opened them again the woman was still there, seated across the desk. He sighed. 'What do you want me to help you do?' he said. The choice of words, he reflected, was just a little unfortunate, but it really didn't matter. He knew he would have to take the job, whatever it was. So long as it wasn't anything definitely illegal. And he wasn't sure that would stop him, either, he reflected. The bank balance was at its lowest ebb in years. Mentally, Malone ticked off a list of people he owed money to: the telephone company, the electric company, Maggie, Joe the Angel, Ken, Judge Touralchuck (an unfortunate poker game)…
It seemed endless.
'It's my husband,' the woman said. 'The police think I murdered him.'
Malone sighed again. 'Why?' he said. 'For that matter, who's your husband? And who are you?' He thought of adding: 'And why did you have to pick me, of all people?' but decided against it. He needed the money, he reminded himself. And the woman, was beautiful.
Malone felt a resurgence of gallantry in his breast. He flicked cigar ash off his vest and waited quietly.
'Oh,' the woman said. There was a little silence. 'I'm Marjorie Dohr,' she said.
Malone blinked, and said nothing at all.
The woman spelled her last name. 'My husband's James Dohr. I mean… he
'Please,' Malone said, patting the head ineffectually. 'Please. Stop. I — '
After a few seconds she looked up, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and murmured: 'I'm sorry. But it was all so sudden… James was — dead, and then there were the police, and I — '
'Ah,' Malone said. 'Tell me about the police.'
Mrs. Dohr dabbed at her eyes again. 'You — will help me?' she asked.
'I'll try,' Malone said. 'Did you kill your husband?'
Mrs. Dohr stared. 'Of course not,' she said. 'I told you — '
'I just wanted to make sure,' Malone said defensively. 'But the police think you did.'
She nodded. 'That's right,' she said. 'You see, James didn't feel well, so he stayed home. I went to the movies. And when I got back, he was — he was lying there, right in the living room, with that knife in his back, and I–I was going to call the police.'
'But you didn't?' Malone asked gently.
'No,' she said. 'They came in — just a few seconds after I got home. And they accused me of murdering James. For his — money.'
'Money?' Malone said hopefully.
'That's right,' Mrs. Dohr said. 'When old Gerald Deane died, he left James five thousand dollars. And the police thought I killed James for that.'
'Very silly of them,' Malone murmured. 'Your husband was related to Gerald Deane?' He remembered the aircraft magnate. Five thousand dollars seemed a small sum to leave to a relative, even a distant one, if your estate was the size of Deane's, but people did funny things.
'Oh, no,' Mrs. Dohr said. 'They weren't related at all, not at all.'
'Ah,' Malone said. 'Just good friends.'
Mrs. Dohr shook her head. 'Not exactly,' she said. 'You see — maybe I should have explained before. My husband is — was — a butler. He worked for old Mr. Deane, and then he worked for his son Ronald. He was working for Ronald until he — until he died.'
'A butler,' Malone said.
'That's right,' she said. 'Malone — you will help me, won't you? You don't think I killed my husband, do you? Please say you'll help me!'
Malone sighed. 'I'll help you,' he said obediently. 'And I don't think you killed your husband. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you didn't,' he added in a burst of confidence.
'You mean — you can prove I didn't kill James?' Mrs. Dohr said. 'Then who did?'
Malone coughed gently and took a puff on his cigar. 'Before we answer that,' he said, in what he hoped was a confident tone, 'we'll have to have a few more facts.'
An hour later, armed with facts about James Dohr, Gerald Deane, his surviving wife Phyllis and his son and daughter-in-law, Ronald and Wendy, Malone set off for Joe the Angel's Bar. It would be, he told himself, a nice place to collect his thoughts and make up his mind on his first move.
But the atmosphere wasn't quite as friendly as he remembered it from other days. Joe was brooding about Malone's bar bill, and he made it fairly obvious. Malone had a few drinks for old times' sake, but his heart wasn't really in it. And, beyond deciding that his first place of inquiry would be the Deane household, he did no thinking worth mentioning.
The Deanes were, he told himself, his prime suspects, almost entirely because they were his only suspects. James Dohr seemed to have been a saint on earth, Malone reflected; according to his tearful widow, he had had absolutely no enemies. Even his friends had liked him. And this narrowed the field of suspicion considerably.
Mrs. Dohr had a motive for murder, Malone knew. And her story of the movies was pretty vague, and could be shot full of holes by a six-year-old child. Not only that, he told himself, but hers was the only motive around.
Nevertheless, he believed her story. She had been tearful and beautiful, and she had sounded sincere. Besides, Malone thought, she was his client.
That meant finding somebody else who had a motive. And who else was there?
Well, Malone considered, a butler is in a position to discover all kinds of things about the household he works for. That was a point worth considering. It pointed the first finger of suspicion squarely at a dead man, Gerald Deane, but there was always his widow, and the rest of his family. Possibly there was even another butler.
Malone drained his glass and got up. With a friendly wave to Joe, a wave that was meant to impart great confidence about the paying of Malone's bar bill, the little lawyer went to the door, pushed it open, and started looking for a cab.
The Deane estate was a large house set in the middle of a larger area of grounds. Malone drove up the winding drive to the front door of the marble palace, got out, tipped the cabbie and walked up the steps.
The door was solid mahogany. Malone took hold of the knocker and used it. The door swung open.
A tall red-headed man grinned at him. 'Now who are you?' he said. 'You can't possibly be the new butler. You don't look like a butler. You look like a — like a — ' He posed thoughtfully in the doorway for a few moments, 'Like a bootlegger,' he said at last. 'An old-fashioned, slightly under-the-weather bootlegger.' He stepped aside and called into an entranceway at the left of the door: 'Aren't I right, Wendy?'
A woman's voice floated back: 'Certainly you're right. If you say so, you're right. How far would I get if I argued with you? You're always right.'
Malone sighed. 'Excuse me,' he said.
'Ah,' the red-haired man said. He looked scarcely old enough to remember Prohibition, Malone thought. 'I'm afraid you're out of date,' the red-haired one said. 'We haven't taken any bathtub hooch in this house for years.'
Malone said: 'But — '
'I know,' the red-haired man said. 'I know. It's just off the boat. Even so, I'm afraid — '
'I'm a lawyer,' Malone said, feeling desperate. 'I'm here about the death of James Dohr.'
'Well,' the red-haired man said, 'of course if you — What?'
'James Dohr,' Malone said.
There was a little silence. At last the red-haired man said: 'Of course.' His voice had become sober and, Malone thought, about eight years older. He now seemed to be forty-five or so. 'Sorry for my little by-play. Can't resist having fun; that's my trouble. You said you were a lawyer?'
'That's right,' Malone said. 'John J. Malone.' He began to fish for a card.
'Never mind all that,' the red-haired man said. 'Just formality — come in, instead. I'll introduce you around and you can take care of your business. Anything we can do, of course. James worked here over forty years,
