Painter said, “I want the truth from you, Smith. I’ll see that you get a break if you come clean. Don’t try to protect anybody. I guess you know that rod was plenty hot. Tell us exactly how it came into your possession.”
Smith took his time about answering. Not a muscle in his stocky body moved until he turned his head slowly toward Bronson and drawled, “I found the pistol right outside the apartment where that reporter was shot on Tuesday night. I saw you drop it, Mr. Bronson, when you came out with the dame and got in your car.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Shut up, Bronson,” Painter roared.
“I knew I did wrong keeping it,” Dilly Smith went on in a slow, earnest drawl. “I was broke and figured Bronson would pay to get it back. I guess that’s against the law, but I don’t want to get mixed up in any shooting rap and I’m telling you the truth, Chief Painter.”
Painter’s face looked as though he had just bitten into a green persimmon. He gestured toward Shayne despairingly and demanded of Smith, “How does Shayne figure in it?”
“Him?” Smith rounded his eyes at Shayne. “I don’t know. He’s a private detective I met at a friend’s place the other night. That’s the only time I ever saw him.”
Bronson heaved his bulky body to his feet. “This man is obviously lying,” he said hoarsely. “His story of how he came into possession of the weapon is an absurd lie. I tell you it was stolen from-”
Dillingham Smith started toward Bronson like a man walking in a slow moving picture. His short broad hands were doubled into fists and slowly swinging at his sides.
Painter said, “Sit down, Bronson,” and motioned to the officer standing guard.
The officer got in front of Smith and shoved him back. Smith’s expression didn’t change. He continued as though the short scene had never occurred, “I picked the pistol up where Mr. Bronson dropped it Tuesday night. I didn’t know what had happened upstairs then, but when I heard about the reporter being shot next morning, about it being a thirty-two and all, I knew that must be why he was in such a hurry to get away and didn’t notice dropping it by his car.”
Painter took a few nervous paces around the room, came back to Smith and snapped, “So you decided to keep the gun and blackmail Mr. Bronson?”
“That’s right,” drawled Smith. “I recognized him and I knew he was rich and I thought I could make a good touch. I wrote him a letter Thursday night and told him to put that ad in today’s paper if he wanted to deal. Then when I started over here tonight I got picked up by a couple of Miami cops.”
A look of complete bafflement came over Bronson’s heavy face. He said, “This man is protecting Shayne for some reason. It was Shayne who wrote me that letter demanding money.”
“Have you got the letter?” Shayne asked.
“It’s at home in a safe place.”
“You can check Smith’s and my handwriting and find out soon enough,” Shayne told Painter. “Right now, it seems to me a murder charge is more important.”
“Right,” snapped Painter. He turned to Bronson. “Do you deny Smith’s story of how he came into possession of the pistol?”
“Of course I deny it. I didn’t go near Rourke’s apartment that night. His entire story is preposterous.”
Into the short, dead silence that followed, Shayne said calmly, “Why don’t we ask Mrs. Bronson about the whole thing? She was a pretty good friend of Rourke’s.”
“That’s an outrageous lie,” Bronson broke in hoarsely. “My wife scarcely knew Rourke.”
“Not only that,” Shayne went on, placidly ignoring him, “Bronson started out for Rourke’s apartment that night at nine-thirty with some personal effects in a Manila envelope. If Smith saw him coming out of there with a woman after Rourke was shot, he must have been there. What did the woman look like?” he asked Smith.
“She was a swell blonde. They came down the back stairs and Mr. Bronson got in his car and the woman got in hers. They were parked on a side street. After I picked up the pistol where he dropped it, I followed them in my car. They both drove straight up to Mr. Bronson’s house and turned in the drive.”
Shayne said, “Your wife’s a blonde, Bronson. Did she help you attack Rourke?”
“My wife is ill and has been confined to her room for days,” said Bronson stiffly. His face was gray and he mopped it constantly. “Do I have to sit here and listen to these ridiculous insults to my wife-and these preposterous accusations?”
“Go ahead and tell Painter your wife has been confined to her room only since Wednesday morning,” Shayne said harshly. “Tell him you don’t permit the servants to see her, and though you claim she’s ill with a nervous breakdown, you haven’t called a doctor.”
“Is that right?” Painter snapped at Bronson.
“She simply needed rest,” Bronson protested. “There was no need for a doctor. She’s had these attacks before and always recovers in a few days.”
“Do you always lock her in her room when she has them?” Shayne persisted.
Branson’s heavy lids closed over his eyes and he sank back. “I wanted to protect her,” he moaned. “I’ll tell you the whole truth.”
Chapter Seventeen: ONE LITTLE THING
Painter gave Shayne a swift glare of cold hatred, strutted to the swivel chair behind the desk and said, “Now I’m getting somewhere. See that you do tell the truth, Bronson. You’ve heard this man say he saw you coming out of Rourke’s place with a woman soon after he was shot.”
“Yes.” Walter Bronson wiped his face with a soggy handkerchief. “You’ll have to understand that my wife and I have very little in common. She’s strongly self-willed and for years we’ve more or less gone our separate ways. She likes excitement and a good time, while I’m more interested in my work.”
He paused to moisten his thick lips, then continued, “I was surprised and horrified when I found her in Rourke’s apartment that night. I assure you I had no idea-”
“Let’s get down to facts and skip your personal feelings,” Painter interrupted sharply. “You found her in Rourke’s apartment Tuesday night?”
“Yes. I stopped for a cup of coffee and a sandwich after leaving my office, then drove directly to the Blackstone. I had cleared out Rourke’s desk and had his things with his final check which I intended to deliver to him.
“There was no one in the lobby when I entered. I noticed it was ten-forty by the clock behind the desk. I had the number of Rourke’s apartment and I went up the stairs and found the door standing open. I knocked and pushed it open and-saw my wife kneeling on the floor beside Rourke’s body.
“You can imagine how I felt. I suppose I went out of my head for a moment. Muriel-my wife-was weeping and distraught. Her hands were bloody, and she had received a blow on the left temple that was already causing her eye to blacken. She seemed dazed by it. There wasn’t any weapon in sight, though I saw that Rourke had been shot.”
Walter Bronson ran his hand over his face and pressed his fingers against his eyes. “My only thought was to get Muriel away from there before she was discovered,” he went on earnestly. “She insisted that she hadn’t shot him, but didn’t know exactly what happened. It was wrong of me, but-she is my wife.
“I got hold of her and helped her out the door and she indicated the back stairway. We went down without being seen, and she was getting hold of herself by that time and insisted she was able to drive her own car. She promised to drive straight home, and I helped her in and went back to my car and followed her. I wasn’t aware that we had been trailed home. The servants were in bed, and we went up to our suite without being seen.” He paused to draw in a deep, tragic breath.
“So you didn’t carry any gun down from the apartment with you and drop it outside?” Painter barked.
“I did not. I didn’t know until we reached home that Muriel had taken my pistol with her to Rourke’s apartment-and that it was mysteriously missing from her handbag.” Bronson stopped speaking, as though from sheer exhaustion.