Having Wonderful Crime Page 12

  Eeeny

  catch a toe

  meeny miny

  nigger

  mo.

  She paused and said, “I’m attempting to be subtle, you see, in a poetization of the racial problem.”

  “Oh, of course,” Jake murmured.

  She closed her eyes again and went on:

  Christopher

  Chronology,

  chrysanthemum

  O herald the herald the

  tomorrow

  tomorrow

  chronic.

  She paused again. “You grasp the social significance of that, of course?”

  Helene said, “We couldn’t miss it.”

  Wildavine beamed and said, “An interesting verse pattern, too, I thought. Well I’ll go on.” She drew a long breath. “This last verse, of course, deals purely with spiritual values. And I’m told there’s just a touch of the occult.”

  Yesterday.

  Hello.

  Tomorrow.

  Good-by.

  The worm turns

  regards,

  regards,

  regards.

  Western Union.

  In the awed pause that followed she said, “Do you know, it took me four months to write that?”

  “I can easily believe it,” Malone said. He signaled the waiter and said, “Four more champagne cocktails. And put a slug of gin in mine.” Across the table, he could see Jake and Helene looking at each other. Jake’s eyes were saying, “I can explain everything,” and hers were answering, “I won’t ask any questions.” That was all very fine, but he was damned if he was going to take Wildavine home. His next drink rubbed a little of the fur off his brain. Night before last Wildavine Williams had been in the St. Jacques bar. She’d been upset. She’d made a number of calls on the house phone. She had, indeed, been sufficiently upset to walk out and leave a copy of Whither lying on the bar. Malone leaned confidentially across the table and said, “When did you meet Jake Justus?”

  Her eyes widened behind the rimless glasses. “Yesterday. Why?”

  “Idle curiosity,” Malone said. It hadn’t been Jake that Wildavine Williams had called every few minutes on the house phone from the St. Jacques bar on the night Gloria Garden was murdered and Bertha Morrison disappeared. He wanted to talk with Wildavine Williams, but not when Jake and Helene were around. That meant finding out where she lived, and he wasn’t going to ask Jake. From the look on Jake’s and Helene’s faces, they had a great deal to say to each other, without an audience. Something had to be done about Wildavine.

  Malone looked around. The bartender had all the appearances of a good guy. He excused himself, headed toward the men’s room, and ended up at the far corner of the bar. The bartender was a good guy, and cooperative. For ten bucks. A worth-while investment, Malone reflected, all things considered.

  The next round of drinks arrived two minutes after Malone returned to the table. Malone rose, lifted his glass, bowed to Wildavine, and said, “To your future!”

  She giggled, returned his bow, and drank her drink. It worked fast. Five minutes later she mumbled, “Mus’ tell you about m’chil’ood sometime.” One more minute and she added, to the world in general, S’beautiful world, beautiful.” Another minute, and she was fast asleep.

  They took her home and put her to bed. Malone surreptitiously wrote down the address. He pretended not to notice that Helene put Wildavine’s clothes carefully on hangers, and tucked the sheets under her chin. He likewise pretended not to notice that Jake looked embarrassed and uncomfortable. Finally, he pretended to be ignoring Jake and Helene and be looking out the window during the taxi ride back to the St. Jacques. He looked at his watch as he entered the lobby. It was still early. He could still make it to that poker game.

  Everything was swell. Everything was going to be fine and dandy. Jake and Helene were holding hands under the cover of her white wool cape. They’d explain the whole affair to each other. As for him, all he had to do was win back his dough from Abner Proudfoot, find Bertha Morrison, prove she hadn’t murdered lovely Gloria Garden, collect the rest of his dough, and catch the next train back to Chicago.

  He said he had to buy a newspaper, and let Jake and Helene go on into the elevator unattended. Their reconciliation was their own business. He waited till the elevator doors closed, and then began feeling in his pockets for the slip of paper that had the poker-game room number written on it. A voice behind him said, “There he is. That’s the guy.” Malone wheeled around, in time to see the desk clerk pointing him out to three men who were eyeing him closely. One of them was short and stringy, another was tall and sad, and the third was a beefy uniformed cop.

  “Where is he?” the short guy demanded. “Where have you hidden him?”

