Murder Is My Business

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.”

“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.

Signed, Josiah Riley.

Dyer looked up from his reading and asked Shayne, “Is that the same story he told you this afternoon?”

“Substantially.” Shayne nodded. “With a few minor embellishments by Neil Cochrane, I imagine.”

Towne turned on him slowly, his face working spasmodically. “What’s that? Riley came to you with this story?”

“That’s right,” said Shayne easily. “He figured I’d pay him to suppress it — or hit you for the money. He only wanted three thousand,” he ended gently.

“But you sent him to the Free Press instead. Without even consulting me.”

“I’m not working for you,” Shayne reminded him. “You told me this morning you wouldn’t need me.”

Towne doubled his fists and moved toward the redhead, muttering hoarse blasphemies. Shayne lunged to his feet, but Captain Gerlach got between them. The homicide captain was a big man. He shoved Towne back ungently while he growled over his shoulder to Shayne, “Lay off. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Shayne’s wide nostrils flared. He said, “Sure, I’ll lay off. When they kick the trap I’ll be sitting in the front row laughing.”

“Forget it,” Dyer commanded. “It would have been paying blackmail to buy Riley off,” he reminded Towne.

“Bring Riley in here,” Towne said angrily. “I have a right to face him. He won’t dare repeat those lies in front of me.”

Dyer nodded to Gerlach. “Tell one of the boys to bring Riley in.” He warned Towne sharply, “And don’t start anything. I’ll put handcuffs on you if I have to.”

Shayne sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He didn’t look at Towne, who now stood on the other side of the desk breathing audibly.

Captain Gerlach came back into the office, and Josiah Riley slunk in through the door a few minutes later. He threw a frightened glance at Towne and then quavered, “You said you’d pertect me. You promised-”

“Stand up and face him like a man,” Dyer said. “Do you swear he’s the man you saw choking Private Brown near the river Tuesday afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.” Riley bobbed his head up and down emphatically. “I’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles.”

“He’s a lying old goat,” Towne fumed. “He’s trying to get back at me because I fired him from my silver mine in the Big Bend for trying to pull a fast one. He’s had it in for me ever since, and-”

“That’s a lie.” Riley’s voice trembled, but he straightened up and looked Towne in the face. “I told you then it was a mistake. The kinda mistake any man can make. You didn’t only fire me but you got me blackballed out of minin’. I never could get no job after that.”

“You didn’t deserve one,” Towne told him coldly. “He was my superintendent in the Big Bend in 1934,” he explained to the others. “He shut down the mine and came to me with a story about the vein being pinched out. If I had accepted his verdict, I would have closed down operations and later he could have picked up the property for a song and pretended he had found a new vein. But I suspected the trick and went down myself to investigate. You know the rest of it. It’s been one of the biggest silver producers in the country ever since. Of course I blackballed him with every mining firm in the country,” he ended contemptuously.

“It’s a goldarned lie,” Riley insisted wrathily. “I guess I did make a mistake about the vein pinchin’ out. But it was a honest mistake.”

“All that,” said Dyer wearily, “hasn’t anything to do with the murder you claim you witnessed Tuesday. Are you going to stand by your story?”

“You bet I am. It’s the truth, that’s what. I say it’s the plumb honest truth.”

Dyer jerked his head toward the door. A policeman led the old man out. The chief told Towne, “I’m booking you on suspicion of murder.”

Jefferson Towne’s big body seemed to shrink a little. “Just on the unsupported word of that old buzzard?” he asked hoarsely. “What motive would I have? If I did kill a soldier do you suppose I’d later run over the body and then immediately report it? Do you think I’m insane as well as a murderer? You know I jeopardized my chances in the election when I did that.”

“I know all that,” Dyer admitted. “I don’t know the answers any more than you do. But the Free Press has forced my hand. If I don’t put you under arrest now they’ll make it worse than it is.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Towne admitted stiffly. He glared at Shayne. “That was your doing. Sending Riley to Cochrane!”

“You had a chance to retain me this morning — at a modest fee. I warned you that you would need me before this was cleared up.”

Jefferson Towne tightened his lips and swallowed with difficulty. “I guess I made a mistake,” he muttered. “You’re retained now, and you can name your own fee. You’ve brought things to a point where we have to find out who murdered that soldier.”

Shayne shook his head and said sardonically, “Hire yourself someone else to pull your chestnuts out of the fire.”

Towne’s face became suffused with anger. He doubled his fists again, but Captain Gerlach got in front of him and shoved him out the door.

Dyer looked at Shayne wonderingly and shook his head. “And he said you could name your own fee.”

“I’m a fool,” Shayne said bitterly, “but I never have liked to be cussed out.” He got up and stretched. “I’ll buy you a drink.”