“Not so fast,” Maggie said. “If you ask me, Mr. Petty looks more like a fast touch than a fat retainer,” and, opening the door, she showed in the little bookkeeper.
What met the legal eye was a very frightened and nervous Mr. Petty. He patted the chair before sitting down in it, as if he expected it to be wired for an execution.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he began haltingly. “You see, Mr. Malone, I’ve never had anything to do with the law before. Of course I expect to pay—” He fished a tired ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, stole a speculative glance at Malone out of the corner of his eye, and decided to add another ten. “I know your professional services come high,” he explained, “but mine is a serious case, I’m afraid.”
“What do you expect me to do, Mr. Petty?” Malone asked. “Arrange a settlement for you with Gloria Vanderbilt?”
The little bookkeeper looked puzzled. “But I don’t even know Gloria Vanderbilt. No, it’s Carmelita. Of course I never really promised to marry Carmelita, but, well, you know how women are.”
Malone said, “I see. Something in the nature of a breach of promise.”
“Something like that,” Mr. Petty said. “And I thought you might see her for me and — well, lawyers know how to handle such things.”
“And how much would you be prepared to go to avoid embarrassment, Mr. Petty? Say a cool million or so?”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Mr. Petty replied quickly. “You see, Carmelita loves me.”
“In that case,” Malone said, “let’s say half a million.”
“No, no, Mr. Malone, you don’t understand. It isn’t money.”
“Not money?”
“No, it’s just that I can’t marry Carmelita. You see, I’m already married. Thirty years this coming Wednesday, and I promised my wife—”
“I see,” Malone said, “and you want me to convey your regrets to the lady.” He was beginning to feel sorry for the little man. “In that case,” he continued, “it would be appropriate to offer something, don’t you think — by way of heart balm.”
“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Malone. I promised to fly with Carmelita to Monte Carlo — her mother lives in Monte Carlo, you know — but that was before Mr. Benson offered to help me out so I could put the money back in the safe—”
Malone sat up. “What money back in what safe?”
“Why the three thousand dollars I embezzled, Mr. Malone. Mr. Benson was very nice about it — he’s our general manager. Before he flies to Pittsburgh this afternoon he is leaving the money in the safe for me, and I’ll pay it back to him out of my salary. And tomorrow night I’m going over the books to set everything straight for the auditors on Monday morning. But it’s Carmelita I’m worried about. At first I thought I’d borrow a little more of the company money, just enough for the trip, and send the money back when I got a job. I understand they handle a lot of money in Monte Carlo and they might be able to use a man who’s good at figures.”
“I see,” Malone said. He wasn’t sure just yet what he could say.
“But I couldn’t do that now. Not with the auditors coming on Monday. And not after the way Mr. Benson treated me when I told him about the three thousand dollars. But I still want to do what’s right by Carmelita. So I thought, if you could see her for me and — give her this.”
Mr. Petty took a large plain envelope from his pocket and handed it across the desk to Malone.
Malone said, “Would you mind telling me what’s in it? I just want to be sure I’m not acting as accessory before — or after — a case of grand theft.”
“Oh it’s nothing like that,” Mr. Petty said, “Just something — personal. Carmelita will understand.”
And with this Mr. Petty rose and left, with such alacrity that it was not till he was gone that Malone realized he had neglected to leave Carmelita’s address or even her full name.
3.
The headline in the Monday morning Examiner was broad and black, but the story was brief.
Algernon Petty, bookkeeper for the Pittsburgh Products Company, was found shot to death last night in a spectacular payroll robbery at the company’s Chicago plant, 3545 Clybourne avenue. Emil Dockstedter, the nightwatchman on duty, reported the shooting to police who hurried to the scene. They found Petty in a pool of blood in front of the open safe. Officials said cash in the amount of $200,000 was missing from the safe. According to watchman Dockstedter, the money was delivered to the plant early Saturday to meet this morning’s monthly payroll, today being a bank holiday. George V. Benson, general manager, was reported flying back from Pittsburgh today, having left Saturday for a home office conference.
Dockstedter said that shortly after 10 P.M. he heard a shot fired and hurrying to the office found Petty dead on the floor. He fired after the fleeing bandit’s getaway car from the office window, but was unable to stop it, or make out the license number of the car. Chief of Detectives Daniel Von Flanagan promptly ordered an all-out alarm for the fleeing bandits.
The victim had been in the employ of the company for 30 years. He is survived by his widow, Mrs. Sophia Petty, 2437 N. Damen Ave. Five years ago last Friday, Mrs. Petty was quoted as saying, Mr. Petty was awarded the company’s 25-year medal for honest and faithful service.
Malone tossed the paper on his desk and sat down glumly, staring out of the window while he slowly removed the cellophane from his cigar and lit it.
Maggie read the story and looked across at Malone. He was still staring out the window, lost in thought.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Maggie said. “You feel you should have done something about it. But what could you have done? Anyway, it’s too late now. As for Carmelita, Mrs. Sophia Petty wouldn’t thank you for dragging her into the case. What was it she told Petty, that her mother lived in Monte Carlo? Nobody’s mother ever lived in Monte Carlo. Besides, how do you know she wasn’t in cahoots with the bandits? It wouldn’t surprise me if she was off to Monte Carlo all right — right now — with her share of the loot tucked away in her little overnight bag.”
Malone took out the envelope the little bookkeeper had left with him. “I suppose, as Mr. Petty’s lawyer, I have the right to open this now,” he said. He tore open the envelope and emptied the contents on the desk. It was an airplane ticket to Monte Carlo. One person. One way. Made out to Carmelita Maquire, 1428 N. Jensen St., Chicago, Illinois.
4.
It was a six-flat tenement in the near north side slum district. A knock on the first door down the hall brought out an old Polish woman who told him in broken English that the Bednarskys in the third floor rear kept a boarder, a girl. Mrs. Bednarsky, after a few minutes of cautious evasion, admitted that her boarder’s name was Maguire, that she worked behind the quick-lunch counter on the corner.
Carmelita Maguire, it turned out, was a brown-eyed blonde in her middle twenties, with a face that might have been copied out of a court painting of a Spanish princess, and traces of an Irish brogue in her speech. There were Maquires on his mother’s side back in Ireland, Malone told her, and after that the going was easy. Evidently she hadn’t read the morning papers, and Malone bided his time as he chatted with the girl over the ham and eggs she had set before him on the counter.