Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 31, June 1946

Goodbye, Goodbye! by Craig Rice

In the January 28, 1946, issue of “Time” magazine Craig Rice came into her own. On the cover was a full-color portrait painted by Artzybasheff, with a purple background showing a smoky ghost with six arms — a sextopus, and we invent the word with malice aforethought — rising gruesomely out of typewriter keys; the ratiocinative wraith is black: masked and his (or her?) six hands grasp, reading from left to right, a dagger, a rope (held semi-noose-like in two hands), a bottle of poison, an automatic, and a hypodermic syringe (note the extraordinary restraint of the artist: no blunt instrument — or have blunt instruments gone out of fashion?). And inside “Time” was a three-page article on the past, present, and probable future of the lady known as Craig.

In case you happened to miss the “Time” profile, we give you some of its highlights... Between the ages of 18 and 3 °Craig Rice indulged in a dozen years of Bohemian life: three bungled attempts at marriage; innumerable failures to write poetry, novels, and music... The distinctively American type of detective story, originated by Dashiell Hammett, has been called tough, hardboiled, and wacky — a combination of hard drink, hilarity, and homicide; Craig Rice, says “Time,” is virtually the only woman of this school; further, an outgrowth of this American genre is the detective farce of which Craig Rice is also an exponent; she invests (still quoting “Time”) unholy living and heinous dying with a high atmosphere of mixed excitement and amusement; the excitement is provided by realism of a sort — the realism which goes with the ruthlessness of gangsters and other criminal ugliness — and it is set to dialogue of the Hemingway type...

Craig Rice is also Michael Venning and Daphne Sanders — 11 books signed by Rice, 3 by Venning, and I by Sanders, as of the time of the “Time” article; when Michael Venning’s biography was called for by WHO’S WHO, Craig posed for Michael’s picture (as a gag) wearing a crepe beard and her husband’s coat... Interior Decorating Note: The master bedroom contains the “Craig Rice dressing table,” a wide, crinoline-draped affair supported by two female legs appropriately gartered and stockinged in black mesh; (how about the bottles of perfume on the dressing table? — aren’t they reformed whiskey bottles?)...

“Time” makes the following statement which caught your Editor in the solar plexus and floored him for a full count: “Women (says „Time“) have always excelled as detective-story writers.” When your Editor recovered sufficiently from this haymaker to peck out a protest, he gathered the atomized remains of his self-respect to ask if the editors of “Time” ever heard of: Edgar Allan Poe, Emile Gaboriau, Wilkie Collins, A. Conan Doyle, R. Austin Freeman, Gilbert K. Chesterton, Melville Davisson Post, E. C. Bentley, Ernest Bramah, Freeman Wills Crofts, H. C. Bailey, Edgar Wallace, Philip MacDonald, John Rhode, Anthony Berkeley, Francis Iles, Earl Derr Biggers, S. S. Van Dine, Dashiell Hammett, John Dickson Carr, Georges Simenon, Erle Stanley Gardner, Eric Ambler, Raymond Chandler, and not to put too fine a point on it, Ellery Queen — and we apologize to all the other good men and true who have excelled as detective-story writers but whose names are not included only because space limitations prevent us from going on forever. In further rebuttal we call to the stand the following distinguished witnesses: SHAKESPEARE: Let every man be master of... SIR WALTER RALEIGH: History hath triumphed over time. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES: Old Time is a liar! BEN JONSON: That old bald cheater, Time. LONGFELLOW: Time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life. MILTON: Time, the subtle thief. PLATO: As the years go by, time will change and even reverse many... opinions.

One last quotation from “Time”: Craig Rice’s stories never appear in magazines. Oh, “Time”! In its issue of March 1943, EQMM brought you “His Heart Could Break,” the first Craig Rice short story about John J. Malone. In our safe-deposit vaults we have the second Craig Rice short about John J. Malone — “The Bad Luck Murders” — which will appear in a forthcoming issue of EQMM. And following this song-and-dance introduction is Craig Rice’s prizewinning story, “Goodbye, Goodbye!” — the third short about that hard-living, hard-drinking little criminal lawyer, John J. Malone. And also coming in a future issue of EQMM is Craig Rice’s first Michael Venning short story. The defense rests...

A woman in the crowd gasped, almost screamed. Near her, a man in a grey topcoat covered his eyes with his hands. Half a block away an overdressed, overpainted and very pretty girl sank to her knees on the concrete sidewalk and prayed. But most of the crowd stared upward in silence in half-horrified, half-delighted fascination.

On a narrow ledge twenty-two stories above the street, there was what seemed, from this distance, to be a small dark blob. The crowd knew that the blob was a girl in a mink coat, that she had been crouched on the ledge for hours, and that a minister, a policeman and an eminent psychiatrist were pleading and reasoning with her through the open window.

John J. Malone, Chicago criminal lawyer, was not one of the crowd. He was only trying to push his way through it to the entrance of the hotel, where a profitable client was waiting for him, one who was ready to hand over a fat retainer before giving himself up on a burglary rap which John J. Malone knew he could beat in five minutes even before a prejudiced jury.

The important business of collecting that retainer was one reason why the little lawyer didn’t notice the crowd at first. A lone, crumpled five dollar bill was in his right pants pocket, and he had a date with a very special and very expensive blonde just half an hour from now. And this particular client would pay the retainer in cash.

