However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. Lucky Stiff by Craig Rice (ebook pdf reader for pc TXT) 📖
- Author: Craig Rice
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“That’s wonderful,” Jake said. “Only a psychoanalyst has to have a doctor’s license.”
Von Flanagan waved a hand. “Nothing to it. With my City Hall connections, you think I couldn’t get a license inside of twenty-four hours? And for a guy like me, with what I know about psychology?” He drew a long breath. “F’r instance, here’s what I mean. If I’d of been in Joe the Angel’s bar last night, nobody would of got upset. I’d of used psychology.”
Malone sat tight for a moment. This was the moment he’d been dreading with Jake and Helene. He looked at the end of his cigar and said thoughtfully, “Who got upset in Joe the Angel’s last night, and why?”
“There’s your psychology right there,” von Flanagan said. “Some drunk in there thought he saw a ghost. O.K. One guy thinks he sees a ghost, so everybody there thinks he sees a ghost. Now, if I’d of been there—”
“Funny,” Malone said frowning. “I was there. I didn’t notice anything.”
“Huh?” von Flanagan said. “The way I heard it, she—oh—”
He broke off, looked at Helene, and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Helene said through clenched teeth, “but whose ghost was it?”
“Oh, that girl,” von Flanagan said, “the one who went to the chair last night.”
Jake gave a tiny groan. His face was gray.
“Perfect nonsense,” Malone said briskly. “Just as you said, von Flanagan. Psychology. Some drunk had been looking at her picture in the newspaper, and instead of seeing little green men with pink wings crawl out of his glass, he thought he saw her. So he sells all the other customers on the idea.”
“That’s how I figured it,” von Flanagan said. He looked relieved. “You see now what I mean, there’s a great future in this psychoanalyst racket. Fact is, I’ve been talking to one of the big shots. Ellsworth LeGeorge, his name is. Doctor LeGeorge. Swell guy. Drives a Cadillac half a block long, and lives in a two-story apartment on Lake Shore Drive. He told me I ought to go through the business myself first, but hell, you can’t pay out any twenty-five bucks an hour on a cop’s salary.”
“Tell me,” Jake said with elaborate carelessness, “just who was the guy who saw that ghost?”
“Who cares?” Malone said quickly. “And what’s on your mind, von Flanagan, besides your promising future?”
The police officer launched into a long dissertation on the fact that everybody tried to make things hard for him. He went on, “And here’s this guy being murdered, and it isn’t enough he doesn’t tell his name, he has to ask for you, Malone.”
Malone said, “Huh?” Helene sat up very straight. The fourth murder? she thought.
“Who was being murdered,” Jake said, “and where?”
“If I knew,” von Flanagan said, his face beginning to turn purple again, “I wouldn’t have to ask Malone who he was. But this guy—” He thumbed through a bunch of reports on his desk, pulled out one, and read: “At two-twelve this afternoon an operator call was received which was immediately transferred to the police. A male voice was calling ‘Help! Get the police.’ As received at the police switchboard, the call proceeded, ‘Help me, I’m going to be killed. Tell Malone.’ The police operator heard a slight confusion at the other end of the line and what appeared to be the sound of a shot. At this point the receiver was evidently replaced at the other end of the line. As the call came from an automatic dial telephone, it is not possible for the telephone company to trace the call.”
He laid the paper down and said, “See what I mean about when a guy is going to kill some other guy, he goes to work and makes it hard for the cops?”
“I see exactly what you mean,” Malone said. “How about somebody playing a practical joke on the police?”
“Uh-uh,” von Flanagan said. “Unless some guy is one hell of a swell actor. Account of I talked to the desk man who took the call. When that guy hollered ‘Help,’ he meant ‘Help.’” He leaned across the desk and bellowed, “But why did he holler, ‘Tell Malone’?”
“Damned if I know,” the little lawyer said. “Maybe he was a friend of mine. Or maybe he thought I’d like to defend his murderer.”
Von Flanagan said nothing. He punched savagely at a buzzer on his desk. When the door opened he roared, “Send in the guy who took that call this afternoon.” Then he glared at Malone and said, “There’s more to it than that.”
A good-looking, nervous young cop came in.
“Tell this bastard what you told me,” von Flanagan said. He caught his breath, turned to Helene, and said, “Pardon me.”
“I—” The young cop paused, gulped. “Well, it seemed silly to me. It didn’t go in the report. Actually, it might have been my imagination.”
“Psychology,” Helene murmured.
“Shut up,” Malone said amiably. He added, to the cop, “What did you hear?”
“Well, I thought this man said—‘I’m going to be killed.’ And then—” He paused again.
“Go on,” von Flanagan said.
“Then—‘Tell Malone—Anna Marie—’ and then there was noise, and the shot.” The young cop looked pale.
