Sheriff on the Spot

by Brett Halliday

  Pat took time to explain the situation swiftly: “Some guy robbed the bank. Broke in the back door. We had him surrounded, but he got to his hawse an’ got plumb away. I followed him to the crossroads east of town, an’ there’s a posse ridin’ after him up the north fork. They’ll get him, I reckon.”

  “How-come you’re not ridin’ with the posse, Sheriff?” a curious voice asked.

  “This hawse I was forkin’ didn’t seem none too fast,” Pat explained. “An’ I had some important business back here in town at the Jewel Hotel. Some of you fellows see about gettin’ that padlock an’ chain back onto the rear door of the bank,” he went on hastily. “Don’t know how much money’s gone, but maybe there’s some still left in the vault that ought to be locked up.” He turned away from them and strode up the street toward the hotel, feeling the weight of the towel-wrapped death-knife against his ankle with each step, a grim reminder of the role he had elected to play in concealing murder evidence.

  Joe Deems and Kitty Lane were in the hotel lobby when he strode in. Kitty leaped up and demanded angrily, “Why have you got a guard posted at my door? What’s all this mystery about, Sheriff Stevens?”

  “What happened at the bank?” Joe Deems cut in. “We heard a lot of shooting but no one seems to know whether you caught the robbers or not.”

  “We didn’t. Not yet. But there’s a posse after him.” Pat turned his gaze on Kitty and said slowly, “About your room, Ma’am. We’ll go upstairs now an’ take the guard off the door.”

  She tossed her head and said, “It’s about time you let us in on the secret,” and she and the hotel proprietor followed Pat up.

  Along the upper hallway, Harold Morgan was disconsolately squatted on one heel with his back against the wall between the two rooms he was guarding. He looked up with a scowl, and slowly got to his feet when he saw the sheriff. “Sounds like I missed a lot of fun,” he grumbled. “What’s in these two rooms that you want guarded, Pat?”

  “We’ll find that out just as soon as Miss Lane opens her door,” Pat promised him. “I want you right here, Morgan, for a witness to testify what’s inside these rooms.” He stepped aside politely and motioned to Kitty’s door. “Go ahead an’ open it up.”

  Kitty hesitated in front of her door with a heavy hotel key in her hand. Light came through the keyhole from inside the room. She threw Pat Stevens a frightened look, then caught her underlip between her teeth and slowly inserted the key in the lock. There was a loud click as she turned the key. She took hold of the knob with a trembling hand and opened the door. She took one step inside the lighted room, and then swayed back with a little cry of anguish, throwing one hand up to cover her face.

  Pat caught her by the shoulders and drew her aside gently to let Deems and Morgan view the huddled body of Fred Ralston on the floor.

  Harold Morgan whistled shrilly. “A dead un, by God!” He stepped forward to look down at the body wonderingly.

  Pat’s gaze was concentrated on Joe Deems. The hotel proprietor stood very still, his yellowish eyes slitted downward at the corpse. First there was a fleeting look of triumph, then of slow puzzlement on Deems’ face. He wet his lips and said hoarsely, “What kind of game is this, Sheriff? What’s that dead man doing in Kitty’s room?”

  Pat said, “That’s what I’m wondering.” He took hold of Deems’ arm and drew him forward. “Take a good look,” he urged. “See if you can identify him.”

  The faint sound of Kitty’s sobbing filled the hotel bedroom as Joe Deems looked down steadily at the dead man. He wet his lips again and muttered, “Looks like the Denver man that came in on tonight’s stage. What was his name?”

  “Fred Ralston,” Pat supplied grimly. “As you know plumb well.”

  “That’s right. That’s the name he signed to the hotel register.”

  “Knifed,” Morgan grunted. He was on his knees examining the body. “Right through the heart, looks like.”

  “Where’s the weapon?” Deems demanded explosively. “You can’t stab a man through the heart without using a knife.”

  “I reckon we better ask Miss Lane about that.” Pat turned to the sobbing woman and demanded harshly, “What’d you do with the knife when you stuck him?”

  She didn’t seem to understand. She shook her head in bewilderment. “The—knife?” she repeated stupidly.

  Pat moved to her side and gave her a little shake. “The knife you killed him with. It ain’t here.”

