The Name Is Malone

Craig Rice

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

THE MURDER OF MR. MALONE

“I’m still fogged down,” the friendly stranger said dolefully.

“I feel the same way,” John J. Malone said, nodding sympathetically, before he realized that the airport weather had been under discussion.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have been happy to be fogged down, or out, or even off the track in such pleasant surroundings as Mike Lyman’s Flight Deck cocktail lounge, and in such agreeable surroundings as the stranger’s, who was even then signaling the bartender.

But the fact remained that he had to be home in Chicago by morning to collect a fee—not only because he needed the money in a hurry, but because he had an uncomfortable feeling that something, possibly lethal, might happen to his client before the fee was paid.

“Funny thing, that Cable case,” the friendly stranger said, glancing at his newspaper.

Malone winced, and hoped no one had noticed.

“These old dames that leave screwy wills! They’re just asking for trouble. You been following the case?”

“No,” Malone lied.

The friendly stranger signaled for another double Manhattan and said, “Inquest must have been lively. You read about it?”

“No,” Malone lied again.

“‘All I possess I leave to the daughter of my beloved friend—’” The stranger snorted in derision. “What d’ya think? Was the old babe murdered?”

“I think she’s dead,” Malone said truthfully.

The friendly stranger slapped him on the back and said, “You’re a card, you are!” Then he glanced through the semi-darkness of the Flight Deck in the general direction of the windows and said, “Wonder how our flights are doing. You wanna check, this time?”

“Glad to,” Malone said, seizing the opportunity to escape for a few minutes and compose himself.

“Wunnerful,” the stranger said. “Take my ticket.” He handed it to Malone and added, “Gotta be in San Francisco fast.”

The little lawyer hurried down the stairs and walked through the damply cold mist to the TWA offices, thinking of what he would say to his client, Ed Cable, in the morning.

The pleasant-faced girl at the TWA counter checked both flights, and said, “Both of these will be leaving any minute now.”

Malone said, “Thank you, beautiful.” He’d been hearing that same phrase since four in the afternoon. With a slower step he went back to the Flight Deck where the friendly stranger was discussing football with another friendly stranger who, as Malone approached, said, “Have a good trip, pal,” and went away.

“Nices’ people in’s town,” the stranger said. “Never saw guy before, comes over passes time o’ day, buys me drink.” He downed the last of it, coughed and said, “How’s flights?”

Malone deposited the ticket envelopes on the bar and said gloomily, “Not for hours.”

The loudspeaker promptly made a liar of him by announcing, “Flight One-fifty-four is now boarding at gate three. Passengers for Flight One-fifty-four now boarding at gate three.”

The friendly stranger looked at his ticket and said, “That’s me.” He aimed himself at the door, apparently walking with three left feet. Before Malone could rise, a young man seated near the door bounded up to offer assistance, only to be intercepted by a small, determined-looking dark-haired girl wearing a fire-engine red hat. Between them, the friendly stranger was steered toward the door.

Malone stared moodily into his empty glass. The stranger’s casual remark had stirred up something he wanted to forget temporarily. He had nothing to tell his client in the morning except that his aunt, Eva Cable, was dead from natural causes, and that the will appeared to be genuine.

This was according to the doctor who had attended her for years. Perhaps Ed Cable would even refuse to pay his fee.

Besides, there was that definite hunch that something was very wrong. Four days’ hard work had failed to uncover even a hint as to what it might be, but it had stayed with him.

On a sudden impulse, he hurried back to the TWA counter. Would it be possible for him to take a later flight? Not a lot later, but a little later? He’d suddenly remembered some very important business in Hollywood.

The pretty girl smiled and said, “I think I can arrange it.” She did some fast paper work, handed him back his envelope, and said, “You’re on Flight Eleven, leaving at four-ten this morning. Be sure to get back.”

“If only to see you smile again, Colleen,” Malone promised.

Pushing his way through the crowd toward the cab stand, he caught a glimpse of the red-hatted girl, and scowled. What would Maggie, his secretary, be doing here? In a moment of rash generosity, he’d given her a week’s vacation in Hollywood, and she would be out enjoying it. But there was no time to stop and find out, and knowing Maggie, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. He had enough worries already.

The cab drove through the now rapidly lifting fog, and deposited the little lawyer in front of one of the small apartment buildings that fringe Hollywood and Vine. “You might as well wait,” Malone told the driver. He went through the cheaply ornate lobby and pushed a bell marked FAULKNER.

The girl who opened the door was small and perfect. Her almost red hair curled softly to her shoulders, her bangs curled softly on her forehead. Her long-lashed gray eyes lighted as she recognized Malone.

“You’ve decided to stay!” she exclaimed, hurling a smile at him as she ushered him in. “I’m so glad. And you haven’t met my brother Eric.” She indicated a blond young man who was unfolding six feet of length from the sofa. “He came here when he heard about the trouble I’m in.”

“If you call inheriting two million dollars trouble,” Malone said. He nodded to the young man.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Malone,” the young man said, and let it go at that.

“You’ve thought of something new?” Mici Faulkner asked anxiously.

Malone said, “I came here to ask you the same question.”

“Mr. Rufus Cable was here,” Mici said. She frowned. “But it was only about the funeral arrangements. He was very fond of his aunt. He couldn’t stay for it because he was called back on business.”

Malone frowned, too. Rufus Cable.… But he had been thousands of miles away at the time of Eva Cable’s death—which had been pronounced natural anyway.

A quarter hour of talking in what always seemed to be circles left them still spinning and getting nowhere. Mici’s mother and Eva Cable, then Eva Gay, had been close friends in their musical comedy days. Eva had married a fortune, had been widowed, and eventually had died, leaving Mici a decidedly astonished heiress. Of her two nephews, Ed Cable had engaged Malone to investigate the will and the cause of death. Rufus Cable hadn’t cared.

But the feeling that something was wrong was even stronger now.

He gave up at last and said a reluctant farewell at the door.

“You’ll come back, I hope,” Mici said. “Especially if I need you to defend me.”

Malone scowled an unspoken question.

“If they should have an inquest and decide Mrs. Cable didn’t die naturally,” Eric said, “they’ll accuse Mici of her murder.”

The little lawyer brooded over that all the way to the airport.

Halfway across the lobby he came to a momentary dead stop, then started again at a faster pace. Was the tall, gray-haired man just leaving the cigar counter, Ed Cable? And if so, what was he doing here? Malone shoved frantically through the crowd. This would be a stroke of luck; he could wind up the whole business and collect his fee right now.

At the moment that he saw the gray-haired man disappear through the doors of the ramp, Malone heard the loudspeaker call Flight Eleven. He headed for the ramp. There was no sign of the gray-haired man. Probably on his plane by now, Malone decided, and he hoped it also was Flight Eleven. He reached the gate just in time, getting an indignant look from the attendant as he passed through. There was no sign of Ed Cable or any other gray-haired man on board. Well, it was too late to get off now. Malone settled down, the stewardess sniffed thoughtfully at his breath and promptly brought him a pillow.

In spite of his weariness, the pillow and the pleasant lullaby of the plane’s motors, the little lawyer stayed awake, brooding. What would Ed Cable have been doing in Los Angeles, if it had been Ed Cable? Aunt Eva’s funeral.… But that was tomorrow—Why hadn’t he stayed?

There was something infernally wrong with the whole situation, in spite of the verdict at the inquest, and the signature on the will being pronounced genuine by Clark Sellers himself. There was absolutely nothing to indicate anything wrong. But Malone knew in his heart that there was.

Perhaps, he told himself, his feeling was due to his anxiety to collect that fee, and Ed Cable at the airport had been an illusion caused by the same reason. It was a consoling thought, and he began to doze, finally falling asleep just in time to be gently shaken by the stewardess.

“We’re coming into San Francisco, Mr. McNabb.”

Malone blinked at her. Poor girl, he thought, she must be as tired as he felt. Or maybe this was her first flight. He looked at his watch. Ten to six. No wonder she was tired. It was a terrible time to be anywhere.

He stumbled half-awake, into something between a mist and a drizzle. “Mizzle” would be the name for it, he decided. Objects were strange and unfamiliar in a light that threatened to turn a gloomy gray any minute. Somehow he found his way to the airport office.

Maggie rushed at him. “We can’t talk here,” she said in a fast whisper. “I’ve got a cab waiting outside.” She hurried him through the door and into the cab before he could catch a second breath. “Give me your checks,” she said. “I’ll see to your luggage.”

Malone obediently handed her his ticket envelope and she vanished.

The little lawyer sat scowling. Had the Chicago airport been moved during his six day absence? And what was Maggie doing here?

She came back with a porter bearing a handsome but unfamiliar grosgrain leather suitcase, and said, “Mark Hopkins Hotel.”

Malone said indignantly, “Would you mind telling me exactly what you’re doing with my life?”

“Saving it,” Maggie said calmly. “And until we can talk in private, you do whatever I tell you.”

She showed him a newspaper and pointed to a headline.

JOHN J. MALONE, CHICAGO ATTORNEY

FOUND MURDERED ON PLANE

Malone stared at it for approximately sixty seconds, and finally said, “But I never felt better in my life.”

“Malone,” Maggie told him, “you’re in a fog.”

He glanced through the window of the cab. “You’d compare Niagara Falls to a leaky faucet,” he complained bitterly.

“A mental fog,” she said firmly. “And I suspect you’ve been drinking.”

“How can I be drinking when I’ve just been murdered?” Malone growled.

He tried to read the story in the semi-darkness, and finally gave up.

The cab stopped in front of the hotel. Maggie said, fast, “Go in and register as J. J. McNabb from Los Angeles. I’ll see you in five minutes. Questions later,” she added as Malone opened his mouth to protest.

A bellhop grabbed the suitcase and Malone followed him obediently to the desk. He suddenly became conscious that he’d been sleeping in his suit and that his necktie was under his left ear.

“Rough flight,” he apologized to the room clerk. He almost added, “I was murdered en route,” and immediately thought better of it.

Cold water on his face, a comb through his hair, and a noble try at straightening his necktie, made a slight improvement in both his appearance and his state of mind. He sat down on the edge of the bed to read the newspaper.

The body of a man tentatively identified as John J. Malone, well-known Chicago criminal lawyer, had been found on a nonstop plane bound for Chicago. The stewardess had believed her passenger “—he seemed a trifle intoxicated when he boarded the plane—” to be asleep. Later she became alarmed at his appearance and called the co-pilot, who pronounced him dead. An unscheduled landing had been made at Tandem, Arizona, where Bert Gallegos, sheriff of Tandem County, had made the tentative identification by means of the dead man’s flight receipt and the contents of his brief case, there being no identification on his person.…

Malone looked up as Maggie walked in. “I’ve been murdered, and it only makes page two.” He scowled at her. “How did you get into this, and why?”

“I don’t want you to be murdered twice, just when I’ve gotten my first vacation in six years,” she told him. “Besides, I’d be out of a job.”

“But how—”

“I came to the airport to see you off, and naturally looked for you in the bar. The man you’d been talking with started to leave for his plane just as I arrived, and he—” She hesitated.

“Say he was staggering a little,” Malone told her. “Never speak ill of the dead.”

Maggie went on, “Naturally, I lent a hand as far as the gate, where his ticket was checked and I heard him called Mr. Malone. By the time I got back, I saw you going toward the cab stand. So I went to the ticket counter, pointed to you, and asked if you’d canceled your flight. The girl—pretty little thing—said no, you were booked on a later flight for San Francisco. Your plane was full, but there was a seat on the plane just leaving, so I took it.”

Malone nobly refrained from commenting on what curiosity had done to a certain cat.

“I also discovered,” she added, “that you were traveling under the name of McNabb.”

The little lawyer said, “I can see just how it was,” and went on to tell her what had happened. “And because our luggage was already checked, I got his and he got mine. I hope we wear the same size shirts.” He yawned, reached for the telephone, and said, “I’ve got to call the police.”

Maggie said, “No!”

“One always calls the police when there’s been a murder. Especially, my murder.”

She sighed. “Why do you think I rushed you over here from the airport and told you to register as McNabb? You’re the intended victim.”

Malone blinked, thought it over, and said nothing.

“Someone tried to murder you. The murderer may have found out his mistake by now. So you stay right here and don’t stir out of this room. I’ll find out what’s going on and tell you. You’ve got to trust me.”

“With my life,” Malone said gallantly, “or at least, my murder.”

“And meantime,” she went on, “you take off your clothes and get into bed and get some sleep. You look like something turned up by an amateur archeologist.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Malone said meekly.

She paused at the door and looked at him sternly. “Remember now. Stay here.”

Left alone, Malone obeyed to the extent of taking off his shoes and loosening his tie. Then he curled up on the bed, and two little sandmen came out from the woodwork and closed his eyes. They left him a pleasant dream in which Mici Faulkner, her brother Eric, and both Ed and Rufus Cable were sliding down the banister of a spiral staircase which amazingly turned into a rainbow with a pot of gold at the end. The race was turning into a dead heat but no winners had come in, when he was rudely wakened by the phone jangling as though it had taken a personal dislike to him.

For just a moment he hesitated. Still, it might be Maggie. He picked up the receiver and said, “Good afternoon.”

“Mr. McNabb?” the feminine voice sounded definitely secretarial. But also as though its owner was blonde, delightful and worth investigating.

“Yes,” Malone said.

“I’m sorry. It didn’t sound like you.”

“A touch of laryngitis,” Malone said bravely.

“We’ve been trying to reach you, and finally we started on the hotels.” She sounded faintly reproachful. “Mr. Cable has been trying to reach you from Chicago. About that will case.”

“Oh,” Malone said, wishing he’d had six more hours of sleep. “Oh, that.”

“I took the liberty of telling him where to call you. And a Mr. Linberry has been calling you; he says it’s about the same thing. I gave him your number, too.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Malone said, wondering if her looks matched her voice, and how he could meet her in person.

He hung up, reached for a cigar and sat wriggling his toes.

“You are J. J. McNabb,” he reminded himself sternly, “And, somehow, you are involved in the Cable will case.” He wondered if it was Ed or Rufus who had been calling from Chicago. He looked thoughtfully at the suitcase. It was locked, but that was no problem to Malone. Two minutes later he had learned that J. J. McNabb was a licensed private detective with offices in Los Angeles and San Francisco. He also learned that J. J. McNabb was carrying an expensive-looking but gaudy wardrobe, and ten thousand dollars in cash money.

Malone was still arguing with his conscience about abandoning the legal profession and finding out just how long he could live in Tahiti on ten thousand dollars, when the phone rang again. Chicago was calling. Mr. Rufus Cable.

“What happened?” Rufus Cable demanded, without preliminaries.

Malone wished he knew.

“I can’t tell you right now,” he hedged.

“I understand,” Rufus Cable said. “But don’t let anything go wrong now. Linberry will call you. You have the money. Make the deal with him. Phone me what time to meet you at the Chicago airport.”

Malone said yes to everything.

“By the way,” Rufus Cable said, “how will I recognize you?”

The little lawyer smothered a sigh of relief. Rufus Cable and J. J. McNabb had never met. He glanced toward the open suitcase. “I’ll be wearing”—he winced—“a yellow shirt, and a red-and-green checkered vest.”

He had a definite feeling as he hung up that Rufus Cable was wincing at the other end of the line.

Well, that settled it. J. J. Malone was murdered, and he was J. J. McNabb for at least the next twenty-four hours. He rummaged through the suitcase and found himself wondering if J. J. McNabb fancied himself as a prospective rodeo star, or if he just liked cowboy boots. Still, the clothes looked as though they would fit.

A side-pocket of the suitcase held a passport in its folder. Malone looked through it thoughtfully. Height, weight and general coloring were about the same. The little lawyer pulled himself to his feet, walked to the dresser, compared his image with the passport picture, and shuddered. They were equally terrible, he thought. And on top of everything else, J. J. McNabb wore sideburns.

Well, it was too late to turn back now. He reached for the telephone and called room service.

“Send up six fried eggs, a double order of ham, a double order of hot-cakes, two pots of coffee, a pint of gin, the best barber available, and all the newspapers you can find.”

He had finished the food and was half way through the pint of gin when the barber and the newspapers arrived simultaneously. The barber was short, plump, friendly and deeply apologetic for the delay. Malone pointed to the sideburns in the passport picture and said, “Put ’em back. Fast as in speed, and fast as in staying put.”

The barber surveyed Malone and the picture, opened his kit, and said, “Easy. Just a little trim off the back will give me the hair.”

Malone settled back and tried to relax, opening the newspapers. His murder, he noticed with satisfaction, had been moved to page one.

“That Mr. Malone, he was a fine guy,” the barber said. “I knew him very well. Now lean back, please, and close your eyes. The glue only smells bad for a minute.”

Malone obeyed. “How well did you know him?”

“Oh, very well, Mr. McNabb, very well. I always shaved him when he was in San Francisco.”

Malone, who had never been in San Francisco before in his life, said, “That’s very interesting.”

“A prince of good fellows,” the barber went on. “Only I know it for a fact that all his thinking was done for him by his secretary.” He added, “And he was always cockeyed.”

“Too bad,” Malone said. He reached for the rest of the gin, downed it, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, J. J. McNabb, sideburns and all, stared at him from the mirror.

“And they’ll stay,” the barber said proudly, “until time wears them off. A long time.”

After the barber had gone, Malone stuffed his own clothes in the suitcase with fine disregard for wrinkles, and donned the gaudy outfit. Luckily, he thought, he and McNabb were nearly the same size. He looked in the mirror and decided bright colors became him. For a moment he considered calling the blonde-voiced secretary and making a date, then decided that would be pushing his luck too far.

However, he did call the desk and instruct them to send his bill immediately to Mr. McNabb’s office and collect it. One more glance in the mirror, and on a sudden impulse he added, “And I want to send a wire. To Rico di Angelo’s Undertaking Parlor, West North Avenue, Chicago.

“The message? Immediately arrange transportation John J. Malone’s body from Tandem, Arizona, and arrange for your finest funeral.” He paused a moment and added, “All expenses will be paid by Mr. Rufus Cable. Signed, J. J. McNabb. And now,” he said, “get me an immediate plane reservation to Chicago.”

Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to miss his own funeral. While he waited, he picked up the newspaper to read further details from Tandem.

Miss Mary Margaret Gogarty, secretary, had been arrested in Tandem, for the murder of John J. Malone, her employer.

Malone stared at the paper for just thirty seconds, then he said into the phone, “Never mind that Chicago reservation. Get me a plane to Tandem, Arizona, and get it fast.”

He was halfway to the door when the phone rang. He swore at it, finally turned back to answer it. A slightly British voice announced that it belonged to Mr. Linberry.

“I got your wire to bring It to Chicago,” the voice said. “Luckily I called your office before I left and found out you were here. Why the change in plans?”

“A whim,” Malone said.

The voice laughed. “Have you got the money?”

“Yes,” Malone said.

“I’ve got It. Where shall we meet?”

“At the airport, as fast as you can make it,” Malone told him. “I’m leaving immediately for—” He caught himself. “For the East.”

On his way to the airport, he wondered if the mysterious Mr. Linberry knew McNabb by sight. That was a chance that had to be taken.

If he had, and if he noticed any slight difference in appearance, Linberry, a tall, thin, seedy-looking individual, gave no sign. He simply said, “The price ought to go up. I had to give that crooked undertaker four thousand.”

“Ten thousand was agreed on,” Malone said firmly, wondering what he was buying.

Linberry shrugged as though to say he’d made a good try anyway. Malone opened the suitcase, took out the envelope of money and handed it over. Linberry grinned and said, “All right. It’s in the bag.” He laughed at what he evidently considered a joke and handed a small traveling case to Malone.

The little lawyer started to open it gingerly, and was promptly stopped.

“Don’t open it here. And you don’t need to worry.” He added, “Aunt Eva’s stomach is in there, all right.”

Malone managed to repress both surprise and a shudder.

Linberry nodded toward the newspapers. “Lucky for you this other guy got the poison,” he said. “Better watch your step.”

This called for repressing more surprise. “Maybe it was intended for the other guy,” Malone said with a hollow laugh.

The answering laugh was just as hollow. “You know better than that. Well, hope your luck holds out.”

Linberry disappeared into the crowd.

Malone sorted that out in his mind as he headed for the plane. One thing was sure. J. J. McNabb had been the intended victim, and hence still was. He, Malone, had taken on the appearance of J. J. McNabb. And it was too late to change back now.

The Tandem County courthouse and jail was a dreary one-story building that looked as if it had been there for a long time. Malone stood for a minute staring at it, wondering just how he was going to get Maggie’s immediate release. The newspapers had given him a few more details. The victim had been given a terrific overdose of chloral hydrate, according to the Tandem county coroner. This had evidently been administered shortly before the victim boarded his plane at Los Angeles.

There followed a few details about John J. Malone, most of them inaccurate and all of them, the little lawyer reflected, underplayed.

But there was nothing to suggest how he was going to get Maggie out of this mess. He considered introducing himself under his real identity, and decided that convincing a county sheriff that he, though alive and well, was the murdered man, would be like talking a frosty-eyed bank teller in a strange town into cashing a check. At last he decided it was time to ad lib, and strode on into the building.

Before he reached the office of Bert Gallegos, sheriff of Tandem County, he heard voices, one raised in indignation, one in weary protest. As he paused at the door, he observed that the indignant voice came from Maggie, who was explaining in detail just how this or any other sheriff’s department should be run. And that the other voice—more apologetic than protesting, he realized—came from a gray-mustached, unhappy-looking man with a star pinned on his shirt. But it was the third person in the room who held his attention. Mici Faulkner.

“Hello, Mr. McNabb,” Maggie said, with perfect aplomb. She nodded toward Mici. “She read about this—difficulty—in the papers, and flew over here right away.”

Mici said quickly, “I explained to Mr. Gallegos that Miss Gogarty had been with my brother and me every minute until we read about poor Mr. Malone being murdered, and then took her to the airport.”

Malone nodded, his head whirling. Had Maggie somehow managed to contact Mici and induce her to play alibi, or had it been Mici’s own idea? But everyone’s presence seemed to be accounted for except his own, as far as Sheriff Gallegos was concerned. He began casting around in his mind for a good story.

The sheriff had finally made up his mind to speak. “You know this lady?” His voice seemed to add, “If you do, take her away.”

Malone nodded. “I’m J. J. McNabb of San Francisco, and—”

“Know who you are,” the sheriff said. He jerked his head toward Maggie. “Said you might get here. Guess she can go.”

“I should rather think so,” Maggie said. “And of all the silly mistakes—”

The little lawyer decided to interrupt before she was put back in jail, this time for disturbing the peace.

“Have a cigar?” he said.

“Thanks,” Sheriff Gallegos said, reaching out a hand. “Know this dead fella, Malone?” Before Malone could answer, he went on, “Don’t matter. Got identified anyway. Got poisoned in Los Angeles, died somewhere along the way, body landed here. None of our business.”

“Any idea where he did die?” Malone asked in a bored voice.

The sheriff bit the end off his cigar, shrugged and said, “Up in an airplane. Over California, Nevada or Arizona. Body already on the way to Chicago to get buried.”

“False arrest—” Maggie began.

“I’m sure it was just a mistake,” Malone said quickly and smoothly. “There won’t be any further trouble.”

“Been enough,” the sheriff said, reaching in his pocket for a kitchen match. “Thanks again for the cigar.” His tone of voice added “Good-bye and good riddance.”

Out on the sidewalk, Maggie said, “I’d barely gotten here—”

Simultaneously, Mici Faulkner said, “I thought perhaps I could help—”

In the next few moments Malone caught a few phrases, mainly “—the most stupid sheriff—” and “—caught first plane—”

“Save it,” Malone said. “It took a little doing to get here because there isn’t any regular plane service. But there’s a charter flight waiting at what Tandem calls an airport, to take us back to Las Vegas. From there, next stop Chicago. This is going to cost Mr. Cable money.” He didn’t add which Mr. Cable. “On the way, you can both do some explaining.” He ushered them into the car which had driven him from the airport and said to Maggie, “You talk first.”

“Of all the stupid—” She paused. “Never mind. Naturally I wanted you—I mean your body—I mean that body—to be identified as you, so the murderer wouldn’t try again before I found out who he was. So I came straight over here to make the identification and, incidentally, to find out everything I could.”

“What did you find out?”

She sniffed, and didn’t answer. “I said I’d last seen the deceased at the Los Angeles airport. Which was true. And because they’d decided the poison had been administered there—”

“They threw you in the can,” Malone said without sympathy.

He turned to Mici.

“I knew you hadn’t been murdered,” she said. There was faint bewilderment in her voice. “Because you’d been with Eric and me at the time.”

Malone said, “First time I ever heard of anyone giving an alibi for the victim but not the suspect. Go on.”

“And I just knew Maggie hadn’t done it. Anyway, I had to find out what had really happened, so I came right here and introduced myself.”

“Nice fast work,” Malone said admiringly. He waited till they had boarded the charter plane and taken off before he said, “And now you’re coming on to Chicago.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want you both present at my funeral,” Malone said. “It’s going to be a specially nice one. And you can keep Maggie company on the way, because I’m going to sleep.”

“We can have a nice long talk,” Maggie said in a voice that would have won the confidence of the Sphinx.

Malone yawned. “Mici, how well did you know McNabb?”

“Not well. You see—” She paused.

“Never mind. Tell Maggie.” He well knew his secretary’s genius for extracting information. “But I still wish I knew why Eva Gay left you all that money. Because it was the motive for my murder—and still is.”

Maggie and Mici said, “What?”

“You were right,” Malone said to Maggie, “about my being a prospective victim of homicide. I still am. Probably it will happen when we get to Chicago. And meantime, let me sleep.”

Somewhere over Iowa, Malone was wakened by Maggie sliding into the seat beside him.

“He’s Mr. Cable’s son, and he’s going to meet us in Chicago,” she whispered.

“That’s nice,” Malone said. “Now go away.” The stop-over in Las Vegas had been a strenuous and expensive one. The little lawyer felt what was left in his pocket and resolved to do any future gambling in friendly territory.

“Wake up!” she hissed at him. She dumped the bag recently purchased from Mr. Linberry unceremoniously on the floor, to make room for herself.

Malone jumped.

“Be careful of that,” he said, retrieving the bag as gingerly as though it might be expected to explode at any minute. Wide awake, now, he changed the subject fast. “You mean that J. J. McNabb was Cable’s son?”

“Of course not.” The tone of her voice added, “You stupid oaf.” She went on, “Eric is. But he uses the name Faulkner. And Mici didn’t know he was her brother—or Rufus Cable’s son—until a few weeks ago. And she wouldn’t have known it then—about Rufus Cable, I mean—except that she happened to learn it from J. J. McNabb.”

Malone sighed. “Start at the beginning.”

“Mici Faulkner is a very nice, very well brought up girl. Her mother was an actress and a great friend of Eva Cable. But Mici never saw Eva Cable in her life. Mici’s mother died when she was very young, and she was brought up by an aunt. When she grew up she became a model, and she hopes to be a Hollywood star someday. She—”

“Mici Faulkner’s life story is interesting, but I’ve heard most of it,” Malone said. “Pick it up where the long lost brother appeared.”

Maggie sniffed indignantly. “Eric was a son by a former marriage—evidently to Rufus Cable. After his mother’s death, he was brought up by other relatives and Mici never saw him. She knew she had a half-brother somewhere, but that was all. Then he turned up in Hollywood—with proof of his identity—and introduced himself. Mici likes him.”

“I’m glad,” Malone said. He glanced at his watch. Chicago and its probable perils was not far away. And one of the perils was landing there close to broke. What was more, John J. Malone being dead, he couldn’t borrow from any of his usual sources.

“A week or so after Eric arrived,” Maggie went on, “Eva Cable died and left Mici everything she had in the world. Including jewelry.”

Malone sighed again, this time not so contentedly. “Eric had plenty to gain by that. Mici would undoubtedly split with him. But—that will was genuine. It was dated about three months ago. The previous one split the money between Ed and Rufus Cable, neither of whom needed it. The witnesses are sterling characters, both of whom swear to their signatures. According to every handwriting expert, Eva Cable’s signature is genuine. And what’s more, I examined the will myself. Furthermore, Aunt Eva died of a heart ailment from which she’d suffered for some time.”

This time, Maggie sighed. “But you’re engaged to find out if anything is wrong and on your way to report that nothing is, someone tries to murder you.” She glanced again at the bag. “Malone, what is in there?”

“Aunt Eva’s stomach,” Malone said.

She jumped, then stared at him with obvious disbelief.

“It really is,” he said.

He went on to tell her everything that had happened in San Francisco, including Linberry’s cryptic statement that McNabb had been the actual intended victim, and still was in danger.

“Now none of it makes sense,” Maggie said at last. “Unless somehow there was a—well, a switch of stomachs before the autopsy. But only Mici and Eric had anything to gain by her sudden death, and Mici swears neither of them went near her or even knew her. And I believe her.”

“So do I,” Malone said, “if only because the woman who had been Eva Cable’s companion for years swears the same thing.”

“Why did Eva Cable leave all her money to Mici Faulkner?” Maggie demanded. “Why are you carrying her stomach to Rufus Cable? Why was J. J. McNabb murdered?” She frowned. “There simply isn’t any motive.”

Malone stared at her. “Bless you,” he said at last. “I think that’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“That there isn’t any motive. I may have to fill in a few details, but that explains everything.”

“Malone,” Maggie said, “you can be maddening.” She frowned again. “But all this means you’re still in danger. What are we going to do about it?”

“Take a few simple precautions,” Malone told her. “First, after we get to Chicago—” He paused. “Did you say Eric was going to join us there?”

“Mici agreed with me it might be a good idea,” Maggie said, with an air of innocence which didn’t deceive Malone in the least. She added, “And we might need a bodyguard. So she phoned him from Las Vegas, and he’ll arrive in Chicago before we do.”

The stewardess came by and murmured, “Good morning. Fasten your safety belts, please.”

Malone pressed his nose against the window and saw, through the murky haze, a faintly yellow corona of lights. He hoped it would turn out to be Chicago, perils or no perils, and not Seattle, Washington or Nashville, Tennessee.

“Malone,” Maggie said urgently, “you need a bodyguard.”

“My body,” Malone said dreamily, “is already on its way to one of the finest wakes Chicago has known since its late-lamented fire. And you are going to be an honored guest.” He paused. “That is, if my body gets there alive. Of course, there are just a few things you could do to help—”

“If I’d been brought up differently,” Maggie said, “I’d say that—” She caught her breath. “All right, what do I do?”

“First, don’t let Eric know that I’m McNabb, and that McNabb is me. And make sure that Mici doesn’t tell him. Register at the Drake Hotel, and keep the two of them safe and out of mischief.”

Maggie said, scowling, “You said—safe?”

“They don’t know it, but they’re an important clue to my murder,” Malone told her. “Meantime, you take this.” He handed her the small case.

“Oh, no,” Maggie said weakly. “I—wouldn’t be caught dead with it.”

“I sincerely hope you won’t be,” the little lawyer said. “So be careful. Take it to Captain von Flanagan of the homicide bureau, and ask him to find out everything he can about the contents—and to do it within the next few hours. Tell him it was my dying wish.”

Maggie shuddered slightly and, against her better judgment, picked up the case.

“And when we land, just don’t recognize me, and make sure Mici doesn’t either.”

“But, Malone.… What are you going to do? And where are you going to be?”

“Duck, to the first question,” Malone said gloomily, “and to the second—I wish I knew. But you’ll hear from me.”

After Maggie had gone back to her own seat, Malone carefully pulled his coat collar up over the checkered shirt. The ten gallon hat presented a problem. He hated to abandon it, since it was the first and probably last he’d ever owned, but this was a time for prudence. He solved the problem by asking the stewardess if she had a small brother which, providentially, she had.

Through the window he could see that this was one of the Chicago early spring days that made solid citizens dream of holidays in Bermuda. He could also see a few scattered people waiting to meet incoming passengers. Eric was there, tall and husky-looking. But there was no sign of Rufus Cable.

Malone considered waiting on the plane until everyone was gone, then changed his mind and decided to try losing himself in what was an inconveniently small crowd. He reached the walk outside the airport without difficulty and was heading toward a taxi when he spotted the tall, thin form of Rufus Cable a few feet away.

But Rufus Cable was looking for two things. One, a red-and-green checkered vest and a yellow shirt. The other, a small traveling case. He moved through the crowd, not toward Malone, but toward Mici.

It was, Malone realized, no time to offer help. Maggie would manage somehow. He moved just close enough for a little cautious eavesdropping.

Rufus Cable said, “What are—I didn’t expect to see you here.” He added, “What a pleasant surprise!”

It was Mici who took over, and introduced Maggie.

“You should have wired that you were coming,” Rufus Cable said pleasantly. “Where are you staying?”

“The Drake,” Maggie said, and she took a firmer hold on the little bag she had.

Mr. Rufus Cable regretted that he couldn’t drive them into the Loop. It seemed he had to meet a plane from San Francisco.

That was too bad, everyone agreed, but they would all get together later. Oh, definitely.

Malone moved on. Again he reflected that there were several disadvantages to being the victim of a murder, the main one right now being a financial one. His appearance at the hotel where he’d lived for more than twenty years would cause a disturbance, to say the least. So would a visit to any of the acquaintances who would be good for a light touch. On the other hand, he felt that the victim of a murder deserved nothing but the best.

“Ambassador East,” he told the driver.

By the time J. J. McNabb, San Francisco, had been comfortably installed in his room, there was just enough cash on hand for one more cab ride. Still, he reflected, that would be all he would need.

The little lawyer gazed longingly at the bathtub and the bed. Sleep on a plane was better than no sleep at all, but not much better. “Later,” he promised himself. With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone.

The first call was to Rufus Cable’s office. Mr. Cable had not come in yet. “Tell him,” Malone said, “that Mr. McNabb called. Circumstances prevented my looking for him at the airport. He’ll understand what I mean. I’ll meet him at the Di Angelo Undertaking Parlor on West North Avenue—” He glanced at his watch. “At two this afternoon.”

The second call was to an old friend and client, one Charles Firman, who had worked his way up from a modest horse parlor to selling stock in imaginary mines. Charlie had not been surprised to hear of Malone’s murder; he was not surprised now to hear of Malone’s resurrection. He was even less surprised that Malone wanted a favor.

“For you,” he said warmly, “anything.”

Malone told him quickly what he wanted. All there was to know about the Eva Cable estate, and who had handled it before Eva Cable’s death. “And,” he finished, “by two this afternoon.”

“For me, kindergarten stuff,” Charlie Firman said confidently.

“I’ll call you,” Malone promised, and hung up.

Charlie Firman had an incredible ability for digging up information about people’s most private financial affairs.

Malone’s last call was to the Drake Hotel. No, Miss Mary Margaret Gogarty was not registered there. That worried him a little, until he remembered her stop at Captain von Flanagan’s office. Anyway, Maggie had demonstrated more than once in the past that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Malone gave the address of Rico di Angelo’s and said, “Tell her to be sure to be there at two o’clock, and to bring her friends with her.” He combed his hair, straightened his tie, and took a taxi to Rico di Angelo’s undertaking parlor.

Rico di Angelo shook hands with him twice, held him off at arm’s length to stare at him, then shook hands again.

“Ever since your body arrived, I have been expecting to hear from you. Tell me, Malone, is it for your life insurance?”

“You might call it that.” Malone said. “Insurance that I’ll stay alive, anyway.” He gave Rico a brief outline of what had happened. “And how is my body, anyway?”

“Beautiful,” Rico said, with professional pride. “Everything the best. And the flowers—” He motioned Malone to follow.

The softly lighted room was filled with flowers, tastefully arranged around an expensive coffin. Malone examined the cards thoughtfully. The names ranged from important political characters to West Side bookies. He was going to enjoy buying drinks for his friends when this ended.

“These just came,” Rico said. “These” were a delicate bouquet of daisies, with a card attached—BECAUSE DAISIES NEVER TELL. MAGGIE.

Malone grinned. “An old sweetheart,” he explained. He turned to Rico. “There’s a few other people we want here at two o’clock, and since I’m officially in my coffin, you’ll have to call them. Make it urgent.” He wrote down Rufus Cable, Edward Cable, and Captain von Flanagan. “And then,” he finished, “if you’ve got any money and someone we can send out for a quart of gin, let’s have lunch.”

Everyone was prompt. By two o’clock Captain von Flanagan was already there. Maggie arrived with Mici and Eric; the two Cables came in almost at her heels. Rico greeted everyone with sorrowful respect, expressing how upsetting murder always was.

“Mr. di Angelo, I don’t understand—” Rufus Cable began, in what was hardly a respectful voice.

Rico said softly. “This is hardly the time or place for—”

“I say it is. I don’t understand why you—”

Just then Captain von Flanagan, who had strolled near the coffin, said with a heartfelt sigh, “Looks lifelike, doesn’t he?” And in the next moment Maggie gasped and Mici screamed.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for murdering me?” Malone said in a hollow voice, sitting up in his coffin. “And by mistake, too!”

There was a minute of frozen silence. Then Eric screamed, “You told me it would just put him to sleep for a while; you told me it wasn’t dangerous!” and flung himself at Rufus Cable, just as Rufus Cable yanked out a small revolver and fired at Malone. The bullet smashed into a vase, von Flanagan dived at Eric, and Rico dived indiscriminately at everybody. In the ensuing melee, a basket of calla lilies was overturned and dumped gracefully over Malone’s chest.

Just as suddenly it was all over. Rufus Cable sat groggily on the floor, guarded by Rico. Von Flanagan, his face gray, had Eric’s arms pinned behind his back. Ed Cable closed his eyes and began swaying, and Maggie eased him into a chair. Mici stared at Malone, who brushed a lily from his vest and instinctively reached for a cigar.

“Do you know how much chloral hydrate it takes to kill a man?” Malone demanded.

Eric shook his head. “He told me—the contents of the bottle would just put him to sleep—until after he was taken off the plane. I had to do it because—” He stopped suddenly.

“Because you were already in it up to your neck,” Malone finished for him. He turned to Rico. “Is there an emergency exit to this thing?”

Rico helped him out of the coffin silently. Captain von Flanagan retrieved Rufus Cable’s revolver from the floor.

“If he’d hit me, I don’t know what you could have done,” Malone said. “Is there a penalty for killing an already murdered man?” He finally got the cigar lit.

“Malone—please!” Maggie said in exasperation.

“You told me the motive when you said there wasn’t any,” Malone told her. He smiled at Mici. “Too bad, my dear, that there isn’t any money. But at least you inherit the jewelry.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “Here’s all the information, Captain von Flanagan. Rufus Cable, managing all the late Eva Cable’s financial affairs over the past ten years, sunk everything in investments of his own. Eva Cable was old and ill, and not expected to live very long. With her estate left jointly to both the Cable brothers, Rufus Cable faced prison when the inevitable accounting came. So he roped Eric in.”

“He told me it wasn’t his fault—losing the money,” Eric said. “But he said there would be enough to make it worth my while—enough for Mici, and for me. Mici didn’t know anything about it.”

Malone nodded. “So—he visited Eva Cable and coaxed her into making a new will leaving everything to the daughter of her beloved old friend. It must have been easy for him. Soon after, Eva Cable died, of natural causes.”

Both Maggie and von Flanagan started to speak and stopped.

“But Cable had made the mistake of hiring a private detective to keep an eye on things. He kept too good an eye on things, found out the whole plot, and decided to blackmail Cable. So Cable arranged McNabb’s murder, using Eric as a dupe. But again something went wrong. McNabb, smelling danger, and knowing that I was flying to Chicago, fixed it to strike up acquaintance with me at the airport bar, and switch tickets with me. He probably figured that the danger would be waiting for him in San Francisco.”

“How do you know?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t,” Malone said. “I’m just guessing.” He added hastily, “But that was his fatal mistake. Eric spotted him at the bar while I was downstairs checking our flight time, bought him a drink and slipped the poison in it.”

“He told me it wasn’t poison,” Eric howled.

“Shut up,” Malone said pleasantly. “Don’t talk until you’re alone with your lawyer. That’s me.” He went on, “But McNabb had an important appointment with a—friend, in San Francisco. He wired him to meet him in Chicago instead and to bring ‘it’ with him.”

Again Maggie and Captain von Flanagan started to speak at once, and again Malone waved them to silence. “As a clincher for a nice permanent blackmail setup,” he said, “McNabb told Rufus Cable he had proof that Eva Cable was poisoned, and could buy the proof and deliver it to him to be destroyed. Rufus Cable knew he hadn’t poisoned her, but he wanted the proof anyway.”

Malone grinned at Captain von Flanagan. “What was in that bag, anyway?”

“A stomach,” Captain von Flanagan said, his face beginning to turn purple. “But not a trace of poison. And it wasn’t even a human stomach; it was a calf’s stomach. Damn it, Malone, I—”

“Ssh,” Malone said, “remember where you are.” He went on, “The only person whose plans went right was a guy named Linberry.” He wished now he’d made Linberry split with him. “Linberry, a smart con man, sold McNabb a pig in a poke—rather, a calf’s stomach in a traveling case. He’s probably on his way to Australia right now. McNabb was going to go on blackmailing Rufus Cable with what he thought he was buying from Linberry, and Rufus Cable thought he could get away with murdering McNabb.”

The little lawyer laughed. “Yes, all the plans went wrong, except mine. I did everything I set out to do.”

Ed Cable nodded. “I engaged you to find out if the will was valid and if Eva died a natural death. You did both, and very well. I’ll send you a check.”

“Might as well give it to me now,” Malone said casually, “and save a stamp.”

He turned to Mici, who was weeping on Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, my dear. Eric has the best defense lawyer in the world, starting now. And the jewelry is really magnificent. I’ve seen it.”

“The next time I see you off on a plane,” Maggie said grimly, “I’ll get there early.”

“The next time,” Malone said, “you’d better come along.”

Once more he surveyed the display of flowers. He put a rosebud in his lapel.

“And now,” he said happily, “let’s start calling all our friends and issuing invitations. All my life, I’ve wanted to go to my own wake!”

THE TEARS OF EVIL

It was, John J. Malone decided, a most satisfactory party. For one thing, George and Kathy Weston had invited only a few people to help them celebrate their crystal wedding anniversary; and, for another, none of the guests had yet expressed amazement over his personal taste in beverages. Straight gin with a beer chaser had never seemed an unusual combination to him, and it was a relief not to hear it referred to in incredulous tones by people who didn’t know what they were missing.

Malone bit the end off a cigar, lit it, and inhaled it deeply. Fifteen years married, he thought. A long time. And it couldn’t happen to two nicer people than George and Kathy.

He had stationed himself by the table on which the liquor had been set out, and now, as he glanced around the Westons’ luxurious living room, he discovered with some surprise that he was alone. Then he heard laughter from the direction of the kitchen: and now the question was, should he stay here and guard the liquor, or should he go out to the kitchen and join the others?

He had no choice, of course. He leaned his hip against the liquor table, sighed, and broke the seal on a fresh bottle of gin. To stand guard duty properly, a man needed strength.

The clear liquid had just reached the brim of his glass when Malone glanced up and saw George Weston coming toward him from the direction of the stairs. There was something about George’s handsome, flat-planed face that, somehow, made Malone forget his drink. He put the glass and cigar down slowly, while a strange tenseness stiffened his short body and tightened the muscles across his stomach. George was walking toward him as if every step was an effort, as if he were half drunk. But he was not drunk, Malone knew. George Weston was a teetotaler. And yet he was walking across his own living room almost as if he were lost in it.

When he was within a few feet of Malone, George stopped. His eyes came up to meet Malone’s.

“Malone,” he whispered. “Malone … for God’s sake …”

Malone pushed away from the table and stepped close to his friend. He’d seen men in shock, and in hysteria; he’d seen men in most of the ways a man can be—but he’d never seen anyone with the expression that George Weston wore now. The nearest thing to it had been the look on the face of a punch-drunk prize-fighter he had watched, an instant before the fighter went down from a knockout punch.

“Damn it, George,” he said sharply. “What’s wrong with you?” He put both hands on George’s shoulders and shook him. “What’s wrong?”

George wet his lips. “It’s Kathy,” he said. “She’s—” He looked at Malone, and his lips moved, but there was no sound.

Malone shook him again. “She’s what? Speak up, George!”

“She’s … dead.”

The floor beneath Malone’s feet seemed to tilt, and for an instant George Weston’s face blurred out of focus. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and the word dead sickened through him.…

George’s eyes moved slowly toward the stairs and back again.

“She’s upstairs,” he said. “Malone, she’s …”

Malone’s fingers came up to tighten around George’s arm. “Come on,” he said. He tugged George around and headed him toward the stairs.

“Where is she?” Malone asked.

“In her bedroom. She isn’t just dead, Malone. She’s—she’s been murdered.”

“George, you’re out of your mind!”

George shook his head. They started up the stairs. “No,” George said. “Somebody’s killed her. Somebody’s killed my wife.”

Malone caught his lower lip in his teeth, and said nothing. Of all the people he knew, George and Kathy were two of the ones he’d liked the best. If Kathy was dead, then a little part of him had died too. Kathy. Lovely, gracious Kathy.…

At the top of the stairs, George turned to the right and stopped before the second door. “In there, Malone,” he said hoarsely.

Malone twisted the knob and stepped inside. It was a large room, bright and infinitely feminine. It was in perfect order, and even the bottles on Kathy’s vanity seemed to have been arranged in some whimsical order of her own.

Malone took in the entire room at a glance. He turned quickly to George. “Where is she?”

“On—on the other side of the bed,” George said. “On the floor.”

Malone went around the bed fast. Kathy lay on her back, the blue-black waves of her long hair in contrast vividly with the smooth white arm thrown out behind her head. One slim ankle was crossed over the other, and above them her stockinged legs tapered up to swelling thighs. A sheet had been spread over the body from shoulders to hips, but it took Malone no second glance to know that, except for the sheet, and her shoes and stockings, she was completely naked.

