Murder Mystery and Malone

  Murder, Mystery & Malone

  Uncollected stories by CRAIG RICE

  edited by Jeffrey A. Marks

  Crippen & Landru Publishers

  Norfolk, Virginia 2002

  Copyright © 2002 by the estate of Craig Rice

  Introduction and prefaces copyright © 2002 by Jeffrey A. Marks

  Cover artwork by Gail Cross “Lost Classics” cover design by Deborah Miller Crippen & Landru logo by Eric Greene ISBN: 1-885941-71-4

  Crippen & Landru Publishers P.O. Box 9315 Norfolk, VA 23505 USA

  www.crippenlandru.com

  CrippenL@pilot.infi.net

  Contents

  Introduction

  Wry Highball

  The Frightened Millionaire

  Shot in the Dark

  Say It With Flowers

  How Now, Ophelia (by Michael Venning)

  Death In the Moonlight

  Beyond the Shadow of a Dream

  One More Clue

  They’re Trying to Kill Me

  No, Not Like Yesterday

  Hard Sell

  The Dead Undertaker

  Sources

  Introduction

  Mystery writer Craig Rice never lived to see her short works collected into book form, but others have been busy on her behalf since her death in 1957. Shortly after she died, The Name is Malone appeared. The book took ten of her Malone stories from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Manhunt, among them her most popular and most frequently anthologized works. Three years later, The People vs. Withers and Malone, the collection of stories that combined her detective with Stuart Palmer’s Hildegarde Withers, came out, thanks to Palmer’s efforts to keep the characters alive. Still, that left a number of uncollected short works that still sparkle like hidden treasures after all these years. Having spent so much time with Craig Rice, I can honestly say that she’d be thrilled to have a new collection of her short stories published forty—five years after her death. While most of these stories haven’t appeared in print in over forty years, their mirth and wit can still make the reader crack a smile at Craig’s comic genius.

  Craig loved the short story form, and the era in which she wrote allowed her to produce a number of works of short mystery fiction. Beginning in 1943, she wrote for friend Frederic Dannay’s Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and for Anthony Boucher at his various publishing enterprises. During her binge- drinking days in New York City in the early 1950’s, she went to the offices of the Scott Meredith Agency every day to write short stories. The agent put her in a room where she was expected to write for eight hours. At the end of the day, Craig would be paid for her work. The first few stories showed the rust on her style, but she quickly recovered her form. Most of those stories appeared in Manhunt, a mystery magazine that was heavily supported by Scott Meredith’s literary agency. Even when she was wracked up with neurological problems in Rachos Los Amigos, she continued to write short stories, focusing her efforts on twists and turns based on her knowledge of the genre and its taboos.

  The form loved her in return as did her readers. She won Ellery Queen’s Readers Choice award for one of her first efforts, and she was nominated more times than she could count. Her name was usually billed first in whatever magazine her stories graced. One issue of The Saint Mystery Magazine listed her name prominently on the cover by itself. Editors knew that she sold magazines.

  The kudos continued, but as she sank into depression and alcoholism, she was wont to write stories in order to buy another bottle. At times, she would bypass her agent in order to keep more of the money for herself. She wasn’t above reselling the same story as new by just changing the first few lines of a story. All of this only added to the confusion surrounding Craig’s body of work. By the time that Who Was That Lady? Craig Rice: The Queen of Screwball Mysteries was published in 2001, reviewers had actually attributed a fictitious anthology of stories to Craig. She would have had a good laugh over that. Craig was never one to let facts get in the way of a good story.

  In putting together this collection, I chose the best uncollected stories from her career. Most of them are Malone stories, but the collection would be incomplete without a few of her other stories as well, so Melville Fairr is also represented. I hope that this collection showcases the consummate skill and the humor that made Craig Rice the cover person for Time magazine in January 1946.

  This story has been a favorite of mine ever since I found it. The best works of fiction have plot and setting that stem from the things that make up the main character. What two things epitomize John J. Malone more than drinks and beautiful women? This story has both, and a solution that uses Malone’s knowledge of alcohol. –JM

  Wry Highball

  “You’ve got to believe me,” the beautiful girl said. “I had nothing to do with it. I was just as surprised as Arthur —”

  She produced a handkerchief from her purse and cried into it, softly. John J. Malone sat behind his desk feeling uncomfortable. “Now, now,” he said. The girl went on sobbing. Malone said, “There, there.”

  “But it’s terrible,” the girl said at last. “Arthur is dead, and —” She went back to the handkerchief.

  Malone sighed. “I’d like to help you,” he said untruthfully, “but you’ll have to tell me all about it. Now, let’s start from the beginning. Your name is Sheila Manson.”

  The girl stopped sobbing as if someone had thrown a switch. She brushed hair the color of cornsilk away from her tear-stained face, looked up at Malone, and said, “But how did you know?”

  Malone didn’t think it was worthwhile telling Sheila Manson that a good description of her had been in every Chicago newspaper for the past forty-eight hours. “I have my methods,” he said airily, trying to look mysterious.

  “Then you must know about Arthur, too,” Sheila Manson said.

  “Suppose you tell me,” Malone suggested diplomatically.

