Читать книгу The Fourth Postman - Craig Inc. Rice - Страница 8

“No dogs,” the bartender said. He smiled amiably. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Justus. Nice to see your friends, too.” The smile died away, “But no dogs.”

“He isn’t my dog,” Helene said. “He’s Mr. Malone’s dog.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Malone,” the bartender said, “but no dogs.”

“He isn’t my dog,” Malone said. “I’m just trying to find a good home for him.”

The mutt sat down on the floor and complained mournfully about the bitterness of life. He gazed up at the bartender with wistful eyes. Instinctively, the bartender reached down and patted him.

“He’s a good dog,” said the bartender. “How much you want for him?”

Malone said, “I don’t want a nickel for him.” The mutt parked his nose on Malone’s shoe, looked up and moaned. “I mean,” Malone said hastily, “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for him. And he goes where I go. Bring us a drink and bring him a couple of hamburgers.”

The bartender was sufficiently unnerved to forget that dogs were not allowed in the bar. Malone led the way to one of the brown-painted booths and sat down. The mutt lay down in front of the booth and gazed at him adoringly.

It was a small, dingy room, with cobwebs on the ornamental tin ceiling. The bar was small and the stools were of the ordinary kitchen variety. The mirror behind the bar was fly-specked.

“If this is a very refined saloon,” Malone said coldly, “I’m the Gay Gnani of Gingalee.”

“Your private life is your own business,” Helene said. “But I do think you might be grateful. Lew Browne may run a very stinky saloon, but at least he never lets in the cops.”

“I’m not worried about them,” Malone said unconvincingly. He added, “What cops?” and glanced instinctively toward the door.

“Don’t worry,” Helene soothed him. “Even if he knew you were here, Lew wouldn’t let him in.” She flashed a smile. “Would you, Lew?”

“No cops,” Lew said firmly. “I don’t like.”

“Even if who knew I was here?” Malone demanded frantically.

“While you and Elizabeth were romping around the garden,” Helene said, “the telephone rang. Bridie was weeping at the time, so I answered it. It was von Flanagan.”

“Was he looking for me?” Malone asked apprehensively.

“To quote his exact words,” Helene told him, “he wanted to know ‘Where the hell is Malone?’” She beamed at him. “I told him you’d gone out to get a drink. He’ll call Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar first, try all your usual haunts and then start working his way through the classified telephone directory.”

“That’s fine,” Malone said. “But in view of the last named contingency, couldn’t you have picked a saloon run by someone named Zwicker?”

“By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Helene said, “we will have moved back among the A’s.”

“By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Malone said, “I will be home in bed, I hope. And which do we do in this saloon, buy a drink, or pay rent?”

They were interrupted by Jake’s arrival. The tall, rangy, freckle-faced and red-haired ex-newspaper man, ex-press agent, and ex-author strolled up to the table and said, “I already own a saloon, so why should we pay rent on another one?” He grinned at the bartender and called, “Lew! Lew! Beer!” He glanced at Gilda and said, “You again!”

“I’m busy with the hamburger,” Lew called from the back room.

“Raw!” Malone called back to him, in a loud voice.

Jake scowled. He was about to comment on people who wanted raw hamburger in the middle of the afternoon, when the mutt looked up and greeted him with a particularly sad sigh.

“For the luvva’ Mike,” Jake said, “where did you find that thing? And what are you going to do with him?” He reached down and scratched the mutt behind his ears.

“I’m going to find a home for him,” Malone said.

The mutt licked Jake’s hand. Jake said, thoughtfully, “You know, we could use a dog like this.” The mutt howled.

Malone said hastily, “I already have other arrangements for him. And how did you happen to find us in this rat’s nest?”

Helene explained, “I asked Jake to meet us here, because he knows Gilda. In fact, he helped Gilda with her hoax.”

“With what?” Malone said, blinking, and wishing the bartender would bring the beer.

Jake said solemnly, “It was one of the greatest things that ever happened to the theatrical world.”

