Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine #097v018 (1951-12)

Goodbye forever by Craig Rice

By this time most of you know the results of the International Poll which EQMM conducted to determine the ten best active mystery writers. In alphabetical order, the winners were: Margery Allingham, John Dickson Carr, Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Erle Stanley Gardner, Ngaio Marsh, Ellery Queen, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Georges Simenon, Rex Stout.

One of the many writers who participated in the voting was Craig Rice. In naming her ten best, Craig batted a major-league .500 — that is, five of her ten nominations were among the ultimate winners. Craig has given us permission to quote some of the reasons behind her choices.

JOHN DICKSON CARR: “for consistently fine performance.”

RAYMOND CHANDLER: “he combines the hardboiled school with a genuine love for his characters.”

ERLE STANLEY GARDNER: “for consistent. performance which has given the reading public much pleasure over a long period of years.”

MARY ROBERTS RINEHART: “for setting a standard which some of us, especially me, might do well to follow.”

The other five Craig selected? Their names must remain a slate secret — Craig Rice doesn’t want to lose friends and influence people!

The girl was small and if she did have an interesting figure her inexpensive clothes were doing their best to keep is a secret. She wore brown, from her tiny but substantial oxfords to the rims of her thick-lensed glasses.

She put her glass of beer clown on the bar, looked at John J. Malone anxiously, and said: “I hope you’ll know what to do.”

“Do or die,” the little Chicago lawyer said, “and frankly I don’t feel very enthusiastic about either prospect.” He wondered how he would have felt if Betty Castle had been the girl he would have picked to be marooned with on a desert island, along with a case of canned goods, two bottles of rye, and a copy of the Kinsey report. Instead, she was the press agent for the Number Two band on the Hit Parade and was bringing him a possible client at a time when the office rent was three months overdue.

“If Larry would only tell me what it’s all about—” Betty Castle said. “But there are some things you just cannot pry out of him without—”

“Say no more,” Malone said. “I understand. You’re not that kind of a girl. But just what did you mean when you said that you hoped I’d be — as you put it so delicately — drunk?”

Betty Castle said, “Mr. Malone, I thought that if you were — he’d talk to you more freely. In fact, I told Larry you probably would be. I hope you don’t mind.” She looked at him and said, “But you’re—”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Malone assured her. “As a hobby I’ve taken up impersonating myself.”

“Another thing Mr. Malone—” Betty Castle finished her beer and said, “I didn’t tell him I was going to talk to you first.”

“In that case,” Malone told her, “you’d better make yourself inconspicuous and get out of here.”

A shadow couldn’t have slipped out of Joe the Angel’s City Hall bar more inconspicuously if it had used the rear entrance. Malone had a few quiet words with Joe the Angel, who nodded understandingly and warned Malone that-pretending to be drunk was going to be far, far more difficult than doing what came naturally.

Malone began rehearsing. Three times he tried to put his elbow on the bar and four times he missed. He made a noble try at sitting up right with only reasonable success. Finally he heard the magic voice listened to every week by radio listeners from coast to coast.

The voice said, “You’re John J. Malone, aren’t you?”

“If I’m not,” Malone said, “I’m certainly going to be surprised when I wake up in the morning.” He fumbled through his pockets for a nonexistent cigar. “Who you are, the hell? Or do I mean whom? I mean, who the hell you are, and may I buy you a drink?”

Joe the Angel said, “You can’t buy anyone a drink, Malone. Not without—”

“I know,” the lawyer said bitterly, “a slice of the root. The root of all evil.”

The newcomer with the golden voice said, “I’d like to buy Mr. Malone a drink, if I may.”

Joe the Angel managed an almost surreptitious wink at Malone and said, “Okay, what’ll it be?”

“Same thing,” Malone said. He decided that one more drink of plain ginger ale was going to be more than he could survive, but he managed to get the stuff down in one quick gulp, turned around, and said belligerently, “I’ll fight any hat in the place at the drop of a man.”

“Mr. Malone, I need your help.”

“Never can resist a pal asking for help,” Malone said. “Are you a pal? Did you pay for the last drink? Then you’re a pal, pal.” He paused to sing a line from Kathleen Mavourneen. “Which one of us is Damon, and which one of us is Pythias, and what is your name anyway?”

“My name is Larry Lee. And I’d like you to listen to a piece of music.”

“Always glad to oblige a friend, friend,” Malone said. “I hope it’s By Killarney’s Lakes and Dells.” He whistled a bar of it. While whistling he stole a glance at Larry Lee. The handsome young orchestra leader looked as if he had just left a haunted house.

“We can’t talk here,” Larry Lee said hoarsely.

