Murder is My Business

by Brett Halliday

  "A soldier," Dyer reminded him ironically. "Identified by Riley as Private James Brown by your own picture in the Free Press. Are you suggesting he choked two men by the river Tuesday afternoon?"

  "No. But here's something to chew on. Both times I saw Barton, he was wearing khaki riding breeches and leather boots and a tan shirt. Not too much unlike a soldier's uniform. Do you suppose Riley could be mistaken in his identification, and actually saw Towne getting rid of a blackmailer?"

  "Let's ask Towne," Dyer growled. He nodded curtly to Captain Gerlach and said, "Have him brought in."

  XV

  Neil Cochrane sidled back to a comer of the room, pulling a chair with him as the captain went out. There was a smirk of satisfaction on his face as he settled down to wait for Towne to be brought in.

  Dyer scowled at him and warned, "You're not in the clear, Cochrane. Accessory to an extortion plot fits you like a glove."

  Cochrane laughed shortly. "Accessory, hell! I did my best to talk the lad out of it. I warned him that Jeff Towne wasn't the sort to pay off without a fight."

  "And you would much rather have had the information to print in the Free Press than see it suppressed," Shayne put in.

  Cochrane grinned at him cockily. "I won't deny that. I tried to convince Jack Barton he'd be better off with my five hundred alive than trying to stick Towne for ten grand."

  "But you didn't report it to us," Dyer pointed out. "You knew about the blackmail plot before Barton went to Towne. You took an active part in it by concealing guilty knowledge. I can lock you up for that."

  "Perhaps," Cochrane conceded indifferently. "I won't stay locked up long if you do. And if you're smart. Chief, you'll start climbing on the band wagon. Carter's going to be our next mayor and you know it as well as I do." He stretched out his thin shanks and yawned placidly.

  Dyer clamped his teeth together, and his face reddened with impotent rage. He didn't look at Shayne. He sat behind his desk in grim silence until the door opened again and Gerlach ushered the prisoner in.

  A night in jail had not improved Jefferson Towne's disposition nor his appearance. There was a surly scowl on his rugged face, and his eyes were red-rimmed from worry and lack of sleep. His beard had sprouted raggedly during the night, and his clothing was rumpled.

  He glared balefully at Shayne and Dyer as he strode into the room, demanded acidly, "Where's my attorney? Hasn't he showed up yet? What about a habeas corpus, or whatever it is? By God, I pay him an annual retainer—"

  Dyer said, "Sit down, Towne, and tell us when you last saw Jack Barton."

  Towne's expression did not change. He snorted, "Who's Jack Barton? How do I know when I saw him last? I want to phone Lionel Jackson. I'll tell him—"

  "Right now you'd better tell me some things." Dyer's voice was uncompromising. "Sit down and relax. Mr. Jackson was in to see me early this morning trying to earn the retainer you pay his firm, but he didn't get very far."

  "Riley's accusation is crazy on the face of it," Towne grated, dropping into a chair facing Dyer. "Anyone with the sense of a halfwit knows the soldier could have been dead only a few minutes before he was placed in the path of my car. Don't you think I would have known it, or the ambulance attendant, if he'd been dead for hours, as Riley claims?"

  "That's been bothering us," Dyer admitted. "But I think we've found the answer to that now. We don't think you killed the soldier, Towne."

  "So you've come to your senses at last." Towne started to rise.

  Dyer said, "Sit down," and his voice cracked like a whip-lash on a frosty morning. "You see, we know who you did kill down by the river a couple of hours before sundown."

  Jefferson Towne sank back into his chair slowly. He looked bewildered but unworried. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do." Dyer tapped the folded letter on his desk. "Jack Barton left a letter explaining everything when he went out to meet you Tuesday. You see, he didn't quite trust you, thanks to Cochrane's suspicious mind," he added, with a glance at the reporter in the comer.

  "Do you know, it's very fortunate that I ran into you tonight," he said, "because 1 intended to call you tomorrow. I'm having an asado at my quinta—you know, my little country place—on Sunday. Would you like to come?"

  "I imagine I'd love to. What is an asado?'