She was beautiful in death. It was, Malone thought, almost as if she were sleeping. He put his hand over her heart and held it there until he was convinced.

He looked up at George Weston. Very softly, he said, “How?”

George had remained near the door, but now he closed it behind him and took two tentative steps toward Malone. “Her neck’s broken,” he said thickly.

Malone put his fingertips to the back of Kathy’s head and moved them slowly downward. He felt the break, the small bump where there should be no bump.

He got to his feet and stood very still, looking at George.

“You touch her?”

“I put the sheet over her.”

“And what else?”

“I straightened her head. It was all …” His shoulders slumped and he put a hand out to the foot of the bed as if for support. “I couldn’t stand to see her look that way.”

Malone nodded. “Sure, George,” he said.

George turned and pulled the bench out from the vanity and sat down. Malone walked to the window and stood staring out into the night. He would have gone through a thousand hells to be able to help George Weston now. But there was nothing he could do for him, and nothing he could say to make it any easier for him.

George was speaking now, almost as if to himself. “I loved her. Nobody will ever know how much I loved her.”

Malone cleared his throat. “George, isn’t it about time we called the police?”

George nodded. “Yes. I guess so, Malone.” His eyes were sick. “This was our anniversary. It was fifteen years today.”

Malone felt an utter hopelessness that was alien to him. In most situations, he knew what to do, and how to do it. But not this time. His grief was not as great as George’s, of course, but it was profound.

“I hate to ask this, George,” he said gently. “But have you got any ideas? It had to be one of your guests. You know that.”

George was silent a long moment. Then, “No, Malone. It couldn’t have been. Everybody loved her. There’s never been anybody like her, Malone. Everybody …”

Malone tried to get a stern tone into his voice, but he failed. His words came out as gently as before. “You found her without any clothes on? Where are they?”

“Under the bed,” George said. “They were in a heap beside her, but I pushed them under the bed. I don’t know why. I guess I just didn’t want anybody to know what had happened to her.”

Quickly then, Malone went around the bed once more and bent down. The dress Kathy had worn earlier was in tatters, and her underclothing had obviously been ripped from her body. Malone dropped them to the floor and went back to lean against the wall near George Weston.

“Killing her wasn’t enough,” George said. “They had to do that, too.”

For the first time in several minutes, Malone felt as if he was capable of coherent thought.

“George,” he said, “I’ll promise you something. Except for you, no one thought more of Kathy than I did. I’m going to find out who killed her, George—if it takes me the rest of my life.”

“You can’t bring her back,” George said dully. “Nobody can do that.”

“No. But we can find out who did it. It had to be somebody downstairs, George. Now, can you think of anyone who might have any reason at all to want to …” He paused. “Think hard, George.”

George shook his head. “No. Nobody.” His face was very white. “I can’t stay in here any longer, Malone. I—I’ve got to have some air. I feel sick.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “We’ll go down the back stairs.”

As they walked between the trees in the huge back lawn, John J. Malone, for once, kept his silence. He was thinking back a good many years, back to the first time he had seen George and Kathy Weston.

There had been a carnival on the outskirts of Chicago that year, and one of the feature attractions was the Cage of Death. Malone had watched two young daredevils wheel a pair of motorcycles into a giant globe fashioned of steel mesh. He had been across the midway at the time, and it was not until he got much closer that he discovered one of the riders was a girl. Her companion had ridden his motorcycle in small circles around the bottom of the cage, until he had gained sufficient momentum to suspend him and his vehicle horizontally. And then, defying gravity, he had increased the speed and looped-the-loop a dozen times.

Then the girl had done the same thing. And, at the climax, both riders were at the top of the mesh sphere one moment, and at the bottom the next, both of them looping-the-loop at the same time, and in opposite directions.

Malone had never seen anything like it. He waited around, and when the young riders came out, he told them so. That was the beginning, and Malone haunted the carny lot and the Cage of Death every night thereafter, until the carnival moved to the next town. He and the two young riders—George and Kathy—had become friends instantly. The next year, Malone had renewed the friendship. He had been watching them the night they collided head-on at the very top of the cage.…

Kathy had suffered a broken arm and severe bruises, and that was all. But George had been badly mangled. During the four days when his chance of life was fifty-fifty, after the long sessions of surgery, Malone had haunted the hospital just as he had the carny lot.

He remembered the way George had tried to smile when he told him he was all right now, but that he could never ride again, and the way Kathy had cried when George said that.

But they had saved a good deal of money, and George had started dabbling in Chicago real estate. Now, on their fifteenth wedding anniversary, they were in the upper income bracket.

They’d been one of the happiest, most devoted couples Malone had ever known. They’d kept close touch with him, and he with them, and his one sure cure for the blues was an evening with George and Kathy.

Malone glanced sideways at George. “You feel like going back now?”

“In a minute,” George said.

“We’ve got to call the police.”

“Yes, I know. In just a minute.”

“About these guests of yours,” Malone said. “I got their first names when you introduced me, and that’s about all. Give me a quick run-down on them.”

George stopped walking. He sat down on a stone bench and shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. He rolled it around in his fingers absently, then suddenly broke it in two and flicked it away.

“There are four guys and three women in there,” Malone said. “Who are they, and what are they?”

“None of them did it,” George said.

“Never mind. What about them?”

“There’s Eddie Marcheck. He’s the short one with the crew cut. He was a talker with the carny at the same time we were with it. His wife is the tall blonde. The guy with the freckles is Del Esterly. He’s in insurance. He and his wife—that’s the girl with the glasses—have an agency.” He shook his head. “But there’s no point in this, Malone. None of them—”

“Go on,” Malone told him.

“I don’t feel much like talking.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But this is important. What about the others?”

“Well, the other couple are Mark and Jen Stevens. They’re neighbors, and Mark is sales manager for a sporting goods firm down near the Loop.”

George’s voice was thin and tired, and Malone was beginning to dislike himself a little for putting him through the paces at a time like this. But—it had to be.

“And the solo guy?” he asked. “Who’s he?”

George hesitated a moment. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely audible. “His name’s McJanet,” he said. “Les McJanet. He’s a guy I used to know—from school.”

Malone took a fresh cigar from his pocket and began, very slowly, to unwrap it, his eyes on George Weston. There had been a subtle change in George’s voice when he spoke of McJanet, something quite apart from its sudden softness. Malone put the cigar in his mouth, unlit. Around it, he said, “Is there something special about this guy McJanet?”

“No. Why?”

“I think there is,” Malone said. “I think there’s something special about him. What is it?”

George looked up at Malone, and then moved away again hesitantly.

“He’s an ex-con. He’s out on parole now. I hadn’t seen him in years, and then, this afternoon, I ran into him on State Street. I invited him to our anniversary party. He said he’d come, but that there was something he wanted me to know first.”

Malone bit the tip from his cigar and spat it out and glanced toward the house. “And that’s when he told you about being out on parole?”

George nodded. “I told him it didn’t make any difference. And it didn’t.”

Malone stared up at the window of the bedroom where Kathy Weston lay with her neck broken and a sheet across her naked body.

“What was McJanet in for?”

George stood up and started walking back toward the house. Malone fell into step beside him.

“I didn’t hear what you said,” Malone prompted.

“Assault and rape,” George said. “He swore it was a frame-up.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yes, I believed him. I’ve known him most of my life. He couldn’t do anything like that.” His tone was flat. “And now let me alone, Malone.”

Malone drew in deeply on his cigar and said nothing.

They went in through the side door, and George started walking through the hallway to the living room. “Everybody seems to be in the kitchen,” he said. “I’m going to try to call the police right now.”

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “I want to take one more look in that room.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch. Maybe we can save the police a little work.”

George turned to look at him. His eyes were level, his voice steady. “It isn’t McJanet, and it isn’t anyone else here. I know you think so, but you’re wrong. Kathy went upstairs for a minute, and somebody had either sneaked in and was in the bedroom, or they got in through the side entrance while she was up there. I know that—”

“You don’t know anything,” Malone said sharply. “You’re in something pretty close to shock, and you can’t even think. It was somebody at this party, and I know it, even if you don’t.”

He caught himself. This was a hell of a way to talk to a good friend, a man whose wife had just been murdered. He knew how much George had always worshipped Kathy, how he had worked like a dog to build up his real estate business. And he knew, beyond any question, that George had never so much as looked at another woman—no more than Kathy had looked at another man. George had loved his wife with an intensity that was rare in Malone’s experience, and worshipped was the only word to describe the way he’d felt about her.

He had loved her so much that her death had temporarily deranged him. All this talk about innocent guests came from the part of George’s mind that was trying desperately to catch on to something, anything, that it could deny. His mind couldn’t deny Kathy’s death, but the need for denial was so great that George had somehow channeled it toward something else.

Malone tried to manage a grin for his friend, but it wouldn’t stay on his lips. If I’d told George that this wasn’t Chicago, instead of that one of his guests had murdered his wife, Malone thought, he’d have denied that too. Right now, his mind can’t accept things. The poor lug.…

George studied Malone’s face a moment, his eyes cloudy and remote. He shrugged. “All right, Malone.” He turned and started up the back stairs. “But I can’t go in. I—”

“I know,” Malone said. “It’ll only take a minute—and then we’ll call the cops.”

At the door to Kathy’s bedroom, George suddenly put his hands up to his face, his head bent, his shoulders shaking.

It hurt Malone to see George this way, but there was nothing he could do.

“I—I think I’m going to be sick,” George said. He turned in the direction of the bathroom and half ran toward it.

Malone wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and went into the bedroom. From the direction of the bathroom, he could hear George Weston being very sick. He closed the bedroom door and walked slowly around the bed and stood looking down at Kathy.

Any one of those men down there could have done it, he thought. Not the women, because only a man could break someone’s neck quickly enough to avoid getting clawed and bitten. It took a lot of strength to break a neck; a hell of a lot of strength.

And motive? That would come out later. It always did. Right now he wanted the personal satisfaction of having a hand in finding the man who had killed a woman he loved dearly. His own deep reaction—the thing George was going through now—would come later, he knew.

He circled the room several times, and each time his eyes missed nothing. His brain was in high gear now, and his thoughts came quickly and clearly, the way they had before in similar situations. He looked for the obvious thing, the thing that seemed slightly wrong somehow. There was nothing. He came back to the sheet-covered body, and then, with the strongest reluctance he had ever felt toward anything, he bent and pulled away the sheet.

He looked down at Kathy Weston a full minute, his eyes covering every line and curve of her body. He stood wholly without movement, his face as devoid of expression as if it had been a wooden mask.

But, inside him, deep in the pit of his stomach, something tightened and drew into a hard, pulsing knot. And then, carefully, and with infinite gentleness, he drew the sheet back across Kathy’s body and left the bedroom.

He walked to the bathroom. The door was open, and George Weston was not inside. Malone went to the stairway and down the stairs to the living room.

The party was gay no longer. Everyone was in the living room, and all were watching George Weston at the telephone. A quick glance at their faces told Malone that they knew what had happened, that George had told them. George put the phone down and looked at Malone. “I’ve just called the police,” he said.

Malone nodded. He took a folder of matches from his pocket and lit his cigar. “Maybe it’s just as well, George. A few minutes more, either way, wouldn’t make any difference.”

“I got to thinking,” George said. “Up there in the bathroom. I guess you were right when you said I couldn’t think, before.” He glanced quickly toward a broad-shouldered man, in his middle thirties, with thinning blond hair and a pinched, sallow face. “And I guess you were right in saying there was something special about Les McJanet. It must have been him, Malone. He just got out of prison for doing almost the same thing he did to Kathy.”

The blond man lunged forward, but two of the other men caught his arms and held him. “What the hell is this?” Les McJanet shouted. “What are you trying to pull, Weston?”

Malone put his cigar down in a tray. If there was going to be action, he wanted no tobacco coals in the air.

“It wasn’t too difficult to kill Kathy,” Malone said. “With people going upstairs to the bathroom, and one thing and another, it wasn’t hard to get to Kathy and break her neck and get down again without being missed.”

“Goddam it!” Les McJanet yelled. “Let go of me.”

“In just a moment,” Malone said. “When you’re calmer.” He looked around at the others. No one moved or spoke. All eyes were upon him. He turned back toward George Weston. “You can’t go through with it, George, and you know it. You’re not made that way. I don’t know exactly when you decided to kill Kathy, but it must have been just a few seconds after you discovered she was going to have a baby.”

George’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “A—a baby?”

Malone nodded. This was hurting him; this was tearing his heart out. “Yes, George,” he said. “A baby. You couldn’t stand it. You really loved Kathy, George. You practically lived for her. You felt you had to kill her, and the child too.”

For the space of ten heartbeats, George Weston’s eyes stayed locked with Malone’s—and then George looked away. His whole body seemed to slump. His head drooped.

“You know you can’t go through with it, George,” Malone said. “You thought you could, but you can’t.”

George wet his lips, and now his face had gone slack and his eyes were sick again.

Malone stood very still, waiting.

“Yes,” George whispered. “Yes. That’s the way it was. I killed her … and I thought I could make it look like Les … but I can’t. The minute I knew Kathy was dead, I didn’t care about anything else. She’s dead.” His voice was slowly gaining strength. “And now I want to die, too. Do you hear? I want to.”

Malone nodded to the two men holding Les McJanet. “Let him go,” he said. McJanet took a step backward, gazing in stunned horror at his lifelong friend.

Out in the street, a car braked to a fast stop in front of the house.

“That would be the police,” Malone said.

“I want to die,” George Western shouted. “I want to.”

“No, George,” Malone told him. “You do now, but time will change that. You wanted to die a long time ago, too, as I remember.” He looked away from George’s tortured face. “Don’t worry too much about dying. I’ve saved worse than you from the death house—and I can do it again. Things will be bad, George—but not that bad.”

There was a heavy knock on the door, a heavy, official knock.

Les McJanet suddenly found his voice. “But how—how’d you know Kathy was—was going to have a baby?”

“I saw her, McJanet. Her breasts, the slight swell of her stomach—not enough to show when she was dressed—but the signs were unmistakable. She was going to have a baby, all right.”

“But why should George …? I mean … what’s wrong with a baby? Why should he kill …?”

“George used to ride a motorcycle in a big cage with a carnival,” Malone said softly. “One day he had an accident. It was a bad accident, the way it can be when a motorcycle almost rips you down the middle.”

Malone whirled and jerked open the door for the police.

“You see,” Malone went on, “being a father was one thing George Weston could never do.”

HIS HEART COULD BREAK

John J. Malone shuddered. He wished he could get the insidious melody out of his mind—or, remember the rest of the words.

“As I passed by the ol’ state’s prison,

Ridin’ on a stream-line’ train—”

It had been annoying him since three o’clock that morning, when he’d heard it sung by the janitor of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar.

It seemed like a bad omen, and it made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the cheap gin he’d switched to between two and four A.M. that was making him uncomfortable. Whichever it was, he felt terrible.

“I bet your client’s happy today,” the guard said cordially, leading the way towards the death house.

“He ought to be,” Malone growled. He reminded himself that he too ought to be happy. He wasn’t. Maybe it was being in a prison that depressed him. John J. Malone didn’t like prisons. He devoted his life to keeping his clients out of them.

“Then the warden told me gently—”

That song again! How did the next line go?

“Well,” the guard said, “they say you’ve never lost a client yet.” It wouldn’t do any harm, he thought, to get on the good side of a smart guy like John J. Malone.

“Not yet,” Malone said. He’d had a close call with this one, though.

“You sure did a wonderful job, turning up the evidence to get a new trial,” the guard rattled on. Maybe Malone could get him a better appointment, with his political drag. “Your client sure felt swell when he heard about it last night, he sure did.”

“That’s good,” Malone said noncommittally. It hadn’t been evidence that had turned the trick, though. Just a little matter of knowing some interesting facts about the judge’s private life. The evidence would have to be manufactured before the trial, but that was the least of his worries. By that time, he might even find out the truth of what had happened. He hummed softly under his breath. Ah, there were the next lines!

“Then the warden told me gently,

He seemed too young, too young to die,

We cut the rope and let him down—”

John J. Malone tried to remember the rhyme for “die.” By, cry, lie, my and sigh. Then he let loose a few loud and indignant remarks about whoever had written that song, realized that he was entering the death house and stopped, embarrassed. That particular cell block always inspired him with the same behavior he would have shown at a high class funeral. He took off his hat and walked softly.

And at that moment hell broke loose. Two prisoners in the block began yelling like banshees. The alarms began to sound loudly, causing the outside siren to chime in with its hideous wail. Guards were running through the corridor, and John J. Malone instinctively ran with them toward the center of disturbance, the fourth cell on the left.

Before the little lawyer got there, one of the guards had the door open. Another guard cut quickly through the bright new rope from which the prisoner was dangling, and eased the limp body down to the floor.

The racket outside was almost deafening now, but John J. Malone scarcely heard it. The guard turned the body over, and Malone recognized the very young and rather stupid face of Paul Palmer.

“He’s hung himself,” one of the guards said.

“With me for a lawyer?” Malone said angrily. “Hung himself—” He started to say “hell,” then remembered he was in the presence of death.

“Hey,” the other guard said excitedly. “He’s alive. His neck’s broke, but he’s breathing a little.”

Malone shoved the guard aside and knelt down beside the dying man. Paul Palmer’s blue eyes opened slowly, with an expression of terrible bewilderment. His lips parted.

“It wouldn’t break,” Paul Palmer whispered. He seemed to recognize Malone, and stared at him, with a look of frightful urgency. “It wouldn’t break,” he whispered to Malone. Then he died.…

“You’re damned right I’m going to sit in on the investigation,” Malone said angrily. He gave Warden Garrity’s waste-basket a vicious kick. “The inefficient way you run your prison has done me out of a client.” Out of a fat fee, too, he reminded himself miserably. He hadn’t been paid yet, and now there would be a long tussle with the lawyer handling Paul Palmer’s estate, who hadn’t wanted him engaged for the defense in the first place. Malone felt in his pocket, found three crumpled bills and a small handful of change. He wished now that he hadn’t got into that poker game last week.

The warden’s dreary office was crowded. Malone looked around, recognized an assistant warden, the prison doctor—a handsome gray-haired man named Dickson—the guards from the death house, and the guard who had been ushering him in—Bowers was his name, Malone remembered, a tall, flat-faced, gangling man.

“Imagine him hanging himself,” Bowers was saying incredulously. “Just after he found out he was gonna get a new trial.”

Malone had been wondering the same thing. “Maybe he didn’t get my wire,” he suggested coldly.

“I gave it to him myself,” Bowers stated positively. “Just last night. Never saw a man so happy in my life.”

Dr. Dickson cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him.

“Poor Palmer was mentally unstable,” the doctor said sadly. “You may recall I recommended, several days ago, that he be moved to the prison hospital. When I visited him last night he appeared hilariously—hysterically—happy. This morning, however, he was distinctly depressed.”

“You mean the guy was nuts?” Warden Garrity asked hopefully.

“He was nothing of the sort,” Malone said indignantly. Just let a hint get around that Paul Palmer had been of unsound mind, and he’d never collect that five thousand dollar fee from the estate. “He was saner than anyone in this room, with the possible exception of myself.”

Dr. Dickson shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t suggest that he was insane. I only meant he was subject to moods.”

Malone wheeled to face the doctor. “Say. Were you in the habit of visiting Palmer in his cell a couple of times a day?”

“I was,” the doctor said, nodding. “He was suffering from a serious nervous condition. It was necessary to administer sedatives from time to time.”

Malone snorted. “You mean he was suffering from the effect of being sober for the first time since he was sixteen.”

“Put it any way you like,” Dr. Dickson said pleasantly. “You remember, too, that I had a certain personal interest.”

“That’s right,” Malone said slowly. “He was going to marry your niece.”

“No one was happier than I to hear about the new trial,” the doctor said. He caught Malone’s eye and added, “No, I wasn’t fond enough of him to smuggle in a rope. Especially when he’d just been granted a chance to clear himself.”

“Look here,” Warden Garrity said irritably. “I can’t sit around listening to all this stuff. I’ve got to report the result of an investigation. Where the hell did he get that rope?”

There was a little silence, and then one of the guards said, “Maybe from the guy who was let in to see him last night.”

“What guy?” the warden snapped.

“Why—” The guard paused, confused. “He had an order from you admitting him. His name was La Cerra.”

Malone felt a sudden tingling along his spine. Georgie La Cerra was one of Max Hook’s boys. What possible connection could there be between Paul Palmer, socialite, and the big gambling boss?

Warden Garrity had recognized the name too. “Oh yes,” he said quickly. “That must have been it. But I doubt if we could prove it.” He paused just an instant, and looked fixedly at Malone, as though daring him to speak. “The report will read that Paul Palmer obtained a rope, by means which have not yet been ascertained, and committed suicide while of unsound mind.”

Malone opened his mouth and shut it again. He knew when he was licked. Temporarily licked, anyway. “For the love of mike,” he said, “leave out the unsound mind.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the warden said coldly.

Malone had kept his temper as long as he could. “All right,” he said, “but I’ll start an investigation that’ll be a pip.” He snorted. “Letting a gangster smuggle a rope in to a guy in the death house!” He glared at Dr. Dickson. “And you, foxy, with two escapes from the prison hospital in six months.” He kicked the wastebasket again, this time sending it halfway across the room. “I’ll show you from investigations! And I’m just the guy who can do it, too.”

Dr. Dickson said quickly, “We’ll substitute ‘temporarily depressed’ for the ‘unsound mind.’”

But Malone was mad, now. He made one last, long comment regarding the warden’s personal life and probably immoral origin, and slammed the door so hard when he went out that the steel engraving of Chester A. Arthur over the warden’s desk shattered to the floor.

“Mr. Malone,” Bowers said in a low voice as they went down the hall, “I searched that cell, after they took the body out. Whoever smuggled in that rope smuggled in a letter, too. I found it hid in his mattress, and it wasn’t there yesterday, because the mattress was changed.” He paused, and added, “And the rope couldn’t of been there last night either, because there was no place he could of hid it.”

Malone glanced at the envelope the guard held out to him—pale grey expensive stationery, with “Paul Palmer” written across the front of it in delicate, curving handwriting.

“I haven’t any money with me,” the lawyer said.

Bowers shook his head. “I don’t want no dough. But there’s gonna be an assistant warden’s job open in about three weeks.”

“You’ll get it,” Malone said. He took the envelope and stuffed it in an inside pocket. Then he paused, frowned, and finally added, “And keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Because there’s going to be an awful stink when I prove Paul Palmer was murdered.…”

The pretty, black-haired girl in Malone’s anteroom looked up as he opened the door. “Oh, Mr. Malone,” she said quickly. “I read about it in the paper. I’m so sorry.”

“Never mind, Maggie,” the lawyer said. “No use crying over spilled clients.” He went into his private office and shut the door.

Fate was treating him very shabbily, evidently from some obscure motive of personal spite. He’d been counting heavily on that five thousand buck fee.

He took a bottle of rye out of the filing cabinet marked “Personal,” poured himself a drink, noted that there was only one more left in the bottle, and stretched out on the worn red leather davenport to think things over.

Paul Palmer had been an amiable, stupid young drunk of good family, whose inherited wealth had been held in trust for him by an uncle considered to be the stingiest man in Chicago. The money was to be turned over to him on his thirtieth birthday—some five years off—or on the death of the uncle, Carter Brown. Silly arrangement, Malone reflected, but rich men’s lawyers were always doing silly things.

Uncle Carter had cramped the young man’s style considerably, but he’d managed pretty well. Then he’d met Madelaine Starr.

Malone lit a cigar and stared dreamily through the smoke. The Starrs were definitely social, but without money. A good keen eye for graft, too. Madelaine’s uncle was probably making a very good thing out of that political appointment as prison doctor.

Malone sighed, wished he weren’t a lawyer, and thought about Madelaine Starr. An orphan, with a tiny income which she augmented by modeling in an exclusive dress shop—a fashionable and acceptable way of making a living. She had expensive tastes. (The little lawyer could spot expensive tastes in girls a mile away.)

She’d had to be damned poor to want to marry Palmer, Malone reflected, and damned beautiful to get him. Well, she was both.

But there had been another girl, one who had to be paid off. Lillian Claire by name, and a very lovely hunk of girl, too. Lovely, and smart enough to demand a sizable piece of money for letting the Starr-Palmer nuptials go through without a scandalous fuss.

Malone shook his head sadly. It had looked bad at the trial. Paul Palmer had taken his bride-to-be night-clubbing, delivering her back to her kitchenette apartment just before twelve. He’d been a shade high, then, and by the time he’d stopped off at three or four bars, he was several shades higher. Then he’d paid a visit to Lillian Claire, who claimed later at the trial that he’d attempted—unsuccessfully—to talk her out of the large piece of cash money, and had drunk up all the whiskey in the house. She’d put him in a cab and sent him home.

No one knew just when Paul Palmer had arrived at the big, gloomy apartment he shared with Carter Brown. The manservant had the night off. It was the manservant who discovered, next morning, that Uncle Carter had been shot neatly through the forehead with Paul Palmer’s gun, and that Paul Palmer had climbed into his own bed, fully dressed, and was snoring drunk.

Everything had been against him, Malone reflected sadly. Not only had the jury been composed of hard-working, poverty-stricken men who liked nothing better than to convict a rich young wastrel of murder, but worse still, they’d all been too honest to be bribed. The trial had been his most notable failure. And now, this.

But Paul Palmer would never have hanged himself. Malone was sure of it. He’d never lost hope. And now, especially, when a new trial had been granted, he’d have wanted to live.

It had been murder. But how had it been done?

Malone sat up, stretched, reached in his pocket for the pale gray envelope Bowers had given him, and read the note through again.

My dearest Paul:

I’m getting this note to you this way because I’m in terrible trouble and danger. I need you—no one else can help me. I know there’s to be a new trial, but even another week may be too late. Isn’t there any way?

Your own

M.

“M.”, Malone decided, would be Madelaine Starr. She’d use that kind of pale gray paper, too.

He looked at the note and frowned. If Madelaine Starr had smuggled that note to her lover, would she have smuggled in a rope by the same messenger? Or had someone else brought in the rope?

There were three people he wanted to see. Madelaine Starr was one. Lillian Claire was the second. And Max Hook was the third.

He went out into the anteroom, stopped halfway across it and said aloud, “But it’s a physical impossibility. If someone smuggled that rope into Paul Palmer’s cell and then Palmer hanged himself, it isn’t murder. But it must have been murder.” He stared at Maggie without seeing her. “Damn it, though, no one could have got into Paul Palmer’s cell and hanged him.”

Maggie looked at him sympathetically, familiar from long experience with her employer’s processes of thought. “Keep on thinking and it’ll come to you.”

“Maggie, have you got any money?”

“I have ten dollars, but you can’t borrow it. Besides, you haven’t paid my last week’s salary yet.”

The little lawyer muttered something about ungrateful and heartless wenches, and flung himself out of the office.

Something had to be done about ready cash. He ran his mind over a list of prospective lenders. The only possibility was Max Hook. No, the last time he’d borrowed money from the Hook, he’d got into no end of trouble. Besides, he was going to ask another kind of favor from the gambling boss.

Malone went down Washington street, turned the corner, went into Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, and cornered its proprietor at the far end of the room.

“Cash a hundred dollar check for me, and hold it until a week from,”—Malone made a rapid mental calculation—“Thursday?”

“Sure,” Joe the Angel said. “Happy to do you a favor.” He got out ten ten-dollar bills while Malone wrote the check. “Want I should take your bar bill out of this?”

Malone shook his head. “I’ll pay next week. And add a double rye to it.”

As he set down the empty glass, he heard the colored janitor’s voice coming faintly from the back room.

“They hanged him for the thing you done,

You knew it was a sin,

You didn’t know his heart could break—”

The voice stopped suddenly. For a moment Malone considered calling for the singer and asking to hear the whole thing, all the way through. No, there wasn’t time for it now. Later, perhaps. He went out on the street, humming the tune.

What was it Paul Palmer had whispered in that last moment? “It wouldn’t break!” Malone scowled. He had a curious feeling that there was some connection between those words and the words of that damned song. Or was it his Irish imagination, tripping him up again? “You didn’t know his heart could break.” But it was Paul Palmer’s neck that had been broken.

Malone hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to the swank Lake Shore Drive apartment-hotel where Max Hook lived.

The gambling boss was big in two ways. He took in a cut from every crooked gambling device in Cook County, and most of the honest ones. And he was a mountain of flesh, over six feet tall and three times too fat for his height. His pink head was completely bald and he had the expression of a pleased cherub.

His living room was a masterpiece of the gilt-and-brocade school of interior decoration, marred only by a huge, battle-scarred roll-top desk in one corner. Max Hook swung around from the desk to smile cordially at the lawyer.

“How delightful to see you! What will you have to drink?”

“Rye,” Malone said, “and it’s nice to see you too. Only this isn’t exactly a social call.”

He knew better, though, than to get down to business before the drinks had arrived. (Max Hook stuck to pink champagne.) That wasn’t the way Max Hook liked to do things. But when the rye was down, and the gambling boss had lighted a slender, tinted (and, Malone suspected, perfumed) cigarette in a rose quartz holder, he plunged right in.

“I suppose you read in the papers about what happened to my client, Palmer,” he said.

“I never read the papers,” Max Hook told him, “but one of my boys informed me. Tragic, wasn’t it?”

“Tragic is no name for it,” Malone said bitterly. “He hadn’t paid me a dime.”

Max Hook’s eyebrows lifted. “So?” Automatically he reached for the green metal box in the left-hand drawer. “How much do you need?”

“No, no,” Malone said hastily, “that isn’t it. I just want to know if one of your boys—Little Georgie La Cerra—smuggled the rope in to him. That’s all.”

Max Hook looked surprised, and a little hurt. “My dear Malone,” he said at last, “why do you imagine he’d do such a thing?”

“For money,” Malone said promptly, “if he did do it. I don’t care, I just want to know.”

“You can take my word for it,” Max Hook said, “he did nothing of the kind. He did deliver a note from a certain young lady to Mr. Palmer, at my request—a bit of a nuisance, too, getting hold of that admittance order signed by the warden. I assure you, though, there was no rope. I give you my word, and you know I’m an honest man.”

“Well, I was just asking,” Malone said. One thing about the big gangster, he always told the truth. If he said Little Georgie La Cerra hadn’t smuggled in that rope, then Little Georgie hadn’t. Nor was there any chance that Little Georgie had engaged in private enterprises on the side. As Max Hook often remarked, he liked to keep a careful watch on his boys. “One thing more, though,” the lawyer said, “if you don’t mind. Why did the young lady come to you to get her note delivered?”

Max Hook shrugged his enormous shoulders. “We have a certain—business connection. To be exact, she owes me a large sum of money. Like most extremely mercenary people she loves gambling, but she is not particularly lucky. When she told me that the only chance for that money to be paid was for the note to be delivered, naturally I obliged.”

“Naturally,” Malone agreed. “You didn’t happen to know what was in the note, did you?”

Max Hook was shocked. “My dear Malone! You don’t think I read other people’s personal mail!”

No, Malone reflected, Max Hook probably didn’t. And not having read the note, the big gambler probably wouldn’t know what kind of “terrible trouble and danger” Madelaine Starr was in. He decided to ask, though, just to be on the safe side.

“Trouble?” Max Hook repeated after him. “No, outside of having her fiancé condemned to death, I don’t know of any trouble she’s in.”

Malone shrugged his shoulders at the reproof, rose and walked to the door. Then he paused, suddenly. “Listen, Max. Do you know the words to a tune that goes like this?” He hummed a bit of it.

Max Hook frowned, then nodded. “Mmm—I know the tune. An entertainer at one of my places used to sing it.” He thought hard, and finally came up with a few lines.

“He was leaning against the prison bars,

Dressed up in his new prison clothes—”

“Sorry,” Max Hook said at last, “that’s all I remember. I guess those two lines stuck in my head because they reminded me of the first time I was in jail.”

Outside in the taxi, Malone sang the two lines over a couple of times. If he kept on, eventually he’d have the whole song. But Paul Palmer hadn’t been leaning against the prison bars. He’d been hanging from the water pipe.

Damn, and double damn that song!

It was well past eight o’clock, and he’d had no dinner, but he didn’t feel hungry. He had a grim suspicion that he wouldn’t feel hungry until he’d settled this business. When the cab paused for the next red light, he flipped a coin to decide whether he’d call first on Madelaine Stan or Lillian Claire, and Madelaine won.

He stepped out of the cab in front of the small apartment building on Walton Place, paid the driver, and started across the sidewalk just as a tall, white-haired man emerged from the door. Malone recognized Orlo Featherstone, the lawyer handling Paul Palmer’s estate, considered ducking out of sight, realized there wasn’t time, and finally managed to look as pleased as he was surprised.

“I was just going to offer Miss Starr my condolences,” he said.

“I’d leave her undisturbed, if I were you,” Orlo Feather-stone said coldly. He had only one conception of what a lawyer should be, and Malone wasn’t anything like it. “I only called myself because I am, so to speak and in a sense, a second father to her.”

If anyone else had said that, Malone thought, it would have called for an answer. From Orlo Featherstone, it sounded natural. He nodded sympathetically and said, “Tragic affair, wasn’t it.”

Orlo Featherstone unbent at least half a degree. “Distinctly so. Personally, I cannot imagine Paul Palmer doing such a thing. When I visited him yesterday, he seemed quite cheerful and full of hope.”

“You—visited him yesterday?” Malone asked casually. He drew a cigar from his pocket and began unwrapping it with exquisite care.

“Yes,” Featherstone said, “about the will. He had to sign it, you know. Fortunate for her,” he indicated Madelaine Starr with a gesture toward the building, “that he did so. He left her everything, of course.”

“Of course,” Malone said. He lighted his cigar on the second try. “You don’t think Paul Palmer could have been murdered, do you?”

“Murdered!” Orlo Featherstone repeated, as though it was an obscene word. “Absurd! No Palmer has ever been murdered.”

Malone watched him climb into a shiny Cadillac, then started walking briskly toward State Street. The big limousine passed him just as he reached the corner, it turned north on State Street and stopped. Malone paused by the newsstand long enough to see Mr. Orlo Featherstone get out and cross the sidewalk to the corner drugstore. After a moment’s thought he followed and paused at the cigar counter, from where he could see clearly into the adjacent telephone booth.

Orlo Featherstone, in the booth, consulted a little notebook. Then he took down the receiver, dropped a nickel in the slot, and began dialing. Malone watched carefully. D-E-L—9-6-0—It was Lillian Claire’s number.

The little lawyer cursed all sound-proof phone booths, and headed for a bar on the opposite corner. He felt definitely unnerved.

After a double rye, and halfway through a second one, he came to the heartening conclusion that when he visited Lillian Claire, later in the evening, he’d be able to coax from her the reason why Orlo Featherstone, of all people, had telephoned her, just after leaving the late Paul Palmer’s fiancée. A third rye braced him for his call on the fiancée herself.

Riding up in the self-service elevator to her apartment, another heartening thought came to him. If Madelaine Starr was going to inherit all the Palmer dough—then it might not be such a trick to collect his five thousand bucks. He might even be able to collect it by a week from Thursday.

And he reminded himself, as she opened the door, this was going to be one time when he wouldn’t be a sucker for a pretty face.

Madelaine Starr’s apartment was tiny, but tasteful. Almost too tasteful, Malone thought. Everything in it was cheap, but perfectly correct and in exactly the right place, even to the Van Gogh print over the midget fireplace. Madelaine Starr was in exactly the right taste, too.

She was a tall girl, with a figure that still made Malone blink, in spite of the times he’d admired it in the courtroom. Her bronze-brown hair was smooth and well-brushed, her pale face was calm and composed. Serene, polished, suave. Malone had a private idea that if he made a pass at her, she wouldn’t scream. She was wearing black house-pajamas. He wondered if they were her idea of mourning.

Malone got the necessary condolences and trite remarks out of the way fast, and then said, “What kind of terrible trouble and danger are you in, Miss Starr?”

That startled her. She wasn’t able to come up with anything more original than “What do you mean?”

“I mean what you wrote in your note to Paul Palmer,” the lawyer said.

She looked at the floor and said, “I hoped it had been destroyed.”

“It will be,” Malone said gallantly, “if you say so.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you have it with you?”

“No,” Malone lied. “It’s in my office safe. But I’ll go back there and burn it.” He didn’t add when.

“It really didn’t have anything to do with his death, you know,” she said.

Malone said, “Of course not. You didn’t send him the rope too, did you?”

She stared at him. “How awful of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Malone said contritely.

She relaxed. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m a little unnerved, naturally.” She paused. “May I offer you a drink?”

“You may,” Malone said, “and I’ll take it.”

He watched her while she mixed a lot of scotch and a little soda in two glasses, wondering how soon after her fiancé’s death he could safely ask her for a date. Maybe she wouldn’t say Yes to a broken-down criminal lawyer, though. He took the drink, downed half of it, and said to himself indignantly, “Who’s broken-down?”

“Oh, Mr. Malone,” she breathed “you don’t believe my note had anything to do with it?”

“Of course not,” Malone said. “That note would have made him want to live, and get out of jail.” He considered bringing up the matter of his five thousand dollar fee, and then decided this was not the time. “Nice that you’ll be able to pay back what you owe Max Hook. He’s a bad man to owe money to.”

She looked at him sharply and said nothing. Malone finished his drink, and walked to the door.

“One thing, though,” he said, hand on the knob. “This—terrible trouble and danger you’re in. You’d better tell me. Because I might be able to help, you know.”

“Oh, no,” she said. She was standing very close to him, and her perfume began to mingle dangerously with the rye and scotch in his brain. “I’m afraid not.” He had a definite impression that she was thinking fast. “No one can help, now.” She looked away, delicately. “You know—a girl—alone in the world—”

Malone felt his cheeks reddening. He opened the door and said, “Oh.” Just plain Oh.

“Just a minute,” she said quickly. “Why did you ask all these questions?”

“Because,” Malone said, just as quickly, “I thought the answers might be useful—in case Paul Palmer was murdered.”

That, he told himself, riding down the self-service elevator, would give her something to think about.

He hailed a cab and gave the address of the apartment building where Lillian Claire lived, on Goethe Street. In the lobby of the building he paused long enough to call a certain well-known politician at his home and make sure that he was there. It would be just as well not to run into that particular politician at Lillian Claire’s apartment, since he was paying for it.

It was a nice apartment, too, Malone decided, as the slim mulatto maid ushered him in. Big, soft modernistic divans and chairs, paneled mirrors, and a built-in bar. Not half as nice, though, as Lillian Claire herself.

She was a cuddly little thing, small, and a bit on the plump side, with curly blonde hair and a deceptively simple stare. She said, “Oh, Mr. Malone. I’ve always wanted to get acquainted with you.” Malone had a pleasant feeling that if he tickled her, just a little, she’d giggle.

She mixed him a drink, lighted his cigar, sat close to him on the biggest and most luxurious divan, and said, “Tell me, how on earth did Paul Palmer get that rope?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said. “Did you send it to him, baked in a cake?”

She looked at him reprovingly. “You don’t think I wanted him to kill himself and let that awful woman inherit all that money?”

Malone said, “She isn’t so awful. But this is tough on you, though. Now you’ll never be able to sue him.”

“I never intended to,” she said. “I didn’t want to be paid off. I just thought it might scare her away from him.”

Malone put down his glass, she hopped up and refilled it. “Were you in love with him?” he said.

“Don’t be silly.” She curled up beside him again. “I liked him. He was much too nice to have someone like that marry him for his money.”

Malone nodded slowly. The room was beginning to swim—not unpleasantly—before his eyes. Maybe he should have eaten dinner after all.

“Just the same,” he said, “you didn’t think up that idea all by yourself. Someone put you up to asking for money.”

She pulled away from him a little—not too much. “That’s perfect nonsense,” she said unconvincingly.

“All right,” Malone said agreeably. “Tell me just one thing—”

“I’ll tell you this one thing,” she said. “Paul never murdered his uncle. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t Paul. Because I took him home that night. He came to see me, yes. But I didn’t put him in a cab and send him home. I took him home, and got him to his own room. Nobody saw me. It was late—almost daylight.” She paused and lit a cigarette. “I peeked into his uncle’s room to make sure I hadn’t been seen, and his uncle was dead. I never told anybody because I didn’t want to get messed up in it worse than I was already.”

Malone sat bolt upright. “Fine thing,” he said, indignantly and a bit thickly. “You could have alibied him and you let him be convicted.”

“Why bother?” she said serenely. “I knew he had you for a lawyer. Why should he need an alibi?”

Malone shoved her back against the cushions of the davenport and glared at her. “A’right,” he said. “But that wasn’t the thing I was gonna ask. Why did old man Featherstone call you up tonight?”

Her shoulders stiffened under his hands. “He just asked me for a dinner date,” she said.

“You’re a liar,” Malone said, not unpleasantly. He ran an experimental finger along her ribs. She did giggle. Then he kissed her.…

All this time spent, Malone told himself reprovingly, and you haven’t learned one thing worth the effort. Paul Palmer hadn’t killed his uncle. But he’d been sure of that all along, and anyway it wouldn’t do any good now. Madelaine Starr needed money, and now she was going to inherit a lot of it. Orlo Featherstone was on friendly terms with Lillian Claire.

The little lawyer leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. At three o’clock in the morning, Joe the Angel’s was a desolate and almost deserted place. He knew now, definitely, that he should have eaten dinner. Nothing, he decided, would cure the way he felt except a quick drink, a long sleep, or sudden death.

He would probably never learn who had killed Paul Palmer’s uncle, or why. He would probably never learn what had happened to Paul Palmer. After all, the man had hanged himself. No one else could have got into that cell. It wasn’t murder to give a man enough rope to hang himself with.

No, he would probably never learn what had happened to Paul Palmer, and he probably would never collect that five thousand dollar fee. But there was one thing he could do. He’d learn the words of that song.

He called for a drink, the janitor, and the janitor’s guitar. Then he sat back and listened.

“As I passed by the ol’ state’s prison,

Ridin’ on a stream-line’ train—”

It was a long rambling ballad, requiring two drinks for the janitor and two more for Malone. The lawyer listened, remembering a line here and there.

“When they hanged him in the mornin’

His last words were for you,

Then the sheriff took his shiny knife

An’ cut that ol’ rope through.”

A sad story, Malone reflected, finishing the second drink. Personally, he’d have preferred “My Wild Irish Rose” right now. But he yelled to Joe for another drink and went on listening.

“They hanged him for the thing you done,

You knew it was a sin,

How well you knew his heart could break,

Lady, why did you turn him in—”

The little lawyer jumped to his feet. That was the line he’d been trying to remember! And what had Paul Palmer whispered? “It wouldn’t break.”

Malone knew, now.

He dived behind the bar, opened the cash drawer and scooped out a handful of telephone slugs.

“You’re drunk,” Joe the Angel said indignantly.

“That may be,” Malone said happily, “and it’s a good idea too. But I know what I’m doing.”

He got one of the slugs into the phone on the third try, dialed Orlo Featherstone’s number, and waited till the elderly lawyer got out of bed and answered the phone.

It took ten minutes, and several more phone slugs to convince Featherstone that it was necessary to get Madelaine Starr out of bed and make the three-hour drive to the state’s prison, right now. It took another ten minutes to wake up Lillian Claire and induce her to join the party. Then he placed a long-distance call to the sheriff of Statesville County and invited him to drop in at the prison and pick up a murderer.

Malone strode to the door. As he reached it, Joe the Angel hailed him.

“I forgot,” he said. “I got sumpin’ for you.” Joe the Angel rummaged back of the cash register and brought out a long envelope. “That cute secretary of yours was looking for you all over town to give you this. Finally she left it with me. She knew you’d get here sooner or later.”

Malone said “Thanks,” took the envelope, glanced at it, and winced. “First National Bank.” Registered mail. He knew he was overdrawn, but—

Oh, well, maybe there was still a chance to get that five thousand bucks.

The drive to Statesville wasn’t so bad, in spite of the fact that Orlo Featherstone snored most of the way. Lillian snuggled up against Malone’s left shoulder like a kitten, and with his right hand he held Madelaine Starr’s hand under the auto robe. But the arrival, a bit before seven A.M., was depressing. The prison looked its worst in the early morning, under a light fog.

Besides, the little lawyer wasn’t happy over what he had to do.

Warden Garrity’s office was even more depressing. There was the warden, eyeing Malone coldly and belligerently, and Madelaine Starr and her uncle, Dr. Dickson, looking a bit annoyed. Orlo Featherstone was frankly skeptical. The sheriff of Statesville county was sleepy and bored. Lillian Claire was sleepy and suspicious. Even the guard, Bowers, looked bewildered.

And all these people, Malone realized, were waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of his whiskers.

He pulled it out fast. “Paul Palmer was murdered,” he said flatly.

Warden Garrity looked faintly amused. “A bunch of pixies crawled into his cell and tied the rope around his neck?”

“No,” Malone said, lighting a cigar. “This murderer made one try—murder by frame-up. He killed Paul Palmer’s uncle for two reasons, one of them being to send Paul Palmer to the chair. It nearly worked. Then I got him a new trial. So another method had to be tried, fast, and that one did work.”

“You’re insane,” Orlo Featherstone said, “Palmer hanged himself.”

“I’m not insane,” Malone said indignantly, “I’m drunk. There’s a distinction. And Paul Palmer hanged himself because he thought he wouldn’t die, and could escape from prison.” He looked at Bowers and said, “Watch all these people, someone may make a move.”

Lillian Claire said, “I don’t get it.”

