Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 20, No. 1, January 1975

You Can Get Away with Murder by Charles Boeckman

One might, I suppose, term the right time and the right place, in specific instances, as accessories after the fact.

The Mardi Gras hysteria had faded slightly in the predawn hours. Now it was starting again. Merrymakers, looking slightly stunned, were groping their way out into the narrow streets that were littered with last night’s confetti and streamers. Parade floats were assembling. Somewhere a musician blew a forlorn, cracking note on a trumpet. The whole city was gulping tomato juice and gin, shaking off last night’s hangover and bracing itself for the madness about to erupt again in the streets of New Orleans.

“Hell, Lieutenant, I’ve never seen so much blood in one room in my life.” The uniformed officer was standing spraddle-legged on the bottom step of the courtyard stairway, like a bulldog guarding a bone.

Homicide Detective Lieutenant Mercer Basous, his long, homely face serious, cast a preliminary glance around the courtyard. The banana trees were dripping moisture. A night fog that had rolled in from the river, crossed Jackson Square and enveloped the French Quarter, had not entirely dissipated. Basous shivered. The town was chronically cold and damp — when it wasn’t hot and damp. He sometimes wondered what had possessed those 18th Century Frenchmen to pick a swamp hollow below sea level upon which to build a town.

His gaze took in the bloodstains splashed across the cobblestones to the courtyard gate in the west wall. The person or persons unknown who had shed blood in the room upstairs had enough left to splatter a trail on the stairs and courtyard.

Basous assumed that the small group of curious people huddled in the courtyard lived in the apartments surrounding the courtyard. They were in bathrobes and slippers.

“All you people live here?” he questioned.

A general murmur in the affirmative ran through the group.

“Anybody hear a disturbance up there last night?”

No response.

“Well, then, who called the police?”

A plump, middle-aged woman attired in a housecoat, her hair in curlers, moved slightly forward. “I did, Mr. Policeman. I am Mrs. Le Monnier, the landlady. I live there on the ground floor.” She pointed across the courtyard to a door half hidden by vines and banana trees. “I came out this morning to get my paper, and the first thing I saw were those horrible bloodstains.”

“Who lives up there?” Basous nodded at the apartment at the top of the stairs where the violence had taken place.

“Bubba Noss rents the place. Hardly ever seen him here, though. He often lets friends use the room.”

Basous took out his notebook and jotted down the name of the landlady and the apartment tenant. “Was he here last night?”

“Don’t know. I don’t pry on my tenants.”

Somebody in the crowd made a derisive sound. She turned and glared at them.

Basous’ partner, Lieutenant Roy D’Aquin, entered the courtyard from the north gate. “I had the dispatcher check it out, Mercer. Nothing at the morgue last night, and none of the hospitals got anybody severely cut up or suffering from loss of blood.”

Basous nodded. “Roy, would you get statements from these people? I’ll go take a look at the room.”

He motioned to the young patrolman who turned and jogged up the stairs. Basous walked. He’d had a hard week.

The patrolman, opening the door for Basous, said, “I didn’t enter the premises, sir. Just looked in. Didn’t want to disturb any evidence or fingerprints.”

“You’re disturbing any fingerprints that might have been on that doorknob,” Basous commented, nodding at the uniformed officer’s freckled hand grasping the outer knob.

The patrolman’s face turned red and he drew his palm back, self-consciously wiping it on his trouser leg. Stiffly, he said, “I observed blood and the appearance of a struggle, but no person, alive or dead, was in the room.”

“Anything else?”

“The room had an odor of cigarette smoke, whiskey and perfume, sir.”

Basous took pity on the kid. He was trying very hard and was obviously fresh out of the academy.

“Very good, Officer. You did it all right by the book.”

The patrolman beamed.

Basous took a single step into the room. A bed lamp had been left burning. He murmured an exclamation in his native Cajun French as he made his preliminary survey before moving farther into the room. The one-room efficiency had a kitchen alcove to the right. To the left, a door opened on a small bathroom. In the main room, a couch had been opened to make a bed. The sheets and pillows appeared to have been slept on. There was little blood on the bed except for a few splattered drops. Most of it was on the north wall, the floor, and the bathroom.

D’Aquin joined him. “Nobody down there had a thing to say. Must have been a quiet murder or we have a bunch of sleepers. Mon dieu!” He looked around the room. “Looks like a convention of hemophiliacs got into a knife fight.”

