“Go on, go on.”
“So Waller was so excited, he almost bit his pipe in two. But he asked one more question. He got such a shock on that one, he did bite it—right smack through! Showed me the pieces.”
“Go on!”
“Want to know what that question was? Well, this is it. Waller says to this bank guard, ‘What’d the other guys around here think about that?’ And the bank guard said, ‘Why, I wouldn’t tell a story like that to a bunch of folks. Some of ’em might not be good characters. As a matter of fact,’ the bank guard says, looking sort of nervous, ‘I wished afterward I hadn’t told Buffingham that story. There was one other man heard it. He died, that other man did. But it sure taught me a lesson to look folks over before I talk shop like that. Made me pretty nervous when it came out in the papers.’
“Waller says, ‘What story was that?’ And the bank guard said, ‘About that other man getting killed. Zeitman, his name was. He used to hang around here some before he got killed.’”
“Zeitman!”
“Yep, Zeitman.”
“Hodge, you mean that gangster? That man I found in back of the house?”
“I mean the same.”
“But why didn’t that bank guard tell the police when he read about the killing? Why didn’t he say he—?”
“Where do you suppose his job would have been if he had?”
“Oh, my goodness! Zeitman knew about the money in Mrs. Garr’s house, too, then! And Mr. Buffingham knew Zeitman!”
“Guess what day this was Waller talked to the bank guard.”
“Friday evening, I suppose.”
“Not that close. Thursday night, though. We were still arguing about whether to turn in this discovery to Lieutenant Strom or wait until we had something more.”
“You didn’t have to wait long,” I contributed grimly.
“You’re a wonderful bean spiller, my sweet.”
“Wait. I’ve got more questions. Why had he ever written that confession, the one you brought in here?”
“Strom got that out of him. Mrs. Garr’s lawyers made him write it, back when she was having her trial. The lawyer threatened to have Mrs. Garr testify Buffingham brought the girl to the house and seduced her, left her there with Mrs. Garr. In that case, as the lawyer pointed out, our state would probably have had a lynching to its credit. This town was stirred up about Rose Liberry. Buffingham signed quick. Then the lawyers used the confession to make sure Buffingham wouldn’t testify against Mrs. Garr. And when Mrs. Garr got out of jail, she used it for her private pleasure—blackmail. Buffingham never got over being afraid of it.”
“That Liberry case is undoubtedly the world’s nastiest.”
“It’s done now.”
“Yes, it’s done now. Does Buffingham say—does he admit he killed Mrs. Garr?”
“You should have seen your friend the lieutenant making up for lost time when he got hold of Buffingham Friday night. He confessed, all right. We had that part down pat. He was in the kitchen hunting for the forty thousand in new bills when she came in and caught him. He strangled her.”
“But that part about that gangster, Zeitman. Where did he—?”
“Strom got that out of him, too, once he had the bank guard’s statement and Buffingham knew it was all up, anyway. Buffingham bumped him off, too. And why, do you think?”
“Why?”
“Because of you, baby, because of you.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, I’m not, my sweetling. You may look harmless, but because of you, a man died. Zeitman.”
“How—?”
“I like this. The day you first came to Mrs. Garr’s house to look it over, Buffingham stood on the stairs and heard Mrs. Garr say she kept a closet in that kitchen. He’d only just begun his hunt then. Mrs. Garr stuck so close, Buffingham couldn’t search your rooms before you moved in. Then you stuck around too much. Zeitman was getting hard up and wanted to rush things; it was his idea to burgle the joint, tie you up or bump you off so they could look your rooms over. Buffingham objected; he said he never intended any violence, up until he got caught. Probably he wanted to find the dough by himself and double-cross the other guy, too. Zeitman thought so, anyway. They had a fight, sitting in Buffingham’s car. Zeitman pulled his gun just for a little threatening, and the next thing he knew he had a pitchfork in his tail. All over you!”
“But how did he get where I found him?”
“Zeitman was killed in the car, out by Lake Maris somewhere, where they’d driven to talk things over. When Zeitman was dead, Buffingham just drove back to town with the body—he said it just looked drunk—calmly drove up in back of 593 Trent, dumped the body over the guardrail, drove back to the side of the house, wiped out the car for fingerprints—all the blood had soaked into Zeitman’s own clothes—and went to bed.”
“He didn’t seem to mind killing when he got started. What about me?”
“He even confessed that.”
“But why did he pick on me?”
Hodge’s triangular grin came on again. “So thick-witted,” he said.
“WHY?”
“It seems that after a certain run-in, he was always afraid you would put two and two together. After all, you caught him hunting for that cat on the night Mrs. Garr was murdered.”
If I could have lain back any harder, I’d have lain back harder.
There it was, staring me in the face.
That was what Mr. Buffingham had been doing, that Friday night before Memorial Day, when I’d come into the hall at ten. He had been chasing the cat!
I felt so low, I couldn’t even climb up close enough to the bottom to ask any more questions.
It’s bad enough having another amateur find a murderer you’ve been hunting yourself, without having it pointed out to you that you should have jolly well known it all along.
—
THAT’S THE STORY OF the murder of Mrs. Garr.
The rest of this is about what happened since then, in case you’d like to know.
I wasn’t lonesome in
