The Fourth Postman Page 4

  He rose to his feet and faced Elizabeth Fairfaxx. The marks of tears were still in her eyes.

  “But don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “your Uncle Rodney didn’t kill three postmen.”

  He felt, rather than saw, the way her long, athletic body stiffened and then relaxed. He did see a fresh flood of tears threaten to come to her eyes and then go back where it came from. Her smile, when it came, was a little tremulous, but still a smile.

  “What were you looking for, there on your hands and knees?” she demanded. “We don’t have rabbits, and we keep our mice in the cellar.”

  “I was looking for a ladder,” Malone said, very solemnly. He took her arm and strolled toward the front of the house. “Did you ever hear about the man who fell off a boat in mid-ocean with only a tube of shaving cream in his hand?”

  Her hazel eyes widened with wonder. She said, “No! What did he do?”

  Malone adopted a deliberately phony Irish brogue and said, “Shure and he made himself a ladther and climbed up the side of the boat! And it’s cold out here, and let’s go in and get a drink!”

  There was a slight commotion at the front door as they approached it. A girl was arguing noisily, vehemently, and a trifle drunkenly, with the worried Bridie. Helene, her furs thrown carelessly over her shoulders, was doing her best to help. Elizabeth Fairfaxx took in the scene in one glance, loped across the remaining few feet of lawn and said, “Gilda! What are you doing here?”

  “Read the papers,” the girl said. “Came here right away. I love him and my place is by his side.”

  Helene, Bridie, and Elizabeth looked at each other helplessly, and Malone looked at the girl Gilda. She was what his grandfather would have described as a comfortable little lapful. Her hair was red, not auburn, nor titian, nor red-gold, but just plain ordinary red. It was curly and there was a lot of it, falling down the back of her brown fur coat. She had a nice little face, not beautiful nor glamorous, nor even pretty, but agreeable. Right now, it didn’t have much make-up on it and what there was, was smudged with tear stains. Her nice compact little figure made Malone want to pick her up and hug her, the way one would hug a kitten or a pet rabbit, or a stuffed teddy-bear.

  “Gilda!” Elizabeth Fairfaxx said, helplessly. “Mrs. Lacy is here.”

  Gilda discussed Mrs. Lacy with phrases usually reserved for the inhabitants of chicken yards.

  “And her daughter,” Elizabeth added.

  On the subject of Mrs. Lacy’s daughter Gilda chose terms customarily used for the discussion of ill-bred and not too young horses.

  Helene flashed Malone a look of distress.

  Malone said, reprovingly, “Now, Gilda, that wasn’t very nice.”

  She turned to him and he realized that her dark brown eyes were enormous, lovely, and framed in lashes long enough to clip and make into a shaving brush. Tears spilled out of them again and the last pretense of make-up vanished from her pale face.

  “Love him,” she mumbled. “Read about everything in papers. Came here immediately.” She struck an attitude and said magnificently, “My place is by his side.”

  “Right now,” Malone said gallantly, “your place is by my side.” He signaled to Helene with his eyes, smiled a farewell to Elizabeth Fairfaxx, grabbed Gilda by the elbow and had her halfway down the walk to Helene’s car before he remembered he’d forgotten to collect the retainer, which had been his main reason for visiting the house of Fairfaxx.

  5

  Helene swung her car into Lake Shore Drive and said, “I love dumb animals, Malone, and he’s particularly charming, but exactly what are you going to do with him?”

  Malone patted the mutt who had jumped into the front seat of the car before he’d been able to close the door and said, “Never mind, I’ll take care of him. He’s an important witness in a murder case, and I’ve always been able to find housing for my witnesses.”

  Helene glanced at the dog whose nose rested trustingly on Malone’s knee and suggested, “I could take him to the veterinary’s for a bath and keep him in our apartment until you find a home for him.”

  Malone was about to say, “That’s a wonderful idea and many thanks,” when the mutt gazed up at him with grief-stricken eyes and emitted a small, low moan, which obviously meant, “For Pete’s sake, no!” So Malone said, rather stiffly, “Thanks a lot, Helene, but I’m sure I can manage.”

