Читать книгу The Fourth Postman - Craig Inc. Rice - Страница 7

Helene swung her car into Lake Shore Drive and said, “I love dumb animals, Malone, and he’s particularly charming, but exactly what are you going to do with him?”

Malone patted the mutt who had jumped into the front seat of the car before he’d been able to close the door and said, “Never mind, I’ll take care of him. He’s an important witness in a murder case, and I’ve always been able to find housing for my witnesses.”

Helene glanced at the dog whose nose rested trustingly on Malone’s knee and suggested, “I could take him to the veterinary’s for a bath and keep him in our apartment until you find a home for him.”

Malone was about to say, “That’s a wonderful idea and many thanks,” when the mutt gazed up at him with grief-stricken eyes and emitted a small, low moan, which obviously meant, “For Pete’s sake, no!” So Malone said, rather stiffly, “Thanks a lot, Helene, but I’m sure I can manage.”

Helene sniffed and said, “All right, if you want to keep that poor little doggie woggie in your hotel room.”

The mutt looked up adoringly at Malone and thanked him with one brief yelp.

“Not,” Malone added hastily, “that I wouldn’t like to find a place for him to stay permanently.”

The mutt stuck a wet, hopeful nose against Malone’s hand.

Helene said, “He’s really a very grand dog. And you know we could give him a nice home.”

The mutt howled briefly.

“I’m sure of it,” Malone said stiffly, “but he’s my dog and when I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”

Gilda, who had been slouched between them on the front seat, opened her eyes halfway and said, “I like little dogs. I like all kindsa’ dogs.”

Malone said, “Thanks, and I like you, too, but I wish you’d tell me your name.”

She giggled and said, “Gilda.”

“I know that. What’s your last name?”

“Lily.” She nudged him and said, “You mus’ know the expression, Mr. Malone. Gilda Lily.”

While Malone was thinking it over, she went on, “No, my last name’s really Cage, Mr. Malone.” She warbled, “I’m only a bird in a Gilda Cage.”

Malone drew a long, slow breath and said, solemnly, “Ah, but all is not gilda glitters.”

Helene said, “I’ve heard better at the old Rialto. If the dog only had puppies, and you two comics could train them, you might be able to whip up a fairly good fourth-rate vaudeville team.”

“That reminds me, Mr. Malone,” Gilda said. “I have twins. Six twins.”

“No, no, no,” Malone said. “Twins are two.”

“Not these twins,” Gilda said firmly. “These are six.”

Malone relit his cigar and said, “You mean they’re six years old?”

Gilda shook her mane of bright red hair, giggled again and said, “Six twins.”

“You mean sextuplets,” Malone said.

“No,” she hiccoughed. “But it helped.”

Malone was trying to figure six twins on his fingers. He said, at last, “You mean you have twelve children?”

“No,” Gilda said. “I told you, six. Six. Six!”

“I’m going to be six myself in another minute,” Helene snapped. “I’m going to park this car in the first vacant lot I see, hang my head out the window and be very, very six. Now, do you see what I mean about a fourth-rate vaudeville act?”

The dog howled, and Helene said consolingly, “Not you, just them.”

Malone and Gilda rode in an insulted silence for twelve blocks. At last Gilda said, rather timidly, “Mr. Malone, I really do have six twins.”

“For the love of Mike,” Malone said, “let’s not get into that routine again. Let’s just find a nice quiet bar where we can talk this whole thing over sensibly.”

“We’re meeting Jake,” Helene told him, “in a very refined saloon where I hope you two will carry on that lousy routine in low-pitched voices. I, too, have my pride.”

Gilda sniffed indignantly, moved closer to the little lawyer and said, “Another thing, Mr. Malone. My name isn’t really Gilda.”

“Please,” Malone said, “I think I’d rather talk about the twins.”

“It’s really Glida,” she went on, ignoring him. “My father wanted to name me Gilda, after Gilda Gray. He was mad about her. But at the hospital, they misspelled it on my birth certificate. So my name is really G-L-I-D-A, pronounced Gilda.”

