Read Online Dressed to Killed by Milton Ozaki - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Milton Ozaki
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Hard-Boiled, Men's Adventure
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to."
There was a silence for a moment, then his face got pinker and he half-rose as though preparing to spit in my face. "To Sands' murder, you fool!" he bellowed. "Who the hell else's?"
"I haven't killed anybody."
"You haven't... what?" Matthews' eyes popped with anger and the flesh quivered on his cheekbones. "Why, you—!"
"We've got you cold, Forbes," Trottmann said quietly. "You'll save yourself a lot of grief by giving us the story."
"Look," I said, turning to him. "I'll give you the story, but it's got nothing to do with my killing Sands. I've been framed. I've been—"
"Framed!" Matthews groaned and banged the desk in unison. "You think that old gag'll hold water? Look at this!" He slapped the Journal he'd been reading around so I could see the headlines:
SANDS' KILLER NABBED
IN LOVE-NEST
Victim's Girlfriend
Found with Killer
in Drunken Tryst!
The type blurred before my eyes and I had to clench my hands to keep them from trembling. "I don't give a damn what it says," I heard myself say slowly. "I didn't kill him. I was drunk, but the girl—"
"You're damned right you were drunk!" Matthews exploded. "And you needn't try to blame the girl, either!"
"She helped frame me. She forced me to drink the—"
"I suppose she helped you write my name in that damned motel's book, too!" Matthews shouted. "You're trying to crap me, Forbes—and you don't stand a chance in hell of doing it. You're supposed to be a sharpie. Prove it by getting wise to yourself!"
"Will you let me tell my end of the story?" I looked at Trottmann. "You listened to her. Why not listen to me?"
Trottmann shrugged and darted a glance at Matthews. "Why not?" he asked. "He's going to blow it off sooner or later, captain."
"Swell," Matthews rasped, making the word drip sarcasm. "Go ahead and blow, Forbes—a hell of a lot of good it'll do you!"
I talked slowly, trying to make the words fit together in a pattern which made sense, and gave them the whole works, right from the beginning. As I unraveled the sorry tale, Trottmann tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair and Matthews glared at a calendar on his desk. When I got to the end, Matthews snorted and pushed back his chair.
"Crap," he said, his lips clipping it off like an electrician's pliers.
"Is that all?" Trottmann asked, frowning.
"That's all, except for the checking."
"What checking?"
"Your checking on the details. They loaded me with bourbon, and I can name at least fifteen bartenders who'll swear that I never touch the stuff. You can analyze the—"
"Hell, that's down the drain by now," Trottmann said. "Anyway, it wouldn't prove anything."
"Richmond paid her three thousand bucks in cash. She dropped it down a mail chute. You can intercept it. That'll prove...."
Trottmann shook his head. "You don't know where she sent it. It could be on its way to China, for all we know." "Question her. Make her admit it!"
"We've already had her over the coals. It'd just be her word against yours."
"She, of course, is a person of unquestionable veracity."
Trottmann ignored the sarcasm. "Ordinarily, I'd prefer your word to hers, knowing her type, but all the physical facts are against you."
"What physical facts?" I demanded. 'The fact that I was drunk and in her apartment?"
Matthews laughed harshly. "Maybe you haven't had a look at yourself," he snapped. "There's a mirror in the corner. Take a good look!"
I got up and walked to the mirror. The apparition which confronted me was almost unrecognizable. But it was me. I began to feel sick again. Then I took a good look—and felt even sicker. I saw what they meant by "physical facts." My mouth looked as though it had been coated with lipstick and my shoulders, neck and chest were covered with small butterfly-shaped bruises, the kind a woman's mouth makes when bite-kissing in passion.
Feeling discouraged, I asked, "Ever find the missing Caddy? The one I had at the cabin."
"Sure. We know all about that. Stolen from a jerk in
There was a silence for a moment, then his face got pinker and he half-rose as though preparing to spit in my face. "To Sands' murder, you fool!" he bellowed. "Who the hell else's?"
"I haven't killed anybody."
"You haven't... what?" Matthews' eyes popped with anger and the flesh quivered on his cheekbones. "Why, you—!"
"We've got you cold, Forbes," Trottmann said quietly. "You'll save yourself a lot of grief by giving us the story."
"Look," I said, turning to him. "I'll give you the story, but it's got nothing to do with my killing Sands. I've been framed. I've been—"
"Framed!" Matthews groaned and banged the desk in unison. "You think that old gag'll hold water? Look at this!" He slapped the Journal he'd been reading around so I could see the headlines:
SANDS' KILLER NABBED
IN LOVE-NEST
Victim's Girlfriend
Found with Killer
in Drunken Tryst!
The type blurred before my eyes and I had to clench my hands to keep them from trembling. "I don't give a damn what it says," I heard myself say slowly. "I didn't kill him. I was drunk, but the girl—"
"You're damned right you were drunk!" Matthews exploded. "And you needn't try to blame the girl, either!"
"She helped frame me. She forced me to drink the—"
"I suppose she helped you write my name in that damned motel's book, too!" Matthews shouted. "You're trying to crap me, Forbes—and you don't stand a chance in hell of doing it. You're supposed to be a sharpie. Prove it by getting wise to yourself!"
"Will you let me tell my end of the story?" I looked at Trottmann. "You listened to her. Why not listen to me?"
Trottmann shrugged and darted a glance at Matthews. "Why not?" he asked. "He's going to blow it off sooner or later, captain."
"Swell," Matthews rasped, making the word drip sarcasm. "Go ahead and blow, Forbes—a hell of a lot of good it'll do you!"
I talked slowly, trying to make the words fit together in a pattern which made sense, and gave them the whole works, right from the beginning. As I unraveled the sorry tale, Trottmann tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair and Matthews glared at a calendar on his desk. When I got to the end, Matthews snorted and pushed back his chair.
"Crap," he said, his lips clipping it off like an electrician's pliers.
"Is that all?" Trottmann asked, frowning.
"That's all, except for the checking."
"What checking?"
"Your checking on the details. They loaded me with bourbon, and I can name at least fifteen bartenders who'll swear that I never touch the stuff. You can analyze the—"
"Hell, that's down the drain by now," Trottmann said. "Anyway, it wouldn't prove anything."
"Richmond paid her three thousand bucks in cash. She dropped it down a mail chute. You can intercept it. That'll prove...."
Trottmann shook his head. "You don't know where she sent it. It could be on its way to China, for all we know." "Question her. Make her admit it!"
"We've already had her over the coals. It'd just be her word against yours."
"She, of course, is a person of unquestionable veracity."
Trottmann ignored the sarcasm. "Ordinarily, I'd prefer your word to hers, knowing her type, but all the physical facts are against you."
"What physical facts?" I demanded. 'The fact that I was drunk and in her apartment?"
Matthews laughed harshly. "Maybe you haven't had a look at yourself," he snapped. "There's a mirror in the corner. Take a good look!"
I got up and walked to the mirror. The apparition which confronted me was almost unrecognizable. But it was me. I began to feel sick again. Then I took a good look—and felt even sicker. I saw what they meant by "physical facts." My mouth looked as though it had been coated with lipstick and my shoulders, neck and chest were covered with small butterfly-shaped bruises, the kind a woman's mouth makes when bite-kissing in passion.
Feeling discouraged, I asked, "Ever find the missing Caddy? The one I had at the cabin."
"Sure. We know all about that. Stolen from a jerk in
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