The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance Read Free

Morrison.”
    “You made your point,” he agreed. “But knowing your brother beat me up when I was a kid doesn’t exactly prove you didn’t shoot that fella over there.”
    I got out of the chair again and started to stagger around the room in the hope of clearing my head and returning my agonized body to its former, familiar level of constant ache.
    “Let’s go over it,” I said, looking at Vance. “Someone wanted me here. Vance or someone else. Let’s figure the idea was to set me up for Vance’s murder. Vance thought it was for something else. Who knows what? He put me out with the drink and our killer steps in, takes my gun, and punctuates Vance.”
    “And then,” Wayne interrupted, “the killer calls me and I come over and step into it. Publicity could ruin the DeMille picture and maybe my career. Could be we’re dealing with an old enemy of mine.”
    “Could be we’re dealing with an old enemy of both of ours,” I said. “The only one I can think of is my brother Phil, and I doubt if he’d go this far to get either one of us. Maybe it’s a blackmail deal. The phone will ring and we’ll get … No. It would have happened by now. It’s a frame-up, simple and dirty.”
    “Let’s try it another way,” Wayne said, furrowing his brow. “Fella over there puts something in your drink. You feel yourself going out, get out the gun, put some holes in him, and pass out. I come in, find the gun in your hand, and …”
    “Who called you?” I said. My mind was starting to work again, not as well as I would have liked, but that’s the way it usually worked even when I hadn’t had a boiled Pepsi.
    “Beats me, Pilgrim.” Wayne shrugged.
    The knock at the door cut off our further exploration of possibilities. We looked at each other, and he delegated me with a wave of the .38 to be the door-opener. I opened the door. The woman standing there was more than thirty and less than fifty but that was about the best I could do with her age. She had a body that could’ve passed for twenty-five. Her hair was red and frilly. So was her tight dress.
    She looked at me, at Wayne, whom she didn’t seem to recognize, and over at Vance on the bed, who had his head turned away.
    “You didn’t say anything about three,” she said. “Three is more.”
    She stepped in, looked at Wayne, and added appreciatively, “Maybe not much more.” He had pocketed the gun in his windbreaker and was looking at me for an explanation.
    “What did I say?” I said. “On the phone.”
    She stepped in, put her small red handbag on the yellow table next to my doctored Pepsi, and looked at me as if I had a few beans loose, which I did.
    “You said ten tonight,” she said, looking now at the body of Vance with the first hint of awareness. “It’s ten and here I am.” Then she turned to Wayne, looked at him enough to get him to look away, and added, “You really are Randolph Scott.”
    “John Wayne,” I said.
    “Right,” she said with a snap of the fingers. “That’s what you said, John Wayne.”
    Her eyes stayed on Wayne, who gave me a sigh of exasperation and said, “Thanks for clearing it up for the lady, Peters. I wouldn’t want her to forget who she met here.”
    She took a few steps toward the Murphy bed and Vance out of curiosity, and I eased over as fast as my retread legs would let me to cut her off.
    “Are you sure it was me on the phone?” I said, putting my face in front of hers.
    “You don’t know if you called me?” she said, trying to look over my shoulder at Vance. “Voice on a phone is all I know. You trying to back out of this? And what’s with the guy on the bed?”
    Wayne was leaning against the wall now, his arms folded, watching. He wasn’t going to give me any help.
    “We’re not backing out,” I said. “You’ll get paid, Miss …”
    “Olivia Fontaine,” she said.
    “Class,” I said.
    “Thanks,” she answered with a smile that faded fast. “That guy on the bed. Is he hurt or