The man on the right of the bleeding prisoner said, “It won’t take long. Dave, here, has decided to make a statement to the chief.” Gantry was a tall, slender, alert young man with a mop of damp and disheveled blond hair. In spite of his wilted appearance, he seemed well pleased with himself. His companion was shorter and heavier, with a flat brutal face and loose, thick lips. He laughed coarsely and jerked the whimpering man forward and said:
“Dave decided he warn’t as tough as he figured.” They went into the brightly lighted room and lined up in front of Chief Henry Elwood’s desk.
The chief looked at the bleeding man with his lidless, naked eyes and asked, “Have you decided to come clean, Burroughs?” His voice was friendly and considerate and his thick lips spread, making a deep trench between his jowls and mouth.
“I’ll say… anything… you say,” Dave Burroughs gasped. “Let… me outta here. I can’t… stand any more.”
“We don’t want you to say anything but the truth,” Elwood said. “What happened to you? Why’re you appearing here in that condition?”
“I… had an… accident,” Burroughs said weakly.
“Too bad. We’ll get a doctor and have you fixed up soon’s you sign this statement.” The chief’s beefy hand reached for a document, pulled it closer, and he read rapidly:
“I, David Burroughs, make the following statement under oath, of my own free will and to clear my conscience of perjury:
“The affidavit I signed and swore to this morning is a lie. I was bribed to make it by George Brand who got me and Jethro Home and Joe Margule all together yesterday and fixed up what he wanted us to say. He paid us each twenty dollars, but we didn’t know why he wanted an alibi for last night, and when we made those affidavits this morning we didn’t know he had murdered Charles Roche.
“All three of us did play poker with him at Home’s last night, but Brand left the game about three o’clock. None of us saw him after that, which I now swear is the truth because we all stayed on together until five- thirty.
“I do not want to get mixed up in a murder. That is why I am telling the truth now. I realize that I perjured myself and that I am liable for the full penalty of the law.
“I have not been mistreated or coerced in any way to induce me to sign this statement, and any marks on my body are the result of my drunkenness and an accident.
“I am filled with remorse because I swore to false testimony.
“This is the truth, so help me God.”
Shayne watched Chief Elwood, fascinated by the monotone of his voice and by the continuous wriggling of a fleshy protuberance in the center of his chin. His lips scarcely moved. When he finished reading, the fat roll covering his eyes raised slowly.
“We want the truth this time, Burroughs,” he said. “This is your last chance. You’ll be taken care of if you sign this. You won’t have to appear at Brand’s trial.”
“I’ll… sign.” Dave Burroughs fell forward, his elbows resting on the desk. The two officers supported his body while he took a pen in his right hand and signed the document. Then they half carried Burroughs through a door at the other end of the room.
Chief Elwood looked at the policeman who had helped bring Shayne in. He asked, “What’s the charge against the man outside?”
“Drunk and disorderly.”
“Let Gantry handle him.” Chief Elwood swiveled in his chair and got up. He went out the door through which Burroughs had been carried.
Gantry returned and joined the waiting policeman. Together they sauntered into the smaller room where Shayne sat, talking in low, pleased tones. Gantry seated himself at the desk and looked bored. He said, “Drunk and disorderly, eh?”
“And creating a public disturbance,” his companion said.
Shayne’s guard hauled him to his feet by his shoulders and thrust him forward.
“Maybe I was drunk,” Shayne said belligerently, “but I didn’t bother anybody.”
Gantry was writing in a ledger and didn’t look up. “Name and address?” he asked. Shayne noted that he had sleeked his blond hair back, and his face looked clean.
“John Smith. New York,” Shayne said.
“Go over him. Find out his real name.” Gantry’s voice was clipped and official, and he still appeared pleased with himself.
One of the men held Shayne’s arms while the other removed his wallet and tossed it on the desk. He felt deeper into that pocket, then in the other, while Gantry searched the wallet.
“John Smith is as good as any,” Gantry said. He counted the money and put it in an envelope. “Throw him in the bull-pen.”
“I want a receipt for that money,” Shayne muttered. “I got a right to…”
The officers hustled him to the stairway and up to a musty, dim-lit corridor, past the iron bars on one side to a heavy, barred door. An old man was asleep in a chair propped against the wall beside the door. He was snoring loudly and stunk of old sweat and beer.
One of the men prodded him with a toe and said, “Wake up, Pop. We got another customer for you.”
The old man snorted and rocked forward, hoisted himself to his feet, squinted at Shayne through bleary eyes and turned to unlock the massive door with an iron key attached to a chain around his waist.
As the door swung open, Shayne heard voices chanting, “Fresh meat coming up,” and the humid sweat of unwashed bodies, the foul odor of urine, the stench of intestinal excretions in clogged toilets mingled with stale cigarette smoke and the sickening smell of some cheap disinfectant caused him to recoil and stagger back.
The two policemen hurled him forward, and the door clanged shut. Shayne found himself in a narrow corridor lined with iron-barred cells on each side. The feeble light in the hall penetrated only a little distance into the darkness. Each cell had two iron bunks, one above the other, with no mattresses or bedding. The first two cells were empty.
Someone struck a match in the third cell and Shayne moved toward the light. Voices were yelling, “Who is it? Has he got any cigarettes? How about a drink? If he’s a punk, send ’im down this way.”
Shayne stopped beside the doorway of the third cell and shouted, “Shut the hell up. I’ve got cigarettes enough for myself, and none of you know me.”
The shouting voices beyond subsided, grumbling and weary and disinterested. A voice inside the cell asked in a low whisper, “How about the butts, if you’re gonna smoke?”
“Sure.” He groped his way inside and sat on the lower iron bunk beside its occupant. He put a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and held it until light flickered over his companion’s face, then lit his cigarette. The man was young, with a thin face and defiant eyes.
Shayne asked, “How do you stand this stink?”
“Ain’t you never been in jail?” the youth asked.
“Not one that smelled like this.” Shayne filled his lungs with smoke and exhaled. The fresh smoke relieved the smell of the stale for a moment, then joined it. He passed the cigarette to the boy beside him and said, “Take a draw.”
“Jeez, thanks.” He took a long draw, said, “Jeez,” again, and passed the cigarette to Shayne. He asked, “What they get you for?”
“Drunk. Only I’m not.”
The young man laughed harshly. “Must of showed some cash.”
“A little. What the hell sort of town is this?”
“New hereabouts?” he countered cautiously.
“From New York,” said Shayne. “Just passing through.”
“This is Centerville, Kentucky, Mister. The hellhole of all creation. You got nothin’ to worry about. They’ll let you loose in the mornin’… with enough jack to get out of town on.”
Shayne puffed leisurely, then asked, “What are you in for?”
“Cut a man up at a dance a coupla weeks ago.”
“How bad?”
