Chapter Twenty-Four

Footsteps pounded on the stairs. MacArnold dashed into the room with Framboise at his heels. They skidded to a stop before the prone bodies.

“Oh, Goddamn!” I sobbed.

Framboise bent quickly and pried Montgomery away from Crawfie. As he was pulled away, Jimmy shook himself and straightened his arms and legs.

Crawfie didn’t shake himself. And someone would have to straighten his arms and legs for him when they got him to the morgue. The gun had been flat against his chest, pointed up toward his head, when he pulled the trigger. The bullet had entered his head just underneath his chin and torn his face up so badly all you could recognize were his spectacles.

“ ’Ow did t’is happen?” Framboise roared.

Montgomery gasped and got his breath. “Little scrap.”

I stumped over and stood looking down at Crawfie. He was not pretty to look at, but I studied him as though he held the answer to my problems. And he did. Only he wasn’t talking.

“Oh, Goddamn,” I said bitterly again, “there went our last chance to clean up the case. Now we’ll never know.”

“Never know what?”

“Who killed Chesterley, Wales, Priscilla Dover. Crawfie didn’t do all that by himself, believe me. He wasn’t bright enough. He was directed—and by a person unknown, who’s going to get away with murder.”

“Torrieux, explain yourself completely!” Framboise howled.

“Sure,” I said. “Just listen. I’ve already told you there were three partners in the gambling apartment—Chesterley before he died, Irish Joe, and a person unknown. Now this unknown person wasn’t Crawfie. Why?

“First of all, the third partner found out I was interested in the case, and sent Irish Joe and his sap-swinger to beat me up. Crawfie had no way of knowing I was in the case. Second, the third partner knew Priscilla was going to communicate Crawfie’s whereabouts to me—therefore she was dangerous and had to be shot. Crawfie didn’t know that. Third—”

“Wait a minute!” MacArnold yelled.

Something had come over him. He was trembling, either with excitement or with rage. He dragged the gun I’d given him from his pocket.

MacArnold pointed the gun squarely at Montgomery.

He was so excited the words fairly tobogganed out of his mouth. The gun in his hand shook. But it kept pointing at Jim.

MacArnold said, “How dumb can we all be? What do we know about this jerk? The first any of us ever heard of him was when he found Chesterley’s body. That was a nice touch, all right. Kill a guy you have no connection with at all, and then just to be doubly safe, find the corpse.”

Montgomery’s lips tightened and his hands formed themselves into fists and came out from his sides in a gesture of tense rage. “Take it easy,” he warned. “You’re going to be sorry.”

“Oh, no I’m not. I’m the one with the gun for a change. Who was sitting right beside me when I first proposed to Teed that he look for Chesterley’s killer? You were. Who was with Teed the evening Priscilla came to him, scared to death, and said she’d tell him about Crawfie? And that’s not all. Teed and I were together when Wales was killed. But you—you were somewhere in the immediate neighborhood. Where? Behind Wales, firing a shot into him?”

A dull purple-red had suffused Montgomery’s face. I never saw a man so mad, or going to such pains to hold himself in. “You talk too much, Junior!” he growled.

“Maybe. I wish I wasn’t talking too late. Too late to save Chesterley, Wales and Priscilla from you. Yes, and even little Crawfie, the poor misguided bastard. It looked like Crawfie was going to talk, didn’t it? Well, you made sure he’d never tell us anything. You—”

Montgomery had had enough. He took a step.

“Stand back!” MacArnold screeched.

It was too late for that. Montgomery kicked, and the gun sailed neatly out of MacArnold’s hand, arched through the air, and was fielded by Montgomery with a neat high catch.

Montgomery had his teeth clenched so tightly he could hardly grit his words through them. “Framboise,” he asked, “you don’t believe this, do you?”

“Put t’at gun away, an’ I tell w’at I believe.”

“Oh, no. Nobody’s pulling any more fancy accusations on me. I’m just going for a little walk and let you all cool off. When I see in the papers you’ve really found out who’s guilty, I’ll show up again. Meantime, don’t send anybody to look for me. Because I’m keeping this”—he flourished the gun—“and I know how to use it a lot better than MacArnold does.”

He left the room. We heard him running down the stairs.

“Sacrement! I should ’ave brought some men wit’ me,” Framboise cursed. He and MacArnold dashed for the open window.

“There he goes—crossing the street!” MacArnold shouted. “You’ve got your gun, Framboise! Wing him.”

Framboise shook his head. “In a crowded street? Too dangerous. Leave ’im. ’E won’t get far.”

“Relax, both of you,” I said.

“Yeah?” MacArnold faced me angrily. “I notice you didn’t try to stop him. You’ve still got a gun too. What’s the matter?”

“I like the guy.”

“Oh, fine. Last night you’re itching to get your mitts on the guy who killed Priscilla. Today you like Montgomery, so you let him wander safely away.”

“Sure. And I’m still itching to get the guy who killed Priscilla. And I will. As for Montgomery being the guy—I could make out as good a case against you as you made against him.”

“Bull roar,” MacArnold said belligerently.

“Who’s been in on the case all the way along?” I asked pointedly. “Who was right in there with me, keeping up with progress of all my investigations? That could have been so you’d know just what moves to make next yourself.”

“Why, you ungrateful bastard!” MacArnold roared. “Who pointed out the connection between Crawfie and the rest of the case? Who located the gambling apartment for you? Who told you Chesterley was one of its owners?” He came toward me. Now it was his turn to get enraged, the innocent and wrongly-accused man.

“Careful, careful,” I said. “Like you just reminded me, I still have my gun.”

“All t’is talk is getting us nowhere,” Framboise chimed in. “I am tired of t’is nonsense. Come. We’re going down to ’eadquarters toget’er and straighten t’is t’ing out.”

“Sure,” I agreed.

“Like hell we are,” MacArnold snorted.

That was enough for Framboise. He drew his gun and stuck it in MacArnold’s back. “So? You knew so much about Chesterley. So much about t’e gambling hapartment. Me, I t’ink you can hexplain to us ’ow you knew so much. Come.”

“You two go right ahead,” I said. “I’ll follow in the Riley.”

MacArnold was speechless with rage. Framboise nudged him down the stairs with the gun. I stumped along after them. At the street, Framboise pushed Mac into the back seat of the police car, got in with him, and the driver started away with them.

I needed a little more time.

I went to the Riley. “Where to?” Lila asked.

“Home,” I said. “And drive like you have a siren on this thing.”

“What are you looking for now?”

“The usual. Trouble. But I figure this will be the last bit of it.”