Basous began moving in slow, careful steps about the room, his trained eyes inspecting everything. Then he came to the bed. He studied it for a minute, bent over and sniffed the pillows. He took envelopes and a pair of tweezers from his coat pocket and carefully plucked some fallen hairs from the pillows and bed, placing them in individual envelopes, afterward sealing and labeling them. Then he slipped the pillowcases from the pillows, folded them and stuffed them into his pockets.

Basous and D’Aquin got on their hands and knees and, placing their cheeks close to the floor, sighted across it for any small objects the preliminary search might have missed. With an exclamation, Basous picked up a bit of plastic. He examined it for a moment, passed it on to his partner. “What do you make of it?”

D’Aquin frowned at the object. “Looks like a contact lens that got dropped and stepped on.”

“Yes, I think that’s what it is.” It went into an envelope.

Then Basous, who was a very careful, deliberate man, and a confirmed believer in the value of keeping notes, sat on the side of the bed, placed his notebook on his thigh, and began writing. Following the date and address of the investigation, he wrote:

“Investigating officer reported bloodstains around room and on stairs leading down to patio and across patio. He also reported the odor of cigarettes, whiskey and perfume in the room. This was all confirmed by our inspection. Further examination revealed no weapon. Table and chairs were overturned. General appearance of a struggle. Bed had been slept in, apparently by a man and woman. One pillow smelled of perfume, and pillowcase had powder, lipstick smears, and a few strands of long, dark hair. The other pillowcase was slightly stained by hair oil and contained strands of shorter dark hair. Found on the floor near the bed was a small object which appears to be a piece of a contact lens. Effort had been made to remove fingerprints and other objects which might identify room’s occupants. There was no ash tray, whiskey bottle or glasses which one would expect to find in the room. No articles of clothing.”

He thought for a moment, then added: “Preliminary evaluation: possible rape-murder or lovers’ quarrel. Woman might have been killed and the body carried away and disposed of.”

D’Aquin, who sometimes grew impatient at Basous’ slow, deliberate methods asked, “Shall I put in a call to have a fingerprint man sent over from the lab.”

“Yes. I have a feeling he won’t find much, though. And of course we’ll need the blood typed.”

On the way down the winding iron stairway, D’Aquin observed, “Of course we don’t know a crime was committed here.”

“You think it was just a bad case of nosebleed?” Basous said dryly.

“Well, it could have been some kind of accident—”

“Then why did they go to the trouble to remove all traces of cigarettes, ash trays, bottles and glasses that must have been here, according to the odor in the air? No, an act of violence took place here last night,” Basous said firmly.

When they reached the street, one of the early-morning Mardi Gras parades was passing by. A marching Dixieland band was playing “High Society” loudly. The sidewalks were already crowded.

D’Aquin took Basous’ envelopes to the police laboratory while Basous spent an hour around the neighborhood asking questions. He made one call that proved fruitful. Directly across the narrow cobblestone street from the courtyard’s north entrance was an artist’s shop and private gallery. The artist was Benjamin Wyle, a thin man with a bushy red beard. He had been open until long past midnight, trying to sell some of his paintings to tourists. Around two a.m. he had seen a man and woman unlock the courtyard gate and go in. The couple appeared to have been drinking and were on very friendly terms. He did not get a clear look at the man, but did see the woman and was able to describe her in detail. “She was a remarkably beautiful woman,” he said.

“You’re an artist,” Basous pointed out. “Could you draw a sketch of her in color?”

“Yes, I think so. An artist doesn’t forget a face like that.”

The artist went right to work on the sketch. Basous went in search of breakfast. He found a small coffee shop not too jammed with tourists where he had pancakes and several cups of café au lait. When he returned to the artist’s shop an hour later, Benjamin Wyle handed him the finished sketch. It was of a brunette woman about thirty years of age.

“I agree,” said Basous. “A most beautiful woman — very striking.”

He showed the sketch to the tenants of the courtyard apartments, but none had seen the woman. Then Basous battled his way through the Mardi Gras throngs now crowding the streets in ever-increasing numbers to police headquarters on South Broad, where he rejoined his partner, Lieutenant D’Aquin. He showed the sketch to D’Aquin, who whistled appreciatively. (D’Aquin was something of a ladies’ man.) “What a shame to waste anything that looks like that.” Then he asked, “What do you want to do now?”

“Well, I think we ought to go talk to this Bubba Noss who pays the rent on the apartment, n’est-ce pas?”

From the landlady he had obtained the information that Bubba Noss ran a “head shop” for the hippie crowd in another part of the city.

