A Handy Death

“You wait,” Ross said, his arguments firming themselves in his mind. “You raised certain legitimate objections; well, I’m answering them. If it was a swindle scheme and the gun the woman handed Dupaul had live ammunition in it, we can scarcely believe the ammunition got there by accident. So, who put it there? Neeley, even assuming he provided the gun? I’m inclined to doubt he would arrange to be shot. Dupaul? He says he knows nothing about the gun, and our scenario has him cast as Honest Harry, whose word is good as gold. Or platinum. So it has to be the woman—”

“If there was a woman,” Mike said sourly.

“Are we back to that?” Ross looked at his companion reproachfully. “There was a woman. Our client, Honest Harry, said so, and arguing is counterproductive. Now, if this woman put the ammunition in the gun, or even knew the gun was loaded when she handed it over, then she was suckering Billy Dupaul into killing Neeley for her.”

He paused a moment for Gunnerson to object, but when the big grizzle-headed man merely rubbed his head, Ross went on.

“As far as that goes, if her object was to kill Neeley, she wouldn’t care if the sucker had money or not. Anyone she could pick up in the bar, looking young and stupid and preferably drunk as a skunk, would do. Especially someone young enough to panic in a rough situation, like being caught in bed by an irate husband. In fact, considering it, on that basis it could be a pure accident that Dupaul was the sucker. It could have been anyone she picked up in the bar who fit the general description.”

“And this stranger would accidentally shoot Neeley with Dupaul’s own twenty-two-caliber pistol?” Gunnerson said sarcastically.

“I forgot about that,” Ross said and smiled, abashed. “Anyway, that argument wouldn’t have held much water in any event. Neeley would have picked the mark — the sucker — and it would have been a man with money. And he would have been in for a shock if he opened the door to the bedroom and saw a complete stranger in bed. No. The only conclusion we can come to—”

“If Dupaul wasn’t giving us drunken dreams. If Dupaul was telling the truth.”

“—since Dupaul is telling the truth, is that Neeley thought they were working the old chicken-bladder swindle on the boy, but that the woman had other ideas. She intended to use Dupaul to kill Neeley and arranged to set him up as target for tonight all the way. Gun included.” He smiled at Gunnerson brightly. “How does that sound?”

“Like the ravings of a tortured mind. How did she get her hands on Dupaul’s gun?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Ross said cheerfully. “Next?”

“Why didn’t Neeley blow the whistle on her during the trial? After all, the lady tried to have his head blown off, which is scarcely a nice thing for strangers to do, let alone partners. Why not put the so-and-so where she belongs? Behind bars for attempted murder?”

“And end up behind bars himself for attempted blackmail? Because that’s what the swindle amounts to, and that’s what would have happened. No,” Ross said and shook his head. “Neeley was in the bind. He couldn’t pull the rug out from under the woman without accusing himself. Which explains the story he came up with.”

There were several moments of silence as the two men contemplated the straw man they had constructed.

“Well,” Gunnerson said thoughtfully at last, “it makes a logical story, I suppose, although I’m sure that given enough time and a little mental effort I could probably come up with six different theories that would fit the facts as well as the one you’ve just dreamed up—”

Ross said, “Give me just one.”

“You haven’t given me the time. And I keep coming back to that old refrain — why did our friend Grace take that suitcase?”

“As I explained before,” Ross said patiently, “to further implicate Dupaul by making any story he told look like a fabrication. He was bound to tell how the husband came in with a suitcase and dropped it. By making it appear there was no suitcase, she puts young Dupaul more in the soup. Which is what she wants. What she does not want is for the jury to believe Dupaul and start looking for her.”

“And I still say, why take the suitcase?” Gunnerson said stubbornly. “Why take the chance of being seen on the street with it? All she had to do was stuff it into a closet, shove it way back on a rear shelf. What would be so unusual about the police finding a suitcase in an apartment? What would it have proved? Certainly not Dupaul’s story; it certainly wouldn’t have helped his case a hell of a lot. Unless—”

Gunnerson suddenly paused.

Ross said, “Unless what?”

“The suitcase must have contained something she wanted,” Gunnerson said slowly. “She didn’t take it to hurt Dupaul; she took it because she wanted it. Maybe it had her things in it. For a getaway.”