of the grimy barred window, hamming it just enough to make it look good in the picture the Gazette photographer was taking.
“You can say we’ve got all the angles covered, Miss Maynard. There’s never been any organized crime in Smith County, and there’s not going to be.”
Gus Blake was aware of a rasping in his left ear. It sounded like sandpaper taking rust off an iron grate. He heard it again and assorted it this time into words. “Get this dame out of here, Blake.”
“You can say we’re all on the same team, here in Smith County, Miss Maynard. We’re putting everything we’ve got in this. Every law-enforcement officer in Smith County has his nose to the grindstone and his shoulder to the wheel.”
The county attorney stopped, waited for the camera flash, and relaxed. He turned to Swede Carlson. “Anything you want to add, Chief?”
“I guess that about covers it, Frank.”
Hearing the faintly sardonic inflection, Gus remembered what Swede Carlson had said down in the basement about the Filipino boy Buzz Rodriguez now sitting out in the hall under guard, waiting to be thrown into the Smithville County Jail. The county attorney’s oblique glance across the room included both of them. He turned back to Connie Maynard. “One other thing. I want to make it clear that any rumors suggesting a scapegoat in this affair are false. The people of Smith County will have no doubt where they come from. And you can say Chief Carlson is in charge and giving the case his personal attention.”
He picked his hat up off a chair. “I think that’s all I can do here tonight. Can I take you back to town, Miss Maynard?”
“No, I’ve got my car, Mr. Hamilton,” Connie Maynard said. She closed her notebook and looked at Gus. “What now?” she was asking.
Swede Carlson’s elbow dug into his ribs. It was as eloquent as his low-rasped: “Get that dame out of here.”
Connie Maynard was still looking at him. “Go out and have a look at the kitchen and pantry, Con,” he said. “Woman’s angle. Bachelor Hall stuff.”
Her green eyes sharpened.
“Go on,” he said coolly. “And when you’re through you can run along home. The chief’ll take me in.”
For a moment as the suspicion changed to anger in her eyes he thought she was refusing. The county attorney had his overcoat on and his hat in his hand. “Come on, Miss Maynard. I’ll show you the kitchen. I’d like to have another look at it myself. Attention to detail is what counts, in cases like this.”
As the door closed a wintry smile passed through Chief Carlson’s bleak eyes. He said, “Never liked dames messin’ around where they don’t belong. Makes me nervous.” He moved his heavy, nerveless body off the edge of the desk. “Okay, fella. What do you know?”
“I came out to ask you.”
Gus looked around the room. It extended the length of the house, with two windows at the back and one at each side of the fireplace in the side wall. The back windows were barred with iron grids fixed solidly in the wall. The side windows were blocked, one with a heavy steel filing-cabinet, the other with an old-fashioned safe, open, and in careful order compared with the bulging pigeonholes of the desk. It was covered with gray powdery film where the police had dusted for fingerprints. The three electric bulbs that had gone off were strung down from the ceiling, one over the desk and two in opposite corners of the room.
“He liked a lot of light.”
Carlson nodded. “Had ’em all on tonight. On all over the place when the boys got here, ’cept those three. They came on when they put the fuse back.”
He let himself down into the creaking swivel chair. Gus looked at the battered desk against the wall at the front end of the room. It was crowded with papers, the surface as well as the pigeonholes. A padlock in the middle front hung by a short chain. Behind the desk two long windows were sealed from the inside with brown-painted iron shutters. Across
“You can say we’ve got all the angles covered, Miss Maynard. There’s never been any organized crime in Smith County, and there’s not going to be.”
Gus Blake was aware of a rasping in his left ear. It sounded like sandpaper taking rust off an iron grate. He heard it again and assorted it this time into words. “Get this dame out of here, Blake.”
“You can say we’re all on the same team, here in Smith County, Miss Maynard. We’re putting everything we’ve got in this. Every law-enforcement officer in Smith County has his nose to the grindstone and his shoulder to the wheel.”
The county attorney stopped, waited for the camera flash, and relaxed. He turned to Swede Carlson. “Anything you want to add, Chief?”
“I guess that about covers it, Frank.”
Hearing the faintly sardonic inflection, Gus remembered what Swede Carlson had said down in the basement about the Filipino boy Buzz Rodriguez now sitting out in the hall under guard, waiting to be thrown into the Smithville County Jail. The county attorney’s oblique glance across the room included both of them. He turned back to Connie Maynard. “One other thing. I want to make it clear that any rumors suggesting a scapegoat in this affair are false. The people of Smith County will have no doubt where they come from. And you can say Chief Carlson is in charge and giving the case his personal attention.”
He picked his hat up off a chair. “I think that’s all I can do here tonight. Can I take you back to town, Miss Maynard?”
“No, I’ve got my car, Mr. Hamilton,” Connie Maynard said. She closed her notebook and looked at Gus. “What now?” she was asking.
Swede Carlson’s elbow dug into his ribs. It was as eloquent as his low-rasped: “Get that dame out of here.”
Connie Maynard was still looking at him. “Go out and have a look at the kitchen and pantry, Con,” he said. “Woman’s angle. Bachelor Hall stuff.”
Her green eyes sharpened.
“Go on,” he said coolly. “And when you’re through you can run along home. The chief’ll take me in.”
For a moment as the suspicion changed to anger in her eyes he thought she was refusing. The county attorney had his overcoat on and his hat in his hand. “Come on, Miss Maynard. I’ll show you the kitchen. I’d like to have another look at it myself. Attention to detail is what counts, in cases like this.”
As the door closed a wintry smile passed through Chief Carlson’s bleak eyes. He said, “Never liked dames messin’ around where they don’t belong. Makes me nervous.” He moved his heavy, nerveless body off the edge of the desk. “Okay, fella. What do you know?”
“I came out to ask you.”
Gus looked around the room. It extended the length of the house, with two windows at the back and one at each side of the fireplace in the side wall. The back windows were barred with iron grids fixed solidly in the wall. The side windows were blocked, one with a heavy steel filing-cabinet, the other with an old-fashioned safe, open, and in careful order compared with the bulging pigeonholes of the desk. It was covered with gray powdery film where the police had dusted for fingerprints. The three electric bulbs that had gone off were strung down from the ceiling, one over the desk and two in opposite corners of the room.
“He liked a lot of light.”
Carlson nodded. “Had ’em all on tonight. On all over the place when the boys got here, ’cept those three. They came on when they put the fuse back.”
He let himself down into the creaking swivel chair. Gus looked at the battered desk against the wall at the front end of the room. It was crowded with papers, the surface as well as the pigeonholes. A padlock in the middle front hung by a short chain. Behind the desk two long windows were sealed from the inside with brown-painted iron shutters. Across
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