hated him, but not murderously, as far as I know. I can’t imagine anybody hating him that much.”
Helene nodded. “It would take twice as much motive to make someone murder a midget as an ordinary person. You’d think it would be just the other way, but it isn’t.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Malone told her. Before he could say anything more, he caught sight of the huge figure of Jay Otto’s assistant in the doorway leading backstage, and felt a sudden cold shiver run up and down his spine.
Jake saw him in the same instant, and whispered in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “He can’t possibly know anything about it.”
Seen at close range, the big man appeared even more massive than on the Casino’s stage. Malone peered at him for a moment, trying to place a resemblance, until at last he realized he was remembering the pictures in the early pages of The Outline of History.
Jake introduced him as Mr. McJackson—Allswell McJackson—and invited him to join them. Mr. McJackson shook his head, ruffling his mane of thick, brown hair.
“I’ve got to hurry to the hotel, or Mr. Otto’ll be in a frenzy.” He spoke in a beautifully modulated voice that had a very definite Harvard overtone. “I went to take Angela Doll home the minute I left the stage, and if I’d dreamed Mr. Otto would leave before I got back, I’d have hurried more than I did.”
Jake and Helene looked at each other, each signaling the other to speak first. Malone had trouble with cigar smoke that went down the wrong way, and by the time he’d downed half his drink in order to stop strangling, Mr. McJackson had gone on talking, apparently oblivious of the interruption.
“I hope Mr. Otto isn’t angry,” he said.
“For the love of Mike!” Malone exploded. “He’s only a midget.” He’d been within a hairsbreadth of saying, “He was.”
Mr. McJackson smiled wryly. “You don’t know Mr. Otto.”
Malone downed the other half of his drink. “Now I’d have been glad to take Miss Doll home for you,” he said gallantly, “if it would have saved you any trouble.”
“I wanted to get her away from the Casino before Mr. Otto did his impression of her,” the giant said. “Not that she won’t hear about it anyway.”
Jake said, “He could have picked out someone else and saved me a lot of trouble.”
“Yes,” Mr. McJackson agreed. “But he doesn’t enjoy doing an impression unless it makes somebody mad.” He sighed.
“It must be a lousy job,” Malone said. “Why don’t you quit him?”
Allswell McJackson shook his head, and a wistful look came into his eyes. “I’d do it tomorrow,” he said unhappily, “if I could only get a professorship. Even in some little jerk-water college.” He sighed again. “But it appears to be impossible.” He sighed again, said goodnight, and began shoving his way toward the exit.
Malone waited till he was out of earshot before growling, “And you wouldn’t believe in leprechauns?”
“Poor Allswell,” Helene said feelingly. “He has a degree in chemistry, and nobody’ll give him a job as a professor because he looks like a wrestling champion. All he could do was be a stooge for Jay Otto.”
“And now,” Jake said, “that’s shot. Or hanged, rather.”
Malone scowled. “I don’t suppose, then, that he’d have murdered his way out of a good job.”
“He might have,” Jake said. “I imagine one could stand just so much of Jay Otto.”
“But,” Helene pointed out, “he couldn’t have. Because he was taking Angela Doll home at the time.”
“How do you know?” Malone demanded. “You don’t know what time Jay Otto was murdered, except that it was after the last performance, and before we went backstage. This guy could have taken Angela Doll home and gotten back in time. As a matter of fact,” he added thoughtfully, “just who could have gotten into that dressing room during that time and murdered the midget?”
“Any one of Al Omega’s band,” Jake said, “or any one of Ramon Arriba’s band, or any one of the twelve chorus girls, or Angela Doll, or Allswell McJackson, or any one of the stage hands, electricians, waiters, bartenders, and kitchen help, or any member of the audience who might have strayed backstage.”
“Or Ruth Rawlson,” Malone added, looking toward the door that led backstage.
Helene said, “Now that we’ve limited the suspects so brilliantly!”
Jake’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “None of this is any of our business. We’ve gone and fixed it so that probably no one will ever know who murdered the midget. Now, let’s not talk about it.”
Malone was silent, watching the tottering figure of Ruth Rawlson as it moved toward their table. Save that she had unfastened her high-heeled sandals, leaving the straps dangling, the ex-beauty looked, at first glance, exactly as she had earlier in the evening. As she came closer to the table, however, the lawyer noticed that she was a shade more pale, and several degrees unsteadier. He rose hastily and pulled out a chair for her.
She slid into it, beaming, and braced her elbows on the table. “Thank you so much, darling. Yes, I will have one drink. Just an itsy-bittsy one, though. Ruthie does have to get home early and get her sleep.” She opened her still lovely eyes to their full width and turned them on Malone. “You’ve no idea, really, what a responsibility it is to be a professional beauty. Early to bed—diet—plenty of exercise—” She rolled her eyes skyward with a martyred expression. “Just one little teensy-weensy drink, remember.” She picked up Jake’s glass and began sipping from it while waiting for her own to arrive.
“I’m sure,” Malone said, with perfect composure, “your beauty is worth all the care you have to take of it.”
Helene flashed him a grateful look across the table, turned to Ruth Rawlson, and said innocently, “Been backstage?”
Ruth set down Jake’s glass, picked up her own, and nodded. “I’ve just come from the loveliest long chat with Angela Doll. You wouldn’t believe it, but I knew her mother. We were in the Follies together. Of course Angela is very young—it really wasn’t so long ago.” She sighed noisily. “Those dear, dead days! Sometimes, you know, sometimes I think I’ll go back to them after all. But I do enjoy private life so much.” She finished her glass, yawned, and closed her eyes. Malone had a sudden horrible notion that in another moment she would begin to snore.
Jake rose. “Get your wrap, Ruth,” he said gently. “I’ll buy you a taxi home.”
She opened her eyes again, smiled at him, and let him help her to her feet. “Been so nice meeting you,” she said to Malone. “Must meet again sometime.”
Jake aimed her toward the checkroom, and turned back to whisper, “I think by the time I get back it’ll be safe to leave. And stop worrying.” His face looked very tired, and a trifle pale.
“Damn Jake,” Helene said affectionately, after he was gone.
“I know what you mean,” Malone
