Honky-Tonk Girl (12 page)

Jean nodded. “Yeah. She was wearing it that night.”

“What did she do when she walked in on you?”

“She raised all kinds of hell. She screamed and threw things. When Miff got up and kicked her out, she swore she was going to get a gun and come back and kill both of us.”

“What did you do then?”

“Miff made me get out.”

“You don't know if Raye Cowles came back?”

“I wasn't there, but she was so made when she left, I'd give big odds she did.” She shivered. “I did come back afterwards. It must have been a few minutes after Miff was killed. I turned him over. He stared at me with his mouth all open and his eyes wide.”

“She wasn't there then?”

Jean shook her head. “Nobody.”

“That's okay. It's the best motive that's been found yet. And with your testimony and my swearing I found the pin—”

Johnny's brain raced. With a witness like this, he was getting closer and closer to the truth. He'd get George Swenninger to back him and they'd find out if Raye Cowles had killed Miff.

But he had to find Raye first. He had to confront her with this evidence, make her sign a confession if possible, and turn over the murder weapon. If he broke the news about his witness, Jean Nathan, then the Cowles' girl's crooked old man would whisk her away to some safe place in Mexico or South America before they could touch her.

But would the testimony of a Honky-Tonk streetwalker and a broken down trumpet player be enough to convict the daughter of Sam Cowles? He doubted it. It would take more—a signed confession, the murder weapon. These things he still had to get.

He stood up.

“Run along and steer clear of the cops. I'll call on you as soon as I locate Raye Cowles.”

“Maybe I can help you there, too,” Jean surprised him by saying. “My husband has treated her in the past for migraine headaches or she goes nuts. I'll check with the drugstore and see if they''ve sent out any refill on her prescriptions in the last couple of days—and if so, maybe I can find out where it was delivered. They know I''m a doctor's wife, so it won't be difficult.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Why are you suddenly so helpful?”

She smiled in that same mysterious way she had smiled a few minutes earlier. “Later, Johnny...later.”

“I'll phone you tomorrow evening,” Johnny told her. “If you've found out anything by then, we'll try to run down this Cowles dame. If not, we'll go to the newspaper anyway and see if we can force the crooked police department to do something.”

He left her and started back to the hotel. When he got halfway down Honky-Tonk Street, someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the match-chewing city detective, Harrison.

“Hi, Johnny. Still around, I see....”

Nickles muscles tensed. “Yeah, still around.”

“Well, that's the way it goes. Some people appreciate a gift, some don't. Those tickets now,” he recalled sadly, “we went to right smart trouble, buying them.”

Johnny was going to tell him, with considerable pleasure, to go to hell, but the cop interrupted.

“Well, since you're still around, I guess we'd better go down and pay the Sheriff a visit. He has all the boys out looking for you, you know.” We been checking bus stations, airports and railroad depots all day.”

“You're nuts,” Johnny said flatly. “You haven't got a charge you can take me in on legally, unless it's knowing too much about who killed Miff Smith, and—”

“That's just the charge, Johnny,” the detective informed him blandly. “You know who did it all right. We're taking you in on the charge of murdering Miff Smith....”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PERFECT SETUP

Friday Morning, 1:00 A.M.

Fred Botello sat behind his desk with his shoes off, staring gloomily at Johnny and the two men who had ushered him in. An electric fan buzzed softly at one corner of Botello's desk. When it oscillated his way, it ruffled the few strands of iron gray hair on the top of his shiny scalp, making them stand up. From a half-opened window, the distant sounds of night traffic filtered into the room.

At first, Botello didn't speak. He just sat scowling, silently. He burped once, softly, and the escaping gas made his fat lips pout. Then he fumbled in his drawer for his pills, found them and padded over to the water cooler with one pill held carefully in the palm of his left hand. He pulled down a paper cup with the other hand and filled it with water.

“Nickles,” he began at last in a grating tone, “where did you hide the gun you killed Miff Smith with?”