Gilda leaned across the table, giggled, and said, “Didn’t you ever hear about my hoax, Mr. Malone?”

Malone looked her straight in the eye and said, “Great hoax from little acorns grow!”

He was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of Lew Browne with the beer and a saucer of raw hamburger.

The mutt sniffed at the hamburger, looked displeased, rose wearily to his feet, placed his front paws on the table, sniffed again, this time not scornfully, and gave a low-pitched, hopeful whine.

“That dog,” the bartender said, “I betcha’ that dog’s a beer hound. I seen a dog once before was a beer hound.” He waddled over to the bar, found another saucer, filled it with draught beer, carried it back to the mutt and laid it on the floor. The mutt cleaned out the saucer in two gulps, laid his nose on his paws, and went contentedly to sleep.

“See what I mean?” the bartender said as he walked away.

Malone sighed and said, “Maybe we just better talk about the hoax.”

“You must have read about it,” Jake said earnestly. “The beautiful red-haired French singing star, the toast of Paris, the toast of Rio, the toast of Australia, the toast of Honolulu—”

Malone did remember it, vaguely. The girl had been a brief—but very brief—sensation, and then vanished from sight.

Jake turned to Gilda, “If you’d just told me you were only fifteen at the time,” he said savagely, “it would have saved a lot of bother.” He lit a cigarette and flipped the match halfway across the room. “Of course,” he added, “there was the fact that she couldn’t sing, and couldn’t speak French.”

“To you, as a press agent,” Malone said, “those things would not have been handicaps.”

“No,” Jake admitted, “but just after we’d finished having her coached and I’d arranged her first appearance at the Chez Paris, what did she do? She went off and got married.”

“And had twins,” Malone said gloomily. “Six twins.”

“Tell it your own way,” Jake said. He lapsed into an insulted silence.

Gilda gazed into his eyes and said, “Mr. Justus, you know something? My name isn’t really Gilda—”

Malone rose with great dignity, picked up his beer with one hand, took Helene’s elbow with the other and said, “I suggest we adjourn to the bar, where there’s a chance that we may be able to enjoy some intelligent conversation.”

The mutt rose, shook himself, yawned and followed Malone to the bar.

“Two beers in glasses, and one in a saucer,” Malone told the bartender. He turned to Helene and said, “Suppose you give me the low-down on these people, including the six twins.”

Helene said, “The important thing is Gilda’s personality.”

“Let’s don’t be catty,” Malone said hastily.

“Gilda,” Helene said, “has always been an impulsive child.”

Malone reflected that impulsive might he stretched to fit Gilda’s personality.

“Her family had millions of dollars,” Helene said, “millions and millions. The first time I saw her she was three years old. My mother went over to call on her mother, between divorces. My mother’s divorces, I mean. The Lacy family doesn’t believe in divorce unless they can benefit by it. She had two nurses and one of them made me wash my hands and face before I could play with her. They finally permitted her to go to a very select school for little girls, but her governess brought her there and called for her.”

“Sounds dull,” Malone said.

“Not for Gilda,” Helene assured him. “There was a public school just around the corner and Gilda used to sneak out the gymnasium window at recess time and go play in the public school yard. But eventually her family began complaining about skinned knees and elbows, mud on the pretty little white dresses, and occasional visitations of insect life in the pretty little red curls. After the inevitable investigation, there was a new governess and Gilda stayed home from school. I could describe her career in boarding school, but I think you can guess.”

Malone nodded. “And then her family lost all their money. I remember that.” His eyes narrowed. “Her father, who must have been a swell guy if he named his daughter after Gilda Gray, and Abby Lacy’s husband, who evidently was one of the same, were brothers. Both of them lost every blessed cent they had in a crooked stock market deal. Gilda’s uncle had a rich wife, but all Gilda’s father had was an open window in a forty-four story building.”

“I thought you’d remember,” Helene said softly.

