Masters of Noir: Volume Two (10 page)

FLOWERS TO THE FAIR by CRAIG RICE

At exactly 8:13 A.M. Mr. Petty arrived. He hung his hat in the locker, just as he had hung it every working day of his life for the last thirty years. He went over to the water cooler where he wet his dry, tense throat with a small sip of water. Then he shuffled down the hall to the door marked: George V. Benson, General Manager.

Mr. Petty waited till his wrist watch showed precisely 8:15. Then he opened the door, walked in, closing it carefully behind him.

Mr. Benson looked up at the little bookkeeper.

"Always prompt, aren't you, Petty?"

Mr. Petty gulped. “Yes, sir. You said 8:15, sir."

"So, here you are. At exactly 8:15. Now, if you weren't the fool you are, Petty, you would have come at 7:15. You would have gone straight to the safe and opened it—you know the combination—and you would have helped yourself, not to a measly three thousand dollars, but to
two hundred thousand
dollars."

The little bookkeeper's eyes opened wide in innocent astonishment. “I couldn't have done a thing like that,” he stammered. “Why—that would be stealing."

"That's right,” Mr. Benson said. “That would have been stealing. So what do you do instead? You pilfer the petty cash, you make false entries on your books, you kite checks, a few measly bucks at a time—for how many months? And when you're three thousand dollars in the hole and you know the auditors are due in Monday morning, you come to me with a hard luck story. What was it, horses?"

"No, sir,” Mr. Petty said. “That would be gambling!” He paused and looked down at the floor. “Women,” he said meekly.

"Women!"

"Yes sir,” Mr. Petty said. “Women. It's in my horoscope. I'm a Taurus."

"That figures,” Benson said. “Now tell me one thing more, Petty. How do you expect to pay this money back?

Mr. Petty looked puzzled. He squirmed uneasily in his chair. “That's what I was expecting you to tell me. You promised to help me, Mr. Benson."

Benson said, “Of course, I'll help you. Everybody knows George Benson has never failed to help a faithful employee out of a jam.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms silently for a minute while Mr. Petty fidgeted with his hands, as if he had just found he had one too many.

"Tell you what I'll do, Petty,” Benson said. “Nobody knows about this, nobody except you—and me. I'll lend you the money, that's what I'll do. Just sign this—” he handed a typewritten sheet of paper across the desk— “and you can pay me back ten dollars every week out of your paycheck.” He handed his pen across to the little bookkeeper. “Just a brief statement of the facts. Sort of a confession, you know, just to make it legal."

Mr. Petty took the pen. His hand shook as he started to write, and paused. “The money,” he said falteringly. “Shouldn't I—get the money first?"

Mr. Benson's face took on an expression of injured dignity. “I'm surprised at you, Petty,” he said. “Do you expect me to go around every day with thousands of dollars in my wallet?” He looked at his watch. “The bank closes at one today. And Monday is a bank holiday. Before I take the plane to Pittsburgh this afternoon I'll leave three thousand dollars in an envelope for you. You'll find it in the safe, in the petty cash box."

"But I've got things to do first,” Mr. Petty said. “I've got to go back over the books. There are things to straighten out before the auditors get here."

"I've thought of that too,” Benson replied. “You've got keys to the plant. Tomorrow is Sunday. Come down and let yourself in. Emil, the night watchman, knows you. Tell him you're working overtime on the books. Get the entries straightened out, put the money back where it belongs, and when the auditors arrive on Monday everything'll be okay. I'll take that paper now."

Mr. Petty scrawled his name on the dotted line and handed the paper back to Benson. “Thank you,” he said, rising to go. “I'll never forget what you've done for me.” He swallowed hard. “You've saved my life. How can I ever repay you?"

"You will,” Benson assured the little bookkeeper. “Don't worry, you will."

2.

On warm Saturday afternoons it was John J. Malone's custom to take his ease, with suitable refreshments, at Joe the Angel's City Hall Bar, but on this torrid Saturday afternoon he was still in the office, attending to some urgent business. Maggie, his secretary, was assisting with the technical details.

"I distinctly remember replenishing the Emergency file,” Malone was saying. “Right there in back of Bills Payable."

"I looked,” Maggie said firmly. “I looked, and it isn't there. Are you sure you didn't drink it up one night this week when you were alone in the office? And speaking of bills payable—"

The door opened in the outer office and Maggie went to attend to it.

"If it's the building agent after the rent tell him the police are dragging the Drainage Canal for my remains,” Malone called after her.

A minute later Maggie was back. “It's a Mr. Algernon Petty,” she reported. “He says it's important."

"Didn't you tell him I was busy on an important case?” Malone said, in a voice that he knew, by actual test, carried practically out into the hall. Then, under his breath to Maggie, “You'd better call up right away and tell them to send over a quart of the usual."

"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.

She did not remember her father, she confided. Her mother once told her she was a Spanish croupier in the games at Monte Carlo. He vanished one day and was never heard from again. “Mother still lives in Monaco,” she told Malone. “I've always dreamed of going back some day."

With as much tact as he could manage, Malone broke the news to her and turned over the envelope Mr. Petty had left with him. After the first shock she sobbed quietly for a while, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her apron. Then, “He was like a father to me,” she said. “Yes, I knew he was married. He never deceived me about anything. He was a gentleman, he was. I always called him Mr. Petty. When we went places, weekends, he always took separate rooms, with adjoining bath, like nice people do. I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except that you were his friend. He went to you in his trouble. He didn't do anything wrong, did he, Mr. Malone? The police—they won't be coming to
me,
will they, asking me questions about—well, you know—?"

Malone patted her hand gently. It was a soft, well-groomed hand for a girl who slung hash in a quick lunch joint. He could easily imagine her dressed in the latest Paris fashion, the center of attention as she swept into the Monte Carlo casino.

"Maybe not, if you answer my questions first,” Malone told the girl.

From her answers Malone learned that she had met Mr. Petty about a year ago when she waited on him at a lunch room near the plant where she was working at the time. He had given her presents from time to time, inexpensive things, and money from time to time, which she said she had sent to her mother in Monaco. Apparently she knew nothing of his embezzlements. He had never introduced her to his friends. She said she had seen him last about two weeks ago and the account of her movements over the weekend sounded spontaneous and unforced. Unless, he reminded himself, unless it should turn out that this vision of slightly tarnished innocence was serving him up something new in Irish blarney—with Spanish sauce. No, he decided. It was just one of those simple, unbelievable things that could happen only to the Mr. Pettys of this world. And simple young things like Carmelita Maguire, who go along trustingly with anything that comes along, only to be sideswiped by fate, like an unsuspecting pedestrian in the middle of Saturday night traffic.