The Bigger They Come

Chapter 11

I registered at the Perkins Hotel as Rinton C. Watson of Klamath Falls, Oregon. I got a room with a bath and asked the bellboy to have the captain step up to the room for a minute.

The captain had that smirk of simulated deference which characterizes pimps, panderers and procurers the world over. He thought he knew what I wanted before I’d said a word.

‘You aren’t the one I want,’ I said.

‘I can do anything for you that any of the others can.’

‘No, it’s not that. I want to see a man, an old friend.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I think,’ I said, ‘it’s been changed.’

He laughed. ‘Tell me what it was, and I may know it.’

‘You would if I told you,’ I observed, letting him see suspicion in my eyes.

He quit laughing. ‘There are three of us on duty,’ he said.

‘Live here in the hotel?’ I asked.

‘I do. I have a room down in the basement. The others live out.’

‘This man,’ I said, ‘is about twenty-five, with very thick black hair. It comes down low in the center of his forehead. He has a short, stubby nose and slate-colored eyes.’

‘Where’d you know him?’ he asked.

I deliberated for a while before I said, ‘Kansas City.’

The answer registered. The bell captain made a gesture of cooperation. ‘That’s Jerry Wegley. He comes on duty at four this afternoon and works until midnight.’

‘Wegley,’ I mused.

‘That the name you knew him under?’ the captain asked curiously.

I hesitated perceptibly before saying, ‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

‘Where could I reach him?’

‘Here, after four o’clock.’

‘I mean now.’

‘I might find out his address — perhaps you’d like to talk with him over the telephone.’

‘I’d have to see him,’ I said. ‘I was going under another name when he knew me.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Do that,’ I said, and locked the door as he went out. I took the money corset out of my belt and started taking out fifties and hundreds. There was eight thousand four hundred and fifty dollars in all. I put the bills in four rolls, distributed them in my trousers pockets, and rolled the corset-belt into a compact bundle.

The bellboy came back. ‘It’s Brinmore Rooms,’ he said. ‘If Jerry isn’t glad to see you, don’t tell him where you got the information.’

I gave him a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Could you,’ I asked, ‘bring me forty-five dollars in return for this?’

His face broke in a cheerful grin. ‘Surest thing you know,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back with the forty-five in five minutes.’

‘Bring me a newspaper, too,’ I told him.

When he returned with the forty-five dollars and the newspaper, I wrapped up the corset-belt and walked out of the hotel. I went to the Union Depot, sat down on one of the benches for a few minutes, then got up and walked away, leaving the newspaper-wrapped parcel on the seat.

From the branch post office I purchased a stamped envelope and a special delivery stamp. I addressed the envelope to Jerry Wegley, Brinmore Rooms, tore a page of newspaper into strips, folded some of the strips into the envelope, sealed it, and took a taxicab to the Brinmore Rooms.

The Brinmore Rooms consisted of a door on the street level, a flight of stairs, a little counter with a call bell, a register, and a fly-specked pasteboard placard with the words ‘Ring for Manager’ printed on it. I rang.

When nothing happened, I rang again. After another ten seconds, a thin-faced woman with a gold-toothed smile came out to see what I wanted.

‘Special delivery letter for Jerry Wegley,’ I said. ‘You want to take it in to him?’

‘No, he’s in 18, straight down the hall,’ she said shortly, folding her lips back down over her gold teeth and slamming the door of her room behind her as she turned back.

I went on down to 18, knocked three times gently on the door, and got no action. I tried to insert a knife blade along the side of the lock, and decided after five minutes that I was a failure as a burglar. I walked back down the threadbare carpet to the counter with its bell and register, lifted up the hinged gate in the counter, and looked around on the inside. There were a half dozen bundles of laundry, three or four magazines, and a pasteboard suitcase. I kept looking around and finally found what I wanted, a nail with a big heavy wire loop hanging on it. A chain hung from the loop, and the key dangled at the end of the chain. I took care to keep the chain from jingling against the wire as I took the key and walked back down the hall.

The passkey opened room 18 without any difficulty.

