Harmas ran his fingers through his hair as he frowned at Seamore.
'You just said you borrowed one of his guns?'
'That's right. A friend of mine from Miami was staying with me. He reckons he is a pretty good shot.' Seamore's pleasant face creased again into a smile. 'We had a wager. I use a .45, but my friend is used to a .38 and he hadn't his gun with him. So I called Phil and asked him if he'd lend me one of his guns. My friend and I had this match ... he using Phil's gun. I returned the gun to Phil three days before the poor guy was killed.'
Harmas leaned back in his chair until the chair back creaked.
'Where did this match take place, Mr. Seamore?'
'Right here,' Seamore said, jerking his thumb towards the window through which Harmas could see a shooting alley.
'We set up two target boxes and we both fired fifteen rounds. I pipped my friend by an inner.'
'What are the chances of getting the spent bullets from both guns, Mr. Seamore?' Harmas asked.
'Easiest thing in the world. There's been no shooting for the past week. The slugs are in the boxes right now.'
'You know which box your friend shot into?'
'Of course.'
'Could I use your telephone?'
'Go right ahead.'
Smiling happily, Harmas dialled police headquarters.
Chapter 11
Anson had two likely prospects to call on in Pru Town. He then planned to spend the night at the Marlborough hotel before returning to Brent.
As he drove along the busy highway, he wondered what was happening to Meg. She would soon be discharged from hospital. He had already warned her to destroy the insurance policy he had given to Barlowe. This he was sure she had done. He had sent the policy for a claim of $50,000, signed by Barlowe to Jack Jameson, a young but alert lawyer who was now acting for Meg.
Not for one moment had Anson any misgivings that his plans weren't foolproof. The police would be hunting for the bald headed, sex maniac. The press was sympathetic towards Meg. Jameson would put in the claim and Maddox would have to meet it. There was, however, one slight uneasiness in Anson's mind ... this dossier Harmas had mentioned.
Anson kept asking himself what could be in it.
His two calls successfully completed, he drove back to the hotel. It was after he had finished his lunch and was walking towards the exit when he ran into Harmas.
'There you are,' Harmas said. 'I was hoping to see you. I want to talk to you.'
Anson looked sharply at him, then followed him into the deserted lounge. They sat in a far corner.
'What is it?' Anson said, waving to the waiter to bring coffee.
'The Barlowe affair,' Harmas said. 'Maddox is right. That man kills me! He is always right. The claim is phony.'
Anson took from his pocket a pack of cigarettes. He offered it and the two men lit up.
'Go on ... tell me,' he said, his voice steady and wooden.
The waiter brought them coffee. When he had gone, Harmas said, 'I'm sure as I'm sitting here this woman, with the help of a boy friend, murdered her husband. They used the sex killer as a front.'
Anson stared at the burning end of his cigarette. Don't panic, he told himself. What has he found out? What have I done wrong? He remembered with a feeling of relief that he had an unbreakable alibi.
'You don't really expect me to believe this, do you?' he said. 'Isn't this something Maddox has cooked up to get out of settling the claim?'
'No,' Harmas said quietly. 'I have seen her dossier ... you haven't. She is capable of anything. I'm sure Maddox is right as he always is.'
Anson's mouth became too dry for smoking. He crushed out his cigarette. 'What's in this dossier, then?'
'The woman has a jail record,' Harmas said. 'She has been a prostitute. The Tracing Agency says she became infatuated with a man who lived with her. They don't know who this guy is, but she turned thief to keep him and got a three months' sentence. When she came out of jail, her pimp had disappeared. She met Barlowe. It's an odd thing how someone like Barlowe ... a mean-tempered, middle-aged man ... does fall for a tart. He fell for her, and they married. It's my guess she met her pimp again, and together they cooked up this idea of getting Barlowe to insure himself and then the two of them knocked him off.'
His face expressionless, Anson said, 'Can you prove any of this?'
'I have some proof. Okay, I admit it wouldn't stand up in court, but it is enough to make Maddox fight every inch of the way before we pay her claim.' Anson leaned back in his chair.
'She is a client of mine. You don't seem to realize how tricky this is for me. The word gets around Mrs. Barlowe is front page news. People are sorry for her. The newspapers have made a big play about her being raped and her husband being killed. If Maddox fights her claim, where do I stand? Don't you see the situation I'm in? Every time I call on a prospect to try to sell him a life policy, he'll say, 'What's the use? If anything happens to me, your people won't settle ... look at the Barlowe case.' Can't you see that?'
'Sure,' Harmas said, 'but you're not suggesting that we pay out on a phony claim, are you?'
'Is it phony? Just because you've found out this woman has a police record, does that make her a murderess. What proof have you got?'
'I've caught her out in two lies,' Hamas said. 'It was she who persuaded Barlowe to go out to Jason's Glen and I have a witness who'll swear to it, but she claims it was Barlowe who wanted to go ... to be romantic. I have proof they slept alone. Barlowe wasn't the romantic type ... he was a pervert. It's my bet that her boy friend was waiting at the Glen for them. There's a telephone record at the road-house where they spent the evening that a call was put through to a call box near the glen. I can't prove she actually made the call, but it certainly looks as if she did. I think she was alertting her boy friend that she and Barlowe were on the way to the glen.'
'Pretty circumstantial, isn't it?' Anson asked, staring at Harmas.
'Oh sure, but it turns on the red light. There's an impression of a car tyre by the call box and we found the same impression up at the Glen. If we find her boy friend has a tyre that matched the impression, he'll have a lot of explaining to do.'
Anson kept his face expressionless, but there was a sudden chill around his heart.
'The impression could have been made any time, couldn't it? What else have you got?'
Harmas sat forward.
'This is the topper,' he said. 'Barlowe was a crack pistol shot: he owned two guns; .38's. Both these guns are missing.
Mrs. Barlowe told us Barlowe had given one gun away, but Harry Seamore, the secretary of the Target Club, is certain, Barlowe would never have parted with these guns. Now there's something ... Barlowe was shot with his own gun. We have been able to check the slugs. And here's something really sensational; the same guy that killed Barlowe, killed the cop in the Caltex hold-up. How do you like that?'
'You've certainly been busy,' Anson said as he bent to adjust his shoe string. He felt he had lost colour and he cursed himself for using Barlowe's gun. At the time it had seemed so easy and convenient ... what blind spot had led him into making such a stupid, dangerous mistake? He straightened. 'What does Lieutenant Jenson think ... does he think Barlowe did that holdup? Could explain how he got hold of the money to pay for his premium. Come to think of it, it could be the answer. He was desperate to start up on his own. He probably hadn't the money to pay for the premium and staged this hold-up. Could explain why he paid up in cash.'
Harmas stroked his nose.
'Yeah; you have an idea. All the same, I'm still convinced Mrs. Barlowe has a boy friend and he and she cooked up Barlowe's murder.'
