Murder Is My Business (8 page)

“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.”

Shayne eased himself back down into his chair. He uncorked the bottle and tilted it over Josiah Riley’s glass. “What did you see down at the river 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.

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.”

“And you wouldn’t buy it,” Dyer scoffed.

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.

One of the men was wearing a soldier’s uniform and I didn’t know him, but have since recognized
him as Private James Brown from a picture shown to me by Mr. Cochrane of the Free Press. The other man was Mr. Jefferson Towne, whom I have known for many years.

I was a couple hundred feet away and they did not either one see me in the brush, but while I looked I saw Mr. Towne hit the soldier in the face and knock him down and then lean over and start choking the life out of him. I was scared of getting caught there because I know Mr. Towne’s awful temper when he gets mad, so I walked on fast and didn’t look back any more.

Pretty soon I heard a car coming fast and I ducked down and watched Mr. Towne drive past on his way to town. He was alone in the front seat and I couldn’t see in the back, so I didn’t know he was carrying the dead soldier in the back with him so he could put him in the street later and run over him to make it look like an accident.

I didn’t see a newspaper until today so I didn’t know anything about Private James Brown being murdered, and I didn’t think any more about it until I read the
Free Press.

I called up Mr. Neil Cochrane of the
Free Press
because I knew they weren’t afraid to print the truth about even an important man like Mr. Towne, and he took me down to the police station where I made this statement, which is the truth, so help me God.