Sheriff on the Spot (7 page)

“Tell them what really happened,” he snapped. “Tell them who drank whisky with you in here.”

“I—drank it by myself,” she flared.

“Out of two glasses?” asked Pat.

“Yes.” She glared at him defiantly. “I always drink out of two glasses. One in each hand. I can get it down faster that way. And the faster I get it down, the faster I forget what beasts all men are.” Tears ran down her rouged cheeks and she wiped them away angrily with the back of her hand.

“You smoked a lot of cigarettes, too,” Joe Deems put in sharply, indicating the burned-down, brown-paper butts on the tray.

“I always smoke a lot when I'm drinking two-handed.”

Harold Morgan pushed his way forward to peer down with interest at the tray. “I never saw you roll brown-paper cigarettes, Miss Lane,” he expostulated respectfully. “Only last night you turned me down when I offered my brown papers. Said you always used white.”

“You know you're lying, Kitty,” Deems said wearily. “Sam Sloan was in here with you tonight.”

“By golly,” said Morgan with interest. “I bet you're right, Deems. Sam always smoked his butts down short like this. Remember, Pat, how we used to laugh at Sam about burning his fingers on those short butts he was always nibbling on?”

Pat Stevens nodded heavily. “But there's plenty of other men do the same.”

“Sam Sloan is the sheriff's best friend,” Deems reminded Morgan venomously. “Stevens would do anything to cover up for him. Even to maybe hiding murder evidence,” he ended slowly.

Pat looked at him with hard, alert eyes. “Meanin' what, Deems?”

“Nothing.” Deems shrugged his shoulders. “Only, as Mr. Morgan sees, right here's the evidence that Sam was in here tonight—and you're trying to protect Sam by claiming he wasn't here.”

“I'm not claiming anything. I said lots of other men smoked their butts down short. I'm waitin' for Miss Kitty to tell us who smoked those.”

“All right. It was Sam,” she admitted wearily. “He came in to have a drink and a cigarette with me before supper. Is there anything wrong in that?”

“Go on and tell the rest of it,” Deems ordered.

“That's all there is to tell.” Her voice rose wildly. “We had some drinks together. Then he went into his room and I went downstairs to eat supper.”

“Leaving your door locked?” Pat asked.

“Yes.”

“And I suppose Ralston just walked in here and stabbed himself and then swallowed the knife,” said Deems angrily.

“Maybe he did. I don't know.” Kitty Lane sank down wearily on a little padded bench in front of the bureau and covered her face with her hands.

“How come that door to be unlocked?” Pat asked her.

“I don't know.” Kitty's voice was muffled. She didn't take her hands away from her face.

“Do you leave it unlocked all the time—for the convenience of anyone renting that room?”

“Certainly not,” Joe Deems put in angrily. “The Jewel isn't that kind of hotel, Stevens. And Kitty isn't that kind of woman.”

“Maybe not. But I still want her to tell me whether she unlocked that door on purpose or whether it just happened to be unlocked.”

“And I still tell you I don't know.” Kitty Lane raised her head. “It's always been locked before. I didn't notice it today. I didn't have any reason to look at it.”

“Do you still claim you don't know Ralston?”

She glanced at the dead man and shuddered. “I never saw him before.”

“How'd he come to ask for the room next to yours?”

“I don't know!” Kitty sprang to her feet. “How can I tell why some man did something? Maybe he was superstitious about number fifteen. Maybe he
always
asks for number fifteen at a hotel.”

“But he doesn't always go through a door into the next room an' get himself killed,” Pat argued. “That only happened this one time.”

Deems said harshly, “I still wonder what happened to the knife that killed him.” He was regarding Kitty intently and there was an odd note of anger in his voice.

Kitty caught her breath in sharply. She said, “So do I,” in a wondering tone.

Deems scowled at her and started to say something further, but Kitty turned on the sheriff and asked, “What did
you
know about all this? You've been acting mysterious all evening.”

“That's right, Sheriff,” Deems put in. “You asked Kitty downstairs if she knew Ralston. And you were dragging her up here to this room when you got the alarm about the bank being robbed.”