Malone was beginning to lose his temper with the crowd when he suddenly realized that the space in front of the hotel was roped off. That was when he looked up.

“Been there for hours,” a man next to him murmured, almost dreamily.

For a minute he stood there, horror-frozen. His mind took in what was being said around him, even though he wasn’t conscious of hearing it, and he became aware of the whole story — the fire department, the police, the minister, and the psychiatrist.

There was a lump of ice where his stomach had been just a little while ago. Life was so wonderful, even with the remains of yesterday’s warmed-over hangover, even with only five bucks in your pants and a blonde waiting for you. If he could only explain that to the undecided dark blob clinging to the ledge twenty-two stories above. Undecided—! That was it. That was the key.

Suddenly he pushed his way, ruthlessly and almost blindly, through the rest of the crowd, ran past the roped-off space where the fire department was holding life nets, past the frightened young cop who tried to bar his way into the building, and through the deserted lobby. He yelled for a boy to operate one of the empty elevators, finally got attention by threatening to operate it himself, and was shot up to the twenty-second floor.

It was easy to find the room. The door was open, spilling light into the hall. A cop at the door said, “Malone—!” tried to stop him, and was shoved aside. The minister, the eminent psychiatrist and Det. Lt. Klutchetsky from the police department were shoved aside too.

At the window, he paused and drew a long, slow breath. Down the ledge from him was a white face and two terrified eyes. Malone spoke very softly and easily.

“Don’t be afraid. You can get back here all right. Just creep along the ledge and keep your hands on the wall, and keep looking at me.”

The dark figure stirred. She was not more than a few inches beyond the reach of his arm, but he knew better than to hold out a hand to her, yet.

“There’s nothing to fear. Even if you should fall, they’ll catch you with the nets. The worst that can happen to you is a skinned knee and a few bruises.” Malone crossed his fingers for the barefaced lie. “You’re as safe as if you were in your own bed.” It was the same tone he’d used innumerable times to nervous witnesses.

It was a full minute before the girl began to move, but when she did, it was in the direction of the window.

“Come on now,” the little lawyer coaxed. “It’s not so far. Only a bit of a ways now. Take it easy.”

She managed about a foot and a half along the ledge, and stopped. He could see her face, and the terror on it, clearly now.

“You won’t fall,” Malone said. It was an almost heart-breaking effort to keep from reaching a hand to her.

Inside the room, and down on the sidewalk, the spectators were silent and breathless.

For just a moment it seemed to Malone that she’d smiled at him. No, it hadn’t been a smile, just a relaxation of those frozen muscles around her mouth. How long had she been crouching on that ledge? He didn’t dare guess.

Nor did he dare take his eyes from her face and look down, for fear her gaze would turn with his.

Inch by inch she moved toward the waiting window. Only a few feet away she hesitated, started to look down, and turned a shade more pale.

“For Pete’s sake, hurry up,” Malone said crossly. “It’s colder than a Scandinavian Hell with this window open.”

That did it. She actually did smile, and managed the last bit of window ledge, twenty-two stories up from the ground, like a little girl sliding on a cellar door. Finally Malone lifted her over the sill, and Klutchetsky, moving fast and breathing hard, slammed the window shut and locked it.

The eminent psychiatrist sank down on the nearest chair, his face a mottled grey. Klutchetsky and the uniformed cop stood glaring at her.

“You’re a wicked, wicked girl,” the minister began.

“Shut up,” Malone told him absentmindedly. He looked closely at the girl, who stood clutching the edge of the window frame for support.

She was small, and delicately built. Pale, distraught and disheveled as she was, she was something very special. Her chalk-white and definitely dirty face was triangular in shape, and lovely. Her frightened eyes were brown, and large, and ringed with long, dark lashes. Her tangled hair was honey blonde. Her mouth, naked of lipstick and with marks showing where teeth had almost bitten through a lower lip, was a pallid, wistful flower.

One more minute, Malone told himself, and he’d be writing poetry.

The mink coat was a magnificent one. The dusty rose dress under it came, Malone realized, from one of the very best shops. The torn and muddy stockings he recognized as nylons. Jewels glittered at her slim wrists.

“As I live and breathe!” Malone said pleasantly, taking out a cigar and starting to unwrap it. “Doris Dawn!”

Doris Dawn drew her first long breath in many hours. She glanced around the ring of hostile faces, then flung herself into the security of Malone’s warm and obvious friendliness. A faint color began to come back into her cheeks.

“You saved my life. I was out there — forever, trying to get enough nerve to crawl to a window. High places — they always—” The color faded again.

“You’d better put some makeup on,” Malone growled. “You look terrible.”

She almost smiled. She fumbled through her coat pockets, found a compact and lipstick, dropped them both through her trembling fingers. Malone picked them up for her. Pink Primrose lipstick, he noted approvingly. Exactly right for her pale skin.

He said, soothingly, “Relax. You’re safe now.”

“No. No, I’m not. That’s it.” She turned to Klutchetsky. “You’re a policeman. Do something. Someone tried to kill me.”

Klutchetsky and the eminent psychiatrist exchanged significant glances.

“Okay, sister,” Klutchetsky said wearily. “Just come along quietly now.”

Malone said, “Just a minute. Since when is it customary, in a case of attempted murder, to arrest the intended corpse?”

“Look, Malone,” Klutchetsky said. He paused and sighed deeply. “We appreciate your help. Okay. Now suppose you let the police department handle its own problems in its own way.”

