Malone mentally damned von Flanagan up, down, cross-ways and sideways, for being afraid to make the pinch, and said, “I’m your lawyer, Mr. Fairfaxx, because you’re under arrest, for suspicion of murder. Don’t worry because I’ll get you out of it, and don’t say anything in front of this—” He caught himself just in time and glared at von Flanagan.
“Murder?” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx said questioningly. His mild old eyes widened. “But I haven’t murdered anybody.”
“There seems to be an impression,” Malone said, “that you murdered three postmen.”
The old man looked more puzzled than alarmed. “But that’s quite absurd. Why should I? Why should anybody want to murder a postman?”
“Why indeed,” von Flanagan said, with what tried to pass for cheerfulness. “Just the same, you’re under arrest.”
Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx submitted to the arrest very amiably, bewildered, but anxious to be agreeable, and in no way worried. Once he said, “I suppose if you say I murdered those men, it must be so, but I assure you—” And von Flanagan’s eyes met Malone’s in a significant look.
That was his only protest. He locked up his stamp collection. He rang for Violet, who came in looking more than ever like a badly-cared-for ghost, and asked her to pack a few things for him. She nodded and went away. Malone found himself wondering if she ever spoke at all, or if her conversation was limited to nods and shakes of the head.
At last they were ready to leave. Rodney Fairfaxx told his niece and nephew not to worry, bade them an affectionate farewell and then said, almost apologetically, to von Flanagan, “Would you mind waiting a few more minutes? The afternoon mail is almost due, and I’m expecting a letter—”
They waited. There was no letter for Rodney Fairfaxx.
Chapter 3
Little old Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx proved to be a charming and agreeable companion, even in a police car. He asked genuinely interested questions regarding the way the siren would sound from inside the car, and received a brief demonstration.
In return, he commented favorably on the efficiency of the police department, and added, “I don’t get out very much, you know. In fact, it’s been years since I left my house. This is quite an experience for me.”
Malone’s eyes met von Flanagan’s across the little man’s head. Quite an experience indeed, to be carted off to jail, as a murderer.
At one point on Lake Shore Drive, Mr. Fairfaxx looked out the window and exclaimed, “The old McClane mansion! The last time I was there was Mona’s first marriage, that must have been—heavens and earth!—twenty years ago!” He beamed at Malone and said, “If I’m not mistaken, you handled a very difficult situation for Mona, and handled it expertly.” He smiled, shyly and said, “You see, I do read the papers!”
“It wasn’t so very difficult,” Malone said modestly. “An open and shut case of self-defense.”
“Self-defense!” Rodney Fairfaxx closed his eyes for a moment. “I suppose, if I should be tried for murder, I ought to claim it was in self-defense. That’s rather standard, isn’t it? Except, I don’t know why postmen would go around attacking people.”
Again Malone’s eyes met von Flanagan’s. The big policeman’s mouth framed the words, “Behavior Clinic.” Malone shook his head and his lips said silently, “I’ll pick the alienist.”
The necessary formalities were gone through quickly and as painlessly as possible. Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was interested in and delighted with everything. He even agreed that the cell would be pleasantly comfortable. But there were three things he had to say to Captain von Flanagan.
“I’m sure I haven’t murdered anybody. Of course I am absent-minded, but I wouldn’t forget a thing like that, would I? Are you sure you aren’t making a mistake?”
Von Flanagan cleared his throat and said, “You’d better discuss that with Mr. Malone.”
“And another thing. In the haste in which we left my home, I neglected to leave a forwarding address. Could you arrange that for me? You see, I’m expecting a rather important letter.”
Von Flanagan, looking very unhappy, assured him that it could be managed very easily.
“Just one more question, if you don’t object. I’ve read about you in the papers, and I’ve always been extremely curious about one thing. Von Flanagan is a very unusual name. Would you mind telling me exactly how you acquired it?”
“I’ll tell you,” Malone said. “This guy never wanted to be a policeman. He got to be a policeman by accident. He got promoted to captain of his division by more accidents.”
Daniel von Flanagan growled, but said nothing.
“It was bad enough to be a cop,” Malone went on relentlessly, “but he couldn’t stand having a name, Dan Flanagan, that sounded like a cop’s name. So he went to court and had it legally changed to von Flanagan.”
Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx nodded, smiled and said, “Very wise of him. My grandfather went to court and had the extra ‘x’ added to our name, to avoid being confused with a Josiah Fairfax who ran a second-rate saloon back in Connecticut. I’m sure none of the family have ever regretted it.” He sat down on the edge of his bunk.
“Well—” Malone said. He looked at the cell. It didn’t compare very favorably with the paneled library. “Are you sure you have everything you want?”
“I’m quite comfortable,” Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx reassured him. “Except that I would like to have a picture of Annie. Perhaps Kenneth or Elizabeth will send one to me. And I would like to talk with you about Annie, when you have time. Too bad I can’t have my stamp collection with me, but it’s far too bulky. However, you will see to it that my mail is forwarded to me here? It’s such a very important letter—”
Malone promised that he would, and practically fled down the corridor in the wake of von Flanagan.
In von Flanagan’s office he borrowed the phone, called his secretary and said, “Maggie? Chase out and buy all the latest magazines for stamp collectors. I want to take them, as a present, to a client of mine.” He hung up quickly—before Maggie could explain that she’d have to pay for them with her own money—took out a cigar and began to unwrap it.
“See what I mean?” von Flanagan said. “This is going to be a cinch for you, Malone. No jury in the world would convict him. And he can play with his stamp collection, and wait for his mail in some expensive sanitarium.” He paused, scowled, and said, “I still think—the Behavior Clinic—”
“You try it,” Malone said, “and I’ll have a belt and fancy wallet made out of your hide. He’s my client and I’m going to protect him. I’m going to hire the best alienists in the country. He can afford the best.”
“And the best lawyers, too,” von Flanagan muttered, sitting down behind his impressive desk. He added under his breath a remark about such-and-such shysters.
Malone ignored this, lit a cigar and said, “As a matter of fact, perhaps you could handle this yourself. Last time I talked with you, you were taking up the study of psychiatry.”
“No future in it,” von Flanagan said, gloomily. “All my wife’s relatives would want me to take them on as patients. For free. No, I’ve settled on something to do when I retire, and I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“Maybe you ought to go back to your original idea of raising mink,” Malone said. He strolled over to the window and stood looking down on the dreary, muddy street. It was a depressing-looking world, he decided, and Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx was well out of it, in his nice, comfortable cell. He fingered the wrinkled five-dollar bill in his pocket and wondered just