  “It—isn’t?” She sounded disbelieving, but somehow glad. She steadied herself, then went on rapidly. “Why do you think I know anything about it? You don’t think that I—that I—” She faltered with a look of horror on her expressive face.

  “He’s here in your room. Locked in from the outside. An’ you’ve got the key,” Pat pointed out grimly.

  “I don’t—I don’t understand. Who is he? How did he get here?”

  “Maybe he came in through this side door,” Morgan offered eagerly. He got up and opened the door into Ralston’s room. “Yes sir,” he reported. “Door’s unlocked. And there’s a suitcase and hat here on the bed.”

  “That’s the room that was assigned to Mr. Ralston,” Deems put in sharply. “Number fifteen. I remember Tom Forrest told me he asked for that number particular.”

  “Now, I wonder why he’d do that?” Pat mused. “Bein’ a stranger in town an’ all. I expect lots of men would like to move into the room next to yours, Miss Kitty, but how did this man from Denver know which one to ask for?”

  “How do I know?” she cried wildly. “I never saw him before. I don’t know anything about all this.”

  Deems’ expression hardened. He circled the body, went to stand in front of the two chairs with the table between them. He pointed to the whisky bottle and two glasses on the tray. “You’d better tell the truth, Kitty,” he said slowly, with his back to her. “You’re likely to get into real trouble if you try to protect someone. This is murder. It’s serious.”

  She took a step forward with flashing eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, Joe. If you think that I—”

  Deems stepped aside and lifted his eyebrows. “You can see for yourself, Sheriff. Kitty was in here drinking with some man before supper.”

  Pat nodded slowly. “Looks like it. Mr. Ralston, I reckon.” He sighed. “Sure looks like Miss Kitty isn’t tellin’ the truth. ’Pears to me she had it fixed with Ralston for him to come here from Denver an’ rent the room next to hers. Then he came in an’ they started drinkin’ an’ got into an argument. So she knifed him an’ ran out and locked the door. That the way it looks to you, Morgan?” he asked the rancher who was looking on with wide-eyed interest.

  “Sure does look that way,” Morgan said importantly. “He must have known her, all right, to’ve asked for room fifteen. And this here door was unlocked. And she was sure in here drinking with him while he was still alive.”

  “Don’t you see, Kitty?” Deems’ voice was like a savage whiplash across the entertainer’s face. “This hick sheriff is going to hang this murder on you if you don’t tell the truth and tell it fast.”

  Kitty Lane’s eyes clung to those of her employer for a long moment. Then her gaze wavered down to the body of the dead man. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know what you mean, Joe.”

  “Tell them what really happened,” he snapped. “Tell them who drank whisky with you in here.”

  “I—drank it by myself,” she flared.

  “Out of two glasses?” asked Pat.

  “Yes.” She glared at him defiantly. “I always drink out of two glasses. One in each hand. I can get it down faster that way. And the faster I get it down, the faster I forget what beasts all men are.” Tears ran down her rouged cheeks and she wiped them away angrily with the back of her hand.

  “You smoked a lot of cigarettes, too,” Joe Deems put in sharply, indicating the burned-down, brown-paper butts on the tray.

  “I always smoke a lot when I’m drinking two-handed.”

  Harold
Morgan pushed his way forward to peer down with interest at the tray. “I never saw you roll brown-paper cigarettes, Miss Lane,” he expostulated respectfully. “Only last night you turned me down when I offered my brown papers. Said you always used white.”

  “You know you’re lying, Kitty,” Deems said wearily. “Sam Sloan was in here with you tonight.”

  “By golly,” said Morgan with interest. “I bet you’re right, Deems. Sam always smoked his butts down short like this. Remember, Pat, how we used to laugh at Sam about burning his fingers on those short butts he was always nibbling on?”

  Pat Stevens nodded heavily. “But there’s plenty of other men do the same.”

  “Sam Sloan is the sheriff’s best friend,” Deems reminded Morgan venomously. “Stevens would do anything to cover up for him. Even to maybe hiding murder evidence,” he ended slowly.

  Pat looked at him with hard, alert eyes. “Meanin’ what, Deems?”