Malone was about to suggest the Public Library when Joe the Angel tactfully indicated the back room. Malone allowed himself to be navigated into one of its booths. A moment later Joe the Angel arrived with a tray, slid a big cup in front of Malone, a glass in front of Larry Lee, and said: “One cuppa coffee, Mister, and Malone he’s sober like a dead judge.”

Malone lifted the cup gingerly. It contained straight rye. He wondered what was in Larry Lee’s glass.

Larry Lee said: “Do you know a song called Goodbye Forever?”

Joe the Angel, not noticing that the question had been addressed to Malone, squared off like a basso about to boot the prompter up into the balcony and kicked off. His voice shivered Malone’s teacup.

The famous Larry Lee moaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Terribly afraid.” He emptied his glass and said, “I think I’ve killed somebody.”

“Happens all the time,” the little lawyer said sympathetically. “Good thing you came to me.” He shoved the empty glass and cup at Joe the Angel and said, “You better refill these,” then added, “end don’t sing.”

“He isn’t dead,” Larry Lee said, “but that song—”

Malone nodded. “Goodbye Forever by a guy named Tosti. No good for quartet singing unless your tenor has a broken heart and a good beginning on tomorrow’s hangover.”

The replacements arrived fast, and went down faster. Larry Lee shoved a bill at Joe the Angel and said, “I’m due at the broadcast. I hope you’ll come with me, Mr. Malone. My car’s right outside.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “Anything for a pal, pal.” He allowed himself to be led through the bar, across the sidewalk, and into the car, which moved gently forward with a sound like a contented cat.

“Studio,” Larry Lee said.

Malone leaned back against the custom-made cushions and prepared to listen. He began to wonder if this was a press-agent gag that Betty Castle had dreamed up.

“There’s a stupid superstition among some musicians,” Larry Lee said, his face pale in the shadows, “that — that song — or any part of it — and especially those first four notes — can never be played in a radio broadcast without some — well, some terrible disaster happening immediately.”

“An earthquake?” Malone said hopefully. “We’ve had everything else in Chicago.”

“This isn’t funny, Mr. Malone,” Larry Lee said, in a voice that was entirely too calm. “It means — death.”

The car turned right into Wacker Drive. Larry Lee laughed nervously.

“I don’t believe in superstitions myself,” he said. “No intelligent person does.”

Malone crossed his fingers behind his back and said, “Of course not.”

Larry Lee looked at his watch. “I’d better tell you this fast. I have a new song coming out. Looks like — a hit. Mr. Malone, I don’t need to tell you what that means to me — as far as money is concerned.”

“I’d rather guess,” Malone said, “and I don’t handle income tax matters.”

“The name of the song,” Larry Lee said, “is — Kiss Me Goodbye Again. We’re featuring it in tonight’s show. I worked up a special arrangement, using Tosti’s Goodbye. The boys in the band refused to play it — even to rehearse it. Especially Art Sample. He’s a nervous guy anyhow. All clarinet players are nervous and he’s the best in the business. Both ways. And superstitious —

“I know,” Malone said sympathetically. “He wouldn’t walk under a black cat if a ladder crossed his path.”

Larry Lee said, “Mr. Malone, I’m an even-tempered man. But once in a while I don’t like to be exed up. Crossed, that is. Especially by the boys in my own band.”

The wind from Lake Michigan became frighteningly cool.

“I wrote another arrangement,” Larry Lee said. “It was a last-minute job. On purpose. Too late to rehearse. Art Sample may be the top clarinet player in the country, but me, I’m the top arranger. I worked in those four notes from Tosti’s Goodbye so skillfully that nobody — nobody — would know what he was playing until he’d already played it. And that especially goes for Art Sample.”

Malone started to whistle the four notes, caught himself just in time, and said, “It couldn’t be such a bad arrangement that you had to have a lawyer along.”

His companion managed a nervous laugh. “Understand, Malone. Building a band is like building a house. Every brick, every stone, every timber has got to be in exactly the right place. If one of them should slip, the whole building would fall. See? That’s why I’ve taken out such heavy insurance on all the boys.”

“Anything particular you expect to happen to any one of the boys in the band?” Malone asked as casually as he could.

“No! No, no, no!” Larry Lee buried his face in his slender, beautiful hands. “But if something should happen because of my stubborn insistence about — getting in those four notes of music — I’d be a murderer!” He managed what Malone suspected was a well-rehearsed sob, looked up quickly, and said, “I’m sorry to bother you with all this. But if you don’t mind coming to the broadcast, and watching it from the control room—”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” Malone assured him, “from a flagpole on Mars.” He wondered what kind of a legal fee he should charge for services like these.

Seventeen minute* later, in the steaming glass box of the control room, Malone decided the fee would have to be a large one. A last spasm of rehearsal sent people milling around the studio, loping earnestly in and out of the control room. The ones who had the bewildered look were, Malone suspected, relatives of Larry Lee’s sponsor.

