by Craig Rice
“That’s wonderful,” she said, “if only the sheriff agrees with you.”
She was silent for a moment. Jake stared at her admiringly. She looked exactly like what she was, a debutante heiress. Her falling in love and marrying him was still a miracle every time he thought of it.
“It’s funny we didn’t hear the shot,” she said suddenly.
“We were downstairs, and at the other end of the building,” he reminded her. “These 1880 walls are thick.”
“Where do you suppose the gun is? Do you think we should let the sheriff in on the fact that there must have been a gun?”
Buttonholes appeared in the doorway. “You’d better come out in the hall. Sheriff Kling’s making a list of everybody who was in the courthouse.”
The west door of the corridor stood open, and through it they could see an ornate and shining hearse standing in the rain.
“Charlie Hausen drove it here from Mrs. Albert’s funeral,” Buttonholes said.
As he spoke, two young men in dark suits carried a stretcher in from the hearse and began moving the Senator’s body, under the supervision of a short, black-clad, anxious little man with a derby hat. Everybody turned to watch. The door suddenly banged shut after the stretcher had been carried out, and everybody jumped.
A small table had been moved into the corridor, and Sheriff Marvin Kling sat at it, making a list. He glared up at Jake and opened his mouth to speak.
Jake decided to beat him to the draw. “How much longer do you think you can detain us illegally?” he said with virtuous indignation. “Do you know who we are?”
“Hell,” the sheriff said, “I don’t even know what your name is.”
“I’m Jake Justus, and this is Mrs. Justus,” Jake said. As the sheriff wrote it down he added, “I’ll be glad to give you any information I can, but let’s make it snappy. I don’t want to spend the rest of the summer here.”
Sheriff Kling looked up coldly. “Where were you when the shot was fired?”
“I didn’t hear the shot. We were just at the foot of that big staircase when we heard him fall down the other stairs.”
“That’s what you say,” Sheriff Kling said.
“We’ve got a witness,” Jake said. His voice was dangerously low. He pointed to Buttonholes. “He was right there with us.”
“Sure I was,” Buttonholes said helpfully.
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t mean a thing. Everybody knows Buttonholes is the worst liar in Jackson County.” He wrote something down, Jake couldn’t see what it was. “Don’t you try to make a break for it. You stay right where I can see you until I get through making my list.”
A deputy shoved him away from the table, and Helene caught Jake’s arm just in time to save the deputy’s front teeth.
“All we need now,” she said, under her breath, “is for you to get into a fìght.”
She led him out of earshot of everyone in the corridor, while he muttered words that had to do with Sheriff Marvin Kling’s character, intelligence, origin, and the disgraceful habits of his entire family tree. He wound up by demanding, “Who does he think he is, anyway?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Helene said, “but he acts as if he thought he was sheriff of Jackson County.” She frowned. “Jake, what’s it all about? They can’t seriously think we had anything to do with it. Why is everybody so damned suspicious of us?”
Jake drew a long breath. “It’s a little hard to explain to a city girl like you. We’re strangers. No one else is. The people here may not all like each other, but they all know each other.”
“But they can’t do anything to us for being strangers.”
“They haven’t found that out yet,” Jake said grimly, “but I hope to teach them.”
Sheriff Kling finished his note-making, rose, and looked around.
“Everybody who doesn’t regularly belong in the courthouse come into this office here,” he roared.
Jake set his jaw hard and strode down the length of the corridor.
“Now look here,” he said. “My wife and I are on a fishing trip. We didn’t come up here to spend our vacation in the Jackson County Courthouse, and we’re not going to hang around any longer.”
“You think so, do you?” the sheriff said.
“Ask any questions you want, but ask ’em quick,” Jake said. “And then we’re getting out of here.”
Sheriff Kling glared at him. His face turned two shades nearer purple.
“Oh no you’re not,” he roared. “You’re going to stay right here till I find out who murdered Senator Peveley.” He added furiously, “And I don’t care if it takes all summer!”