  “Nothing.” Deems shrugged his shoulders. “Only, as Mr. Morgan sees, right here’s the evidence that Sam was in here tonight—and you’re trying to protect Sam by claiming he wasn’t here.”

  “I’m not claiming anything. I said lots of other men smoked their butts down short. I’m waitin’ for Miss Kitty to tell us who smoked those.”

  “All right. It was Sam,” she admitted wearily. “He came in to have a drink and a cigarette with me before supper. Is there anything wrong in that?”

  “Go on and tell the rest of it,” Deems ordered.

  “That’s all there is to tell.” Her voice rose wildly. “We had some drinks together. Then he went into his room and I went downstairs to eat supper.”

  “Leaving your door locked?” Pat asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose Ralston just walked in here and stabbed himself and then swallowed the knife,” said Deems angrily.

  “Maybe he did. I don’t know.” Kitty Lane sank down wearily on a little padded bench in front of the bureau and covered her face with her hands.

  “How come that door to be unlocked?” Pat asked her.

  “I don’t know.” Kitty’s voice was muffled. She didn’t take her hands away from her face.

  “Do you leave it unlocked all the time—for the convenience of anyone renting that room?”

  “Certainly not,” Joe Deems put in angrily. “The Jewel isn’t that kind of hotel, Stevens. And Kitty isn’t that kind of woman.”

  “Maybe not. But I still want her to tell me whether she unlocked that door on purpose or whether it just happened to be unlocked.”

  “And I still tell you I don’t know.” Kitty Lane raised her head. “It’s always been locked before. I didn’t notice it today. I didn’t have any reason to look at it.”

  “Do you still claim you don’t know Ralston?”

  She glanced at the dead man and shuddered. “I never saw him before.”

  “How’d he come to ask for the room next to yours?”

  “I don’t know!” Kitty sprang to her feet. “How can I tell why some man did something? Maybe he was superstitious about number fifteen. Maybe he always asks for number fifteen at a hotel.”

  “But he doesn’t always go through a door into the next room an’ get himself killed,” Pat argued. “That only happened this one time.”

  Deems said harshly, “I still wonder what happened to the knife that killed him.” He was regarding Kitty intently and there was an odd note of anger in his voice.

  Kitty caught her breath in sharply. She said, “So do I,” in a wondering tone.

  Deems scowled at her and started to say something further, but Kitty turned on the sheriff and asked, “What did you know about all this? You’ve been acting mysterious all evening.”

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” Deems put in. “You asked Kitty downstairs if she knew Ralston. And you were dragging her up here to this room when you got the alarm about the bank being robbed.”

  “That’s right, Pat.” Harold Morgan nodded his head with perplexity. “You sent me up to keep guard over these two rooms. Looks like you knew there was a dead man in here.”

  Pat Stevens hesitated. He wasn’t ready, yet, to admit he had been in this room earlier in the evening. He was too conscious of having Sam’s bloodstained knife hidden inside his boot for that. He said gruffly, “I got tipped off that something was wrong up here. That’s why I came in the first place.”

  “Who tipped you off?” Deems was watching him keenly.

  “That,” said Pat, “is my business.”

  “I think it’s mine, too, Sheriff. After all, I’m pretty much concerned about this.”

  Pat shook his head. “A sheriff wouldn’t get very many tips if he told where they came from.”

  “Could it be,” sneered Deems, “that you don’t want to tell because it might point to someone’s guilt?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know damn well what I mean,” Deems exploded. “Kitty admits Sam Sloan was in here with her before supper. They were drinking together and he was pretty drunk. Also, he was crazy about Kitty. Now, there’s a dead man here and Sam has disappeared. Looks to me like you’re covering up for him.”

  “You accusin’ Sam of this murder?” Pat asked flatly.

  Deems shrugged his shoulders. “It could be that Ralston came through that door while Sam was in here. Sam was drunk enough to kill him thinking he was protecting Kitty.”

  “Not with a knife,” Harold Morgan declared vigorously. “Not Sam Sloan. He might’ve gunned a man for that, but he’d never use a knife while his gun was handy.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have a gun,” Deems argued. “Maybe he’d left it in his room.”

  “How about it,” Pat demanded of Kitty. “Was Sam wearin’ his six-gun?”

