“You’re a pretty fair actress, Mrs. Glida, pronounced Gilda, Fairfaxx, but you should have added one note of realism.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide.
“You should have poured about a teacupful of whiskey over your charming person before you put on that otherwise convincing drunk act. I might say the trouble with your performance was that it didn’t smell.”
She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “That was stupid of me, but I’ll do better next time.” Her face grew sober. “I figured it this way. I knew what had happened. I wanted to be with Kenneth. You see, I knew better, probably better than anyone in the world, how much he thought of his uncle. I knew, too, that if I just walked up and rang the doorbell, I’d never get in the house. So I decided to put on the big drunk act and make such a scene at the front door that they’d have to let me in before the neighbors started looking out of their windows.” She grinned ruefully. “I admit it wasn’t a very great idea, but it was the best I could think, driving down from Wilmette…”
There was a small silence. Then Malone said, very quietly, “You read about Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest in the newspapers, and promptly came dashing in from Wilmette. Is that right?”
She nodded and said, “Yes. I live in Wilmette. You can’t raise six twins in an apartment house.”
“Gilda,” Malone said, “you’re a good actress, but you’re a lousy liar.”
She gasped.
“Because,” he went on relentlessly, “I doubt very much if the news of Rodney Fairfaxx’ arrest is even out on the Chicago newsstands yet, and it certainly wouldn’t have been in Wilmette.”
She caught at his arm and said, “Look—Mr. Malone—please—”
“Don’t let it bother you,” Malone assured her. “Dismiss it from your mind. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think up a better story than that, and whatever it is, I bet it will be worth waiting for.”
Chapter 6
“No dogs,” the bartender said. He smiled amiably. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Justus. Nice to see your friends, too.” The smile died away, “But no dogs.”
“He isn’t my dog,” Helene said. “He’s Mr. Malone’s dog.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Malone,” the bartender said, “but no dogs.”
“He isn’t my dog,” Malone said. “I’m just trying to find a good home for him.”
The mutt sat down on the floor and complained mournfully about the bitterness of life. He gazed up at the bartender with wistful eyes. Instinctively, the bartender reached down and patted him.
“He’s a good dog,” said the bartender. “How much you want for him?”
Malone said, “I don’t want a nickel for him.” The mutt parked his nose on Malone’s shoe, looked up and moaned. “I mean,” Malone said hastily, “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for him. And he goes where I go. Bring us a drink and bring him a couple of hamburgers.”
The bartender was sufficiently unnerved to forget that dogs were not allowed in the bar. Malone led the way to one of the brown-painted booths and sat down. The mutt lay down in front of the booth and gazed at him adoringly.
It was a small, dingy room, with cobwebs on the ornamental tin ceiling. The bar was small and the stools were of the ordinary kitchen variety. The mirror behind the bar was fly-specked.
“If this is a very refined saloon,” Malone said coldly, “I’m the Gay Gnani of Gingalee.”
“Your private life is your own business,” Helene said. “But I do think you might be grateful. Lew Browne may run a very stinky saloon, but at least he never lets in the cops.”
“I’m not worried about them,” Malone said unconvincingly. He added, “What cops?” and glanced instinctively toward the door.
“Don’t worry,” Helene soothed him. “Even if he knew you were here, Lew wouldn’t let him in.” She flashed a smile. “Would you, Lew?”
“No cops,” Lew said firmly. “I don’t like.”
“Even if who knew I was here?” Malone demanded frantically.
“While you and Elizabeth were romping around the garden,” Helene said, “the telephone rang. Bridie was weeping at the time, so I answered it. It was von Flanagan.”
“Was he looking for me?” Malone asked apprehensively.
“To quote his exact words,” Helene told him, “he wanted to know ‘Where the hell is Malone?’” She beamed at him. “I told him you’d gone out to get a drink. He’ll call Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar first, try all your usual haunts and then start working his way through the classified telephone directory.”
“That’s fine,” Malone said. “But in view of the last named contingency, couldn’t you have picked a saloon run by someone named Zwicker?”
“By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Helene said, “we will have moved back among the A’s.”
“By the time von Flanagan gets to the B’s,” Malone said, “I will be home in bed, I hope. And which do we do in this saloon, buy a drink, or pay rent?”
They were interrupted by Jake’s arrival. The tall, rangy, freckle-faced and red-haired ex-newspaper man, ex-press agent, and ex-author strolled up to the table and said, “I already own a saloon, so why should we pay rent on another one?” He grinned at the bartender and called, “Lew! Lew! Beer!” He glanced at Gilda and said, “You again!”
“I’m busy with the hamburger,” Lew called from the back room.
“Raw!” Malone called back to him, in a loud voice.
Jake scowled. He was about to comment on people who wanted raw hamburger in the middle of the afternoon, when the mutt looked up and greeted him with a particularly sad sigh.
“For the luvva’ Mike,” Jake said, “where did you find that thing? And what are you going to do with him?” He reached down and scratched the mutt behind his ears.
“I’m going to find a home for him,” Malone said.
The mutt licked Jake’s hand. Jake said, thoughtfully, “You know, we could use a dog like this.” The mutt howled.
Malone said hastily, “I already have other arrangements for him. And how did you happen to find us in this rat’s nest?”
Helene explained, “I asked Jake to meet us here, because he knows Gilda. In fact, he helped Gilda with her hoax.”
“With what?” Malone said, blinking, and wishing the bartender would bring the beer.
Jake said solemnly, “It was one of the greatest things that ever happened to the theatrical world.”
Gilda leaned across the table, giggled, and said, “Didn’t
