The Big Midget Murders Read online

  The Big Midget Murders

  A John J. Malone Mystery

  Craig Rice

  There are night clubs like The Casino, and there is a city called Chicago, and perhaps by now Jake Justus, Helene, and John J. Malone are as real as other people. With these exceptions I’ll have to admit that the characters and events in this book were all dreamed up. If they resemble any actual persons or parties I wouldn’t be surprised.

  CRAIG RICE

  Chapter One

  “Take him away—he scares me!” The short, stocky man with the red face put one hand over his eyes and peeked around his finger.

  Jay Otto had just appeared on the stage of the Casino. There was a sudden roar of applause from the crowd at the tables. Now he stood there, in top hat and tails, not uttering a sound, just standing there looking over the audience with a mocking smile, swinging a miniature walking stick in one hand. The handsome band leader had hushed his men and was watching for his next cue.

  John J. Malone, Chicago’s famous criminal lawyer, mopped his brow with a slightly soiled handkerchief and looked away. “He scares me,” he repeated stubbornly.

  Jay Otto performed some antic with the walking stick and stood still again, while the audience howled appreciatively.

  “Shame on you, Malone,” said the blonde girl at the same table. “Afraid of a little midget!”

  “Especially,” her tall, red-haired companion added, “when that midget is going to pay our rent.” He paused and added piously, “I hope!”

  Another wave of laughter went over the audience and Malone looked back at the stage in spite of himself. Jay Otto, in wordless pantomime, had begun his famous imitation of a slightly boiled after-dinner speaker. The orchestra began to play, very softly.

  The entertainer, less than three feet high, was a perfect travesty of a human being. Unlike so many of his kind, his proportions were almost exactly the same as those of a full-sized man; his head was not too large for his body; his arms and legs were proportionately the right length. Because of that, and of the fact that he handled his tiny body with such consummate skill, he made it appear that the rest of the world had suddenly swelled out of all proportion. Looking at him and then at the audience, it seemed to Malone that he was in a roomful of people all nine or ten feet tall, with enormous, grinning faces. He shuddered.

  “Marvelous,” the red-haired man breathed. He reached out for one of the blonde girl’s hands. “One more week, and we can pay off the mortgage.”

  “It’s either that,” she said, “or we’re out on the street without a night club to our name.”

  “The old homestead!” Malone murmured, without the faintest trace of sympathy in his voice. He relit his cigar, leaned back in his chair, tried to ignore Jay Otto, and looked about him.

  There had been a time when the Casino was so exclusive that only socialites, celebrities, and better-class gangsters could get in. That had been before Jake Justus, ex-reporter, ex-press agent, ex-amateur detective, had won it on a bet from a Chicago millionairess who’d wagered that she could commit a murder without being caught at it, and lost.*

  Not that Jake had needed to own a night club. His bride, née Helene Brand, was heiress to more money than Malone cared to count. But Jake had that funny old-fashioned notion about earning his living and supporting his wife.

  Malone rolled an eye over the remodeled Casino and shook his head. No, its best friends wouldn’t know it now. “I’d rather have a thousand customers at a buck a head than a hundred at ten bucks a head,” Jake had declared. “It’s just as much dough and ten times as much fun.”

  Now, the Casino was half night club, half theater, and two halves circus, Malone reflected. Walls had been knocked down, balconies constructed, the dance floor doubled in size, and a stage—where Jay Otto was now pretending to be a football coach between halves of the big game—built at one side. “The big-best little night club in the world,” Jake had announced modestly on the billboards.

  * Mona McClane, in The Right Murder and The Wrong Murder. Sensitive readers will be happy to know that Mona and the law parted friends.

  Malone sighed and hoped it would begin to crawl out of the red before the banks got nasty about the money borrowed to pay for the remodeling.

  There was a sudden roar from the audience, and Malone instinctively looked toward the stage.

  The midget’s walking stick had suddenly shot up to twice its length, and a gesture from him had turned it into a microphone. Now the midget had become Lou Holtz, clinging to the microphone and shrinking coyly from the applause.