The room was very quiet. Everyone looked at Malone. No one moved until at last the little lawyer knocked a half-inch of ash off his cigar with elaborate care, just missing the ash tray.
“I still say someone was playing a practical joke on the police,” he said.
“That’s all, Dugan,” von Flanagan said to the young cop, who went out, closing the door softly. He looked long and reflectively at Malone. “I have enough trouble as it is, without having trouble from you. Some guy’s been shot. Most likely killed. I don’t know who he was, or where his body is, or who killed him. Don’t do a thing until his body turns up, probably in a trunk in the Kansas City freight office. So if you know anything about him, and you don’t tell me, so help me, I’m going to toss you in the can for obstructing justice.”
“Believe me,” Malone said, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.”
“For your sake,” von Flanagan said, “I hope you’re telling the truth.” He pulled a newspaper from under his desk and waved a headline at them. “Look at that!”
MYSTERY MURDER CALL
BAFFLES POLICE
“Thank heaven,” von Flanagan added, “that ‘Anna Marie’ crack didn’t go on the record. Or all hell would have broken loose.”
Malone also thanked heaven, but silently, and not for the same reason. He rose and said, “I’ve got to see some men about some investments of mine. Is that all you wanted?”
“Isn’t it enough?” von Flanagan demanded. He sighed. “Malone, you wouldn’t lie to me about this?”
“I would not,” Malone assured him. “I haven’t the faintest idea who called and said he was being murdered. And evidently was murdered. But I’ll promise you this, if I find his corpse, I’ll give you a ring.”
Downstairs on the sidewalk Malone dug through his pockets, found an old envelope in one and a pencil stub in another, and carefully wrote down a few words. He gave the envelope to Jake.
“You two meet me there at nine-thirty tonight, and don’t ask any questions.”
Helene grabbed his arm. “Malone, I’m going to ask a question, and you’re going to answer. Last night—at Joe the Angel’s—tell me, did you—”
He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I cross my word. I mean, I give my heart. Anyway, so help me. I did not see the ghost of Anna Marie St. Clair in Joe the Angel’s last night, nor any other ghost.”
He went on down the street while they stared after him. There was a problem on his mind right now that was just a bit more serious than the supernatural. Who had been murdered who knew that there was any association between Malone and Anna Marie? And even more important, how much did his murderer know about it?
“I’m glad you like it,” Malone said. “It’s just a little trinket, but I thought it would look well on you.”
Anna Marie twirled the bracelet on her pale, slender wrist. “You really shouldn’t—” she began. She paused, smiled at him, and said, “You’re doing so much for me already.”
“No one could possibly do enough for you,” Malone said. He added, “And besides, it really is just a trinket. Inexpensive little thing I happened to see in a window.” After all, he reflected, it was always wise to be honest about the price of presents. Anna Marie would probably have it appraised. He adored Anna Marie, but he knew women. “One of these days I’ll find something really worthy of you. Meantime, how is the steak?”
The look she gave in answer was almost a pun-. They were dining from a tray in Malone’s room, a meal Malone had chosen carefully for a girl who’d been eating prison food for weeks. Steak, fried potatoes, fresh peas, sliced tomatoes, beer, lemon pie, and half a gallon of coffee. For the second time that day he decided that never before had he so much enjoyed watching a girl eat.
“Tomorrow night,” he said happily, “fried chicken and ice cream.”
She smiled at him again, and he felt as though the little room had been flooded with sunshine.
Everything, for the moment at least, was rosy. It turned out he’d been quite justified in his choice of crap games. Later there had been a brief poker session in a Randolph Street hotel room. Now there was a bracelet on Anna Marie’s wrist, steak on her dinner tray, and a spare two hundred dollars in his pocket. He was going to use all of it for good purposes, too, except a week’s salary for Maggie. The bank and the office rent could wait. For just a moment he thought regretfully of Eva Childers’ ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
He waited until Anna Marie had polished off the last scrap of lemon pie and sighed ecstatically over the last drop of coffee before he lighted her cigarette and asked very casually, “Have you any idea why Joe Childers’ widow would want to pay me a big hunk of money to find your bereaved family?”
Anna Marie stared at him incredulously. “Do you know what you’re talking about?”
“If I don’t,” Malone said, “I’ve been dreaming all afternoon.” He went on to describe the interview. “I didn’t take her money,” he finished, “because I had a pretty good idea she had a hunch I was nosing around to find out who did arrange Big Joe’s murder, and she wanted me to drop it. It was just a polite way of offering me whatever dough I cared to name to lay off.”
“Do you think that she—” Anna Marie frowned. “I don’t know. She might have.”
“Or,” Malone said, “she might know who did. Or, I might have been all wrong and it wasn’t a bribe. She might have been telling the truth.”
Anna Marie grinned wickedly. “Why don’t you take her up on it? Take the retainer, locate my only relatives, and send her a
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