  “You claim to be Dennis Morrison’s lawyer,” the tall guy added. “What have you done with him?”

  Malone said, “Who the hell are you?”

  The big beefy cop said, “None of your damn business.”

  The little stringy guy said, “Shuddup, you,” and to Malone, “I’m O’Brien, this is Birnbaum, and he’s Schultz. Where is Dennis Morrison?”

  “Last I saw,” Malone said, feeling for a cigar, “he’d just settled down for a long winter’s nap. Why don’t you try looking in his bed? Or even under it.”

  “Oh, a wise bird, huh?” O’Brien said.

  “Now be reasonable, Mr. Malone,” Birnbaum said placatingly. “We’re only asking you to co-operate. In return, we’ll co-operate with you.”

  “Yeah,” Schultz said, nastily.

  “I’m in a very unco-operative mood,” Malone said. “I’m a busy man. If you don’t go away, I’ll call up the mayor.” Suddenly he realized he was in New York now. Just as suddenly the significance of what they were telling him began to percolate through his mind. He was hired to find Bertha Morrison, and now—“Sure, I’ll be glad to co-operate with you boys,” he said genially. “Just ask me anything you want to know. If I can’t answer it, I’ll buy you a drink, and if I can answer it, I’ll still buy you a drink.”

  “Just one question,” O’Brien said. “Where is Dennis Morrison? Because he’s disappeared. And if you’ve hidden him somewhere, you’d better turn him up damn fast. And if you haven’t”—he grinned unpleasantly—“then you can come along and help us look for him.”

  17. Four Double Whiskies

  “You overestimate me, gentlemen,” Malone said, biting the end off a cigar. “I only operate as a one-man bureau of missing persons on alternate Thursdays. Call me up some Thursday and I’ll find Dennis Morrison for you. Judge Crater, if you prefer. Or, with a little coaxing, I’ll find you Charlie Ross.”

  “Oh, a wisenheimer, huh?” Schultz said, moving up.

  “You’re damned right,” Malone said joyously. “And what’s it to you, you dumb Dutch son-of-a-bitch?” Schultz squealed with rage and made a remark which not only reflected on Malone’s immediate ancestry, but on the whole Irish race. Malone, in one quick move, stuck the cigar back in his pocket and kicked Schultz in the stomach. Schultz kicked back just as Malone ducked. The girl at the cigar counter screamed.

  “Lay off that stuff, Schultz,” O’Brien said. “You’ll have the cops in here in another minute.”

  “Cops, hell,” Schultz roared. “We’re the cops.” He butted Malone in the chest. Malone landed, in a sitting position, on the floor, with a surprised grunt.

  “He said ‘lay off,’” Birnbaum said. Schultz growled a little and subsided.

  “We came here for a nice gentlemanly conference,” O’Brien told Schultz reprovingly, “with this nice gentleman.” He assisted Malone to his feet.

  “And Peterson said we should be quiet about it,” Birnbaum added.

  Malone brushed himself off, looked around at the awed spectators in the lobby and the white-faced cigar-counter girl, and decided to be co-operative. He’d settle the more personal aspects of the matter later with Schultz, somewhere up an alley. “Don’t be alarmed,” he told the spectators, “t
his is just the way I prefer to take my daily exercises. You know, keeping fit, and all that sort of thing.” He offered Birnbaum a cigar, grinned at O’Brien, and said, “Shall we retire to the bar, gentlemen?” adding under his voice, “And get the hell out of this crowd?”

  “O’Brien and Birnbaum looked at each other and O’Brien said, “It’s in line of duty, isn’t it?”

  Malone led the way to the bar and into a secluded booth. He waved for a waiter and said, “I understand, of course, you can’t drink a drop, on duty.” The waiter arrived then, and Malone said, “Bring each of these gentlemen a glass of water and bring me four double whiskies, all at one time.” He waited till the waiter was out of earshot, then looked across the table at Schultz. “We’ll discuss this further at some more propitious time,” he said. “But I want to get this on the record right now. I don’t like you. Not because your mother wasn’t married to your father and wouldn’t have recognized him if she’d seen him again. Not just because your mother was obviously an ape and your father a kangaroo. No, not even because you have halitosis and B. O. and a repulsive personality. I don’t dislike you just because you’re illiterate, illegitimate, and unwashed, and because you stink. It’s just because—”

  “Hold him, Birbaum,” O’Brien said.

