Читать книгу The Big Midget Murders - Craig Inc. Rice - Страница 5

“The important thing,” Jake said, lighting Helene’s cigarette for her, “is to stay out here where everybody can see us, and act as though everything was perfectly normal.”

Malone nodded, gazing out over the still crowded dance floor of the Casino. From some long buried place in his memory came the picture of an Irish grandmother telling him how to cope with the strange and horrible things that might appear in the dark of night. “Just look at them and pretend they aren’t there at all, and keep very still, and afore long they’ll go away of their own accord.”

Perhaps if he kept very still, and pretended the tiny corpse of Jay Otto wasn’t concealed in the bass fiddle case, the whole horror would go away of its own accord, as though it had never been there at all.

It wasn’t just that a man had been murdered. He’d encountered murders before. Nor that Jake and Helene might be in a devilishly tight spot. They’d get out of it, as they always had in the past. Indeed, it wasn’t even the fact that the murdered man was a midget. No, it went deeper than any of those things. It was just that the little lawyer felt that all of them were skirting the edge of something strange and dark and terrible, something he couldn’t describe or explain, but that he knew was there.

“Stop looking as if you saw ghosts on our lovely new dance floor, Malone,” Helene said sharply.

Malone sighed, began slowly unwrapping a cigar, and tried unsuccessfully to pretend that he was having a wonderful time.

Al Omega’s band was back at work again, and the dance floor was jammed. Max Hook and his bodyguards had gone, the lawyer noticed with relief, and a party of noisy young people occupied what had been his table. The Goldsmiths were still there, the big, homely man looking worried and unhappy, his blonde wife’s lips set in a thin, cross line. Betty Royal was still at her table, entirely oblivious of the wistful and curious glances cast in her direction by the pretty young stenographers in their five-ninety-five formals, equally oblivious of the attention she was drawing from her tableful of handsome young men. She was gazing at Al Omega like a kitten gazing at a can of sardines.

Malone glanced up at the orchestra leader. “How does he do it?” he growled under his breath.

Most of the early evening crowd had gone, and their places had been taken by a later, noisier crowd, who would not remain long. It would only be a little while before the Casino would begin to empty. The lawyer drew a long, almost sighing breath, and leaned across the table to Helene.

“I don’t get it about those stockings,” he said in a low voice. “You said there were eleven of them, and all different sizes.”

She nodded her sleek blonde head. “I measured them. I happened to pick up two and they didn’t look alike, so I measured them all.”

Malone scowled at her. “I’m not calling you a liar,” he began slowly, “but I’ve paid for a lot of silk stockings in my lifetime. And there aren’t eleven different sizes. There’s eight and a half, nine, nine and a half, and so on up. I think the largest size made is twelve, but I never knew a girl with bigger feet than that. You couldn’t have had a hallucination, could you?”

“I could,” she whispered indignantly, “but I didn’t. Those were specially made stockings, and besides being different foot sizes, they were different lengths. There weren’t any two of them alike.” She crushed out her cigarette. “They were the kind of stockings the chorus here wears in that South American number, and all those girls are different heights. Jake!”

“I heard you,” Jake said, “and shut up!” He glanced around quickly to see that no one was in hearing distance before he spoke again. “All I need now is to be told that the midget was murdered by the best night club chorus in town.” He paused, frowned, and added, “Not that they wouldn’t have liked to.”

Malone relit his cigar. “Now that we’re on the subject, who might have wanted to murder your midget?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said thoughtfully. “Nobody really liked him, and a lot of people downright hated him, but not murderously, as far as I know. I can’t imagine anybody hating him that much.”

Helene nodded. “It would take twice as much motive to make someone murder a midget as an ordinary person. You’d think it would be just the other way, but it isn’t.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Malone told her. Before he could say anything more, he caught sight of the huge figure of Jay Otto’s assistant in the doorway leading backstage, and felt a sudden cold shiver run up and down his spine.

Jake saw him in the same instant, and whispered in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “He can’t possibly know anything about it.”

Seen at close range, the big man appeared even more massive than on the Casino’s stage. Malone peered at him for a moment, trying to place a resemblance, until at last he realized he was remembering the pictures in the early pages of The Outline of History.

Jake introduced him as Mr. McJackson—Allswell McJackson—and invited him to join them. Mr. McJackson shook his head, ruffling his mane of thick, brown hair.

“I’ve got to hurry to the hotel, or Mr. Otto’ll be in a frenzy.” He spoke in a beautifully modulated voice that had a very definite Harvard overtone. “I went to take Angela Doll home the minute I left the stage, and if I’d dreamed Mr. Otto would leave before I got back, I’d have hurried more than I did.”

