Murder Is My Business ms-11
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Shayne studied the snapshot carefully, comparing it with the larger photograph on the sideboard.
“A girl to be proud of,” he said, and placed the snapshot atop the others on the table. “When did you see her last?”
“She comes on Sundays. On most Sundays she comes,” Mrs. Morales amended.
Shayne started toward the door, stopped, and asked, “I wonder if I could trouble you for a drink of water before I go?”
“But yes, Senor.” She went into the kitchen and Shayne turned back to the table. He pocketed the recent snapshot of Marquita Morales, and was waiting at the kitchen door when Mrs. Morales returned with a brimming glass of water. He drank it and thanked her, went out and drove away in the police coupe.
CHAPTER NINE
When Shayne stopped at the hotel desk to pick up his key, the clerk said, “There’s a party here inquiring for you, Mr. Shayne. He’s sitting right over there on that circular lounge.”
Shayne turned to look at the man indicated by the clerk. He was an old man with deep-set eyes beneath shaggy brows. He had sunken cheeks, a weak chin, and a long scrawny neck. He wore a shiny black suit and was obviously ill at ease in the marbled grandeur of the Paso del Norte lobby. A dirty black felt hat was tipped far back on his gray head and he was sucking noisily on a short-stemmed briar.
After studying him for a moment, Shayne was positive he had never seen the man before. He walked over to him and said, “You wanted to see me? I’m Shayne.”
“The detective I read about in the papers?” He came hastily to his feet.
Shayne nodded.
“Then I wanta see you, I reckon. Yes, sir, I sure do.” He bobbed his head up and down several times as he spoke.
“What about?” Shayne made a move to sit down on the circular lounge.
“It’s sorta private,” the old man quavered, glancing around the crowded lobby. “Couldn’t we go out some place to talk?”
Shayne dangled his room key and suggested, “I’ve got a drink up in my room.”
“Now, that’d be right nice. Yes, sir, I say that’d be right nice.” The old man chuckled and held out a blue-veined hand, gnarled and callused by long years of hard work. “Name’s Josiah Riley,” he announced.
Shayne shook hands with him and led the way toward the elevator. They went up to his room, and he indicated a chair while he went into the bathroom to wash out the two glasses he and Carmela had drunk from. He came back and uncorked the bottle of rye he had ordered after Lance Bayliss left, poured out two drinks, and handed one to Josiah Riley.
“I take this right friendly of you,” the old fellow told him. “Yes, sir, it’s a real gentleman that offers a man a drink without knowin’ what his business is.”
Shayne sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “What is your business, Mr. Riley?”
“I’m what you might call retired,” the old fellow chuckled. “Yes, sir, I reckon that’s what you might call it. Live by myself in a little shack on the river flats north of the College of Mines. Mighty pleasant an’ quiet an’ comfortable livin’ by myself thataway.” He put the glass of rye to his lips and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down until the glass was empty. He sighed gustily and licked his lips. “Got kind of usta livin’ by myself back in the old days when I was prospectin’.”
“So you retired after making your pile?”
“I’m not rightly sayin’ that, Mr. Shayne. No, sir. I never made what you could call a fortune. Seemed like I had bad luck, sorta.” He looked wistfully at the whisky bottle, but Shayne made no motion toward it.
“What brings you to see me, Riley?”
“Well, sir, I see by the paper that you come all the way up from New Orleans to help clear Jeff Towne in that there accident last Tuesday where the soldier got killed.”
Shayne sipped from his glass and watched the old prospector thoughtfully and didn’t say anything.
Josiah Riley hunched himself a little closer. His old eyes glittered hotly. “I’m thinkin’ maybe you and me can do business.”
“What sort of business?”
“I reckon you’ve done found out the soldier was dead before Towne’s car ever run over him, hey?”
Shayne looked surprised. “What makes you think that?”
Riley waggled his head knowingly. “Maybe I got a reason for thinkin’ it.” He hesitated, and then went on in a querulous tone: “What I don’t savvy is why Towne got you up here to stir up a stink. Not after he went to all that trouble to make it look like an accident. No, sir, I don’t savvy that.” He poked Shayne’s knee with a lean forefinger. “Knowin’ Jeff Towne like I do, I’d guess he’d want to leave sleepin’ dogs lay.”
