Hire a Hangman Read Free Page B

that, dead, and—” As if confused, he broke off. His eyes were still cast down, fixed on the tumbler.
    “It’s not easy,” Hastings said. “It’s never easy. Believe me.”
    Taylor nodded, his head bobbing loosely. Then, making a visible effort to collect himself, he said, “I suppose you’re here—I suppose you want to—to find out about it—about what happened.”
    “That’s right, Mr. Taylor. I’m sorry to make you go over it again so soon. But there’re only two eyewitnesses, at least so far. So we’ve got to know what you know. Now. Right now.”
    “Yes …” Uncertainly, Taylor nodded. “Yes, I—I understand.”
    “So start at the beginning.” Hastings spoke quietly, dispassionately. Whatever distress Taylor was suffering, the problem didn’t concern Hastings. Not here. Not now.
    “Well, I—I was taking the garbage out. The garbage can is in the garage. And there were a couple of bags of clippings in the garden. So I opened the garage door, and I put the can outside, on the sidewalk. It’s still there.”
    Hastings nodded. “Yes, I saw it.”
    Quickly, Taylor gulped at the drink. “As I was putting the can out, I saw him coming toward me, from across the street.”
    “The victim, you mean.”
    Spasmodically, Taylor nodded.
    “He was coming from”—Hastings glanced at his notebook, open on his knee—“from eleven-forty-eight. Is that correct?”
    Taylor waved a fretful hand. “I suppose that’s the number. Anyhow, it’s diagonally across the street, downhill.”
    “Did he live in that house, do you know?”
    “I don’t think he lives—lived—there. But I’ve seen him there several times. He has a—” Taylor broke off, stole a speculative glance at his interrogator. Hastings recognized that look, and knew its meaning. Taylor was deciding what to tell him—and what not to tell him.
    “There’s a woman who lives there. They—I’ve seen them together, several times.”
    Watching Taylor carefully, listening to his inflection as he pronounced woman, Hastings decided that Taylor was probably a homosexual.
    “Do you know the woman’s name, Mr. Taylor?”
    “No. I—she’s only lived there for a few months. But you shouldn’t have any trouble locating her. That building’s like this one. Three flats. Besides, after the—the shooting, she came outside. She talked to one of the policemen.”
    “Describe this woman.”
    “Well, she’s in her thirties, probably. Good-looking, I guess you’d say—” It was a grudging admission. Yes, almost certainly Taylor was gay.
    “Dark hair? Light hair?”
    “Dark hair. Lots of dark hair. And she drives one of those new little sports cars.” He frowned. “It’s Japanese. Red. Two-passenger.” The frown remained.
    “A Miata?”
    Promptly, Taylor nodded. “Right. A Miata.”
    “All right. Good.” As he said it, Hastings heard the sound of an engine coming up the hill, and voices slightly raised. The coroners had arrived. Or the lab crew. Or both.
    “So what happened then?” Hastings asked. “After you took the garbage out, and you saw the victim walking across the street toward you, what happened? Did you speak? Nod?”
    “No. We didn’t—that wouldn’t—I mean, we weren’t really acquainted, you understand. I’d just noticed him, that’s all.”
    “What happened next?” Mindful of the personnel on the street below waiting for his orders, Hastings spoke briskly.
    “Well, I—after I saw him, like I said, I went back inside the garage, for the clippings. I got them, one in each hand, and I was trying to get both bags out, between my car and the bikes that the goddam neighbors leave in the garage, when I heard the shots.”
    “How many shots?”
    “There were three. One, and then a slight pause, and then two more.”
    “What’d you do when you heard the shots?”
    “Well, I—” Taylor drained his glass, then waved a hand in a short, delicate arc. “Well, I—I just continued, just took the bags out. I—at