Man was fighting for his life. Frank McGinnis, I mean.” He shook his head in a kind of awe. “Never would have dreamed old Leonard Estapoole had it in him!”

Von Flanagan found a word to say. Just one, but he roared it. Then he stalked to the door and went out, slamming it until it shook. Before Jake or Malone could speak, he had opened it again. “Did you say your wife is missing?”

Jake nodded, a little dazed.

“Good,” von Flanagan growled. “Then there’s one less person to make life hard for me!” He slammed the door a second time.

“Touchy, isn’t he?” Malone said. He sighed. “I can’t altogether blame him.” He paused, thought fast, and then said, a little lamely, “He’s had a busy day.”

“He must have had,” Jake said grimly. “So have I. Malone, just what did happen here?”

Malone hesitated a moment. He knew he could trust Jake to be helpful. That was the whole trouble. If he could only trust Jake not to be helpful—

He sighed deeply, and decided to tell Jake the story exactly as it had appeared to von Flanagan. When he had finished, Jake thought the whole thing over, shook his head sadly and said, “It’s a mess.”

“You can double and redouble that remark,” Malone said. “Now, what’s happened to Helene?”

“If I knew,” Jake said wildly, “if I only knew, do you think I’d be here, instead of back on that silly dude ranch in that outlandish state of Wyoming?”

“I never knew why you were in Wyoming in the first place,” Malone reminded him.

This time, it was Jake who sighed. “To try and sign up Nelle Brown for a television series before anybody else does,” Jake said. “She’s still beautiful, she can still outsing practically anyone I know, and besides, she’s the only one the prospective sponsor wants.” He added, “She sent you her love.”

Malone smiled reminiscently. “It’s been a long time.” His mind went back to those days when Jake was doing his best to marry Helene, and being interrupted by a little of everything, including murder. “Frankly,” he said, “there are times when I wish you were still a press agent.”

“There are times,” Jake said, the grim note coming back, “when I wish I were still a babe in arms and had it all to do over again. I’d never let Helene out of my sight for more than five minutes.”

“All right,” Malone said, “tell me just what happened.” He added automatically, “And don’t worry.”

“Me, worry?” Jake said, looking half out of his mind. He drew a long breath. “Day before yesterday—” he paused—“day before day before yesterday. She got this telegram and said she had to go tearing back to Chicago for a day. She said it was a party. I asked her who it was. She said it was the Estapooles.” He paused again. “She said it was a special kind of a party.”

“Apparently it was,” Malone said, and this time his voice was grim. “A very special kind of a party.”

“Malone, what are you going to do?”

“Find her,” Malone said, a little wearily.

“How?”

“Never mind,” Malone said. No point in telling Jake that he didn’t know. Certainly not right now. He looked thoughtfully at his visitor. The tall, red-haired man was swaying on his feet. “But I’ll start at Joe the Angel’s. It’s as good a place as any to start for anywhere.” He remembered everything that had happened since the last time he started from Joe the Angel’s, the night before. Oh well, a run of bad luck couldn’t last forever.

Maggie came into the office, dressed to go home. “If you don’t need me any more—” she began. She knew perfectly well he didn’t. “Malone, I thought—” Her voice broke off. “You did have an appointment with him. About the—child.”

“I know,” Malone said.

“This morning when I walked in and—saw him—I thought you—” Again her voice broke off. “I didn’t know what to think. I stalled. I tried to reach you, Malone. I tried to call every place I thought you might be. No luck, anywhere. I was frantic. Then I finally had to give in and call the police—” Her eyes and her voice were mournfully apologetic.

“You did right,” Malone said, trying for a really big smile. “And remind me to give you a raise in pay.”

She managed to smile back. “Just remind yourself to pay me once in a while. And by the way, Malone—”

“Whatever it is,” he told her, “don’t bother me with it now.” He sat silent for a few minutes. For a while he considered telling them everything that had happened to him, beginning with his discovery of the body. Then he decided against it once and for all. They both had worries enough of their own.

“And all the time that I was half crazy,” she scolded, “and the police and the newspapers and Heaven knows who else were trying to find you—and that poor little Marty Budlicek trying to find you—and Mrs. Estapoole—all that time, you were somewhere with some blonde?”

He grinned at her. “Blond,” he said, “and with violet eyes. Did you say Mrs. Estapoole?”

“I did. And she’s probably half crazy with worry herself. After all, you were supposed to meet Leonard Estapoole here for one definite reason, remember?”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Malone said, wincing. He rose, put on his hat and coat, and started for the door.

“At least,” she said, with unexpected softness in her voice, “I hope you’re going to go home and get some sleep, now that everything’s settled.”

“Eventually,” he told her. Eventually, when everything did get settled, sometime in the next twenty-odd hours.

“Well, anyway,” Jake said encouragingly, as they waited for the elevator, “you don’t have an unsolved murder on your hands to worry about. You can just concentrate on finding Helene.”

Malone had no answer to that.

The relief night elevator man was still a little shaky, and his eyes still popped slightly. “Thank goodness,” he said explosively, “the police found out who did it, right away. I was real worried there for a while.”

In Joe the Angel’s, they were greeted effusively and with congratulations. “Too bad it had to happen in your office, Malone,” Joe the Angel said happily, “but good the police found who it was right away. Now maybe you have a client, too, Malone?” He reached for glasses.

“Gin-and-beer,” Malone said briefly.

Joe the Angel looked at him anxiously. “You don’t feel good? Something goes wrong?”

“Spoiled my rug,” Malone said, still briefly.

Joe the Angel looked at Jake. “He sulks,” he announced.

“He broods,” Jake said, nodding his head.

Malone wished they would both go away and let him sulk and brood in decent privacy. Then he remembered that Joe the Angel owned the place, and that Jake had problems on his mind too.

“Tell me,” he asked, “do you have any ideas about where Helene might be?”

Jake shook his head. “If I had...” he began.

“I know,” Malone said. “You’d be beside the swimming pool on the silly dude ranch in outlandish Wyoming, talking to Nelle Brown.” He thought about Helene. About Helene missing. He scowled. “There’s probably some perfectly simple little explanation.”

Jake said, “With Helene, it’s the perfectly simple little explanations that worry me.”

Malone nodded. He knew exactly what Jake meant. In his personal knowledge of Helene she’d turned up in a surprising number of places, the majority of them perilous, and always with some perfectly simple little explanation. He gave a deep sigh, finished his drink, and said, “Obviously the place to start looking for a person is the place from which they disappeared from.” He paused, wondering if just one more word might make that into complete sense, decided not, and said, “In other words, I’d better start at the Estapooles’. I’d better start at the Estapooles’ anyway.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jake said promptly.

“You will not,” Malone said, just as promptly. “I’m going specifically to see Mrs. Estapoole. Can’t a man have any privacy? And besides, you need sleep.”

Jake grumbled about that. He did not in the least need sleep. And it was his wife that was missing.

“Take my word for it,” Malone told him, “this time, you’d only be in the way.” He’d especially be in the way while another pressing little problem was attended to. “Tell me more about these Estapooles.”

Jake said slowly, “I don’t know very much. I’ve met the nephew. Quite a boy. And he’s got a sister. Or a cousin. Her name’s Jane. And there’s Mrs. Estapoole, of course, and the little girl. And there’s another stepdaughter, too. I don’t know whose or from what marriage.” He paused and frowned. “It’s a sort of complicated family.”

“It must be,” Malone said in a tired voice. That was just what he needed right now to make everything complete. A complicated family. He looked at his watch and said, “I’ll be on my way, and I hope they haven’t all gone to bed.”

Jake rose too, still protesting weakly at not going along.

“Go home,” Malone said firmly.

“Home? Back to the apartment? And stick around there? With Helene missing?”

“Don’t burst into tears about it,” Malone said. “If she’s still in Chicago, and she probably is, she’s bound to go there sooner or later. Especially if she finds out you’ve come back.”

Jake brightened noticeably. He said, “Call me there. Every little while. Every fifteen minutes.” He fairly bounded toward a taxicab.

Malone watched him worriedly. He could count on Jake’s staying put for a while. Or at least, so he hoped. He hoped too that he would find Helene, and in a hurry. But meantime—

He wished there was a word for “unkidnap.” Because that was what he was going to do to Alberta Commanday. If it took the last breath in his body.

CHAPTER 9

In the taxi on the way to Ma Blodgett’s, Malone tried to sort things out in his mind. Frank McGinnis had done a fine job, an outstanding job, and he admired it. Von Flanagan had taken it all in enthusiastically. Little Marty Budlicek’s bit had helped considerably, too.

Now, the only remaining problem was to find out what had really happened, and dig up the proof of it.

But something bothered him. There was some one thing that he had overlooked, and it bothered him. Somewhere along the line there was just one little detail, one little item, and he couldn’t think what it was, only that it was important, incalculably important.

He tried to relax, and went over the whole thing again from its very beginning, from the telephone call from Leonard Estapoole making the appointment, right up to the present moment. The something still eluded him. He only knew it was important, and that it had to do with the murder itself, and that to save his life, he couldn’t think what it was.

Then there was the problem of Tommy Storm. One of Hammond Estapoole’s girls, Max Hook had said. Just how important a girl, he had no idea as yet. But somehow she had known that there was going to be trouble, that he was going to be in some kind of a jam, and for some unknown reason she’d gone along to lend him a helping hand. Some reason far more important than old friendship with an unemployed chorus girl Malone had once indirectly helped.

The big question was how much more she knew and, even more important, how she happened to know it.

Well, unless something unforeseen happened, he would be having a few casual words with Hammond Estapoole any hour now. Furthermore, unless something downright earth-shaking intervened, he was going to have a lot more words with Tommy Storm, and they weren’t all going to be casual ones. What was more, they weren’t all going to be about murder, either.

Ma Blodgett looked tired and harassed. She also looked unmistakably relieved at the sight of Malone, and turned over to him an ominously silent Alberta Commanday without ceremony, and with no unnecessary comment.

“Say ‘thank you’ to the nice lady for a very pleasant visit,” Malone said.

Alberta made a particularly rude noise.

“Go on, say it,” Malone told her, through clenched teeth. “I warn you.”

Something in the look on his face also warned her. She said, “Thank-you-for-a-very-pleasant-visit-good-by.” She stuck out her tongue and climbed into the waiting taxicab. “Where are we going?”

“Maybe I won’t tell you,” Malone said. “Because wherever we’re going, you’re going to say you don’t like it.” He leaned forward and said to the driver, “Lake Forest, and I’ll look up the address when we get there.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she said.

“That’s too bad,” Malone said.

“I don’t like it there,” Alberta said.

“That’s too bad too,” Malone said. He added, conversationally, “How about Chicago?”

“No,” she stated flatly. “I don’t like it.”

Malone lit his cigar. “Is there any place you do like?”

“No.”

That seemed to take care of that subject. She sat in an infuriated and brooding silence for a few dozen blocks.

“Why do I have to go home?”

“Because you’re not kidnaped any more,” Malone told her. “That’s why.”

She thought that over for a few minutes. “Did they pay a great big ransom?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” Malone said. “They didn’t pay any ransom at all.” “Then I’m still kidnaped.”

“No,” Malone said. “You’re not. That’s the reason you’re going home.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Malone told her brutally, “the kidnapers don’t want you any more, and Ma Blodgett doesn’t want you any more, and I don’t want you any more.”

She took that in her stride and said, “Well anyway, my mama still wants me.”

“I suppose she does,” Malone said. “There’s no accounting for things like that.”

She thought that over too, couldn’t come up with an answer, and finally said, “I don’t like you.”

“That’s good,” Malone said. “That’s fine. That simplifies everything. Now shut up.”

She stayed shut up as far as Wilson Avenue. “If you take me home, I won’t tell who kidnaped me.”

“I don’t care,” Malone said airily. “I didn’t kidnap you, and Ma Blodgett didn’t kidnap you. We rescued you.”

She sniffed at that and said, “Don’t be silly. I know you didn’t.”

Malone looked at her thoughtfully. She was small and owleyed and cross-looking in the dim light. “Anyway,” he hazarded, “I don’t imagine you know who kidnaped you.” Alberta made another very rude noise and said, “Of course I know who.”

The little lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Who was it?”

“I won’t tell you,” she said. “I don’t like you.”

“Go on,” Malone said. “I don’t believe you know anyway.” The look on her small face told him very plainly that she wasn’t going to fall into that kind of a trap.

“In fact,” she said a few blocks later, “I’m not going to tell anybody.”

“Don’t, then,” he said, with elaborate unconcern. “I don’t care.”

She didn’t fall into that trap either.

From then on, with the exception of a few minutes in a corner cigar store looking up Leonard Estapoole’s Lake Forest address, he worked on her steadily, all the way from Howard Street to the massive gateposts that stood on either side of a wide, curving driveway.

He tried bribery, starting with ice cream, and steadily working his way up to cold, hard cash. She simply wasn’t interested.

He appealed to her better nature and good citizenship, pointing out that kidnapers were reprehensible people who ought to be behind bars. That struck her as terribly funny.

With a great deal of will power and self-control, he resisted an impulse to shake her.

He threatened her with great bodily harm, and she pointed out to him that it was against the law to strike helpless little children, so there!

And by that time, they had turned in through the massive gateway and arrived.

Malone paid off the driver and stood looking at the Estapoole house for a few minutes. It was too dark to make out anything definite about its details or its style, but there seemed to be a great deal of it, and what he could see looked elaborate and, at the same time, forbidding, like a highly ornamented jail. What garden he could see looked far more formal than any public park, and almost as large. In his heart, he agreed with Alberta. He didn’t like it either.

A rakish foreign convertible was parked in the driveway, and a short, stocky man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood beside it, giving it what was evidently the last polishing of the day. He stopped what he was doing at the sound of their footsteps on the loose gravel, looked up, and started for Malone on a dead run.

“Hey, you!” he yelped, and dived at Malone.

Malone had looked too, and instinctively he dived at the same moment, lowering his head and butting the chauffeur squarely in the stomach. The chauffeur grunted and sat down hard on the driveway, a surprised look on his face. He started to get up again, and was met with a hard right to the jaw. This time he stayed put.

Alberta took Malone’s hand and said, “I do like you.”

“That,” Malone said, “is tough on both of us.”

The encounter, he thought grimly, was either highly auspicious or highly inauspicious for the interviews ahead of him, and right now he wasn’t sure which. Because whatever it had been, it hadn’t been a case of mistaken identity on either side.

A fat-faced butler, with eyes like two fried eggs, opened the door. He didn’t seem particularly surprised or pleased to see either Alberta or Malone. In fact, he didn’t look as though he would be particularly surprised or pleased at anything.

He ushered Malone impassively into an enormous room off the hall and led Alberta toward another one. Left alone, Malone settled down to wait, and looked around him. It was a pleasant room, but with just a little more of everything than anybody could possibly need. More chairs, more little tables with ash trays, more vases, more lamps, more large, gloomy oil paintings on the walls. There was a carved library table that was big enough to dwarf the large and elaborate bouquet of hothouse flowers that stood on its exact center, and the carved marble fireplace at the far end of the room was big enough to barbecue a medium-sized steer.

It was a room that would have made the average person look and feel small, but when Carmena Estapoole came in, Alberta clinging to her hand, she dominated it.

She was tall and graceful and built like a sultan’s dream of paradise. Her hair was very dark and caught up loosely at her neck, as though it might break loose at any moment and go streaming gloriously down her lovely back. Her eyes were just as dark, just slightly tilted at the corners, and with long, thick eyelashes. Her full lips were like cherries that have been left on the tree just a little bit too long.

Her rustling hostess coat was so deep a purple as to seem almost black, and fitted her invitingly. It seemed to Malone that she should have been holding a huge cornucopia overflowing with ripe fruit.

“That’s him,” Alberta said, pointing. “He rescued me. He fought with people. He almost got killed. But he rescued me. His name is Malone. I like him.”

There was a small hint of a smile at the comers of Carmena Estapoole’s abundant mouth. “We thank you, Mr. Malone.”

“Think nothing of it,” Malone said, wondering if his face had really reddened or if it was just his imagination. He began unwrapping a cigar and wondering what on earth he was going to say to her.

“Now, Alberta, say good night to the gentleman and run upstairs to bed.”

“No,” Alberta said.

Carmena Estapoole said everything to her in one quick, silent look.

“Yes, Mama,” Alberta said, with an expression of pure adoration.

She gave her mother a good-night salute that almost undid the long glowing black hair, advanced on Malone, and threw her thin arms around his neck. To his amazement, he kissed her back.

“I’m greatly flattered,” he said, after she had gone.

“You should be,” she said. “Alberta doesn’t like everybody.”

“So she says,” Malone said.

He looked at her admiringly. Within the past two days her only child had been kidnaped and then, without advance notice or warning, returned to her. Her husband had been murdered. But she remained as composed and unruffled as though this had been just another day.

She said, “Hammond will be here in a moment,” sat.down in a deep green chair near Malone’s, took out a cigarette and fitted it expertly into a slender ivory holder. “I hope Alberta didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“None at all,” Malone said truthfully. “We got along just fine.”

He wondered if this would be the time to tell her that the chauffeur outside was one of the kidnapers of Alberta Com-manday. Or if she knew it already.

CHAPTER 10

Hammond Estapoole came in, a tall, solidly built man who just missed being handsome. He greeted Malone cordially and said, “Hear you brought the baby back. Very nice going.”

He didn’t say it as though Malone had done anything spectacular, or as if he had been particularly worried. He sat down beside Carmena Estapoole, patted her hand, and assumed an air that was considerably more than protective.

Malone studied them thoughtfully. Hammond Estapoole was a good-natured, amiable man, the kind that was equally well liked by men and by women, as well as by dogs, horses, small children, and old ladies. While Carmena was definitely the type of woman to be adored, but not at a distance. Taken together, they made a very nice couple indeed.

He wondered if he ought to start in by saying that, according to every indication, and following the line of every popular plot, they had guiltily conspired to do away with the late Leonard Estapoole and to throw the blame on Malone.

He wondered if he ought to remark to Carmena Estapoole that her probable boy-friend was on very excellent terms with a cuddly little blonde by the name of Tommy Storm.

He wondered if he ought to offer something rather casual but still conventional in the way of condolences.

While he was still wondering what to do or say next, Carmena Estapoole said unexpectedly, “I know you’re thinking that I’m taking all this very calmly, Mr. Malone. But I’m a very calm person by nature. And you have absolutely no idea what it was like, being married to Leonard Estapoole.”

“Frankly, no,” Malone said. “I haven’t.” He finally got his cigar lighted. “Did he beat you?”

She smiled, a little wearily. “I don’t think Leonard Estapoole ever beat anybody in his life, or could have. Or even thought of it. He was always exquisitely kind.” She paused. “I don’t mean that just like it sounds. I mean—sincerely, warmly, genuinely kind.”

“But dull,” Hammond Estapoole said. He added guilelessly, “I liked him, though.”

“We will miss him,” Carmena Estapoole said, and the tone of her voice was more eloquent than a speech or a flood of tears would have been.

Malone nodded and waited patiently.

After a moment she said, “He was kind, he was generous, he was a thoroughly good, honest, virtuous, exasperating man. And he was tolerant. He was terribly, eternally, maddeningly tolerant.” She ran out of words and paused for breath.

“In his own family,” Hammond Estapoole put in.

Malone nodded. “I think I know exactly what you mean. But he wasn’t what I’d call tolerant of graft, or of gambling houses, or of other nefarious establishments.”

Carmena Estapoole flashed him a smile of mutual understanding. “You do see. He didn’t drink and he didn’t smoke. Hammond and I and the girls do. He not only never acted as though he disapproved, but he made a great point of not disapproving.”

“He didn’t gamble,” Hammond Estapoole said. “And I do. But Uncle Leonard never said a word.”

Malone considered remarking that there were other pastimes Hammond engaged in besides gambling, and asking whether or not Leonard Estapoole had known about Tommy Storm.

Hammond beat him to it by saying with a grin, “I likewise chase women and sometimes even catch them. Or don’t you follow the gossip columns?”

Carmena and Hammond Estapoole exchanged a long, warm understanding look which gave every indication that most of Hammond’s chasing was devoted to this one woman, and that Carmena not only knew of occasional little side trips but didn’t object too much. Perhaps, in her way, she too was tolerant. Again the little lawyer wondered just when, and in what way, to bring up the subject of Tommy Storm.

“Uncle Leonard saw to it that I had enough money to spend recklessly and to lose foolishly,” Hammond Estapoole said. “In just the same way that there were cigar and cigarette boxes strewn throughout the house, and an excellent cellar maintained. Which reminds me, Mr. Malone—”

“It would be very pleasant indeed,” Malone said.

A few minutes later he sipped his very fine Scotch, wished it were gin with a beer chaser, and said, “I can see how that much tolerance might, in time, become maddening.” Though, he told himself, the recipient of such tolerance would have to be almost incredibly sensitive.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Carmena said, “but that’s exactly the way it was. Maddening. When cocktails were served before dinner, Leonard would refuse very conspicuously. Not just once and for all time, but three hundred and sixty-five times a year. And when other people would accept, there was that look on his face. You could see that he didn’t approve at all, but that he was saying nothing because he was so tolerant.”

“Or,” Hammond Estapoole said, with a wry grin, “whenever I showed up with a broken pocketbook, five hours late for breakfast, and with a hangover that could be packaged and sold for insecticide, Uncle Leonard would make it very obvious that he noticed everything, and even more obvious that he wasn’t saying one single word.”

Malone thought of the late Leonard Estapoole as he had occasionally seen him in life, of the lipless mouth, the thin nose that always seemed to be trying to locate a not-too-recently-dead mouse, and the pale, peering eyes. Yes, he could imagine exactly how the solid citizen and sterling character could and would do just that, deliberately make his silent, but tolerant, disapproval not only obvious but downright obnoxious. He was beginning to think it was a miracle that Leonard Estapoole had survived as long as he did, and found himself wondering how a lively girl like Carmena Estapoole could have married him in the first place.

She startled him by answering his thought. “I suppose you’re thinking that I married him for his money,” Carmena said. “I’ve got to admit it helped. But I wasn’t exactly poor. Alter all, I had been married before.”

And successfully, Malone remembered. He cleared his throat and said, “Money isn’t everything.”

“No,” Hammond Estapoole said. “But it quiets the nerves.”

“It was really for Alberta,” she said. “Leonard was kind to her. Very kind. And I liked the idea of her growing up to be heiress to a real fortune. Not just adequately rich, a real fortune. She’d never have to go through some of the things that I did.”

Malone could understand that too. He nodded sympathetically and began to wonder if this pleasant but aimless chatter was going to get them anywhere. Obviously, it was up to him to make the first move.

“I’m sorry I roughed up your chauffeur a while back,” he said suddenly. “But I recognized his voice. And I thought I owed him one for planting Alberta on me.”

It was a shot in the dark, but he saw by the way their eyes met that it had been a lucky one.

“Not,” he went on, feeling his way carefully and hopefully, “that I wasn’t pretty sure in my own. mind anyway. The complete lack of publicity about the so-called kidnaping. The fact that neither of you seemed to be particularly upset or excited. And finally, Alberta’s insistence on staying kidnaped.” He smiled at them. “Evidently, she guessed what was going on, and figured she was helping out her mama. But what was your reason?”

He’d expected to drop a bomb, and it was a total failure. It fell with all the impact and reaction of a feather falling on a carpet. Carmena and Hammond looked at each other. Hammond laughed.

“I suspected that you’d guessed,” Carmena said. “Oh well, no harm done, is there? What we did—what I did, really—probably isn’t even in the least bit illegal. Or is it?”

Malone shook his head reassuringly. “But why? And why did you pick on me?”

“At the risk of ruining what’s starting out as a very beautiful friendship,” Hammond said, twirling his glass, “we picked on you only because we figured it would make the whole thing look authentic. Because of your reputation.”

“And what about my reputation?” Malone demanded.

“Be calm,” Hammond Estapoole said. “Nothing’s the matter with it. Except in the eyes of Uncle Leonard. He didn’t seem to approve of your clients or your friends. So, he would naturally assume that you would be, or could be, approached by the kidnapers, to act as their contact man.”

“And there was another reason,” Carmena said, giving him a smile that turned his metabolism up a notch or two. “We knew we could trust you to handle things properly. What’s more important, I knew I could trust you with Alberta.”

Malone said, “I suspect you could trust Alberta in a cave of wildcats. Especially if she didn’t like them. But we’re still not getting my question answered. Why kidnap Alberta in the first place?”

“The papers,” Hammond Estapoole said. “The list of names and addresses and other details of proven gambling establishments. That was to have been the deal.”

“I know that,” Malone growled. “Everybody seems to have known that. But why were you so anxious to get hold of them?”

“Frankly,” Hammond said, “because I owed a lot of money. I still owe a lot of money, since I didn’t succeed in getting the list. Much more than I wanted to ask Uncle Leonard for, with all his wonderful tolerance.”

“I know who you owe it to,” Malone said, nodding. “But don’t let that upset you. As you said, this is the beginning of a very beautiful friendship.” Sometime in the future, the far future, he told himself, he’d have it out with Max Hook for not informing him about this aspect of the situation. “So Max Hook suggested that you get that list, by the well known fair or foul means, and the little matter of the debt would be crossed off the books.”

“That was it,” Hammond said. “I thought it would be easy. The list, along with a lot of other stuff about graft and payoffs and what-have-you, was all in an ordinary legal-sized Manila envelope. He stuck to it like a piece of Scotch Tape. I didn’t have as much chance of lifting it as I would have had of lifting the Hope diamond. And there would have been considerably more hue and cry over it. To say nothing of his probably jumping right to the conclusion that I had it.”

“Leonard,” Carmena Estapoole said, “didn’t altogether approve of Hammond’s friends, either.”

“And not without cause,” Hammond said. “But anyway, that was the situation.”

Carmena said, “In all fairness, I was the one who thought of the kidnaping angle. It seemed like a very sound idea. Nobody would be hurt. Hammond would get that list. In time, Leonard would find something else that needed exposing to use up his surplus energy. And Alberta would have the time of her life.”

“Alberta,” Malone informed her, “told me that she knew just who the kidnaper was, but that she wasn’t going to tell anybody, not ever.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hammond said, reaching for a fresh cigarette. “Naturally, she’d recognize Tony and Al. That’s the chauffeur and his brother-in-law. But she’s a loyal kid.” Malone agreed that Alberta was all of that and much more. “But suppose that Estapoole hadn’t agreed?”

“I knew he would,” Carmena said calmly. “He did try to dicker. He offered money. He threatened to go to the police. He threatened to call in the FBI. But in the end, of course, he gave in.”

“Remarkable,” Malone observed, “that anyone would think so much of a stepchild.”

“Oh,” Carmena said, “he detested her, quite frankly. Some people do. But he would have done anything for me. And he knew how much Alberta means to me.”

She didn’t need to enlarge on that. The smile she said it with came all the way from the bottom of her heart.

Malone thought the whole thing over and said, “I see the routine. You had the chauffeur and his brother-in-law snag Alberta.” He knew there was more to it than that. A blond girl was involved. Probably, a blond girl named Helene. But he’d get to that later. He said, “Then Leonard Estapoole was contacted. How?”

“We had to be careful,” Hammond Estapoole said. “There were two letters sent to him. The first one enclosed a little snip of Alberta’s hair, so that he’d know that we—the kidnapers, I mean—really had her. The second one simply told him to call and make an appointment with you for ten-thirty last night, to keep the appointment, turn over the envelope to you, and then go home and wait for Alberta to be delivered.”

“Well,” Malone observed, knocking the ash from his cigar, “he followed the first two instructions to the letter, anyway.” “Malone,” Hammond Estapoole said anxiously, “just what did happen to those papers? Where are they now?”

“That’s a very interesting question,” Malone said, looking at his cigar end. “I wish that I knew the answer.” It reminded him of a question he himself wanted to ask, but not here and not now. “Go on with the kidnaping details.”

Hammond Estapoole shrugged his virile shoulders. “Well, later on the child was to be turned over to you, and you were to bring her home to her waiting family. That part of the arrangements went through as planned, too, though a little later than we’d figured. No harm done, though. She was in good hands.”

“The best,” Malone said, thinking of Ma Blodgett.

“The rest of the arrangements—” Hammond Estapoole paused just a moment—“they were carried out by telephone.”

“And who did the telephoning?” Malone asked. “Certainly Leonard Estapoole would have recognized either of your voices.”

Carmena and Hammond looked at each other. Then Hammond said, “A girl telephoned him.”

Malone puffed furiously on his cigar and counted to ten. Then he made it twenty. Suddenly all the blood in his body seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere else fast.

At last he said, very casually, “Tell me. Was it Tommy Storm?”

This time, it worked. The look they exchanged was a startled one. Malone reflected happily that at least he’d been able to drop one very small bomb, hardly any bigger than a firecracker, but something.

“How did you know about Tommy Storm?” Hammond Estapoole demanded, his brow wrinkled.

The little lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “I get around,” he said modestly. “Little birds. I train them.” He grinned at them wickedly. “I have my sources.” He let them worry about that for a minute, too. “And since he wouldn’t have recognized her voice—”

“But he would have,” Carmena Estapoole said, as though surprised Malone wouldn’t know that. “Naturally he would.”

Malone didn’t bother to ask why, he just looked it.

“Tommy Storm,” Hammond Estapoole said, looking with pity at the man who trained little birds to tell him things, “was Uncle Leonard’s private secretary.”

CHAPTER 11

It was simply too much, Malone told himself. This was too much, that was too much, everything was too much. For a minute or two he sat there brooding, all but a very small bit of the fight gone out of him. Hammond Estapoole thoughtfully chose that moment to refill Malone’s glass. Carmena Estapoole smiled reassuringly at him.

Malone choked on his drink, made a fast recovery, and said, “Of course. I didn’t think of that.” Right now he didn’t seem to be thinking of anything. He said, a little lamely, “She’s a wonderful private secretary.”

“In this case,’ Hammond Estapoole told him, “confidential secretary. Not picked just because of her secretarial ability, nor because of her looks. But because she knew a lot of the people Uncle Leonard was investigating. In a way, he hired her as a sort of private spy.”

Malone could see that clearly enough. But instead of making other things more understandable, it only muddled them a little more. He said, trying to feel his way back to safe ground, “Wasn’t that—” and then stopped again.

“I’ll finish it for you,” Hammond Estapoole said, smiling. “Wasn’t that why I was hanging around her? Yes, it was. First I figured she might be a line on getting that envelope away from Uncle Leonard. Then I realized—we realized—she’d be a lot of help to us in the kidnaping. Phony kidnaping,” he corrected. “You did guess right, Malone. Tommy Storm was the telephone negotiator. But her story was that she didn’t know the other parties. And Uncle Leonard believed her.”

“It helped,” Carmena Estapoole said, “that Leonard was convinced she had what they call—underworld connections.”

As she probably does, Malone thought. He let his cigar go out, thinking hard. Tommy, then, had known about the fake kidnaping. She had carried on the telephoned negotiations that had resulted in Leonard Estapoole’s finally agreeing to turn over the envelope of explosive information in return for the safe return of Alberta Commanday.

But that would hardly have been enough to send her out to West Madison Street in what must have been, to her, the very small hours of the morning.

“Tommy didn’t tell me a thing,” he reassured them. “It was really a guess on my part. I knew you’d been seen out and around with her a little, and hers was the first name that came into my head.” Which, he told himself, was as close to the truth as he needed to get.

“Now tell me,” he said at last, “how many people knew that Leonard Estapoole was going to meet me in my office at ten-thirty last night?”

The pair looked unhappy. “That’s just it. Nobody did. Except we three—and Leonard. And the letter impressed on him that it had to be a very secret meeting or the whole deal was off.”

“Tony and Al?” Malone asked.

“Neither of them,” Hammond said. “They just did their part and didn’t ask any questions. They knew that you were going to be the contact—but they didn’t have any idea where or when.”

Malone said, “There was a pretty solid rumor going the rounds that while nothing had been said to the police, the kidnaping had taken place, and that Leonard Estapoole was going to pay off, and that I was to be the contact.”

“Tommy Storm didn’t start that rumor,” Hammond Estapoole said. “I did. That was to lend authenticity in case Uncle Leonard had any doubts. We knew it would get to him.” He grinned wryly. “And I thought it would reassure Max Hook, too.” His face sobered. “But nothing was ever said about when or where the meeting was going to take place.”

“Not even Tommy Storm?” Malone asked, trying his best to sound very unconcerned.

Hammond Estapoole shook his head. “Nobody knew until about six o’clock last night. That was when he came home and found the letter telling him to call you and make the appointment. Carmena and I knew, of course, because we’d written the letter. But he didn’t know until he got it, and you didn’t know until he called you.” He added, “There simply wasn’t any way for Tommy Storm—or anybody—to know.”

Malone looked very thoughtfully at his dead cigar. “Which leaves the two of you in a very difficult position.”

“Why difficult?” Carmena asked, frowning. “The police found the man who murdered Leonard. And he’s confessed.”

“The police,” Malone said, “have been known to be wrong. And confessions have been known to be successfully repudiated.”

Hammond said, “But surely—” and stopped.

