Lucky Stiff, Craig Rice [romantic books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Craig Rice
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This time the silence seemed to stretch on and on. Then Anna Marie put out her cigarette and said, “I don’t.”
“Even if Jesse Conway told you the name you want to know, and all the details?”
She shook her head. “The one name isn’t enough. Because I—” Her voice broke off. “I can’t explain it.”
“I know,” Malone said. “You want to haunt houses. And I want to help you. And between us, we’ll probably get into a lot of trouble, and I’m going to love it. Now, tell me, what made you trust Jesse Conway in the first place?”
She looked at the floor. “Malone, I had to trust somebody. It was—” She paused for a moment. “It happened so fast I was angry at the time. Not because I was in love with Big Joe, I wasn’t. Not because he provided for me—well, let’s call it lavishly. Not because he was running around with another girl, even if she was one of my best friends. But because he would run around with another girl and not tell me. We’d always been square with each other, understand?”
“I do,” Malone said. He aimed an inch of cigar ash at the ash tray and missed. “Who was the girl, or is it any of my business?”
“Milly Dale,” Anna Marie said. “She’s a singer. A swell kid.”
Malone nodded and said in a very noncommittal voice, “I’ve heard of her.”
“Big Joe swore he’d never been out with her in his life,” Anna Marie said. Suddenly she lifted her head, and her smoky eyes grew brightly wet. “He was telling the truth. But I didn’t know it then. And we got into a row. And then someone pushed open the door and shot Big Joe, and before I knew what was going on, he’d shoved the gun in my hand and was gone, and then the room was full of people, and the police came in, and—”
“Never mind,” Malone said hastily. “I read all that in the papers.” He wanted to put his arms around her, to comfort and soothe her, the way one would comfort and soothe a scared little child who’d not only been snatched from in front of a speeding truck but had dropped and lost an ice-cream cone in the excitement. Instead, he poured a little more gin in her glass and lit a cigarette for her. “We were talking about Jesse Conway, remember?” He glanced at her and added, “You can skip the next chapter because I can guess it. You were scared, and dazed, and sick, and you hardly knew what was going on. You were arrested and booked on suspicion of homicide, and then someone came to see you and said everything would be fixed up. Who was it?”
“Mike Brodie. Know him?”
“I do,” Malone said. His mouth was grim. “Cousin of Bugs Brodie, the slot machine boss.”
“He said everything would be O.K., and he’d been a good friend of Big Joe’s, so I believed him. And he’d gotten me a lawyer, Jesse Conway, and I was to trust Jesse Conway and—and—” her voice broke again.
“And not worry,” Malone finished for her. “And while you were two jumps from the chair, Jesse Conway was trying to hush up the confession that saved your life.”
Anna Marie closed her eyes for just a moment. She was hearing Jesse Conway’s voice—“Believe me, Anna Marie—I couldn’t help it— ” Don’t get soft, she told herself. She looked at Malone and managed to smile brightly, almost too brightly.
“Let’s get practical, Malone. I’ve got to find a hide-out. I’ve got to get in touch with Jesse Conway so he can get me whatever clothes and stuff I need from my apartment. Money, too.”
“I can manage the hide-out,” Malone said. He reached for the phone, called the manager of the hotel and explained that he had an important witness who had to be kept concealed for a few days, and how about that room around the corner from the freight elevator? Available? Fine. The usual procedure—all telephone calls to be switched to his, Malone’s room, and no maid service without fifteen minute notice from the switchboard. Thanks, pal.
“Sometimes,” Malone told her, hanging up the phone, “I do have to hide out important witnesses. A couple of times I’ve had to hide out an important murderer. But this is the first time I’ve had to hide out an important ghost.” He paused, scowled. “Suppose Jesse Conway or Garrity decide to confide in whoever was back of this business?”
“Right now,” she said, “neither of them would dare. They’re too scared.”
Malone nodded. “That’s true. You’ve got both of them nicely cornered. I’ll get Jesse Conway for you.” He picked up the phone again, called a number, and handed the phone to her.
She said, “May I speak to Mr. Conway, please. When do you expect him? Do you know where I can reach him? Thank you.” She hung up.
“Let me try,” Malone said. He waited a few minutes before calling again. A flat-voiced secretary at the other end of the wire informed him that Mr. Conway was out, no one knew when he would be in, no one knew where he was. Malone dug a little notebook from the drawer of the bed table and called the private line to Jesse Conway’s apartment, then the desk of the apartment hotel where Jesse Conway occasionally visited. He made discreet inquiries of clerks in various Loop hotels and a number of night clubs. As a last resort, he called an intimate friend in the police department. Then he gave up.
“I have a feeling,” he told Anna Marie, “that Jesse Conway has gone to Bermuda for a vacation. Or maybe South America. Or the Grand Canyon. Because he isn’t in Chicago, and he hasn’t been found dead.”
She stared at him. “I might have expected it.”