  Helene sniffed and said, “All right, if you want to keep that poor little doggie woggie in your hotel room.”

  The mutt looked up adoringly at Malone and thanked him with one brief yelp.

  “Not,” Malone added hastily, “that I wouldn’t like to find a place for him to stay permanently.”

  The mutt stuck a wet, hopeful nose against Malone’s hand.

  Helene said, “He’s really a very grand dog. And you know we could give him a nice home.”

  The mutt howled briefly.

  “I’m sure of it,” Malone said stiffly, “but he’s my dog and when I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”

  Gilda, who had been slouched between them on the front seat, opened her eyes halfway and said, “I like little dogs. I like all kindsa’ dogs.”

  Malone said, “Thanks, and I like you, too, but I wish you’d tell me your name.”

  She giggled and said, “Gilda.”

  “I know that. What’s your last name?”

  “Lily.” She nudged him and said, “You mus’ know the expression, Mr. Malone. Gilda Lily.”

  While Malone was thinking it over, she went on, “No, my last name’s really Cage, Mr. Malone.” She warbled, “I’m only a bird in a Gilda Cage.”

  Malone drew a long, slow breath and said, solemnly, “Ah, but all is not gilda glitters.”

  Helene said, “I’ve heard better at the old Rialto. If the dog only had puppies, and you two comics could train them, you might be able to whip up a fairly good fourth-rate vaudeville team.”

  “That reminds me, Mr. Malone,” Gilda said. “I have twins. Six twins.”

  “No, no, no,” Malone said. “Twins are two.”

  “Not these twins,” Gilda said firmly. “These are six.”

  Malone relit his cigar and said, “You mean they’re six years old?”

  Gilda shook her mane of bright red hair, giggled again and said, “Six twins.”

  “You mean sextuplets,” Malone said.

  “No,” she hiccoughed. “But it helped.”

  Malone was trying to figure six twins on his fingers. He said, at last, “You mean you have twelve children?”

  “No,” Gilda said. “I told you, six. Six. Six!”

  “I’m going to be six myself in another minute,” Helene snapped. “I’m going to park this car in the first vacant lot I see, hang my head out the window and be very, very six. Now, do you see what I mean about a fourth-rate vaudeville act?”

  The dog howled, and Helene said consolingly, “Not you, just them.”

  Malone and Gilda rode in an insulted silence for twelve blocks. At last Gilda said, rather timidly, “Mr. Malone, I really do have six twins.”

  “For the love of Mike,” Malone said, “let’s not get into that routine again. Let’s just find a nice quiet bar where we can talk this whole thing over sensibly.”

  “We’re meeting Jake,” Helene told him, “in a very refined saloon where I hope you two will carry on that lousy routine in low-pitched voices. I, too, have my pride.”

  Gilda sniffed indignantly, moved closer to the little lawyer and said, “Another thing, Mr. Malone. My name isn’t really Gilda.”

  “Please,” Malone said, “I think I’d rather talk about the twins.”

  “It’s really Glida,” she went on, ignoring him. “My father wanted to name me Gilda, after Gilda Gray. He was mad about her. But at the hospital, they misspelled it on my birth certificate. So my name is really G-L-I-D-A, pronounced Gilda.”

  “I’m probably risking my life,” Malone said, “but what is your last name?”

  She seemed surprised that h
e didn’t know. “Fairfaxx, of course.” While Malone was still blinking, she went on. “Before that, it was Lacy. Glida Lacy, pronounced Gilda.” She added, “That broken-down old rear half of an illegitimate Shetland pony is my beloved aunt, damn her soul to hell.”

  “Now, Gilda,” Malone said, “you’ll give people the impression you don’t like her.” He saw by the look in Gilda’s eyes that she was about to add to her thumbnail description of Abby Lacy, and he changed the subject hastily. “I suppose you went to the same boarding school as Helene, and played on the same hockey team.”

  “I went to the same boarding school,” Gilda said, “but I didn’t play hockey. That’s for sissies.”

