Jonathan Craig - The Case of the Petticoat Murder

“Awful way to wake up, isn't it, Johnny?” Stan said, and walked over to show Farmer his badge.

“Goddam,” Farmer said.

“Old Johnny One Note,” Stan said. “Tell me something. Why'd you kill that girl, Johnny?”

“Me? Kill a girl?” He shook his head. “You're crazy, man. I never killed any girl in my whole life.”

“You didn't get those pretty blue earrings in the five-and-ten,” Stan said.

Farmer patted his pocket. “There goes my gimmick,” he said, looking up at Stan reproachfully. “Those things would have got me all the quiff I ever wanted.”

“You should have hocked them a little sooner,” Stan said.

“You nuts?” Farmer said. “With things like that you can talk women into anything.”

“You still didn't tell us why you killed Nadine Ellison,” Stan said.

Farmer changed his position a little and the chains across the insteps of his half-boots clinked softly. “Never did it,” he said.

I moved over closer to him. “What'd you do with the rest of the stuff in that box?” I asked.

“I didn't kill her,” he said.

“You robbed her, though,” I said. “Or are you going to tell us you're just keeping the loot for a friend?”

He shook his head. “Goddam,” he said. “Somebody must have seen me coming out.”

I saw no reason to dissuade him “Not just somebody, Johnny,” I said. “Four of them.”

“Oh, oh,” he said. “Four?”

I nodded. “You're not cut out for a thief, Johnny. People remember you too easily.”

“Too tall,” he said. “I was always too tall.”

“What happened to the other things in the box?” I asked.

“I burned them up,” he said.

“Where?”

“Over there in the corner. There wasn't nothing but a lot of letters and a couple little books, anyhow. I couldn't read what was in them, so what good could they've done me?”

I walked over to the corner and looked down at the small pile of ashes. There was nothing salvable. I poked around in the ashes, just to make certain; then I walked back.

“Why'd you bring that box all the way over here?” I asked.

“Because I couldn't get the lock busted off over there.”

“What'd you do with the lock?”

“I threw it away, out on the street somewhere. I got mad at it, and took it out and slung it the hell away.”

“Was that handbag in the box, Johnny?”

“Yeah — and that's all, too. I was going to keep it and maybe trade it to some girl for a little bit.”

“You were throwing some cash around this afternoon,” I said. “Where'd you get it?”

“It was in a drawer.”

“Was the handbag empty when you found it?”

“Empty as hell. I looked first thing, soon as I busted off that damn lock. Took me better'n half an hour, too.”

“Which brings up back to why you killed the girl,” Stan said. “We're real curious about that, Johnny. Why'd you do it?”

“I told you, man! I never did it.” He looked at me. “How'd you know I was here?”

“Couple people saw you lugging that box in here,” I said.

“Oh, oh,” he said. “Goddam 'em!”

“It was pretty dirty of them, all right,” Stan said. “You rape that girl before you killed her, Johnny?”

“No, man!”

“Afterwards?”

“I didn't do nothing to her. I just robbed her, that's all.”

“You choked her to death with a petticoat,” Stan said.

“I didn't do no such thing! All I did was take the earrings off her.”

“How'd you go about that?” I asked.

He seemed surprised. “How I'd do it? Jesus, how many ways could I do it? I just reached out and yanked them out of her ears, that's all. Man, are you stupid! How would you have done it?”

“She put up much of a fight?” I asked.

“Now I know you're stupid. Goddam, what a question! How's she gonna put up a fight when she's already dead? You take a dead girl hanging up there on a goddam pipe, and how is she going to put up a fight?”

“How'd you go about hanging her up there, Johnny?” Stan asked. “You made it look just like suicide. In fact, you almost fooled us completely.”

Farmer's pale eyes grew sly. “Yeah?” he said.

“You sure did,” Stan said. “It was clever as hell.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Farmer said. “Fooled you, eh?”

“One of the smoothest jobs I've ever seen,” Stan said.

Farmer grinned crookedly. “Snow jobs, you mean. Who you trying to honk, anyhow? You think you're conning me about anything, you're nuts.” He tilted his head back and looked up at Stan contemptuously. “You're too stupid to trick anybody. You know that?”

“You sneer pretty good,” Stan said. “You've got a real talent that way. All I'm worried about is how we'll be able to see you do it through that black bag over your face.”

“You scare me a lot,” Farmer said. “Look how I'm shaking.”

I lit a cigar. “Take a look around, Stan,” I said. “Make sure we don't leave anything.”

“My head hurts,” Farmer said. “I'm sicker than a dog.”

“Where are you from, Johnny?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “One cop's a bastard, and the other cop makes out like he's a nice guy. Wants to hear all about you. I know how you cops do. And you know something? You're both bastards.”

“If you didn't kill her, who did?”

“How should I know? All I know is I hit her place.

There she is, hanging on that pipe. I see she's dead, that's she knocked herself off, and I don't see what good her earrings are going to do her, and so I take them, along with the other stuff.” He shrugged. “That's what I done, and all I done, and you'll play hell ever proving different.”

“Will we?” I said. “Think about it a while, Johnny.”

“I don't have to. You think about it.”

I took a long drag on my cigar, studying him, reflecting on the strange way people like Farmer had of making you feel almost as disoriented as they were. They could be almost unbelievably gullible one moment, and surprisingly knowing and cunning the next. The only certainty about them was their inconsistency.

“How much money was in that drawer, Johnny?” I asked.

“Eighty bucks.”

“Let's have it.”

“Go get it at the bars I spent it at.”

Stan returned from his circuit of the small room. “No luck,” he said. “You'd think he might still have a little loot from his other scores.”

“What other scores?” Farmer said. “You kidding?”

“We'll tip off the burglary squad,” I said. “They can toss the house all they like.”

“That's right,” Farmer said. “Make the other stupes do all the work.”

“How about it, Pete?” Stan said. “You about ready to take this bird in?”

I nodded, replaced the alligator handbag in the fish-tackle box, and stuck the box under my arm. “All right, Farmer,” I said. “The door's already open.”

When we reached the Plymouth, I unlocked one of Farmer's handcuffs long enough to secure it to the steel bar provided in the back seat, and then got in beside him.

“What I don't like about jails,” Farmer said as Stan put the car in gear, “is you can't get hold of a woman.”

“You ought to know,” Stan said.

“It's a fact,” Farmer said conversationally, as if we were just beginning a pleasure ride into the country. “A guy without no woman around is better off dead.”

“You know a lot about jails, do you?” I said.

“Enough,” he said. “In fact, this'll be the shortest time I was ever out of one.”

“That right?”

He nodded. “I'll be breaking my own record. Goddam, I wish I hadn't soaked up all that booze. I'm sicker'n hell.”