Jake and Helene looked at each other, each signaling the other to speak first. Malone had trouble with cigar smoke that went down the wrong way, and by the time he’d downed half his drink in order to stop strangling, Mr. McJackson had gone on talking, apparently oblivious of the interruption.

“I hope Mr. Otto isn’t angry,” he said.

“For the love of Mike!” Malone exploded. “He’s only a midget.” He’d been within a hairsbreadth of saying, “He was.”

Mr. McJackson smiled wryly. “You don’t know Mr. Otto.”

Malone downed the other half of his drink. “Now I’d have been glad to take Miss Doll home for you,” he said gallantly, “if it would have saved you any trouble.”

“I wanted to get her away from the Casino before Mr. Otto did his impression of her,” the giant said. “Not that she won’t hear about it anyway.”

Jake said, “He could have picked out someone else and saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Yes,” Mr. McJackson agreed. “But he doesn’t enjoy doing an impression unless it makes somebody mad.” He sighed.

“It must be a lousy job,” Malone said. “Why don’t you quit him?”

Allswell McJackson shook his head, and a wistful look came into his eyes. “I’d do it tomorrow,” he said unhappily, “if I could only get a professorship. Even in some little jerk-water college.” He sighed again. “But it appears to be impossible.” He sighed again, said goodnight, and began shoving his way toward the exit.

Malone waited till he was out of earshot before growling, “And you wouldn’t believe in leprechauns?”

“Poor Allswell,” Helene said feelingly. “He has a degree in chemistry, and nobody’ll give him a job as a professor because he looks like a wrestling champion. All he could do was be a stooge for Jay Otto.”

“And now,” Jake said, “that’s shot. Or hanged, rather.”

Malone scowled. “I don’t suppose, then, that he’d have murdered his way out of a good job.”

“He might have,” Jake said. “I imagine one could stand just so much of Jay Otto.”

“But,” Helene pointed out, “he couldn’t have. Because he was taking Angela Doll home at the time.”

“How do you know?” Malone demanded. “You don’t know what time Jay Otto was murdered, except that it was after the last performance, and before we went backstage. This guy could have taken Angela Doll home and gotten back in time. As a matter of fact,” he added thoughtfully, “just who could have gotten into that dressing room during that time and murdered the midget?”

“Any one of Al Omega’s band,” Jake said, “or any one of Ramon Arriba’s band, or any one of the twelve chorus girls, or Angela Doll, or Allswell McJackson, or any one of the stage hands, electricians, waiters, bartenders, and kitchen help, or any member of the audience who might have strayed backstage.”

“Or Ruth Rawlson,” Malone added, looking toward the door that led backstage.

Helene said, “Now that we’ve limited the suspects so brilliantly!”

Jake’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “None of this is any of our business. We’ve gone and fixed it so that probably no one will ever know who murdered the midget. Now, let’s not talk about it.”

Malone was silent, watching the tottering figure of Ruth Rawlson as it moved toward their table. Save that she had unfastened her high-heeled sandals, leaving the straps dangling, the ex-beauty looked, at first glance, exactly as she had earlier in the evening. As she came closer to the table, however, the lawyer noticed that she was a shade more pale, and several degrees unsteadier. He rose hastily and pulled out a chair for her.

She slid into it, beaming, and braced her elbows on the table. “Thank you so much, darling. Yes, I will have one drink. Just an itsy-bittsy one, though. Ruthie does have to get home early and get her sleep.” She opened her still lovely eyes to their full width and turned them on Malone. “You’ve no idea, really, what a responsibility it is to be a professional beauty. Early to bed—diet—plenty of exercise—” She rolled her eyes skyward with a martyred expression. “Just one little teensy-weensy drink, remember.” She picked up Jake’s glass and began sipping from it while waiting for her own to arrive.

“I’m sure,” Malone said, with perfect composure, “your beauty is worth all the care you have to take of it.”

Helene flashed him a grateful look across the table, turned to Ruth Rawlson, and said innocently, “Been backstage?”

Ruth set down Jake’s glass, picked up her own, and nodded. “I’ve just come from the loveliest long chat with Angela Doll. You wouldn’t believe it, but I knew her mother. We were in the Follies together. Of course Angela is very young—it really wasn’t so long ago.” She sighed noisily. “Those dear, dead days! Sometimes, you know, sometimes I think I’ll go back to them after all. But I do enjoy private life so much.” She finished her glass, yawned, and closed her eyes. Malone had a sudden horrible notion that in another moment she would begin to snore.

Jake rose. “Get your wrap, Ruth,” he said gently. “I’ll buy you a taxi home.”