“But I’m not a problem,” the girl cried out. “Someone—”

“That’s what you think,” Klutchetsky told her. “Am I right, Doc?” He paused. The eminent psychiatrist nodded his head briskly.

“He tried to kill me,” the girl gasped. “He will again. He put me out on that ledge and left me there. I was too scared to crawl back. I just held on. Until—”

“And who is this ‘he’,” Klutchetsky interrupted skeptically, “and what does he look like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him.”

The police officer turned to the eminent psychiatrist. “See what I mean, Doc?” Again the psychiatrist nodded.

She began to sob, dry-eyed. She took a step towards Malone. “You believe me, don’t you? Don’t let them drag me away to — to a hospital. They’re the police. Make them find him. Make them protect me.”

“What I always say is,” Malone murmured, lighting his cigar, “what do we pay taxes for.” He paused long enough to glare at the police officer and his aide. “But what you need is a good lawyer.”

“Find me one!”

Malone smiled at her reassuringly. “I have found you one.”

“Listen,” Klutchetsky said. “This is the third time she’s tried this. She’s bats. Just ask Doctor Updegraff.”

“A very interesting case,” Doctor Updegraff purred. “Of course, after I have given it some study—”

“Nuts!” Malone said rudely.

“Precisely,” the psychiatrist said.

Malone thought of a number of things he would like to do to Doctor Updegraff, all of them unkind, and most of them unmentionable. He thought, also, about the immediate problem. If Klutchetsky and Dr. Updegraff happened to be right, Doris Dawn would be better off in a hospital, and the sooner the better. On the other hand, if she was telling the truth — and Malone believed she was — she would be safer in jail, right now.

“As this young lady’s lawyer,” he began.

Klutchetsky said, “Now, Malone. You heard what the doc here said. And maybe you remember this babe’s mother.”

“I do,” Malone said, “I was secretly in love with her for years.” He reflected that every impressionable male who’d been to the theater between 1915 and 1926 remembered Diana Dawn, who’d committed suicide at the very height of her career.

“Okay,” Klutchetsky said, “this babe takes poison, only she’s found in time and luckily she didn’t take much. Then she goes to work on her wrists with a razor blade, but she misses the right spot and anyhow a hotel maid finds her before she bled too much. Now she takes a room here under a phony name, and decides to jump.”

The little lawyer was silent for a moment. Maybe, this time, Klutchetsky was right and he was wrong. Still—

“How about notes?” he asked. “Did she leave any?”

“Notes!” the police officer snorted, “what do you call these?” He waved an arm around the room.

Malone looked, and realized that the room was filled with mirrors. On every one of them was written, in lipstick, “Goodbye, Goodbye.” The letters were the color of dried blood. The bathroom door was a full-length mirror, and on it was scrawled, over and over, “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye—”

“I didn’t write it!” Doris Dawn said.

Malone looked at her closely, then back at the dark red letters. He said to Klutchetsky, “I’m convinced.”

The minister muttered something about the use of excessive makeup, the perils of the city, juvenile delinquency, and his next Sunday’s sermon. Dr. Updegraff muttered something about the significance of the use of lipstick for a farewell message.

The girl gave a tragic little moan. “But I thought you’d help me!”

“Don’t look now,” Malone said, “but I am.” He turned to Klutchetsky. “Better have the squad car go round to the alley. There must be a flock of reporters in the lobby by now. We’ll go down the freight elevator.”

Klutchetsky nodded his thanks, told the young cop to get headquarters on the phone, and said to Malone, “You’ll have to show us the way. How come you always know where the freight elevators in hotels are, anyhow?”

“I have my secrets,” Malone said coyly, “and all of them are sacred.” He didn’t add that, among those secrets, was the knowledge that the ledge outside the window was a good two and a half feet wide, and that it had a rim extending up for at least six inches.

One reason was that he didn’t want to tell how he knew.

He held Doris Dawn firmly by the elbow as they walked to the door. Dr. Updegraff and the minister had volunteered, with willing helpfulness, indeed, even hopefulness, to stay behind and cope with the reporters. Malone had muttered something unpleasant about people who were their own press agents and thus kept honest, but starving, ex-newspapermen out of jobs.

Out in the alley, Klutchetsky thanked Malone for guiding them down the freight elevator, said goodnight, and ushered Doris Dawn into the back of the car. Malone promptly popped in beside her.

“Now wait a minute,” Klutchetsky said, “You can’t do this, Malone.”

“I can,” Malone said pleasantly, “I will, and I am.” He smiled. “Did you ever remember to tell your wife about that trip we took to the races while she was visiting her cousin in the east—” He paused.

“Oh, all right,” the police officer growled. He slammed the car door shut and climbed in beside the uniformed driver.

As the car turned into Michigan Avenue, where the crowd was thinning and the fire department was packing up to leave, her hand crept into his like a cold, frightened kitten creeping into a feather bed.

“I didn’t, you know,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have. There wasn’t any reason. I’ve always had fun. I’ve always had everything. Until this started, I’ve always been happy.”

“I know it,” Malone whispered back. “I’ve heard you sing.” He curled his fingers reassuringly around hers.

“But I don’t want you to believe it because I say so and because you’re sorry for me. I want you to believe it because something proves it to you. I want you to read my diary, and then you’ll really know.”