The bird had flown the coop.

There was some dirty underwear on the floor of the closet, a sock with a hole in the big toe, a rusty safety razor blade, and the stub of a lead pencil.

The bureau drawers yielded nothing but a frayed necktie which had begun to pull apart in the center, an empty gin bottle and a crumpled cigarette package. The bed hadn’t been slept in since it had last been made, although the sheets and pillow cases looked about ready for the laundry.

The place was dingy, smelly, dejected, and deserted. The mirror over the cheap pine bureau threw back a faded, distorted reflection of my face.

I went back to the closet and looked the underwear over for laundry marks. I found an old X-B391. It was pretty well faded. The same number had been written more recently and in a different handwriting on the waistband of the shorts.

I made a note of the number, left the room, locked the door, and paused long enough in front of the counter at the head of the stairs to slide the wire hoop down under the counter where it would look as though it had fallen off the nail.

Jerry Wegley had the last laugh. I’d paid him twenty-five dollars to slip me a gun which was hotter than a stovelid. Wegley went on duty at four o’clock in the afternoon and was off at midnight. He probably went to bed as a rule around two or three o’clock in the morning. This time he hadn’t gone to bed. Had it been because he’d learned what had been done with the gun he’d passed off on me?

I didn’t know, and had no immediate way of finding out.

I waited on the street until a cruising cab came along, and went out to the airport. An aviator who made a specialty of chartering planes to bridal couples agreed to take me to Yuma, Arizona, and seemed surprised that I was making the trip alone.

Once in Yuma, I followed a plan of operation which I had rehearsed in my own mind so many times that it made me feel I was playing a part in a play.

I went to the First National Bank, went to the window marked ‘New Accounts,’ and said, ‘My name is Peter B. Smith. I’m looking for some investments.’

‘What sort of investments, Mr. Smith?’

‘Anything that I can turn to quick advantage and make a profit.’

The assistant cashier smiled. ‘A lot of people are looking for these same things, Mr. Smith.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘I don’t expect you to help me look, but if I find something, I’d appreciate having your reactions.’

‘You wish to open an account?’

‘Yes.’

I took two thousand dollars in cash from my pocket.

‘Where’re you going to live, Mr. Smith?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t got located yet.’

‘You come from the East?’

‘No, from California.’

‘Just got in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have a business in California?’

‘Just sharpshooting,’ I said. ‘But I think California’s just about reached the maximum of its growth. Arizona has a long way to go.’

That was all the reference I needed. He made out a deposit slip, gave me a withdrawal card to sign, counted the two thousand dollars, and entered the amount in a deposit book. ‘Do you,’ he asked, ‘want a flat checkbook or a pocket checkbook?’

‘Pocket.’

He fitted a block of blank checks into an imitation leather folder stamped with the name of the bank, and handed it to me. I put it in my pocket, shook hands, and walked out.

I went to the Bank of Commerce, hunted up the new account man, gave the name of Peter B. Smith, shook hands, told him the same thing, and deposited two thousand dollars. I also rented a safety deposit box and put most of the balance of Sandra Birks’ money in there.

It was late afternoon by the time I’d secured a room, paid a month’s rent in advance, and explained to the landlady that my baggage would be along later.

I walked around town, sizing up the automobile agencies. I picked the one which looked as though it was doing the largest business, walked in, and asked to be shown a light sedan for immediate delivery. I told the salesman I was thoroughly familiar with the performance of the car, that what I wanted was an immediate delivery. I wanted a car that could start out and go. I’d prefer a demonstrator to a new car. He said he had a demonstrator he could have ready for the road in thirty minutes. I told him I’d be back. He asked if I wanted to buy it on contract, and I said no, I’d pay for it in cash. I whipped the checkbook from my pocket, asked the total amount that would be due, and wrote a check for one thousand six hundred and seventy-two dollars.

I signed the check and said, ‘This is my first day in Yuma. I am going to be in business here. You don’t know of any good investments, do you?’

‘What sort of investments?’

‘Things where a man can put a little money, figure on a quick turn-over, and large profit with no risk.’

