Lucky Stiff - Craig Rice (good book club books .TXT) 📗

us when he wakes up.” He decided against adding what he did know about the bombing of Rico di Angelo’s. “The important thing is that he’s all right.”

She drew a long, quivering breath of relief. “I was really scared for a minute!”

“Now,” Jake said, “about you.”

“Please, Mr. Justus.”

“Jake.”

She smiled. “All right, Jake. I’m really desperately tired. And even if I weren’t I couldn’t go anywhere—appear anywhere—without Malone.”

“You’ve got to,” Jake said.

“No.”

He sighed. “Look, your whole future depends on it.” He went into details. Lou Berg. Hollywood. Exploitation. He even included the premiere at the Casino. “When Lou finds out that you’re not a real ghost, he’s going to be surprised, but he isn’t going to be sore. It’s just as good exploitation when the whole story finally breaks.”

“But—” She frowned.

Jake went on hastily, “When you finish with this—little business—of yours, you’re going to have to do something with your life. What would you have done a year ago if somebody had offered you a chance like this?”

“I’d have jumped at it,” she said. She paused. “Can’t it be done tomorrow night?”

“No. I know Lou. He’s impatient.”

“Let me think for a minute.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and stared at the end of it. At last she looked up, smiled at him, and said, “O.K., you win.”

“Good girl,” Jake said. “Get dressed, and we’ll work out some plans.”

“You’ll have to leave the plans to me,” she told him. “But I promise they’ll be good ones.” She looked at her watch. “Where can I phone you, a little later?”

Jake thought for a moment and said, “The Casino.”

“You’ll hear from me. I’ll tell you where I’ll be and what to do.”

“When you’re a Hollywood star,” Jake said, “don’t forget to send me your autograph.” He grinned at her and went out.

On his way to the lobby a thought struck him. Anna Marie might try to phone Malone. He paused in a phone booth, called the apartment hotel, and left strict orders not to put any calls through. Malone, he reflected, would probably sleep through the last trumpet, doped as he was, but Jake wasn’t taking any chances.

Lou Berg grumbled, “It sure took you long enough to pick up a little mail at the desk.”

“Ran into someone I knew,” Jake said smoothly. He caught Helene’s eye and nodded slightly.

She smiled at him, started the car, and said, “Well, guys, where to?”

“The Casino,” Jake told her. As she started the car, he added, “Best floor show in town, and no cover charge.”

Berg said, “Used to have a great band there, once. Fella by name of Lou Berg.”

“Personally,” Jake said, “I thought his band was strictly a stinker.”

They squabbled amiably all the way to the Casino. The floor show had just started, and by the time their drinks arrived it had reached the spot where Milly Dale had always appeared.

Helene suddenly said, “Jake!”

He reached across the table and gripped her hand, hard. “I know,” he said, “she was a swell kid.”

“It’s not only that,” Helene whispered. Her eyes were bright with excitement. “I’ve remembered.”

“You’ve remembered what?”

“Yesterday, when I was in The Happy Days saloon, and I heard Bill McKeown warning her not to sing that song—the strip-tease one about the gun.”

“Bill McKeown’s a good egg in some ways,” Jake said, “but he has no taste in music.”

“Damn you,” Helene said, “that isn’t it. Jake, don’t you remember—she dropped that song and didn’t sing it for a long time. I think night before last was the first time she’d sung it since—just after Big Joe Childers’ murder.”

Jake stared at her. “I don’t get it.” He scowled. “The ‘Girl-With-The-Gun.’ Did Milly Dale shoot Big Joe Childers and frame her friend Anna Marie? Then who shot Milly Dale?”

“I don’t know,” Helene said. “I don’t know who shot who or why, but I do know that song has something to do with it, and I know Bill McKeown has.” She added, “Why the hell did Malone pick this particular night to get himself blown up in a bombing!”

“Don’t be impatient,” Jake told her. “We can talk to him tomorrow.”

“There’s been too many murders,” she said firmly. “There might be another one. We ought to do something now.”

“Look,” Lou Berg interrupted. “I don’t mind you two going ahead and having a good time, but with me, this is strictly business.”

“That’s right, Helene,” Jake said.

She sighed and was silent.

