Read Online The Nothing Man by Jim Thompson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jim Thompson
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological fiction, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Detective and Mystery Stories, Psychology, Hard-Boiled, Criminals, Veterans, Criminals - Fiction, Veterans - Psychology - Fiction
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was an accident, huh? We let it go at that. I don't give you no trouble; you don't give me none."
I hesitated. I was trying to remember something. Everything was reasonably clear up to a certain point: I could remember swinging the bottle, spilling the whisky over her, dropping the matches. But after that.
After that, from that time until I reached the boat, nothing. Only the long blue oblong of flame, and then nothing. If Stukey hadn't been so sure of himself, if he hadn't gone off half-cocked, he might have tripped me up in a dozen places.
"You were very sure," I said, "that she'd been slugged. There wasn't any doubt in your mind. What made you so certain, Stuke? Just the fact that she couldn't have easily struck the top of her head against something?"
"That was a big part of it, sure, but there was this quart whisky bottle layin' in the bed an'-"
"I see. You thought she'd been hit with that. What brand of whisky was it?"
"Couldn't say. It was all charred, see, the label burned off and-"
"And the fingerprints? Did you dust the place?"
"Uh-huh. The boys went over it from top to bottom, and the only prints they found was hers an' a few of the maid's. I figure she must've cleaned the place up good before she started her party. Nice clean little lady, huh?" He drooped a lid over one eye. "Looks like she even wiped off the doorknob."
"I suppose the boys also looked for tracks around the outside?"
"Tracks? Why, keed, there could have been a herd of elephants around that place and their tracks wouldn't have lasted five minutes in that rain."
"Now, that poem-"
"Forget it. Put it out of your mind, pal. Typewritten- God knows when or where. The paper, it might have come from anyplace. A dime store or a drugstore or-"
"You were completely wrong then in your initial suspicions? There is absolutely nothing to connect me with this murder?"
"Absitively and possolutely, Brownie. I was all wet up to here. But don't use that word, huh? Don't say murder. It was an accident and-"
A car was pulling into the yard. He paused,shooting me a look of inquiry.
"That would be my publisher," I said, "and my editor. They have come to condole with me. Also, I suspect-at least on the part of Mr. Randall-to lend me moral support."
"Yeah? Well, that's nice." He stood up, brushing at his pants. "I guess I'll just trot along, then, an'-"
"You," I said, "will stay right here."
"But, pal… Oh, well, sure. You want me to square you up with 'em, huh? I don't remember saying anything out of the way, but-"
"You will square yourself up," I said. "You will explain just what you intend to do about apprehending my wife's murderer."
7
Mr. Lovelace was patently not in the most pleasant of humors. A man of regular habits was Mr. Lovelace, a man who, like so many of the lower lower-animals, liked his full ten hours' sleep each night. Now that sleep had been disturbed; he, Austin Lovelace, had been disturbed twice in one night! And without, as he saw it, any very adequate cause.
It was the old, old story. Because he was strong and wise-a tower of strength among pygmies-he was constantly overburdened. Everyone loaded his trifling troubles upon him.
He was sleepy, puzzled, fretful. Very, very fretful. For me, the loyal, hard-working-and appreciative-servant, he managed a mumbled word of sympathy and a semifatherly handclasp. But it was obviously an effort.
"Very sad. Tragic… Insist you take the remainder of the week off, understand? Take as much time as you need-uh-within reason."
"Thank you, sir," I said. "I believe two or three days will be sufficient. I own a burial plot in Los Angeles, and I thought-"
"By all means. Certainly. Much better than a local burial. Incidentally, Mr. Brown"-his lips pursed pettishly- "I was rather shocked to learn that-nh-that a man of your caliber was married to-to-"
"I understand, sir," I said. "But I was very young at the time. It was long before I came to the Courier. I hadn't yet had the chance to profit from
I hesitated. I was trying to remember something. Everything was reasonably clear up to a certain point: I could remember swinging the bottle, spilling the whisky over her, dropping the matches. But after that.
After that, from that time until I reached the boat, nothing. Only the long blue oblong of flame, and then nothing. If Stukey hadn't been so sure of himself, if he hadn't gone off half-cocked, he might have tripped me up in a dozen places.
"You were very sure," I said, "that she'd been slugged. There wasn't any doubt in your mind. What made you so certain, Stuke? Just the fact that she couldn't have easily struck the top of her head against something?"
"That was a big part of it, sure, but there was this quart whisky bottle layin' in the bed an'-"
"I see. You thought she'd been hit with that. What brand of whisky was it?"
"Couldn't say. It was all charred, see, the label burned off and-"
"And the fingerprints? Did you dust the place?"
"Uh-huh. The boys went over it from top to bottom, and the only prints they found was hers an' a few of the maid's. I figure she must've cleaned the place up good before she started her party. Nice clean little lady, huh?" He drooped a lid over one eye. "Looks like she even wiped off the doorknob."
"I suppose the boys also looked for tracks around the outside?"
"Tracks? Why, keed, there could have been a herd of elephants around that place and their tracks wouldn't have lasted five minutes in that rain."
"Now, that poem-"
"Forget it. Put it out of your mind, pal. Typewritten- God knows when or where. The paper, it might have come from anyplace. A dime store or a drugstore or-"
"You were completely wrong then in your initial suspicions? There is absolutely nothing to connect me with this murder?"
"Absitively and possolutely, Brownie. I was all wet up to here. But don't use that word, huh? Don't say murder. It was an accident and-"
A car was pulling into the yard. He paused,shooting me a look of inquiry.
"That would be my publisher," I said, "and my editor. They have come to condole with me. Also, I suspect-at least on the part of Mr. Randall-to lend me moral support."
"Yeah? Well, that's nice." He stood up, brushing at his pants. "I guess I'll just trot along, then, an'-"
"You," I said, "will stay right here."
"But, pal… Oh, well, sure. You want me to square you up with 'em, huh? I don't remember saying anything out of the way, but-"
"You will square yourself up," I said. "You will explain just what you intend to do about apprehending my wife's murderer."
7
Mr. Lovelace was patently not in the most pleasant of humors. A man of regular habits was Mr. Lovelace, a man who, like so many of the lower lower-animals, liked his full ten hours' sleep each night. Now that sleep had been disturbed; he, Austin Lovelace, had been disturbed twice in one night! And without, as he saw it, any very adequate cause.
It was the old, old story. Because he was strong and wise-a tower of strength among pygmies-he was constantly overburdened. Everyone loaded his trifling troubles upon him.
He was sleepy, puzzled, fretful. Very, very fretful. For me, the loyal, hard-working-and appreciative-servant, he managed a mumbled word of sympathy and a semifatherly handclasp. But it was obviously an effort.
"Very sad. Tragic… Insist you take the remainder of the week off, understand? Take as much time as you need-uh-within reason."
"Thank you, sir," I said. "I believe two or three days will be sufficient. I own a burial plot in Los Angeles, and I thought-"
"By all means. Certainly. Much better than a local burial. Incidentally, Mr. Brown"-his lips pursed pettishly- "I was rather shocked to learn that-nh-that a man of your caliber was married to-to-"
"I understand, sir," I said. "But I was very young at the time. It was long before I came to the Courier. I hadn't yet had the chance to profit from
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