Carmena said, “But I didn’t. Hammond didn’t. We didn’t.” She paused, took out another cigarette, fitted it into the slender ivory holder and lighted it, all very slowly and deliberately.

“All right, Malone,” she said at last. “You do deserve to know this much. If this hadn’t happened, there would have been a divorce. And after a decent interval, Hammond and I would have been married. But this did happen.” She paused again, swept that aside with a gesture and said, “We’ll still be married.” Then she added, “Again, after a decent interval, of course.”

“Of course,” Malone echoed hollowly.

“Hammond is a gambler,” she said, stating a known fact and not as though she were defending him. “But then, so am I. Only we gamble on different things, that’s all. And as far as his women chasing is concerned, you must realize that that was purely window dressing for the sake of appearances.” She smiled at him winsomely.

Malone said, “Of course,” again and tried to say it with conviction. Oh well, the future was Carmena’s own business and not his, and if she wanted to gamble on Hammond Estapoole’s devotion, that was her own lookout. Besides, he had a hunch that she could hold her own against a whole convention of blondes.

“Nothing had been discussed with Leonard,” Carmena Estapoole said. “Not yet. But I had no anxiety about the outcome. I know Leonard—I knew him. He would have agreed, kindly and tolerantly, and there wouldn’t have been any difficulty. And I wouldn’t have felt too sorry. He had a great deal to interest him besides me, and all of it very important to him.”

“He also had a great deal of money,” Malone pointed out. “And all of it is important, too. This way, it’s all going to be yours.”

“I also have a great deal of money,” Carmena Estapoole said. She gave him another altogether delightful smile. “When we were married, Leonard established a very handsome trust fund for me. He did it, he told me, because while he felt sure I was marrying him for his money, he wanted me to feel perfectly free.”

Yes, Malone reflected, the late Leonard Estapoole would have done something and said something exactly like that.

“So you see,” Hammond Estapoole said, pouring more of the excellent Scotch, “there wasn’t any possible motive.”

No, Malone had to concede to himself, on the surface of things there appeared to be no motive at all. And he had a feeling that everything would turn out to be the same down under the surface, no matter how deeply he dredged.

Against his better judgment, and against his every personal instinct for survival, he felt pleased about it. The situation was rendering his best theory a complete shambles, and it was not only his best theory, but the only one he had. But still he felt pleased.

Carmena Estapoole was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and an extraordinarily fascinating one. Just a little bit too much on the abundant side to strictly suit his own personal taste, but he appreciated her. What was more, he liked her, which was even more important. He was sure, too, that she liked him.

As far as Hammond Estapoole was concerned, he knew and liked a hundred, two hundred of him. Charming, friendly, agreeable, not particularly ambitious, born, brought up and living on the fringe of great wealth, a suburbia of wealth, as it were. A little weak, perhaps, but never vicious, there wasn’t any harm in a yachtful of them. Their native habitat was luxury liners, Lake Shore Drive apartments, Lake Forest estates and the like, always as permanent guests. They turned up largely in the better night clubs, on polo fields and at gambling tables. In their aimless way they contributed something to the color of the world, if not its substance. Malone knew and liked a lot of them and he particularly liked Hammond Estapoole.

They made a notably handsome couple, and he hoped with all his heart that they would be a happy one, even if they had squashed his one and only theory flatter than yesterday’s champagne. Perhaps they would come and visit him in jail when he was serving a life term for the murder of Leonard Estapoole, and bring him books and candy and homemade jam.

He shook off these morbid fancies with an effort and reminded himself that he wasn’t going to give up quite so easily. And there were still a few more things to settle here. Helene, for example.

He answered Carmena Estapoole’s smile with one of his own, and said, “Admittedly I’m asking a lot of questions, but you can’t blame me for being curious. Since after all, I seem to have been pretty much involved, without my knowledge.”

“The least we can do is apologize,” Hammond Estapoole said.

“The least you can do,” Malone told him, “is to fill me in on all the details. The kidnaping, for instance. How was it arranged and where did you hide Alberta?”

Carmena Estapoole frowned. “It almost went wrong, Malone. We knew we could trust Tony and his brother-in-law. In fact, Al turned out to have some close friends, or cousins or something, who were anxious to have that envelope of stuff destroyed. He seems to have a lot of cousins. And Tony has a lot of affection for me.”

He would have, Malone thought. Any male in his right mind would have. Meanwhile an unpleasant suspicion was beginning to grow in his mind. “Just what is Al’s last name,” he asked, “and who are his cousins?”

She frowned again. “Di Angelo. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Malone said casually, “I happen to know a few di Angelos. Go on.”

“Tony was to pick her up after dancing school and, instead of bringing her home, take her to APs home, where she’d be safe and be looked after until it was time to turn her over to you. But when he got there, she was already gone, with a friend of the family. In fact, they were just driving away when he got there and he was able to go along after them.”

Malone felt pretty sure he didn’t need to ask the identity of the family friend, but he did so as a matter of form.

“Helene Justus,” Carmena Estapoole told him. “She was visiting here. She took it into her head, goodness knows why, to take Alberta to a museum that afternoon.”

Malone had his own ideas why, too, but he kept them to himself.

“It didn’t throw things off much,” Hammond Estapoole said. “Tony is a smart boy. He trailed them on down to the Museum of Science and Industry and somehow signaled to the child to get away and join him. Alberta is smart too. She went down in the coal-mine exhibit, got clean away, joined Tony, and they vanished. You might say that she kidnaped herself.”

You might, Malone thought, if the question ever came up in a court of law.

“She knew just enough of what was going on to think it was all a huge joke,” Carmena said.

“Alterward,” Hammond Estapoole said, “Tony and A1 had no way of knowing anything had—gone wrong. About Uncle Leonard—the murder.” He didn’t seem to like the word. “They were supposed to wait for you and turn the child over to you, and they did.”

Malone nodded. “This friend of the family—” he began.

“She’s really a friend of Lily’s,” Cannena said. “Lily and Jane. The girls. They don’t know anything about the murder. But I suppose you’d like to talk to them too.”

“I would indeed,” Malone said, pressing all the advantage he had.

She sent a message by the fat-faced butler. While they waited, Malone said skeptically, “Nobody here seems to know anything about the murder.”

“Both Carmena and I were here all evening—all night,” Hammond Estapoole stated flatly. “That’s easily proved. Neither of us could have whipped off downtown and murdered poor old Uncle Leonard, even if we’d had any reason or inclination. And even if this McGinnis guy hadn’t confessed.”

Damn it, Malone was not going to let it go at that. “You’re forgetting something,” he said coldly. “This McGinnis guy, as you call him, could easily have been a hired killer. It fits into the pattern perfectly.”

“In that case,” Hammond Estapoole said, just as coldly, “wouldn’t he have added that into his confession?”

“Not necessarily,” Malone said. “As it stands now, the story as he told it gives him a pretty solid case of self-defense. And if he gets away with it—or even if he gets away with a little matter of manslaughter—he can go on comfortably for the rest of his life, blackmailing whoever hired him.” There, that ought to hold them for a while.

“Only it didn’t happen that way,” Carmena said. “Maybe somebody did hire him, but it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Hammond. And there isn’t anything at all, anywhere, to make it look as though we did.”

“And on the other hand,” Malone said, “there isn’t anything, anywhere, in the way of proof that you didn’t. I’m sure you must realize that.”

There was another long silence while they looked at each other. This time it was Malone who smiled first.

“This has all been very pleasant,” he said, “but not very productive as far as I’m concerned. Oh, not your fault at all. I just seem to have been barking up the wrong shins.”

Carmena Estapoole raised inquisitive eyebrows. Hammond Estapoole looked puzzled.

“You see,” Malone told them, “just on the odd chance that McGinnis didn’t do it, it’s up to me to find out who did.” “Why up to you?” Hammond Estapoole asked. “Why not up to the police?”

“The police are satisfied with what they’ve got,” Malone said. “But Frank McGinnis is my client.”

Carmena said, “Oh,” and then, “But if he didn’t, why did he say that he did, and even go into all that elaborate detail about how, and why, and everything?”

“That,” the little lawyer told her solemnly, “is going to be the question.”

CHAPTER 12

The two girls were introduced simply as Jane Estapoole and Lily Bordreau, and it didn’t take Malone very long to sort out which was which, unless there had been an appalling job of misnaming somewhere along the line.

Jane Estapoole was a thoroughly nice girl. Trite or not, there was simply no other word for it, Malone reflected. She was nice. Nice, and well cared for, obviously the result of a lifetime of being well cared for. Her hair was brown, not reddish brown, not blondish brown, but just brown, and shining from many brushings, and it waved softly around her smooth face. Her beautifully shaped eyes were gray-blue, they not only didn’t wear any make-up, but they didn’t need any. She used just a nice red lipstick on her naturally smiling mouth. And, Malone decided, she fell just short enough of being beautiful to be very much worth looking at.

Her soft blue dyed-to-match skirt and sweater set and tiny strand of pearls were not only exactly right for her, but for the time and place and occasion, and Malone approved of them, and her, highly. Her clothes were clearly Michigan Boulevard and not Fifth Avenue, and apparently so was she. That pleased him too.

Her voice, when she said, “Good evening, Mr. Malone,” went perfectly with the skirt and sweater, with the smooth skin that had never known anything but the best soaps and creams since infancy, the well-brushed hair and the shining white teeth that had probably been straightened by the best of specialists.

The other girl didn’t really look to him as though she should have been named Lily. Maybe a very small lily, he conceded. A lily-of-the-valley, growing wild in the woods. The idea pleased him, and he took a second, and then a third look at her when she said, “Hi, Malone. I’ve heard of you. But who hasn’t?” in what was a small, soft voice, but a happy one.

She looked happy. She also looked frisky and frolicsome, and a lot of fun to know better. She was small, small all over, short and slender with almost tiny hands and feet. Her hazel eyes, more green than brown, were large, though, and there was a distinct gleam in them. Her short hair was very dark, almost black, and curled as though it had had a comb run quickly through it, dampened perhaps, and then been left alone.

She too wore a matching skirt and sweater, almost the exact shade of the center of a dead-ripe watermelon, and her mouth was the same color, and instead of pearls she wore tiny turquoises. But she gave the impression that she would much rather be wearing pedal-pushers or an elaborate and slightly daring dinner dress.

“So you’re Malone,” she said, looking him over. “I can’t say I’ve heard Mother speak of you. But I’ve heard Stepmother speak of you, and Stepfather. Maybe I should say, my current stepmother and my late stepfather.” She grinned at him, and he decided she’d made up her mind to like him.

Malone blinked. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I seem to be a little confused.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said, “I confuse everybody. You see, Malone, I’m a professional stepchild.”

“Lily!” Carmena said, but she said it with more affection than reproof.

“It’s true,” Lily Bordreau said. “Carmena married my father and became my stepmother. Then my father, poor old Gus, fell out of a window instead of down a manhole as everyone had expected, and it was the death of him.”

This time it was Jane Estapoole who said, “Now, Lily!” very gently.

“Don’t you ‘Now Lily!’ me,” the girl said, but it too was said with affection and not the slightest trace of rancor. She went on to Malone, “Then Carmena married Ridgeway Com-manday, who got hit by a car that was bigger than he was. I stayed on, though, as stepchild, and finally wound up with old man Estapoole, who disapproved of me highly, but was too nice to say so. So you see, I’m a chronic and a perpetual stepchild.” She didn’t add that she anticipated another stepfather in the not-so-distant future. She did add, “My own father was a society artist. I’m a non-society artist and a lousy one, but it gives me a reason to have a studio and be able to stay in town nights.” She winked at Malone and paused for breath.

“I suppose,” Jane Estapoole said, “you’re completely bewildered by now.”

Malone said, “A little,” and smiled at her. He was reminded again of the pattern of violent death that had marked Carmena Estapoole’s husbands. And yet, he told himself, the murder of Leonard Estapoole hadn’t happened the way, according to what he considered the natural law of coincidence, and according to all grand opera plots, it should have happened.

“Mr. Malone,” Carmena Estapoole said, “is the lawyer for the man who confessed to the murder.”

The two girls looked at him with new interest. “The poor man,” Jane Estapoole said softly. “Oh, I know. I was terribly fond of Uncle Leonard. And murder is—horrible. But just the same—” her voice trailed off.

Malone observed that her eyes were not only lovely, but very gentle. Yes, she would hate to see anyone locked up for murder, even if he deserved it.

“Leonard was a swell guy and I was all for him,” Lily Bordreau said. “But this doesn’t seem like really murder. More like a hit-and-run driver. Not even hit-and-run, since the guy confessed. Really, just an accident.”

But it wasn’t any accident, Malone was thinking. It had been cold, deadly, premeditated murder.

“As Frank McGinnis’ attorney,” he began, and paused, feeling that he probably sounded unbearably pompous. He said, “There’s always a chance, you know, that the guy didn’t do it. People have been known to make false confessions, under stress.”

He could see they didn’t come even close to believing him, but he went on. “The kidnaping. What did you know about the kidnaping?”

There was a long and a heavy silence.

“It’s all right,” Carmena said at last. “I told Mr. Malone about everything. Just as I told you both about it after Leonard was murdered.”

Malone wondered if he detected a faint warning note in her voice, or if he was getting super sensitive. He asked, “Did you think it was a real kidnaping at first?”

They said, “Yes,” almost in the same breath, and Lily elaborated, “I felt awful. We both felt awful. Alberta’s a little fiend, but we love her, little monster that she is.”

“It’s just a matter of knowing how to get along with her,” Jane Estapoole said, but her tone implied that it might take a little doing. “And anyway, any child—”

“Besides,” Lily Bordreau said, “I felt guilty.”

Malone looked at her questioningly.

“It was, well, because a real kidnaping would have been almost my fault. There was a friend of mine here, visiting me. Helene Justus, I think you know her.”

Malone’s skin prickled. He nodded, very casually, and restrained himself from shouting, “And where is Helene?”

“She suddenly decided to take Alberta to that museum. Heaven knows why.”

Malone wondered if even Heaven knew exactly why. He began to think of ways to pry the information out of Helene, when and if he found her.

Lily Bordreau shrugged her cunning little shoulders, smiled at him helplessly, and said, “And that’s where it happened.”

Their information about the kidnaping seemed to end right there. Nobody thought to tell them that Malone had brought Alberta home.

“The letter Leonard Estapoole got,” Malone said. He frowned and turned to Carmena Estapoole. “You are positive no one saw it except himself?”

“I’m absolutely certain,” Carmena said unhesitatingly. “There can’t be any possible doubt about that. Because I gave it to him myself.”

Hammond Estapoole nodded vigorously. “And what’s more, we wrote it ourselves. On my portable typewriter, which may have been risky, though I don’t think Uncle Leonard would ever have checked. Then Tony drove me down to the Western Union office. Tony took the letter in, to be delivered by special messenger. The letter was arriving at the house just as we got back; it was delivered direct to Carmena.”

“And I kept it until Leonard got home, and gave it to him,” Carmena finished.

That seemed to finish the question of the letter, once and for all, Malone decided. In fact, everything here seemed to be finished, and so far, all of the important questions were left unanswered. Well, the only thing to do at a dead end was to turn around and look for a detour. He rose and murmured something about a taxi.

“Nonsense,” Lily Bordreau said briskly. “I’m going into town right now, and I’ll drive you. I’m staying in tonight.”

On the way into town, he leaned back, closed his eyes for just a moment, and let the warm spring winds take over. His head still ached from last night’s combat, and he was beginning to feel a little numb with weariness. And there were still so many questions to be answered, and so much left to do.

The papers. The legal-sized Manila envelope of papers. What had happened to it, and where was it now? In the original plans, Frank McGinnis was supposed to have described getting them and destroying them, but in his confession he had merely shrugged his shoulders. There had to be a reason, and Malone made a mental memorandum to find it out the instant he could talk with his new client.

There was another flaw in Frank McGinnis’ confession too, and right now he couldn’t think for the life of him what it was. Malone made a few tries at remembering it and gave it up for the present. If the police hadn’t noticed it, it was probably nothing for him to worry about. He had enough worries as it was.

One of them had been the tie-in between the kidnaping and the murder. He’d wondered why, if the prime object had been to lure Leonard Estapoole to the office for the purpose of murdering him and arranging the frame-up, it had been necessary to go through, the elaborate and surely dangerous business of the kidnaping at all. There would have been other and easier ways to get Leonard Estapoole to the scene.

But now with the kidnaping explained—he paused in his thinking, yawned, and shook his head to clear it. If it was explained. Then the kidnaping was one thing and the murder was another. And left Carmena Estapoole and Hammond Estapoole completely out of the murder.

More and more it seemed to him that he was not even finding himself right back where he started from, but continually losing a little ground.

Then Tony’s brother-in-law had to turn out to be a di Angelo. He would be. Everybody in this whole muddle, Malone thought furiously, seemed to be allied with somebody else, and everybody, including his best friends such as von Flanagan and Joe the Angel, seemed to know a lot more about what was going on than he did himself. He made another memorandum to himself, this one to settle this fast with Joe the Angel and perhaps even, as soon as he’d paid his bar bill, take his patronage down the street.

He sighed deeply and wondered how the living conditions were in, perhaps, Honduras.

Lily Bordreau slowed down the big car she had been steering expertly through the late traffic and said, “I hope you got a few minutes rest, Malone.”

“I did,” he said gratefully, resisting an impulse to pat her curly little head.

“Good,” she said. “Because I have a feeling you don’t want to go straight home. I have a very definite feeling that you’d much rather go along with me to my place. And talk things over with Helene.”

CHAPTER 13

It was a beautiful apartment. In fact, Jake Justus reflected, it was undoubtedly the most beautiful, most luxurious, and most comfortable apartment in Chicago, if not in the civilized world. What’s more, it was home. It had been home ever since the joyous day when he married Helene and—he remembered—promptly found himself involved in a whole series of murders.

But Helene wasn’t here.

Home, he observed, out loud and theatrically, was where the heart was. Trite and mawkish though it might be, that was his sentiment. Helene was his heart, and Helene wasn’t here, and there was no telling where Helene might be.

He glared at the serene cream-colored walls as though they were deliberately withholding information of her whereabouts, and kicked the leg of an unprotesting chair, but it didn’t make him feel the least bit better.

He went out into the little kitchenette and gazed woefully around as though Helene herself might pop out of one of the gaily decorated cupboards. He sighed and mixed himself a tall, cool drink, being very fancy and particular about the proportions and even carefully adding a cherry and a slice of lime. He tasted it, and it could easily have been stale soda pop. He poured it into the sink and went away.

He wandered unhappily into the bedroom and stared at the collection of cut crystal and blown-glass ornaments on Helene’s dressing table. He took the stopper from a bottle of perfume and sniffed it hungrily.

Much more of this, he told himself, and he’d be bursting into tears.

But Helene had to be somewhere! He scowled balefully at the inoffensive telephone and finally sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for it as if he were a drowning man and it was the last life preserver left afloat.

He called Malone’s office. There was no answer. He called Malone’s hotel, identified himself to a wary clerk who hadn’t quite recovered from the alarms of the morning, and was finally told that Malone hadn’t been in all day, nor the night before either.

There was an address book in the little ivory-and-gold desk. He began with Abner Aaberg and called Helene’s friends all the way to Dr. Yousoff Zussman, without results.

He had deliberately skipped the Estapoole number, and now he sat glowering at it. He was, he thought, like the man who’d looked in every pocket but one for a lost ten-dollar bill and now was afraid to look in that last one. Because if he called the Estapooles, and Helene wasn’t there—

He called, and she wasn’t there.

The butler was very vague and far from helpful about it. He conceded after a little coaxing that Mrs. Justus had visited there, the day before, in fact, but very briefly. She was not there now, he had no idea where she was. A little more coaxing, and he consented, dubiously, to making inquiries in the household.

But no one else had any idea where Helene was, either.

Damn! Jake put the telephone down on the floor and regarded it as though it were some treacherous small animal that had bitten him once and was likely to do so again.

He got up and prowled the apartment again. He looked at the debris of his drink in the sink and decided to make himself another one, this time not bothering with the proportions nor the decorations. He drank it shudderingly, and remembered that he had had no dinner. Not much lunch, either. But right now he wasn’t hungry.

He said, “Helene!” out loud, and had the sensation that every piece of furniture, every picture, every article of bric-a-brac, was saying “Helene” right back at him.

Alter a little time spent in sulking, he went back to the telephone and tried Malone’s office once more, and then the hotel again. Then as a last resort, he called Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar.

Malone wasn’t there either, and Joe the Angel hadn’t the faintest notion where he could be. But, Joe the Angel added hopefully, von Flanagan was there and perhaps between the two of them, they could locate the missing Malone.

Von Flanagan came on the line and said heartily that he was looking for Malone himself. Perhaps if Jake would come down, they could figure something out together.

Jake promptly said he would, and hung up. At least von Flanagan was another human being to talk to.

He called downstairs to the garage to have the convertible brought around, was told it would be right there, hung up and suddenly wondered. Helene without the big yellow convertible was something he couldn’t quite imagine, and the thought frightened him. It was like Castor without Pollux, or Romeo without Juliet, or rye without beer. Where in the world would Helene go that she wouldn’t take her car along?

There was a whole lot of springtime in the air when he stepped out onto the sidewalk, and he inhaled it deeply, visualizing Helene. This was a time when she ought to be with him, had to be with him.

He got into the car, started driving toward the Loop, and began thinking again of everything that could have happened to Helene. Bound and gagged in the attic room of a deserted and probably haunted house. Beaten and battered in some lonely alley. Embedded in concrete and dropped in the Chicago Drainage Canal. He got to Joe the Angel’s just in time to stop him from imagining even worse.

Von Flanagan looked up from his beer and said sympathetically, “You look terrible.” And then, “Do you have any bright thoughts about where Malone is?”

“No,” Jake said. “And I’m not really looking for Malone. I’m looking for my wife.” He climbed the bar stool as though it were an Alp and said hoarsely, “Rye and beer.”

Von Flanagan and Joe the Angel looked at the tall man solicitously. He was gray-faced from lack of sleep and from worry, his red hair was a forgotten tangle, and his unhappy eyes were red-rimmed. Von Flanagan signaled silently to the man behind the bar that he would take care of Jake, see him home and tuck him in bed, Joe the Angel nodded imperceptibly and filled a somewhat larger glass with rye.

Jake drank it unnoticing and said, “I can’t understand. She never went anywhere without letting me know. Well, almost never.”

Von Flanagan and Joe the Angel said, “Don’t worry,” simultaneously and both at once tried to change the subject. It didn’t work. They talked about the Cubs’ last game, about last Thursday’s wrestling matches, about Judge Touralchuk’s nephew’s dog track and about their friends, while Jake talked doggedly on about Helene. They gave out first, and Joe the Angel refilled Jake’s glass while von Flanagan said sourly, “Don’t come crying to me with your troubles.” He added, more gently, “Do you want Gadenski’s home phone number? He’s in Missing Persons now.”

Jake said, “Oh, no,” hastily. No, he didn’t want to make this official yet. Not only because he didn’t want to admit to himself that Helene was that much missing, but because it was entirely possible she was alive and well and up to some nefarious nonsense of her own that wouldn’t bear too close scrutiny from official investigators. ’

On the other hand, a little fishing for information wasn’t going to do any harm. He said, as indifferently as he could, “What’s the real low-down on that kidnaping? The Estapoole kid?”

Von Flanagan looked at him warily through narrowed eyes. “As far as the police are concerned, there never was any kidnaping. The whole thing was just a rumor.”

“Pretty lively rumor,” Jake commented, “since everybody in town seems to have known all about it, including the police department.”

“Unofficially,” von Flanagan said, stressing the word. He warmed up a little. “It was enough of a rumor, though, that Gadenski made some very discreet inquiries.”

Jake raised an eyebrow and said, “And just what did Gadenski find?” He added, “If it’s any of my business.”

“It isn’t,” von Flanagan said. He caught Joe the Angel’s eye and motioned to Jake’s glass again. “But I don’t mind telling you. Just like I told Malone this morning, she was last seen yesterday afternoon at the Museum of Science and Industry, with a very beautiful blonde.” He added, doing a little fishing of his own, “A tall blonde with a very ornamental figure, expensive clothes, and a lot of long, straight hair.”

It was Jake’s turn to change the subject. He finally said into a very hollow and waiting silence, “There are a lot of blondes in the city of Chicago.” He added, “And Malone’s probably with one of them right now.”

“He probably is,” von Flanagan said. He was caught off guard and said, “Most probably, Tommy Storm.”

Jake sat up. “Why didn’t you say so?” He frowned. “If you were looking for him, why didn’t you look there?” He started to slide off the bar stool. “Where does she live?” He saw von Flanagan’s mouth open and shut again and said bitterly, “Oh, never mind, I’ll look in the telephone book.”

Von Flanagan wearily gave the address on East Walton Place and added, “But you don’t want to go bothering her at this time of night.”

“That’s right,” Joe the Angel put in soothingly. “Jake, you go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleep!” Jake said. He told Joe the Angel and everybody within hearing distance just what he thought of that idea. “Malone might be able to help find Helene.”

“In that case,” von Flanagan said, “I’ll go with you.”

Jake looked at him for a moment. He had started to voice an indignant refusal and suddenly grew cautious. Instead he smiled a little weakly and said, “Maybe Joe the Angel’s right. Maybe we ought to have one more all around and then go home and sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”

He hoped that he looked a little relaxed and very weary. He even managed to enter into a brief discussion of what was good in the seventh at Tanforan. It was easy enough to fool the big police officer, he mused, but Joe the Angel was something else. Oh well, Joe the Angel wouldn’t matter, once he got outside.

But once he got outside, von Flanagan was right at his elbow, offering to take him home. Jake pointed wordlessly at the yellow convertible.

“In a no-parking zone,” von Flanagan said reprovingly. “But that’s not in my department. I’ll drive you home and take a taxi from there.”

Jake started to demand indignantly, “Do you think I’m drunk?” and remembered that it would be just as well if von Flanagan did. He mumbled, “Goo’ idea,” let von Flanagan slide under the wheel, and got in beside him, slumping a little in the seat. If conversation was going to be made, though, he was going to direct it. “Terrible thing, that murder.”

Von Flanagan agreed that it was all of that. Especially coming on top of the rumored kidnaping. Everything seemed to be all mixed up together. The rumored kidnaping of the Commanday child, the beautiful little four-year-old with long golden curls and blue eyes. The Estapoole murder. Malone rumored as the go-between in the kidnaping. Malone’s office the scene of the murder. He started to go on, “And your wife,” and immediately remembered that the basic idea was to keep Jake’s mind off Helene. Instead he said a little lamely, “Oh well, we’ve got McGinnis and his confession, and it’s all washed up now.”

“And very nicely, too,” Jake said agreeably. He had noticed the slight shade of hesitation in von Flanagan’s voice when he’d mentioned McGinnis, and it matched a disquieting notion in his own mind, but this was no time to bring that up.

At the doorway von Flanagan offered to escort Jake to his apartment, his attitude suggesting going so far as to tuck him into his bed, but at this point Jake did refuse, and stubbornly. He could manage just beautifully, he said grandly, and it had been very nice of von Flanagan to bring him home, and the convertible could be parked right over there, thanks very much.

He said good night at the elevator door, waited until the elevator started, and said, “All the way up. Then all the way down again. In fact, you’d better go all the way up and down twice.”

The elevator operator looked at him suspiciously. “Mr. Justus—”

“I am not,” Jake said. He did feel unusually good, though, at that, for three small ryes, even on an empty stomach. “Nor am I a fugitive from the law.”

When they reached the ground floor the second time, he whispered elaborately, “I just didn’t want my policeman friend to know I’m going to go call on a blonde,” and fled to the front door, where he paused and peered carefully around. There was no sign of von Flanagan in the lobby nor near the convertible. He took time to take one last look up and down the street before he started the convertible and headed for East Walton Place.

The remodeled town house looked discouragingly deserted from the outside, but that didn’t stop him. He double-parked in front of it and bounded up the steps. There it was, Tommy Storm, 2-B. He bounded up more steps and pounded loudly on the door.

There was no answer. He pounded again, and louder. Still no answer. He looked wildly around for something to bang with, saw nothing, used his fist again, and this time called noisily, “Come on, I know there’s someone there!”

A voice came from downstairs, querulously, “There ain’t anybody there and cut out that racket afore I call the cops!”

Jake peeked around the top of the stairs. The head of a thin-faced woman in pin-curls was looking at him from around the comer of the door.

Jake said, “Damn it, I’m looking for my wife!”

“She ain’t here,” the woman said, “I don’t even know who she is. Go on now, get out of here.”

“My wife is—” Jake stopped and said, a little more mildly, “Where’s Tommy Storm?”

“I don’t know where she is, either,” the woman snapped, “and I don’t much care. Cops was looking for her a little while ago, too. She ain’t here and I don’t know where she is, and now git!”

Jake came part way down the stairs. “Cops, you said?”

“One cop. Big red-faced cop.” Suddenly her voice changed a little. “You the cops, too?”

“No,” Jake said magnificently. “Newspaperman.” Well, he had been, once.

She looked at him nastily and suspiciously. “You git, or I will call the cops! Fact, I think I will anyway!” She slammed the door in his face. From behind it he could hear the sound of furious dialing.

He took the steps in one leap, slid into the convertible and went roaring down East Walton Place. That was just what he needed, the police looking for a red-haired man in a yellow convertible, no more conspicuous than a fireman’s parade on a clear day! Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. Just one of the many, many hazards of life. He’d dodged cops before, he could do it again. If only Helene were with him, she’d love this!

He slowed down a little. He could always get quickly home, park the convertible where it had been, swear the elevator operator to deep secrecy, and slide hastily into bed, telling any nosy policemen who might come along later that somebody had obviously been smoking opium, and that he’d been here all along.

Or, police or no police, he could go right on looking for Helene.

There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation as to which he was going to do. But where was he going to look?

Naturally, he told himself, at the Estapooles’. That’s where he should have started in the first place. Helene had flown back to Chicago because of a telegram from someone in the Estapoole family, and she had last been seen in the company of the mysteriously kidnaped or not kidnaped Estapoole child. That flat-voiced butler could easily have been lying. Or Helene could have been there and, for some reason, been hiding from the butler. Why, he didn’t know, but he certainly was going to ask her when he found her.

That, and a few other things. He was beginning to get mad, now. Here was Helene, safe and sound and perfectly all right, hiding out from everyone including a butler, at the Estapooles’ Lake Forest home, while he was practically out of his mind with worry!

He was so furiously absorbed in just what he was going to have to say to Helene that he shot through three red lights before he heard the moan of an approaching siren. Then he swore loudly. This was no time to be involved with cops. He’d explain everything later, but right now, he had to get to Helene, and fast! He realized that he’d already come close to the border of Evanston, once across it he knew a dozen ways to lose himself and find a certain back road to Lake Forest. But right now—

Right now, he got caught in an unexpected traffic jam, and the squad car moved up and stopped beside him. One cop got out, his face grim. “Listen, fella...” he began. Then he sniffed. “Drunk, too,” he said nastily.

A scratchy voice on the police radio said something Jake couldn’t hear, but the squad car’s driver called out something of which he did catch the words, “driving a yellow convertible.”

Just then the traffic jam moved, and Jake moved with it. In fact, two moves. One was a straight-arm direct to the policeman’s chest, the other sped the big car into, through, around, and finally past the traffic jam, over the border of Evanston, up and down a series of side streets and finally, onto the back road.

Life went along easier after that. A few trucks passed him on the rest of the way, but that was all. At last he turned into the ornate maze of Lake Forest and found his way to the great gateposts of the Estapoole estate. He drove in, parked the convertible halfway to the house, and sat glaring at the huge structure as though he were planning to tear it down, stone by stone.

Instead, he walked to the front door, pushed the buzzer, and waited. It seemed a very long wait indeed until the chillyeyed butler opened the door a few inches and informed him that the family had retired for the night.

“The hell with that,” Jake said. “I’m looking for my wife.” He pushed the door the rest of the way open. The butler retreated and squeaked.

A pleasing, mellow voice called from upstairs to ask what on earth the trouble was. Then Carmena Estapoole came gracefully down the curving stairs, stared, and said, “Why, it’s Mr. Justus.”

“It is indeed,” Jake said, all the fight suddenly gone out of him. “Pardon this intrusion.” He realized that it sounded silly, but he couldn’t think of anything else that would quite fit. “I’m looking for Mrs. Justus.”

Carmena Estapoole’s beautiful eyes widened just a little more and she said, “But she isn’t here! What on earth is the matter?” She looked Jake over from head to foot, and finally said, “You’d better come in and sit down. And have a drink.”

Jake went in and sat down and had a drink. Then he said, “Mrs. Estapoole, my wife—Helene—Mrs. Justus. She’s missing, and I don’t know where she is. You see, she came here from Wyoming—” He felt that sounded a little silly, too, but he went on. “She was here. Your house. Yesterday. She went to a museum with your child. They disappeared.”

“My child is right here,” Carmena Estapoole said firmly, “and I have no idea where your wife is.”

Hammond Estapoole had come down the stairs just in time to hear the conversation. He said, “Hello, Jake. I overheard. Would it make you feel better to search the house?”

