Murder Is My Business (17 page)

Shayne asked, “He did insult you, didn’t he?”

She shrugged disdainfully. “He made some horrid remarks. He pretended to think I had asked him to take me to that place because I
wanted
to. You know, because I wanted
him
to take me there. I don’t know what kind of a place it is, but from what he said I guess women do go there with men.”

Shayne said, “Listen carefully now: When you went into
El Gato Pobre,
where was Cochrane?”

“Dancing with a girl. He took her back to another table where there were two men, while I waited just inside the door.”

“Did you recognize the girl?”

Carmela caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked frightened for the first time. “How do you know all about it?”

“Captain Rodriquiz and I were there watching. Did you recognize the girl, Carmela?”

“All right. I did,” she flashed at him. “It was the same one I saw with Lance in El Paso. The one whose picture you showed me the other night.”

Shayne nodded grimly. “Did you ask Cochrane about her?”

“Yes. He just laughed and said she was one of the habituées of Papa Tonto’s whom he knew slightly.”

“And when you left the restaurant,” Shayne persisted, “did you notice the girl ahead of you?”

“Yes, I did. She and the two men with her. They stayed ahead of us all the way, and Neil said they were probably going to Papa Tonto’s too.”

Captain Rodriquiz had been following Shayne’s questions and Carmela’s answers with alert interest. He now interposed, “And when you turned into the alley, were they not ahead of you still?”

“I think so. Yes. I saw them just ahead when the clouds cleared for a moment.”

“And after the first shot was fired?” Rodriquiz persisted.

“It was so dark. And I was excited and confused.”

“Why did you bring that gun with you tonight?” Shayne asked suddenly.

“Well, I was going to that dreadful place with Neil Cochrane. And Father suggested it. In fact, he refused to let me out unless I promised to bring it. I think he was afraid something might happen.”

A Mexican policeman came in and saluted briskly, laying a little wad of cotton on the desk in front of Rodriquiz. A misshapen lump of lead lay on top of the cotton. He spoke briefly in Spanish and went out.

The captain lifted the bullet and weighed it in his fingers for a moment. He nodded gravely, and passed it to Shayne. “It is the death bullet. Of thirty-eight caliber, I think.”

Shayne leaned forward to take it. Carmela’s eyes
were fixed on it in fascination. Shayne tested its weight as had the captain, and agreed, “It’s about the right weight.” He inspected it closely, “Impossible to get a decent ballistics test, the way it mushroomed against a bone.”

“The way it is flattened,” said Rodriquiz firmly, “is most important, I think.”

Shayne nodded. He told Carmela, “That’s what happens to a bullet when it’s been notched like those in your gun.”

She shrank away from him. “I didn’t shoot him, Michael. I swear I didn’t.”

“But your gun did.”

“How do you know? You just said it couldn’t be tested by ballistics, the way it’s flattened out. That’s the only way to prove it was fired from my gun, isn’t it?”

“Even if it wasn’t mushroomed,” Shayne growled, “there isn’t enough rifling in that sawed-off barrel to make a conclusive test. But we can easily enough prove it’s the right caliber — and any expert will swear it was notched like yours before it was fired. There were only three shots fired, Carmela. And three bullets have been fired from your gun. For God’s sake,” he went on hoarsely, “don’t bury your face in the sand. This is murder. You can fry for it just the same as anyone else if you don’t tell the truth.
Who fired your pistol the first time, if you didn’t?”

She shook her head defiantly. “No one. It was in my bag when that first shot was fired.”

“That’s a lousy story,” Shayne groaned. “All the facts are against you. You can beat the rap by admit
ting you killed him. Hell, Cochrane was a skunk. He’d lured you into this trip to Papa Tonto’s, the worst kind of a dive. You wouldn’t have any trouble making a jury believe you had a hell of a good reason for killing him.”

“But I didn’t!” she cried fiercely.

“All right. Then you’re lying to protect the one who did,” Shayne told her coldly. “That’s the only other answer that fits the facts.”

“I want a lawyer,” she said suddenly. “You told me I didn’t have to answer without a lawyer to advise me.”