It spoke volumes for his credulity that he stopped and gave the matter frowning concentration for several seconds before he shook his head slowly. ‘No, I don’t know of anything like that right now, but I’ll keep you in mind, Mr. Smith. Where are you going to be staying?’

I made a show of trying to recall the address, said, ‘I have rather a poor memory at times,’ and fished the rent receipt from my wallet. I held it so he could see the name of the apartment house. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I know the place. Well, I’ll keep in touch with you, Mr. Smith.’

‘Do that,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, and I want to be ready to roll.’

I went out to a restaurant, ordered the biggest steak on the menu, and polished it off with mince pie k la mode. I went back to the automobile agency to pick up the car. They had pinned my check to the top of a pile of papers.

‘You’ll have to sign your name here two or three times,’ the salesman said.

I noticed that someone had written in indelible pencil in the upper left-hand corner of my check the word ‘Okay,’ followed by the initials ‘GEC.’ I signed the name Peter B. Smith two or three times, shook hands all around, climbed in the car, and drove out. I went directly to the First National Bank. It lacked about fifteen minutes of closing time. I went to the counter and drew a sight draft on H. C. Helmingford for five thousand six hundred and ninety-two dollars and fifty cents. I drew a counter check for one thousand eight hundred dollars. I went to the cashier’s window and said, ‘I’m Peter Smith. I opened an account here today. I was looking for some investments. I have found one which is going to require immediate cash. I have here a sight draft drawn on H. C. Helmingford. I want this presented to him through the Security National Bank of Los Angeles. It will be honored immediately on presentation. I want it rushed.’

He took the draft and said, ‘Just a minute, Mr. Smith―’

‘It isn’t necessary,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to give me any credit on this. Simply handle it as a collection. Have your Los Angeles correspondent wire back at my expense.’

He gave me a receipt for the draft. ‘And you wanted some cash?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, and handed him the counter check for eighteen hundred dollars, looking at my watch as I did so.

He said, ‘Just a minute,’ stepped back to the bookkeeping department to verify the balance and my signature. He hesitated for a moment, then came back and asked, ‘How do you want this, Mr. Smith?’

‘In hundreds,’ I said.

He gave me the money. I thanked him, drove over to the Bank of Commerce, got into my safety deposit vault, and put the eighteen hundred dollars in with the other money in there. Then I climbed in the car, drove out of town and crossed the bridge over the Colorado River into California. I parked the car for about half an hour, sitting there smoking and letting my dinner digest. Then I started the motor and drove on the few yards that brought me to the California quarantine station over on the right-hand side of the road.

Under the guise of maintaining an agricultural inspection, the California authorities stop every car, search it, unpack baggage, fumigate blankets, ask questions, and inconvenience the motorists as much as possible.

I swung in close to the checking station. A man came out to look me over. I yelled at him, taking care to run the words all together so that he couldn’t hear anything except the jumble of sound as I stepped on the gas. He signalled for me to pull into the unloading platform, and I gave the car everything it had.

A couple of hundred yards down the road, my rear-view mirror showed me that a motorcycle officer was kicking the prop out from under his wheels.

I started traveling.

The motorcycle officer came roaring out from the checking station and my car started going places. I heard the siren swell into noise behind me, and let it get close enough so the sound of it helped clear traffic ahead. The officer didn’t reach for his gun until after we’d got pretty well into the drifting sand hills. When I saw he was getting ready to shoot, I pulled over to the side and stopped.

The officer wasn’t taking any chances on me. He came up alongside with the gun pushed out in front. ‘Stick ‘em up,’ he said.

I stuck ‘em up.

‘What the hell’s the idea?’

‘What idea?’

‘Don’t pull that line with me.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you’ve got me. This is a new car. I just bought it in Yuma. I wanted to find out how fast it would go. What does the judge soak me, a dollar a mile over the legal limit?’

‘Why didn’t you stop in at the quarantine station?’

‘I did. The man motioned for me to go on.’

‘The hell he did. He motioned for you to pull in and stop.’