  Birnbaum said, “Calm down, Schultz. You’ve been in trouble before, getting into fights on duty.” Schultz relaxed and mentioned something unpleasant about Malone’s personal habits. “Take it easy now, Malone,” Birnbaum said.

  Malone leaned back and muttered a comment on the unusual manner in which Schultz had been conceived.

  The waiter arrived with the drinks just in time. “This is very nice of you, Malone,” O’Brien said, lifting his glass. “Malone-Malone-Malone-Malone. It’s a very familiar name.”

  “My uncle Patrick Joseph Malone, was a police lieutenant in Detroit,” Malone said helpfully.

  O’Brien thought for a minute, then shook his head. “I never was in Detroit. But I had an aunt who married a Malone and lived in Cincinnati. Where did your people come from?”

  “My father,” Malone said, downing his drink, “Francis Ignatius Malone, was born in County Limerick. My mother, Esther Levinsky, was born in Bialystok.”

  Birnbaum brightened and said, “One of my cousins married a Levinsky from Bialystok. Louis Levinsky. In the wholesale shoe business.”

  “Say,” Schultz said, “one of my mother’s nephews married a Malone.”

  “He must have had to buy a hell of a lot of perfume to do it,” Malone said.

  “Lay off him, Malone,” O’Brien said. “He’s not such a bad guy when you get to know him. You order the next round of drinks and I’ll pay for it.”

  “Oh, course he’s not a bad guy,” Malone said. “I love him like a brother. Well, a cousin. Oh, all right, a second cousin, with the smallpox.”

  The drinks arrived. Birnbaum downed his, groaned, and sighed, “Oh, what this is doing to my stomach.”

  “The trouble with your stomach,” O’Brien said unfeelingly, “is that you don’t put enough alcohol in it. It kills germs.”

  “Sure,” Malone said. “Every stomach needs fumigating now and then.” He downed his own drink. “Now, what’s all this about Dennis Morrison?”

  “He’s gone,” O’Brien said. “Vamoosed. Scrammed. Out of sight.”

  “Farschwinden,” Birnbaum said.

  “He ain’t here,” Schultz said. “In other words, he’s gone. And where the hell is he, you—”

  “Calm down, Schultz,” O’Brien said. “This guy is one of my cousins.”

  “Well, he’s Dennis Morrison’s lawyer, ain’t he?” Schultz said. “And Dennis Morrison is missing. Which means this guy must have hidden him out someplace.”

  “I am Dennis Morrison’s lawyer,” Malone said delicately, “in a purely metaphorical sense.” He twirled his glass between his fingers. “I allowed myself to be carried away by my sympathy for him yesterday morning, and made certain utterances which I later felt had been unfortunate and uncalled for. Therefore, I am not responsible for his disappearance. And besides, how do you know he’s disappeared?”

  “Because he’s gone,” Schultz said. “Because he ain’t here, that’s why.”

  Malone shrugged his shoulders. “He may have just stepped out to buy a newspaper, or go to a movie.”

  “This guy is entirely too smart,” Schultz said to his companions. “I say, we oughta arrest him.”

  “I don’t like your friend,” Malone said to O’Brien. “You ought to do something about his personality.”

  “Never mind him,” O’Brien said. “Schultzy’s O.K. We know Dennis Morrison disappeared because he was supposed to come down to headquarters and never showed up. This dame who was killed up in his place got identified, and Peterson sent for him to come down and answer a few questions. He said he’d get a taxi and be down there in half an hour, and that was the last we heard of him. So Peterson sent us up here to look for him, and he’s gone. Left right after that telephone call.”

  “Maybe he got lost,” Malone said helpfully.

  “It’s been six hours,” Birnbaum said. “He couldn’t get that lost.

  “I don’t know,” Malone said. “I knew a fellow once—”

  “He’s trying to change the subject,” Schultz muttered. “That’s a sure sign he’s got something to hide.”

  “Shut up, Schultz,” O’Brien said.