Malone relit his cigar. “Then came the hoax,” he said.

“She didn’t want to be dependent on Abby Lacy,” Helene said, “so she decided to earn a living. But Kenneth Fairfaxx came along and didn’t want the girl of his dreams to earn a living, and they ran off to Crown Point and got married.”

“The family must have loved that,” Malone said. He took a fresh cigar from his pocket and began unwrapping it. “How old did you say she was then?”

“I didn’t say,” Helene told him, “but she was sixteen. The family started to arrange for an annulment right away. Abby Lacy was her guardian and trustee.”

Malone nodded solemnly and said, “Trustee for the money which Glida, pronounced Gilda, didn’t have any of. Did the annulment take?”

“The annulment,” Helene said, “was called off abruptly.”

“I know,” Malone said, “twins.” He signaled to Lew Browne and prayed that Jake would offer to pay for the drinks.

“They settled the young couple in a charming little bungalow in the suburbs,” Helene said. There was bitterness in her voice. “Abby Lacy’s lawyers found Kenneth a job of sorts as an assistant to an assistant of a vice-president. And Abby Lacy helped out by coming out every day to help Gilda with the management of the little cottage, and to see that the dishes were clean, the beds made and the groceries ordered. If they weren’t, she very kindly explained to Gilda just what mistakes she was making and how to avoid them in the future. The impediment to the annulment finally arrived and Abby Lacy was outraged. No one in any of the associated families had ever had twins, and she considered it a disgrace.”

“Whereupon,” Malone said, “two years later, Gilda had another pair of twins, probably just to spite Mrs. Lacy.”

“That shows how much you know about women,” Helene said scornfully. “Gilda adores children, and she adores her husband—ex-husband—I mean.”

“That brings up another point,” Malone said, “How did husband become ‘ex’?”

Helene scowled. “I’m not sure of the details,” she said slowly. “I just know that somehow Kenneth discovered his pretty young wife was running around with other men, drinking heavily, and losing a lot of his hard-earned money at the races. For some reason, Gilda refused to defend herself. The last set of twins was born after the divorce. Kenneth hasn’t any money, you know, but I don’t think she’d have taken a cent from him if he’d been the richest man in the world. She refused any support from the Fairfaxx family or the Lacys. Even before the last twins were weaned, she had a job and she’s kept it ever since.”

Malone gazed across the room at the red-haired girl and said, “What kind of a job?”

“She’s a hat-check girl,” Helene said. “She owns a flock of concessions now, and has half a dozen hat-check girls working for her. She works at the Casino herself, and she’s made enough to buy a little house in Wilmette and take damned good care of the twins. And she’s still madly in love with Kenneth Fairfaxx, and what are we going to do about her?”

Malone gazed dreamily at the fly-specked mirror. “I have a feeling,” he said, “that Gilda can handle her problems without any help from us. Furthermore, I have a faint hope she’s going to be a great help in handling some of our problems. The main one of which is Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx.”

He rose, and flicked ashes from his cigar. The mutt rose, too, and stood wagging his tail and watching Malone. “Much as I hate to leave you charming people,” the little lawyer said, “I have a few trans-Atlantic telephone calls to make.”

“You’ll run into von Flanagan,” Helene reminded him.

“If I do,” Malone prophesied, “he’ll be very, very sorry.” He waved a finger under Helene’s nose and said solemnly, “I’m not at all satisfied with the evidence in this case. There’s more to the eye than this meets.”

“You mean an eye for an eye and this for a that,” Helene said. “Malone, you’re drunk.”

“And about time, too,” Malone agreed. He added earnestly, “Before I talk to you again, think of everything you know about all the Fairfaxxes and all the Lacys and Gilda.”

“Anything in particular you want to know?”

“Yes,” Malone said, “I’d like to know who would go so far as to murder three inoffensive postmen in order to keep old Rodney Fairfaxx from finding out that his long-lost sweetheart Annie was still alive and writing to him.”