“Money,” said the voice, “is no object.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Malone said. “Besides, if you want me, why don’t you call me at my office?”
“I tried,” the voice admitted. “I talked to a girl named Maggie. She said this was your office.”
Malone turned around, deciding firmly that Maggie would never again be paid anything in advance. He found himself looking at a large man with iron-gray hair, blue eyes, and a prominent chin. The man looked so healthy that Malone wanted to turn away again. “Go ahead,” he said. “Tell me all about it.”
“Can’t we go someplace private?”
“This is my office,” Malone reminded him. “How private can you get?”
The man looked around vacantly, then back at Malone. “My name is Gunderson,” he said. “Frank Gunderson. Mean anything to you?”
“Nothing,” Malone said. “So far.”
“I sell magazine subscriptions,” Gunderson announced.
“That’s nice,” Malone said pleasantly. “Working your way through college?”
Gunderson looked very unhappy “I don’t exactly sell them,” he explained. “I employ salesmen. Gunderson Sales, Inc. Door-to-door sales of leading magazines. A customer buys one or two magazines and gets another free. It’s a very attractive offer.”
“I’m sure it is,” the little lawyer agreed. “But I can’t read. So you’re wasting your time.”
“You don’t understand,” Gunderson said. “It’s like this, Malone. Somebody’s been killing my salesmen. One after the other, day after day, my men have been murdered.”
“By prospective customers?”
“By a fiend,” Gunderson said. “First Joe Tallmer, struck down brutally by a hit-and-run driver. That was a week ago. Then, two days later, Leon Prince was pushed into an empty elevator shaft. The very next day Howie Kirschmeyer was shoved from an elevated platform and mangled by an oncoming train. And—”
Malone held up a hand, both to silence Gunderson and to summon Joe the Angel. He downed the double rye that Joe poured and fixed sad eyes on Gunderson.
“Accidents,” he said soberly, “can happen.”
“But, Malone—”
“Three accidents,” he went on. “The first one got hit by a car. The second one was too dumb to wait for the elevator. The third one tried to walk across the tracks. It figures, in a way. Anyone dumb enough to sell magazines for a living—”
“You don’t understand,” Gunderson cut in. “There was a fourth one. Just this morning.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was shot through the head with a.45,” Gunderson said. “He’s dead,” he added unnecessarily.
John J. Malone suddenly felt very tired. “Sounds like murder,” he admitted. “But I’m sure the police can take care of it.”
“I don’t see how,” Gunderson said. “The man’s name was Henry Littleton. He was sitting over coffee while his wife was upstairs making the beds or something. Somebody came in, shot him, and left.”
“The gun?”
“It was on the breakfast-room table. No prints, no registration.”
“Hmmmm,” Malone said.
“You see,” Gunderson continued, “the police can do nothing. Littleton wasn’t murdered by someone who knew him. He was murdered for the same reason as Tallmer and Prince and Kirschmeyer.”
“And why were they murdered?”
“I wish I knew,” Gunderson said. “I wish I knew.”
Malone paused to light a cigar. “Come, now,” he said gently. “You must have some idea. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here annoying me.”
Gunderson hesitated. “Malone,” he said, “I don’t want to sound paranoid. Not good, sounding paranoid. But I think someone is trying to ruin me, Malone. Killing my men one after the other. Crippling my sales force. Two of my men quit me today, Malone. Left me cold. Told me they couldn’t take the chance of working for me. One of ’em said he had a wife and kid. Hell, I’ve got a wife and kid. Two kids, as a matter of fact. And—”
“Shut up for a minute,” the little lawyer said absently. “Who would want to cripple your sales force? You have any competition in this little con game of yours?”
Gunderson colored. “It’s not a con game. But I do have a competitor.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Tru-Val Subscriptions,” Gunderson said.
Malone sighed. “That’s a strange name for a man,” he remarked. “What do they call him for short? Troovie?”
“That’s the company name, Malone. The man’s name is Harold Cowperthwaite.”
Malone looked around vacantly. He could understand the murder of door-to-door salesmen, especially if such murder were performed by dissident customers. But he didn’t want to understand, not now. He didn’t want the case at all.
“Malone? Here’s a check. Twenty-five hundred dollars. I’ll have another check for twenty-five hundred for you when you clear this up. Plus expenses, of course. Will that be sufficient?”
Malone took the check and found a place for it in his wallet. He nodded pleasantly at Gunderson and watched the man leave the City Hall Bar, walking with a firm stride, arms swinging, chest out. Then he looked around until he found Joe the Angel again and pointed to his empty glass. It was, he decided, time to begin piling up expenses for Gunderson.
Harold Cowperthwaite was not helpful. He looked as sickly as Gunderson looked vigorous, and was just about as much fun to be with. Malone decided that he disliked them both equally.
“—incredible accusation!” Cowperthwaite had just finished shouting. “A couple of his doorbell punchers keel over and he blames me for it! Blames me for everything! Ought to sue him for libel! Serve him right!”
Malone sighed, wishing the little man wouldn’t talk exclusively in exclamation points. “Then you didn’t kill them,” he suggested.
“Kill them!” boomed Cowperthwaite. “Course I didn’t kill them! I wanted to kill anybody I’d kill Gunderson! Know what I think, Malone?”
Malone was totally unprepared for the question mark. “Hmmm,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Think he killed ’em himself!” Cowperthwaite shouted. “Throw suspicion on me! Make trouble for me! People bothering me all the time!”
“Oh,” said Malone. “No, he couldn’t have done that.”
“No?”
“Of course not,” Malone said. “He’s my client.”
Cowperthwaite’s words followed the lawyer out of the door marked Tru-Val Subscriptions. Malone managed to close the door before the man reached the exclamation point. It was, he decided, a day for small triumphs.
“The way I see it,” von Flanagan said, “we wait until he kills another one. Then maybe he leaves a clue.”
“He?” Malone said, lost. “Who he?”
“The killer,” the big cop said. “The bird who killed Littleton and the others without leaving a trace. Pretty soon he’ll find another magazine salesman and kill him. Maybe we get lucky and catch him in the act. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“For everybody but the magazine salesman,” Malone agreed. “You don’t seem to be taking much of an interest in this one. Something wrong?”
“Plenty,” von Flanagan said. “For one thing, it’s an impossible one to solve. For another, I don’t want to solve it.”
“Why not?”
Von Flanagan shook his head wearily. “Malone,” he said, “have you ever had a run-in with a magazine salesman? Have you ever had one of those little monsters stick his foot in your door and tell you how much you needed his rotten magazines? Have you, Malone?”