Richard Deming: No Pockets in a Shroud

“That’s nice, considering her husband’s relations with Bagnell.”

“Yeah. Anyway, she says she was just getting ready to leave when a gun went off, the top of Bagnell’s head disappeared and blood started spattering around. She fainted.”

“Where’d the shot come from?” I asked.

Day felt through his pockets and produced another tattered cigar before answering. He stuck it in his mouth, flicked a match alight with a thumbnail, then he shook it out again before lighting the cigar.

“We figure it came from the bathroom window. With the bathroom door open, you can look right through from outside and get a full side view of Bagnell’s desk. Mrs. Wade didn’t see a thing before the shot, but she got the impression it came from the bathroom — that is, was fired by someone actually in the bathroom. But that’s impossible. All the windows here, including the bathroom’s, have three-quarter inch steel bars imbedded in concrete. The only way in or out is by the door and that was in sight of either

Greene or Caramand all evening. But both the bathroom window and door were open and the killer could easily have stuck a gun through the bars, blasted Bagnell and run. That way the shot would sound like it came from the bathroom, rather than from outside.”

“What did you get from the bathroom window?”

“Nothing. A few prints on the sill, but they’re all old and made from inside. The lawn beneath the window is close cut grass and wouldn’t show footprints. The parking lot is only about twenty yards from the window, but the attendant didn’t see anything or hear the shot.”

The bathroom door opened and the two women came out. The police matron handed the inspector a .45 caliber Army automatic.

“In her purse,” she said laconically.

Mrs. Wade’s normally pale face had become chalky, but her chin was high and her eyes steady as she returned our combined stares. Her lips trembled imperceptibly.

Day said: “Heavy artillery for a lady.”

“I have a permit.” She offered a bit of paper.

Day glanced at it briefly. “Illinois. No good in this state.”

Releasing the clip into his left hand, he tossed it to Hannegan. “Count ’em,” he said. Then he slammed back the slide until it locked open. “Chamber empty.” Inserting a thumbnail into the ejection slot as a reflector, he peered down the tube. “Clean. Hasn’t been fired.”

Hannegan, stuffing cartridges back into the clip, announced: “Seven. Full clip.”

“O.K., lady,” said Day. “Start explaining why you carry a loaded .45.”

“I didn’t realize you needed a different permit for each state. I thought a permit was good anywhere.”

“I don’t care about your blamed permit. Why do you need a gun at all?”

She said: “I play quite a bit. Roulette. Sometimes I win a lot — enough to invite robbery. I always carry a gun when I play, in case I win.”

Day’s expression was scornful. “That’s the weakest I’ve heard yet, lady. Any house will send you home with an armed guard on request. Try again.”

“It’s the truth. Honest. Why else would I want a gun?”

“That’s my question.” He moved his pointed nose up and down, examining her from the elliptical curve of her low cut bangs to frail, open-toed pumps. Then he gave her gun to Hannegan. “Come in and register this tomorrow, lady. We’ll keep it till then. Go on home. And be available when we want you.” To Hannegan he said: “Let them all go, except Wade and his stooge. Get names and addresses.”

As Hannegan and Mrs. Wade departed, I drifted over to one of the two windows on either side of Bagnell’s desk. It was locked, and from where I stood I could see the other was also. Turning the catch, I raised the window and tested the steel bars that ran the window’s vertical length about six inches apart.

“We tried them all,” Day said behind me.

My window looked out from the back of the building. About twenty yards away the interminable ten-foot iron fence ran parallel to the building’s rear. Beyond the fence lay the parking area, and two brilliant arc lamps suspended over it bathed the massed automobiles in bright glare, casting diffused light this side of the fence clear to my window. Pressing my face between the two center bars, I could see the iron fence continued on beyond the far edge of the building, separating the parking lot from the grassed area behind El Patio, to a point where both the lot and the lawn met heavily underbrushed woods. The fence disappeared in the woods, and from my window I was unable to guess which way it ran from there. But beyond the strip of woods, perhaps fifty yards from the lawned area, I knew the main highway ran.

I moved into the bathroom and switched on the light. Here the window was open, but the same type of bars made it impassable. Peering out, I saw the fence on this side was only about fifteen yards away and had a door-sized gate in it almost directly opposite the bathroom window.

I wondered if the gate were looked, and it occurred to me that ten feet of iron was lots of fence for a murderer to climb in an area partially lighted by arc lamps. Straightening away from the window, I tried to visualize in my mind just how the fence encircled the place. As you faced the front door of El Patio, Bagnell’s office was set in the right rear corner of the building. The iron fence started at the highway about a hundred yards to your left, followed the drive which passed in front of the building until it met the building’s left front corner, started again at the right front corner, and turned at right angles with the drive about fifteen yards farther on. Here it separated the drive from the right flank of the building, again turned sharply left at the parking lot behind El Patio and continued on behind the building until lost in the woods.

I became conscious of Inspector Day peering over his glasses at me from the bathroom door. I glanced casually around the white room, had an idea and lifted the porcelain top of the commode.

Day said: “We looked there.”

I replaced the top, glanced at the washbowl, and then looked closer. The bowl’s inside was wet and several minute, knobby bubbles ringed the outlet drain. I squeezed one flat with a forefinger and rolled the finger against the ball of my thumb.

“Oil,” I said.

Day peered into the bowl, his brow creased, then cleared again. He pointed to a bottle of brilliantine on a shelf over the stand. “Bagnell’s hair slick. There’s nothing in here. We went over every inch of both rooms. What you looking for?”

“Nothing. Just being nosey.”

I returned to the office and looked around. The area near Bagnell’s desk was a mess. Congealed blood matted his desktop, his chair and the rug behind the desk. Even in front of the desk, dark spots polka dotted the floor.

Day said: “He spilled all over everything.”

“Yeah,” I said, then abruptly: “You through with me?”

“Sure. Send in Wade on your way out.”

Fausta, Caramand and Greene still sat in the hall.

Danny leaned casually against the door jamb, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, and the Wade family talked privately a few yards away.

I said: “The inspector wants you, Wade.”

Wade turned toward me as I spoke and his face was flushed and sullen. Mrs. Wade patted his arm and shot a smile at me, her bright lips framing small, flashing teeth.

As Wade entered the office, I asked Fausta why she and the others continued sitting there.

“Inspector Day desires we stay where he can call us,” she said.

“Well, you don’t have to sit in the hall. Come out to the bar and I’ll buy a drink.”

My invitation was confined to Fausta, but everyone except Danny chose to accept. Mrs. Wade linked her right arm through my left, which brought Fausta out of her chair as though it were upholstered with tacks. She grasped my other arm so tightly, I halted and frowned down at her. With her eye corners on Mrs. Wade, she flicked her tongue at me, then relaxed her grip. We went into the bar three abreast, with Vance Caramand and Mouldy Greene trailing behind.