Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

He finished his nip. “Well, I better get on.”

“Thank you for a nice evening, Mr. Archer.”

He tipped his hat. “My pleasure, Miss Crabtree.”

Archer headed back to the hotel, where he ran straight into Detective Irving Shaw.

Irving shaw was leaning back on the front desk in the lobby, staring out toward the main entrance doors, his hat tipped back. His thumbs were tucked into the pockets of his vest. He had an unlit, short-barreled cigar dangling from a corner of his mouth while the rest of his face held a self-satisfied look.

He smiled broadly when he saw Archer walk in. “Just the man I want to see.”

Archer came toward him and looked for but did not see the clerk. “Is that right? You’re working late hours.”

“Hunting a killer ain’t a nine-to-five job. Now, I spoke with Miss Tuttle.”

“Good for you. And?”

“And she told me some things that I wanted to check out with you.”

“Okay. You want to ask me down here or up in my room?”

“Why don’t we do it in the room where Hank Pittleman was found dead?”

This surprised Archer, but he followed the man to the elevator. “I’ll take the stairs, if you don’t mind.”

Shaw chuckled. “Seen that before with ex-cons. Small, confined spaces don’t feel all that good, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“I’ll meet you upstairs. And Archer?”

“Yeah?”

Shaw opened his jacket to show a big-butted Smith & Wesson .45 with iron sights carried in a worn leather shoulder holster. It was a serious piece of ordnance meant for serious business of the killing kind.

“Don’t you go screwball and try to bug out on me, okay? I might ’a flown planes in the war, but I’m a damn good shot. Not going to miss anything near as big as you.”

“Why would I do that when we’re getting all friendly?”

Shaw chuckled again and pushed the elevator button as Archer headed to the fire door and the stairs beyond.

On the sixth floor Shaw used the key to open the door to Number 615. He and Archer went through and Shaw closed the door behind them. Pittleman’s body had long since been taken away, though the bed was still unmade and the cover and pillows bloody.

“Okay,” said Archer. “What’s on your mind?”

“Miss Tuttle said you carried Pittleman in here and put him down on the bed. Then you two left and went to your room.”

“Same as I told you.”

“You got a strong back then, because it took two deputies to carry the man out. And you said you never came back in here?”

“That’s right.”

“And Miss Tuttle said on the way out she opened the door and closed it securely after you both left and then locked it.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, glad we got that straight, Archer.”

“Can I go now?”

“Hardly, son, we’re just getting started. Don’t be in such a rush.”

Next, Shaw pulled something from his pocket. It was a hip flask that Archer recognized.

“Who said you could frisk my place?” he demanded.

“I did.”

“You got no right to do that.”

“I got every right, son. A man’s been killed.”

“You mean you can just toss a man’s room without permission?”

“I mean exactly that. The law’s on my side.”

“I wish the law would sometimes be on my side.”

“Then try not breaking it,” Shaw retorted.

“That flask’s not even mine.”

“I know that. I’m not concerned with the flask per se.”

“What then?”

“I also recovered two glasses from your room. With the remains of drink in them.”

“Okay, I had a drink with Miss Tuttle, so what? I told you that already.”

“Well, the ‘so what’ is that’s a parole violation to be using alcohol, but again, I’m not concerned about that. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“For investigating a man being killed, you don’t seem too concerned about much.”

“Oh, you’ll see that I’m concerned about a great deal. And right now, I’m concerned about you . Now, there were fingerprints on the flask and the two glasses. You know about fingerprints?”

Archer looked at his hand. “I know everybody’s got ’em.”

“Right, and you know everybody’s fingerprints are different?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I had Miss Tuttle’s fingerprints taken today. I had them compared to the ones on the glasses and the flask.”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, I didn’t tell her why I wanted them.”

“Why’d you take her fingerprints?”

“Patience, son, I’m getting there.”

Shaw opened the door to the room and pointed at the doorknob. “See that white powder on there?”

“I see it, yeah.”

“I had it dusted for fingerprints. That’s what the white coating is. Fingerprint dust. Amazing things they can do with fingerprint dust.”

“Yeah, sounds exciting.”

“Now, there are three fresh sets of fingerprints on there, and only three.”

“Okay.”

“Miss Tuttle’s.”

“Well, sure. She opened the door and—”

“The maid who found the body,” interjected Shaw.

“Okay, but—”

Now Archer could clearly see the man’s line of reasoning, and he felt like he had just been dropped out of a plane and was free-falling to death. And what had Ernestine mentioned? Dan Bullock’s fingerprints on that knife had helped send him back to prison.

“And your fingerprints.” Shaw shut the door so hard, it caused a bang when the door met the doorjamb. “Which makes me wonder how they got on the doorknob, both coming and going? Since you’ve confirmed to me that you had never touched them to begin with, and that you had never been back to Mr. Pittleman’s room after you and Miss Tuttle left him here.”

Shaw leaned back against the wall, edged his homburg down a bit, folded his arms over his chest, and stared like a seasoned pointer on a bird at Archer. “So, I’m thinking what you told me before was a load ’a hooey, son. And somebody feeds me baloney, I don’t make a sandwich with it, I make an arrest.”

“You have a way with words, Mr. Shaw, I’ll give you that.”

“Now, I want you to start having your way with words, Archer, starting and ending with the truth. Anything less than that, the cuffs are going on you right now, son, just so we understand each other.”

Archer glanced at the doorknob as his mind processed all of this at a rapid pace. The only problem was, he could see no way around it other than the truth. But sometimes not only did the truth not set you free, it could send you right back to prison.

“Okay, I’ll level with you. When I passed by here this morning the door was open a crack. I thought Jackie — I mean Miss Tuttle — was maybe in the room. So, I walked in, that’s when I touched the doorknob.”

“Meaning you lied to me before?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Keep going, Archer, this is mighty fine stuff.”

“I saw the man sleeping in the bed. Well, I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw a towel on the floor. With stuff on it. I came closer to see what it was. Then I saw the knife next to the towel; they were both covered in blood. I went over to the bed to see about Mr. Pittleman. But it was too late. He was dead, his throat all butchered.”

“Then what did you do?”

Archer decided not to tell him about his debate on relieving some of the dead man’s cash because he could not see a way that would remotely benefit his case, which was now for shit anyway. Though he had taken the debt papers.

“Then I left. I opened the door and walked out.”

“Leaving your fingerprints behind?”