  He tossed the stick into the wings, and in the same instant a man appeared carrying a piano. Malone blinked. After watching Jay Otto for a few moments, the man with the piano looked like a giant, at least ten feet high, while the piano he carried seemed to be of only normal size.

  “A man carrying a piano is always funny,” Jake murmured. “A man carrying a little piano is even funnier. But when a man carries a piano under one arm—”

  The man with the piano—an ugly, lowering brute with a surly face and thick, tousled brown hair—put down the piano with exquisite care. It was exactly the right size for Jay Otto. Malone saw that the big man had been carrying a tiny piano stool in the other hand. Now he placed it with mathematical precision before the keyboard. Then Jay Otto sat down and rested both hands on the keys, assuming so soulful and faraway an expression that it was a moment or so before Malone realized that the big man had disappeared into the wings.

  “He really is huge,” Helene commented. “He’s six foot six if he’s an inch. But he looks twice that beside his boss. I think he really loathes Jay Otto.”

  “So do I,” Malone said in a low growl. “Give me Angela Doll any day.”

  Helene sniffed. “You don’t need to tell anybody,” she said, “that you’d rather watch Angela Doll do her strip than a sneak preview of the Day of Judgment.”

  “Angela Doll,” Malone said stiffly, “is a great artiste.”

  “All of that,” Jake agreed. “And she’s cute, too.”

  Jay Otto, seated at the keyboard, imitated a series of famous pianists, from Rachmaninoff to Hazel Scott. Neither he nor the piano made any sound at all. The crowd howled, and at last became thunderous when the big man ran out from the wings, picked up the piano under one arm and Jay Otto under the other, and carried both off stage.

  “I still don’t like him,” Malone said.

  Jake sighed. “I didn’t ask you here to like him. I asked you here to help me fight out that tricky clause in his contract. We’ll go back and see him in a few minutes.”

  Two curtain calls later the orchestra suddenly began to play Angela Doll’s music. The crowd quieted immediately, wondering what was coming. Jake stiffened.

  It was Jay Otto who appeared through the maroon-colored curtains, adopting the pose Angela Doll had made famous with her entrances.

  “Damn it, he’s always changing his act,” Jake said. “This never was in it before.”

  Starting from top hat and tails, the midget began going through the familiar strip routine of Angela Doll. The crowd giggled, then laughed, and then roared and clapped its appreciation. It was a biting, merciless travesty, and watching it Malone suddenly realized that all of Jay Otto’s imitations were cruel, hateful, even brutal. He found himself laughing uproariously as the midget skipped off stage waving a tiny pair of shorts through the curtains in a parting gesture—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  “My God,” Jake gasped, catching his breath and wiping his brow, “Angela’ll kill him for that.”

  “I’d defend her for nothing,” Malone said, “on the grounds of justifiable homicide.”

  The crowd began to quiet down. The members of Al Omega�
�s orchestra had slipped away from their places and the relief band had started a fast Cuban rhythm. The dance floor slowly began to fill.

  To Malone all the dancers seemed to be giants. He shuddered again.

  “Tell that waiter to bring me a drink before a noted lawyer drops dead in the world-famous Casino,” he said. “And when we go back to talk to this guy, put him behind a screen. I’ve got a phobia about midgets.” He lit a fresh cigar and said, “At least, I’ve got a phobia about that midget.”

  Jake signaled to the waiter, and said, “He’s a mean, hateful little cuss. But the customers are insane about him, and in this corner tavern the customers are always right. Anyway, until we get the decorations paid for.”

  “All right,” Malone said. “I’ll try to love him for your sweet sake.”

  He took a quick glance at Jake. The lean, pleasantly homely face under the shock of red hair was pale with fatigue and lined with worry. He reminded himself that this meant a lot to Jake, more than just the successful re-opening of a night club. If the Casino should go down the river, it meant back to the press agent grind again: dance bands, fan dancers, mindreading acts; hotel rooms in Dayton and Lansing and Milwaukee and Keokuk; getting along with radio singers and theater managers and cowboy yodelers and city editors, stretched clear from hell to breakfast and back again. It wasn’t what Jake had wanted for Helene.