“You will,” Malone promised. He kept a watchful eye on Bowers and began talking fast. “The whole thing was arranged by someone who was mercenary and owed money. Someone who knew Paul Palmer would be too drunk to know what had happened the night his uncle was killed, and who was close enough to him to have a key to the apartment. That person went in and killed the uncle with Paul Palmer’s gun. And, as that person had planned, Paul Palmer was tried and convicted and would have been electrocuted, if he hadn’t had a damn smart lawyer.”

He flung his cigar into the cuspidor and went on. “Then Paul Palmer was granted a new trial. So the mercenary person who wanted Paul Palmer’s death convinced him that he had to break out of prison, and another person showed him how the escape could be arranged—by pretending to hang himself, and being moved to the prison hospital—watch her, Bowers!”

Madelaine Starr had flung herself at Dr. Dickson. “Damn you,” she screamed, her face white. “I knew you’d break down and talk. But you’ll never talk again—”

There were three shots. One from the little gun Madelaine had carried in her pocket, and two from Bowers’ service revolver.

Then the room was quite still.

Malone walked slowly across the room, looked down at the two bodies, and shook his head sadly. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he said. “They’d probably have hired another defense lawyer anyway.”

“This is all very fine,” the Statesville County sheriff said. “But I still don’t see how you figured it. Have another beer?”

“Thanks,” Malone said. “It was easy. A song tipped me off. Know this?” He hummed a few measures.

“Oh, sure,” the sheriff said. “The name of it is, “The Statesville Prison.’” He sang the first four verses.

“Well, I’ll be double-damned,” Malone said. The bartender put the two glasses of beer on the table. “Bring me a double gin for a chaser,” the lawyer told him.

“Me too,” the sheriff said. “What does the song have to do with it, Malone?”

Malone said, “It was the crank on the adding machine, pal. Know what I mean? You put down a lot of stuff to add up and nothing happens, and then somebody turns the crank and it all adds up to what you want to know. See how simple it is?”

“I don’t,” the sheriff said, “but go on.”

“I had all the facts,” Malone said, “I knew everything I wanted to know, but I couldn’t add it up. I needed one thing, that one thing.” He spoke almost reverently, downing his gin. “Paul Palmer said ‘It wouldn’t break’—just before he died. And he looked terribly surprised. For a long time, I didn’t know what he meant. Then I heard that song again, and I did know.” He sang a few lines. “The sheriff took his shiny knife, and cut that of rope through.” Then he finished his beer, and sang on, “They hanged him for the thing you done, you knew it was a sin. You didn’t know his heart could break, Lady, why did you turn him in.” He ended on a blue note.

“Very pretty,” the sheriff said. “Only I heard it, ‘You knew that his poor heart could break.’”

“Same thing.” Malone said, waving a hand. “Only, that song was what turned the crank on the adding machine. When I heard it again, I knew what Palmer meant by ‘it wouldn’t break.’”

“His heart?” the seriff said helpfully.

“No,” Malone said, “the rope.”

He waved at the bartender and said “Two more of the same.” Then to the sheriff, “He expected the rope to break. He thought it would be artfully frayed so that he would drop to the floor unharmed. Then he could have been moved to the prison hospital—from which there had been two escapes in the past six months. He had to escape, you see, because his sweetheart had written him that she was in terrible trouble and danger—the same sweetheart whose evidence had helped convict him at the trial.

“Madelaine Starr wanted his money,” Malone went on, “but she didn’t want Paul. So her murder of his uncle served two purposes. It released Paul’s money, and it framed him. Using poor old innocent Orlo Featherstone, she planted in Lillian Claire’s head the idea of holding up Paul for money, so Paul would be faced with a need for ready cash. Everything worked fine, until I gummixed up the whole works by getting my client a new trial.”

“Your client shouldn’t of had such a smart lawyer,” the sheriff said, over his beer glass.

Malone tossed aside the compliment with a shrug of his cigar. “Maybe he should of had a better one. Anyway, she and her uncle, Dr. Dickson, fixed it all up. She sent that note to Paul, so he’d think he had to break out of the clink. Then her uncle, Dickson, told Paul he’d arrange the escape, with the rope trick. To the world, it would have looked as though Paul Palmer had committed suicide in a fit of depression. Only he did have a good lawyer, and he lived long enough to say ‘It wouldn’t break.’”

Malone looked into his empty glass and lapsed into a melancholy silence.

The phone rang—someone hi-jacked a truck over on Springfield Road—and the sheriff was called away. Left by himself, Malone cried a little into his beer. Lillian Claire had gone back to Chicago with Orlo Featherstone, who really had called her up for a date, and no other reason.

Malone reminded himself he hadn’t had any sleep, his head was splitting, and what was left of Joe the Angel’s hundred dollars would just take him back to Chicago. And there was that letter from the bank, probably threatening a summons. He took it out of his pocket and sighed as he tore it open.

“Might as well face realities,” Malone said to the bartender. “And bring me another double gin.”

He drank the gin, tore open the envelope, and took out a certified check for five thousand dollars, with a note from the bank to the effect that Paul Palmer had directed its payment. It was dated the day before his death.

Malone waltzed to the door, waltzed back to pay the bartender and kiss him good-bye.

“Do you feel all right?” the bartender asked anxiously.

“All right?” Malone said. “I’m a new man!”

What was more, he’d just remembered the rest of that song. He sang it, happily, as he went up the street toward the railroad station.

“As I passed by the ol’ state’s prison,

Ridin’ on a streamline’ train,

I waved my hand, and said out loud,

I’m never comin’ back again,

I’m never comin’ back a—gain!”

GOOD-BYE FOREVER

The girl was small and if she did have an interesting figure her inexpensive clothes were doing their best to keep it a secret. She wore brown, from her tiny but substantial oxfords to the rims of her thick-lensed glasses.

She put her glass of beer down on the bar, looked at John J. Malone anxiously, and said, “I hope you’ll know what to do.”

“Do or die,” the little Chicago lawyer said, “and frankly I don’t feel very enthusiastic about either prospect.” He wondered how he would have felt if Betty Castle had been the girl he would have picked to be marooned with on a desert island, along with a case of canned goods, two bottles of rye and a copy of the Kinsey report. Instead, she was the press agent for the Number Two band on the Hit Parade and was bringing him a possible client at a time when the office rent was three months overdue.

“If Larry would only tell me what it’s all about—” Betty Castle said. “But there are some things you just cannot pry out of him without—”

“Say no more,” Malone said. “I understand. You’re not that kind of a girl. But just what did you mean when you said that you hoped I’d be—as you put it so delicately—drunk?”

Betty Castle said, “Mr. Malone, I thought that if you were—he’d talk to you more freely. In fact, I told Larry you probably would be. I hope you don’t mind.” She looked at him and said, “But you’re—”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone assured her. “As a hobby I’ve taken up impersonating myself.”

“Another thing, Mr. Malone—” Betty Castle finished her beer and said, “I didn’t tell him I was going to talk to you first.”

“In that case,” Malone told her, “you’d better make yourself inconspicuous and get out of here.”

A shadow couldn’t have slipped out of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar more inconspicuously if it had used the rear entrance. Malone had a few quiet words with Joe the Angel, who nodded understandingly and warned Malone that pretending to be drunk was going to be far, far more difficult than doing what came naturally.

Malone began rehearsing. Three times he tried to put his elbow on the bar and four times he missed. He made a noble try at sitting upright with only reasonable success. Finally he heard the magic voice listened to every week by radio listeners from coast to coast.

The voice said, “You’re John J. Malone, aren’t you?”

“If I’m not,” Malone said, “I’m certainly going to be surprised when I wake up in the morning.” He fumbled through his pockets for a non-existent cigar. “Who you are, the hell? Or do I mean whom? I mean, who the hell you are, and may I buy you a drink?”

Joe the Angel said, “You can’t buy anyone a drink, Malone. Not without—”

“I know,” the lawyer said bitterly, “a slice of the root. The root of all evil.”

The newcomer with the golden voice said, “I’d like to buy Mr. Malone a drink, if I may.”

Joe the Angel managed an almost surreptitious wink at Malone and said, “Okay, what’ll it be?”

“Same thing,” Malone said. He decided that one more drink of plain ginger ale was going to be more than he could survive, but he managed to get the stuff down in one quick gulp, turned around, and said belligerently, “I’ll fight any hat in the place at the drop of a man.”

“Mr. Malone, I need your help.”

“Never can resist a pal asking for help,” Malone said. “Are you a pal? Did you pay for the last drink? Then you’re a pal, pal.” He paused to sing a line from Kathleen Mavourneen. “Which one of us is Damon, and which one of us is Pythias, and what is your name anyway?”

“My name is Larry Lee. And I’d like you to listen to a piece of music.”

“Always glad to oblige a friend, friend,” Malone said. “I hope it’s By Killarney’s Lakes and Dells.” He whistled a bar of it. While whistling he stole a glance at Larry Lee. The handsome young orchestra leader looked as if he had just left a haunted house.

“We can’t talk here,” Larry Lee said hoarsely.

Malone was about to suggest the Public Library when Joe the Angel tactfully indicated the back room. Malone allowed himself to be navigated into one of its booths. A moment later Joe the Angel arrived with a tray, slid a big cup in front of Malone, a glass in front of Larry Lee, and said, “One cuppa coffee, Mister, and Malone he’s sober like a dead judge.”

Malone lifted the cup gingerly. It contained straight rye. He wondered what was in Larry Lee’s glass.

Larry Lee said, “Do you know a song called Good-bye Forever?”

Joe the Angel, not noticing that the question had been addressed to Malone, squared off like a basso about to boot the prompter up into the balcony and kicked off. His voice shivered Malone’s teacup.

The famous Larry Lee moaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Terribly afraid.” He emptied his glass and said, “I think I’ve killed somebody.”

“Happens all the time,” the little lawyer said sympathetically. “Good thing you came to me.” He shoved the empty glass and cup at Joe the Angel and said, “You better refill these,” then added, “and don’t sing.”

“He isn’t dead,” Larry Lee said, “but that song—”

Malone nodded. “Good-bye Forever by a guy named Tosti. No good for quartet singing unless your tenor has a broken heart and a good beginning on tomorrow’s hangover.”

The replacements arrived fast, and went down faster. Larry Lee shoved a bill at Joe the Angel and said, “I’m due at the broadcast. I hope you’ll come with me, Mr. Malone. My car’s right outside.”

‘Sure,” Malone said. “Anything for a pal, pal.” He allowed himself to be led through the bar, across the sidewalk, and into the car, which moved gently forward with a sound like a contented cat.

“Studio,” Larry Lee said.

Malone leaned back against the custom-made cushions and prepared to listen. He began to wonder if this was a press-agent gag that Betty Castle had dreamed up.

“There’s a stupid superstition among some musicians,” Larry Lee said, his face pale in the shadows, “that—that song—or any part of it—and especially those first four notes—can never be played in a radio broadcast without some—well, some terrible disaster happening immediately.”

“An earthquake?” Malone said hopefully. “We’ve had everything else in Chicago.”

‘This isn’t funny, Mr. Malone,” Larry Lee said, in a voice that was entirely too calm. “It means—death.”

The car turned right into Wacker Drive. Larry Lee laughed nervously.

“I don’t believe in superstitions myself,” he said. “No intelligent person does.”

Malone crossed his fingers behind his back and said, “Of course not.”

Larry Lee looked at his watch. “I’d better tell you this fast. I have a new song coming out. Looks like—a hit. Mr. Malone, I don’t need to tell you what that means to me—as far as money is concerned.”

“I’d rather guess,” Malone said, “and I don’t handle income tax matters.”

“The name of the song,” Larry Lee said, “is—Kiss Me Good-bye Again. We’re featuring it in tonight’s show. I worked up a special arrangement, using Tosti’s Good-bye. The boys in the band refused to play it—even to rehearse it. Especially Art Sample. He’s a nervous guy anyhow. All clarinet players are nervous and he’s the best in the business. Both ways. And superstitious—”

“I know,” Malone said sympathetically. “He wouldn’t walk under a black cat if a ladder crossed his path.”

Larry Lee said, “Mr. Malone, I’m an even-tempered man. But once in a while I don’t like to be exed up. Crossed, that is. Especially by the boys in my own band.”

The wind from Lake Michigan became frighteningly cool.

“I wrote another arrangement,” Larry Lee said. “It was a a last-minute job. On purpose. Too late to rehearse. Art Sample may be the top clarinet player in the country, but me, I’m the top arranger. I worked in those four notes from Tosti’s Good-bye so skillfully that nobody—nobody—would know what he was playing until he’d already played it. And that especially goes for Art Sample.”

Malone started to whistle the four notes, caught himself just in time, and said, “It couldn’t be such a bad arrangement that you had to have a lawyer along.”

His companion managed a nervous laugh. “Understand, Malone. Building a band is like building a house. Every brick, every stone, every timber has got to be in exactly the right place. If one of them should slip, the whole building would fall. See? That’s why I’ve taken out such heavy insurance on all the boys.”

“Anything particular you expect to happen to any one of the boys in the band?” Malonet asked as casually as he could.

“No! No, no, no!” Larry Lee buried his face in his slender, beautiful hands. “But if something should happen because of my stubborn insistence about—getting in those four notes of music—I’d be a murderer!” He managed what Malone suspected was a well-rehearsed sob, looked up quickly, and said, “I’m sorry to bother you with all this. But if you don’t mind coming to the broadcast, and watching it from the control room—”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” Malone assured him, “from a flagpole on Mars.” He wondered what kind of a legal fee he should charge for services like these.

Seventeen minutes later, in the steaming glass box of the control room, Malone decided the fee would have to be a large one. A last spasm of rehearsal sent people milling around the studio, loping earnestly in and out of the control room. The ones who had the bewildered look were, Malone suspected, relatives of Larry Lee’s sponsor.

The others joked and laughed, but their eyes weren’t in it. Underneath the chatter and the buzzing Malone sensed a kind of silent terror, rising and trembling like the pointer on a pressure gauge. Now and then words and phrases bounced back from the plate-glass wall. “—I hear they’re picking him up for another twenty-six weeks—” Then a sound engineer began to swear methodically at a telephone, a pencil dropped noiselessly to the floor, a female voice shrilled, “Well, if she hasn’t sense enough to see that—” Always there was the overtone of the control-room engineer quietly swearing at sounds that never came just right.

Then there was silence. The red hand of the clock began its last warning circle. Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. A blast of laughter from the preceding program. Ten seconds, and the red hand still moving.

Malone wished he were anywhere else in the world.

A sweet ruffle of violins, and the program was on the air. For a few moments, Malone didn’t seem to hear anything. Then he began to feel the quietness in the hot little control room. It was quiet, but too uneasy to be that quiet. There was something in the performance coming over the loudspeaker that he didn’t quite like. And then Larry Lee’s band swung into the song he had been waiting for.

Good-bye Forever. A heartbreaking eternal good-bye from beyond the grave.…

A cold little hand slipped into his. Malone turned and saw a very frail blonde girl who looked at him from behind terrified eyes.

“Mr. Malone,” she whispered, “please don’t let anything happen to him. He—”

Malone resisted an impulse to put his arm around her. Instead, he patted her hand and said, in his best cellside manner, “My dear girl, there’s nothing to worry about!”

He didn’t know her from Eve’s other apple, and he didn’t have the faintest idea who he was, but with all his heart he hoped that what he had told her was true. Maybe because of the way she looked. A little like a pale yellow moonbeam. Soft, fair hair that looked as though it would curl endearingly around his finger, wide eyes that promised to turn violet at any moment.

Suddenly he remembered who she was. Mrs. Larry Lee. The wife Larry Lee’s smart little press agent, Betty Castle, kept under wraps. Because five million bobbysoxers would secede from their union if they knew that America’s Number One glamor boy had a kitchen with a wife in it.

All at once the music caught up with them. He watched the band through the plate-glass window.

Two clarinet players rose. They might have been any two clarinet players in any band in the world. One of them was short, squat, oily-haired. The other was tall, blond and slender. Somehow, the microphone managed to match them up for size.

Those four notes, that had been so skillfully hidden in the orchestration that no one would know what he was playing, until he had played it—

“Good-bye—forever—”

The high, fluting notes were almost a pain in Malone’s ears. For just one moment, he closed his eyes. He heard one of the control-room engineers mutter something that might have been a prayer, but probably wasn’t. Then he looked into the studio.

The black and silver clarinet slipped from the hands of Art Sample as though it were a discarded toy. For one instant his eyes were wide with something like surprise. Then slowly, terribly slowly, he crumpled to the floor.

Larry Lee’s frantic signaling to the orchestra for more volume was of no use. The sounds of the instruments died out, one by one. First the bass player, then the brasses, then the woodwinds and strings, and at last the pianist, one hand suspended in the middle of a rolling chord.

Technicians in the control room did frantic things with push buttons and telephones. Music on the network began again, but not from Studio B, where Larry Lee stood as still as though he’d been left over-night in a deep freeze, where the musicians were silent, and where Art Sample lay on the floor, his clarinet-six inches away from his head.

Nobody moved. It was as though everyone had forgotten how to move. Even the page boy stood still. The flawless mechanism of the network didn’t have any rules or procedures to cover situations like this one.

Then suddenly everybody started at once, and Malone moved first. He shoved Mrs. Lee away from his shoulder, shook the page boy into something remotely resembling consciousness, and said, “Which door leads into the studio?”

Automatically, the page boy said, “You can’t go in there, sir.”

“Prove it,” Malone said. He picked what he hoped was the right door and shoved it open.

In the studio, life stood still. It was as though everybody had expected this, and now that it had happened, everybody stopped like figures on the screen when the projector goes dead. A stranger walking in would have thought everyone in the place had been stuffed and mounted, and looking as un-lifelike as art could make them.

Suddenly everybody started to move at once, and again Malone moved first. Nina Shields, the vocalist whose voice was almost as well known from coast to coast as her face and figure, was frantically demanding that someone call a doctor. Jack Shields, her big-time gambler-husband who insisted on accompanying her to every broadcast, was looking around for a target for the temper he was about to lose. Betty Castle had the bright idea of bringing Art a Dixie cup of water and pouring it into his mouth. Larry Lee, remembering first aid from two years with the Boy Scouts and one as a lifeguard, started to turn Art Sample over and was about to apply artificial respiration, while telling his hysterical wife to shut up, when Malone reached the group.

“Stand back,” Malone said. “Once a man is dead, the police protect him right down to his last collar button.”

Someone said, “Police?” in a shocked voice.

“Right,” Malone said. “I’m calling them right now. Because the murdered man was my client.”

Von Flanagan was angry. That, in itself, was nothing new. The big red-faced police officer was angry most of the time, usually at people who were inconsiderate enough to commit murders, for the purpose, he believed, of creating more work for him. He said indignantly, “A guy drops dead in a radio studio and you have to holler for homicide.”

“You still don’t know what killed him,” Malone said. He waved to Joe the Angel for two more beers and hummed a bar of Good-bye Forever.

There was an uncomfortable silence until the beers arrived. Joe put them down and said, “It could of happened that way. I knew a fella once—”

“Go away,” Malone said unhappily.

After another, and longer silence, von Flanagan snorted indignantly. “Dog whistles!”

Malone pulled himself together, stared at the police officer, and said, “Have you been getting enough rest lately? Taking vitamins?”

“Dog whistles,” von Flanagan repeated, ignoring him. “I read about it. You can’t hear ’em, I can’t hear ’em. Because they’re too high up. They sound too high up, I mean. But the dog can hear em because he’s got a different kind of ear.”

The little lawyer nodded. “A sound—so high-pitched—or low-pitched—or something—that it would kill anyone hearing it. It could be possible—”

“With a clarinet, anything is possible,” von Flanagan assured him. “My brother-in-law Albert—”

“Another time,” Malone said. He scowled. “But why wouldn’t everybody hearing it drop dead, not just the clarinet player?”

Von Flanagan didn’t answer that one. He finished his beer and said, “But you can’t expect me to believe that just because four notes of a song—” He broke off, looked up, and said brightly, “Oh, hello!”

The moonbeam blonde, still pale and frightened, clung to Larry Lee’s arm. Malone suspected she’d been crying. If her eyes had been close to violet before, fear had deepened them to purple.

Larry Lee dismissed her with “My wife, Lorna,” and waved her to a chair. Malone considered punching the band leader in the nose for treating her so casually, then changed his mind. Not only was Larry Lee a potential client, but he was a lot bigger than Malone.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Larry Lee said. He signaled to Joe the Angel for replacements.

Malone, having already switched from rye to beer, decided it was time to switch from beer to gin.

“A terrible thing,” Larry Lee said.

“About what you expected to happen?” Malone asked.

The orchestra leader shuddered. “I didn’t really expect anything. That business with the music—”

“I suspected it was a press-agent gag all along,” Malone said. “But to make it really good—why me? You should have had a doctor in the control room instead.”

“We couldn’t think of one who would—” Larry Lee paused, and said, “Betty Castle said a lawyer would do just as well, and she suggested you.”

“Nice of her,” Malone murmured. He wondered who was going to pay his fee.

“And of course, nobody had any idea anything—” Larry Lee paused again, lit a cigarette, and went on, “Lorna said that you said something about Art Sample being your client.”

Malone glanced briefly at Mrs. Larry Lee. “It was something about the ownership of a song. He was in to see me for a few minutes, but he didn’t have time to go into details.” He thought Larry Lee looked relieved. He got back to the original subject with, “You just said—‘nobody had any idea.’ In other words, everybody was in on the gag?”

Larry Lee nodded. “I knew I could trust everybody in the show.”

“You should have trusted at least one of them not to drop dead,” Malone said.

“Mr. Malone, there is such a superstition,” Larry Lee said. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another. “But I simply can’t believe that just because we played four notes from Tosti’s Good-bye—”

“Dog whistles—” von Flanagan began.

Malone kicked him under the table and said quietly, “It’s about time somebody found out what actually did kill him.”

Von Flanagan rose, gave him what was probably the dirtiest look in a lifetime of dirty looks, and said, “I’ll phone and find out if there’s been any report yet.”

Lorna Lee had been doing things to her hair and makeup. The result would have been good on anyone, but on her it was terrific. She smiled a little shakily at Malone and said, “I suppose you think we’re heartless, but Larry believes in carrying on as usual. We’d planned to go to the Pump Room after the show, and we’d love to have you join us—”

“You couldn’t keep me away with an injunction,” Malone assured her with his best non-professional smile. If Larry Lee was going to be coy about fees for legal services, at least he was going to have to pay for some very expensive drinks.

Von Flanagan came back from the phone booth, his broad face an ominous scarlet. “He was murdered,” he growled, as though the fact were a personal affront. “Poison.” He glared at them all and added, “Aconite.”

“Well, at least,” Malone said, after the long silence that followed, “it wasn’t dog whistles. Or a song.” He glanced at Larry Lee. “Or an arrangement of a song.”

Maggie looked up coldly and disapprovingly as Malone walked into the office. “It’s after eleven,” she announced. “The landlord has been strolling up and down the hall twirling a padlock. You look as if you had a hangover. And three women have called to make appointments with you.”

“I know what time it is,” Malone said amiably, “and the hangover can be considered a legal fee well earned. Who are the women?”

“Betty Castle, Nina Shields and Lorna Lee. Malone, what did happen to that musician last night?”

“I lost him as a client,” Malone said, “and von Flanagan has him as a problem.” He relit his cigar and added, “And we both have him as a headache.”

He went on into his private office and considered the advisability of taking an aspirin tablet. No, he decided, the butterflies in his stomach would probably start playing ping-pong with it. He finally settled for an inch and a half of gin from the bottle in the file drawer marked Confidential.

It was regrettable, he reflected, that he knew so little about his late client. Only that he had been a nervous, superstitious, and very handsome young man who played the clarinet, had written some songs, according to his story, and was dead.

He was still wondering about him when Betty Castle walked in, sat down in the exact center of the big leather couch, and planted her tiny feet as solidly on the floor as if she were waiting for an earthquake. Malone smiled at her reassuringly and tried to picture her without the glasses, with a different hair-do, and wearing make-up, plus something specially good in the way of a wardrobe. Right now she reminded him of a particularly inconspicuous mouse.

“I’m his widow,” she stated, without preliminaries.

Malone caught his breath and said, “Would you say that again?”

“Art Sample’s widow.” Suddenly she began to cry, not helplessly nor attractively, but like a bad-mannered and furious child. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know what I can do about it now,” Malone said. It seemed to him that the conversation was getting a little ahead of him.

“We’d been married almost a year.” She sniffled and went on. “I didn’t mind it being kept a secret. In his job, his being attractive to women was important. You know what I mean.”

“If I don’t,” Malone said, “I can ask the little birds to tell me.” He added, “Stop crying.”

She blew her nose and obeyed. “Art introduced me to Larry Lee, and that’s how I got the press-agent job. I’m good at it, too.”

“I bet you are,” Malone said, looking at her thoughtfully. “And I bet you were behind his playing that particular clarinet phrase.”

“Art was the best clarinet player since—” she paused. “But it wasn’t the music that killed him.” Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she fumbled inside her purse.

This time Malone said, “My poor, dear girl!” and whipped out one of the clean handkerchiefs he kept for just such emergencies. He wondered if she could afford a lawyer even more than he wondered why she needed one. He crooned reassuringly, “It isn’t true that the police automatically suspect the widow first.”

“They couldn’t suspect me!” Betty Castle said. “And nobody knows we were married. Not even Larry Lee. No, that isn’t why I came to see you.”

Malone sighed. “Well—?”

“It’s about the money,” she said. “From the songs everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote. You see, they aren’t Larry Lee’s at all. They were Art’s.”

“You mean your husband wrote them?” Malone asked.

She nodded. “All of them. Words and music. He didn’t know they were going to be hits. He got a bang, a kick, that’s all, out of hearing the band play them. But when they did make a lot of money, Larry Lee kept stalling, putting off settling with him. That’s why Art came to you. To find out how he could prove he’d written them. And now it’s too late. Or—is it?”

While Malone was straining for an answer, the door flew open and Larry Lee stormed in. Over his shoulder, Malone could see Maggie’s face signaling. “Don’t blame me!”

Larry Lee began, “I came right in because—” He saw Betty Castle and paused. Instead of, “What are you doing here?” he said, “Where have you been all day?”

“I’ve been home,” she said. “I went straight home last night, right after the police let us all go. Mother gave me a sleeping pill. It was—terribly upsetting—”

“Me too, I’m pretty upset,” Larry Lee said. “The papers aren’t giving me the breaks they should. Which is what I pay you for.” His eyes softened suddenly, and he said, “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a picnic for any of us.”

“I think the man wants you to take the day off, Betty” Malone said.

She shook her head. “I’m all right now.” She looked at Larry Lee like a small dog seeing his first bone. Malone wondered if she’d ever looked at Art Sample that way. “I haven’t even seen the papers. I just stayed home and tried not to think about it.”

“Malone,” Larry Lee said abruptly, “I want to talk with you—” He glanced at Betty Castle, paused a moment, and said, “Betty might as well hear it, I know I can trust her. It’s about the songs.”

“Songs, songs?” Malone said innocently.

“He wrote ’em,” Larry Lee said. He went on to tell essentially the same story Betty had told a moment before. But he added, “I wanted to work out a settlement with him. Some arrangement that would be fair to both of us. The main thing was—you can’t let the public down. They looked on me as a band leader and a singer and a songwriter. But by rights, all the money was Art’s. Only now, it’s too late.”

Malone asked quickly, “What kind of money was involved?”

“Enough. Enough to be a motive for murder.” Larry Lee looked grim. “The police found out about it, and they want to question me again. That’s why I came to you first.” He went on, fast, “About your retainer—”

Malone fingered the lone five dollar bill in his pocket and said magnificently, “We can discuss that later.” He rose and reached for his hat. “We can talk the rest over on the way to von Flanagan’s office. Remember, I’m your lawyer, and leave everything to me.” He smiled and said in a voice that just missed running for office, “Believe me, my boy, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

Von Flanagan said, “This guy Sample had a married sister somewhere in Iowa, and she wrote him asking for money. He wrote back about all these songs he’d written, and how everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote ’em. Soon as Larry Lee pays off to him, he says, he’ll send her some money. Today she hears about him being murdered, and right away she calls us and reads me his letter.” He glared at Larry Lee and said, “Well?”

“We can explain everything,” Malone said smoothly. He went on, fast, to repeat Larry Lee’s explanation, coloring it a little wherever he thought it would help. “Larry Lee was going to pay Art Sample the money, and he’d told him so.”

“Yeah,” von Flanagan said coldly, “but did Art Sample believe him?” He added, “Do I believe him? Furthermore, Sample was running around with Larry Lee’s wife.”

The tall band leader’s smile was almost a laugh. “She was like a sister to all the boys in the band. It didn’t mean a thing.”

Von Flanagan muttered something about motives.

“You’re forgetting something,” Malone said quickly. “Just how was Art Sample poisoned? Aconite acts fast. He didn’t eat or drink anything, or even smoke, just before he died.” He paused to light a fresh cigar. “As soon as you bright boys find out the answer to that one, let me know. Meantime, forget talking about motives, and quit bothering my client.”

“I’ve got enough on him now to hold him,” the big police officer growled, but without conviction.

“Do,” Malone said pleasantly, “and make yourself the most unpopular man in the world with the millions of fans who listen every week to Larry Lee.”

Back in his office, the little lawyer began to feel unhappy about the whole thing. Larry Lee did have a motive, several of them. The matter of the songs. The fragile Lorna Lee, with her moon-colored hair. Malone remembered her frantic whisper as the broadcast had begun.

Worse still, no one else seemed to have a motive.

But there was something else. How had Art Sample been given the poison? Malone closed his eyes and remembered everything that had happened in the studio from the moment the broadcast began to when the police allowed every-one to leave. Suddenly he reached for the phone and called von Flanagan.

“No, and it wasn’t on his handkerchief,” von Flanagan said, without preliminaries. “We tested it.”

Malone said, “The bright boys from your department were going over the general debris on the floor when we left. Would you mind reading me the list of what they found?”

“Yes,” von Flanagan said. “But hang on a minute.” Malone could hear his voice yelling, “Klutchetsky, come here and—” He put down the phone and called to Maggie to pick up the extension and grab her notebook.

Approximately two and a half minutes later, a polite voice said, “Mr. Malone? Here you are.” It droned on. “One hundred and thirty-eight cigarette butts, nineteen marked with lipstick; three pieces of Kleenex; nine pencils; twenty-two marked-up scripts; a lady’s handkerchief with the initial ‘N’; a copy of last Thursday’s Racing Form; seven empty cigarette packages; and three sheets of music.”

Von Flanagan’s voice cut in, “And we’ve already tested them all. With no results. Including the Racing Form.”

“Too bad,” Malone said. “You might have found another motive.” He hung up.

Maggie came in and said, “I got it all down. One hundred and thirty-eight cigarette butts, nineteen—”

“Never mind,” Malone said. “Just go away.”

He knew now it wasn’t something he remembered, but something he’d forgotten.

His unhappiness deepened in intensity. Even looking at Nina Shields, the lovely singer with Larry Lee’s band, when she arrived, failed to lighten his mood. He decided that another quickly administered shot of gin would do the trick, and poured one for his client while he was about it.

“Thanks, Malone,” she said in the deep, purring voice that made her listeners purr right along with her. “What are you going to do about our murder?”

Malone jumped, and said, “Our?”

Nina Shields nodded. “I was going to marry the corpse. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to be a corpse.” She got her drink down in a gulp.

Malone swallowed a gasp as fast as she had swallowed the gin. “Your husband,” he began, paused, and said, “I’ve heard a rumor there’s a law against bigamy.”

“I’ve heard of it too,” she said quietly. Almost too quietly. “Art was getting hold of some money that was due him. I don’t know where from, but it was a lot, he said. We’d fly to Mexico, I’d get a divorce from Jack, and we’d be married right away.”

The little lawyer considered telling her that Art might have to figure in some divorce plans of his own, and decided against it.

“You know Jack,” she said. “He’s jealous, and he’s got a violent temper. But he gets over it fast. As soon as he calmed down, he’d think it over. Chances are, he’d send us a telegram of congratulations.”

Malone nodded. He did know the big-time gambler, and he would have bet that Nina was right.

“But now,” she said, “now—” She buried her face in her hands.

Malone decided these tears needed personal comforting, and immediately. He sat down on the arm of the couch, put what he considered a strictly fraternal arm around her, whipped out his handkerchief, and began the comforting. He became so engrossed that he failed to notice a commotion in his outer office, and only looked up when his door was suddenly and violently opened.

Jack Shields began with a string of phrases, the most polite of which referred to Malone’s immediate ancestry. The little lawyer jumped to his feet. He vaguely heard a few more phrases before he had a definite feeling that the latest thing in bombs had just been exploded inside his mouth.

He blinked himself to consciousness, sitting on the floor. Not only did he have the feeling that most of his teeth were protruding from the back of his neck but, far worse, his dignity had taken a well-nigh fatal blow.”

“And what’s more,” the gambler said, “the same thing goes for your clients.” He went on about Art Sample, and obviously no one had ever mentioned to him the impropriety of speaking ill of the dead. “I know he planned to run away with my wife,” he said, “but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.” He put an arm around Nina. “Let’s get out of here, darling.”

Lorna Lee was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide. Jack Shields smiled at her in passing and said, “Good afternoon!” as pleasantly as though he’d never knocked down a lawyer in his life.

“He hit you!” Lorna Lee gasped.

Malone nodded and struggled to his feet.

“Did he hurt you?”

Malone shook his head. After a minute he tried speech, a little experimentally. “My toose ith looth.”

Lorna Lee touched his tooth with her tiny, pearly fingers, and said, “Oh dear, it is! You’d better go to a dentist right away.”

Malone said, “No sanks.” He hoped he didn’t sound ungrateful. It wasn’t every day he was offered the touch of a comforting hand, especially a hand that reminded him vaguely of a snowflake drifting in a gentle wind.

He allowed himself to be steered to the office couch, and lulled himself into slumber by listening to the voices of Maggie and Lorna Lee arguing over the comparative virtues of ice-packs and hot-water bottles.

What was it he had to remember? He felt close to it now. But sleep was closer.

A cold wet rag slapped him in the face, and Maggie said, “Malone. Malone. Wake up!”

“Snowflakes,” Malone mumbled, “in an early spring wind.” He sat up suddenly and said, “What?”

“Malone, Larry Lee just called. Last night’s show has got to be done all over again. This time, for a recording. He’s got a new clarinet player, to play what Art Sample played last night. And he wants you to be there.” She slapped him again with the wet rag and said, “Same studio, two hours and fifteen minutes from now.”

The little lawyer rose shakily to his feet and said, “Phone him I’ll be there. And meantime, what is the name of that joint on Wabash Avenue where musicians hang out in their spare time? And phone Joe the Angel for a quick hundred-buck loan.” As she headed towards the door, he called out, “—and send down to the drug store for a bottle of toothache drops. All three of these are emergency calls.” He called out again, and louder, “But the first one is the important one.”

It was halfway through shaving, and waiting for Maggie to return, that he decided to call von Flanagan. Because, he knew now what he had forgotten.

Everything was just as it had been the night before. Again the last spasm of rehearsal was going on. There was one exception—that one of the clarinet players was stocky and red-haired, instead of tall and blond. People were milling around in the studio and in the control room. Jack Shields was there and gave Malone a smile that was completely cordial and completely without apology. Malone measured his height and weight and decided that to forgive was not only divine but, in this case, human. Von Flanagan was standing in a corner trying to look as though he had just strayed in to get out of a rainstorm.

Then the sudden silence, and the red hand of the clock describing its last warning circle.

Once again Malone wished he were anywhere else in the world. Then at last it began—the song of Good-bye, of heartbreaking eternal good-bye. Malone didn’t feel his blood run cold, he felt it turn to something moving as fast as the second-place winner at the Indianapolis race track. He turned to Lorna Lee.

“What did you want to see me about?” he asked her in what he hoped was a whisper.

“The insurance,” she whispered back. “Larry Lee had fifty thousand on each of the boys in the band. If it turned out that Larry had murdered him, would he still get the money—and if Larry—I mean, would I—”

Before she could go on, the music swept towards the four notes everyone had been waiting to hear. Malone went on looking at her for a moment. A snowflake. The first pale flower of April, pushing its way upward through the melting snow.

Then the music pulled his gaze into the studio. He didn’t like what was going to happen, what he was going to have to do.

Four notes—so carefully hidden in the skillfully designed orchestration that no one would know, until—

“Good-bye—forever—”

The red-haired, stocky clarinet player dropped his instrument as though it had bitten him. Then he slumped to the floor like an expiring toy balloon.

Once more, everything stopped.

This time it was von Flanagan who moved first. He said, “So that’s how it was done. Aconite on the reed of his clarinet.”

“No,” Malone said quickly, “that wasn’t how it was done. Right now, stay put, and don’t talk.” He grabbed von Flanagan’s arm and said, “If the guy is dead, hang me. But this is the only way I could prove what happened.”

Again there was the sudden rush of people towards the fallen clarinet player. Jack Shields, who had shoved his way into the studio, threw a protective arm around his wife and demanded loudly that someone call the inhalator squad. Betty Castle ran forward, then paused, her homely little face dazed and bewildered. Lorna Lee burst into tears. Someone called for water. There didn’t seem to be any water available, unless someone took the time to drill a well. Larry Lee moved in, the first-aid look back in his eyes.

Malone nodded to von Flanagan, and walked into the studio. He laid one hand on Larry Lee’s arm and said, “Sorry your recording was spoiled. But you’ll probably get a better performance next time, when everyone isn’t worried about who is the murderer.” He took a few steps more and said, “All right, Buck, you can get up now. It was a magnificent performance.”

If anyone had dropped a pin while the red-haired clarinet player rose to his feet, it would have smashed every seismograph on Mars.

“If you’d been really smart,” Malone said, “you’d have carried an extra Dixie cup to drop on the floor, to account for the one you carried away with you—the one you had to carry away with you because it had traces of aconite.”

He paused for a moment. He was really tired now.

“You knew that with Art Sample dead, Larry Lee would just quietly keep the royalties from the songs,” the little lawyer went on relentlessly. “You wanted the money—and Larry Lee. You were confident that Larry Lee would get a divorce and marry you. You knew that in a pinch you could blackmail him because of the songs.”

He hated to go on, but he had to. He avoided looking at Larry Lee, and wished that Lorna Lee were deaf.

“You knew that he’d grown sick of beautiful faces the way a man can get sick of chocolate éclairs.”

Betty Castle had been like solid stone, now she exploded in a flaming rage, aimed at Lorna Lee. Malone caught a few words, the kindest of which was “tramp,” and the most definite “—all the boys in the band.” Lorna Lee exploded right back at her, and the words Malone caught from her surprised even him. Snowflake, he thought. Spring flower. He said, “Shut up, both of you.”

Von Flanagan had come into the studio. He said, “But—Good-bye Forever—” He stopped just short of adding, “Dog whistles.”

“It worked in perfectly,” Malone told him. “She killed him after he was supposed to be dead. Isn’t that right, Betty?”

She smiled at him wanly. “It was a good try, anyway.” She looked at Larry Lee and her eyes said, “I’m sorry for everything.” She looked at Lorna Lee and her lips moved silently around a very unpleasant word. Then she walked over to von Flanagan without a tremor.

Malone rushed over to her and said, “Don’t forget, I’m your lawyer. Let me do the talking for you. Don’t say a word, and don’t sign anything.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Remember, my dear, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

“But how did you know?” von Flanagan said, hours later.

“Because there wasn’t a clue,” Malone said. He waved at Joe the Angel for two more beers. “I had the motive—in fact, I had a motive for everybody. When I slipped that red-haired clarinet player a hundred bucks to pull a phony faint, I was slipping a slug in a slot machine, as far as I knew.” He reached in his pocket to finger the retainer check Larry Lee had given him.

“It paid off,” von Flanagan said wearily.

“She knew he was nervous, she knew he was superstitious,” Malone went on. “She talked Larry Lee into pulling this stunt as a press-agent gag, and made sure everybody in the band, or connected with it, knew all about it. Then she worked Art Sample into such a state that he was bound to collapse in the studio.”

He relit his cigar and said, “He fainted—she counted on that. Someone rushing up with a Dixie cup of water was the instinctive thing no one would even notice. But there wasn’t an empty Dixie cup among the odds and ends your boys picked up from the floor!”

Malone buried his face in his hands for a moment. He was seeing Betty Castle’s straight little back when she’d walked over to the police officer and said, “Okay.”

“Don’t worry,” von Flanagan said. “After all, she’s got a good lawyer.”

But Malone was thinking of something else. He was seeing Art Sample again, his handsome young face as he reached for that one high note on the clarinet, and he was hearing a melody.

“It never pays to be a ghost,” Malone said. He stared into the circle left by his upraised glass. “To ghost anything. You’re dead before you can even start.”

AND THE BIRDS STILL SING

The hands of the clock in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar had moved to where they looked like a cartoonist’s idea of Oriental eyebrows. The customers had dwindled down to a janitor from the City Hall, a pair of slightly drunken reporters from the Tribune, an anonymous drunk who had just wandered in, and John J. Malone, Chicago’s most famous (and at the moment, most disheveled and disconsolate) criminal lawyer.

It was with John J. Malone that Joe the Angel was having the argument. It was an old, familiar argument, and nobody was paying any attention.

“Always I am your friend,” Joe the Angel said. “But is it my fault you spend your money on women, and you do not have enough to pay your bar bill?”

“It’s only thirty-two dollars,” Malone said in righteous indignation.

“Malone,” Joe said tearfully. “I am a poor man.” He went on into details of his mother-in-law’s recent operation, his cousin’s traffic ticket, the mortgage payments on his brother’s undertaking parlor, and similar grim details until, carried away by his own eloquence, he automatically poured Malone a drink.

Malone downed it fast, before Joe could change his mind, and said gloomily, “Only thirty-two dollars. And besides, the girl hocked the bracelet and spent the money on another guy.”

“Serve you right,” Joe the Angel said, polishing a glass. He stared at Malone and decided it would take more than a diamond bracelet. The little lawyer was a not-handsome ruin. His expensive Finchley suit looked as though Malone had been sleeping under the seats of a west-side streetcar. But, of course, Malone’s suits always looked like that. His Sulka tie had somehow got under his ear. And there was a slight suggestion of a mouse under one eye, a leftover from the night before last’s poker game.

“Some day,” Malone said, “some woman will spend money on me.”

“I doubt it,” Joe the Angel said sorrowfully.

He was never so wrong in his life. It was just about then that the blonde came in. Even the City Hall janitor lifted his head to look. Her hair was the color of dyed sunlight, her mascaraed eyes were the color of a bottomless lake in a cheap postcard, her mouth was like a recently washed strawberry. She wore enough mink to line a bathtub.

She flashed about one thousand two hundred dollars worth of white teeth at Joe the Angel and asked for John J. Malone.

For once Joe the Angel was speechless. He merely pointed.

She slid onto the bar stool next to Malone, smiled at him and said, “Hello, Mr. Malone. I’m Mona Trent. May I buy you a drink?”

Malone was about to say gallantly, “No, but may I buy you a drink?” when Joe beat him to the draw by setting out glasses and saying, “What will you have, Malone?”

The drink was down, and a second one ordered before she said, “Mr. Malone, I need your help. A friend of mine—I’d rather not mention his name—recommended you, and said I might find you here.”

“If it’s a traffic ticket—” Malone began.

“It’s something far more serious.”

Malone took another look at her, and realized she was frightened, badly frightened.

“I can’t talk to you here,” she said very quietly, “and I’ve got to leave here alone.” She gave him that smile again. “Can you come up to my apartment at ten tomorrow morning?” Without waiting for him to answer, she wrote down the address and handed it to him.

“Ten,” Malone said, tucking the card in his pocket. “But—”

“Tomorrow,” she said firmly. She beamed at Joe the Angel and said, “The check, please.”

“That will be thirty-two dollars,” Joe said, without blinking.

A half-minute later she pulled two twenty dollar bills from her purse, tossed them on the counter, and said, “Keep the change.” Then she turned to Malone and added, “Consider this a down payment on what I want you to do for me.”

Before he could catch his breath, she was gone.

Five minutes later, Malone said, “Joe, I too am an honest man. There is eight dollars change coming. All I want is half of it.” He stuffed the four dollars in his vest pocket, paused halfway to the door, and said, “There’s an all-night poker game going on at the Atlantis. If you’ll lend me that other four—”

There were times, Joe the Angel reflected, after the little lawyer had gone, when he wondered why he even bothered about Malone.

It was a cold and very dreary morning when Malone arrived at the apartment on Chicago’s near-north side. The poker game hadn’t gone too well, there had been other complications, and it had all ended up with his owing Joe the Angel four dollars and having just enough left for two short taxi rides. And on top of everything else, it was raining—a cold, dismal February rain.

He consoled himself with the reminder that he had a client—and what a client! The little lawyer closed his eyes and thought about Mona Trent.

Furthermore, he’d managed to borrow thirty-two dollars from Maggie, his long-suffering secretary, and he had planned and rehearsed a magnificent gesture of returning it to Mona. She, of course, would offer him a handsome retainer for whatever she wanted him to do. Given just the right poker game, he could easily run that retainer into important money. Then there would be another magnificent gesture when he returned the retainer to her, along with a well-chosen present.

It was a wonderful dream.

In a moment of utter madness he tipped the cab-driver fifty cents, and regretted it immediately.

The sight of the building in which she lived raised his spirits a good inch and a half. It was in a block of houses once built by multi-millionaires, later inhabited by mere millionaires, finally turned into apartments rented by semi-millionaires, and eventually taken over by just plain citizens who could afford that much rent.

The maid who opened the door was just a shade less gorgeous than Mona herself. Malone began thinking about a suitable present for her, and reflected that her French accent was so flawless that she must be the product of a high-class dramatic school.

“Mees Trent ees een zhe leeving room. Zhall I eentrodooce you?”

“I’d rather surprise her,” Malone said.

But it was Mona Trent who surprised him.

