Jonathan Craig - The Case of the Petticoat Murder

“What street number?”

“Eight… something. Oh, yeah. Eight Fifteen.”

“Eight Fifteen!” I said. “Stan, that's it!”

He put his cup down slowly and shifted around on his stool to look at me. “That's what? ”

“The same apartment house where Maurice Thibault went out the window.”

Stan stared at me blankly; then, suddenly, he grinned and shook his head. “I guess the old flash-point's not all it used to be,” he said. “It took me a couple of seconds there to make the connection.”

I pushed my cup aside and stood up. “Better get on the outside of that coffee, Stan,” I said. “You and I are heading into some very hard work-and a lot of it.”

“Who needs coffee?” Stan said as he slid off the stool. “Just where do you think we should start?”

“With Lonesome Liz,” I said. “I've got a hunch she has a few things to say to us.”

“And,” Stan said, “the other way around.”

BY THE Stan and I were satisfied that we had done all we could and sat down for a breather on the sofa in Lonesome Liz's fifth-floor apartment, it was eight minutes of five.

“Who's going to make the call?” Stan said. “You or me?”

“Me,” I said. “He's never heard your voice, Stan. It might start him wondering.”

“It'd be just our luck if he wasn't home.”

“If he isn't, we'll keep calling back until he comes in.”

“You say he'd be a hard man to tangle with?”

“Plenty.”

“Well, what're we waiting for? Go ahead and bait the trap, Pete. I'm anxious to get a look at him,”

I picked up the handset and dialed the number of the pay phone in the hall at Marty Hutchins' rooming house on Bethune Street.

“I hope this works,” Stan said. “I must've lost twenty pounds on this squeal, already.”

“You never weighed twenty pounds to begin with,” I said.

“Well, at least I haven't got twenty pounds of fat between my ears — like you, for instance.”

“Quiet down,” I said. “It's ringing.”

Stan nodded, leaned back against the cushion, and took out his gun to see that all was as it should be.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Hutchins?”

“Yes. Who's this ”

“Detective Selby,” I said.

“For Christ's sake! What now?”

“I think we've got a line on the man that killed Nadine,” I said. “It looks pretty much as if it's a man named Albert Miller.”

“Yeah?” he said, his voice suddenly without its belligerency. “Albert Miller, huh?”

“You ever hear Nadine mention him, Mr. Hutchins?”

“It does sound kind of familiar, now that I hear you say it.”

“Can you tell us anything about him?”

“No. I'm not even sure she ever said anything about him. It's just that the name sounds kind of familiar, that's all.”

“Well, the thing is that he's given us the slip. We've come up with some evidence that sticks the finger right in his eye; but Miller himself is nowhere around.”

“Evidence, eh? What kind?”

“Well, actually it's more than just evidence, Mr. Hutchins. I rather not talk about it on the phone, but the Police Department would appreciate it if you could spare us a few minutes to take a look at it.”

“You really think is was this Albert Miller, eh?”

“I don't think there's any doubt about it,” I said. “We found some other things here in his apartment that… Well, as I said, it's not good policy to say too much on the phone. You understand how it is?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think you'll have time to give us a hand, Mr. Hutchins?”

“Hell yes. I'm just as damn anxious to see him get it as you are.”

“Could you make it right away? We'd appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he said. “Right away. Hell, I'll even take a cab.” He hung up.

Stan grinned, gave the cylinder of his revolver a final spin, and returned the gun to its holster.

“Take the bait, did he?” he asked.

“Sounded that way,” I said.

“What do you mean 'sounded'?”

“In this business, who's ever sure of anything?”

“Me,” Stan said. “If Marty Hutchins knocks on that door, Pete, he's our boy.”

The knock on the door came at five twenty-four. I glanced at Stan, then walked to the door and opened it

“Hello, Marty,” I said.

He came into the room smiling, his dark hair still damp from rapid combing and his eyes bright and alert, The spotless white polo shirt clung tightly to this massive chest and shoulders, and the biceps beneath the shirt's short sleeves were as big around as some men's thighs.

“Well, what do you know about that,” he said in his soft, pleasant voice. “So you've got him, have you?”

“We think so, Marty,” I said as I closed the door. “In fact, we're all but positive.” I gestured toward Stan. “My detective partner, Marty. Stan Rayder.”

Hutchins nodded to Stan, then turned back to me. “Well, where's this evidence you told me about? That's something I'd like to see.”

“It hasn't changed much,” Stan said.

Hutchins looked at him. “What?” he said.

“Sit down, Hutchins,” I said.

“Hey! There's something wrong here. What's with this skinny friend of yours?”

“You're under arrest, Hutchins,” I said.

“I'm what? ” he said. “Me? What for?”

“We can start with extortion,” I said. “You and Nadine were blackmailing Dr. and Mrs. Campbell, Hutchins.”

“You're sick in the head, mister. I don't even know anybody like that.”

“No more than you know anyone in Kirkman, Mississippi,” I said. “Josie Daniels, for instance.”

He raised his right hand. “I'm telling you the God's truth,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. “I—”

“We've got sworn statements from both Susan and her husband,” I said. “You can stop lying — or not; it really doesn't make much difference.”

“Blackmailing your own wife,” Stan said. “You get some pretty original ideas, don't you, Hutchins?”

Hutchins turned his head slowly to look at him. “Prove it,” he said.

Stan grinned. “We'll just do that, Hutchins. But that's the least of our worries — just like it's the least of yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hutchins asked.

“Nadine Ellison,” Stan said. “You didn't pussyfoot around with any blackmail when it came to her, Hutchins. You killed her.”

“You're even crazier than Selby,” Hutchins said. “I don't know who you guys think you're trying to frame, but—”

“Shut up, Hutchins,” Stan said softly. “Don't say that again.”

“My partner and I worked pretty hard this afternoon,” I said. “Just about the only thing we didn't find out is why you wanted Nadine dead.”

He shook his head contemptuously. “Boy, if I was as sick as you are, I'd be sick!”

“You'll be sick enough,” Stan said. “Don't worry.”

“You guys know damn well I was shacked up with a girl all that night,” Hutchins said. “You talked to her yourself, Selby. You went over to the Leighton Hotel and pulled that little Elaine Walton out of bed and damn near scared her to death. What's the matter with you? She was telling the truth, and you know damn well she was telling the truth.”

“She thought she was telling the truth,” I said. “As far as she was concerned, she was telling the truth. But I talked to her again this afternoon, Hutchins. It was the first time she'd ever done any heavy drinking. She was passed out cold.”

“She told you I never left the room!”

“Wrong. She told me she never saw you leave the room. She couldn't have seen you. She was dead to the world.” I paused. “We also checked with every man and woman that works for that hotel, Hutchins. We have three employees to swear you left the Leighton at about one-thirty, and two other employees to swear you got back around five. Nadine, as you know more exactly than I do, was killed somewhere between two and six.”