The Nothing Man
away from you. He's not even on the island any more."
    There was something very close to fear in the too-bright eyes. Fear and wonder and awe. "You're"-he cleared his throat hoarsely-"you're takin' it pretty calm, keed. Your wife gets killed in just about the most God-awful way a woman could, and you sit there grinning and-"
    "She wasn't my wife," I said. "She hadn't been my wife in a long, long time. As for my reaction to the-the-well, I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve, Stuke. My actions don't necessarily reflect my feelings."
    "Yeah," he grunted. "I'll buy that. I'll go right on down the line on that one. I sit listenin' to you sometimes, chewin' the fat with you, and I get to wonderin' what the hell-"
    I held up a hand, interrupting him. "I'll tell you what you'd better do, Stuke. What you'd better start wondering about. You've botched this thing from beginning to end. My wife has been brutally murdered by a maniac, and you've let him get away. You'd better start wondering about how you're going to keep your job."
    "I had, huh?" He laughed nervously. "Now, look, Brownie, like I said a moment ago, she just wasn't worth any bad trouble."
    "I disagree with you… What did you say when you talked to Dave Randall and Mr. Lovelace tonight? Something rather suggestive, eh, laden with nasty implications?"
    "Me? Me knock a pal?" He made a gesture of hurt denial. "You know I wouldn't do a thing like that. All I done was mention that your wife had been killed, an' that I- well, I was trying to get ahold of you to break the bad news. That's all I said, Brownie. So help me."
    I shrugged. I didn't particularly care what he'd said. I still wasn't letting him off the hook. Mr. Lem Stukey was going to go to work, at long last. He was going to give the city a long-delayed cleaning up. Not strictly because of the entertainment it would provide me, not entirely. Through him I could make atonement. I could offset with good the evil of Ellen's death.
    "I'm telling you, Brownie," he said, "I didn't knock you. There ain't nothin' for either of us to get in an uproar about. Now, I been thinkin', and the way I see it we're both off base. It was an accident."
    "It couldn't have been. You said so yourself."
    "I can't change my mind? An accident's got to be logical? She was drinking. She spilled booze all over herself. She catches herself on fire, lighting a cigarette. She falls down and knocks herself out. She-"
    "Before or after igniting herself? And what about the poem?"
    "Look, Brownie "-he leaned forward, pleading-"we get cases like this all the time. Just about like this. Someone gets stiff in his hotel room. He bangs himself up an' flops down on the bed smoking, and he wakes up burning an' the room's so full of smoke he can't see. An'-well, you know how it is. He tried to get out of the place, but he wants to take his money with him, so-"
    "I see." I nodded slowly. "You think that's what she intended to do, huh? She tried to get her money, but got the poem instead. Mmm, I suppose it might have been that way. But that still doesn't explain the poem."
    "What's there to explain? Lots of people carry poems around. We got a fellow down at the office-you know him, Stengel, works over in identification-and he does it. He clips 'em out of newspapers, or maybe he hears 'em over the radio and copies 'em down. Never seen him yet when he didn't have some verse in his wallet, ready to spring it on you."
    "But this particular little item-"
    "Look, Brownie, pal"-his eyes flickered with annoyance-"you're fighting me. It was pretty cute, wasn't it? Something a dame like-something she might have got a big bang out of. Maybe she copied it off a privy wall. Maybe some place where she was working, slingin' hash, say, and one of the waitresses passed it around and she got hold of a copy. The point is it don't mean nothing, so we don't even have to consider it. I ain't even going to mention it in my report."
    "Well-" I stared at him absently.
    "Well?" he said. "It

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