‘I misunderstood him,’ I said.

‘You bought this car in Yuma, eh? Where?’

I told him.

‘When?’

I told him.

‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘We’re going back.’

‘Back where?’

‘Back to the checking station.’

‘Like hell we are. I’ve got business in El Centro.’

‘You’re under arrest.’

‘All right, then, take me before the nearest and most accessible magistrate.’

‘How’d you pay for this car?’ he asked.

‘With a check.’

‘Every hear anything about the penalty for issuing bum checks?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

He said, ‘Well, buddy, you’re going right back across the bridge into Yuma. The man that sold you this car wants you to answer some questions about that check. You thought you were being pretty cute, but you were just about fifteen minutes too early. They managed to get the check down to the bank before it closed.’

‘Well, what of it?’

He grinned. ‘They’ll tell you about that when you get back there.’

‘Back where?’

‘Back to Yuma.’

‘For what?’

‘For issuing a bum check, for obtaining property under false pretenses, and probably a couple of other charges.’

‘I’m not going back to Yuma,’ I said.

‘I think you are.’

I reached down and twisted the ignition key. ‘I know my rights,’ I said. ‘I’m in California. You can’t take me back across into Arizona without extradition.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘If you want to make it that way.’

He nodded. ‘All right, brother. You want to go to El Centro. Go ahead. We’re going there. Keep within the legal limit. I’ll be right behind you. Forty-five’s the legal limit. I’ll allow you fifty. At fifty-one I start shooting your tires. Do you get me?’

‘You can’t arrest me without a warrant,’ I said.

‘That’s what you think. Get out. I’m going to frisk you.’

I sat tight behind the wheel. He put one foot on the running board, shot his left hand out and hooked his fingers in the collar of my shirt. ‘Come on out,’ he said, holding the gun menacingly in his right hand.

I came out.

He patted me, looking for weapons, then looked through the car.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘both hands on the wheel. No funny stuff. If you want to be extradited, you’ll sure as hell be extradited.’

‘I don’t like your manner,’ I said, ‘and I resent this high-handed invasion of my rights. I―’

‘Get started,’ he interrupted.

I got started. We drove into El Centro, and he took me to the sheriff’s office. I was left in charge of a deputy while the officer and the sheriff did some talking. Then I heard them telephoning. After that, I was taken down to the jail. The sheriff said, ‘Listen, Smith, you’re a nice looking chap. You’re not gaining anything by pulling a stunt like this. Why don’t you go back and face the music. You may be able to square it.’

I said, ‘I’m not talking.’

‘All right,’ he warned, ‘if you want to be smart.’

‘I want to be smart,’ I said.

They put me in a tank with four or five other prisoners. I didn’t do any talking. When supper was served, I didn’t do any eating. Shortly after supper, the sheriff came back again and asked me if I’d waive extradition. I told him to go to hell and he went out.

I stayed in the tank for two days. I ate some of the grub. It wasn’t too bad. The heat was awful. I didn’t have a newspaper and didn’t know what was going on in the world. They took me out of the tank and put me in a cell by myself. I had no one to talk to.

On the third day, a big man with a black sombrero came in with the sheriff. He said to me, ‘You Peter B. Smith?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m from Yuma,’ he said. ‘You’re going back with me.’

‘Not without extradition.’

‘I have extradition.’

‘Well, I refuse to honor it. I’m going to say right here.’

He grinned.

I gripped the side of the cot and raised my voice. ‘I’m going to stay right here!’

The big man sighed. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s too God damn hot for strenuous exercise. For Christ’s sake, come on out and get in that car.’

I yelled at him, ‘I’m going to stay right here!’

He shoved me around. The Arizona officer snapped handcuffs on my wrists. I refused to talk, and they hauled me out of the jail and into the car.

The big man put on a leg iron. ‘You asked for this,’ he said, mopping perspiration from his forehead. ‘Why can’t you be reasonable? Don’t you know it’s hot?’