Jake now felt as silly as he knew he’d sounded, but he rose and said, “Yes.”

He felt even sillier as Carmena Estapoole led him from room to room, Hammond trailing along. There wasn’t a sign of Helene anywhere.

But there wasn’t a sign of Alberta Commanday, either.

This time, it was Carmena Estapoole who was near panic, to the point where Jake momentarily forgot his own troubles and joined wholeheartedly in the second search, along with the dour butler and two frightened maids.

Alberta Commanday’s bed was neatly turned down for the night, just as Carmena had left it two hours before, but Alberta hadn’t been in it.

It was Hammond who finally suggested, a little weakly, that Bertie might very well have slipped out to the garage. She sometimes did. Carmena Estapoole grabbed up the house phone.

Alberta had not slipped out to the garage. She hadn’t been seen in the garage or its living quarters that evening.

“Before we call the police,” Hammond Estapoole said, “we’d better search the grounds.”

Carmena Estapoole looked as though she’d just as soon not call the police, then or ever, and Jake felt as though he’d like to be a long way away before the police were invited to join the party.

They went out the front door in a body, prepared with flashlights. One step outside, and Jake stopped suddenly, staring.

“What the hell!” he said hoarsely. And then, “Now, somebody’s stolen my car!”

CHAPTER 14

Helene Justus came to the conclusion that twenty-four hours—no, it had been more than that, now—of enforced seclusion was just a little more than she could bear. She’d now become just a little more bored than she had imagined it was possible for one person to be, and there didn’t seem to be much prospect of things getting any better.

The whole thing was perfectly silly, she told herself for the hundred-and-first time. Friendship or no friendship, she should have known better than to let herself in for such a ridiculous mess in the beginning. But there was no point in worrying about that now. She had done it, now the only thing to do was to get out of it, and just as fast as possible. If only Jake were here!

She looked indignantly and reproachfully at the telephone as though it had deliberately betrayed her. Four times she’d tried to call Jake, and four times she’d been disappointed. Well, Wyoming was full of attractive girls! No, she took that back. It was the telephone’s fault, not Jake’s.

She’d tried to call Malone, too, with no success at all. Obviously, she told herself, she should have talked to him at the very beginning; in fact, the moment she had arrived in town. That had been her big mistake. But first she’d been afraid that Malone would insist on telling Jake. Or that he’d manage somehow to dissuade her. She wished now that he had. But the whole thing had looked so perfectly innocent at the beginning. Then too, she hadn’t wanted to involve Malone in something this complicated. She hadn’t known, then, that Malone was going to become pretty thoroughly involved himself.

Damn everything, where was Malone? And where was Jake? She caught herself on the verge of saying out loud, “Where is everybody?”

She looked around the studio with loathing. And yesterday she’d thought it was such an attractive place! Comfortable, expensively and luxuriously furnished and decorated and outfitted. She’d thought, at first glance, that she wouldn’t mind having just such a place herself. Now she had the feeling that she’d seen far more attractive hovels.

There was one thing she could do, and that was leave. Last night, and earlier today, she’d been willing to go along with the theory that it was far safer for her to stay discreetly out of sight until everything was over, and Alberta was securely home again. According to every plan, she should have been able to come out from hiding late last night, and be happily on her way back to Wyoming in the morning. But first there had been that unaccountable delay in Alberta’s return. And then, this morning’s papers with the news of the murder.

She supposed that she should go on staying discreetly out of sight. But she’d been alone in this damned studio now for what began to seem like forever. In fact, it would be a relief even to be involved. No matter what happened, Malone could get her out of it.

At that point she decided she’d had enough of such nonsense, picked up her wrap and her purse, walked out of Lily Bordreau’s studio, and slammed the door behind her.

Down on Schiller Street she stood for a moment, considering her next move. Home wasn’t too far from here, she could walk there in a minute. But there was still a chance that she was being looked for. There was no way of knowing what had gone on in the hours she’d been left alone in the studio, and her first problem was finding out, without getting too involved herself or accidentally involving anyone else. That eliminated going to the apartment building; it also eliminated getting her car. She swore softly under her breath.

The sensible thing, of course, was to get a cab straight to the airport and take the first available plane west. That would be really sensible. That would get her out of the whole mess, and she would be back with Jake tomorrow and forget the whole thing.

She ended up by walking to the corner of Dearborn Street, hailing a taxi and giving the Lake Forest address of the Esta-pooles. She’d still get a plane out and go flying straight to Jake, but first she was going to find out what was going on, regardless of what happened.

On the way, through the spring-scented night, she let thoughts of kidnaping and murder slip out of her mind, and thought of all the things she’d be talking to Jake about, this time tomorrow. She decided too that she’d tell him all about this, now that it was over. Or almost over. It wouldn’t have done to have told him from the beginning, because Jake would have worried. But now, he would most likely find it all very funny. By then, she’d probably be able to think it was very funny herself.

The cab turned in at the Estapoole driveway, and Helene hastily came back down to earth. Back down, and with a sudden jolt. Because the yellow convertible parked near the entrance to the driveway was hers. She knew it even from a little distance. There simply was no other -car like that anywhere.

She paid off the driver and walked over to the car. Yes, it was hers, and it was no dream. But who had brought it out here, and why?

There was something about all this she very definitely didn’t like. For a few minutes she stood beside the driver’s seat, thinking things over.

A voice called from the driveway, “Get in, lady.” It was a low-pitched voice, hardly more than a whisper.

Helene froze.

“I said, get in, lady.”

It sounded like the assured voice of a man with a gun in his hand. And it came from some undetectable place in the darkness. Helene got in.

Before she could make a move toward driving away, a shadowy figure shot out from the shrubbery, got in beside her and said, “Let’s go, lady.”

Helene obeyed. There would be a way out of this, she told herself, but this wasn’t the time to protest. Because it had been a very assured voice.

A few blocks went by. The man said, “Let’s head north.”

Helene headed north without a question. Then she stole a look at her companion.

He was a small man, with thick, shining black hair, a roundish, rather agreeable face, enormous, dreamy brown eyes, and what should have normally been a cheerful, gold-toothy grin. He didn’t look particularly menacing.

Helene slowed down a little and said, “What’s your name?”

“Al,” he told her, “Al di Angelo.”

Now she really turned and stared at him. “You’re related to Joe the Angel,” she said, almost accusingly.

He bobbed his head up and down. “Cousins. Joe, he’s got lots of cousins.”

“So I see,” Helene said grimly. “All kinds. And now, what is the idea of this?”

Al di Angelo shrugged his shoulders. “I ask you. Me, I don’t know what goes on now. Tony, that’s my brother-in-law, he don’t know what goes on. So, I don’t mean you no harm, lady. I see you yesterday, I see your car yesterday. So now I go with you for a drive so I can ask you what goes on.”

“What goes on,” Helene said, even more grimly, “is that the first cop we see is probably going to arrest you for kidnaping me.”

“Kidnaping!” the little man said. He seemed to shudder at the word. “Please, lady!”

“And stop calling me lady,” she snapped. “It sounds like a collie dog. My name’s Helene Justus.”

“Pleased t’meetcha,” Al di Angelo said, tipping his snapbrim hat. “You are a friend of Joe the Angel.” He seemed to be adding mentally, “And therefore a friend of mine.”

“A very good friend,” Helene said, “and Joe the Angel wouldn’t like this. So maybe you’d better explain it, and fast. Because I don’t want to drive all the way to Waukegan this late at night.”

“I told you,” he said deprecatingly. “It is because I don’t know what is going on, and I worry.”

“That makes two of us,” Helene said. “I don’t know what’s going on either, and I worry too.” She added amiably, “Suppose then, you tell me.”

Al di Angelo sighed. “It is a mix-up. Tony, that’s my brother-in-law and the chauffeur for Mrs. Estapoole, he tells me this is almost a joke. We are to take the little girl and hide her for a day, maybe two days. It is for a good cause, and for a good reason, and there is also some money.” He paused. “But then you come along and take the little girl down to where the coal mine is. I think perhaps you too are doing the same thing, also for a good cause and for a good reason.”

“To a certain extent,” Helene said, “you were right.”

“But Tony, he tells me it is just a small mix-up and I find he is right, because when we go to this place he gets the little girl and we go away with her. I do not know what happened to you after that.”

“Nothing worth mentioning right now,” Helene said. “And just keep talking.”

He shrugged his shoulders again. “We do as we have planned. I take the little girl to my house. We keep her there until night. I think she has a nice time. Then late at night we give her to the man we were supposed to give her to. And then,” he said unhappily, “then everything seems to go all to hell.”

“You never spoke a truer word,” Helene said. “And who were you supposed to deliver her to?”

“Why,” Al di Angelo said, “to Malone, of course.”

Helene counted to ten, silently and very slowly.

“And now,” Al di Angelo finished, “the little girl disappeared, and Mr. Estapoole, he is murdered in Malone’s office, and now, I don’t know what to think about anything.”

“I think,” Helene said gently, “the best thing for you to do is to go home and go to bed and go to sleep and forget all about the whole thing.”

He nodded sadly. “It was only because I thought you would know something to tell me. Excuse me, please, lady, I didn’t really mean to kidnap you.”

She smiled at him. “I didn’t mind. But I don’t know even as much as you do. I took little Alberta to the museum because—well, never mind. Then she disappeared. The family didn’t seem too upset about it, and nothing was said to me about kidnaping when I talked to her mother. And I’ve been staying with a friend since, and that’s all I know, so far.”

“Malone,” A1 di Angelo said wistfully, “he would be able to answer all the questions.”

“Malone,” Helene said, in very grim tones, “is going to have them all asked of him. And you’d better go home, and where shall I take you?”

The little man decided that the nearest North Shore station would be just fine. She left him there, receiving another apology and promising that Joe the Angel would never hear a word about this from her.

She started driving slowly and thoughtfully back toward Lake Forest and, ultimately, Chicago, wondering just where Alberta Commanday was now. Evidently the worried little Al di Angelo didn’t know. But just as evidently, Malone did. The obvious and immediate thing to do was to find Malone.

She decided to skip stopping at the Estapoole house. There was plenty of time to find out how her car had turned up in their driveway. There could be a simple explanation for that. Lily Bordreau had taken the car away last night to put it in its own garage, so that the sight of it parked on Schiller Street wouldn’t attract unfortunate attention. But she might just as easily have taken it all the way to Lake Forest.

That was a minor matter, and one she’d settle in its own time. Right now, she wanted Malone. When she did ask all the questions that were in her mind, she wanted Malone at her side to think of more and better ones.

She was sufficiently deep in thought that she almost failed to notice the squad car parked at the intersection ahead, and the officer waving her to a stop.

“Sorry, lady,” he said, “checking all cars.” Both his eyes and his smile took in the sleek lines of the yellow convertible and Helene’s hair, eyes and flowerlike face all in one quick glance.

She managed to match his smile. “Are you looking for illegal potted plants or smuggled parakeets?”

“Kidnaped child,” he said, still smiling. “The Commanday girl.”

Helene stiffened and said, “Oh?”

“But you haven’t got her.” He waved her on, a little regretfully.

Just as she started, she heard a voice from the parked squad car. “Hey Matt! That’s the car that—”

Helene didn’t wait. It was her car and she had a perfect right to be driving it. But she didn’t know what it might have been used for while she wasn’t in it, and she didn’t want to find out until Malone was at her side.

The squad car driver had been well schooled, but he was clearly out of his class. Helene had lost him, and completely, long before she reached Lincoln Park. Then it was merely a matter of driving warily down a series of unfrequented streets and narrow alleys.

The garage at the apartment building would be sanctuary. She could put the car away out of sight, and no one would be able to get in and ask questions. And once in the safety of the apartment, she could settle down at the telephone and make a really earnest search for Malone.

She breathed a little easier when she turned into the familiar street, easier still when she turned into the garage. The night attendant wasn’t around, but that was all right. She’d ring the desk from upstairs.

She stepped out of the car just in time to see the laprobe that had been on the floor of the back stir slightly and then be thrust aside. A small, cross-looking child sat up.

“Well,” Alberta Commanday said blandly, setting her small jaw in determined lines, “you’ve got me again.”

CHAPTER 15

“You mean, you know where Helene is?” Malone said. He had a feeling that his voice sounded just a little far away. No, quite a lot far away.

“Of course I know where she is,” Lily Bordreau said pertly. “I’ve been hiding her out. I suppose,” she added, “you have an explanation coming to you.”

“I do,” Malone told her, and reflected that was putting it very, very mildly. But his spirits were beginning to lift for the first time in twenty-four hours.

“Well,” she said, “it’s like this. Carmena and Hammond were up to something. Now mind you, I’m very fond of them both. I was fond of old Leonard, too. And I’m fond of Alberta. And Jane. In fact, I guess I’m just naturally a very fond kind of person.”

Malone glanced at her. Yes, she would be exactly that. Like a young and trusting kitten who had not yet encountered any of the hardships of the world. Her dark curls were blowing in the wind, and her make-up was a little smeared. Her hands on the wheel were small like the rest of her, almost childlike, and definitely grubby, covered with pencil smudges like a schoolgirl’s. He felt a sudden, heartwarming impulse to reach over and pat one of them comfortingly.

“But I wanted to know more. So I nosed around. I’m very good at that. Stepchildren get to be. In fact, I’d make a very good foreign spy. So anyway, I tumbled to this kidnaping jazz. All right, Malone, granted that it was in a good cause, and that nobody meant anybody else any harm, I was all against it. But there didn’t seem to be much I could do about it. I couldn’t very well go to Carmena and/or Hammond and say quote, the jig is up, unquote, could I?”

“It might have been awkward,” Malone conceded.

“Not only awkward,” Lily said, “but—while my various stepfathers left money, they left it to Carmena, with perfect unanimity. She’s the very soul of generosity, but there you are.”

There he was, Malone thought, with a minor, but new, complication. He had a feeling that it was the first of many he was going to encounter in the Estapoole family, like the first small bubble coming to the surface of a very quiet pool.

“An alternative,” she said, “was to tell Leonard. But somehow I didn’t think that would seem very friendly of me. So the only thing left to do was to kidnap Alberta myself.” She paused, turned her head to smile at him, and said, “You see?” Malone saw. He saw far more confusion than there had already been. And he had a discouraging premonition that there were a lot more confusing elements still to come.

“I had to have help,” Lily Bordreau said. “I couldn’t just whisk Alberta away and hide her. There had to be somebody else involved. I couldn’t ask Jane Estapoole, naturally.”

Malone stirred uncomfortably. Was this another small bubble coming to the top of the same pool? He thought of a few questions and then decided not to ask them. Instead he commented, “So you sent for Helene.”

She nodded. “I sent for Helene. I knew it was the kind of mad thing that would appeal to her, and it was.”

“It would be,” Malone said grimly.

Lily Bordreau chuckled. “Helene was to do the whisking off. Pick her up and take her to the museum. Then, just take her someplace. Home with her, perhaps. She said she’d think of something.” She paused. “And then, things went wrong. They got Alberta after all.”

Malone remembered that Lily and Jane had not been there when he brought Alberta home. Evidently Lily didn’t know about that. He said, “How about Helene?”

“Well, obviously,” she said defensively, “Helene could hardly go romping around and be picked up as the babe who’d apparently put the finger on Alberta by taking her to the place where she was kidnaped from, if you know what I mean.” “I do,” Malone assured her. “That sentence made perfect sense, once I figured where you went into it and came out of it. So you hid her out.”

“And I’m taking you to her,” she said.

Malone sighed. “It was all a very pretty idea, and it’s a shame it didn’t work,” he said amiably. “And just what did you plan to do with that collection of information after you’d gotten it from Leonard Estapoole?”

She rammed on her brakes on the verge of running a red light, caught her breath, and said, “What?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Malone said. “You’re fond of everybody, but nobody could have been that righteous or altruistic or whatever it was. You knew Alberta wasn’t going to be hurt or even frightened. But the idea Car-mena and Hammond Estapoole had looked like a very tidy one, and you decided to step in and use it yourself first. Only, you missed.”

She drove quite a way in complete silence. Then she said defensively, “I haven’t broken any law.”

“No,” Malone said. “And I don’t imagine you’re a bit sorry.”

“I’m not. And Malone, I could have done all right with that batch of information myself.”

“So could a lot of people,” Malone said in a grim voice. He hadn’t forgotten for a second the little arrangement he’d made personally with Max Hook. Nor the arrangement with Frank McGinnis. And time was getting short and he didn’t seem to be making any progress.

“Malone, where are they now? They’ve got to be somewhere!”

“My dear,” the little lawyer said wearily, “I’d give a great deal if I knew.”

“Do you think they’ve been destroyed?”

“No,” Malone said.

“Do you think they’ll ever be found?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said in the same weary tone, and then, “Yes.” They had to be found, there was no other possibility he dared to contemplate now. He realized that she’d gotten very far away from the subject of what she had intended to do with the envelope of information, and he glanced at her admiringly. Diversionary tactics were something he could appreciate, even when used on himself. But just the same, he meant to go right on asking questions.

Right now, though, there appeared to be no time for it. Lily Bordreau stopped her car in front of an unpretentious-looking building and got out. “Wait here a minute, Malone.”

He started to protest, then changed his mind. If she wanted to prepare Helene for his arrival, that was all right with him. It would give Helene time to think up a thousand plausible reasons for everything she’d been up to, but that didn’t matter. She could think them up just as well on the spur of the moment, too.

The minute stretched into what seemed to be a very long time before she reappeared.

She was breathless and unexpectedly white-faced. “She isn’t there, Malone.”

He started to ask a question and then paused. Lily Bordreau was just a little too breathless and too pale to be accounted for by the mere fact of Helene’s being missing. “Let’s go in,” he said.

She shook her head. “No point in that. She isn’t there. So we’d better go looking for her.”

“No point in that either,” Malone said. “Chicago is a large and teeming city. Or she may have gone back to Wyoming.” He looked her right in the eye. “And I must say, it isn’t very neighborly of you not to ask me up for a drink.”

She looked right back at him. Alter a moment one side of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Okay, Malone, you asked for this. But you’re not coming up to see my etchings. Just the handwriting on the wall.”

He followed her through the very ordinary doorway, and found that the interior of the building was far from unpretentious. The light was dim and he blinked a little, going through a brief corridor that led to an enormous two-storied and elaborate room. Even in the half-light he could see that it had a carved wood balcony along one side, an immense window opening onto a garden, lavish and expensive painting equipment grouped near the window, and lavish and expensive furniture everywhere else.

Lily Bordreau switched on a light and said dramatically, “There!”

Malone looked at the body on the floor and said nothing. Nor did he move.

The setting was just a little too much the same. The body in more-or-less the same position as Leonard Estapoole’s had been. An overturned chair and an upset wastebasket. A smallish object on the floor that could very well have been the lethal weapon, in this case, an odd-shaped brass statue. And yet, as he looked, he was aware of a subtle difference, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was. He closed his eyes for a moment.

“Malone,” she said anxiously, “are you ill?”

He shook his head at her. “No,” he said. “I’m thinking.” But right now it amounted to about the same thing.

Then he knew what the difference was. The disorder in his office had been a studied, an arranged disorder. It had been carefully designed to give the impression of a struggle, and again he wondered if the unknown person who framed him had considerately intended to give him a manslaughter out, thus showing that there was no real personal animosity involved. But its very skill had defeated it as far as he himself was concerned. It had been entirely too artful.

This, however, had the ring of genuineness about it. There really had been a struggle, though a mild and very brief one. Nature imitating art, he told himself.

“It’s Tony,” Lily Bordreau said in a squeaky voice. “And he’s dead!”

“I can see perfectly well that it’s Tony,” Malone said irritably. “And I can see perfectly well that he’s dead, too.” He added very thoughtfully, “And very recently dead, too.”

She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask any questions or make any further comment. That could come later. She’d had time enough to come in and murder the Estapooles’ chauffeur while he waited in the car, and it was possible that she had. But right at this moment he didn’t care. Nor did he care who’d murdered Leonard Estapoole, nor what had really been behind the kidnaping of Alberta Commanday. He was only wondering why everything seemed to be happening to him.

“Malone, what are we going to do?”

“Well,” Malone said, “there’s always Honduras. Or Costa Rica.” Or that remote island in the South Seas.

“I didn’t do it,” she said, in a very matter-of-fact voice. “I came in. Helene was gone. He was there, like that. So I came out again.”

What was the phrase he’d used to von Flanagan only this morning? “A very nice story—and very nicely told—” Only she hadn’t come right out again.

But what he asked was, “What was he doing here? And how did he get in?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Malone. The door was locked. Someone could have let him in.”

“Who?”

She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe Helene.”

“Why would she let him in and then go away and leave him here?”

“I don’t know.”

He drew a long breath. “All right, who else had keys to your studio?”

To his relief, she didn’t say, “I don’t know.” But she hesitated a little longer than he liked before she said, “Jane. And the janitor. And the cleaning woman. Malone, what are we going to do?”

“I suppose,” he said, in a very tired voice, “we’re going to call the police.” He looked around for the telephone, found it, put his hand on it.

Suddenly he realized how very long the day had been. This day, and the day and the night before. A few hours’ sleep that was more pure unconsciousness than sleep in the dreary hotel room on West Madison Street. Worse, really, than no sleep at all. His jaw still ached, and his head throbbed. He didn’t want to be here, in this strange and lavish room, with this unwelcome and unfamiliar corpse, and this worried and somehow baffling girl. He wanted a bath. He wanted a drink. He wanted his dinner. He wanted to be in some warm, soothing, and restful place, preferably Tommy Storm’s apartment. He wondered if she was waiting up for him.

He considered asking Lily Bordreau if she knew why anyone would want to murder Tony Somebody-or-other, the Estapooles’ chauffeur, and gave that up as an unnecessary idea. The chances were that she would say, “I don’t know,” and he was getting a little tired of that.

There was a knock at the door and she looked at him questioningly.

Malone nodded, his hand still on the telephone. “Better see who it is.”

He heard her open the door, heard von Flanagan’s voice rumbling something indistinct, and stood perfectly still, waiting, until the big police officer came into the room.

“I don’t blame you if you don’t believe this,” he said then, “but I was picking up the phone to call you.”

He could see from von Flanagan’s face just how far he was going to get with that explanation. Questions were forming in von Flanagan’s eyes. This, he decided, was a time to get his in first, and he had one to lead off with.

“And just who the hell,” he said calmly, “tipped you off this time?”

CHAPTER 16

One of the more pleasant things about having known von Flanagan for a long time, Malone reflected, was that it was possible to predict his reaction to any given set of circumstances well in advance. Once caught off base, he either blustered or he improvised, not always too well. This time, he tried to combine both.

“Who the hell said anything about anyone tipping anybody off?” he demanded angrily, and finished a little lamely, “To anything?”

Malone said nothing, and he said it very pointedly.

“This young lady’s stepfather was murdered,” von Flanagan said. Now he was reduced to pure improvisation. “And I’m the homicide department.”

Malone looked von Flanagan coldly in the eye and went right on saying nothing. The look had to do with the fact that the murder of Leonard Estapoole was officially settled, and that anyway, this was an odd hour to be calling on a witness. Von Flanagan turned his eyes away.

“We was going to go bowling if you wasn’t in,” he mumbled. “That’s why Klutchetsky and Scanlon were with me when we dropped by your office last night.”

“Oh,” Malone said coldly. “Then you were tipped off. And by whom?”

“I don’t know,” von Flanagan began. He stopped abruptly, glared at Malone and said, “Go to hell.”

“And I suppose,” Malone said, this time icily, “you were planning to go bowling tonight too, in case you didn’t find me. Or even better, a corpse. A corpse that’s in your department.”

Von Flanagan said nothing this time. He looked unhappy.

“All right,” Malone said, in a very tired voice. “You’ve got your murders. The first one, in my office. This one, with me at the scene of the crime.”

“Believe me,” von Flanagan said, “there’s nothing personal about this, Malone.”

Malone ignored that. “There’s the phone. Call your experts. But we just got here ourselves.”

He turned his back, walked over to the big window and stood gazing out at the little garden, resplendent and silvery in the spring moonlight. He was going to need to do a little improvising himself, and so far he didn’t have even the beginning of a theme.

In the first place, what was the Estapooles’ chauffeur doing here?

In the second place, what was the Estapooles’ chauffeur doing here murdered?

Behind him, von Flanagan was busy on the telephone, giving orders. In a few minutes the lavish and expensive room was going to be full of people. Sooner or later, there were going to be reporters and photographers. A nice follow-up. PROMINENT CITIZEN FOUND MURDERED IN JOHN J. MALONE’S OFFICE. And now, JOHN J. MALONE FINDS MURDER IN GIRL ARTIST’S STUDIO. The headline writers would phrase it a little more succinctly, but the inference would be there. That Malone, he gets around.

He turned and looked at Lily Bordreau, huddled in a big dark chair, very pale, very frightened, and very silent. He smiled at her reassuringly.

“Fix your hair and powder your nose,” he told her. “You’ll have to look pretty for tomorrow’s first editions any minute now.”

A new kind of alarm came into her enormous eyes. “You mean—newspaper pictures?”

“Don’t let it bother you,” he said. He added comfortingly, “Happens all the time.”

He wished he felt as reassuring and as comforting as he hoped he sounded.

Von Flanagan had finished telephoning. Now he concentrated a scowl on Lily Bordreau.

“Okay, who is this guy?”

She looked, and even possibly was too scared to speak.

“Leave her alone,” Malone said. “To save you a little time, it’s the Estapoole chauffeur. I don’t know his last name.”

“Clancy,” Lily Bordreau said, between frozen lips. “Antonio Clancy.”

Von Flanagan remarked that it was a nice combination. “And just what did you have against this Clancy?”

Lily Bordreau opened her mouth and shut it again. Her eyes were perfectly round. She didn’t look frightened this time, but she looked startled.

“And did you copy the way your stepfather was murdered,” he went on nastily, “or is this just one of those coincidences Malone is always talking about?”

“Now wait a minute,” Malone began.

Von Flanagan waved him aside. “Or did you maybe murder your stepfather, which would be logical, and get this Frank McGinnis to take the rap for you?”

“She isn’t answering questions,” Malone said briskly.

Von Flanagan gave him the dirtiest look he had left, said, “You shut up, Malone,” and went on to Lily Bordreau, “I must say, you got your lawyer here in a hurry.”

“Perfect nonsense,” Malone said. “We came here together, just a few minutes ago, and we don’t know any more about this murder than you do.” Well, not much more. “And I wasn’t her lawyer until—1” he smiled at Lily Bordreau—“just this minute. As a matter of fact—” He paused.

As a matter of fact, he wasn’t entirely sure he was going to be her lawyer. So far, there really hadn’t been time to choose up sides. He not only didn’t know which side she was on, he didn’t have even the faintest idea which side he was on. But for the immediate present, there was an unspoken appeal in her eyes that somebody had to answer, and he was the only lawyer around.

“As a matter of fact,” he finished, “I was just picking up the phone to call you, when you so providentially came pounding at the door. And that reminds me, you haven’t answered my question. Just who did tip you off?”

Alter a long and difficult silence, the only thing von Flanagan came up with was, “I’ll ask the questions around here.”

“Ask away,” Malone said cheerfully. He took out a cigar, started to unwrap it, remembered he was in the presence of a recently murdered man, and put it back in his pocket.

“Well—” von Flanagan said. He stopped, looked around the room, glowered at Klutchetsky and Scanlon, snapped, “Don’t just stand there, do something!” paused again, glowered this time at Malone, and said, “You can’t get away with this!” and sat down, looking very tired and a little helpless.

There wasn’t anything to be done until the experts arrived, and Klutchetsky and Scanlon knew it. They stood awkwardly, looking as helpless as von Flanagan, and almost as unhappy. Lily Bordreau sat curled up in the big chair. She’d obeyed Malone’s instructions as to hair and make-up, and now she sat waiting apprehensively for whatever might be going to happen next. Von Flanagan sat slumped in his chair, looking as though his huge bulk were suddenly too heavy for his bones, as though he’d lost a night’s sleep and his feet hurt.

The experts arrived in full force. There seemed to be a great many of them, entirely too many for even this enormous room. And soon the newspapermen would arrive. Malone looked around a little helplessly. There was a door at the side of the room opposite the windows. He caught Lily Bordreau’s eye, and she nodded. He rose and ushered her to the door; it led into a small kitchen. There he paused and looked at von Flanagan.

“Tell your boys to be careful on that rug,” he said sternly, “or the city will find itself with two damage suits on its hands.”

The kitchen was neither large nor lavish nor expensive. It appeared, in fact, to be a converted dressing room, and not too well converted, either. The walls were painted a faded boarding-house green, a few wooden cupboards were the same, depressing shade. Worn linoleum covered the floor, there was a white-painted iron sink, a new-looking refrigerator and three-burner electric plate, a rickety table and three unmatched chairs. Evidently, Malone told himself, Lily Bor-dreau, artist and professional stepchild, didn’t go in heavily for the domestic life.

He sat down in one of the chairs, motioned her into another one, and said, “My dear, if you’ve anything more to tell me, tell it right now, and fast.”

He hadn’t needed to add, “And in a low voice.” She answered him in the barest whisper. “There isn’t anything! Malone, what happened? What really did happen?”

“I don’t know,” he told her grimly. “But von Flanagan is going to say that for some reason you bashed one Antonio Clancy on the head with a blunt instrument, and then got me here in a hurry to cover up for you.” And did you? his eyes asked.

“But Malone, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t anything like that. I came in here and—found him dead.”

“Leave it that way,” he said. “Stick to it. Except that I came in with you.”

Von Flanagan came in, mopping his brow, and sat down. He looked cross. “Well,” he said sourly, “I suppose you have a story all cooked up.” He sighed heavily. “Why people go so far out of their way to make things hard for me—” He shook his head sadly. “Even my best and my oldest friends.” He looked at Malone reproachfully. “I never should have been a policeman. I never wanted to be a policeman. I should of been an undertaker, like I wanted to be in the first place. If the alderman hadn’t owed my old man money—”

Malone didn’t even try to hide his yawn. It was a familiar story, without variations, and he listened to it now while the experts’ flashbulbs popped in the next room, photographing the scene of the crime.

“—and one of these days I’m going to retire, and buy a small dairy farm,” the big policeman finished. “That’s where the big money is. Milk. Why, do you know that from the time a quart of milk leaves the cow—” He broke off and snarled at Malone, “What the hell are you grinning about?”

“Milk,” Malone said.

Von Flanagan sighed again. “It wouldn’t be so bad if everybody didn’t go out of the way to make life hard for me. And now you two. Which one of you searched the body?” Malone raised his brows. “Searched?”

“It’s been searched,” von Flanagan said. He didn’t look especially surprised. “Everything there, I guess, identification and a little dough and stuff. But somebody searched him.” “Alter he was dead?” Lily Bordreau said, in a slightly shocked voice.

The big police officer looked at her coldly. “Husky young guys like him don’t usually stand still to be searched when they’re alive, without somebody holds a gun on them. And if there was a gun around, why hit him on the head with that brass snake-charmer?”

Malone refrained from saying that the snake-charmer was an Oriental god of dubious reputation and odd personal habits, but unquestioned following. “We didn’t search him.” Nobody bothered to ask what had been the object of the search. Malone reminded himself that he was going to have to find that envelope full of information to turn over to Max Hook, thus fulfilling that part of his obligation, and also that the twenty-four hours which he had to get Frank McGinnis out of jail were dwindling rapidly. Obviously, this was no time to sit around passing the time of night with von Flanagan. Besides, there were tomorrow’s newspapers to think about, and he didn’t want to meet the press when he needed a shave and a newly pressed suit.

He rose with dignity and said, “All this is very entertaining, but my client’s tired. As a matter of fact, so am I. So if you’ll take our statements and excuse us, I’ll take her home.”

“Sit down,” von Flanagan said absent-mindedly. He added, “Anyway, this is her home.”

“Her studio,” Malone said. “There’s a distinction.”

Von Flanagan didn’t look as though he appreciated the distinction. He looked coldly at Malone. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

“So have you,” Malone said promptly, and taking the offensive again. “You haven’t told me yet who tipped you off. Both times.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” von Flanagan roared. He stopped, drew a long breath, and changed it to, “Whether I was or was not tipped off is strictly my own business and has nothing to do with the case.”

“Oh, very well,” Malone said cheerfully. “Our being here has nothing to do with the case either. I had been out at the Estapooles’. I met this young lady there. She very kindly offered to drive me back into town. Then she invited me in for a drink. We came in, saw Antonio Clancy’s body on the floor, and were just about to call you when you, having been tipped off, though you say that is strictly your own business, came yammering at the door.”

“And what were you doing at the Estapooles’?” von Flanagan demanded.

“Offering my condolences to the widow,” Malone told him.

Von Flanagan seemed to have come to a dead end. He scowled. He blustered. He looked deeply grieved. Obviously there was something very wrong with the whole setup, but Malone wasn’t going to tell him what it was. He made a few what he knew were futile threats. He appealed to the cause of old and valued friendship, almost with tears in his eyes. Finally he gave up, sadly and grudgingly.

“Give Scanlon your statements,” he began, “and then get out of my sight—”

The telephone rang. It was for von Flanagan.

