Lucky Stiff by Craig Rice (ebook pdf reader for pc TXT) 📖

“It’s a funny thing,” Malone said dreamily. “But—well, to be frank, Tom, I was a little high. Been to a wake. Fact is, I don’t remember much. But I could swear I saw— Oh, well, it’s too silly to talk about.”

“Malone, what did you see?”

“I saw—I mean, I thought I saw—a girl in a gray suit.”

There was a long silence, and then Thomas J. McKeown said, “Imagine that. You must have been high.”

“She was a darn pretty girl, too,” Malone said. “Had on a cute little hat with a big pink veil. I’d like to meet her some time.” He leaned back in his desk chair and propped the telephone on his chest. “It that the girl Harve was talking about?”

“I didn’t say anything about a girl,” McKeown said warily.

“Sorry,” Malone said. “Must have misunderstood you. What did Harve see?”

“Oh, nothing,” McKeown said. “You know how Harve is. I’ve been telling him for days he oughta go on the wagon. He passed out in Joe the Angel’s bar last night, and woke up this morning with a wild story about seeing a ghost.” A falsely hearty laugh came over the phone. “Poor Harve. I suppose it’ll be a little green elephant next. Malone—”

“Huh?” said Malone, trying to sound as though he’d been deep in a thoughtful silence. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Well, frankly, I don’t believe in ghosts, myself. Just a minute—”

He leaned away from the telephone and said loudly, “I’m busy, Maggie. I don’t care if it is the mayor’s office. I’m talking on the other phone.” Then, back at the mouthpiece, “Sorry I was interrupted. Don’t forget, lunch a week from Thursday. Let’s meet at Joe’s, O.K.? My regards to the wife. Thanks for calling.”

He hung up and yelled, “Maggie!”

She stuck her head around the corner of the door and said in a resigned voice, “My name is not Maggie.”

“All right, Marguerite. Make a note to remind me to call Tom McKeown a week from Wednesday and break a lunch date.”

“Yes, Mr. Malone. And Lew Altman is on the wire.”

Lew Altman didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “Hello, Malone? Say just what the hell did go on in Joe the Angel’s bar last night?”

“Weren’t you there?” Malone asked warily.

“No, but a pal of mine was.”

“Well,” Malone said, “as a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering myself what did go on—”

He used the mayor’s-office-on-the-wire routine to get rid of Lew Altman and, a few minutes later, of Butts O’Hare. In the meantime he congratulated himself, he’d been just properly vague about the curious occurrence in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. He’d just finished using it on Ed Bateman and was relighting his cigar when Maggie came all the way into the office and said, “Mr. Malone, the mayor’s office on the phone.”

“That’s very funny,” Malone said, tossing the match toward the wastebasket. “But stop listening in on my telephone conversations.”

She looked at him disapprovingly for a moment and said, “The mayor’s office is on the wire.”

Malone stuck his cigar in the ash tray and grabbed the phone.

It wasn’t the mayor. It was Herb Shea, one of the mayor’s confidential secretaries. Nice to talk to Malone again. Stinking weather lately, wasn’t it. Say, did Malone know a cop named Klutchetsky?

“Him? Sure,” Malone said, picking up the cigar again. “Known him all my life. Went to St. Joseph’s with him, two terms. Threw him in the drainage canal once. Swell fella.”

Klutchetsky had gone crazy. Maybe Malone could straighten him out. It seems that last night—

Malone listened to the end and then said gravely, “Herb, I don’t want this to get around. Klutchetsky isn’t crazy. I saw the same thing.” He waited a minute and then said, “How did he say she looked?”

“Misty,” Herb said in a small voice. “Just misty. Says he could see right through her. Says she seemed to sort of melt into the air, like cigar smoke.”

“Yup,” Malone said. “That’s how it was. Tell me, Herb, this girl didn’t have anything against Klutchetsky, did she?”

“Hell, no,” Herb said. “He was kind of sweet on her, in fact. Used to take her cigarettes in jail.”

“You just tell him to quit worrying,” Malone said reassuringly. “She wasn’t there to bother him.” He certainly didn’t want a good guy like Klutchetsky to go around unhappy. “Tell him to pray for her soul.” No harm in that, either. Anna Marie might need a few prayers before she was through. “Better keep this quiet, Herb. You know how it is when people get to talking.”