The others joked and laughed, but their eyes weren’t in it. Underneath the chatter and the buzzing Malone sensed a kind of silent terror, rising and trembling like the pointer on a pressure gauge. Now and then words and phrases bounced back from the plate-glass wall. “—I hear they’re picking him up for another twenty-six weeks—” Then a sound engineer began to swear methodically at a telephone, a pencil dropped noiselessly to the floor, a female voice shrilled, “Well, if she hasn’t sense enough to see that—” Always there was the overtone of the control-room engineer quietly swearing at sounds that never came just right.

Then there was silence. The red hand of the clock began its last warning circle. Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. A blast of laughter from the preceding program. Ten seconds, and the red hand still moving.

Malone wished lie were anywhere else in the world.

A sweet ruffle of violins, and the program was on the air. For a few moments, Malone didn’t seem to hear anything. Then he began to feel the quietness in the hot little control room. It was quiet, but too uneasy to be that quiet. There was some-thing in the performance coming over the loudspeaker that he didn’t quite like. And then Larry Lee’s band swung into the song he had been waiting for.

Goodbye Forever. A heartbreaking eternal goodbye from beyond the grave...

A cold little hand slipped into his. Malone turned and saw a very frail blonde girl who looked at him from behind terrified eyes.

“Mr. Malone,” she whispered, “please don’t let anything happen to him. He—”

Malone resisted an impulse to put his arm around her. Instead, he patted her hand and said, in his best cell-side manner, “My dear girl, there’s nothing to worry about!”

He didn’t know her from Eve’s other apple, and he didn’t have the faintest idea who he was, but with all his heart he hoped that what he had told her was true. Maybe because of the way she looked. A little like a pale yellow moonbeam. Soft, fair hair that looked as though it would curl endearingly around his finger, wide eyes that promised to turn violet at any moment.

Suddenly he remembered who she was. Mrs. Larry Lee. The wife Larry Lee’s smart little press agent, Betty Castle, kept under wraps. Because five million bobbysoxers would secede from their union if they knew that America’s Number One glamour boy had a kitchen with a wife in it.

All at once the music caught up with them. He watched the band through the plate-glass window.

Two clarinet players rose. They might have been any two clarinet players in any band in the world. One of them was short, squat, oily-haired. The other was tall, blond, and slender. Somehow, the microphone managed to match them up for size.

Those four notes, that had been so skillfully hidden in the orchestration that no one would know what he was playing, until he had played it —

“Goodbye — forever—”

The high, fluting notes were almost a pain in Malone’s ears. For just one moment, he closed his eyes. He heard one of the control-room engineers mutter something that might have been a prayer, but probably wasn’t. Then he looked into the studio.

The black-and-silver clarinet slipped from the hands of Art Sample as though it were a discarded toy. For one instant his eyes were wide with something like surprise. Then slowly, terribly slowly, he crumpled to the floor.

Larry Lee’s frantic signaling to the orchestra for more volume was of no use. The sounds of the instruments died out, one by one. First the bass player, then the brasses, then the woodwinds and strings, and at last the pianist, one hand suspended in the middle of a rolling chord.

Technicians in the control room did frantic things with push buttons and telephones. Music on the network began again, but not from Studio B, where Larry Lee stood as still as though he’d been left overnight in a deep freeze, where the musicians were silent, and where Art Sample lay on the floor, his clarinet six inches away from his hand.

Nobody moved. It was as though everyone had forgotten how to move. Even the pageboy stood still. The flawless mechanism of the network didn’t have any rules or procedures to cover situations like this one.

Then suddenly everybody started at once, and Malone moved first. He shoved Lorna Lee away from his shoulder, shook the pageboy into something remotely resembling consciousness, and said, “Which door leads into the studio?”

Automatically, the pageboy said, “You can’t go in there, sir.”

“Prove it,” Malone said. He picked what he hoped was the right door and shoved it open.

In the studio, life stood still. It was as though everybody had expected this, and now that it had happened, everybody stopped like figures on the screen when the projector goes dead. A stranger walking in would have thought everyone in the place had been stuffed and mounted, and looking as un-lifelike as art could make them.

Suddenly everybody started to move at once, and again Malone moved first. Nina Shields, the vocalist whose voice was almost as well known from coast to coast as her face and figure, was frantically demanding that someone call a doctor. Jack Shields, her big-time gambler-husband who insisted on accompanying her to every broadcast, was looking around for a target for the temper lie was about to lose. Betty Castle had the bright idea of bringing Art a Dixie cup of water and pouring it into his mouth. Larry Lee, remembering first aid from two years with the Boy Scouts and one as a lifeguard, started to turn Art Sample over and was about to apply artificial respiration, while telling his hysterical wife to shut up, when Malone readied the group.

