Richard Deming: No Pockets in a Shroud

“Is your husband normally jealous?”

She looked at me blankly.

I said: “I mean if you haven’t felt or acted married for a year, you must have had other interesting friends. Does Byron have them all killed?”

She puckered her brow. “I see what you mean. No, he never did anything before, and he’s had just as much cause.”

“Did you know Bagnell and your husband were business rivals?” I asked gently.

Instead of the wounded frown I expected, her expression brightened. “Of course! Byron probably had Louis killed because he controlled all the handbooks in town.” She seemed pleased at this solution and not at all touched in her vanity.

“But you still want him caught, even though his motive was purely commercial?”

“Yes. I still want him caught.”

“Why?”

“He splashed blood on my dress.”

My eyes jerked up at her. “Oh, he splashed blood on your dress!” Then, keeping the dialogue at its sensible level, I said: “I didn’t see any blood.”

“It was low. On the hem.”

I said: “My fee is five hundred in advance and five hundred more if I solve the case.”

She rounded her lips into a pouting O. “That’s pretty steep.”

“I don’t work often.”

She found a pen and checkbook in her bag and wrote a check for five hundred.

“Do you want to know anything else?” she asked.

“Yeah. Why do you carry a loaded .45?”

“I-told you last night. You were there when the inspector asked me.”

I nodded my head resignedly and rubbed out my cigar in the ash tray.

“Where’d you get it?”

“From a soldier.”

I waited for elaboration, but she only smiled brightly as though she had made everything obvious.

“What soldier?” I asked finally.

“Just one I knew. A fellow named Joe.”

“Another interesting friend?”

She pouted. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not. I want to know.”

She examined my face carefully for a sign of amusement, then said reluctantly: “I suppose you could call him that. I went dancing with him once or twice.”

“Where’d he get the gun?”

“I don’t know. Overseas, I suppose. He had several. German, Italian, English. All different types. He let me take my pick and I took the American one because he told me you couldn’t get bullets for the others.”

I said: “Tell me what happened last night.”

She put out her cigarette and for a change didn’t light another. “You mean everything, or just in Louis’ office?”

“Start with when you got to El Patio.”

After thinking a minute, she recited: “I arrived about 6:30. For a while I played roulette and lost about seventy-five dollars, all the money I had with me. Then I went back to Louis’ office. He was expecting me, because I usually had a few drinks with him every Monday and Wednesday night. I had him cash a twenty dollar check and then he ordered a bottle of Scotch and some soda from the bar. We drank and talked about an hour, I guess, and all of a sudden, just as I stood up to leave, a shot came from the bathroom and blood started spurting from the top of Louis’ head. That’s all I remember, because I fainted.”

“You didn’t hear a sound outside the window before the shot was fired?”

“No. I heard nothing at all until the shot.”

“And you’re sure your husband knew you were at El Patio last night?”

“Yes. Positive.”

“Is your husband still in love with you?”

She looked startled. “I hadn’t thought about it.” Her brow creased and she added slowly: “I suppose he is in a sullen sort of way. He’d like me back as his real wife again, but I think he’s resigned to not having me. Why? Is it important?”

“It might be. And your answer isn’t very definite. Do you really think he still loves you?”

She thought for a long time, her forehead puckered with concentration. “He’s not jealous of me,” she said finally. “But I’m sure he’s still in love.”

I rose. “That’s all the questions I have now. Where can I reach you?”

She took the dismissal with good grace, getting up immediately and slipping on her coat. “Sherewood Apartments. Cleveland 3106. I’m always in mornings.”

As I opened the door for her, she half turned toward me and smiled mischievously. “I came mostly on business, but partly to become better acquainted. You’re an interesting man, Mr. Moon.”

“Sure. Old ladies, children and dogs go crazy for me.”

“I must be an old lady.”

Suddenly she placed a gloved hand beneath my chin, swayed her body at me and pressed her lips solidly against my mouth. Then she was through the door and her laugh floated back from the hall.

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was one of those men you read about who attract women because of the rugged homeliness of their features. Going into the bathroom, I studied my face in the mirror, noting hard, flat lips, an obviously bent nose and one eyelid that drooped slightly where a brass knuckle had caught it. Even with fresh lipstick on my mouth, I couldn’t convince myself that I was ruggedly homely. I’m downright ugly.

I found Inspector Warren Day glumly reading reports in his office. Easing into his spare chair, I snaked a cigar from the desk humidor before he could snap the lid on my fingers. He only glared when I asked for a match, so I dug out one of my own.

I said: “I’m on the Bagnell case.”

“Ha! By itself murder isn’t enough. Now I got you.” He picked up his papers. “Go away.”

“Be sensible,” I said. “We’re both after the same thing. Let’s compare notes.”

He shook his head emphatically. “I’ve bitten on that before. I give out and you give me the runaround. Who’s your client?”

I ignored his question. “Wade didn’t hire it done.”

He glanced up quickly and suspiciously. “Is Wade your client?”

“No.” I waited while he fished a dead cigar butt from a cluttered ash tray, examined it and stuck it in his mouth. Then he slumped back in his chair, folded his hands across his stomach and waited for me to go on.

I said: “Everything points away from Wade planning it.”

“That wasn’t your story last night.”

“Last night I didn’t know what I do now.”

We sat looking at each other while three minutes ticked by. I broke the silence.

“Answer me three questions and I’ll tell you about Wade.”

We sat through another pause. “All right,” the inspector said resignedly. “Shoot.”

“What did the autopsy show?”

The inspector sorted through his papers, picked out one and frowned at it. “He was killed by a .45, slug. In nontechnical terms, it caught him from the left and lifted off the top of his head. The direction from which the bullet must have come and estimated distance of the weapon makes it probable the shot came from the bathroom window. The bullet was imbedded in the opposite wall at a height indicating the pistol was fired from about window sill level.”

I twisted sidewise in attempt to read the paper spread in front of him, but he scooped it into his lap.

“That’s not an autopsy report,” I said. “They don’t put stuff about bathrooms and window sills in autopsy reports.”

“So you’re getting more than you asked for,” Day growled. “This is my summary of the whole case. Any kicks?”

“No. You’re doing fine. What did you get from Mrs. Wade’s gun?”

He pretended surprise. “Get from it?”

“Don’t play innocent. You ran ballistic tests.”

“It hadn’t even been fired.”

I drew on my cigar, folded my hands and waited.

“O.K.,” said Day. “So we don’t take any chances. It wasn’t the murder weapon. What’s your third question?”