  “The chances are,” Malone went on, “the murderer has been watching the scene of the crime. When he discovered that Dennis Morrison was going down to police headquarters, he became alarmed, fearing that Morrison had discovered his identity. Therefore, he murdered Dennis Morrison and disposed of his body.”

  “Say,” O’Brien said. “That’s a very interesting theory. I never thought of that.” Malone smiled and looked modest.

  “Yeah,” Schultz said scornfully, “only how did this here murderer find out Dennis Morrison was going down to police headquarters?”

  Malone looked around, and whispered, “Telepathy!”

  A split second later O’Brien said, “Sit down, Schultz!”

  “Just the same,” Birnbaum said, “it is a very interesting theory. Maybe we ought to call up Peterson and tell it to him.”

  “And let Peterson take all the credit?” O’Brien said. “Don’t be a dope. We’ll find the body and the murderer ourselves, and get a promotion out of it.”

  “So we find him ourselves,” Birnbaum said gloomily. “So where are we going to look?”

  “Ask this guy,” Schultz said, “he’s smart. He knows all the answers, and if he don’t he makes ’em up.”

  This time O’Brien said, “Sit down, Malone.”

  “You know, I think that’s right,” Birnbaum said, “about alcohol being good for my stomach. Let me buy a drink this time.”

  While it was being brought, Malone decided to change the subject before he was asked any embarrassing questions. He said, “Well, at least you’ve got the dame identified, anyway. That’s something.”

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said, “but does that do us any good? Do we get the credit?”

  Birnbaum sighed and said, “Here we are knocking our heads against the wall trying to figure out who she is, so now this no-good momser walks in—just like that—and he tells us who she is. How do you like that?”

  “I see what you mean,” Malone said.

  “And the Kansas City police wired us they had Bertha Morrison, only it turned out it was somebody else,” O’Brien said.

  Birnbaum added, “When people are missing, the Kansas City police always report them first, and always it’s the wrong one.”

  The drinks arrived. O’Brien lifted his glass. “Well, here’s to finding Morrison’s body, and his murderer. You know, Malone, you’re a swell guy, and besides you’re a relative of mine. Maybe you ought to come along with us. I bet you’d be a lot of help.”

  Before Malone had started thinking up plausible excuses, Schultz leaned forward and said e
arnestly, “You know, there’s one thing I still can’t figure out. It was Bertha Morrison got the t’reatenin’ letter. But it wasn’t her that got killed.”

  “For cripes sake,” O’Brien said, “are you off on that again? Listen, that letter didn’t mean a thing.”

  “Peterson said it didn’t have anything to do with the case,” Birnbaum said.

  “Who’s Peterson?” Schultz demanded belligerently.

  Malone said quickly, “Rich women are alway getting threatening letters, usually from cranks.” He’d just remembered that he was hired to find Bertha Morrison. “Who sent it?”

  “Oh, some crazy dame,” O’Brien began.

  He was interrupted by a bellboy paging him, and hurried away. Birnbaum groaned and said, “So they’ve found Dennis Morrison’s body. We’re too late again. I wonder if they have any soda mints here.”

  “Maybe Peterson’s coming down here,” Schultz said. “Maybe we’d better get the hell out of this bar.” They went into the lobby just as O’Brien turned away from the telephone.

  “Hell,” O’Brien said. “They found him. Morrison.”

  “Alive?” asked three voices.

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said. “He caught amnesia or something and instead of going to headquarters like he said he would, he’s been riding back and forth on the ferry boats. Peterson turned him over to Doc Grosher, and Grosher stuck him in the hospital overnight.”

  “Well,” Malone said, lighting a cigar, “it was a nice theory, anyway. Glad to have been of help to you.”

  “And we gotta beat it back to headquarters,” O’Brien said. “All those reports we made yesterday turned out to of been made wrong, and we gotta straighten ’em out.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” Birnbaum said.

  “It’s all the fault of that moor-on we picked up yesterday,” O’Brien said. “He rattled me.” He turned to Malone and said, “Say, there was a screwy guy. I’ll tell you about him sometime.”

  “Do,” Malone said cordially.

  They made a solemn promise to get together soon, and the three policemen left, Birnbaum murmuring, “Y’know, maybe I should try taking vitamins—”