“We’ll have to go the long way ’round,” D’Aquin said, nodding at the crowded streets.

The day had turned overcast. A cold mist was in the air. Basous turned up his coat collar and trotted out to the car. D’Aquin drove. Mercer Basous was not fond of heavy traffic or crowds. Were it not for his job, which he liked, he would be happy to return to the small Arcadian village on the Bayou where he had been raised, and trap muskrats for a living.

Bubba Noss was six feet tall, weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, wore a full beard, beads and sandals, and did not like the police.

“No, I don’t know who she is,” he said sourly, handing the sketch back to D’Aquin.

“Well, she was in your pad last night.”

“Man, lots of chicks are in my pad every night.”

“It looks very much like this one got herself murdered there,” D’Aquin said.

Bubba gave him a sullen, hostile gaze. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Basous glanced around the shop. It smelled of incense which was probably used to cover up the pot that was smoked there. The goods on display included fringed leather jackets, floppy brimmed hats, books and various other articles of clothing and paraphernalia favored by the hip subculture. Several bearded, sandaled youths were lounging about, giving the two detectives curious, unfriendly stares.

“Your apartment is covered with blood,” D’Aquin pursued. “Somebody — we think this woman — got cut up pretty bad.”

“Man, you’ve wigged out. There ain’t no blood in my pad.” Then he exclaimed, “Wait a minute! Do you mean my place over in the French Quarter?”

“You have more than one pad?”

“My living quarters are here, upstairs above the shop. I just keep that pad in the Quarter for kicks. You know, atmosphere. Sometimes when I or one of my friends want to impress an out-of-town chick, we take her there. Sometimes I let my customers and friends use it for a party. Man, all kinds of people have keys to that place.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Here — upstairs. We had a big Mardi Gras party going on early in the evening.”

“How about after midnight?”

Bubba’s beard split into a toothy grin. “I was in jail. The cops come in and busted me and my friends for disturbing the peace. They thought we were smoking grass, but couldn’t find any. I just got out of the slammer an hour ago.”

“You have to admit,” said D’Aquin, “that’s a pretty good alibi.”

“Yeah,” Basous said, staring moodily at the Mardi Gras crowds as he and his partner drove back to headquarters. There, Basous went to the crime laboratory on the first floor.

“I’ve been going over this material you brought in, Lieutenant,” the laboratory criminologist told him. “I’m typing a report, but I’ll tell you what we’ve found so far. There were face powder, lipstick stains and perfume residue on one pillowcase. It was all easy to identify, but not of much value in tracing the person who used it. It’s all of types widely used and distributed, though high quality, indicating expensive taste. The other pillowcase was slightly stained with hair oil of a type men use. The hair from that pillow was heavy with dark melamine pigment, indicating the man it came from had black hair. The longer hair picked from the pillowcase which had the lipstick stains was also heavily pigmented, but take a look at it through the microscope.”

Basous bent over the instrument. He said, “No roots.”

“Exactly. So we can be pretty certain it came from a human hair wig. Now look at this.” He placed another slide containing a strand of hair under the microscope. “Notice the lack of pigment and the air spaces — the vacuoles. This is definitely from a blonde person. My educated guess is that the woman was wearing a brunette wig, but is actually quite fair — a natural blonde.”

“Hmm,” Basous murmured. “I’ll have an artist make another sketch of the woman as a blonde. How about that bit of plastic? My partner and I think it is a contact lens.”

“It is. I sent a man to the optical shop and they were able to calibrate the prescription. Here it is.” He handed Basous a piece of paper. “Oh, the blood in that room is type B negative.”

“Thanks. Any fingerprints?”

“Not much luck there. Mostly smudges. Somebody went around wiping everything in sight.”

“I figured as much, because, whoever it was carted off the bottle, glasses and ash tray. Well, many thanks.”

Basous left the sketch of the woman with an artist who did some work for the police department, asking him to sketch her as a blonde. He checked with Missing Persons, but so far no male or female had been reported missing. Then he and D’Aquin went out for lunch.

Basous ordered Oysters Bienville with which he had a small bottle of Chablis. After the meal, both detectives had Louisiana coffee, black and heavy with chicory. During the meal, Basous acquainted D’Aquin with the information from the laboratory.

“So,” D’Aquin summarized, “sometime between two a.m. and dawn, a blonde woman wearing a dark wig went to Bubba Noss’ apartment in the French Quarter with a man who had dark hair. They had a party, drinks, and then the woman, who had type B negative blood, got cut up awfully bad, probably killed.”

