Hit and Run

'Who are you? What do you want?' he growled, clutching on his glass, his eyes going over me. From the puzzled expression on his face, he could make nothing of me.

'I'll ask the questions and you supply the answers,' I said, making my voice sound tough. 'Why didn't you call the police when you found her?'

The colour went out of his face, leaving only the red broken veins against a tallow background.

'You know what happened to her?' he croaked.

'I know. I saw you go in and I saw you come out. Why didn't you call the police?'

'What good would that have done?' he said, shifting his eyes from me.

'What's your name?'

Again the purple tongue came out and moved over his dry lips.

'Turner: John Turner.'

'Okay, if that's the way you want to play it,' I said and picked up the gun. It felt heavy and awkward in my hand. I had read about .45's in detective stories, but this was the first time I had actually handled one. I was surprised to find it this big and this heavy. 'Get up and stand against the wall. I'm going to call the police.'

Some whisky jumped out of his glass and splashed on his knees.

'Now, wait a minute,' he said huskily. 'I don't know a thing about it. I found her. Someone had hit her on the head.'

'What's your name?'

'Ed Nutley. I'm her agent.'

That made sense. I remembered Dolores had mentioned an agent.

'Why didn't you call the police?'

He drank some more whisky. The spirit seemed to stiffen his nerve. He scowled at me.

'What's it to you?' he growled. 'Come to that: who are you? You're not a cop, you're not a newspaper man, and I'll be damned if you are a shamus – just who the hell are you?'

'Look, if you don't want to answer my questions, we'll call the police and maybe you'll answer theirs.'

He wilted.

'I was going to call them,' he muttered. 'As soon as I had got over the shock, I was going to call them.'

'Go ahead and call them now, then,' I said, hoping the whisky hadn't made him reckless enough to do just that thing.

He put the glass down, and for an uncomfortable moment I thought he was going to reach for the telephone, but instead he took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, stuck one on his lower lip and set fire to it.

'I know you,' he said suddenly. 'I must be losing my grip not to have tumbled to you before. You're the guy who was to have sprung her rail fare.'

I put the .45 back on the dressing-table, then I moved around him, picked up the second glass on the tray and made myself a small drink, I felt I needed it. I carried the drink across the room, then sat down on an upright chair by the window.

'Suppose I am?' I said.

He stared at me.

'Well, for crying out loud! Did you give her the money?'

'You're getting away from the subject,' I said. 'I want to know why you didn't call the police when you found her murdered. You'll either tell me or we'll go down to headquarters and you can tell them.'

He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders.

'I didn't want to get mixed up in anything,' he said, and took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped his sweating face. 'They might think I knocked her off.' He put his handkerchief carefully away. 'It wasn't as if I hadn't warned her ...' He stopped abruptly and frowned, 'I just didn't want to get mixed up in anything.' he concluded lamely.

'What did you warn her about?' I asked.

Again he hesitated, then he picked up his glass and finished his drink. He poured more whisky into his glass before saying: 'I don't know why I'm talking to you. Maybe I'm drunk, but if you're all that interested, I told her she was crazy to think of marrying this cop.'

'Why did you tell her that?'

He sucked down half the whisky, then stared at me with bleary eyes.

'Because he was no good, but she wouldn't listen.' He scowled, turning the glass in his soft dirty hands. 'She never would listen to anything I said. I warned her she was getting involved in some dirty racket, but she laughed at me. A cop couldn't live the way he did unless he was up to his ears in slime. She didn't give a damn. She thought by marrying him she could quit show business, and that's all she thought about.' He took another gulp at his drink. 'Now she's landed up with a broken head.'

'Just what was O'Brien's racket?' I asked, sitting forward on the edge of my chair.

He looked slyly at me.

'I wouldn't know.'

'Why did she want to leave town?'

He blew out his cheeks.

'Well, there wasn't anything more here for her. She wanted to have a look at Mexico.'

'She was anxious to get out. There was more to it than that. What was it?'

He sloshed more whisky into his glass.

'Did you give her the dough?'

'I gave it to her but whoever killed her took it,' I said.

He rubbed his hand over his sweating face, his eyes still trying to focus.