The Paperback Show Murders by Robert Reginald

the attorney that Margie had mentioned, and then later headed for the motel. Brody and Gully were staying on the back side of the Royal Crest, in Room 1333. I took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, went out to the external balcony that fronted on all of the rooms, and had to walk almost to the end of the row.
    I pounded on their door until Gully finally cracked it open.
    â€œWhat do you want?” she asked. I could barely hear her.
    â€œI need to talk to Brody,” I said.
    â€œHe’s sick.”
    â€œHe’s drunk,” I said, “but that’s nothing new. I still need to talk to him. Or would you rather that I told the cops about the little scene that I witnessed at the Jade Tiger a few hours ago.”
    â€œNo, don’t do that!” she said. “All right, but keep it short, OK?”
    Brody was propped up in front of the TV set, watching a guest chef trying to overcome the Italian Iron Chef—I forget his name—the plump one who always wore shorts. The secret ingredient was crickets.
    He looked over at me. “Oh, it’s, uh, you,” he said.
    â€œYeah, it’s me again. You never did sign those books for us.”
    â€œMaybe tomorrow. I’ll, uh, I’ll come by your table tomorrow.”
    â€œSo,” I said, “you have it!”
    â€œYes”—and then, realizing what he’d just said—“Uh, no! Uh, have what?”
    â€œThe book, I presume.”
    â€œHow, uh, how did you know?”
    â€œWhy else would you be dickering with Freddie the Cur? The only question I have is this: how did you get it?”
    â€œWhat do you, uh, mean?” Brody asked.
    â€œWell, if you killed Lissa for it, you know, I could understand. She was a nasty little woman. But….”
    â€œI didn’t kill her! I didn’t.”
    â€œThen you must have seen who did,” I said.
    â€œIt was, uh, it was your Margie,” he said.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œBut, but, she was the last one to leave the room.”
    â€œThen who was the first one?” I asked. “Obviously, you must have seen something, Brody. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be drinking yourself to death.”
    He looked around the room until his eyes fixated on Foyle. “What do I, uh, say, Gully? What do I say ?”
    â€œLeave him alone!” she said, stepping forward and putting her arms around him. She cradled his head on her breasts. “He’s had quite enough. Can’t you see that he’s so scared that he’s cracking up? He’s afraid of Freddie and he’s afraid of the person he saw.
    â€œYes, there was someone else who visited Lissa last evening. He saw them leave, but he didn’t recognize who it was, or even get more than a glimpse of an outline—just enough to tell that somebody was there.”
    â€œThen how did he wind up with the book?”
    â€œShe left it with him for safekeeping.”
    â€œLissa?” I asked.
    â€œShe figured that if she kept it in her room, it could easily be stolen from her. Brody was innocuous. Everyone knew he was flat broke. So, she offered to pay for his room and for all the booze he drank while he was here, if he kept the book safe. That was fine with him.”
    â€œSo, where is it now?”
    â€œWe, uh, gave it to that Lieutenant when he interviewed us earlier today.”
    â€œAnd he bought your story?”
    â€œIt’s the truth.”
    I looked straight into her cold, blue eyes. “Everyone lies,” I said. “Little kids aged two, they lie. Old men in their nineties, they lie. Priests lie, and so do cops and judges and pillars of society. Men and women and children and, I suspect, even hermaphrodites. They all lie. It’s just a question of when and how much and why.
    â€œMy bullshitometer just started ringing its fool head off, lady. I think you’re lying—I’m not sure about what, and I’m not certain what your