‘You’re going to regret this as long as you live,’ I said. ‘I haven’t committed any crime and you can’t pin one on me. I’ll—’

‘Forget it. Shut up,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve got a hot drive across the desert ahead of me, and I don’t want to hear the sound of your voice.’

‘You won’t,’ I said, and sat back against the cushions.

We drove through the shimmering heat of the desert. The horizon twisted and danced in the rays of a blistering sun. The air was so hot it cooked my eyes in their sockets as boiling water boils an egg in its shell. The tires seemed to stick to the road, snarling a steady whine of sticky protest.

‘You would come at the hottest time of the day,’ I said.

‘Shut up.’

I kept quiet.

We drove into Yuma and went to the courthouse. The deputy district attorney said, ‘You made these people go to a lot of trouble, Smith. Where do you think it’s going to get you?’

‘They didn’t need to go to any trouble,’ I said. ‘If they think they’ve had trouble so far, wait until you see what they get.’

‘What are they going to get?’

‘I’m going to sue them for malicious prosecution, false arrest, and defamation of character.’

He yawned and said, ‘Don’t pull that gag. You make me laugh. If it had been a new car, the situation would have been different. As it is, it’s a demonstrator. You’ve given it a few miles’ run. It hasn’t hurt the car any. But you made them go to the expense of extraditing you. That’s going to hurt.’

‘Why the hell didn’t they cash the check I gave them?’ I asked.

He laughed and said, ‘Because you’d been down to the bank and drawn all the money out.’

‘Nuts,’ I said. ‘That was the other bank.’

‘What do you mean, the other bank?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You’re damn right I know what you mean. It’s the old flimflam game. You went down and handed out a line of soap. You deposited two thousand dollars in the bank. You left the check, knowing damn well they’d take steps to find out whether the check was good, but they wouldn’t cash it until you’d signed the papers and driven out with the car. You figured on getting the car delivered just a few minutes before closing time, beating it down to the bank and drawing out everything except two hundred dollars. You figured you’d have eighteen hours’ start before anyone found out the check wasn’t any good. But you beat your own time a little, and the automobile agency showed up at the bank about five minutes after you’d left with the money. They deposit every night just before closing time.’

I stared at him, letting my eyes get big and my jaw sag. ‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Do you mean they tried to cash my check at the First National?’

‘Why not? That’s the bank it was given on.’

‘No it wasn’t,’ I said. ‘That check was issued on the Bank of Commerce.’

He showed me the check, marked with the telltale ‘NSF’ in red ink. I said, ‘Well, then, I drew the eighteen hundred out of the Bank of Commerce.’

‘Why all the talk about the Bank of Commerce?’

‘Because I have an account there.’

‘The hell you do.’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t have anything to prove it.’

‘I was going to take a long night ride,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to have my checkbooks on me. I put them in an envelope and addressed them to myself at General Delivery. You can go down there and find them if you don’t believe it.’

The officer and the deputy district attorney exchanged glances.

‘You mean this wasn’t a flimflam?’ the deputy district attorney asked.

‘Of course not. I will admit that I drew a sight draft on H. C. Helmingford. There isn’t any such man. I was going to beat it, into Los Angeles and take up that sight draft as H. C. Helmingford. But I didn’t defraud anyone with that sight draft. I simply put it in for collection.’

‘What the hell were you trying to do?’

‘Build up a banking credit,’ I said. ‘I wanted the bank to think I was important. There’s no law against that.’

‘But you gave the automobile company this check, and then drew out all of your balance except two hundred dollars.’

‘No I didn’t. That was on the other bank ― or I sure as hell thought it was.’

The deputy district attorney rang up the Bank of Commerce. ‘Has Peter B. Smith got an account there?’ he asked.

He held the phone and waited a minute. Then I heard the receiver make noise in his ear. He deliberated for a minute, and said, ‘I’ll call you back in a few minutes.’

He said, ‘Write your name.’

I wrote Peter B. Smith.

He said, ‘Write an order to the post office asking them to deliver to me any mail that’s addressed to you and held at General Delivery.’

I wrote the order.

‘Wait here,’ the deputy said.