“Stand back,” Malone said. “Once a man is dead, the police protect him right down to his last collar button.”

Someone said, “Police?” in a shocked voice.

“Right,” Malone said. “I’m calling them right now. Because the murdered man was my client.”

Von Flanagan was angry. That, in itself, was nothing new. The big red-faced police officer was angry most of the time, usually at people who were inconsiderate enough to commit murders, for the purpose, he believed, of creating more work for him. He said indignantly, “A guy drops dead in a radio studio and you have to holler for homicide.”

“You still don’t know what killed him,” Malone said. He waved to Joe the Angel for two more beers and hummed a bar of Goodbye Forever.

There was an uncomfortable silence until the beers arrived. Joe put them down and said, “It could of happened that way. I knew a fella once—”

“Go away,” Malone said unhappily.

After another, and longer silence, von Flanagan snorted indignantly. “Dog whistles!”

Malone pulled himself together, stared at the police officer, and said, “Have you been getting enough rest lately? Taking vitamins?”

“Dog whistles,” von Flanagan repeated, ignoring him. “I read about it. You can’t hear ’em, I can’t hear ’em. Because they’re too high up. They sound, too high up, I mean. But the dog can hear ’em because he’s got a different kind of ear.”

The little lawyer nodded. “A sound — so high-pitched — or low-pitched — or something — that it would kill anyone hearing it. It could be possible—”

“With a clarinet, anything is possible,” von Flanagan assured him. “My brother-in-law Albert—”

“Another time,” Malone said. He scowled. “But why wouldn’t everybody hearing it drop dead, not just the clarinet player?”

Von Flanagan didn’t answer that one. He finished his beer and said, “But you can’t expect me to believe that just because four notes of a song—” He broke off, looked up, and said brightly, “Oh, hello!”

The moonbeam blonde, still pale and frightened, clung to Larry Lee’s arm. Malone suspected she’d been crying. If her eyes had been close to violet before, fear had deepened them to purple.

Larry Lee dismissed her with “My wife, Lorna,” and waved her to a chair. Malone considered punching the band leader in the nose for treating her so casually, then changed his mind. Not only was Larry Lee a potential client, but he was a lot bigger than Malone.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Larry Lee said. He signaled to Joe the Angel for replacements.

Malone, having already switched from rye to beer, decided it was time to switch from beer to gin.

“A terrible thing,” Larry Lee said.

“About what you expected to happen?” Malone asked.

The orchestra leader shuddered. “I didn’t really expect anything. That business with the music—”

“I suspected it was a press-agent gag all along,” Malone said. “But to make it really good — why me? You should have had a doctor in the control room instead.”

“We couldn’t think of one who would—” Larry Lee paused, and said, “Betty Castle said a lawyer would do just as well, and she suggested you.”

“Nice of her,” Malone murmured. He wondered who was going to pay his fee.

“And of course, nobody had any idea anything—” Larry Lee paused again, lit a cigarette, and went on, “Lorna said that you said something about Art Sample being your client.”

Malone glanced briefly at Mrs. Larry Lee. “It was something about the ownership of a song. He was in to see me for a few minutes, but he didn’t have time to go into details.” He thought Larry Lee looked relieved. He got back to the original subject with, “You just said — ‘nobody had any idea.’ In other words, everybody was in on the gag?”

Larry Lee nodded. “I knew I could trust everybody in the show.”

“You should have trusted at least one of them not to drop dead,” Malone said.

“Mr. Malone, there is such a superstition.” Larry Lee said. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another. “But I simply can’t believe that just because we played four notes from Tosti’s Goodbye—”

“Dog whistles—” von Flanagan began.

Malone kicked him under the table and said quietly, “It’s about time somebody found out what actually did kill him.”

Von Flanagan rose, gave him what was probably the dirtiest look in a lifetime of dirty looks, and said, “I’ll phone and find out if there’s been any report yet.”

Lorna Lee had been doing things to her hair and make-up. The result-would have been good on anyone, but on her it was terrific. She smiled a little shakily at Malone and said, “I suppose you think we’re heartless, but Larry believes in carrying on as usual. We’d planned to go to the Pump Room after the show, and we’d love to have you join us—”

“You couldn’t keep me away with an injunction,” Malone assured her with his best non-professional smile. If Larry Lee was going to be coy about fees for legal services, at least he was going to have to pay for some very expensive drinks.

Von Flanagan came back from the phone booth, his broad face an ominous scarlet. “He was murdered,” he growled, as though the fact were a personal affront. “Poison.” He glared at them all and added, “Aconite.”