He listened, at first indignant at the interruption, then with surprise, finally with a deep and angry scowl, answering with a string of Yesses, Noes, and Maybes.

Finally he hung up, looked coldly at Malone and said, “All right, sit down again. You do have some more explaining to do.” He scowled heavily. “Turns out the little Commanday girl has been kidnaped after all. That makes it official now, Malone. Where is she, and who has her?”

CHAPTER 17

Malone kept completely quiet. Anyone looking at him might have assumed that he was deep in some important process of thought, perhaps on the verge of a monumental discovery. As a matter of fact, he was trying to remember how to count to ten.

At last von Flanagan said, “Well?” He said it a little threateningly.

Malone finally got to ten, and decided to make it up to twenty. The only thing he could think of to say was, “That’s impossible!” and he knew that wasn’t going to be the brightest remark of a lifetime, not in this circumstance. Because it was immediately going to raise the question of just how he knew it was impossible.

“So it’s finally been reported,” he said at last, feeling his way cautiously. “Any details?”

“If there are,” von Flanagan growled, “you’re the one who’d know what they are.”

The little lawyer took the cigar out again. This time he did unwrap it and light it. Then he said, “Get this through your head. I did not kidnap the Commanday child. I know nothing about the kidnaping of the Commanday child. Furthermore, I don’t expect to know anything about the kidnaping of the Commanday child. And besides,” he added icily, “it is not in your department, von Flanagan.”

It was Lily Bordreau who asked the question that got an answer. “What was the report you just got? What did it say?”

Von Flanagan turned to her, a little mellowed by the expression on her face. “The little girl disappeared from her home out in Lake Forest about two hours ago,” he said. “A search all over the neighborhood didn’t turn up anything. She’s just reported missing, but it’s logical to say she’s been kidnaped.”

The expression of disbelief on her face turned to one of complete bewilderment. Von Flanagan didn’t notice that either, because he was wearing one of his own. He turned to Malone.

“What is this, Malone?” he demanded. “What goes on? She was supposed to of been kidnaped day before yesterday. Only nothing more got said about that. Now she’s gone and gotten herself kidnaped tonight instead.”

Malone said, “Right now you know as much as I do,” and he said it honestly. “And I’m still going to take my client home, and go get a good night’s sleep myself.”

“Sleep!” von Flanagan snorted, “while a beautiful little golden-haired baby girl is in the hands of kidnapers.”

Much more of this, Malone thought, and Lily Bordreau was going to be in the hands of men with strait jackets. He said stiffly, “I have every intention of helping, but I can’t do it just sitting here making conversation.” He thought fast. “There was a rumor that I was to be the contact for the kidnapers. That may still be true. In which case, I’d better be where I can be reached in a hurry.”

To his relief, von Flanagan saw the justice of that. Indeed, the giving of statements was rushed through and Malone and Lily Bordreau were ushered out the door before an ash had formed on the little lawyer’s cigar.

Out in her car he looked at her approvingly and said, “You’re a good, bright little girl. You let your lawyer do your talking for you.”

“Malone,” she said miserably, “I couldn’t think of anything to say, that’s why.”

He ignored that and said, “So now, you’re going to go right on being a good, bright little girl, and answer your lawyer’s questions.” He looked at her critically. “As soon as we can find a faucet,” he said, “you’re going to wash your face.”

She started to smile at that, gulped, began to let a small flood of tears do the washing job, braked the car to an unsteady stop against the curb, grabbed a handful of facial tissues from the glove compartment, and finished smudging what was left of her make-up. Then she viewed herself in her compact, looked at Malone, and said, “Shall I wash it or trade it in for a new model?”

“I wish I had an ice-cream cone handy,” he told her. “I’d like to give it to you.”

This time she did manage the smile, but it faded fast. “Malone, what has happened to Alberta?”

“I wish to Heaven I knew,” Malone said, from the bottom of his heart.

“Everything seems to be all mixed up,” she said, starting the car again. “And I’ve got a lot to tell you, Malone.”

“The story of your life,” Malone said, “is probably fascinating and fabulous, but this is hardly the time or the place. And I have a lot of questions to ask you and this doesn’t seem to be the time or the place either.” He looked at her frightened, tear-stained, slightly soiled, little-girl face and said gently, “You’re supposed to be going home, remember? Whose home, and where?”

She thought for about a block and a half and then said, “I guess we’d better go to Jane’s apartment. It’s in the same building as Carmena’s. And Hammond’s.”

Malone thought that the Estapoole menage began to sound like a housing project, and said so.

“Everybody has to have an apartment in town,” she said, as though she were saying that everybody had to have a pair of shoes and one change of socks. “Hammond couldn’t go tooling all the way out to Lake Forest after a late date, so naturally he had to have a place to stay overnight and keep a change of clothes. And the same goes for Jane, especially because every now and then she has a late date too, and she can’t go all the way up north—” she made it sound as though it were five feet south of the Canadian border, and reached only by dog sled or helicopter—“and then come back in the morning when she has to do Junior League work.”

Yes, Malone reflected, Jane would be Junior League. That fitted. It made one more thing he approved of about her, along with the shining, well-brushed hair, the flawless make-up, the perfectly selected clothes, and the gentle voice. He’d never met a girl exactly like her before, never had a chance to get really acquainted with one. A thoroughly nice girl, that was it. He half-shut his eyes for a moment, and did a little dreaming about Jane Estapoole.

“And Carmena naturally had to have an apartment in town,” Lily said, “to change in before dinner parties, and things like that. I mean, Carmena and Leonard had to. Now all of a sudden, it’s just Carmena’s apartment.” Suddenly the tears began to gush again. “Leonard was an old fuddy-duddy and a terrible pain to everybody, but he was really a swell guy and I did like him and I wish he hadn’t been murdered.”

Added up, it made perfect sense and, Malone told himself, this was no time to ask her, point-blank, if she’d murdered Leonard Estapoole. This time, he reached for the Kleenex and mopped her face.

She sniffled a thank you and said, “So I’ll spend the night at Jane’s.” She managed the smile again, but it was a very wan one. “I promised to ask you up for a drink—”

She had, and it had turned out to be a very bad idea, and Malone came up with what he hoped might be a better one. “If you’ll make a right turn on Clark Street, and go about a block and a half—”

It was a small, quiet place, with a muted jukebox, three tired customers absorbed in their own problems, a bored bartender, and a back booth which might have been an isolation chamber. Malone waited until the drinks had arrived, lit her cigarette, reached for a new cigar, and said, “Let’s get back to something. You wanted that envelope of information Leonard Estapoole was carrying around. Why?”

She looked at him with her big hazel eyes, smeared now with dirt and tears, ran her slightly grubby little hand, still with those endearing pencil smudges, through her already badly mussed dark hair, made rings on the table with her untouched glass, and said nothing at all.

“It’s worth money to some people,” he said, “but not enough to take the kind of risk you took—” he looked at her closely—“or tried to take. From the looks of your studio, I don’t think you need that kind of money that badly.” His eyes narrowed. “And you’re not the type who could be blackmailed. So, who was the boy-friend you planned to give it to?” He added quickly, “Drink your drink before you answer that.”

She did, and choked on it. Then she shook her head.

“Was it Tony?” Malone probed gently. “Antonio Clancy?”

He regretted it the instant he’d spoken, not because of the startled look in her eyes but because of his own memory of Antonio Clancy both in life and in death. The chauffeur, or whatever he was, had been a glowering, ugly lump of a man, who had looked as though he’d been born and raised to be either on the giving or the receiving end of murder. Not for this child, not for this little lily-of-the-valley, with her dirty, frightened child’s face and her tousled hair.

“All right,” he said quickly, “I take that back. But people do have boy-friends. It happens all the time. And even tell their lawyers about it, in strict confidence.” Until now he’d resisted the impulse to reach over and pat her hand. “You know, as your lawyer,” he said, accompanying the pat, “there isn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do for you. And finish your drink.”

She picked it up, put it down again, and said, “Malone, where is Alberta?”

The little lawyer sighed. “I don’t know. But wherever she is, I have a feeling she’s all right.” He added, “I only hope the people with her are.”

This time, the smile was a real one. It said everything, with no additional comments. Then it faded and she said, “But I can’t understand all this. I told you—what I knew about the kidnaping. That it was a beautiful golden frame. And I tried to head it off—oh, all right, for my own reasons—and I goofed. But there wasn’t any crying and hueing until tonight. Now, Carmena suddenly reports her missing. And Tony, who was in on the frame, is murdered—Malone, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t try to do either,” Malone advised. “Relax and answer as many questions as you can.” He looked at her again, his heart in his eyes. She needed another drink, she needed a bath, she needed a long night’s sleep. Well, at least—He signaled the bartender. “Tell me all you know about Antonio Clancy. Including his real name, if you know it.”

“Medinica,” she said in a small voice. “Art Medinica. He’s a relative of Mike Medinica.” She didn’t need to add The in front of Mike Medinica. “When Leonard really started on this information-getting jazz, he hired a bunch of people in little jobs. Like him, for a chauffeur.”

Or, Malone thought, with a twinge of bitterness, Tommy Storm for a confidential secretary.

“Medinica was too well-known a name. I mean, is. So Leonard had him pick a name. Out of a hat.”

“Two hats,” Malone said, “one for the Antonio, the other for the Clancy.”

She smiled again at that, but it was getting to be a very tired smile now. “I don’t know much more about him. Except that he was in on this fake kidnaping thing. And—” she scowled, and it was a wide-awake scowl—“he knew how valuable that envelope of information was. He must have been looking for it in my studio when—when it happened.”

“Why there?” Malone asked.

“Because—” She drew more circles on the table with her glass. “Malone. I suppose anything I tell you is going to be strictly secret.”

The little lawyer downed his drink and said, “My dear child, I promise that anything you tell me is going to go right in one head and out the other.”

“I know Frank McGinnis,” she whispered. “I know him very well.”

Malone closed his eyes for a moment, leaned his head back against the cushioned booth, and thought. There was some mathematical theory that if you stood on the corner of State and Madison streets long enough, say, several million years, everybody in the world would pass by. Or was he thinking about the given number of apes at a given number of typewriters who would in several billion years, come up with the complete works of Shakespeare and a copy of the Kinsey report? It didn’t matter. What did matter was the feeling that if he stayed with this case long enough, everyone he knew in the world was going to turn out to be connected with someone else connected with it.

“That’s why,” she said, in the same, small, weary whisper, “when he was arrested for murdering Leonard, Tony—Art—whichever you want to call him—must have assumed—he’d left that envelope—with me. But he didn’t—” She drew a faint little breath. “And somebody else was looking for the envelope—I guess a lot of people are—and went there and killed him—and searched the body—” Her voice trailed off.

“And you,” Malone said mercilessly, “went in, and found him dead. And you searched the body yourself, didn’t you? That’s what took you so long.” A mean trick, taking advantage of a tired child, but he had to know.

She nodded. “Didn’t find anything.” Suddenly she sat up straight, eyes open and alert. “Malone. You thought I went in there and killed him!”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Malone lied nobly.

She patted her hair roughly into place, made another pass at her face with the rumpled Kleenex, and said, “Malone. The way his confession read. Frank’s. It did look like self-defense. One of the papers quoted a statement from you about that. Do you think you can get him off? Do you think you can get him out of jail?”

Malone started to say, “Oh, is it like that?” and then didn’t, because he didn’t need to. He patted her hand once more and then said, “Dear child, I can promise you he’ll be out of jail—” he glanced at his watch, did a frightening mental calculation, and said—“tomorrow. And now you’re going home to bed.”

It was a short drive to the apartment building that, in Malone’s mind, was fairly honeycombed with Estapoole apartments. A friendly doorman took charge of the car, Malone took charge of the exhausted Lily Bordreau. An equally friendly elevator operator escorted them to the door of Jane Estapoole’s apartment.

She came to the door after what seemed like a forever of ringing, took a quick look at Lily and, just as quickly, took charge, with a head-nurse kind of efficiency that pleased and reassured Malone. It was not until Lily had been settled on a comfortable-looking but probably incredibly antique sofa, and Carmena Estapoole’s maid (who slept in, upstairs) had been sent for, that Jane came up with questions.

In the meantime Malone had been watching her with the kind of admiration he usually reserved for presidential candidates, public heroes, winners of beauty contests, and St. Patrick’s Day parades. She had on what could not, by any stretch of his imagination, be termed a negligee, nor on the other hand, could anyone call it a bathrobe. It was cream-colored satin, smoothly tailored, its lapels neatly edged with rosy beige, a fringed and narrow sash tied around her slender waist. The slippers that played hide-and-seek under the hem of it were rosy-beige too, made, he guessed, of some kidskin that could double for platinum in an open market. Her brown hair had been brushed until it shone invitingly, her lovely oval face was innocent of make-up and just slightly shining with cream, and it was a face that he knew was going to haunt him in a great many pleasant and improbable dreams.

“What happened to her?” She made a well-bred gesture indicating that almost anything might have. “The police were here a while ago. About the murder in her studio. They didn’t say anything about her. Just asked about me, and where I was. And then—Carmena finally reported Alberta kidnaped—” This time the gesture wasn’t quite as well-bred. “I’m sorry, Malone, I guess I’m a little overwrought. But Lily—there’s blood on her sweater, her face is dirty, she’s a little drunk, she looks as though—” She paused.

“As though she’s gone through Hell,” Malone said in his politest voice. “And she has.” He paused for dramatic effect, reminded himself there wasn’t a jury in the room, and said, “She discovered the body. I mean, we did.” He went on fast. “She drove me down from Lake Forest, asked me in for a drink—and there was this murder. I suppose you know who—”

“Tony,” she said.

If she knew Tony’s name was Art Medinica, it didn’t show in her face.

“The police questioned her. The whole thing was a little upsetting.” He began to wish there was a jury in the room. Suddenly he found he wanted to show off in front of Jane Estapoole. “In fact, they wanted to hold her. Fortunately, I was there and acted as her lawyer and, of course, they let her go. But then the news about the kidnaping came—”

He watched her closely.

“But Malone, the kidnaping—” She paused and said, “Go on, about Lily—”

He shrugged his shoulders in the gesture that had charmed more jurors than he cared to remember. “The poor child went all to pieces. I bought her a drink, and brought her here. She said she wanted to go to Jane’s.”

The smile on her face was like the sun breaking through on a dismal afternoon. “She’ll always be my little sister to me, Malone.” Coming from anyone else, it would have been not just corn but popcorn, Malone reflected. But Jane Estapoole was different.

The arrival of the maid was a welcome interruption. Lily Bordreau was whisked off to a bath, a bed, and a strong sedative. Jane Estapoole said, “You look pretty done in yourself. Let me fix you a drink, Malone.”

The little lawyer leaned back again and glanced around the room. It was one of those restful rooms where everything was exactly right, and in exactly the right place. A Governor Win-throp desk, flawlessly polished, but its shelves showing the bright colors of the best and latest books. Ash trays everywhere, and all of them newly washed.

Jane Estapoole came back with a tray and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

“You’ve been through so much today, Malone, and you’re so tired yourself. I thought maybe you’d rather have this than a drink. Though if you’d rather have Scotch—”

He would rather have had gin with a beer chaser than either, but he wasn’t going to say so, not in front of this girl.

He got the hot chocolate down. He heard the maid’s report that Lily Bordreau was tucked in and sleeping nicely. He thanked his hostess and rose to go.

She stood at the doorway for a moment. “Malone. It’s very late, and there’s no time to talk. But I need to talk to you. As soon as I can. May I call you at your office—early?”

“Early!” Malone said fervently. “Any time!”

“You see—well, there isn’t any time to talk now but—you see, I know your client Frank McGinnis—very well.”

Malone knew that if he even tried to speak, he’d probably stammer.

“But we can talk about that tomorrow. It’s so good of you to have taken such good care of Lily.”

He only hoped the stars in his eyes didn’t show when he said good night.

He rode down in the elevator as though it were a moon-kissed cloud, floated out to the taxi-stand on a star-spangled mist, slid into the cab and said, “Where can I catch the next rocket ship to Mars?”

The cab driver turned around and said, “Malone, you don’t want Mars, you want Joe the Angel’s.”

“I know what I want,” Malone said. “Drive through Lincoln Park, and I’ll tell you from there.”

He’d always known there were girls like Jane Estapoole. Indeed, he’d come within brushing contact of a few. Just a thoroughly nice, nice girl. Everything nice about her. She might not want to have anything to do with a disreputable—who was to call him disreputable?—criminal lawyer, but—oh well, she’d call him in the morning. He’d see her during the day.

The little matters of murders, kidnapings, money, and such trifles—why think of them now?

But just the same—

So she knew Frank McGinnis too.

And that was what she wanted to see him about.

There were a few other questions that began to rise in his mind.

He pulled a notebook from his pocket and hastily scrawled a memo to himself. Cl vFgn. McG pap. Fnd. Est. Inherit. Who. F’m. C’s hus. Tearooms.

“You need any help, Malone?” the driver called.

He did, and plenty. Information, and in a hurry. But first of all, a good night’s sleep. He looked at his watch. All right, a good three hours’ sleep. Someplace where von Flanagan, where no one, could find him.

He leaned forward and gave the driver the address of Tommy Storm.

She came downstairs to open the door, walked up the stairs with him. Suddenly he realized how tired, how utterly tired he was. And how little time he had left. And how wasted the day had been.

Or had it?

He found himself in her cheerful, softly lighted little apartment, caught the welcoming smile she gave him, heard her say, “Well, Malone, it’s about time.”

The little lawyer sighed deeply. “I’m just a drowning man,” he said, reaching for her, “grasping at a straw-colored blonde.”

CHAPTER 18

Helene stared, gasped, gulped, and finally caught her breath. She didn’t say What-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-all-this! right out loud, but the look on her face did. Finally she managed to say, “How did you get here?”

“You brought me,” Alberta Commanday said smugly, looking very pleased with herself.

“And I’m going to take you right straight back again,” Helene said grimly. “Get back down under that rug.”

“You can’t,” Alberta said in a maddeningly calm voice. “Because you’re driving a hot car.” She grinned nastily. “I heard everything everybody said.”

Helene thought that over. The devil of it was, Alberta was right.

“Besides,” Alberta added, “you put the finger on me for the snatch.”

Helene didn’t bother to ask how well-brought-up little girls picked up such language. She knew from personal experience.

In any case, this was no place to talk. There was always a good chance that a couple of indignant cops would come roaring into the garage any minute now. She felt serenely confident that she could talk her way out of whatever the problem was concerning the car, plus the minor item of racing away to avoid questioning. But not with a kidnaped child in tow.

“All right,” she said wearily, “we’d better go on upstairs and talk this over.”

She took Alberta by a small, grimy hand, led her to the self-service freight elevator, warned her to keep quieter than she ever had in her life before, and finally reached the security of her own apartment.

“And now, listen,” she admonished fiercely, as she closed the door and bolted it. “If anyone—anyone—comes in, you duck out of sight, and fast.”

“Or what?” her visitor demanded scornfully.

“Or,” Helene said, “I’ll jump up and down on you with hobnailed shoes.”

She switched on the light and gazed lovingly around the big room she hadn’t seen since the departure for Wyoming—that seemed so very long ago. Then she took a second glance around the room. Then she sniffed the air.

Jake had been here. It seemed impossible, no, it was impossible. Jake was in Wyoming, thousands of miles away, and wasn’t answering his telephone messages.

She sniffed the air again. She inspected the stubs in the big crystal ash trays. She walked into the kitchen and looked in the sink, the icebox, and the liquor cabinet. Finally she investigated the bedroom.

Impossible, hell! Jake had been here, and not so very long ago, either.

Alberta had been following her around; now she asked curiously, “What are you looking for?”

“Rats,” Helene said, “and hush up.”

Finally she sat down by the telephone and made one last call to Wyoming. This time she got a little more information than she’d had before. Mr. Justus had left the dude ranch sometime early this morning, and hadn’t been seen since. Was there any difficulty?

“No,” Helene said grimly. “Nothing at all.”

Jake had been in town all through this horrible day and evening, and hadn’t come to her side. Even if he hadn’t known anything about the tangled mess she was in, his first thought should have been to come to her. Instead, he’d probably run into Malone and the two of them had gone off somewhere to celebrate something, possibly the battle of Manila Bay. Treat her like that, would he! She’d show him!

She looked down at Alberta Commanday, at the glasses, the braces on her teeth, at the expression on her face. She looked like a mean little kid. Helene softened a little. She liked mean little kids.

“Care to join me in a drink?” she asked hospitably.

Alberta would. There was Coke in the icebox. Helene mixed a gin-and-tonic for herself, went back to the living room, sat down and lit a cigarette, and began to think things over.

Alter all, she hadn’t been exactly easy to find for the past twenty-four hours, holed up in Lily Bordreau’s studio. It was perfectly possible that Jake had flown back to Chicago because he’d been worried about her, or because he’d just been lonesome for her. In fact, that was probably exactly it. Obviously, the apartment had been the first place he’d come to. Just as obviously, he’d stayed in it for quite a while, waiting for her.

She’d noticed her address book beside the telephone. Jake must have been calling up everybody she knew, trying to find her. Worried. Anxious. Frightened for her.

Much more of that, she told herself, and she’d have to blow her nose.

As a matter of fact, right this minute Jake was probably out looking for her, and in that case, he’d undoubtedly enlisted Malone’s help. The two of them must be out looking for her, and perhaps running into all kinds of trouble.

She sat down by the telephone and called every number she could remember, every place Malone could conceivably be. The net result was a series of zeros.

Well, there was nothing to do but wait. She finished her drink and looked thoughtfully at Alberta.

“The best thing for me to do,” she said, “is to call a cab driver I know and tell him to deliver you right straight back to your mother. And then telephone her myself and explain everything.” Well, almost everything.

“You try that,” Alberta Commanday said coldly, “and I’ll—” she paused—“I’ll send you spiders through the mail.”

Helene ignored her loftily, reached her hand to the telephone, and paused. Maybe sending little Alberta home wasn’t the smartest thing to do right now, after all. Not until she’d found out a little more of what had been going on. Nor until she was on surer ground in explaining her own part in the matter.

And certainly not until she had Malone at her side to help answer questions.

Alberta Commanday sipped her Coke and looked around with a pleased expression. “I like being kidnaped here,” she said. “I like it even better than being kidnaped at the di Angelos. And a whole lot better than being kidnaped at Ma Blodgett’s.”

Helene’s eyebrows raised. “And who is Ma Blodgett and when were you there and why?”

Alberta ignored every question but the last one and said calmly, “Mr. Malone took me there.” She added reflectively, “I like Mr. Malone.”

Well, there was something that was understandable. Though Helene wasn’t sure that she herself liked Malone right this minute.

A1 di Angelo had told her that they had delivered Alberta Commanday to Malone, as per previous agreement. But why, then, hadn’t the little lawyer immediately delivered the child straight back to her presumably distraught parent?

It occurred to her that there were a number of things she might learn from her young guest, with a little adroit questioning. She produced another Coke and turned on her most ingratiating smile.

“To begin with,” she said warmly, “what I want to know is, how did you get in the back of my car tonight?”

“Why,” Alberta said, amazed at such a stupid question, “I climbed in.”

The telephone rang. Helene grabbed for it, hopefully.

It was the desk clerk downstairs. He’d thought Mrs. Justus ought to know there were a couple of gentlemen on the way up. Just got in the elevator. A couple of policemen.

Helene slammed down the receiver, her lovely face pale.

“Cops,” she said to Alberta, hoping she was making the right approach. “You’ve got to hide. Keep out of sight until they’re gone. Then we can visit some more.” She pointed. “In there!”

To her relief, Alberta didn’t seem any more anxious to chat with the cops than she was. She finished her Coke in a breathtaking gulp and scooted through the bedroom door just as the knock came.

Helene took one quick glance around the room. Nothing to arouse suspicion in the most astute policeman. Then, she opened the door, wearing a smiling expression that was halfway between “Won’t you come in?” and “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

The pair of plain-clothes men looked her over. “You Mrs. Justus?” one of them said.

Helene was willing to admit that. They came in, closing the door behind them. Helene regarded them thoughtfully. Both of them were strangers to her, which might or might not be a good break. One of them was a little taller than the other, and looked a little older; the other had slightly reddish hair. Outside of that, they looked like any two plain-clothes men anywhere in the world.

“And now,” she said brightly, “what’s all this nonsense?”

The older one sighed and said, “Don’t bluff, Mrs. Justus. You were driving a car that was reported stolen earlier in the evening. You drove away fast when an officer tried to question you. The car’s downstairs in the hotel garage right now, or will be until we take it in with us. Now get your coat and let’s go.”

“There’s a perfectly simple explanation,” Helene began.

“You can make it downtown,” the other cop said. “We wouldn’t maybe make such a thing about it because maybe you do have a simple explanation, but this car was stolen from a house from which there’d been a kidnaping, and its owner’s just been murdered.”

“Shut up, Jack,” the older cop said, “you talk too much. Come on, lady, let’s don’t you give us a hard time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Helene said. She thought fast. The quicker she got this pair away from the apartment, the better. Any minute they might decide to get nosy and take a quick look around. “Just let me get a wrap and powder my face.”

She thanked her luck that they sat down and waited while she went into the bedroom, switching the light on gingerly.

There was no sign of Alberta anywhere. Nor in the whole bedroom was there a place to hide, and the windows opened onto a fifteen-story drop.

There was no Alberta in the one closet, either. Helene selected a camel’s-hair topcoat, thinking that from the chill that was running down her spine, she ought to be picking out her warmest furs.

She went into the bathroom, wet a comb, and ran it quickly through her smooth, ice-blond hair.

The lid of the laundry hamper lifted a fraction of an inch. Just enough for Helene to see a conspiratorial wink.

Helene turned the water in the bowl on full, and under the cover of the sound it made, whispered, “Stay here. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back.” She added hastily, “More Coke in the icebox.”

The two minutes with make-up and a comb had been enough. There was delighted appreciation in the eyes of the two plain-clothes men when she marched into the living room, her hands in the pockets of the camel’s-hair topcoat, her wide-brimmed, pale-rose felt hat tilted just enough.

“I’d better warn you though,” she said pleasantly, “I’m going to demand my lawyer immediately. John J. Malone. And if necessary, the whole police department of the city of Chicago had better go out and find him for me.”

CHAPTER 19

Malone examined himself in Tommy Storm’s mirror and said dismally, “I look the way I feel when I feel the way I look.” He paused. That hadn’t been exactly what he meant, but it would have to do.

Tommy Storm suggested sympathetically that a little sleep—say, twelve or fourteen hours of it—wouldn’t do any real harm.

For a mad moment he allowed himself to think luxuriously about sleep. About a warm and soothing bath, and then hour after hour of sleep in a smooth, freshly made-up bed, the window shades drawn, and strict orders left at the desk regarding telephone calls or visitors.

And by the time he woke, the twenty-four hours would undoubtedly be up, and he’d be trading places with Frank McGinnis in the County Jail. No, sleep would need to come later. Right now, there were things to be done.

Besides, he was going to see Jane Estapoole later in the day.

“It’s early,” Tommy Storm said. “It isn’t even breakfast time yet.”

That word conjured up a few more luxurious thoughts in his weary mind. But he was damned if he was going to let Tommy Storm provide breakfast for him, not this morning. There were still too many unanswered questions about her in his mind.

“The early bird,” he announced magnificently, “makes hay while the sun shines.”

He looked at himself once more in the mirror. He’d seen worse-looking faces, but not on him. Oh well, nothing that a good shave and a little talcum wouldn’t fix. The mouse under his eye had almost faded, and the bruise on his jaw was only a faint shadow.

He sat down in the comfortable chair in the bright little living room, lighted a fresh cigar, smiled at her and said, “Now my dear, I want you to talk to me as though I were your—” He paused. He’d started to say “father” and realized his feeling about her was far from paternal. “Your lawyer. Why did you take the job as Leonard Estapoole’s confidential secretary?”

If he’d thought that was going to jolt her, he’d never been as wrong in his life. Well, almost never. She smiled right back at him, a bright, obliging smile, and said, “For the money, of course.” She waited a moment and then said, “And because I knew what he was doing, and I thought the stuff he was collecting might be valuable when he got it all together.”

“Valuable to whom?”

She shrugged her pretty shoulders and said, “Me.” She was still smiling. “And whoever offered the most money.”

Malone reflected that if there was anything in the world he admired—and distrusted—it was frankness in a woman. Particularly a gorgeous blonde.

“And Hammond Estapoole?” he asked.

It pleased him that she didn’t offer any of the customary and very trite defenses such as, “Why are you asking so many questions?” or, “Just what business is it of yours anyway?”

No, she went on, still brightly and obligingly. “He gave me a terrific play because he was after the same thing I was. Though naturally he didn’t tell me. But nobody has to draw maps for me, I draw my own. I went along with the gag because I thought we might have to join forces, and because after all, I never was a girl to turn down invitations to expensive night clubs.”

Malone made a mental note of that, and reflected that he hoped she’d have a lot of free evenings after all this was over.

“You were very helpful to me yesterday,” Malone said. “The real reason why is something we’ll discuss later. But I’d be happy if you’d fill in a few details about what happened.”

Her smile stayed. “All right, I knew about the phony kidnaping setup and that you’d been picked to act as go-between. But I didn’t know when or where it was going to be done—the deal, I mean. Except that it would be within the next twelve hours. So I took to following Leonard Estapoole around. I thought he’d be easier to keep an eye on than you would.”

“Thank you,” Malone said. “And how right you were.”

“It was about nine-thirty or so in the evening when he got to your office. I parked the car and watched for him to come out. He didn’t come out. I’d about given up when you came out, with that big police officer. Then I got really concerned. The more so, because there was no sign of Leonard Estapoole. So I decided to stick with you.”

“Smart girl,” Malone said approvingly.

“Then you and the cop went into Joe the Angel’s. I waited. I thought you never were going to leave.”

“So did I,” Malone said, remembering.

“I’d about decided to go in and join you for a drink, when along you came. I trailed along as far as your hotel and decided to give up. But you were practically dragged into a car with two men and a little girl, and I knew things were getting pretty hot, so I stayed with the party. The two men dumped you and the little girl. Then you parked the little girl. I didn’t know what to think.”

“At that point,” Malone confided, “neither did I.”

“You started up the street. I was trying to drive slow and keep out of sight. A man got out of a car parked down the street and took out after you. He slugged you a couple of times. Before I could do anything about it in the way of yelling for help, he’d hauled you into his car, and off he went. Again I stayed with the party. Finally he parked you at that flea-bag hotel.” She paused.

“But in the morning—” Malone prompted.

“I had to take back the car I’d borrowed. I wanted it back in the garage—it’s an apartment building garage—before the owner knew I’d borrowed it.”

“Tsk-tsk,” Malone said.

“Oh,” she said, “I was sure Hammond wouldn’t mind.”

A nice, direct approach, Malone thought admiringly. In order to horn in on Hammond Estapoole’s private kidnaping, she’d borrowed Hammond Estapoole’s car.

“But I kept thinking about you,” she said. “I got a cab and sat in an all-night restaurant across West Madison Street from that hotel, wondering if I ought to investigate and see if you were still alive. I’d about made up my mind to go on in—at least, find out if you were still there—when you came out, looking like the backwash from a political convention. I got a cab, and you know the rest.”

“You were a busy little girl,” Malone said. “But I do not know the rest.”

She lifted her hands helplessly. “Any questions you want to ask, Malone—”

He lighted a cigar and sat looking at her thoughtfully for a full minute before he spoke.

“You knew about the fake kidnaping,” he said, not accusingly but stating what could have been an almost casual fact. “You made the telephone contact with Estapoole.”

She nodded.

“You knew when and where the meeting with me was going to take place,” he said, still in the same matter-of-fact tone.

“No. Carmena and Hammond fixed that up. Nobody knew except them—and Leonard Estapoole. And you.”

“And the murderer,” he reminded her.

She didn’t answer that one.

“And,” he said very pleasantly, “you were keeping a careful eye on me because I’d once done a favor for a friend of yours and because you decided you liked me.”

The bright smile became an impish grin. “No. I thought old man Estapoole would hand that envelope over to you. I was keeping an eye on you until I was sure you had it. Then—” the grin grew a shade more impish—“you and I were going to get acquainted. Your reputation precedes you, Malone.”

He looked at her with real admiration. Then he said, “If it had turned out that way, you’d probably have gotten the envelope, too.”

“You’re damned right,” Tommy Storm said warmly. “And now, may I offer you breakfast?”

Now, he didn’t hesitate. The questions were out of his mind and he was satisfied with the answers, at least for the present. And besides, she was a wonderful cook.

Over his third cup of coffee, he said, “So that’s the reason why you stuck to me like a chestnut burr all that time. You weren’t just protecting me.”

This time the grin had a dimple with it. “Sure I was. Because I thought there was a chance you had the envelope, especially with old man Estapoole murdered.”

“I think,” Malone said, “we’re going to be very, very good friends. And speaking of murder...”

So far he hadn’t told her what had happened during the night. Now he did, briefly and concisely. She stared at him.

“Who did it, Malone?”