She reached into her pocket. “You trusted me, so I’m going to trust you. Here’s the key to my house. It’s 1117 Gay Street. You can remember that, can’t you? The light switch is just to the right of the door, and the library is just to the left of the hall. There’s a desk in the library and my diary is in the middle drawer, under an old telephone book. You’ve got to read it. And please don’t mind there being a little dust everywhere because I’ve been too busy to do any dusting myself, and my housekeeper had to go to Clinton, Iowa, because her daughter-in-law had a baby.”

Malone blinked. Doris Dawn, radio singing star, had spent agonizing hours on a window ledge twenty-two stories up from the street. She was in danger of being hustled into a psychopathic ward and if she were turned loose, she was probably in danger of being murdered. But she worried for fear he’d think her house needed dusting. It didn’t make sense. But then, neither did Doris.

“Tell me,” he said, “about this mysterious ‘he’—”

“Honest,” she said, “I never got a look at him. That first time—” The car was pulling up in front of headquarters. “It’s all in the diary.”

He squeezed her hand, tight. “Look. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t talk to any reporters. Refer everything to your lawyer. That’s me. And don’t be afraid.”

A big sob of pity rose in his throat. She was so lovely, and so frightened. He wanted to put a comforting arm around her for just one moment. But Klutchetsky was already pulling open the car door.

“You’ll be safe,” he promised her. “I’ll raise a little hell.”

He raised so much hell that Doris Dawn was taken from headquarters in a police ambulance, two jumps ahead of the reporters, placed in a private hospital under an assumed name and with a police guard at the door. Indeed he was so efficient about his hell-raising that it was not until he was out on the sidewalk, in the cold spring rain, that he remembered overlooking a number of very important details.

One, he had neglected to tell Doris Dawn the name of her self-appointed lawyer. Two, he had neglected to learn the name of the private hospital, and the name under which she’d been registered.

He reflected that he’d probably have more trouble finding his client than she would have finding her lawyer. But those were the minor details.

The more important items were that, while appointing himself her lawyer, he’d forgotten to mention the delicate matter of a retainer. And worse than that, the original client he’d been on his way to see had certainly located another mouthpiece by this time.

Finally, the expensive blonde had never been known to wait for anyone more than half an hour. He was almost two hours late, by now.

Malone sighed unhappily and regretted having spent most of that lone five dollar bill buying magazines and candy for Doris Dawn at the newsstand, before the police ambulance took her away. Then he thought about Doris Dawn and decided he didn’t regret it too much.

There was a grand total of eighty-seven cents in his pocket. The little lawyer ducked into the nearest corner bar and spent seventy-five cents of it on three gin-and-beers while he thought over all he knew about Doris Dawn.

Her mother, Diana Dawn, had been one of the most beautiful women of her, or any other, generation. Talented, too, though she hadn’t needed to be. It was worth the price of a theater ticket just to look at her, she didn’t have to utter one word or sing one note. She’d married a man as rich as she was beautiful, and been heartbroken when he was killed in a polo accident shortly after Doris was born.

Time had apparently healed wounds enough for her to marry again — this time, an actor. Malone fumbled through his memory for his name, finally found it. Robert Spencer. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, for some reason he couldn’t quite place. That was when he ordered the third gin-and-beer.

Diana Dawn Stuart Spencer had been married only a few months when her second husband had vanished from the face of the earth. Not long after, Diana herself had jumped from the end of Navy Pier into the cold waters of Lake Michigan, leaving alone in the world a small blonde daughter who inherited the Stuart fortune, was raised by a board of trustees, and burst upon the world at eighteen as Doris Dawn, singer, determined on making her own way in the world.

Malone put down his empty glass, sighed, and felt in his pockets. Two nickels, two pennies and a telephone slug. He searched other pockets, not forgetting to investigate the lining of his coat and his trouser cuffs. Sometimes small change turned up unexpectedly. But not this time. He considered investing the two nickels in the slot machine, thought over the odds, and gave that up. He debated riding a street car to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar and negotiating a small loan, then remembered Joe the Angel had gone to Gary, Indiana, to help celebrate a niece’s wedding. He ended up by riding a State Street car to within a couple of blocks of 1117 Gay Street.

It was nearly midnight when he entered the tiny, perfect (though admittedly dusty) house Charles Stuart had built for his bride and left to his daughter, set in a small square of garden enclosed by a high brick wall. Less than half an hour later he was out in the garden with a spade he’d found in the back entry, shivering in the rain, and praying that he was on a fool’s errand. Before one o’clock he was on the telephone in a frantic search for Capt. Dan von Flanagan, of the Homicide Squad. By one-fifteen von Flanagan was there having brought, per Malone’s request, two husky policemen with shovels, the morgue wagon and a basket, and a bottle of gin.

“I thought it was a joke,” Malone said hoarsely, nursing his glass of gin. “I found her diary right where she said it would be.” He nodded toward the little Chippendale desk. “I started to read it.”

“Shame on you, Malone,” von Flanagan said. “Reading a girl’s diary.” The big policeman looked uncomfortable and uneasy, perched on the edge of a delicate brocade chair. “What does it say?”

“It was her idea,” Malone said. “Anyway, I wanted to read her version of those two — suicide attempts. And this paper fell out of it.” He handed it to von Flanagan.

“It sounded like a couple of lines from a couple of popular songs. But I found a spade, and I dug.”

“You must have been drunk,” von Flanagan commented.

