Chapter Eleven

“I never was one to worry,” Captain von Flanagan growled, “and a nice simple murder I can understand. Most murderers are dumb anyhow, and they don’t give me no trouble. Like this babe a few months ago. Got sore account of this guy was running around with some other babe, and she stuck a bread knife in his ribs. Dumb thing to do. Now, if she’d of stuck the bread knife in the other babe’s ribs, it could of done her some good. Some smart lawyer, like you, f’rinstance, Malone, could of got her off, and she could of had the guy, with the other babe out of the picture. But no, murderers are dumb. They gotta do everything the hard way.”

“The hard way for you,” Malone said, “the easy way for them. Damn few murderers take into consideration the problems of the homicide squad. Or,” he added, sliding the cellophane off a cigar, “the way the victim happens to feel about it. Most people don’t want to be murdered.”

“Like I don’t want to be a cop,” Von Flanagan said gloomily. He leaned dangerously far back in his swivel chair and scowled. He was a big man with thinning gray hair and a round red face that turned purple in moments of great emotional stress. It was beginning to turn purple now.

“Like you went to court and had the ‘von’ added to Flanagan so you wouldn’t even sound like a cop,” Helene said.

He tried not to smile at her, and couldn’t help it. “As a matter of fact,” he confided, “I’ve had enough of it. I’m retiring. Going into a line that’s really profitable.” The purple receded from his face, he relaxed and accepted one of Malone’s cigars.

“That’s nice,” Jake said. “Last I knew, you were going to study magic and go on the stage.”

“Gave that up,” Von Flanagan said, with a majestic wave of his hand. “Overcrowded profession. No, this time I’m on to something really good.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “I’m gonna be a psychoanalyst.” He pronounced it correctly and very carefully.

“A what the hell?” Malone said.

“Look,” Von Flanagan told him, “you know about psychology. Here in the police department we use it all the time, one way or another. Well, you know my sister-in-law—Joe’s wife?”

“Sure,” Malone said. He lit his cigar. “The one that’s sick all the time.”

“There you are,” Von Flanagan said, beaming. “Only she isn’t sick, see? She’s—well, she’s not nuts, she hasn’t any buttons missing, she’s just—well”—he made a significant gesture with his right forefinger—“turns out she’s just a little bit mashugga. So Joe, he sends her to a psychoanalyst. And what does he do?”

“What?” Helene said. “I’m fascinated.”

“He don’t do a damn thing,” Von Flanagan said. “He just sits and she talks. And he gets twenty-five bucks an hour for it, five times a week. Not that Joe can’t afford it, the way his garbage collection business is doing these days, but look at the dough those guys make. So me, I’m just gonna brush up a little on my psychology, which I know anyway in a job like this, and I’m gonna rent me a swell office and set up in business. Just figure it up. Twenty-five bucks an hour, five days a week. Hell, a guy could just work half days and be rolling in dough.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jake said. “Only a psychoanalyst has to have a doctor’s license.”

Von Flanagan waved a hand. “Nothing to it. With my City Hall connections, you think I couldn’t get a license inside of twenty-four hours? And for a guy like me, with what I know about psychology?” He drew a long breath. “F’rinstance, here’s what I mean. If I’d of been in Joe the Angel’s bar last night, nobody would of got upset. I’d of used psychology.”

Malone sat tight for a moment. This was the moment he’d been dreading with Jake and Helene. He looked at the end of his cigar and said thoughtfully, “Who got upset in Joe the Angel’s last night, and why?”

“There’s your psychology right there,” Von Flanagan said. “Some drunk in there thought he saw a ghost. O.K. One guy thinks he sees a ghost, so everybody there thinks he sees a ghost. Now, if I’d of been there—”

“Funny,” Malone said frowning. “I was there. I didn’t notice anything.”

“Huh?” Von Flanagan said. “The way I heard it, she—” He broke off, looked at Helene, and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” Helene said through clenched teeth, “but whose ghost was it?”

“Oh, that girl,” Von Flanagan said, “the one who went to the chair last night.”

Jake gave a tiny groan. His face was gray.

“Perfect nonsense,” Malone said briskly. “Just as you said, Von Flanagan. Psychology. Some drunk had been looking at her picture in the newspaper, and instead of seeing little green men with pink wings crawl out of his glass, he thought he saw her. So he sells all the other customers on the idea.”

“That’s how I figure it,” Von Flanagan said. He looked relieved. “You see now what I mean, there’s a great future in this psychoanalyst racket. Fact is, I’ve been talking to one of the big shots. Ellsworth LeGeorge, his name is. Doctor LeGeorge. Swell guy. Drives a Cadillac half a block long, and lives in a two-story apartment on Lake Shore Drive. He told me I ought to go through the business myself first, but hell, you can’t pay out any twenty-five bucks an hour on a cop’s salary.”

“Tell me,” Jake said with elaborate carelessness, “just who was the guy who saw that ghost?”