“I would very much like to know,” he said. “And the police would very much like to know.” And given reasonable good luck, they might both get their wish. Before that twenty-four hours was up, too. “And where were you, while all this was going on?”

“Malone, do you think I did it?”

“No,” he told her. “I think that if you had, you’d have told me by now. But somebody might get that idea.”

“I wasn’t anywhere in particular,” she said slowly. “I was out on a date. Nothing to do with this. We went to a few places—the Chez—the Alabam—the Glass Hat—I got home about three, I think.” Again she smiled. “I didn’t have a very good time.”

Malone made another mental note, to make up for that on that first free evening.

He leaned back and looked at her approvingly. There were other questions, but he could assume the answers without asking them.

“Malone, what are you going to do?”

“You asked me that yesterday,” he said. “And I’ve got the same answer. I don’t know. But something.”

She said, “If Frank McGinnis weren’t in jail, I’d say he’d committed this murder too.”

He started to speak and caught himself. He’d almost forgotten that Tommy Storm didn’t know yet that Frank McGinnis’ being in jail had almost nothing to do with the murder of Leonard Estapoole.

He cast a last, regretful look around the cheerful and friendly little apartment before he left. Well, there would be other days.

Outside, Chicago seemed to be welcoming the new day as though it were an unemployed relative. The sky was a dingy, discouraged gray; a thin, chilling rain was beginning to fall. Somewhere out there beyond the lake the sun was doing its best to rise, but against tremendous odds. The little lawyer hailed a taxi at the corner of Michigan, gave the address of his hotel, and wondered why troubles and calamities of all and every kind invariably occurred during spells of really terrible weather. Did the weather bring them on, or was it the other way?

At the moment, he didn’t particularly care. For the brief respite of the ride he closed his eyes and thought about sunlit beaches, entirely populated with lightly tanned beauty contestants, about the new show at the Chez, about next Thursday’s poker game at Judge Touralchuk’s, about the possible fee he might stick Max Hook for, about the tip he’d gotten on the seventh at Santa Anita for Saturday, about a date with Tommy Storm with no murders or other minor problems involved, about the coming conference with nice, smooth, well-brought-up Jane Estapoole, about spring moonlight on the lake front, and mostly about a bath.

He picked up a newspaper as he entered the lobby, glanced briefly at its headlines, and told himself he should have been thinking again about possible living conditions in Honduras, or possibly San Salvador.

The desk clerk greeted him anxiously. “Malone, have you had any trouble?”

Malone sighed. “For me, it was no trouble.”

There was a handful of messages. Jake had called. Helene had called. Well, at least she was alive and in reach of a telephone. Von Flanagan had called. Maggie had called. He frowned. At five-thirty in the morning, the time marked on the call, Maggie should have been sleeping peacefully in the bosom of the O’Leary household. Joe the Angel had called. That was a novelty and presaged no good. Max Hook had called. Mike Medinica had called. That was more than a novelty and could be very good or very bad.

“Most of them called more than once,” the night clerk said anxiously. “Is there anything I can do, Malone?”

“There is,” Malone told him. “Keep on answering the phone and keep on telling people you don’t know where I am, until I tell you different.”

At that moment the board buzzed, the clerk answered, Malone waited.

“I’m sorry, he isn’t in,” the clerk said. “Yes, I’ll tell him.” He wrote something down.

Marty Budlicek had called.

The bath was all that he had dreamed of and possibly more. He shaved slowly and with loving care, powdered carefully over the bruises, and decided that the result was well worth the trouble expended. There was a freshly pressed Finchley suit on its hanger, fortunately, his favorite. There was a Countess Mara tie he hadn’t worn more than once. He surveyed the final effect approvingly.

There was also a comfortable sum left over from Max Hook’s expense money in his wallet. Malone patted it as he tucked it in his pocket, and hummed a little tune.

All that, he told himself, but not an idea in his head.

He paused at the desk long enough to tell the clerk that when more calls came in, as they inevitably would, to refer them to his office.

The first stop, though, was going to be Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, and not to start the day with a gin-and-beer, either. There were a few little matters regarding the di Angelos he wanted to straighten out and right now.

At this hour, Joe the Angel’s was deserted, save for an off-duty city hall janitor at a corner table, gazing moodily into his untouched beer. Joe the Angel turned from his early morning task of trying to add up yesterday’s unpaid bar bills to greet Malone with an outstretched hand and a look of relief.

“Malone! You are all right. All this time, I tell everybody you are all right. Malone, it is on the house. I know all along you are all right.”

Malone said sourly, “Gin-and-beer, and all the time you’ve been wrong. I am not all right.”

Joe the Angel paused in the act of reaching for a bottle and said, “Malone, you are not all right?”

“I was wrong,” Malone said, “I am all right. It is you who are wrong.”

“Let us begin this again,” Joe the Angel said calmly. He poured the drink, said, “It is still on the house. Malone, you are alive.”

“Yes,” Malone said.

“And well,” Joe the Angel said.

“That’s debatable,” Malone said, “but we’ll skip that.” “And not in jail,” Joe the Angel said.

“Not yet,” Malone said, shuddering. He downed his drink fast.

“There you are,” Joe the Angel said. “You are all right. And what is this that I am all wrong?”

Malone said slowly, “We have been friends a long time. I hope we will be friends a longer time.” Damn it, he thought, he was beginning to sound like von Flanagan. “So why didn’t you tell me that A1 di Angelo was your cousin?”

Joe the Angel’s eyes grew round and unhappy.

“And,” Malone went on relentlessly, “that Mike Medinica’s cousin Art was A1 di Angelo’s brother-in-law?”

Joe the Angel started to speak, spreading his hands helplessly.

“And,” Malone said, finishing what he suspected would be his last drink on the house at Joe the Angel’s, at least for a very long time, “why didn’t you tell me that your cousin A1 di Angelo, and his brother-in-law, Alt Medinica, had kidnaped the Commanday child and were to turn her over to me?” He hoped that his eyes were flashing fire. Cold fire.

For a moment Joe the Angel stared at him in complete and baffled amazement. He opened and shut his mouth a few times. Finally he said, “But Malone. I think you know all the time.” He drew a long, slow breath. “Malone, he knows everything that goes on.”

Malone only had to look for the time it takes a clock to tick. He’d known Joe the Angel for a long time. He said, “I apologize, and the next drink is not on the house.” He paused and smiled. “Only, apparently, this time I didn’t know everything that went on.”

“The next drink is on the house,” Joe the Angel said firmly, “if I die a poor man.” He poured it. “My cousin Al di Angelo—my second cousin—is not a bad man. He tells me he has a chance to make a little money in something that is not illegal, that he will not do any harm. Al di Angelo, he would not do anybody any harm. His brother-in-law is not a bad man either.”

“Was,” Malone corrected. “He was murdered last night. You’d better warn your cousin Al not to go looking for those papers that were taken from Leonard Estapoole’s body. It’s not worth the chance.”

Joe the Angel said, “Malone, you watch the bar.” He strode to the back of the room, went into the phone booth, and was there for the length of time it took Malone to finish his drink and light a new cigar. Then he came back, picked up the bar towel, and went to polishing glasses.

“My second cousin Al, he has just been called to Detroit on business,” he said. “He now has no interest in what was in Mr. Estapoole’s pocket. And I thank you, Malone. But Medinica—”

“It’s all in the morning papers,” Malone said. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk about it any more. “Is there anything else you know that I don’t know, and that I should know?”

Apparently there was not. Except last night’s little episode with Jake Justus, which Joe the Angel outlined in detail. Malone scowled. Right now Jake might be anywhere, in spite of Joe the Angel’s and von Flanagan’s helpfulness, and in the meantime, he might have done practically anything. Well, he’d find out when he got to the office and got on the phone.

And there was no putting it off any longer. The day had begun, and the day’s work with it. Joe the Angel wished him luck as he strode to the door.

The nasty little rain had stopped, and the sky had, incredibly, begun to tighten. Malone drew in a long breath of the spring air. He glanced at himself in a window, the Finchley suit, the almost new tie, the fresh shave. A fine figure of a man, one who was ready to take on and handle whatever problems the day might bring.

Here it was not even nine o’clock, and already he’d done well. He’d learned all he wanted to learn from Tommy Storm, and there was no doubt in his mind that she’d been telling the truth. Similarly, he’d settled a few questions at Joe the Angel’s.

Oh, sure, there were a few minor points to be cleared up with both of them, but he would get to those later. Meantime there was a promising day ahead, he had time and to spare before his twenty-four hours were up, and he’d never felt better in his life. Well, almost never.

He was whistling under his breath when he walked into the office. Maggie looked up from the newspaper she was reading, gasped, and turned pale.

“Malone!” she said. Just tike that.

“You were expecting someone else?” he said pleasantly.

She looked at him helplessly. “Malone. I’ve been reading the papers. And everybody’s been calling. And here you walk in—” She made a helpless little gesture.

“Shaved, bathed, dressed, breakfasted, and in my right mind,” he finished for her, “and early, for once. Sorry to surprise you like that. But I’ve decided to turn over a last leaf.” “New leaf,” she murmured almost automatically.

“New or old, it’s a last leaf that has no turning,” he said. Well, he meant something reasonably close to that. “And now, let’s start answering all those telephone calls. Starting,” he finished, “with the ones you suspect I’m not going to like.”

CHAPTER 20

Malone sat down behind his desk, feeling almost incredibly efficient. Nine o’clock—indeed, a bare shade earlier—and here he was, ready to tackle the problems of a new day. Of this, or any other day. He looked at the Utter on his desk with distaste, started sorting it into neat little piles, finally swept it aU into the top right-hand drawer.

Only the absence of the little bronze Buddha and the spot on the rug reminded him of the current unpleasantness. Well, in time the police department would give the little Buddha back, and perhaps the spot on the rug would fade.

Maggie came in, a sheaf of notes in her hand. “All right, Malone, where do you want to start?”

He scowled. “I made some notes last night—” He fished through the handful of papers he’d transferred to his pocket this morning, finally located the notebook and began thumbing through it. A few fascinating entries whose meaning he could not decipher and whose origin he could not remember interrupted him briefly, but finally he found the page he was looking for.

“Here it is,” he said triumphantly. “Plain as day.” He handed the notebook to Maggie.

She looked at Cl vFgn. McG pap. Fnd. Est. Inherit. Who. F’m. C’s hus. Tearooms.

“It makes perfect sense,” Malone said indignantly, reading her face. “I was in a hurry, and I left out a couple of vowels.”

“I understand all of it perfectly,” Maggie said, “except the last item. Tearooms.”

Malone sighed and said, “I want to find a nice tearoom, that’s all.”

“I’m sure you do,” Maggie said sympathetically. “Now, let’s get to work. The first item.”

Malone looked at Cl vFgn. He said, “Perfectly simple. It means, call von Flanagan.” He closed his eyes for a moment. That wasn’t just what it meant. It meant something else too, and right now, he couldn’t think to save his life what it was. “I’ll take care of that later. Now let’s see. McGinnis paper. That’s easy enough to read.”

“If you know what it means,” Maggie said.

“I will,” Malone said, “when the time comes.” He would, too. “The next—” He read it letter by letter, out loud. F-n-d. E-s-t. Inherit. Who. F-apostrophe-m. He paused again. “Get Charlie Firman on the phone.” He looked at her as though she were a lovable but slightly retarded child. “You must have realized that F-apostrophe-m means Charlie Firman.”

He leaned back in his chair and relit his cigar. Charlie Firman, who preferred to call himself an investment adviser, had been a client since the time, years past, when Malone had successfully defended him on the charge of operating a horse parlor. There had been other charges since then, ranging from dubious oil wells to even more dubious real estate developments, and Malone had gone right on being successful in his defense.

Most important, though, Charlie Firman, sometimes called Weasel, had a well-nigh incredible ability for digging out more information about people’s private financial affairs than they knew themselves. On occasion he’d helped out Malone by finding out if a client really couldn’t pay a whopping fee, or if he had a secret bank account hidden somewhere. The facts he dug up had always been accurate, too.

They exchanged a few minor pleasantries, including the fact that Charlie Firman was now promoting some hitherto unexplored uranium fields, before Malone explained what he wanted.

“It’s Leonard Estapoole’s will,” he said. “I need to know what’s in it.”

There was a soft whistle at the other end of the line. “Finding out what’s in a will takes a little doing, chum.”

“I know it does,” Malone said, “that’s why I called you. And what’s more I need to know—well, damned near immediately. This morning, if it can be done.”

“Can do, pal,” Charlie Firman said, with perfect confidence. “Likewise,” Malone said, “how much is involved.”

“Can do that too,” Charlie Firman said. “You’ll hear from me.”

Maggie said apprehensively, “Just what are you trying to do? What are you driving at?”

“If I knew,” Malone said, “you’d be the first person I’d tell.” She smiled at him, a little wanly.

“Next item,” Malone said. “Carmena’s husbands.” He leaned back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “They seem to have had a uniformly high mortality rate. I’d like to know a little more of the details.”

“You could always ask von Flanagan,” Maggie said.

One look from Malone disposed of that suggestion in a hurry. “I’ll take care of that problem later too,” he told her. “That leaves Tearoom,” Maggie said.

A dreamy look came into the little lawyer’s, eyes. “Maggie, I’ve met a girl. A really nice girl. I mean, nice like, well, nice, if you know what I mean.”

“Nice,” she said.

He glared at her. There wasn’t any real point in trying to describe Jane Estapoole, nor did he think he could do it adequately. “This very nice girl is going to confer with me this afternoon. She’s not a girl I can take to a bar. She’s not a girl I’d even suggest taking to a bar. She is the kind of girl I’d like to take out to tea.”

“In a tearoom,” Maggie said.

“Obviously,” Malone said icily. “Look,” he said, “call up that nice guy at the American, the one who knows everything about everything, and ask him for the low-down on tearooms. The best.”

“Naturally the best,” Maggie said.

This time his glare was poisonous. “And keep your opinions to yourself!”

She reached for the phone, but it rang before she could pick it up.

“I’m in,” Malone said. “To everybody.”

It was Marty Budlicek.

“I was just going to call you,” Malone said cheerfully. “Been pretty busy. Are they treating you and Sophie all right?”

“Wonderful, Malone, wonderful. Nice suite of rooms, swell eats brought up, drinks and anything we want, a big TV set, and they even had Sophie send out for some clothes and stuff at a big store.”

“Fine, fine,” Malone said. “Glad to know the police department takes care of its own.”

“Only, Malone,” the little elevator operator moaned, “I got worried.”

Malone felt that his blood temperature had just dropped about ten degrees. “Now listen, Marty,” he said sternly. “Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be fine. You trust me, don’t you?” He thought he heard a faint assent over the wire and suddenly wondered how he was going to rescue Marty from a perjury rap when the truth came out. “You just relax and have a good time and leave everything to me. Just stick to your story.”

“I gotta stick to it,” Marty Budlicek said, unhappily. “Only, Malone, I got to tell you something.”

Malone swore. “Well don’t tell it over the telephone. I’ll be in to see you later.” He hung up as Marty said, “But, Malone—”

“Witnesses!” he said crossly.

“Especially,” she said, looking stem, “a witness who’s on the other side. Marty Budlicek is the witness who ties your client directly to the crime. Or have you forgotten he’s your client?” Her look implied that he might also have forgotten the code of ethics.

“But Maggie—” He paused, remembering. Maggie didn’t know anything about the deal. No one knew about it save Frank McGinnis, Max Hook, Little Georgie the Cherry, and himself. For a moment he considered breaking down and telling her the truth about it. No, the less she knew the better, if everything blew up. “But Maggie,” he said gently, “you forget. McGinnis had made a full confession before I even came on the scene.”

She muttered something about blondes and not getting to the office till five in the afternoon.

The little lawyer ignored that and said, “It’s the most beautiful case of self-defense I ever saw.” Suddenly a light flickered in his eyes. He picked up the scrawled memo. “That’s what I wanted to see von Flanagan about. I wouldn’t write vFgn for von Flanagan. It should have been v’F comma gn. The taxi must have hit a bump while I was writing that. Because I wanted to see von Flanagan about a gun.”

Maggie made a note of that and said, “What gun?”

“I’ll remember that when I get to it,” Malone said. “Let’s get on with these calls. Mike Medinica and Max Hook. Neither of them likes to be kept waiting. Shall we flip a coin?” The coin came up Mike Medinica.

The handsome, dapper owner-manager of the All-Chicago Sports and Boxing Arena answered his phone fast and said, “Malone, I been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been tied up,” Malone said truthfully. He lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Sorry to hear about your cousin Art.”

“Second cousin,” Mike Medinica said.

“All right,” Malone said, “I’m sorry about your second cousin Art.”

“And why should you be sorry?” Mike Medinica demanded. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Well, no,” Malone said lamely. Though he might have a little trouble convincing von Flanagan of that before the day was over.

“Look, Malone,” Mike Medinica said, “Art was all right, but he was a lazy guy, and always out for the fast buck.”

While second cousin Mike, Malone reflected, was always out for the fast grand.

“This Estapoole hired him,” Mike Medinica said, “because he figured Art would know a lot of the scores old Estapoole was trying to add up, y’know. So Art let the old guy change his name for him, and took the job only he figured he could add up the scores to more than the old man could, y’follow me, Malone?”

“Every half-inch of the way,” Malone assured him.

“So Art, he must of been on the trail of that stuff old man Estapoole dug up, and somebody else on the trail of it conked him.”

Malone flicked the ash off his cigar. “Just what do you want me to do?” he asked a little wearily. “If it’s to find the brutal killer of your cousin—”

“Second cousin,” Mike Medinica said.

“—I’m just as interested as you are.”

“That ain’t what I want at all, Malone. That envelope of stuff...” There was a little pause. “Y’understand, Malone, I’m a respectable, honest businessman, I run a nice little place out here, and I’m not mixed up in anything. But I got friends, and I got obligations to my friends. I’d like to lay my hands on that stuff, and Malone, if anybody can find it, you can.”

Malone said, “This would be, I trust, a cash transaction.”

“Get the stuff,” Mike Medinica said, “and name your figure.”

“We’ll talk about that sordid subject later,” Malone said pleasantly. “I’ll go along, though, if you’ll answer just one question, just between the two of us.”

“Yes?” Mike Medinica said suspiciously.

“Did you, or did you not, send your cousin—pardon me, second cousin—Art, to find that envelope?”

Mike Medinica said, “Yes. I did.”

“Thanks,” Malone said. “And you’ll hear from me.” He hung up.

Maggie’s face was as expressionless as a freshly washed dinner plate. She said, “Now, Max Hook.”

“In a minute,” Malone said. “Let me catch my breath between rounds.”

It was more than unusual, it was well-nigh unheard of for the Hook to make telephone calls. Usually he sent a message, or more often, a messenger, demanding a private interview. The fact that Max Hook had called him was ominous. The fact that he was going to call Max Hook back was frightening.

He looked at his watch. He still had most of the day, and anything could happen. He nodded to Maggie.

It was Max Hook himself who came on the phone instead of Little Georgie relaying conversation. Malone decided to throw the first punch.

“I suppose you want to know about what happened last night,” he hazarded.

“Why?” Max Hook said. “Artie’s no loss.”

“Well,” Malone said, glancing sidelong at Maggie and hoping she wasn’t overhearing, “it must have been by the same guy.”

“Sure,” Max Hook said. “That’s your problem.”

That could be said again, and in triplicate, Malone told himself. What the hell had Max Hook called him about? He said, “It isn’t five o’clock yet, you know.”

“I got a clock,” Max Hook said, “I can tell time.”

“Well,” Malone said, fishing around desperately, “I think I have a line on—it.”

“Good,” Max Hook said. “Pull it in.”

There was an awkward silence. The little lawyer drew a long breath and finally said, “Just what did you call me about?” “Why,” Max Hook said, “with everything that’s been coming up, I just thought I’d better ask if you needed any more dough to operate on, that’s all.”

Malone closed his eyes for just a moment. Then he said very gently, “Thanks, no, Max. You’ll hear from me.” He put the phone down softly.

“Malone,” Maggie said anxiously, “is there something you’re not telling me?”

Again he felt the impulse to confide in her; again he caught himself just in time. “Not a thing,” he said cheerfully. He added, “And don’t worry. What you don’t know won’t hurt me.”

She said nothing, but she said it unhappily.

“Von Flanagan,” Malone said. He looked at the notes. Von Flanagan. Gun. “I’ll go down and take care of that in person. Alter I’ve left the office, call and say I’m on the way down. And then get after those tearooms. Now before I take off, let’s call Jake and Helene and tell them how glad I am they’ve finally found each other.”

Maggie scowled. “Malone, the calls are from two different numbers. And if I’m not mistaken—” She reached for the phone, did some rapid calling, identified herself as John J. Malone’s secretary, asked a few questions, ended both of the two calls she made with “Mr. Malone will take care of it,” put down the phone and said, “They’re in jail, Malone. Different jails.”

Malone blinked.

“Mrs. Justus is in Lake Forest,” Maggie said worriedly. “Something that started with a stolen car charge. And Mr. Justus is in Chicago. The charges begin with creating a disturbance, and seem to go on and on from there. From the way the desk sergeant sounded, Malone, you’ll be lucky to get him off with twenty years.”

CHAPTER 21

“Jake and Helene are my best friends,” Malone said indignantly. “You can’t keep them in jail. It isn’t as though there were any real charges.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” von Flanagan said.

Malone snorted. “Driving a stolen car! Helene’s already proved it’s her own car. Its being reported stolen was just a silly mix-up of circumstances.”

The big police officer sighed. “A lot of circumstances, and all of them mixed up.” He started ticking them off on his fingers. “For no reason anybody knows anything about, she took that helpless little golden-haired girl to a museum, where the kidnapers picked her up. Then she turns up driving a stolen—all right, it was her own car, there was a mistake there, but it was reported stolen from in front of the Estapoole house. We got a kidnaping and two murders and she’s tied up with it somehow, and I’m not going to let her go until she tells what it is.” He scowled and said, “There’s still a charge of flight to avoid police questioning.”

Malone gazed at the ceiling and said, “You of all people should be sympathetic about a thing like that. I remember that night in South Chicago—”

“My private life,” von Flanagan said stiffly, “is my own business. I’m holding her until I find out what she’s been up to.”

“All right,” Malone said. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“I’m going to,” von Flanagan said. “She’s being brought here right now. And your friend Jake—”

“Was looking for his wife,” Malone said. “You and Joe the Angel played pal to him and figured to tuck him in for the night, so he wouldn’t worry. Only you underestimated Jake’s capacity. He went right on looking for his wife after you left him and went straight to the address you’d given him yourself. Naturally he created a little disturbance. Then he headed up to the Estapoole place, figuring Helene might be there. On the way, some dumb cop tried to slow him down, and Jake wouldn’t slow. He was upset. He was trying to find his wife. What would you do if your wife was missing?”

He caught the look on von Flanagan’s face and added hastily, “All right, don’t answer that. But Jake doesn’t know anything about this Estapoole business, he just flew in from Wyoming yesterday, he’s spent all his time looking for his wife. These little charges against him don’t mean a thing.” He began unwrapping a cigar. “To change the subject, sooner or later I’m going to have to talk to the papers. The question of your having been tipped off to both murders is bound to come up—”

Von Flanagan met his gaze coldly and silently.

“Of course,” Malone said, “perhaps I should explain that you and Klutchetsky dropped by my office on the way to go bowling—and that last night—”

“Believe me, Malone,” von Flanagan said, “I’m your friend. I’m not afraid of anything you might tell the papers or anybody else. Even if I had anything to hide, I know I could trust you. But because I am your friend, and for no other reason—” He picked up the telephone.

Five minutes and several phone calls later he informed Malone that Jake Justus had been released, the silly little charges against him had been dropped, and he too was on his way over.

“Fine,” Malone said. “And now about these murders—” “Malone,” von Flanagan said, “I will never understand why people go out of their way to make life hard for me. Deliberately. We got this guy McGinnis, and he’s confessed, and everything ought to be settled. Now comes this second murder, and it ties in because the dead guy was old man Estapoole’s chauffeur, only it turns out old man Estapoole didn’t just hire him as a chauffeur but on account of he could be useful digging up information for old man Estapoole, on account of he wasn’t really one Antonio Clancy, which name I doubted anyway, but Mike Medinica’s cousin.”

“Second cousin,” Malone said almost automatically.

Von Flanagan waved one big pink hand in a “Who cares” gesture and went on, “He gets killed exactly the same way the old man was killed, and he gets himself killed in a place lived in by a member of the Estapoole family, a member by marriage anyway, and the same person must of done it, only McGinnis swears his confession is on the level and it checks all the way including the testimony of the elevator operator, but McGinnis was in jail at the time and couldn’t of done it, and where does that leave me? And I’ve got to talk to the reporters at ten and it’s quarter of right now. Do you blame me for wanting to retire and buy a dairy farm and grow milk?”

“All right,” Malone said. “It was late last night and you were tired, and so maybe you missed something. The circumstances of both murders were exactly alike, yes?”

“Yes,” von Flanagan said gloomily.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Malone said easily. “They were made to look alike. The scene of one of them showed there had been a genuine struggle. That you can’t doubt. The scene of the other was staged to look like a genuine struggle. Just think back over the details, and you’ll see just what I mean.”

He crossed his fingers that von Flanagan would see what he meant. The big policeman did, and the look that came over his face was like dawn in Sun Valley.

“Sure,” he said slowly. “The way a couple of those chairs was upset. And the wastebasket. Sure.”

He paused, and Malone crossed another set of fingers, tight.

“Why,” von Flanagan said, almost happily, “any trained observer could see that the way your office was messed up was the real genuine article. There really had been a fight there. It wouldn’t even take a trained observer like me to figure that one out. But that place last night, that was a setup, to look like the other one. Sure. Somebody wanted to make last night’s murder look like the first one.”

“That’s all you need to tell the reporters,” Malone said. “And don’t forget you’re a trained observer.”

“Only,” von Flanagan said, scowling, “why?”

Malone shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh, you’ll figure that out easily enough. Now, there’s a little bit of information I could use. Did Leonard Estapoole have a gun on him when he came to my office?”

“He did,” von Flanagan said. He looked thoughtfully at Malone and said, “All right, so that supports your self-defense theory. But here’s something that shoots it all to hell. That little bronze Buddha. McGinnis says he picked it up and threw it in self-defense. Now wouldn’t you think he’d of just took off fast after something like that? But the Buddha don’t have no fingerprints on it. It hasn’t just been wiped off, it’s been washed.”

“Could have been an instinctive reaction,” Malone murmured. None of this mattered very much now. Because Frank McGinnis wasn’t going to be tried for murder, and there wouldn’t be any need for self-defense.

“Well,” von Flanagan said, “we’ll ask him.” He bellowed, “Klutchetsky! Bring him in.” He smiled smugly at Malone. “Knew you’d be here sometime this morning, so I thought I’d have your client handy for you.”

Frank McGinnis came in with Klutchetsky. His night in jail didn’t seem to have done him any visible harm. His dark, wavy hair was as smooth and well-groomed as ever, his lightly tanned, handsome face was freshly shaved. He nodded and smiled at Malone, glanced, as though absent-mindedly, at von Flanagan’s desk clock, and then gave Malone a meaningful look. Malone’s eyes did their best to tell him that he too was aware of how soon the twenty-four hours would be over. He tried to add a little reassurance to the look, but at the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.

“A couple of minor questions,” von Flanagan said, looking very official, “with your lawyer present. Now according to your confession, you picked up this bronze Buddha from Malone’s desk and hurled it at Leonard Estapoole, with what turned out to be sufficient force to kill him dead.”

“Self-defense,” Frank McGinnis said.

Von Flanagan said, “We’re not discussing that now. What did you do after that?”

Frank McGinnis looked helpless for a moment.

Malone said fast, before von Flanagan could stop him, “The point is, there weren’t any fingerprints on the Buddha—”

“Oh,” Frank McGinnis said. “That. I picked it up and washed it off in the washbowl, and then wiped it. Naturally. You don’t think I’d go off and leave fingerprints around after conking a guy, even if it was a clear case of self-defense, like Malone says.”

“That clears that up,” von Flanagan said sourly. “Now if you took time to clean up your fingerprints, I suppose you also took time to search Estapoole’s body for the envelope of papers he was carrying.”

Malone managed to cue. him with his eyebrows. McGinnis said, “No. Alter that I got scared.”

“You mean,” von Flanagan said, in a voice that was deadly and coldly calm, “you took time to get rid of your fingerprints, but then you didn’t take time to look for the very thing you’d come after?”

“Now look,” Malone said quickly, “I object to these bullying tactics, and stop it right now. If my client says he was scared, he was scared. He’ll be happy to tell a jury just what scared him and why, when the time comes. If,” he added, catching McGinnis’ eye again, “this absurd case ever gets before a jury, which it won’t.”

“Oh, all right,” von Flanagan growled. He waved a “Take him back” gesture to Klutchetsky.

“But,” Malone said, “since my client is right here, you can save me a little time and trouble by letting me have a quick, private interview with him.”

Von Flanagan shrugged his shoulders, and signaled Klut-chetsky to usher Malone and the prisoner into a small adjoining consulting room.

Malone closed the door and said, “It’s okay in here. No bugs.”

“By five o’clock, Malone,” Frank McGinnis said.

“I’m well aware of it,” Malone said. “And don’t worry. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions myself. About that envelope of papers. Did you—” He’d caught himself right on the thin edge of saying “Did you find them on the body?” McGinnis’ detailed confession had been such a good job that for one moment he’d almost slipped into believing it himself. “What I mean is... when we talked this over—I told you to say you’d found the envelope and destroyed it. Why didn’t you?”

“Honest, Malone,” McGinnis said, “it was a slip, at first. Then I got to thinking. Maybe after I get out of here tonight it wouldn’t do me any harm if some guys believed I might have it. See what I mean? I don’t want any guys to think I do, and I don’t want any guys to think I don’t. So I was leaving it sort of loose like. Could be, some guys might think I could find it, and put up a little expense money to look for it. See?”

“I do,” Malone said, “and in that case, I’ll help you look. Now the other question. Do you know Lily Bordreau? And do you know Jane Estapoole?”

A grin lightened Frank McGinnis’ face. “Do I! That Lily, she’s a cute kitten, and that Jane, she’s a real lady. How did I meet’em? Oh, I get around. I like to circulate among very nice people, Malone. I got really refined tastes, myself. I even went through the Art Institute, once. With Lily. And I went to a concert once with Jane, at Orchestra Hall. Didn’t care too much for the music, and the joint was a little shabby but still, it was what I’d call real nice.” He paused. “Anything else, Malone?”

The little lawyer shook his head.

“Okay, Malone,” Frank McGinnis said. “Till five o’clock.” Klutchetsky came in and took the prisoner away. Malone went back into the main office and found von Flanagan making the apology of a lifetime.

Jake, his arms folded across his chest, was leaning against the wall, looking slightly pale, and more than a little grim. Helene was sitting on the edge of the big armchair, gazing at von Flanagan with reproachful and almost tearful eyes. Her beige linen dress was badly mussed, she had a run in one stocking, her pale blond hair was a little tangled, there wasn’t a speck of make-up on her exquisite face and she was, Malone reflected, probably the loveliest thing on earth.

“... so anybody can make mistakes,” von Flanagan was saying. “Now please don’t cry. I said I’m sorry. As soon as Malone came in and told me you were being held because of somebody’s stupid error—” He looked up and said, “Didn’t I, Malone?” There was a mute appeal in his eyes.

“He certainly did,” Malone said blithely. “The minute I came in and told him about it, he fixed things up right away.” He lit his cigar. “And now if everybody’s through kissing and making up, let’s get the hell out of here.” He shooed Jake and Helene gently through the door, murmuring good-bys to von Flanagan as they went.

“Wait, Malone,” von Flanagan said, “before you go.” Malone paused and turned around.

Von Flanagan looked at his clock. “That press conference is any minute now. Just how should I explain the difference between those two murder scenes?”

“In your own words,” Malone said. “As a trained observer, you realized immediately that the signs of a struggle in one place were real, in the other, they were phony. That’s all.” Von Flanagan nodded. As Malone closed the door he could hear him rehearsing: “As a trained observer, I realized—” Von Flanagan was now looking for another murderer. By the time the early afternoon editions hit the stands the public would be convinced that there had been two murders by two separate murderers. Jake, Helene, Maggie, Joe the Angel—everybody believed the same thing.

Only he knew there was only one. And he had to find that one before the clock struck five.

CHAPTER 22

Malone found Jake and Helene out in the corridor, their arms around each other, gazing at each other as though they’d been separated by a trip to Mars. He cleared his throat and tried to think of an appropriate quotation.

Finally he said, “Absence makes the course of true love run smoother.” He paused. That hadn’t been exactly what he meant. “The course of true love makes the world go round.” He paused again. “When love comes in the window—” He gave up.

“Never mind, Malone,” Helene said sympathetically. “A week in the country, and you’ll be as good as new.”

He looked at her fondly and said, “Let’s get out of here before von Flanagan changes his mind and throws you back in the can.” On the way to the car he said, “And just what did you explain to him, Helene?” He did his level best to say it sternly.