“I don’t blame him,” Malone said. “And don’t worry. As far as clothes and anything else you need from your apartment are concerned, I had a client once who was an expert burglar, and he taught me a lot of tricks. And until you can walk right up to the counter of your bank and cash a check, as far as money is concerned”—he paused, swallowed hard, and said—“I can manage.” At lease, he hoped he could manage.
“You’re being damned helpful,” she said, with just the right note of appreciation in her voice.
“The regular service to all my clients,” Malone said. He slung his topcoat over his arm and reached for his hat. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t answer the phone, and I’ll hang out the ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign. And while I’m gone, you can be thinking of every bit of information that might be helpful to us.”
She rose and smiled at him, her eyes warm. “Such as a list of the people who wanted to murder Big Joe?”
“No.” His hands touched her shoulders, tightened there. “That would take too long,” he said hoarsely. “Just make up a list of the people who wanted to murder you.”
John J. Malone strode into the anteroom of his office in the dingy building on West Washington Street and said, “Good morning, Maggie,” as blithely as though it weren’t two o’clock in the afternoon. “Any calls?”
The black-haired office girl laid aside the book she’d been reading, looked at him coldly, and said, “Several.” She picked up the list. “The bank called. It seems that—”
“All right, I’m overdrawn again,” Malone said hastily. “I knew that.”
“A Miss Fontaine from the Toujours Gai Lingerie Shop called, and that yellow chiffon negligee has arrived in the size sixteen you ordered—”
“Never mind,” Malone said. “I don’t want it now.”
“A Mr. H. M. Wirtz called—a traffic violation case—”
Malone sighed. “Call Harry back, and tell him I’ll get it fixed for him. Any more?”
“Francis Herman. His brother Mick has been picked up on another burglary rap.”
“Get Fran Herman for me,” Malone said, starting for the door to his private office.
Maggie looked up hopefully. “Are you going to take Mick Herman’s case?”
“No,” Malone said, “but I might want to borrow his tools.” He swung open the door.
“Wait a minute,” Maggie said. “One more. Jesse Conway has called three times.”
Malone stopped, turned, and stood frozen in the doorway.
“He didn’t ask you to phone back. He said he’d call again.”
“If he does,” Malone said, “I’m in, and don’t spare the horses. Or if you can locate him for me, I want to phone him back—
She made a notation on the desk pad. “Anything else?”
“Just a minute,” Malone stood, one hand on the doorknob, thinking. After all, he reminded himself, he was a businessman, and if he was going to turn over a new leaf and make a respectable fortune, this was a good time to start.
“Several things,” he said. “Get hold of Herman and find out if he wants a lawyer or an alibi, and, in either case, how much he’ll pay. Call Judge Seidel and fix Harry Wirtz’s ticket, and send Harry a bill for twenty-five bucks. No, wait a minute, make it fifty.” He paused. “Oh, yes. Call Miss Fontaine and ask her if she has that same negligee in gray chiffon, size”—and he did some quick mental calculations—“in size twelve.”
Maggie sniffed and said, “Only one woman in a million looks well in gray.”
“In this case,” Malone said, “one in a million is an understatement.”
The telephone rang before Maggie could answer. “Mr. Malone’s office. Who’s calling, please? Mr. Malone just went down the hall, I’ll see if I can catch him for you.” She looked up at Malone and mouthed, “Tom McKeown.”
Malone grinned wickedly. “You caught me.” He went on into his office, closing the door just as Maggie said, “One minute, Mr. McKeown.”
The little lawyer slung his hat on the worn brown leather couch, dropped his topcoat on a chair, sat down at his battered desk, and leisurely lit a cigar before he picked up the receiver. “Hello, Tom. What’s new?”
There were certain conversational formalities to be gone through. Nice to hear from you again. How’s the family? What do you hear from Herb? Ran into a friend of yours in the LaSalle the other day. How about coming out for dinner some night? What do you say we have lunch a week from Thursday?
Through the formalities, Malone noticed delightedly, there was a strained, even anxious, note in Tom McKeown’s voice.
“By the way, Malone, maybe you’d know. What’s this wild story some of the boys are telling around about something that happened in Joe the Angel’s bar last night?”
Malone counted ten and said, “Story? What story? Have I missed something?”
He waited, grinning, while McKeown also counted ten. “Oh, some crazy business,” McKeown said. “Someone said you were there and I thought maybe—” There was an even longer pause. “Tell me, Malone, did you see anything?”
“See anything?” Malone asked innocently.
“Well,” McKeown said, “Harve Reed. You know how Harve is. He’s half Welsh, and you know how those Welshmen are. Superstitious. Well, anyway, Harve, he thought he saw— something—in Joe the Angel’s bar last night, and he talked to a few other guys, and”—Malone could hear McKeown gulping—“well, the story is all over town that Joe the Angel’s bar is haunted, and you know how stories like that can spread, and how much harm they can do, and, well, Harve said you were there last night, and I just wondered—” His voice trailed off.
“Oh,” Malone said. “Oh, that.” He pictured Thomas J. McKeown gripping the receiver, waiting. “You know,” he said in a thoughtful voice, “there was something strange. Just what did Harve claim he saw?”
“He— ” Tom McKeown paused. “Malone, what
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