“Who, me?” Malone asked indignantly. He gulped the rest of his glass of gin, took out a cigar and lit it with only a slightly trembling hand.

“And don’t be nervous,” von Flanagan said. “You’ve seen skulls before.”

“Who’s nervous?” Malone demanded. He closed his eyes and remembered standing under a tree that dripped cold spring rain, bracing his feet in the mud and digging with a small and inadequate shovel into the still half-frozen ground, until suddenly a white and fleshless face leered at him. A nearby door opened, and he jumped.

A policeman in an oilskin slicker and muddy boots said, “We found a’most all of him, ’cept a little bit of his left foot.” He closed the door as he went out, and Malone closed his eyes. He opened the door again and said, “Looks like he was buried with all his clothes on, even his jewelry. Johnson’s cleaning off his watch.” He closed the door again. Malone sneezed.

“I hope you haven’t caught cold,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

“I never catch cold,” Malone said. He finally got the cigar lit, reached for the gin bottle and said, “But just to be on the safe side—” He sneezed again. “About the diary. It was written by a very happy, very normal young girl who had everything to live for, including about half the money in the world. Up to the point where strange things began to happen to her.” He reached for the little leather-bound book and began to read aloud.

“She is nuts,” von Flanagan commented.

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. He went on: “I remember now that night there was a man in my room. He came to deliver a telegram only I never did see the telegram. I was in the bathtub so I put a robe on and opened the door a crack and told him to leave the telegram on the desk and shut the door when he went out. My nightcap was on the bed table. I wonder if someone is trying to poison me.”

The little lawyer paused, refilled his glass, relit his cigar and said, “After that, there’s a note of uneasiness in the diary. The usual things — dates, parties, clothes — but a feeling of worry.”

Von Flanagan scowled and said, “I remember a little about that. Someone called her maid and told her to hurry home, her employer was sick. Otherwise this babe might of died, though she didn’t take much.”

“Some time later,” Malone said, “she wrote, ‘Someone is trying to kill me.’ ” He paused. “You’ll remember this, too. She was found in a hotel room, registered under another name. The maid came in and found her in the bathroom, with her wrists cut.” He paused once more and added, frowning, “She checked in, and did the slashing job just before the maid was due in that room on her regular rounds.”

“Stupid of her,” von Flanagan commented, “if she really wanted to—” he cleared his throat, “check in and check out. She should have known she’d be found in time.”

“According to her diary,” Malone told him, “a man telephoned her and told her that if she’d go to such-and-such a hotel, and register under such-and-such a name, he’d meet her there with some very important information about the long-missing Robert Spencer. She went there, answered the door, ‘a man’ — otherwise unidentified — forced her into the bathroom, slashed her wrists, and left her there unconscious. She told the police this story, and they laughed at her. The words Goodbye, goodbye were written on the bathroom mirror.”

Von Flanagan shuffled his feet uncomfortably and said, “You gotta admit, Malone, it smells phony.”

Malone ignored him. “From that point on, the diary is the story of a terrified girl who knows someone is trying to kill her. And yet,” — he put down his cigar — “I’ll read you the last entry.”

“I am terribly afraid, but I must know the truth. I have been promised that if I keep the appointment I will be told what happened to Robert Spencer. This, I must know.”

Malone closed the little diary gently and said, “The slip of paper directing me — or someone — to dig in the garden, under the tree, was found between those two pages.” He picked up the remains of his cigar, decided it was past all hope of relighting, and began to unwrap a new one.

“She took poison,” he said, “but not quite enough to kill her, and her maid was summoned home in time to have her rushed to a hospital. She registered at a hotel under a phony name and slashed her wrists — not badly — just before the hotel maid was due to come in.”

“What are you trying to prove?” von Flanagan asked uneasily.

“Nothing. Except that ‘the man’ must have known that ledge was safe enough to push a baby carriage on. He thought she’d use her head and climb back in through her window, though he made sure someone would see her and call the police before she did. He obviously didn’t know she had an abnormal fear of heights that would keep her frozen there, too scared to move, and too sane to jump. Nor,” he added modestly, “did he know that I’d arrive providentially.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” von Flanagan said.

“Trouble is,” Malone said, reaching for the gin bottle, “right now, neither do I.”

Again the young policeman came to the door, even more mud on his boots and slicker. “We found a little of what’s left of his clothes,” he reported. “Looks like he’s been there a long time. Got his wallet, his watch, and some other stuff. Looks like,” he said, “he was some guy named Robert Spencer.”

Malone lifted the gin bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes.

“It looks,” the young policeman added, “like he might of been murdered. Anyway we found what must of been a bullet in what looks like it probably had been his stomach, once.”

“Go away,” Malone groaned. He put down the gin bottle and sneezed again.

“You’re going to get pneumonia,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

The little lawyer shook his head. “Not on my income.”

“I better go back out,” the young policeman said. “Johnson still thinks he can find the rest of that left foot.” He slammed the door.

“Malone,” von Flanagan said. “That note. Was it written in the same handwriting as the diary?”

Malone blew his nose and said “Yes,” unhappily. That was one of the things that had been bothering him. Plus the fact that there was something maddeningly reminiscent about the wording of the note. “But,” he added, “it wasn’t written on the same paper. It was written on a telephone pad.” If he could only remember—

At this point another young policeman came in the room and said, “There’s someone here inquiring about Miss Dawn. I thought I’d better speak to you. He says his name is Robert Spencer.”