The French accent slipped off the lovely little maid like a hunk of butter sliding off a hot pancake. She said, “What the heck goes on here?”

Malone paused for just one minute in the doorway. It was daytime, but the lights were on and the shades were all drawn. He looked at Mona Trent and had the momentary sensation of just having swallowed an ice-cube, complete with all four corners.

She was sitting in a big chair near the window, and the coat for which an untold number of mink had lived and died was tossed carelessly on the nearby sofa. There was a neat little bullet hole in her forehead, and she was as dead as yesterday’s newspapers.

“She’s dead, isn’t she!” the maid whispered just back of Malone’s left ear. Almost automatically she pulled up the window shades.

“If she isn’t,” Malone said grimly, “the coroner is going to be the most surprised man in the state of Illinois. Now, where is the phone?”

“I’m a citizen and a taxpayer, and I know my rights,” Malone said indignantly. “Look, von Flanagan, it isn’t every day I get a client like this, and you let her get killed.”

Captain von Flanagan of Homicide stared glumly at the mirror over Joe the Angel’s bar and said nothing. It was an eloquently profane silence.

“The least you can do,” Malone went on relentlessly, “is to find the murderer and recommend me as defense lawyer.”

“Find the murderer,” von Flanagan said. He sighed deeply.

The Medical Examiner’s report had been that Mona Trent had been killed by a .22 caliber rifle bullet penetrating the brain. The time? Probably around five in the morning.

Malone scowled at his beer and said, “A fine, efficient police department! People in the neighborhood reported hearing shots at five in the morning. A couple of dumb lugs in a squad car make a routine investigation and that’s all. When they could have probably picked up the murderer right in her apartment.”

“She was shot through the window,” von Flanagan reminded him.

“Just the same,” Malone said insistently, “they might have noticed someone carrying a rifle.”

The big police officer waved for more beer. “They made an arrest,” he said.

Malone snorted with indignation. “Sure. They pick up Louis Perino. Just because he’s a small-time racketeer. Then you smart cops find out he never heard of Mona Trent in his life, doesn’t own a .22 caliber rifle and probably wouldn’t know how to fire one, and you let him go.”

Joe the Angel poured two beers and said, “This is on the house. Louis Perino, he works for a big-shot gambler named Eddie Carter. Mona Trent, she used to be Eddie’s girl, and the boys say he didn’t like it when she quit him for some rich society guy.”

Malone and von Flanagan stared at Joe the Angel and then at each other. Von Flanagan lunged for the phone booth. Malone finished his beer and said, “Joe, sometimes I think you ought to be head of Homicide.”

“Well,” Maggie said acidly as Malone walked in his office, “I see you lost a client.”

Malone muttered something about not rubbing it in.

There was still, he reflected, the thirty-two dollars. But he had already decided to spend that on flowers for Mona’s funeral. Joe the Angel’s younger brother, who ran an undertaking parlor, could probably get them for him at a cut rate.

“Cheer up,” Maggie said. “You’ve got another client. A pair of them. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Cartwright. They’re waiting in your private office.”

Malone frowned at her. No client or prospective client was ever ushered into his private office without his presence and considerable ceremony.

“They didn’t look like the sort of people to be kept waiting in an anteroom,” Maggie said.

“Good girl,” Malone said approvingly. Maggie could smell money two miles off—three miles on a clear day.

He went in with his best professional smile and greeted them cordially. “So sorry to have kept you waiting!”

“Quite all right,” Paul Cartwright said. “You had no way of knowing we were here.”

Malone sat down behind his time-battered desk and quietly looked them over. He guessed Mrs. Cartwright would be in her early forties. Once, she must have been almost a beauty, in a thin, well-bred sort of way. Her hair was brown. Just plain hair-color, Malone described it to himself. Her eyes were an undistinguished blue, her skin on the pale side. Her obviously expensive suit was exactly what the well-dressed woman will wear to a lawyer’s office.

Her husband was a big man, gray-haired, deeply tanned. He looked as though he should have been posing for an advertisement, with a whiskey glass in his hand and a hunting dog asleep at his feet.

Mr. Malone,” Paul Cartwright said, “what is the penalty for shooting birds in the city of Chicago?”

Malone blushed. “I don’t think there is any,” he said, “and if there is, it ought to be repealed at once.” He detested birds.

A smile of relief crossed Mrs. Cartwright’s face.

“There, Leonora,” her husband said, “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“But I did worry,” she said. She turned to Malone. “I suffer terribly from insomnia. And for weeks the birds outside my window have been keeping me awake in the early morning. They start in chirping at the crack of dawn, and keep it up for hours. This morning, I was frantic and—I shot one of them.”

“You deserve a bounty,” Malone assured her.

The Cartwrights rose to go. Paul Cartwright murmured something polite about Malone’s bill. Malone gestured magnificently and said, “If you’ll leave your address with my secretary, I’ll have her send you a bill.”

The door had barely closed behind them when Maggie came in, her eyes blazing. “You could have collected it in cash!”

“These do not look like the type of people from whom one collects in cash,” Malone said.

She sniffed. “Here’s the latest edition of the newspapers. I paid for them with my own money. Just because I thought you’d be interested.” She slammed the door when she went out.

Malone looked thoughtfully at the headlines. Eddie Carter and Louis Perino had been picked up for questioning in connection with the murder of ex-show girl Mona Trent. After a minute or two, Malone picked up the phone and called von Flanagan.

“Tell Eddie Carter not to talk to anybody until I get there. And be sure to tell him I’m his lawyer. Oh, yes, you will! Do you want me to tell your wife about that time in the road-house near Wheaton—?” He hung up the phone with a smile.

The anteroom outside von Flanagan’s office was jampacked with reporters and photographers. They leaped at Malone like a pack of undernourished wolves spying a rabbit.

Malone said coyly, “I have no statement to make beyond the fact that Eddie Carter is my client and that he is innocent.” He paused, winked, and said, “And if you’d like to interview Eddie Carter in person, stick around until I open the door.”

As he walked into von Flanagan’s office, he heard the police officer saying “… it’s no use, Carter. Perino has talked.”

Malone slammed the door shut and said, “And just what did Perino say?”

“None of your business,” von Flanagan said. On a quick double-take he added, “Oh, all right. He admitted Carter, here, was paying him to hang around this babe’s apartment and—”

“Don’t call Mona no babe,” Eddie Carter snarled.

Eddie Carter had been a jockey, a good or bad many years ago, and he still looked like one—except that no jockey had ever been able to afford the clothes, jewelry, and checkbook that Eddie Carter had on his person.

He turned to Malone and said, “Unnerstand you’re defendin’ me, Malone. Damn good thing, too. On account of—”

“Perino’s confessed,” von Flanagan said, in the weary voice of one who had repeated the same words a hundred times.

“You’re a dirty liar,” Eddie Carter said.

“Just a minute,” Malone said. “I’m in charge here.” He took a cigar from his pocket, slid off the cellophane wrapper, and said to von Flanagan, “I trust you understand that there are a few things sacred between a lawyer and his client.”

Von Flanagan’s broad face turned purple. He clenched his teeth as though he were holding back words that would not be sacred under any circumstances. Finally he said, “Okay, Malone, you want to talk to him about the size of his retainer. I have to go to the barber shop anyway.” He left the office through his private door.

Eddie Carter said, “Honest t’Pete, Malone, I didn’t have nothin’ t’do wit’ it, but that crazy Perino”—he reached for his checkbook and said, “How much?”

“Use your own judgment,” Malone said, hoping for the best. “But here’s what I want you to do—”

Five minutes later he opened the door to the anteroom and said softly, “Okay, boys.”

Flashbulbs and questions popped simultaneously at Eddie Carter, who sat with his face buried in his hands. At last he looked up, his face wet, mopped at his cheeks with a handkerchief which had just made a quick trip to von Flanagan’s water cooler, and sobbed. “I’ll get d’guy who killed her if it takes d’rest of my life.”

He looked at the handkerchief, threw it on the floor, and said “Any a’you guys got sumpin I can blow my nose on?”

Malone whipped his own out fast and said, “Take it easy, Eddie.”

Eddie Carter blew his nose noisily, stood up, and said, “Okay, whatcha wanna know? I loved her. She was a wunnerful girl. Sure, I had Louie keep an eye on her. Why? Because I wanna know she’s happy, see? That’s all.”

He sank down in the chair again and buried his face in Malone’s handkerchief. More flash-bulbs popped. Inspired, Eddie decided to add a line of his own. He looked up and said, “Even if I had of wanted to kill her, I wouldn’t of done it.”

The mob rushed out. Buddy McHugh of the Herald-American paused long enough at the doorway to murmur to Malone, “If you ever get tired of being a lawyer, you ought to move to Hollywood. You’d be a great director!”

The door closed. Eddie Carter mopped his brow, handed Malone back his handkerchief, and said, “I hope I done all right. And here’s your dough.”

Malone said, “You did swell.” He looked at the figure on the check, and leaned against von Flanagan’s desk just in time to save himself from fainting.

And at that moment von Flanagan burst into the office, his red face beaming.

“Well, Mr. Carter, I guess you can go,” he said happily, “and you won’t need a lawyer. We’ve got a woman in here who has confessed to murdering Mona Trent. We’ve checked her story, and it’s absolutely foolproof. I’m sorry we’ve put you to so much trouble. Mr. Perino is waiting for you in the lobby, and we’ve ordered a car to drive you home.”

Malone finally caught his breath, and said hoarsely, “You realize, my client here can sue you for false arrest.”

“Forget it,” Eddie Carter said. “Y’just gimme d’check back.” He all but snatched it from Malone’s hands and was out of the office faster than a cat can climb a telephone pole.

It was a good two minutes before Malone was able to say, “At least, you might have waited to break the news until I’d had time to cash the check.” He threw the remains of his cigar inaccurately at the cuspidor, broke out a new one, and said, “At least, you might tell me who she is.” He lit the new cigar and added, “She probably needs a good defense lawyer.”

“I’m giving you a break,” von Flanagan said. “You’re going to meet her right now.”

The woman who was escorted through the door was Leonora Cartwright, very pale, and wearing exactly what the well-dressed woman will wear when confessing to murder.

Malone noticed with satisfaction that von Flanagan also rose as she came in the door. What was it Maggie had said? “Not the sort of people to be kept waiting—”

She acknowledged von Flanagan’s introduction with a very wan and very forced smile and said, “I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Malone.”

Then suddenly her well-bred self-assurance fell away from her, like a wrap handed to the maid at the door, and she said, “Oh, Mr. Malone, I’m sorry, so terribly sorry, that I lied to you today. You see, I knew that I had killed that—that Miss Trent.”

Von Flanagan’s politeness fell away even faster, and he roared at Malone, “You mean, this woman came to see you about this, and you didn’t tell me?”

“She came to see me,” Malone said, “about shooting a bird. So help me, until this minute, I had no idea she had anything to do with the case.” He smiled at her reassuringly and said, “Go ahead, you can say anything you want to, because you’re in the presence of your lawyer, and I’ll deny every word of it in court anyway.”

This time her smile was more wistful than wan. She said, “Part of it was true. About the birds, I mean.”

Malone looked at von Flanagan and said, “Call in a stenographer. My client, Mrs. Paul Cartwright, is about to dictate a confession, which, on my advice, she will sign.” He smiled at her while von Flanagan was busy on the intercom, and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve never lost a client yet.”

She looked at him the way a small child looks at a dream of Santa Claus.

She told the story just as she had told it to Malone a few hours before, but this time there were more details.

“I, Leonora Cartwright, make this confession of my own free will and—”

“Never mind the prelude,” Malone said, chewing savagely on his cigar. “The stenographer will fill that in. Just tell the story.”

“I’ve been suffering terribly from insomnia,” she said, in that lovely, limpid voice. “Especially just about daylight. That’s the time of day when one most wants to sleep. And those birds—” She paused, smiled, and said softly, “Sometimes it seemed as though they were talking. I could fit words to the sounds they made—”

“Look here, Malone,” von Flanagan roared, “if you’re trying to build up an insanity defense—”

“Shut up,” Malone said calmly. “Let her tell her story. I haven’t heard all of it yet, and I’d like to.” He smashed out his cigar, reached for another one, and said gently, “Go on, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“Last night was—particularly bad. There was a frightfully noisy party going on next door. Finally, I took a sleeping pill. I fell asleep, but the birds woke me, at dawn. I was—a little groggy, I think. You know how it is when you’ve taken a sleeping pill, and something wakes you. I was, honestly, frantic. I got up and woke Paul, and told him I was going to shoot those birds. He was pretty sleepy too—but he handed me the rifle and said, ‘Go ahead and shoot.’”

She paused and caught her breath. “I should have known better. And I’m a notoriously poor shot. I fired. Twice. And then I was frightened. Paul put the rifle away and helped me back to bed.”

Again she smiled, that wistful, almost childlike smile. “I slept, then,” she said.

After an almost unbearably long silence, the stenographer said, in a brisk, professional voice, “Yes, Mrs. Cartwright?”

“This morning,” Leonora Cartwright almost whispered, “I learned about—that—about Miss Trent. And I knew I’d killed her. That’s all.” She smiled at the stenographer and said, “I’ll sign that when it’s ready. And thank you.”

Von Flanagan said, “Yes, but how about your going to Malone’s office to establish the fact that you had been shooting at birds?”

“Paul thought it was wise. I realized later that it wasn’t. That’s why I came down here.”

Malone finished lighting his cigar and said, “See? The best you can do with this is accidental death.”

“The best I can do with this,” von Flanagan said coldly, “is first-degree murder.” He turned to Leonora Cartwright and said, “There are a few facts you left out of that so-called confession. One, Mona Trent was your husband’s—shall we say—friend? Two, he insisted on that particular apartment you lived in, because it was next door to Mona Trent’s—so he could not only visit her more conveniently but also watch her apartment through the windows, and make sure that she was—well, let’s say—behaving herself.”

Leonora Cartwright moaned, very softly.

Von Flanagan went on relentlessly, “Three, you bitterly resented the taking of that apartment, because you were insanely jealous of Mona Trent. And finally,” he gave Malone a triumphant look, “you discovered that at one time your husband had been married to Mona Trent, and there was considerable doubt as to whether their divorce had been legal. She wasn’t blackmailing him—she was too smart for that. But she knew you wouldn’t like it if she tried to pin a bigamy rap on him. It wouldn’t look good in the newspapers.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Malone said. “He’s just bluffing.” He wished he could put more conviction into his voice.

“Am I?” von Flanagan snarled. “You said the police department was inefficient. Well, we get around and ask questions too. Motive and opportunity. Her fingerprints on the gun. Her phony story about the birds … We’re holding her for murder, Malone.”

There was another long silence. Then Leonora Cartwright said, “Mr. Malone—this is a rather new experience to me. But there must be certain formalities—I mean—about your retainer—” She had been fumbling in her purse, and finally brought out a checkbook and a fountain pen.

“Forget it,” Malone said magnificently. “I’ll discuss it with your husband.”

“No,” she said, in that strangely musical voice. “Because you see, it’s all my money. Paul doesn’t have any.” She finished writing a check, handed it to Malone. “Will this be enough, for now?”

“Of course,” Malone said, not looking at the check. He folded it and slipped it in his vest pocket. He said to himself—not the sort of people to keep waiting in an anteroom, or to discuss money with. “And now, von Flanagan, may I have a word with my client?”

Von Flanagan growled, “Five minutes.”

“I’ll need only two,” Malone said smoothly, as von Flanagan left the room. He waited a moment, and said, “Mrs. Cartwright, in a minute or so, you’re going to have to walk through that door, with a police matron on one side and your lawyer on the other. There will be a bunch of newspaper reporters and photographers waiting for that moment. Think of something to say. And for the love of Mike, don’t collapse—it looks like the devil in a picture. What I’m trying to say is, make with the dignity.”

She smiled at him and said, “I think you can trust me, Mr. Malone.”

Looking at her, and thinking of the photographers, Malone began to wish he was wearing the necktie a famous actor had sent him from Hollywood last Christmas.

Luckily, the police matron turned out to be tall and stocky, with a broad, fat face, making Leonora Cartwright seem all the more delicate. She faced the barrage of questions and cameras with that very sad, very sweet little smile, chin up, and standing very straight.

“Yes,” she said, “I did kill Mona Trent. But it was an accident.” She waited for another set of flash bulbs to pop, and added, “I’m very fortunate in having Mr. John J. Malone to defend me.”

For the first time, Malone hoped the case would go before a jury. He could use the publicity. And he could wear that hand-painted necktie.

Malone tossed the thousand-dollar check on Maggie’s desk and said, “Deposit this fast. Draw some checks. Pay the office rent, your back salary, the liquor store on Clark Street, my hotel bill, save a hundred for me, and get Rico di Angelo on the phone, fast.”

Maggie looked at the check, picked up the phone, dialed, and began singing, “I wish I had died in my cradle—before I grew up to meet you.” Pause. “Mr. Rico di Angelo, please. Mr. Malone calling.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Eddie Carter’s in the office. I know I should have made him wait out here, but he seemed to be in such a state—Thank you. Just a minute, please.”

Malone whispered, “What does Carter want?”

“He either wants to kiss you or kill you,” Maggie said, “but you’ll soon know. Here is Mr. Malone. Thank you for waiting.”

“Rico,” Malone said, “How many flowers for a fine funeral can I get for thirty-two bucks—”

Eddie Carter looked about as unhappy as a man can get, and still live. He lifted his face from his hands as Malone walked in. The face, Malone decided, was an interesting combination of drawn and haggard. The word for it might be draggard. Or, maybe, hawn.

“Look here, Malone,” the gambler said, “I ain’t a guy which apologizes easy, but I gotta apologize to you, see. So here I am.”

“Apologize to me?” Malone said easily. “For what? Have you insulted me when I wasn’t looking?” Draggard was the word, he decided. “Eddie, I think you can use a drink.” He pulled open the filing cabinet drawer marked EMERGENCY and pulled out an almost-full pint of gin. He found an almost-clean glass, filled it halfway to the top, and handed it over.

“T’anks,” Eddie Carter said. The gin went down fast “And what’s more, Malone, I ain’t a guy what says t’anks easy, either.” He lit a cigarette on the second try, and said, “Okay, I’ve apologized, and here’s the check back. I shouldn’t a’acted that way but I guess I was upset, kind of.”

Malone said, “Forget it, Eddie.” He tore the check into sixteen pieces and dropped it into the wastebasket. “Now we’re even.” He poured another five inches of gin into Eddie Carter’s glass and said, “Tell me about Mona Trent.”

“She’s dead,” the gambler said tonelessly. He downed his drink and said, “When a person’s dead, a person’s dead, and there’s nothing another person can do but send flowers, see?”

Malone nodded, and wondered if Eddie Carter’s floral offering would outdo the blanket of orchids he had managed for thirty-two dollars.

“What I mean is,” Eddie Carter said, “I wasn’t sore at Mona, see? She figgered she could do better, that’s okay by me. Only, unnerstan’, I wanna make sure this society bum is treatin’ her right, and that’s how come I had Louie keep’n eye on her. I guess he must of been, or Louie would of told me.”

Malone found another glass and expertly divided the remaining gin. The two men were silent for a moment. It was, after all, a very private and personal wake.

“But jealous!” Eddie said suddenly. “Jeez. Everybody was jealous. This society bum, he’s so jealous of Mona, he lives right across the alley from her so’s he can watch t’rough d’windows and make sure she don’t have no boy frien’s. N’ d’society bum’s wife, she’s so jealous of d’bum, he don’t dare take no chance on visitin’ Mona till d’wife goes to sleep.” He grinned at Malone. “Louie, he gets around.”

The unhappy mood dropped from him abruptly. “Say, Malone, d’pictures come out swell.” He began unfolding the collection he had under his arm.

The pictures had, indeed, come out swell. Eddie Carter, bereaved lover, was the very image of tragedy. The interviews had turned out even better. An inspired Buddy McHugh had translated Eddie’s last line into “Even if I’d wanted to kill her, something would have stopped me at the last minute. Because I always loved her.”

Eddie Carter rose, tucked the newspapers under his arm, and said, “I a’ready ordered twenty copies a’ everyt’ing. Malone, I’m sorry you wouldn’ take d’check.”

Malone was sorry too. He made a fast mental resolution about momentary impulses and generous gestures.

At the door, Eddie Carter paused and said, “Say, come up to d’joint some night, Malone.”

Malone sat brooding for a long time after Eddie had gone. He was still brooding when Maggie came in with the last editions.

“A nice day’s work,” she commented. “All in twenty-four hours you get three clients. One’s dead, one’s free and one’s in jail. Here’s your hundred bucks, and I must say, Mrs. Cartwright looks very nice.”

The papers had done even better by Leonora Cartwright than they had by Eddie Carter. The sad, sweet smile had come through beautifully. And the News, the Times and the Herald-American had used her line, “I’m very fortunate in having John J. Malone for a lawyer.”

“One more like that,” Malone said, “and the world will be bringing mousetraps to our door.” He scowled. “There’s something wrong, Maggie. It must have happened that way, but—” He paused, reached for a cigar, and said, “Blast it, there’s just one thing that’s important, and I’ve forgotten what it is.”

“Maybe,” Maggie snapped, “it’s to get a shave and change your shirt.” Her eyes softened. “Or get a good night’s sleep.”

Malone ignored her. He rose, stuffed the ten ten dollar bills in his pocket, and headed for the door.

“Maggie, where can I find an Almanac?”

“Try the public library,” Maggie said.

“Thanks,” Malone said. “You can close up the office and go home. I’m going to the library, and then to see Paul Cartwright.”

The Cartwright apartment was an interior decorator’s dream of Paradise. It had been so obviously designed around Paul Cartwright’s personality that Malone expected a maddened leopard to come charging through the underbrush at any moment.

“Nice, isn’t it,” Paul Cartwright said. “That’s an elephant gun on the wall, just to your left. Scotch?”

Malone winced, glanced over his left shoulder, and said, “Yes, thanks.” He wondered how the scotch was going to co-ordinate with the bourbon, beer, and gin he’d been using for the past twenty-four hours. He looked across the room and what he assumed was the head of a sabre-toothed tiger leered at him.

“Got that one in India,” Paul Cartwright said. “Water or soda? Right. Village natives asked me to get him. Killer, he was.”

Malone deliberately avoided looking around the room. He expected any minute to see the carefully mounted head of a Tibetan Lama.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Paul Cartwright said. “I am not a hunter by trade. I shot that tiger because it had killed twenty-two natives in less than a month. I do not condone the killing of any living thing for sport. Only from necessity. Our trips—Mrs. Cartwright always came with me—were not big-game hunting expeditions; they were scientific explorations, made possible through the generosity of Leonora’s father. Naturally, one does not take chances.”

“Just as your wife—” Malone began. He stopped suddenly.

Paul Cartwright hid his face in his hands for a moment, then he looked up and met Malone’s eyes. “It was an accident. You will be able to—get her off?

Malone said, for the third time, “I’ve never lost a client yet.”

The answering smile was forced, and a little grim. “I’ll never forgive myself. Another scotch? Good. Mr. Malone, I’m going to tell you the truth. I was mad about Mona. You can understand something like that.”

“You’re damned right I can,” Malone said fervently, thinking of the blanket of orchids. He tinkled the ice in his glass. It made a lovely sound. He wondered why some great composer didn’t write it into a symphony. “How long were you married to her?”

“Oh. Oh, of course, you know that, too. It was less than a month. We were both poor. I had a chance to go along on an expedition to Upper Mongolia. She had a chance to go into the chorus of a Broadway show. We parted friends.” He grimaced. “I don’t need to tell you how lovely she was then—and always.”

“You don’t,” Malone said.

“It isn’t true that she ever tried to blackmail me. It turned out that the Mexican divorce she got wasn’t valid. But that wasn’t what mattered. The minute I saw her again—”

Paul Cartwright paused, gulped down his scotch, and said, “It’s true, I insisted on our taking this apartment because it was near hers. It’s true that I was insanely jealous, that I watched her through the windows to make sure there wasn’t another man in her life. And somehow, Leonora—well, Leonora is a jealous person too. But she wouldn’t have—it was an accident, Mr. Malone, wasn’t it? Besides, Leonora is a very bad shot.”

Malone rose, strolled over to the windows. The two apartments were separated by the average-sized alley. Through the window, he could see the chair where Mona Trent had been found dead.

“Accidents happen in the best of murders,” he told Paul Cartwright consolingly. “And thanks for the scotch.”

He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to see Mona Trent’s apartment again. It was that something—the something he couldn’t quite remember. He hoped that the imitation French maid would be there to let him in. She was.

This time, she didn’t even bother with the accent.

“Hello, Mr. Malone. They told me I could come in and clean up the place. I still have three days’ pay coming, so I thought I’d earn it.”

“Give me a towel and I’ll help wipe the dishes,” Malone said. “Where did you get that phony French accent, and is your name really Yvette?”

“The dishes are wiped,” she told him. “I got the French accent at a dramatic school in Hollywood, my name is really Gertrude Hutchins, I want to be an actress, and do you drink anything?”

“Yes,” Malone said, “anything.”

While she went into the kitchen, Malone prowled around the room. There was something wrong, and he didn’t know just what it was.

The drinks were wonderful. Cool and frosted, and long.

“You’re going to go far in this world,” Malone said. “Now tell me the story of your life.”

Five minutes later she said, coyly, “Hadn’t we better pull down the window shades?”

Malone murmured, “Um-hm.”

Shades! That was it! He looked at them, sprang to his feet. “Yvette. Gertie. Trudy. Whatever your name is. What time did you leave here last night?”

She stared at him. “Just after Miss Trent came home.”

“Were the shades drawn?”

“No. Mr. Cartwright—I guess you know all that. She said she was going to sit at the open windows and watch for the signal he always makes when he’s on his way over. Mr. Malone, what was the name of that Hollywood producer you mentioned?”

“Never mind,” Malone said, “I’ll get in touch with him.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Malone said hoarsely into the telephone. “Just pick him up on suspicion of murder. Confront him with all the details I’ve given you. You’ll get a confession. No, I’m not out of my mind! Okay, I’ll meet you later in Joe the Angel’s.”

“It was the window shades,” Malone said to von Flanagan, hours later.

Von Flanagan sighed, and said, “Okay, Cartwright confessed. But what’s all this about window shades?”

“According to Cartwright’s story,” Malone said, “he waited until Mrs. Cartwright was in a drugged sleep. Then he went to visit Mona. Naturally, they pulled down the shades. Some time later, he went home. Mrs. Cartwright was suffering from the kind of insomnia that follows a heavy dose of sleeping pills. She shot at a bird, and killed a pigeon.”

The little lawyer went on, wearily, “Except, there should have been a bullet hole in the window shade. There was a neat little hole in the window glass, but none in the shade.”

“Now, Cartwright’s confession,” von Flanagan muttered. He waved at Joe the Angel for another beer. “He says he waited until there was a noisy party next door, and took advantage of it to shoot Mona Trent. The noise would cover the sound of the shot. After he’d killed her, he went next door and pulled down the shades, so that curious neighbors wouldn’t look in the window and see the dead body. At dawn, he encouraged his wife to shoot at birds.”

“It’s a nice confession,” Malone said. “Now go back to your office and dictate it, and get Paul Cartwright to sign it. As his lawyer, I’ll repudiate it in court and swear it was signed under duress.”

Von Flanagan muttered something unpleasant, and left. Malone sat at the bar, humming, “I wish I had died in my cradle.”

After a while he walked out into the rain and hailed a cab.

“It was very kind of you to bring me home,” Leonora Cartwright said. “But I just don’t think I can stay here overnight. If you’ll wait until I pack a few things—”

“I’ll wait,” Malone said, “until you pack whatever you’ll need in jail. You’ve got to confess sooner or later, you know. And you can’t let your husband sit in a damp little cell overnight, when it was really you who killed Mona Trent—and not by accident.”

His skin felt as cold as the skin of a recently caught fish. He was bluffing, and he didn’t think he was going to get away with it.

She flew at him in a fury.

“It was pure jealousy,” Malone said, between her outbursts. He wondered where nice women learned such words. “The word ‘jealousy’ is the theme song of this act, and I should have caught on to it much earlier. Paul married you because your father was a multi-millionaire, and would finance his expeditions. You knew that, but you didn’t know that he was genuinely fond of you, and would have protected you with his life—as he’s doing now.”

He paused long enough to light a cigar and said, “Shut up, dear, I’m talking. You hated Mona Trent, perhaps with good reason, and you decided to kill her. Now don’t tell me a woman who has traveled round the world with Paul Cartwright on hunting expeditions doesn’t know how to handle a .22 caliber rifle. And there’s nothing wrong with your eye-sight, and frankly, I don’t believe you take sleeping pills. You shot Mona Trent, and your husband knew it, and being the kind of guy he is, he tried to cover up for you.”

He looked at her. The smile was there, the faint, sad, wistful little smile. “How did you know?”

Malone paused, relit his cigar, and said, “Something kept bothering me. Presumably this ‘accident’ took place at dawn, or shortly thereafter, according to your statement. But when Mona Trent was found dead, the lights were on, full blast, in her apartment. People don’t usually leave the lights on with a sunrise coming through the window, unless they happen to be dead.”

Malone tossed away his match and reflected, that was a nice line.

“But really,” Malone said, “the birds told me. Not because they sang, but because they didn’t sing.”

“Go on,” Leonora Cartwright whispered.

“You see,” he went on, wishing with all his heart it weren’t true, “you overlooked something. You said that the birds sang at dawn. But Mona Trent was killed at five in the morning, and according to the Almanac, the sun rose at exactly seven-twelve A.M. No self-respecting bird would be yelping when it was still as dark as the floor of a coal cellar.” He added, “If it did, it deserved to be shot at.”

“That was stupid of me, wasn’t it?” Leonora Cartwright said.

She rose, slipped on her coat with a graceful gesture that all but broke Malone’s heart, and said, “You’re quite right. I shot her through the open window, while Paul was on his way to her apartment. He knew. He pulled down the window shades. He made up a story for me. He—” She sighed, softly. “Shall we go?”

At the door, she paused for one moment. “You will defend me in court, Mr. Malone?”

“You’re damned right I will!” said Malone fervently.

A bad-tempered dawn was crawling up from the other side of Lake Michigan. In the nearby trees, birds were beginning to sing.

HE NEVER WENT HOME

“I’ll keep calm, Malone,” she said. Her voice still seemed to be coming from someone else, someone she didn’t know very well. “I won’t do anything till you get here. No, I won’t touch anything. But hurry, Malone!”

She hung up the phone and walked across the room into the kitchenette, carefully avoiding the body on the davenport. In the kitchenette, she sat down suddenly, with a jolt, and rested her head on the bright little table. She felt faintly sick, and very numb. Perhaps she’d better put the coffeepot on. Probably Malone would want some, too, when he got here.

She glanced up at the clock. Ten after seven. Lucky for her she’d been able to reach Malone at his hotel. She frowned. There was something she’d intended to do. Oh yes, put on the coffeepot.

She was still sitting at the kitchen table, when Malone came in less than half an hour later. He gave a quick look around the disordered room, at the coffee table with its glasses, bottle, bowl of melting ice and overflowing ashtrays, and finally at the body sprawled on the davenport, clad in pants, socks and undershirt, and with the handle of a very ordinary-looking knife protruding from his chest. Malone recognized the man at once. Then he looked at Susie Snyder.

“There isn’t any time,” he said quickly. “Just one question. Did you?”

She shook her head frantically.

“All right then,” Malone said. “We’ll talk later. Right now—” He broke off and scowled at the body.

“While I—slept,” Susie Snyder whispered. “When I came back last night—early this morning, I guess—everything was all right. I got up a little while ago and—”

“I said, all right,” Malone snapped. He took a second look at her. It must have been considerable of a night out last night. All that she’d bothered to remove were her shoes and what make-up had rubbed off on her pillow. She was still wearing a highly engaging black cocktail dress, badly mussed now, and a lavish collection of costume jewelry. But he’d get to that, and a lot of other subjects, later.

“The obvious thing,” Malone said, “is to move the body. Whoever set this up wasn’t planning on your having two things, enough time, and good sense. But instead of flying into fits, screaming and hollering and calling cops, and coming unglued generally, you were bright and called me. But moving him isn’t the thing. No place to move him for one reason, and blood all over the place for another.”

She shuddered. “Malone. I’ve seen him before, but I’m not sure who he is.”

“Dale McDowell,” Malone said. “At least that’s what he calls himself.”

Recognition came into her brown eyes. “A columnist.”

“He calls himself that, too,” Malone said, “but I’ve heard other names for it, and not as polite.” He was still looking thoughtfully at the scene. “The alternative is to move you.” He smiled at her. “The sensible alternative.”

“I’ll change my dress—” she began.

Malone shook his head at her. “Did anybody see you come home last night?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s a quiet little apartment building.”

“Or was,” Malone said grimly. “Who were you with?”

“Lola Merchant. And Lee. I was with them all evening. They brought me home. I’m a little fuzzy about getting home, but I know they brought me.”

“Good,” Malone said briskly. “That’s where you’re going now. To Lee and Lola’s.” He thought for a moment. “They’ll go along with us. And they won’t mind your arriving at—” he consulted his watch, “—around eight in the morning. Just tell them the story, go to bed and stay put. Later in the day, you’ll get up with a hangover, take a bath, get dressed in something borrowed from Lola, and they’ll bring you home. You’ll discover the body, call the cops. Lola or Lee will suggest your calling me, and the rest will be perfect child’s play. For me, at least,” he added modestly.

“Malone, I love you.”

“Many people do,” he told her with even more modesty. “Now I’ll call a cab driver I can trust completely, and have him meet us in the alley, and we’ll take the back stairs down.”

“The knife,” she said. “Malone, the knife.”

He regarded it. “Yours, I suppose.”

She nodded. “Breadknife.”

“And, of course, with your fingerprints all over it. We could explain that easily enough; it’s your knife and you use it all the time. Legitimately, that is. But just the same, let us not take chances.”

He found an old newspaper in the kitchen, pulled out the knife quickly and carefully and wrapped it securely. “Looks like someone’s lunch,” he commended. Then he took a closer look at the dead Dale McDowell. “Been dead two or three hours,” he said. “What time did you get back?”

She shook her head helplessly. “After midnight sometime.” Then she brightened. “Lola will know.”

Malone nodded reassuringly. “It isn’t going to matter too much anyway. Because Lola and Lee Merchant are going to alibi you for the whole night.”

“Malone, how do you know they are?” She looked at him anxiously. “I know they’re old friends, and I went to their wedding, and Lola and I used to room together, but this—”

“But this is murder,” Malone finished for her. He patted her arm. “Lee Merchant was jailed for murder once. I was his lawyer. So stop worrying.”

He dialed a number, asked for someone named Les Schwegler, gave him explicit directions regarding coming up the alley and keeping quiet about it. Then he turned to Susie Snyder. “Have you got any money?” he asked.

She said, “In the bank. I’ll have to give you a check—”

“I don’t mean that. We’ll talk retainers later. I mean, the taxi—”

She had two twenties, three ones and some change in her purse. “This will do it,” Malone said, taking one of the twenties.

Down in the dreary shadows of the alley, shivering a little in the damp chill of an early November morning, Malone took her arm comfortingly. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk later, after you officially send for me. But in the meantime, if you can think of anything that can help—” He looked at her hopefully. “For instance. Who had a key to your apartment? And you don’t need to bother blushing in front of me.”

He was pleased to see that she didn’t.

“Nick,” she said. “Naturally.”

Malone nodded at that. Nick Cahalan would, of course, have a key. Or. on second thought, would he? The little lawyer looked at her curiously.

She didn’t blush; she just turned a shade more pale. “He never got around to giving it back,” she said.

“Oh,” Malone said, remembering odds and ends of gossip, and leaving it at just that simple expletive. “And who else?”

“Lola Merchant. She used to leave clothes here sometimes, so if they were going out in the evening she wouldn’t need to go way out home to dress. Leo Roback. He owns the building and lives in it.” She wrinkled her forehead. “I sublet the apartment from Jack Trinidad. He might still have a key.”

In other words, the apartment was considerably easier to get into than Fort Knox. “All right,” Malone said. “Now, have you any idea who had it in for you enough to want to frame you? And don’t say Nick Cahalan, because he’s not the type.”

He could see from her face she didn’t like the idea of anybody hating her that much. “Nobody, Malone.” She was silent a moment and then smiled ruefully. “Well, anyway—I was getting awfully sick of being photographed with kitchen stoves and layer cakes and washing powder. Maybe, I’ll advance to modeling negligee and perfume ads after this.”

“You’ve got what’s necessary,” Malone said admiringly.

She did, too. Tall, and quite entertainingly curved. But her gentle, lovely face and soft, light brown hair would always be associated in his and probably the public’s mind with foolproof cake-mix and home-style canned soup.

“Or I can just be a quote, unemployed model, unquote, like they call it in the newspaper,” she said, her voice getting a little shaky.

“Quit that,” Malone snapped at her. He was glad to see Les’ cab slip into the alley. “Remember, tell Lee and Lola what happened, go to bed, get some rest, get a little reorganized, come back here, call the cops, have Lee call me. I’ll take it from there. Got it all?”

“Got it all,” she said, forcing a wan smile.

He helped her into the cab, shut the door and stepped up to the driver. “Take the young lady where she’s going. It’s in Wilmette.” He handed Les the twenty dollar bill. “And forget everything about everything.”

Les Schwegler looked neither surprised nor curious.

“Just a little difficulty,” Malone explained and let it go at that.

“Happens all the time,” Les Schwegler said sympathetically. “And even if I didn’t have no memory whatsoever where you and yours are concerned, Malone, I’m leaving for a three weeks hunting trip tonight anyway. And that’s the truth, Malone.”

He then gave the little lawyer a wide grin and drove away.

John J. Malone stood scowling after the cab for a moment or two. His impulse was to go back and inspect the premises a little more thoroughly. His better judgment warned him against it. His impulse had gotten to work even earlier and prompted him to slip the back door off the latch. Better judgment got in another word and advised him to go back to his hotel, go back to bed and go back to sleep.

Still, he’d have to return and relock that back door. And while he was there, it wouldn’t do any harm to have a little look around …

He went up the rear stairs slowly, thinking everything over. Susie Snyder didn’t seem like the type to make enemies, who would go to such enthusiastic and extravagant lengths for the sole purpose of framing her for a murder. On the other hand, he could think offhand of no one sufficiently inhuman to so completely involve a harmless young woman for the sole purpose of getting rid of a body.

Obviously, that left someone who had the hatchet out—knife in this case—for both Susie and Dale McDowell. A very fine piece of reasoning and he felt very pleased with himself. Of course, finding that person might take a little time, but he’d worry about that when he came to it.

He was almost humming cheerfully when he let himself in through the back door and, on second thought, not only reset the lock, but slipped on the chain-bolt. Then as an extra precaution, he double-locked the front door. It was still almost indecently early in the morning, but, nevertheless, he didn’t want to take chances on unwelcome visitors.

That done, he turned his attention to the apartment itself. It was what he would have expected of Susie Snyder, a thoroughly nice little apartment for a thoroughly nice little girl. No antiques, no extreme moderns, no extravagances. No family photographs on the walls, but on the other hand, no etchings. He went into the bright little kitchen and found, as he’d suspected, ruffled curtains at the windows.

One note in the pleasant, very feminine bedroom bothered him, a pillow-slip stained with make-up and lipstick. Some astute police officer might notice that. Susie wasn’t the kind of a housekeeper who would leave such a pillow-slip around in use. On the other hand, to exchange it for a fresh one would be an even more jarring note.

The little lawyer worried about it for a moment, then hunted around and located the laundry hamper. He pawed through it until he found a just slightly soiled pillow-slip and exchanged it for the stained one, which he thrust deep down in the hamper. Then he carefully smoothed the rumpled bed, until there wasn’t the faintest sign of Susie’s having been in it the night before.

Those chores done, he went back to the living room and took a long, thoughtful look at the untidy remains of what had been Dale McDowell. He’d been a handsome wretch, Malone reflected, and thoroughly captivating to women in general. Acording to rumor, that was one of his more successful, if also more reprehensible ways of acquiring information. He’d had crisp, slightly wavy dark hair, long eyelashes and a boyish smile. Standard type, Malone said to himself.

He glanced in a wall mirror and considered his own somewhat short, somewhat paunchy build, badly mussed black hair, and at the moment, unshaven face and faintly bloodshot eyes. He told himself that he was a fine figure of a man for all that.

He gave one final look around the apartment to make sure there were no other little odds and ends that needed cleaning up. There were the glasses and the bottle on the table. They would undoubtedly have Susie’s fingerprints all over them and no one else’s except the dead man’s. The fingerprints were explainable too, but—Oh well, he reminded himself, the explanation was going to fit. Susie was thoroughly alibied, or would be any minute now.

Malone was congratulating himself and preparing to leave, when the knock came at the front door.

He stood perfectly still, telling himself that whoever was there at such an hour would give up and go away. And besides the door was double-locked.

The knock was repeated. It became one of a series. Then the series became a pounding. The door was tried. Finally a key went into the lock. Malone started, very quietly, for the back door.

“Double-locked, damn it,” a voice said. “Klutchetsky, go around to the back door.”

Again Malone stood perfectly still. And this time, he couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. The voice belonged to Inspector von Flanagan, head of Homicide.

From the other side of the door, he could hear the unhappy voice of Leo Roback, owner and manager of the little building, protesting against the outrage, and von Flanagan telling him to shut up. And faintly—or perhaps it was only his imagination—he could hear Klutchetsky’s heavy steps on the back stairs.

With a helpless little sigh, he stepped forward, unlocked the door, flung it open wide and said, faintly, “Good morning.” It was not, he realized, the brightest remark of a lifetime, but he felt he was doing well to make a recognizable sound at all.

For a moment, von Flanagan didn’t say anything. Nor did he pay any attention to the murdered man and the disorder in the room. Instead he stood in the doorway, his big fists planted on his hips, and discussed, with adjectives, every time he had wanted to throw Malone in jail for obstructing justice, hiding out witnesses, concealing evidence, interfering with police who were trying to do their duty, deliberately making life not just difficult but well-nigh unbearable for von Flanagan’s whole department, “And—” concluded von Flanagan, red-faced and choking, “and now, this!”

Malone somehow managed to look innocent and even tolerably surprised.

“How did you get here?” von Flanagan demanded.

Malone started to say, “I took a cab,” and decided not to tempt Providence. He quickly dodged the issue, for the moment, by saying admiringly, “You certainly got here quick!”

“Naturally, we got here quick,” von Flanagan roared. “That’s what we get paid for! I got tipped off that this guy had been murdered up in this apartment and here I am. And you—”

“Who tipped you off?” Malone asked hastily, still employing a delaying tactic.

“Voice on the phone,” von Flanagan growled. “Sounded authentic enough to investigate. This guy McDowell has been due for something like this for a long time.”

“Is that so!” Malone said pleasantly, trying to think a step ahead of von Flanagan but right now beginning to lose a little ground.

“You know damned well that’s so,” von Flanagan said.

Klutchetsky providentially offered a diversion at that moment by rattling loudly at the back door. A uniformed policeman who had come with von Flanagan hastened to let him in.

Von Flanagan looked around the apartment and demanded angrily, “Where is she?” as though Malone had her tucked away in his vest pocket.

Malone shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea.” He did have a hope, though. Safely tucked in bed in Lee Merchant’s Wilmette home, by this time.

“Got away,” Klutchetsky said, nodding sagaciously.

Von Flanagan ignored him and glared at Malone. “All right. What are you here for?”

“Same as you,” Malone said in his smoothest voice. “A voice on the phone.” And perfectly truthful, too. It wasn’t any of von Flanagan’s business whose voice.

Von Flanagan grunted, but apparently in acceptance. “How did you get in?”

“The door was open,” Malone said. Still truthfully, he reflected. It also was nobody’s business right now who had opened it for him. Von Flanagan thought that over and nodded. Malone had expected that. It did seem logical, a murderer fleeing in haste, leaving an open, or slightly open, door behind.

But von Flanagan had another thought. “Then why,” he said, his voice rising again, “did you lock and double-lock the door?”

Malone was at the end of his patience. “To keep from being annoyed by a lot of nosey cops,” he snapped.

Von Flanagan had come to the end of his patience, too. And by the time he’d also come to the end of his breath, he was threatening Malone with at least twenty years to life. Malone waited a moment and then said, “That’s all very well, and it may be perfectly correct, too, but right now I don’t know any more about this murder than you do.”

Von Flanagan blinked as though he’d suddenly remembered there had been a murder, and turned his attention to the corpse.

“Knifed,” Klutchetsky volunteered. He added, “Knife’s gone.”

“Damn it,” von Flanagan muttered crossly, “I can see that the knife’s gone.”

The little lawyer felt a pang. He could have had the wrong hunch. Perhaps the knife, now neatly tucked in the folded newspaper in his topcoat pocket, should have been left where it was. At the moment, it had seemed like a bright idea, but he didn’t always have his brightest ideas in the early morning.

Von Flanagan confirmed what he’d been thinking by saying, “If the knife had been here, I would of said that she’d been having a couple of drinks with him, blew up over something, or maybe he got nasty or something, and she forgot herself and stuck him. But when she scrammed, she took the knife along, which makes it look different, or something.”

Different, Malone thought, from the way the murderer had perhaps intended it to look, giving Susie the possible break of a manslaughter rap. Nice of the murderer, if that was the case. And now, he’d had to go and mess it up. Then he reminded himself of her alibi, and promptly felt much better. One thing he had to do, though, the minute he could break away from von Flanagan, was to telephone Susie and warn her that the script had been rewritten a little.

He sat down, as inconspicuously as he could in the farthest corner, and rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers, while the experts and technicians went to work on the evidence and the corpse, and von Flanagan went to work on Leo Roback.

