Read Online A Bullet for Cinderella by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B

thin, bald mansat behind a desk that faced the door. His face was young, with a swarthy Indian harshness about it, black brows. His hands were large. He looked tall. A small wooden sign on his desk said
Det. Lt. Stephen D. Prine
. The office had cracked buff plaster walls. Books and pamphlets were piled in disorder in a glass-front bookcase. A smallish man with white hair and a red whisky face sat half behind Lieutenant Prine, on the small gilded radiator in front of the single window.
    One of the men behind me gave me an unnecessary push that made me thump my knee against the front of the desk and almost lose my balance. Prine looked at me with complete coldness.
    “This is that Howard,” one of the men behind me said.
    “Okay.” The door behind me closed. I glanced back and saw that the man in uniform had left. The big man in the gray suit leaned against the closed door. “Empty your pockets onto the desk,” Prine said. “Everything.”
    “But—”
    “Empty your pockets.” There was no threat in the words. Cold, bored command.
    I put everything on the desk. Wallet, change, pen and pencil, notebook, cigarettes, lighter, penknife, folder of traveler’s checks. Prine reached a big hand over and separated the items into two piles, notebook, wallet, and checks in one pile that he pulled toward him.
    “Put the rest of that stuff back in your pockets.”
    “Could I ask why—”
    “Shut up.”
    I stood in uncomfortable silence while he went through my wallet. He looked carefully at every card and piece of paper, at the photograph of Charlotte, at the reduced Photostat of my discharge laminated in plastic. He went through the notebook and then examined the traveler’s checks.
    “Now answer some questions.” He opened a desk drawer, flipped a switch, and said, “April 20, seven-ten p.m., interrogation by Lieutenant Prine of suspect pickedup by Hillis and Brubaker in vicinity of Hillston Inn. What is your full name?”
    “Talbert Owen Howard.”
    “Speak a little louder. Age and place of birth.”
    “Twenty-nine. Bakersfield, California.”
    “Home address.”
    “None at the present time.”
    “What was your last address?”
    “Eighteen Norwalk Road, San Diego.”
    “Are you employed?”
    “No.”
    “When were you last employed and by who?”
    “Up until two and a half weeks ago. By the Guaranty Federated Insurance Company. I had a debit. Health and life. I was fired.”
    “For what reason?”
    “I wasn’t producing.”
    “How long did you work for them?”
    “Four years all together. Three and a half before the Korean war. The rest of it since I got back.”
    “Are you married? Have you ever been married?”
    “No.”
    “Parents living?”
    “No.”
    “Brothers or sisters?”
    “One sister. Older than I am. She lives in Perth, Australia. She was a Wave and she married an Aussie during the war.”
    “Do you have any criminal record?”
    “N—No.”
    “You don’t seem sure.”
    “I don’t know if you’d call it a criminal record. It was when I was in school. One of those student riots. Disturbing the peace and resisting an officer.”
    “Were you booked and mugged and fingerprinted and found guilty?”
    “Yes. I paid a fine and spent three days in jail.”
    “Then you have a criminal record. How long have you been in Hillston?”
    “I arrived here—Wednesday night. Two days.”
    “What is your local address?”
    “The Sunset Motel.”
    “On this vehicle registration, do you own the vehicle free and clear?”
    “Yes.”
    “You have a little over a thousand dollars. Where did you get it?”
    “I earned it. I saved it. I’m getting a little sick of all this. It’s beginning to make me sore.”
    “Why did you come to Hillston?”
    “Do I have to have a reason?”
    “Yes. You need a reason.”
    “I knew Timmy Warden in prison camp. And I knew others there that didn’t come back. I’m going to write a book about them. There’s my notes. You have them there.”
    “Why