that fitted together even to begin to build a theory. Why in hell would Jefferson Towne murder a soldier? One who had been out of the States for years and returned to be met by a mysterious stranger in El Paso who persuaded him to enlist in the army under an alias. What had a boy like Jimmie Delray to offer a spy ring — or a counter-spy ring?
That spy stuff might have been all in his imagination, of course. Shayne had realized that possibility from the beginning. But why else would anyone induce him to enlist in the army under an assumed name? What could it profit anyone?
Jimmie Delray had written to his mother on Tuesday that he was going in to the city to meet the man who was responsible for his being in the army under a false name. A few hours later he was lying dead in the street where Towne’s car would run over him. And Josiah Riley claimed he had seen Towne murder the soldier a short time earlier a few miles away.
Shayne laid the paper aside and stopped thinking about it. He stripped and went into the bathroom, shaved and showered, put on fresh underwear and the same suit he had taken off.
Dusk was gathering, not more than an hour and a half after Josiah Riley had left the room, when his telephone rang. Chief of Police Dyer was on the other end of the wire. He said, “Thought you might like to be down here when we bring Jeff Towne in.”
Shayne asked, “Are you bringing him in?”
“Haven’t you seen the Free Press Extra that just hit the streets?”
Shayne admitted he hadn’t.
Dyer said, “You’d better take a look at it,” and hung up.
Shayne put his hat on and went down to the lobby. A barefooted Mexican lad was passing out Extra editions of the Free Press as fast as people could grab them. Shayne glanced over the shoulder of an excited reader and saw a picture of Josiah Riley smeared over the front page. The caption read: Murder Witness.
Shayne didn’t bother to buy a paper. He pushed his way through the lobby and out onto the street. A copy of the Free Press Extra was lying on Dyer’s desk when Shayne walked in. The chief of police looked up with a sour grunt and indicated it “Have you read that stuff?”
Shayne shook his head and sat down. “I can guess what’s in it. Are you arresting Towne?”
“What else can I do?” sputtered Dyer. “Wait a minute!” He looked at the redhead suspiciously. “How do you know what’s in the paper if you haven’t read it?”
Shayne said, “Riley tried to sell me his story this afternoon before he took it to Cochrane.”
“And you wouldn’t buy it,” Dyer scoffed.
Shayne shook his head placidly. “Why should I? It may be the truth.”
“All the more reason why Towne should want it suppressed.”
Shayne reminded him, “I told you I wasn’t working for Towne.”
“What are you after, Shayne?”
“I’m trying to solve a murder and earn an honest dollar in the process.” Shayne leaned back and yawned widely. He was still yawning when the door was pushed open and Jefferson Towne strode in followed by Captain Gerlach of the homicide squad.
Towne’s rugged face was purplish and he was fuming as he entered. “Damned outrage. Where’s Joe Riley? I’ll choke his story down his throat.”
“He had an idea you’d feel that way and he asked for police protection after giving his story to the Free Press,” Dyer told him.
Towne leaned forward and slammed his fist down on the chief’s desk. “The whole thing is a tissue of lies. What do you mean by sending men out to arrest me?”
“Can you prove it’s a lie?”
“Of course I can prove it. Riley hates my guts. I fired him off my mine once for high-grading.” Towne turned to glare at Michael Shayne. “What are you sitting there grinning about? Why aren’t you out doing something? By God, this is all your fault! Without that damned autopsy, Riley’d never have thought up his outrageous story.”
“Probably not,” Shayne admitted.
“Here’s Riley’s signed statement,” Dyer put in hurriedly. “I’ll read it to you so you’ll know where you stand.” He lifted a typewritten sheet of paper and cleared his throat, then read aloud:
My name is Josiah Riley and I’m 78 and a citizen of El Paso.
I went fishing for carp in the river last Tuesday afternoon and started walking home about two hours before sundown. I was a few hundred yards from the river, walking along a little path through the brush, when I heard loud voices from a clearing in front of me.
It sounded like two men quarreling and I didn’t want to get mixed up in it, so I started to go around through the brush and I saw a big swell automobile standing there with two men beside it.
One of the men was wearing a soldier’s uniform and I didn’t know him, but have since recognized him as Private James Brown from a picture shown to me by Mr. Cochrane of the Free Press. The other man was Mr. Jefferson Towne, whom I have known for many years.
I was a couple hundred feet away and they did not either one see me in the brush, but while I looked I saw Mr. Towne hit the soldier in the face and knock him down and then lean over and start choking the life out of him. I was scared of getting caught there because I know Mr. Towne’s awful temper when he gets mad, so I walked on fast and didn’t look back any more.
Pretty soon I heard a car coming fast and I ducked down and watched Mr. Towne drive past on his way to town. He was alone in the front seat and I couldn’t see in the back, so I didn’t know he was carrying the dead soldier in the back with him so he could put him in the street later and run over him to make it look like an accident.
I didn’t see a newspaper until today so I didn’t know anything about Private James Brown being murdered, and I didn’t think any more about it until I read the Free Press.
I called up Mr. Neil Cochrane of the Free Press because I knew they weren’t afraid to print the truth about even an important man like Mr. Towne, and he took me down to the police station where I made this statement, which is the truth, so help me God.
Signed, Josiah Riley.
Dyer looked up from his reading and asked Shayne, “Is that the same story he told you this afternoon?”
“Substantially.” Shayne nodded. “With a few minor embellishments by Neil Cochrane, I imagine.”
Towne turned on him slowly, his face working spasmodically. “What’s that? Riley came to you with this story?”
“That’s right,” said Shayne easily. “He figured I’d pay him to suppress it — or hit you for the money. He only wanted three thousand,” he ended gently.
“But you sent him to the Free Press instead. Without even consulting me.”
“I’m not working for you,” Shayne reminded him. “You told me this morning you wouldn’t need me.”
Towne doubled his fists and moved toward the redhead, muttering hoarse blasphemies. Shayne lunged to his feet, but Captain Gerlach got between them. The homicide captain was a big man. He shoved Towne back ungently while he growled over his shoulder to Shayne, “Lay off. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Shayne’s wide nostrils flared. He said, “Sure, I’ll lay off. When they kick the trap I’ll be sitting in the front row laughing.”
“Forget it,” Dyer commanded. “It would have been paying blackmail to buy Riley off,” he reminded Towne.
“Bring Riley in here,” Towne said angrily. “I have a right to face him. He won’t dare repeat those lies in front of me.”
Dyer nodded to Gerlach. “Tell one of the boys to bring Riley in.” He warned Towne sharply, “And don’t start anything. I’ll put handcuffs on you if I have to.”
Shayne sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He didn’t look at Towne, who now stood on the other side of the desk breathing audibly.
Captain Gerlach came back into the office, and Josiah Riley slunk in through the door a few minutes later. He threw a frightened glance at Towne and then quavered, “You said you’d pertect me. You promised-”
“Stand up and face him like a man,” Dyer said. “Do you swear he’s the man you saw choking Private Brown near the river Tuesday afternoon?”
