John J. Malone shuddered. He wished he could get the insidious melody out of his mind — or, remember the rest of the words. It had been annoying him since three o’clock that morning, when he’d heard it sung by the janitor of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar.
It seemed like a bad omen, and it made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the cheap gin he’d switched to between two and four a.m. that was making him uncomfortable. Whichever it was, he felt terrible.
“I bet your client’s happy today,” the guard said cordially, leading the way towards the death house.
“He ought to be,” Malone growled. He reminded himself that he too ought to be happy. He wasn’t. Maybe it was being in a prison that depressed him. John J. Malone, criminal lawyer, didn’t like prisons. He devoted his life to keeping his clients out of them.
That song again! How did the next line go?
“Well,” the guard said, “they say you’ve never lost a client yet.” It wouldn’t do any harm, he thought, to get on the good side of a smart guy like John J. Malone.
“Not yet,” Malone said. He’d had a close call with this one, though.
“You sure did a wonderful job, turning up the evidence to get a new trial,” the guard rattled on. Maybe Malone could get him a better appointment, with his political drag. “Your client sure felt swell when he heard about it last night, he sure did.”
“That’s good,” Malone said noncommittally. It hadn’t been evidence that had turned the trick, though. Just a little matter of knowing some interesting facts about the judge’s private life. The evidence would have to be manufactured before the trial, but that was the least of his worries. By that time, he might even find out the truth of what had happened. He hummed softly under his breath. Ah, there were the next lines!
John J. Malone tried to remember the rhyme for “die”. By, cry, lie, my and sigh. Then he let loose a few loud and indignant remarks about whoever had written that song, realized that he was entering the death house, and stopped, embarrassed. That particular cell block always inspired him with the same behavior he would have shown at a high class funeral. He took off his hat and walked softly.
And at that moment hell broke loose. Two prisoners in the block began yelling like banshees. The alarms began to sound loudly, causing the outside siren to chime in with its hideous wail. Guards were running through the corridor, and John J. Malone instinctively ran with them toward the center of disturbance, the fourth cell on the left.
Before the little lawyer got there, one of the guards had the door open. Another guard cut quickly through the bright new rope from which the prisoner was dangling, and eased the limp body down to the floor.
The racket outside was almost deafening now, but John J. Malone scarcely heard it. The guard turned the body over, and Malone recognized the very young and rather stupid face of Paul Palmer.
“He’s hung himself,” one of the guards said.
“With me for a lawyer?” Malone said angrily. “Hung himself, — ” He started to say “hell”, then remembered he was in the presence of death.
“Hey,” the other guard said excitedly. “He’s alive. His neck’s broke, but he’s breathing a little.”
Malone shoved the guard aside and knelt down beside the dying man. Paul Palmer’s blue eyes opened slowly, with an expression of terrible bewilderment. His lips parted.
“It wouldn’t break,” Paul Palmer whispered. He seemed to recognize Malone, and stared at him, with a look of frightful urgency. “It wouldn’t break,” he whispered to Malone. Then he died.
“You’re damned right I’m going to sit in on the investigation,” Malone said angrily. He gave Warden Garrity’s wastebasket a vicious kick. “The inefficient way you run your prison has done me out of a client.” Out of a fat fee, too, he reminded himself miserably. He hadn’t been paid yet, and now there would be a long tussle with the lawyer handling Paul Palmer’s estate, who hadn’t wanted him engaged for the defense in the first place. Malone felt in his pocket, found three crumpled bills and a small handful of change. He wished now that he hadn’t got into that poker game last week.
The warden’s dreary office was crowded. Malone looked around, recognized an assistant warden, the prison doctor — a handsome grey-haired man named Dickson — the guards from the death house, and the guard who had been ushering him in — Bowers was his name, Malone remembered, a tall, flat-faced, gangling man.
“Imagine him hanging himself,” Bowers was saying incredulously. “Just after he found out he was gonna get a new trial.”
Malone had been wondering the same thing. “Maybe he didn’t get my wire,” he suggested coldly.
“I gave it to him myself,” Bowers stated positively. “Just last night. Never saw a man so happy in my life.”
Doctor Dickson cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him.
“Poor Palmer was mentally unstable,” the doctor said sadly. “You may recall I recommended, several days ago, that he be moved to the prison hospital. When I visited him last night he appeared hilariously — hysterically — happy. This morning, however, he was distinctly depressed.”
“You mean the guy was nuts?” Warden Garrity asked hopefully.
“He was nothing of the sort,” Malone said indignantly. Just let a hint get around that Paul Palmer had been of unsound mind, and he’d never collect that five thousand dollar fee from the estate. “He was saner than anyone in this room, with the possible exception of myself.”
Dr. Dickson shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t suggest that he was insane. I only meant he was subject to moods.”
Malone wheeled to face the doctor. “Say. Were you in the habit of visiting Palmer in his cell a couple of times a day?”
“I was,” the doctor said, nodding. “He was suffering from a serious nervous condition. It was necessary to administer sedatives from time to time.”
Malone snorted. “You mean he was suffering from the effect of being sober for the first time since he was sixteen.”
“Put it any way you like,” Dr. Dickson said pleasantly. “You remember, too, that I had a certain personal interest.”
“That’s right,” Malone said slowly. “He was going to marry your niece.”
“No one was happier than I to hear about the new trial,” the doctor said. He caught Malone’s eye and added, “No, I wasn’t fond enough of him to smuggle in a rope. Especially when he’d just been granted a chance to clear himself.”
“Look here,” Warden Garrity said irritably. “I can’t sit around listening to all this stuff. I’ve got to report the result of an investigation. Where the hell did he get that rope?”
There was a little silence, and then one of the guards said “Maybe from the guy who was let in to see him last night.”
“What guy?” the warden snapped.
“Why—” The guard paused, confused. “He had an order from you, admitting him. His name was La Cerra.”
Malone felt a sudden tingling along his spine. Georgie La Cerra was one of Max Hook’s boys. What possible connection could there be between Paul Palmer, socialite, and the big gambling boss?