  “She didn’t play hockey,” Helene said bitterly, “because she was spending all her time doubling her allowance by shooting craps with the janitor.”

  Malone decided that he and Gilda were going to get along fine, in spite of the six twins. Perhaps, if he got that subject settled once and for all—

  “About those twins,” he began, a trifle timidly.

  “Look, Mr. Malone,” she said, “two and two makes four.”

  “I’ll go along with you that far,” Malone said.

  “And four and two makes six.”

  “You’re improving all the time,” Malone assured her.

  “Therefore,” she said, beaming, “six twins!”

  Malone sighed and decided to try another approach. “How old are your twins?”

  She smiled happily at his show of interest, and said, “Three, five, and seven. Six twins.”

  “Maybe it would be simpler,” Helene said, “if you two just started this routine from the beginning and did it all over again. I keep having a feeling that one of you has left out a page.”

  “Let me alone,” Malone growled. “I’m just trying to figure out if she has six twins or seven. Somehow, we got into odd numbers.” He tossed his cigar out the window and said, “I’m beginning to get the idea that you have one set of twins aged seven, one set of twins aged five, and another set of twins aged three.”

  She looked at him almost worshipfully and breathed, “Oh, Mr. Malone, you’re so smart!”

  “My friends say I’m pretty, too,” Malone said coyly.

  The mutt chose that moment to howl and Helene said she knew exactly how he felt.

  “Now that we have the twins settled,” Malone said, “one more question. How come your name is Fairfaxx?”

  “Because I’m Kenneth Fairfaxx’ ex-wife,” she said, calmly. “I’m his ex-wife and he’s going to marry the daughter of that—”

  “Never mind the compliments,” Malone said quickly. He looked at her searchingly for a moment or two before he said, “You’re a pretty fair actress, Mrs. Glida, pronounced Gilda, Fairfaxx, but you should have added one note of realism.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide.

  “You should have poured about a teacupful of whiskey over your charming person before you put on that otherwise convincing drunk act. I might say the trouble with your performance was that it didn’t smell.”

  She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “That was stupid of me, but I’ll do better next time.” Her face grew sober. “I figured it this way. I knew what had happened. I wanted to be with Kenneth. You see. I knew better, probably better than anyone in the world, how much he thought of his uncle. I knew, too, that if I just walked up and rang the doorbell, I’d never get in the house. So I decided to put on the big drunk act and make such a scene at the front door that they’d have to let me in before the neighbors started looking out of their windows.” She grinned ruefully. “I admit it wasn’t a very great idea, but it was the best I could think, driving down from Wilmette.…”

  There was a small silence. Then Malone said, very quietly, “You read about Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest in the newspapers, and promptly came dashing in from Wilmette. Is that right?”

  She nodded and said, “Yes. I live in Wilmette. You can’t raise six twins in an apartment house.”

  “Gilda,” Malone said, “you’re a good actress, but you’re a lousy liar.”

  She gasped.

  “Because,” he went on relentlessly, “I doubt very much if the news of Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest is even out on the Chicago newsstands yet, and it certainly wouldn’t have been in Wilmette.”

  She caught at his arm and said, “Look—Mr. Malone—please—”

  “Don’t let it bother you,” Malone assured her. “Dismiss it from your mind. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think up a better story than that, and whatever it is, I bet it will be worth waiting for.”

  6

  “No dogs,” the bartender said. He smiled amiably. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Justus. Nice to see your friends, too.” The smile died away, “But no dogs.”

  “He isn’t my dog,” Helene said. “He’s Mr. Malone’s dog.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Malone,” the bartender said, “but no dogs.”

  “He isn’t my dog,” Malone said. “I’m just trying to find a good home for him.”

  The mutt sat down on the floor and complained mournfully about the bitterness of life. He gazed up at the bartender with wistful eyes. Instinctively, the bartender reached down and patted him.

  “He’s a good dog,” said the bartender. “How much you want for him?”