  Sheila nodded. She put the handkerchief away in her purse and said, “He was my fiancé. Arthur Bent. We were going to be married next week.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Malone encouraged her sympathetically.

  She nodded again. “And the police think I did it, but I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you, Mr. Malone?”

  “Why do the police think you killed your fiancé?” Malone said, side-stepping neatly.

  Sheila Manson shook her head. “I don’t know why,” she said. “But I can tell you who really did kill him.”

  There was a little silence. At last Malone prodded, “Who?”

  “Mae Ammon,” Sheila said. “She would murder anybody if she thought she could get something out of it.”

  “And what could she get out of murdering Arthur Bent?” Malone asked.

  Sheila shrugged. She was beautiful even when she shrugged, Malone thought.

  He decided he had to take the case —even if there wasn’t any money in it. Even if he owed the telephone company, his landlord, the electric company, and three restaurants. They could wait, but Sheila Manson was the kind of vision that dropped into a man’s office once in a lifetime.

  “She was just jealous,” Sheila said. “I was Arthur’s fiancé, and she was jealous.”

  To Malone it sounded as if Mae Ammon had a better motive for murdering Sheila than for doing away with Arthur. However, this was no time for fine distinctions. “I’ll do what I can for you,” he said decisively.

  “I can’t pay you very much —”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head about that,” Malone said. “Just give me your address, so that I can get in touch with you —and then go home and try to relax.”

  “Mr. Malone.” Sheila stood up. Her figure was slim and bre
athtaking. The last shreds of monetary regret disappeared from the little lawyer’s thoughts. “If the police come —what shall I do?”

  “Shoot it out,” Malone said. Then he caught himself. “Sorry —I must have been thinking of someone else. If they come, just call me. I’ll be right here, or else my secretary will find me. Now, you just relax and stop worrying.”

  “All right, Mr. Malone.” She started for the door, under the lawyer’s breathless scrutiny. At the door she turned. “Malone,” she said, and her voice dropped an octave, “I’m —very grateful to you.”

  The door banged and she was gone.

  After a minute Malone wiped the smile guiltily off his face, put on a businesslike frown, and told himself that precious time was passing.

  He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried hard to think about Arthur Bent.

  Of course, he had read about it in the newspapers. Bent had been a rich man —and just recently rich, Malone reminded himself. On his twenty-fifth birthday he had become heir to the Bent fortune, as provided in his father’s will. Two weeks later Arthur Bent was dead. He’d been poisoned with arsenic, placed in a rye-and-ginger-ale highball. He had taken this fatal drink in his own home, and no one else had been present except Sheila Manson and Mae Ammon.

  But neither the bottle of ginger ale nor the bottle of expensive rye had been tampered with. The poison had been only in Bent’s highball.

  It certainly looked as if there were only two possible suspects: Sheila Manson and Mae Ammon. Well, he was working for Sheila Manson, Malone told himself that meant he had to see Mae Ammon at once.

  It was perfectly obvious, when you thought about it, that Mae Ammon had committed the murder. After all, Sheila was a beautiful young girl, and beautiful young girls just didn’t do things like that. Or, at any rate, Malone was convinced this one hadn’t done it.

  Unfortunately for Malone’s first theory, Mae Ammon was beautiful too.

  Her address was, conveniently, in the Chicago telephone directory. Malone took a cab to the quiet brownstone, walked up the steps, and rang the bell.

  The girl who answered the door had short black hair and a figure that made Malone almost stop breathing. She was not slim, like Sheila Manson, but Malone decided that he preferred curvaceous and cuddly brunettes. She wore a dark-green dress that clung to her figure like adhesive tape.

  “I’m looking for Mae Ammon,” Malone said. “But I’d rather be looking for you.”

  The girl smiled. “In that case,” she said, “you’re lucky. I’m Mae Ammon. Come in.”

  Malone followed her, in a daze, through a hallway and up one flight of dim stairs. “Most of the people who live here work during the day,” she said as she pushed open the door of a large bright room. “I’m the only one here, so I answer the bell.”

  Malone said, “Ah,” in an intelligent fashion, and followed her inside. The room was high-ceilinged and sunny. Magazines were scattered everywhere —on the blonde—wood coffee table, over the light-green couch and chairs, piled on the hi-fi and the television set. There was even a large bundle of them stacked on the yellow spread of the single daybed.

  “So you’re Mae Ammon,” Malone said, for lack of anything else to say.

  “That’s right.” She smiled again. “Just put some of the magazines on the floor and sit down. Who are you, by the way?”

  Malone took a stack of Lifes and Looks from the couch and sat down. “I’m John J. Malone,” he said.

  “The John J. Malone?” Mae Ammon’s face showed surprise.

  Malone nodded. “The lawyer, anyway,” he said with what he hoped was modesty.

  “And you’re here about poor Arthur,” Mae said. Her smile disappeared. “I hope that woman gets the chair,” she burst out. “Killing Arthur —and out of sheer jealousy, that’s all it was —just because he was my fiancé —”

  Malone said, “Stop.”

  Mae looked down at him. “Stop?”

  “Did you say Arthur Bent was your fiancé?”

