23

“There are laws against concealing evidence,” von Flanagan said coldly.

Malone unwrapped a cigar. “There are also laws against murder,” he said, “but no one seems to enforce them.” He spoke in his suavest voice. “Anyway, I haven’t concealed any evidence, and neither has any of my clients.”

He paused to light his cigar, slowly and with maddening deliberation.

“What’s more,” he said at last, “if they had, you couldn’t prove it.”

Von Flanagan’s broad face changed from pink to magenta.

“What the hell do you call this?”

“A hammer,” Malone said promptly.

The magenta began to turn purple. “Dammit, any fool can see it’s a hammer. But just how do you account for the fact—”

The big police officer paused, gulped, glared at Malone. Suddenly he rose, strode to the door, carrying the hammer. A few minutes later he returned and sat down behind his desk.

“You’ll stay right here until we get a report from the lab,” he said grimly.

“Of course you know that’s illegal procedure,” Malone said. He relit his cigar.

“I suppose your procedure was strictly legal,” von Flanagan said bitterly. “I should have known better than to get you into this.”

Malone stared serenely at the ceiling through a cloud of cigar smoke, and said nothing.

Von Flanagan turned to Helene and roared, “All right, why were you concealing the evidence?”

“I didn’t know it was evidence,” Helene said innocently, “and I wasn’t concealing it. You see, it was just that we needed a hammer.”

“Why?”

Helene looked at him with wide, unhappy eyes. “Why does anyone need a hammer?”

“Maybe she was planning to build a house,” Malone put in.

“You shut up,” von Flanagan told him. He drew a long, slow breath, pulled himself together and spoke very gently to Helene. “Tell me, my dear. Why did you have that hammer in your possession?”

“I was planning to build a house,” Helene said promptly.

Captain Daniel von Flanagan rose, walked to the window and stood gazing out for one minute of silent profanity. The silence was due to Helene’s being present. The profanity was also due to Helene.

“I’m sorry,” Helene said in a very small voice. “But after all, we are going to build a house someday. And if people are building a house, well, you never know when you are going to need a hammer.” She paused and added in an even smaller voice, “If I’d had the faintest idea for even one minute that it was evidence, you know I’d have turned it over to you immediately.”

Von Flanagan knew better, but he also knew better than to press the point.

“Tell me,” he said hoarsely. He turned away from the window and stood gripping the back of his chair. “Where did you find this hammer?”

“I didn’t find it,” Helene said. “Jake gave it to me.”

“WHY?”

“Because someday we’re going to build a house, and—”

“Where did Jake get it?”

“I don’t know,” Helene said unhappily. “He didn’t tell me.”

Von Flanagan groaned, sat down, and said, “All right, I’ll ask Jake. Where is he?”

“You can’t talk to him,” Helene said. “He’s terribly sick. He’s quarantined. Chicken pox.” Tears began to form in her lovely eyes. “He can’t talk to anybody. Not even me.”

For a moment von Flanagan stared at her. The angry purple faded from his face, so did the magenta and eventually, the pink, leaving him an interesting shade of gray. Suddenly he reached out and switched on the intercom set and pushed a button.

“Kluchetsky,” he bellowed, “get busy and find me the best medical authority on chicken pox. If you’re too dumb to find out for yourself, call Dr. Harry Hoffman. And work fast, this is an emergency.”

He switched it off.

Helene said tearfully, “It’s so wonderful of you to do this. I’d never have thought of it myself—”

Von Flanagan ignored her. He said, “Do you realize that if Jake—I mean, if anything should happen to Jake—we’d never find out where he got that damned hammer?”

“But people don’t die of chicken pox,” Helene said. “They just itch. Didn’t you ever have chicken pox?”

“I had everything,” von Flanagan said gloomily. “And as I remember chicken pox—” He paused. After a moment he reached for the intercom and yelled, “Kluchetsky. Never mind.”

Malone said, “As a matter of fact, right now it isn’t so important—finding out just where Jake picked up that hammer. For all we know, someone may have mailed it to him. After all, he was sick in bed. Or maybe—”

He relit his cigar. “Maybe the hammer has nothing to do with the case. It may be something Jake picked up at an auction. Helene came home this morning and found Jake sound asleep with the hammer in his hand. Maybe he’d been planning to hang a picture.”

Von Flanagan opened his mouth to speak. Malone said hastily, “When Jake is able to talk, we can find out about the hammer. That is, if it turns out to be the murder weapon. In the meantime, the thing for you to do is arrest the killer. Then, later you can produce the weapon and tell where it was found.”