“Well, at least,” Malone said, after the long silence that followed, “it wasn’t dog whistles. Or a song.” He glanced at Larry Lee. “Or an arrangement of a song.”

Maggie looked up coldly and disapprovingly as Malone walked into the office. “It’s after eleven,” she announced. “The landlord has been strolling up and down the hall twirling a padlock. You look as if you had a hangover. And three women have called to make appointments with you.”

“I know what time it is,” Malone said amiably, “and the hangover can be considered a legal fee well earned. Who are the women?”

“Betty Castle, Nina Shields, and Lorna Lee. Malone, what did happen to that musician last night?”

“I lost him as a client,” Malone said, “and von Flanagan has him as a problem.” He relit his cigar and added, “And we both have him as a headache.”

He went on into his private office and considered the advisability of taking an aspirin tablet. No, he decided, the butterflies in his stomach would probably start playing ping-pong with it. He finally settled for an inch and a half of gin from the bottle in the file drawer marked Confidential.

It was regrettable, he reflected, that he knew so little about his late client. Only that he had been a nervous, superstitious, and very handsome young man who played the clarinet, had written some songs, according to his story, and was dead.

He was still wondering about him when Betty Castle walked in, sat down in the exact center of the big leather couch, and planted her tiny feet as solidly on the floor as if she were waiting for an earthquake. Malone smiled at her reassuringly and tried to picture her without the glasses, with a different hair-do, and wearing make-up, plus something specially good in the way of a wardrobe. Right now she reminded him of a particularly inconspicuous mouse.

“I’m his widow,” she stated, without preliminaries.

Malone caught his breath and said, “Would you say that again?”

“Art Sample’s widow.” Suddenly she began to cry, not helplessly nor attractively, but like a bad-mannered and furious child. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know what I can do about it now,” Malone said. It seemed to him that the conversation was getting a little ahead of him.

“We’d been married almost a year.” She sniffled and went on. “I didn’t mind it being kept a secret. In his job, his being attractive to women was important. You know what I mean.”

“If I don’t,” Malone said, “I can ask the little birds to tell me.” He added, “Stop crying.”

She blew her nose and obeyed. “Art introduced me to Larry Lee, and that’s how I got the press-agent job. I’m good at it, too.”

“I bet you are,” Malone said, looking at her thoughtfully. “And I bet you were behind his playing that particular clarinet phrase.”

“Art was the best clarinet player since—” she paused. “But it wasn’t the music that killed him.” Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she fumbled inside her purse.

This time Malone said, “My poor, dear girl!” and whipped out one of the clean handkerchiefs he kept for just such emergencies. He wondered if she could afford a lawyer even more than he wondered why she needed one. He crooned reassuringly, “It isn’t true that the police automatically suspect the widow first.”

“They couldn’t suspect me!” Betty Castle said. “And nobody knows we were married. Not even Larry Lee. No, that isn’t why I came to see you.”

Malone sighed. “Well—?”

“It’s about the money,” she said. “From the songs everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote. You see, they aren’t Larry Lee’s at all. They were Art’s.”

“You mean your husband wrote them?” Malone asked.

She nodded. “All of them. Words and music. He didn’t know they were going to be hits. He got a bang, a kick, that’s all, out of hearing the band play them. But when they did make a lot of money, Larry Lee kept stalling, putting off settling with him. That’s why Art came to you. To find out how he could prove he’d written them. And now it’s too late. Or — is it?”

While Malone was straining for an answer, the door flew open and Larry Lee stormed in. Over his shoulder, Malone could see Maggie’s face signaling, “Don’t blame me!”

Larry Lee began, “I came right in because—” He saw Betty Castle and paused. Instead of, “What are you doing here?” he said, “Where have you been all day?”

“I’ve been home,” she said. “I went straight home last night, right after the police let us all go. Mother gave me a sleeping pill. It was — terribly upsetting—”

“Me too, I’m pretty upset,” Larry Lee said. “The papers aren’t giving me the breaks they should. Which is what I pay you for.” His eyes softened suddenly, and he said, “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a picnic for any of us.”

“I think the man wants you to take the day off, Betty,” Malone said.

She shook her head. “I’m all right now.” She looked at Larry Lee like a small dog seeing his first bone. Malone wondered if she’d ever looked at Art Sample that way. “I haven’t even seen the papers. I just stayed home and tried not to think about it.”

“Malone,” Larry Lee said abruptly, “I want to talk with you—” He glanced at Betty Castle, paused a moment, and said, “Betty might as well hear it, I know I can trust her. It’s about the songs.”

“Songs, songs?” Malone said innocently.

“He wrote ’em,” Larry Lee said. He went on to tell essentially the same story Betty had told a moment before. But he added, “I wanted to work out a settlement with him. Some arrangement that would be fair to both of us. The main thing was — you can’t let the public down. They looked on me as a band leader and a singer and a songwriter. But by rights, all the money was Art’s. Only now, it’s too late.”

