Benson looked down at his glass. “I can see now how that might be misconstrued,” he said. “Of course you understand I had no intention of accusing Mr. Petty of anything. It was just that I couldn’t understand—” He took out his wallet and handed Malone the confession the little bookkeeper had signed. “Here, you keep this,” he said. “Or better yet, destroy it. There is also Mrs. Petty to consider. And the trouble he was having — with women, I mean. I suppose he told you about that too? Imagine, women! A man like Petty. I wouldn’t want to have it on my conscience—”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Benson,” Malone said. He put the signed confession in his pocket.
“I would destroy that if I were you,” Benson said. “I wouldn’t want anything to come out that might be misinterpreted — can I give you a lift, Mr. Malone?”
In the cab on the way to police headquarters Benson was still nervous and disturbed. “I dread all this fuss — reporters, police — I suppose I’ll have to testify at the inquest. It would be a great relief to me if I had a good lawyer—” He looked speculatively at Malone.
The little lawyer nodded. “Come and see me. Any time.” At police headquarters he took leave of Benson, explaining it was only a short walk to his office. “I might begin by giving you one piece of legal advice,” he said on parting. “If Von Flanagan should ask you why you took the midnight plane back from Pittsburgh Saturday and what you were doing in Chicago Sunday night, don’t tell him a thing. Remember nobody is compelled to testify against himself.”
Without turning to look back Malone hurried to the corner and boarded a streetcar to the office. No point in running up cab fares, he told himself. Not on a twenty-buck retainer.
6.
Back at the office Malone handed Maggie the signed confession, saying, “Put this in my safe deposit box first thing tomorrow morning when you make the bank deposit. Did I have any phone calls?”
Maggie gave him a straight look. “What bank deposit? And whom did you expect a call from?”
“There might be a bank deposit, and I’m expecting a call from George Benson. I just left him at police headquarters. He seems to think he’ll be needing my professional services.”
“Don’t tell me it was Benson!”
Malone said, “I’m not ready to say it was anybody — yet. But it could have been Benson. Let’s take a trial balance.” He took out a fresh cigar and lighted it carefully before continuing. “All right, motive: Two hundred thousand dollars is enough motive for anybody, anytime. Opportunity: He could have flown to Pittsburgh Saturday afternoon, checked in at a hotel and seen or called somebody from the home office, and caught the night plane back to Chicago with plenty of time to kill Petty and return to Pittsburgh on the night plane, and deposit the payroll money in an airfield locker. Meanwhile the police would be searching for the bandit killers, and — no bandits. Because...” Malone watched a funnel of cigar smoke ascend slowly to the ceiling, “because the safest crime to commit is one in which the only obvious suspect is the one everybody is searching for and nobody can find — because he doesn’t exist.”
“Perfect,” Maggie said. “Unless somebody saw him come back. Unless somebody noticed that he hadn’t spent the night in his hotel room, or saw him getting off the plane there in the morning, or returning to his hotel room. And what about the murder weapon? And the night watchman?”
“No crime is that perfect,” Malone said. “Besides, Benson may save everybody a lot of trouble yet by cracking up and coming clean with the whole story. He was pretty scared when I left him. Yes, I have an idea we’ll be seeing Mr. Benson soon.”
That evening the papers carried the news that all reports of the fleeing bandits had proved false alarms, that auditors had failed to find any irregularities in the slain bookkeeper’s accounts, and that, according to Captain Von Flanagan, the department had undisclosed information on the identity of the payroll mob and was preparing to stage a series of lightning arrests. There was also a statement by George V. Benson to the effect that no effort or expense would be spared by his firm to bring the murderers to justice.
It was nearly midnight when the telephone in Malone’s apartment rang. It was George Benson. His voice was low but urgent. “I’ve got to see you right away. Alone. I’ll be right over.” In less than fifteen minutes he was at the door, a shaken, almost incoherent, man.
“I need your help, Malone. You’ll have to believe me. I had nothing to do with the robbery or the murder. I was only trying to help Petty. But what do you suppose happened tonight? Eric Dockstedter came to my home. He’s our night watchman, you know. For the longest time he kept talking, beating around the bush, and then it dawned on me what he was trying to say. He suspects me of having committed the robbery and the murder! Didn’t want to make any trouble for me, he said, loyalty and all that, to the firm, to me personally, but he had a sick wife, a son-in-law that was in some kind of jam, he wasn’t in too good health himself and was thinking of retiring anyway, and all that kind of talk. Trying to shake me down. Trying to blackmail me!”
“What did you say?”
“What could I say? I denied it, of course. I couldn’t fire him. He might go to the police anyway. I stalled. Told him I’d have to think it over. There must be some way to stop him, Malone. But quietly, without any publicity. There’ll be expenses, of course. I’m not a rich man, Malone, but a thing like this — will a thousand take care of it? The initial expense, I mean.”
Malone tried not to look at the crisp hundred dollar bills on the coffee table. “As your lawyer — and I haven’t said I’ll take the case yet — I would have to ask you a few questions first, Mr. Benson,” Malone said. “Why did you fly back from Pittsburgh Saturday night, and what were you doing in Chicago between Sunday morning and Sunday night when you flew back to Pittsburgh?”
“How did you know—” Benson began, and stopped himself abruptly. “Who says I was here Sunday? Did anybody see me?”
“I was only guessing,” Malone admitted. “Just a shot in the dark, but it seems to have rung a bell. Come now, Benson, I’ll have to have the whole story — straight — if I’m going to take your case. You may have to explain it to the police later, anyway.”
“I suppose so,” Benson replied dejectedly. “Although there’s nothing to it, really. Nothing that has any bearing on the case. It — it’s something personal.”
Malone said, “I see. The blonde alibi. You’ll have to think of something more original, Mr. Benson.”
“I’d hoped I could keep her out of this,” Benson said, shaking his head sadly, “But I suppose you’ll have to check on it. I’ll need time, though, to sort of prepare her for it.”
Malone shook his head. He handed Benson the telephone. “Now,” he said. “Just say I’ve got to see her right away. Alone. And don’t try coaching the witness.”
Benson did as he was bidden, then drove Malone to the rendezvous. As he pulled up before the apartment hotel he turned to Malone. “This is going to be a delicate business,” he said. “I can trust you, of course.”
“You can trust a lawyer with anything,” Malone said, “and don’t mention a word of this to your wife.”
7.