  “Remember the girl who wanted to be married to a man who owned a jewelry store?” Helene asked happily, lighting a cigarette. “Well, imagine being married to a man who owns a saloon.”

  Malone sighed almost imperceptibly, and looked over the cash customers. What he saw promised well for the future of the remodeled Casino. It had been designed to draw the crowd, and the crowd was there. But not only the crowd. There was a dancer from the visiting ballet, dropped in to catch the late show. There was a table of slightly aging North Shore socialites. There was Betty Royal, a bright-eyed youngster with shining hair, surrounded by her usual football team of admirers, and there was half the cast of a Loop hit show.

  There was Lou Goldsmith, the slot-machine king, a tall, barrel-stomached, unhappy-looking man, with his restless glittering young wife, who had, surprisingly, stayed on in the Casino chorus after her marriage. As Malone watched them, the couple rose from their floorside table, waved cordially at Jake and Helene, and moved toward the door leading backstage, Lou a step or two in the rear, protest showing in the very set of his bulky shoulders. Malone wondered if there was anything to the stories about Lou Goldsmith’s wife and Al Omega, the orchestra leader.

  There was Frank Ferris, the city hall reporter, squiring a dowdy little woman with glasses. There was the handsome, distinguished-looking business man whose presence was the accolade to any night club. There was a table of radio people.

  Yes, Malone decided, the Casino was over its first hurdle. He smiled cheerfully around the room, then abruptly stiffened to sharp attention.

  At a secluded table in a shadowed corner there was an immense, grinning man in a tuxedo that was—Malone blinked and squinted once or twice before he was sure—a deep, jungle green. His pink face was scrubbed, powdered, and beaming, in one plump hand he held a rose-quartz cigarette holder in which burned (Malone remembered) a slim, perfumed, and probably tinted cigarette. The men who hovered behind him, out of range of the floor lights, were black, immovable shadows. Malone sensed that every one of them had a tense hand in his right-hand coat pocket.

  The little lawyer felt a chill flow over him, as though ice had suddenly been rubbed against his bones. He reached for his glass, coughed into it, dropped his cigar and caught it halfway down his vest, and said, “I never saw Max Hook in a night club before.”

  There was a little, almost uneasy silence before Helene said lightly, “After all, Malone, even a gambling czar has to have a little relaxation.”

  “Besides,” Jake said, “he probably wanted to drop in and see what kind of decorations his money had paid for.”

  Ramon Arriba’s Cuban Band suddenly let loose a blast of impassioned music that drowned out all speech and almost all thought. It was a good three minutes later before Malone could say, between cold lips,

  “You didn’t borrow the money for the remodeling from Max Hook! Because if you did, he—”

  Jake said fast, “Listen, Malone, this is no time to talk business.” His grey eyes signaled, “Shut up!” and he added, “Relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Malone caught the signal, nodded, sipped his drink, and relit his cigar.

  A couple of lively youngsters from Northwestern had started a conga chain. The Goldsmiths were back at their table, apparently quarreling. Frank Ferris was writing down the cigarette girl’s name. Max Hook had clasped one of his rosy, puffy hands over the wrist of one of his weasel-eyed young bodyguards.

  “Hold your breath,” Helene said, without moving her lips. “Here comes Ruth Rawlson.”

  Malone immediately forgot the Casino, the rhumba band, Jake and Helene, and even Max Hook. He knew now what it would feel like to have an electric eel lie alongside of his spine.

  Ruth Rawlson. Had it been 1921 or 1922? Malone wasn’t sure. He only knew that he’d gone to the Follies three nights out of five during their stay in Chicago. Maybe it had been 1926. Oh Lord no, not later than 1924. Who the hell cared about the date, anyway. There had been that tall, slim, devastating girl with the lush, reddish-gold hair rippling to her waist, the face, the throat, the shoulders, the—Malone closed his eyes. For just that moment he was in his twenties again.

  He heard a faint murmur of voices saying something about wanting a drink, and ordering one, and then Helene was kicking him under the table as she said, “Miss Rawlson—Mr. Malone.”