  "You mean you've never been to one? That is good fortune!" Pearce's broad, rosy face beamed all over. "It's a roast, in a pit dug out in the open, of a whole steer or sheep, with sometimes a couple of lambs or pigs thrown in for good measure. All sorts of native food along with it, native music and dancing—a lot of fun."

  "It sounds wonderful," Hap said with sincerity. "Is Susan going?"

  "All the young people," Pearce assured her heartily. "That's the only kind of a party I like." Someone touched him on the arm, saying, "Permiso," and he turned. The half-face that Hap could see across his shoulder looked familiar. The man was obviously a Cordoban. Where had she

  "If you'll excuse me," Pearce said, turning again, "I'll be back in a minute."

  Ah, she had it! The Cordoban looked very much like the man who had tried to persuade her that he was Ramon Estiba, the man who Sam Rockney had said was probably somebody called Avena.

  She moved, for air, over to the doorway, and stood there for a moment rather absently admiring the scene. The terrace was very crowded, but there were lights among the trees that dotted the broad lawn beyond it, and little tables with people sitting at them, underneath. Her thoughts were busy with Pearce, the man she had just left. She caught a glimpse of someone making his way toward her and moved hastily, but it was too late. Ramon Estiba had already seen her.

  He caught her arm, smiling. "Don't run away!" he begged. "Come outside with me, and we will talk. I shall get for you a drink."

  Hap shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I am about to leave. I was looking for the Ambassador so that I could say good night to him."

  He did not relax his hold on her arm. "You passed the Ambassador in there—" he jerked his head "—but a moment ago. Come, Hap, I must to make you my apologies. It is imperative."

  "There is no need for apologies. I must go," Hap said. She tried to draw her arm away.

  Ramon's smile twisted a little. "You are making a scene," he warned her. "It is not wise here, of that I assure you."

  Kurt Hanson spoke from behind him. "Were you looking for me, Hap?" he asked easily. "We've been waiting for you for some time now. Ah—it's you, Ramon. How are you? I didn't recognize you from the garden."

  Ramon's face was blandly cordial. "Kurt, my friendl" he said. He had released Hap's arm, and the two men shook hands. "I didn't know that you were here tonight."

  Kurt shrugged. "After you left the meeting, there was no sense in the rest of us staying. I've said about all I came to say, in any case."

  "No, no!" Ramon said. "We will talk again, and much. You know that."

  "Hasta luego, then," Kurt said. "I'm sorry, but Pepe Sanchez is waiting for Miss Smith and me."

  "Good night, Ramon," Hap said with a relieved warmth that surprised her.

  Kurt piloted her by the elbow across the terrace and toward a table at the far end of the lawn. Then she was shaking hands with Pepe Sanchez. His light gray eyes and very white teeth shone against the shadowed swarthiness of his face. "So you are Miss Smith!" he caroled. "But I am happy, so happy to meet you! Because people have been insulting you; they said only that you were very beautiful. It is not enough."

  "Sit down and pay no attention to him," Kurt said. "He goes on like that always. After a time you won't even notice it."

  "Kurt, you are undermining me already!" Pepe expostulated. "This is the woman of my heart, the woman I have looked for always! Have I not proved it by allowing you to give her our favorite dog?" He grinned at Hap beguilingly. "How do you like Loki? Is he a good messenger for my heart?"

  "Loki is not a messenger for your heart, he is a messenger for mine," Kurt said decidedly. "Be still, Pepe. I have often wished
that I could train him as I train Dobermans," he told Hap, "but after years of effort there is no sign of any result. Shall I get you a drink?"

  "Thank you, no," Hap said. "I'll have a cigarette, if I may."

  She sat quietly smoking, welcoming Pepe's sustained chatter because it made few conversational demands and gave her a chance to study both men with intent interest.

  Her feeling of unreality, of incredulity, deepened with every pass-

  "Then how did his body get in the Rio Grande?"

  "That's a mistake," Towne stated emphatically. "They lie if they identify the body as Jack Barton. I demand that you check up. Get another identification. I read this morning's paper and saw the picture of that drowned man. There might be a superficial resemblance to Jack Barton, but certainly no more than that."