“Oh, sure, sure, sure,” Herb said. There was a short pause and then, “Malone, have you any idea who—it—was looking for last night?”

“None at all,” Malone said with what he hoped sounded like a forced and hollow laugh. “Maybe it was me.”

He sat for a while, tipped perilously back in his desk chair, gazing at the ceiling. It hadn’t taken long for the story to get around. Now, the trick was to produce Anna Marie, looking misty, at just the right time and place.

Maggie came in and reported.

“I got Mr. Wirtz’s ticket fixed. I sent Mr. Wirtz a bill for seventy-five dollars. He’ll pay at least forty of it. Fran Herman says his brother is innocent, he never was near the place, nobody saw him, and he didn’t leave any fingerprints. He wants an alibi. I’ve already arranged with Mrs. McDonald to fix him up, and I told Herman I’d let him know the cost as soon as I found how much trouble and expense it would be to you. Miss Fontaine does have that negligee in gray, size twelve. Do you want rose, blue, or green ribbon ties, and do you want it wrapped as a gift?”

“Green,” Malone said, “and just tell her I’ll wear it home. Maggie, you’re wonderful.”

“You mean invaluable,” she said icily, “and my name is not Maggie. I’ve not been able to reach Jesse Conway, and Mr. Justus is waiting in the office.”

“You’re fired,” Malone said cheerfully. He bellowed, “Jake!”

The tall, red-haired man came in slowly, almost wearily, and closed the door. He said, “Hello, Malone,” in a dull voice, and sat down heavily on the couch. He fumbled for a cigarette.

Malone looked at him thoughtfully. He’d known Jake for a long time. In fact, since quite a while before Jake had met Helene. He’d seen Jake through a number of things, ranging from murder to matrimony. He was going to have to see Jake through something now, he sensed, and he crossed his fingers that it wouldn’t be anything serious this time. “Something on your mind?” he said calmly.

“Damned right,” Jake said. He lit the cigarette, took one puff, and put it out again. “Malone, I’m—look, I couldn’t tell Helene anything about it because she wouldn’t ever agree with my handling it that way, and I know now she’d have been right, but it’s too late. And nobody hates the protection racket worse than I do, but you know how it is, once in a while a guy gets in a spot where he can’t fight, at least I didn’t dare take the chance, because I want Helene to have everything she wants in the world, but believe me, Malone, I would have fought it even if I’d lost the Casino and everything else if I’d known the girl was going to die. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” Malone said.

“Malone,” Jake said. “Believe me. I’m haunted.”

Malone jumped in spite of himself. He stared at Jake. The ex-reporter’s face was pale and haggard, his naturally unruly red hair was mussed more than usual, his eyes were tired and red-rimmed.

“That’s no haunt,” Malone said with forced cheerfulness, “that’s a hangover. What you need is a drink.”

He rose and started searching his office. There should be a half-full bottle of gin somewhere in the file drawer marked “Unanswered Correspondence.” Before he could locate it, Maggie came in quietly, a paper in her hand.

“Here’s those figures you wanted, Mr. Malone.”

Malone looked. The scribbled note read: “Mrs. Justus phoned she’s on her way here and if Mr. Justus should call you not to let him know.”

The little lawyer nodded. “Those look all right to me. Let me check them over to make sure.” He dug through his pockets, found a chewed pencil stub, and wrote hastily, leaning on the filing case. “Stall her in the anteroom until he’s out of here.” He handed her the paper and said, “Yes, those are right,” smiled at Jake and said, “just some important investment of mine,” and went on searching for the gin. Finally he located it in a file marked “Contracts,” rinsed out a couple of glasses, and poured two drinks.

Jake took his, held it between his hands, stared at it.

“Are you going to drink that,” Malone said crossly, “or pretend you’re a crystal gazer?”

Jake put the drink, untasted, on the table by his chair. He took out another cigarette. After wasting half a dozen matches that shivered out in his shaking hands, he threw it away.

“You see, Malone,” he said hoarsely, “I knew all the time who killed him.”