He flung his cigar into the cuspidor and went on, “Then Paul Palmer was granted a new trial. So the mercenary person who wanted Paul Palmer’s death convinced him that he had to break out of prison, and another person showed him how the escape could be arranged — by pretending to hang himself, and being moved to the prison hospital — watch her, Bowers!”
Madelaine Starr had flung herself at Doctor Dickson. “Damn you,” she screamed, her face white. “I knew you’d break down and talk. But you’ll never talk again—”
There were three shots. One from the little gun Madelaine had carried in her pocket, and two from Bowers’ service revolver.
Then the room was quite still.
Malone walked slowly across the room, looked down at the two bodies, and shook his head sadly. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he said. “They’d probably have hired another defense lawyer anyway.”
“This is all very fine,” the Statesville County sheriff said. “But I still don’t see how you figured it. Have another beer?”
“Thanks,” Malone said. “It was easy. A song tipped me off. Know this?” He hummed a few measures.
“Oh, sure,” the sheriff said. “The name of it is, ‘The Statesville Prison.’ ” He sang the first four verses.
“Well, I’ll be double-damned,” Malone said. The bartender put the two glasses of beer on the table. “Bring me a double gin for a chaser,” the lawyer told him.
“Me too,” the sheriff said. “What does the song have to do with it, Malone?”
Malone said, “It was the crank on the adding machine, pal. Know what I mean? You put down a lot of stuff to add up and nothing happens, and then somebody turns the crank and it all adds up to what you want to know. See how simple it is?”
“I don’t,” the sheriff said, “but go on.”
“I had all the facts,” Malone said, “I knew everything I needed to know, but I couldn’t add it up. I needed one thing, that one thing.” He spoke almost reverently, downing his gin. “Paul Palmer said ‘It wouldn’t break’ — just before he died. And he looked terribly surprised. For a long time, I didn’t know what he meant. Then I heard that song again, and I did know.” He sang a few lines. “The sheriff took his shiny knife, and cut that ol’ rope through.” Then he finished his beer, and sang on “They hanged him for the thing you done, you knew it was a sin. You didn’t know his heart could break, Lady, why did you turn him in.” He ended on a blue note.
“Very pretty,” the sheriff said. “Only I heard it, ‘You knew that his poor heart could break.’ ”
“Same thing,” Malone said, waving a hand. “Only, that song was what turned the crank on the adding machine. When I heard it again, I knew what Palmer meant by ‘it wouldn’t break?’ ”
“His heart?” the sheriff said helpfully.
“No,” Malone said, “the rope.”
He waved at the bartender and said “Two more of the same.” Then to the sheriff, “He expected the rope to break. He thought it would be artfully frayed so that he would drop to the floor unharmed. Then he could have been moved to the prison hospital — from which there had been two escapes in the past six months. He had to escape, you see, because his sweetheart had written him that she was in terrible trouble and danger — the same sweetheart whose evidence had helped convict him at the trial.
“Madelaine Starr wanted his money,” Malone went on, “but she didn’t want Paul. So her murder of his uncle served two purposes. It released Paul’s money, and it framed him. Using poor old innocent Orlo Featherstone, she planted in Lillian Claire’s head the idea of holding up Paul for money, so Paul would be faced with a need for ready cash. Everything worked fine, until I gummixed up the whole works by getting my client a new trial.”
“Your client shouldn’t of had such a smart lawyer,” the sheriff said, over his beer glass.
Malone tossed aside the compliment with a shrug of his cigar. “Maybe he should of had a better one. Anyway, she and her uncle, Dr. Dickson, fixed it all up. She sent that note to Paul, so he’d think he had to break out of the clink. Then her uncle, Dickson, told Paul he’d arrange the escape, with the rope trick. To the world, it would have looked as though Paul Palmer had committed suicide in a fit of depression. Only he did have a good lawyer, and he lived long enough to say ‘It wouldn’t break.’ ”
Malone looked into his empty glass and lapsed into a melancholy silence.
The phone rang — someone hijacked a truck over on the Springfield Road — and the sheriff was called away. Left by himself, Malone cried a little into his beer. Lillian Claire had gone back to Chicago with Orlo Featherstone, who really had called her up for a date, and no other reason.
Malone reminded himself he hadn’t had any sleep, his head was splitting, and what was left of Joe the Angel’s hundred dollars would just take him back to Chicago. And there was that letter from the bank, probably threatening a summons. He took it out of his pocket and sighed as he tore it open.
“Might as well face realities,” Malone said to the bartender. “And bring me another double gin.”
He drank the gin, tore open the envelope, and took out a certified check for five thousand dollars, with a note from the bank to the effect that Paul Palmer had directed its payment. It was dated the day before his death.
Malone waltzed to the door, waltzed back to pay the bartender and kiss him good-bye.
“Do you feel all right?” the bartender asked anxiously.
“All right!” Malone said. “I’m a new man!”
What was more, he’d just remembered the rest of that song. He sang it, happily, as he went up the street toward the railroad station.
Thirteen Lead Soldiers
by H. G. McNeile
We welcome the first appearance in “Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine” of Bulldog Drummond — detective, adventurer, and nemesis — who knows how to lead even toy soldiers to victory...
“You mustn’t touch them, Uncle Hugh, because they’re still wet. Mr. Stedman is going to paint some more when he comes back.”
Hugh Drummond — uncle by courtesy — looked down at the small boy on the floor. Around him was strewn the litter inseparable from small boys, be it trains, airplanes or hairy bugs. In this case the central motif consisted of toy soldiers, with paints and brushes and pools of multi-colored water. In addition there were boxes of infantry, and cavalry, and guns all of a dull gray color, whilst on a tray, resplendent in scarlet, stood some freshly painted heroes.
“Mr. Stedman says it’s far more fun to paint them oneself,” explained the proud owner. “He says it doesn’t matter if there is no full dress no more.”
“I quite agree with Mr. Stedman, Billy,” said Drummond. “Red looks much better than khaki, doesn’t it. That’s a good looking Highlander next door to the General on the horse.”
“Yes. I’ve got some more of those. They’re Cameron Highlanders.”
“Not Camerons, old man. They might be Gordons.”
“Mr. Stedman said Camerons,” persisted the boy. “Didn’t you?”
He looked up as a tall, dark man entered the room.