  Shayne was punishing his left ear lobe and morosely gazing at the bare, dirty floor. He looked up abruptly and started to say something, but Chief Dyer said curtly:

  "That's all, Towne. We'll see to getting a positive identification." He nodded to Gerlach.

  Gerlach stopped Towne's protestations by tapping him on the shoulder and taking a firm hold on his arm. Towne jerked his arm away and strode from the office.

  Dyer asked Shayne, "What do you think of it now?"

  "Fd like to know what Neil Cochrane was doing Tuesday afternoon," Shayne answered.

  Cochrane emerged from his unobtrusive position, his face highly flushed. "Don't try to hang anything on me, Shamus," he said.

  "You were in on the blackmail deal," Shayne reminded him. "You hated to see chat information against Towne slip out of your fingers. You were out of luck if Towne made the pay-off as he claims, unless you could arrange some way to prevent that letter from reaching the Bartons . . . forcing them to make Jack's letter public."

  "I can prove where I was Tuesday afternoon."

  "You may have to." Shayne turned to Dyer and clamped his thumb and forefinger over his nose. "Don't you notice a stink in here, Chief?"

  Dyer said, "Get out, Cochrane."

  Gerlach returned as the reporter went out. He sighed and said, "We seem to be going backward. Towne's story sounds straight."

  "We'll bust it wide open after the parents identify the body this afternoon," Dyer predicted with confidence.

  Shayne frowned heavily and said, "I wouldn't count on that too much. Chief."

  "Why not? It must be the body of Jack Barton. Everything points to it."

  "Everything," said Shayne softly, "except for the fact that the body was stripped naked."

  "To make identification difilcult. Hell, Shayne, Gerlach says it was

  you who first suggested that reason when we still thought it might be a soldier."

  "There's one thing wrong with that theory now. Jack Barton wasn't wearing army issue underwear and socks." Shayne stood up and rammed his hat down on his bristly red hair. "I'd get out a pick-up on Jack Barton, just on a chance. And I'd check the buses leaving Tuesday afternoon, to Frisco and any other points. And I'd like to know whether Towne drew ten thousand dollars out of his bank on Tuesday."

  "Naturally, we'll do all that," Dyer agreed. "You can't teach us routine police stuff, Shayne. You're the guy who's supposed to pull rabbits out of the hat."

  "Maybe I'll do that, too." Shayne hesitated, then asked, "What do you know about Towne's silver mine in the Big Bend?"

  "The Lone Star mine," Gerlach supplied. "Only big producer in all that region. Other small deposits have been found, but they always petered out."

  "Near the border?"

  "Not too far, I guess. The Southern Pacific has a spur track that takes off from somewhere below Van Horn."

  "That wouldn't be too far from the old army camp at Marfa," Shayne mused.

  "In that general neighborhood," Gerlach agreed.

  "Do they still have trouble in the Big Bend? Mexican bandits and so on?"

  Gerlach and Dyer both shook their heads. "Not for a good many years. They pulled the cavalry off the border years ago."

  "But they still have a camp at Marfa, don't they?" Shayne persisted.

  "Sure, but—look here," Dyer exploded, "what are you getting at now?"

  Shayne said, "I wonder if Towne has any army guards from Marfa assigned to protect his mine or ore shipments and if any of them are missing. I'm still looking for a logical explanation of that naked body." He turned and went out abruptly.

  XVI

  Behind the wheel of the police department automobile, it took Shayne a few minutes less than two hours to reach Van Horn. He pulled up at a filling station to inquire about the distance to Marfa and the road leading to Jefferson Towne's Lone Star silver mine.

  The attendant told him it was about seventy miles to Marfa, and that the mine lay about fifty miles south of the main highway, with a road branching off to it a few miles out of Van Horn. There was another road direct to the mine from Marfa, he told the detective, making the two sides of the triangle only about a hundred miles if he wished to go to Marfa first and return via the mine.

  Shayne thanked him and pulled out on the seventy-mile stretch through the greasewood and tabosa grass flats lying north of the mountainous Big Bend.

