seen any one of them before. Take your time. There’s no hurry. But keep in mind that you are serving the end of justice.”
Mr. Pastern looked dutifully at each face in turn. He blinked a couple of times, swallowed his Adam’s apple several times in rapid succession, then got to his feet and stepped forward, pointing the forefinger of his right hand dramatically at Ned Brooks.
“That one there. I saw him last night like I told you, having a fight with Mr. Jackson. They were right under a street light, and I was on my way home-a block beyond where the Jacksons live. I had to circle around on the grass to get past them because they were blocking the sidewalk.”
One of the plain-clothes men had a pad in one hand and a pencil in the other and was scribbling rapidly when Ned Brooks protested.
“It wasn’t a fight! Bert was drunk and got sore when I tried to help him home.”
Gentry nodded to the officer with the notebook, slid close behind the witness while the other officer took a firm hold on Ned Brooks’s arm, and Shayne left the group to saunter over to the police chief.
“Sit down, Mr. Pastern,” said Gentry, “and tell us exactly what you saw. Take Brooks back to my office, Wilkins,” he ordered without turning his head. “We’ll hear his story after we get Mr. Pastern’s full statement.”
Wilkins took Ned Brooks away, closed the door, and Gentry said to Shayne, “Since you’ve already talked to Brooks about last night’s episode, you’d better sit in on this, Mike.”
“I didn’t pump him, Will,” Shayne told him. “Brooks volunteered the information.”
Gentry nodded his gray head. “I know. He mentioned it to my men when he was hauled in. Meeting Jackson, I mean, but nothing about a fight.” He settled himself in a chair beside the witness and said, “Go ahead with your story.”
“I didn’t think much about it at the time,” Mr. Pastern began nervously. “I know Mr. Jackson a little, being neighbors with him, you might say. Enough to say howdy when we meet on the street. I know he’s a drinking man- like all reporters, I reckon. So I thought it was a couple of friends having a drunken argument, like I said. I was coming up the walk when I saw this car stop under the street light and a man got out. I didn’t recognize the one walking along until I got close. It was Mr. Jackson, and he was weaving from side to side. The other man, the one that was up there with the others, grabbed his arm, and they were arguing when I came up to them.
“I didn’t pay much attention to what they were saying. They were sort of growling at each other, and like I said, I had to circle around them. You know how it is when you see a thing like that. I’m a man who minds his own business, but if I’d had any idea one of them was going to be murdered, you can bet your life I’d of walked slower and listened harder. I tell you, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather when Sally said-Sally’s my wife-‘That Mr. Jackson in the next block was murdered in cold blood last night.’ She handed me a copy of the Tribune extra, and I read all about it.
“I just couldn’t believe it at first. I said to Sally, ‘But I saw him last night and he wasn’t dead, right down the street not more’n a block from his house.’ Sally got terribly excited. We talked it over and decided that what I’d seen might be important, so I called up my boss and asked for the day off. I explained it all to him, too, and he said it was my duty and he’d see I didn’t lose a penny-”
“Think hard, Mr. Pastern,” Gentry broke in. “Try to remember some particular thing they did, something they said.”
The excited glow in the old man’s eyes dulled as he met Gentry’s determined gaze. “Why, I’ve told you. They were sort of wrestling and cussing-”
“Did you see any blows struck?” Gentry interposed patiently.
“Well, not what you’d call blows, exactly. Pushing each other around, I guess. After I went around them I kept looking back and I saw Mr. Jackson go on toward his house. This other one just stood there and watched him.”
“Then Jackson was all right when the two men parted?” Gentry did not try to hide his disappointment.
“Except being drunk.” Mr. Pastern seemed to realize that his story was falling flat. He fidgeted, looking from Shayne to Gentry, then went on awkwardly. “I wouldn’t want to say a single word but the truth. No matter what happened later, I’m bound to tell you the killing didn’t happen then. I kept looking back, like I said, and saw Mr. Jackson start to turn up his walk. Then this other fellow got in his car and drove off. But with bad blood like there was between them I guess it’s pretty plain he must’ve come back later to do it, don’t you reckon?” Again he appealed to the detective and the police chief, met their cold, impersonal gazes, and his body sagged wearily, his thin hands dangling between his knees.
Gentry said, “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Pastern, and it’s a pleasure to meet a citizen who is willing to take time off from his work to do his duty.”
Mr. Pastern straightened, and there was pride in his bearing. “You think I’ve been a help? I always aim to do my duty.”
“Your statement will be typed immediately. Officer Cline will take you along, and you can sign the document before you leave.” Gentry nodded to the plainclothes man; Mr. Pastern came to his feet, looked uncertainly around; then the two men went out together.
Turning to Shayne the police chief asked, “How does his story check with what Brooks told you?”
“Pretty close. With his friend dead, Brooks would naturally try to minimize the seriousness of the argument.”
“There’s one thing I wonder about, Mike,” rumbled Gentry, moving stolidly toward the closed door leading from the line-up room to his private office. “When my men first got to Ned Brooks at his house this morning they found him in the kitchen wearing slippers and a robe and making coffee. He claimed he’d just waked up and couldn’t go back to sleep, but they had a feeling he wasn’t really surprised to hear about Jackson, though he pretended he was.”
“He wasn’t,” said Shayne flatly. “Bert Jackson’s girl friend phoned him about it a short time before.”
“How do you know that?” Gentry paused with his hand on the doorknob.
“He told me about it, back at the newspaper office.”
“How did she know about it?” Gentry fumed. “His girl friend, eh? Who?”
Shayne said, “You’re not going to like this, Will, but if you jump Brooks about it he’ll tell you, anyway. Her name is Marie Leonard, and she lives at the Las Felice. I told her about Bert, Will. Right after you got me sore when they were picking up Jackson’s body.”
“Goddamn you, Mike! You knew about her and didn’t tell me?”
“We weren’t exchanging confidences at the moment,” Shayne reminded him grimly. “I didn’t actually know about her then, but when I saw the key with ‘Three A’ on it taken from Jackson’s wallet, I put two and two together and decided it was probably kept there where his wife wouldn’t see it. Three A is Marie’s apartment number. I found out when I went to the Las Felice to see who lived there.”
“Just like that,” raged Gentry. “I suppose you just picked that particular apartment building by one of your famous hunches.”
“You know I’m usually a couple of jumps ahead of you,” Shayne reminded him. “If you hadn’t got me sore by threatening to arrest me-”
“And if I had arrested you,” Gentry roared, “you wouldn’t have got to this Leonard woman first.”
Shayne looked down at the chief’s purpling face and said mildly, “You made up for that by keeping me away from Mrs. Jackson, Will. Has she talked yet?”
“No. When she does, it’ll be to the police. I warn you to stay away from her, Shayne.” He jerked the door open and trampled solidly into his private office.
Shayne followed him and started to pull up a chair to sit in on the interrogation of Ned Brooks, but Gentry settled his bulk in his swivel chair and shouted an order to the patrolman at the door.
“Take Shayne outside and see that he stays there until I’m through with this man.”
Shayne quirked his right brow in surprise, then glanced aside at Brooks. “Look, Will-”
“Get out,” roared Gentry.
“Better let me stay, Will, and see if he tells it the same way twice.”
“From now on I’ll handle this case,” the chief said flatly.
“Have it your way,” said Shayne. He sauntered toward the door as the patrolman started forward.
The telephone on Gentry’s desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver and barked, “Gentry,” listened for a moment, then roared at the doorman, “Hold Shayne there until I get the straight of this.”
