“Grateful, hell,” Malone growled. “Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to split fees.”
He went moodily out to the street, considered riding a streetcar to the Fairfaxx home, and gave up the idea when a taxi came within hailing distance.
Something was very wrong about this case.
He’d had clients who were slightly cracked or very cracked. He’d had clients who had beaten the rap on an insanity defense. But Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx puzzled him. Malone had a definite and uncomfortable feeling that this client was sane.
It looked like one of these open and shut cases. A poor old guy who’d been just a little tetched ever since his girl friend went down on the Titanic. That could be enough reason for being just a little tetched, and for just going along all these years, believing that she’d never taken the boat at all and was alive and well somewhere in England, and going to write a letter to him any day now.
Yes, a guy could lose his sense of time, in a case like that. He could forget that it had been thirty years and believe it had been only a few months. He could, eventually, go completely off the beam and start murdering the postmen who didn’t bring the letter he had been waiting for all this time.
A story like that would make any jury break down and bawl, and acquit a double-ax murderer.
Only, it wasn’t true.
Malone had seen murderers putting on an act for an insanity defense; indeed, he’d more than once coached them in the act. He knew that Rodney Fairfaxx wasn’t acting.
For the same reasons he knew that while Rodney Fairfaxx had withdrawn from the world to wait for a postman bringing one certain letter, he was otherwise perfectly sane.
Von Flanagan had handed him a perfect case. Only the trouble was, he knew that von Flanagan didn’t believe it either. That was what was really wrong. Because he didn’t know just why von Flanagan didn’t believe it.
Malone broke the five-dollar bill with a pang of regret and paid off the driver in front of the Fairfaxx home.
Suddenly, he decided to go up the alley for one more look at the scene of the crime.
It still didn’t tell him much. Just an alley, like any other alley in the world. Except that three postmen had been found murdered on its badly littered pavement.
Malone sighed, and looked up at the house. That bay window belonged to the paneled library where Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx had been arrested this afternoon. The old man insisted he had looked down from that window and discovered the body of the third postman.
Von Flanagan’s theory was that Rodney Fairfaxx had crept down the back staircase and lain in wait for his victim. Then, having committed his third murder, he’d hurried back up to his library and pretended to make the discovery.
At least, von Flanagan claimed that was his theory.
A hungry, obviously homeless mutt strayed up the alley in search of food. Malone instinctively and absent-mindedly patted him, whereupon the mutt, recognizing a friend, set up a loud, joyful and frenzied barking.
About two seconds later a good-sized stone came hurtling over the garden wall, missing Malone by inches and frightening the mutt into a hasty and noisy flight. Malone stared at the stone for a moment, then picked it up and hurled it back over the wall.
There was a loud and angry roar. A fat, red, bad-tempered face appeared over the top of the wall.
“What the hell do you mean?” the indignant face asked, furiously.
“What the hell do you mean?” Malone said, as calmly as he could. “Throwing stones!” He added insultingly, “And at your age, too.”
The man on the other side of the wall clenched his teeth, unclenched them again and said, “I threw it at a dog. I don’t like dogs.”
“I’m not a dog,” Malone said, “I’m a lawyer.”
“Makes no difference,” the angry man said, “I don’t like lawyers, either. As a matter of fact, they’re worse.” He disappeared.
Malone considered climbing the wall and giving the red-faced man a good punch in the nose. On second thought, he gave it up. Right now, he didn’t have time to waste on frivolous pleasures. Besides, it would be undignified. And anyway, he didn’t know just how big the man was.
Could a stone thrown over a garden wall kill a man? Chances were that it could. Properly aimed and timed, of course.
The little lawyer continued his exploration of the alley. He reminded himself that the series of unfortunate postmen had been killed by a blow on the head from someone on the side of the wall that surrounded the house of Fairfaxx. It had to be that way, unless every technician in the police department had slipped up, possibly in a moment of madness. Madness might affect a few technicians, but not all of them.
No, there was no doubt, from the way the body had been found. Someone had reached over the Fairfaxx wall and clubbed the postmen to death.
He made another mental note, that he would certainly have to inspect the other side of that wall.
But meantime—some investigation should be made of the unpleasant character who lived on the other side of the alley. There were plenty of good-sized stones lying about. The angry man evidently had a definite dislike of dogs. Or, perhaps, of postmen.
He could have got away with it the first time, of course. “I was pruning my roses. I heard a dog barking in the alley and I threw a rock at him. Unfortunately, it hit this poor man on the head and—”
Accident? Possibly, if it had happened only once. A stone thrown at a dog had hit an unfortunate postman on his head and killed him. The red-faced man had kept quiet about it because he disliked publicity. He looked, Malone reflected, as though he disliked everything, just on general principles.
But for that accident to happen three times, in reasonably rapid succession, and invariably at the same time of the day, would be a coincidence Malone wouldn’t believe if he watched it happening.
Of course, it might have been planned as an elaborate alibi. Only that, too, would work only once. If tried a second time, there might be a faint lifting sound, as of eyebrows raising. On a third occasion there might be embarrassing questions asked by the police.
Perhaps a few tactful questions. Something apparently quite unofficial. Obviously, under the circumstances, Malone could not ask the questions himself. He doubted if he and the red-faced man would ever be on the footing of casual friendship. Something would have to be done, but meantime—
Malone made a mental note to find out if there was any city ordinance against throwing rocks into alleys, or throwing rocks at homeless mutts. Perhaps the S.P.C.A. could give him some help there.
People who don’t like lawyers, Malone said to the wall, shouldn’t throw glass houses.
He considered collecting the stones and taking them to the fingerprint department, then gave up the idea. There were too many of them. They would be too hard to transport, anyway. They would probably all have the red-faced man’s fingerprints on them, and that wouldn’t prove a thing except that the red-faced man didn’t like dogs or lawyers. Besides he wasn’t going to spend any more money on taxi fare until he’d collected a retainer.
That reminded him it was time to call on the house of Fairfaxx. He picked up one medium-sized rock from the alley and stuck it into his pocket for possible future evidence. Or a possible future weapon if need be. He brushed the snow from his knees and, as he turned from the alley into the sidewalk, made an unsuccessful attempt to straighten his tie.
Three seconds after he pushed the doorbell a pink-eyed Bridie came to the door and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Malone, the family is expecting you.”
He brushed a few cigar ashes off his vest as he went in through the wide doorway. The family? He’d already