Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0) Read Free Page B

something.”
    A kind of tough humor flickered in his eyes. “You’re the dick, you figure that one out. On’y remember: I didn’t stick no shiv in the old guy. Hell, why should I? I could have squeezed him like a grape. Anyway, that wouldn’t have been smart, would it? Me, I don’t lose my head. I don’t kill guys for fun.”
    That I could believe. His story sounded right to me. He could arrange a killing much more conveniently than this one had happened, and when he would not have been involved. Mr. Blacky Caronna, unless I was greatly mistaken, was an alumnus of the old Chicago School for Genteel Elimination. In any rubout job he did he would have a safe and sane alibi.
    Yet, one thing I knew. Whether he had killed Bitner or not, and I doubted it, he was a dangerous man. A very dangerous man. Also, he was sweating blood over this. He was a very worried man.
    Loftus was talking to Holben, and Karen Bitner stood off to one side, so I walked over to her. The look in her eyes was scarcely more friendly than Caronna’s. “How do you do?” I said. “My name is—”
    “I’m not in the least interested in your name!” she said. “I know all about you, and that’s quite enough. You’re a private detective brought up here to prove me guilty of murder. I think that establishes our relationship clearly enough. Now if you have any questions to ask, ask them.”
    “I like that perfume you’re wearing. Gardenia, isn’t it? By Chanel?”
    The look she gave me would have curdled a jug of Arkansas corn. “What is that supposed to be—the psychological approach? Am I supposed to be flattered, disarmed, or should I swoon?”
    “Just comment. How long has it been since you’ve seen your uncle? I mean, before this trip?”
    “I had never seen my uncle before,” she said.
    “You have a brother or cousin? I heard there was a nephew?”
    “A cousin. His name is Richard Henry Castro. He is traveling with the Greater American Shows. He his thirty-nine years old and rugged enough to give you the slapping around you deserve.”
    That made me grin, but I straightened my face. “Thanks. At least you’re concise. I wish everyone would give their information as clearly. Did you murder your uncle?”
    She turned icy eyes on me. Just like the sea off Labrador. “No, I did not. I didn’t know him well enough to either murder him or love him. He was my only relative aside from Dick Castro, so I came west to see him.
    “I almost never,” she added, “murder people on short acquaintance—unless they’re detectives.”
    “You knew you were to inherit his estate?”
    “Yes. He told me so three years ago, in a letter. He told me so again on Saturday.”
    “I see. What’s your profession?”
    “I’m a secretary.”
    “You ever let anybody in to see your boss?” I asked. “No, don’t answer that. How many times did you visit your uncle on this visit?”
    “Three times, actually. I came to see him on the day I arrived and stayed approximately two hours. I went to see him the following day, and then the night he was killed.”
    “How did he impress you?”
    She glanced at me quickly. “As a very lonely and tired old man. I thought he was sweet.”
    That stopped me for a minute. Was she trying to impress me? No, I decided, this girl wouldn’t try to impress anyone. She was what she was, for better or worse. Also, with a figure like that she would never have felt it necessary to impress anyone.
    For almost an hour we stood there, and I asked the questions and she shot back the answers. She had met her cousin, a big, handsome man given to many trips into the jungle after his strange animals, up to a few years before. He had his own show traveling as a special exhibit with a larger show. They made expositions and state fairs, and followed a route across country, occasionally playing carnival dates or conventions.
    Her short relationship with her uncle had been friendly. She had cooked lunch the day before he was killed,