Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

After surveying the trio of visitors silently, he turned and growled back into the bedroom, “Hurry it up and scram. Looks like I got business.” Another few moments passed before a vivid blonde with a body nearly as interesting as Renee Desiree’s came from the bedroom. Her hair was a little mussed too, but apparently she had taken time to put her makeup in order. As she came into the room she was pulling a fur coat on over a flaming red evening gown.

With an embarrassed glance around, the blonde went straight to the door, pulled it open and then looked back at Quinnel.

“Call you tomorrow,” the big man said heavily.

As the door closed behind the blonde, Quinnel said to Larry Horton, “Get the other one out too.” The bodyguard crossed to the second door, opened it, looked in and crooked his finger. A lissome brunette, fully dressed including a fur coat, came out.

“Party’s over,” Horton said. The brunette didn’t look around embarrassedly as the blonde had. She walked out without a glance at anyone.

When the door had closed behind the second woman, Quinnel nodded to the lieutenant, barely flicked his eyes over Clancy Ross, then looked at the redhead without a sign of recognition.

“Pretty good act,” Ross commented. “But we already established downstairs that she’s been popping in and out of this place like a jack-in-the-box all week.”

The big man looked at the redhead again. “Has she?” he asked without interest. “So damn many dolls been in and out of here the past week, I wouldn’t recognize half of them.”

“You recognize this one,” Ross assured him. “She’s the one you paid to claim she saw Helene Stoneman shoot her husband.”

Quinnel looked at the woman steadily and she said in an urgent voice, “He’s shooting at the moon, John. I didn’t even tell him I knew you. He got that from the bell captain.”

Without heat Quinnel said, “Clam up and stay that way.” Then he looked at Redfern. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant? I don’t have to answer any questions by this tinhorn, but you got anything to ask, go ahead.”

Ross said, “I wasn’t planning on asking questions. Quinnel. I’m going to do all the talking.” He turned to the lieutenant. “Remember how Quinnel, his two bodyguards and three women all swore alibis for each other for the time of the shooting?”

Redfern nodded.

“This guy,” Ross said, pointing at Larry Morton, “walked out of the Rotunda not fifteen seconds ahead of Benny Stoneman. Sam Black can testify to that in court.”

Lieutenant Redfern scowled first at the sunburned man, then at Ross. “You waited a nice long time before dropping this bit of news.”

Big John Quinnel said suavely, “I guess we shouldn’t have held out on you, Lieutenant. It’s true Larry saw the shooting. But he couldn’t give any description of the killer except that she was a woman. He wouldn’t of been much help to you, and getting himself tied up as a murder witness would of loused up our whole vacation. I’ll admit we was wrong in rigging him an alibi, but it wasn’t because he had anything to do with the shooting. I just wanted him to keep his nose clean.”

Lieutenant Redfern’s face was like a thundercloud, but Ross held off the storm with an upraised palm. “You didn’t coach Horton well enough, Quinnel. He should never have admitted to me that he saw the woman.”

When the big man merely looked at him without expression, Ross said to the lieutenant, “Horton here is one of Quinnel’s personal bodyguards. If the woman he claims he saw kill Benny Stoneman was Helene Stoneman, he couldn’t have helped recognizing her the minute he saw her. She used to be his boss’s mistress. That’s why Stoneman moved here from Chicago. To break up the affair. Horton must have seen her dozens of times.”

Horton said uncertainly, “It was dark that night…” then clamped his jaw shut at a look from his employer.

“The motive for the killing was the one I first suggested to you, Lieutenant,” Ross went on cheerfully. “But Quinnel wanted a patsy to take the rap, because if the killing went unsolved, suspicion would point straight at him. He probably picked Helene Stoneman because he wanted to get her out of his hair anyway. Helene is the kind of gal who hangs on to a man long after he wants to shake her. Matter of fact she’s so persistent, she’s been to psychiatrists in an attempt to get herself cured of running after her lovers so hard. She was still chasing Quinnel the day after her husband died. I saw them come out of the bar downstairs together. Probably that’s when he planted the gun. He took her home that day, and it would have been simple to slip into the bedroom and plant it while Helene was in the kitchen mixing drinks, or repairing makeup in the bathroom.”

Quinnel snorted, “You’re talking through your hat,” and Redfern said dubiously, “The gun was registered to Stoneman.”

“With this guy’s influence in Chicago, he could get any record fixed,” Ross said. “All he had to do was pick up a phone. He practically runs the political machine up there.” While the lieutenant thought this over, Ross went on, “Every bit of evidence points to Quinnel ordering the killing and Horton pulling it. Five shots placed in a circle you could cover with your hand. No one but a professional gunnie is that good. Point two: Quinnel tried to have me bumped after I pounded an admission out of Horton that he’d seen a woman kill Benny. He wouldn’t bother to finger me just in revenge for bouncing around his bodyguard. He wanted me cut down because he’s smarter than Horton, and he knew the minute the story of Helene’s arrest came out, I’d recognize it as a frame because Horton should have been able to recognize her if she’d actually been the killer. Point three: Quinnel had a strong motive both for the kill and the frame-up. Point four: his gunnie was right on the scene and later rigged an alibi.”

When the gambler stopped, there was a long period of silence.

Then Quinnel said heavily, “Prove it, tinhorn. I gather from what you’ve been spouting that this woman here positively identified Helene Stoneman as the killer and that the gun’s registered in her dead husband’s name. So prove different.”

“Oh, I have proof,” Ross said in an offhand manner. “Hold things for a minute.”

Going to the door, he disappeared into the hallway and returned with Marion Vandeveldt.

“Meet Miss Marion Vandeveldt,” he announced generally. “A regular patron of Club Rotunda.” He designated Lieutenant Redfern. “Miss Vandeveldt, this man is a police officer. Tell him about the night before last.”

The woman said, “I was on the club’s second floor, and I went over to the front windows for a breath of air. I looked down at the street just as a man coming from the front door of the club was shot. I saw everything quite clearly, including the face of the person who did the shooting.”

“Who was it?” Redfern asked. Slowly she looked around the room, her gaze merely flicking over Renee Desiree, lingering only briefly on Big John Quinnel, and finally settling on Larry Horton.

She made sure of the sunburned complexion and the missing earlobe Ross had described over the phone before saying in a tone of certainty, “That’s the gunman right there.” The instant she spoke Larry Horton’s hand dived for his armpit. Lieutenant Redfern’s motion was just as fast, but he started later. Clancy Ross started later too, and his movement didn’t seem nearly as hurried as those of the other two men.

Its easy flow was deceptive, however. The lieutenant was just beginning to draw his gun, and Horton’s was just centering on Ross’s chest, when the gambler’s .38 automatic spoke.