Having Wonderful Crime Read online

  “It takes time to look over Radio City,” Malone said.

  Helene sniffed scornfully and said nothing.

  Was it another woman? Impossible, Malone told himself, looking at Helene. He was sure there was no woman in the world—indeed, no woman had ever been born—who could compete with Helene. And Jake had worshiped her since the first day he set eyes on her, the day of the Inglehart murder, dressed in blue satin pajamas, a fur coat, galoshes, and with a quart of gin in the side pocket of her high-powered car. No, it couldn’t be another woman.

  “And he’s worrying about something,” Helene said. “I can tell.”

  Malone said, “It’s all your imagination.” He’d realized that Jake was worried when he first stepped off the train. He too could tell. Financial troubles? Hardly. The Casino back in Chicago was out of debt and doing a rushing business. Anyway, if Jake was worried about money, he wouldn’t be here in New York, he’d be tearing back to Chicago to do something about it. What the devil kind of trouble could Jake be in that he wouldn’t tell Helene? Maybe he was being blackmailed. No, that was absurd. There wasn’t any sin or crime Jake could ever have committed that he wouldn’t tell Helene about. One thing was certain, it wouldn’t do any good to go to Jake and say, “Look here, what the hell’s the matter with you?” When Jake had anything to tell, he’d tell it in his own way and his own time. Meanwhile—“There is a train for Chicago,” he began again.

  “At six-forty-five tonight,” Helene said acidly. “I heard you the first time.”

  The little lawyer sighed. He did want to be on that train. There was, of course, the unfortunate fact that he’d lost his return fare in that poker game. Financially speaking, it had been a particularly bad time for him to take the trip. When Helene’s call had reached him, he’d been sitting in his office, looking admiringly at a very lovely little bracelet that had cost him exactly half of all the money he had in the world. And he’d been contemplating the date he had that evening with a charming young person from the Casino floor-show chorus. Regretfully he’d broken the date and taken back the bracelet. Then he’d bought a shirt, a pint of cheap rye, and a ticket for New York. Of the remaining money, there was nine dollars left after the disastrous poker game. Naturally Helene had asked to pay his fare, and naturally he’d refused, informing her that he had more money than he knew what to do with. He knew she didn’t believe him, but he hadn’t expected her to. Of course, he could wire Joe the Angel to wire him the price of a ticket home. Maybe he’d better do it right now.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a voice saying, “Oh, here you are. The desk clerk told me he thought you were in the bar.” It was Dennis Morrison. He looked very tired. He still had on the mysterious dinner jacket, and his dark hair was mussed as though he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes were just faintly swollen and pink-rimmed. “They let me go,” he said hoarsely. “But I could see they didn’t believe a word I said. Tell me, what am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to sit down,” Malone said sternly, “and have a drink. You need one.”

  The bartender leaned over the bar and said, “Oh, aren’t you the gentleman who—”

  Malone fixed a cold eye on him and said in an ominous voice, “In Chicago, when we find curious bartenders—” The bartender fled for the second time.

  “Stop scaring him,” Helene said. “It’s mean.”

  “I don’t like him,” Malone said. He moved over to the next stool so that Dennis could sit between them. A train for Chicago, he reminded himself. Six-forty-five. Wire Joe the Angel for money. No mixing up in this affair. He avoided Helene’s reproachful eyes, and tried not to look at the expression on Dennis Morrison’s very young and very handsome face.

  “They haven’t found Bertha yet,” Dennis said. “They haven’t identified that other woman. Nobody knows what’s happened to Bertha. Where is she? And the police don’t believe me. I can tell they don’t believe me.” He looked up helplessly. “I don’t know why I should bother you two with this. I only met you this morning. But I haven’t any other friends in the world.” He buried his face in his hands.

  Malone crushed out his cigar, took a fresh one from his pocket, and began unwrapping it slowly and thoughtfully. There would be a train for Chicago at six-forty-five tomorrow night, too. After all, he hadn’t seen anything of New York yet. Not that he was going to get involved in this—But it wouldn’t do any harm to give the young man a little good advice. Besides, if Helene got interested in the case, it might take her mind off her anxiety about Jake. He carefully looked away from her, though, as he said, “My dear boy, you have nothing to worry about. You couldn’t be in better hands. Now let’s move over to a booth, where we can talk in private.”

