Malone closed the little diary gently and said, “The slip of paper directing me — or someone — to dig in the garden, under the tree, was found between those two pages.” He picked up the remains of his cigar, decided it was past all hope of relighting, and began to unwrap a new one.
“She took poison,” he said, “but not quite enough to kill her, and her maid was summoned home in time to have her rushed to a hospital. She registered at a hotel under a phony name and slashed her wrists — not badly — just before the hotel maid was due to come in.”
“What are you trying to prove?” von Flanagan asked uneasily.
“Nothing. Except that ‘the man’ must have known that ledge was safe enough to push a baby carriage on. He thought she’d use her head and climb back in through her window, though he made sure someone would see her and call the police before she did. He obviously didn’t know she had an abnormal fear of heights that would keep her frozen there, too scared to move, and too sane to jump. Nor,” he added modestly, “did he know that I’d arrive providentially.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” von Flanagan said.
“Trouble is,” Malone said, reaching for the gin bottle, “right now, neither do I.”
Again the young policeman came to the door, even more mud on his boots and slicker. “We found a little of what’s left of his clothes,” he reported. “Looks like he’s been there a long time. Got his wallet, his watch, and some other stuff. Looks like,” he said, “he was some guy named Robert Spencer.”
Malone lifted the gin bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes.
“It looks,” the young policeman added, “like he might of been murdered. Anyway we found what must of been a bullet in what looks like it probably had been his stomach, once.”
“Go away,” Malone groaned. He put down the gin bottle and sneezed again.
“You’re going to get pneumonia,” von Flanagan said solicitously.
The little lawyer shook his head. “Not on my income.”
“I better go back out,” the young policeman said. “Johnson still thinks he can find the rest of that left foot.” He slammed the door.
“Malone,” von Flanagan said. “That note. Was it written in the same handwriting as the diary?”
Malone blew his nose and said “Yes,” unhappily. That was one of the things that had been bothering him. Plus the fact that there was something maddeningly reminiscent about the wording of the note. “But,” he added, “it wasn’t written on the same paper. It was written on a telephone pad.” If he could only remember—
At this point another young policeman came in the room and said, “There’s someone here inquiring about Miss Dawn. I thought I’d better speak to you. He says his name is Robert Spencer.”
Malone covered his eyes with his hand and said, “This is too much!”
Von Flanagan said, “By all means, send him in.”
“By all means,” Malone repeated. “Maybe he can help find what’s left of his own left foot.” He sneezed again. He downed another drink of gin. Then suddenly he remembered. Bob Spencer, actor. Appearing, right now, in a rather dreary and not too successful comedy. Robert Spencer had had a small son, parked somewhere with relatives, when he met and married Diana Dawn.
“There’s someone with him,” the policeman said. “A Mr. Apt.”
“John Apt,” Malone said. “He’s an old-time theatrical agent. His friends call him Jack. Managed Diana Dawn, probably managed Robert Spencer. Manages Doris Dawn now. Maybe manages Bob Spencer, too — I don’t know.” He smothered the next sneeze.
Bob Spencer was tall, young, handsome, and anxious-eyed. His first words were, “Is Doris all right? What’s been happening to her? Why are all these policemen at her house? Where is she? When can I see her?”
Jack Apt smiled at Malone, von Flanagan, and the young policeman. It was a friendly, ingratiating smile. He nodded a shoulder towards the young actor and said, “You pardon him, he is upset.”
Nothing, Malone reflected, would ever upset Jack Apt. The diminutive agent had undoubtedly been born with a friendly smile and an imperturbable face and hadn’t changed his expression in all his sixty-odd years. He had bright little eyes, a white, waxy skin, and a few wisps of silvery hair on his well-shaped skull. He wore a black Chesterfield that seemed too large for his tiny frame and carried, incredibly and appropriately, a black derby.
“I am greatly concerned,” Jack Apt said. “I am the manager of Miss Dawn.” He sat down on a straight-back chair and placed the derby neatly on his knees. “I would like your assurance, sir—”
“Where is she?” Bob Spencer demanded, his voice harsh with desperation.
“The young lady is quite safe,” von Flanagan said coldly. “And what’s it to you?”
“I’m in love with her,” Bob Spencer said. “She’s in love with me.”
Malone looked at him and swallowed a sigh. He’d been cherishing a few very personal ideas about Doris Dawn. Now, he realized, he didn’t have a chance.
“We’re going to be married,” Bob Spencer added.
The little lawyer sat up in surprise, but said nothing.
Jack Apt beamed. “Just like two little lovebirds. And then there will be no more difficulty about the money.”
“Money?” Malone asked. It was one of his favorite subjects, right now more than ever.
“Never mind about the money,” Bob Spencer said, “Where is Doris?”
“Never mind about Doris,” Malone snapped, “What money?”
“Diana Dawn’s will,” Jack Apt explained. “She had a great deal of money. All of it from that unfortunate Mr. Stuart. She left it all to her second husband, Robert Spencer. Just before she died. Almost as though she had a premonition.”
Malone scowled. “But Robert Spencer had disappeared before then.”
“Quite right,” Jack Apt said, nodding and smiling. “Therefore the will stated that until he was found, Doris Dawn would receive the income from the estate, and would have the use of this property for living purposes.”
“ ‘Found,’ ” Malone quoted. “Did it specify — dead or alive?”
“No,” Jack Apt said. He looked very innocent and mild, turning his derby round and round on his knee. “A very curious will, I admit. But Diana wanted it that way. Robert had his faults, but she was fond of him. He stole from her, lied to her, almost ruined her career, but she was fond of him right up to the end.” Suddenly he didn’t look quite as innocent, nor as mild. “There is a clause — if her daughter should die, before he returned or was found, the money would go to his heirs. Or — if her daughter married, before he returned or was found, the money would go to the daughter and her husband. A very complicated will, but then, Diana Dawn had a very complicated personality.”
Young Bob Spencer obviously couldn’t stand this any longer. He said, “But this isn’t finding Doris. And she hasn’t married anybody, and he — hasn’t been found.”
Just at that moment one of the young policemen came in and said, “Johnson just found the rest of the left foot. Looks like we got all of him now.”
“Him?” Bob Spencer asked wildly. He stared around the room. “Where — is — Doris?”
“Right here,” Doris Dawn’s voice said.
Malone jumped, and turned around.
“Hello, Malone,” a deep, masculine voice said. “Sorry we startled you.”
She was still very pale, but her face had been washed and freshly made up. Her honey blonde hair was smooth over her shoulders. She wore a nurse’s uniform and white shoes and stockings but the dark mink coat was over the uniform.