24

A thin, angular, well-dressed woman was standing beside Helene’s convertible. She glared at them as they approached and said, “I’m going to call the police.”

Malone glanced back over his shoulder at the doorway from which they had just emerged and said, “Lady, I don’t know why. But you couldn’t have come to a better place for it.”

“Locking that poor little puppy-dog in a car, without food and water—”

“He’s not hungry, and he won’t drink water,” Helene said, opening the door, “but we left him a beer.”

The woman snatched at the saucer on the floor of the car sniffed it, and said, “I will call the police. Feeding beer to a little puppy dog!”

The mutt answered with a menacing growl. The woman retreated. The mutt growled at her again, even more menacingly, and bared his teeth. The woman screamed.

“I am going to call the police. Harboring a vicious dog—!”

Malone slid into the car, with an idea of protecting the woman from the vicious dog, or vice versa. Helene turned on the smile usually reserved for guests at cocktail teas. She walked around the car, got in, shut the door gently, leaned across Malone and the mutt, and said, “Pardon us if we leave. You see, this man is a murderer and I’m helping him escape from jail, so we can’t waste any time. It’s been nice meeting you.”

The convertible raced down the street. Malone glanced apprehensively over his shoulder and saw the woman standing on the curbstone, her jaw dropped down to her wishbone.

“That was nice fast thinking,” Helene said.

“Any faster thinking,” Malone said, “and I’ll be in Alcatraz. Turn right at the next corner, go two blocks, turn right again, go half a block, turn left into the alley and park there.”

“Why didn’t you say you wanted to go to Milt’s?” Helene said indignantly. “I know a much quicker way to get there.”

She demonstrated it.

Thirty seconds after she had brought the car to a halt, Malone caught his breath and said, “I just want to make a quick phone call. You wait here.”

Helene and the mutt said, “No,” almost simultaneously.

“All right,” Malone said wearily, “I’ll wait here. You and the mutt go in for a couple of beers, while I sit here and admire the snow falling.”

He leaned his head back and half closed his eyes.

Jake was missing. Jake had found the hammer, and perhaps someone knew he’d found it. But Helene mustn’t know, not yet.

Or Jake might have developed some bright idea of his own and gone out to follow it up. Malone wasn’t just sure about the effect of mid-winter weather on chicken pox, but he felt fairly certain it wouldn’t be good.

Or Jake might have gone off his head, and be wandering around almost anywhere. Malone didn’t remember chicken pox as ever being that serious, but complications might have set it. Especially since Jake had obviously been out in last night’s snowstorm.

Or. Jake might just have gotten bored with staying in bed and headed for the nearest bar.

The important thing was to find Jake, fast, and to keep Helene from knowing he was missing until he was back in bed safe and sound.

Helene said, “We’ll compromise. We’ll all three of us go in, and the mutt and I will promise not to eavesdrop while you call up this blonde.”

“Not a blonde,” Malone said, getting out of the car. “A brunette.”

He was telling the truth; Malone’s first call was to Joe the Angel. His second was to a city hall politician, his third to a well-known racketeer, and his fourth to Max Hook, the gambling boss. The message was the same in each case.

The little lawyer returned to his table, serene in the knowledge that inside of an hour, at least a hundred people would be on the lookout for Jake, in every conceivable place he might be. The police department never even need know Jake had been missing.

He felt just slightly less worried as he slid into the booth where Helene and the mutt were engaged in spirited conversation.

“Helene,” he said, after signaling to the bartender, “just how did Jake get that hammer?”

“We’ll drive up to the hotel and ask him,” Helene said.

“We haven’t time,” Malone said quickly. “You can tell me.”

“But I don’t know,” Helene said. “Jake said—” She frowned. “He said it was a present for me. Then he said it was a trapeze that turned into a hammer. And then he went back to sleep.”

Malone said consolingly, “Chicken pox doesn’t necessarily affect the mind. Maybe it was a trapeze. Had Jake been out while you were away?”

“Naturally,” Helene said. “We don’t keep trapezes that turn out to be hammers that turn out to be murder weapons around our apartment. Besides, his shoes were muddy and his overcoat was damp.”

“Thank God, he at least knew enough to wear an overcoat,” Malone said.

“Malone, we’ve got to get back there right away,” Helene said with a little gasp. She started to rise.

“Sit down,” the little lawyer said. “The mutt hasn’t finished his beer.” He looked at her thoughtfully through his cigar smoke. “Of course, if you’re really worried, I’ll call Dr. McSmith. And I intend to charge you a nickel for the phone call.”

This time he left the door of the phone booth wide open, and talked loudly.

“Dr. McSmith? How did you find Mr. Justus?”

“I didn’t find him, ye drunken Irishman. I trust you’re having a search made for him.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Malone said smoothly. Through the glass of the booth he could see Helene watching him anxiously. “Sleeping soundly, you say. Of course we’ll see that he’s not disturbed.”

“Have you gone completely out of your mind?”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you,” Malone said. Then, louder, and very distinctly, “But I didn’t want Mrs. Justus to worry.”

A brief silence, and then, in a lower tone, “Mr. Malone, is there a search for him?”

“Of course,” Malone said. “He won’t be disturbed. In fact, I told them at police headquarters that he was ill in bed and couldn’t see any one.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing. And mind you, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

“Thanks so much, doctor,” Malone said. “I’m sure Mrs. Justus will feel greatly relieved.” He hung up fast.

He’d straighten things out with Dr. McSmith later, he consoled himself.

“Just the same,” Helene said, “I ought to be there in case he does wake up. I’ll drop you anywhere you want to go, Malone, and get back to the hotel—”

“Fine,” Malone said, trying to think of new strategy. “Only I’m going to the hospital to see Uncle Ernie, and I wish you’d take a few minutes and come along. After all, Jake’s asleep and Uncle Ernie isn’t, and seeing you might cheer him up. Besides,” he added craftily, “you have friends involved in this. Uncle Ernie may have—hell, must have—important information. You’ve known him a long time, and I haven’t. He’ll probably talk much more freely if you’re along.”

He watched her anxiously. Indecision hovered like a momentary shadow over her lovely face.

“Well,” she said at last.

At the hospital, the plump receptionist told them coldly that dogs, even Australian beer hounds, were not allowed inside the hospital. She took a second look at the mutt and volunteered to take very good care of him while they were upstairs.

Uncle Ernie was propped up on pillows. There was a very small bandage at the back of his head. He welcomed them warmly. He announced that he felt fine, that it was a beautiful day outside, and that he was glad to see both of them looking so well. He added that he’d like to find out who had hit him on the head. No, no idea of reprisals. He’d like to present a small reward.

“First good night’s sleep I’ve had in years,” Uncle Ernie said.

Malone said, “You had something to tell me?”

“Three things,” Uncle Ernie said. “Do you have a match? Thanks. The first one is, Rodney didn’t kill those postmen.”

“The police know that already,” Malone said. “He’s back home.”

“Good. The second, I’ve known all along that Annie Kendall was alive.”

“We know that too,” Helene said. “That she was alive, I mean.”

“Splendid. But I doubt if either of you know this. Annie Kendall was—as a matter of fact, is—my wife.”