The Missing Case: Bulldog Malone, #3

By Eugene Lloyd MacRae

A case goes missing from a safe deposit box in The Beach City Savings Bank. But when Bulldog Malone is hired to find it—he finds the case isn't important—it's what was inside. And it's dangerous. Because other people are looking for it. Vicious people—willing to hurt and kill anyone who gets in their way. That includes Malone and anyone working with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eugene Lloyd MacRae
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781927767757

Eugene Lloyd MacRae

Eugene Lloyd MacRae lives on Canada's South Coast in Ontario. He is the author of the Rory Mack Steele series of novels and several family history books. He began writing novels after a near-fatal heart attack in March, 2012 left him lying in bed with little to do. He began pecking away on a Blackberry Playbook he had bought 2 months before and the characters that emerged kept him company.

Book preview

Chapter 1

BEACH CITY, FLORIDA, 1931

THE TALL MAN in the dark-blue suit and six-button-vest scowled at the old man on his knees in front of him. The only sound in the hot, humid air was a gentle buzzing that rose and fell—and then the tall man spoke in a low, menacing tone. Where is it?

The old man, head down, shaky hand massaging his sore jaw, shook his head softly, I don't know. I don't have what you're looking for.

That's a lie and we both know it. The tall man glared down at the top of the old man's white hair. Don't make me really hurt you.

Standing and watching the whole thing was a self-important-looking man with a gray handlebar mustache. He addressed the tall man, Are you sure your information is accurate?

Baring his teeth as he continued to look down, the tall man spit out his words. "Yes. The fake is a perfect replica. And my contact in South America assures me this man was.... His jawline rippled with anger and a growl sounded in his chest as he spoke to the old man again. You are going to tell me what I want to know. Do you understand me?"

The old man stayed silent.

The tall man's nostrils flared. He reached down and grabbed the back of the old man's collar, hauling him roughly to his feet.

The old man tried to free himself but it was useless against the superior strength of the younger man. His feet stumbled and dragged as he was hauled across the scrubby grass.

With another growl of anger, the tall man thrust the older man towards a series of wooden boxes on the grass. "Let's see if this makes you talk."

Hitting one of the boxes with his thighs and knocking it over, the old man collapsed to the grass on his back, groaning in pain.

A sudden, heavy buzz erupted. Yellow and black figures filled the air in a swirling cloud. A moment later, thousands of angry honeybees descended on the old man.

He began kicking and screaming as he was attacked.

The tall man and the man with the handlebar mustache both backed away from the angry, heaving and swarming mass. Less than a second later, both men turned and ran for safety, their eyes shining with fear as they were pursued.

Chapter 2

IT WAS LATE IN THE DAY. Bulldog Malone leaned against the battered old desk in his office on the third floor of the Desmond Ave building, drinking a coffee and smoking a Camel cigarette. It was an extra hot day and Malone's air conditioning—the open window behind him—was probably letting in more of the stifling heat than it let out. The term office was a flowery description for a large room that had been previously used as storage space for a  real estate business down the hall. It went belly up when Florida's economic bubble burst in 1926. Several law offices in the building followed suit when the Great Depression struck the country a few years later. Or should he say struck the rest of the country—because Florida was pretty used to tough times by then.

Footsteps sounded along the hallway on the other side of the closed door.

Malone was sure the footsteps sounded like a woman's high heel shoes. He wondered if he was about to get his first case in weeks. Setting his coffee down, he waited to see who it was.

The door swung open and a stunning redhead—with a Greta Garbo hairstyle, green eyes, and an hourglass figure inside a lavender dress—stood looking at him. She held a black clutch bag in one hand.

I heard you were out of the hospital and returned to work at the bank.

How did you know it was me? You haven't taken your eyes off my legs since I opened the door.

Malone blew a ribbon of blue smoke toward the floor without looking up, I'm a detective. I start working from the bottom up.

Uh, huh. If you think my ankles are my bottom, you're really messed up. And you're a dirty old man.

Like it told you before, Malone said, I'm not old. He looked up into the green eyes, How are you these days....Miss Hart? He had nearly called her Olive. She hated the name—olives were green and ugly—and they had agreed she would be called Lulu.

Lulu Hart smiled. Alive, thanks to you. You never did come and see me at the hospital.

Malone shrugged, You wouldn't have been shot in the first place if it wasn't for me. And I was at the hospital—once—but you were in and out and I'm not surprised you don't remember.

In that case, thank you.

Taking a drag on his cigarette, Malone eyed her for a moment. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Did I do something wrong? He blew out another line of smoke.