Shayne reached for the bottle, and the old man held out his glass. Shayne poured a big slug into it and sweetened his own drink. He set the bottle back and said, “You know Jeff Towne, then?”
“I usta know him right well. Yes, sir, I guess you might say right well.”
“He wants to be elected mayor,” Shayne explained. “Running down a soldier at a time like this isn’t a very good way to win votes.”
“That’s just the p’int.” Josiah Riley waggled his head triumphantly. “Why’d he do it, then?”
Shayne’s face remained expressionless. “It was an accident.”
“That’s what he hoped the voters’d think,” Riley agreed. “Then I reckon he got scared an’ called you in to help him out, hey?”
Shayne shrugged and asked abruptly, “What has all this to do with your reason for wanting to see me?”
“You might say it’s why I’m here, Mr. Shayne. Yes, sir, you might say that. Jeff Towne’s payin’ you plenty, I reckon, comin’ here from New Orleans and all.”
Shayne said, “I generally get well paid.”
“Yes, sir,” Josiah Riley cackled admiringly. “A man can see that.” He looked around the hotel room. “Livin’ here in a fancy hotel an’ all. Drinkin’ mighty fine bonded likker.” He emptied his glass and smacked his lips again. “And Jeff Towne’s the man that can pay plenty. I reckon he’d put out big to win that there election, all right.”
Shayne said, “I guess he would.”
“Well, sir, I’ve got a proposition, Mr. Shayne. Yes, sir, a straight out-an’-out proposition. All I wanta know is — does the doctor say the soldier was dead before Towne’s car hit him?”
Shayne shrugged. “The Free Press will be out on the streets in a few minutes and you can read all about it. It isn’t any secret. The soldier was dead, Riley.”
The old prospector nodded his head and cackled happily. “ ’Tain’t no secret to me, neither. No, sir, I guess you might say I’ve known it all along. And Jeff Towne thinks that’ll put him in the clear, don’t he? Thinks he’ll win the election now that he’s proved his car didn’t even kill the lad?”
“It looks that way,” Shayne agreed. “How do you come to know so much about it?”
The old man wrinkled his face into a sly grimace. “That’d be tellin’. Yes, sir, it sure would be tellin’.”
Shayne got up and put the cork back in the whisky bottle. “If that’s all you’ve got to say-”
“Sit down, Mr. Shayne.” Josiah Riley’s voice no longer quavered. It was thin, but it had a harsh quality of command. “How much do you reckon it’d be worth to Jeff Towne to stay in the clear an’ win that election?”
“You’ll have to talk to him about that.” Shayne remained standing with the bottle swinging gently from his fingers.
For the first time fear showed on Riley’s face. “I wouldn’t take a chance on talkin’ to him.” The quaver was back in his voice. “Not to Jeff Towne. I reckon it’d be better for you to handle it.”
“What?”
“My proposition, Mr. Shayne. I’m an old man an’ I don’t want much. Two-three thousand, maybe. That’s all I’m askin’ to keep my mouth plumb tight shut.”
“About what?”
“About what I saw down to the river last Tuesday afternoon.”
“Enough to bust Jeff Towne’s campaign for mayor higher’n a kite,” the old man told him confidently.
“Exactly what did you see?”
Riley shook his head slyly. “You just tell Jeff Towne that. Tell him I was Johnny-on-the-Spot an’ saw it all. That is, don’t you go tellin’ him who ’twas. He’s got a fearful anger when he’s riled up. He’s liable to think he can shut me up cheaper’n he can pay me to keep quiet. Like they say in Mexico, ‘Los muertos no hablan.’ ”
Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and frowned at the old man. “Los muertos no hablan?” he repeated. “The dead don’t talk, eh?”
“That’s it,” Riley cackled. “I wouldn’t feel safe in my bones if Jeff Towne knew I saw what happened Tuesday afternoon.”
