13

The Australian beer hound rested his head on the toe of Helene’s lime green sandal, and began complaining, softly and sadly, about the many injustices that occur in a dog’s life.

“I know just how you feel,” Helene said, patting his head sympathetically. “I’ve waited for Malone myself. People have been known to grow long white beards, just waiting for Malone.”

The beer hound sniffed mournfully, and began to pursue a flea.

Helene looked again at her watch. Half past one. She was considerably more worried than she cared to admit. True, Malone had never been famous for his punctuality, but it had been early evening when he left for what, presumably, was to be a brief visit to the Fairfaxx house.

She rose suddenly and walked softly to the bedroom door, whispering a stern warning to the mutt, who displayed an inclination to leap on the bed and lick the cocoa butter from Jake’s face. Jake was soundly and innocently—too soundly, and too innocently—asleep. She suspected that he was avoiding another application of cocoa butter, which, unlike the mutt, he definitely did not like.

“Jake—?” It was the very softest of whispers. “Are you awake?”

“No.” Jake whispered back.

She sighed, “I’m worried about Malone.”

“I’m dying,” Jake murmured, not opening his eyes, “and you worry about Malone. A fine wife! Let the mutt worry about Malone.”

“No, really—” She paused. “Jake, are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Jake said firmly.

Helene sighed again and walked back into the living room. The place seemed unpleasantly cold and empty. She walked the length of the rug a few times, closely followed by the mutt, gazed out the window at the veil of falling snow and wished that she didn’t have such firm prejudices against drinking alone.

At that moment the mutt gave a low, heart-rending whine. Helene looked down at his wistful eyes and said, “Now I know why people keep pets. All right, you flea-bitten lush, come along.”

Out in the kitchenette she poured him a bowl of beer. Then she went back to the sofa, picked up a magazine and tried to read, telling herself that nothing ever had happened to Malone, and therefore, nothing ever would.

The magazine didn’t make any sense. Finally she gave up and laid it aside. She could think of nothing but that tightly locked enclosure around the Fairfaxx and Lacy houses, and of Malone, somewhere in there. There was a murderer inside that enclosure too, one who might not have any scruples about disposing of interfering lawyers.

When a knock finally came at the door, she was off the sofa and across the room in record-breaking time. The mutt was a close second.

It wasn’t Malone. It was Glida, her red hair glistening moist with melting snow.

She looked around the room. “I thought Malone would be here.”

“So did I,” Helene said. “I’ve been thinking that for five hours now. Come in and help me wait for him.”

Glida shed a fluffy black coat that made her look like a small and very amiable kitten, sat down on one end of the sofa, glanced at the mutt and said, “You again!”

“He’s waiting for Malone, too,” Helene called from the kitchenette. A moment later she came with a tray. “It’s none of my business, but this is an odd hour of the night to be looking for a lawyer. Or is it just Malone’s irresistible charm?”

“I know it’s late,” Glida said. She put a small satchel down at her feet. “I was around collecting receipts after the Casino closed. We did a terrific business tonight. The Casino was packed and so were all the other joints. There’s so damn much cash in that satchel it scares me.”

“Money never scares me,” Helene said, “and don’t call the Casino a joint. And you still haven’t said why you wanted to see Malone.”

Glida tossed her red hair back from her forehead and said, “I want to tell him something. Something important. Where’s Jake?”

“Jake’s asleep,” Helene said, hoping it was true. “He—” she hesitated. Jake undoubtedly would not like to have the fact of his suffering from chicken pox to be common knowledge. It would give her a nice opportunity to blackmail him into behaving himself if she kept her mouth shut. “He isn’t feeling very well.”

“Too bad,” Glida said absently, patting the mutt. “He ought to stick to good liquor.”

Helene looked at her thoughtfully. Glida was putting up a good front, but her face was pale; there was a deep line between her eyebrows, and a tiny mustache of sweat on her upper lip.

“Perhaps,” Helene said, “you could tell me.”

Glida frowned and said, “Old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx didn’t murder those postmen.” She reached for a cigarette with an air that indicated she’d had her say.

“If that’s all,” Helene said, “you might as well have embroidered it on a sampler and sent it to him by slow freight. Because he already knows it, and I know it, and I very much suspect the police know it, though they won’t admit it.” She paused and added, “However, if you know who did—!”

“Then will the police let him out of jail? I hope not.”

Helene blinked. “Why?”

“Because whoever murdered the postmen,” Glida said, “might murder him. And I like Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. I like all the Fairfaxxes. They’re the only ones who were ever really nice to me.”

Helene picked up her glass and stared into it. “This is just idle curiosity,” she said, “but why did you let Kenneth divorce you on those very obviously false charges, when you could have defended yourself?”

“Kenneth didn’t think they were false,” the girl said almost defensively. “They seemed real. I guess I ought to know, considering I made them up myself.”

Helene gasped and all but dropped her glass. “Why the hell?”