Malone covered his eyes with his hand and said, “This is too much!”

Von Flanagan said, “By all means, send him in.”

“By all means,” Malone repeated. “Maybe he can help find what’s left of his own left foot.” He sneezed again. He downed another drink of gin. Then suddenly he remembered. Bob Spencer, actor. Appearing, right now, in a rather dreary and not too successful comedy. Robert Spencer had had a small son, parked somewhere with relatives, when he met and married Diana Dawn.

“There’s someone with him,” the policeman said. “A Mr. Apt.”

“John Apt,” Malone said. “He’s an old-time theatrical agent. His friends call him Jack. Managed Diana Dawn, probably managed Robert Spencer. Manages Doris Dawn now. Maybe manages Bob Spencer, too — I don’t know.” He smothered the next sneeze.

Bob Spencer was tall, young, handsome, and anxious-eyed. His first words were, “Is Doris all right? What’s been happening to her? Why are all these policemen at her house? Where is she? When can I see her?”

Jack Apt smiled at Malone, von Flanagan, and the young policeman. It was a friendly, ingratiating smile. He nodded a shoulder towards the young actor and said, “You pardon him, he is upset.”

Nothing, Malone reflected, would ever upset Jack Apt. The diminutive agent had undoubtedly been born with a friendly smile and an imperturbable face and hadn’t changed his expression in all his sixty-odd years. He had bright little eyes, a white, waxy skin, and a few wisps of silvery hair on his well-shaped skull. He wore a black Chesterfield that seemed too large for his tiny frame and carried, incredibly and appropriately, a black derby.

“I am greatly concerned,” Jack Apt said. “I am the manager of Miss Dawn.” He sat down on a straight-back chair and placed the derby neatly on his knees. “I would like your assurance, sir—”

“Where is she?” Bob Spencer demanded, his voice harsh with desperation.

“The young lady is quite safe,” von Flanagan said coldly. “And what’s it to you?”

“I’m in love with her,” Bob Spencer said. “She’s in love with me.”

Malone looked at him and swallowed a sigh. He’d been cherishing a few very personal ideas about Doris Dawn. Now, he realized, he didn’t have a chance.

“We’re going to be married,” Bob Spencer added.

The little lawyer sat up in surprise, but said nothing.

Jack Apt beamed. “Just like two little lovebirds. And then there will be no more difficulty about the money.”

“Money?” Malone asked. It was one of his favorite subjects, right now more than ever.

“Never mind about the money,” Bob Spencer said, “Where is Doris?”

“Never mind about Doris,” Malone snapped, “What money?”

“Diana Dawn’s will,” Jack Apt explained. “She had a great deal of money. All of it from that unfortunate Mr. Stuart. She left it all to her second husband, Robert Spencer. Just before she died. Almost as though she had a premonition.”

Malone scowled. “But Robert Spencer had disappeared before then.”

“Quite right,” Jack Apt said, nodding and smiling. “Therefore the will stated that until he was found, Doris Dawn would receive the income from the estate, and would have the use of this property for living purposes.”

“ ‘Found,’ ” Malone quoted. “Did it specify — dead or alive?”

“No,” Jack Apt said. He looked very innocent and mild, turning his derby round and round on his knee. “A very curious will, I admit. But Diana wanted it that way. Robert had his faults, but she was fond of him. He stole from her, lied to her, almost ruined her career, but she was fond of him right up to the end.” Suddenly he didn’t look quite as innocent, nor as mild. “There is a clause — if her daughter should die, before he returned or was found, the money would go to his heirs. Or — if her daughter married, before he returned or was found, the money would go to the daughter and her husband. A very complicated will, but then, Diana Dawn had a very complicated personality.”

Young Bob Spencer obviously couldn’t stand this any longer. He said, “But this isn’t finding Doris. And she hasn’t married anybody, and he — hasn’t been found.”

Just at that moment one of the young policemen came in and said, “Johnson just found the rest of the left foot. Looks like we got all of him now.”

“Him?” Bob Spencer asked wildly. He stared around the room. “Where — is — Doris?”

“Right here,” Doris Dawn’s voice said.

Malone jumped, and turned around.

“Hello, Malone,” a deep, masculine voice said. “Sorry we startled you.”

She was still very pale, but her face had been washed and freshly made up. Her honey blonde hair was smooth over her shoulders. She wore a nurse’s uniform and white shoes and stockings but the dark mink coat was over the uniform.

Malone sneezed and said, “You’re not here. You’re in a hospital. You’re an illusion. Go away. Vanish. Scat!”

Jerry Kane laughed.

“And you, Kane,” Malone said, breathing hard. “How did you get in here?”

“We came in through the back door,” Kane said. “Very easy, since it’s our own house.”

“Our—?” the little lawyer exploded.

He glared at Jerry Kane. The gambler, racketeer, night club owner, and promoter was a big, rangy, yet strangely graceful man. His tanned face could be hard as nails, or it could be ingratiatingly friendly and smiling, and it had an old scar down one cheek. His business deals had always kept him inside the law — but just inside. He owned the night club in which Doris Dawn sang. His reputation with women was worse than Malone’s.

The other occupants of the room had been momentarily struck speechless. Now, everyone spoke at once. All questions. All the same questions.

“I discovered,” Doris Dawn said, “I had to get out of that hospital. I had to. Because there was a chance to find out — something. It was very easy, really. I bribed a nurse to call Jerry. He bribed the policeman by my door to go away. And he brought me a nurse’s uniform, and all I had to do was put it on and walk out.”

