Perfect Crimes: My Favorite Mystery Stories (1986) by Elliott Roosevelt

Author:Elliott Roosevelt [Roosevelt, Elliott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

One More Clue

Craig Rice

Craig Rice is among the best of the distaff detective writers—a wonderful woman who had a store of stories I have seldom heard equalled. Craig Rice wasn’t her legal name, by the way—as far as can be discovered at this late date, her name was Craig Georgianna Craig.

She’s best known today for her series of novels featuring the rumpled and somewhat drunken lawyer-detective John J. Malone, which have recently been reissued in paperback—and for a non-Malone detective novel called Having Wonderful Crime, the movie version of which you can find at your local video shop.

This story, which may be the oddest of the many, many who-poisoned-the-drink challenges, was voted among the best of its year. It may be better than that.

“You’ve got to believe me,” the beautiful girl said.

“I had nothing to do with it. I was just as surprised as Arthur—”

She produced a handkerchief from her purse and cried into it, softly. John J. Malone sat behind his desk feeling uncomfortable. “Now, now,” he said. The girl went on sobbing. Malone said, “There, there.”

“But it’s terrible,” the girl said at last. “Arthur is dead, and—” She went back to the handkerchief.

Malone sighed. “I’d like to help you,” he said untruthfully, “but you’ll have to tell me all about it. Now, let’s start from the beginning. Your name is Sheila Manson.”

The girl stopped sobbing as if someone had thrown a switch. She brushed hair the color of cornsilk away from her tear-stained face, looked up at Malone, and said, “But how did you know?”

Malone didn’t think it was worthwhile telling Sheila Manson that a good description of her had been in every Chicago newspaper for the past forty-eight hours. “I have my methods,” he said airily, trying to look mysterious.

“Then you must know about Arthur, too,” Sheila Manson said.

“Suppose you tell me,” Malone suggested diplomatically.

Sheila nodded. She put the handkerchief away in her purse and said, “He was my fiancé. Arthur Bent. We were going to be married next week.”

“And now he’s dead,” Malone encouraged her sympathetically.

She nodded again. “And the police think I did it, but I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you, Mr. Malone?”

“Why do the police think you killed your fiancé?” Malone said, side-stepping neatly.

Sheila Manson shook her head. “I don’t know why,” she said. “But I can tell you who really did kill him.”

There was a little silence. At last Malone prodded, “Who?”

“Mae Ammon,” Sheila said. “After all, she was right there, too. And if I didn’t do it, she must have.”

“Mae Ammon?”

“She’s just no good,” Sheila said. “She would murder anybody if she thought she could get something out of it.”

“And what could she get out of murdering Arthur Bent?” Malone asked.

Sheila shrugged. She was beautiful even when she shrugged, Malone thought.

He decided he had to take the case—even if there wasn’t any money in it. Even if he owed the telephone company, his landlord, the electric company, and three restaurants. They could wait, but Sheila Manson was the kind of vision that dropped into a man’s office once in a lifetime.

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