Helene poked Jake in the ribs. “Is he being Donald Duck or General Grant?”
The diversion worked. Jake’s shoulders relaxed, he laughed. “Let’s hang around and find out,” he said.
Chapter Four
Jake looked at his watch. It had been exactly forty-seven minutes since the murder of Ex-Senator Peveley. At the rate things were going, it would probably be forty-seven years before Sheriff Kling found out who murdered him.
The great door at the west end of the corridor banged open, banged shut again, and a young man pushed his way into the center of the group around Sheriff Kling with the approximate speed and fury of a lightning bolt. He was a short, slight young man with sandy blond hair and a pale face that was liberally sprinkled with light-brown freckles. At the moment he appeared to be trying to strike Sheriff Kling dead with the glance he shot from behind rimless glasses.
“What’s the idea? I don’t suppose it would occur to you to call me.”
The sheriff glared right back at him, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his shirt sleeve. “I’ve had enough on my mind without bothering about you.”
The young man drew a quick breath. “How long ago did it happen? What have you done? Why—” his eyes fell on Jake and Helene. “Who are you?”
“The city slicker,” Jake said irritably, “and who are you?”
“Tom Burrows, of the Jackson County Enterprise. Who—”
“Now look here, Tom,” Sheriff Kling began.
The young man turned back to him. “When was he murdered? How did it happen? What have you done with the body? Who killed him?”
“All in good time,” the sheriff said.
Tom Burrows muttered something profane, pushed his way into the county clerk’s office, and picked up the telephone. “Get me the United Press in Madison and reverse the charges. Tom Burrows calling.”
“Now wait a minute,” Sheriff Kling said.
“And have every other correspondent in the county beat me to it? Nuts! This is space rates!”
The sheriff turned to the people still standing irresolutely by the door. “Damn it, I thought I told all you to come in here.”
“Don’t go exceeding your authority, Marv, or you’ll get into trouble,” Tom Burrows said casually.
“You go to bell,” Sheriff Kling roared. He mopped his brow again. “Now, all of you who don’t belong in the courthouse, tell me what you were doing here.”
Ed Skindingsrude spoke up. “You know what I was doing here, Marv. It’s county board meeting. I stayed behind to have a word with Phil Smith.”
“What about?”
“About the abominable slot-machine situation in the county, due to the laxity of the sheriff’s office.”
Sheriff Kling purpled. He swallowed a few words before he turned to the tall, tailored, gray-haired woman.
“How about you, Miss McGowan?”
“I was here to see Mr. Smith, on some bank business. It had to do with the school bonds, but I don’t think you need to have all the details.” She spoke crisply and very coldly.
There were only three people in the group being questioned, besides Jake and Helene. The third was a pretty, blonde woman with a carelessly made-up face. Sheriff Kling turned to her.
“What were you doing here, Cora Belle?”
“I was waiti
ng to see Jerry Luckstone,” she said sullenly.
“What about?”
“None of your business. Ask him, if you have to.”
“I will,” the sheriff said grimly.
Tom Burrows had been talking into the telephone, fìnished with, ‘That’s all now. I’ll call in later,” and hung up.
“Now,” the sheriff said, turning his glare on Jake, “what were you doing here?”
“I was getting fishing licenses for my wife and myself,” Jake said. He spoke slowly and clearly, as though to someone unfamiliar with the language. “It looked as though it was going to storm, and we decided to wait in the courthouse until it blew over. The janitor very kindly offered to show us around while we were waiting.”
“By the way,” Tom Burrows said, “while you’re finding out what everybody was doing in the courthouse, what was Senator Peveley doing here? Has anyone tried to find that out yet?”
“I can’t exactly ask him,” Sheriff Kling said snappishly.
“No,” the young man agreed, “but someone else might know. And incidentally, where’s the gun?”
The sheriff stared at him for a moment, then bellowed at the top of his voice, “Joe! Has anybody left the courthouse?”
“Nobody but Charlie Hausen and his assistants, and the body.”