She giggled. Then she said, “I told him the truth. I came back to Chicago on business. While I was here I visited my old friends, the Estapooles. Being very fond of dear little Alberta, I thought I’d give her a treat, and took her to the Museum of Science and Industry. While we were there, she disappeared. The Estapooles told me not to worry, she would be all right and would turn up. Nobody there told me she’d been kidnaped. I spent the night with an old school friend. Von Flanagan didn’t press for names. Last night I decided to go out and say good-by to the family and see if Alberta was all right. I took a taxi up there because I didn’t want to get my car out of the garage. Imagine my surprise when I saw my car parked in their driveway! There was no one around to ask questions of, and it was getting late, so I just got in my car and drove home. That’s all.”

“Very nice,” Malone said. He caught a look from her that said, “And don’t tell Jake anything else,” and nodded.

“Von Flanagan was so very sorry about the whole thing,” Helene said smoothly.

Malone muttered something under his breath. Then he said, “All right, Jake, what did you tell von Flanagan?”

“Not in front of Helene, I won’t tell you,” Jake growled.

Helene’s car had been released and was ready for them. They drove a few blocks in silence and then Jake said, “Helene, I was so worried about you. I took the car to go looking for you. I—ran into a little trouble. Never mind that, now. I finally drove up to the Estapooles’. It was me that left the car in the driveway. While I was in the house was when you came and drove it away. There was a lot of excitement going on right then, and I guess I lost my head and reported it stolen. Or somebody reported it stolen. Everybody was all upset and tearing around looking for Alberta. Because that was when she disappeared.”

Helene reached over and squeezed Jake’s hand. “Never mind, darling. You can have me jailed for car theft any time. As long as you don’t go on getting jailed for trying to break into some blond babe’s apartment.”

“I was looking for you,” Jake said indignantly. “And how do you know she was a blond babe?”

Helene sniffed and said, “You mean there’s another kind?” “Alberta,” Malone said. “One of the biggest and firstest questions is, where is Alberta.”

“That’s easy,” Helene said. “She’s in the laundry hamper in our apartment. At least she was. And I hope she still is. In the apartment, I mean, not the laundry hamper.”

Nobody spoke for several blocks. Then Malone said, “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain that, too, would you?”

Helene was perfectly happy to explain, and did. “I should have sent her straight home. But under the circumstances, I wasn’t sure just what to say about the whole thing. And I thought maybe I could pry a little information out of her. And besides,” she finished, “she wouldn’t go.”

“I seem to have heard that before,” Malone said wearily. Sooner or later a lot of information was going to have to be pooled. “We’d better go straight there,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Helene said. “Malone, there wasn’t anything else to do. My first thought was to get those cops out of there before they took a notion to go looking around. I thought the minute I got to the station and straightened things out about the car and all that, I could go rushing right back. But it didn’t turn out that way, and now—” Her voice trailed off.

They rode the rest of the way in a grim and anxious silence. Anything could have happened to Alberta. Or Alberta might have taken any number of notions into her own bright little head.

Fully prepared for anything, Helene pushed open the door of the apartment. There was a not altogether reassuring silence. There was also a widely distributed collection of empty Coke bottles.

Helene looked into the bedroom and turned and motioned to Jake and Malone, her finger to her lips.

In the middle of the big bed was Alberta Commanday, curled up like a kitten and fast asleep, her little face looking as close to angelic as it probably ever would.

Helene closed the door softly, went back into the living room and sat down limply. After a moment she lit a cigarette. Finally she said, “I suppose we’d better phone Carmena Estapoole and tell her where her wandering child is.”

“If you can think of a good way to explain how she wandered here,” Jake said.

“We do nothing of the sort,” Malone said. “Not right now. And not just because of the explanations, either. This beautiful little golden-haired child can do some explaining of her own when she wakes up. And right now, a little worrying is going to do Carmena more good than harm. Besides, I need some help and you’re just the two people who can give it to me.”

He unwrapped a cigar and sat looking at it for a minute. “Jake, I need some information I can get better from newspaper files than anywhere else. If you think of other sources, run them down, but this is something that has to be done fast.” He paused. “Get all the details, and I mean all, on the sudden deaths of Carmena Estapoole’s previous husbands.”

Helene looked at him in surprise. She started to speak and then changed her mind.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said testily. “That Carmena couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the murdering of poor old Leonard, and that anyway the murderer is nicely tucked away in jail and has confessed to his crime.” He scowled.

More than anything in the world, he wanted to take them completely into his confidence, tell them the truth about Frank McGinnis and that confession. But they’d know anyhow, one way or another, before the day was over. Right now, it was going to be safer for them if they didn’t know.

“But then, Malone—” Jake began, frowning.

“Let’s just say that I’m curious,” Malone told him.

Jake sighed, nodded, said that getting the information would be a matter of an horn: or two, and that it would be complete.

“And I’ll go along and help,” Helene said.

“No, you won’t,” Malone told her, “because I’ve got something just as important for you to do. Something that only you can do.”

“Much as I love flattery—” Helene began.

He ignored her and went on, “You know all these Estapoole people. Go visiting. Offer condolences. Ask after Alberta. All that kind of thing. And find out exactly where everybody—Carmena, Hammond, Jane, Lily—even Alberta—was last night at the time Antonio Clancy Art Medinica was being murdered. And where every one of them was night before last when Leonard Estapoole was being murdered.”

She nodded slowly. “That should be easy, with just a few casual remarks and questions.”

“The kind,” Malone said, “that would trap anybody into letting the chat out of the bag.”

For a minute of dreadful silence, they pointedly ignored him. “Malone,” Helene said, “what are you getting at? What are you trying to find out?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said. “I wish I did.”

“Well, whatever it is,” she said encouragingly, “we’ll help.” She paused. “What about my little guest? We can’t all go off and leave her alone. Someone might come barging in. Or she might go barging out.”

“Or at least, make herself deathly sick drinking Cokes,” Jake said.

Malone nodded. “I’ve thought of that too. I’m going to call up someone I can trust completely and ask her to come over and baby-sit, if you can call it that.”

He called Ma Blodgett. She would, as always, be happy to help Malone. Would fifteen minutes be soon enough?

“Ma Blodgett,” Helene said, her brow wrinkled. “Malone, wasn’t she—”

“She was,” Malone said, “and she’s running a highly respectable boardinghouse now. So respectable that only a select few, and with references, can get in.”

He picked up his hat, walked to the door and stood there for a moment, looking at them. “You can start off on your—missions—as soon as Ma Blodgett comes,” he said, with a wan smile. He looked very tired and somehow defenseless.

“Would you like a drink before you go?” Helene asked.

He shook his head. “I would,” he said, “but there’s no time. There’s very, very little time.”

On his way down in the elevator, he glanced at his watch. Quarter past twelve. Very little time was putting it mildly. And the worst of it was, he didn’t really know what to do with the time he did have. So far, every line of reasoning he’d pursued had landed him against a blank wall.

In the taxi, he reminded himself that the Estapoole family might quite possibly have nothing to do with all this. It was beginning to look as though half Chicago had been on a grim and relentless search for that envelope of information Leonard Estapoole had so painstakingly gathered. Max Hook had wanted it enough to arrange the Frank McGinnis setup and put out a comfortable sum of expense money. Mike Medinica wanted it. Therefore, obviously, any number of others would have gone to any lengths, including murder, to get hold of it.

But to comb the city of Chicago to find the one individual who’d murdered Leonard Estapoole, arranged to frame someone else for his murder, and made off with the envelope was something that obviously couldn’t be done before five this afternoon.

He had to stick with the Estapoole family simply because there was no alternative. And because in his heart he felt he was right.

He picked up a newspaper at a corner and glanced at it in the taxi. He grinned. Von Flanagan had, as usual, done a masterful job. “Naturally, as a trained observer, I could see that while John J. Malone’s office had been the real scene of a violent struggle, the scene of the other murder had been carefully arranged to look like one. In years of police experience, you learn to notice these things. But since we are dealing with two separate murderers and—”

Malone’s grin was a wry one. Von Flanagan had told it well, except that, of course, he had the two scenes switched. And except that he, like everybody else—almost everybody else—was looking for two murderers.

If he could only remember what it was about the scene of the crime that was so important—

Maggie looked up from her desk. He noticed uncomfortably that whenever he’d come in the door these past two days, the look on her face had been one of relief.

But it didn’t show in her voice. “It’s about time you got back. Von Flanagan called. He just said to tell you that the brass snake-charmer had also been washed and polished.” Malone nodded. “It isn’t a snake-charmer, as I told him, and I’m not surprised it’s been washed and polished.”

“Charlie Firman called to tell you he’d have all the information before two o’clock. Miss Jane Estapoole called and would like you to call her back. She must be the girl you told me about.” Her eyes softened. “Malone, she has a lovely voice.”

Malone beamed. “A nice voice. See why I plan to take her out to tea?”

She looked at him sadly. “And your friend from the American called. The one who knows everything. He says to tell you there aren’t any tearooms.”

CHAPTER 23

“No tearooms!” Malone said. “Perfect nonsense! Of course there are tearooms. Where the hell do people have tea?”

“That,” Maggie said acidly, “is something you wouldn’t know anything about, Malone.”

“Do you mean to say,” Malone said incredulously, “that in this whole big city of Chicago—”

“I wrote down his exact words,” Maggie said. “He told me to tell you: ‘Chicago had 9,227 taverns at last count, and not one legitimate tearoom. That shows you what we think of the tearooms. One by one, they dropped from sight, and no one missed them. And, one by one, the number of taverns in town increased. Vive l’increase!’ That’s just what he said, Malone.” Malone sat down behind his desk and said, “But, Maggie, what am I going to do? You’ve never met this girl. You just can’t picture her.”

“I’ve heard her voice,” she reminded him. She went on in a softer voice, “Malone, there’s still a tearoom in Marshall Fields’-”

The mere thought of making a safari through a large department store even to find a tearoom gave him the shudders, and he promptly told her so.

She consulted her watch. “You could still take her to lunch. There’s Henrici’s.”

“Too crowded.”

“There’s Jacques’.”

“Too fashionable.”

“Le Petit Gourmet.”

“That’s too artistic.”

“Oh well,” Maggie said with a sigh, “take her down to Walgreen’s for a malt. I’m only trying to be helpful.”

His injured look told her she wasn’t succeeding at all well. Maggie said sympathetically, “I know exactly the kind of place you have in mind. Quiet, and refined, and not too brightly lighted, and with tea and toast and marmalade. But those places don’t exist any more.”

Malone groaned. “Well, it was a fine idea.”

He sat for a moment looking unhappily at nothing. Then suddenly a clear, sweet and well-remembered voice came from the anteroom. “Mr. Malone?”

He looked up, and there she was.

No one would have guessed to look at her that she’d had a murder and a kidnaping in the family within the past few days. She was perfectly poised, though without even a hint of being sophisticated, a little hesitant at the intrusion but not too much, and smiling just exactly enough.

She wore a trim little beige suit that was exactly what the well-brought-up young woman should wear for a spring day in Chicago, and a small powder-blue felt hat that framed her face. Her matching lizard purse and Cuban-heeled pumps were expensive, but not extravagant. Her smooth brown hair was shining, her gray-blue eyes were as clear as though she’d had a long night’s sleep, and the touch of lipstick was just the right shade.

For a moment, Malone forgot not only every trouble he had in the world, but all those he’d ever had.

He bounded to his feet, held out his hand and said, “My dear Miss Estapoole!”

“I hope you’ll forgive my just coming in like this,” she said. “But I called you after I went out, so I knew that you wouldn’t reach me when you called back—and since I was down in the Loop, I hoped you wouldn’t mind—”

“Mind!” he said, “I’m delighted! Have you had lunch?” He’d think of someplace—

“Thank you—I have.”

“Then—let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Somewhere where we can talk.” He had a feeling that he was stammering.

“I’d love to.”

He told Maggie he’d be back shortly and escorted Jane Estapoole into the elevator, thinking fast. Halfway down, his thought process went into reverse. He’d intended to show off, to impress this thoroughly, this amazingly nice girl. Well, he’d do just the opposite. If she was as nice as he believed, she’d like him and accept him just the way he was. Perhaps it was the honesty about her that brought out his own. He took her, without qualms, to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar.

There was, in his heart, the sickening thought that she might be offended, which would be bad, or that she might think Joe the Angel’s was quaint, which would be worse. Instead, she seemed as perfectly at home as she had in the Estapoole mansion in Lake Forest, or the living room of her own perfectly decorated apartment. She was genuinely happy to meet Malone’s old friend Joe the Angel. She settled down in a booth in the back room and ordered Scotch-and-water.

Malone approved that, too. To have ordered a Daiquiri, or a Very dry Martini would have been out of place in Joe the Angel’s. Rye or gin or bourbon would have been unladylike. Scotch-on-the-rocks would have been far too New Yorkish. She’d done exactly right.

She smiled at him across the table and said, “I imagine you’ve been worrying about Lily.”

“No,” Malone said frankly. “I knew she was in the best of hands.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malone.” His heart expanded a little. Nobody ever called him Mr. Malone! “She woke up this morning, feeling pretty awful. All that business last night—and not enough sleep—” She shook her head sympathetically. “And she’s naturally nervous, anyway. So I gave her a glass of hot milk and a pretty hefty sleeping pill, and she probably won’t wake up till mid-afternoon. By that time, she’ll feel much better.”

“And in the meantime,” Malone said, hoping he didn’t have a downright fatuous grin on his face, “no mean nasty policemen are going to be able to bother her.”

“I thought of that too,” Jane Estapoole said. She had just a trace of a dimple in her left cheek.

He wondered if he dared tell her exactly what he was thinking about her. No, better not. Later, perhaps.

“Mr. Malone, about this murder—these murders—”

The little lawyer almost jumped. Momentarily, he’d come dangerously close to forgetting that there had been any murders. He took a small sip of his own Scotch-and-water, took out a cigar, started to unwrap it, and then said, “Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” She took out a cigarette and held it prettily while he lighted it. “Lily couldn’t have had anything to do with it, you know.”

“My dear Miss Estapoole,” Malone said, “no one has the faintest idea that she did. Especially not myself.” He smiled at her. “Don’t forget, I’m her alibi.”

“Oh?”

He related the story again. How Lily had driven him downtown from Lake Forest, invited him in for a drink. They had gone in—he didn’t use the word “together” but the inference was there—and found the body.

“How horrible for her!” Jane Estapoole said. She didn’t say it with distaste, or a slight shudder; she said it warmly and sympathetically. She smiled at him and said, “How lucky you were with her.”

Malone’s heart warmed at her look. He wondered just how soon he dared ask her for a dinner date, and just how he should do it. Fine thing, he told himself; usually with nothing but an introduction and a telephone number as preliminaries, he’d succeeded in making dates that amazed even himself. Now, with Jane Estapoole, he found himself more hesitant and nervous than he’d been since he left sixth grade.

“I started to tell you last night,” she said. “I know Frank McGinnis. Lily does, too. I know that may seem a little odd, but—” She shrugged her shoulders charmingly. “I met him through Lily. She has a proclivity for meeting people—all kinds of people. Interesting people,” she added quickly.

Malone had never thought of Frank McGinnis as particularly interesting, but he supposed that to someone like Jane Estapoole, he’d be, at least, a novelty.

“In fact, I even had a—date with him once,” she said. “We went, of all places, to a concert. I don’t know if he enjoyed it or not, but I hope he did. And now to think he’s in jail. For murdering Leonard.”

“He won’t be there long,” Malone said, his mind coming back to the present with an unpleasant bump.

“It did sound like self-defense,” she said, “from the newspaper story I read. It’s hard to think of anyone having to defend himself against Leonard, but I suppose if he thought Leonard had a gun—”

“He did,” Malone said. “I mean, Frank McGinnis thought so, and it turned out he was right.”

He hated to think of things like murder, and all that went with it, touching this lovely girl.

“And I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, “that whoever committed that murder last night—was after that envelope of papers Leonard had. Though why anyone should think it was in Lily’s—” She paused. “I suppose that someone knew that Lily and Frank McGinnis were friends and thought he might have left them with her. I mean, hidden them in her studio. Without her knowledge, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Malone agreed, admiring the smooth curve of her cheek.

“And Tony—I can’t seem to think of him as having a different name—was after the envelope, and someone else was after it, and they both got to the studio to search it, and—” She shivered just a little.

“Don’t think about it,” Malone said soothingly, forgetting himself enough to pat her hand. She didn’t draw it away.

“I worry so about Alberta.” The lovely gray-blue eyes were troubled. “I knew about the—fake kidnaping. Lily confided in me. And I knew Helene Justus had come back to Chicago to try and prevent it. So I kept out of it. I was sure everything would be all right, either way. But where is she now, Mr. Malone? I’m so fond of the child. I’m so worried about her I can hardly think straight.”

“Helene will take good care of Alberta,” Malone said, before he thought. But apparently she hadn’t noticed what he’d said.

She went on, “Mr. Malone, is there anything I can do?”

“Not a thing,” he said, patting her hand again. “Except take good care of Lily. And try to keep from thinking about this horrible thing. It’s all going to be settled and over and forgotten, sooner than you think.” And those, he reflected, were the truest words he’d ever spoken in his life.

The whole subject seemed to be closed, much to his relief. There were so many things he’d rather talk about to Jane Estapoole than murder. He’d managed to touch on only a few of them before she looked at her watch and said she had to go.

He showed her into a taxi, promised to keep in close touch with her and let her know everything that went on, and saw her on her way regretfully.

Oh well, when all this was over—but he still hadn’t figured how to ask her for that dinner date. That was something to which he was going to need to give very careful thought, but some brilliant idea would come to him. It always had.

He was almost carefree when he got back to his office. Jake was there, waiting for him.

“She’s too young for me,” Malone said as he came in the door, “and much too nice, and she wouldn’t look at me anyway, but I can take her to dinner sometime, can’t I?”

Jake stared at him and opened his mouth to speak.

“None of your damned business,” Malone said hastily, sitting down behind his desk. “And just what did you find out?”

“The untimely death of Augustus Bordreau,” Jake said, “was accident pure and simple. It happened at a smallish but noisy party in a Park Avenue apartment in New York. About a dozen people were there. Including Carmena, of course. Gus Bordreau, who was something of a lush anyway, was higher than a kite and trying to fly like one. No, he didn’t jump out the window. Nor was anyone near enough to push him. He was soaring around doing his impressions of the Russian Ballet, having a wonderful time and amusing everybody no end, when he stumbled. Stumbled through the window and ten floors down to the sidewalk.”

“No possibility that something was put in his way to stumble over?” Malone asked.

“Not a chance. He just tripped over his own feet. Some sixteen witnesses, about half of them sober and all of them respectable, testified.”

Malone sighed. “And Ridgeway Commanday?”

“Was crossing the street in front of his club after lunch, when some drunk driver came roaring around the corner and knocked Commanday about a block down the street. No possible connection between the driver and Commanday, or the driver and Carmena. No, Malone, there isn’t any remote possibility of either of those deaths being anything but tragic and unavoidable accidents.”

Malone chewed on his cigar for a moment and said nothing.

“Well, Malone,” Jake said, “what does that prove?”

Malone glared at him. “Just one thing. Carmena Estapoole didn’t murder her first two husbands. Now let me alone, I want to think.”

CHAPTER 24

“Go on and think,” Jake said sulkily. “Alter I go to all this trouble for you—” He started for the door.

“Sit down,” Malone said; “don’t go away.” He sighed. “Why doesn’t Helene get here?” He glared at Jake and at the world in general. “Here you come in with information that doesn’t mean a damned thing, and Helene is evidently paying her social calls by the scenic route.”

“That’s gratitude,” Jake said. He added, “Don’t bite the many hands that make light work. And what is this terrific need for haste, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Malone said wearily. For just a moment he buried his face in his hands.

Jake looked anxiously at his old friend. “Malone, there’s something worrying you that you’re not telling.”

“Me?” Malone said with false heartiness.

Before Jake could ask more questions, the telephone rang. It was Charlie Firman.

“It wasn’t easy, chum,” the Weasel reported, “but I got it. Even got a look at the will, and don’t ask me how I did it. It’s beautiful.”

“So is a Rembrandt,” Malone said wearily, “but what’s in it?”

“Old man Estapoole divided up his dough, after a bunch of minor bequests to old retainers, pet charities and the like, with absolute and touching impartiality. It’s an even split all around. His wife, his nephew Hammond, his niece Jane Estapoole, his step-stepchild Lily Bordreau and his stepchild Alberta Commanday. Everybody gets an equal share.”

Malone was silent for a moment. Yes, he would have expected something like that from the late Leonard Estapoole.

“He pointed out in his will,” Charlie Firman said, “that his beloved, and I quote, wife Carmena would understand this equitable distribution in view of the fact that he had already settled a trust fund on her when they were married. He added that he liked all the members of his family and didn’t want any of them to be jealous of any of the others.” He paused. “Does that help?”

“Considerably,” Malone said. “It would help even more if I knew if the family had any idea of the provisions of the will in advance.”

“I can answer that too, pal,” Charlie Firman said. “I think of everything. Old Featherstone confided to me that Leonard Estapoole had been very secretive about the will as far as his family was concerned. Not a one of them knew what was in it. They probably all assumed it would go mostly to Carmena.”

“Charlie,” Malone said earnestly, “just what do you have on Orlo Featherstone?”

“If I told you, I’d be giving away half my business secrets,” he said with mock severity. “Are you hinting that an old and respected estate lawyer like Orlo O. Featherstone would have any secrets in his life?”

“I won’t answer that,” Malone said. “Now, roughly, what kind of dough is involved?”

“Everything considered in,” Charlie Firman said, “something over thirty-two million dollars.”

There was a long pause.

Finally Malone said, “Thanks,” and hung up. He did a little mental figuring. Jane Estapoole, though she didn’t know it now, was due to inherit one fifth of thirty-two million dollars, a figure he didn’t even want to contemplate. He sighed deeply. Now he certainly wouldn’t dare ask her for that dinner date, let alone follow it up with some important ideas that had been developing in his mind.

Well, at least she’d always be one of the nicest memories of a long lifetime of happy memories.

“Malone,” Jake said, “don’t you feel well?”

“Never felt better in my life,” Malone said. He looked at his watch. There were still three hours of freedom.

It seemed like a very long time before Helene arrived, a vision in pale green wool and an armful of fluffy furs the exact color of maple sugar. She was a little breathless and pinkcheeked.

“I hurried,” she announced, “as much as you can hurry a bunch of casual conversations. But I got everything, Malone.” She pulled a piece of notepaper from her green suede purse.

“I don’t know why you care about the night Leonard Esta-poole was killed,” she said, “since that murder’s all settled. And according to the papers there’s no doubt in the minds of the police that there were two separate murderers—”

“Never mind the minds of the police,” Malone said, “and keep your personal opinions out of this. Just let’s have the information.”

She wrinkled her nose at him and handed him the paper. “On the night Leonard Estapoole was murdered, Carmena Estapoole, Hammond Estapoole and Jane Estapoole were playing bridge with a Miss Hardiman, who is the principal of the private school Alberta attends. They played from about eight o’clock until around midnight—just past midnight, according to the Estapoole butler. He remembers that Miss Hardiman was worried about the lateness of the hour. He, by the way, had been on hand all evening serving refreshments. Hammond drove Miss Hardiman home because the chauffeur had the evening off.”

The chauffeur, Malone reflected, had been out busily winding up Alberta’s kidnaping. He wondered how Alberta was making out with Ma Blodgett.

“Miss Hardiman,” Helene said, “is a very charming, though slightly intellectual, lady. I know her.”

And Carmena and Hammond, Malone told himself, were probably very happy to have the diversion of a bridge game while their fake kidnaping was being carried out. He’d have preferred poker himself, but there was no accounting for tastes. And Jane Estapoole was the kind of thoroughly nice girl who would willingly make a fourth at bridge if one were needed.

“And Lily Bordreau,” Helene said, “was down in her studio, making some sketches. Some friends who came in can probably alibi her.”

She shoved the paper closer to Malone. He picked it up and saw the note she’d scribbled on the bottom. Malone, l was there with her all evening and all night and she never stepped outside the door. Don’t tell Jake yet.

The little lawyer laid a paperweight over the note and said, “I imagine Lily Bordreau’s alibi will hold up, if she should need one. Now, about last night.”

Helene drew a long breath and said, “Carmena and Hammond were home, and about half the Lake Forest police can testify to that, because they were hueing and crying after Alberta. Which reminds me—”

“She’ll be all right,” Malone said. “Go on.”

“Lily Bordreau was driving you into town, and you and she discovered the body together. Jane Estapoole left around the time you did and went to her apartment because she wanted to get a good night’s rest before a busy day.”

A rest, Malone remembered unhappily, which he and Lily had very thoroughly interrupted.

“And that’s the lot, Malone.” She looked at him anxiously. “Malone, is everything all right?”

He felt his face smiling but his heart wasn’t behind it. “Naturally everything’s all right. Now it’s just going to be a matter of simple arithmetic.” He could feel the smile staying there as though it had been cast in concrete. “So maybe you’d better run along and look after your guest.”

They didn’t want to leave him, and said so.

He informed them that nothing exciting or important was going to happen for a few hours, and when something was going to, he’d call them immediately. He said firmly that he wasn’t unhappy, the only cloud on his horizon was what might be going on with Alberta, and that if they really wanted to be helpful, they might pump her for a little information.

That did it. They left him in quiet, if not in peace.

A simple matter of arithmetic, he told himself.

Everybody was alibied for the night of Leonard Estapoole’s murder. Absolute, perfect, unquestionable alibis. The police—and everybody else—who had put this down as the work of two murderers wouldn’t care about the events and alibis of that night.

But he knew there was only one murderer. And for murder number one, every member of the Estapoole family was out.

Which left him back at combing the city of Chicago for some complete unknown who had wanted that envelope of papers badly enough to commit two murders for them. This, before five o’clock.

It was a shade after two now.

Maggie came to the door and said in a worried voice, “Is there anything you want, Malone?”

He repressed an impulse to send her for a batch of travel folders and to have her get in touch with the passport office. “Not a thing, thanks. I’m doing fine.” He added instinctively, “Don’t worry.”

For a long time he sat behind his desk staring moodily at nothing.

He realized now what his original mistake had been. He’d been convinced—mistakenly, he knew now—that Carmena and Hammond Estapoole had either committed a murder or arranged it. Only, he consoled himself, because that seemed to be the classic, the perfect solution. Aging and unlikable—to say nothing of unlovable—solid citizen and sterling character, with a vast amount of stocks and bonds and real cash money. Young and beautiful and glamourful wife, already twice widowed-widowed by accident, and at a pleasant financial profit. Poverty-stricken but handsome and highly attractive young nephew.

Yes, it had been classic and perfect, and based, he reminded himself bitterly, on too many years of newspaper reading. Only, it hadn’t been correct, and on the strength of the conviction that had been based on a purely romantic notion, he had blithely arranged for Frank McGinnis to allow himself to be framed for murder on a short-term basis, and had guaranteed to produce not only a better but a provable suspect, in what he now realized was an appallingly brief period of time.

Now he was not only back where he had started from, but considerably worse off than that. Frank McGinnis and Max Hook weren’t at all interested in beautiful theories that had been blown to bits, and neither were the police. They wanted results, and they wanted them in less than three hours.

He looked unhappily at his desk. The little bronze Buddha was still missing, probably somewhere in the vastnesses of the police department, eventually to be tagged Exhibit A. He had never paid a great deal of attention to it, but now he missed it. It had always given him an amiable smile, and there had even been a few choice occasions when he would have sworn that it winked at him.

Now, he sat staring at the empty space where it had always been, and suddenly the idea came to him. He got up and prowled around the room restlessly. It was such a wild idea, such an incredible, impossible idea, that he knew it had to be right. The more he thought about it, the more positive he grew.

Suddenly he picked up the phone and called Tommy Storm.

“One more thing,” he said, knowing that he could trust her now. “You were watching when Leonard Estapoole came into this building night before last. So you also saw who else went in.”

“Naturally,” she said.

“And you saw who slugged me and then hauled me away to that West Madison Street Hotel.”

“Of course,” she said.

“I was a double-damned fool not to ask you before,” he said. “The next time I ask you will be with the cops along.”

“I’m your gal,” she said cheerfully.

That took care of that, he thought, as he hung up. Last night’s murder—he scowled, thinking again about the little bronze Buddha. It had been washed and polished.

The brass snake-charmer, as von Flanagan called it, had also been washed and polished.

A simple matter of arithmetic.

For a moment it seemed as though his heart had not just turned to lead, but had left his body entirely.

He walked to the window and looked out over the Chicago rooftops he knew so well. The spring rain was beginning to fall again, but gently now. A phrase kept running through his mind. “That’s the way things are because that’s the way things are.”

At last he went back to the desk, to pick up the phone and call von Flanagan. The phone rang before he could pick it up.

It was Helene, and her voice was frantic. “Malone, she’s not here. Alberta.”

“Ma Blodgett?” Malone said stupidly.

“She left a note. She says, ‘The party who came for the little girl being a friend of yours and kin to the little girl and she being willing to go home for once I guessed it was all right especially as I couldn’t reach you on the telephone noplace.’”

Malone swore. Then he said, “I’ll be right there. We’ll call the police after I get there.”

“Malone,” Helene gasped out, “you mean it isn’t all right? Alberta going home, I mean.”

“Alberta hasn’t gone home,” Malone said grimly. “This time, she’s really been kidnaped. By the killer.”

CHAPTER 25

“It’s my fault,” Malone said stupidly, staring at Maggie. “It’s altogether, completely and one hundred per cent my fault.”

She looked at him, bewildered. “What’s your fault, Malone?”

“Everything,” the little lawyer said wildly. “Absolutely everything!” He grabbed his hat and topcoat and headed for the door. “I’m going up to Jake and Helene’s.”

“And from there?” she asked, following him.

“From there, I don’t know. I’m not even sure that it matters.”

In the doorway he collided with what seemed to be a small but determined cyclone. He grabbed Lily Bordreau just in time to keep her from falling, muttered an apology, looked just long enough to recognize her, grabbed her by the elbow, and said, “Come on.”

While they waited by the elevator, Malone leaning on the buzzer and swearing under his breath at the service, she pulled herself together enough to say, “Come on where?”

“Jake and Helene’s,” he said. “Alberta’s been kidnaped.”

“Of course she’s been kidnaped,” Lily Bordreau said. “We know that. But why all this big crazy rush right now?”

“This time,” Malone said grimly, “it’s for real.”

There wasn’t time to say anything more before the elevator arrived. The day elevator operator remarked on the way down that it had turned out to be a nasty day after all, and boy, didn’t Marty Budlicek have it soft!

Malone agreed with him on both counts and hurried Lily Bordreau through the shabby lobby and out into what had become a thin, disagreeable rain. By the time he’d hailed the first taxi that came along, and they were settled in it and headed north, he was sufficiently reorganized to take a good look at her.

She still wore the ripe watermelon-color skirt and sweater, and the small string of turquoises. There was a little mud on her tiny green sandals, and her stockings were splashed with mud and rain. Her dark curls were a little mussed, her lipstick was just a little crooked, and her face was very pale. Malone suddenly wondered how she was going to feel when she discovered she’d inherited a fifth of more than thirty million dollars.

“How do you feel?” he asked solicitously.

“Exactly as if I’d been moth-proofed,” she told him. “I woke up this morning, not especially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but ready to tackle the world again. But Jane thought I ought to rest some more. So she gave me some hot milk and a sleeping pill that must have been designed for a good-sized horse. She meant well. But I woke up again and decided I ought to wake all the way up, so I fought my way in and out of a cold shower, drank several gallons of coffee, and here I am, wide awake.” She yawned. “And what’s been going on while I was away in dreamland, Malone?”

“Everything,” he said. “Alberta wasn’t kidnaped last night. She took it into her head to hide in the back of Helene’s car, which was parked in your family driveway. Don’t ask me how it got there, or any more details, they’re entirely too complicated to cope with right now. Nobody knows just yet what her reason was. But while she was at Helene’s and presumably in safe hands—”

The taxi stopped in front of the apartment hotel. Malone said, “Tell you the rest when we get upstairs,” and helped her out.

Upstairs, Helene opened the door for them, her eyes widening at the sight of Lily Bordreau.

“Then it wasn’t Lily!” she said, shutting the door.

“Of course it wasn’t Lily,” Malone said crossly. “I knew that the minute I remembered her hands were dirty. And get this child a drink before she goes back to sleep on us. We need her.”

Helene made drinks for everybody. “Malone,” she called from the kitchenette, “it must have been just before we got back home. Because that half-empty bottle of Coke on the end-table was still icy.”

“And don’t blame Ma Blodgett,” Jake said.

“I don’t blame Ma Blodgett,” Malone said, “I blame me.” He reached for the telephone and called Ma Blodgett’s number.

Her explanation simply enlarged on what she’d put in the note. She’d assumed everything was all right. And since the little girl had gone home to her family—at last, Ma Blodgett added—there wasn’t any need for her to wait around.

“I should have warned her,” the little lawyer said unhappily. He paused. “But I didn’t have any idea what to warn her against.” He looked almost unbearably guilty. “Especially against Jane Estapoole. If I’d used my head—” He buried his face in his hands.