  4. Unfortunate Lack of Knowledge

  Jake Justus watched from behind an enormous armchair in the lobby of the hotel until he saw Helene and Malone emerge from the elevator and head toward the bar. Even at that hour of the morning, tired and distracted, he realized for possibly the two-thousandth time how gorgeous she was. He saw heads turn to look at her as she walked across the lobby, and the sight created a pleasant little glow in his mind. She was wearing something made of a dull, pale-blue stuff, she had a wide-brimmed, darker-blue hat pulled down over her shining hair, and her fur coat was thrown carelessly over her shoulders. He found himself imagining he was seeing her for the first time, with her delicate, perfect profile, her pale skin and fair hair, her lovely, long, slim legs. He realized that if he were seeing her for the first time, he’d follow her. It took a great effort of will to keep from following her now. Instead, he waited until she and Malone were out of sight, and then walked hastily to the elevator, with a large, brown-paper-wrapped package under his arm. He’d been there in the lobby for nearly two hours now, holding the package he’d received from the desk clerk, waiting until Helene was out so that he could go upstairs and open it. He’d never kept secrets from Helene before. He didn’t want to now. But it was necessary, if he was to surprise her the way he’d planned.

  Jake closed the door behind him and locked it. Then he sat down and stared at the package. There would be a letter inside it. He knew exactly how it would begin. “Dear Mr. Justus: Thank you for letting us see your novel, The Mongoose Murders, which has been read with a great deal of interest. We feel, however—” He knew how it would end, too: “… We shall be happy to consider any future work which you may submit to us.” He knew because he already had four letters tucked away in his wallet, all beginning and ending the same way. The only difference between them was in the letterheads, the signatures, and the words immediately following the “however.”

  Perhaps he ought to give the whole thing up and go home to Chicago. Jake closed his eyes and pictured the dingy, shabby old La Salle Street station as it would look in the early morning. Outdoors, it would probably be raining, cold and dismal, and it would be dark and noisy under the el as the taxi went through the Loop, bumping over the old paving on Van Buren Street. But over on Michigan Boulevard he would be able to see the faint mist rising from the lake, and the trees in Grant Park would be putting out their first, pale-green leaves.

  Only, he couldn’t go back to Chicago yet. If he did, he would never be able to explain to Helene why he’d insisted on staying on in New York all these weeks, and why so often he’d been unaccountably absent for hours at a time. He’d never be able to surprise her when there wasn’t a package left at the desk, just a letter, beginning: “Dear Mr. Justus: We want to publish your book and—” Jake Justus sighed, took out his penknife, and began cutting the strings around the manuscript package. There was always a ghost of a chance that the enclosed letter wouldn’t contain that word “however.” It might, instead, say, “If you will make certain changes—” In that case, he’d make them so fast that the paper would scorch. He’d make every certain change required. In fact, he’d change every blessed word in the manuscript except the “by Jake Justus” on the title page and the two-word dedication.

  Tho
se two words, To Helene, had required a week of thought and soul-searching. He’d tried such variations as To my wonderful and understanding wife, and To the most beautiful girl in the world, and even experimented with a dedicatory poem beginning: “Whatever I write, Whatever I do, My inspiration is You.” From there he’d moved to the purely literary, such as To One Who Knows, and to the purely corny, such as To You, My Guiding Star. Once during the week, in a Loop bar, he’d composed a marvelous dedication of which, later, he could only remember that it contained one line, “You are the light of all my nine lives,” which didn’t seem to make much sense the next day; and something about Helene’s legs being the loveliest in ten million years of time, which, later, he considered to be true, but irrelevant. He’d written it on a paper napkin which he lost in the taxi on the way home. Following that experience he’d settled for just plain To Helene. After all, what it really meant was, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” It didn’t matter how it was phrased.

  He finished cutting the string and pulled off the heavy brown paper. Two pages from the manuscript slid off his lap and fluttered to the floor. One of them was blank save for To Helene. The other began with “Chapter One,” and, “It was a dark, dismal, dreary day in the County Jail.” Jake picked them up and slipped them under the rubber band around the manuscript. For a moment or so he held the unfolded letter in his hand. Then he went into the bathroom and poured himself a drink. Then he sat down in the big easy chair, lit a cigarette, and took a long, slow drag. And then he unfolded the letter.