“Who cares?” Malone said quickly. “And what’s on your mind, Von Flanagan, besides your promising future?”

The police officer launched into a long dissertation on the fact that everybody tried to make things hard for him. He went on, “And here’s this guy being murdered, and it isn’t enough he doesn’t tell his name, he has to ask for you, Malone.”

Malone said, “Huh?” Helene sat up very straight. The fourth murder? she thought.

“Who was being murdered,” Jake said, “and where?”

“If I knew,” Von Flanagan said, his face beginning to turn purple again, “I wouldn’t have to ask Malone who he was. But this guy—” He thumbed through a bunch of reports on his desk, pulled out one, and read: “At two-twelve this afternoon an operator call was received which was immediately transferred to the police. A male voice was calling ‘Help! Get the police.’ As received at the police switchboard, the call proceeded, ‘Help me, I’m going to be killed. Tell Malone.’ The police operator heard a slight confusion at the other end of the line and what appeared to be the sound of a shot. At this point the receiver was evidently replaced at the other end of the line. As the call came from an automatic dial telephone, it is not possible for the telephone company to trace the call.”

He laid the paper down and said, “See what I mean about when a guy is going to kill some other guy, he goes to work and makes it hard for the cops?”

“I see exactly what you mean,” Malone said. “How about somebody playing a practical joke on the police?”

“Uh-uh,” Von Flanagan said. “Unless some guy is one hell of a swell actor. Account of I talked to the desk man who took the call. When that guy hollered ‘Help,’ he meant ‘Help.’” He leaned across the desk and bellowed, “But why did he holler, ‘Tell Malone’?”

“Damned if I know,” the little lawyer said. “Maybe he was a friend of mine. Or maybe he thought I’d like to defend his murderer.”

Von Flanagan said nothing. He punched savagely at a buzzer on his desk. When the door opened he roared, “Send in the guy who took that call this afternoon.” Then he glared at Malone and said, “There’s more to it than that.”

A good-looking, nervous young cop came in.

“Tell this bastard what you told me,” Von Flanagan said. He caught his breath, turned to Helene, and said, “Pardon me.”

“I—” The young cop paused, gulped. “Well, it seemed silly to me. It didn’t go in the report. Actually, it might have been my imagination.”

“Psychology,” Helene murmured.

“Shut up,” Malone said amiably. He added, to the cop, “What did you hear?”

“Well. I thought this man said—‘I’m going to be killed.’ And then—” He paused again.

“Go on,” Von Flanagan said.

“Then—‘Tell Malone—Anna Marie—’ and then there was noise, and the shot.” The young cop looked pale.

The room was very quiet. Everyone looked at Malone. No one moved until at last the little lawyer knocked a half-inch of ash off his cigar with elaborate care, just missing the ash tray.

“I still say someone was playing a practical joke on the police,” he said.

“That’s all, Dugan,” Von Flanagan said to the young cop, who went out, closing the door softly. He looked long and reflectively at Malone. “I have enough trouble as it is, without having trouble from you. Some guy’s been shot. Most likely killed. I don’t know who he was, or where his body is, or who killed him. Can’t do a thing until his body turns up, probably in a trunk in the Kansas City freight office. So if you know anything about him, and you don’t tell me, so help me, I’m going to toss you in the can for obstructing justice.”

“Believe me,” Malone said, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.”

“For your sake,” Von Flanagan said, “I hope you’re telling the truth.” He pulled a newspaper from under his desk and waved a headline at them. “Look at that!”

MYSTERY MURDER CALL

BAFFLES POLICE

“Thank heaven,” Von Flanagan added, “that ‘Anna Marie’ crack didn’t go on the record. Or all hell would have broken loose.”

Malone also thanked heaven, but silently, and not for the same reason. He rose and said, “I’ve got to see some men about some investments of mine. Is that all you wanted?”

“Isn’t it enough?” Von Flanagan demanded. He sighed. “Malone, you wouldn’t lie to me about this?”

“I would not,” Malone assured him. “I haven’t the faintest idea who called and said he was being murdered. And evidently was murdered. But I’ll promise you this, if I find his corpse, I’ll give you a ring.”

Downstairs on the sidewalk Malone dug through his pockets, found an old envelope in one and a pencil stub in another, and carefully wrote down a few words. He gave the envelope to Jake.

“You two meet me there at nine-thirty tonight, and don’t ask any questions.”

Helene grabbed his arm. “Malone, I’m going to ask a question, and you’re going to answer. Last night—at Joe the Angel’s—tell me, did you—”

He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I cross my word. I mean, I give my heart. Anyway, so help me. I did not see the ghost of Anna Marie St. Clair in Joe the Angel’s last night, nor any other ghost.”

He went on down the street while they stared after him. There was a problem on his mind right now that was just a bit more serious than the supernatural. Who had been murdered who knew that there was any association between Malone and Anna Marie? And even more important, how much did his murderer know about it?