“That's right, Pat.” Harold Morgan nodded his head with perplexity. “You sent me up to keep guard over these two rooms. Looks like you knew there was a dead man in here.”

Pat Stevens hesitated. He wasn't ready, yet, to admit he had been in this room earlier in the evening. He was too conscious of having Sam's bloodstained knife hidden inside his boot for that. He said gruffly, “I got tipped off that something was wrong up here. That's why I came in the first place.”

“Who tipped you off?” Deems was watching him keenly.

“That,” said Pat, “is my business.”

“I think it's mine, too, Sheriff. After all, I'm pretty much concerned about this.”

Pat shook his head. “A sheriff wouldn't get very many tips if he told where they came from.”

“Could it be,” sneered Deems, “that you don't want to tell because it might point to someone's guilt?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” Deems exploded. “Kitty admits Sam Sloan was in here with her before supper. They were drinking together and he was pretty drunk. Also, he was crazy about Kitty. Now, there's a dead man here and Sam has disappeared. Looks to me like you're covering up for him.”

“You accusin' Sam of this murder?” Pat asked flatly.

Deems shrugged his shoulders. “It could be that Ralston came through that door while Sam was in here. Sam was drunk enough to kill him thinking he was protecting Kitty.”

“Not with a knife,” Harold Morgan declared vigorously. “Not Sam Sloan. He might've gunned a man for that, but he'd never use a knife while his gun was handy.”

“Maybe he didn't have a gun,” Deems argued. “Maybe he'd left it in his room.”

“How about it,” Pat demanded of Kitty. “Was Sam wearin' his six-gun?”

“What does it matter? I didn't notice, I guess. I know Sam didn't do this.”

“Then that leaves you,” snarled Deems. “Damn it, Kitty. Do you want that pretty neck of yours stretched at the end of a rope?”

She stared at him as though she didn't quite comprehend his words, then smiled a bitter little smile. “I don't know. It might be—a good way to end this crazy life.”

“Nonsense,” Deems said vigorously. “You can't sacrifice yourself, Kitty. Damn it, a man would think you were in love with Sam Sloan.”

“Maybe,” said Kitty, very low, “I was.”

Deems' face became contorted with anger. “That ugly little runt? You were after his money. You know that's all you wanted.” He seemed to be almost pleading with her to verify his statement.

She smiled listlessly and didn't say anything.

After a moment's scowling hesitation, Joe Deems strode forward and shouldered her aside from her position directly in front of the bureau. “You're acting mighty funny, Kitty. Why are you staying so close to this bureau? You got something hidden in it? Something you don't want us to find?”

“What do you think I'd have hidden?”

“A knife, maybe.”

“I don't own a knife.”

“But it might be somebody else's knife. Sam Sloan's, maybe. And it might have blood on it.” Deems turned to Pat. “Don't you think we should make a search, Sheriff?”

Pat said, “It wouldn't hurt.” He stepped forward and Deems drew back and ostentatiously folded his arms to indicate that he wasn't responsible for anything Pat might find hidden in the bureau.

Pat pulled the top drawer open and began to rummage around among a litter of feminine things, feeling foolish as he did so, but thinking that it would look better if he pretended to search for the knife that was even now hidden inside his boot.

His eyes narrowed after a moment, and he drew out a small roll of parchment, tied with a blue ribbon in a big bowknot. He held it up to Kitty and asked, “What's this?”

Her eyes widened and she seemed to flinch, but she said, “It's nothing. Just an old—memento I've kept all these years.”

Pat said, “I'd like to see what kind of thing you keep tied up with a blue ribbon, Ma'am.” His big fingers awkwardly fumbled with the knot, and he took a long time untying it.

When he finally rolled the sheet of parchment out, he studied it bleakly and nodded, muttering, “I thought it looked like a wedding certificate.”

His bronzed features tightened and he let the parchment roll back up.

Kitty shrank back with both hands going up to her bosom as Pat turned on her. He said, “I reckon it's time you started tellin' some of the truth,
Mrs. Fred Ralston.”

7

“Good God, Sheriff!” ejaculated Joe Deems. “Do you mean that—that
Kitty—
was this dead man's wife?”