As the rich scent of Turkish tobacco floated across the large room, Lulu Hart stepped ahead and closed the door behind her. She lifted the clutch bag and wrapped her arms around herself. There was some hesitation. I want to come to work here.

Narrowing his eyes, Malone wondered if he heard right. He shook his head slightly, I can't really afford a secretary...or a receptionist–

I want to be a detective. To work with you, actually.

There was a silence between them as Malone tried to absorb what she had just said. I don't get it. What about the bank? And what about those twenty-five properties that were signed over to you? I'm even surprised you went back to the bank in the first place.

The proposed highway has been put on hold while the government investigates the illegal scheme the Senator was running. They want to make sure there are no more mobsters involved in the project.

Good luck with that, Malone mumbled.

And did you forget about the bad economy? And the downturn in the real estate market? It's going to take some time before any of those properties sell. In the meantime, I gotta pay the property tax and it's taking every bit of the money I make at the bank.

Malone rubbed the back of his neck. I'm sorry, I thought the properties would....

Oh, they'll make me a wealthy girl some day. But that day isn't around the corner. That's why I want to come here.

It was Malone who crossed his arms now, puffing on the cigarette as he looked down.

You don't think a girl can be a detective?

I never said that.

But you're thinking it. Hart was silent for a moment. How long since you had a case?

Malone didn't answer.

And I heard some of the men talking. They like to go to the fights and they say they haven't seen you fighting.

His eyes tightened for a moment as Malone focused internally, going over all the arguments he had gone though the last few months. Once I refused to stop looking into all that stuff around the Senator...I ended up being blackballed by the promoters who run the fights around Florida. Dan Caplin, the local boxing promoter, says he's having a hard time getting anybody to fight me. Local or otherwise. They're all afraid to get blackballed themselves.

I'm sorry to hear that. But you did the right thing.

Tell that to my stomach every couple of days.

Hart's face grimaced. Sorry. But it looks like both of us needs money.

Malone picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. If there was any money to pay you, I would–

I'm not asking you to pay me. I told you, I want to be a detective. I'll come and work with you. You can be here in the day...and I'll come in after I finish work at the bank–

Zero cases is still zero cases split by two.

Hart took a step forward, So I'll go out and get us some cases. Just give me a chance. You teach me everything you know–

"Does that include everything I know?" Malone grinned.

Raising an eyebrow, Hart threw him a look. I'd rather stay a virgin and an old maid.

A virgin? I don't think I've met one since I was eight years old.

Hart blushed a deep red. That's not what I was trying to say... Never mind. Do we have a deal or not?

Only if you agree to walk around in just your suspenders and stockings when you come to work.

I agree if you.... She looked around at his pork pie hat with the red feather perched on the hook on the back of the door. "You agree to walk around in just your hat." She stuck her tongue out.

Done. Malone set the coffee cup down and dropped the cigarette into it. There was a hiss as it went out. He began unbuttoning his shirt. Let's get to it.

Crossing her arms tighter and tapping her foot against the old wooden floor, Hart scowled. I saw the Lincoln you finagled from the Senator to replace your old Ford sitting out front. I'll pay for the gas to run it.

Malone paused, giving her a long look. He began to redo the buttons, You're really serious about this?

Yes. I can shoot a gun. In fact I still have that .25 caliber Beretta I got from your friend. I don't have a car but I can drive. I just need you to teach me the other stuff.

This is a tough business. People aren't going to be nice to you just because you're a female. His eyes took in her shapely legs for a moment before he said, And a lot of the guys you end up talking to–

Hart's jaw set firmly, I already got guys pawing at me everywhere I go. Some days a girl can't sit down without a guy trying to stick a hand up her skirt. This ain't going to change a single thing. And in case you haven't noticed—life is pretty damn tough no matter what you're doing these days.

Chapter 3

THE BEACH CITY SAVINGS BANK was the oldest bank in Beach City, which in turn was one of the oldest settlements in Florida. Originally the location of a Spanish fortress, it was well known for its Spanish colonial architecture and long stretches of white sand beaches on the Atlantic Ocean that attracted well-to-do tourists. Or used to when a lot of them had money before the stock market crash of '29. These days the only other financial institution that survived was the Beach City Savings & Loans. They ended up splitting the local business that was left, although Savings & Loans ended up with the bulk of the agricultural business while Beach City Savings found themselves with many of the professional types in the city, mainly the doctors and lawyers.

Lulu Hart was working diligently at her wicket—the smell of old money that she loved floating in the air—when a commotion broke out in the area of the safe deposit boxes, easily overheard in the hushed quiet of the rest of the bank. Hart smiled at her customer, I'm sure everything is fine. She turned to get him his money, using the opportunity to listen closely to what was happening.