“Then don’t let nobody leave without you search ’em first,” Sheriff Kling ordered. “And Joe, you and Harry, you search this courthouse from top to bottom. Take Button-holes with you.”
It was a good sixty seconds before the deputy called back, “What’dya want us to look for, Marv?”
“The gun, you damn fools,” Sheriff Kling roared.
Jake sighed. If they were going to have to wait until the finding of the gun that had killed Senator Peveley, it looked like a long stay in the Jackson County Courthouse. Suddenly a new idea appeared to strike the harassed sheriff, who bolted out of the room. Jake shook his head wearily and lit a cigarette.
He realized that the storm outside was over and that the clouds had disappeared as quickly as they had come. Shafts of sunlight were beginning to stream down through the great green trees and penetrate the rain-washed windows of the Jackson County Courthouse.
“Lovely day for driving,” he said wistfully.
“No satisfying you, is there?” Helene said “And after all the trouble I took to arrange this for you.”
Tom Burrows grinned. “Pardon me for making a nuisance of myself,” he said, “but just who are you?”
Jake grinned back. “I’m Jake Justus, and this is my wife.”
“Well I’m damned!” said Tom Burrows suprisingly.
Jake raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to make an issue of it?”
“Jake Justus of the Examiner?” the young man asked. As Jake nodded, he bounded across the room to shake hands. “I guess you wouldn’t remember me. I worked for the City News Bureau for a few months.”
“That so!” Jake said cordially. “Did you know Walter Ryberg over there?”
“Know him!” Tom Burrows said, “I worked for him! I didn’t know many people at the Examiner. I did know Charley Blake at the American, and I knew John Lally at the News. I sold him a short short story once.”
Helene said, “I hate to interrupt a reunion, but oughtn’t we to be planning an exit line?” She turned to Tom Burrows. “You seem familiar with this so-called sheriff. What’s the magic word that gets us out of here?”
“I’ll tell him we want to go fishing,” Jake told her airily. He turned back to the young man. “What are you doing up here?”
Tom Burrows laughed. “You’ve heard about the newspaperman who wants to retire and run a country weekly?”
Jake nodded. “That’s every newspaperman.”
“Well, I’m the one who did. I worked for the United Press for a number of years, and then a great-aunt left me a legacy, and I bought the Enterprise.”
“Making any money?” Jake asked curiously.
“A little, but I’m making it by being a local correspondent for a Madison paper. Are you still with the Examiner?”
Jake shook his head. “I quit years ago. I was a press agent until last winter. Now I’m running a night club.” He slid his long frame onto a desk top. “I won it on a bet.”
Tom Burrows’ eyes suddenly narrowed. “Wait a minute. I read a newspaper once in a while. Weren’t you mixed up in a bunch of murders last winter?”
Sheriff Marvin Kling chose that inopportune moment to come into the office.
“What kind of murders?” he demanded.
“I was only joking, Marv,” Tom Burrows said quickly.
Sheriff Kling snorted and looked at Jake and Helene suspiciously.
“Found the gun yet?” Tom Burrows asked, before the sheriff could pursue the subject.
“We’re still looking,” the sheriff growled. “We’ll find it. We’re searching the grounds, too, in case the murderer dropped it out of a window. Right now I’m finding out exactly where everybody in the courthouse was when the Senator got shot.”
Jerry Luckstone came into the office, still pale, and visibly shaken. He nodded briefly to the young newspaperman.
“Jerry,” the sheriff said, “look over this list of who was upstairs when it happened, and see if it looks O. K. to you. You were there.” He handed the district attorney a slightly soiled sheet of paper.
“Ed Skindingsrude and Miss McGowan,” Jerry Luckstone mumbled, checking off the names as he read, “Jerry Luckstone, Phil Smith, Cora Belle Fromm, Arlene Goudge. Yes, that looks right to me. Marv, whatever could have become of that gun?”
“We’ll fìnd it,” the sheriff said loudly. He took his list. “Everybody else was downstairs and couldn’t have done the shooting except these two, and I’m damned if I know where they were at.”