Johnny swore at him.

The sheriff cupped his palm and tossed the pill into his mouth, gulping water after it. He squashed the paper cup, let it fall to the floor and padded back to Nickles. Then he slapped the trumpet player hard across the face first with one heavy hand then the other. When Johnny tried to spring at him, the two pokerfaced deputies grabbed him from behind and held him while Botello had his fun.

“So you were the first person to find Miff Smith Monday night, eh? And when you walked in, you saw a lady's pin on the floor.”

“Not just a lady's pin,” Johnny panted. “Raye Cowles' pin—”

Botello slapped Johnny's mouth again. “Shuddup, you lyin' tinhorn bastard!” he yelled, the veins standing out at his temples.

He paced back to the windows, slammed them down and shut the venetian blinds. One of the deputies closed and locked the door leading to the hall.

Botello took a small blackjack from a desk drawer and sat on the edge of the desk, slapping the weapon gently against his palm. He was grinning, but there was a chilling gleam in his eyes. “This is a soundproof room, Johnny. A man could scream his lungs out in here and nobody'd know. I just wanted to explain that sometimes we get a criminal in here that gives us a little trouble. Gotta use some persuasion. You'd be surprised how a man's tongue loosens up after you've kicked him in the kidneys a few times or given him a boiling water enema.” Botello grinned, the skin on his face pulling tightly. “I know you ain't going to cause us to use them kinda measures. I'm goin' to ask you a few simple questions and you're goin' to answer them, ain't you? You're smart, Johnny...you'll make it easy for yourself.”

Johnny didn't say anything.

“This boy that got himself killed, this Miff Smith. He was a good friend of yours?”

Johnny nodded. “Hell, yes—he was a good friend of mine. We played together all our lives.”

Botello took up a clipboard from his desk and leafed through some papers. His next question caught Johnny off guard. “You ever know,” he asked silkily, “a girl named Christine Roberts?”

Johnny's eyes blinked, widened.

“You know her?” Botello yelled.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Couple of years.”

“Friend of yours?”

“She was a singer in my band.”

“That ain't what I asked.”

“Okay,” Johnny muttered sullenly. “She was a friend, too.”

“You might,” Botello put it delicately, “Even say you were more than friends?”

“That's none of your damned business!”

Botello used the sap on him. First around the face, then on his already bruised and aching body. When he sprawled across the floor, one of the deputies dug the toe of his shoe into his kidney.

“All right,” Botello swore at the other two men, “get him over to the lavatory. I don't want my floor messed up.”

They dragged Johnny to the basin and held him there while he retched and gagged. Then they handed him a paper towel and he washed his face weakly.

“Now,” Botello grunted, “let's get on with this. It's gettin' late and I want to get to bed.”

One of the deputies gave Johnny a cigarette. He moved shakily toward a chair, but they pushed him back in front of Botello's desk and made him stand.

Botello's voice became silk again. Pure silk, drawn delicately through gloved fingers. “We know a helluva lot about you, Johnny.” He consulted the clipboard again. “Been on the telephone all day about you. Let's see. You're a member of the New York local union. Workin' on a travelin' card. Had this band you got now for a year. Before that you had a bigger band with Miff Smith and the bass player, Mole, and the piano player, Howard, that's with you now. Also, you had a sexy-lookin' bitch singing.” he held up a glossy publicity photo of Johnny's big band with Christine out front.

“We have also found out,” the sheriff added discreetly, “that Miss Roberts had other duties which consisted of keepin' you warm on cold nights.”

“That was a long time ago,” Johnny reminded him wearily. “Christine left the band in Chicago six months ago. She walked out on me. I haven't seen her since—and don't want to.”

“M-mm.” Botello sat down on the corner of his desk again. He drew up one leg, clasping his fingers around the knee. Thoughtfully, he wiggled his toes inside his socks, frowning at them.

“I want you to tell me everything that happened Monday night.”