A petite old lady, dressed in a charcoal outfit and matching wool beret was talking with the new bank manager, Cordell Lombard. Her voice was as tiny as she was but the tone was brisk, And I'm telling you the case was in there the last time I visited your bank, Mr. Lombard. So where is it?

A chubby man with dark hair and mustache, Lombard was standing—looking uncomfortable—with his thumbs in his vest pockets as he listened. Rather than answering, the bank manager looked to the other man standing with them.

Hart knew the other man with the gray handlebar mustache to be Stanton Winward, a prominent attorney in the city. Unlike most of the others, he didn't have an account here. The petite old lady she wasn't sure about.

Winward moved up and down on his toes, exchanging a look with Lombard before addressing the lady in a brusque, clipped tone that barely could be heard, Are you sure it was there–?

Are you suggesting I'm lying, Mr. Winward? Or just a senile old lady?

Waving his hands, Winward glanced to see who was listening as he tried to smooth things over. "No, of course not, Mrs. Devlin. That's not what I'm saying. It's just...."

Lombard spoke up, Perhaps someone else removed it–

And who would that be? Mrs. Devlin looked the lawyer. "There isn't anyone else. Is there, Mr. Winward? In fact, you were with me that day. Looking back at Lombard, she spoke sternly, So I ask you again, sir. Where is it?"

Scratching his ear, Lombard said, I'm not sure what to tell you, Mrs. Devlin. I haven't been with this bank for very long. And I have no idea what you had in your deposit box. In fact, we usually don't know what any client keeps–

Mrs. Devlin looked to the lawyer, giving him a succinct message, I want you to sue him, Mr. Winward. She gave Lombard a withering glance, Good day to you, sir. Leaving them behind, she swept across the marble floor, heading for the front entrance.

Winward and Lombard immediately drew closer, discussing the matter in harsh whispers, sending a few concerned glances at the back of the old lady.

Lulu Hart quickly handed the customer his money, grabbed a 'next wicket please' sign that she propped in her window, and worked her way from the employee area to the side of the customer area. From there, she angled across the marble floor toward the old lady, 'excusing' herself as she slipped between murmuring customers, taking quick little steps so she wouldn't fall.  She was also trying to keep the clicking noise of her heels down so she didn't attract the attention of the boss.

Lombard's grumbled whisper signified he was done talking with Winward. Turning on his heels, he headed back to his office.

Catching his movement, Hart spun around on her heels as well, mumbling and grumbling to herself as she headed back to the employee area. She grimaced as her movement caught Lombard's eye.

The bank manager frowned, sending a 'get back to work' look darting across to Hart a moment before he disappeared into his office.

Hart removed the 'next wicket please' sign and gave the next customer in line a fleeting grin, actually a young couple. Waiting for them, she was more interested in the lawyer. Winward was actually trotting across the marble floor now, anxious to catch up with his client. Scribbling down the name Devlin with a pencil on paper, Hart went back to her job, half of her mind intrigued by the possibilities.

Chapter 4

THE SUN WOULD BE setting in another hour. The smell of stale coffee set Malone's stomach growling as he looked out the window, smoking a cigarette and considering the end to another long day without a case. And without much more than several coffees since early this morning when he had eaten the last of the two-day-old biscuits Mrs. Garcia had sold him for a penny each. Things hadn't been this bad since he was in the orphanage. Boxing and getting a fight from time to time had given him enough to live on and keep this business going. Now without a single fight, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. As a kid, he'd been able to work in the orange groves to make money. But since the Mediterranean fruit fly had started wreaking havoc on the citrus fields in '29, those jobs were scarce. If you had one, you kept it.

Quick footsteps sounded out in the hallway, headed his way.

Malone assumed Hart was coming in for her first night as a detective. The fact she was hours late didn't bode well for the future.

The door swung open and quick steps entered the large room.

You're late, he said without turning, hours late.

I have a case.

At the sound of the excitement in the voice, Malone turned and looked across at the gorgeous redhead in the green-on-white polka-dot dress, Pardon?

The delighted look on Hart's face changed to one of uncertainty as she bit her lip, "Well...maybe I should say maybe I have a case. Maybe we have a case."

Feeling disappointment settle in again, Malone flicked the ashes off his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. Either you do or you don't. Either they pay or they don't.

"I think she'll pay."

Who?

Hart left the door open, heading for Malone, the floorboards squeaking under her high-heeled shoes as she dug into her clutch bag, Mrs. Nanette Devlin. She dug out a piece of paper with the Beach City Savings Bank name and logo at the top. She held it out to Malone. That's her address.

Malone held the cigarette in his lips, eyes looking through the smoke as he considered what