about all the credit that could reasonably be expected. On the other hand, if von Flanagan did pick up the check, there would be a certain moral obligation to give a little advice in this matter of the three murdered postmen.
“I never wanted to be a cop,” von Flanagan said, mournfully, “and most of all I never wanted to get promoted to the homicide squad. Now on top of that, why do people deliberately try to make my job worse than it is already?” He had a profound conviction that murderers attempted to conceal the evidence of their crimes as a personal affront to himself.
“Well, anyway,” he said at last, “we’re gonna go pick up this guy. He must of done it. Bring us a couple more, Joe. He’s a cracked old bird. His sweetie went off on a boat someplace about thirty years ago—the Titanic, I guess it was—anyway, it got sunk and she got drowned. Only he thinks she’s still a tourist over in England and she’s gonna write to him. So every day he goes down and asks the postman, does he have a letter from her. I figure he must of decided the postmen were holding out on him, so he bops them on the head, one after another. The post office is having a hell of a time getting guys to take that route.”
“Sure,” Malone said, with forced enthusiasm. “That’s the way it must have been. You’ve got your murderer, with a motive for murdering nobody but postmen, so what are you worrying for, and bothering me?” He knew why. He knew that for some reason, not yet confided, von Flanagan wasn’t sure of his case.
“Well, you see,” the police officer said, “this guy ain’t got no lawyer yet, so I thought maybe you’d like to come along. Hell, I’m just trying to do you a favor.”
Malone sat up straight. The office rent was due again, not this month’s, but last month’s. Maggie, his secretary, was beginning to look decidedly wistful about her salary. And he couldn’t really depend on that poker game tonight. Here appeared to be a ready-made client. “Tell me,” he said, “has this guy got any money?”
“Money!” von Flanagan exploded. “He’s got half the money in Chicago. This guy is Mr. Fairfaxx. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx.”
Malone downed his drink and bounded to his feet. “Well, then,” he said, “what are we waiting for?”
He rushed to the door, strategically, while von Flanagan paid for the drinks.
There were four houses in a row in the block just east of North State Parkway. On the east corner of the block was a brick wall enclosing a garden belonging to a big house on Astor Place, and between the wall and the last of the three houses was a narrow alley, leading back to the next street south. It was possible to see into the alley from the windows of the house that bordered it, or anyone passing by on the street could see into it. Across the street was another large enclosed garden. The alley was admirably secluded, Malone observed, in case anyone wanted to use it for a murder.
The little lawyer reflected that, swell neighborhood or not, the alley was just as littered with rubbish, waste paper, empty bottles, tin cans and battle-scarred cats as the far less aristocratic alleys only a mile to the south. He didn’t disapprove of the condition. Indeed, it was a democratic touch which rather pleased him.
“Every one of ’em was lying right there,” von Flanagan said, pointing. “Heads stove in. None of ’em ever knew what hit him.”
Malone looked at the spot indicated on the paving. It didn’t tell him much.
“Who found them?” he said at last.
“The post office found the first one,” von Flanagan said. “People farther along his route began calling up and squawking on account of their mail wasn’t delivered yet. And he didn’t get back to the sub-station. So the post office sent out a guy to trace him, and that guy caught up with him, here in the alley. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and he must of lay here an hour, but nobody noticed him. I guess people don’t look into alleys much.”
He shook his head sadly. “Kenneth Fairfaxx, the old guy’s nephew, found the second one. He lives here with his uncle.” Von Flanagan indicated the house next to the alley. “It was a little earlier, about ten-fifteen. The postman usually gets here right at ten. Mr. Kenneth Fairfaxx, he was going to drive downtown; his car was parked in front of the house and he headed into the alley to turn around, and saw the body. And old Mr. Fairfaxx, he says he found the other one. He says he thought he heard a noise, and he looked out of his window, right up there”—he pointed to a small overhanging bay on the second floor. Its curtains were tightly drawn.
Malone looked up at the window, then down at the alley again. “Well,” he said at last, “let’s go in and get him.”
A pleasant-faced, pretty Irish maid opened the door. She looked tired and worried, and her face paled perceptibly when she saw von Flanagan.
“Oh, sir,” she said anxiously, “there hasn’t been another!”
“Nope,” von Flanagan said, “and there won’t be.” He turned to Malone. “This is Bridie. She phoned me when old Mr. Fairfaxx claimed to find the third body.”
Bridie said, “Oh!” Then she said, “I’ll tell Mr. Fairfaxx you’re here,” and fled, leaving them in the big, shadowy hall.
A handsome, young man in light tan tweeds came through the double doorway leading to a big sunlit room, a pipe in his hand. He was short—not much taller than Malone—and slender, but he looked as though he might have useful muscles. A good-looking guy on a small scale, Malone thought. He grinned at von Flanagan and said, “Hullo! You again!”
“Afraid so,” von Flanagan said. He added to Malone, “This is Mr. Kenneth Fairfaxx. He found the second body.” Then to the young man, “This is Mr. Malone. I was able to talk him into—talking with your uncle.”
“Oh, good,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said. He grinned at Malone, and said, “Maybe I ought to have a chat with you first.”
“Maybe you had,” the lawyer said noncommittally.
A tall, beautiful, long-legged girl with tawny hair, a lightly tanned face, and a slight band of freckles across her. nose, came into the room from the other side of the room, walking like a young collie. She too said, “Hullo,” to von Flanagan.
The police officer greeted her and introduced her to Malone, “Miss Elizabeth Fairfaxx.”
A tall woman in black was standing unobtrusively behind her. She had a thin face, with deep-set eyes, and stringy hair that was a blond-gray. She vaguely reminded Malone of someone, but he couldn’t think who it was. From her dress and manner, she might have been the housekeeper, or a poverty-stricken unmarried aunt.
“This is Violet, Mr. Malone,” Kenneth Fairfaxx said, as though that explained everything.
Violet acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.
Elizabeth Fairfaxx cleared things up by adding, “Violet’s been our housekeeper for years.” She held out a cordial hand and said, “How do you do, Mr. Malone.”
“How do you do,” Malone said. “And what body did you find?”
“I’ve found quite a number,” she said, “but none of them dead.”
It was the kind of retort he might have expected from her. “I’m Rodney Fairfaxx’s niece. No,” she added, as she saw Malone look from her to Kenneth Fairfaxx and back again, “we aren’t