Sullenly, the trumpet player shrugged. “I was in my room until nearly ten-thirty, fooling around with some records and arrangements. Then I walked down the block to Miff's place. He lives about a half block down from me, across the street. I dropped by to have a drink with him...and I found him that way—dead.”

“The coroner says he got it about that time,” Botello muttered, running his gaze over notes on the clipboard.

“Listen,” Johnny swore through his swollen lips. “Miff Smith was one of my best friends. I loved the guy. I know you're desperate to find a patsy for this murder but you'll have a hell of a time inventing a motive to hang on me!”

“Yeah, you loved him like a brother,” Botello said sourly. “Like Cain loved Abel. Did you know he was playing around with this Christine babe at the time she was supposedly your girl friend?”

The statement came out of the blue and hit Johnny harder than Botello had with the sap. His mouth came open but he couldn't say anything.

“Hah!” Botello snorted triumphantly. “Hah!”

Johnny swallowed. “You're lying!” he managed to say at last.

“These letters say I'm not lyin'” He picked up some dog-eared envelopes and threw them in Nickles' face. “They're from Miff Smith to Christine Roberts, about one a week for the past six months. They give a pretty juicy history of the affair between them. We began checking on all this Tuesday morning. Found the Christine woman in St. Louis, had the law there round her up. When she learned Smith had been murdered, she sang long and loud, and turned these letters in. They were flown out here to us. She thought a lot of that drummer and if you killed him, she wants to see you fry for it.”

“It would seem,” Botello concluded, “that our drummer hasn't been hitting all his licks on the drums these last two years, Johnny, my boy. When Christine left your band, she says she was fed up with you. She and Miff Smith were planning on getting together on a more permanent basis as soon as she located a job for both of them in the same band.”

Well, Christine was running true to form, all right. However, it was hard for Johnny to buy the fact that she had been double-crossing him with his best friend—he'd thought Miff was too loyal a friend for that.

But women had always been Miff's weakness. Probably Christine had thrown the full power of her curves at him and he hadn't had the will power to resist. No doubt Christine, being the kind of gal she was, took special pleasure in seducing Johnny's best friend.

Still, Johnny doubted that Miff actually planned on leaving the band and joining up with Christine in some other outfit. Miff had been playing with Johnny for too many years—and he was too fickle about his women. No doubt, with Christine out of sight, he'd forgotten about her, even though he did write letters. He always like to keep his old flames on the string that way.

Johnny shrugged wearily. “Okay, so Miff was getting to first base with her too. One or two more or less wouldn't matter. I sure wouldn't have killed him for that. His little finger was worth more than all the Christines in the world.”

Botello moved close to him. His face grew mean again, like a bulldog's about to snap. “Stop lyin', Nickles. Tell the truth. We know you were plenty gone on that black-haired bitch. You been soakin' yourself in booze ever since she walked out on you. You been brooding about it, wondering why she left, and if it was on account of some other guy. This week you somehow find out it was on account of another guy. More—you find out who the guy is—your drummer, Miff Smith. So you blow your lid, slip down the street and shoot the guy. Then you produce this pin and try to hang the thing on Raye Cowles, a poor innocent child who hardly knew the guy!”

Johnny had to laugh. Bruised, aching, sick and so weak he could scarcely stand, he still had to throw back his head and laugh. It came from deep back in his throat in weird croaking sounds.

It goaded Botello into an insane rage. He grabbed up the blackjack and went to work with it again in earnest, swinging his bearish arms with such force that he grunted every time the sap thudded into Nickles' body.

“Where did you hide the gun?” he screamed over and again as he swung the sap.

But his voice was a long way off. It came echoing down an empty corridor, growing more and more distant until it was just a whisper, ringing hollowly in the dark, red haze. And then there was nothing but a puddle of India ink swirling around in a suffocating whirlpool that sucked everything down...down...down...to where all time and feeling ceased to exist....

