The Wrong Murder Read online

  “Find out why Mona McClane murdered Joshua Gumbril.”

  “I’ll ask him that first,” Malone said icily. “Come on in, and let me do the talking. These guys scare easily if you don’t know how to handle them.”

  Gus’s place was small, and far from ornate. There was a brown-wood bar with about a dozen bar stools, six booths in the rear of the long narrow room, a small table with a checkerboard, an upright piano that had once been painted an unpleasant green, and a nickel phonograph.

  Helene paused for a moment at the door, looking in. “How can a place as small as this one afford to stay open all night?”

  Malone snapped, “Remember you’re a lady, and don’t ask questions.” He added after a thoughtful pause, “Didn’t I tell you he was one of my clients?”

  Save for an affectionate couple in the farthest booth, Gus’s place was empty. A tiny radio back of the bar played very faint dance music. Gus himself sat beside it, reading a magazine. He was a thoughtful, plumpish, middle-aged man, slightly bald. At the sound of the door closing he laid down his magazine with almost an air of regret, took the toothpick he had been chewing out of his mouth, looked at his visitors, and immediately broke into a wide, broken-toothed and heart-warming smile.

  “Glad t’see ya, Malone. Been a long time since you was out.”

  Malone introduced his companions. Gus shook hands with both of them warmly and enthusiastically.

  “I’m sure glad t’see ya. Any friend of Malone’s is more’n a friend of mine.”

  Helene said, “That goes for me, double,” and gave him a smile that promptly won his lifelong affection.

  From that point on, however, conversational progress was maddeningly slow. Malone ordered a drink. Jake ordered a second. The house bought one. Then that ritual was repeated, in the same order.

  There was discussion of the weather, the races, mutual friends and acquaintances, slot machines, and the hard time a bookie had making an honest living for himself. At last when almost every conceivable subject had been exhausted, Malone brought up the subject of the sudden death of the late Joshua Gumbril.

  “I read about it,” Gus said. A note of sincere admiration crept into his voice. “Imagine pickin’ the corner of State and Madison Streets. That was a smart stunt. Now I’d never a’thought of that myself.”

  There was a brief discussion of the manner of Mr. Gumbril’s abrupt taking off, and the subsequent bafflement of the police.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry,” Gus said at last, shaking his head sadly. “I never was one to speak ill of the dead, and I never had no trouble with Gumbril. He never done me no harm, and he maybe done me some good. But I never could feel no liking for him. I guess there ain’t nobody to mourn for him.”

  A phrase of that insane conversation with Mona McClane flashed momentarily through Jake’s mind. “Somebody that no one will mourn for—”

  Malone lit a cigar and said very casually, “Remember that Sanders holdup, Gus—speaking of Gumbril—and the way it came out?”

  Almost holding his breath, Jake watched the man for the faintest sign of wariness. There was none.

  “Yeah,” Gus said, wiping off the top of the bar and gathering the glasses for another drink on the house. “Yeah, I remember. I was perfectly in the clear, though. Not a single thing anyone could pin on me.” He looked at the lawyer, “Hell, I wasn’t even there, was I?”

  “No,” Malone told him.

  “That was a funny thing,” Gus said reminiscently, setting out the refilled glasses. “A very funny thing.” A new light came into his eyes, not wariness, but anxiety. “Say, that old business hasn’t anything to do with Gumbril getting shot, has it, Malone?”

  “I don’t see how it could,” Malone reassured him. “Hell no, Gus. That was years ago.”

  Gus looked relieved. He wiped the top of the bar again. “That’s what I thought. But it was kinda funny just the same.”

  “What was kind of funny?” Malone asked.

  No one who didn’t know him as well as Jake would have heard and recognized the faint quiver of excitement in his voice.

  “That you’re the second person this week that’s spoke to me about the same thing.” He began chewing on his toothpick. “Coming almost the same time as this Gumbril guy getting shot, it struck me as kinda coincidental.”

  “It’s funny how these things happen,” Jake said lightly.