“And if that ghost of yours was going to show up,” Berg went on, “it would’ve been in that spot where the other babe sang. So, where do we go now?”

“We stay here,” Jake said. “Last night it appeared during the second floor show. And this is as good a place to get drunk in as any you can name.”

“We ought to go to the apartment and see how Malone is,” Helene said.

“No,” Jake said very positively.

The second floor show was half through when Jake was called to the telephone. When he returned, Lou Berg said, “She didn’t show up this time, either. Your ghost must be playing a different circuit.”

“We’ll find her,” Jake said confidently. “Right now, we’re going somewhere else. The Happy Days saloon.” He turned to Helene. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe someone should be there with Malone. Suppose we drop you at the apartment and join you there later.”

“Oh, no,” Helene said. “You don’t put that over on me. You said yourself he’d be perfectly all right. If you think for one minute I’m not coming along—”

“Helene,” Jake said, “be reasonable.”

“Jake,” she said, “be sensible. Don’t argue with me. You always lose.”

“I don’t like it,” Jake said unhappily. “It isn’t safe.”

“It as safe for me as it is for you. I don’t have any particular desire to be a widow.”

“Hell,” Lou Berg said, “lay off the argument and let’s get going. I know Helene. She’d be safe in a den of wildcats, but heaven help the wildcats.”

Helene flashed him a grateful smile and slid into her coat. Jake sighed and gave up.

It was a short drive to The Happy Days. Helene parked the big car on Ontario Street, just off the alley, and they walked around the corner.

At the door Jake made one last try. “Maybe you’d better stay in the car and keep the motor running in case we want to leave in a hurry.”

She didn’t even answer that one.

The Happy Days was far from crowded. The bartender was polishing glasses, the bouncer stood leaning against the wall A couple at one of the tables were drinking beer and arguing A lone customer in one corner was drinking a gin rickey and playing solitaire. And Al Harmon was leaning against the bar.

“Jake,” Helene whispered. She dug her fingers into his arm.

“I see him,” Jake whispered back. “The young man in the tan raincoat. But remember, as Lou pointed out, we’re here strictly on business.” He led the way to a booth.

The bartender stared at them, so did the bouncer. Helene waved cheerily at the bartender, who came slowly over to their table.

“Three ryes,” Jake said.

After the ryes had been brought, Al Harmon strolled very casually over to their booth and leaned on it.

“Friend of yours is down the hall talking to Bill McKeown,” he said. “Lawyer, name of Malone.”

Helene almost upset her drink. Jake said, “That’s impossible. He’s in bed, full of sleeping pills, and he won’t wake up for hours.”

“You’re all wrong, pal. I talked to him myself, about an hour and a half ago.”

Helene’s lips set in a firm line. “The damned Irishman! I should have made sure he swallowed those capsules!”

Jake started to rise. “He’s in no condition to be out and around.”

“I wouldn’t interfere,” Al Harmon began.

The front door opened, and von Flanagan came in. He had a plainclothes man with him. He saw Jake and Helene and Berg, glared at them, and said, “How the hell do you manage to turn up everywhere?” He walked to the bar and said, “Where’s McKeown?”

The bartender jerked his head toward the hall and said, “Office.”

The police officer and the plainclothes man strode down the hall. Jake, Helene, and Lou Berg followed. As they reached the door, they heard Malone’s voice.

“Louis Perez told me,” Malone was saying. “You can’t get out of it, McKeown.”

Von Flanagan walked in. Malone looked very tired and pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was swaying slightly. Von Flanagan ignored him as he tossed a gun on the desk.

“Is this your gun, McKeown?”

Bill McKeown said nothing.

“Talk!” von Flanagan said.

“You might as well admit it,” Malone put in. “He’s had it traced to you.”

Suddenly Bill McKeown’s eyes stared at something over their shoulders. Von Flanagan gave one quick glance.

There in the semidarkness of the hallway, framed against the dark wooden door of the room marked “Ladies,” was the pale, misty, beautiful vision of Anna Marie St. Clair.

Von Flanagan gave one blood-curdling yell and fled toward the front of the building, followed by his plainclothes man. Lou Berg stared in open-mouthed admiration.

No one noticed Bill McKeown’s fingers closing over the gun.