  “What does it matter? I didn’t notice, I guess. I know Sam didn’t do this.”

  “Then that leaves you,” snarled Deems. “Damn it, Kitty. Do you want that pretty neck of yours stretched at the end of a rope?”

  She stared at him as though she didn’t quite comprehend his words, then smiled a bitter little smile. “I don’t know. It might be—a good way to end this crazy life.”

  “Nonsense,” Deems said vigorously. “You can’t sacrifice yourself, Kitty. Damn it, a man would think you were in love with Sam Sloan.”

  “Maybe,” said Kitty, very low, “I was.”

  Deems’ face became contorted with anger. “That ugly little runt? You were after his money. You know that’s all you wanted.” He seemed to be almost pleading with her to verify his statement.

  She smiled listlessly and didn’t say anything.

  After a moment’s scowling hesitation, Joe Deems strode forward and shouldered her aside from her position directly in front of the bureau. “You’re acting mighty funny, Kitty. Why are you staying so close to this bureau? You got something hidden in it? Something you don’t want us to find?”

  “What do you think I’d have hidden?”

  “A knife, maybe.”

  “I don’t own a knife.”

  “But it might be somebody else’s knife. Sam Sloan’s, maybe. And it might have blood on it.” Deems turned to Pat. “Don’t you think we should make a search, Sheriff?”

  Pat said, “It wouldn’t hurt.” He stepped forward and Deems drew back and ostentatiously folded his arms to indicate that he wasn’t responsible for anything Pat might find hidden in the bureau.

  Pat pulled the top drawer open and began to rummage around among a litter of feminine things, feeling foolish as he did so, but thinking that it would look better if he pretended to search for the knife that was even now hidden inside his boot.

  His eyes narrowed after a moment, and he drew out a small roll of parchment, tied with a blue ribbon in a big bowknot. He held it up to Kitty and asked, “What’s this?”

  Her eyes widened and she seemed to flinch, but she said, “It’s nothing. Just an old—memento I’ve kept all these years.”

  Pat said, “I’d like to see what k
ind of thing you keep tied up with a blue ribbon, Ma’am.” His big fingers awkwardly fumbled with the knot, and he took a long time untying it.

  When he finally rolled the sheet of parchment out, he studied it bleakly and nodded, muttering, “I thought it looked like a wedding certificate.”

  His bronzed features tightened and he let the parchment roll back up.

  Kitty shrank back with both hands going up to her bosom as Pat turned on her. He said, “I reckon it’s time you started tellin’ some of the truth, Mrs. Fred Ralston.”

  7

  “Good God, Sheriff!” ejaculated Joe Deems. “Do you mean that—that Kitty—was this dead man’s wife?”

  And Harold Morgan echoed, “Mrs. Fred Ralston?” with his mouth hanging open stupidly.

  Kitty flashed a look of utter scorn upon Deems. “All right,” she gritted between her teeth. “So now, you know. I was married to him. I’ve been married to him for ten loathsome years. I hated him! Do you hear me? I despised him. I’m glad he’s dead. I should have done it myself ten years ago.” She sank down to the floor, sobbing wildly.

  Deems shook his head and muttered to Pat, “I knew Kitty was married to a man whom she hated, but I didn’t know his name.”

  Pat Stevens leaned down and caught hold of Kitty’s arm. He lifted her up gently and led her to the bed. “Sit down there, Ma’am. Soon as you get to feelin’ able we’ll go on with our talk.”

  Deems caught his arm as he turned away from her. “What do you think this means, Sheriff? You don’t think she murdered her husband?”

  Pat said stolidly, “I’m tryin’ not to do too much thinkin’ right now. When she gets over her crying spell, we’ll see what she’s got to say.”

  He strode across to the whisky bottle still sitting on the tray between the two chairs, picked it up and pulled the cork out. He put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and drank deeply, sighed and mopped sweat from his face when he set the bottle down. He got out his makings and slowly rolled a cigarette as he turned back toward the other two men in the room.

  Kitty lay face down on the bed and her bare shoulders shook with sobs. Harold Morgan was regarding her wonderingly, and Deems had stepped back to sit down on the bench in front of the bureau.