He went on into his private office and considered the advisability of taking an aspirin tablet. No, he decided, the butterflies in his stomach would probably start playing ping-pong with it. He finally settled for an inch and a half of gin from the bottle in the file drawer marked Confidential.
It was regrettable, he reflected, that he knew so little about his late client. Only that he had been a nervous, superstitious, and very handsome young man who played the clarinet, had written some songs, according to his story, and was dead.
He was still wondering about him when Betty Castle walked in, sat down in the exact center of the big leather couch, and planted her tiny feet as solidly on the floor as if she were waiting for an earthquake. Malone smiled at her reassuringly and tried to picture her without the glasses, with a different hair-do, and wearing make-up, plus something specially good in the way of a wardrobe. Right now she reminded him of a particularly inconspicuous mouse.
“I’m his widow,” she stated, without preliminaries.
Malone caught his breath and said, “Would you say that again?”
“Art Sample’s widow.” Suddenly she began to cry, not helplessly nor attractively, but like a bad-mannered and furious child. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know what I can do about it now,” Malone said. It seemed to him that the conversation was getting a little ahead of him.
“We’d been married almost a year.” She sniffled and went on. “I didn’t mind it being kept a secret. In his job, his being attractive to women was important. You know what I mean.”
“If I don’t,” Malone said, “I can ask the little birds to tell me.” He added, “Stop crying.”
She blew her nose and obeyed. “Art introduced me to Larry Lee, and that’s how I got the press-agent job. I’m good at it, too.”
“I bet you are,” Malone said, looking at her thoughtfully. “And I bet you were behind his playing that particular clarinet phrase.”
“Art was the best clarinet player since—” she paused. “But it wasn’t the music that killed him.” Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she fumbled inside her purse.
This time Malone said, “My poor, dear girl!” and whipped out one of the clean handkerchiefs he kept for just such emergencies. He wondered if she could afford a lawyer even more than he wondered why she needed one. He crooned reassuringly, “It isn’t true that the police automatically suspect the widow first.”
“They couldn’t suspect me!” Betty Castle said. “And nobody knows we were married. Not even Larry Lee. No, that isn’t why I came to see you.”
Malone sighed. “Well—?”
“It’s about the money,” she said. “From the songs everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote. You see, they aren’t Larry Lee’s at all. They were Art’s.”
“You mean your husband wrote them?” Malone asked.
She nodded. “All of them. Words and music. He didn’t know they were going to be hits. He got a bang, a kick, that’s all, out of hearing the band play them. But when they did make a lot of money, Larry Lee kept stalling, putting off settling with him. That’s why Art came to you. To find out how he could prove he’d written them. And now it’s too late. Or — is it?”
While Malone was straining for an answer, the door flew open and Larry Lee stormed in. Over his shoulder, Malone could see Maggie’s face signaling, “Don’t blame me!”
Larry Lee began, “I came right in because—” He saw Betty Castle and paused. Instead of, “What are you doing here?” he said, “Where have you been all day?”
“I’ve been home,” she said. “I went straight home last night, right after the police let us all go. Mother gave me a sleeping pill. It was — terribly upsetting—”
“Me too, I’m pretty upset,” Larry Lee said. “The papers aren’t giving me the breaks they should. Which is what I pay you for.” His eyes softened suddenly, and he said, “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a picnic for any of us.”
“I think the man wants you to take the day off, Betty,” Malone said.
She shook her head. “I’m all right now.” She looked at Larry Lee like a small dog seeing his first bone. Malone wondered if she’d ever looked at Art Sample that way. “I haven’t even seen the papers. I just stayed home and tried not to think about it.”
“Malone,” Larry Lee said abruptly, “I want to talk with you—” He glanced at Betty Castle, paused a moment, and said, “Betty might as well hear it, I know I can trust her. It’s about the songs.”
“Songs, songs?” Malone said innocently.
“He wrote ’em,” Larry Lee said. He went on to tell essentially the same story Betty had told a moment before. But he added, “I wanted to work out a settlement with him. Some arrangement that would be fair to both of us. The main thing was — you can’t let the public down. They looked on me as a band leader and a singer and a songwriter. But by rights, all the money was Art’s. Only now, it’s too late.”
Malone asked quickly, “What kind of money was involved?”
“Enough. Enough to be a motive for murder.” Larry Lee looked grim. “The police found out about it, and they want to question me again. That’s why I came to you first.” He went on, fast, “About your retainer—”
Malone fingered the lone five-dollar bill in his pocket and said magnificently, “We can discuss that later.” He rose and reached for his hat. “We can talk the rest over on the way to von Flanagan’s office. Remember, I’m your lawyer, and leave everything to me.” He smiled and said in a voice that just missed running for office, “Believe me, my boy, you couldn’t be in better hands.”
Von Flanagan said, “This guy Sample had a married sister somewhere in Iowa, and she wrote him asking for money. He wrote back about all these songs he’d written, and how everybody thinks Larry Lee wrote ’em. Soon as Larry Lee pays off to him, he says, he’ll send her some money. Today she hears about him being murdered, and right away she calls us and reads me his letter.” He glared at Larry Lee and said, “Well?”
“We can explain everything,” Malone said smoothly. He went on, fast, to repeat Larry Lee’s explanation, coloring it a little wherever he thought it would help. “Larry Lee was going to pay Art Sample the money, and he’d told him so.”
“Yeah,” von Flanagan said coldly, “but did Art Sample believe him?” He added, “Do I believe him? Furthermore, Sample was running around with Larry Lee’s wife.”
The tall band leader’s smile was almost a laugh. “She was like a sister to all the boys in the band. It didn’t mean a thing.”
Von Flanagan muttered something about motives.
“You’re forgetting something,” Malone said quickly. “Just how was Art Sample poisoned? Aconite acts fast. He didn’t eat or drink anything, or even smoke, just before he died.” He paused to light a fresh cigar. “As soon as you bright boys find out the answer to that one, let me know. Meantime, forget talking about motives, and quit bothering my client.”
“I’ve got enough on him now to hold him,” the big police officer, growled, but without conviction.
“Do,” Malone said pleasantly, “and make yourself the most unpopular man in the world with the millions of fans who listen every week to Larry Lee.”
Back in his office, the little lawyer began to feel unhappy about the whole thing. Larry Lee did have a motive, several of them. The matter of the songs. The fragile Lorna Lee, with her moon-colored hair. Malone remembered her frantic whisper as the broadcast had begun.
Worse still, no one else seemed to have a motive.
But there was something else. How had Art Sample been given the poison? Malone closed his eyes and remembered everything that had happened in the studio from the moment the broadcast began to when the police allowed everyone to leave. Suddenly he reached for the phone and called von Flanagan.