The apartment-house owner was a graying, slightly rotund little man in a shabby suit of old dead mouse color gray, with a congenitally mournful face and eyes that might have been more becoming to a bloodhound. Malone dimly remembered him as the owner of more than one small apartment building, plus a miscellany of small lunchrooms, candy stores and newsstands. Reputedly, Leo Roback was a good guy who would and could lend you five dollars any time you could guarantee to pay five-fifty back and had good security, and who put more faith in a rubber banded roll of greasy bills than in the most solid bank. He was also reputed to be considerably sharper than he looked and sounded.

Right now he was obviously deeply and genuinely grieved over the murder which had involved his most beautiful and favorite tenant.

“Susie is such a nice, nice girl,” he was telling von Flanagan, wringing his plump hands. “Susie would not do such a thing to anybody.” He went into more details about Susie’s general niceness and consideration and ended shyly with, “She gave me her picture once.”

“All right,” von Flanagan said, “I’ll take your word for it. But I want to know what happened last night?”

Leo Roback lifted his round shoulders and looked helpless. “How do I know? I was out a little bit. I went to some night clubs. With a lady. Murielle di Paulo, with two ll’s and an e. I took her home sometime.” He lifted his shoulders again. He looked very helpless and very, very sad. “Sometime? It was early; it was late. I came home; I went to bed; I slept.”

No, he had heard nothing. He’d seen nothing. He hadn’t noticed whether Miss Snyder’s lights were on or off. He knew nothing.

When von Flanagan gave up, the newspapermen pounced on him, for a description of the discovery of the body. Leo Roback completely collapsed and waved at Malone.

The little lawyer had been hoping that a minor miracle would keep him from the attention of the press. But he realized that he had apparently used up his quota of miracles for the morning. He told them with simple and becoming modesty that, for some unknown reason, some unknown person had telephoned him with the news of the murder. He’d come right over, seen the body, and been just about to notify the police when they arrived, having similarly been notified and having responded immediately, with great speed and efficiency. He came in fortissimo on the last words.

They let him alone then and he settled back to try and organize his thoughts.

In spite of the fact that Susie was going to be safe, thanks to his fast move and Lola Merchant’s friendship, this was going to be rough on her just the same. He could visualize the headlines right now. Well, maybe she’d told him the truth when she’d said that she was sick and tired of modeling housewares. Maybe what she wanted was to settle for modeling them in real life.

He wondered just how serious the split with good-looking Nick Cahalan was. His next thought was to wonder if Nick himself had played any part in this stage-set murder. He didn’t like to think so. He reasoned that the big prize-fight manager and ex-prize-fighter wouldn’t think of arranging this sort of thing, even if by any mad chance he had wanted to involve Susie. If he’d wanted, or needed, to murder Dale McDowell, or anybody else, he’d have done it quickly and simply and, very likely, publicly. And if he’d ever gotten that sore at Susie he’d probably have beaten her up enthusiastically, and then bought her a few dozen American Beauty roses and a new bracelet.

There were a number of other people who would have enjoyed murdering Dale McDowell, with or without fancy trimmings, but he’d think about them later.

Time finally came when the technicians were through, when the newspaper people were through, and von Flanagan turned to Malone and said, “Well, what are you planning to do, Malone?”

Malone yawned and stretched. “I’m going to get a shave,” he said amiably, “and some breakfast. And then go to my office.”

“You only think you are,” von Flanagan said. “You’re going with me.”

“Oh,” Malone said, raising his eyebrows. “On what charge?”

Von Flanagan scowled at him. “I’m not making any charge. But you’re going to be right where I can keep an eye on you, just the same.”

“Perfect nonsense,” Malone said briskly. “I don’t know anything more about this than you do. I don’t know why I was tipped off. If you arrest Susan Snyder, and if she wants me to defend her, I’ll be glad to, naturally. And that’s all.”

“You know damned well I’m going to arrest Susan Snyder the minute I find her,” von Flanagan said. “And if she doesn’t want you to defend her, she’s—” He caught himself on the verge of a compliment, stopped short and said, “I just want to know where you are and what you’re up to, Malone.”

It would be simpler not to argue, Malone decided. Besides, he too wanted to know what was going on. He did put up a mild argument just for the looks of the thing, and ended by going along with von Flanagan. As long as he could manage a telephone and a little privacy, it wasn’t going to matter materially. Could, in fact, be even better, if he was in touch with everything right up to the minute Susie Snyder turned up.

In the car going into the Loop, Malone announced plaintively that he was hungry. Von Flanagan remarked that it was too bad and that he felt very sorry for Malone. Malone sat back in his corner and sulkily refused to discuss the murder of Dale McDowell, the seventh at Pimlico, Susie Snyder, last Thursday’s fight card, Judge Touralchuk’s new Cadillac, the weather, or anything else. Von Flanagan lost his temper. Malone went right on sulking.

“Oh, all right,” von Flanagan said irritably, “I haven’t had breakfast myself.”

The sight of ham and eggs, a stack of hot buttered toast, black raspberry jam and a pot of coffee lifted the little lawyer’s spirits. Seldom had he felt so comfortably secure about a client’s welfare. He beamed happily at von Flanagan.

“Too bad it had to be the girl who killed him,” von Flanagan said. “All kinds of people might of liked to knife this McDowell guy. Still, she’ll stand a better chance in front of a jury than some of them would.”

If it ever got to a jury, Malone thought contentedly. They idly discussed the various known habits, behavior and business enterprises of the victim. Dale McDowell had started as a small-time columnist for a neighborhood weekly. He’d been fired over an untimely crack at one of the better advertisers and immediately talked his way into a job on one of the leading dailies. There he got along all right for awhile. His professional charm and glib way with words combined to enable him to pry out assorted secrets and present them for exciting breakfast table reading. About the same time, he’d discovered the lucrative potentialities of a little blackmail on the side.

It had been only a matter of time, though, until his editor caught up with him. He’d then shifted his operations to a small, but noisy “fan” magazine, and a nightly chat on one of the lesser radio stations.

“Would take more than a fist full of fingers to count the people would of liked to use that knife,” von Flanagan said, pouring a third cup of coffee. “Jack Fleming, Lee Merchant, Mike Medinica, a bunch of people.”

“Lee Merchant?” Malone asked very casually.

Von Flanagan nodded. “Maybe you know Lee Merchant ran one little candy store into a string of ’em. This McDowell guy made some little cracks about candy stores and the policy racket, and then suddenly shut up. Maybe Lee Merchant paid him off.”

Malone said “Oh.”

“Funny thing,” von Flanagan said. “Lee bought that first candy store from Leo Roback.”

Again Malone said, “Oh.” But Lee Merchant could be trusted in this. He had to be. Right now there wasn’t anything else to do; there wasn’t anyone else to trust.

Suddenly, von Flanagan said, “I wonder why she took the knife with her,” changing the subject abruptly and throwing Malone into a moment of confusion.

Malone told himself that he still had to do something about that knife. And about Susie.

He ordered another pot of coffee and said, “While we’re waiting, I’ll just call the office and tell Maggie where I am.”

Von Flanagan, engrossed in spreading jam on toast, merely nodded.

He did call his office, told Maggie what was going on and what might be expected. Then he called the Lee Merchant house.

It was a very sleepy and surprised Lola who answered the phone. She woke up fast.

Susie wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there. They’d taken her home last night, all the way up to her bedroom. That was the last they’d heard from or about her.

Malone swore softly.

“Malone, is anything wrong?”

“Yes,” Malone said quickly, one eye watching von Flanagan through the phone booth glass, “a great deal is wrong, and I don’t want you to know anything about it.” He paused. What had happened to Susie? There had been time for her to get to Wilmette—hell, halfway to Milwaukee by now! He said, “I hope she turns up at your place. Lola, I sent her there almost two hours ago, told her to stay put, and let you bring her into town late in the morning. She is supposed to have stayed with you all night.”

“Oh,” Lola said anxiously. “But she isn’t here, Malone!”

“You said that,” Malone snapped. “Look, however it works out use your judjment. I don’t know what or how, but—”

“You can trust us, Malone,” she said.

He hoped that he could.

“Malone, she was all upset last night. Over Nick. We took her out to cheer her up. But she was still upset when she got home. You don’t think she could have done anything foolish?”

Like stabbing Dale McDowell? No, his clients didn’t lie to him. They didn’t have any reason to and it was safer not to. Susie Snyder knew that.

“Malone,” she said, “I’m worried.”

“You’re worried!” Malone said, and hung up.

Von Flanagan had gotten up from the table and was coming to meet him. You must have been giving Maggie a history of the world.”

“Important business,” Malone said.

Important, Malone thought, wasn’t quite the word for this particular business. The problem was going to be getting away from von Flanagan. That could be solved in an hour, simply by a telephone call from Maggie. He’d told her to call him periodically, in case he needed just such an out. But could he spare an hour right now? Susie might be anywhere. Anything might have happened to her.

He was not reassured when von Flanagan’s first move, on arriving at his office, was to check into the progress of the search for Susie Snyder. And he was only a little reassured, that there hadn’t been any progress so far.

Susie could have changed her mind. Susie could have been kidnapped. Susie could have run away. Susie could have decided to go back to the apartment. Susie could have dropped dead.

Malone was still sitting, chewing unhappily on his cigar, when the first call from Maggie came through. He said “Yes” and “No,” several times, threw in “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, but I can see how this development would increase his anxiety,” to impress von Flanagan, and finally said, “Tell him I’ll be there right away.”

“What’s all this?” von Flanagan said suspiciously.

“Important client,” Malone said cheerfully. “Very important matter just came up.” Well, Susie was an important client. In fact, the only one he had right now. And her disappearance was more than merely important, it was well-nigh catastrophic.

“Now look here,” von Flanagan said, “you can’t do this.”

“Oh, yes I can,” Malone said, buttoning his topcoat. “Matter of life or death.”

They were still glaring at each other, silently, when the phone rang again, this time for von Flanagan.

There had been a little trouble. Malone caught two details, “Cab driver in hospital” and “Susan Snyder coming right in.” He promptly unbuttoned his coat and sat down again.

“The matter of life or death?” von Flanagan said.

Malone waved a casual hand. “You need me,” he said sententiously.

It was Klutchetsky who ushered Susie in through the door. She looked very fragile, very pale, very hung-over and mussed, and still a very nice, very pretty girl. And, very scared.

Malone tried to signal to her without moving his face or even his eyes, and hoped he was registering. He did say, “Don’t worry, Susie,” in a meaningful tone.

“You keep out of this,” von Flanagan roared, “or go home!” He added hastily, “Sit down and stay here!”

Susie Snyder began to weep. Slightly and prettily. She didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t know why she was brought here. She didn’t know anything about anything. She just wanted to go home.

Von Flanagan promptly forgot—momentarily—that she was his prize and also only suspect, patted her shoulder, and said, “There, there little girl,’ in his most soothing voice. Then he became aware of Klutchetsky’s disapproving look and said, “Well, what happened?”

It developed that Susie Snyder had been going somewhere in a taxi, driven by one Les Schwegler, and some unknown person had fired a shot into said taxi, sending it into a spin, Les Schwegler into the hospital with a broken arm and a bad concussion, and Susie Snyder into hysterics.

Von Flanagan turned back to Susie. “And where were you going in a taxi at this hour of the morning, in that get up?” But he said it gently. He added almost absentmindedly, “Blow your nose.”

“I was going home,” Susie Snyder wept. “I just felt like getting up and going home. You know how it is sometimes.”

Von Flanagan started to say that he certainly did know how it was sometimes, caught himself and said sternly, “Where had you been?”

Malone held his breath.

Susie Snyder gulped. “I—was out pretty late last night. I guess I—didn’t feel very well. So the people I was with took me home with them. Then I woke up early and I just felt like getting up and going home.”

Malone closed his eyes, for a moment. Then he drew a long, slow breath, relaxed, and relit his cigar.

“Please,” Susie said in a very small-girl voice. “Maybe if I had some coffee …”

Von Flanagan sent for coffee in the same tone he’d have used to call a rescue squad.

Smart girl, Malone reflected, giving herself a chance to think. Giving him one, too. What was more, a chance to create a necessary diversion until he could get things back in control.

“What’s the rest of this deal about somebody shooting at her?” he demanded of Klutchetsky.

“Was a lousy shot,” Klutchetsky said critically. It had been fired from another car, but at very close range. Even a very poor shot could have found a mark at that distance, but this was a really lousy shot. Schwegler just might have seen something or somebody, but he was out cold and might stay that way for hours, even days, so he wouldn’t be able to tell anybody anything.

Including, Malone reflected with satisfaction, the fact that he’d been taking Susie to, not from, Wilmette. So far the question of which way the cab had been headed hadn’t come up, and, with good luck, it wouldn’t until he’d had time for a few more moves. Meanwhile, though he had no idea who had fired the shot—he’d get to that later—there was no doubt in his mind as to why.

The immediate and pressing problem was talking to Lola Merchant before von Flanagan did. So far the diversionary tactics had worked, but he couldn’t count on them for much longer.

Susie Snyder took a gulp of her coffee and said, “Thank you so much,” in a voice that would have softened a far harder heart than von Flanagan’s.

“Now, young woman,” von Flanagan said, in a voice that was intended to be stern and only succeeded in sounding fatherly, “you tell me—”

“Wait a minute,” Malone broke in quickly and smoothly. He turned to Susie. “My dear, this all involves a very serious matter, and you ought to have a lawyer present. If you want me to act for you—”

“Oh, I do,” she said plaintively. “I do, Malone!”

Von Flanagan growled something in his throat.

“Good,” Malone said. “Now, last night—”

“You wait a minute,” von Flanagan interrupted. “I ask the questions here.”

Malone shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, all right. But I can think of more interesting ones.” Something had to occur to him, and fast.

Von Flanagan had decided to use an oblique approach. “How well did you know Dale McDowell?”

“You mean—” There was what sounded like honest puzzlement in her voice. “The radio announcer?”

“Commentator,” Malone said.

Von Flanagan nodded. “How well did you know him?”

“Oh—hardly at all. I’d met him. I’d seen him around a little. Why?”

“Never mind why,” von Flanagan said. “Because I’m asking why. If you didn’t know him at all well,” he momentarily forgot she was small, weak, tearful and pretty, and from sheer force of habit roared at her, “why did you murder him?”

Her reaction, Malone observed, with professional interest, was a beautiful thing to watch. She was shocked, surprised and puzzled, but she wasn’t knocked way off base. Nor did she respond with a conventional, “I-don’t-know-what-you-mean!” She simply stared at the big police officer for a moment, mouth open, and then said, “What?” with just the right touch of incredulity.

This artistry was also, probably, too beautiful to last, Malone reminded himself. He therefore interrupted von Flanagan’s next question before he could make it, with, “This girl is obviously in no condition to be questioned right now, not about anything.”

“Oh, keep out of this,” von Flanagan said wearily.

“I will not,” Malone said. “As her lawyer, I demand that you give her a chance to recuperate from that accident. She’s had the shock of being in a nasty wreck at a time when she wasn’t feeling too well anyway, and then you drag her down here and throw a lot of questions at her just to unnerve her. I won’t stand for it.”

“All right,” von Flanagan said, still more wearily. “But she’ll do her recuperating in jail, then.”

Malone drew a long breath and said, “That’s fine with me.”

Von Flanagan looked at him as though he’d lost his mind, and Susie as if he’d lost his heart.

The little lawyer pretended he didn’t notice a thing and said warmly, “My dear girl, you mustn’t worry about a thing.” He didn’t add that he’d never lost a client yet. He didn’t need to. “I’ll call up your friends and tell them you’re all right and have them get some clothes and things for you.” He saw that she was getting the idea. “If you’ll just give me their telephone number—”

She gave it to him quickly, a Wilmette number. Malone grabbed the phone on von Flanagan’s desk, placed his call and had Lola Merchant on the line before von Flanagan had caught his breath.

“Mrs. Merchant?” he said quickly. “Malone. I’m calling for Susie. She was in an accident going home from your place this morning.” On the other end of the line, Lola was catching on fast. Bright girl! “Yes, I know she stayed out there with you last night and started home an hour or so ago, didn’t even wait to change her clothes or her makeup. There was a taxi accident on the way home—”

“Hey!” von Flanagan shouted. “Gimme that phone!” He gave Malone a truly memorable black look, scowled at Susie Snyder and, for no particular reason, Klutchetsky, snatched the phone from Malone’s hand and snapped, “Who is this?”

Five minutes later, subdued but peevish, he hung up and said, “Well, that’s that. She’ll be in a little later, soon as her husband wakes up.” He looked at Malone suspiciously, waiting for him to make the next move.

Malone didn’t make one. He sat regarding the glowing end of his cigar with deep interest.

Finally, von Flanagan said, “Well, she’s not under arrest—now—but, Malone—”

“Oh, yes she is,” Malone said.

Von Flanagan stared at him. “She is not.”

Susie looked from one to the other, her face bewildered and unhappy.

“As you have so often pointed out,” Malone said, “we have been friends for a long time. And I say that my client remains under arrest in spite of what you maintain. I say further, that you are going to tuck my client away in your cozy little jail while I send out for some fresh clothes and cigarettes and magazines and anything else she needs and wants. I would even go so far as to say that you can tell the newspapers that you have my client in jail.” He flicked an ash off his cigar. “Because I don’t want some stranger going around shooting at my client, even if he is a lousy shot.”

Susie said, “Oh!” and slipped down in her chair.

Von Flanagan was dubious about the whole thing, but not, in the end, successfully. He even conceded that the move might very well make it easier to run down the man or woman who had murdered Dale McDowell and, “tried to frame our poor little Susie Snyder for it.”

“So that’s that,” Malone said cheerfully. “And now,” he said, turning to Susie, “let’s fix your face before the photographers get here.”

It had all gone smoothly. Beautifully smoothly. Leaving, indeed, only one disturbing fact. When Lee Merchant woke up, he might very well, and for his own reasons, knock Susie Snyder’s perfect alibi right out of this world.

Then came the matter of taking Susie to view the scene of the crime, an affair which von Flanagan stage-managed with all the quiet unobtrusiveness of a St. Patrick’s Day parade. But Lola Merchant had arrived by that time—Lee had wakened and would drive down in a few minutes, she’d said, with a meaningful glance at Malone—and had done a magnificent repair job of clothes and make-up on Susie. Malone, himself, had managed a very fast shave in von Flanagan’s washroom, and had retied his tie. Not, he told himself, that he was vain. But you never knew when a prospective client might pick up a newspaper and see a picture.

The small apartment looked just as it had a few hours earlier, except that Dale McDowell’s body had been removed. Indeed, there was nothing to indicate that the pleasant little living room had been the scene of a murder, not even a drop of blood. The jacket, shirt and bright necktie hung over the back of a straight-back chair; the glasses, bowl of now completely melted ice and overflowing ashtray were still on the table.

Lola Merchant gasped. “It certainly didn’t look like this when—we picked you up last night,” she said.

Nobody but Malone had noticed that very faint pause.

Susie Snyder whimpered faintly and Lola Merchant put protecting arms around her. Malone slipped a warm smile to them. Lola was a tall girl, lavishly and voluptuously designed, with a lot of soft dark hair and a bright, smiling mouth.

“Assuming,” von Flanagan said, with a meditative frown, “that Susie here went straight home with you and stayed there, like you say she did—” He paused. “Assuming Lee says the same thing as you do, when he gets here—”

“He will,” Lola said.

Malone had an uncomfortable feeling that she was avoiding his eyes. He reminded himself again that Susie’s beautiful alibi was only good until somebody disproved it. He wondered, not too happily, just why Lee Merchant hadn’t come along with his wife, in a circumstance like this one.

“Well then,” von Flanagan said, surveying the scene with a practiced eye, “it could have been that this guy came up here to wait for Susie, and while he was waiting made himself at home.”

Lola Merchant said indignantly, “Susie would never have anything to do with someone like Dale McDowell!”

Von Flanagan cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t—didn’t—like him?”

She expressed her opinion of Dale McDowell in one succinct, but highly colorful phrase.

“Anyway,” Malone said mildly, “there must have been two people here last night.”

Von Flanagan nodded. “Okay. But this McDowell is the one who made himself at home. Took off his shirt and tie.” He nodded toward the chair.

Malone glanced at the lemon-yellow tie, with its hand-painted design of green and silver flying fish and one natural color mermaid, and the pale pink shirt, and reflected that the late Dale McDowell might well have been done to death by an outraged fashion expert. Instinctively, he straightened his own tie.

Klutchetsky, who had been prowling around, called out suddenly from the kitchenette. “Found the knife!”

They crowded into the tiny room. Malone right with them, but with a large lump of ice where his stomach had been a moment before, and a faintly trembling hand reaching towards his pocket where the newspaper-wrapped weapon still reposed.

“There!” Klutchetsky said triumphantly.

There it was, the breadknife, exactly where it ought to be, in the knife-rack above the sink. It was the twin to the one that was Malone’s greatest concern at that moment.

Susie Snyder gasped and said, “Oh!”

“Makes no sense,” von Flanagan said. “Guy runs out after the stabbing, leaves the living room a mess. But he brings the knife in here, washes it and puts it back in the rack.”

“Fingerprints,” Klutchetsky said. Then, having apparently exhausted his quota of words for the day, he folded his arms and stepped back.

Von Flanagan nodded. “The guy was really rattled. Carefully washed off the knife and forgot all about the glasses and stuff on the table. If,” he added, with a sudden frown, “he was the guy who handled the glasses and stuff. Maybe he just came in, stabbed this McDowell character, washed off the knife and went home. Forgetting,” he finished, “to lock the door.”

He gave Malone a long, thoughtful look.

“That makes three guys that were here,” Malone said, hoping there wasn’t even a trace of a quaver in his voice.

Von Flanagan chose to ignore that. He gave instructions for knife, glasses and everything else that was movable to be taken away for examination. He gvae a few more instructions to the policeman he was leaving in charge. He posed for a few more photographs at the scene of the crime. Everybody posed for just one or two more at the scene of the crime.

And then Nick Cahalan burst in, in a boiling rage and ready to fight anybody and everybody, including, and especially, von Flanagan. He produced a number of reasons why Susie Snyder could have had nothing to do with Dale McDowell’s murder, most of them having to do with the low order of intelligence on which von Flanagan operated, and none of them especially convincing.

“Simmer down,” Malone said, when the handsome giant at last paused for breath.

Nick Cahalan glared at him, at von Flanagan, at everybody, and finally snatched Susie Snyder from Lola Merchant’s protection into his own arms and said, “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Von Flanagan said, “Oh, no you aren’t. She’s under arrest.”

That started the big man off again, and he told von Flanagan exactly what he thought of that, too.

Malone said sharply, “Stop worrying, Nick. I’m her lawyer.”

That did simmer him down. He looked at Malone, down at Susie, back at Malone again and said in a milder voice, “Just the same, I don’t like it.”

Von Flanagan had measured Nick Cahalan’s height, weight and reach with his eye, and then remembered that the law was on his side and that, anyway, Klutchetsky was there. He said sharply, “And just what do you know about all this?”

“Susie didn’t do it,” Nick Cahalan said firmly. “She wouldn’t have anything to do with a punk like that, not even killing him.” He was launched on another discourse, this one having to do with the murdered man and having to do with his personal habits and morality as well as his intelligence. Nobody bothered to admonish him not to speak ill of the dead.

“That’s all very interesting,” von Flanagan said, “but it doesn’t answer my question.”

It turned out that the ex-prize-fighter didn’t have any particular answer. He knew Dale McDowell; he hadn’t liked him; he hadn’t had any particularly unpleasant business dealings with him; he hadn’t murdered him. Last night he’d been out doing the town with a party of friends.

Drowning his sorrows, Malone reflected, while Susie had been doing the same thing. Too bad they hadn’t run into each other. But from all appearances, everything was all right now. Again, he found himself wondering just what they’d quarreled so violently about. Well, he’d find that out later.

No, he didn’t have any definite alibi for any definite time, Nick said. Yes, he did have a key to Susie’s apartment. Yes, he might have lost his temper if he’d come in and found Dale McDowell here making himself at home. Yes, he might even have run into Dale McDowell somewhere and followed him here. In fact, he had run into Dale McDowell at the Blue Angel, had even spoken to him briefly, but he hadn’t followed him anywhere. In fact, he could prove exactly where he was for a few hours after that, he was shooting craps in the men’s room of Herman’s Corner.

For just a few minutes, it was touch-and-go whether von Flanagan was going to make a pinch or not and Malone held his breath. Not that he cared whether or not Nick Cahalan was tossed temporarily in jail. He just wanted to be sure that Susie stayed safely under arrest.

The moment of peril passed, and Malone breathed easier. Things began breaking up. Lola packed a few things for Susie and made sufficient clamor that she be allowed to ride along with Susie, von Flanagan and the matron. Malone patted Susie on her cheek and told her to keep her mouth shut and not worry. Nick Cahalan argued with von Flanagan all the way to the front entrance.

Malone took one last glance around the little apartment, under the watchful eye of the policeman left in charge. There was something he was missing here, something he had missed this morning and that had been here all along. Something important. He had overlooked it this morning because he had been in a rush; he was overlooking it now because he simply didn’t know what it was.

Oh well, it would come to him, he told himself, and hoped he wasn’t simply cheering himself up.

He said an unhappy good-bye to the policeman and went on downstairs. There, on a sudden impulse, he knocked on Leo Roback’s door.

The little apartment house owner came to the door tying the belt of a flamboyant violet dressing gown. He looked tired, but wide awake. He invited Malone in cordially, offered him a drink and the most comfortable chair, and began an oration of his own about police stupidity, ending with a reprise of “Susie is such a nice, nice girl. Susie would not do such a thing to anybody.”

Malone said he would go along on that one all the way, but that the thing to do was to prove it. He considered telling Leo Roback that Susie had an alibi. He considered not telling Leo Roback that Susie had an alibi. He never did reach a decision.

He considered asking Leo Roback what he knew about Lee Merchant’s candy stores, and decided against that right away.

“Like I told you, she gave me her picture,” Leo Roback said. He went into the bedroom and brought it out, a large framed wall picture showing Susie in full length and full color beside the inevitable kitchen stove, but wearing a simple, little checked house dress that would have been just a bit too tight for comfort, if worn while actually doing housework.

Malone said it was beautiful, that he agreed with everything about Susie and her general niceness, and that it was too bad she was involved in this, however innocently. Then having decided that Leo Roback wasn’t going to be any material help, he thanked him for the drink, told him not to worry and went away.

For a few minutes, he stood disconsolately on the sidewalk. Everybody had gone except himself. Everybody had gone, in big, comfortable cars, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. It was a bright, clear November morning now, a beautiful day for that time of year, but he didn’t feel in the least like a nice brisk walk to the office. On the other hand, he was going to need to conserve taxi fare before the day was over.

This was hardly the time to bring up the always delicate subject of money with the badly shaken Susie. But he knew exactly what was on his person, how much he owed, and had an ugly premonition regarding what he might or might not have in the emergency fund at the office.

And on top of all his own troubles, he hadn’t the faintest idea who had murdered Dale McDowell, or just how he was going to prove that Susie Snyder hadn’t before her alibi blew up.

He was standing there brooding, when a big green convertible slid up to the curb and Nick Cahalan called cordially, “Get in, Malone.”

Shipwrecked mariners have climbed aboard rescue boats with less enthusiasm than Malone demonstrated.

“Drive you to your office,” the big man said. “Was looking for you. You’re going to get her out of this, Malone?”

“Naturally,” Malone said, with serene confidence.

“That’s all right, then,” Nick Cahalan said, expertly piloting the car through late morning traffic. “Shouldn’t of worried anyway, soon’s I saw you there. Sorry I got sore, though.”

“Don’t be,” Malone said. “You weren’t sore at me. And under the circumstances—”

“You don’t quite dig me,” Cahalan said. “I’m not sorry I got sore because I got sore. Y’know what I mean.” Before Malone could answer that he didn’t have the slightest idea what he meant, he went on, “I mean, I’m sorry I got sore because I probably missed something. Because there was something very fixed about that setup, Malone. A fighter learns to notice stuff. But not if he gets sore and loses his head, which is what I did back there, which is why I’m sorry I got sore. Now you know what I mean, Malone?”

Now, Malone did. “I saw the same thing,” Malone said. “I mean, I felt the same thing.”

“That’s it,” Nick Cahalan said enthusiastically. “Something that was there that I would of noticed more if I hadn’t lost my head.”

Malone reflected that the only excuse he had was that he was never at his best in the mornings.

“But as long as you’re on the job,” Nick Cahalan said, “everything’s okay.”

Beyond that vote of confidence, though, the ex-prize-fighter didn’t have much to contribute. By the time he reached the office, the only added bit of information Malone had gained was that once the party who had tried to frame Susie for murder was found he, Nick Cahalan, was personally planning to dismember him with his own two hands.

Maggie looked up from her desk and greeted him with a worried look and the information that Lola Merchant was waiting for him, inside.

Malone nodded. There was one important thing he had to do first. He picked up the waiting-room phone and called the hospital where Les Schwegler had been taken.

Mr. Schwegler was still unconscious. There was no telling how long he might be unconscious. Several days or several minutes.

It was not reassuring information.

He went on into his office and found Lola Merchant standing at the window, looking out at Chicago’s roofs. She looked very tired and very pale as she turned around.

“Malone,” she began as he closed the door, “there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Susie. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do. There isn’t anything Lee and I wouldn’t do for you.”

“All right,” Malone said, sitting down behind his desk, waving her toward a chair and reaching for a cigar, “What’s the catch?”

She sat down, nervously lit a cigarette, and said, “Lee didn’t come home last night.”

Malone thought that over in silence for a moment. Then he said, “She’s still got half an alibi. So far.”

“She has both of us to back her up,” Lola said faintly. “I had a chance to talk with Lee on the phone. He’s home now. And he’ll be on the way in any minute now. He’ll back Susie up. But, Malone, where was he?”

This time there was a longer silence. Much longer.

Lola Merchant made a helpless gesture with her lovely, expressive hands. “We took Susie out last night. Just the three of us. She was coming all apart, Malone, over this business with Nick. So we really did the town. I’m a little fuzzy about the last details myself. So we took Susie home. Lee got her up to her place and dumped her on her bed. So then he told me to drive on home; he’d come along later in a cab. He had a little business to tend to first. So I went home. That’s all.”

“So I know the rest,” Malone said.

“Malone, he wasn’t there when I left this morning after your call. I kept calling and calling and I reached him about an hour ago. He’ll be along as soon as he’s had time to shave and change his tie.”

Malone looked at her thoughtfully. There was a different light in his eyes now. He rose, smiled at her and said, “Lola, I have a few things to attend to. Suppose you come along.”

“But, Malone, Lee—”

“I’ll leave a message with Maggie,” he promised. “He can join us later.” He added, “Don’t worry. Lee will be all right.”

And if his hunch was correct, so would everybody else. Or almost everybody.

He got in her car and gave the address of the apartment building near Oak Street where Dale McDowell had lived. She looked at him, but not with surprise.

“The necktie, Malone?”

“The necktie,” he told her. “But how did you know?”

“Because of the look you got on your face when I said something about Lee changing his tie. And because I noticed something, too. I saw Dale McDowell last night—in the Alabam, I think it was. He wasn’t wearing that yellow job. Or that pink shirt.” She started the car.

“You’re a shrewd girl, Lola,” Malone said. “I noticed something, too, though it wasn’t that. That yellow job, as you call it, didn’t look as if it had ever been worn. Or at least, worn very long.”

He leaned back, thinking it over. Something was beginning to form in his mind, vague as yet, and inconclusive, but a beginning. Dale McDowell had gone home, sometime in the course of the night, and changed his shirt and tie. What he had changed from, and why, might be the answer and then again might not. Might, in fact, turn out to be unimportant. But he meant to find out.

Getting into Dale McDowell’s apartment was a simple matter of opening the door and walking in. The bored policeman, left in charge by von Flanagan, looked up from the confession magazine he was reading and said, “Hi, Malone. Am I supposed to let you in?”

“We’ve just come from von Flanagan,” Malone said. “To take a look at his clothes.”

“Go ahead,” the policeman said, looking admiringly at Lola. He waved toward the closet and wardrobe. “Not much interesting here, though.”

“Frankly,” Malone said, “I don’t expect to find anything interesting.”

Dale McDowell’s suits were neat, conservative and orderly arranged. His shirts carefully folded in the drawers, tended to white and gray, with a few sport shirts of a very mild plaid. His ties were hung with almost mathematical precision on a rack; they were as conservative and as mild as the rest of his wardrobe. One was missing.

“The tie he wore last night isn’t here,” Lola said. “I can remember it. It was blue with a little dark red stripe.”

There didn’t seem to be any shirts and ties lying loose around the apartment, either.

Malone thanked the bored policeman and led the way out He began to feel a pleasant little flicker of excitement.

Lee Merchant met them in the lobby. The slender, light-haired man was pale and haggard.

Malone looked at him critically. “You need a drink.”

“Who doesn’t?” Lee Merchant croaked. He tried to grin.

The little lawyer took Lee by one elbow and Lola by the other, and steered them into the bar. He waited until a faint touch of color had come into the young man’s face, and then said, “All right, where were you all night?”

“Not up in Susie’s apartment,” Lee Merchant said. “Not murdering Dale McDowell, though I came close to it.” He finished his drink in a gulp and let Malone signal for a second. “We ran into him last night, when we had Susie out on the town. He told me he wanted to see me later. After we took Susie home and I parked her on her bed—she was out like a light—I sent Lola on home and went to meet him, at Herman’s.”

“Just a minute,” Malone said. “I take it everything was normal at Susie’s place?”

“Perfectly normal.” He gave a sickly smile. “Not a corpse in sight.”

“Did you lock the door?”

Lee Merchant thought for a minute. “I guess so. I pulled the door shut.”

Malone nodded. “Go on.”

“He wanted—well, Malone, you know how it is when you own a chain of—candy stores—”

“The policy racket,” Malone said, “is none of my business.”

“Nor mine, any more,” Lee Merchant said. “Lola and me, we’re going to the coast. I told McDowell off. He didn’t seem to mind. Said he was going to the head man, and left.”

“And after that?” Malone asked, not waiting to ask the identity of the head man.

“After that,” Lee Merchant said, his face turning red, “I just stayed in Herman’s and drank gin.”

Malone sat thinking everything over, while Lola Merchant told her silent and shamefaced husband what she thought of him for letting her worry herself white-headed, ending her remarks with a lavish embrace. Then he went to the telephone booth and called von Flanagan.

“I’ve been trying to get you,” von Flanagan roared over the wire, “the cab driver’s conscious.”

“Good,” Malone said. “That clinches everything. Now meet me at Susie Snyder’s apartment, and in five minutes you’ll be through work for the day.”

“Listen, Malone—” von Flanagan began.

“Meet me,” Malone said, and hung up.

They reached the little apartment building first, and for a few minutes Malone stood in the lobby worrying. It was so easy to be wrong, and in this case if he were, he was going to be terribly wrong. But now, there didn’t seem to be any other way.

Susie Snyder wore a hopeful look, and von Flanagan a look that said this had better be good. Even Klutchetsky seemed faintly interested.

Malone suggested that they call first on Susie’s landlord.

The sad-eyed little man, now back in his mouse-colored suit, met them with an anxious look. Was something new wrong?

“Everything’s all right,” Malone told him cheerfully. “Or is going to be.”

They came in and sat down, stiffly and awkwardly, watching Malone expectantly. The little lawyer strolled around, apparently aimlessly, until he spotted the picture of Susie. He picked it up and held it before him.

“Incidentally, Susie,” he said, “you never did tell me what you and Nick quarreled over. And it is my business.”

She flushed. “He was—told things about me. They weren’t true. But he said he’d been given proof. He wouldn’t believe me. I lost my temper, too.” Her eyes were wet. “But now—”

“That’s going to be all right, too,” Malone assured her. He looked again at the picture. “This really ought to be in the kitchen,” he said, and carried it out there.

What he had to do in the kitchen took only a matter of seconds. He had to put a knife where it belonged. He came back into the living room and said in the same casual tone, “You’re not a very good housekeeper, Roback. You ought, for instance, to clean your breadknife. And what have you done with the shirt and tie Dale McDowell was wearing?”

It was von Flanagan who dived for the kitchen door, but Klutchetsky who dived for Leo Roback.

“I still ought to throw you in the can,” von Flanagan growled, a few hours later. He waved at Joe the Angel for two more.

Malone grinned and said, “You got the results, what more do you want?” He reached for his glass. “Leo Roback was a frustrated little man with a yen for Susie. As I suspected, he broke up Susie and Nick. Who could do a better job of poisoning Nick’s mind than her landlord, who lived below her and knew all her comings and goings? But Susie wasn’t having any of Leo anyway. So he whipped up a good, mean grudge against her.”

He sipped his drink and grinned at Joe the Angel who was leaning on the bar and paying attention to every word.

“Leo Roback staked Lee Merchant in business—Lee, and a few more. When McDowell couldn’t shake down Lee any longer, he went after Roback. Roback saw this as a beautiful opportunity to get rid of McDowell and work off his mad on Susie at the same time.”

“The shirt and tie—” von Flanagan began.

“Was where he slipped.” Malone said. This was his story, and he was going to tell it his way. “To set the scene properly, after he’d toted Dale McDowell’s body up to the apartment where Susie was sound asleep, he decided to leave him there in his undershirt, making everything look very, very cozy. So he substituted one of his own shirts and ties, for the ones Dale had been wearing—one he himself had never dared wear in public. And set out the bottle and the icebowl and the glasses, and filled up the ashtray.”

“Smart fellow,” von Flanagan said.

“Malone is smarter,” Joe the Angel said admiringly.

“I hope so,” Malone said. “Roback overlooked his victim’s conservative taste in clothes. He also forgot the simple little operation of taking Susie’s unused breadknife downstairs and substituting it for his own, the one he’d used on McDowell. This he could have done. Those little furnished apartments are alike down to the last detail.” He relit his cigar and said, “Two more of the same.”

Lee and Lola Merchant had gone happily home to Wilmette. Les Schwegler, who’d opened his eyes and then refused to give even his name unless Malone were there, was doing nicely. Once Malone had arrived, he happily told the world that he’d spotted the man who fired at him.

“I didn’t want to break Les all up by telling him we already knew it was Leo Roback,” Malone said dreamily, “I should have figured that, because nobody else would have seen me escorting Susie out of the building, know what was going on, and want to break up that trip to Wilmette without actually killing anyone else. But Les’ statement was the clincher.”

“That Susie is a nice girl,” Joe the Angel said. “Nick Cahalan, he is one nice boy.”

They were indeed, Malone thought, wondering about appropriate wedding presents. He had an especially warm spot in his heart for Nick right now, because of the words Nick had used in speaking of the services that had been done for his Susie. They were pleasant words, and Malone decided to use them himself as Joe the Angel brought two more ryes.

“I’ll pick up the check on this one,” said Malone.

LIFE CAN BE HORRIBLE

“Look here, Malone,” Maggie said, “just because you lost all your money on that all night poker game, it doesn’t mean you have to take your bad temper out on me. You’ve got to see these two clients.”

“Go away,” the lawyer said. “Today I wouldn’t see the Emperor of Little America. And I didn’t lose all my money. I’ve got eight dollars and seventy cents. I know, I just counted it. Chase the clients away, I’m busy worrying.”

“What are you worrying about?”

John J. Malone said, “Can’t I just worry, without anything in particular?”

“Malone,” Maggie said, “you’ve got to see these two people.”

He reached for a cigar, looked at her.

“I don’t think they have a dollar between them,” Maggie said. “But I think you’d better see them.” She added, “Their name is di Angelo.”

Malone bounded up from behind his desk, “For the love of Pat and Mike, why didn’t you say so? What are you standing there for? Send them in.”

The two young men Maggie ushered into the office definitely didn’t look like profitable clients. They looked very much alike. Blue jeans, windbreakers. He got a few facts fast as they sat down on the couch. The one on the left was Eddie di Angelo, aged twenty. The one on the right was Frankie di Angelo, aged nineteen.

They both looked scared.

Malone wondered if he ought to offer them a glass of wine. He did. They accepted it and said “Thanks,” in unison.

“Mr. Malone,” Eddie said, “our Uncle Joe said you were the best lawyer in Chicago, maybe in the whole world. He said we should come to you.”

Malone lit his cigar and said, “Your Uncle Joe is a very smart man.” The least he could do for Joe the Angel’s nephews was to take the case for free. After all, eight dollars and seventy cents was a good stake for another poker game.

“We want you to defend us,” Eddie said.

“Speeding ticket?” Malone asked genially.

Eddie shook his smooth-haired head. “Uncle Joe explained to us what the charges would be. Breaking and entering. Attempted robbery.”

The quiet-looking Frankie roused himself and added, “And murder.”

Malone held his breath for a good sixty seconds, put his cigar down in the ashtray and said, “Maybe you’d better tell me the whole story.”

“Well,” Eddie said, “it’s like this. Yesterday this babe—”

“Lady,” Frankie said.

“All right, this lady came into Uncle Joe’s. She had a coupla drinks, and she asked Uncle Joe, does he know where she can hire a coupla husky young guys to do some moving for her. So Uncle Joe, he knows we can use some money, so he tells this babe, pardon me, I mean lady, yes, and he calls us up, and we come and talk to her in Uncle Joe’s back room.”

He paused, fumbled through his pockets, and fished out a cigarette that had been lit once before, carefully put out, and saved to be lit again. Malone rose to the rescue with the box on his desk.

“Thanks, Malone. Uncle Joe said we was to call you that, not Mister Malone. Anyway, we meet her. She’s a big babe—”

“Lady,” Frankie said gloomily.

“She’s a big lady and very pretty. She tells us this story. She’s got a husband, they’re separated. He is hanging onto the house, which is out in Maywood. He is also hanging onto ten thousand dollars in thousand dollar bills, which rightfully belong to her. She gives us the address, and draws on a paper napkin the layout of the house. The house is his all around with bushes and stuff. Here’s a window, on the side. She said, ‘Cut the screen on this window, it goes into the bedroom. You get there early, he’ll be asleep. But just to be safe, make sure he stays asleep.’”

“‘Sap him,’ she said,” Frankie said.

“Well, just to keep him quiet while we search the house. Because the money’s supposed to be in a tin box in the bookcase. If it ain’t there, he may have hid it and we better look. We better do this early in the morning. So, we say yes. I borrow a car, we drive out. It’s a funny little house with all those trees and stuff around it. The guy paints pictures, or something.”

“Artist,” Frankie said.

“Well, we go in. Through the window. The bedroom is empty. That worries me a little. I had a sap with me, just in case. You know what I mean. We went in through the bedroom, we walk into a big room, living room, I guess. All filled up with pictures. The guy is there, on the floor. Somebody else has hit him with a sap, too hard, I guess, and he’s dead.”

“What did you do?” Malone demanded.

“Do? What the babe—mean, lady—told us to do. We looked for the money. It wasn’t there. We searched that whole place and didn’t find a dime. We even searched him. Then we got worried and we talked to Uncle Joe, and he said come talk to you, and here we are. Can we be arrested?”

“Not if I can prevent it,” Malone said. He pushed the buzzer and yelled, “Maggie. Get me Joe the Angel.”

Joe’s voice came over the phone sounding a little wistful. “Malone, can you—”

“Yes I can,” Malone said, “but can you get these two amateur criminals out of town so they won’t get in my way while I’m doing my job?”

There was a little silence on the far end of the line, then, “My cousin in Milwaukee. They can stay there a few days. Then can take the North-Shore Electric. You send them over here, I make all the arrangements, give them money. And you, Malone, you work.” He hung up.

“All right, boys,” Malone said. “You’re going to take a short vacation. Stop over at Uncle Joe’s, he has your tickets and money, and I don’t want to see you or hear from you until everything is all clear. Catch?”

“Catch,” Eddie and Frankie said in unison. They waved a good-bye, and ducked.

Malone folded his arms on his desk, rested his head on them, and wished he had died in his cradle.

Maggie came in, snapped, “Malone!”, looked at him, then walked around the desk, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and said softly, “Malone!”

He looked up wearily. “I’ve decided to abandon the profession of law. I’ve decided to become a radio announcer. How do you like this?”

The little lawyer stood up, squared off, and went on in pear-shaped tones: “Life—can be horrible. This program comes to you through the courtesy of the Spit ‘n Image Undertaking Parlors, whose thought for today is, you too may try our easy lay-away plan.” He looked at Maggie. “Not good, not bad?”

“Worse,” Maggie said. “This may cheer you a little.” She handed him an envelope.

Malone ripped it open. Two hundred dollar bills fell out, and a note.

The note read, “Retainer on my nephews’ case. Your respectful friend, Joe the Angel.”

Malone grabbed the phone, dialed Joe the Angel’s number.

“Look here,” he said, “I can’t take money from you.”

“Since when,” Joe the Angel said, and hung up.

Malone sighed, tucked the money in his wallet, and told Maggie, “Now, I’ve got to produce.”

“Go back to worrying,” she said, and went out.

Malone put his head back on his arms and worried about how he’d lost that much in last night’s poker game, what he was going to do about the young di Angelos, and where next month’s office rent was coming from. He was wakened from a dream of utter darkness by a discreet knock at the door.

“Malone,” Maggie whispered. “Another client, and it looks important, and for the love of heaven, comb your hair and straighten your tie.”

The little lawyer roused himself, scooted to the cupboard washbasin, and did the best he could. He was sitting behind his desk when Maggie ushered the woman in.

She was a king-sized Amazon, and beautiful. Malone stood up from behind his desk and estimated her height at a little less than the Empire State building. He took a second look and decided she was only about five feet eleven. Her hair was blonde, her face was lovely. Her clothes were definitely not from a department store basement.