Shayne nodded glumly. “You’ll have a chance to think it over tonight.” He looked at Rodriquiz. “I suppose you’ll hold her.”

The captain spread out his hands eloquently. “As you have said. With the facts we have, I cannot do otherwise.”

“While you’re thinking it over in a cell,” Shayne told her harshly, “I’ll be looking for Lance Bayliss. This isn’t just one murder, Carmela. It’s the third.”

She stood up, averting her head proudly. “I’m ready, Captain.”

He leaped to his feet and opened the door for her. He returned a few minutes later and reseated himself with a sigh. “You have a theory, Mr. Shayne?”

“No. Only that this is hooked up somehow with two other recent murders in El Paso.” Shayne scowled across the room. “Haven’t they picked up Marquita and her soldiers yet?”

“They are bringing Marquita in for questioning. Her companions have not been found. The girl was ar
rested a few minutes ago in her room a few blocks from Papa Tonto’s.”

Shayne gave him a description of Lance Bayliss. “You’d better get out a pick-up for him. I don’t know how he figures in this, but I’m afraid his alibi for the time of the murder may be important.”

“He is — the sweetheart of Miss Towne?”

“He was. Long ago.” Shayne rumpled his red hair angrily. “He’s the only person mixed up in any of this whom Carmela might protect.”

“It is your opinion that this man used her gun?”

“It makes too much sense to please me,” Shayne admitted. “Bayliss used to love Carmela, and he hated Cochrane’s guts. If he was hiding in the alley tonight, it could have happened that way. I can imagine him attacking Cochrane, getting the worst of it in the scuffle, and Carmela opening her bag to get the gun and help him out. Whether he grabbed it and pulled the trigger, or whether she did—” He shook his head, glaring at the short-barreled weapon. “You’d better test it for fingerprints.”

“I have touched it only by the trigger-guard,” Rodriquiz assured him. “If you wish to make the tests in your laboratories, I will be happy.”

“Sure,” Shayne agreed. “Reload it just as it was when you took it away from her. And I’ll take this bullet along, if you want.”

“It will be best.” Rodriquiz carefully reloaded the revolver with both empty and full cartridges. “We have not the modern laboratory in Juarez.”

A policeman came in with Cochrane’s belongings
that had been found on his person. There was a key ring and some loose change, a leather billfold, and a telegram in its yellow envelope. The billfold had an assortment of business cards and $67 in bills. The telegram had been sent that day from Mexico City. It read:
Legal title to Plata Azul passed to Señora Telgucado on death of husband to be held in trust during her lifetime for legal heirs.— Aguido Valverde.

Marquita Morales was ushered into the office while they were puzzling over the telegram. She had washed most of the rouge from her face, and changed from her black dress to a blouse and wool skirt. She looked young and frightened, and she loosed a torrent of questions in her own language at the captain as soon as she was inside the room.

Shayne couldn’t follow the conversation with his limited knowledge of Spanish, but the captain sternly quieted her and then proceeded with the questioning in English.

Marquita started by stating that she had been alone in her room all evening and hadn’t the slightest idea why she had been arrested and dragged to police headquarters, but she began to sob and changed her story as soon as the captain informed her that she had been watched by American and Mexican police ever since she picked up the two soldiers in El Paso that afternoon.

She then admitted inducing the soldiers to come to Juarez with her, and taking them to a place where they could change clothes to cross the border unchallenged. They had dinner and a few drinks at
El Gato
Pobre,
she said sullenly, but that was too tame for them and they insisted on going elsewhere.

Yes, to Papa Tonto’s, she flashed at her questioner. Why not? It was what the stupid gringo
soldados
wanted. But when they were approaching the place through the alley, someone started shooting at them from behind. They were frightened, and they ran away from the bullets, she said simply. She didn’t know where the soldiers went. She lost them in the darkness, and she hurried to her own room and bolted the door and stayed there until the police came.

Yes, she had noticed the American couple following her down the street from
El Gato Pobre,
but she didn’t know why. She knew
Señor
Cochrane slightly, she admitted with a toss of her head and a defiant glance at Shayne, but she didn’t know why he would follow her. She at first refused to admit he had spoken to her in the café, and then admitted the dance with him, and said that he had asked her if the two men at her table were soldiers, and he refused to believe her when she denied it. He warned her to be careful of trouble if they were soldiers, but she didn’t think it was any of his business and told him so.