“I’m probably risking my life,” Malone said, “but what is your last name?”

She seemed surprised that he didn’t know. “Fairfaxx, of course.” While Malone was still blinking, she went on. “Before that, it was Lacy. Glida Lacy, pronounced Gilda.” She added, “That broken-down old rear half of an illegitimate Shetland pony is my beloved aunt, damn her soul to hell.”

“Now, Gilda,” Malone said, “you’ll give people the impression you don’t like her.” He saw by the look in Gilda’s eyes that she was about to add to her thumbnail description of Abby Lacy, and he changed the subject hastily. “I suppose you went to the same boarding school as Helene, and played on the same hockey team.”

“I went to the same boarding school,” Gilda said, “but I didn’t play hockey. That’s for sissies.”

“She didn’t play hockey,” Helene said bitterly, “because she was spending all her time doubling her allowance by shooting craps with the janitor.”

Malone decided that he and Gilda were going to get along fine, in spite of the six twins. Perhaps, if he got that subject settled once and for all—

“About those twins,” he began, a trifle timidly.

“Look, Mr. Malone,” she said, “two and two makes four.”

“I’ll go along with you that far,” Malone said.

“And four and two makes six.”

“You’re improving all the time,” Malone assured her. “Therefore,” she said, beaming, “six twins!”

Malone sighed and decided to try another approach. “How old are your twins?”

She smiled happily at his show of interest, and said, “Three, five, and seven. Six twins.”

“Maybe it would be simpler,” Helene said, “if you two just started this routine from the beginning and did it all over again. I keep having a feeling that one of you has left out a page.”

“Let me alone,” Malone growled. “I’m just trying to figure out if she has six twins or seven. Somehow, we got into odd numbers.” He tossed his cigar out the window and said, “I’m beginning to get the idea that you have one set of twins aged seven, one set of twins aged five, and another set of twins aged three.”

She looked at him almost worshipfully and breathed, “Oh, Mr. Malone, you’re so smart!”

“My friends say I’m pretty, too,” Malone said coyly.

The mutt chose that moment to howl and Helene said she knew exactly how he felt.

“Now that we have the twins settled,” Malone said, “one more question. How come your name is Fairfaxx?”

“Because I’m Kenneth Fairfaxx’ ex-wife,” she said, calmly. “I’m his ex-wife and he’s going to marry the daughter of that—”

“Never mind the compliments,” Malone said quickly. He looked at her searchingly for a moment or two before he said, “You’re a pretty fair actress, Mrs. Glida, pronounced Gilda, Fairfaxx, but you should have added one note of realism.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

“You should have poured about a teacupful of whiskey over your charming person before you put on that otherwise convincing drunk act. I might say the trouble with your performance was that it didn’t smell.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “That was stupid of me, but I’ll do better next time.” Her face grew sober. “I figured it this way. I knew what had happened. I wanted to be with Kenneth. You see, I knew better, probably better than anyone in the world, how much he thought of his uncle. I knew, too, that if I just walked up and rang the doorbell, I’d never get in the house. So I decided to put on the big drunk act and make such a scene at the front door that they’d have to let me in before the neighbors started looking out of their windows.” She grinned ruefully. “I admit it wasn’t a very great idea, but it was the best I could think, driving down from Wilmette…”

There was a small silence. Then Malone said, very quietly, “You read about Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest in the newspapers, and promptly came dashing in from Wilmette. Is that right?”

She nodded and said, “Yes. I live in Wilmette. You can’t raise six twins in an apartment house.”

“Gilda,” Malone said, “you’re a good actress, but you’re a lousy liar.”

She gasped.

“Because,” he went on relentlessly, “I doubt very much if the news of Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest is even out on the Chicago newsstands yet, and it certainly wouldn’t have been in Wilmette.”

She caught at his arm and said, “Look—Mr. Malone—please—”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Malone assured her. “Dismiss it from your mind. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think up a better story than that, and whatever it is, I bet it will be worth waiting for.”