  “Yeah,” Gus said. He threw his toothpick on the floor. “I remember once when my sister-in-law was down in Kansas City—”

  Fifteen minutes later he ended the story about his sister-in-law and Malone asked very casually, “Who else was it said something to you about the Sanders killing, Gus?”

  “She didn’t say nothing to me, she asked me,” Gus said. He grinned broadly. “I didn’t tell her a thing. It was that big, warm-looking Sanders babe. Daphne I guess her name is.”

  Jake had an uncomfortable feeling that he might die of old age before Malone answered.

  “Daphne Sanders, eh?” the little lawyer said at last, with an air of quiet amusement. “What did she want to know?”

  “If the dame who married Sanders later didn’t frame the whole thing. She wanted it two grand worth. Maybe if she’d come up to five—” he paused, sighed, shook his head, and said, “Why the hell should I stick my neck out?”

  “Why indeed,” Malone agreed. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I didn’t know nothing about it. She wanted proof anyway. What the hell kind of proof could I give her?”

  “None whatever,” Malone said agreeably.

  Gus scratched his right ear thoughtfully. “Say, Malone, how high do you think she’d go?”

  “Not high enough,” the lawyer assured him. “Not anywhere near high enough.”

  “I s’pose not.” The bartender sighed regretfully. “I could use the dough. Still, as I just said, why should I stick my neck out?” He scratched the other ear. “Funny, though, Malone. What d’ya s’pose she wanted to know for, anyway?”

  Malone said vaguely, “I guess she doesn’t like her stepmother any too well.” He added casually, “Just between ourselves, Gus, how much did you get out of it?”

  “No more than the dough Gumbril give me. Five hundred lousy bucks, plus what I had to pay you, for all the risk I took.” He became suddenly vehement and impassioned, leaned heavily on the bar with one hand, and gestured dangerously close to Malone’s nose with the other.

  “If I had of known what I was getting into, believe me, Malone, I never would of went into it.”

  Malone lifted an eyebrow and said, “You mean you didn’t know what the layout was before you saw it sprung?”

  “Hell no,” Gus said.

  “Come on now, Gus,” the lawyer said contemptuously. “Save your kidding for your customers.”

  “Honest, Malone. I didn’t know Gumbril had anything to do with it, either. I thought the whole thing was Joe’s idea. Hell, it was just another stickup to me.” He paused, looked embarrassed, and said to Helene, “This was all a long time ago, lady. I didn’t really know what I was doing. Believe me, I’m a reformed man.”

  “Don’t mind us,” Helene informed him brightly. “My husband here just beat a burglary rap with Malone’s help.”

  “Tch-tch-tch,” the bartender said reprovingly. He looked solemnly at Jake. “You hadn’t ought to live that kind of a life, married to a nice girl like her. It not only ain’t right, but it don’t get you no place. Why don’t you open a tavern?”

  “I’ve been thinking of it seriously ever since I met her,” Jake said, very gravely. He shoved a handful of coins across the bar. “Let’s have a drink.”

  “Sure,” Gus said, gathering the glasses. “If you ever decide to do that, I can give you a lot of good advice.”

  “It’s all past history and nobody gives a damn now,” Malone said almost dreamily, “but I always thought Gumbril put you next to that Sanders business.”

  “Hell no,” Gus said again, busy with the g
lasses. “It was Joe’s doing. I didn’t expect no gunwork. I never would of went along if I had.” He shoved the refilled glasses across the bar.

  “Well you live and learn,” Malone said platitudinously. He added, looking into his glass, “Just what ever did happen there, anyway—between ourselves and strictly off the record?”

  “Malone, I ain’t even sure.” Gus leaned confidingly on the bar. “So help me, Malone, and that’s the truth. All of a sudden, see, without no warning, Joe he just opened up and let the old dame have it. Wham, just like that. I never knew what he done it for.” He shook his head sadly. “It wasn’t like Joe.”

  “I understand she let out a yell,” Malone said idly.

  “Uh-uh. There wasn’t a yip. Not a single yip out of her. We scrammed in the car. Joe, he let me out at the Grand Avenue El station just like we’d arranged. When he let me out he just said, ‘See Gumbril.’ That’s all, just like that. ‘See Gumbril.’” He shook his head again and sighed, “You know, that’s the last I ever seen of Joe.”