“You’re talking about blackmail,” Shayne charged.
“Call it what you like, Mister. I don’t want much. Say, three thousand. It ought to be worth that for him to get elected mayor.”
Shayne said, “You’ll have to put your proposition to Towne yourself.”
“I tell you I don’t dare do that. You’re gettin’ paid to clear him, ain’t you? If I tell the police what I know, you’ll never collect a penny from Towne.”
“Why not?” Shayne snapped.
“ ’Cause,” the old man chortled, “los muertos no pagan, either.”
Shayne considered that statement frowningly for a moment. His knowledge of the Spanish language wasn’t extensive, but he did know that pagan meant pay. “Do you mean you have information that’ll lead to Towne’s death?”
“A man don’t live very long with a hangman’s noose ’round his neck.”
Shayne said angrily, “You’ve been beating all around the bush without saying anything. What is the information you’ve got for sale?”
“All right, Mister. Here it is.” The old man’s eyes glittered venomously. “I saw Jeff Towne kill that soldier Tuesday afternoon. Saw him choke the life out of him with his own hands down by the river.”
Shayne said, “You’d better tell the police what you saw.”
Josiah Riley stared at him incredulously. “Ain’t you workin’ for Towne?”
“Not to cover up murder.”
“If I tell the police, I won’t get paid nothin’,” the old prospector whined.
“Try the Free Press,” Shayne suggested contemptuously. “Neil Cochrane will pay you something for that information. And now you can get out,” he ended casually.
Riley got to his feet. He licked his lips and started to protest further, but Shayne’s uncompromising appearance stopped him. He went hesitantly toward the door, lingered there a moment as though he simply couldn’t believe the interview was over, then sadly went out.
Shayne poured himself a drink when he was alone. He tugged at his earlobe with his right hand and went to a curtained window to peer out somberly. A newsboy was trotting down the street shouting a headline of the Free Press. Shayne couldn’t hear what he was shouting. He went to the telephone and ordered a copy of the afternoon paper sent up. A sudden and enervating lassitude gripped him. He moodily went back to his chair and sat down to wait for the paper.
CHAPTER TEN
The Thursday afternoon Free Press was headlined: Audacious Autopsy. Shayne emptied his glass and settled back to read the front-page story.
It wasn’t signed by Neil Cochrane, but it had been written by him. It began by reminding readers of the paper that the Free Press had fearlessly predicted yesterday that an autopsy would be performed on the body of the traffic victim in an effort to whitewash Jefferson Towne, and it went on at length to denounce scathingly the city authorities, who were being pushed around by an out-of-town shamus retained by Towne to do his dirty work for him.
It took Doctor Thompson’s cautious medical report and tore it apart phrase by phrase, emphasizing the unreliability of such post-mortem indications, edging dangerously close to libel by broadly hinting that the police surgeon had been influenced, by Towne’s position and wealth to make such a report.
Shayne grimaced and poured himself another drink when he finished reading the article. It was well written, and extremely inflammatory. The average reader would nod knowingly and mentally mark a ballot for Honest John Carter in the coming election. Shayne saw now why Jefferson Towne had been so worried about the result of the autopsy. From his point of view it would have been far, far better to let the incident go as merely another traffic accident. But was that the only reason for Towne’s uneasiness? What about Josiah Riley?
Well, what about him? Shayne asked himself angrily. He didn’t know. You couldn’t tell about a man like that. If he was telling the truth, it appeared that Towne had a far stronger reason for avoiding an autopsy than the mere fear of losing a few votes.
Shayne closed his eyes and rubbed his chin reflectively. Nothing fell into a pattern yet. There were far too many bizarre elements that didn’t fit in at all. Lance Bayliss and Marquita Morales and the proprietor of the secondhand clothing shop. Neil Cochrane and Carmela Towne and Mrs. Morales. Some of them hated Towne, and some were indifferent to him, and one of them loved him — and because of her love, hoped he wouldn’t be elected. And there was Manny Holden with a hundred grand riding on Carter to win.