* * * * * * *

When Johnny came to, he was lying on the hard bunk of a jail cell, staring at the bunk above him. Two beatings in a little over twenty-four hours was more than his raw nerves could stand. He began to shiver with a wracking chill. Then he covered his face with his hands and broke into loud sobs. After awhile he quieted down and slept for a little while and then he woke up again, stiff and sore, his mouth filled with dried blood.

Somebody was standing over him, shaking him. Achingly, he sat up on the bunk with his head in his hands. He looked at his watch and saw with surprise that it was only 2:30. Actually, they had dragged him out of Botello's office only a little over an hour ago.

“We've come back for you, Johnny,” the deputy told im. “You're going back for some more questioning.” He caught Nickles by the arm roughly and pulled him to his feet.

Johnny was trying to make his dull brain function. He held a hand out. “Wait,” he mumbled through his bruised lips. “I'm ready to confess. I'll show you where I hid the gun.”

The deputy grinned. “Now you're being smart, fellah.”

They went back into Botello's office together.

“He's discovered he has a brain,” the deputy told Botello. “He wants to confess.”

The heavyset sheriff smiled and rubbed his palms together. “That's more like it. You're being sensible, Johnny. Most of them come around to it sooner or later after we question them here.” He punched a button on his desk and a clerk came in with a shorthand notebook.

“Let's get through with this. Maybe we can get a couple of hours' sleep before the night's over,” Botello swore. “Go ahead, Johnny. Start talking. Right from the beginning.”

After the confession was taken down and recorded, Johnny signed it. Then they asked him where the gun was hidden.

“I'll have to show you. I threw it in the weeds on the outskirts of town near the dump yard. I can't remember exactly where, but I'll remember if we drove out there.”

Botello cursed and said he might just as well give up the idea of getting any sleep that night. He put on his shoes, got his hat and told one of the deputies to put handcuffs on Johnny. Then all three went downstairs and out to Botello's car. The deputy drove, and Johnny and the sheriff sat in the back seat—a grim twosome.

With the window down, the night air washed over Nickles like refreshing cool ice water. He breathed in great drafts of it. His body was one dull ache from head to foot. Nausea lay in the pit of his stomach like a sick, greasy lump. They drove for a half-hour, through the city streets to the highway that skirted the edge of town.

“Well?” Botello asked impatiently. “We passed the city dump ten minutes ago.”

“I'm watching,” Johnny mumbled. He had the window rolled down. He sat forward on the edge of the seat, watching as the driver played his spotlight along the side of the road. The handcuffs cut into his wrists.

“Here,” he suddenly exclaimed. “This gravel pit.”

“All right,” Botello said to the driver. “Stop here.” But he made no move to leave the car. He took out his heavy revolver and checked it.

In the front seat, the driver lit a cigarette. The flare of his match played over his face. He kept the motor running.

“Well,” Johnny said thickly, “don't you want me to show you where I threw it?”

“What?” Botello asked blankly.

A thin trickle of ice water suddenly rippled up Johnny's spine. The pounding of his heart sounded loud in his ears.

“The gun. The gun I killed Miff with.”

Botello chuckled.

The night was still. Off in the weeds, a cricket chirped. The motor in the heavy car ticked over softly.

“Come on, Johnny,” the sheriff grunted, opening his door. “Let's go for a little walk. Let's see where you hid that gun.”

Then Johnny stopped kidding himself. He hadn't fooled Botello for one minute. The wily sheriff knew as well as he that there was no gun here. Furthermore, Botello knew Johnny had not killed Miff Smith. But, with Cowles and the newspaper putting pressure on him, he had to produce a murderer in short order. He had checked into the band members and when he ran into the Christine angle, he'd seen a perfect setup for a trumped-up murder charge and a jealousy motive. Now he had a signed confession. But he wasn't going to chance testing its validity in a courtroom. And he wasn't going to give George Swenninger a chance to defend Johnny in the Herald. No, Johnny Nickles was going to be conveniently “Killed while trying to escape.”