  “Funny,” Malone commented. He paused. “So Joe got the whole take, huh?”

  “That’s right, Malone. Gumbril, he gimme the five hundred. Near as I can figger it, that was the setup from the start. Joe, he was to get whatever we took off the Sanders. Maybe Gumbril gave him some extra, I don’t know. Me, I was to get the five hundred.”

  “What the hell did Gumbril get?” the lawyer asked.

  “That’s the damn funny thing, Malone. As near as I see it, he didn’t get nothing.”

  Malone looked at him scornfully and said, “Go on, Gus. What d’ya take me for, anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t kid you,” Gus assured him earnestly. “Gumbril, he give me the five hundred, see, and says in that wheezy voice of his that Joe has beat it with what was took off the Sanders, and I’m to go to you if there’s any trouble, which there was a little, but you took care of it very nicely.” He beamed at the lawyer.

  “Thanks,” Malone murmured appreciatively.

  “And he says I should send him your bill when it come in, which it did, and believe me—” he turned to Jake and Helene, “when I seen it, I knew right away I was on the wrong end of the racket. I wished I’d gone to school like my old lady wanted me to. But anyway, I says to him, ‘Gumbril, what are you getting out of this?’ and he gives me that funny grin of his and says, ‘Not a red cent.’”

  “I can’t believe it,” Malone said, almost faintly.

  “Gumbril had his faults,” Gus said firmly, “but he never was one to lie. He said he wasn’t getting a cent, he was just discharging his family obligations.”

  Malone seemed to be having considerable trouble with his cigar, and his voice was a shade too casual.

  “What did he mean by family obligations?” he said at last.

  “Search me. That’s all he said. He give me that funny grin and says he was just discharging the last of his family obligations, and that was all he said. So I signed his paper and took my dough and didn’t ask no more questions.”

  “Paper?” Malone asked almost lazily.

  “Yeah.” Gus grinned widely. “You know, Malone. Every time you did any business with Gumbril, the old guy put it all down in writing and made you sign it. Said he did it for self-protection.” He spat a piece of toothpick on the floor. “Self-protection, hell. He waited to see if you hung onto any dough, and then put the bite on you. As soon as you were broke, or he’d got all he could, he’d tear up the paper.” He grinned again. “The way to queer that was to act broke. But you had to watch yourself. He was a wary guy.”

  Malone nodded. “I’d heard something of the sort. Wonder where those papers arc.”

  Gus shook his head. “He probably only kept the best of ’em. He was a guy who hated to have anything around, if you know what I mean. Maybe that’s why he was so glad to see the last of his family obligations.”

  Malone drew a smoke ring, regarded it for a moment, and said, “Well, it was a damned queer mess from start to finish. I never knew Gumbril had any family.”

  “Me neither,” Gus said. He gathered up the glasses again. “I never knew nothing about him. He was a funny little guy.” He sighed, lifted his glass, and added reverentially, “Well, we all have to die some time.”

  Malone said solemnly, “You never can tell.”

  The bartender set his glass down hard. “Say, Malone, do you know if Gumbril left any dough?”

  The little lawyer caught his breath before he said, “Why?”

  “Oh—well, nothing. I mean—it’s like this, Malone. A guy, I mean a guy like Gumbril, he can pile up a hunk of dough while he’s on the make, and still not have a scratch of it left when he kicks out.” He rubbed his nose and began again. “Look, Malone, it’s tough to think of a little guy like Gumbril getting his like that, no doubt when he least expected it, and him having no friends and no family, and if on top of that he didn’t have no dough left, and the city has to bury him—” Gus paused for breath, his face the color of an early June peony, “What I mean is, Malone, if the little guy didn’t have no dough left when he was took so sudden, I’d like to kick in towards giving him a swell funeral, and I know a lot of the boys would feel the same way.”

  It was a moment or so before Malone could trust himself to speak. “Don’t worry, Gus, Gumbril left enough cash on hand to cast a shadow on the national debt.”

  Gus looked a little vague, but relieved.