  “With certain changes” would be as good as an acceptance. He’d already rewritten the book four times. Jake thought over the last months, and smiled wryly. The Mongoose Murders had started out as Memoirs of a Reporter, by Jake Justus. Publisher A had written, “We feel, however, that a volume of personal reminiscences would not, at this time—” and had suggested that the material could be incorporated in a novel sometime.

  Jake had rented a typewriter and some office space, and written In the Shadows of the Jail, A Novel, by Jake Justus. Publisher B had written, “We feel, however, that while the characters are interesting, there is not sufficient plot to hold them together—” Jake had added a homicide, a jewel robbery, a fire, and a wreck on the North Side elevated. Publisher C had written, “We feel, however, that while there is an interesting story, the characters are not sufficiently convincing, and the lack of love interest—”

  Jake had finally submitted One Wonderful Hour, A Romance, by Jake Justus, to Publisher D. Jake had great hopes for Publisher D, who finally wrote, “We feel, however, that while this is an unusual love story, and the characters are interesting, there is a lack of suspense—”

  Then Jake had come to New York, and just about when Helene was beginning to get a little restless and to ask difficult questions about their long stay, The Mongoose Murders, a Mystery Novel, by Jake Justus, had gone to Publisher E. And now—

  Jake crushed out the cigarette in the ash tray at his elbow and read the letter.

  Dear Mr. Justus: Thank you for letting us see your mystery novel, The Mongoose Murders, which we have read with a great deal of interest. We feel, however, that while the background material and your handling of it are unusual, the plot shows an unfortunate lack of knowledge of crime-detection methods. Therefore the book us a whole is not sufficiently convincing as a murder mystery. We shall be happy to consider any future work you may submit to us. Sincerely,

  LEE WRIGHT, Simon and Schuster

  “What the hell!” Jake said out loud. “Lack of knowledge! Why, as a reporter on the Herald Examiner, he’d helped to solve one of Chicago’s most baffling murders, when, within a month, four apparently inoffensive postmen had been found slain at the same point in their routes. That was when he’d first met John J. Malone, who’d been the lawyer for the suspected slayer. And then there had been the time when a rich old woman had been found murdered in a house where every clock had stopped precisely at three. And the whole series of murders that had involved his best publicity client, the radio star Nelle Brown. Why, hell’s bells, his ownership of the Casino had come about through his helping to find the murderer of three men who had all seemed to be named Gerald Tuesday. And then there had been the murder of ex-Senator Peveley, in a sleepy little Wisconsin town, and the murder of a nasty-tempered midget in Jake’s own night club. Lack of knowledge indeed! He’d tell the writer of that letter—what was his name?—Oh yes, Lee Wright—he’d tell Lee Wright where to get off!

  Only, he realized suddenly, Lee Wright, editor of the mystery department of Simon and Schuster, couldn’t have been expected to know about Gerald Tuesday, or ex-Senator Peveley, or even about the strange little man named Johsua Gumbril, who’d been murdered at the corner of State and Madison Streets, on the busiest shopping day of the year. Because Jake had always kept his part in those affairs out of the newspapers.

  The tall, red-haired ex-reporter and ex-press agent rose and began walking slowly up and down the room. Maybe, he reflected, he’d better become an ex-author.

  As he paced back and forth, he glanced absent-mindedly at the newspaper that had been left on the coffee table. On his first glance he read, HAVE YOU SEEN BERTHA MORRISON, and muttered, “No, and I never want to.” On the next trip he took in HEIRESS MISSING IN MYSTERY MURDER, and on the third trip he paused a moment to read, UNKNOWN BEAUTY FOUND SLAIN IN SWANK HOTEL. By the time he reached his fourth lap, he’d picked up the paper and was reading the story that began with, “One of the most baffling crimes that ever—”

  He carried the paper with him for one more trip around the room, and then sank down in his chair, the paper on his knees, staring at the letter he’d left on the end table. “… an unfortunate lack of knowledge of crime detection …” Lack of knowledge, hm! He’d show them! He hadn’t been a press agent for nothing!