And Harold Morgan echoed, “Mrs. Fred Ralston?” with his mouth hanging open stupidly.

Kitty flashed a look of utter scorn upon Deems. “All right,” she gritted between her teeth. “So now, you know. I was married to him. I've been married to him for ten loathsome years. I hated him! Do you hear me? I despised him. I'm glad he's dead. I should have done it myself ten years ago.” She sank down to the floor, sobbing wildly.

Deems shook his head and muttered to Pat, “I knew Kitty was married to a man whom she hated, but I didn't know his name.”

Pat Stevens leaned down and caught hold of Kitty's arm. He lifted her up gently and led her to the bed. “Sit down there, Ma'am. Soon as you get to feelin' able we'll go on with our talk.”

Deems caught his arm as he turned away from her. “What do you think this means, Sheriff? You don't think she murdered her husband?”

Pat said stolidly, “I'm tryin' not to do too much thinkin' right now. When she gets over her crying spell, we'll see what she's got to say.”

He strode across to the whisky bottle still sitting on the tray between the two chairs, picked it up and pulled the cork out. He put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and drank deeply, sighed and mopped sweat from his face when he set the bottle down. He got out his makings and slowly rolled a cigarette as he turned back toward the other two men in the room.

Kitty lay face down on the bed and her bare shoulders shook with sobs. Harold Morgan was regarding her wonderingly, and Deems had stepped back to sit down on the bench in front of the bureau.

Pat got his cigarette rolled, and put fire to the end of it. He went to the bed and leaned over to touch Kitty's bare shoulder with his hard fingertips. “That had ought to be enough cryin',” he told her. “We're still waiting to get the rights of this killing.”

“I see it all now,” Deems broke in harshly. “Sam was in here with her and they were half-drunk together. He was probably making love to her. In the meantime, her husband has checked into the room next to hers without her knowing it—and he walks in on them. It would naturally make him mad to find another man in his wife's bedroom. So he must have jumped Sam, and Sam—”

“We'll let the lady tell it,” Pat interrupted him brusquely.

Kitty rolled over on her side and peered up at him out of tear-dimmed eyes. “It was awful,” she choked out. “I thought Fred was in Denver. Sam was here with me. There wasn't anything wrong in that. None of you have a right to make anything wrong out of us having a drink together.” She sat up and blinked at them defiantly.

“No one's sayin' what's wrong an' what's right,” Pat soothed her. “Go on an' tell us what happened.”

“Sam was—asking me to marry him.” Kitty drooped her head and laced her fingers together nervously in her lap. “I was having a hard time putting him off,” she confessed. “I was afraid to tell him I was already married.” She lifted her head defiantly and told Pat, “I'd have married Sam if I'd been free. I want you to believe that. I liked him a lot. I guess I loved him—if a woman like me can love a man.” Her voice was harsh with bitterness on the last words.

Pat said gently, “I reckon I believe you, Ma'am. Makes me feel better—sort of. Go ahead.”

“The door opened,” Kitty said tonelessly, “and there was Fred. My husband. He stood there and sneered at us.”

“Which door?” asked Pat.

“That one.” Kitty indicated the door into number 15.

“You don't know how it got unlocked?”

“No. I don't. Unless Fred got in here somehow and unlocked it before I came up to my room.”

Pat sighed and said, “Go on.”

“Sam jumped up and began swearing at him for breaking into a lady's room. And Fred laughed and said, ‘That's no lady, you fool. That's my wife.' And then Fred began cursing and threatening him. And—well, they—I guess Sam thought he was reaching in his pocket for a gun.” Kitty shuddered at the recollection. “And before I could stop him he had his knife out and was on top of Fred. It was awful. He was terribly drunk, you see,” she appealed to Pat. “That makes a difference, doesn't it? In the eyes of the law?”

Pat shook his head. “I'm not the judge nor the jury.”

“Drunkenness won't be any defense,” Deems put in stridently. “Not for a man who kills a woman's husband after he's caught them together. Anybody knows that's murder.”

Without looking at Deems, Pat said, “You'd do better to keep your mouth out of this. Go ahead, Ma'am. What happened then?”