  It was a desolate road, with long tangents and sweeping curves, and Shayne settled back to make it as fast as he could. He had an idea it was going to prove a wasted effort, but there was no use passing up any bets while he was so close to the army camp. It would have been difficult for him to explain exactly why he was making this long trip. It was more a hunch than anything else. A hunch that wouldn't let him alone.

  Somehow, mining and the Big Bend and soldiers kept popping up in the case—or cases. There was the young soldier who had been a miner in Mexico and who was induced to enter the army under an alias by some unknown person in El Paso; and there was a second corpse stripped of his clothing in a manner to indicate he might have worn a uniform before the killing occurred. There was Josiah Riley who had been fired and blackballed from the mining business by Jefferson Towne ten years ago; and there was young Jack Barton, an unsuccessful mining engineer who had been "changed," his father said, after a prospecting trip into the Big Bend. After another brief disappearance from home, he had returned with some information about Towne worth ten thousand to the mining magnete.

  Somehow, they all tied together. Along with, Shayne told himself morosely, Lance Bayliss, who had been a Nazi sympathizer; a former smuggler and racketeer named Alanny Holden; a Mexican girl who had a yen for American soldiers on the wrong side of the Rio Grande, and was also the daughter of Towne's Mexican paramour; and an Austrian refugee named Larimer, who ran a secondhand clothing store; plus Neil Cochrane, who had once loved Carmela Towne and now hated both her and her father and, presumably. Lance Bayliss, who had won her love while Neil was courting her.

  It all added up into a hell of a tangle. That was the only thing he was positive about. But there had to be a connecting link somewhere. There were soldiers in the Big Bend, and there was a silver mine. The soldiers were stationed there to protect American property from the depredations of bandits from across the border.

  Shayne didn't know whether that was important or not. He had a hazy idea that it might be.

  He was glad when the little sun-baked cowtown of Marfa showed against the horizon ahead.

  The army post was in plain view on the flats south of town. Shayne turned off before reaching the business district, drove through the Mexican section out to the post.

  A bored sentry stopped him at the entrance. Shayne showed his credentials and explained that he was co-operating with the El Paso police in clearing up the murder of an army man, and asked to speak to the commanding officer.

  The sentry waved him on toward post headquarters and advised him to ask for Colonel Howard.

  Shayne parked in front of a one-story concrete building and went in. An orderly directed him along a corridor to the open door of a large, plainly furnished office. An erect, military figure sat behind a flat desk. He was broad
shouldered and middle-aged, with brown eyes and a clipped mustache.

  He looked up from some papers and nodded pleasantly enough when Shayne walked in. The detective introduced himself and explained that he represented the civilian authorities in El Paso, who were investigating the death of one soldier and the possible death of another.

  "A second body was found in the Rio Grande last night, stripped to the skin," Shayne explained. "He was murdered at approximately the same time the other soldier was killed, and in a somewhat similar manner. We think he may have been stripped of his clothing to hide the fact that he was wearing a uniform and to deter identification."

  Colonel Howard was interested. He knew of Michael Shayne by reputation, and had read press reports of the Private Brown case. He asked why Shayne had come to see him.

  "To learn whether any of your men have been missing since last Tuesday—or before that."

  The colonel shook his head and said he didn't think so, but he would have the matter checked. He called in a corporal and issued instructions. The corporal promised to have the report in a few minutes and disappeared into an inner office.

  "But why come to Marfa, Mr. Shayne?" Colonel Howard asked interestedly. "There are many larger army posts nearer to El Paso."

  "I happened to be in this vicinity," Shayne explained. "And didn't want to pass up any bets." He paused to light a cigarette. "Do you still maintain any sort of border patrol? Have any squads or troops on detached duty along the Rio Grande?"

  "Not as a regular thing. The old posts up and down the river at Candelaria, Ruidosa, Presidio, and so forth have been abandoned for many years. We send out patrols only in case of a raid or some unusual disturbance."

  "Then patrolling the border to prevent smuggling or illegal entry isn't part of your routine?" Shayne persisted.

  The colonel told him it wasn't. "There are customs men at the ports of entry, of course, and Texas keeps a few rangers stationed in the Big Bend. But there hasn't been any serious trouble here for years."