“I don’t see how anyone could lose that much blood and survive,” Basous agreed.

“But we know it wasn’t Bubba Noss because he was in jail at the time.”

“Yes. From what he’s told us, it could have been one of many people. Apparently his whole crowd of swingers use that place as a party room and shacking-up pad. Either the man or woman — or both for that matter — could have had a key.”

D’Aquin said, “I guess it’s up to us now to find out the identity of the couple, starting with the woman since we have a pretty good idea what she looks like.”

“And we have the contact lens,” Basous reminded him. “More than likely it belonged to the woman. She would be too vain to spoil her kind of looks with glasses. And with her obvious class, she could afford the best ophthalmologist in the city for the examination and contact-lens prescription. We can make the rounds of the doctors this afternoon and see if one of them recognizes her from the sketch.”

“That might work. Unless, of course, she was from out of town, and there are an awful lot of visitors at Mardi Gras time — and unless the lens belonged to the man; or it was dropped by somebody else at a previous time.”

“That’s what I like about you, D’Aquin. You’re always so damned optimistic.”

They spent the afternoon plowing through the Mardi Gras crowds that were growing denser and drunker by the hour.

They went to seven ophthalmologists, and at the eighth office they struck pay dirt. They didn’t even have to take up the doctor’s time. The receptionist recognized the sketch — the blonde one — at once. “Oh, I’m almost sure that’s Mrs. Arthur Turner... Linda Turner. She was in just last month.”

“Was this the prescription for her contact lens?” Basous handed her the paper with the lens prescription.

“I can check her records.” She went to a filing cabinet. In a few minutes she returned. “Yes. That’s it.”

Basous’ homely face momentarily reflected his inner elation. “Could we have her address?”

She wrote the address on a slip of paper. “I do hope nothing has happened to her, Officer?”

Basous did not reply. He and his partner returned to their car. Basous looked at the address and muttered a Bayou French exclamation under his breath. “She lived in the Garden District. Very posh address.”

They drove to the address, parked in front of the house. Basous looked up at the sweeping lawn, the costly home with its plantation-style Ionic columns. “I don’t look forward to this — telling the man that his wife shacked up with some dude in the Quarter last night and then got herself knifed and probably dumped in the river.”

“Wonder why he hasn’t reported her missing?”

“She probably gave him some story about going to visit friends or relatives, so he hasn’t missed her yet.”

They rang the bell. A maid ushered them into a parlor after Basous showed her his identification. He sat precariously on an antique chair and looked around at the grand piano and thick carpet and costly paintings, holding his hat between his hands.

Presently Arthur Turner, a man in his fifties, silver-haired, with a deep golfer’s tan joined them. “Gentlemen — Mildred said you are from the police...”

“Yes.” Basous looked uncomfortably at his partner. He was not very good at coping with things like this.

D’Aquin came to his rescue. “It’s about your wife, sir,” he said gently. “When did you see her last?”

Turner looked surprised. “About two minutes ago. We’re having cocktails in the family room. Why are you asking about my wife?”

D’Aquin turned and stared rather foolishly at Basous, who thought his own expression must be pretty sheepish. Finally he cleared his throat and asked politely, “May we have a word with her, sir?”

“Well, I suppose so.” Turner left the room, then came back immediately with his wife, a stunning blonde woman — Linda Turner.

The two detectives quickly rose. It was Basous’ turn to clear his throat. “Pardon us for this intrusion, Mrs. Turner. Could you tell us where you were last night?”

She regarded him with a puzzled expression, looked at her husband, then again at Basous. “Right here at home with my husband. Why are you asking, Officer?”

Turner had put an arm around his wife. “We had a quiet dinner at home and spent the evening watching television; keeping away from the Mardi Gras crowds, you know. Would you mind telling me what this is all about, sir?”

“Please excuse us for disturbing you. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity. We’re just doing some routine checking...”

Out in the car, D’Aquin said, “She’s lying.”

“Of course she’s lying. And her husband is covering for her. There is no question but that she is the woman in that sketch.” Basous slapped his forehead. “Mon dieu! So it was the man who got his throat cut, and all the time we’ve been thinking it was the woman. But I simply cannot see how a woman could knife a man, then carry his body down the stairs and across the courtyard to the gate.”

“Perhaps he staggered out of the room under his own power.”

