landlady of the building and who took exception to having her living room used as a holding cell.
“I don’t see why you can’t keep him in Bradshaw’s apartment,” she persisted.
“I told you, lady,” Frank said, without glancing up from his paper. “We’ve sealed the place off. Nobody goes in there until homicide gets here.”
“Why not?”
Frank grimaced as if he’d been stung by a bee. This time he looked up from the paper to give Miss Dobson the full effect of his sarcasm. “Homicide doesn’t like to have murder suspects hanging around the scene of the crime. Homicide’s funny that way. They have this theory that people who commit murder might also be so unscrupulous as to tamper with evidence if they were given an opportunity to do so. Of course, I don’t believe that for a moment, but homicide seems to think so, so I try to humor them.”
Frank returned to his paper.
Miss Dobson cast a sideways glance at Steve Winslow, who was seated on her couch. “I don’t want a murderer in my apartment.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you in this manner,” Steve said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she snapped. “I was talking to the officer.”
“He’s trying to read the paper. Why don’t you give him a break?”
“He’s trying to read
Frank sighed. “Sorry, ma’am. You want your paper?”
“No. What I want is for you to put it down and pay a little attention to your prisoner. You’re supposed to be guarding him, aren’t you?”
Frank merely grunted.
“That’s right, read the paper. Leave me alone with a murderer to deal with.”
“Lady, he’s handcuffed. What could he possibly do to you?”
“I could kick her in the stomach, drop my shoulder, and slam her up against the wall,” Steve said promptly.
Miss Dobson gave a little gasp. Her lips moved soundlessly, and she sank into a chair.
Frank looked at her, grinned at Winslow, and said, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Steve said.
There was a knock on the door. Miss Dobson started to get to her feet, but Frank beat her to it. He opened the door and ushered Sergeant Stams into the room.
“All right, where is he?” Stams said. “Where is-” He spotted Steve Winslow and stopped short. “Son of a bitch.”
Sergeant Stams, a stolid, impassive, plodding and unimaginative homicide officer, knew Steve Winslow well. Stams had had the misfortune to arrest him once before. At the time, Stams had thought he’d cracked the Sheila Benton case. He’d taken a good deal of ribbing in the department when it had turned out he’d actually arrested Sheila’s attorney.
Stams’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Steve said.
“I happen to be in charge of this investigation.”
“Oh? I thought Lieutenant Farron was in charge of homicide.”
“Farron’s on vacation. I’m in charge.”
“Congratulations,” Steve said.
Stams snorted. “Yeah.” He turned to Frank. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Winslow?”
“Who’s Winslow?”
Stams pointed. “Him.”
Frank shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”
“That’s ’cause you don’t know him. If he’s here, it means something all right. Where’d you find him?”
“In the room with the corpse, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed. We knocked on the door and he called ‘Come in.’“
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Stams frowned. Thought a moment. “Did you search him?”
“Sure did.”
“In my bedroom,” Miss Dobson said indignantly. Stams ignored her. “You make a good job of it?”
“Sure. Took his clothes off and searched him to the skin.”
“Find anything?”
“Nothing. He’s clean.”
“Did he make any objection to being searched?”
“Not at all. In fact, he insisted on it.”
“Insisted on it?”
“That’s right.”
Stams turned to Winslow. “You insisted on being searched?”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? So you couldn’t claim I took anything out of that apartment.”
Stams wheeled on Frank. “You sure he’s clean?”
“Absolutely.”
“Any chance he could have ditched something on his way down here?”
“Not a chance. We had him handcuffed.”
Stams frowned. “I don’t like it. I think he took something out of that apartment.”
Steve smiled. “Thank you.”
Stams eyed him suspiciously. “For what?”
“Not disappointing me.”
Stams took a breath, blew it out again. “All right, Winslow. Let’s have it straight. What were you doing in that apartment?”
“He told you. Sitting on the couch.”
“I don’t need any of your lip. This is a murder investigation. I want some answers. Why did you go there?”
“To see Bradshaw.”
“What about?”
“I had a matter I wanted to discuss with him.”
“What matter?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s privileged information.”
“Involving a client?”
“Naturally.”
“Who’s the client?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Was Bradshaw the client?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“If Bradshaw was the client, privileged information isn’t going to help him now that he’s dead.”
“On the contrary,” Steve said. “Many clients wish to have their rights protected even after they are dead. I believe that’s the principle on which wills are drawn.”
Stams pounced on the false scent. “Did Bradshaw consult you about a will?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know you didn’t say that. I asked you if he did.”
“My business with Bradshaw is confidential. I can’t tell you about it.”
“Do you deny it was about a will?”