  By the time he’d found the missing Bertha Morrison, identified the Unknown Beauty, and handed over the murderer to the police, he’d be able to walk into that editor’s office with his manuscript under one arm and a book of press clippings under the other, and say, “What lack of knowledge?”

  Jake folded up the letter and tucked it away with the four he’d already received. He hid the rejected manuscript under his clean shirts in the bureau drawer. Then he settled down to study the newspaper account of the crime and to compare it with his personal knowledge of the case. He was going to have to work fast. But he’d worked fast before, and he could do it again. Maybe that surprise for Helene was going to come off after all.

  5. Signed UU. UU.

  Catharine McCloskey, seventh-floor chambermaid of the St. Jacques Hotel, was a cheerful and agreeable soul. There was nothing, she liked to say, that she wouldn’t do for a friend. She considered that nice Mr. and Mrs. Justus in 721 to be special friends. It wasn’t only because Mr. Justus was so lavish with tips, nor because Mrs. Justus had discarded a number of expensive and beautiful dresses which could be made over elegantly for Mrs. McCloskey’s daughter, Mary Margaret. Nor was it even because neither of them appeared to notice the occasional inches that disappeared from the bottle of John Jameson’s Dublin Whisky that stood on the room shelf. No, it was simply because Mr. and Mrs. Justus were friendly people. There was nothing she wouldn’t have done for them. So when the nice Mr. Justus asked her to use her pass-key and let him into 713, where that awful murder had been committed last night, giving as his reason a curiosity which she found perfectly understandable, she was delighted to oblige. And she promised by a number of saints, her honor, and her dead mother that she’d never tell a soul.

  “Now, myself,” she said, unlocking the door, “you couldn’t drag me into there, not with a herd of wild horses, you couldn’t. The housekeeper, she sez to me, ‘Katie, don’t you touch that room until the cops get back and get through with it.’ And I sez, ‘Don’t you worry, I won’t even touch it when the cops do get through with it.’ That poor lady, lying there with her head sliced off just as neat as you please, all dressed up in a lace and sa
tin nightie that must of cost fifty dollars if it cost a penny. No, I didn’t see it myself, but one of the elevator boys told me. Yes, indeed, I will forget I let you in. Oh, thank you, Mr. Justus. For ten dollars, I’d forget my dead father’s name, rest his soul.”

  Jake closed the door behind him and stood looking around the parlor of 713. What could there be to find here? He had no idea. The police had already been through the suite with a whole series of fine-tooth combs. The fingerprint men, the police photographers, and all the rest of the specialists. Yet he felt that in order to find a murderer and identify his victim, the place to start was where the murder had occurred. Similarly, in order to locate a missing person, the search should begin at the place from which the person had disappeared.

  He looked hopefully around the room, as though he expected a clue to be written on the walls, or Bertha Morrison to come popping out from behind a chair. The parlor of 713 was almost a twin to the parlor of the suite he shared with Helene, save that it was in reverse. The windows were on the left side instead of the right, and the imitation fireplace was on the right side instead of the left. The walls were a pale blue gray instead of a pale green gray, and there was a corresponding difference in the colorings of the draperies and the framed flower prints on the walls. A charming room, furnished in the best and most unobtrusive of taste by a costly interior decorator. But what did it have to tell him? For that matter, what did searching the scene of a crime tell anybody?

  Clues? If the murderer was smart and clearheaded and knew what he was doing, he didn’t leave any vest buttons lying on the carpet, or fingerprints on the doorknob. If he was dumb, or reckless, or in a violent rage, he usually got caught without benefit of clues. Nevertheless, the first thing to be done in the event of murder was to search the scene of the crime.

  Catharine McCloskey had made this search possible. But what in blazes was he going to look for? Fingerprints? Jake grinned wryly. He didn’t know how to find a fingerprint, or what to do with one if he did find it. These scientific cops picked up bits of lint from the carpet and dust from the window curtains. Maybe he should have brought along a vacuum cleaner. But even if he collected a bushel of lint, he wouldn’t know what to do with it except stuff a pillow. He started moving around the room, not so much looking or listening as trying to feel. The hell with fingerprints, dust, lint, and vest buttons; a room itself could answer questions, once you knew what questions to ask.