  Malone said, “I don’t want a nickel for him.” The mutt parked his nose on Malone’s shoe, looked up and moaned. “I mean,” Malone said hastily, “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for him. And he goes where I go. Bring us a drink and bring him a couple of hamburgers.”

  The bartender was sufficiently unnerved to forget that dogs were not allowed in the bar. Malone led the way to one of the brown-painted booths and sat down. The mutt lay down in front of the booth and gazed at him adoringly.

  It was a small, dingy room, with cobwebs on the ornamental tin ceiling. The bar was small and the stools were of the ordinary kitchen variety. The mirror behind the bar was fly-specked.

  “If this is a very refined saloon,” Malone said coldly, “I’m the Gay Gnani of Gingalee.”

  “Your private life is your own business,” Helene said. “But I do think you might be grateful. Lew Browne may run a very stinky saloon, but at least he never lets in the cops.”

  “I’m not worried about them,” Malone said unconvincingly. He added, “What cops?” and glanced instinctively toward the door.

  “Don’t worry,” Helene soothed him. “Even if he knew you were here, Lew wouldn’t let him in.” She flashed a smile. “Would you, Lew?”

  “No cops,” Lew said firmly. “I don’t like.”

  “Even if who knew I was here?” Malone demanded frantically.

  “While you and Elizabeth were romping around the garden,” Helene said, “the telephone rang. Bridie was weeping at the time, so I answered it. It was von Flanagan.”

  “Was he looking for me?” Malone asked apprehensively.

  “To quote his exact words,” Helene told him, “he wanted to know ‘Where the hell is Malone?’” She beamed at him. “I told him you’d gone out to get a drink. He’ll call Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar first, try all your usual haunts and then start working his way through the classified telephone directory.”

  “That’s fine,” Malone said. “But in view of the last named contingency, couldn’t you have picked a saloon run by someone named Zwicker?”

  “By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Helene said, “we will have moved back among the A’s.”

  “By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Malone said, “I will be home in bed, I hope. And which do we do in this saloon, buy a drink, or pay rent?”

  They were interrupted by Jake’s arrival. The tall, rangy, freckle-faced and red-haired ex-newspaper man, ex-press agent, and ex-author strolled up to the table and said, “I already own a saloon, so why should we pay rent on another one?” He grinned at the bartender and called, “Lew! Lew! Beer!” He glanced at Gilda and said, “You again!”

  “I’m
busy with the hamburger,” Lew called from the back room.

  “Raw!” Malone called back to him, in a loud voice.

  Jake scowled. He was about to comment on people who wanted raw hamburger in the middle of the afternoon, when the mutt looked up and greeted him with a particularly sad sigh.

  “For the luvva’ Mike,” Jake said, “where did you find that thing? And what are you going to do with him?” He reached down and scratched the mutt behind his ears.

  “I’m going to find a home for him,” Malone said.

  The mutt licked Jake’s hand. Jake said, thoughtfully, “You know, we could use a dog like this.” The mutt howled.

  Malone said hastily, “I already have other arrangements for him. And how did you happen to find us in this rat’s nest?”

  Helene explained, “I asked Jake to meet us here, because he knows Gilda. In fact, he helped Gilda with her hoax.”

  “With what?” Malone said, blinking, and wishing the bartender would bring the beer.

  Jake said solemnly, “It was one of the greatest things that ever happened to the theatrical world.”

  Gilda leaned across the table, giggled, and said, “Didn’t you ever hear about my hoax, Mr. Malone?”

  Malone looked her straight in the eye and said, “Great hoax from little acorns grow!”

  He was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of Lew Browne with the beer and a saucer of raw hamburger.

  The mutt sniffed at the hamburger, looked displeased, rose wearily to his feet, placed his front paws on the table, sniffed again, this time not scornfully, and gave a low-pitched, hopeful whine.

  “That dog,” the bartender said, “I betcha’ that dog’s a beer hound. I seen a dog once before was a beer hound.” He waddled over to the bar, found another saucer, filled it with draught beer, carried it back to the mutt and laid it on the floor. The mutt cleaned out the saucer in two gulps, laid his nose on his paws, and went contentedly to sleep.