9

“Don’t you dare come near that door!” Jake said hoarsely. “Either of you! Helene, go away! Go away!”

“My poor baby,” Helene said, ignoring him. “Does he have the nasty old chicken pox?”

“Get away,” Jake said. “Helene! Don’t you dare come near this bed.” He gave an anguished moan and hid his head under the covers.

Helene said consolingly, “Darling, I don’t care how you look. I love you anyway.”

“It’s contagious,” Jake said, in a muffled voice. “Terribly contagious.”

“Of course it is,” Helene said cheerfully. “I gave it to the entire freshman class at Miss Winch’s School for Girls the week before the annual school dance.”

Jake peered around the covers with one eye, and said, “You mean you’ve had the chicken pox?”

“Naturally,” Helene told him. “Everybody’s had chicken pox. Except, apparently, you.”

“I don’t believe it,” Jake said skeptically, still with only one eye peering from under the covers. “Chicken pox leaves people with scars.”

“I’ve got one scar,” Helene said, “and I’ll show it to you for proof. Turn your back a minute, Malone.”

A moment later, Jake sat up in bed and said indignantly, “Well then, if you’ve had chicken pox and you can’t catch it from me, why aren’t you busy nursing me instead of just standing there, and where is my cocoa butter?”

“I’m going after the cocoa butter right now,” Malone said. “And to get the prescriptions filled. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes,” Jake said, “an evening paper, some dinner, and a quart of gin.”

Malone made a vain attempt to leave the mutt behind. After the resulting melancholy wail, he relented and said, “Oh, all right, come along, but you’ve got to behave yourself.” The mutt preceded him down the corridor, yelping with glee.

The little lawyer paused for a moment at the desk, where the stony-faced clerk informed him that dogs were not permitted in the building.

“I’m just keeping him until I can find a good home for him,” Malone said, “and where is the best drugstore in the city.”

The mutt whimpered unhappily.

The clerk leaned anxiously over the desk and said, “I hope the poor little doggie isn’t sick? Say, that’s a mighty fine animal, Mr. Malone. How much do you want for him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said airily. “How much would you offer?” The mutt put his nose on the toe of Malone’s shoe and wept miserably. The little lawyer added hastily, “I haven’t time to talk about it now. Just tell me the best drugstore in the city.”

The clerk named an address on Wabash Avenue, and Malone hurried out to a cab. The cab driver, a loquacious soul, and evidently a world traveler of renown, remarked that he had been everywhere and seen everything, but only once before in his life had he seen a dog even remotely resembling that one, and that had been in Australia. It was none of his business, chum, but would Malone mind telling him if that was an Australian dog.

“It is,” Malone said stiffly, “and a very famous breed. This is an Australian beer hound.”

The cab driver looked over his shoulder, missing the rear end of a truck by inches, and said, “Can you imagine that! I don’t suppose you know where I could find one like him?”

“As far as I know,” Malone said, “this is the only one of its kind in the United States.”

“Can you imagine that!,” the cab driver said again. “I don’t suppose you’d part with him for any money.”

“Not for any money in the world,” Malone said. Not, he reminded himself, that he wasn’t going to try and find a good home for the Australian beer hound, tomorrow. It was just that the cab driver didn’t seem like quite the right type.

The drugstore clerk filled the prescriptions, reached for the cocoa butter and said, “If it’s for the little dog, we have a flea paste that will work much better.”

“It isn’t for the little dog.” Malone said indignantly. “It’s for a very good friend of mine.” He added, “But perhaps you’d better give me the flea paste, anyway.”

Back at Jake and Helene’s apartment, Malone found Helene sitting on the edge of the bed with a pencil and paper in her hands. “I’m counting the spots as they come out,” she announced. “We have a bet on, odds or evens, including everything down to the collar bone. Would you care to place a small wager?”