“Mr. Malone,” she said, “I’m Nadine Sapphire.”

“A beautiful name,” the little lawyer said gallantly, “for a beautiful woman.”

She smiled, sat down, and became only half the size of the Empire State Building.

“I wish my husband had as beautiful a one,” she said. “His name is Jackson Kornblum. He’s an artist. I mean, he paints pictures, I suppose that makes him an artist. And he has ten thousand dollars that belong to me.”

Malone felt a quickening down his spine. What had Eddie said? “A big lady, and very pretty.”

“Go on, my dear,” he said, and hoped his voice was not as hoarse as it felt.

“We’d quarreled. We’d been quarreling a lot, but this was the finish. I’d brought the money home, in cash, that afternoon, and put it in a tin box on the bookcase, to take to the bank the next day. He wouldn’t let me touch it. He put me out of the house.”

Malone took another look at his client and decided Jackson Kornblum must be about the size and shape of Samson. He looked sympathetic, “You poor girl.”

“That was day before yesterday,” she said. “He won’t send me the money, and I don’t want to go out there alone. That’s why I came to you. I suppose I could take a policeman with me, but I think a lawyer would be better. After all, it’s my money. I earned it.”

“None of my business,” Malone said, “but how?”

She looked as though he should have known, “I’m a lady wrestler.”

Malone managed, with an almost superhuman effort, not to look surprised.

“Well, will you come with me?”

He rose and said, “What are we waiting for?”

Her car was waiting downstairs, and she drove it expertly. The little lawyer had a feeling she would do everything just as expertly.

The house was just as the young di Angelos had described it, a small house, surrounded by trees and bushes, in that section where the city was about to become suburbs. It was, Malone noted, still within the city limits. That meant the murder was in von Flanagan’s jurisdiction, which was good. Von Flanagan occasionally gave him a bad time, but suburban police were worse.

They walked up to the front door and she fumbled for her keys. Well, Malone told himself, this was as good a way as any to discover the body.

They went in. There wasn’t any body to discover.

Malone blinked.

There wasn’t even an indication that a body had even been there.

Maybe the di Angelos had been mistaken. Maybe Jackson Kornblum had just been konked on the head hard enough to knock him cold, had come to, and walked away. But Malone didn’t think so. Young as they were, the di Angelos would have been able to tell if a man were dead or not.

“He isn’t in,” Nadine Sapphire said in a tone of relief.

She looked through the house, Malone looked around the room. A big room, full of pictures. A hardly adequate description. The pictures made him shudder a little, even if he couldn’t tell what they were supposed to represent. He imagined Jackson Kornblum had painted them. Certainly, he wouldn’t have bought them. No one in his right mind would have bought them.

“No, he isn’t here,” she said, coming back in the room.

She walked over to the bookcase, picked up the tin box and opened it.

“But the money is,” she said happily. She counted it. “It’s all here. Ten one thousand dollar bills.”

Malone’s mind was whirling like a merry-go-round. The di Angelos had been telling the truth. The body had been here and the money gone. Now the body was gone and the money was here.

Were the di Angelos crazy, or was he?

His gaze caught a framed photograph on the bookcase, a thin-faced man with small eyes, set close together, and a small beard.

“Is this him?” he asked.

Nadine Sapphire nodded. “That’s him. The rat.” She stuffed the money in her purse. “Let’s be on our way.”

Halfway to the Loop she said, “You’ve been very kind. I suppose your fee should be ten percent.”

“Miss Sapphire,” Malone said, “you’ve taken up a very little of my time, on a morning when I had nothing to do anyway. I’ve had a very pleasant drive on a beautiful day. Let’s see—my fee has been paid.”

She shot a sharp glance at him.

“The pleasure,” he said, “of meeting a real lady wrestler. First time in my life.”

She laughed. “All right. Then let me send you tickets to the match tonight.”

“A deal,” Malone said.

Back in his office, he worried about the whole thing. Finally he called up Joe the Angel. The boys should be at their destination by now. He got the telephone number in Milwaukee and put a call through, and got Eddie on the wire.

Were they absolutely sure the man was dead? Were they absolutely sure the money was gone?

Eddie’s voice was hurt. “Mr. Malone, don’t you believe us? Naturally we’re sure.”

“Just wanted to double check,” the little lawyer said soothingly.

“Is anything gone wrong?” Eddie asked anxiously.

“Not as far as you’re concerned,” Malone reassured him. He hung up.

Well, that one hopeful theory was out. That Kornblum had hidden the money in a safer place. That someone had knocked him cold enough to look dead. That he’d come to, put the money back in the box, and gone out.

Everytthing would have been so easy if it had happened that way. The di Angelos could have come back from Milwaukee, Nadine Sapphire would have her money and all he, Malone, would have had to do was forget the whole thing and go to the wrestling matches.

But it hadn’t worked out that way.

The phone rang and he picked it up with an inexplicable sense of apprehension.

“Malone? Rico di Angelo. I want you to come over right away. I got a trouble.”

Another di Angelo. Where did Rico, Joe’s cousin, who owned the undertaking parlor on North Avenue, fit into this tangle?

Malone said, “I’ll be right over.”

He paused in the outer office and said “If any more di Angelos get into this rat race, I’m going to Alaska.”

He took a cab to the ornate establishment and walked in. Rico was waiting for him, his usually cheerful face pale with anxiety.

“Malone,” he said without preliminary, “I got a body. A corpse.”

“Well,” the lawyer said with false cheerfulness, “I thought that was your business.”

“You don’t understand,” Rico said. “I don’t know how I got this body.”

“You’re damned right I don’t understand,” Malone said. He took out a cigar, started to unwrap it, and put it back in his pocket.

“Somebody, they break in my place last night,” Rico said. “I see it when I get here. I think, I been robbed. I don’t worry. No money here to steal. I look around and I find it. The body.”

He looked at Malone with a kind of helpless anguish. “Nothing stolen. Nothing missing. But somebody leaves me a body.”

“Whose?” Malone asked savagely.

Rico shrugged his shoulders. “No clothes. No wallet. Nothing. Just a body. On the slab, covered with one of my sheets. What are we going to do?”

“First,” Malone said, “we’ll take a look at this body.”

He had a horrible premonition that was turning his stomach into what felt like an ice-cube tray.

Rico led him into the back room, where a sheeted form lay on the slab. “There it is,” Rico said. He pulled back the sheet.

The premonition had been right. A thin face, eyes too close together, a soft little brown beard.

“Whose was it, Malone?” Rico whispered. “Where did it come from and how did it get here” He sighed noisily. “I run a nice little business here, I never get in no trouble. Malone, what do I do now?”

Malone was silent for a moment. Again he reached for the cigar, again he put it back.

“I know whose body it is, and I know where it came from. I don’t know how it got here, but I know what we’re going to do. We’re going to break out your hearse and we’re going to put it back where it came from.”

“Malone,” Rico said, “you are my friend. Any time you want flowers free, to give to one of your girls—”

“Forget it,” Malone said. He went back into the front room. He saw that there was an ashtray, unobtrusive, but nevertheless an ashtray, and decided it was not against etiquette to light the cigar. He could hear Rico talking in rapid Italian to his assistant. He could hear sounds of movement.

At last Rico came to the door and said, “All packed. Let’s go.”

Malone followed him out to the alley and slid into the front seat of the ambulance.

“I think this better than the hearse,” Rico said. “Not so much noticed.” He stepped on the gas. “George, he is in back with the patient.” He grinned.

Malone gave him the address and said, “Let’s not use the siren. Also because we’ll be not so much noticed.”

He tried to think things out. Anyway he looked at it, it added up to one of those mathematical problems that could only be solved by a wall-wide electric machine with two thousand push buttons.

Jackson Kornblum had been a smallish man. (Malone suddenly remembered Nadine Sapphire saying, “He put me out of the house.” The little lawyer wondered just how he’d done it.) But even so, it would have taken a fairly strong person to carry him out of the house, probably into a car, and then carry him into Rico di Angelo’s undertaking parlor. A reasonably husky man could have done it. Or a lady wrestler.

But she’d seemed genuinely surprised when the body was missing.

Had she killed him? She had the strength to crack a man’s skull, which was what had happened to Kornblum. Had she killed him and arranged an elaborate shenanigan with him to go out to the house, so that she would have a witness—a lawyer—present when the body was discovered?

Had it happened that way, and had someone else moved him to Rico’s? Why? And who had put the money back in the tin box, and where had it been in the meantime?

And where were Jackson Kornblum’s clothes? Had they been taken off to avoid identification? But in that case, why bother to break into an undertaking parlor, and leave the body there? Why not just dump it in a ditch somewhere?

Finally, why had Jackson Kornblum been killed?

Malone sighed loudly.

Rico said anxiously “I go too fast for you, yes?”

“You don’t go too fast for me, no,” Malone said.

Fortunately the Kornblum house was in a sparsely settled section. No one seemed to notice the ambulance as it pulled up through the trees and stopped by the front door. Malone got out and tried to remember how the young di Angelos had broken in. The bedroom window. He walked around the house, found the window with the cut screen, and crawled in. The pictures leered at him as he walked through the living room, he tried to avoid looking at them.

He opened the front door. Rico and his assistant carried in the late Mr. Kornblum.

“Here,” Malone said. “On the floor.”

Rico frowned and looked a little shocked. “Not on the bed.”

Malone shook his head. “The floor.”

Rico shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

“We’re taking the sheet back with us,” the lawyer said.

Rico picked up the sheet, folded it. “He doesn’t have no clothes on.”

“He’s not going to get cold,” Malone said grimly. “Let’s get out of here before somebody drives by and wonders what an ambulance is doing parked in the front yard.”

As they neared downtown Rico said, “I drive you to your office.”

“Not in this you won’t,” Malone said hastily. “I too have my special standing. Just drop me where I can get a taxi. And forget all this ever happened.”

Rico sighed. “Maybe I lose a good customer.”

“Maybe we’ll get him back for you,” Malone told him.

The tickets were in an envelope on his desk when he reached the office. He looked at them thoughtfully. An idea, not much of a one, but something, was beginning to form in his mind. He picked up the phone and called the Milwaukee number.

“Eddie,” he said, “it’s okay to come back. And come back right away. I think you can give me some help.”

He hung up and called Maggie.

“Get two more of these,” he said, waving the tickets at her. “I’m treating some young friends to the matches tonight. And then—” He fished for the paper on which he’d written the address of the Kornblum house, found it, and handed it to her. “Find out what precinct this is in. Call that precinct, report a body at this address, and hang up fast. Then get hold of Charlie Stein for me and tell him to get over here fast.”

He wasn’t sure if he was accomplishing anything, but he wasn’t losing ground.

It was less than half an hour before Charlie Stein arrived. He was a dapper little man with a waxed mustache, who was a one man Dun and Bradstreet—except that he worked faster. For the most part his customers were bookies and proprietors of gambling houses who wanted to know how far their clients’ credit could be trusted. Malone never had figured how he could get his information, but he could ferret out the finest details, and when necessary, in a hurry.

“H’ya, boy,” he greeted Malone. “Got a drink in the house?”

Malone opened the filing drawer marked “Emergency” and pulled out the bottle of gin, and two glasses.

Charlie toasted him silently and said, “What can I do for you, boy?”

“Find out everything about a guy named Jackson Kornblum. Bank accounts, insurance, the works.”

“Can do,” Charlie said. “How soon?”

“I’d like it in ten minutes,” Malone said, “but, well, fast as you can make it.”

“Fast it is,” Charlie said. He tossed off the rest of the gin. “See you this afternoon.” He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the carnation in his lapel.

Malone slipped him one of the two hundred dollar bills he’d received from Joe the Angel.

“Thank you, boy,” he said, and was off.

An idea was beginning to form slowly in Malone’s mind. So far it hadn’t taken any definite shape nor form. It was like jello that still had to be poured in the mold, but it was there.

He picked up the phone and called von Flanagan, at Homicide.

Von Flanagan wasn’t in. Malone identified himself, swore it was a matter of vital importance, and where could he reach von Flanagan. After a few minutes wait he was given an address he immediately recognized as that of the Kornblum house.

Well, there was nothing to do until Charlie Stein came back, and a little refreshment and human companionship might help the idea to jell.

He paused in the outer office. Maggie said, “The tickets arrived by messenger. And since when have you taken up wrestling?”

“Not wrestling,” the little lawyer told her, “wrestlers. There’s a distinction. I’m going out on business. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She sniffed. “If anything important comes up, I’ll call you at Joe the Angel’s.”

It was not the first, nor even the hundredth time that Malone had sought Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar as a refuge from troubles and a place to compose his thoughts. He slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, waved at Joe, and said, “Rye.”

Joe slid it in front of him, and as Malone reached for his wallet, held up a protesting hand.

“Today, on the house.”

“Thanks,” Malone said. He downed his drink, reached for his beer chaser. “I phoned the boys that they can come back from Milwaukee.”

“They’re all okay?” Joe the Angel said happily, refilling the glass.

“All okay,” Malone told him.

For an anxious moment he thought Joe the Angel was going to kiss him, in front of a janitor from the City Hall, a Tribune reporter, and assorted patrons. He protected himself by getting the second drink down fast. His glass had hardly touched the bar before Joe the Angel filled it again.

“You know what happen, Malone?”

“Not quite,” Malone said, “but I will.” He hoped he was telling the truth. “I just know they’ll be in the clear.”

Joe the Angel turned to the City Hall janitor and said, “This Malone, he’s smart like a judge.”

“This gal who hired the boys,” Malone said casually, “you ever see her before?”

Joe nodded. “She come in now and then, have one small drink wine, say good night, go out again.”

“Any idea who she is?”

Joe shook his head. “Me, I don’t ask my customers their names. I know now who she is, I think. The boys tell me when they come in this morning, she married to that fella got killed. I don’t know his name. I don’t know her name.”

His tone indicated that he would just as soon not know, that he was through with the whole matter. He shoved the bottle of rye in front of Malone, said, “Help yourself,” and went away to wait on a new customer.

Malone sat brooding. The idea was beginning to jell a little, but not much.

He’d been thinking that sending the two young di Angelos out to the Kornblum house on what turned out to be a fool’s errand had been intended as a cover up for murder. He decided now that didn’t make sense. If the plan had been to have the di Angelos caught with the corpse, there would have been some arrangement to catch them. This way, no one could prove they had ever been near the place.

No, there had to be some other reason. The boys had been sent on a genuine errand. But someone else had gotten there ahead of them, and done exactly what they had been supposed to do—except that they were only supposed to knock Jackson Kornblum cold, and the someone had struck with intent to kill.

Had it just happened that way?

No, that would be asking the long arm of coincidence to bend its elbow a little too much.

There was still the matter of the late Mr. Kornblum’s unexpected appearance in Rico di Angelo’s Undertaking Parlor, and the reappearance of the ten thousand dollars.

“I’ll think of something,” the little lawyer said out loud.

“You always think of something, Malone,” Joe the Angel said admiringly.

“Let’s hope this doesn’t prove to be the exception that proves the rule,” Malone said. He looked at his watch. Time for Charlie Stein to be getting back. He took a fourth drink, waved good-bye to Joe the Angel, and headed back to the office.

It wasn’t long before Charlie Stein arrived.

“Easy job, boy, easy job. I ought to give you half your money back.”

Malone grinned. “That would be a day! What’s the answer or answers?”

“This guy Kornblum, he acts poor and he lives poor. Well, not poor exactly, boy, but not rich. He thinks he’s an artist, he’s—he’s—”

“Eccentric?” Malone said.

“That’s the word, boy. He owns his house. He also owns about half a million bucks worth of stocks and bonds. But he keeps it a secret, and he makes his wife go out and earn her own living and most of his. Anything else you want to know?”

Malone shook his head. “You’re a genius at finding out stuff, Charlie.”

Charlie Stein smiled modestly. “I have my sources. See you, boy.”

Malone thought for a moment, picked up the phone and called von Flanagan again. This time the police officer was in his office.

“Malone,” he roared over the phone, “I got your message but I’ve been busy. Funny murder case. Tell you about it sometime.”

“Do that,” Malone said pleasantly.

“Your note says it’s a matter of vital importance. What’s up, Malone?”

“I’ve got two tickets to the wrestling matches tonight,” Malone said, “and I wanted to invite you to go with me.”

There was a moment’s silence, then a burst of profanity from von Flanagan shook the receiver.

“Vital importance! Wrestling matches! And I’m a busy man!” There was another silence, and then in a milder tone, “That’s very nice of you, Malone. I think I can make it. When and where?”

“Meet you at Joe the Angel’s at seven-thirty,” Malone said. “I’ve never seen lady wrestlers in action, and I think I’ll need to build up my strength.”

The idea still hadn’t jelled.

It was still formless when the two young di Angelos came in. They looked considerably more cheerful than when Malone had seen them last.

“You find out who killed him, Mr. Malone?” Eddie asked excitedly.

“Not yet,” Malone said, with confidence he hoped wasn’t false. “But you don’t need to worry. No one saw you go there. No one saw you there. No one saw you leave there. So just relax, and don’t do it again.”

They grinned at him silently.

He picked up the tickets Maggie had gotten for him and handed them over. “I’d like you to come and watch the matches tonight.”

“Gee!” Frankie said.

“That’s swell!” Eddie said.

They said “Thanks!” in unison.

Malone said very casually. “I’d like to have a word with you outside after it’s over. Oh now, don’t look worried. There’s no trouble involved. You just may be able to do me a favor, that’s all.”

“Gee, sure,” Frankie said.

“Any time, Mr. Malone,” Eddie said.

They grinned at him again from the door by way of goodbye.

Two drinks past seven-thirty, von Flanagan began to get confidential about his day’s work.

“Everybody goes out of his way to make things hard for me,” the big red-faced police officer said. It was a familiar complaint, but Malone listened. “A nice clean straight killing, I can understand. But something like this, it just makes a lot of unnecessary work for the police department.”

He went on to tell about the nude body of a murdered artist found in a secluded house, on a tip given from some unknown source.

Malone silently thanked the Unknown Source, and wished he could raise her salary. That reminded him of an unpleasant fact. In a feeling of warm goodwill he’d paid up half the office rent, paid Maggie part of her salary, and from his remaining one hundred dollars, he had a little over eleven left. Maybe Joe the Angel—no, this was not the time.

Von Flanagan was still going into details, and Malone paid polite attention, reflecting that he was still two steps ahead of von Flanagan.

The police officer finished his third drink and said, “Can’t figure out what happened to his clothes. Let’s go, Malone. Always wanted to see a lady wrestler.”

On their way, Malone wondered about sending flowers to her—he supposed they would call it, dressing room. There was a florist where he still had credit. What kind of flowers? Tiger lilies might be appropriate. Or maybe it wasn’t etiquette to send flowers to a lady wrestler. He decided against it.

When she appeared in the ring, she seemed even bigger and prettier than she had in his office. She wore what looked to him like a tight-fitting bathing suit, a restrained shade of red. Her blonde hair was pinned around her head in braids.

The crowd cheered for “Nadine!”

Her opponent stepped into the ring. She was just as big and just as pretty, but her suit was a bright green, and her hair was just a bit on the reddish side.

The crowd sent up a cheer for “Daphne!” This, he gathered from his program, was Daphne Flowers.

It was, Malone had to admit, a performance. He was not a ballet fan himself, preferring a good chorus line, but under duress he had attended a few. This was as close to ballet as he had ever seen. A combination of ballet and sheer mayhem. He watched, fascinated.

Once or twice he heard von Flanagan murmur a discreet “Wow!” under his breath.

Malone pulled his notebook from his pocket, scribbled a quick note. “Will you have supper with me? Malone.” He grabbed an usher, handed him the note and a dollar bill. That brought the bankroll down to ten.

When it was over, and Nadine had been pronounced the winner, he led a dazed-eyed von Flanagan down to the street. He stood there for a moment in the milling crowds, looking around. At last he spotted the two of them.

“Wait here,” he told von Flanagan, and shoved through the crowd to the two young di Angelos.

“That’s her, all right,” Eddie said excitedly. “The one in the green suit.”

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “Green suit?”

“Green,” Frankie said.

“Sure you’re not colorblind?” Malone demanded.

“Green suit,” Eddie said, “and sort of reddish hair. I’d know her any place. And Malone, she should of won that match.”

“How about the other babe,” Malone asked.

“Lady,” Frankie muttered.

“Never saw her before,” Eddie said.

Malone said, “Well thanks, kids, and don’t worry any more. Hope you enjoyed the show.” He went back to von Flanagan and said, “C’mon, let’s take a lady wrestler out to supper.”

Von Flanagan’s eyes brightened. He said, “Are you kidding?”

“Who,” Malone said, “me? Where do you think I got the tickets?”

She was waiting for them, superbly dressed and made up, and—so was Daphne. “I hope you don’t mind if I brought a friend along.” She introduced Daphne.

“I hope you don’t mind if I did,” Malone said. He introduced von Flanagan.

Nadine, it seemed, had her car. They took off for a restaurant on the near north side. Malone fingered the remaining ten dollar bill, and hoped for the best. Lady wrestlers probably ate like horses.

Daphne ordered a bowl of clear soup and a small glass of domestic wine.

Nadine ordered a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of skim milk.

“Got to keep our weight down,” Daphne explained. She not only looked big, and pretty, she also looked charming and smart.

“Next match, Pittsburgh,” Nadine said, “and Daphne is the winner.”

“We take turns,” Daphne added.

“From looking at you in the ring,” von Flanagan said, “I’d never of thought you were the best of friends.”

“Little do you know,” Nadine said. “In fact, I’ve been staying with Daphne since my husband threw me out.” Suddenly she shut up fast.

Malone looked at her and decided to pitch an inside curve. He hoped she wouldn’t pitch the bowl of cornflakes. The idea in his mind had not only jelled now, it had whipped cream and a strawberry on it.

“Miss Sapphire,” he said in a light voice, “what time last night did you decide to murder your husband—Jackson Kornblum?”

Across the table he could see von Flanagan sober up as though someone had poured oxygen into him.

“It was—” She caught herself, “Why you stinking—”

Malone ducked the bowl of cornflakes.

“My dear girl,” he said, “nothing’s going to happen to you, because I’m your lawyer. Now both of you listen to me, and you too, von Flanagan.” He turned to Daphne. “You’re a good friend of Nadine Sapphire. You knew she’s had trouble with her husband, that he was holding on to ten grand that belonged to her. Am I right?”

“Right so far,” Daphne murmured. She had a soft gentle voice.

“You had the bright idea of sending a couple of young punks out to collect that ten grand, even if they had to sock him—not too hard—to collect it Right again?”

“Go to the head of the class,” Daphne said.

Malone said, “I’m just making this up as I go along, but I know it’s right, and it has to check. You used to drop in at Joe the Angel’s for an occasional glass of wine. It occurred to you he might get you some fast hired help, and he did. You briefed them and went back to your apartment. You told Nadine what you’d done. But Nadine got to brooding. She didn’t trust your hired help. And maybe she’d found out that with Jackson Kornblum dead, she’d inherit half a million bucks cash money.” He turned his head. “Am I right, Nadine?”

She called him a very unpleasant name.

“Say that again,” the little lawyer told her, “and I won’t take your case.”

Von Flanagan said, “Malone, what gives?”

“You missed the opening of the picture,” Malone said, “But I’m giving you the ending of it. The least you can do, with my cleaning up your case for you, is to buy us a drink.”

Von Flanagan waved to the waiter and gave the order. Two double ryes with beer chasers, one glass of milk, one plain seltzer water.

“Nadine,” Malone said, “drove out to the house, went in through the window, sapped her husband, picked up the money, and came back to your apartment, Daphne. She told you what she’d done, and you knew what a fool she’d been. Daphne, there have been times in my life when I’ve wished I had a friend like you. You took Nadine’s car keys and the money. You drove up to the house, got in, put the money back in the tin box, and decided to dispose of the body.”

Von Flanagan said hoarsely, “Malone, is any of this, probable truth?”

Malone hoped it was, and didn’t answer. He smiled at Daphne and went on talking. “Why did you pick Rico di Angelo’s undertaking parlor?”

She smiled at him. Malone decided he liked Daphne. “The name di Angelo stuck in my mind. I was going through the undertaking parlors in the classified, and I saw di Angelo. I stuck the little jerk’s body in the back of the car, broke into the place and parked him on the slab.”

“His clothes?” Malone asked.

“They’re at the bottom of the drainage canal. I thought it might help if he weren’t identified too soon. And the logical place to hide a body is in an undertaking parlor. I hope it didn’t make Mr. di Angelo too much trouble.”

“It didn’t,” Malone assured her. Suddenly he felt very tired. “Nadine, did you know your husband had about half a million dollars you would inherit?”

“I—” She shut up fast and reached for the sugar bowl.

“Don’t throw it,” Malone advised her, “it’s against the law. And you’re talking to your lawyer now.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Don’t worry my dear, I never lost a client yet.”

She relaxed a little. Her eyes smiled at him, just slightly. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to get my ten thousand dollars back. I guess I hit him a little too hard.”

“You don’t know your own strength,” Malone said in a sympathetic voice.

“Just like you said, I told Daphne. I went to sleep. She came back and told me not to worry, but she’d gotten your name from Mr. Joe di Angelo. I thought it would be smart if you went out with me and helped discover the body. I thought it would be there, and the money gone, and I could blame it on these two young punks. But there was no body, and the money was there. I’ve got it right here.”

Von Flanagan cleared his throat, drank half a glass of water, and said, “Miss Sapphire, I’m sorry, but you’re under arrest. I’ll have to take you with me.”

“Charge?” Malone asked.

“Murder,” von Flanagan said. “She’ll sign a confession.”

“She’ll sign nothing,” Malone said. “I’m her lawyer, and if there’s any pushing-around done, I’ll tell your mother-in-law about that night in the dice house in Wheaton—”

“You’ll be treated kindly,” von Flanagan told Nadine, “and you can see your lawyer first thing in the morning.” He turned to Malone. “How did you know all this?”

“I didn’t,” Malone said. “I just guessed.”

Two minutes later Daphne waved at the waiter, ordered a drink for Malone and a seltzer for herself. She said, “You’re really going to defend Nadine?”

Malone nodded.

“You probably need a retainer. She left this with me—in case anything like this happened.” She opened her purse. There were the ten thousand dollar bills. “Don’t worry, they’re safe with me.” She slipped one of them into his hand. “Can you get her off?”

Malone looked at her, at the thousand dollar bill. He found a slip of paper and a pen in his pocket, and wrote her a receipt.

“I never lost a.…” He didn’t finish.

There was a certain fascination about Daphne.

“Tomorrow night,” she said, “at Joe the Angel’s, at eight. I want to know how things worked out.” Her eyes swam at him. “And meantime—”

Two hours before dawn he dropped in at Joe the Angel’s, ordered a fast rye and beer, and laid a thousand dollar bill on the counter.

“No change,” Joe said.

“All right, I owe you.” Malone said.

Joe stuck the bill in the cash register and said, “You get your change in the morning.” He poured out the rye and beer. “What are you singing about?”

Malone looked up at him happily. “Life—can be wonderful. This program comes to you through the courtesy of the Sunshine Florists, whose cheerful thought for this morning is—tomorrow, will be another day.”

GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE!

A woman in the crowd gasped, almost screamed. Near her, a man in a gray topcoat covered his eyes with his hands. Half a block away an overdressed, overpainted and very pretty girl sank to her knees on the concrete sidewalk and prayed. But most of the crowd stared upward in silence in half-horrified, half-delighted fascination.

On a narrow ledge twenty-two stories above the street, there was what seemed, from this distance, to be a small dark blob. The crowd knew that the blob was a girl in a mink coat, that she had been crouched on the ledge for hours, and that a minister, a policeman and an eminent psychiatrist were pleading and reasoning with her through the open window.

John J. Malone was not one of the crowd. He was only trying to push his way through it to the entrance of the hotel, where a profitable client was waiting for him, one who was ready to hand over a fat retainer before giving himself up on a burglary rap which John J. Malone knew he could beat in five minutes even before a prejudiced jury.

The important business of collecting that retainer was one reason why he didn’t notice the crowd at first. A lone, crumpled five dollar bill was in his right pants pocket, and he had a date with a very special and very expensive blonde just half an hour from now. And this particular client would pay the retainer in cash.

Malone was beginning to lose his temper with the crowd when he suddenly realized that the space in front of the hotel was roped off. That was when he looked up.

“Been there for hours,” a man next to him murmured, almost dreamily.

For a minute he stood there, horror-frozen. His mind took in what was being said around him, even though he wasn’t conscious of hearing it, and he became aware of the whole story—the fire department, the police, the minister and the psychiatrist.

There was a lump of ice where his stomach had been just a little while ago. Life was so wonderful, even with the remains of yesterday’s warmed-over hangover, even with only five bucks in your pants and a blonde waiting for you. If he could only explain that to the undecided dark blob clinging to the ledge twenty-two stories above. Undecided—! That was it. That was the key.

Suddenly he pushed his way, ruthlessly and almost blindly, through the rest of the crowd, ran past the roped-off space where the fire department was holding life nets, past the frightened young cop who tried to bar his way into the building, and through the deserted lobby. He yelled for a boy to operate one of the empty elevators, finally got attention by threatening to operate it himself, and was shot up to the twenty-second floor.

It was easy to find the room. The door was open, spilling light into the hall. A cop at the door said, “Malone—!” tried to stop him, and was shoved aside. The minister, the eminent psychiatrist and Detective Lieutenant Klutchetsky from the police department were shoved aside too.

At the window, he paused and drew a long, slow breath. Down the ledge from him was a white face and two terrified eyes. Malone spoke very softly and easily.

“Don’t be afraid. You can get back here all right. Just creep along the ledge and keep your hands on the wall, and keep looking at me.”

The dark figure stirred. She was not more than a few inches beyond the reach of his arm, but he knew better than to hold out a hand to her, yet.

“There’s nothing to fear. Even if you should fall, they’ll catch you with the nets. The worst that can happen to you is a skinned knee and a few bruises.” Malone crossed his fingers for the bare-faced lie. “You’re as safe as if you were in your own bed.” It was the same tone he’d used innumerable times to nervous witnesses.

It was a full minute before the girl began to move, but when she did, it was in the direction of the window.

“Come on now,” the little lawyer coaxed. “It’s not so far. Only a bit of a ways now. Take it easy.”

She managed about a foot and a half along the ledge, and stopped. He could see her face, and the terror on it, clearly now.

“You won’t fall,” Malone said. It was an almost heartbreaking effort to keep from reaching a hand to her.

Inside the room, and down on the sidewalk, the spectators were silent and breathless.

For just a moment it seemed to Malone that she’d smiled at him. No, it hadn’t been a smile, just a relaxation of those frozen muscles around her mouth. How long had she been crouching on that ledge? He didn’t dare guess.

Nor did he dare take his eyes from her face and look down, for fear her gaze would turn with his.

Inch by inch she moved toward the waiting window. Only a few feet away she hesitated, started to look down, and turned a shade more pale.

“For Pete’s sake, hurry up,” Malone said crossly. “It’s colder than a Scandinavian Hell with this window open.”

That did it. She actually did smile, and managed the last bit of window ledge, twenty-two stories up from the ground, like a little girl sliding on a cellar door. Finally Malone lifted her over the sill, and Klutchetsky, moving fast and breathing hard, slammed the window shut and locked it.

The eminent psychiatrist sank down on the nearest chair, his face a mottled gray. Klutchetsky and the uniformed cop stood glaring at her.

“You’re a wicked, wicked girl,” the minister began.

“Shut up,” Malone told him absent-mindedly. He looked closely at the girl, who stood clutching the edge of the window frame for support.

She was small, and delicately built. Pale, distraught and disheveled as she was, she was something very special. Her chalk-white and definitely dirty face was triangular in shape, and lovely. Her frightened eyes were brown and large, and ringed with long, dark lashes. Her tangled hair was honey blonde. Her mouth, naked of lipstick and with marks showing where teeth had almost bitten through a lower lip, was a pallid, wistful flower.

One more minute, Malone told himself, and he’d be writing poetry.

The mink coat was a magnificent one. The dusty rose dress under it came, Malone realized, from one of the very best shops. The torn and muddy stockings he recognized as silk. Jewels glittered at her slim wrists.

“As I live and breathe!” Malone said pleasantly, taking out a cigar and starting to unwrap it. “Doris Dawn!”

Doris Dawn drew her first long breath in many hours. She glanced around the ring of hostile faces, then flung herself into the security of Malone’s warm and obvious friendliness. A faint color began to come back into her cheeks.

“You saved my life. I was out there—forever, trying to get enough nerve to crawl to a window. High places—they always—” The color faded again.

“You’d better put some makeup on,” Malone growled. “You look terrible.”

She almost smiled. She fumbled through her coat pockets, found a compact and lipstick, dropped them both through her trembling fingers. Malone picked them up for her. Pink Primrose lipstick, he noted approvingly. Exactly right for her pale skin.

He said, soothingly, “Relax. You’re safe now.”

“No. No, I’m not. That’s it.” She turned to Klutchetsky. “You’re a policeman. Do something. Someone tried to kill me.”

Klutchetsky and the eminent psychiatrist exchanged significant glances.

“Okay, sister,” Klutchetsky said wearily. “Just come along quietly now.”

Malone said, “Just a minute. Since when is it customary, in a case of attempted murder, to arrest the intended corpse?”

“Look, Malone,” Klutchetsky said. He paused and sighed deeply. “We appreciate your help. Okay. Now suppose you let the police department handle its own problems in its own way.”

“But I’m not a problem,” the girl cried out. “Someone—”

“That’s what you think,” Klutchetsky told her. “Am I right, Doc?” He paused. The eminent psychiatrist nodded his head briskly.

“He tried to kill me,” the girl gasped. “He will again. He put me out on that ledge and left me there. I was too scared to crawl back. I just held on. Until—”

“And who is this ‘he,’” Klutchetsky interrupted skeptically, “and what does he look like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him.”

The police officer turned to the eminent psychiatrist. “See what I mean, Doc?” Again the psychiatrist nodded.

She began to sob, dry-eyed. She took a step towards Malone. “You believe me, don’t you? Don’t let them drag me away to—to a hospital. They’re the police. Make them find him. Make them protect me.”

“What I always say is,” Malone murmured, lighting his cigar, “what do we pay taxes for?” He paused long enough to glare at the police officer and his aide. “But what you need is a good lawyer.”

“Find me one!”

Malone smiled at her reassuringly. “I have found you one.”

“Listen,” Klutchetsky said. “This is the third time she’s tried this. She’s bats. Just ask Doctor Updegraff.”

“A very interesting case,” Doctor Updegraff purred. “Of course, after I have given it some study—”

“Nuts!” Malone said rudely.

“Precisely,” the psychiatrist said.

Malone thought of a number of things he would like to do to Doctor Updegraff, all of them unkind, and most of them unmentionable. He thought, also, about the immediate problem. If Klutchetsky and Dr. Updegraff happened to be right, Doris Dawn would be better off in a hospital, and the sooner the better. On the other hand, if she was telling the truth—and Malone believed she was—she would be safer in jail, right now.

“As this young lady’s lawyer,” he began.

Klutchetsky said, “Now Malone. You heard what the doc here said. And maybe you remember this babe’s mother.”

“I do,” Malone said, “I was secretly in love with her for years.” He reflected that every impressionable male who’d been to the theater between 1925 and 1936 remembered Diana Dawn who’d committed suicide at the very height of her career.

“Okay,” Klutchetsky said, “this babe takes poison, only she’s found in time and luckily she didn’t take much. Then she goes to work on her wrists with a razor blade, but she misses the right spot and anyhow a hotel maid finds her before she bled too much. Now she takes a room here under a phony name, and decides to jump.”

The little lawyer was silent for a moment. Maybe, this time, Klutchetsky was right and he was wrong. Still—

“How about notes?” he asked. “Did she leave any?”

“Notes!” the police officer snorted, “what do you call these?” He waved an arm around the room.

Malone looked, and realized that the room was filled with mirrors. On every one of them was written, in lipstick, “Goodbye, Good-bye.” The letters were the color of dried blood. The bathroom door was a full-length mirror, and on it was scrawled, over and over “Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye—”

“I didn’t write it!” Doris Dawn said.

Malone looked at her closely, then back at the dark red letters. He said to Klutchetsky, “I’m convinced.”

The minister muttered something about the use of excessive makeup, the perils of the city, juvenile delinquency and his next Sunday’s sermon. Dr. Updegraff muttered something about the significance of the use of lipstick for a farewell message.

The girl gave a tragic little moan. “But I thought you’d help me!”

“Don’t look now,” Malone said, “but I am.” He turned to Klutchetsky. “Better have the squad car go round to the alley. There must be a flock of reporters in the lobby by now. We’ll go down the freight elevator.”

Klutchetsky nodded his thanks, told the young cop to get headquarters on the phone, and said to Malone, “You’ll have to show us the way. How come you always know where the freight elevators in hotels are, anyhow?”

“I have my secrets,” Malone said coyly, “and all of them are sacred.” He didn’t add that, among those secrets, was the knowledge that the ledge outside the window was a good two and a half feet wide, and that it had a rim extending up for at least six inches.

One reason was that he didn’t want to tell how he knew.

He held Doris Dawn firmly by the elbow as they walked to the door. Dr. Updegraff and the minister had volunteered, with willing helpfulness, indeed, even hopefulness, to stay behind and cope with the reporters. Malone had muttered something unpleasant about people who were their own press agents and thus kept honest, but starving, ex-newspapermen out of jobs.

Out in the alley, Klutchetsky thanked Malone for guiding them down the freight elevator, said good night, and ushered Doris Dawn into the back of the car. Malone promptly popped in beside her.

“Now wait a minute,” Klutchetsky said, “You can’t do this, Malone.”

“I can,” Malone said pleasantly, “I will and I am.” He smiled. “Did you ever remember to tell your wife about that trip we took to the races while she was visiting her cousin in the east—” He paused.

“Oh, all right,” the police officer growled. He slammed the car door shut and climbed in beside the uniformed driver.

As the car turned into Michigan Avenue, where the crowd was thinning and the fire department was packing up to leave, her hand crept into his like a cold, frightened kitten creeping into a feather bed.

“I didn’t, you know,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have. There wasn’t any reason. I’ve always had fun. I’ve always had everything. Until this started, I’ve always been happy.”

“I know it,” Malone whispered back. “I’ve heard you sing.” He curled his fingers reassuringly around hers.

“But I don’t want you to believe it because I say so and because you’re sorry for me. I want you to believe it because something proves it to you. I want you to read my diary, and then you’ll really know.”

She reached into her pocket. “You trusted me, so I’m going to trust you. Here’s the key to my house. It’s 1117 Gay Street. You can remember that, can’t you? The light switch is just to the right of the door, and the library is just to the left of the hall. There’s a desk in the library and my diary is in the middle drawer, under an old telephone book. You’ve got to read it. And please don’t mind there being a little dust everywhere because I’ve been too busy to do any dusting myself, and my housekeeper had to go to Clinton, Iowa, because her daughter-in-law had a baby.”

Malone blinked. Doris Dawn, radio singing star, had spent agonizing hours on a window ledge twenty-two stories up from the street. She was in danger of being hustled into a psychopathic ward and if she were turned loose, she was probably in danger of being murdered. But she worried for fear he’d think her house needed dusting. It didn’t make sense. But then, neither did Doris.

“Tell me,” he said, “about this mysterious ‘he’—”

“Honest,” she said, “I never got a look at him. That first time—” The car was pulling up in front of headquarters. “It’s all in the diary.”

He squeezed her hand, tight. “Look. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t talk to any reporters. Refer everything to your lawyer. That’s me. And don’t be afraid.”

A big sob of pity rose in his throat. She was so lovely, and so frightened. He wanted to put a comforting arm around her for just one moment. But Klutchetsky was already pulling open the car door.

“You’ll be safe,” he promised her. “I’ll raise a little hell.”

He raised so much hell that Doris Dawn was taken from headquarters in a police ambulance, two jumps ahead of the reporters, placed in a private hospital under an assumed name and with a police guard at the door. Indeed he was so efficient about his hell-raising that it was not until he was out on the sidewalk, in the cold spring rain, that he remembered overlooking a number of very important details.

One, he had neglected to tell Doris Dawn the name of her self-appointed lawyer. Two, he had neglected to learn the name of the private hospital, and the name under which she’d been registered.

He reflected that he’d probably have more trouble finding his client than she would have finding her lawyer. But those were the minor details.

The more important items were that, while appointing himself her lawyer, he’d forgotten to mention the delicate matter of a retainer. And worse than that, the original client he’d been on his way to see had certainly located another mouthpiece by this time.

Finally, the expensive blonde had never been known to wait for anyone more than half an hour. He was almost two hours late, by now.

Malone sighed unhappily and regretted having spent most of that lone five dollar bill buying magazines and candy for Doris Dawn at the newsstand, before the police ambulance took her away. Then he thought about Doris Dawn and decided he didn’t regret it too much.

There was a grand total of eighty-seven cents in his pocket. The little lawyer ducked into the nearest corner bar and spent seventy-five cents of it on a gin and beer while he thought over all he knew about Doris Dawn.

Her mother, Diana Dawn, had been one of the most beautiful women of her, or any other, generation. Talented, too, though she hadn’t needed to be. It was worth the price of a theater ticket just to look at her, she didn’t have to utter one word or sing one note. She’d married a man as rich as she was beautiful, and been heart-broken when he was killed in a polo accident shortly after Doris was born.

Time had apparently healed wounds enough for her to marry again—this time, an actor. Malone fumbled through his memory for his name, finally found it. Robert Spencer. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, for some reason he couldn’t quite place.

Diana Dawn Stuart Spencer had been married only a few months when her second husband had vanished from the face of the earth. Not long after, Diana herself had jumped from the end of Navy Pier into the cold waters of Lake Michigan, leaving alone in the world a small blonde daughter who inherited the Stuart fortune, was raised by a board of trustees, and burst upon the world at eighteen as Doris Dawn, singer, determined on making her own way in the world.

Malone put down his empty glass, sighed, and felt in his pockets. Two nickels, two pennies and a telephone slug. He searched other pockets, not forgetting to investigate the lining of his coat and his trouser cuffs. Sometimes small change turned up unexpectedly. But not this time. He considered investing the two nickels in the slot machine, thought over the odds, and gave that up. He debated riding a street car to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar and negotiating a small loan, then remembered Joe the Angel had gone to Gary, Indiana, to help celebrate a niece’s wedding. He ended up by riding a State Street car to within a couple of blocks of 1117 Gay Street.

It was nearly midnight when he entered the tiny, perfect (though admittedly dusty) house Charles Stuart had built for his bride and left to his daughter, set in a small square of garden enclosed by a high brick wall. Less than half an hour later he was out in the garden with a spade he’d found in the back entry, shivering in the rain, and praying that he was on a fool’s errand. Before one o’clock he was on the telephone in frantic search for Capt. Dan von Flanagan, of the Homicide Squad. By one-fifteen von Flanagan was there having brought, per Malone’s request, two husky policemen with shovels, the morgue wagon, a basket and a bottle of gin.

“I thought it was a joke,” Malone said hoarsely, nursing his glass of gin. “I found her diary right where she said it would be.” He nodded toward the little Chippendale desk. “I started to read it.”

“Shame on you, Malone,” von Flanagan said. “Reading a girl’s diary.” The big policeman looked uncomfortable and uneasy, perched on the edge of a delicate brocade chair. “What does it say?”

“It was her idea,” Malone said. “Anyway, I wanted to read her version of those two—suicide attempts. And this paper fell out of it.” He handed it to von Flanagan.

Dig, dig, dig.

Under the willow tree in the garden.

“It sounded like a couple of lines from a couple of popular songs. But I found a spade, and I dug.”

“You must have been drunk,” von Flanagan commented.

“Who, me?” Malone asked indignantly. He gulped the rest of his glass of gin, took out a cigar and lit it with only a slightly trembling hand.

“And don’t be nervous,” von Flanagan said. “You’ve seen skulls before.”

“Who’s nervous?” Malone demanded. He closed his eyes and remembered standing under a tree that dripped cold spring rain, bracing his feet in the mud and digging with a small inadequate shovel into the still half-frozen ground, until suddenly a white and fleshless face leered at him. A nearby door opened, and he jumped.

A policeman in an oilskin slicker and muddy boots said, “We found a’most all of him, ’cept a little bit of his left foot.” He closed the door as he went out, and Malone closed his eyes. He opened the door again and said, “Looks like he was buried with all his clothes on, even his jewelry. Johnson’s cleaning off his watch.” He closed the door again. Malone sneezed.

“I hope you haven’t caught cold,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

“I never catch cold,” Malone said. He finally got the cigar lit, reached for the gin bottle and said, “But just to be on the safe side—” He sneezed again. “About the diary. It was written by a very happy, very normal young girl who had everything to live for, including about half the money in the world. Up to the point where strange things began to happen to her.” He reached for the little leather bound book and began to read aloud.

“A strange thing happened. Everything is very mixed up and I don’t understand. I made myself a nightcap and went to bed early after the show, and woke up in a hospital. In between I sort of remember a lot of excitement and people running around, and being very sick and uncomfortable. They tried to tell me I took poison, but I know I didn’t. They said I wrote “Good-bye, good-bye” in lipstick on the head of my bed, but by the time they let me come home it had been washed off so I couldn’t tell it I wrote it or not. They found poison in my stomach but I know I hadn’t taken any.”

“She is nuts,” von Flanagan commented.

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. He went on. “I remember now that night there was a man in my room. He came to deliver a telegram only I never did see the telegram. I was in the bathtub so I put a robe on and opened the door a crack and told him to leave the telegram on the desk and shut the door when he went out. My nightcap was on the bed table. I wonder if someone is trying to poison me.”

The little lawyer paused, refilled his glass, relit his cigar and said, “After that, there’s a note of uneasiness in the diary. The usual things—dates, parties, clothes—but a feeling of worry.”