Shayne shook his head dispiritedly and poured himself another very small drink. There weren’t enough pieces that fitted together even to begin to build a theory. Why in hell would Jefferson Towne murder a soldier? One who had been out of the States for years and returned to be met by a mysterious stranger in El Paso who persuaded him to enlist in the army under an alias. What had a boy like Jimmie Delray to offer a spy ring — or a counter-spy ring?
That spy stuff might have been all in his imagination, of course. Shayne had realized that possibility from the beginning. But why else would anyone induce him to enlist in the army under an assumed name? What could it profit anyone?
Jimmie Delray had written to his mother on Tuesday that he was going in to the city to meet the man who was responsible for his being in the army under a false name. A few hours later he was lying dead in the street where Towne’s car would run over him. And Josiah Riley claimed he had seen Towne murder the soldier a short time earlier a few miles away.
Shayne laid the paper aside and stopped thinking about it. He stripped and went into the bathroom, shaved and showered, put on fresh underwear and the same suit he had taken off.
Dusk was gathering, not more than an hour and a half after Josiah Riley had left the room, when his telephone rang. Chief of Police Dyer was on the other end of the wire. He said, “Thought you might like to be down here when we bring Jeff Towne in.”
Shayne asked, “Are you bringing him in?”
“Haven’t you seen the Free Press Extra that just hit the streets?”
Shayne admitted he hadn’t.
Dyer said, “You’d better take a look at it,” and hung up.
Shayne put his hat on and went down to the lobby. A barefooted Mexican lad was passing out Extra editions of the Free Press as fast as people could grab them. Shayne glanced over the shoulder of an excited reader and saw a picture of Josiah Riley smeared over the front page. The caption read: Murder Witness.
Shayne didn’t bother to buy a paper. He pushed his way through the lobby and out onto the street. A copy of the Free Press Extra was lying on Dyer’s desk when Shayne walked in. The chief of police looked up with a sour grunt and indicated it “Have you read that stuff?”
Shayne shook his head and sat down. “I can guess what’s in it. Are you arresting Towne?”
“What else can I do?” sputtered Dyer. “Wait a minute!” He looked at the redhead suspiciously. “How do you know what’s in the paper if you haven’t read it?”
Shayne said, “Riley tried to sell me his story this afternoon before he took it to Cochrane.”
Shayne shook his head placidly. “Why should I? It may be the truth.”
“All the more reason why Towne should want it suppressed.”
Shayne reminded him, “I told you I wasn’t working for Towne.”
“What are you after, Shayne?”
“I’m trying to solve a murder and earn an honest dollar in the process.” Shayne leaned back and yawned widely. He was still yawning when the door was pushed open and Jefferson Towne strode in followed by Captain Gerlach of the homicide squad.
Towne’s rugged face was purplish and he was fuming as he entered. “Damned outrage. Where’s Joe Riley? I’ll choke his story down his throat.”
“He had an idea you’d feel that way and he asked for police protection after giving his story to the Free Press,” Dyer told him.
Towne leaned forward and slammed his fist down on the chief’s desk. “The whole thing is a tissue of lies. What do you mean by sending men out to arrest me?”
“Can you prove it’s a lie?”
“Of course I can prove it. Riley hates my guts. I fired him off my mine once for high-grading.” Towne turned to glare at Michael Shayne. “What are you sitting there grinning about? Why aren’t you out doing something? By God, this is all your fault! Without that damned autopsy, Riley’d never have thought up his outrageous story.”
“Probably not,” Shayne admitted.
“Here’s Riley’s signed statement,” Dyer put in hurriedly. “I’ll read it to you so you’ll know where you stand.” He lifted a typewritten sheet of paper and cleared his throat, then read aloud:
My name is Josiah Riley and I’m 78 and a citizen of El Paso.
I went fishing for carp in the river last Tuesday afternoon and started walking home about two hours before sundown. I was a few hundred yards from the river, walking along a little path through the brush, when I heard loud voices from a clearing in front of me.
It sounded like two men quarreling and I didn’t want to get mixed up in it, so I started to go around through the brush and I saw a big swell automobile standing there with two men beside it.