  “That’s right,” the girl said.

  Malone sighed. Things were getting a little complicated, he realized. “I’d heard that he was Sheila Manson’s fiancé,” he said cautiously.

  “Sheila Manson!” Mae looked around the room suddenly, and saw a china dog lying on the floor. She picked it up and threw it against the wall. Malone ducked. The dog landed over his head with a sharp crash, and little pieces of china drifted down the back of his collar.

  “That’s what I think of Sheila Manson!” Mae said. “I hope she gets the chair! Arthur Bent was my fiancé, and I don’t intend to forget it!”

  Malone rose slowly. “I was only asking,” he said mildly.

  Mae came over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I wouldn’t hurt you,” she said. “I don’t have anything against you. After all, you know I didn’t kill Arthur. Why should I —we were going to be married week after next.”

  “Sure,” Malone said. This didn’t seem like the proper time to tell Mae Ammon that he was working for Sheila Manson. But Sheila had said she was going to marry Arthur Bent next week. That gave her a week’s priority on Mae Ammon. Malone decided, in a hurry, that he’d better not mention that either.

  “I just want to find out the truth,” he said.

  “Well, you know the truth,” Mae said. “It was that hussy Sheila Manson, that’s who it was. She slipped poison into his drink and he died. And now she’s going to be caught and tried and convicted, and I hope she gets the chair —” She bent down and Malone ducked again. But she was only picking up a magazine. “They sometimes give women the chair,” Mae said. “This magazine has some stories —but that’s not important. I want Sheila Manson to get the chair.”

  Malone took a deep breath. “Suppose,” he said gently, “that she didn’t do it.”

  “But she did,” Mae said. “I was there. I know.”

  “Did you see her actually put poison into his drink?”

  “Well,” Mae said, “not exactly. But I saw him mix the drink —take out the bottles and everything —take his own little stirrer out of the glass, and then drink it. And if I didn’t kill him, then she must have! We were the only ones there.” Malone nodded. There was, he felt sure, another question he should ask, but he couldn’t come up with it. “Was there ice in the drink?” he said at random.

  “Of course there was,” Mae said. “But the police checked the ice tray. There was no poison in it.”

  That, Malone thought, eliminated another possibility. But it had been a good idea. “Suppose Sheila Manson didn’t murder your —suppose she didn’t murder Arthur Bent,” he said. “Who else might have had a motive?”

  “Everybody loved Arthur,” Mae said. “He was a wonderful man.”

  “Sure,” Malone said. “But he was rich. Who’s going to inherit his money?”

  “I was his fiancée,” Mae said. “I’m going to inherit.”

  “Did he make a will?”

  Mae shrugged. She too was beautiful when she shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said with insouciance.

  “How about any close relatives?” Malone said.

  “He only had two cousins,” Mae said. “Charlie Bent and J. O. Hanlon. They both live in Chicago. But they weren’t even at Arthur’s place. I tell you, I saw everything. He put in the ice, then the rye, then the ginger ale, then he stirred it all up and drank it —”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Malone said diplomatically.

  “I’m sure you will,” Mae said. “By the way, why are you asking questions? Are you working with the police? Because I told them all this —”

  “I’m just a friend,” Malone lied smoothly. “I’m interested in Justice.”

  “So am I,” Mae said. “And justice means giving that hussy the chair.”

  Well, Malone thought when he arrived at his own office again, there’s still J.O. Hanlon and Charlie Bent.

  He didn’t feel much like seeing them, but some
body had to be the murderer. As things stood, the only suspects were a beautiful blonde and a beautiful brunette. Both, it seemed, had been fiancées of the dead man. And each was convinced the other had committed the murder —unless, Malone thought, they were both awfully good actresses.

  But if neither girl had murdered Arthur Bent, Malone thought slowly, then how did he die? The arsenic was in his drink. It wasn’t in the bottle of rye or in the bottle of ginger ale. It wasn’t, according to Mae Ammon, in the ice cubes. So somebody had put it in the particular glass Arthur had used.

  Unless he only used one particular glass —and somebody had painted the inside with arsenic beforehand. You could do that, Malone knew, if you used an arsenic—in—water solution. The poison would dry as a thin film, and dissolve again in any liquid.

  Of course, it would make the glass look a little filmy...

  Malone sighed and reached for the telephone.

  Five minutes later he put it down. Von Flanagan had been exceptionally polite and courteous —for von Flanagan, that is. He’d actually told Malone what he wanted to know, and hadn’t threatened even once to arrest the little criminal lawyer.

  There was no arsenic residue in the glass above the level of the drink.

  So the glass hadn’t been painted with arsenic.

  And that meant that either Mae or Sheila had murdered Arthur Bent.

  The only trouble was that Malone was sure neither had.

  Of course, the glass might have been painted only at the bottom. Malone wondered if von Flanagan had thought of that, and started to call him back before he realized it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  “It’s a funny thing,” von Flanagan had said. “Here’s a guy who monograms everything he owns —got his own special monogrammed coasters, for instance. Nobody else uses his coaster. But he didn’t monogram the glasses. So there’d be no way for anyone to tell in advance which glass he’d use.”