know the murderer?”
“By hiding evidence, you have become an accessory after the fact. What is the evidence, and what was your purpose in concealing it?”
Bessie turned her eyes ceilingward as though she expected help from heaven. “If I’d hold out on you, you’d never know nothing about it. And if they hadn’t played that music at the funeral, I’d never’ve told you. Church music makes me soft.”
“Whom were you shielding, Bessie?”
“Her.”
“Miss Hunt?”
Bessie nodded grimly.
“Why, Bessie? She’s dead.”
“Her reputation ain’t,” Bessie observed righteously and went to the corner cabinet, in which Laura had always kept a small stock of liquor. “Just look at this.”
Mark leaped. “Hey, be careful. There may be fingerprints.”
Bessie laughed. “Maybe there was a lot of fingerprints around here! But the cops never seen them.”
“You wiped them off, Bessie? For God’s sakes!”
“That ain’t all I wiped off,” Bessie chuckled. “I cleaned off the bed and table in there and the bathroom before the cops come.”
Mark seized bony wrists. “I’ve a good mind to take you into custody.”
She pulled her hands away. “I don’t believe in fingerprints anyway. All Saturday afternoon the cops was sprinkling white powder around my clean flat. Didn’t do them no good because I polished all the furniture on Friday after she’d went to the office. If they found any fingerprints, they was mine.”
“If you don’t believe in fingerprints, why were you so anxious to get rid of those in the bedroom?”
“Cops got dirty minds. I don’t want the whole world thinking she was the kind that got drunk with a fellow in her bedroom, God rest her soul.”
“Drunk in her bedroom? Bessie, what does this mean?”
“So help me,” Bessie swore, “there was two glasses.”
He seized her wrists again. “Why are you making up this story, Bessie? What have you to gain by it?”
Hers was the hauteur of an enraged duchess. “What right you got to yell at me? You don’t believe me, huh? Say, I was the one that cared about her reputation. You never even knew her. What are you getting so mad about?”
Mark retreated, the sudden display of temper puzzling and shaming him. His fury had grown out of all proportions to its cause.
Bessie drew out a bottle. “Where do you think I found this? Right there.” She pointed through the open door to the bedroom. “On the table by the bed. With two dirty glasses.”
Laura’s bedroom was as chaste and peaceful as the chamber of a young girl whose experience of love has been confined to sonnets, dreams, and a diary. The white Swiss spread lay smooth and starched, the pillow rounded neatly at the polished pine headboard, a white-and-blue knitted afghan folded at the foot.
“I cleaned up the room and washed the glasses before the first cop got here. Lucky I come to my senses in time,” Bessie sniffed. “The bottle I put in the cabinet so’s no one would notice. It wasn’t her kind of liquor. I can tell you this much, Mr. McPherson, this here bottle was brought in after I left on Friday.”
Mark examined the bottle. It was Three Horses Bourbon, a brand favored by frugal tipplers. “Are you sure, Bessie? How do you know? You must keep close watch on the liquor that’s used in this place.”
Bessie’s iron jaw shot forward; cords stiffened in her bony neck. “If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Mosconi, the liquor fellow over on Third Avenue. We always got ours from Mosconi, better stuff than this, I’m telling you. She always left me the list and I ordered on the phone. This here’s the brand we use.” She swung the doors wider and revealed, among the neatly arranged bottles, four unopened fifths of J and D Blue Grass Bourbon, the brand which I had taught her to buy.
Such unexpected evidence, throwing unmistakable light on the last moments of the murdered, should have gladdened the detective heart. Contrarily, Mark found himself loath to
“By hiding evidence, you have become an accessory after the fact. What is the evidence, and what was your purpose in concealing it?”
Bessie turned her eyes ceilingward as though she expected help from heaven. “If I’d hold out on you, you’d never know nothing about it. And if they hadn’t played that music at the funeral, I’d never’ve told you. Church music makes me soft.”
“Whom were you shielding, Bessie?”
“Her.”
“Miss Hunt?”
Bessie nodded grimly.
“Why, Bessie? She’s dead.”
“Her reputation ain’t,” Bessie observed righteously and went to the corner cabinet, in which Laura had always kept a small stock of liquor. “Just look at this.”
Mark leaped. “Hey, be careful. There may be fingerprints.”
Bessie laughed. “Maybe there was a lot of fingerprints around here! But the cops never seen them.”
“You wiped them off, Bessie? For God’s sakes!”
“That ain’t all I wiped off,” Bessie chuckled. “I cleaned off the bed and table in there and the bathroom before the cops come.”
Mark seized bony wrists. “I’ve a good mind to take you into custody.”
She pulled her hands away. “I don’t believe in fingerprints anyway. All Saturday afternoon the cops was sprinkling white powder around my clean flat. Didn’t do them no good because I polished all the furniture on Friday after she’d went to the office. If they found any fingerprints, they was mine.”
“If you don’t believe in fingerprints, why were you so anxious to get rid of those in the bedroom?”
“Cops got dirty minds. I don’t want the whole world thinking she was the kind that got drunk with a fellow in her bedroom, God rest her soul.”
“Drunk in her bedroom? Bessie, what does this mean?”
“So help me,” Bessie swore, “there was two glasses.”
He seized her wrists again. “Why are you making up this story, Bessie? What have you to gain by it?”
Hers was the hauteur of an enraged duchess. “What right you got to yell at me? You don’t believe me, huh? Say, I was the one that cared about her reputation. You never even knew her. What are you getting so mad about?”
Mark retreated, the sudden display of temper puzzling and shaming him. His fury had grown out of all proportions to its cause.
Bessie drew out a bottle. “Where do you think I found this? Right there.” She pointed through the open door to the bedroom. “On the table by the bed. With two dirty glasses.”
Laura’s bedroom was as chaste and peaceful as the chamber of a young girl whose experience of love has been confined to sonnets, dreams, and a diary. The white Swiss spread lay smooth and starched, the pillow rounded neatly at the polished pine headboard, a white-and-blue knitted afghan folded at the foot.
“I cleaned up the room and washed the glasses before the first cop got here. Lucky I come to my senses in time,” Bessie sniffed. “The bottle I put in the cabinet so’s no one would notice. It wasn’t her kind of liquor. I can tell you this much, Mr. McPherson, this here bottle was brought in after I left on Friday.”
Mark examined the bottle. It was Three Horses Bourbon, a brand favored by frugal tipplers. “Are you sure, Bessie? How do you know? You must keep close watch on the liquor that’s used in this place.”
Bessie’s iron jaw shot forward; cords stiffened in her bony neck. “If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Mosconi, the liquor fellow over on Third Avenue. We always got ours from Mosconi, better stuff than this, I’m telling you. She always left me the list and I ordered on the phone. This here’s the brand we use.” She swung the doors wider and revealed, among the neatly arranged bottles, four unopened fifths of J and D Blue Grass Bourbon, the brand which I had taught her to buy.
Such unexpected evidence, throwing unmistakable light on the last moments of the murdered, should have gladdened the detective heart. Contrarily, Mark found himself loath to
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