Lily Bordreau clucked affectionately at him, patted his shoulder, and put his drink in his hand.

“But, Malone,” Helene said, “how did Jane know she was here?”

“Because I told her,” Malone said, in complete and utter misery.

There was a little silence. Then he looked up and said, “It was one of those things. It slipped out. I didn’t think she’d noticed and anyway, I didn’t think it mattered. I’d never met anyone like her before.” In the future, if he had one, he told himself fiercely, he would stick to people he could trust, like Tommy Storm. He’d be able to spot when they were lying to him, and he’d know he could believe them when they told the truth. “I never knew a really, really nice girl before,” he finished.

The telephone rang. It was Carmena, and it was for Malone. There was real desperation in her voice now. “I called your office, Malone, and found out you were here—Malone—”

“I know all about it,” Malone said. Somehow he managed to say it reassuringly. “And don’t worry.” He said that reassuringly too, and wondered how on earth he’d done it.

“I heard from Jane,” Carmena said. “I never would have believed that Jane—but let’s not go into that now.” There was a catch in her voice. “I suppose she felt like a—poor relation—”

Malone wondered how things would have turned out if Jane Estapoole had known about Leonard Estapoole’s will. He said soothingly, “The thing to do is get Alberta back before—she gets frightened.” No need to put it a harsher way.

“Jane said—she was holding Alberta as a—hostage. She wants—two days, without anything being said to anybody. And a lot of money. And a promise not to say anything. Just that she’s gone on a trip.”

“Sounds fair,” Malone said. “What does she mean by a lot of money?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

“A hundred thousand dollars,” Carmena said.

To the Estapoole estate, Malone reflected, that would be like a tip to a waiter. Too bad Jane hadn’t known what she was passing up.

“Malone, what shall I do? What shall we do?”

Malone thought fast for half a minute. “You have no idea where she was calling from?”

“No. She said it was a pay phone.” He could tell that Carmena was trying to keep her voice steady, too. “She said she’d call back in an hour. For my answer.”

“Stall her,” Malone said. “Tell her you agree, but it’ll take at least another hour to get that much cash together. Tell her to call you again in one more hour. And see what you can find out about meeting places, and all that sort of thing.”

“I will, Malone, I will. And you—” Her voice broke off, but he knew the unsaid words. “What are you going to do?”

“Find Alberta,” Malone said.

He hung up. There was an anxious look on Jake’s and Helene’s faces that worried him just a little. A look that said they’d seen him pull a few rabbits out of hats, but this time—And there was an inference that he shouldn’t have promised Carmena Estapoole the rabbit when he didn’t even know what hat it was in.

Lily Bordreau stood up. “Well,” she said, “let’s start.”

Malone looked at her almost hopelessly. “Start—from where?”

“Jane had to take Alberta somewhere,” she said. “Somewhere out of sight. There’s only one place. She has a little cottage in the dunes. For weekends and things like that. It doesn’t have a telephone, so she’d have to use the pay phone up the road. And she’d probably have used it anyway so the call couldn’t be traced.”

“You’re a good, bright little girl,” Malone said. “Would she have had time to get there before she called Carmena?”

“Just about,” Lily Bordreau said. “It takes about an hour.”

Helene said, “But wouldn’t she assume that Carmena would immediately think of the cottage and send the police there right away?”

“Carmena doesn’t know about the cottage,” Lily said. “Nobody does. I’m not supposed to know about it myself.”

Malone reflected that he was learning more all the time about these really nice girls.

“The police—” Jake began.

Malone thought for a moment. “Not yet. Somehow, we’ll have to handle this ourselves. Because while Jane is just one person, she does have Alberta.” He knew too well how killers, even when they were very nice girls, might behave if they were trapped.

Downstairs, Helene slid behind the wheel of the yellow convertible with a remark that it was pleasant to have an excuse—a reason, rather—for seeing just what this car would do, with and without traffic, instead of just for the fun of it.

Later, Malone was heard to remark that if this was anything like driving for the fun of it, he’d rather have a nightmare any time.

They’d passed the South Shore Country Club before he caught his breath enough to suggest that they ought to discuss strategy.

“If when we get there we find Lily was wrong,” Helene said grimly, “and Jane isn’t there with Alberta—”

“We call Cannena,” Malone said. “And then we call the police.”

There was a silence. They were all thinking of Jane Estapoole, pursued by the police, holding Alberta Com-manday as hostage. For one fleeting moment Malone found himself picturing the little blue-eyed girl with golden curls that was von Flanagan’s instinctive image of a kidnap victim. Then he thought of the mean, skinny little kid with braids and braces on her teeth, and hoped with all his heart that she was safe from all harm.

At last they turned into a winding road that led to a scattered collection of weekend cottages. Helene slowed down.

“If they are there,” she said, “Malone, what do we do?”

Malone didn’t know, but he didn’t say so.

“Throw a rock through a window,” Jake suggested, “and when she comes out to see what’s going on—”

Helene suggested that Jake might just as well have stayed out in Wyoming.

“There’s a back door and a front door,” Lily Bordreau said. “One of us could pound on the front door, and the other one slip in the back.”

“And I assume there are windows,” Helene said.

But the fact remained, and they all knew it, that Jane Estapoole had Alberta, and that Jane Estapoole was not only ruthless but, by now, desperate.

“We’ll think of something,” Malone promised, hoping frantically that he was right.

Then they came round a bend in the road and saw a small figure approaching them. A small, tired-looking and slightly dirty figure, with mouse-colored braids and a very cross look.

Helene slammed on the brakes as they reached her.

“Well,” Alberta Commanday said indignantly. “It took you guys long enough to get here. Maybe I don’t like you after all.”

CHAPTER 26

For a moment there was complete and utter silence. Then everybody began to talk at once. Lily Bordreau said, “Darling, are you all right?” Helene said, “Did she hurt you?” Jake said, “How did you get away?” And Malone simply said, “Where is she?”

She answered Malone. She pointed back down the lane and said, “On the floor.”

Malone had a mad but fleeting notion that someone else might be involved after all, that there had been another crime and that somehow Alberta had escaped in the resulting confusion. She put his mind at rest with her next statement.

“I tripped her,” she said calmly. “I’m good at tripping people. I learned how at Miss Henderson’s School for Young Ladies.”

“I bet you’re good at it,” Helene said admiringly.

Alberta looked pleased and proud. “She locked me in when she went to telephone. I knew this time I’d been honestly kidnaped, and she was mean. Not awful mean, just a little.”

“If she’s hurt you,” Lily Bordreau said, suddenly a small ball of fury, “or scared you—”

“Scare who?” Alberta said. “Scare me?” She sniffed indignantly. “When she came back from telephoning I watched for a chance and then when she was going across the floor I tripped her. Like this.”

She thrust out one quick little leg and caught Jake across the shins.

“Then before she could do anything I hit her on the head, hard. With a big ash tray.”

Another mad and fleeting, and this time, horrible thought raced through Malone’s mind.

“Just like she hit Tony on the head,” Alberta said, very pleased with herself. “Only, he died of it. I guess it was thinking about her hitting Tony on the head gave me the idea of hitting her.”

“Whatever it was,” Malone said, finding his voice at last, “it was a good idea under the circumstances.” He looked at Jake. “And under the circumstances, another good idea might be to go down to this cottage and take the lady in charge. She may come to any minute. I doubt if Bertie here can hit very hard.”

“You just don’t know how hard I can hit,” Alberta boasted. “Want me to show you?”

“Later,” Malone said. “And I’ll probably hit right back. Right now, we’ve got things to do.”

As they got back in the car, she snuggled close to him and said, “I do like you, Malone.”

Malone drew a long breath and said, “Mutual.”

The dunes cottage was small, trim, and tidy, exactly the kind of cottage a thoroughly nice girl would keep for weekend visits. In the center of the grass rug lay Jane Estapoole, face down and motionless. Malone knelt down quickly and felt her pulse.

“It’s all right,” he told Alberta. “You didn’t hit her too hard. Just hard enough.”

Helene said, “Malone, we’ve got to call the police.”

He nodded and then said, “Wait a minute. We’ll call the police when we get her back inside the Chicago city limits. Von Flanagan has enough troubles without having to worry about jurisdiction at a time like this. We’ll load her into the car and when we get back into Chicago, we’ll call von Flanagan and tell him we’re bringing him a present. A very special present.”

Jake carried Jane Estapoole to the car and deposited her in the back seat. He said, “I’ll be right beside her. She just might come to on the way.”

Alberta Commanday said, “That’s okay. I brought the ash tray.” She held it up.

Malone told her firmly, “You’ve done enough good work for one day.” He shoved her in between Helene and himself and considered hugging her tight. Then he decided that while Alberta might be a small-scale heroine, she was no baby. As Helene started the car he said lightly, “I’m glad you weren’t scared.”

“Me?” she said, and her tone of voice indicated that she wouldn’t be scared of a mansion full of murderers.

“It’s a good thing you don’t scare easy,” Malone said. “Because if you did, I might be tempted to try it. Unless, that is, you answer a question or two.”

“I could probably scare you first,” she said with a sniff.

“I’ll go along with you on that,” Malone said. “Now. Pay attention, young lady.”

She giggled.

Malone ignored the giggle and said, “Why did you climb into Helene’s car last night?”

“Because I felt like it,” she said.

“That’s not good enough,” Malone said sternly. “You just wanted to run away from home because you didn’t like it there.”

“That’s not so! I wanted to know what was going on. And I knew if I was home nobody would tell me anything. And I saw the car and I knew who it belonged to so I climbed in and hid and then when we got to Helene’s house the policemen came and I knew I had to keep on hiding, so I did.”

“And,” Malone said, “what made you think anything was going to go on?”

“Well my gosh,” she said, “you don’t know much, do you?”

Malone was ready to admit that, but not to her. “I don’t think you do, either.”

“I don’t give a doggone and a geewhiz what you think,” she said stubbornly.

“Nice little girls don’t swear,” Helene said primly.

Alberta told Helene just what she thought of nice little girls.

“All right,” Malone said, “we’re all friends now, you’ve been a lot of help and you can be a lot more. What was going to go on?”

“Why,” she said, “Tony was going to go look for that brown envelope Uncle Leonard always carried around, and Jane was going to follow him.”

There was a little silence. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlarge on that, would you?”

She sniffed again. “Sure—pal. I went out to the garage because I didn’t want to go to bed. Tony was talking to somebody on the phone. So I listened. I always listen when I get a chance. He was telling somebody he knew two places that envelope must be and he was going to go find it right away. Only I wasn’t the only person listening. Cousin Jane was listening too. And when Tony got in his car and drove away she got in her car and drove away right after him.”

“Did she by any chance see you?” Malone asked.

Alberta nodded. “Just when she was getting in her car. I guess she couldn’t stop if she was going to go after Tony.” She grinned wickedly. “And after that, she couldn’t find me. Until this afternoon.”

“So,” Malone said slowly, “she knew that you could point her out as Tony’s murderer.”

“That’s what she said,” Alberta told him. “She said that was one reason she took me with her this afternoon. Only I didn’t know that until we were in her car.”

“Or else,” Helene said, “I don’t suppose you’d have gone along with her as meekly as you did.”

“Gee whiz,” Alberta said, “Jane wouldn’t hurt me. She wouldn’t actually hurt anybody, not on purpose. And besides,” she added, “I didn’t know anything about Tony’s being murdered when she came after me. She just said she had something exciting to show me, and I was tired of sitting around drinking Cokes. Except I’d like to have another one right about now.”

“Soon,” Malone promised. “When did she tell you about Tony?”

“There was a newspaper in the car,” Alberta said, “and I’m a big girl, I can read that much. She said she wasn’t going to hurt me, she wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt me. And she told me she didn’t mean to hit him so hard, it was an accident. Only when we got where we were going I guessed I’d better get away from there, so I tripped her.” She paused, yawned, and said, “I hope I didn’t hurt her either.”

“Malone,” Jake said from the back seat, “she’s waking up.” That clear, perfectly modulated and utterly lovely voice said, “I’ve been awake for the past ten minutes. Thank you for the nice things you said, Bertie.”

“Well, gosh darn,” Alberta said, “I just told the truth.” Malone longed, with all his heart, to turn around and look at her. He didn’t dare.

“Mr. Malone,” she said after a moment, “I really didn’t mean to hit him so hard. I was scared.”

The little lawyer stlrred uncomfortably, still refrained from looking back, and said, “You don’t need to talk right now if you don’t want to.”

“But I do. It’s just as Alberta said. I knew Tony—I suppose I’d better call him Mr. Medinica—was going to search Lily’s studio for that envelope. I thought I’d try to get there first. I did, too. I drive very well, Mr. Malone.”

“I suppose,” Malone said, “you were looking for that envelope too.”

It was a slightly grim laugh, but it was a laugh. “Who wasn’t?” She drew a long breath. “I had a key to the studio. I thought I’d locked the door securely, and I had, but somehow he got around and came in through the garden. I was frightened and I fought. I picked up the first thing I could reach and hit him with it. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t mean to—really even hurt him very much. I wasn’t even sure he was dead. But I was still scared. So I took that statuette and washed all the fingerprints on it. Then I didn’t stop to search any more, I just ran. I guess I got out of there just before you and Lily drove up. I went straight home and took a bath and—kept calm.”

And how magnificently she’d kept calm, Malone reflected.

“Until this afternoon. Then I got panicky. I knew sooner or later somebody would realize. Somebody would find out. So I got Alberta and—”

“And got tripped,” Alberta said.

Malone was silent for a few minutes. The nasty drizzle that had been falling for hours had decided to turn into a warm, gentle spring rain, a misty rain, filled with promises of bright days to come. New grass in the parks, dancing little leaves on the trees and probably, he reflected bitterly, an early heat wave and a few windstorms. It was always that way. He was tired beyond all belief now, and he ached everywhere.

They had crossed the city limits of Chicago, and Malone pointed to a corner drugstore. “I’ll go in and telephone,” he said. “So von Flanagan can have a red carpet rolled out.” He said it heavily and very wearily.

“I’m bringing you a couple of presents,” he told von Flanagan over the phone. “Last night’s murderess. And the little golden-haired child with beautiful blue eyes.” He wondered how the big police officer would take to Alberta. “Sorry I haven’t time to have them gift-wrapped.” He hung up on von Flanagan’s sputtering questions, thought a moment, and called Carmena.

“Alberta’s safe,” he told her. “She’s with me. You’d better come down and pick her up at police headquarters.” He added, “I’m taking Jane Estapoole there now.” Finally he said inadequately, “Everything’s fine, and don’t worry.”

Back at the car he stood for just a moment in the light and friendly rain, looking at Jane Estapoole. She was very pale and her lovely eyes were shadowed. She still looked like a very nice girl, the nicest girl he’d ever seen. Suddenly he pictured her in front of a jury, dressed just the way she was, and with that same look on her face. In the same instant he remembered the details of her story.

New strength seemed to come into him, and not from the spring rain and the promise of next month’s trees and grass. He smiled at her reassuringly.

“And don’t you worry,” he said. “Alter all, you’ve got the most perfect case of self-defense I ever saw—!”

CHAPTER 27

Von Flanagan had the look of a happy man. He beamed at everybody and said, “So that winds everything up.” He patted Alberta on the head and told her, “You’re a smart, brave little girl.” He seemed to have forgotten about the golden curls and beautiful blue eyes.

“There’s no real kidnaping charge, where my client here is involved,” Malone said hastily, managing to catch Alberta’s eye. “She was never really kidnaped. She just took it into her head last night to hitch a ride into town. There’s no real accounting for what little girls take into their heads to do.” Or big girls, either. “Her mother got alarmed, naturally, and reported her missing, not knowing that she was safe and sound at Helene’s.”

With good luck, the fake kidnaping could be kept completely off the record. It was just a matter of keeping von Flanagan’s mind on other things.

“And this afternoon,” he went on, “my client, Miss Estapoole here, called for her. There wasn’t any question of kidnaping, the little girl went along perfectly willingly and happily with one of her favorite relatives. She knew she’d be safe with Jane Estapoole.”

Alberta, standing by von Flanagan’s chair, and leaning just slightly on his shoulder, managed a very quick wink at Malone and said, “Jane wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Jane loves me.”

“All right,” von Flanagan said, “all right.” He seemed to have an idea that things were getting a little away from him. “But then why did she drag the little girl all the way down to that cottage in the dunes?”

“Because,” Malone said quickly, “she was in a state of panic. Weren’t you in a state of panic, Jane?”

Jane nodded furiously and stared at the floor.

Nothing had been said about Jane Estapoole’s telephone call to Alberta’s mother, nor about Alberta’s singlehanded job of escaping. And with reasonable luck, Malone reflected, nothing was going to be said.

“Remember,” Malone said sonorously, “this well-brought-up, sheltered young lady had been through the terrific shock of killing a man—even though it was in self-defense. Admittedly she’d gone to that studio to search for the envelope of papers Leonard Estapoole had had with him on the night of his death. Why? She may have thought he’d decided to entrust it to his stepdaughter Lily instead of carrying it with him. That must have been it.”

He managed to flash a quick warning glance that both Jane Estapoole and Lily Bordreau caught.

“This man,” Malone went on, “admittedly an associate of unsavory characters, and working under an assumed name, came bursting in. There was undoubtedly a brief struggle. She did the first thing she could think to do—grabbed up the nearest heavy object and struck what turned out to be a lethal blow.”

“But,” von Flanagan said, scowling, “that room was fixed up to look like there’d been a big struggle, and it was fixed up phony. And that brass snake-charmer had all the fingerprints washed off of it.”

“Again, panic,” Malone said. He took out a handkerchief, patted his brow. “She felt that she had to hide her traces. She remembered the condition of my office after Leonard Estapoole had been murdered, and forgetting that you already had Frank McGinnis in jail—” he didn’t dare look at his watch now—“tried to make it look the same. She washed off the fingerprints for the same reason. This delicate, sensitive girl, von Flanagan, had never encountered crime or criminals before.”

In a corner of the room Helene, out of the range of vision of everyone but Malone, played an imaginary violin. He gave her his dirtiest look and said, “So there you have it, and if that isn’t perfect self-defense—”

“If he keeps this up,” von Flanagan growled at Jane Estapoole, “I’ll feel like I ought to apologize for keeping you in jail.” Then he roared, “All right, Klutchetsky, come take it down.”

By the time the statement—Malone refused to let anyone call it a confession—was finished and signed, a pale and half-tearful Carmena Estapoole arrived, Hammond Estapoole at her elbow. Malone held his breath for a moment as she scooped Alberta into her arms and then he said quickly, “Now everything’s all right. There wasn’t any kidnaping. Never was any kidnaping. Jane didn’t harm or threaten her in any way, and neither did anyone else. So there’s nothing to worry or make a fuss about.”

Carmena Estapoole got the idea right away and spent the next few minutes overwhelming everyone present with gratitude. There was a brief argument regarding Alberta’s going straight home. She was, she declared, having too much fun. She lost to. a majority vote.

“And now,” Malone said, “if you’ll all just go away and leave me with von Flanagan—we have things to discuss.”

Helene, Jake and Lily Bordreau protested that one, and lost to superior force.

The little lawyer drew a long breath. “In a few minutes, you and I are going to pay a visit. But right now, there’s something to be settled.”

Von Flanagan grumbled, pointed out that both murderers were already in jail and had made acceptable confessions, growled something about the lateness of the hour, suspected irritably that Malone was going to perform something just to make life harder for him, and that anyway he had a date that evening for a poker game.

Malone pointed out that it was von Flanagan’s duty as a police officer and that it wasn’t going to take long anyway.

Von Flanagan looked suspicious, mumbled that it had better be good, whatever it was, and where did Malone want him to go, anyway.

“To see Max Hook,” Malone said. “First I’ve got a couple of things to tell you. I did have an appointment with Leonard Estapoole at my office night before last.”

“I know that,” von Flanagan said.

“Of course you do,” Malone said. “And you knew it at the time. But until then there were only two people in the world who knew it outside of Leonard Estapoole and myself. I’ve made positive of that.”

The big police officer looked fixedly at a spot on the wall and said nothing.

“This is important,” Malone said. “Leonard Estapoole called me and made that appointment himself. But he made it for ten-thirty.”

“I knew that too,” von Flanagan said, “and I don’t see what’s so important about it.”

“I do,” Malone said. “Because Leonard Estapoole got there early. Nearly an hour early.”

Von Flanagan went right on saying nothing.

“What makes it important,” Malone said, “is that there’s only one person who could have tipped you off that he was going to be there. Am I right?”

Von Flanagan looked at his old friend for a long, unhappy moment. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes. It was old Estapoole himself.”

“Thought so,” the little lawyer said triumphantly. He took out a fresh cigar and began sliding off its wrapper.

“He came to me instead of to anybody else,” von Flanagan said, not looking at Malone, “because he’d heard you and I had had our occasional run-ins. He told me why he was meeting you and he planned to trip you up. He had it in for you. He was going to get there early, ahead of you—he said he could get in your office, any dime-store master key would open it—and see if he could find any additional proof. Trace your direct contact with the kidnapers.”

“But there wasn’t any kidnaping,” Malone reminded him.

Von Flanagan shrugged his heavy shoulders. “All right, this imaginary kidnaping. Anyway, he wanted me in at the finish.”

“I knew it!” Malone said. “It had to be that way. Because there couldn’t be any other way. Absolutely no one else knew he was going to be there, so it stands to reason the only person who tipped you off was Leonard Estapoole himself. But here’s the main point. Did you, accidentally or otherwise, tip off anybody else? That could mean a great deal.”

Von Flanagan shook his head firmly. “Not one soul. Scanlon and Klutchetsky didn’t have any idea why we were going up to your office. I told them just what they told you last night, that if you were in I wanted to see you, and if you weren’t, we were going bowling.”

“Wonderful,” Malone said happily. “Perfect. That clears up everything.” He lit the cigar. “And last night?”

“A girl called me,” von Flanagan said. “It must of been her. Miss Estapoole. Her voice—”

“I know,” Malone said. “It’s a lovely one. She just couldn’t bear the thought of that poor man’s body lying there undiscovered. Or of Lily walking in and having the shock of finding it.” He’d already made up his mind that Jane Estapoole had done the tipping off. Though he doubted in his heart that her motives had been quite that altruistic.

Von Flanagan looked at him anxiously. “Malone,” he said unhappily, “it’s true we’ve had our little disagreements from time to time.”

“It is that,” Malone said. “And all of that.”

“And it’s true that now and then we’ve had our little troubles.”

Malone said, “You’re putting it-very mildly, von Flanagan.” “But you know,” von Flanagan said earnestly, “I’m the last one in the world to wish you any harm. I wouldn’t be the one to see a man like Leonard Estapoole get you in a jam. You know that. If I went up to your office night before last it was only for pure friendship—old friendship. I thought that in case you were in any trouble, I could get you out of it. You believe that, don’t you?”

“In another minute,” Malone said, “you’ll have me in tears.”

“Malone,” von Flanagan said, very unhappily now, “you’re not sore about it, are you?”

“Sore?” Malone said cheerfully. “Me, sore? Right now, I couldn’t be sore at anybody in this whole great big beautiful world. And now let’s be on our way. We’re going to see Max Hook.”

Von Flanagan was too subdued to protest at their destination. But halfway there he broke the silence with a question. “But, Malone, Leonard Estapoole told me he was going to get there early. And when I got to your office at ten-thirty, he wasn’t there.”

“No,” Malone said. “He wasn’t there.”

“But, Malone. Then he must have been there and gone away again.”

“Yes,” Malone said. “He must have. And don’t bother me. You’ll have the whole story before long.”

Von Flanagan sighed deeply and was silent.

If the combination elevator operator and bodyguard at Max Hook’s building felt any surprise at von Flanagan’s presence, he kept it discreetly to himself. Nor did Max Hook himself indicate that there was anything unusual in the occasion. He greeted them cordially, offered them chairs and cigars wrapped in tinted tinfoil, sent for the portable bar and asked Malone a question with his eyebrows.

Malone said Yes to everything, including the question.

“My good friend, von Flanagan,” he said, “is a man of great understanding. So you can give him the paper I signed, that you’re keeping for Frank McGinnis.”

Max Hook shrugged his shoulders, grinned, took the paper from his desk drawer, and handed it to von Flanagan.

The big police officer read it through twice, while his broad face turned from its normal pink to crimson, to magenta and finally almost to purple.

“Now wait a minute,” Malone said quickly. “There’s more to tell. Leonard Estapoole did get to my office early, just as he told you he would. And he wasn’t there when you got there at ten-thirty. Because he was out on the fire escape, stone cold dead. Or dead, anyway. It couldn’t have been long. Not more than a few minutes before I came in.”

He went on to tell von Flanagan everything that had happened the night before last, not omitting Tommy Storm’s rescue of him.

Von Flanagan stared at him steadily and angrily. “By all that’s holy,” he began ominously, “I’ve wanted to arrest you for twenty years, and this is the time I’m going to do it. And not just for obstructing justice, either.”

“You’re not going to arrest anybody,” Malone said. “Because I haven’t done anything. Oh, perhaps a little matter of moving a body without a permit. That’s a minor offense, punishable with a fine. But you don’t even have me for obstructing justice. Because I’ve been furthering it.”

Von Flanagan stated exactly what he thought about Malone’s furthering justice, and added a number of unpleasant details about what he thought of Malone.

“According to that paper,” Malone said, pointing to it, “McGinnis was to stick to his story and stay arrested for twenty-four hours—or until you had the murderer of Leonard Estapoole in jail.”

“And I’m going to have,” von Flanagan roared, “just as soon as I can get you down there.”

“Calm down,” Malone said. “You’ve already got the murderer of Leonard Estapoole in jail.”

Both von Flanagan and Max Hook said “McGinnis?” in the same incredulous breath.

“I know,” Malone said. He put aside Max Hook’s fine cigar and reached for one of his own. “The idea seemed impossible. It seemed preposterous, when I first thought of it. But it’s the right answer, and I have proof. I can produce a witness who saw Frank McGinnis go into that office building just after Leonard Estapoole did, and come out a short time later. The same witness saw Frank McGinnis trail me, catch up with me on a dark street, slug me, take me to a cheap hotel on West Madison Street and park me there so that I couldn’t go back to my office and dispose of the body.”

Von Flanagan said, with dark suspicion, “I hope you’re telling me the truth.”

Max Hook had wiped the surprise off his face, and said nothing at all.

“There isn’t any doubt about it,” Malone said. “And finally, if you really take his place apart, you’ll probably find that precious envelope. It will be pasted under a table or inside a picture, or some stupid obvious place like that, but it’ll be there.”

Max Hook made a strange, half-strangled little sound.

“And I imagine,” the little lawyer said, “if you ask Little Georgie—you’ll find that the reason he picked Frank McGinnis to act as the fall guy was partly because he was the type of guy who would do something like this particular murder for this particular motive—and partly because Little Georgie, who knows practically everything that goes on in this town, knew that Frank McGinnis had a remote but more-or-less romantic connection with the Estapoole family. We might ask him.”

Max Hook picked up the house phone, spoke briefly to Little Georgie, and said, “You were right, Malone.” He paused. “But the envelope—”

Malone said, “Leonard Estapoole had to have it with him. It never left his person. But it wasn’t on his body. Obviously, Frank McGinnis found what he was after.”

“All right,” Max Hook said. “But in that case, why did he go ahead and agree to this put-up job of yours?”

“Because,” Malone said, “he couldn’t think of a safer way to prove he was innocent. When he was approached, he figured that agreeing to it, and having that signed paper, would make him foolproof safe.”

Max Hook poured three fresh drinks. Malone relit his cigar. Von Flanagan said, “But how did you know?”

“The bronze Buddha,” Malone said. There was no point in letting them know that only a few hours ago he’d been ready to give up and head for a country where there was no extradition and the living was cheap.

Von Flanagan said, “What’s this about the bronze Buddha?”

“On my desk,” Malone said. “Or rather, not on my desk. Not right now. And don’t forget I want it back.” He threw away his match. “When I made that deal with Frank McGinnis, right here in front of the Hook, I told him exactly what to say. But I didn’t mention the bronze Buddha. I didn’t even think of it at the time.”

Max Hook nodded slowly and said, “That’s right, you didn’t.”

“I just said, ‘Bashed him on the head,’ if I remember correctly. There wasn’t any mention of any weapon. And there were plenty of other heavy objects around that he could have used.

“If he hadn’t been the murderer, if he hadn’t been there in my office, he’d never have known that there was a bronze Buddha. But he had been there, and he had used it as a weapon. When he did his talking, he said so.”

Von Flanagan said very thoughtfully, “That’s right. Why, there’s even a picture of it in the paper.” He was silent for a moment. “With that, and with your witness—” He paused again and indicated the paper. “The rest of this had better just be quietly forgotten, along with the kidnaping. Which never was official anyway. And we’ll find that envelope.”

Malone cleared his throat. “One return favor,” he said softly. “After all, tike you said, ours has been a long friendship. I hope it’ll be a longer one. All I want is five minutes alone with that envelope, when you get it.”

Von Flanagan looked at him. A little more than pure friendship was involved, too. This wasn’t the kind of story he would like to have get around.

“Sure thing,” he said heartily. “Easiest little thing to arrange in the world.”

Just the shadow of a smile crossed Max Hook’s face.

CHAPTER 28

“All right, all right,” Malone told Jake and Helene. “You’ll just have to wait a minute. Maggie’s been waiting here overtime to tend to a little important business for me.”

He sat down behind his desk, lighted a cigar, and contemplated a world that was not only bright with spring moonlight but with a lot of other things as well. He knew that the check from Max Hook would be an outstanding one, and there was still Mike Medinica to deal with. He had a feeling he was about to miss another night’s sleep, but that it would be worth it.

Maggie said from the door, “About that bracelet, Malone. Don’t you think that a Paris negligee from Saks, or a big bottle of imported perfume, or four dozen roses—”

“No,” Malone said. “And see that it gets delivered this evening. Tommy Storm is a very remarkable girl.”

She shrugged her shoulders and went to the telephone. “Malone,” Helene said desperately. “Are you going to tell what happened, or aren’t you?”

He brought out the bottle he usually saved for very important clients, located three glasses, and told them everything. Or almost everything.

“My mistake,” he finished, “was that I kept thinking there was only one murderer involved. While the truth was, everybody else was right all along, and there were two. Then you turned up alibis for everybody involved for the night of Leonard Estapoole’s murder. And then I remembered about the bronze Buddha.”

“But,” Helene said, “Jane. How did you know it was Jane?”

He sighed. “It had to be either Jane or Lily, the way I was thinking. And it couldn’t have been Lily because of her dirty little hands. When she was driving into town, I noticed the pencil smudges on her hands.”

“She’s always had pencil smudges on her hands,” Helene said, “ever since she took up sketching in Miss Finley’s School.”

“Alter we’d found the body,” Malone said, “she still had smudges on her hands. But the brass snake-charmer, as von Flanagan calls it, had been washed clean. She couldn’t have washed it off for fingerprints without washing her own hands in the process.”

There was a silence while they thought that over. Malone began thinking of the evening ahead, free from murders and other worries.

Maggie called, “Malone, someone to see you—”

Marty Budlicek appeared in the doorway, smiling. Malone noticed a new suit, a new shirt, a new tie, a haircut, and a new gleam in his eye. “Malone, all day yesterday I wanted to tell you. When you telephoned me at my brother’s in Waukesha, I wanted to tell you. Last night here at the office, I still wanted to tell you.”

“All right,” Malone said. “Tell me now.”

“That man,” Marty Budlicek said, “that McGinnis. I wanted to tell you when I read about the murder. I saw that man who was murdered, coming up. I saw that McGinnis coming up and going down again. I didn’t know him, but they showed him to me at the police station and I knew I had seen him. That’s what I wanted to tell you, that I knew it all the time.”

Malone was quiet for a moment. Then he rose, took Marty Budlicek’s hand, and shook it firmly.

“This, Budlicek,” he said solemnly, “is a great occasion in my life. And you are entirely responsible for it. It’s the first time in my entire life that I’ve ever actually bribed anybody—to tell the truth!”

Turn the page to continue reading from the John J. Malone Mysteries

Chapter One

The room he was in managed to be pink and green without being downright offensive. John J. Malone looked around warily, took out a cigar, wondered if he dared smoke it in such delicate surroundings, regretfully decided not, and put it into his pocket with a deep sigh.

Across the large room from him was a picture, a picture in a golden frame. Automatically the little lawyer found himself humming a line of a song he remembered from sometime, somewhere.

Pretty as a picture,

In a pretty frame—

Malone sighed again, but it was an entirely different kind of a sigh. He’d seen the subject of the picture any number of times before, with a succession of variations, in the colored advertising pages of magazines catering to the would-be luxury trade. Different poses, different surroundings, but always the same girl, the same exquisite face, the same delicate, half-secretive smile.

There was always the same ornately carved golden frame, and under it the same slogan that gave renewed hope to countless thousands of feminine readers, in fine, graceful script across the page—“Pretty as a Picture”—and the signature, in the same delicate script, “Delora Deanne.”

