into my solar plexus. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“My job.”
“What job is that?”
“Meyer hired me to look for his truck.”
“And you thought it was concealed here, in Miss Meyer’s bathroom?”
“He also hired me to look for his daughter.”
He pushed the gun deeper into the hollow below my ribs, and leaned on it. “Where is she, Archer?”
I tensed myself against the gun’s sharp pressure, against the sharper pressure of panic. Church’s eyes were wide and blank. The muscles were ridged and dimpling around his mouth. He looked ready to kill.
“I wouldn’t know where she is,” I said. “I suggest you ask Kerrigan.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’ll drop the tough-cop kick I’ll tell you what I mean. Iron isn’t good for my stomach. Neither is lead.”
He pulled the gun away, looking down at it as if it was a separate entity that resisted his control. But he didn’t return it to its holster.
“What about Kerrigan?”
“He crops up all over the place. When Aquista was shot, Kerrigan was the nearest citizen. The truck was loaded with Kerrigan’s whisky. Now your sister-in-law turns up missing. She was Kerrigan’s employee, very likely his mistress. And that’s only the beginning.” I was tempted to go on and tell him about the conversation I’d eavesdropped on in Sammy’s Oriental Gardens. But I decided not to. It belonged to me.
Church pushed his hat back as if it constricted his thoughts. His hand stayed up, rubbing a spot on his temple: a grooved bluish-white scar, which might have been left there by a bullet-welt. He looked like a different man with his high forehead uncovered—a puzzled, sensitive man who wore the Western hat and the hard-nosed front as protective coloration. Or a man so deeply split that he didn’t know himself. The gun hung down forgotten in his other hand.
When he spoke, it was in an altered voice, shallow and flat: “I’ve already questioned Kerrigan. He has an alibi for the shooting.”
“His wife?”
“Her word is good enough for me. I’ve known Kate Kerrigan for a long time. I knew her father, the Judge. She’s a woman I trust completely.”
“A woman like that would lie for her husband.”
“Maybe. She isn’t lying. In any case, Kerrigan doesn’t need an alibi. He’s a respectable businessman.”
“How respectable?”
“I’m not talking about his private life. When you’ve got as much to lose as Kerrigan has, you don’t shoot truck-drivers on the public highway.”
“Not even for seventy grand? That’s a tremendous order of whisky, by the way. What does he do, take baths in it?”
“He sells it.”
“In his motor court?”
“Not if I can help it. He owns a bar on the other side of town. The Golden Slipper Supper Club, he calls it.”
“On Yanonali Street?”
“You get around.”
“What else has he got that I don’t know about—political pull?”
“I guess he has some, through his wife’s connections.”
I pressed the needle in a little further: “That wouldn’t be influencing you on the subject of Kerrigan?”
This time it struck a nerve. A pulse jerked under the reddening scar on his temple. “You’re kind of free with your questions.”
“I have to take my answers where I can find them.”
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”
“You keep it in the forefront of my thoughts.”
“You don’t quite grasp the situation,” he said. “I’m leaning over backwards. I can’t promise it will last. If you want trouble, I can lock you up for breaking in the front door.”
“I do a neater job than that. It was broken when I got here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. The place was burglarized, but not by an ordinary burglar. There’s an expensive wristwatch on the bedroom table. A burglar would have taken it. He wouldn’t have taken the other things that are missing.”
“What other things?”
“Personal stuff, toothbrush and so on. I think Anne Meyer went away for
“My job.”
“What job is that?”
“Meyer hired me to look for his truck.”
“And you thought it was concealed here, in Miss Meyer’s bathroom?”
“He also hired me to look for his daughter.”
He pushed the gun deeper into the hollow below my ribs, and leaned on it. “Where is she, Archer?”
I tensed myself against the gun’s sharp pressure, against the sharper pressure of panic. Church’s eyes were wide and blank. The muscles were ridged and dimpling around his mouth. He looked ready to kill.
“I wouldn’t know where she is,” I said. “I suggest you ask Kerrigan.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’ll drop the tough-cop kick I’ll tell you what I mean. Iron isn’t good for my stomach. Neither is lead.”
He pulled the gun away, looking down at it as if it was a separate entity that resisted his control. But he didn’t return it to its holster.
“What about Kerrigan?”
“He crops up all over the place. When Aquista was shot, Kerrigan was the nearest citizen. The truck was loaded with Kerrigan’s whisky. Now your sister-in-law turns up missing. She was Kerrigan’s employee, very likely his mistress. And that’s only the beginning.” I was tempted to go on and tell him about the conversation I’d eavesdropped on in Sammy’s Oriental Gardens. But I decided not to. It belonged to me.
Church pushed his hat back as if it constricted his thoughts. His hand stayed up, rubbing a spot on his temple: a grooved bluish-white scar, which might have been left there by a bullet-welt. He looked like a different man with his high forehead uncovered—a puzzled, sensitive man who wore the Western hat and the hard-nosed front as protective coloration. Or a man so deeply split that he didn’t know himself. The gun hung down forgotten in his other hand.
When he spoke, it was in an altered voice, shallow and flat: “I’ve already questioned Kerrigan. He has an alibi for the shooting.”
“His wife?”
“Her word is good enough for me. I’ve known Kate Kerrigan for a long time. I knew her father, the Judge. She’s a woman I trust completely.”
“A woman like that would lie for her husband.”
“Maybe. She isn’t lying. In any case, Kerrigan doesn’t need an alibi. He’s a respectable businessman.”
“How respectable?”
“I’m not talking about his private life. When you’ve got as much to lose as Kerrigan has, you don’t shoot truck-drivers on the public highway.”
“Not even for seventy grand? That’s a tremendous order of whisky, by the way. What does he do, take baths in it?”
“He sells it.”
“In his motor court?”
“Not if I can help it. He owns a bar on the other side of town. The Golden Slipper Supper Club, he calls it.”
“On Yanonali Street?”
“You get around.”
“What else has he got that I don’t know about—political pull?”
“I guess he has some, through his wife’s connections.”
I pressed the needle in a little further: “That wouldn’t be influencing you on the subject of Kerrigan?”
This time it struck a nerve. A pulse jerked under the reddening scar on his temple. “You’re kind of free with your questions.”
“I have to take my answers where I can find them.”
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”
“You keep it in the forefront of my thoughts.”
“You don’t quite grasp the situation,” he said. “I’m leaning over backwards. I can’t promise it will last. If you want trouble, I can lock you up for breaking in the front door.”
“I do a neater job than that. It was broken when I got here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. The place was burglarized, but not by an ordinary burglar. There’s an expensive wristwatch on the bedroom table. A burglar would have taken it. He wouldn’t have taken the other things that are missing.”
“What other things?”
“Personal stuff, toothbrush and so on. I think Anne Meyer went away for
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