I waited in the office for an hour. When they came back, the man who had sold me the car was with them. ‘Hello, Smith,’ he said.

‘Hello.’

‘You caused us a hell of a lot of trouble.’

‘You caused yourself a hell of a lot of trouble,’ I said. ‘My God, you might have known it was all a mistake. Why didn’t you get in touch with me? If I’d been a crook, you don’t think I’d have left two hundred dollars in the bank, do you? I’d have taken it all.’

‘Well, what were we supposed to think tinder the circumstances?’

‘How did I know what you were going to think?’

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘You want that car. It’s a good buy. We want the money for it.’

‘You,’ I told him, ‘are going to get slapped in the face with a suit for false arrest and defamation of character.’

‘Nuts,’ the deputy district attorney said. ‘You can’t pull that stuff, and you know it. Maybe you made a mistake, but it was your mistake, not theirs.’

‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘Stick up for your taxpayers. I’ll import a lawyer. I’ll get someone to come in from Los Angeles.’

He laughed.

‘Well, from Phoenix,’ I said.

They exchanged glances.

‘Look here,’ the automobile man said. ‘This has been a mistake all around. It was your mistake. You drew your money out of the wrong bank, or gave us the check on the wrong bank. I don’t know which.’

‘I got mixed up,’ I admitted.

‘All right. You’ve had an unfortunate experience, and so have we. The governor wouldn’t issue extradition papers until we guaranteed to pay all expenses. That cost us money. Tell you what we’ll do, Smith. You give us a check for sixteen hundred and seventy-two dollars on the Bank of Commerce, and we’ll shake hands and forget it. What do you say?’

I said, ‘I’ll give you the check on the Bank of Commerce because I always pay my bills. I’m sorry that mistake was made. But you had no right jumping at hasty conclusions and running to the police. That’s going to cost you money.’

The deputy district attorney said, ‘You can’t get anywhere with the lawsuit, Smith. As a matter of fact, you’re technically guilty. If the automobile people wanted to, they could go ahead and prosecute you.’

‘Let them prosecute,’ I said. ‘Every day I’m in jail is going to cost them a lot of money.’

The sheriff entered the conversation. ‘Look here, boys. This has been a mistake. Now let’s get together and do the right thing.’

I said, ‘I wanted the car. I still want the car. I think it’s a good car. I’ll give him sixteen hundred and seventy-two dollars for it. I made a mistake and drew on the wrong account. That’s all.’

‘And you’ll let the rest of it go?’ the sheriff asked.

‘I didn’t say that.’

The deputy district attorney said to the automobile man, ‘Don’t do a damn thing until you get a written release from him.’

‘All right,’ I surrendered, ‘draw up the written release, and pass the cigars.’

The deputy district attorney typed out the release. I read it carefully. All charges against me were dropped. I agreed not to make any claims against the automobile people, and gave them a complete release of any cause of action I might have against them growing out of the arrest. I said to the deputy district attorney, ‘I want you and the sheriff to sign it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ I said, ‘I don’t know much about the procedure here, and I don’t want to waive my rights and then have something else happen. This just says the automobile people withdraw their charges. How do I know but what you might have a grand jury file against me?’

‘Baloney,’ the deputy district attorney said.

‘All right, if it’s baloney go ahead and sign. If you don’t, I don’t.’

Everybody signed. I folded the agreement and put it in my pocket. The deputy district attorney gave me a blank check on the Bank of Commerce, and made it out for the price of the automobile. We all shook hands. The automobile man went back to his office. The deputy sheriff said, ‘God, it was hot coming across that desert!’

I got up and started pacing the floor, scowling.

The sheriff looked at me and said, ‘What’s the matter, Smith?’

I said, ‘I’ve got something on my mind.’

There was silence in the room. The two officers and the deputy district attorney were watching me with speculative eyes as I paced the floor.

‘What is it?’ the sheriff asked. ‘Maybe we can help you.’

‘I killed a man,’ I said.

You could have heard a pin drop.

The deputy district attorney broke the silence. ‘What was it you did, Smith?’ he asked.

