“As this young lady’s lawyer,” he began.
Klutchetsky said, “Now, Malone. You heard what the doc here said. And maybe you remember this babe’s mother.”
“I do,” Malone said, “I was secretly in love with her for years.” He reflected that every impressionable male who’d been to the theater between 1915 and 1926 remembered Diana Dawn, who’d committed suicide at the very height of her career.
“Okay,” Klutchetsky said, “this babe takes poison, only she’s found in time and luckily she didn’t take much. Then she goes to work on her wrists with a razor blade, but she misses the right spot and anyhow a hotel maid finds her before she bled too much. Now she takes a room here under a phony name, and decides to jump.”
The little lawyer was silent for a moment. Maybe, this time, Klutchetsky was right and he was wrong. Still—
“How about notes?” he asked. “Did she leave any?”
“Notes!” the police officer snorted, “what do you call these?” He waved an arm around the room.
Malone looked, and realized that the room was filled with mirrors. On every one of them was written, in lipstick, “Goodbye, Goodbye.” The letters were the color of dried blood. The bathroom door was a full-length mirror, and on it was scrawled, over and over, “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye—”
“I didn’t write it!” Doris Dawn said.
Malone looked at her closely, then back at the dark red letters. He said to Klutchetsky, “I’m convinced.”
The minister muttered something about the use of excessive makeup, the perils of the city, juvenile delinquency, and his next Sunday’s sermon. Dr. Updegraff muttered something about the significance of the use of lipstick for a farewell message.
The girl gave a tragic little moan. “But I thought you’d help me!”
“Don’t look now,” Malone said, “but I am.” He turned to Klutchetsky. “Better have the squad car go round to the alley. There must be a flock of reporters in the lobby by now. We’ll go down the freight elevator.”
Klutchetsky nodded his thanks, told the young cop to get headquarters on the phone, and said to Malone, “You’ll have to show us the way. How come you always know where the freight elevators in hotels are, anyhow?”
“I have my secrets,” Malone said coyly, “and all of them are sacred.” He didn’t add that, among those secrets, was the knowledge that the ledge outside the window was a good two and a half feet wide, and that it had a rim extending up for at least six inches.
One reason was that he didn’t want to tell how he knew.
He held Doris Dawn firmly by the elbow as they walked to the door. Dr. Updegraff and the minister had volunteered, with willing helpfulness, indeed, even hopefulness, to stay behind and cope with the reporters. Malone had muttered something unpleasant about people who were their own press agents and thus kept honest, but starving, ex-newspapermen out of jobs.
Out in the alley, Klutchetsky thanked Malone for guiding them down the freight elevator, said goodnight, and ushered Doris Dawn into the back of the car. Malone promptly popped in beside her.
“Now wait a minute,” Klutchetsky said, “You can’t do this, Malone.”
“I can,” Malone said pleasantly, “I will, and I am.” He smiled. “Did you ever remember to tell your wife about that trip we took to the races while she was visiting her cousin in the east—” He paused.
“Oh, all right,” the police officer growled. He slammed the car door shut and climbed in beside the uniformed driver.
As the car turned into Michigan Avenue, where the crowd was thinning and the fire department was packing up to leave, her hand crept into his like a cold, frightened kitten creeping into a feather bed.
“I didn’t, you know,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have. There wasn’t any reason. I’ve always had fun. I’ve always had everything. Until this started, I’ve always been happy.”
“I know it,” Malone whispered back. “I’ve heard you sing.” He curled his fingers reassuringly around hers.
“But I don’t want you to believe it because I say so and because you’re sorry for me. I want you to believe it because something proves it to you. I want you to read my diary, and then you’ll really know.”
She reached into her pocket. “You trusted me, so I’m going to trust you. Here’s the key to my house. It’s 1117 Gay Street. You can remember that, can’t you? The light switch is just to the right of the door, and the library is just to the left of the hall. There’s a desk in the library and my diary is in the middle drawer, under an old telephone book. You’ve got to read it. And please don’t mind there being a little dust everywhere because I’ve been too busy to do any dusting myself, and my housekeeper had to go to Clinton, Iowa, because her daughter-in-law had a baby.”
Malone blinked. Doris Dawn, radio singing star, had spent agonizing hours on a window ledge twenty-two stories up from the street. She was in danger of being hustled into a psychopathic ward and if she were turned loose, she was probably in danger of being murdered. But she worried for fear he’d think her house needed dusting. It didn’t make sense. But then, neither did Doris.
“Tell me,” he said, “about this mysterious ‘he’—”
“Honest,” she said, “I never got a look at him. That first time—” The car was pulling up in front of headquarters. “It’s all in the diary.”
He squeezed her hand, tight. “Look. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t talk to any reporters. Refer everything to your lawyer. That’s me. And don’t be afraid.”
A big sob of pity rose in his throat. She was so lovely, and so frightened. He wanted to put a comforting arm around her for just one moment. But Klutchetsky was already pulling open the car door.
“You’ll be safe,” he promised her. “I’ll raise a little hell.”
He raised so much hell that Doris Dawn was taken from headquarters in a police ambulance, two jumps ahead of the reporters, placed in a private hospital under an assumed name and with a police guard at the door. Indeed he was so efficient about his hell-raising that it was not until he was out on the sidewalk, in the cold spring rain, that he remembered overlooking a number of very important details.
One, he had neglected to tell Doris Dawn the name of her self-appointed lawyer. Two, he had neglected to learn the name of the private hospital, and the name under which she’d been registered.
He reflected that he’d probably have more trouble finding his client than she would have finding her lawyer. But those were the minor details.
The more important items were that, while appointing himself her lawyer, he’d forgotten to mention the delicate matter of a retainer. And worse than that, the original client he’d been on his way to see had certainly located another mouthpiece by this time.
Finally, the expensive blonde had never been known to wait for anyone more than half an hour. He was almost two hours late, by now.
Malone sighed unhappily and regretted having spent most of that lone five dollar bill buying magazines and candy for Doris Dawn at the newsstand, before the police ambulance took her away. Then he thought about Doris Dawn and decided he didn’t regret it too much.
There was a grand total of eighty-seven cents in his pocket. The little lawyer ducked into the nearest corner bar and spent seventy-five cents of it on three gin-and-beers while he thought over all he knew about Doris Dawn.