Murder Is My Business (12 page)

The door opened, and Captain Gerlach poked his head in. He said, “Hi, Mike,” and then to the chief, “I’ve got a couple out here I’d like to have you talk to.”

Dyer nodded. The captain opened the door and stepped back, saying, “Go right on in, folks. The chief will want to hear your story.”

Shayne moved to go out as a middle-aged couple came in, but Gerlach stopped him. “You’d better sit in on this, too, Mike.” He closed the door behind the couple and said, “This is Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Chief. They think they may have some information on the body we found in the river last night.”

Mrs. Barton was a small lady with silvery hair. She had a sweet, unlined face, and she had been crying. The tears started flowing again as she took a step toward the chief’s desk and said, “It’s our boy. We know it is. The picture in the paper don’t look like Jack but we know it’s him.”

Her husband was a tall, stooped man wearing what was evidently his “good” suit of blue serge, shiny in the seat and elbows, but neatly pressed. He moved to his wife’s side and took her arm and said, “Now, Mother. We don’t know for sure. Don’t take on like that.”

Captain Gerlach pushed a couple of chairs around for them, and Chief Dyer reseated himself. Mr. Barton got a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her withered hand, murmuring something in her ear.

She put the handkerchief up to her face and sobbed into it. Dyer asked, “Is your son missing?”

“Yes, sir. Jack’s been gone since last Tuesday. We’ve tried not to worry, but when we read about it in the paper and how it said he wasn’t identified yet, and all — well, we’re afraid it’s him.”

“Does the description fit him?”

“It fits him too good,” Mr. Barton said fearfully. “If we could look at him, sir. You haven’t identified him yet, I reckon?” He leaned forward, despair overcoming the faint hope in his voice.

“Murder,” Mrs. Barton sobbed through the handkerchief. “Jack said ’twould be murder, and that’s what it is. If we’d only opened his letter in time to stop him—”

“Now, Mother.” Mr. Barton clumsily patted his wife’s shoulder. “No need to blame yourself. We couldn’t stop him from going to see Mr. Towne. You know we couldn’t. Jack was always that stubborn.”

Captain Gerlach moved uneasily, and Chief Dyer’s hand trembled as he took the cigarette holder away from his mouth. “Jefferson Towne?”

“Yes, sir. The big mining man. Him that’s running for mayor. I dunno what this is in the paper about him killing a soldier last Tuesday, but I guess we better tell you the whole thing.”

“I think you’d better,” Dyer said dryly.

Mr. Barton reached inside his coat pocket and drew out a much-thumbed sheet of paper. He passed it across to Dyer, exclaiming dully, “Here’s a letter Jack wrote last Tuesday just before he went out right after
noon. He left it pinned on his pillow and Mother didn’t find it till late that evening. But we didn’t worry so much after we read it, because a Mexican came by about five o’clock to get Jack’s Gladstone bag and he said Jack was going on a trip and for us not to worry. Jack had packed his bag, seems like, before he went out, but he never said anything to us about it. You better read the letter, and then you’ll see why we think it’s Jack.”

Dyer looked at Gerlach and Shayne as he unfolded the sheet of paper. He mashed out his cigarette and began to read aloud:

Dear Mother and Dad — I can’t stand the way things are going any longer. I’m just a burden on you and I’m going to quit letting you support me. You’ll think what I’m going to do is blackmail, but I don’t care any more. I’m leaving this note so you’ll know who’s to blame if anything happens to me. I’m going to see Mr. Jefferson Towne this afternoon and he has promised to give me ten thousand dollars in cash to pay me for keeping still about something I know so he can win the election. But I don’t trust Mr. Towne and am afraid he may try to kill me to keep from paying the money.

I’m going to take the risk because I don’t see any other way to quit being a burden on you. If I’m not back by tonight when you find this, you’ll know I’m probably dead and Mr. Towne is responsible.

If that happens, take this letter to the police, and get the notebook out of my Gladstone and take it to
Mr. Neil Cochrane on the Free Press and he will give you $500 for the notebook, and he will use the information in it against Mr. Towne. I have sort of told Mr. Cochrane what it is and he has promised to pay that much for it. He suspects Mr. Towne will kill me instead of paying the money, and I’m leaving this letter at his suggestion.

No matter what happens I love you even if I haven’t been much good. Jack.

