Читать книгу The Big Midget Murders - Craig Inc. Rice - Страница 9

“Well,” Jake said very quietly, “either you were mistaken, or else they didn’t lose much time sending for a lawyer. Maybe they thought a preacher wasn’t legal enough.”

Betty Royal sank back into her chair. “I don’t understand it. Where’s Ned?”

“He may be there,” Jake said, “and if he is, he’s in good hands. Or—wait a minute.” He went back to the phone, looked up the number of the Edward R. Royal town apartment and called it. A sleepy-voiced manservant answered. “Is Mr. Royal Junior in?” Jake asked.

“Yes, sir. But I’m afraid he can’t be disturbed. He’s sleeping, sir.”

“You don’t know what time he got in, do you?”

“No, sir. I have no idea. Is there any message?”

“Just tell him George Washington called,” Jake said, and hung up. He returned to the living room and said, “Well, your brother’s home and sleeping too soundly to be disturbed.”

The girl gasped. “But why did he go home?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “Maybe he thought the cooking was better.” He wondered if it would be polite to add, “Why don’t you go home too?”

“You see?” Helene said consolingly. “You really haven’t anything to worry about. The whole thing may have been a mistake.”

“It couldn’t have been,” the girl insisted.

“Well, if it wasn’t,” Jake told her, “it’s on the road to being straightened out right now.”

“You’d better let me take you home, Betty,” Pen Reddick said. “There isn’t anything you can do now in any case, and you need sleep.”

She nodded absentmindedly, her brows still knit.

“Don’t worry about it,” Helene said. “Everything’s all right.”

Betty Royal managed a faint smile. “I hope so. I’m sorry I bothered you about all this.”

“It’s perfectly all right. It wasn’t any bother,” Jake lied. “Just any time at all. It’s part of our regular service to the Casino’s guests.”

The smile widened a little at that. “I’m crazy about the Casino. And the show is wonderful.”

“That midget!” Pen Reddick said. “He’s absolutely tops. I’m coming back to see him tonight.”

“Do!” Helene said warmly.

“And good morning,” Jake said cordially, opening the door. He closed it after them and stood for a minute clinging to the knob.

“I wish to heaven I’d never heard of the midget. What am I going to do about tonight’s show?”

“Nothing,” Helene said. “If the midget’s disappearance—or murder—is in the papers today, you’ll draw a crowd from curiosity. And if it isn’t in the papers, you’ll have a crowd anyway, of people who’ve come back to see the midget. And you’ll have to tell them he’s vanished. It’s tomorrow night’s show you need to worry about.”

“That’s right,” Jake said wearily. He slumped down in a big easy chair and ran one hand through his red hair. “Annette Ginnis. What do you know about her—as a person, I mean?”

Helene frowned. “She isn’t the kind of girl who would rush a rich young man off to Crown Point when he was plastered and marry him before he knew what had hit him, if that’s what you want to know.”

“That’s what I thought about her, too,” Jake said. “Of course, we could be mistaken.”

“I doubt it. She’s a gentle, sort of wishy-washy little thing. It takes a certain amount of cool nerve to pull off that sort of business, and Annette certainly doesn’t have it.”

“Still,” Jake said, “those kitteny, soft-looking little brown-eyed blondes can be crafty as hell. I remember once in Detroit—” He paused and added, “That was a long time before I met you.”

Helene sniffed indignantly. “Stop trying to look as if you knew anything about women, outside of what you learned from me.”

“The fact remains,” Jake said, scowling, “that it looks as though Annette Ginnis and Ned Royal at least started for Crown Point. And I don’t think she called up Malone at five o’clock in the morning because she admires his handsome face.”

“It’s possible you’re right,” Helene said, starting to clear up the coffee cups. “At least, Ned Royal is the sort of young man you’d expect that sort of thing to happen to, sooner or later.”

“I’ve seen ideas expressed more clearly,” Jake said, “but you’ve been without sleep all night, and anyway I know what you mean. What is the sort of young man Ned Royal is?”

She made a face at him, carried the cups into the kitchenette, and returned. “He’s the kind of rich young man that makes everybody hate rich young men. Not bad, or vicious or anything like that. Just a kind of combination of limp and vague. Always getting drunk and noisy in night clubs and having to be tossed out.”

“And marrying chorus girls who promptly send him on home and telephone for a lawyer,” Jake added.

Helene yawned and stretched. “Well, it’s none of our business. And you said yourself Malone needed a few clients.”

Jake looked at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty. Do you think it’s bedtime?”

She looked at him. His lean, pleasant face was pale and drawn, his red hair was rumpled. “I don’t know whether you should be put to bed, or just buried the way you are. Wait right there, and I’ll get your slippers for you.”

He lit one last cigarette, leaned back comfortably in his chair, and looked at the familiar room around him. He knew every inch of it, yet he still loved to gaze around him and pretend it was for the first time. The soft blue-gray of its walls, the immense windows on the south wall that looked over Chicago’s roofs toward the spires of the Loop, the big, comfortable chairs and sofas, the painting of Helene in a pale gold dress which hung over the mantelpiece. For a moment he almost purred.

If the remodeled and reopened Casino didn’t succeed, and Max Hook took it over—no, he wouldn’t think about that now. Not this morning.