Von Flanagan scowled and said, “I remember a little about that. Someone called her maid and told her to hurry home, her employer was sick. Otherwise this babe might of died, though she didn’t take much.”

“Some time later,” Malone said, “she wrote, ‘Someone is trying to kill me.’” He paused. “You’ll remember this, too. She was found in a hotel room, registered under another name. The maid came in and found her in the bathroom, with her wrists cut.” He paused once more and added, frowning, “She checked in, and did the slashing job just before the maid was due in that room on her regular rounds.”

“Stupid of her,” von Flanagan commented, “if she really wanted to—” he cleared his throat, “check in and check out. She should have known she’d be found in time.”

“According to her diary,” Malone told him, “a man telephoned her and told her that if she’d go to such-and-such a hotel, and register under such-and-such a name, he’d meet her there with some very important information about the long-missing Robert Spencer. She went there, answered the door, ‘a man’—otherwise unidentified—forced her into the bathroom, slashed her wrists, and left her there unconscious. She told the police this story, and they laughed at her. The words Good-bye, good-bye were written on the bathroom mirror.”

Von Flanagan shuffled his feet uncomfortably and said, “You gotta admit, Malone, it smells phony.”

Malone ignored him. “From that point on, the diary is the story of a terrified girl who knows someone is trying to kill her. And yet,” he put down his cigar, “I’ll read you the last entry.”

“I am terribly afraid, but I must know the truth. I have been promised that if I keep the appointment I will be told what happened to Robert Spencer. This I must know.”

Malone closed the little diary gently and said, “The slip of paper directing me—or someone—to dig in the garden, under the tree, was found between those two pages.” He picked up the remains of his cigar, decided it was past all hope of relighting, and began to unwrap a new one.

“She took poison,” he said, “but not quite enough to kill her, and her maid was summoned home in time to have her rushed to a hospital. She registered at a hotel under a phony name and slashed her wrists—not badly—just before the hotel maid was due to come in.”

“What are you trying to prove?” von Flanagan asked uneasily.

“Nothing. Except that ‘the man’ must have known that ledge was safe enough to push a baby carriage on. He thought she’d use her head and climb back in through her window, though he made sure someone would see her and call the police before she did. He obviously didn’t know she had an abnormal fear of heights that would keep her frozen there, too scared to move and too sane to jump. Nor,” he added modestly, “did he know that I’d arrive providentially.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” von Flanagan said.

“Trouble is,” Malone said, reaching for the gin bottle, “right now, neither do I.”

Again the young policeman came to the door, even more mud on his boots and slicker. “We found a little of what’s left of his clothes,” he reported. “Looks like he’s been there a long time. Got his wallet, his watch, and some other stuff. Looks like,” he said, “he was some guy named Robert Spencer.”

Malone lifted the gin bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes.

“It looks,” the young policeman added, “like he might of been murdered. Anyway we found what must of been a bullet in what looks like it probably had been his stomach, once.”

“Go away,” Malone groaned. He put down the gin bottle and sneezed again.

“You’re going to get pneumonia,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

The little lawyer shook his head. “Not on my income.”

“I better go back out,” the young policeman said. “Johnson still thinks he can find the rest of that left foot.” He slammed the door.

“Malone,” von Flanagan said, “that note. Was it written in the same handwriting as the diary?”

Malone blew his nose and said “Yes,” unhappily. That was one of the things that had been bothering him. Plus the fact that there was something maddeningly reminiscent about the wording of the note. “But,” he added, “it wasn’t written on a telephone pad.” If he could only remember—

At this point another young policeman came in the room and said, “There’s someone here inquiring about Miss Dawn. I thought I’d better speak to you. He says his name is Robert Spencer.”

Malone covered his eyes with his hand and said, “This is too much!”

Von Flanagan said, “By all means, send him in.”

“By all means,” Malone repeated. “Maybe he can help find what’s left of his own left foot.” He sneezed again. He downed another drink of gin. Then, suddenly he remembered, Bob Spencer, actor. Appearing, right now, in a rather dreary and not too successful comedy. Robert Spencer had had a small son, parked somewhere with relatives, when he met and married Diana Dawn.

“There’s someone with him,” the policeman said. “A Mr. Apt.”

“John Apt,” Malone said. “He’s an old-time theatrical agent. His friends call him Jack. Managed Diana Dawn, probably managed Robert Spencer, too—I don’t know.” He smothered the next sneeze.

Bob Spencer was tall, young, handsome and anxious-eyed. His first words were, “Is Doris all right? What’s been happening to her? Why are all these policemen at her house? Where is she? When can I see her?”

Jack Apt smiled at Malone, von Flanagan and the young policeman. It was a friendly, ingratiating smile. He nodded a shoulder towards the young actor and said, “You pardon him, he is upset.”

Nothing, Malone reflected, would ever upset Jack Apt. The diminutive agent had undoubtedly been born with a friendly smile and an imperturbable face and hadn’t changed his expression in all his sixty-odd years. He had bright little eyes, a white, waxy skin, and a few wisps of silvery hair on his well-shaped skull. He wore a black Chesterfield that seemed too large for his tiny frame and carried, incredibly and appropriately, a black derby.

“I am greatly concerned,” Jack Apt said. “I am the manager of Miss Dawn.” He sat down on a straight-back chair and placed the derby neatly on his knees. “I would like your assurance, sir—”

“Where is she?” Bob Spencer demanded, his voice harsh with desperation.

“The young lady is quite safe,” von Flanagan said coldly. “And what’s it to you?”

“I’m in love with her,” Bob Spencer said. “She’s in love with me.”

Malone looked at him and swallowed a sigh. He’d been cherishing a few very personal ideas about Doris Dawn. Now, he realized, he didn’t have a chance.

“We’re going to be married,” Bob Spencer added.

The little lawyer sat up in surprise, but said nothing.

Jack Apt beamed. “Just like two little lovebirds. And then there will be no more difficulty about the money.”

“Money?” Malone asked. It was one of his favorite subjects, right now more than ever.

“Never mind about the money,” Bob Spencer said, “Where is Doris?”

“Never mind about Doris,” Malone snapped. “What money?”

“Diana Dawn’s will,” Jack Apt explained. “She had a great deal of money. All of it from that unfortunate Mr. Stuart. She left it all to her second husband, Robert Spencer. Just before she died. Almost as though she had a premonition.”

Malone scowled. “But Robert Spencer had disappeared before then.”

“Quite right,” Jack Apt said, nodding and smiling. “Therefore the will stated that until he was found, Doris Dawn would receive the income from the estate, and would have the use of this property for living purposes.”

“‘Found,’” Malone quoted. “Did it specify—dead or alive?”

“No,” Jack Apt said. He looked very innocent and mild, turning his derby round and round on his knee. “A very curious will, I admit. But Diana wanted it that way. Robert had his faults, but she was fond of him. He stole from her, lied to her, almost ruined her career, but she was fond of him right up to the end.” Suddenly he didn’t look quite as innocent, nor as mild. “There is a clause—if her daughter should die, before he returned or was found, the money would go to his heirs. Or—if her daughter married, before he returned or was found, the money would go to the daughter and her husband. A very complicated will, but then, Diana Dawn had a very complicated personality.”

Young Bob Spencer obviously couldn’t stand this any longer. He said, “But this isn’t finding Doris. And she hasn’t married anybody, and he—hasn’t been found.”

Just at that moment one of the young policemen came in and said, “Johnson just found the rest of the left foot. Looks like we got all of him now.”

“Him?” Bob Spencer asked wildly. He stared around the room. “Where—is—Doris?”

“Right here,” Doris Dawn’s voice said.

Malone jumped, and turned around.

“Hello, Malone,” a deep, masculine voice said. “Sorry we startled you.”

She was still very pale, but her face had been washed and freshly made up. Her honey blonde hair was smooth over her shoulders. She wore a nurse’s uniform and white shoes and stockings, but the dark mink coat was over the uniform.

Malone sneezed and said, “You’re in a hospital. You’re an illusion. Go away. Vanish. Scat!”

Jerry Kane laughed.

“And you, Kane,” Malone said, breathing hard. “How did you get in here?”

“We came in through the back door,” Kane said. “Very easy, since it’s our own house.”

“Our—?” the little lawyer exploded.

He glared at Jerry Kane. The gambler, racketeer, nightclub owner, and promoter was a big, rangy, yet strangely graceful man. His tanned face could be hard as nails, or it could be ingratiatingly friendly and smiling, and it had an old scar down one cheek. His business deals had always kept him inside the law—but just inside. He owned the night club in which Doris Dawn sang. His reputation with women was worse than Malone’s.

The other occupants of the room had been momentarily struck speechless. Now, everyone spoke at once. All questions. All the same questions.

“I discovered,” Doris Dawn said, “I had to get out of that hospital. I had to. Because there was a chance to find out—something. It was very easy, really. I bribed a nurse to call Jerry. He bribed the policeman by my door to go away. And he brought me a nurse’s uniform, and all I had to do was put it on and walk out.”

“And,” the big man said, “before coming here we drove across the state line and were married. Meet Mrs. Kane.”

Young Bob Spencer cried, “Doris!” in an anguished voice.

“You fool!” Jack Apt said.

She paid no attention. “This time, no one’s going to stop me—finding out. It would be better, honestly, if you all just waited here for me.” Suddenly a little gun flashed in her hand. “But don’t try to stop me.”

“Doris—baby—” Jerry Kane gasped. And then, “How the hell did you get my gun?”

“I took it out of your pocket,” she said calmly. Her white little face was hard as ice. “If anyone tries to stop me or follow me, I’ll shoot. No matter who. Even if it’s Jerry, and I love Jerry. I always have.” Suddenly she was gone.

Before anyone could move, little Jack Apt said, “Too bad you married her, Kane. Because she isn’t going to inherit the money after all.”

Kane swore bitterly and raced for the door. Suddenly everyone in the room was racing for the door. Malone caught up, out on the sidewalk, just as a car roared away down the street. Kane’s car. With Doris driving. Other cars roared away. Bob Spencer’s roadster. Two police cars.

Malone stood shivering. They’d never catch up with that car of Kane’s, not even the squad car would. And here he was stranded, and only he knew where she was going.

Not a taxi in sight. None nearer than Chicago Avenue.

Chicago Avenue—a sudden thought struck him, he wheeled around and sprinted down the street. One block to State Street, three blocks to Chicago Avenue. He made it to the safety zone just as an east bound streetcar came clanging through the rain.

“Wet night,” the conductor commented.

“Going to be wetter,” Malone prophesied gloomily. He dropped the remaining nickel in the coin box and began searching his pockets for an imaginary two pennies. The streetcar had reached the turn into Lakeshore Drive when Malone found the telephone slug, handed it triumphantly to the conductor for change and was properly surprised and crestfallen when it was returned to him. He continued to search for the pennies right up to the moment when the now empty streetcar came to an abrupt halt at the end of the line.

“Guess I’ll have to put you off here,” the conductor said. “No fare, no ride.”

Malone glanced through the window, saw the familiar outlines of Navy Pier, and said, “Only the brave deserve the fair.” He reached into his vest pocket and said, “Have a cigar.”

Jerry Kane’s custom-built convertible was parked at the entrance to the pier. There were no other cars in sight Malone sighed. This was something he was going to have to handle by himself.

He knew exactly where to go. Up the stairs on the left-hand side of the pier, and along the promenade. Dark and deserted now, and desolate in the rain. There was one certain point, just beyond the line of benches—he stared ahead through the wet blackness and saw no sign of a girl in a nurse’s uniform. He began to run.

He reached the spot from which Diana Dawn had leaped to her death, years before, and looked over the railing. There was a blob of white on the black water. Malone peeled off his overcoat, kicked off his shoes, and jumped.

The water was icy cold. He caught his breath after one terrible moment, and swam in the direction of the white blob.

She was alive. She was struggling against the water. That gave him new strength. He held her head up for a minute and, by some miracle, managed to rid her of the dark mink coat that was pulling her down.

A boat was coming. A tiny canoe, dark against the darkness. Malone aimed for it, helping her. An oar came out from the canoe, and pushed—down.

There was a brief agony of being underwater and an even briefer remembrance of all the things that had made living so much fun. An almost unbearable roaring in his ears as he rose to the surface still holding her. A light that almost blinded him as he breathed air again.

A voice said, “Catch ’em before they go down again.” Strong hands reached out and caught him by the armpits. One quick motion, and he was hauled into the motor boat that had made the almost unbearable roaring and had flashed its light in his face.

He longed to collapse into unconsciousness there on the deck, but first—he looked, and saw that she had been hauled on board, and was breathing. Then he managed, with his last strength, to point at the canoe.

He heard a shot. He pulled himself up enough to look over the edge of the boat. He saw the canoe, overturned, starting to settle and sink.

“You might have known I’d commandeer a shore boat,” Jerry Kane said. “I knew where she’d go. After all, I’ve been in love with her for a long time.”

Malone lay back against the set boards, thought the whole thing over, and finally said, “You know, I think I am getting a cold after all.”

In the emergency room on the pier, Captain von Flanagan agreed that it was a shame young Bob Spencer—such a promising young actor, too—had perished in an attempt to rescue one of Chicago’s favorite radio and stage entertainers, Miss Doris Dawn. Fortunately, Mr. Jerry Kane had come along in time to rescue Miss Dawn and Mr. John Joseph Malone, prominent Chicago attorney.

After the reporters and Doris Dawn and her new husband had gone, he said, “All right, Malone, what the hell happened?”

Malone snuggled into the blanket some kind soul had wrapped around him, sneezed, and said, “If Doris Dawn died, and the body of Robert Spencer were found, Robert Spencer’s heir would inherit several million dollars. Bob Spencer, naturally, was the only heir. Being a young man of imagination, he decided it would be better for her to commit suicide than to be murdered in some ordinary way. There wouldn’t be so many embarassing questions asked of the one person to benefit by her death.”

He paused, sneezed twice, and went on, “But he also knew that it wasn’t easy to make murder look like suicide. Especially to—” he paused again for a second or two—“very smart cops like von Flanagan here. Therefore, his prospective victim had to make several unsuccessful attempts at suicide.” He sneezed once more. “My grandmother always said whiskey was the best thing to ward off a cold. Oh, thanks, pal. Very kind of you.”

“I would of believed it,” von Flanagan said slowly. “In fact, after those first coupla’ tries—I mean, what looked like tries—if she’d of fell off that window ledge, with ‘Good-bye, good-bye’ wrote all over the mirrors, I’d of said suicide. And then when it looked like she jumped off of the pier, right at the place where her old lady jumped off years ago, after finding her step-pa’s body and figuring out her old lady must of bumped him off and buried him there, and with her leaving a note saying right where he was—” He stopped, ran a handkerchief over his broad red face and said, “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Malone said. “I know what you were supposed to think.”

“But that note,” von Flanagan said. “Why did she write it?”

“She didn’t,” Malone told him.

The police officer scowled. “It was in her handwriting. (Dig, dig, dig. And—under the willow tree in the garden.)”

“It was dictated to her,” Malone said. He signed, and added, “You’re not up on popular songs, von Flanagan. You check this with her and see if I’m not right. The murderer telephoned her and recommended a couple of songs that would be particularly good for her style of singing. He told her to write down the titles and get copies. She did. Then on his next visit he tore the leaf from the telephone pad and stuck it in her diary. Remember, she trusted him, and he probably had the run of the house.”

Von Flanagan shook his head sadly. “The things some people will do!” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Remember, he had to have the body found,” Malone said, “or else he couldn’t inherit. This would have looked like her last suicide note. It would have built up her reason for the suicide—her remorse for her mother’s having committed a murder. That must have been preying on her mind for years. That’s why she was willing to keep all these appointments, because she was told she’d find out the truth.”

“And what was the truth?” von Flanagan asked. “Why did her old lady bump off this guy?”

There was a second or two of silence. “Because,” Malone said at last, “from all I’ve been able to learn, he was a no good son-of-a-bee who was wrecking her life and her career, and who should have been murdered years before.” He wondered if it would do him any serious damage to smoke a cigar, decided he might as well try, reached in his pocket and encountered a repulsive, soggy mass of wet tobacco.

“Have one of mine,” Jack Apt said quietly.

It was a fine Havana cigar. Malone accepted it with thanks, and privately wished it was one of his own favorite two-for-a-quarter brand.

“Only,” von Flanagan said, “how did you know for sure she really hadn’t meant to jump off that ledge?”

The little lawyer sneezed and sighed on the same breath, nearly strangling himself. “Because of the ‘good-bye, good-bye,’ written on the mirrors.”

“I don’t get it,” von Flanagan said.

“You will,” Malone told him, “if you’ll think of Doris Dawn’s coloring—and the color of lipstick that was used to write on the mirrors. No woman in her right mind would wear that shade with a skin like Doris’s.”

Von Flanagan rose and said admiringly, “I wish I knew how you find out such things.”

“Even if I could trust you with the truth,” Malone said, “you wouldn’t believe it.”

For a few minutes after von Flanagan had gone he sat hunched in his blankets, brooding. He’d found a murderer, he’d saved a life, he’d seen what looked like the beginning of a very happy marriage. But he still didn’t have carfare home.

Suddenly Malone had enough of it—a bellyful. He turned and stared at Jack Apt. Apt stared back, uncomfortably. Then Malone said, “If I sit here much longer, I’ll get double pneumonia and have to be shot full of penicillin. Besides, the whiskey’s gone, this cigar stinks—come on, Apt, break down and spill the truth. Or shall I?”

Jack Apt said softly, “How did you know I murdered Robert Spencer?”

Malone sneezed again. “Cut it out, Apt. I may be all wet—but not in the brain. Add it up this way: you were Diana Dawn’s manager. You must have been in love with her. Everyone who ever saw her was. You knew what he was doing to her—so you killed him. What you didn’t know was that she loved him and that she would kill herself from anxiety over his disappearance.”

“I killed him,” Jack Apt said, “and I buried him. Young Bob Spencer wormed the truth about his burial place out of me. I didn’t know the reason why he wanted to find it out. Perhaps you’d better call von Flanagan back here, and tell him.”

Malone yawned and said, “von Flanagan gets on my nerves sometimes.” He sneezed a double one this time. “It must have been hell for you all these years, after she killed herself. So why bring the cops in now?”

“It was hell,” Jack Apt said, pulling on a pair of tan leather gloves. “It will continue to be. May I drive you anywhere, Malone?”

“No, thanks,” Malone said. “I’ll call a cab.” He remembered his lack of cabfare. “Or maybe I’ll walk.”

The door opened and Maggie, his secretary, walked in. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were blazing.

“I’ve been looking all over town for you. You owe me seven and a half hours overtime. That burglar has decided he will have you enter a not-guilty plea. He waited hours for you, and then sent his retainer over by messenger. All in cash.”

“Call me a cab,” Malone said, “before pneumonia carries me off.”

“And,” Maggie said, “A girl has been calling you for hours. She just said to tell you she’s That Blonde.”

Malone leaped up, blankets falling to the floor. “Call her back and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I change my clothes.”

“But Mr. Malone,” Maggie wailed, “you’ll catch cold.”

The little lawyer paused at the door. “Who, me? I never catch cold.” He waved, said a cheerful “Good-bye, good-bye,” and walked out whistling The Willow Tree In The Garden.

THE BAD LUCK MURDERS

“My wild Irish Rose, the su-weetest flower that grows—” John J. Malone leaned his elbows on the bar and sang it softly, under his breath. It would be only a matter of time, he knew, before some barroom baritone would join in. Then a third voice would be added, and a fourth. One more round, and they’d tackle some really ambitious offerings.

The pudgy little lawyer was celebrating, and with good reason. Only that afternoon one of his favorite clients, one Max Lipsitch, had been acquitted on the charge of maintaining a gambling establishment. Praise had been lavish and the fee large. Malone made a mental resolution not to take any of the fee to Max’s place. He’d learned by experience that the wheel was crooked.

The celebration had begun with a tour of the better nightclubs. From there it had moved to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, after the redhead from the chorus of a current hit show had abandoned Malone in favor of a more prosperous companion. Now it had reached the third, and next to the final stage, among the West Madison saloons, where whiskey came two drinks for a quarter and it wasn’t safe to take your hand off your glass long enough to light a cigar.

My Wild Irish Rose failed to produce results. Malone ordered another drink, resolving to try again, louder, in a few minutes. Perhaps those two bums on his immediate right, who were splitting two bits worth of whiskey between them. No, they were deep in talk.

“… but I tell you, when Bad Luck Bradley does you a favor, you’re done for.”

Malone abandoned his song project and shamelessly eavesdropped.

The younger of the two bums expressed his scorn with an ugly word. “Look what he did for that Williams guy. Had his teeth fixed, bought him clothes, got him a swell job—”

“Yeah! Whatever’s happened to him?”

There was a little silence before the younger man said, “Why—I don’t know.”

“There you are,” the old bum said. “Bad Luck Bradley buys you clothes, gets you a job—and that’s all anyone ever hears of you. Nobody knows where you’ve gone.”

“If you two stewbums ain’t gonna buy another drink, then scram,” the bartender said.

Malone swung quickly around on his stool. “May I buy you another drink, chums?” he said.

The offer was accepted promptly, but with the natural reserve and suspicion of the West Madison Street habitué. It took three drinks, and fifteen minutes of idle conversation, before the suspicion was sufficiently allayed for Malone to ask casually.

“Say, who’s Bad Luck Bradley?”

The two bums froze silent, glancing first at Malone, then at each other. The little lawyer waited, but without much hope. Evidently the acquaintance hadn’t progressed as far as he thought.

“Who’s he?” one of the bums said at last.

Almost simultaneously, the other one said, “Never heard of him.”

Malone shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know him. Just heard the name somewhere.”

Tension was eased a little after that, but it wasn’t long before the older man said, “Well, thanks for the drinks, mister,” and slid off the barstool. The younger one added, “See’ya again,” and the two left.

Malone sighed. He should have known better. The West Madison Street bum was a difficult person to extract information from, wary, suspicious, and secretive. Bartenders and taxi-drivers were always easier sources.

The musical plans were completely forgotten now. He leaned on the bar and addressed the man behind it.

“Did I say the wrong thing to those guys? Who is this Bad Luck Bradley?”

The bartender went on polishing a beer glass. “Don’t ask me. They say he’s a sucker for a touch. Probably just flophouse talk. Have one on the house?” He spoke cautiously, not looking at Malone.

“Thanks,” Malone said.

“You know how superstitious these bums are,” the bartender added, warming up a little. “They say if you take a favor from Bad Luck Bradley, you’re done for. Just superstition.”

Malone nodded, agreeing with him. He reflected, though, that so widespread a superstition usually had some reason for being. This was none of his business, but he was curious.

He polished off the raw, fiery whiskey and decided it was time to go home. He swung halfway around on the bar-stool, changed his mind, and swung back.

A girl had come in and taken the stool beside him. That would have been enough to cause him to stay, until she was safely out and in a taxi. West Madison Street was no place for an unaccompanied girl, especially a pretty one in expensive clothes.

A second look at the girl would have made him stay, anyway, regardless of place or circumstances. She was what he privately called a “warm blonde,” with dark gold hair, brown eyes, dark lashes and a peach-colored skin. She had the face and figure of a cover girl. She wore a bright red wool dress, red suede sandals—in spite of the snow and slush outside—and a fur coat. Her voice, when she ordered a rum and coke, was uncultured but pleasant, and she didn’t give the impression she’d led a cultured life. Finally, she looked worried.

She took a gulp of her drink, lit a cigarette, and signaled the bartender to come over.

“Listen you, can you tell me something, Who’s Bad Luck Bradley?”

Malone and the bartender looked at each other. The girl caught the look and turned to Malone.

“What’s the gag, buddy?”

“No gag,” Malone said, “and a nice girl like you shouldn’t be in a joint like this.”

The bartender, instead of being insulted, agreed with him.

“I’m not here because I like the atmosphere,” she said. “I’m here because I’m looking for somebody. Maybe you two guys can help; if you can, I’ll be very grateful.” She took a photograph from her red suede purse. “Have you ever seen him around this saloon?”

Malone had never seen the face before, but he studied it with interest. It showed a weakly vicious young man, with an unpleasant leering smile, light hair and dark eyes. Strangely, it resembled the blonde girl, though there was nothing even remotely weak or vicious about her.

“Sorry,” Malone said, giving it back. “Kin of yours?”

“Brother,” she said, handing the picture to the bartender.

“I’ve seen him,” the bartender said, nodding. “Been in here a few times. Once in a while he had dough, but most of the time he was cadging drinks.” He broke off and said to the girl, “Sorry, lady, I didn’t mean—”

“That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.” She put the picture back in her bag. “I’m trying to find him. No luck so far. A flophouse keeper said that Bad Luck Bradley might have got him, but he wouldn’t tell me anything more. So, I’m still looking.”

“Lady,” Malone said gallantly, “let me help.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. John J. Malone was hardly a prepossessing sight. His thinning black hair was mussed, and he’d acquired a small cut over one eye during a brief discussion with a taxi-driver. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie had worked up under one ear, and there were cigar ashes on his wrinkled vest.

“Thanks,” she said, “but who are you?”

“I,” Malone said magnificently, “am a lawyer. I am the best damn lawyer from the sunny shores of Maine to the rock-bound coasts of California. I have never lost a client yet, and if anybody can find your brother, I can. My name,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “is John Joseph Malone.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “Okay, you’re on.” She finished her drink. “If we just keep combing the dives and flops around here, we’re bound to run him down.”

The bartender was interested now. He, too, had heard of John J. Malone. Not a bad idea to get on the right side of a guy with Malone’s City Hall connections. He parked his elbows on the bar, and began offering suggestions.

The suggestions were good ones, but the girl had been to most of the places mentioned already. Finally he rubbed his chin and said, “Well, there’s a place run by the city, two blocks up and on a side street. The bums don’t go to it except as a last resort, because they make ’em wash and register for jobs. And Bad Luck Bradley goes there regularly—”

The girl’s eyes met Malone’s. “It’s worth trying,” the little lawyer said.

Out on the sidewalk, Malone looked at the muddy slush and at the red sandals. “Your shoes,” he began.

“The hell with it,” she said. “I got twenty more pairs at home. By the way, my name’s Gerda Powell.”

“Short for Gertie?” Malone asked innocently. She gave him a wicked grin and didn’t answer.

They walked in silence down the gaudy shabbiness of West Madison Street and along the dismal and under-lighted side street. At the door of the shelter, the girl paused.

“By the way, it’s nice of you to help.”

“Think nothing of it,” Malone said, happily. He was wondering how soon he could ask a few personal questions and suggest a dinner date. “Anyone would be touched at the spectacle of a lovely girl trying to find her brother.”

To his surprise, she laughed. It was a shrill, harsh, unpleasant laugh. “You don’t get it, mister. I’m not trying to help my little brother who’s down and out, through no fault of his own. He’s the world’s prize louse, and all I want to do is fix it so he can’t cause any more trouble. He just got out of jail last week, and that’s the sixth time since he was fifteen and went to reform school. He was paroled when my old man died, and a week later he stole my old lady’s insurance money and scrammed. She took sick and died before I even could get there. Once I thought he’d reformed, he convinced me he was on the up-and-up, and I took him in. He beat it with every piece of jewelry in the place, and then tried to blackmail one of my boy friends. If I find him, the chances are good that I’ll kill him.” She looked straight at Malone. “Does that clear things up?”

“Completely,” Malone said calmly. “If you do, I’ll get you an acquittal. Have you got any money?”

“I have, and nobody’s keeping me either. I own a chain of beauty shops.”

That was why the name had been faintly familiar. Malone remembered the little shops with modernistic fronts, and GERDA’S written across the plate glass.

He opened the door for her and they went into the dreary building, clean, and smelling of cheap disinfectants. There was nothing in the hall but a registration desk. To the left an open door revealed a slightly more cheerful room with a few wicker armchairs, an upright piano, and a table piled with magazines. Above the door a plaque read, “Recreation Room. Donated by B. L. Bradley.”

“B. L. Bad Luck.” Malone shuddered slightly, and crossed his fingers.

The man at the desk didn’t seem surprised to see John J. Malone and a girl in a fur coat come in. He’d been there too long to be surprised at anything. Yes, he remembered the young man of the photograph. He’d stayed there three days. That was as long as anyone was allowed to stay in the shelter. No, no idea where he’d gone when he left day before yesterday. Maybe some of the boys in the recreation room would know.

The “boys” in the recreation room were all either very young men, obviously down on their luck for the first time, or decrepit old bums who were too tired to care whether they stayed in the city shelter or a two-bit flop. It was one of the latter who remembered Joe Powell.

“Bad Luck Bradley got him a job.” He spat on the floor. “Too bad, lady. You’ll never see him again.”

“Nonsense,” Malone said.

The bum turned away and went on reading a battered magazine.

“Where can we find Bad Luck Bradley?” Malone demanded.

Another man spoke up. “You’ll find him right here, if you wait. He drops around every night and dishes out cigarettes.”

“We’ll wait,” Gerda Powell said firmly. She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, oddly incongruous in the shabby room. Malone lit a cigar and sat down in the chair nearest to her.

It was a half hour or so before the man known as Bad Luck Bradley came in. Malone looked at him curiously. There was certainly nothing about his appearance to suggest that he was a carrier of misfortune. He was a plump, middle-aged man with an amiable, rosy face, friendly blue eyes, and white, curly hair. He trotted in cheerfully, an armful of cigarette cartons under his arm.

“Well, good evening, my friends.”

There was only a murmured and perfunctory greeting in answer. A couple of the older bums turned their faces away. Bradley didn’t seem to notice.

He put the cartons down on the table and said, “I tried to get all the different brands. And I know you boys always need a little spending money, so I left a couple of dollars apiece for you out at the desk.”

There were a few muttered “Thank you’s.” Gerda Powell got up, walked across the room and said, “Mr. Bradley?”

He looked at her curiously and said, “Yes.”

She took the photograph out of her purse and handed it to him. “That’s my brother. I’m looking for him. They told me you got him a job.”

“Oh, your brother. Quite a resemblance.” He handed back the picture. “Too bad.”

“What do you mean, too bad?” Malone asked.

“I’m afraid,” Bradley murmured, “your brother is not a very—very responsible type. Yes, I did get him a job.” He sighed. “He impressed me as a worthwhile and merely unfortunate young man. I outfitted him, got him a shave and a haircut, gave him some money for expenses, and told him to come to my office yesterday morning. He never showed up.”

“Have you any idea—?” Gerda began.

Bradley shook his head. “None whatsoever. He must have taken the money and—skipped. I’m really very sorry.”

“So am I,” she said grimly. She turned to Malone and said, “Well, I guess we’ve come to a dead end.”

“Maybe,” the little lawyer said. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a minute. “Let’s go back to civilization and buy a drink. And if you’ll meet me somewhere tomorrow morning, maybe I’ll have some ideas.”

He took two steps toward the door, then paused and turned back. “Pardon the curiosity, Mr. Bradley. But what do your initials stand for?”

The philanthropist frowned, puzzled. “Bruce Lawrence. Why?”

“Idle curiosity,” Malone said.

“Why bother me,” Daniel von Flanagan of the Homicide Division asked wearily. “It’s strictly for the Missing Persons Department.” He glared at Malone, looked admiringly at Gerda Powell, and added, “I’m a busy man.”

“Missing Persons is no good,” Malone said. “All they do is take a name and description and do a routine investigation. But if you take it to Missing Persons, and put a little pressure on, maybe they’ll do some work.”

The big, red-faced police officer tried not to beam at the implied compliment.

“We hate to bother you,” Gerda Powell said, “But—” She smiled at him.

Von Flanagan coughed and said, “No bother. Glad to help.”

Malone grinned. It was what he’d expected. This morning Gerda Powell had on a bright blue, close-fitting dress with a big silver pin. Her gray sandals exactly matched her kidskin coat.

Von Flanagan squinted. “Funny, these stories you told me about Bradley. The ideas that bums can get!”

“I found out a little about him this morning,” Malone said, lighting a cigar. “He’s a retired broker, a rich philanthropist and a very unlucky man. Maybe that’s what started the stories. He has a beautiful young wife who’s a helpless invalid. His stepson by a former marriage was killed in an auto crash lately. And his brother died about six months ago when his house was burned down. Everything bad seems to happen to him. That—plus his initials being B. L.…” He paused. “Good thing I’m not superstitious myself.”

“Neither am I,” von Flanagan said quickly.

Malone scowled thoughtfully. “It’s a damn funny thing, though. He seems to be on the up-and-up. But when a guy gets jobs for flophouse bums, and invariably they disappear—”

“Yeah,” von Flanagan said. “Only I don’t know how—”

The telephone interrupted him. He picked it up, said, “Yeah?” and sat listening, saying only, “What?” “Uh-huh,” “Which district?” and finally, “What address?” Suddenly he raised his eyebrows, looked at Malone, and said into the phone, “No, I’ll go over myself.”

He put down the phone and said: “Here’s another funny one. Some guy phoned the fifth district station and said to come right over, he was going to be murdered. Then he hung up, or somebody hung up for him. They traced the call, though. It came from Mr. J. A. Truax’s house on North State Street, and Mr. J. A. Truax is Bad Luck Bradley’s nephew.”

Malone and Gerda Powell looked at each other. “It may not mean a thing,” Malone said, “but we’re going with you.”

The three arrived at the address just thirty seconds behind the squad car. It was von Flanagan who rang the bell.

It was several minutes before a thin, gray-haired woman in neat, housekeeper’s black opened the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of the police.

“Somebody here sent for the cops,” von Flanagan said.

She shook her head, her face bewildered. “Oh, no, sir. There must be some mistake.”

“Ain’t this the Truax house?” one of the squad car cops said. She nodded, and he said. “This is the place all right. We’re going in.”

“Wait,” she said, wringing her hands. “Wait, I’ll call the doctor …”

Von Flanagan said, “What the hell?” and waited.

A moment later a tall, dark-haired distinguished-looking man came to the door. “What seems to be the difficulty here?”

“Who are you?” one of the cops said.

“I’m Dr. Stark. I was Mr. Truax’s physician.”

“Was?” Malone said.

The doctor nodded. “He died—three hours ago—of injuries received in a skiing accident yesterday.”

“Where’s the body?” von Flanagan demanded.

“It’s already been taken away—to the chapel at 1419 North Woodring Street.”

Von Flanagan wrote it down, and then said, “Look, somebody phoned from this house for the police and said he was being murdered.”

“Impossible,” the doctor said. “There’s been some mistake. I assure you, no one has made any telephone calls from this house, and there’s been nobody but the housekeeper and myself.” He smiled. “However, if you care to search …”

“We do,” von Flanagan said. He pushed on into the house, followed by the squad car cops.

The search was a thorough one, took half an hour, and revealed nothing. The house was in perfect order. There was nothing to indicate there had been a murder, attempted murder, or even a call to the police. There was nothing to do but apologize and leave.

The squad car cops were already down the steps when Gerda said brusquely, “Say, while I’m here …” She pulled out the photograph and said, “Look, Doc. Ever see that map before?”

He eyed it curiously and said, “Why?”

“He’s my brother,” Gerda said, “and I’m looking for him. Mr. Bradley gave him a job, fixed him up with some clothes and dough, and he scrammed. Have you any ideas?”

The doctor looked at the picture for a long time, then at Gerda for a longer one. “It’s possible I may be able to find out. If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll inform you if I am able to learn anything.”

“Thanks,” she said, “that’s very kind of you.” She wrote down the phone number and handed it to him. Malone managed to look over her shoulder and memorize it, while she was writing.

“Sorry to have troubled you,” von Flanagan said. He led the way down the steps, his broad face an ominous shade of crimson. He waited until they were in the car before he said, “Following up a call like that would be a routine district matter. You come in with some cockeyed story about some rich guy who goes around making bums disappear and I fall for it and end up asking silly questions and getting sillier answers.” He gave Malone a nasty look. “I hope some time you get arrested so I can personally give you the third degree.”

“You do,” the little lawyer said smoothly, “and I’ll tell your wife about that time in South Chicago when you left a glove—”

“That’s blackmail,” von Flanagan growled, “and I’ve got a witness. I could arrest you right now.”

“You could,” Malone said, “but you won’t.” He turned to Gerda and said, “You see how easy it is to cooperate with the police?”

She smiled at him wearily, said nothing.

Malone leaned forward and said to the driver, “Inspector von Flanagan has to investigate a murder in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. So, let us out there and beat it. He’ll take a taxi back to the office.” He beamed at the sulking von Flanagan and said, “the least I can do is to buy you a drink.”

The taxi pulled up at the Clark Street entrance of Joe the Angel’s. Gerda Powell leaned forward and said, “I’m not getting out here, driver. You can take me to 1766—”

“You can’t do this to me,” Malone began.

Von Flanagan tactfully started across the sidewalk.

“—and you aren’t going to walk off like this. You asked me to help find your brother, and I’m going to find him, alive, dead or indifferent.”

One corner of her mouth smiled. “Forget it. It looks like he’s got in another jam, and I hope this is a fatal one. If he hasn’t, well, I’ve been thinking it over and I’ve decided all I have to do to find him is stay home. Sooner or later he’ll turn up to make a touch. I’ve enjoyed knowing you, Mr. Malone, and thanks for the help.”

“Wait a minute,” Malone said, shoving the cab driver away from the door. “Don’t forget my fee. After all, when you hire a lawyer—”

“Send me a bill,” she said. This time both corners of her mouth smiled.

“I’ll give it to you right now,” Malone said, “By way of fee, let me take you to dinner tonight, at L’Aiglon.”

This time her eyes smiled, too. “Maybe I’d better retain you on a permanent basis,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the L’Aiglon bar at seven.”

Von Flanagan was waiting just inside the door. “Next time you want to impress a dame—” he began indignantly.

“You’re all wrong,” the little lawyer said in his smoothest voice. He shoved the police officer on through the bar and said, “We’ll take a booth. You’re not supposed to drink on duty.”

Von Flanagan slid into the booth, muttering something about Malone’s upbringing, when the waiter arrived. “Gin and beer.”

“Make it two,” Malone said. He leaned across the table and said, “How could a man who’s been dead for three hours call up the cops and yell for help?”

“Some practical joker,” von Flanagan growled.

“‘Some practical joker’ is the police department’s favorite alibi,” Malone said. He gulped his gin, chased it down with a small beer, and shuddered. “Except that you traced the call and found it really did come from Truax’s house. And Truax is dead, and after he was dead he called the cops and said he was going to be murdered. And he was a nephew of Bad Luck Bradley, who seems to have the evil eye.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” von Flanagan said. He mopped his brow with a slightly shaking hand. “I told you before, I’m not superstitious.”

“This guy was making practice jumps because he was going to enter a championship meet,” Malone went on relentlessly. “He seems to have been an expert. Not very many people were around. No one was paying very much attention at the time of the accident. He was making a pretty simple jump—easy stuff for an expert—when he—fell.”

“If you’re implying he was pushed,” von Flanagan said, “who pushed him?”

“That’s for me to ask, and you to find out,” Malone said coyly.

“He was hurt in an accident out at Fox Grove,” von Flanagan said. “Died of the injuries. Couldn’t have been murdered. He was dead before that phone call came in. And, anyway, who the hell would have wanted to murder him?”

Malone lit a fresh cigar, gazed at the ceiling, and said nothing.

“He didn’t have a wife or girl friend or enemy, as far as we can find out,” von Flanagan went on. “He didn’t have much of any money. Carried a thirty thousand dollar life insurance policy, with his uncle, B. L. Bradley, as beneficiary. Can you imagine a rich guy like B. L. Bradley murdering his nephew for a measly thirty thousand?”

“You never know,” Malone said. “It takes all kinds of people to make a world. While you were doing what you like to call investigating at the undertaking parlor, I did a little work on the telephone. All the members of the Bradley family who’ve kicked off lately, one way or another, carried good-sized insurance policies, with the old man as beneficiary. Thirty grand may not be much to a guy like him, but thirty grand here, fifteen grand there, twenty grand another place—it adds up, as the chorus girl said when she told how she got the mink coat.”

“Nonsense,” von Flanagan said. There was no conviction in his voice.

“Perfect nonsense,” Malone agreed. “But it would be fun to find out where old man Bradley was when the accident occurred. Or maybe Bradley’s wife.”

“She’s an invalid,” von Flanagan said. “Never leaves the house.” He sighed, and said, “All right, we’ll go there. But if you get me into another dead end—”

“If I do,” Malone said, “I’ll pay for the taxi.” He let von Flanagan pay for the drinks, though.

The Bradley mansion was a big, old-fashioned mansion a block from Lake Shore Drive. Bad Luck Bradley’s study, where he received them, was a dark, gloomy room, lined with books. The philanthropist himself, plump and pink-faced, seemed a little out of place, Malone thought. He should have had a chintz-hung room with big windows and a lawn outside.

Mr. Bradley was delighted to be of any possible service to the police. He regretted, however, that he wasn’t able to tell much about the terrible accident to his favorite nephew. He’d been out of town when it happened.

The insurance policy? Well, a year or so ago—no, maybe less—Jack Truax had borrowed thirty thousand dollars from him. Lost that in his business, poor devil. The policy had been taken out by way of security.

Von Flanagan apologized for the intrusion, glared at Malone, and rose.

“Mr. Bradley,” Malone said suavely, “Would you mind if we interviewed Mrs. Bradley?”

“Why …” Bradley paused and frowned. “I’ll ask Dr. Stark. He’s with her now. I don’t know …” Suddenly he looked anxiously at von Flanagan. “You don’t think there was anything strange—about Jack’s death?”

“Of course not,” the officer said.

“Purely routine check-up,” Malone added hastily. “In case of accidental death—you understand.”

“Oh, yes,” Bradley said. “Yes, naturally.” He frowned again. “I’ll ask Dr. Stark …”

Dr. Stark was a little dubious about the interview with Stella Bradley. Of course, if it was necessary—well, be careful not to upset or excite her. He led them upstairs to her room, paused at the door.

“I’m sure you understand,” he said in a very low voice. “She—Mrs. Bradley—well, she’s far more ill than anyone knows. Certainly far more than her husband knows, I think—she realizes the truth, but just the same …” His handsome face contracted momentarily into a pained grimace. “She’s still so young. And she was so lovely.” He opened the door and ushered them in.

It was a large, luxurious room, shadowy and quiet. The walls were gray and had a few paintings, good ones. The curtains of thick rose damask were drawn over the windows. Walking on the blue and rose carpet was like walking on a new-mown lawn. There was a strange odor in the room, an odor of perfume and medicine, cosmetics and choloroform, fresh-cut flowers and hospital alcohol.

Stella Bradley sat in a chair near one of the curtained windows, a dusty-pink afghan over her knees. She looked up and smiled at them as they tiptoed across the room. Her face was lovely and very pale, almost blue-white. In the semi-darkness it was impossible to tell if her hair was ash-blonde or silver.

There was something about her that bothered Malone. He felt that he’d seen her before. Her, or someone who was very like her.

Von Flanagan was speechless, and even in the dusky shadows, his broad face was red. Malone scowled. Obviously, it was impossible to ask Stella Bradley where she’d been at the time Jack Truax met his accident. It was just as impossible even to think that—Malone drew a long breath, walked boldly up to her chair and took her hand.

“This is an unpardonable intrusion,” he said softly.

“Quite all right,” she whispered. She smiled at him faintly. The smile, too, reminded him of someone. He couldn’t think for the life of him who it was.

None of the questions he’d intended to ask fitted the occasion. Von Flanagan was standing, tongue-tied and embarrassed, fumbling with his hat. Malone had to think of something. “Tell me,” he said, “do you know any reason why Jack Truax would have wanted to take his own life?”

Her blue eyes widened with surprise. “Jack? Never! He was so alive. So happy. The very day of his—accident—he came in to see me, on his way to Fox Grove. He was vital and gay, and—joyous. He told me he was sure he’d win the championship at the ski meet. He kissed me on the cheek here—” one frail hand trembled up to touch her white face—“and made some silly little joke, and went away to—” her voice became a little moan—“to his death.”

There was a little silence in the room. Dr. Stark signaled them toward the door with his eyes. Malone bowed over her and said, “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Out on the street in front of the Bradley mansion, von Flanagan said furiously, “This is twice today you’ve stuck my neck out. The second and last time. The next time you start haying delusions, call a doctor, not the police.” He leaped into the waiting taxi, slammed the door in front of Malone’s nose and shouted one last, profane comment through the window as the cab drove off.

Malone shrugged, looked after the departing cab, and walked over to Clark Street to take a streetcar, by way of personal chastisement. By the time he’d reached his hotel and begun a leisurely bath, he’d come to the conclusion that von Flanagan was right. Well, anyway, he had a date tonight with the most fascinating girl …

He cut himself shaving, and spent fifteen minutes fumbling with his tie in nervous anticipation.

At five minutes to seven he was in the L’Aiglon bar. He ordered a whiskey sour and sat watching the door.

It was seven-fifteen when he ordered a second whiskey sour and sent a boy out for newspapers. Women were always late, and Gerda Powell would be no exception.

When seven-thirty came he began to suspect she was going to stand him up. He called for a third drink and went to the telephone booth.

Gerda Powell’s maid answered the phone. “Mist’ Malone? Miss Powell she say, if yo’ call, she’s goin’ be a li’l late. She was jes’ fixin’ t’leave when somebody call her. She say yo’ll unnerstan’ when she tell yo’ how come, and she ain’ goin’ be mo’n half a hour late.”

Malone started on his third drink. It was now seven-forty-five. The half hour had already stretched a little. He resolved not to wait for her longer than eight o’clock.

Meanwhile, he unfolded the newspapers and began glancing through them. The tragic death of Jack Truax, society sportsman, popular bachelor and ski champ, was all over page two. There were photographs of Jack Truax, photographs of Bad Luck Bradley, wealthy philanthropist, and Stella Bradley—the latter photograph having been taken before her illness.

