A Handy Death

“No, but we really haven’t had a chance to look yet. Or the killer might have taken it with him, if he was lucky enough to find it in the dark. I took a quick look over there, but I didn’t see it.”

“See any footprints?”

Lieutenant Lamport shook his head. “It’s too matted with pine needles. Springy. Doesn’t show a thing.”

“Would you mind if my man, Evans, took a look?”

Lieutenant Lamport smiled at him enigmatically.

“I’m afraid I would, Mr. Gunnerson. I have men coming who will be more than capable of doing a search. Actually, what I suggest is that your man Evans get into your car and sit there, while you and Mr. Ross join me in my car. I’d like to ask you a few questions, too, and we might as well do it in relative comfort.”

The three men crossed the crushed rock driveway as Evans retreated to the rented car and climbed in. Ross opened the back door of the trooper’s car and climbed in; Gunnerson walked around and got in the front beside Lamport. There was a constant chatter from the radio; Lamport turned it down, but, keeping it slightly audible, started the motor and put on the heater, loosened his overcoat, and looked from Gunnerson to Ross in friendly fashion.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly, “I’ve been more than cooperative because I know both you and Mr. Gunnerson by reputation. Now I’d like to ask a few questions. Mr. Ross, why your interest in an obscure shooting way up here out of your bailiwick?”

“Lieutenant,” Ross said, “James Marshall was scheduled to be a witness in a case I’m defending beginning in two short days. It was my hope that he would give testimony that would be useful to my client.” He shrugged. “Naturally his death came as a shock, and was of more than passing interest.”

“Exactly what useful testimony did you hope to get from him, Mr. Ross?”

There was an odd note in the lieutenant’s voice, but his face was still merely mildly curious. Ross plowed on.

“James Marshall was my client’s best friend. They were rooming together in New York City some time ago when a crime occurred for which my client is now being charged. I thought it was possible that Marshall might have some recollection of the period that might possibly help my client’s cause. When I heard of his death, therefore—”

Lieutenant Lamport held up one of his small hands, interrupting.

“Mr. Ross,” he said in a gentle voice, “please remember that you are speaking to the State Police. If I wished to be unfriendly, I could point out to you that I am engaged in a murder investigation, and every question I ask, whether to a suspect or not, is still official. And that untruthful answers are poor policy. But you know that as well as I do, and as I said before, I’ve heard of you, so I’ll start over. What was your interest in Marshall’s killing?”

“But, I told you—”

The lieutenant sighed, as if disappointed in the other man.

“Mr. Ross, we are all quite familiar with the Dupaul case up here. After all, Billy Dupaul came from Queensbury, just down the road, and we were all very proud of Billy when he was picked by the Mets. We don’t have many local heroes and we tend to overadulate the few we have, I suppose. And we were all shocked when Billy got into trouble; we also don’t have too many villains. So the spotlight was on Billy Dupaul, especially among the police. We also know, Mr. Ross, that Billy Dupaul and Jim Marshall had a big fight in New York eight years ago. Marshall never made any bones about it. If you wish, I can introduce you to at least ten people who will swear on a witness stand that Marshall told them Billy Dupaul threatened his life before he left New York eight years ago.”

Ross was listening, his face a mask. It was an odd feeling to be on the other side of an interrogation where he was at a disadvantage. Lieutenant Lamport smiled faintly, as if he could read the other man’s mind. Mike Gunnerson, his eyes twinkling, bit back a grin and listened.

“Now, Mr. Ross, let me suggest that you came to Glens Falls because you are not certain in your own mind if Billy Dupaul was involved in this killing or not. Billy was out of his hotel room — the Marlborough — last night. He left the hotel at three-thirty yesterday afternoon and returned at five-fifteen this morning, an absence of nearly thirteen hours—”

“Nearly fourteen hours,” Ross said woodenly.

“I’m sorry. I’m terrible in math. Where was I? Oh, yes. By plane it takes exactly forty-five minutes to get here from New York; by bus approximately four hours. You can also drive it easily in four hours, and if you wish to take a chance with our highway boys, it has been done in less than three. Considerably less.”

He smiled at Ross. Ross returned his smile. It was time to take the offensive.

“To rent a private car, Lieutenant, one needs a current driver’s license. They don’t issue them at Attica.”