“And,” the big man said, “before coming here we drove across the state line and were married. Meet Mrs. Kane.”

Young Bob Spencer cried, “Doris—!” in an anguished voice.

“You fool!” Jack Apt said.

She paid no attention. “This time, no one’s going to stop me — finding out. It would be better, honestly, if you all just waited here for me.” Suddenly a little gun flashed in her hand. “But don’t try to stop me.”

“Doris... baby—” Jerry Kane gasped. And then, “How the hell did you get my gun?”

“I took it out of your pocket,” she said calmly. Her white little face was hard as ice. “If anyone tries to stop me or follow me, I’ll shoot. No matter who. Even if it’s Jerry, and I love Jerry. I always have.” Suddenly she was gone.

Before anyone could move, little Jack Apt said, “Too bad you married her, Kane. Because she isn’t going to inherit the money after all.”

Kane swore bitterly and raced for the door. Suddenly everyone in the room was racing for the door. Malone caught up, out on the sidewalk, just as a car roared away down the street. Kane’s car. With Doris driving. Other cars roared away. Bob Spencer’s roadster. Two police cars.

The little lawyer stood shivering. They’d never catch up with that car of Kane’s, not even the squad car would. And here he was stranded, and only he knew where she was going.

Not a taxi in sight. None nearer than Chicago Avenue.

Chicago Avenue — a sudden thought struck him, he wheeled around and sprinted down the street. One block to State Street, three blocks to Chicago Avenue. He made it to the safety zone just as an east bound streetcar came clanging through the rain.

“Wet night,” the conductor commented.

“Going to be wetter,” Malone prophesied gloomily. He dropped the remaining nickel in the coin box and began searching his pockets for an imaginary two pennies. The streetcar had reached the turn into Lakeshore Drive when Malone found the telephone slug, handed it triumphantly to the conductor for change and was properly surprised and crestfallen when it was returned to him. He continued to search for the pennies right up to the moment when the now empty streetcar came to an abrupt halt at the end of the line.

“Guess I’ll have to put you off here,” the conductor said. “No fare, no ride.”

Malone glanced through the window, saw the familiar outlines of Navy Pier, and said, “Only the brave deserve the fair.” He reached into his vest pocket and said, “Have a cigar.”

Jerry Kane’s custom-built convertible was parked at the entrance to the pier. There were no other cars in sight. Malone sighed. This was something he was going to have to handle by himself.

He knew exactly where to go. Up the stairs on the left-hand side of the pier, and along the promenade. Dark and deserted now, and desolate in the rain. There was one certain point, just beyond the line of benches — he stared ahead through the wet blackness and saw no sign of a girl in a nurse’s uniform. He began to run.

He reached the spot from which Diana Dawn had leaped to her death, years before, and looked over the railing. There was a blob of white on the black water. Malone peeled off his overcoat, kicked off his shoes, and jumped.

The water was icy cold. He caught his breath after one terrible moment, and swam in the direction of the white blob.

She was alive. She was struggling against the water. That gave him new strength. He held her head up for a minute and, by some miracle, managed to rid her of the dark mink coat that was pulling her down.

A boat was coming. A tiny canoe, dark against the darkness. Malone aimed for it, helping her. An oar came out from the canoe, and pushed — down.

There was a brief agony of being underwater and an even briefer remembrance of all the things that had made living so much fun. An almost unbearable roaring in his ears as he rose to the surface still holding her. A light that almost blinded him as he breathed air again.

A voice said, “Catch ’em before they go down again.” Strong hands reached out and caught him by the armpits. One quick motion, and he was hauled into the motor boat that had made the almost unbearable roaring and had flashed its light in his face.

He longed to collapse into unconsciousness there on the deck, but first — he looked, and saw that she had been hauled on board, and was breathing. Then he managed, with his last strength, to point at the canoe.

He heard a shot. He pulled himself up enough to look over the edge of the boat. He saw the canoe, overturned, starting to settle and sink.

“You might have known I’d commandeer a shore boat,” Jerry Kane said. “I knew where she’d go. After all, I’ve been in love with her for a long time.”

Malone lay back against the set boards, thought the whole thing over, and finally said, “You know, I think I am getting a cold after all.”

In the emergency room on the pier, Lt. von Flanagan agreed that it was a shame young Bob Spencer — such a promising young actor, too — had perished in an attempt to rescue one of Chicago’s favorite radio and stage entertainers, Miss Doris Dawn. Fortunately, Mr. Jerry Kane had come along in time to rescue Miss Dawn and Mr. John Joseph Malone, prominent Chicago attorney.

After the reporters and Doris Dawn and her new husband had gone, he said, “All right, Malone, what the hell happened?”

Malone snuggled into the blanket some kind soul had wrapped around him, sneezed, and said, “If Doris Dawn died, and the body of Robert Spencer were found, Robert Spencer’s heir would inherit several million dollars. Bob Spencer, naturally, was the only heir. Being a young man of imagination, he decided it would be better for her to commit suicide than to be murdered in some ordinary way. There wouldn’t be so many embarassing questions asked of the one person to benefit by her death.”

He paused, sneezed twice, and went on, “But he also knew that it wasn’t easy to make murder look like suicide. Especially to—” he paused again for a second or two — “very smart cops like von Flanagan here. Therefore, his prospective victim had to make several unsuccessful attempts at suicide.” He sneezed once more. “My grandmother always said whiskey was the best thing to ward off a cold. Oh, thanks, pal. Very kind of you.”