Chief Dyer refolded the letter and laid it on his desk. Mrs. Barton’s sobbing had ceased. She twisted the white handkerchief in her fingers and said falteringly, “You can see why we’re so worried about Jack. We even got to wondering last night — when we read in the
Free Press
Extra about Mr. Towne being arrested — well, we got wondering if
that
had anything to do with Jack. It being on Tuesday afternoon and all.”

“But Riley claims he saw Mr. Towne kill a soldier that afternoon.”

“That’s just it,” she hurried on. “Jack was wearing khaki breeches and high laced boots and a tan shirt when he left home. Sort of like a soldier’s uniform. Same color and all.”

Dyer nodded thoughtfully. “But you hadn’t worried about your son until then?”

“We worried about him plenty,” Mr. Barton put in. “About what he’d gone and done. But we didn’t think no harm had come to him, what with the Mexican coming for his Gladstone and saying he was going away on a trip. We thought, well, that he was ashamed
to come back home after doing it and that he’d be writing to us.”

“He was a good boy,” Mrs. Barton cried out suddenly. “He never did anything bad in his life. He brooded about his sickness that kept him out of the army and a war job, and he worried about us not having much money.”

“He’s been changed and strange-acting since about a month ago when he came back from a prospecting trip in the Big Bend,” Mr. Barton explained apologetically. “You see, he went to the School of Mines two years and then the doctors told him he should get out in the open, so he went off on a prospecting trip by himself and was gone almost six months. He came back different and bitter, sort of. Kind of blaming God, it seemed like, because a rich man like Mr. Towne had a big silver mine down there and he couldn’t find nothing at all.”

“He was downright blasphemous about the injustice of it,” Mrs. Barton sobbed. “And we brought him up a good, religious boy, too.”

“Then he tried to get a job out to Mr. Towne’s smelter,” Mr. Barton went on, “but they said he wasn’t strong enough to do the work and he brooded over that some more. Then a couple of weeks ago he ups and goes off on a trip without saying nothing to us, and when he come back last Sunday he was extra cheerful and talked like he’d made some kind of strike. He never mentioned the bad thing he was planning to do when he left home Tuesday.”

“Could we see him now?” Mrs. Barton pleaded.
“Seems like I can’t go on wondering anymore. It’d be a blessed relief to just know it was him.”

Dyer glanced at Gerlach. The homicide captain shook his head and explained, “They’re busy fixing him up right now. Doc Thompson didn’t get through with him until a little while ago, and they’re fixing him to look as natural as possible. You’d better wait until this afternoon,” he advised the Bartons in a kindly voice.

“Well, then, maybe we’d better go, Mother.” Mr. Barton got up. She put the handkerchief to her face and began to sob again as she got up. He took her arm and tenderly guided her from the office. Gerlach went out with them and returned a few moments later. He shook his head angrily and asked, “Why do homicide victims invariably have parents like that?”

“How does it strike you?” Dyer asked.

He shrugged and admitted, “It seems to fit slick as a whistle. I never was satisfied with Riley’s identification of the soldier’s picture as Towne’s victim, but I had an idea all the time he’d seen
something
down by the river Tuesday afternoon.”

“Strike you that way, Shayne?” Dyer asked him.

“It makes sense,” Shayne agreed. “Too much, maybe. Almost as though it was planned to fit.”

“Do you mean to say you doubt their story — and this letter?” The chief struck the folded sheet of paper in front of him with his fist.

“I think they’re straight enough all right.” Shayne hesitated. “But I hardly see Towne playing the role it puts him in. Wouldn’t young Barton warn him that such an incriminating letter existed? Towne would know
he’d be arrested as soon as the body was fished from the river and identified.”

‘That’s why he stripped all his clothes off. Hoping the body wouldn’t be discovered until too late for it to be recognized as Jack Barton.”

Shayne shook his head. “Jeff Towne hasn’t gotten where he is by taking long chances. Let’s not forget that Cochrane figures in this deal. He knew Jack Barton was going to meet Towne Tuesday afternoon to blackmail him. He’d already offered Barton five hundred for the information worth ten grand to Towne. It was Cochrane who warned Barton that Towne might kill him instead of paying off, and he advised the boy to leave an accusing letter behind.”

“Isn’t it what Cochrane would do?” Dyer demanded.

“Maybe. The question is, who got the Gladstone bag with the notebook containing the information? Someone sent a messenger to Barton’s house for it.”