Von Flanagan growled something unintelligible under his breath.

“Because of the circumstances of the crimes,” Malone went on, “obviously the murderer has got to be one of five persons.” He drew a long breath and began ticking off names on his fingers. “Mr. Ernest Fairfaxx. Elizabeth Fairfaxx. Gay Lacy. Violet, the Fairfaxx housekeeper. Huntleigh, the Lacy’s butler.”

“I can’t arrest all of ’em,” von Flanagan muttered. He added, “Besides, butlers don’t commit murders.”

“You’d be surprised at what butlers will do,” Malone said.

“You’d be surprised at what newspapers will do,” von Flanagan said abruptly. “There was a front-page editorial this morning, complaining about how we made no progress with these postmen murders. A postman is a public servant, it says, and people don’t have no right to murder him, and if a person does murder a postman, something has got to be done about it. And here we got three postmen murdered, and all we’ve done so far is arrest a prominent citizen, who we had to let go on account of his being innocent.”

Helene said sympathetically, “I read it, and I think it’s a shame. Especially their spelling your name wrong.”

“I don’t want the publicity for myself,” von Flanagan said. “It’s just the lack of principle of the thing. I wish Jake wasn’t in bed with chicken pox. He always knew how to handle this sort of stuff.”

His voice sounded as though he had just come from being a pall-bearer at Jake’s funeral.

“But look,” Helene said, stars sparkling in her voice, “suppose that hammer does turn out to be the murder weapon. Why, you’ll be a public hero!”

“That’s right,” Malone put in, taking a cue from her eyes. “You’ll get the lab report in a few minutes. Then you call in the press. You don’t tell how you found the weapon. You just announce dramatically that you’ve found it. You give out the report. You pose for the photographers, holding the hammer.”

“Yeah,” von Flanagan said thoughtfully. “Yeah.” He tried out a few poses with an imaginary hammer. Then he scowled. “But those guys are sure as hell going to want to know how I found it.”

“You can’t tell them,” Malone said. “Not yet. You promise them startling developments within a few days.”

“Act mysterious,” Helene said. “I know that you can act.”

Von Flanagan gazed at her. A dreamy look came into his eyes. “You know,” he said, “it’s funny that you should say that. For a long time now, I’ve been thinking about retiring. I never wanted to be a cop. I wanted to be an undertaker. Only the alderman owed my uncle so much money that I almost had to go on the force.”

What followed was a familiar story. Malone and Helene sat through it respectfully.

“Only I never could decide what I should do when I did retire,” von Flanagan said.

“I remember the mink ranch,” Helene said, “and the Georgia pecan grove.”

“Not practical,” von Flanagan said, with a wave of the hand. “I finally made a survey. Like a person does if he’s going into a business. I figured out what people make the most money with doing the least work.”

“You tell us,” Malone said, “and we’ll go into business with you.”

Von Flanagan ignored him. “Actors,” he said happily.

Helene blinked. “You mean, you’re going to retire and be an actor?”

“As a matter of fact,” he confided, “I’m taking a correspondence course right now.” He pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out a thick notebook. “Would you like to hear some of this?”

“We’d love it,” Helene breathed, avoiding Malone’s eyes.

Von Flanagan rose, straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and opened the notebook. At that moment the buzzer sounded. The big police officer said, “Hell,” sat down again and switched on the intercom.

“We got the report,” a voice said. “It’s the hammer, all right. But no fingerprints that would stand up in court.”

“Bring it back here,” von Flanagan said. “Also, you can let the newspaper guys in after it gets here.”

For several minutes he practiced posing with an imaginary hammer. Sitting down, and standing up. He tried a pose perched on the corner of his desk.

“Make it good,” Malone said. “You’ve got to think of your public.’”

Von Flanagan abandoned the imaginary hammer. “That reminds me. Since nobody knows how I got this here now hammer, you two better get out of here. Also, you better go out through Kluchetsky’s office, so as nobody will see you.”

“Nothing could make us happier,” Malone said.

He ushered Helene to the side door. Von Flanagan said goodbye with a nod. He seemed almost oblivious of their leaving.

Through the doorway they could see him, trying another pose.

“I cannot reveal who found this hammer.” Pause. “I cannot reveal how this hammer was found.” Another pause. “I cannot reveal how I found this hammer.”

With another pose: “I can promise you some startling developments!”

Malone closed the door softly.

“It’s going to be a great show,” he said. “If only he doesn’t forget his lines.”