“Sure,” Harmas said, “but you’re not suggesting that we pay out on a phony claim, are you?”
“Is it phony? Just because you’ve found out this woman has a police record, does that make her a murderess. What proof have you got?”
“I’ve caught her out in two lies,” Hamas said. “It was she who persuaded Barlowe to go out to Jason’s Glen and I have a witness who’ll swear to it, but she claims it was Barlowe who wanted to go… to be romantic. I have proof they slept alone. Barlowe wasn’t the romantic type… he was a pervert. It’s my bet that her boy friend was waiting at the Glen for them. There’s a telephone record at the road-house where they spent the evening that a call was put through to a call box near the glen. I can’t prove she actually made the call, but it certainly looks as if she did. I think she was alertting her boy friend that she and Barlowe were on the way to the glen.”
“Pretty circumstantial, isn’t it?” Anson asked, staring at Harmas.
“Oh sure, but it turns on the red light. There’s an impression of a car tyre by the call box and we found the same impression up at the Glen. If we find her boy friend has a tyre that matched the impression, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”
Anson kept his face expressionless, but there was a sudden chill around his heart.
“The impression could have been made any time, couldn’t it? What else have you got?”
Harmas sat forward.
“This is the topper,” he said. “Barlowe was a crack pistol shot: he owned two guns; .38’s. Both these guns are missing.
Mrs. Barlowe told us Barlowe had given one gun away, but Harry Seamore, the secretary of the Target Club, is certain, Barlowe would never have parted with these guns. Now there’s something… Barlowe was shot with his own gun. We have been able to check the slugs. And here’s something really sensational; the same guy that killed Barlowe, killed the cop in the Caltex hold-up. How do you like that?”
“You’ve certainly been busy,” Anson said as he bent to adjust his shoe string. He felt he had lost colour and he cursed himself for using Barlowe’s gun. At the time it had seemed so easy and convenient… what blind spot had led him into making such a stupid, dangerous mistake? He straightened. “What does Lieutenant Jenson think… does he think Barlowe did that holdup? Could explain how he got hold of the money to pay for his premium. Come to think of it, it could be the answer. He was desperate to start up on his own. He probably hadn’t the money to pay for the premium and staged this hold-up. Could explain why he paid up in cash.”
Harmas stroked his nose.
“Yeah; you have an idea. All the same, I’m still convinced Mrs. Barlowe has a boy friend and he and she cooked up Barlowe’s murder.”
“Just who is this boy friend you keep talking about?” Anson demanded.
“We’re looking for him. He shouldn’t be all that hard to turn up.” Harmas finished his coffee. “Well, that puts you in the picture. I’m alerting Maddox. He’ll love it! I don’t think Mrs. Barlowe is going to get paid. She could end up in the gas chamber.”
Anson got to his feet.
“You have still to prove it,” he said. “Until you do prove it, I’m going along with my client. This kind of situation could put me right out of business here. See you,” and he walked out of the lounge.
Harmas watched him go, a sudden, puzzled expression in his alert grey eyes.
Harmas had just finished breakfast and had moved into the lounge of the hotel to read the newspapers when Jenson came striding in.
“That finger print idea of yours has paid off,” Jenson said. “I think we’re on to her boy friend. There are two sets of men’s prints in her bedroom. One set we have no record of, but the other belongs to a guy named Sailor Hogan. He was one time light-heavy weight champion of California and he lived in Los Angeles. He works now in Brent for Joe Duncan, a bookmaker. As Hogan lived in L.A. and Mrs. Barlowe worked there as a prostitute could be he was her pimp.”
“Get any prints from the gun-box?” Harmas asked.
“Yeah, but they aren’t Hogan’s; they belong to the other guy,” Jenson told him. “I’m going to talk to Hogan now. Do you want to come?”
Harmas climbed to his feet.
“I’d like to see you stop me,” he said.
Sailor Hogan lounged back in his chair, a sneering grin on his battle scarred face.
“Look, fellows, snap it up,” he said. “I have things to do. What’s biting you?”
“Where were you on the night of September 21st?” Jenson demanded.
Hogan’s grin widened.
“What’s this? What am I supposed to have been doing?”
“What were you doing and where were you?”
“I don’t know,” Hogan said, shrugging. “That’s over two weeks ago, isn’t it?”
“Think about it,” Jenson said with his cop voice. “You could be in trouble. Better think hard.”
“Well, if it’s like that,” Hogan said still grinning, “maybe I can do something about it.” He took from his pocket a slim red diary and began to flick through the pages “September 21 st?”
“You heard me!” Jenson snapped.
“Well, now yeah… just as well I keep a diary, isn’t it?” Hogan looked at Harmas and winked. “I’ve been in a spot of trouble in the past, now I always keep a record. Comes in useful when the law gets nosy.”
“Come on, Hogan!” Jenson barked. “What were you doing?”
“I was in Lambsville… I had a job to do for Joe Duncan… any particular time bothering you?”
“Three to four o’clock in the morning.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake. I was in bed! Where else would I be?”
“Can you prove it?”
Hogan leered.
“Easiest thing in the world, Lieutenant. I don’t often sleep along. I get scared of the dark. I had a babe to look after me.”
His sneering grin widened. “She has a reason to remember. You ask her… Kit Litman. She works at the Casino Club.”
“What were you doing on the night of September 30th?”
Hogan again winked at Harmas as he flicked pages in his diary.
“Time?” he asked. “Between nine and eleven p.m.”
“That’s an easy one,” Hogan said. “I was playing poker with four of my pals. We played from eight to midnight at Sam’s bar. Check if you don’t believe me. I was with Joe Gershwin, Ted Macklin, Frankie Stewart and Jack Hammond.” He lolled at ease in his chair. “They’ll tell you. We started play at eight and finished at around two o’clock. Is that all? I have work to do. You can’t pin anything on me, Lieutenant. I keep my nose clean.”
Jenson asked abruptly, “You know Mrs. Barlowe? Hogan was waiting for this question. “I can’t say I do… have I missed anything?”
“You know Philip Barlowe?”
“The guy who was knocked off? No… what’s all this in aid of?”
“Have you ever been to the Barlowe house?” Hogan’s smile began to fade. He didn’t like the cold, hard stare Jenson was giving him. “Is it likely?”
“How does it happen then your fingerprints were found in the Barlowe house?” Jenson demanded, leaning forward. For a moment Hogan gaped at him, then he forced a rueful grin.
“You coppers! You been out there getting fingerprints?”
“We have yours Hogan,” Jenson said. “Let’s start again; do you know Meg Barlowe?” Hogan shrugged.
“Oh, sure. What’s it matter now Barlowe’s dead? She and I used to go around together before she married Barlowe. We met again and she invited me out there from time to time. Barlowe hadn’t what it takes!” He had recovered his nerve and he winked at Harmas as he went on, “I was just protecting the lady’s honour. But since you know, well, there it is.