“A Mexican messenger,” Dyer stressed. “All Towne’s servants are Mexicans. He sent for the bag, of course, after he’d put the boy out of the way.”

“It looks that way,” Shayne agreed. “Still, I’d like to hear what Cochrane knows. I’m interested to know what information Jack Barton had dug up against Towne.”

“I think he’s in the press room right now,” Gerlach offered. “Shall I bring him in, Chief?”

Dyer said, “Sure,” and fitted another cigarette into the end of his holder. Gerlach went out, and returned a few minutes later with Neil Cochrane. The reporter strutted in ahead of him with a thin smile of triumph
on his lips. “Got a confession from Towne yet? Looks to me like we’ve got him dead to rights and—”

“We’ve just been talking to Mr. and Mrs. Barton,” Dyer interrupted him.

The reporter stopped and tilted his head inquiringly. “Who?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Barton.”

Cochrane blinked his eyes and looked doubtful. “Is that supposed to mean anything to me?”

Dyer said, “Sit down.” He waited until Cochrane was seated before telling him, “Jack Barton’s parents.”

Cochrane pursed his lips and let out a thin whistle. He nodded wisely. “The lad who was carrying a grudge against Towne?”

“What was he blackmailing him with?”

Cochrane managed to look confused. “Who was blackmailing whom?”

“You were in on it,” Dyer reminded him. “You offered the kid five hundred for his information if Towne didn’t pay off.”

Cochrane’s eyes were very bright. He hunched his shoulder blades up and ducked his head forward. “All right. I haven’t anything to hide. Sure, I offered him five C’s for some dope that would fry Towne at the polls. Why not? The
Free Press
is always willing to pay for information in the public interest.”

“What was that information?” barked Dyer.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me that. And I guess Towne paid off, all right,” Cochrane added regretfully. “Young Barton was to see me Tuesday evening if there was any slip-up. I didn’t see him.”

“So he didn’t tell you what it was?” Dyer snorted. “You went out on a limb and were willing to pay five hundred for information without knowing what it was?”

“Hell, no,” Cochrane protested in an injured tone. “I told him it would be worth five hundred to my paper if it proved to be as hot as he claimed. He wouldn’t even hint what it was. Only that it was plenty big enough to blast Towne out of the mayoralty race.”

“Have you seen the body we pulled out of the river last night?” Gerlach demanded.

Cochrane twisted his neck to look at him, shaking his head slightly. “There was a picture of him in the morning paper but I didn’t look at it closely.”

“Remind you of anyone?” Dyer pounded at him.

“Why, no. I can’t say that it—” Neil Cochrane clamped his lips together suddenly. A queer expression flitted across his face. He said, “By God,” softly, and nodded. “Could be. Maybe I was right, huh, when I warned Barton he was playing with dynamite trying to blackmail Towne? Is
that
why he didn’t get in touch with me?”

“So you do recognize the picture now?”

“Wait a minute,” Cochrane protested warily. “I’m not saying I do. Hell, I only saw Barton twice. Same build, though. Same general features. And it adds up,” he added eagerly. “The payoff was set for Tuesday afternoon. Same time Riley saw Towne choking a man by the river.”

“A soldier,” Dyer reminded him ironically. “Identified by Riley as Private James Brown by your own picture in the
Free Press.
Are you suggesting he choked two men by the river Tuesday afternoon?”

“No. But here’s something to chew on. Both times I saw Barton, he was wearing khaki riding breeches and leather boots and a tan shirt. Not too much unlike a soldier’s uniform. Do you suppose Riley could be mistaken in his identification, and actually saw Towne getting rid of a blackmailer?”

“Let’s ask Towne,” Dyer growled. He nodded curtly to Captain Gerlach and said, “Have him brought in.”

Neil Cochrane sidled back into a corner of the room, pulling a chair with him as the captain went out. There was a smirk of satisfaction on his face as he settled down to wait for Towne to be brought in. Dyer scowled at him and warned, “You’re not in the clear, Cochrane. Accessory to an extortion plot fits you like a glove.”

Cochrane laughed shortly. “Accessory, hell! I did my best to talk the lad out of it. I warned him that Jeff Towne wasn’t the sort to pay off without a fight.”

“And you would much rather have had the information in print in the
Free Press
than see it suppressed,” Shayne put in.

Cochrane grinned at him cockily. “I won’t deny that. I tried to convince Jack Barton he’d be better off with my five hundred alive than trying to stick Towne for ten grand.”