The blonde alibi proved to be a blonde all right, and everything else a man could wish in the way of an alibi. Serena Gates was neither surprised nor shocked.
“I’ve been expecting something like this ever since it happened,” she told Malone right away. “I’m not the kind of a girl you think I am, Mr. Malone. Things are not really as bad as they look.”
Malone looked again and decided things didn’t look bad at all. In fact, things were every bit as good as they looked, even in the dim half light that concealed as much as it revealed of the shapely figure.
“You’ll have to excuse my informal attire,” Serena said, drawing a wisp of the filmy negligee over her shoulder. “You see, I had already gone to bed. It’s about yesterday you want to question me, isn’t it? Can I fix you something to drink?”
After the fourth highball and what Malone told himself was a very satisfactory investigation of the facts, he came away with the conviction that Benson’s alibi was just a trifle short of what he needed to eliminate him as a suspect. According to Serena Gates he had left her apartment shortly after eight o’clock in the evening driving a rented car, as he usually did on his visits. The crime was committed at ten. This would have left him plenty of time to drive to the plant, return the rented car and take a cab to the airport. Serena might have been lying about the time, but if she was it did not promise well for Benson if he had no better alibi than she was willing to give him. Besides, she seemed to be prepared to take an entirely fresh view of her amatory loyalties. The little lawyer made a mental note to look further into this aspect of the case.
When he got down to the office at noon he told Maggie about the events of the night before. Maggie was unimpressed. “Von Flanagan has been telephoning like mad all morning,” she told him. The words were hardly out of her mouth when the phone rang. It was an entirely changed Von Flanagan.
“We’re up against a blank wall, Malone. You’ve got to help me out. We’ve run down every suspicious car report, and no dice. I’ve never seen anything like it. No fingerprints, no murder weapon, no suspects.”
Malone said, “Have you questioned the night watchman?”
“Yesterday and again this morning. Same thing. He heard a shot, found the body, and fired after the getaway car. Ballistics supports the guy’s story. The bullet that killed Petty wasn’t from his gun. I know your suspect is Benson but you’re crazy. We’ve checked his alibi. He was in Pittsburgh all right.”
Malone said, “Maybe you’re barking up the wrong alibi. And maybe there weren’t any bandits.”
“Malone, Malone, you’re holding out on me.” The tone was something between a plea and a threat. “If Petty told you anything about Benson, it’s your duty — besides I’m your friend, and if you make one false move, Malone, so help me—”
“I’ll be ready to tell you all I know in a few hours,” Malone said. “Meanwhile, put a tail on Benson. We may need him before the night is over.” He hung up.
“Malone,” Maggie said, “I’ve seen you stick your neck out before, but this time you’ve really done it. How can you prove Benson killed Petty and stole the money? Motive? Sure. And now, with this blonde in the picture, double sure. Opportunity? Swell. He could have done it in the two hours between eight and ten. He might have done it, he could have done it, but did he do it? And where are your witnesses? Where is the murder weapon? And where is the money? I suppose you think Benson is going to make a full confession, produce the gun, and turn over the money, just to get you out of a mess.”
“Maggie,” Malone said, “I think I need a drink.”
“No use looking in the Emergency file,” Maggie said, “You killed that bottle yesterday.”
The telephone rang. It was Benson.
“Dockstedter just called me. Gave me till noon tomorrow. He wants fifty thousand dollars. You’ve got to do something, Malone.” He paused. “I talked to Serena on the phone this morning. She’s acting kind of strange. What did she tell you, Malone?”
Malone said, “You haven’t got a thing to worry about. A clean conscience is a man’s best defense. Sit tight and don’t do a thing till you hear from me. And don’t go near Serena again till I give you the all clear. The police might be shadowing you.” He hung up. “What was I saying, Maggie?”
“About money,” Maggie said. “Why don’t you use some of that thousand Benson gave you?”
Malone was indignant. “That money goes right back to Benson the minute I put the finger on him. You forget I’ve got a client. Algernon Petty.”
8.
It was a perplexed and dejected John J. Malone who walked into Joe the Angel’s City Hall her early that evening.
“Joe,” Malone said, “have I got any credit left around here?”
“Liquor, yes. Money, no,” Joe the Angel said. “What’s the matter now, Malone? The client he no pay?”
“The client he pay,” Malone said. “Twenty bucks. Then he get shot, and two hundred thousand dollars missing. Make it a gin and beer.”
“I read about it in paper,” Joe the Angel said. “Too bad. Don’t worry, Malone, you find the bandits. Yes?”
“I find the bandits no,” Malone said. “Joe, I need flowers.”
“Ah, for the funeral. Sure, Malone.”
“Not for the funeral, Joe. For a lady.”
“Ah, for a lady. Same thing. I mean, I call my brother-in-law, the one owns funeral parlor, and he send over flowers left over from funeral. What’s address?”
Malone gave him Serena Gates’ address, decided to call her up, and then changed his mind. Better surprise her after the flowers are delivered. “Tell him to put in a card saying ‘Flowers to the fair,’ and sign my name to it,” Malone called over to Joe the Angel who was already on the telephone.
Over a second gin and beer Malone unburdened his heart. “Imagine, Joe. I’ve got the case as good as solved. The suspect had the motive. He had the opportunity. His alibi is two hours short and the lady in the case is on my side. All I need is the evidence — the murder gun, the money, or at least a witness.”
Joe the Angel said, “The lady, maybe she help you?”
“I don’t know,” Malone said. “She admits he was in her apartment till eight. How would she know what he was doing between eight and ten,” he paused, “unless she followed him,” he paused again, “unless—” He set the beer down on the bar. “Give me a rye, quick, Joe. Make it a double rye. I’ve got to think.”
He downed the double shot. “I’ve got it, Joe,” he beamed. “I think I’ve got it. If Benson is two hours short on his alibi, so is Serena Gates. I’ve got to go and see the lady again. How about a ten-spot, on the cuff?”
“For a lady, that’s different,” Joe the Angel said, and handed over the ten.
“Thanks,” Malone said, “and can I borrow your gun?”
With a look of utter confusion Joe the Angel handed Malone the gun. “First it is flowers. Now it is a gun,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders. Malone was already on his way out the door.
9.
This time Serena Gates was both surprised and shocked at Malone’s unexpected visit. It took a foot in the door and an ungentlemanly heave of the shoulder to override the lady’s remonstrances. Serena was furious.
“What is the meaning of this? Malone, you must be crazy.”
“Call it the impatience of youth,” Malone said.
He looked around the living room. It had every appearance of a hastily planned departure, stripped of every personal belonging. He noted that his flowers to the fair had been delivered, and deposited in the waste basket. Three suit cases stood ready near the door. One of them particularly struck his eye. It seemed singularly out of place, large, metal-bound and quite unladylike.