Read Online Little Dog Laughed by Joseph Hansen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph Hansen
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“You go there often?”
“Pretty often. It’s a nursery too. I help her out with the heavy work.” A flush appeared under Hunsinger’s very white skin. “Wouldn’t you? She’s a lovely young lady.”
“But she never gave you any encouragement?”
“Streeter was a god to her,” Hunsinger said. “I’m a mere mortal. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Dave smoked for a moment. “What about that Blazer, Bronco, whatever it was—did you get the license number?”
“It was too dark. But one thing I can tell you”—Hunsinger scraped back his chair, rose, tucked the watch away—“there was a pintle mount bolted to the roof.”
“Say what?” Cecil looked blank.
“A mount for a medium-weight machine gun.” Hunsinger walked to get his hat, the heels of the cowboy boots noisy. “That was a combat-ready vehicle.”
“Go to the police,” Dave said.
Hunsinger winced.
“You want to help Underhill, don’t you?” Cecil said.
“That’s why I came here.” Hunsinger took down his hat and put it on. He said to Dave, “You’ve got a big reputation. Fleur said you also care about people, and I guess you do.” Hunsinger pushed the screen door, stepped out, held the door. “Someone set Underhill up for that murder. He’s a creep, but they’re worse. Someone has to help him. It can’t be me—not the way I stand with the police. They’d laugh at me, if they didn’t lock me up.” Hunsinger walked away. The screen door wheezed closed on its patent piston. The latch clicked. Hunsinger’s voice drifted back out of the darkness. “You help him. Only don’t send me a bill, okay? All the mail I ever get is bills.”
6
L EPPARD WAS THIRTY-FIVE AND black, bulky and muscular. White streaked his clipped hair from front to back above his left ear. Someone made his clothes to measure, someone gifted. He stood at his desk, watching Dave uneasily. “I saw the flowerpots,” he said. “I saw a lot of things, mostly a dead man on the floor in his own blood, mostly that, and this gun with the silencer on it, and this young blind girl with a coffee stain down the front of her blouse, standing there so quiet she could be dead too. I forgot about the flowerpots.”
“And you also forgot that she hadn’t heard anyone come into the house except her father,” Dave said.
“Hadn’t heard the gun go off, either,” Leppard said, and sat down. “Teenagers sleep hard, Mr. Brandstetter. I didn’t think it meant much what she heard and didn’t hear.”
“It did, because whoever killed him came over the roofs, swung down to the balcony, knocking over the flowerpots on his way, and walked in through the open French doors.”
“That’s television cop-show stuff,” Leppard said.
“The guard is no teenager. The guard didn’t see Underhill.”
“Didn’t need to. Underhill could have been in that house waiting all the time. Hours. The girl is blind. No one can verify that he was home or where he was. Why wasn’t it him kicked over the flowerpots, leaving afterward?”
“How did you come to arrest him?” Dave said.
“We got a telephone tip,” Leppard said. A uniformed officer with blond hair and rosy cheeks came in with mugs of coffee on a brown tray, little envelopes of sugar and powdered creamer, a rattle of white plastic stirring sticks. He set the tray on Leppard’s paper-strewn desk and went away, closing the door. “Said Underhill did it for a hundred thousand bills Streeter had lying around, and we better move on him because he was fixing to fly away to Africa and disappear. Sure enough—”
“Sure enough, you found the airline ticket for Algiers,” Dave said, “lying right there in plain sight beside his typewriter on the dining room table.”
“Sure enough,” Leppard said with a smile. He reached across the desk and set one of the steaming mugs close to Dave. “Sugar? Cream?” With beautiful pink nails he tore open little packets and emptied them into his mug. “But mostly, sure
“Pretty often. It’s a nursery too. I help her out with the heavy work.” A flush appeared under Hunsinger’s very white skin. “Wouldn’t you? She’s a lovely young lady.”
“But she never gave you any encouragement?”
“Streeter was a god to her,” Hunsinger said. “I’m a mere mortal. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Dave smoked for a moment. “What about that Blazer, Bronco, whatever it was—did you get the license number?”
“It was too dark. But one thing I can tell you”—Hunsinger scraped back his chair, rose, tucked the watch away—“there was a pintle mount bolted to the roof.”
“Say what?” Cecil looked blank.
“A mount for a medium-weight machine gun.” Hunsinger walked to get his hat, the heels of the cowboy boots noisy. “That was a combat-ready vehicle.”
“Go to the police,” Dave said.
Hunsinger winced.
“You want to help Underhill, don’t you?” Cecil said.
“That’s why I came here.” Hunsinger took down his hat and put it on. He said to Dave, “You’ve got a big reputation. Fleur said you also care about people, and I guess you do.” Hunsinger pushed the screen door, stepped out, held the door. “Someone set Underhill up for that murder. He’s a creep, but they’re worse. Someone has to help him. It can’t be me—not the way I stand with the police. They’d laugh at me, if they didn’t lock me up.” Hunsinger walked away. The screen door wheezed closed on its patent piston. The latch clicked. Hunsinger’s voice drifted back out of the darkness. “You help him. Only don’t send me a bill, okay? All the mail I ever get is bills.”
6
L EPPARD WAS THIRTY-FIVE AND black, bulky and muscular. White streaked his clipped hair from front to back above his left ear. Someone made his clothes to measure, someone gifted. He stood at his desk, watching Dave uneasily. “I saw the flowerpots,” he said. “I saw a lot of things, mostly a dead man on the floor in his own blood, mostly that, and this gun with the silencer on it, and this young blind girl with a coffee stain down the front of her blouse, standing there so quiet she could be dead too. I forgot about the flowerpots.”
“And you also forgot that she hadn’t heard anyone come into the house except her father,” Dave said.
“Hadn’t heard the gun go off, either,” Leppard said, and sat down. “Teenagers sleep hard, Mr. Brandstetter. I didn’t think it meant much what she heard and didn’t hear.”
“It did, because whoever killed him came over the roofs, swung down to the balcony, knocking over the flowerpots on his way, and walked in through the open French doors.”
“That’s television cop-show stuff,” Leppard said.
“The guard is no teenager. The guard didn’t see Underhill.”
“Didn’t need to. Underhill could have been in that house waiting all the time. Hours. The girl is blind. No one can verify that he was home or where he was. Why wasn’t it him kicked over the flowerpots, leaving afterward?”
“How did you come to arrest him?” Dave said.
“We got a telephone tip,” Leppard said. A uniformed officer with blond hair and rosy cheeks came in with mugs of coffee on a brown tray, little envelopes of sugar and powdered creamer, a rattle of white plastic stirring sticks. He set the tray on Leppard’s paper-strewn desk and went away, closing the door. “Said Underhill did it for a hundred thousand bills Streeter had lying around, and we better move on him because he was fixing to fly away to Africa and disappear. Sure enough—”
“Sure enough, you found the airline ticket for Algiers,” Dave said, “lying right there in plain sight beside his typewriter on the dining room table.”
“Sure enough,” Leppard said with a smile. He reached across the desk and set one of the steaming mugs close to Dave. “Sugar? Cream?” With beautiful pink nails he tore open little packets and emptied them into his mug. “But mostly, sure
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