Malone asked quickly, “What kind of money was involved?”

“Enough. Enough to be a motive for murder.” Larry Lee looked grim. “The police found out about it, and they want to question me again. That’s why I came to you first.” He went on, fast, “About your retainer—”

Malone fingered the lone five-dollar bill in his pocket and said magnificently, “We can discuss that later.” He rose and reached for his hat. “We can talk the rest over on the way to von Flanagan’s office. Remember, I’m your lawyer, and leave everything to me.” He smiled and said in a voice that just missed running for office, “Believe me, my boy, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

Von Flanagan said, “This guy Sample had a married sister somewhere in Iowa, and she wrote him asking for money. He wrote back about all these songs he’d written, and how everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote ’em. Soon as Larry Lee pays off to him, he says, he’ll send her some money. Today she hears about him being murdered, and right away she calls us and reads me his letter.” He glared at Larry Lee and said, “Well?”

“We can explain everything,” Malone said smoothly. He went on, fast, to repeat Larry Lee’s explanation, coloring it a little wherever he thought it would help. “Larry Lee was going to pay Art Sample the money, and he’d told him so.”

“Yeah,” von Flanagan said coldly, “but did Art Sample believe him?” He added, “Do I believe him? Furthermore, Sample was running around with Larry Lee’s wife.”

The tall band leader’s smile was almost a laugh. “She was like a sister to all the boys in the band. It didn’t mean a thing.”

Von Flanagan muttered something about motives.

“You’re forgetting something,” Malone said quickly. “Just how was Art Sample poisoned? Aconite acts fast. He didn’t eat or drink anything, or even smoke, just before he died.” He paused to light a fresh cigar. “As soon as you bright boys find out the answer to that one, let me know. Meantime, forget talking about motives, and quit bothering my client.”

“I’ve got enough on him now to hold him,” the big police officer, growled, but without conviction.

“Do,” Malone said pleasantly, “and make yourself the most unpopular man in the world with the millions of fans who listen every week to Larry Lee.”

Back in his office, the little lawyer began to feel unhappy about the whole thing. Larry Lee did have a motive, several of them. The matter of the songs. The fragile Lorna Lee, with her moon-colored hair. Malone remembered her frantic whisper as the broadcast had begun.

Worse still, no one else seemed to have a motive.

But there was something else. How had Art Sample been given the poison? Malone closed his eyes and remembered everything that had happened in the studio from the moment the broadcast began to when the police allowed everyone to leave. Suddenly he reached for the phone and called von Flanagan.

“No, and it wasn’t on his handkerchief,” von Flanagan said, without preliminaries. “We tested it.”

Malone said, “The bright boys from your department were going over the general debris on the floor when we left. Would you mind reading me the list of what they found?”

“Yes,” von Flanagan said. “But hang on a minute.” Malone could hear his voice yelling, “Klutchetsky, come here and—” He put down the phone and called to Maggie to pick up the extension and grab her notebook.

Approximately two and a half minutes later, a polite voice said, “Mr. Malone? Here you are.” It droned on. “One hundred and thirty-eight cigarette butts, nineteen marked with lipstick; three pieces of Kleenex; nine pencils; twenty-two marked-up scripts; a lady’s handkerchief with the initial ‘N’; a copy of last Thursday’s Racing Form; seven empty cigarette packages; and three sheets of music.”

Von Flanagan’s voice cut in, “And we’ve already tested them all. With no results. Including the Racing Form.”

“Too bad,” Malone said. “You might have found another motive.” He hung up.

Maggie came in and said, “I got it all down. One hundred and thirty-eight cigarette butts, nineteen—”

“Never mind,” Malone said. “Just go away.”

He knew now it wasn’t something he remembered, but something he’d forgotten.

His unhappiness deepened in intensity. Even looking at Nina Shields, the lovely singer with Larry Lee’s band, when she arrived, failed to lighten his mood. He decided that another quickly administered shot of gin would do the trick, and poured one for his client while he was about it.

“Thanks, Malone,” she said in the deep, purring voice that made her listeners purr right along with her. “What are you going to do about our murder?”

Malone jumped, and said, “Our?”

Nina Shields nodded. “I was going to marry the corpse. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to be a corpse.” She got her drink down in a gulp.

Malone swallowed a gasp as fast as she had swallowed the gin. “Your husband,” he began, paused, and said, “I’ve heard a rumor there’s a law against bigamy.”

“I’ve heard of it too,” she said quietly. Almost too quietly. “Art was getting hold of some money that was due him. I don’t know where from, but it was a lot, he said. We’d fly to Mexico, I’d get a divorce from Jack, and we’d be married right away.”