“I would not,” Malone said. He was reminded of an unpleasant fact. The twenty dollars he had borrowed that afternoon from Joe the Angel had gone fast, what with beer for the mutt, taxi fares, and other odds and ends. Perhaps he’d better go back and have a further conference with the niece and nephew of his client. After all, it was his duty to keep in touch with them at a time like this, and regardless of how late it might be, he knew at least four reputable gambling joints where he could get a check cashed. “This is all very pleasant,” he said to Helene. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than attending a case of chicken pox. But I’ve got a client on my hands, and what I always say is, ‘Business before pleasure.’” He added, “And would you mind looking after the dog for me until I get back?” He hoped the mutt wouldn’t complain too bitterly while he was away.

Helene sighed. “If you must desert us at a time like this, go right ahead, and as long as you’re not worried about the mutt catching chicken pox, we, don’t mind. I’ll feed him beer, and if he gets lonesome, I’ll read aloud to him. But at least, wait until I fix Jake’s cocoa butter.” She bustled off to the kitchenette.

When she was out of earshot, Jake said, “Tell me the truth, Malone. How do I look?”

“You look fine,” Malone lied.

The big red-haired man’s face had always been covered with a fine collection of freckles. It was now also covered with an even finer collection of red dots, which, unfortunately, went very badly with the shade of his hair.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone said, heartily. “The cocoa butter will fix you up fine.”

“Malone,” Jake said again, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“If it’s about making your will,” Malone said, “I haven’t time to bother with it right now.”

Jake waved that aside. “Come here, Malone. Quick. Before Helene gets back. It’s really for her sake, too, but she wouldn’t admit it.”

Malone walked over to the bedside, wondering if chicken pox was ever accompanied by delirium.

“Don’t mess in this Fairfaxx case,” Jake whispered. “No, damn you, I’m not out of my head. I mean it. Helene went to the same school with her, and it would break her heart. Besides, old man Fairfaxx isn’t going to the chair for this. The worst that can happen to him is an insane asylum. You saw yourself he was willing to take the rap, and if he is, I think you ought to let him have his own way.”

Malone said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m not sure you do.”

“You might even be able to get him off,” Jake whispered. “Not that it would matter to him. He has nothing to live for, Malone.” His voice dropped a tone lower. “Keep remembering that. Nothing to live for.”

“Perfect nonsense,” Helene said briskly, walking in the door, “you have everything to live for. The doctor said you’d feel much better tomorrow.” She set a tray with a plate on it on the table by his bed.

Jake looked at the plate suspiciously. It contained perfectly triangular pieces of toast, covered with a revolting looking yellow mess. “What’s that for?” Jake demanded.

“For you, dear,” Helene said. “Eat it. It’ll keep you from having scars. The doctor said so.”

Jake obediently picked up one triangle, bit into it tentatively, dropped it with an anguished howl and said, “What the hell is this stuff?”

“Cocoa butter,” Helene said in a surprised voice. “I couldn’t think of any other way to feed it to you except on toast.”

“Helene,” Malone said sternly, “I, too, have had chicken pox, and evidently my memory is better than yours. You don’t feed him the cocoa butter, you rub it on him.”

Helene turned pale and said, “But I thought the stuff in the other package was what I am supposed to rub on him.”

“No, no, no,” Malone said. “That’s the flea paste.”

“But Jake doesn’t have fleas.”

“I didn’t say he did,” Malone roared, “but the Australian beer hound does. Look, try to get this straight. You rub Jake with the cocoa butter. When I return, I will rub the dog with the flea paste.”

“In the meantime,” Jake said weakly, “suppose you just get me a drink of gin, and we’ll call it square.”

Helene fled toward the kitchenette, carrying the tray.

“Don’t worry,” Malone said, “I’m sure you’ll pull through in spite of her nursing.” He unwrapped a fresh cigar, flicked the wrapper inaccurately toward the waste basket, and said, “About the Fairfaxxes. You said old Rodney didn’t have anything to live for. I suspect—I should say—I know, that you’re wrong. You see, I really did make those transatlantic phone calls.”

Jake sat up in bed and said, “You mean she’s been alive all this time?”

“Naturally,” Malone said. He lit the cigar and added, “Unless you believe that she’s been resurrected within the last year.”

At that moment, Helene came flying in from the kitchenette with a bottle of gin and a glass, and a frantic-voiced announcement that the mutt was avidly eating the toast and cocoa butter.