“I can’t tell you why,” Glida said stubbornly. “Helene, do you think they suspect—?”

She was interrupted by another knock at the door.

Again, Helene raced across the room.

Again, it was not Malone. It was Gay Lacy, wrapped in an expensive mink coat that was exactly the wrong shade for her sallow skin.

“How nice,” Helene said brightly, wishing with all her heart that Jake was up and around to help cope with this. “Come in and have a drink.”

Gay Lacy came in and said, “No, thank you.” She looked at Glida and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking bourbon and water and patting a dog,” Glida said. “The same to you and many of them.”

“I’m looking for Malone,” Gay Lacy said to Helene. She sat down stiffly.

“Who isn’t?” Helene said with a touch of bitterness.

Gay Lacy noticed the mutt. “What on earth is that?” she asked.

“An Australian beer hound,” Helene said. “A very rare species. I doubt if there’s another one like this in the whole United States.”

“How interesting. Is he worth much?”

“He’s fabulously valuable,” Helene assured her solemnly.

“How much do you want for him?” Gay Lacy asked.

The mutt retreated behind the sofa and complained loudly.

“He’s not mine to sell,” Helene said in haste. “He belongs to Malone.”

“And where is Malone?”

“I don’t know,” Helene admitted. She frowned. “I’ll phone the Fairfaxx house.”

“I tried that,” Gay Lacy said. “He’d left there ages ago.”

“Then he’s probably home in bed,” Helene told her. She added pointedly, “After all, it is late.”

“I called his hotel,” Gay Lacy said. “He hadn’t been in all day. I thought he might he here. It’s very important that I see him. I’ve something to tell him.”

“I know,” Glida said solemnly, nodding her head. “You want to tell him that Mr. Fairfaxx did not murder three postmen, in fact, he never even murdered one postman.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Gay Lacy said coldly.

“Too bad you haven’t,” Glida told her. “A few drinks couldn’t make you any worse, and they might—”

Helene said hastily, “Never mind. We’ve got to find Malone. Something may have happened to him.” She scowled. “I hate to wake people up, but I think I’d better start with the Fairfaxx house.”

It turned out that she didn’t wake anyone. A sniffling but wide awake Bridie answered the phone. Yes, Mr. Malone had gone. She’d let him out herself, and she’d pushed the buzzer that unlocked the gate, in spite of a very uncalled-for remark Mr. Malone had made. No, she hadn’t actually seen him go out through the gate. “And Mrs. Justus. The house is full of policemen.”

“Keep them there,” Helene said, “you might need them sometime.” She hung up and sat frowning at the telephone.

Suddenly she picked up the receiver, said, “I hate to do this, but—!” dialed police headquarters and asked for von Flanagan.

Von Flanagan wasn’t in. He was investigating an attempt at murder. Just this minute left. Where? The Fairfaxx residence.

Helene slammed down the telephone and said, “That settles it. We’re going there. We’ve got to find him.”

She tiptoed to the bedroom door and opened it cautiously. Jake was sleeping peacefully. Funny, she could have sworn she had heard a sound in the bedroom just a moment before. Oh, well, she’d leave a note for him.

There was a notepad and pencil on the dresser. She considered what to say. “Dear Jake, I have gone to look for Malone.” No, that would worry him. “Dear Jake, I have gone out.” Obviously, he could see she had gone out. “Dear Jake, I will be back as soon as I can.” He’d know that without being told.

Finally, she penciled, “Dear Jake, I love you.” He knew that, too, without being told, but she liked writing it. “Back soon.” She took her lipstick and drew a row of X’s on the bottom of the note, and propped it up on the bed table. She slid into a fur coat, tied a scarf around her head, and with a last look at his serene, though spotted, face, tiptoed from the room.

Glida and Gay were staring at each other, silent and hostile.

“Let’s go, girls,” Helene said. “My car’s downstairs.” The mutt sent up a mournful howl. “Oh, all right. You too. But behave yourself.”

Jake waited until he heard the elevator door clang faintly in the distance. Then he sat up in bed indignantly.

Treat him like an invalid, would they? He’d show them!

He felt fine.

A little shaky in the knees, of course. He walked out into the kitchen and took a stiff drink of gin. That made him feel much steadier.

Helene running around at this hour of the night, with no protection! The idea of her thinking he’d allow a thing like that!

He decided to move the bottle of gin into the bedroom while he dressed.

I am not groggy, he told himself. Not even the least bit weak. Perfectly able to cope with anything that might come along.

Dressing was something of an effort. Clothes felt uncomfortable next to his skin. A lavish application of cocoa butter helped. At last, he tied his tie, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Something would have to be done about that face! Nothing the matter with that face that a turned-down hat brim and a dark scarf wouldn’t conceal.

At last he stepped into the hall, decided against a too conspicuous appearance in the lobby, and went down the freight elevator, muttering to himself, “Leave me alone, will they? They’ll be sorry!”