The little lawyer considered telling her that Art might have had to figure in some divorce plans of his own, and decided against it.

“You know Jack,” she said. “He’s jealous, and he’s got a violent temper. But he gets over it fast. As soon as he calmed down, he’d think it over. Chances are, he’d send us a telegram of congratulations.”

Malone nodded. He did know the big-time gambler, and he would have bet that Nina was right.

“But now,” she said, “now—” She buried her face in her hands.

Malone decided these tears needed personal comforting, and immediately. He sat down on the arm of the couch, put what he considered a strictly fraternal arm around her, whipped out his handkerchief, and began the comforting. He became so engrossed that he failed to notice a commotion in his outer office, and only looked up when his door was suddenly and violently opened.

Jack Shields began with a string of phrases, the most polite of which referred to Malone’s immediate ancestry. The little lawyer jumped to his feet. He vaguely heard a few more phrases before he had a definite feeling that the latest thing in bombs had just been exploded inside his mouth.

He blinked himself to consciousness, sitting on the floor. Not only did he have the feeling that most of his teeth were protruding from the back of his neck but, far worse, his dignity had taken a well-nigh fatal blow.

“And what’s more,” the gambler said, “the same thing goes for your clients.” He went on about Art Sample, and obviously no one had ever mentioned to him the impropriety of speaking ill of the dead. “I know lie-planned to run away with my wife,” he said, “but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.” He put an arm around Nina. “Let’s get out of here, darling.”

Lorna Lee was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide. Jack Shields smiled at her in passing and said, “Good afternoon!” as pleasantly as though he’d never knocked down a lawyer in his life.

“He hit you!” Lorna Lee gasped.

Malone nodded and struggled to his feet.

“Did he hurt you?”

Malone shook his head. After a minute he tried speech, a little experimentally. “My toose ith looth.”

Lorna Lee touched his tooth with her tiny, pearly fingers, and said, “Oh dear, it is! You’d better go to a dentist right away.”

Malone said, “No sanks.” He hoped he didn’t sound ungrateful. It wasn’t every day he was offered the touch of a comforting hand, especially a hand that reminded him vaguely of a snowflake drifting in a gentle wind.

He allowed himself to he steered to the office couch, and lulled himself into slumber by listening to the voices of Maggie and Lorna Lee arguing over the comparative virtues of ice-packs and hot-water bottles.

What was it he had to remember? He felt close to it now. But sleep was closer.

A cold wet rag slapped him in the face, and Maggie said, “Malone. Malone. Wake up!”

“Snowflakes,” Malone mumbled, “in an early spring wind.” He sat up suddenly and said, “What?”

“Malone, Larry Lee just called. Last night’s show has got to be done all over again. This time, for a recording. He’s got a new clarinet player, to play what Art Sample played last night. And he wants you to be there.” She slapped him again with the wet rag and said, “Same studio, two hours and fifteen minutes from now.”

The little lawyer rose shakily to his feet and said, “Phone him I’ll be there. And meantime, what is the name of that joint on Wabash Avenue where musicians hang out in their spare time? And phone Joe the Angel for a quick hundred-buck loan.” As she headed towards the door, he called out, “—and send down to the drug store for a bottle of toothache drops. All three of these are emergency calls.” He called out again, and louder, “But the first one is the important one.”

It was halfway through shaving, and waiting for Maggie to return, that he decided to call von Flanagan. Because, he knew now what he had forgotten...

Everything was just as it had been the night before. Again the last spasm of rehearsal was going on. There was one exception — that one of the clarinet players was stocky and red-haired, instead of tall and blond. People were milling around in the studio and in the control room. Jack Shields was there and gave Malone a smile that was completely cordial and completely without apology. Malone measured his height and weight and decided that to forgive was not only divine but, in this case, human. Von Flanagan was standing in a corner trying to look as though he had just strayed in to get out of a rainstorm.

Then the sudden silence, and the red hand of the clock describing its last warning circle.

Once again Malone wished he were anywhere else in the world. Then at last it began — the song of Goodbye, of heartbreaking eternal goodbye. Malone didn’t feel his blood run cold, he felt it turn to something moving as fast as the second-place winner at the Indianapolis race track. He turned to Lorna Lee.

“What did you want to see me about?” he asked her in what he hoped was a whisper.

“The insurance,” she whispered back. “Larry Lee had fifty thousand on each of the boys in the band. If it turned out that Larry had murdered him, would he still get the money — and if Larry — I mean, would I—”

Before she could go on, the music swept towards the four notes everyone had been waiting to hear. Malone went on looking at her for a moment. A snowflake. The first pale flower of April, pushing its way upward through the melting snow.