“Or the woman had help. Why would she kill him? Did he threaten to blackmail her? Or was it a matter of jealousy? Anyway, we can’t arrest her yet. Everything is too slim and circumstantial. We don’t even know who the man was. You know, I think we ought to check the list of everybody who got busted at Bubba’s party last night. It looks very much to me like Linda Turner or the man she was with, or both of them, ran around with that crowd. Bubba’s friends might be more willing to talk to us than Bubba was, especially if we lean on them just a bit.”

Back at the police building, Basous and D’Aquin went over the records of the arrests made at Bubba Noss’ apartment the night before. They ran a check to see if any of those booked had a police record. Several did, and Basous selected the most promising. “Nikki Lane, Female. Age twenty-one. Several arrests. One conviction for possession of marijuana. Served time as a juvenile offender. Was on probation a year.”

Basous said, “Let us pay a visit to Miss Lane. I see she lives in a little town on the other side of the river. It just so happens I am acquainted with a family-operated restaurant in that same village which will not be overrun with tourists, and which serves some of the very best authentic homemade Creole gumbo you ever tasted. It will be about time for the evening meal when we get there.”

D’Aquin laughed. “You do like your meals on time, Basous.”

The Arcadian agreed.

They drove over the Huey Long Bridge and stopped at the small cafe in the village. They were served steaming bowls of Creole gumbo and when D’Aquin sampled his, tears filled his eyes. He quickly gulped a drink of wine. “This is really fiery!”

“It’s real Louisiana Cajun cooking,” Basous said happily, beads of perspiration popping out all over his long, homely face as he ate the spicy dish with relish. “This gives a man the spirit to pole a pirogue all day and dance the fais-dodo all night.”

After two large bowls of gumbo and several cups of black chicory coffee, Basous was ready to call on Nikki Lane. They found her address to be one of a row of unpainted shacks just below the levee. In the weed-filled yard were parked several motorcycles. When the detective knocked, a young woman with stringy blonde hair, dressed in blue jeans, barefooted, carrying a baby on one hip, came to the door.

“We’d like to speak to Miss Nikki Lane,” said Basous.

Her expression was wary. “That’s me. What do you want?”

Basous showed her his badge. Her expression turned to fright. “Listen, I’m clean. What are you bugging me about?”

“You were arrested last night?”

“That was a mistake. They busted us for disturbing the peace. They thought they were going to find some grass or smack. But we were clean. They let us go this morning.”

“The point is, you hang around with Bubba Noss and his crowd of swingers. Have you ever seen this woman? Does she come to Bubba’s parties?” Basous showed her the two sketches of Linda Turner, both the brunette and blonde version.

“Is that all you want to know?” she asked.

“Yes — unless, of course, you decide not to cooperate. Then we might think of a lot of other things to question you about.”

Relief showed in her eyes. “Sure, I know her. Why shouldn’t I tell you?” She shrugged. She pointed to the brunette sketch. “That’s Helen Davis. I’ve seen her at several of Bubba’s parties.”

“Did she ever tell you her name was Linda Turner?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that. I know her as Helen Davis.”

“Was she at the party last night?”

“Yes. But she left early. Before the fuzz raided the place.”

“Was she with somebody?”

“Sure. Same guy she always comes with. Ron Giampietro.”

“Ron Giampietro,” D’Aquin muttered as they drove back across the Huey Long Bridge.

The name was familiar to both detectives. Giampietro owned a small strip joint on Bourbon Street, but his main activity was being a bookie and small-time hoodlum.

“I wonder how a high-class dame like Linda Turner ever got involved with a shady character like Giampietro,” Basous mused.

“His kind often attract women,” said D’Aquin, who considered himself something of an expert on female psychology. “They get bored with their rich husbands and nice, safe routine at home. They go looking for adventure. A guy on the shady side, an outlaw, excites them.”

“Well, if Giampietro took her to that French Quarter apartment last night, he either got himself killed or killed somebody else up there.”

They parked as close as possible to the Quarter and got out and walked. The Vieux Carré was sealed off to automobiles during Mardi Gras. By now darkness had fallen, a cold, drizzling darkness, making the filigree ironwork on the balconies gleam and imparting a soft patina to the ancient, crumbling buildings, but the weather did not dampen the Mardi Gras spirit. The narrow streets — Bourbon, Chartres, St. Louis, Royal — were crowded from curb to curb with boisterous merrymakers, many of them carrying huge, drink-filled glasses. Jazz poured from every doorway, loud and brassy, and not too much melody.

