Then suddenly everybody started at once, and Malone moved first. He shoved Lorna Lee away from his shoulder, shook the pageboy into something remotely resembling consciousness, and said, “Which door leads into the studio?”
Automatically, the pageboy said, “You can’t go in there, sir.”
“Prove it,” Malone said. He picked what he hoped was the right door and shoved it open.
In the studio, life stood still. It was as though everybody had expected this, and now that it had happened, everybody stopped like figures on the screen when the projector goes dead. A stranger walking in would have thought everyone in the place had been stuffed and mounted, and looking as un-lifelike as art could make them.
Suddenly everybody started to move at once, and again Malone moved first. Nina Shields, the vocalist whose voice was almost as well known from coast to coast as her face and figure, was frantically demanding that someone call a doctor. Jack Shields, her big-time gambler-husband who insisted on accompanying her to every broadcast, was looking around for a target for the temper lie was about to lose. Betty Castle had the bright idea of bringing Art a Dixie cup of water and pouring it into his mouth. Larry Lee, remembering first aid from two years with the Boy Scouts and one as a lifeguard, started to turn Art Sample over and was about to apply artificial respiration, while telling his hysterical wife to shut up, when Malone readied the group.
“Stand back,” Malone said. “Once a man is dead, the police protect him right down to his last collar button.”
Someone said, “Police?” in a shocked voice.
“Right,” Malone said. “I’m calling them right now. Because the murdered man was my client.”
Von Flanagan was angry. That, in itself, was nothing new. The big red-faced police officer was angry most of the time, usually at people who were inconsiderate enough to commit murders, for the purpose, he believed, of creating more work for him. He said indignantly, “A guy drops dead in a radio studio and you have to holler for homicide.”
“You still don’t know what killed him,” Malone said. He waved to Joe the Angel for two more beers and hummed a bar of Goodbye Forever.
There was an uncomfortable silence until the beers arrived. Joe put them down and said, “It could of happened that way. I knew a fella once—”
“Go away,” Malone said unhappily.
After another, and longer silence, von Flanagan snorted indignantly. “Dog whistles!”
Malone pulled himself together, stared at the police officer, and said, “Have you been getting enough rest lately? Taking vitamins?”
“Dog whistles,” von Flanagan repeated, ignoring him. “I read about it. You can’t hear ’em, I can’t hear ’em. Because they’re too high up. They sound, too high up, I mean. But the dog can hear ’em because he’s got a different kind of ear.”
The little lawyer nodded. “A sound — so high-pitched — or low-pitched — or something — that it would kill anyone hearing it. It could be possible—”
“With a clarinet, anything is possible,” von Flanagan assured him. “My brother-in-law Albert—”
“Another time,” Malone said. He scowled. “But why wouldn’t everybody hearing it drop dead, not just the clarinet player?”
Von Flanagan didn’t answer that one. He finished his beer and said, “But you can’t expect me to believe that just because four notes of a song—” He broke off, looked up, and said brightly, “Oh, hello!”
The moonbeam blonde, still pale and frightened, clung to Larry Lee’s arm. Malone suspected she’d been crying. If her eyes had been close to violet before, fear had deepened them to purple.
Larry Lee dismissed her with “My wife, Lorna,” and waved her to a chair. Malone considered punching the band leader in the nose for treating her so casually, then changed his mind. Not only was Larry Lee a potential client, but he was a lot bigger than Malone.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Larry Lee said. He signaled to Joe the Angel for replacements.
Malone, having already switched from rye to beer, decided it was time to switch from beer to gin.
“A terrible thing,” Larry Lee said.
“About what you expected to happen?” Malone asked.
The orchestra leader shuddered. “I didn’t really expect anything. That business with the music—”
“I suspected it was a press-agent gag all along,” Malone said. “But to make it really good — why me? You should have had a doctor in the control room instead.”
“We couldn’t think of one who would—” Larry Lee paused, and said, “Betty Castle said a lawyer would do just as well, and she suggested you.”
“Nice of her,” Malone murmured. He wondered who was going to pay his fee.
“And of course, nobody had any idea anything—” Larry Lee paused again, lit a cigarette, and went on, “Lorna said that you said something about Art Sample being your client.”
Malone glanced briefly at Mrs. Larry Lee. “It was something about the ownership of a song. He was in to see me for a few minutes, but he didn’t have time to go into details.” He thought Larry Lee looked relieved. He got back to the original subject with, “You just said — ‘nobody had any idea.’ In other words, everybody was in on the gag?”
Larry Lee nodded. “I knew I could trust everybody in the show.”
“You should have trusted at least one of them not to drop dead,” Malone said.
“Mr. Malone, there is such a superstition.” Larry Lee said. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for another. “But I simply can’t believe that just because we played four notes from Tosti’s Goodbye—”
“Dog whistles—” von Flanagan began.
Malone kicked him under the table and said quietly, “It’s about time somebody found out what actually did kill him.”
Von Flanagan rose, gave him what was probably the dirtiest look in a lifetime of dirty looks, and said, “I’ll phone and find out if there’s been any report yet.”
Lorna Lee had been doing things to her hair and make-up. The result-would have been good on anyone, but on her it was terrific. She smiled a little shakily at Malone and said, “I suppose you think we’re heartless, but Larry believes in carrying on as usual. We’d planned to go to the Pump Room after the show, and we’d love to have you join us—”
“You couldn’t keep me away with an injunction,” Malone assured her with his best non-professional smile. If Larry Lee was going to be coy about fees for legal services, at least he was going to have to pay for some very expensive drinks.
Von Flanagan came back from the phone booth, his broad face an ominous scarlet. “He was murdered,” he growled, as though the fact were a personal affront. “Poison.” He glared at them all and added, “Aconite.”
“Well, at least,” Malone said, after the long silence that followed, “it wasn’t dog whistles. Or a song.” He glanced at Larry Lee. “Or an arrangement of a song.”
Maggie looked up coldly and disapprovingly as Malone walked into the office. “It’s after eleven,” she announced. “The landlord has been strolling up and down the hall twirling a padlock. You look as if you had a hangover. And three women have called to make appointments with you.”
“I know what time it is,” Malone said amiably, “and the hangover can be considered a legal fee well earned. Who are the women?”
“Betty Castle, Nina Shields, and Lorna Lee. Malone, what did happen to that musician last night?”
“I lost him as a client,” Malone said, “and von Flanagan has him as a problem.” He relit his cigar and added, “And we both have him as a headache.”