  It appeared to be time for Malone to buy a drink. Everyone seemed content to drop the subject of the late Mr. Gumbril. Jake asked for and received some valuable advice on running a tavern and making it pay; Gus held forth at length on the fact that his sister-in-law (the one who had had the coincidence in Kansas City) believed that when you died you were born all over again as someone else, which Gus didn’t believe altogether though he added, to be on the safe side, that you never could tell. Helene closed the conversation by stating that she didn’t know what she had been before her present existence, but she certainly hadn’t been a camel, and Gus congratulated Jake on having married such a bright little girl.

  As they were about to leave, Malone said very carelessly, “Gus, did you ever hear of Mona McClane?”

  Gus was very thoughtful for a moment. “Mona McClane. Yeah, the name is familiar. Wait a minute.”

  Jake held his breath and concentrated on the painting of a lone deer between two pinkish mountains that hung over the bar, on the labels on the bottles, on the sign that read, IF RED STAR SHOWS ON REGISTER, YOUR NEXT DRINK FREE.

  “Mona McClane,” Gus said, as though to himself. A light like sunrise broke over his face. “Sure, I remember her. She’s the dame who flew the Atlantic in an evening dress.”

  That was when they decided to go home. Gus bid them an affectionate farewell, extracted a solemn promise to come again, and finally, on parting, clasped Helene’s hand.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, ma’am. If I believed like my sister-in-law from Kansas City, I’d say I must of known you in a previous incarceration.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “We keep on finding plenty of people who had reasons for murdering Joshua Gumbril,” Helene observed, starting the car, “but none of them turn out to be Mona McClane.”

  “She had a reason,” Jake said stubbornly, “and I’m going to find it.”

  “Starting when?” Malone asked icily.

  “No time like the present,” Jake told him. “Here we are at the beginning of a beautiful new day.” He gave an unconvincing imitation of birds chirruping.

  The sky was a cold, dismal gray, not light enough to presage the coming of dawn, but enough to indicate that dawn had arrived in some other not very distant place. Driving north, Helene turned into Jackson Park where dark, bare trees stood desolately in the mist and soot-covered snow.

  “You don’t suppose,” Helene began a little wistfully, “that the hotel is still crawling with cops.”

  “It’s easy enough to find out,” Malone said. “I’ll go in and
see if the coast is clear, and if it is, I’ll leave you there and go quietly away. After all, I do need to sleep some time.”

  Jake sighed deeply. “As I remember, we started home hours ago. Maybe this time we can get there.”

  The outer drive was all but deserted, and for a few minutes the two men were too fascinated by Helene’s driving to consider anything else. Forty blocks and an amazingly short time later she rounded the Field Museum and entered Grant Park. The sky had been lighting up by slow degrees and now was a sickish white; to their left the buildings of the Loop were misty and desolate as a city of the dead, to their right the leaden gray lake hurled great cakes of dirty ice against the shore.

  Helene slackened her speed a little and Jake recovered his breath enough to speak.

  “Malone, what do you think about the Sanders holdup now?”

  The lawyer spoke slowly and deliberately, “Looks uncannily as though someone wanted the first Mrs. Sanders out of the way.”

  “I gathered that all by myself, but who?”

  “Maybe the present Mrs. Sanders. Maybe Willis Sanders. Maybe some other person who just didn’t like the first Mrs. Sanders. Maybe Joshua Gumbril.”

  “Why Joshua Gumbril?”

  “I don’t know,” Malone said, his voice sounding as if he didn’t give a hoot, either.

  “Do you think that had anything to do with his being murdered?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you think Mona McClane could have been involved in the Sanders affair?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think Daphne Sanders managed to find out anything about what really happened?”

  “She might have.”

  Jake swore softly, and tried once more. “Do you think, for enough money, Gus would reveal that Gumbril arranged for the murder of the first Mrs. Sanders?”

  “For enough money,” Malone said crossly, “Gus would swear he was the corpus delicti. Leave me alone, I want to think.”

  Jake muttered something about uncommunicative so-and-sos, and was silent the rest of the way.

  Helene parked the car in front of the hotel. “Malone, you take a look around, and if it’s all clear, we’ll go in.”