In spite of the picture, Malone was unhappy. He wanted that cigar, and badly. This had been one of those mornings when the mere act of waking had been painful, exasperating and just plain terrible, to the point where he wished it was also unnecessary. His bones felt as though they had been disjointed and then put together by an amateur with a do-it-yourself kit. His stomach felt full of damp concrete, and some practical prankster had evidently left a dead horse in his nose and a bad-tempered bumblebee in each ear.

But a voice over the telephone had said that Delora Deanne was most anxious to consult with Mr. Malone regarding an urgent legal matter, and he had been on his way as though he’d been pursued by a jet-propelled demon. It hadn’t been just a little problem that involved unpaid office rent, back salary for Maggie, his secretary, an overdue bar bill and a bank account that had already passed zero on the way down. Nor was it the fact that his best and oldest friend, Jake Justus, had just become a television producer with no shows on the air as yet but with a hopeful eye on the Delora Deanne account, and that this visit of his might prove a valuable introduction. It was that any moment now he was going to become one of the favored few who had met the real-life Delora Deanne face to lovely face.

Now, however, after twenty minutes of waiting, he looked once more around the green-and-pink room with its soft satin furniture, and began to wonder when he was going to be in the undoubtedly enchanted presence of the being who was the model for beauty-seeking American womanhood, the idol of American manhood, the inspiration for many of Malone’s favorite secret dreams, and certainly the greatest cosmetic saleswoman since Cleopatra sailed the Nile.

Delora Deanne! It would be the seraphic yet somehow voluptuous face, haloed by hair the exact color of fresh-minted gold, or perhaps it would be the hair alone in a soft cloud (Delora Deanne Sunshine Tint), the kind of cloud that Malone occasionally dreamed of walking through barefoot at dawn. Or it would be the slender, yet joyously curving body, rosy and still somehow pale, discreetly half-seen through misty, wind-touched veils (Delora Deanne Contour Classes), or the perfect, bare dancing feet on posy-studded grass (Delora Deanne Special Foot Make-Up), or the pair of slim, rose-tipped hands cupped to hold some rare and priceless gem (Delora Deanne Manicure Magic).

Or it would be Delora Deanne’s beguiling, caressing voice from some loud-speaker, “You too can be as pretty as a picture,” a voice that hinted, ever so slightly, at some remote foreign ancestry, possibly a Hungarian grandmother.

Put them all together and they spelled a lot of cold cream sales, and a lot of excellent ideas which John J. Malone preferred to keep strictly to himself.

Plus, of course, the possibility—probability, if all went well—of a wonderful, extra-super, triple-colossal television spectacular for Jake Justus to produce.

Again he hummed a bar or two of the tune which had been running through his head ever since his unhappy waking. Where had he heard it? He tried hard to remember. Probably in some thoroughly disreputable place the night before.

A voice behind him said, “I take it you’re John J. Malone?” and the little lawyer jumped almost guiltily, got up fast and turned around.

It was not the voice that had haunted him, heard softly over the radio, nor was it the high-pitched twang that had yipped at him nastily over the telephone earlier that morning to make the appointment. No, it was just a voice, midwest prairie with a faint touch of Chicago overtones, a serviceable voice, to be used solely for the purposes of communication.

The woman who went with it was also serviceable, and as midwestern as an acre of corn. If she had been the moving, smiling original of the dream Delora Deanne he knew so well, that would have been one thing. If she had been phenomenally and spectacularly deformed and ugly, that would have been another and, in its way, every bit as enthralling. But the woman who stood before him was neither. Her face was just that, a face, with the usual components of eyes, nose and mouth, put there in their proper places for the ordinary and useful purposes of eating, breathing and seeing. Even her eyebrows, usually such helpfully expressive clues to emotion, said nothing; they were just there and that was all there was to it.

Her practical-looking hands were clean and wore a standard-color nail polish, her medium-sized feet appeared to be free from corns and bunions. Her figure was not overweight or underweight, but just standard size, and covered with a medium-blue dress that might have cost six ninety-nine in Gold-blatt’s basement, or seven hundred and fifty at a salon, and probably had cost forty-nine-fifty at Marshall Field’s. Her hair, dressed neatly in no particular style, was just plain hair color.

She was neither likable nor disagreeable, friendly nor hostile. Malone did his best to look gallant and said, “You—are—”

“Hazel Swackhammer,” the woman said, and sat down. “I am also Delora Deanne.”

Malone sat down too; reminding himself firmly that more than just an introduction to the model who posed for Delora Deanne—for there had to be one—was at stake. There was his office rent to be considered, there was Jake’s still unborn TV show. He settled down to making friends with the brains behind the beauty.

“My dear lady—” He took out the cigar again, decided the hell with the green-and-pink walls, and lighted it. He murmured something flattering about being extremely pleased, and looked around for a place to put his burned match. The lusciously soft carpet was a mossy green, engagingly sprinkled with pale pink and white posies, and he finally put the match in his vest pocket.

“My dear lady,” he began again, in what grateful clients had complimented as the perfect cell-side manner, “what seems to be your difficulty?”

“Scandal,” Hazel Swackhammer said. “Someone is trying to involve Delora Deanne in scandal, and consequently ruin me.”

Two more lines of the song came back to him.

—but she stole my bottom dollar,

And she scandalized my name.

She told him the detailed story of Delora Deanne, from a recipe for homemade lotion learned from a New England grandmother, through the mixing of ingredients in the back room of a small-town Iowa drugstore, to the perfumed perfection of the little marble building that was the heart of Delora Deanne Cosmetics.

It was a businesslike story, told in a businesslike manner. Malone admired it, but he thought wistfully of the story as told on the radio and on the printed page and that, with any luck, Jake would tell on television, a story that had its beginning in the dreamy South. Magnolias and moonlight, soft whisperings, and an occasional glimpse of shadowy, secret gardens. The little lawyer caught himself on the verge of a quiet sigh, then mentally kicked himself for being a sentimental slob, and told himself firmly to stick to business.

“This,” Hazel Swackhammer said. She handed him a small batch of clippings from newspaper columns, hinting that an unnamed beauty (very obviously Delora Deanne) was up to a lot of nonsense which, if not actually nefarious, illegal, and quite probably unchaste, was at least highly indiscreet.

“But,” she said, “that is not all.”

Malone felt a sudden and uncomfortable impulse to flee, client or no client, Jake or no Jake, Delora or no Delora. For days afterward, he claimed to have had a premonition all along.

“That,” she went on, “is not the awful thing that made me send for you this morning.” She rose, and Malone rose with her. She caught his last, yearning glance toward the picture and said, “Of course. Everyone does. But you shall.”

Malone blinked and said, “Perhaps an introduction—”

“Simplest thing in the world,” she said. “Advertising conferences go on in spite of everything, and they’re all here this morning. All except one, that is.”

Malone gave his head a brisk little shake in the vain hope that at least a few of his confused thoughts would find out where they belonged, and settle there. He had a grim feeling that the damp concrete in his stomach was beginning to harden now.

Hazel Swackhammer led the way into an adjoining room, this one gray, mauve and restful. Soft, pale-violet chairs were drawn up around what appeared to be a polished conference table. The man at the far end rose to his feet and Malone recognized the crisply waving dark hair, the handsome face with its smiling mouth, the dark eyes and long eyelashes that would have looked well on Delora Deanne herself, as belonging to a casual night-club acquaintance he recognized as Otis Furlong.

“Hello there, Malone,” Otis Furlong said. “I suppose you want to meet Delora Deanne.” He smiled and nodded to his right. “Gertrude Bragg.”

It was the face of the pictures, the face of Malone’s dreams, framed in the silken cloud of pale gold hair, but attached to a slightly dumpy body that rose from a pair of piano legs.

“The feet,” Furlong said, “Louella Frick.”

The little lawyer glanced instinctively under the table, at the pair of dainty, high-arched, slender feet in expensive beige suède sandals with fragile heels, then ran his gaze upward over a small chubby woman who looked at him through thick glasses astride a freckled nose and said, “It’s a pleasure,” in a voice like a discontented mouse.

“Eula Stolz,” Furlong said. “Torso and legs.”

Just torso and legs was too much of an understatement, Malone thought. It should have been at least The Torso, and The Legs. If only there had been a face in keeping, he would have stopped thinking about his troubles and his premonitions right then and there.

She said, “Hello,” through her nose, and closed a small, pinched mouth.

“And, the voice,” Furlong finished. “The voice. Rita Jardee.”

Rita Jardee, a red-haired, haggard and skinny woman who seemed to be hurrying toward middle age, said, “Delighted, Mr. Malone,” in the mellow voice that held him and untold thousands spellbound every Saturday night.

“Unfortunately,” Furlong said, “the hands, Eva Lou Strauss, are missing this morning. Late again, I suppose.”

A thin little sandy-haired man with rimless glasses spoke up from the other end of the table and said, “A composite. Otis, who takes our photographs, is a genius.” He added, “I’m Dennis Dennis, copywriter.”

Malone muttered something and was destined to wonder forever what it had been.

Jake. The Delora Deanne show. He was going to have to break this very gently to Jake. The beauty of Delora Deanne was to have been the irresistible lure to draw the eyes of goodness knows how many millions to their television screens. Now, this!

Or was it possible that a composite could be made to appear on television? He hadn’t the faintest idea. Probably not. But he clung to the faint hope as though it were a life raft.

Dennis Dennis nodded toward Hazel Swackhammer and said, “We must remember the brains, mustn’t we?”

Hazel Swackhammer lifted the left side of her upper lip in what, on any other face, and in any other circumstances, would have passed for a smile, and said, “My office is this way, Mr. Malone.”

The office was exactly suited to her. Four walls, two windows, a filing cabinet, a desk, a desk calendar, four chairs and an ash tray. Everything perfectly practical and utilitarian, and precisely in its place.

The woman standing by the desk was tallish and vaguely beautiful. Vaguely and dreamily. Her hair was dark and soft and cloudy, her dark blue eyes looked as though she ought to be wearing glasses. Even her smile was vague, perhaps a little confused.

“Myrdell Harris,” Hazel Swackhammer said.

“How do you do, Mr. Malone.” The little lawyer recognized the voice he had heard over the phone. There was nothing dreamy nor vague about it. “Mrs. Swackhammer’s executive assistant. Do you need me, Mrs. Swackhammer?”

“No,” Mrs. Swackhammer said. “I do not.”

The door closed gently behind the executive assistant—Malone suspected her employer’s name for it was “secretary.”

Hazel Swackhammer unlocked a desk drawer, took out a box and laid it on the desk. “This,” she said, pointing to it, “came in the mail this morning.”

Malone recognized the satiny white box with its silver lettering as having come from a fashionable and fabulously expensive Michigan Boulevard shop which had cost him more money in the past than he was ever going to confess to anyone. There was something ominous about it, resting there on the plain green blotter of the desk. He didn’t want to open it, and he knew he was going to.

There was a pair of pale lavender suède gloves inside, so very beautifully designed and cunningly made that he could guess in an instant at their cost. But he wasn’t interested in design nor cost right now. Because the gloves were not empty.

The damp concrete in his stomach began to turn rapidly into ice. Slowly, very slowly, he reached down and began to slip off the gloves until he recognized the magnificently embalmed hands that had once been Delora Deanne’s, slender, graceful, ringless, and even now, lovely.

Chapter Two

It was quite a little while before John J. Malone spoke, in fact, before he even dared to try. Carefully, and with hands that were almost steady, he replaced the cover on the satiny white box, and stood staring at it as though it might suddenly spring at him.

Hazel Swackhammer sat down behind her desk and gazed fixedly at a blank spot on the wall.

“Tell me,” Malone said, as soon as he felt reasonably certain that his voice would sound normal again, “why haven’t you informed the police about this?”

She turned her head to look at him as though he were a slightly retarded child. “Newspapers,” she told him. “I have to consider the reputation of Delora Deanne.”

The little lawyer scowled and gestured toward the sheaf of newspaper clippings she still held in her hand. “It seems to me,” he said coldly, “that Delora Deanne’s reputation is already being chopped up in pieces for the benefit of the reading public.”

The look she gave him indicated that she didn’t quite like the way he’d phrased that. On second thought, he realized that he didn’t quite like it himself.

“I sympathize deeply with you,” Malone said, hoping he sounded as if he meant it. “Indeed I do. But you have a certain duty as a private citizen.”

This time, her look told him exactly what she thought of her duty as a private citizen, as compared to her duty to the already imperiled reputation of Delora Deanne.

Malone relit his cigar, and this time he dropped his burned match on the brown linoleum floor. “Furthermore, you’re overlooking something,” he said, as gently as he could. “The rest of—” he indicated the satiny white and silver box—“this person’s person.”

“Eva Lou Strauss,” she said, without any expression on her face. Perhaps, Malone thought, if it had been the Delora Deanne pretty-as-a-picture and irreplaceable face, there might have been, not actually an expression, but at least a faint shadow of anxiety.

“You want her body found,” Malone said sternly and righteously. “The rest of her body. Her people will want to give it proper burial. And you want her murderer to be punished.”

“As far as I know,” Hazel Swackhammer said, “Eva Lou Strauss had no people.” Her further silence made it plain that finding and punishing murderers was definitely not her business. After a while she said, as though just faintly annoyed, “I suppose it must be murder.”

“There certainly appears to be every indication of it,” Malone said, trying to be delicate about it. He looked at his cigar and added, “But what I don’t quite understand is just exactly what you want me to do.”

“Frankly,” she said, “neither do I. But I felt that you would be able to think of something. I do know quite a little about your reputation, Mr. Malone.”

He wasn’t at all sure whether he ought to thank her or not.

“At the very least,” she went on, “I expected you to be able to tell me what to do with—these.” She nodded toward the box. “Nothing like this has ever come up in my entire experience.”

Malone refrained from commenting on that. Having a pair of beautifully embalmed hands arrive with the bills in his morning mail was hardly an everyday occurrence in anyone’s life. He scowled at the box.

“I assume,” he said, “that you’ve told none of the others here—nor anyone else—about your receiving these?”

“Obviously not,” she said.

No, he reflected, she wouldn’t have. She undoubtedly had simply unwrapped the box, examined its contents, put the cover back on, and thought things over for a while before doing anything. New experience or not, she had made no outcry or disturbance, had said or done nothing that would alarm her staff, her photographer and copywriter, her executive assistant and the remaining Delora Deannes. At last she’d sent for Malone. And a good idea, too, he told himself; probably the best one she’d ever had.

He wondered what kind of a fee she had in mind.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “have you received anything besides this? Any letters, any messages, any telephone calls?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Just these.” Her slate-colored eyes looked at Malone appraisingly. “Just what are you thinking about, Mr. Malone?”

“There is just a possibility,” the little lawyer said, very slowly, turning his cigar around between his fingers and looking at it intently, “that it might not be murder.” He was trying to think at least several yards ahead of himself.

She watched him thoughtfully and said nothing.

“You may get a message,” Malone told her. “In fact, if it is not murder, you most likely will.”

Yes, he thought, that could be the case, and there was the chance that if Eva Lou Strauss was still alive, he might be justified in not insisting that the police be notified. Certainly, this didn’t seem like the right or tactful time to disagree with his new client on that point. The thing to do was wait.

“If she’s been kidnaped,” Malone began, and then stopped. There hadn’t been any message of any kind, nothing like the conventional warning against calling the cops. But perhaps there hadn’t been time yet. “If she has,” he went on, “you most certainly will get a message and some kind of a demand for money.”

“I,” Hazel Swackhammer said, looking uninterested, “am leaving everything up to you, Mr. Malone. I know you will handle the situation with perfect discretion.”

He realized that she wasn’t going to be interested in putting out much, if any, money to ransom Eva Lou Strauss, who wouldn’t be any further use to her without the Delora Deanne hands. Well, he would cross that bridge after the horse was stolen, and lock the barn door when he came to it.

“What did the—rest of her look like?” he asked, hoping he’d phrased it right.

By way of answer, she unlocked and opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a portfolio of photographs. Third from the top was a full-length picture of the girl with the nationally famous hands. A tallish girl, with a generously curved figure that would have been fully appreciated in one of the better harems, but whose large-featured face showed too much and too garish make-up, and who had entirely too much frizzy hair.

“Her hair, yellow,” Hazel Swackhammer said. “Not blond, yellow.”

Malone understood and appreciated the distinction. He gave back the portfolio and said, “Tell me a little something about her personal life.”

“As far as I have been concerned,” she told him, “her personal life consisted of an address and a telephone number in my files.” She gave both of them to Malone, who noted them down. “Except that naturally I reminded her from time to time of her responsibility to the reputation of Delora Deanne.”

“Naturally, Malone agreed, and remembered something else. He pointed his cigar at the newspaper clippings and said, “What do you want me to do about these?”

“Put a stop to them,” she said. “Find out their origin. That comes first.”

Yes, it would. The little lawyer picked up the top one and read it again. Nothing remarkable nor original. What model, internationally known for her voice, beauty and cosmetic appeal, had turned from cutting up with a well-known playboy to blackmailing him? Malone sighed. He knew most of Chicago’s better-known playboys, either by name or reputation, as very casual acquaintances, or as worried clients, and it was a long, long list.

On the other hand, though, he did know the columnist, Ned McKoen. But in any case, getting information was going to involve expensive and extensive buying in Chicago’s best café-society saloons.

Oh well, he would be sending the bill to Hazel Swackhammer, and it had been a long time since he’d been in the Chez.

“There’s another thing,” he said thoughtfully. “These two situations—the column items and—this—” he pointed to the box again—“may be connected, and then again, they may not. That remains to be seen.” He paused. “Did this girl have any particular enemies that you know of?”

“I know nothing about Eva Lou Strauss,” she told him. “Nor about any of the others. Except that I do believe that Rita Jardee woman has had four husbands and has her eye out for a fifth.” She looked at him squarely. “As long as Delora Deanne is not involved in any way, I have absolutely no concern about it.”

Malone nodded that he understood perfectly. He said, “And how about yourself?”

“A successful woman always has enemies, Mr. Malone,” she said. “I am not the exception.” She paused a moment. “There is one in particular. My former husband, Charles Swackhammer. At one time he was of some assistance to me in the creation and development of Delora Deanne. Now he would like to own and control the business. Now that it is a success. It is just possible that by forcing Delora Deanne into bankruptcy and failure, he would be able to buy me out, and turn my loss into his gain. Or at least,” she added, “so he may think.”

Win, lose or draw, Malone reflected, he did not envy Charles Swackhammer.

He could imagine someone deliberately planning just such a newspaper column for such a purpose. But Malone could hardly imagine him going to the length of mailing Hazel Swackhammer a beautiful box containing the hands of Delora Deanne. No, not even for the purpose of frightening her. If he knew her, he would know better than to try to frighten her. And anyway, assuming that, one way or another, he did gain control of Delora Deanne, he too would need her famous and photographed hands.

At last he said, “Is there anything else you have to tell me?”

Before she answered, she put away the portfolio. She found the brown wrapping paper and the string which had come around the white satiny box, rewrapped the box, tied it securely, put it away on top of the portfolio, and shut and locked the drawer.

Then she said, “I have told you everything, Mr. Malone. I shall mail your retainer to your office. And I trust I shall hear from you before long.”

Malone went away unhappily, with only the vaguest ideas as to where he was going, and what on earth he was going to do when he got there.

He peered wistfully into the mauve-and-gray room and saw that all the Delora Deannes who had been there had disappeared. He wished he knew where Eva Lou Strauss had been. Even more, he wished he knew where she was now. Most of all, he wished that he knew just how he was going to find out.

Dennis Dennis was there, leaning against the conference table, his arms folded, talking to Otis Furlong who was still sprawled in his chair. They waved cheerily to Malone to come in.

“I suppose Hazel called you in about the scandal,” Dennis Dennis said.

The little lawyer tried to look surprised. “Scandal?” he repeated innocently.

“Don’t try to be coy,” Otis Furlong said. He took out his pipe and began filling it, ignoring the mossy green carpet which, in this room, was sprinkled with tiny violets. “We too read the daily newspapers.”

Dennis Dennis lit a cigarette and said, “Which is she going to do about it? Sue, or stay shut up?”

“Stay shut up,” Malone said blandly. “Which girl is it, if it really is one of the Deloras?”

Otis Furlong shrugged his shoulders, and Dennis Dennis said, “Search me. Might be any or all of ’em. Though I can’t exactly see the Deloras ganging up together, even to take a sucker.”

“They aren’t exactly en rapport,” Otis Furlong agreed. He finished tamping his pipe and reached for a match. “Hazel must be fit to be tied in a bowknot, though she’d never let on. What I can’t figure is, how did any Delora latch on to a playboy? They live about as secluded lives as top-secret atom scientists.”

Malone said smugly, “Youth will find a way,” and brushed hopelessly at the cigar ashes that had just fallen on his vest. It was true, Delora Deanne, the beautiful, the enchanted, the well-nigh legendary, never showed herself in public. That, he had always assumed, had been part of the magic legend. Now he realized that none of them could possibly have appeared publicly. The Delora Deannes, he reflected, must have led one hell of a dull life.

“I wonder who the playboy is,” he asked very casually, not really expecting an answer, but hoping for the best.

The handsome photographer shrugged again, and again Dennis Dennis said, “Search me.” He added, “I’m glad Hazel isn’t going to make a great big thing out of it. We have enough troubles around here as it is.”

“Any particular kind of troubles?” Malone asked lazily, with a great show of disinterest.

“Oh, no. Just the usual run of mild upheavals that result from handling a bunch of highly jealous females,” Otis Furlong said. “And poor old Hazel always worrying for fear her ex is going to try and take her precious business away from her. And Dennis here worrying for fear his ex will find out how much money he’s winning at the races and try to get her alimony increased.”

Dennis Dennis snorted. He added, “And Otis here worrying for fear his ex is going to get laryngitis and lose her job, or get drunk and fall on her face in a Delora Deanne broadcast.”

“My ex being Rita Jardee,” Otis Furlong explained. “But our pal here exaggerates my worries.” He lit his pipe, put away the matches, got to his feet with amazing, catlike grace for so tall a man, and said, “Drop in at my place some time, Malone, and have a drink. It’s right in the neighborhood. I’ve got something cute to show you.”

“And drop in at my ivory tower here some time,” Dennis Dennis said. “I’ll whip up a poem or something.”

Malone said a yes and a thank you to both of them, and went on to the little blue-and-gold reception room. The breathtaking lovely who had already told him her name was Tamia Tabet, and whose telephone number he had already obtained, smiled at him warmly, from behind her gilt-and-ivory desk. Malone made a mental note to do much, much more research about the whole Delora Deanne organization, and soon.

“Well, Mr. Malone,” said Myrdell Harris’ shrill voice. “What’s going to happen now?”

He turned to look at her, wondering again how that voice, and that misty, dreamy beauty ever got together. “Sorry, I’m not a soothsayer,” he said amiably.

“Come now, Mr. Malone, I know all about you.” Again she favored him with that vague, lovely smile. But there was nothing vague about the way she said, “Who is going to be murdered? Or, has she been?”

Chapter Three

“Come in quick, Malone, and lock the door,” Helene Justus said.

The little lawyer obeyed and stood looking at her dejectedly. For once, even looking at Helene didn’t raise his spirits. Not more than a little, anyway. Delora Deanne might have his secret dreams, but it was Helene who had a very special place in his secret heart.

Worries or no worries, he looked admiringly at her smooth, pale hair, nearer the color of pure cornsilk than even Delora Deanne’s, at her caramel-colored fur worn carelessly over her shoulders more perfectly than even Delora Deanne could ever wear anything, at her long, slim legs, more beautiful than anyone’s, anywhere.

But the very sight of her smooth perfection only deepened his gloom. He walked over to the filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer marked Confidential.

“No, thanks, Malone,” Helene said. “It’s too early in the morning.” She looked at him closely. “What’s the matter?”

Malone helped himself generously to the cheap gin, shut the file drawer, growled, “My grandmother died,” and sat down behind his desk.

“I know,” she said unsympathetically. “Your grandmother died in 1886, and this is no time for cheap vaudeville jokes, Malone. I need your help.” She lit a cigarette, frowned, and said, “It’s Jake.”

“I know,” Malone said, as reassuringly as he could. “But look. Remember Rome wasn’t burned down in a night. Building a TV production company takes time.”

“I’m not so sure about Rome,” Helene told him, “but I know all about TV production companies taking time. I know something else, too. They take money. Jake has a beautiful office, but the rent is due on it.”

Malone caught himself on the verge of remarking that two could play at that game. “What can I do?”

“You can lend him some money,” Helene said calmly.

The little lawyer looked at her as though she’d been suddenly taken with a form of insanity. He opened his mouth.

“Shut up and let me talk,” she told him. “There isn’t much time. I told Jake I’d meet him here for lunch. But I got here early, and I’m going out through your back door in one minute. When he gets here, you’re going to lend him the money. A thousand ought to see him through.” She was fumbling through her tan alligator purse. “Tell him you won it. Tell him a client paid you. Tell him anything. But do it.” She shoved ten hundred-dollar bills into his limp hand.

“But—” he began, and stopped. He would do anything in the world for her, and she knew it.

“You said yourself it was just a matter of time.”

Malone hadn’t said anything of the kind, but he refrained from mentioning it.

“He’ll get a show pulled together and sold. And then he’ll pay you back and you’ll pay me back, and he’ll be a highly successful TV producer, and everything will be rosy.”

Malone thought about the Delora Deannes that added up to one composite, and about one of them being missing, and winced inwardly. Still, there would be other possibilities for Jake. All he needed was a start. And Jake would never take the money from Helene herself.

As though she’d been reading his thoughts, she said, “Anyway, I expect to be an ex-heiress any day now. Pa’s courting a red-haired widow he met in Palm Springs.”

On the other hand, there was the chance that Jake might find out about the transaction. Malone shuddered. Then Helene smiled at him, and he would have promised her a round-trip rocket trip to the moon if she’d asked.

Anyway, he told himself after she had gone, he’d as good as committed himself. He stared indignantly at the money and finally stuffed it away in his wallet.

Maggie O’Leary, his black-haired, blue-eyed secretary, came into the office. “Malone—”

“Please,” Malone said wearily. He raised a feebly protesting hand. “I know all about everything. The office rent. The bank. The bill from Saks.” He drew a long breath. “I have a new client. A very rich client. Less than an hour ago she said she was putting a check in the mail.” Though, he thought unhappily, she hadn’t mentioned the amount it would be for.

“Malone—” she began again.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” he told her valiantly.

“It’s something else,” she said. “Malone, I want you to meet my brother Luke.”

“I’ve met your brother Luke,” Malone said. “Charming guy.”

Maggie drew a long, patient breath. “He’s inventing a camera.”

“Nice of him,” Malone said. “Might come in handy for photographers. Now go away, I want to think.”

She said, “And von Flanagan called. Three times.”

The little lawyer stiffened. A call from his long-time bosom friend and bitter opponent, of the Homicide Division, just might be ominous right now.

“He said it was important,” Maggie added.

Yes, very possibly ominous. Had the—the rest of Eva Lou Strauss’s body been found, had the matter of the hands in the gloves been found out already? Hardly probable, Malone tried to reassure himself. It couldn’t have happened that fast. Von Flanagan did move, and eventually in the right direction, but ponderously. That was supposed to be a cheering thought, but somehow it didn’t seem to do much for him.

He considered calling von Flanagan back. He considered not calling von Flanagan back. He put one hand on the telephone, but left it there. One good way of staying out of trouble was not calling anyone back, especially von Flanagan. And then again—

Jake’s arrival made the happier decision for him. If there was trouble, he’d rather hear about it after lunch.

The tall red-haired ex-newspaperman, ex-press agent, ex-night club owner and possibly ex-television producer if something didn’t turn up, looked tired and worried. He sank into a chair and managed what was a passing imitation of a smile.

Maggie brightened visibly. “Mr. Justus!” she exclaimed happily. “I want you to meet my brother Luke.”

Jake blinked and looked a little vaguely around the room.

“He’s not here,” Maggie said hastily. “But I want you to meet him. He’s inventing a camera with a lot of eyes.”

“Later,” Malone said in a firm voice. “We’ll get to your brother Luke later. Right now, we both want to think.”

She sniffed and flounced out, closing the door hard.

Jake sighed deeply. “Mr. Jake Justus is a television producer,” he said nastily. “Mr. Jake Justus is a big shot. Everybody wants to meet Mr. Justus. Everybody has a relative who wants to meet Mr. Justus. Mr. Justus has a lovely office in the Wrigley Building with his name on the door. In gold letters yet. Mr. Justus has a telephone answering service that says Mr. Justus will call you back, only Mr. Justus never does. And pretty soon Mr. Justus won’t have the lovely office with his name on the door—”

“Stop it,” Malone said. He walked over to the filing cabinet and came back with the bottle from the Confidential drawer and two glasses. As Jake gratefully downed his drink, he added, “You know yourself it’s just a matter of time.”

“Time,” Jake said in a bitter voice, “is the thing I don’t have the money to pay for.”

Malone cleared his throat. “How about a little loan to tide you over—” He reached for his wallet.

Jake looked suspiciously at Malone, and even more suspiciously at the gin.

“I am not,” Malone said indignantly. “Nor out of my mind.” He took out the hundred-dollar bills. “I know I’ll get it back. Just a matter of time. If this will tide you over—”

“Malone,” Jake said, fingering the bills. “You didn’t win this much at poker.”

“I could have,” Malone said. “And have, too, in my time. But as it happens, a client paid a big bill.” Jake still looked a little dubious, and he added quickly, “A long overdue bill. Don’t think you ever knew about the case.”

“Well—” Jake said. He still looked dubious.

“Just consider it a little investment,” Malone told him, “in the Justus Television Production Company. Probably turn out to be the best one I ever made.”

He shoved the bills farther across the table, Jake picked them up gingerly as though he were afraid they might vanish, and put them away.

“And absolutely no need to tell Helene about this,” Malone added.

“Definitely no need,” Jake said. He poured himself another drink, said, “Thanks, Malone,” and lit a cigarette. “Now about this morning—?”

Malone was silent for a moment. Sooner or later Jake was going to have to be told about the composite. But not just yet. And as far as what he preferred to call the Other Thing—that he shoved firmly into the back of his mind. Right now he’d rather pretend it didn’t exist at all.

“I met Mrs. Swackhammer,” he began slowly. “A very interesting woman—”

“Swackhammer,” Jake said, frowning. “Sounds familiar.”

“Funny. It does to me too,” Malone said. “But anyway. She’s the owner and the boss and the brains of Delora Deanne.”

He was still trying to think what to say next when Helene made her second appearance. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were faintly pink, and there were tiny glistens of snow on the caramel-colored fur. She’s done a nice, quick job, Malone reflected admiringly, of running around the block after she’d seen Jake enter the building, to collect that faint glow and the snowflakes.

She kissed Jake enthusiastically and said, “Well! Am I in time to hear all about Delora Deanne?”

Malone repressed a slight shudder and said, “You are.”

She glanced at the bottle on the desk and said, “A fine idea, but let’s adjourn to Joe the Angel’s, where the glasses are cleaner.”

Instead of indignantly defending his housekeeping, Malone gave her a feeble smile and said, “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Got a very important telephone call to make first.”

At the door Helene paused and said, “Malone, did you know that Maggie’s brother—”

“I do,” Malone said. “He’s inventing eyes like a camera. Or something. Later.” He waved them toward the door.

The question that had suddenly come into his mind might not mean a thing, and then again, it might. Anyway, it wasn’t going to do any harm to find out. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of Rico di Angelo’s strictly high-class undertaking parlor on North Avenue.

He was still wondering just how to phrase the question when Rico came to the phone. “Listen,” he said at last, after spending as much time as he could on idle pleasantries, “I want to know something about your business. Can you cut off a person’s hands? A live person, that is. And then embalm them?”

“I say no,” Rico said, a little coldly.

“You mean it can’t be done?”

“I mean I don’t cut off anybody’s hands, Malone.”

“You don’t understand,” Malone said desperately. “It’s a hypothetical question. I mean, is it possible for something like that to be done?” He heard only silence, and drew a long slow breath. “Look, Rico. Suppose somebody has somebody’s hands. Never mind what’s happened to the rest of the somebody. Could this somebody take this somebody’s hands and take them to somebody—not you—and have them—?”

“Malone,” Rico interrupted. His voice was very gentle and almost pleading. “I am your good friend. My cousin Joe the Angel, he is your best friend. You go home. Drink coffee. Lie down. You feel better. Malone, go home.” He hung up.

The little lawyer sighed, replaced the receiver and struggled into his overcoat. He’d make another try at getting the information as soon as he felt a little stronger.

He was halfway to the door when the telephone rang. For a minute he hesitated, finally gave in and answered it. Rico was calling back. But this time his voice was indignant, almost angry.

“Malone,” Rico said. “I just think it all over fast. I am your good friend, yes. My cousin Joe the Angel is your best friend, yes. But Malone, I will not do it. Not even for you. Whatever it is, I will—not—do—it.” And he hung up for the second time.

Buy My Kingdom for a Hearse Now!

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, Rice’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.

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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 © 1957 by Craig Rice

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-5174-3

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Table of Contents

Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Preview: My Kingdom for a Hearse

About the Author

Copyright