31

Malone groaned, turned over, and suddenly sat up in bed. The mutt looked at him apologetically.

“All right,” Malone agreed. “I know it’s time to get up.” He yawned, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone.

“No matter what time it is,” he said, “I don’t want to be told.” He hung up fast and looked at the mutt. “It was dawn when we came home,” he said, “and it’s only shortly after dawn now.”

The rumpled bed looked warm and inviting. Malone reflected wistfully that there was no reason for shaving, dressing, breakfasting, and going down to the office. In fact the mutt would probably enjoy a good nap, too.

No, today he did have to wake up. Because there was that still uncashed check in his pocket. And Charlie would be coming in to collect for last night’s cab bill.

As he shaved and stood under the shower, he told the mutt how happy he was that the Fairfaxx case was closed. Now, there could be a vacation in Bermuda, or a trip to Hollywood, perhaps a flight to the Hawaiian Islands. He assured the mutt that both of them would enjoy the Hawaiian Islands.

At the entrance to the hotel, the doorman beamed and said, “Morning, Mr. Malone. Taxi?”

Malone felt in his pocket. Fourteen cents and a ten thousand dollar check.

“No, thanks. We’ll walk.”

Maggie looked up from her magazine as he walked in the door.

“About time you got here, Mr. Malone. Mr. and Mrs. Justus are in your office. They got here a few minutes ago. A Mrs. McClane has been calling you from London since noon yesterday. The bank has been calling you since nine this morning, and the office rent has to be paid by noon. There’s a Mr. Steve Wray called about your fixing a traffic ticket for him. And, Mr. Malone—”

The little lawyer took the now badly rumpled check from his pocket and laid it on her desk.

“Call Judge Williams and fix Wray’s traffic ticket. Bill Wray for twenty bucks. Put a call through to Mona McClane in London. Then take this down to the bank, deposit it, pay the office rent, your back salary and everything else.” He paused. “And can you lend me five bucks cash?”

He walked into the inner office.

Jake and Helene were sitting on the leather couch, holding hands.

“Go away,” Malone said wearily. “Don’t go away mad, just go away.” He patted the mutt and said consolingly, “Not you. Them.”

Helene stared at him. Her exquisite face was pale and shadowed with weariness.

Jake said, “I suppose I’m breaking quarantine or something, but I had to be in on the finish of this.” He added, “Isn’t it wonderful what pancake make-up will do for a case of chicken pox?”

The little lawyer hid his face in his hands and said, “I have nothing more to do with the case. Nothing. Now, or ever.”

“Now, Malone,” Jake began.

Maggie popped her head in the door and said, “Mr. Malone, I have your London call for you. And I’ll tend to the rest of the things—”

Malone yawned and said, “Remind me to pay your salary sometime. And don’t forget to lend me the five bucks.” He picked up the phone.

There was a series of delays. He waited through them, watching Jake and Helene, and wishing with all his heart that Helene’s dearest friends were not involved in the series of murders which, he reminded himself, he had nothing more to do with.

It was all over, as far as he was concerned. Maggie was banking the check. Little Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was out of jail. Uncle Ernie was out of the hospital. He, Malone, was through.

Helene said, a note of desperation in her lovely voice, “Malone, I’m afraid they’re going to arrest her—”

Malone said pleasantly, “Shut up. And you’ll find a drink in the second drawer of the filing cabinet. Under Confidential.”

“Damn it, Malone,” Jake rose. “Don’t you want to know where I found that hammer?”

“Frankly, no,” Malone said. “I’m through with all of this. All I want right now is a nap—”

The phone rang. He grabbed it. There was another brief delay.

The little lawyer said into the phone, “Yes, it is. Thank you, operator.” Then, “Mona?” There was a very long pause. Malone’s face turned from pink to pale, to gray. “When did she die?”

There was another long pause. Helene moved closer to Jake’s comforting warmth.

Malone was saying, “Who—knows?” Another pause. “No,” Malone said, “it’s all right. You should have told—”

He slammed down the receiver and dialed frantically.

“Von Flanagan,” Malone said hoarsely, “quick. Dig up your records. What time is mail delivered at, or near the Fairfaxx house? Well, get the hell in a squad car, and meet me there. Don’t use your siren, and park quietly. We might just be in time to head off the murder of the fourth postman.”