Basous and D’Aquin questioned the manager of Ron Giampietro’s strip bar, The Blue Spot. No, he had not seen Mr. Giampietro since yesterday. No, he would not allow Mr. Giampietro’s apartment to be searched without a warrant.

The two detectives went off in search of a judge who would issue a search warrant. It was nearly midnight when they returned with the warrant. Giampietro’s apartment was across a walled courtyard behind the strip joint. His quarters were expensively furnished. Basous and D’Aquin spent an hour searching the premises with meticulous skill and patience. At last Basous found an item that was helpful. It was a notebook. He studied the names and figures entered in ledger-like style and uttered an exclamation when his eye fell on a particular entry.

“What is it?”

“Unless I am badly mistaken, I now know what happened. Ron Giampietro was indeed murdered last night and I know who had the motive and opportunity. Come on.”

Basous hustled D’Aquin out into the streets again. The homely detective’s long, lanky legs carried him plowing through the throngs. They had but a few blocks to walk to the artist shop of Benjamin Wyle, situated directly across the street from the courtyard apartments which had been visited last night by Linda Turner, alias Helen Davis, and Ron Giampietro.

“Ah, Mr. Wyle,” said Basous. “Still open, I see.”

“Just trying to pick up a few bucks from the tourists, Lieutenant.” He smiled, fingering his bushy red beard. “Did you find out who the woman was you were looking for?”

“Indeed we did. We also found out who the man was.”

“Hey, that’s good detective work. Who was he?”

“Ron Giampietro. You know him, Mr. Wyle?”

“Let me see... I think he owns a joint over on Bourbon Street.”

“Come, you can do better than that, Mr. Wyle. In fact you placed a lot of bets with him. From the amount of money you owed him, I would say gambling is quite a passion with you.”

The artist’s face turned pale. “How did you know—”

“Mr. Giampietro kept a very good set of books. They show how much you’d lost and owed him. He has a reputation for leaning on people quite heavily when they can’t pay their I.O.U.s. What did he threaten to do, Mr. Wyle? Break both your arms? Put out a contract on you? And was that why you went over there, knowing you could catch him off guard when he was having a romantic interlude with Mrs. Turner? You killed him and carried his body out and dumped it, probably in the river. You knew, of course, that Mrs. Turner wouldn’t dare turn you in without compromising herself and her sordid affair.”

The artist’s face was now the color of a dirty gray bed sheet. “Now wait a minute—”

“Read him his rights, D’Aquin.”

D’Aquin recited, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney—”

“Wait a minute!” Wyle half-screamed. “You’re not pinning this on me.” He wiped his sweating face with a handkerchief. “You’re right about I.O.U.s. You’re right about the threats Giampietro was making to me. He really had me scared. But I didn’t kill him. Arthur Turner did that.”

“What?”

“I recognized Mrs. Turner even with that brunette wig. I’ve seen her before. In fact, she and her husband bought a painting from me for that mansion they live in. So, when I saw her go up to that room with Giampietro, I put in a telephone call to Arthur Turner. I told him if he’d come to the address I gave him, he would find his wife in bed with Ron Giampietro. I told him the west gate would be unlocked. The street on that side is not closed to automobiles. I have a key to the courtyard gates since I have an apartment there myself.

“This morning when you questioned me, I drew the sketch of Mrs. Turner, hoping you’d trace her and eventually charge her husband with the murder. Of course I had to draw her with the brunette wig in case another witness turned up. Still, anyone would recognize her if they really knew her.”

Arthur Turner’s car was searched the next morning. The trunk had been washed but careful inspection by the police laboratory turned up traces of type B negative blood. That evidence, along with the testimony of Benjamin Wyle — who had to be granted immunity from prosecution-plus others who knew of the affair between Mrs. Turner and Giampietro would have been sufficient corpus delicti, even if Giampietro’s body had not been eventually found floating in a bayou where Turner had dumped him. There was enough circumstantial evidence to convict Arthur Turner.

Apparently Mrs. Turner had been contrite, begged forgiveness, and Turner, a man passionately in love with his beautiful young wife, had forgiven her after he dispatched Giampietro.

Basous should have been happy with a case successfully solved but his homely face wore an expression even more dour than usual. “You know what really bugs me?” he said to D’Aquin.

“What?”

“The real murderer is going scot-free. When Wyle picked up the phone that night and called Arthur Turner, he killed Ron Giampietro as surely as if he’d stuck the knife in him, and there isn’t anything we can do to him. Do you realize Benjamin Wyle got away with murder?”