David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

“Perfect,” Maggie said. “Unless somebody saw him come back. Unless somebody noticed that he hadn’t spent the night in his hotel room, or saw him getting off the plane there in the morning, or returning to his hotel room. And what about the murder weapon? And the night watchman?”

“No crime is that perfect,” Malone said. “Besides, Benson may save everybody a lot of trouble yet by cracking up and coming clean with the whole story. He was pretty scared when I left him. Yes, I have an idea we’ll be seeing Mr. Benson soon.”

That evening the papers carried the news that all reports of the fleeing bandits had proved false alarms, that auditors had failed to find any irregularities in the slain bookkeeper’s accounts, and that, according to Captain Von Flanagan, the department had undisclosed information on the identity of the payroll mob and was preparing to stage a series of lightning arrests. There was also a statement by George V. Benson to the effect that no effort or expense would be spared by his firm to bring the murderers to justice.

It was nearly midnight when the telephone in Malone’s apartment rang. It was George Benson. His voice was low but urgent. “I’ve got to see you right away. Alone. I’ll be right over.” In less than fifteen minutes he was at the door, a shaken, almost incoherent, man.

“I need your help, Malone. You’ll have to believe me. I had nothing to do with the robbery or the murder. I was only trying to help Petty. But what do you suppose happened tonight? Eric Dockstedter came to my home. He’s our night watchman, you know. For the longest time he kept talking, beating around the bush, and then it dawned on me what he was trying to say. He suspects me of having committed the robbery and the murder! Didn’t want to make any trouble for me, he said, loyalty and all that, to the firm, to me personally, but he had a sick wife, a son-in-law that was in some kind of jam, he wasn’t in too good health himself and was thinking of retiring anyway, and all that kind of talk. Trying to shake me down. Trying to blackmail me!”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I denied it, of course. I couldn’t fire him. He might go to the police anyway. I stalled. Told him I’d have to think it over. There must be some way to stop him, Malone. But quietly, without any publicity. There’ll be expenses, of course. I’m not a rich man, Malone, but a thing like this — will a thousand take care of it? The initial expense, I mean.”

Malone tried not to look at the crisp hundred dollar bills on the coffee table. “As your lawyer — and I haven’t said I’ll take the case yet — I would have to ask you a few questions first, Mr. Benson,” Malone said. “Why did you fly back from Pittsburgh Saturday night, and what were you doing in Chicago between Sunday morning and Sunday night when you flew back to Pittsburgh?”

“How did you know—” Benson began, and stopped himself abruptly. “Who says I was here Sunday? Did anybody see me?”

“I was only guessing,” Malone admitted. “Just a shot in the dark, but it seems to have rung a bell. Come now, Benson, I’ll have to have the whole story — straight — if I’m going to take your case. You may have to explain it to the police later, anyway.”

“I suppose so,” Benson replied dejectedly. “Although there’s nothing to it, really. Nothing that has any bearing on the case. It — it’s something personal.”

Malone said, “I see. The blonde alibi. You’ll have to think of something more original, Mr. Benson.”

“I’d hoped I could keep her out of this,” Benson said, shaking his head sadly, “But I suppose you’ll have to check on it. I’ll need time, though, to sort of prepare her for it.”

Malone shook his head. He handed Benson the telephone. “Now,” he said. “Just say I’ve got to see her right away. Alone. And don’t try coaching the witness.”

Benson did as he was bidden, then drove Malone to the rendezvous. As he pulled up before the apartment hotel he turned to Malone. “This is going to be a delicate business,” he said. “I can trust you, of course.”

“You can trust a lawyer with anything,” Malone said, “and don’t mention a word of this to your wife.”

The blonde alibi proved to be a blonde all right, and everything else a man could wish in the way of an alibi. Serena Gates was neither surprised nor shocked.

“I’ve been expecting something like this ever since it happened,” she told Malone right away. “I’m not the kind of a girl you think I am, Mr. Malone. Things are not really as bad as they look.”

Malone looked again and decided things didn’t look bad at all. In fact, things were every bit as good as they looked, even in the dim half light that concealed as much as it revealed of the shapely figure.

“You’ll have to excuse my informal attire,” Serena said, drawing a wisp of the filmy negligee over her shoulder. “You see, I had already gone to bed. It’s about yesterday you want to question me, isn’t it? Can I fix you something to drink?”

After the fourth highball and what Malone told himself was a very satisfactory investigation of the facts, he came away with the conviction that Benson’s alibi was just a trifle short of what he needed to eliminate him as a suspect. According to Serena Gates he had left her apartment shortly after eight o’clock in the evening driving a rented car, as he usually did on his visits. The crime was committed at ten. This would have left him plenty of time to drive to the plant, return the rented car and take a cab to the airport. Serena might have been lying about the time, but if she was it did not promise well for Benson if he had no better alibi than she was willing to give him. Besides, she seemed to be prepared to take an entirely fresh view of her amatory loyalties. The little lawyer made a mental note to look further into this aspect of the case.

When he got down to the office at noon he told Maggie about the events of the night before. Maggie was unimpressed. “Von Flanagan has been telephoning like mad all morning,” she told him. The words were hardly out of her mouth when the phone rang. It was an entirely changed Von Flanagan.

“We’re up against a blank wall, Malone. You’ve got to help me out. We’ve run down every suspicious car report, and no dice. I’ve never seen anything like it. No fingerprints, no murder weapon, no suspects.”

Malone said, “Have you questioned the night watchman?”

“Yesterday and again this morning. Same thing. He heard a shot, found the body, and fired after the getaway car. Ballistics supports the guy’s story. The bullet that killed Petty wasn’t from his gun. I know your suspect is Benson but you’re crazy. We’ve checked his alibi. He was in Pittsburgh all right.”

Malone said, “Maybe you’re barking up the wrong alibi. And maybe there weren’t any bandits.”

“Malone, Malone, you’re holding out on me.” The tone was something between a plea and a threat. “If Petty told you anything about Benson, it’s your duty — besides I’m your friend, and if you make one false move, Malone, so help me—”

“I’ll be ready to tell you all I know in a few hours,” Malone said. “Meanwhile, put a tail on Benson. We may need him before the night is over.” He hung up.

“Malone,” Maggie said, “I’ve seen you stick your neck out before, but this time you’ve really done it. How can you prove Benson killed Petty and stole the money? Motive? Sure. And now, with this blonde in the picture, double sure. Opportunity? Swell. He could have done it in the two hours between eight and ten. He might have done it, he could have done it, but did he do it? And where are your witnesses? Where is the murder weapon? And where is the money? I suppose you think Benson is going to make a full confession, produce the gun, and turn over the money, just to get you out of a mess.”