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

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.