Malone looked at the pictures for a long time. Then he called the bartender and completely upset the refined equilibrium of L’Aiglon by ordering a double rye with a beer chaser.

Seeing the pictures, he’d realized the resemblance that had bothered and troubled him. Stella Bradley—save that her hair was a pale blonde—looked like Gerda Powell. Jack Truax looked just a little like the photograph of Gerda Powell’s brother.

Malone gulped his rye, paid his check, and headed for the phone booth. He called Dr. Stark’s residence. The doctor wasn’t in.

“Where can I reach him, right away?” Malone said. He managed to get a convincing quaver into his voice. “We didn’t expect the baby quite so soon, but—”

The efficient female voice at the other end of the wire said, “Just a minute.” Then, “You can reach Dr. Stark at the Bradley home. I’ll give you the number.”

Malone said, “Never mind,” hurried out of the phone booth, out to the sidewalk, and hailed a taxi.

He might be wrong, he told himself. Indeed, he even hoped that he would be wrong. But he didn’t dare take a chance on it.

The taxi stopped in front of the Bradley house. Malone flung a bill at the driver and ran up the steps. He didn’t have any plan of action in his mind, he just had to be there. It was Bad Luck Bradley himself who opened the door.

“I’m looking for Miss Powell. Gerda Powell. I think she came here to see Dr. Stark.”

“You must be mistaken. I don’t know any Miss Powell. Dr. Stark—he’s—” The philanthropist’s face was gray and beaded with sweat. “I’m sorry—you’ll have to excuse me …”

Malone shoved his foot through, pushing Bradley back, and went into the hall. “I’ve got to see Dr. Stark,” he said.

“You can’t. He’s—there has to be an emergency operation. On my wife. Her chances aren’t good. He couldn’t even move her to a hospital. They’re going to operate right now. Upstairs. You can’t see him now. Not until it’s over. Don’t you understand?”

“You’re damned right I don’t understand,” Malone said grimly. “And that’s why I’m going upstairs.”

He’d reached the bottom of the staircase before Bradley tackled him. He sprawled on the floor, picked himself up, and butted Bradley in the stomach. Bradley rose to his knees. Malone landed a blow on his jaw. The white-haired man collapsed quietly on the floor, and Malone raced up the stairs.

The house seemed to be deserted. Not a servant in sight. The little lawyer tried one door after another, finally opened one into a room that was blazing with lights.

“You can’t come in here,” Dr. Stark’s voice said.

Malone went in anyway and kicked the door shut behind him. The room—evidently a guest bedroom—had been made into an improvised operating room. Blinding lights were streaming down from the ceiling. There was a stretcher-table in the middle of the room, on it a white-swathed mummy with a gauze binding over its mouth. There were two nurses and Dr. Stark.

“I’m sorry—Mr. Bradley wanted me to come up and see how it was going …”

“Tell him everything’s all right,” Dr. Stark said. His eyes were deepset and anguished. “Frankly—don’t tell him this, his heart is bad, and he’s mentally unstable—there isn’t much hope.”

Malone said, “Oh!” The lovely invalid in the wheelchair, with the pink afghan over her knees. The pale, tragic face. Now, not much hope. “I’ll not—tell Mr. Bradley.” He took a few steps toward the operating table. A pair of terrified brown eyes stared at him from over the gauze bandages. A wisp of the pale, blonde-gray hair showed under the headcovering. There was horror in the eyes, and desperate appeal. Then the lids closed.

“Good luck,” Malone whispered. His voice was hoarse. “I’ll—stay with Mr. Bradley—till it’s over.” He fled into the hall.

Stella Bradley’s eyes were blue. Gerda Powell’s were brown. There was that resemblance …

Malone had once had a client who was an expert shoplifter. He came away from the improvised operating room with a pair of rubbler gloves and a surgeon’s knife.

He put on the gloves. There was a floor lamp in the hall, plugged into the wall. Malone slashed savagely at the wire. There was a blinding flash, and the upstairs lights went out.

In the downstairs hall there was another light. He short-circuited it with another slash of the knife, and the front downstairs lights went out. A third light shone in the kitchen and he disposed of that. There were anxious cries from upstairs and feet running in the hall.

Malone grabbed the phone in the butler’s pantry and hastily dialed von Flanagan. “The Bradley house. Murder. Get here fast.” Then he dived down the back stairs into the basement.

Malone grabbed the box of live fuses on top of the box and hurled it through the window. In the same moment little, soft, whispering footsteps came up behind him. He started to whirl around, but a blow came down on the back of his head, bright whirling sparks flashed before his eyes, and he fell into a pit of darkness.

The first voice he heard was von Flanagan’s. It had an anxious note in it, but it said, “Don’t worry, he’ll be okay. Malone’s tough.”

Then Gerda Powell’s voice said, “Oh! Please! Do something! Call an ambulance! Call a doctor!”

Malone opened one eyelid an infinitesimal fraction of an inch. Gerda Powell still had on the operating gown, and the gauze headcovering. Her face was white, and lovely. The gown didn’t come together all the way, and he confirmed his earlier conviction that her figure was as lovely as her face.

“You’d better go get your clothes on,” he said, “because you have a dinner date, and you’re late for it. Remember?”

“Poor old Bad Luck Bradley didn’t have a thing to do with it,” Malone said. “He was just an unknowing stooge.” He dug a fork into his salad. “That dame, Stella Bradley, was the real brains behind the racket. Dr. Stark was just taken in like a minnow in a net.”

Von Flanagan said, “That’s all very fine, but I still don’t see—”

“They were going to murder me tonight,” Gerda whispered. “That Dr. Stark phoned me and said my brother was at the Bradley house. I went there, they bound me and bleached my hair. Then they tied me on the operating table I was to be operated on, and—die.” She choked over her drink.

“Never look at the past,” Malone said hastily, “when the future is so bright.” He waved at the waiter and said, “Bring three more, while we wait for the dessert.” Then he lit his cigar and said, “Poor old Bad Luck Bradley thought he was being a philanthropist. While behind his back Stella Bradley and her boy friend, Dr. Stark, did the dirty work. They picked bums who faintly resembled someone else, did some hairdye jobs, and arranged accidents, cashing in on insurance policies. Those accidents all happened to kinfolk of Bradley, who’d taken out policies with him as beneficiary. Your brother—” he turned to Gerda—“happened to look like Jack Truax. Truax pretended to be hurt in a skiing accident. Someone looking like Truax died of injuries inflicted by Dr. Stark. Your brother happened to get loose long enough to phone for help, but it was too late.”

“But the insurance money went to Bradley,” Gerda said.

“Sure,” Malone said. “And Bradley had a lovely blonde niece in New York, who was his only living relative. He really did have that niece once, but she’s probably in a concrete coffin in the bottom of the East River now. Stella Bradley was able to manage a double life, the time she presumably spent in sanatoriums, she really spent building up the phony character as Bradley’s niece.”

“If I owe you an apology,” von Flanagan said, “you can take an I.O.U. for it, and try to collect.” He rose, held out a hand to Gerda, and said, “Dance?”

Malone strolled up to the bar, ordered a drink, and stood watching approvingly. She was lovely, very lovely. Her hair was like a silver mist. She danced like a flower in the wind. Von Flanagan would probably go home pretty soon now. Then he and Gerda would begin to make plans.

He killed a little time losing four dollars in a crap game with the bartender. When he looked around again, Gerda was gone, and so was von Flanagan.”

The doorman was surprised and helpful. “The young lady? She left fifteen minutes ago, with Mr. von Flanagan.”

Malone went back to the bar. Life was altogether sour. Still, there was a guy two stools down who looked as though he might sing a healthy baritone and there was a promising looking tenor over at the pinball table.

The little lawyer sighed, called for drinks for the house, and began singing, softly, and under his breath.

“Did your mother come from Ireland—”

It would only be a matter of time he was sure before someone would join him.

THE END OF FEAR

Fear followed her like a little black cat padding along behind her, ready to pounce and spring, all claws out, set to strike at any moment. She pushed it aside as she would have pushed away a shadow, pulling the furs a little closer around her throat, puffing so nervously at a cigarette that it became a flaming torch between her chilled fingers.

Was anybody looking at her?

Yes. Everyone was. She could feel the impact of their eyes. Casual strangers, people going home from the movies, from the corner drugstore, from the liquor store. They were staring at her. Their eyes were burning holes in her cheaply carried poise just as her cigarette had burned a hole in the brown blanket she’d thrown away so casually on the beach.

People were looking at her and she was trying to look right back at them, trying to tell them with her eyes, I’m not afraid of you.

She found a phone booth at last, fumbled through her coin purse for a dime and said to herself, as she dialed the number, things are getting pretty tough, when I have to pay out good money to call a cop.

In a quiet, controled voice she said, “Police department?” She paused to catch her breath. “I want to report a body on the beach. Near the foot of Colorado Avenue.”

She hung up fast. And the little black cat began to follow her again.

She stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach from the overpass. There were lights on the beach how where there had been no lights before. Yellow lights, like cats’ eyes. Little cats, black cats in the dark.

They would find him any minute now.

She realized suddenly it might be wise to wash the wet sand and blood from her hands and forearms. It was a quick trip down the stairs from the overpass and up the ocean walk to the little bar where she was know as Mrs. Gabrielle. No time to smile at the bartender now. She paused at the cigarette machine, went on to the room marked HERS and looked at herself in the mirror.

“Not too bad,” she told herself. Then all at once it was behind her again, the little black cat whose name was Fear.

The scratch on her face wasn’t going to show too much. She powdered over it as well as she could, braced herself for the walk through the crowded bar, told herself, “I’ve made it this far, I’ll make it the rest of the way.”

The doorknob was cold and wet in her hands. She clenched it and whispered through her teeth, “Please, in return for all the nickels I ever put in the collection plate in Sunday School, get me out of this.” It was a prayer. “Everybody’s looking at me!”

She walked through the smoky, crowded bar as calmly and as proudly as the Queen Mary cutting her way through the waves of the Atlantic. Then once the door was closed behind her, she ran crazily through the wet sand of the next door parking lot.

Why was it that everything she touched was wet? Wet and sticky, like the sand under her feet right now. Fear and the wet sand were holding her back, until she could reach the ultimate safety of her little sheltered room.

She flung herself through the door and saw his huge bulk waiting, in the little modernistic tin chair in the corner.

Detective Frank Espinoza said, “Okay, Mrs. Gabrielle, where is it? The gun, I mean.”

Suddenly—maybe it was just that the little cat had gone to chase someone else through the darkness of ultimate terror—fear left her like a coat. Not a coat dropped carelessly on the floor, but a coat carefully placed on a hanger and hung in a closet.

She said, “You’ll find it out on the sand.”

“And the briefcase?”

“You’ll find it out on the sand too,” she told him. “Intact.”

Espinoza chuckled. He pulled himself up from his chair and said, “I’ll be back, little sweetheart.” He lurched through the door into the darkness. She followed him silently.

For one moment she tried to remember some of the things people had liked about Espinoza. There weren’t enough of them to swing the balance.

Was someone following behind her? Imagination, she told herself. But she didn’t dare look around.

Perhaps the last mistake Espinoza had made in his life was being a trusting fool. At least he might have searched her for the gun. It felt like a kiss in her hand as she squeezed it.

She thought she heard another gun. No, it must have been an echo of her own.

Espinoza’s two hundred and eighty pounds hit the wet sand like a sack dropped from a balloon.

This was a time to pause, she said to herself. This is the time to think things over. No one was going to bother her for a little while, a while long enough to get moving, get going. She lit a cigarette, walked into the kitchenette and poured herself a glass of water. No one lived near enough to the little beach house to have heard the shot and the village’s quota of cops were busy two miles down the stretch of sand at the foot of Colorado avenue, looking for the body of Jack Barrone.

She pulled the briefcase from behind the sofa, stuck it in her suitcase, piled clothes, lingerie, makeup kit, on top of it. She went through the place, carefully destroying everything that might prove she had ever been there. Then she dressed and made up carefully, slowly.

A cab? No, better do this on foot. She climbed the stairs again, but not as breathlessly now. The lights were still flashing up and down the beach, but now she could ignore them. She walked into the bus station, bought her ticket.

There was no more fear.

But it wasn’t until the bus was an hour out of town, roaring through the darkness, that she knew for sure she was going to get away with it.

Everything about the room was brown, including its antiseptic smell, left there by the cleaning woman who had gone an hour before.

The scrubby little man at the desk lit a new cigarette, threw the match inaccurately at the wastebasket and said, “All right, Espinoza was killed. For my money, he should have been strangled at birth. But that’s beside the point. We’ve got an all-points out for the babe and we’ll get her. And I’m going to pin one small medal on her thirty seconds before they close the door on the gas chamber.”

“How about the other guy?” a lazy-eyed, husky man asked.

“Not identified yet. We got a bullet out of him, got one out of Espinoza and dug a third out of the piling in front of her beach house. Ballistics is working on them now. They’ll match.”

A tall thin man in a brown suit stirred in his chair and said, “It says in the Bill of Rights, or some place, that the babe is innocent until proven guilty. She probably had a good reason for shooting Espinoza.”

The man behind the desk laughed and said, “Who didn’t!” He laughed again and spat on the floor.

A fourth man, carrying a camera, said, “Okay Andy, let’s save Espinoza’s personality for the obit column, and give me the straight dope on the story. Because right now I’ve only got until seven A.M., and tomorrow’s my day off—I hope!”

Jerry, you’ve got as much as we have,” Detective Andy Connelly said. “The gal is named Mrs. Gabrielle, as far as we know. We have reason to believe she has more names than you can tattoo on your fat left arm, and believe it or not, the one at the top of the list is Mary Smith.”

The tall, thin man blew smoke through his nose. “Of the Minnesota Smiths. Iron mines. She didn’t inherit all the money in the world, just half of it.”

“In that case, Mr. Brown,” Andy said, “why does she bother with smuggling narcotics and shooting people?” His voice was cold. He didn’t like private detectives.

“Just an impulsive child,” Mr. Brown said dreamily. He didn’t like cops. His face became serious. He turned to the newspaper man. “She is impulsive. The estate trustees hired me a few years ago to stick around her, either keep her out of jams, or get her out of them.”

“You won’t get her out of this one,” Andy said, breathing heavily.

Mr. Brown ignored him. “She’s been married to a football hero, a movie star and a millionaire. The millionaire’s name was Addison. When she was of age, she changed her front name to Meri. When she divorced Addison, she went to court and had her last name changed to Adsmith. For sentimental reasons, she said. That’s her legal name, Meri Adsmith. She’s used the name Mrs. Gabrielle, she’s used a few others, because she likes to get away from it all.”

“She’s certainly gotten away from it all now,” the lazy-eyed man commented.

“She’s made parachute jumps, danced in a Broadway show, threatened to cross the Atlantic in a rowboat, and broken the bank twice in Las Vegas. I’ve trailed her around the world twice and you won’t find much on her in your newspaper’s files because part of my job was keeping her out of print.”

The young reporter was making notes fast.

“Our report on her,” Andy said coldly, “is that she’s twenty-four years old, born in Duluth, Minnesota, five foot eight inches tall, slender build, pale blonde hair.”

He went on, “As far as we know, she’s killed two men and she’s carrying a briefcase full of narcotics—at least, that’s the tip we got.” He spat on the floor. “And we don’t care how many millions she’s inherited.” His eyes were ugly. He looked at the private detective and said, “And you’d better get out of our nice clean police station. I don’t care if you’ve trailed her from Peru to the North Pole. Hello?” He picked up the phone.

“Yeah,” he said, making a note. “Yeah?” Finally, “Okay, thanks.”

He gave the tall, thin man a leering grin. “They just took her off a bus in Truckee, Nevada. That means we’ll have to fight out extradition. Unless you can persuade her to come back like a nice girl.”

Brown laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. He said, “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. Besides, I have a hunch you’ll never pin a thing on her.” He paused at the door to light a cigarette. “You can add this to your description. She’s a damned poor shot, even at close range.”

He slammed the door and left. There was a long and profane silence in the room.

“Funny thing, though, Andy,” the lazy-eyed man said. “After Espinoza and the guy on the beach were dead, and after she’d left, and before we got there, someone had searched that beach house like I’ve never seen a place searched before.” He rose, yawned and stretched. “Could be, someone is a good shot—and not even at close range.”

The spectacular story of Meri Adsmith’s escape from the Nevada police and her subsequent disappearance, stayed on page one. It was the story of a young, beautiful and adventurous heiress. Frank Espinoza was dead and nobody minded too much, except the insurance company who had to pay off his widow. But Meri Adsmith was news.

The two deputies from whom she had escaped while being transported from one jail to another were properly embarrassed and apologetic. It was an old trick and they shouldn’t have fallen for it. She had requested a stop at a filling station. They had waited outside for her. After a very long wait, they had knocked discreetly, then loudly, and finally broken in.

The small winodw had been pried open and Meri Adsmith had vanished into the Nevada night.

Yes, she’d had a purse, money and jewelry with her. No, no briefcase. There had been no briefcase on her when she had been found on the bus.

“But,” one of the deputies added reassuringly, “we’ll pick her up fast. She can’t go far in this country, on foot.”

They didn’t know Meri Adsmith.

Prying up the window hadn’t been easy. She bitterly regretted the suitcase left in the sheriff’s car, with its set of manicure tools. A nail file from her purse, and her fingernails, had to do. Getting through the window hadn’t been easy, either, high up and small as it was. Landing outside, she’d fallen, skinning her knees and elbows on the coarse gravel, and had crouched there for a moment, praying the sound of her fall hadn’t attracted attention.

When she felt it was safe, she ran blindly into the darkness, clutching her purse, running without sense of direction. Once she stumbled and fell and lay still for a moment until she felt she dared go on.

There were lights now from the sheriff’s car, there were voices shouting. Her escape had been discovered. It wouldn’t be long before a real pursuit would begin. She had to get up and keep going.

Sh pulled off her high-heeled shoes and stuffed them into the side-pockets of her coat. She longed to light a cigarette, and didn’t dare. She drew a long breath and started running again.

It was rough country. Stones wounded her stockinged feet, brush ripped skin from her arms. Once she threw herself on the ground. A coyote’s howl brought her to her feet again. After that, she didn’t pause until she felt safe from the sheriff’s car.

Now, where? She did light a cigarette then, took two puffs, and ground it out under her heel, disregarding the burn. In the distance she could see a faint light from a window; how near or how far she couldn’t tell.

A half hour, an hour, two hours later, she reached the source of the light. It was getting to be hard to tell time or distance now. Cold and hunger and utter weariness were the black cats pursuing her now.

It was a little homestead shanty. She crept up to it and peered through the window. A lighted lantern, a woman washing dishes.

Time for a bold move. Let them turn her in, if luck went against her! She felt through her pocketbook. Three one hundred dollar bills, two twenties, and—praise be—a safety pin. She pinned two hundred dollar bills to the inside of her brassiere, stuffed the rest back in her purse, walked up to the pine-board door and knocked boldly.

The woman who opened the door regarded her with suspicion, took a second look, and said, “My laws! Come in!”

She sniffed. There was the unmistakable odor of homemade corn liquor in the place. She looked at the woman, raw-boned, razor-sharp nose, little pig eyes, thin lips. She said, “I ran here—miles—do you have a drink in the house?”

“Laws, yes,” the woman said. Her eyes ran quickly over Meri’s clothes, ripped and soiled as they were, any woman could have guessed their cost. She pulled a mason jar from a shelf, poured a generous glass. “Car wreck?”

Meri shook her head, took a drink, managed not to choke on it. Almost before it was down, she could feel the warmth flowing through her veins. Take a chance, she said to herself, all that can happen to you is to lose. “Sheriff after me. Walked here from filling station—” she pointed.

The woman gasped. “That would be Jansen’s. You got here from there on foot? Laws, my laws!” She refilled the glass.

“Please,” Meri said, “could you sell me some clothes? Stockings, a dress of some kind, a coat, anything in the way of a hat. And could I bathe? I’ll pay you and I’ll leave you what I’ve got on.” She opened her purse, pulled out the two twenties and let the hundred dollar bill be seen.

“Laws, yes!” the woman said. She put water on to heat on the stove. “My clothes ain’t fitten you, but we’ll try ’em on.” She ran an appraising eye over Meri’s furs. “You wash yourself and we’ll fix up them scratches. I got a bottle of Dr. Sims’ Egyptian Snake Oil. Some hot food ain’t gonna hurt you, either.” She moved another kettle on the stove.

“And,” Meri said, “is there anyway I could get from here to a bus station? I’ll pay for it—”

The woman glanced down at the purse where the hundred dollar bill was as conspicuous as a fireman’s parade, and said, “My old man, Smitty, is out making a—delivery. If you don’t mind riding in a pick-up truck, he’ll take you clear into Reno.”

It was an hour before the pickup truck clattered to a stop beside the shanty. By that time Meri was bathed, rubbed with Dr. Sims’ Egyptian Snake Oil, fed with hot stew, and clothed in long cotton stockings, a knitted petticoat, a blue wool dress that reached nearly to her ankles, and an aged plaid coat. Her face was bare of makeup and her damp hair was half hidden under a scarf.

“By the bye,” the woman said, caressing the fur on the coat Meri had discarded, “me, my name is Violet. And if my radio weren’t lying to me, your name is Adsmith.” She raised a gentling hand. “Never you mind. Friends is friends.” She went out into the yard.

A brief and not too noisy conference went on outside. Then the door banged open and Violet said, “This is Smitty, my old man.”

Meri opened a sleepy eye and said, “Makes best corn likker this side of the Mississippi.”

Smitty was an undersized, bald-headed man, with bow legs and a squint in one eye. He said, “Please da meetcha. Tanks for de complimentary. Learn a make it in Brooklyn.” He drew a breath. “Drive ya ta Reno. When eva ya ready.”

Meri opened the other eye and said, “I take it back. He makes the best corn likker both sides of the Mississippi.”

Smitty gulped down some stew, chased it with corn likker, and said, “Le’s go.”

Violet said good-bye to them at the truck. “Smitty, he’ll get you there fast. But you best figger to hang on. The twenty miles ’fore you hit the highway is rough, and he don’t figger to waste time. He don’t love cops more’n you.” She waved. “Good luck and I hope they don’t catch you and hang you.”

The ride that followed was like something left over from an old nightmare. On the stretch of unpaved road to the highway the truck bounced, bucked, swayed, threatened to fly. On the paved road, Smitty drove as though not only the state police, but the devil himself were in pursuit.

He spoke to her once, shouting over the roar of the motor. “Getcha nine-forty plane.” He pointed at the motor. “Hoppered ’er up m’self.” The truck swerved, and he put his hand back on the wheel just in time.

Twice they were stopped. In a half-doze, Meri heard Smitty explain to state police that he was rushing his wife’s sister to a hospital in Reno. Both times a light was flashed on Meri’s face, both times they were waved on.

It was nine-thirty when they reached the airport. Meri shook herself to full wakefulness, and unpinned the bills from her brassiere. She had to trust someone now. She handed them to Smitty. “Please buy my ticket for me. To Chicago.” She pulled the other bill from her purse, handed it to him, and said, “And thanks for the ride.”

He stuffed it in his pocket, took the other two in his hand and ran for the office. Meri closed her eyes and waited. In the distance she could hear plane engines warming up. He came back in moments with the tickets and change, counted it out, pennies, nickels, dimes and dollars. Seventy-one dollars and eighty-four cents. He put it in the purse her numbed hands refused to open.

A steward appeared from nowhere. Another steward was right behind him, pushing a wheel chair. “Mrs. Banning?”

Strong arms lifted her into the chair, other strong arms carried her into the plane. A pleasant-faced stewardess said, “Mrs. Banning, your brother-in-law arranged for a wheelchair at Chicago. Let me make you comfortable—”

She was eased into a reclining seat, a blanket was tucked around her. She closed her eyes gratefully. The sound of the motors readying for take-off was the most welcome sound she had ever heard.

Then the police boarded the plane. She could feel their presence even before she heard their voices and their explanation to the stewardess. She knew they were walking up the aisle, looking at every passenger. She kept her eyes closed.

Their eyes looked at her and went on.

“Not on this plane,” one of them said.

A moment later the motors roared and the plane moved. She thanked all the angels that Smitty was, in his way, a genius. Then she slept.

The wheelchair was waiting for her at the Chicago airport. It took her to the waiting room, through the waiting room to a taxi. “Do you want an ambulance, Mrs. Banning?” “No, thanks, a taxi will do.” Slower than the airport bus, but safer. “Henrotin hospital, please.”

Two minutes away from the airport she called to the driver, “Drop me at Marshall Field’s.”

Would the cabby remember her? It was another chance she had to take.

There wasn’t much money left. She went into Marshall Field’s basement, quickly selected a beige suit and topcoat, shoes, stockings, a hat.

A fast change in the third floor Ladies’ Room. The clothes she had worn on the last lap of her journey went into the trash can.

Makeup. Her hair combed. The new clothes. She examined herself in the mirror. No, this was not the woman who had been taken off the plane in a wheelchair.

But as she stepped out on the street she began to feel the little black cat behind her again. The little black cat whose name was Fear.

“Please, Maggie,” John J. Malone said. “I don’t want to talk to anybody.” He looked up unhappily. “I’m a tired man.”

“Just a hangover,” Maggie said, with no sympathy. “And this is a client. Heaven knows, we need one.”

Malone groaned. “Send her in.”

He looked up. She was lovely, she was beautifully dressed and she was white as paper.

“Mr. Malone,” she said, “I think I’m in a little trouble.”

He looked at her, then down at the front page of the newspaper he’d been reading.

“Miss Adsmith,” he said, “you are in trouble.”

He shoved her into a chair just before she fell.

“Mr. Malone—” she began breathlessly. Her face was now the color of the underside of an oyster.

“Sit still,” he ordered her, “and don’t talk.” He walked to the filing cabinet, pulled out the drawer marked, “Emergency” and pulled out a bottle of gin. After a moment of hesitation he put it back and took out the bottle of brandy he reserved for Important Occasions.

“Here,” he said, handing the glass to her. He stopped himself on the verge of offering her a cigar and lit a cigarette for her instead. Malone, he told himself, you’re rattled.

“Did you, or didn’t you?” he asked.

She shook her head. The color was coming back in her face. “I did and I didn’t.”

The little lawyer sighed. “First thing, I’ve got to hide you out.” He frowned, then nodded. Helene was the answer. Yes, the lovely blonde heiress who had been involved with him on more than one murder case was exactly the right answer. He had her on the phone in a matter of minutes.

“Don’t ask any questions,” he told Helene. “Get dressed in something simple. Something you can change easily in a hurry. And how fast can you get down to my office?”

“I’m dressed in something simple right now,” she said, “And you know how I drive. See you in five minutes.”

Malone shuddered. He did know how Helene Justus drove.

“Anything else you want me to do?”

“Yes,” he said. “Go to jail. For murder.”

Helene said, “Wheel” and hung up.

“And now, my dear,” Malone said, “Take it easy and relax, but we may not have much time to talk.” He refilled her glass.

She nodded. “Malone, it is not easy to be a very rich woman and at the same time, have any fun. That’s why I have used a collection of names. Because I like to go places and not be pointed out as that rich Meri Adsmith.

“I like to go to prize fights, and go salmon fishing, and go to gambling houses, and sometimes just live quietly until I get bored.”

He nodded sympathetically. She looked very much like a helpless child.

“About a month ago, I rented a tiny beach house under the name of Mrs. Gabrielle. I was happy there. I could lie in the sun all day. In the evenings I could walk up the beach to a little bar, and chin with the bartender, and play pinball machines.”

She paused, frowned. “A few years ago the trustees hired a private detective to follow me around. A man named John Brown.” She looked up at Malone. “It can’t be his right name. There can’t be anybody really named John Brown.”

Malone sighed. He pointed to the telephone directory and said, “My dear child, in that directory alone there is a whole column of John Browns. Go on.”

“I didn’t mind him. He was very unobtrusive and never bothered me. But I always knew that wherever I went, he was always there. Then, I suddenly decided I wanted to fly down to Ensenada for a weekend. I did, and had a wonderful time.

“Coming back, I just missed the connecting plane. I decided to kill the time sitting in a bar.”

“And all this time Mr. Brown was right along?” Malone asked.

She nodded. “I hardly saw him, but I knew he was there. Anyway, I was sitting there when a stranger came up and introduced himself as Jack Barrone. He called me by my right name, Adsmith, and said he’d met me in Mexico City a few years before. I didn’t remember him, but you can’t remember everybody you meet. We talked, and had a drink, and suddenly he asked if I would do a favor for him. Since I was flying up to Santa Monica in a few hours, would I carry a briefcase up with me—it had to be delivered as soon as possible, because it was full of important legal documents.”

Malone said, “How did he know you were flying up in a few hours?”

She shook her head. “It never occurred to me to wonder. I just said, ‘Why sure.’ He gave me the address of the—lawyer, he said—he wanted it delivered to, and it turned out to be right on my way home. I said I’d drop it off on my way. He thanked me, gave me the briefcase and left.”

“And it never occurred to you to wonder what was in the briefcase?” Malone asked.

“No. It was just another briefcase and it was locked. I still had time to kill, so I went to a movie, and from there to the airport. When we landed, I took a cab out to the beach, the address was about two miles from where I lived, so I dismissed the cab and planned to walk home. I like to walk and it was a lovely night.”

“Never mind the weather conditions,” Malone said. “Go on fast.”

“I got there—” he face began to turn pale again, “—no one answered the door. It was late, and I was anxious. I didn’t know what to do. Then out on the sand I saw—it.”

Malone refilled her glass, fast. “It?”

“The body of the man who’d given me the briefcase. Jack Barrone. He’d been shot. He was covered with wet sand and blood. I got it all over my arms.” She shuddered. “I fell, and scratched my face. Then I began to get panicky. I got into the light, broke open the briefcase and saw what was in it.”

She told the rest of the story slowly, carefully. “But I don’t think I shot Espinoza. I shot at him, but I think I missed him. I’m a very bad shot and it was dark. And when I thought it over, I swear I heard another shot.”

Malone scowled. “You’ve probably been traced. We’ve got to—” He broke off as the door opened and Helene came in. “Helene, this is Meri Adsmith. You’ve read about it in the papers. I’ve got to hide her for at least twenty-four hours.”

Helene’s eyes widened. She looked at Meri, and they grew warm. “You poor baby!”

“If there’s an apartment in your hotel—”

“There is,’ Helene said cheerfully, “on the same floor as ours. Let me at that phone.” It was a very dear friend of hers, she explained to the desk clerk, who’d had a terrific shock and needed complete seclusion. Apartment 310? Fine. Her name? Mrs. Wiverly. She’d be there in a few minutes. Mr. Malone’s secretary would bring her up the back elevator.

“Wiverly!” Malone groaned. “Good Lord.”

“First thing that came into my mind,” Helene said. “And now I’m going to call Dr. Quigley, have him shoot this exhausted child so full of sedatives that she won’t even move for twenty-four hours.”

“Helene,” Malone said admiringly, “you should have been a general.” He turned to Meri. “One thing more. Where is the briefcase now? And the gun?”

Wordlessly she opened her purse and took out a key. Malone examined it carefully. It was the key to a parcel locker.

“Oh lord,” Malone said. “Women!”

She whispered, “Greyhound bus station. Santa Monica.”

He slipped it into his pocket. “Now,” he said, “you two trade coats and hats. Maggie!”

Maggie came in, looked confusedly from one to the other.

“Take this young lady out of here fast. Take her by taxi to Mrs. Justus’ hotel. Use the back elevator. Apartment 310. Leave word at the desk she is to receive no phone calls and no visitors except Dr. Quigley. Put her to bed and come back here fast.”

“Mr. Malone,” Meri began, her voice shaking, “how can I—”

“No more talking,” Malone said firmly. “Git!” He sat down behind his desk and mopped his brow.

“And now,” Helene said, “we wait around for the cops to mistake me for Meri Adsmith and march me off to the jailhouse.”

“Where,” Malone said, “it will take you about five minutes to establish your identity.” He pulled out a cigar and lit it.

“In the meantime,” she told him, “if you don’t satisfy my curiosity—”

When he had finished, adding every detail, she scowled at him. “Crazy enough to be true. But you’ll never sell it to a jury. Malone, what are you going to do?”

“I wish I knew,” he said. “I wish I knew.” For a moment he buried his face in his hands.

“Take a drink and cheer up,” Helene said. “You’ve never lost a client yet.”

There were loud voices in the corridor and heavy footsteps.

“Here they are,” Malone said in a soft voice.

Helene pulled her chair closer to his desk. “You see, Mr. Malone, it was like this—”

The door burst open and two unnecessarily husky plain-clothes men walked in. One, the taller, said, “That’s her. That’s her, all right.”

The little lawyer looked up indignantly. “What do you mean, breaking in like this? I’m having a conference with my client.”

“She may be your client,” the other said, “but she’s our prisoner. Come on, Miss Adsmith, let’s go.”

She looked at Malone, tears beginning to form in her eyes, “But you told me there wouldn’t be any trouble. You told me you’d fix everything. That it was just a matter of money.”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Malone said. “I’ll have you out in ten minutes. Or less.”

“Not on this charge, you won’t,” the taller detective said. “Now come along, Miss Adsmith, don’t give us any trouble.”

Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led through the door.

Well, that was that, Malone reflected. But what next? He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and ran Meri Adsmith’s story over in his mind. Somewhere in it was the answer, but where? If he could just put his mental finger on it.

He was still brooding about it when the phone rang. As he had expected, it was Daniel von Flanagan.

“Malone!” he roared. “What kind of a trick is this?”

“No trick,” Malone said smoothly. “Mrs. Justus was in my office asking me to fix up a two-dollar parking ticket for her, when your two dumb cops walk in and pick her up. I kept my mouth shut because I wanted you to find out for yourself just how dumb they were.” He added as an afterthought, “She’ll probably sue the city for false arrest.”

Von Flanagan groaned, “She won’t need to. She’s shooting craps with some of the boys right now. Malone, I appeal to you. For years we’ve been friends. I’m trying to cooperate with California on this. I’m going to vacation there this year. Guy from out there traced her to your office, gave us the tip, and he was waiting to identify her positively when Helene Justus walked in.”

Malone felt an ice-cube run up and down his spine. It had been a fast job of tracing.

“Malone, for friendship’s sake. Where is she?”

“Do you think I’d tell you?” Malone said.

This time the roar from the other end of the phone made the receiver tremble. “Malone, you’re hiding out a murder suspect, withholding important information, obstructing justice—”

“Prove any of it,” Malone said and hung up. For the first time that day he felt almost happy.

The sceond call came from Helene who said she was calling from the first corner drugstore she’d been able to find. “Duck soup,” she said cheerfully, “and I won twenty-two dollars at dice. Malone is it all going to be okay?”

“Yes,” he said, and suddenly had the feeling that he was telling the truth.

He went back to brooding about the problem. This time it was Maggie who interrupted him.

“I’m thinking,” Malone growled at her.

“A restful change, I imagine,” Maggie snapped. “Your client is safely tucked in bed. Dr. Quigley has been in and she’ll sleep for hours. But before he got there, she made a phone call.”

Malone stiffened and said nothing.

“She called the lawyer who manages her estate. No, don’t look like that. They don’t want to know where she is, and they don’t want anyone else to know. All they want is for you to get her out of this.” Her eyes softened. “Oh Malone, you’re going to, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Malone said for the second time that hour.

“She ordered them to send you a certified check by special messenger. For a retainer. A thousand dollars. It just got here and I signed for it.”

Malone caught his breath, relaxed, and said, “Praise be. Because Heaven knows we’re going to need it. Maggie, cash it, get me a round trip plane ticket to Los Angeles and a reservation on the first flight available. And move fast.”

Maggie said “But what are you going to do out there?”

“I don’t know yet,” Malone said, “but I’ll figure it out on the way.”

Maggie moved fast. There was a reservation available if he hurried. Malone hurried.

“Take good care of our little client. Don’t tell anybody where I’ve gone. I’ll phone.”

And even before he left the elevator, the little black cat of fear appeared from nowhere, only this time, it was following Malone.

Someone was following him. He didn’t know it, he sensed it. More, he reasoned it. Because he had suddenly realized the one important thing in Meri Adsmith’s story that told him who had murdered Frank Espinoza. And the murderer knew he knew.

Malone’s little black cat was a full-grown leopard by the time he reached the airport.

He asked for a seat in the rear of the plane. The stewardess smilingly obliged. Stewardesses, waitresses, salesgirls, they always smiled at Malone. He told her that he didn’t want to be disturbed with meals, with anything, he only wanted to rest. She smiled again and tucked a blanket over him.

He kept his eyes open while other passengers came on board. But how, he asked himself, can you spot a man following you, when you don’t know what he looks like? He tried to size up everyone, and everyone looked like a good honest citizen. Imagination, he told himself. But he knew in his heart it wasn’t imagination.

After the take-off he slipped into a half-doze, sometimes sleeping, sometimes dreaming, and in the dreams the sound of the motors became the growl of the black cat of fear.

It wasn’t until the landing at International Airport that he became fully awake, and then it was because the stewardess was shaking him gently. Everyone else had left the plane. That meant the man who had been following him had already disembarked—and would be waiting outside.

He smiled at the stewardess, said, “Thank you for a pleasant trip,” and walked briskly down the runway.

It was safe here at the airport. But this was not the time to think of safety. He moved slowly, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Was someone watching him?

He went through the airport office, paused to buy a package of cigarettes he didn’t want and looked around. No, no one paid any attention to him. But, he reminded himself, the man wouldn’t pay any attention to him.

It seemed like a hundred-mile walk to the cab stand.

He ducked into the first one that came along and said, in a voice loud enough to be heard halfway to San Francisco, “Beverly Hills Hotel.”

Five minutes later he leaned forward and said to the driver, “Changed my mind. Got to go to Santa Monica first. Don’t take a main highway.”

“Mister,” the driver said, “you being followed?”

“By little elves,” Malone said. He added, “Don’t mind me, I’m just still asleep. First stop, the bus station.”

He leaned back and lit a cigar. It had been raining that day and the streets were still glistening. The neon signs along the way reflected like Christmas tree lights. Then the cab turned off the highway and went through a succession of odd-angled corners, curves and occasional straight stretches of half-lighted streets.

With difficulty, Malone restrained himself from looking behind him. If they were being followed, it was too late to do anything about it now.

The driver pulled up at last behind the bus station and said, “You don’t hafta go in through the front door. Want I should wait?”

Malone nodded. He looked in through the wide glass doors of the rear entrance. The station was crowded with passengers. Was someone there watching for him? For a brief moment he considered asking the driver to go in with the key, then thought better of it. The crowd was his safety.

“Safety in numbers,” he muttered.

“What’s that you said?” the driver called.

“I said, never play the numbers,” Malone said, getting out, “You never get ahead.”

He walked into the station, opened the parcel locker, pulled out the briefcase and a grocery brown bag that felt heavy in his hand, and went back to the cab.

“Move,” he said. There was sweat on his forehead, and he was breathing hard.

The cab shot ahead down an alley into the next street.

“Police headquarters,” Malone said, “and go like a jet-propelled rabbit.”

The next street was dark and deserted save for parked cars and unemptied garbage cans. Malone reached for a cigar and began to unwrap it, but it slipped through his fingers. He leaned down and grabbed for it, and at the same moment he heard and felt an explosion that covered him with shattered glass. The cab screamed its way around the next corner.

“I’m taking you the long way,” the driver yelled to him.

Right then Malone, crouched on the floor, wouldn’t have minded being taken by way of Mars.

It was a little under two minutes, however, when the cab pulled up behind the pleasant California-style building that housed the police headquarters.

The driver said “You okay, Mister?” He helped Malone out. “Somebody shot at you.”

Malone nodded. He shook his head to clear it a little. “Missed. Pure accident.” He looked things over. One window had been shattered, the other was intact. “Let’s see if we can find the bullet.”

They found it embedded in the upholstery across from the broken window. Malone slipped it in his pocket, and reached for his wallet. The meter read five-fifty. He pulled out three tens, on second thought added one more. “Thanks for saving my life. And park here for an hour.”

He picked up the briefcase and paper bag and went on into the building.

Everything about the room was still the same, including the antiseptic smell, except that there were only two men in it this time, Detective Andy Connelly and the lazy-eyed man named Johnson, when John J. Malone walked in. There was a small cut on his face from flying glass, his Finchley suit looked as though it had been slept it, and it had, and his face was pale.

He walked up to the desk, put down the briefcase and the gun, and said, “I’m John J. Malone. Chicago lawyer. Here’s the stuff you’ve been looking for.”

It was obvious that Connelly was making a great effort to keep calm as he examined the gun and the briefcase. “This must be the gun,” he said at last. “Ivor-Johnson .22—she had a permit for one like that.” He opened the briefcase, gasped. “Malone, do you have any idea how much this is worth?”

“I can guess,” Malone said, taking out a cigar. “I could probably retire on it, even with my tastes.”

“Now,” he said, “where did you find them?”

Malone told him.

Andy Connelly swore, and not gently. “And where is the girl?”

“I’ll tell you,” Malone said, “when you arrest the real murderer—which will probably be any minute now.” He finally got the cigar lit. “In the meantime—”

He told the story as Meri had told it to him, the trip to Ensenada, the stranger in the bar in San Diego and finally, the shooting of Espinoza.

“It all checks,” Connelly said. “Barrone and Espinoza were shot with the same gun. A .38. The bullet we dug out of the pilings in front of her place was from a .22. Probably this one.”

Malone said, “Someone took advantage of her frequent trips, and assumed names, to smuggle narcotics. That someone saw to it that Barrone would contact her in the San Diego bar. That someone managed to get here with Barrone, probably in the chartered plane that took them over the border on occasion, because this time he wanted to get the whole load himself, and because he could frame her—and here he is now!”

There were steps on the iron stairs outside. Malone went on louder, “Espinoza was a crooked cop. Praise be there aren’t many of them, but once in a while you get one.”

“He was under investigation,” the sleepy-eyed Johnson said, without moving a muscle. “We weed them out.”

Malone continued. “She was stuck in San Diego for a few more hours, with the briefcase. She went to a movie. When she tried to deliver the briefcase, she found Barrone—whom she’d talked to a very short time earlier in San Diego—dead as a mackerel and from what I’ve learned of him, smelling worse.” Malone paused and relit his cigar. “You’ll find that Barrone was warned he was under suspicion, and that Meri Adsmith could be talked into carrying his briefcase—Oh, innocently of course. I think you’ll find the private plane took both Barrone and his partner to Clover Field, where a car would take them to the beach. At the beach, he shot Barrone—not only for the contents of the briefcase, but to frame her for the murder. He was tired of playing guardian to a scatterbrain heiress. If he got her free, he could blackmail her for life. If he didn’t, he still had a small fortune for himself.

“He probably planned to shoot Espinoza. Must have. Because he was waiting behind her beach house when she returned. But she’s a smarter girl than he thought.” Malone hoped his voice was carrying into the hall, where the sound of footsteps had stopped. “She called the police when she found Barrone’s body. She got back to the beach house, panicked, planning to run for it. She always knew she was being followed. She fired a shot at Espinoza—a shot that missed and landed in the pilings. At the same time a shot was fired from behind her, the one that got him.”

He paused. He lit a cigar.

“It gave her just time enough to get away.”

It was while he was throwing away the match that the tall man in the brown suit walked casually into the office, pointed to Malone, and said, “There he is. He has her hidden somewhere. Her family’s estate paid him a thousand dollars to come out and make a deal with you. Why don’t you hold him and make him tell where she is?”

There was a silent hostility in the eyes that faced him.

“Mr. Brown,” Andy Connelly said, “may I see your gun?”

“If it checks,” Malone said wearily, “hold him.”

He drew a long breath. “I told you the story, and he knows it.”

“All right,” Brown said, “I’ll show it to you. Like this.” He had it in his hand before any of the three could move. “And I’m taking this with me, and you won’t see me again.” He backed to the door. “I’ve taken chances and I’ll take one more.”

And just about that time Malone’s foot came down hard on his. He gave a squeal of pain and slid slightly off center. It took just that time for the lazy-eyed, overweight man to cross eight feet of floor.

A little later Andy Connelly said, “Yes, but how did you get the answers? Do you keep a troupe of trained gypsies?”

Malone said, “Meri Adsmith made it a point of traveling or vacationing under an assumed name. When I left my office to come out here, I told my secretary—don’t tell anybody where I’m gone. That hit it. Only one person could have known where Meri would be, and when—and that was the crooked private detective who was so expert that he could trail her to Chicago and to my office—and then trail me back here. It was just that one little thing.”

Lazy-eyes got up and said, “Drive you to the airport. Got time for a few on the way.”

“Thanks,” Malone said, “and let me use the phone for a collect call.” He turned to Andy while he waited and said “At that, the guy had nerve. Trying to shoot his way out of police headquarters with a murder rap on him and a briefcase with about a half million bucks worth of dope!”

He turned back to the phone. “Maggie, darling? You can go up and wake the sleeping beauty now. Tell her everything is settled. Tell her to spend all day tomorrow making herself beautiful, because she has a date with me for cocktails, dinner, and to take the town to bits and bits.”

He yawned. “It’s been a busy day and night, but it was worth it. Because all my life, I’ve wanted a dinner date with a beautiful blonde heiress. And not all fees are paid in cash.”

About the Author

Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © by Craig Rice

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-4850-7

This edition published in 2017 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

The Murder of Mr. Malone

The Tears of Evil

His Heart Could Break

Good-Bye Forever

And the Birds Still Sing

He Never Went Home

Life Can Be Horbible

Good-Bye, Good-Bye!

The Bad Luck Murders

The End of Fear

About the Author

Copyright Page