"There's not the slightest evidence of it." Ledsom hesitated, then went on, "I wouldn' dream of chewing the fat with you in this manner if it wasn't that your home town law gave you a very big hand. That sort of thing counts with me."
"I suppose so."
'Therefore, I'll tell you something more. The three fellows don't tally with any trio released or escaped from prison this year."
"How about the military prisons? That old bird at the filling station thought they might be wearing altered uniforms."
"There is no military, naval or airforce uniform corresponding with that description."
"Not in this country. Maybe they were foreigners."
"The girl says not. They spoke the language as only we can speak it and knew the country like the backs of their hands."
"Have you asked the authorities whether they know of any uniform that does correspond?"
"No. The girl agrees that their clothes had a sort of official look, and thinks they were wearing army disposal stuff dyed green. If so, we've poor chance of tracing it. Ex-army jackets have been thrown on the market by the thousands."
"How about their car? You thought it might be stolen."
"To date, we've pulled in reports of ten missing in various parts of the country. Four of them are green. We have urgent calls out for those four numbers; no luck so far." He gazed morbidly through an adjacent window. "Anyway, they may have resprayed it and changed the tags. Or it may be legitimately owned. Or it may be a rented car. The Thunderbug is a popular make; it would take months to check all sales and rentals from coast to coast."
Harper thought it over and said, "Well, you'll know it if ever you lay hands on it. You have a tire-cast, and that's something."
"Doesn't follow it's one of theirs. Anybody could have gone up that lane anytime the same day. All we've discovered is that it doesn't belong to any logging vehicle. Neither do those three fellows answer the descriptions of any logging company's employees, past or present."
"No matter what that girl says, I still think they're the boys you want."
"The girl was an unwilling witness in that event. She wasn't a guilty party, so why should she cover up for a bunch of strangers?"
"Maybe they weren't strangers," Harper offered.
"What d'you mean?"
"It doesn't follow that because they gave her a lift they must have been unknown to her."
"She swears she didn't know them from Adam."
"You could bet on her saying that — if one of them happened to be a crazy boy friend, or a shiftless relative."
"H'm!" Ledsom viewed this as remotely possible, but rather unlikely.
"If she's telling lies about a murder, she must have a very strong reason. Perhaps she's been intimidated."
"Wrong guess," snapped Ledsom, positively. "I've been in this game a long time and I can tell when a suspect is secretly afraid."
"I'm a suspect, too — a bigger and better one, to judge by what's happening right now. Think I'm scared?"
"No," admitted Ledsom.
"I ought to be-if I did it. But I didn't."
"Somebody did. We know that much." Ledsom studied him levelly. "I can hold you for twenty-four hours, and I'd do it if I had a fair chance of pinning something on you by then. But it's going to take that long to empty the pond, so you can go. God help you if we salvage a gun traceable to you."
Harper departed, feeling distinctly surly, and made the long drive home in ruminating silence.
3. Roped In
He had a small plant, employing six myopic but deft-fingered men. There was an office barely large enough to hold his desk and that of a secretary cum stenographer cum telephone operator. This person, Moira, was three inches taller than himself and about half the width. Cupid couldn't lug a ladder into the room and that fact suited Harper.
Seated at his desk, he was examining a set of miniscule glass forceps under a powerful magnifier when Riley opened the door and took the two steps necessary to reach the middle. His plainclothes effectively advertised him as a cop in disguise.
" 'Morning, Lieutenant," greeted Harper, glancing up momentarily before returning attention to the task in hand.
" 'Morning, Neanderthal." There being no extra chair, or space for one, Riley hooked a thick leg over a desk comer and rested himself as best he could. He bent forward to stare through the magnifier. "Beats me how paws so thick and hairy can fiddle with stuff that size."
"Why not? You pick your teeth, don't you?"
"Leave my personal habits out of this." Riley's eyes became accusing. "Let's discuss some of yours."
Harper sighed, fitted the forceps into a velvet-lined case and placed it in a drawer. He shoved the magnifier to one side, looked up.
"Such as what?"
"Being around when things happen."
"Can I help it?"
"I don't know; sometimes I wonder. It's mighty queer the way you latch onto this and that."
"Be specific," Harper invited.
"We've had a call. Fellow wants to know if you're still around. And if not, why not."
"All right, I'm still around. Go tell him."
"I wanted to know why he wanted to know," said Riley, pointedly.
"And he told you; he said it isn't in the mud."
"Mud? What mud?"
"At the bottom of the pond." Harper grinned up fit him. "He also asked whether I'm known to own a.32."
"You're right; it was Captain Ledsom. He gave me the details from first to last."
"Whereupon you solved the whole case for him," suggested Harper. "Two minds being better than one."
"You are going to solve it," said Riley.
"Am I?" Harper rubbed a chin (and produced gasping noises. "Moira, throw this bum out."
"Do your own dirty work," ordered Riley. "You aren't paying her to act as bouncer as well, are you? Let's get down to basics. You're going to let business go to pot; while you play Sherlock."
"Why?"
"First, because I told I Ledsom you could clear up the matter if continuously kicked. So he wants me to kick."
"And second?"
"Because there's now a reward for information leading to the apprehension and conviction of the killer or killers. Being human, and in old shoes, and wearing a tie obviously given with a gallon of grog you could use the dough."
"That all?"
"Not by a long shot. I've saved the best bit to the last." He grinned, revealing big teeth. "An hour ago some hoarse-voiced character phoned Ledsom and said he'd seen Alderson having an argument with a compressed bruiser answering more or less to your description. Know what that makes you?"
"The sacrificial goat," said Harper moodily.
Riley nodded. "We'd pick you up and sweat a confession out of you but for two things. One is that we know you too well to believe you did it; the other is that the witness is not available to identify you."
"Why isn't her
"He said his piece and cut off — so Ledsom doesn't know who called."
"That looks fishy."
"Some folks hate to get involved,'' observed Riley. "More's the pity."
"I'm not surprised. I became too public-spirited myself; see what it's bought me."
"You jumped into it. Get busy and wriggle out of it."
"I can't afford the time," Harper complained.
"You can't afford a spell in clink, either," Riley pointed out. "If Ledsom asks us to take you in, we'll have to do it."
"Do you think that's likely?"
"God knows. It depends on what they turn up in the way of further evidence."
"If they find any pointing at me, it will be purely circumstantial."
"That's a hell of a consolation when you're sitting around awaiting trial," said Riley. "The moment Ledsom believes he's got enough to convince, a jury, he'll make the pinch. He may then find he's wrong because the jury proves difficult to satisfy. But even if you get away with it, you'll have been put through the mill, lost a lot of patience, time and money."