Helene came back with the slippers. “Put them on, and then go tuck yourself in bed, and sleep for hours and hours and hours.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” he said, in the tone of a fractious small boy. “I just want to stay right here forever and look at you. All I want in the world is just to be alone with you, here, like this.”

The phone rang.

Helene sprang to answer it, waving to Jake to stay where he was.

“Yes, he’s in,” she said, “but I don’t like to disturb him right now. Are you sure it’s important? Oh. Oh yes, I’ll call him.”

She handed the phone to Jake and said, “It’s the hotel manager. He says it’s very important.”

Jake’s side of the phone conversation consisted almost entirely of “Yes” and “I see,” and ended with, “I’ll be right down.” Then he put down the phone, turned to Helene and said, “Put the slippers away.”

“Jake, what is it?”

“The manager is very worried. It seems that Mr. Jay Otto left a very important call for seven-thirty this morning. Now it develops that they aren’t able to rouse him. The manager is afraid Mr. Otto may have been taken ill or something, and wants me to come down and be present when they break in.”

“When they break in,” Helene repeated, “and find that he isn’t there.” She started unfastening the clip at the neck of her housecoat. “Wait a minute, Jake.”

“What for?”

“I’m not going down there in a housecoat. And I’m not staying behind, either. And you aren’t going down there in a wrinkled tux.”

Jake looked down at his clothes. “I guess you’re right. I’d better change.”

She picked a dress out of the closet, laid it on the bed, and unzipped the housecoat. Then suddenly she paused.

“Jake, send for Malone.”

He dropped one shoe on the floor and stared at her. “What for?”

“They’re going to discover Jay Otto has disappeared. There will probably be a fuss about it.”

“Nonsense,” Jake said, taking off the other shoe. “They’ll just think he stayed out all night.”

“Allswell McJackson will tell them he never stayed out all night. Allswell will insist on sending for the police. You’d better have Malone there to do the talking.”

Jake sighed. “All right. Do we have Annette Ginnis’s phone number?”

“It’s in the little book right by the telephone. She lives on Oak Street, and he ought to be able to hop a cab and get here in five minutes.” She slid an almond-green wool dress over her shoulders and began fastening it.

Jake returned from his call and reported, “He’ll be right over. And you can imagine for yourself what he said on the subject of coming here at this hour.”

“We haven’t had any sleep either,” Helene reminded him.

“Stop rubbing it in,” Jake growled under his breath.

They were dressed and ready to go downstairs when Malone pounded on the door.

“A hell of a thing,” he said by way of greeting. “Eight o’clock in the morning. I hope the reason is worth it. What is it?”

Jake told him.

“Well,” Malone said, “it was bound to happen sometime today. Too bad it had to be so early. Why in blazes did he have to leave a seven-thirty call, anyway?”

“To make life hard for us,” Jake said bitterly.

“Malone,” Helene said suddenly. “What about Annette Ginnis?”

“She’ll be all right,” the little lawyer said. “I got one of her girl friends to come in and stay with her, and she’ll probably be able to get some sleep.”

“Wait a minute,” Jake said. “What is this? What’s happened to her?”

“I forgot you didn’t know anything about it,” Malone snapped. “There’s no time to talk about it now, though. Wait till we get back up here.”

“She hasn’t been hurt or anything, has she?” Helene asked anxiously.

“No,” Malone said. “She’s just scared. I said I’d tell you about it when we get through breaking into the midget’s apartment.”

Jake set his jaw hard. “I hope it’s nothing serious,” he said. “Because one more thing right now would be one more thing than I can stand.” He picked up the phone and informed the manager that he’d meet him by Jay Otto’s door.

The manager, an apprehensive, jittery little man with highly polished hair, was waiting for them at the door when they arrived. He looked anxiously at Helene and Malone.

“We were all having breakfast together,” Jake said, “and my wife and Mr. Malone thought they’d better come along, in case Mr. Otto was ill or anything.”

The manager looked relieved. “I would have sent for Mr. McJackson,” he twittered, “but I didn’t know where to reach him. I do hope there’s nothing wrong. But Mr. Otto is so punctual in his habits, and he called after he got in last night so the clerk knew it must be very important, and when he didn’t answer his phone this morning I felt very disturbed, and that was why I called you.”

“He called after he came in?” Jake said, lifting an eyebrow.

The manager nodded. “It was quite late. Yes, it must have been after four, because Briggs took the call, and he took over the board at four. Mr. Otto couldn’t have expected to get much sleep, if he got in at that hour and wanted to be called at seven-thirty. Of course, he might not need as much sleep as”—he coughed—“ordinary people. It’s most unusual for Mr. Otto to get in as late as that. Almost invariably he’s back here right after his last performance—”

“Something may have detained him,” Jake said. “Well, let’s go in and see what’s the matter with him.” He wondered if his voice sounded hoarse. “Do you have a passkey?”

“Right here,” the manager said. “I wonder if you’d be so kind—seeing that—”

“Yes, of course,” Jake said tersely. He put the key in the lock, turned it, stood there holding it for a split second, and flung open the door.

The other three came into the room right behind him.

“Well, he’s here all right,” the manager said. Then he gave a startled little squeak.

“Yes, he’s here,” Malone said grimly.

The tiny form of Jay Otto lay in the exact center of his enormous, specially made bed, clad in gaudy silk pajamas, his head resting on his elaborately embroidered pillow. The marks of the noose that had strangled him still showed, dark and ugly, on his throat.