Brett Halliday: Murder Is My Business

Shayne couldn’t follow the conversation with his limited knowledge of Spanish, but the captain sternly quieted her and then proceeded with the questioning in English.

Marquita started by stating that she had been alone in her room all evening and hadn’t the slightest idea why she had been arrested and dragged to police headquarters, but she began to sob and changed her story as soon as the captain informed her that she had been watched by American and Mexican police ever since she picked up the two soldiers in El Paso that afternoon.

She then admitted inducing the soldiers to come to Juarez with her, and taking them to a place where they could change clothes to cross the border unchallenged. They had dinner and a few drinks at El Gato Pobre, she said sullenly, but that was too tame for them and they insisted on going elsewhere.

Yes, to Papa Tonto’s, she flashed at her questioner. Why not? It was what the stupid gringo soldados wanted. But when they were approaching the place through the alley, someone started shooting at them from behind. They were frightened, and they ran away from the bullets, she said simply. She didn’t know where the soldiers went. She lost them in the darkness, and she hurried to her own room and bolted the door and stayed there until the police came.

Yes, she had noticed the American couple following her down the street from El Gato Pobre, but she didn’t know why. She knew Senor Cochrane slightly, she admitted with a toss of her head and a defiant glance at Shayne, but she didn’t know why he would follow her. She at first refused to admit he had spoken to her in the cafe, and then admitted the dance with him, and said that he had asked her if the two men at her table were soldiers, and he refused to believe her when she denied it. He warned her to be careful of trouble if they were soldiers, but she didn’t think it was any of his business and told him so.

No, she hadn’t seen anyone else in the alley except the couple behind her. There might have been someone hiding against the buildings in the darkness as they passed, she admitted, but they had seen no one. Their first intimation of trouble was when shots sounded behind them and bullets started whizzing over their heads.

Then they ran so fast that if there was anyone else running behind them, she didn’t think they would have known it.

Captain Rodriquiz shrugged and gave up the questioning with a glance at Shayne. The big redhead hunched forward and said, “You remember me, don’t you, Marquita?”

“Si, I theenk you are in ze police office in El Paso.”

“How many soldiers have you brought over to Papa Tonto’s this way?” Shayne demanded.

“No others,” she insisted. “I ’ave heard ees easy for do, so I try tonight.”

“Who told you about it?”

She shrugged. Some of the other girls in Juarez. It was a common practice, she said.

“Who pays the girls to do it?” Shayne demanded. “Who talks to the soldiers when they get doped up at Papa Tonto’s?”

She began to cry, and whimpered that she didn’t understand. No one paid them — except the soldiers themselves. They went to Tonto’s “for to ’ave one good time.” She insisted she knew no more about it than that.

“When did you visit your mother last?” Shayne asked abruptly.

She looked up in surprise and said, “Las’ Sunday I am see her.”

“Did she talk to you about Mr. Towne? Tell you when she expected him to visit her again?”

She made her eyes very wide and round and repeated, “Mr. Towne?” as though she had never heard the name before. And no amount of questioning from Shayne or the Mexican police captain would make her admit any knowledge of an affair between her mother and Mr. Towne. If she did know about it, she had been well-coached to deny it.

Rodriquiz ordered her locked up after the questioning was over, and after she was taken away, he admitted to Shayne, “I can keep her in jail one night only. She has broken no laws of Mexico in what she has done.”

Shayne grimaced and admitted, “I’m not sure whether she has broken any American laws either, though I’m quite sure Military Intelligence will want to question her tomorrow.” He got up wearily. “I appreciate all your help, and I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”

“And Miss Towne?” Rodriquiz asked politely. “What statement shall I give the reporters?”

“Tell the truth,” Shayne advised. “That you’re holding her on suspicion of murder until she satisfactorily explains who fired the first shot from her pistol. To cover yourself, you might add that you suspect her of protecting the person who actually fired the shot.” Shayne went out and got in his borrowed car and drove back across the International Bridge.

It was almost midnight, and Jefferson Towne’s house was dark when Shayne stopped out in front. He went up the steps and held the electric button down as he had done the preceding night. As before, he faintly heard chimes echoing through the silent mansion.

After a long time the light came on over his head. He took his finger off the button and listened to the inside bolt being thrown and the night-chain loosened.

Towne’s Mexican butler stood in front of him, blocking the entrance, when the door opened. He wore a woolen bathrobe, with his bare legs showing below it and with Mexican sandals on his feet. He grunted, “W’at you want?”

“Towne.” Shayne moved forward.

The Mexican gave way before him reluctantly. “I do not think-”

Shayne said, “Call him down here or I’ll start hunting.”

The Mexican turned to go up the stairs, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Shayne stayed behind in the big hallway. He didn’t have to wait long before Jefferson Towne appeared at the head of the stairs and called down irritably, “Shayne? What the devil do you want?”

He wore a brocade dressing gown over yellow silk pajamas. His hair was tousled and he scowled angrily down at the detective. Shayne sauntered toward the foot of the stairs, saying pleasantly, “I thought you might like to know that your daughter is in the Juarez jail charged with murder.”

Towne said hoarsely, “Carmela? Murder?” He started down, planting each foot solidly and heavily on the succeeding steps. “What are you talking about, Shayne?”

“Murder,” the detective repeated implacably. “Don’t act so surprised. You must have expected something like that when you sent her over to the worst dive in Juarez with a man-killing pistol in her bag.”

Towne stopped three steps above him. One hand gripped the banister tightly. “Who? What happened? For God’s sake, man, speak up!”

“Don’t pull an act on me,” Shayne growled. “You knew what might happen when she went over there. You advised her to pack that sawed-off cannon with her. And then you calmly went to bed. You must have had a hunch she wouldn’t be back tonight,” he probed fiercely. “The door was barred and chained so she couldn’t get in.”

“She has her key to the side door,” Towne mumbled. His rugged face was flaccid for a brief moment, and his big body appeared to shrink before Shayne’s hard gaze. Then he got hold of himself and went on angrily: “Whatever happened is the result of her own stubbornness. She would go to see for herself. Who’s dead? How did it happen?” He descended the last three steps, and his eyes were level with Shayne’s.

“A bullet out of her gun killed Neil Cochrane.”

“Cochrane?” The name seemed to surprise Towne more than Shayne’s blunt announcement of her predicament.

“Cochrane,” Shayne repeated. “Who did you expect her to kill when you let her go off like that?”

“I don’t know,” Towne confessed. “Somehow, I thought of Bayliss. How did it happen? Why the devil did she turn on Cochrane?”