No, she hadn’t seen anyone else in the alley except the couple behind her. There might have been someone hiding against the buildings in the darkness as they passed, she admitted, but they had seen no one. Their first intimation of trouble was when shots sounded behind them and bullets started whizzing over their heads.

Then they ran so fast that if there was anyone else
running behind them, she didn’t think they would have known it.

Captain Rodriquiz shrugged and gave up the questioning with a glance at Shayne. The big redhead hunched forward and said, “You remember me, don’t you, Marquita?”

“
Sí,
I theenk you are in ze police office in El Paso.”

“How many soldiers have you brought over to Papa Tonto’s this way?” Shayne demanded.

“No others,” she insisted. “I ’ave heard ees easy for do, so I try tonight.”

“Who told you about it?”

She shrugged. Some of the other girls in Juarez. It was a common practice, she said.

“Who pays the girls to do it?” Shayne demanded. “Who talks to the soldiers when they get doped up at Papa Tonto’s?”

She began to cry, and whimpered that she didn’t understand. No one paid them — except the soldiers themselves. They went to Tonto’s “— for to ’ave one good time.” She insisted she knew no more about it than that.

“When did you visit your mother last?” Shayne asked abruptly.

She looked up in surprise and said, “Las’ Sunday I am see her.”

“Did she talk to you about Mr. Towne? Tell you when she expected him to visit her again?”

She made her eyes very wide and round and repeated, “Mr. Towne?” as though she had never heard the name before. And no amount of questioning from
Shayne or the Mexican police captain would make her admit any knowledge of an affair between her mother and Mr. Towne. If she did know about it, she had been well-coached to deny it.

Rodriquiz ordered her locked up after the questioning was over, and after she was taken away, he admitted to Shayne, “I can keep her in jail one night only. She has broken no laws of Mexico in what she has done.”

Shayne grimaced and admitted, “I’m not sure whether she has broken any American laws either, though I’m quite sure Military Intelligence will want to question her tomorrow.” He got up wearily. “I appreciate all your help, and I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”

“And Miss Towne?” Rodriquiz asked politely. “What statement shall I give the reporters?”

“Tell the truth,” Shayne advised. “That you’re holding her on suspicion of murder until she satisfactorily explains who fired the first shot from her pistol. To cover yourself, you might add that you suspect her of protecting the person who actually fired the shot.” Shayne went out and got in his borrowed car and drove back across the International Bridge.

It was almost midnight, and Jefferson Towne’s house was dark when Shayne stopped out in front. He went up the steps and held the electric button down as he had done the preceding night. As before, he faintly heard chimes echoing through the silent mansion.

After a long time the light came on over his head. He took his finger off the button and listened to the inside bolt being thrown and the night-chain loosened.

Towne’s Mexican butler stood in front of him, blocking the entrance, when the door opened. He wore a woolen bathrobe, with his bare legs showing below it and with Mexican sandals on his feet. He grunted, “W’at you want?”

“Towne.” Shayne moved forward.

The Mexican gave way before him reluctantly. “I do not think—”

Shayne said, “Call him down here or I’ll start hunting.”

The Mexican turned to go up the stairs, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Shayne stayed behind in the big hallway. He didn’t have to wait long before Jefferson Towne appeared at the head of the stairs and called down irritably, “Shayne? What the devil do you want?”

He wore a brocade dressing gown over yellow silk
pajamas. His hair was tousled and he scowled angrily down at the detective. Shayne sauntered toward the foot of the stairs, saying pleasantly, “I thought you might like to know that your daughter is in the Juarez jail charged with murder.”

Towne said hoarsely, “Carmela? Murder?” He started down, planting each foot solidly and heavily on the succeeding steps. “What are you talking about, Shayne?”

“Murder,” the detective repeated implacably. “Don’t act so surprised. You must have expected something like that when you sent her over to the worst dive in Juarez with a man-killing pistol in her bag.”

Towne stopped three steps above him. One hand gripped the banister tightly. “Who? What happened? For God’s sake, man, speak up!”