She opened her eyes again, smiled at him, and let him help her to her feet. “Been so nice meeting you,” she said to Malone. “Must meet again sometime.”

Jake aimed her toward the checkroom, and turned back to whisper, “I think by the time I get back it’ll be safe to leave. And stop worrying.” His face looked very tired, and a trifle pale.

“Damn Jake,” Helene said affectionately, after he was gone.

“I know what you mean,” Malone said, nodding. “But he’s got to make a success of the Casino.”

“While I’d be just as happy married to a press agent,” she told him gravely. “Malone, let this be a lesson to you. Never marry a woman with money.”

“Hell,” the lawyer growled, “I’ve never even been able to meet a woman with money.” He gazed thoughtfully into his cigar smoke. “Did I hear her say she’d just come from a long chat with Angela Doll?” As Helene nodded, he went on, “But that Man Mountain the Second said he’d taken her home right after he left the stage.”

“You don’t understand Ruth Rawlson,” Helene said. “She just happened to pick on Angela Doll. She’d have made it Queen Victoria if she’d happened to think of her first.”

Malone blinked. “I can see she’s a souse,” he said, “but the insanity doesn’t show.”

“Ruth is sane,” Helene said. “She just lies by some kind of instinct, I think. It comes natural to her. If she’s been shopping in Marshall Field’s, and you ask her where she’s been, she says she’s just come from Mandel Brothers. Or if she went to the movies the night before, she’ll tell you she was home reading the most fascinating book. The chances are this time she was back chinning with the chorus girls while they dressed.”

“I’d love to be able to use Ruth on the witness stand sometime,” Malone said.

“Ruth,” Helene said gravely, “is stranger than fiction.”

The little lawyer pretended not to have heard. “She couldn’t have strayed into the midget’s dressing room and murdered him, could she?”

“She could,” Helene said, “but she wouldn’t have done it that way. Malone, who did murder him?”

“I’ve mislaid my tea leaves at the moment,” the little lawyer said gloomily. He was silent a minute, lost in thought. “The hell of it is, I have a hunch I’ll never be able to find them, now.”

The late crowd had begun to thin out by the time Jake returned. Betty Royal and her admirers had paused to speak to Helene and then gone home; the Goldsmiths had departed, not looking at or speaking to each other; the tables were emptying fast. Al Omega’s musicians were beginning to cast hopeful glances at their watches.

“Ruth must be losing her grip,” Jake announced, sitting and lighting a cigarette. “Usually she puts away enough cheap whiskey to kill a horse, and keeps right on navigating. Tonight when I put her into the cab, she was practically paralyzed. I told the driver to see her all the way in her door.”

“It isn’t every night one of her friends opens a night club,” Helene reminded him.

“Or closes one,” Jake said wearily. He blew out his match and stared at its charred end. “Let’s go back and take the midget out of his fiddle case, and call the cops.”

Helene stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m just getting it back,” Jake said. A thin line had appeared in his forehead, between his eyebrows. “I don’t mind breaking the law—or anyway, bending it a little—in a good cause, but murder is murder.”

Malone drew a long breath. “I thought you didn’t like the little guy.”

“I didn’t,” Jake said, “I detested him. And the cops will probably close up this joint for a week while they horse around trying to find out who killed him, and in the meantime Max Hook will want his dough back and decide to take the Casino instead. And I’ll end up with a job press-agenting an ice-skating troupe.”

“Never mind,” Helene said, “I adore traveling.”

He leaned across the table and kissed her.

“Damn it,” Malone said crossly, “never cross your bridges until the horse is stolen. Remember, things never seem as bad as they are. I can stall off Max Hook, and in the meantime, maybe I can find out who killed your midget. What’s more,” he added, “I’ll bet you even money I can have your joint open for business by tomorrow night. I don’t have three guys in the sheriff’s office owing me money for nothing.”

“Hooray for Malone!” Helene said enthusiastically.

Jake grinned. “As I’ve said before, what the hell do I have a lawyer for? Let’s go.”

He led the way back to the dressing room. The backstage of the Casino was deserted now, no light showed under the doors of the dressing room, save under the one that had been Jay Otto’s.

Jake paused at the door, one hand on the knob.

“We couldn’t possibly put him back the way we found him,” he said thoughtfully, “and we probably left fingerprints all over everything. We’ll just have to admit we took him down before we called the cops.”

“Just say you thought he might be still alive,” Malone advised.

Jake swung open the door. Helene stepped in ahead of him and switched on the light. Then she stood stock-still in the center of the floor, reaching for Jake’s arm.

“Well,” she said at last, “the marines evidently got here ahead of us.”

The fiddle case that held the body of Jay Otto, the Big Midget, was gone.