  “How delightful!” said the deep, throaty voice of Ruth Rawlson.

  Malone braced a hand against the table edge and opened his eyes.

  They’d always said Ruth Rawlson had good bones. Sculptors, indeed, had raved about them. But you could really appreciate them now. In fact, with a reasonably searching eye, Malone realized, you could probably identify every one of them.

  She had been tall, graceful, swan-like. Now she was only tall, and thin as a haddock-bone. There was a streak of face powder down the front of her shabby and remodeled black satin evening dress. Her face, that had been the most pictured face of the decade, was still beautiful, in a haggard, picturesque way, like a famous ruin, Malone thought. The red-gold hair was grey now, and, at the moment, more than a little disheveled. And she was staggering like a camel on ice-skates.

  Malone said, “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” and meant every word of it.

  Ruth Rawlson turned an engaging smile on him and breathed, “You charming man!” She pushed an empty glass toward Jake and said, “How stupid of me! I didn’t mean to drink it that fast!” Beamed at Helene and said, “My dear, how exquisite you look.” Turned back to Jake to whisper, “When the waiter comes around again—” And then informed them all, in a torrid murmur, that she’d turned down a Broadway offer over a little matter of price.

  Jake obligingly hailed the waiter. Ruth Rawlson downed a drink, delicately pressed the drops off her chin with a corner of the tablecloth, rose to her feet by taking a firm grip on the edge of the table, flashed her still dazzling smile impartially at them all, and careened off toward the door leading to the dressing rooms.

  “Isn’t she wonderful!” Helene breathed. “She’s lived for years on cheap whiskey and vitamin pills!”

  Malone remembered a poem he’d learned in grade school about Titania vanishing into the heart of a flower, and said crossly, “She probably drinks to forget something.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, lighting a cigarette, “her future.” He blew out the match and added, “She’ll probably have us into bankruptcy yet. Helene left messages with all the bartenders that any drinks Ruth Rawlson bought should be charged to the house.” He snapped the burnt match between his lean brown fingers. “‘I wouldn’t dream of taking five hundred,’” he mimicked. �
��‘Ruth Rawlson never got less than seven-fifty.’” He snorted loudly, and added, “Not as long as the twenty-five bucks per week pension holds out.”

  “Jake,” Helene said sternly, “you’re a very rude man.”

  Malone watched the ex-Follies girl vanishing through the door and said, “Well anyway, I never saw a finer pair of shoulder blades. How much longer do I have to sit around here waiting to go back and bulldoze your midget? My nerves are beginning to knit themselves up into doilies.”

  Jake glanced at his watch, finished his drink, and said, “We might as well go back now. He’ll have his make-up off by this time and be ready to leave. That was his last show tonight.”

  Helene rose, wrapped a glittering white-and-silver cape around her smooth shoulders, and said, “I’m coming too. To keep Malone’s courage up.”

  There was a long corridor back of the stage of the Casino. One end of it led toward the kitchens, and one toward the service entrance. Just at the end of the stage, a flight of unpainted wooden stairs went down to the dressing rooms.

  Jake led the way, warning the other two to watch where they stepped. At the foot of the stairs a door was marked, “J. OTTO. PLEASE KNOCK.”

  Jake knocked twice, heard no answer, and said, “Hell, I’m the boss of this joint.” He opened the door.

  Malone drew a slow breath. He wasn’t looking forward to the session ahead of him. From all he’d heard, and from what some secret place in the back of his brain told him, the famous midget was going to be a nasty customer to deal with, even over a little matter of a difficult clause in a contract.

  The door slammed behind him. Hard, and loud.

  He didn’t really see, at first: he felt. There was a strange, muffled, half-strangled sound from Jake’s throat. There was a smothered “Oh!” on an indrawn breath, from Helene. A delicate and suddenly cold hand clutched his wrist.

  Then he saw.

  To the left of the dressing table there was a narrow closet, its door open. Above the doorway was a hook. And suspended from the hook was the body of Jay Otto, the Big Midget, its face blackened and discolored, hanging in a noose that seemed to Malone’s swimming eyes to be made of gleaming, skin-colored, long silk stockings.