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 "I'm afraid you're out of date," the red-haired one said.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, though of course you know that — "
"Yes," Malone said. He stepped inside and the great door swung shut behind him. The red-haired man made a motion, and Malone followed him through the entrance arch at the left into a large, well-lit room. There were three people in the room.
One of them was a maid, Malone saw, in full regalia. The other two were an old, old woman in a straight-backed armchair, and a younger edition. Mrs. Deane, Malone thought, and Mrs. Deane. The red-haired man, by elimination, was Ronald. Fun-loving Ronald, he corrected himself bitterly.
Ronald said: "Mother — Wendy — this is Mr. Malone. He's come here to ask us some questions about the death of James Dohr."
The younger Mrs. Deane blinked and said: "Ask us some questions? What do we know about it, Ronald?"
Ronald shrugged. His mother stirred slightly, leaned forward and pinned Malone with a look. "Young man," she said, in a voice that sounded even older than she looked, "do you wish to question me?"
There was nothing, Malone thought, that he would rather avoid doing. But he nodded very slowly. "That's right," he said.
"Very well," the old, old woman said. She looked around at the others. "Leave us," she said simply.
The room emptied itself. The old, old woman patted a chair next to the one she sat in. "Come over here, young man," she said. "Talk to me."
Feeling just a little like Snow White, Malone went over to the chair and sat down. There was a second of silence. Malone wiped a tiny bead of sweat off his forehead.
"Well?" the ancient voice said.
Malone tried to think of a logical first question. "How well did you know James Dohr?" he said at last.
The old woman chuckled. "Well?" she said. "Very well indeed. He worked here for a long time, and I don't doubt he knew a lot about us, too. Whoever shot him probably did this family a service."
"A what?" Malone said, feeling shocked.
The woman smiled gently. "I'm old enough," she said, "to be realistic about things like this. And I tell you that James had secrets locked away in that brain of his — secrets that will never be told now."
Malone drew a deep breath. "He was trying to blackmail you?" he said.
Laughter. "Blackmail?" the old woman said at last. "Young man, you have been reading too many thrillers. I only say that he had the secrets — as anyone who worked here for so long would have them — and now the secrets have been buried with him, and better so. Why, Gerald's hush-money was barely necessary, after all."
Malone blinked. "Hush-money?" he said.
"That's what the will called it," the old woman said. "You have heard about the bequest which Gerald left to him? The five thousand dollars?"
"That was hush-money?" Malone said.
"Of course," the old woman said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And now that his wife has — "
"She didn't do it," Malone said instantly.
"Ah?" the old woman said. "Indeed. Then you suspect one of us."
The old woman lifted a hand. "Please," she said. "There is no need to apologize. If his wife did not kill James Dohr, then perhaps one of us did. I understand that James had few friends."
"That's right." Malone said weakly.
"Well, then," the old woman said in a triumphant tone, "certainly you don't mean to suggest that James was murdered by an utter stranger?"
Malone took a deep breath. "Funnier things," he offered at last, "have happened."
"Indeed they have," she said. "But since you suspect one of us, you must have questions to ask, Mr. Malone. Ask them."
Malone tried to think of a question. But there was, after all, only one. "Did you kill him?" he said.
"Why, no," the old woman said pleasantly. "As a matter of fact, I didn't. I was fond of James. He had secrets, you see."
Malone tried to tell himself that everything was perfectly normal. "You liked him because he had secrets?" he said after a second.
"That's right," the old woman said. "Perhaps I'd better explain."
"It might," Malone said cautiously, "be a good idea."
"Gerald hated the idea of those secrets," the old woman said. "Gerald was disturbed whenever he thought of them; and yet there was nothing he could do except put that hush-money clause into his will. As long as James Dohr was in this house, Gerald was unhappy. And that pleased me."