Her mother, Diana Dawn, had been one of the most beautiful women of her, or any other, generation. Talented, too, though she hadn’t needed to be. It was worth the price of a theater ticket just to look at her, she didn’t have to utter one word or sing one note. She’d married a man as rich as she was beautiful, and been heartbroken when he was killed in a polo accident shortly after Doris was born.
Time had apparently healed wounds enough for her to marry again — this time, an actor. Malone fumbled through his memory for his name, finally found it. Robert Spencer. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, for some reason he couldn’t quite place. That was when he ordered the third gin-and-beer.
Diana Dawn Stuart Spencer had been married only a few months when her second husband had vanished from the face of the earth. Not long after, Diana herself had jumped from the end of Navy Pier into the cold waters of Lake Michigan, leaving alone in the world a small blonde daughter who inherited the Stuart fortune, was raised by a board of trustees, and burst upon the world at eighteen as Doris Dawn, singer, determined on making her own way in the world.
Malone put down his empty glass, sighed, and felt in his pockets. Two nickels, two pennies and a telephone slug. He searched other pockets, not forgetting to investigate the lining of his coat and his trouser cuffs. Sometimes small change turned up unexpectedly. But not this time. He considered investing the two nickels in the slot machine, thought over the odds, and gave that up. He debated riding a street car to Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar and negotiating a small loan, then remembered Joe the Angel had gone to Gary, Indiana, to help celebrate a niece’s wedding. He ended up by riding a State Street car to within a couple of blocks of 1117 Gay Street.
It was nearly midnight when he entered the tiny, perfect (though admittedly dusty) house Charles Stuart had built for his bride and left to his daughter, set in a small square of garden enclosed by a high brick wall. Less than half an hour later he was out in the garden with a spade he’d found in the back entry, shivering in the rain, and praying that he was on a fool’s errand. Before one o’clock he was on the telephone in a frantic search for Capt. Dan von Flanagan, of the Homicide Squad. By one-fifteen von Flanagan was there having brought, per Malone’s request, two husky policemen with shovels, the morgue wagon and a basket, and a bottle of gin.
“I thought it was a joke,” Malone said hoarsely, nursing his glass of gin. “I found her diary right where she said it would be.” He nodded toward the little Chippendale desk. “I started to read it.”
“Shame on you, Malone,” von Flanagan said. “Reading a girl’s diary.” The big policeman looked uncomfortable and uneasy, perched on the edge of a delicate brocade chair. “What does it say?”
“It was her idea,” Malone said. “Anyway, I wanted to read her version of those two — suicide attempts. And this paper fell out of it.” He handed it to von Flanagan.
“It sounded like a couple of lines from a couple of popular songs. But I found a spade, and I dug.”
“You must have been drunk,” von Flanagan commented.
“Who, me?” Malone asked indignantly. He gulped the rest of his glass of gin, took out a cigar and lit it with only a slightly trembling hand.
“And don’t be nervous,” von Flanagan said. “You’ve seen skulls before.”
“Who’s nervous?” Malone demanded. He closed his eyes and remembered standing under a tree that dripped cold spring rain, bracing his feet in the mud and digging with a small and inadequate shovel into the still half-frozen ground, until suddenly a white and fleshless face leered at him. A nearby door opened, and he jumped.
A policeman in an oilskin slicker and muddy boots said, “We found a’most all of him, ’cept a little bit of his left foot.” He closed the door as he went out, and Malone closed his eyes. He opened the door again and said, “Looks like he was buried with all his clothes on, even his jewelry. Johnson’s cleaning off his watch.” He closed the door again. Malone sneezed.
“I hope you haven’t caught cold,” von Flanagan said solicitously.
“I never catch cold,” Malone said. He finally got the cigar lit, reached for the gin bottle and said, “But just to be on the safe side—” He sneezed again. “About the diary. It was written by a very happy, very normal young girl who had everything to live for, including about half the money in the world. Up to the point where strange things began to happen to her.” He reached for the little leather-bound book and began to read aloud.
“A strange thing happened. Everything is very mixed up and I don’t understand. I made myself a nightcap and went to bed early after the show, and woke up in a hospital. In between I sort of remember a lot of excitement and people running around, and being very sick and uncomfortable. They tried to tell me I took poison, but I know I didn’t. They said I wrote ‘Goodbye, goodbye’ in lipstick on the head of my bed, but by the time they let me come home it had been washed off so I couldn’t tell if I wrote it or not. They found poison in my stomach but I know I hadn’t taken any.”
“She is nuts,” von Flanagan commented.
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. He went on: “I remember now that night there was a man in my room. He came to deliver a telegram only I never did see the telegram. I was in the bathtub so I put a robe on and opened the door a crack and told him to leave the telegram on the desk and shut the door when he went out. My nightcap was on the bed table. I wonder if someone is trying to poison me.”
The little lawyer paused, refilled his glass, relit his cigar and said, “After that, there’s a note of uneasiness in the diary. The usual things — dates, parties, clothes — but a feeling of worry.”
Von Flanagan scowled and said, “I remember a little about that. Someone called her maid and told her to hurry home, her employer was sick. Otherwise this babe might of died, though she didn’t take much.”
“Some time later,” Malone said, “she wrote, ‘Someone is trying to kill me.’ ” He paused. “You’ll remember this, too. She was found in a hotel room, registered under another name. The maid came in and found her in the bathroom, with her wrists cut.” He paused once more and added, frowning, “She checked in, and did the slashing job just before the maid was due in that room on her regular rounds.”
“Stupid of her,” von Flanagan commented, “if she really wanted to—” he cleared his throat, “check in and check out. She should have known she’d be found in time.”
“According to her diary,” Malone told him, “a man telephoned her and told her that if she’d go to such-and-such a hotel, and register under such-and-such a name, he’d meet her there with some very important information about the long-missing Robert Spencer. She went there, answered the door, ‘a man’ — otherwise unidentified — forced her into the bathroom, slashed her wrists, and left her there unconscious. She told the police this story, and they laughed at her. The words Goodbye, goodbye were written on the bathroom mirror.”
Von Flanagan shuffled his feet uncomfortably and said, “You gotta admit, Malone, it smells phony.”
Malone ignored him. “From that point on, the diary is the story of a terrified girl who knows someone is trying to kill her. And yet,” — he put down his cigar — “I’ll read you the last entry.”
“I am terribly afraid, but I must know the truth. I have been promised that if I keep the appointment I will be told what happened to Robert Spencer. This, I must know.”