“I would of believed it,” von Flanagan said slowly. “In fact, after those first coupla’ tries — I mean, what looked like tries — if she’d of fell off that window ledge, with ‘Goodbye, goodbye’ wrote all over the mirrors, I’d of said suicide. And then when it looked like she jumped off of the pier, right at the place where her old lady jumped off years ago, after finding her step-pa’s body and figuring out her old lady must of bumped him off and buried him there, and with her leaving a note saying right where he was—” He stopped, ran a handkerchief over his broad red face and said, “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Malone said. “I know what you were supposed to think.”

“But that note,” von Flanagan said. “Why did she write it?”

“She didn’t,” Malone told him.

The police officer scowled. “It was in her handwriting. (Dig, dig, dig. And — under the willow tree in the garden.)”

“It was dictated to her,” Malone said. He sighed, and added, “You’re not up on popular songs, von Flanagan. You check this with her and see if I’m not right. The murderer telephoned her and recommended a couple of songs that would be particularly good for her style of singing. He told her to write down the titles and get copies. She did. Then on his next visit he tore the leaf from the telephone pad and stuck it in her diary. Remember, she trusted him, and he probably had the run of the house.”

Von Flanagan shook his head sadly. “The things some people will do!” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Remember, he had to have the body found,” Malone said, “or else he couldn’t inherit. This would have looked like her last suicide note. It would have built up her reason for the suicide — her remorse for her mother’s having committed a murder. That must have been preying on her mind for years. That’s why she was willing to keep all these appointments, because she was told she’d find out the truth.”

“And what was the truth?” von Flanagan asked. “Why did her old lady bump off this guy?”

There was a second or two of silence. “Because,” Malone said at last, “from all I’ve been able to learn, he was a no good son-of-a-bee who was wrecking her life and her career, and who should have been murdered years before.” He wondered if it would do him any serious damage to smoke a cigar, decided he might as well try, reached in his pocket and encountered a repulsive, soggy mass of wet tobacco.

“Have one of mine,” Jack Apt said quietly.

It was a fine, Havana cigar. Malone accepted it with thanks, and privately wished it was one of his own favorite six-for-a-quarter brand.

“Only,” von Flanagan said, “how did you know for sure she really hadn’t meant to jump off that ledge?”

The little lawyer sneezed and sighed on the same breath, nearly strangling himself. “Because of the ‘goodbye, goodbye,’ written on the mirrors.”

“I don’t get it,” von Flanagan said. “You will,” Malone told him, “if you’ll think of Doris Dawn’s coloring — and the color of lipstick that was used to write on the mirrors. No woman in her right mind would wear that shade with a skin like Doris’s.”

Von Flanagan rose and said admiringly, “I wish I knew how you find out such things.”

“Even if I could trust you with the truth,” Malone said, “you wouldn’t believe it.”

For a few minutes after von Flanagan had gone he sat hunched in his blankets, brooding. He’d found a murderer, he’d saved a life, he’d seen what looked like the beginning of a very happy marriage. But he still didn’t have carfare home.

Suddenly Malone had enough of it — a bellyful. He turned and stared at Jack Apt. Apt stared back, uncomfortably. Then Malone said, “If I sit here much longer, I’ll get double pneumonia and have to be shot full of penicillin. Besides, the whiskey’s gone, this cigar stinks — come on, Apt, break down and spill the truth. Or shall I?”

Jack Apt said softly, “How did you know I murdered Robert Spencer?”

Malone sneezed again. “Cut it out, Apt. I may be all wet — but not in the brain. Add it up this way: you were Diana Dawn’s manager. You must have been in love with her. Everyone who ever saw her was. You knew what he was doing to her — so you killed him. What you didn’t know was that she loved him and that she would kill herself from anxiety over his disappearance.”

“I killed him,” Jack Apt said, “and I buried him. Young Bob Spencer wormed the truth about his burial place out of me. I didn’t know the reason why he wanted to find it out. Perhaps you’d better call von Flanagan back here, and tell him.”

Malone yawned and said, “von Flanagan gets on my nerves sometimes.” He sneezed a double one this time. “It must have been hell for you all these years, after she killed herself. So why bring the cops in now?”

“It was hell,” Jack Apt said, pulling on a pair of tan leather gloves. “It will continue to be. May I drive you anywhere, Malone?”

“No, thanks,” Malone said. “I’ll call a cab.” He remembered his lack of cabfare. “Or maybe I’ll walk.”

The door opened and Maggie, his secretary, walked in. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were blazing.

“I’ve been looking all over town for you. You owe me seven and a half hours overtime. That burglar has decided he will have you enter a not-guilty plea. He waited hours for you, and then sent his retainer over by messenger. All in cash.”

“Call me a cab,” Malone said, “before pneumonia carries me off.”

“And,” Maggie said, “A girl has been calling you for hours. She just said to tell you she’s That Blonde.”

Malone leaped up, blankets falling to the floor. “Call her back and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I change my clothes.”

“But Mr. Malone,” Maggie wailed, “you’ll catch cold.”

The little lawyer paused at the door. “Who, me? I never catch cold.” He waved, said a cheerful “Goodbye, goodbye,” and walked out whistling “The Willow Tree In The Garden”.