Sheriff on the Spot by Brett Halliday Page B

“Looks like it. Mr. Ralston, I reckon.” He sighed. “Sure looks like Miss Kitty isn’t tellin’ the truth. ’Pears to me she had it fixed with Ralston for him to come here from Denver an’ rent the room next to hers. Then he came in an’ they started drinkin’ an’ got into an argument. So she knifed him an’ ran out and locked the door. That the way it looks to you, Morgan?” he asked the rancher who was looking on with wide-eyed interest.
    â€œSure does look that way,” Morgan said importantly. “He must have known her, all right, to’ve asked for room fifteen. And this here door was unlocked. And she was sure in here drinking with him while he was still alive.”
    â€œDon’t you see, Kitty?” Deems’ voice was like a savage whiplash across the entertainer’s face. “This hick sheriff is going to hang this murder on you if you don’t tell the truth and tell it fast.”
    Kitty Lane’s eyes clung to those of her employer for a long moment. Then her gaze wavered down to the body of the dead man. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know what you mean, Joe.”
    â€œTell them what really happened,” he snapped. “Tell them who drank whisky with you in here.”
    â€œI—drank it by myself,” she flared.
    â€œOut of two glasses?” asked Pat.
    â€œYes.” She glared at him defiantly. “I always drink out of two glasses. One in each hand. I can get it down faster that way. And the faster I get it down, the faster I forget what beasts all men are.” Tears ran down her rouged cheeks and she wiped them away angrily with the back of her hand.
    â€œYou smoked a lot of cigarettes, too,” Joe Deems put in sharply, indicating the burned-down, brown-paper butts on the tray.
    â€œI always smoke a lot when I’m drinking two-handed.”
    Harold Morgan pushed his way forward to peer down with interest at the tray. “I never saw you roll brown-paper cigarettes, Miss Lane,” he expostulated respectfully. “Only last night you turned me down when I offered my brown papers. Said you always used white.”
    â€œYou know you’re lying, Kitty,” Deems said wearily. “Sam Sloan was in here with you tonight.”
    â€œBy golly,” said Morgan with interest. “I bet you’re right, Deems. Sam always smoked his butts down short like this. Remember, Pat, how we used to laugh at Sam about burning his fingers on those short butts he was always nibbling on?”
    Pat Stevens nodded heavily. “But there’s plenty of other men do the same.”
    â€œSam Sloan is the sheriff’s best friend,” Deems reminded Morgan venomously. “Stevens would do anything to cover up for him. Even to maybe hiding murder evidence,” he ended slowly.
    Pat looked at him with hard, alert eyes. “Meanin’ what, Deems?”
    â€œNothing.” Deems shrugged his shoulders. “Only, as Mr. Morgan sees, right here’s the evidence that Sam was in here tonight—and you’re trying to protect Sam by claiming he wasn’t here.”
    â€œI’m not claiming anything. I said lots of other men smoked their butts down short. I’m waitin’ for Miss Kitty to tell us who smoked those.”
    â€œAll right. It was Sam,” she admitted wearily. “He came in to have a drink and a cigarette with me before supper. Is there anything wrong in that?”
    â€œGo on and tell the rest of it,” Deems ordered.
    â€œThat’s all there is to tell.” Her voice rose wildly. “We had some drinks together. Then he went into his room and I went downstairs to eat supper.”
    â€œLeaving your door locked?” Pat asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd I suppose Ralston just walked in here and stabbed himself and then swallowed the knife,” said Deems angrily.
    â€œMaybe he did. I don’t know.” Kitty