“Jake,” Helene said sternly, “you’re a very rude man.”
Malone watched the ex-Follies girl vanishing through the door and said, “Well anyway, I never saw a finer pair of shoulder blades. How much longer do I have to sit around here waiting to go back and bulldoze your midget? My nerves are beginning to knit themselves up into doilies.”
Jake glanced at his watch, finished his drink, and said, “We might as well go back now. He’ll have his make-up off by this time and be ready to leave. That was his last show tonight.”
Helene rose, wrapped a glittering white-and-silver cape around her smooth shoulders, and said, “I’m coming too. To keep Malone’s courage up.”
There was a long corridor back of the stage of the Casino. One end of it led toward the kitchens, and one toward the service entrance. Just at the end of the stage, a flight of unpainted wooden stairs went down to the dressing rooms.
Jake led the way, warning the other two to watch where they stepped. At the foot of the stairs a door was marked, “J. OTTO. PLEASE KNOCK.”
Jake knocked twice, heard no answer, and said, “Hell, I’m the boss of this joint.” He opened the door.
Malone drew a slow breath. He wasn’t looking forward to the session ahead of him. From all he’d heard, and from what some secret place in the back of his brain told him, the famous midget was going to be a nasty customer to deal with, even over a little matter of a difficult clause in a contract.
The door slammed behind him. Hard, and loud.
He didn’t really see, at first: he felt. There was a strange, muffled, half-strangled sound from Jake’s throat. There was a smothered “Oh!” on an indrawn breath, from Helene. A delicate and suddenly cold hand clutched his wrist.
Then he saw.
To the left of the dressing table there was a narrow closet, its door open. Above the doorway was a hook. And suspended from the hook was the body of Jay Otto, the Big Midget, its face blackened and discolored, hanging in a noose that seemed to Malone’s swimming eyes to be made of gleaming, skin-colored, long silk stockings.
Chapter 2
It was probably a purely reflex action. Malone had shut the door behind him, shot back the bolt, and hissed, “Keep quiet,” before he realized that he’d even moved.
The “Keep quiet” was entirely superfluous. Neither Jake nor Helene showed the slightest intention of making a sound. Indeed, they appeared not to have heard it at all.
After that first, instinctive move, Malone stood still, looking not at the tiny body hanging in that singular noose, but at Jake and Helene. One of the most wonderful things about Helene, the lawyer reflected, was that you could always count on her not to scream, regardless of the provocation. She was staring at Jay Otto with eyes that had suddenly grown wide and dark, and her face had turned a ghastly white, but for all her horror, she wasn’t moving a muscle nor uttering a word.
Jake’s face was pale too, but Malone realized it was the pallor of indignation, almost fury. For a moment he stood there, while the shocked surprise in his gray eyes turned slowly to a suppressed rage. Then he strode across the room, still speechless, and made a quick examination of the midget’s body. The look on his face when he turned round again told everything Helene and the lawyer wanted to know.
“Well,” Malone said quietly, “I hope you can get another star act on a moment’s notice.”
It was a good thirty seconds before Jake drew a long, profane-sounding breath, and whispered between his teeth, “The son of a bitch!”
Helene gasped. “Jake,” she whispered. “He’s—” She looked toward what had been Jay Otto.
“All right,” Jake said, bitterly, “so he’s a dead son of a bitch. And just like him to go and hang himself on opening night, with a four weeks’ contract left to run.”
Malone had been looking around. “What makes you think he hung himself?”
Jake glared at him. “I suppose you’re trying to tell me it’s an optical illusion.”
“No,” the lawyer told him, “but maybe it was intended to be.” He scowled. “Not a very successful one, though, because something essential was left out.”
“This is no time to play games,” Jake said. “Do you know what you’re talking about?”
“What did he jump off?” Malone asked.
“It’s no time to ask riddles, either,” Jake said.
Malone sighed and pointed toward the doorway where the body was hanging. “He’d have had to have a chair, or a table, or something to jump from, or to kick out from under him. But nothing of the sort is there. What’s more, nobody but a contortionist could tie a knot exactly like that at the back of his own neck.” He strolled nearer, took a quick look, and turned away again. “No,” he repeated, “he didn’t hang himself.”
“Oh, no!” Helene said unexpectedly, in a strange, gasping voice. She had turned a shade more pale. “It can’t be.” Her lips were stiff and trembling; soundlessly they formed the word, “Murder!”
“Evidently,” Jake said. He looked at her for a moment, lit a cigarette, and put it between her fingers.
“Stop looking as though you’d never heard of it before,” Malone said crossly. “There’s nothing so surprising about a mere murder.” He glanced toward the midget and added, “You might even say this was only half a murder.”
“That’s just it,” Helene said, shuddering. “It isn’t murder that’s horrible. But this—” She caught her breath. “It isn’t like the murder of a human being. Because he never seemed to me like one. More like something—” She paused, biting her lip.
“The word,” Malone told her, “is leprechaun.” A new look came into his eyes, far away, and almost dreamy. “So that’s it,” he said very softly. “The little men.”
Jake stared indignantly at them both. “I suppose in another minute you’ll try to tell me a band of elves came in and murdered my star act. First it’s an optical illusion, and now it’s done with magic.”
“It was done with something almost as unusual,” Malone said, in the same thoughtful voice. “What the devil kind of a rope is that? It looks like a bunch of silk stockings.”
Jake examined it. “That’s exactly what it is. Long silk stockings, twisted together.” He reached toward the hook.
“Don’t!” Helene said sharply. “Don’t touch it!” For just a moment she closed her eyes. “In another minute I’ll have the first fit of hysterics I ever had in my life.”
“I hope to Heaven you have it quietly then,” Malone said, “because it sure would scare hell out of the cash customers out front.”
Jake started; stared at the lawyer. “Malone, what are we going to do?”
“In these cases,” Malone said, “it’s customary to call a cop.”
“And have the Casino closed up tight as a drum for days?” Jake said. “It’s bad enough as it is, but if that happens, right now—” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” Malone said, looking at him gravely. The look of quiet desperation in Jake’s eyes had to do with the remodeling of the Casino, with the newspaper ads and the twenty-four sheet billboards, with the crowd that had turned out for opening night, and with what it would mean to have other crowds turned away for even two or three nights. “Yes,” he repeated, “I know exactly what you mean. But what can you do? When you have a murder on your hands, you can’t just walk off and leave it.”
“No,