‘Killed a man,’ I said, ‘and my name isn’t Smith. It’s Lam, Donald Lam.’

‘Say,’ the sheriff said, ‘you’re too full of tricks to suit me.’

‘It isn’t a trick,’ I said. ‘I came here to take the name of Smith and begin all over again. It wasn’t an alias. I just wanted to start life all over, but I guess you can’t do that not when you have a man’s soul on your conscience.’

‘Who did you kill?’ the sheriff asked.

‘A man by the name of Morgan Birks. You may have read about him. I killed the guy.’

I saw glances fly around the table the way a ball team snaps the ball around the infield in between plays. The sheriff said in a kindly tone, ‘Maybe it would make you feel better if you told us all about it, Lam. How did it happen?’

‘I had a job,’ I said, ‘as a detective, working for a woman named Bertha Cool. Morgan Birks had a wife. Her name was Sandra, and she had a friend staying with her, Alma Hunter, a girl who’s a little bit of all right.

‘Well, I was hired to serve papers on Morgan Birks, but I saw someone had been choking Alma Hunter. I asked her about it and she said someone had been in her bedroom. She’d woke up just when he’d clamped down on her throat, and she managed to kick him loose. She was frightened to death.

‘She was a good kid, and I started to fall for her. We staged a little necking party in an automobile and I thought she was just what the doctor ordered. I’d have gone to hell for her. Then she told me about this choking business. I didn’t want her to stay there in the apartment alone. I put it up to her that I was going to sneak in and spend the night standing guard in the closet. She said I couldn’t do that because Sandra Birks slept in the same room. So I told her I was going to come and stay until Sandra got in.

‘Well, I went up there, and we talked for a while, and then I saw Sandra was going to be late so I told her to switch out the light and get into bed and I’d wait. I went over and sat down in the closet. I had this gun with me. I tried to keep awake, but I guess I dozed off a bit. I woke up some time in the night and heard Alma Hunter give a little scream. I had a flashlight, and I switched it on. A man was bending over the bed, feeling for her throat. When the flashlight hit him, he turned and started to run. I was pretty much excited. I pulled the trigger, and he went down for the count. I threw the gun on the floor and ran out the door into the corridor. Alma Hunter jumped out of bed and came running after me. The wind slammed the door shut. There was a spring lock on it. She couldn’t get back in to get her clothes. She said she’d hide until Sandra came in. We decided there was no use making a squawk to the police. We figured Sandra would help cover the thing up some way. Alma said she’d protect me. So I beat it.

‘Then I found that she was eying to take the rap for me, and I figured she could get away with it on account of self-defense; but the last I heard, things didn’t look so hot.’

The sheriff said, ‘Sit down, Lam. Sit down, and take it easy. Now don’t get all worked up about it. After all, you’re going to feel a lot better when you’ve told us all about it. Now, where did you get the gun?’

‘That,’ I said, ‘is something else.’

‘I know it is, Donald, but if you’re going to tell the story, you’d better tell the whole story. It isn’t going to do any good just to get half of it off your mind. Think of how much better you’ll sleep tonight if you come clean and give us the whole thing.’

‘Bill Cunweather gave me the gun,’ I said.

‘And who’s Bill Cunweather?’

‘I used to know him back East.’

‘Where back East?’

‘Kansas City.’

In the silence that followed, I heard the deputy district attorney take a deep breath.

‘Where did you last see Cunweather?’ he asked.

‘He has a place out on Willoughby Drive.’

‘Do you remember the number?’

‘Nine hundred and seven, I think it is. He’s got his whole mob with him.’

‘Who’s in the mob?’

‘Oh, everybody,’ I said. ‘Fred, and all the rest of them.’

‘And he gave you the gun?’

‘Yes, when I decided to sit up in the room with Alma, I knew that I was going to need some sort of protection. I’m not big enough to protect any girl with my fists. I tried to get Mrs. Cool to give me a gun, and she laughed at me. So I went out to Cunweather. I told him the spot I was in, and he said, “Hell, Donald, you know where I stand. You can have anything I’ve got.” ’

‘Where did Cunweather get the gun?’ the deputy district attorney asked.