Jake held his breath for ten seconds and then exploded. “You know where we were. We were down at the foot of that big staircase. This guy here—”
“Buttonholes is a liar,” the sheriff said. “And nobody asked you anything.”
The young district attorney shoved Jake aside. “Listen, Marv,” he said desperately, “come out in the hall. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Wait a minute,” Tom Burrows said. “I’ve got to call the U.P. back. You’d better think of something for me to tell ‘em.”
Sheriff Marvin Kling scowled at him for a minute. “Tell ’em all Jackson County mourns the death of ex-Senator Peveley. Tell ’em he was a respected Citizen and—”
“Hell, they know all that,” Tom Burrows said. “You’d better say something about his murder.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Jake said coldly, “you can tell them I’ve taken my hat and gone home.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” the sheriff said.
“Oh yes I am,” Jake told him. “I’m not going to let any small-town sheriff push me around any longer. I’m getting out of here.” He drew a quick breath, his bright-blue eyes narrowed. “You may be a sheriff, but I’ll tell you something. There’s such a thing as a warrant, when you want to hold anybody. And there’s such a thing as false arrest. You’d better take a correspondence-school course in the law.”
The sheriff said, “I’m the law in Jackson County.”
In spite of himself, Jake started to laugh. It was the kind of speech that brought down the house at the neighborhood movies. Then the laugh froze on his lips. The little deputy was moving slowly up to him on one side, the big, sloppily dressed deputy was closing in on the other. And Sheriff Kling, two hundred and fifty pounds of sheer brawn, was standing in the doorway, an ugly look on his face.
“Nobody knows where you were when the Senator was shot,” the sheriff said, weighing his words, “and I heard Tom here talking about you having been mixed up in a bunch of murders.” His little eyes bored into Jake’s face. “Maybe I’m a small-town sheriff, but I know how to take care of you Chicago gangsters.”
“Lay off the speechmaking,” Tom Burrows said, one hand on the phone. “Wh
at do I tell the U.P.?”
Sheriff Marvin Kling’s lips tightened. “Just say—” he paused, “Jackson County has the situation well in hand. And say I’m holding two material witnesses.”
Jake Justus’ big, rangy frame tightened for action, One flash of sunlight through the window turned his red hair into a flame. He took one step toward the sheriff.
“And I mean them,” the sheriff concluded, pointing to Jake and Helene. He wheeled to face Jake. “I know something about the law too.”
“You son of a bitch,” Jake said, in the same moment that he moved. Helene screamed.
Tom Burrows grabbed the telephone and yelled, “Get me the United Press in Madison and make it fast—”
Chapter Five
JOHN J MALONE
79 WEST WASHINGTON STREET
CHICAGO ILLINOIS
JAKE INVOLVED IN MURDER IN JACKSON WISCONSIN CAN YOU COME
HELENE
John Joseph Malone, Chicago’s noisiest and most noted criminal lawyer, stared sourly at the telegram on his desk. It might be a gag, or it might be serious. Whichever it was, he wanted no part of it.
He was a short, pudgy, red-faced man, with a thick shock of damp black hair perpetually in need of combing. His Finchley suit, freshly donned that morning, already looked as though he had been sleeping under the El for six weeks. There was a small spot on his bright plaid three-dollar cravat, and a cascade of cigar ashes on his damp shirt front.
There was nothing about his appearance to indicate his success in his profession, but both his reputation and his clientele were enviable—or unenviable, depending on how one looked at it. His greatest concern was in seeing that none of his clients landed behind the bars, and whenever this couldn’t be achieved without actually appearing in court, his manner before a jury was not so much technical as pyrotechnical.
He made a disgusted face at the telegram. “The last time Jake and Helene got mixed up in a murder damned near ruined me,” he muttered.
He found pencil and paper under a litter of last week’s newspapers on his desk, and began composing a telegram to send in return:
HELENE JUSTUS
JACKSON WISCONSIN
