The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
made?”
“Here’s my ticket.” Jack drew the paper from his pocket, consulted it. “The time is given as 5:50 p m. The place is on the back road five miles outside Crockford.”
“May I have it if you please!”
The tone was curt, the inference clear. If our story could be backed up by physical evidence, Standish desired to view such evidence for himself. He briefly studied the ticket, slipped it into an envelope, placed the envelope in a drawer, banged the drawer, and with vigor reverted to the fray.
The sleepy slowness vanished; his blue eyes crackled; his purpose became apparent He was determined to force an admission that Jack and Lewis had quarreled violently on the road. His efforts to gain his end were those of the typical policeman; ignoring Jack’s replies he persistently repeated the same questions, over and over, until they had the tormenting monotony of water dripping on stone. A system which, I can attest, is calculated to play havoc with the nervous system. At last Jack lost his temper.
“What are you trying to do? Blow up an unimportant argument into a motive for murder? What are you looking for? A confession?”
“I am merely trying to get at the truth.”
“You’re taking a damned unpleasant way about it.” Jack got up from his chair, and his face was white. “If you’re inferring that I was angry enough to shoot Lewis—which I wasn’t—if you’re inferring that I was armed—which I wasn’t—then you might go a step further. No person in his right mind would shoot a man to death, leave his body on a public street, and immediately afterward go shopping! Or do you take me for a fool as well as a murderer?”
Into the electric atmosphere, like a two-for-a-penny firecracker, broke Minnie’s plaintive voice. “Mr. Storm, you simply must speak slowly. I didn’t get half you said.”
Jack glanced at her distressed face, at me, regained his equilibrium. He sat down. “I’m glad you missed it.” Already realizing his outburst had been ill-advised, he looked at Standish and entered a resentful half-apology. “I shouldn’t have blown up, but I’ve been chivied and harassed until I hardly knew what I was saying. I’ve done my best to cooperate. Won’t you agree I haven’t acted the part of a criminal?”
This elicited no reply. A quick knock sounded at the door. An excited voice called, “You there, Standish? May I come in? I’ve got something important for you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Pigskin Bag
The door opened and anti-climax walked into the room in the person of Harold Blair. Standish’s chief deputy was a plump, waspish little man who had adopted, and adapted to a Crockford career, the airs and graces of fictional detectives. The knowing expressions, the dramatic manner, the haste when no haste is necessary. Short rapid steps carried him to his superior. He glanced portentously at the group and announced in a highly audible whisper:
“I’ve found something—an important clue.”
This clue, flung proudly upon the table, seemed to my inexperienced eyes merely a tiny cylinder of brass, somewhat scuffed and dented. Jack recognized it for what it was—the metal jacket of the bullet which had done for Elmer Lewis.
At that time I knew nothing of guns. I was to learn a great deal. Elmer Lewis had been shot with a .45 caliber automatic pistol—the type of weapon which fires, extracts and ejects the empty cartridge shell, and is ready to fire again. The hand touches the trigger, the complicated series of mechanical reactions instantly follow. Dr. Rand had recovered the bullet; now Blair produced the empty cartridge shell which had dropped to the ground a twinkling fraction of a second before Lewis died. Standish brought out the flattened bullet, lined it up beside the scarred metal jacket, and the little blood brothers were reunited. Blair preened himself. Standish moodily studied the two exhibits.
“Where did you find the shell?”
“On Main Street, to the left of where the car was parked. I marked the spot, told Gray to keep the crowd off. Thought maybe the murderer might have left footprints.”
Jack ignored this absurd suggestion and with it Blair. He turned to Standish. “I’d like to know. Doesn’t the spot where the shell dropped fix the place from which the gun was fired?”
“Approximately.”
“The murderer stood underneath the big elm,” Blair said promptly.
“Exactly,” said Jack. “It was dark there; the street was noisy. A set-up which allowed someone to creep up to the car shoot Lewis, and escape unseen and unheard. Lola and I were gone a full ten minutes.”
Standish listened in silence. Something about his expression frightened me and I guessed what he was thinking. Whatever we had established, we had by no means established our own absence from the car at the fatal moment.
I said. “What are the chances of locating the gun?”
The police chief smiled as one smiles at a child. “Very slight, in my opinion A forty-five is a common type of weapon. Connecticut factories must turn out hundreds every month.”
“I was thinking of ballistic experts. Can’t they determine by markings on the bullet whether a particular gun was used?”
“First they’ve got to lay hands on the particular gun. Quite a poser, if you ask me. Directly one man kills another, as a usual thing, he can’t get rid of his weapon fast enough.”
I restrained a sharp impulse to point out that jack could hardly have discarded a weapon in the short trip from car to grocery store. At this moment Standish requested Jack to stand up. Beginning at Jack’s knees he patted his body to the shoulders—a quick, expert procedure that left no doubt as to its meaning. He picked up my pocketbook and peered inside. He went through the pockets of my coat. He found no gun. The overhead light wore a green shade; Jack’s face had a greenish cast.
“I suppose you will also search the grocery store and the drug store?”
“We have already,” said Standish.
A long hush ensued. Water slid down the window-panes, the fire crackled and leaped up the chimney, throwing crimson shadows upon the floor. Jack said steadily:
“I would like to clarify my standing here. If I’m helping you, that’s one thing. If I’m definitely under suspicion I want a lawyer.”
“You don’t need a lawyer—yet.” The phraseology was disconcerting and was planned to be. Standish’s tone, however, was gentle. He smiled in a fatherly fashion, and set out on a different and equally alarming tack. “See here, Storm, I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I don’t believe you’re a cold-blooded killer, you aren’t the type. Furthermore, being practical, you had no chance to get rid of a gun. On the other hand—” He paused. “—I am convinced you haven’t told the whole truth about tonight. For your own sake, I suggest you do.”
Too tired to repeat useless protestations, Jack only shook his head. We had another interruption, this time a welcome one. Lester Harkway knocked from the reception room, strode inside, bringing with him the fresh smell and feel of rain. He had already heard garbled rumors on the street. A curious glance traveled from Jack to me, before he reported to Standish that he was detached from duty indefinitely.
“All night—if you need me.”
Shouldering off a damp overcoat, he seated himself and prepared to listen. Standish commenced to piece together the long-drawn-out story of the evening. It seemed to me that every word pointed in our direction. We had received a mysterious phone call which it was apparently impossible to trace—we had driven to New Haven on a stormy afternoon to accommodate a man we didn’t know—we had disliked that man and he had been found murdered in our car. Fair as the summation might have appeared in the speaker’s view, to my ears it possessed the disturbing quality of an indictment. I watched Harkway throughout—he was seated opposite—but vainly. His face kept its own counsel.
“How can I help, Chief?”
“I