‘His wife was there,’ I said. ‘He calls her the little woman. He told her to — say, come to think of it, I guess I hadn’t better tell you anything about Cunweather. What difference does it make where I got the gun?’

‘You knew Cunweather in Kansas City?’

‘Sure.’

‘What did he do there?’

I narrowed my eyes, and said, ‘I told you we weren’t going to talk about Cunweather. I’m talking about me and about Morgan Birks. I guess you know all about it, or you can find out by getting in touch with the people in California.’

‘We know all about it,’ the deputy sheriff said. ‘The newspapers have been full of it. The girl was supposed to have shot him.’

I said, ‘Yes, I know. She was taking the responsibility. I shouldn’t have let her do it.’

‘We’re pretty much interested in this gun,’ the sheriff said.

‘Why?’

‘When did you get it?’

‘The afternoon of the shooting.’

‘Where?’

‘Well, I told Cunweather that I wanted a gun and he said he’d get me one. He asked me where I was going to be later on. I told him I was going to be registered at the Perkins Hotel under the name of Donald Helforth. So he said he’d fix it up to deliver the gun to me there.’

‘And that’s where you got this gun?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was with you in that hotel, Donald?’

‘Alma Hunter. She was registered with me. I think it was room 620.’

‘And who brought you the gun?’

‘A fellow by the name of Jerry Wegley. He was supposed to be a bell captain there in the hotel, but I think he was Cunweather’s man. I think Cunweather had planted him on the job.’

The sheriff said, ‘It’s going to help a lot if you can prove that, Donald.’

‘If I can prove what?’

‘That about the gun,’ he said. ‘The gun was hot. It had been used in a murder in Kansas City.’

‘In Kansas City?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of months ago.’

‘Good God!’ I said.

‘Can you prove that you got the gun from Jerry Wegley?’

‘Why, sure. Cunweather won’t deny he gave me the gun ― well, maybe he will, too, if it was that hot ― but maybe Cunweather didn’t know.’

‘He must have known it if it was his gun.’

‘Well, he had Jerry Wegley get it for me.’

‘We’d like to take your word for that,’ the sheriff said.

‘You don’t have to take my word for it. I can show where I was two months ago. I wasn’t anywhere near Kansas City — and I’ll tell you something else, when Wegley brought up that gun, he brought up a box of shells for it. I loaded the magazine, and shoved the box with the rest of the shells way in the back part of a bureau drawer in room 620 in the Perkins Hotel. You can search the room and find the shells.’

‘And you were registered as Donald Helforth there?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t give the gun to Alma Hunter?’

‘Hell no! I wanted the gun myself. She didn’t need a gun.

All she had to do was go to sleep. I was going to be on the job to see that nothing happened to her.’

The sheriff said, ‘Well, Donald, you’re out of the frying pang and into the fire. I’ll have to lock you up now and notify California that I’m holding you.’

‘I killed him in self-defense,’ I said.

‘He was running away, wasn’t he?’

‘I guess he was, but you know how those things are. You get pretty excited. I saw him start to run, and it was hard to see just what he was doing. I thought perhaps he was reaching for a. gun, and — I don’t know. I guess I just got excited.’

The sheriff said, ‘Come on, Donald. I’ll have to take you back down and put you in the jail. I’ll try and make you as comfortable as possible. I’ll telephone the officers in California and they’ll come and get you.’

‘Do I have to go back to California again?’

‘Sure.’

‘I don’t want to go across that strip of desert while it’s hot.’

‘I don’t blame you. They’ll probably make it at night.’

‘How about getting a lawyer?’ I asked.

‘What good would a lawyer do you?’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to talk with one.’

The sheriff said, ‘I tell you what, Donald. I think you’d better sign a waiver of extradition and go back to California and face the music. It will look better that way.’

I shook my head. ‘I sign nothing,’ I said.

‘All right, Donald. It’s your funeral. I’ll have to lock you up. This is a big thing, you know.’