David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

“You can hear me all right,” the Chief of Homicide replied. “What I want to know is, what have you got to do with this payroll robbery and murder? We found your name and address on the victim’s body.”

Malone said, “Maybe he was planning to give me as a character witness to St. Peter at the pearly gates.”

“That must be it,” Von Flanagan came back, in a voice that had more edge and less volume to it. “Because right here in his little book — entry made last Saturday — John J. Malone, retainer, twenty dollars. Are you going in for cut rates now?”

“Got to meet the amateur competition,” Malone said. “Anyway, it looks as if my client has met with foul play. I suppose you know by this time who his assailants are.”

“Don’t give me that, Malone. What I want to know is, what was Algernon Petty doing in your office the day before he was murdered?”

Malone said, “He wasn’t consulting me about getting himself murdered, if that’s what you’re thinking. The man you should be questioning is George V. Benson.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said, “but I’ve got a hunch.”

“Benson was in Pittsburgh when the job was pulled.” Von Flanagan said. “He’s due back in less than an hour, and if you’ve got any evidence involving him in the crime bring it to my office and confront him with it. And it better be good, or you’ll need that twenty buck retainer to buy yourself cigarettes in the County Jail. Ever hear of false arrest, accessory before the fact, giving misleading information, failure to report—”

Malone hung up the receiver and jumping up reached for his hat.

“What’s the hurry?” Maggie called out after him.

“I’ve got to go see a lawyer,” Malone said, and bolted, with surprising celerity, out the door.

“To the Municipal Airport,” Malone told the cab driver, “and never mind the red lights. I’ve got friends at City Hall.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” the cabby shot back over his shoulder. “What’s the big rush?”

Malone said, “The accessorius post mortem has just been caught in flagrante delicto.”

“Happens all the time,” the cabby said, and settled back into moody silence the rest of the way.

At the airport Malone went straight to the ticket window. “I’ve got to fly to Pittsburgh Saturday afternoon and be back here in time for an important homicide last night,” he told the clerk. “Can I make it?”

The clerk blinked, started writing up a ticket, blinked again and, “You mean Saturday night out of Pittsburgh,” he said, “There is an extra plane back to Chicago on Saturday nights, arriving here Sunday morning at—”

“Did you say Sunday morning?”

“Yes sir, Sunday. But that won’t leave you much time in Pittsburgh. I wouldn’t advise it, sir—”

Malone said, “Thank you, I was only inquiring.”

At the information desk he was told that the plane from Pittsburgh was preparing to touch down, and put in a page call for George V. Benson.

Malone waited till Benson had shaken off reporters with a curt “No comment,” and presented his card. “The matter of a loan of three thousand dollars you made my client, Mr. Algernon Petty, last Saturday,” he explained.

Benson had stuck the card in his pocket with the air of a man who has other business on his mind and is not to be detained. Now he took it out again and read aloud, “John J. Malone. Not the John J. Malone,” he said.

“Thank you,” Malone said. “I thought you might wish to discuss this little transaction before you talk to the police.”

“It was simply a matter of helping out an old employee in a jam,” Benson told Malone over a highball in the airport bar a few minutes later. “Besides, it would have been bad publicity for the company. I had no idea it would lead to anything — he seemed like such a harmless sort. Must have been in a lot deeper than he let on, to try anything like this.”

“What do you mean?” Malone said.

Benson said, “Surely, Mr. Malone, you don’t think Petty could have thought up anything like this by himself. He must have had confederates.”

“Then why did he come to you with his story about the embezzlements?”

“Oh, so you know about that too?” For the first time Benson looked disturbed. “What else did he tell you?”

“He said you promised to leave the three thousand for him in the safe Saturday afternoon. Of course you knew the payroll cash was in the safe. Didn’t you think it was a bit of a risk to leave a man like Petty alone with two hundred thousand dollars when he had just confessed to embezzling company funds?”

Benson looked down at his glass. “I can see now how that might be misconstrued,” he said. “Of course you understand I had no intention of accusing Mr. Petty of anything. It was just that I couldn’t understand—” He took out his wallet and handed Malone the confession the little bookkeeper had signed. “Here, you keep this,” he said. “Or better yet, destroy it. There is also Mrs. Petty to consider. And the trouble he was having — with women, I mean. I suppose he told you about that too? Imagine, women! A man like Petty. I wouldn’t want to have it on my conscience—”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Benson,” Malone said. He put the signed confession in his pocket.

“I would destroy that if I were you,” Benson said. “I wouldn’t want anything to come out that might be misinterpreted — can I give you a lift, Mr. Malone?”

In the cab on the way to police headquarters Benson was still nervous and disturbed. “I dread all this fuss — reporters, police — I suppose I’ll have to testify at the inquest. It would be a great relief to me if I had a good lawyer—” He looked speculatively at Malone.

The little lawyer nodded. “Come and see me. Any time.” At police headquarters he took leave of Benson, explaining it was only a short walk to his office. “I might begin by giving you one piece of legal advice,” he said on parting. “If Von Flanagan should ask you why you took the midnight plane back from Pittsburgh Saturday and what you were doing in Chicago Sunday night, don’t tell him a thing. Remember nobody is compelled to testify against himself.”

Without turning to look back Malone hurried to the corner and boarded a streetcar to the office. No point in running up cab fares, he told himself. Not on a twenty-buck retainer.

Back at the office Malone handed Maggie the signed confession, saying, “Put this in my safe deposit box first thing tomorrow morning when you make the bank deposit. Did I have any phone calls?”

Maggie gave him a straight look. “What bank deposit? And whom did you expect a call from?”

“There might be a bank deposit, and I’m expecting a call from George Benson. I just left him at police headquarters. He seems to think he’ll be needing my professional services.”

“Don’t tell me it was Benson!”

Malone said, “I’m not ready to say it was anybody — yet. But it could have been Benson. Let’s take a trial balance.” He took out a fresh cigar and lighted it carefully before continuing. “All right, motive: Two hundred thousand dollars is enough motive for anybody, anytime. Opportunity: He could have flown to Pittsburgh Saturday afternoon, checked in at a hotel and seen or called somebody from the home office, and caught the night plane back to Chicago with plenty of time to kill Petty and return to Pittsburgh on the night plane, and deposit the payroll money in an airfield locker. Meanwhile the police would be searching for the bandit killers, and — no bandits. Because...” Malone watched a funnel of cigar smoke ascend slowly to the ceiling, “because the safest crime to commit is one in which the only obvious suspect is the one everybody is searching for and nobody can find — because he doesn’t exist.”