Then the music pulled his gaze into the studio. He didn’t like what was going to happen, what he was going to have to do.

Four notes — so carefully hidden in the skillfully designed orchestration that no one would know, until —

“Goodbye — forever—”

The red-haired, stocky clarinet player dropped his instrument as though it had bitten him. Then he slumped to the floor like an expiring toy balloon.

Once more, everything stopped.

This time it was von Flanagan who moved first. He said, “So that’s how it was done. Aconite on the reed of his clarinet.”

“No,” Malone said quickly, “that wasn’t how it was done. Right now, stay put, and don’t talk.” He grabbed von Flanagan’s arm and said, “If the guy is dead, hang me. But this is the only way I could prove what happened.”

Again there was the sudden rush of people towards the fallen clarinet player. Jack Shields, who had shoved his way into the studio, threw a protective arm around his wife and demanded loudly that someone call the inhalator squad. Betty Castle ran forward, then paused, her homely little face dazed and bewildered. Lorna Lee burst into tears. Someone called for water. There didn’t seem to be any water available, unless someone took the time to drill a well. Larry Lee moved in, the first-aid look back in his eyes.

Malone nodded to von Flanagan, and walked into the studio. He laid one hand on Larry Lee’s arm and said, “Sorry your recording was spoiled. But you’ll probably get a better performance next time, when everyone isn’t worried about who is the murderer.” He took a few steps more and said, “All right, Buck, you can get up now. It was a magnificent performance.”

If anyone had dropped a pin while the red-haired clarinet player rose to his feet, it would have smashed every seismograph on Mars.

“If you’d been really smart,” Malone said, “you’d have carried an extra Dixie cup to drop on the floor, to account for the one you carried away with you — the one you had to carry away with you because it had traces of aconite.”

He paused for a moment. He was really tired now.

“You knew that with Art Sample dead, Larry Lee would just quietly keep the royalties from the songs,” the little lawyer went on relentlessly. “You wanted the money — and Larry Lee. You were confident that Larry Lee would get a divorce and marry you. You knew that in a pinch you could blackmail him because of the songs.”

He hated to go on, but he had to. He avoided looking at Larry Lee, and wished that Lorna Lee were deaf.

“You knew that he’d grown sick of beautiful faces the way a man can get sick of chocolate éclairs.”

Betty Castle had teen like solid stone, now she exploded in a flaming rage, aimed at Lorna Lee. Malone caught a few words, the kindest of which was “tramp,” and the most definite “— all the boys in the band.” Lorna Lee exploded right back at her, and the words Malone caught from her surprised even him. Snowflake, he thought. Spring flower. he said, “Shut up, both of you.”

Von Flanagan had come into the studio. He said, “But — Goodbye Forever—” He stopped just short of adding, “Dog whistles.”

“It worked in perfectly,” Malone told him. “She killed him after he was supposed to be dead. Isn’t that right, Betty?”

She smiled at him wanly. “It was a good try, anyway.” She looked at Larry Lee and her eyes said, “I’m sorry for everything.” She looked at Lorna Lee and her lips moved silently around a very unpleasant word. Then she walked over to von Flanagan without a tremor.

Malone rushed over to her and said, “Don’t forget, I’m your lawyer. Let me do the talking for you. Don’t say a word, and don’t sign anything.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Remember, my dear, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

“But how did you know?” von Flanagan said, hours later.

“Because there wasn’t a clue,” Malone said. He waved at Joe the Angel for two more beers. “I had the motive — in fact, I had a motive for everybody. When I slipped that red-haired clarinet player a hundred bucks to pull a phony faint, I was slipping a slug in a slot machine, as far as I knew.” He reached in his pocket to linger the retainer check Larry Lee had given him.

“It paid off,” von Flanagan said wearily.

“She knew he was nervous, she knew he was superstitious,” Malone went on. “She talked Larry Lee into pulling this stunt as a press-agent gag, and made sure everybody in the band, or connected with it, knew all about it. Then she worked Art Sample into such a state that he was bound to collapse in the studio.”

He relit his cigar and said, “He fainted — she counted on that. Someone rushing up with a Dixie cup of water was the instinctive tiling no one would even notice. But there wasn’t an empty Dixie cup among the odds and ends your boys picked up from the floor!”

Malone buried his face in his hands for a moment. He was seeing Betty Castle’s straight little back when she’d walked over to the police officer and said, “Okay.”

“Don’t worry,” von Flanagan said. “After all, she’s got a good lawyer.”

But Malone was thinking of something else. He was seeing Art Sample again, his handsome young face as he reached for that one high note on the clarinet, and he was hearing a melody.

“It never pays to be a ghost,” Malone said. He stared into the circle left by his upraised glass. “To ghost anything. You’re dead before you. can even start.”