Tell It To The Birds

"He has been asking questions about you, Mr. Anson."

With an effort, Anson kept his face expressionless. So Harmas had checked his alibi. Well, that would get him nowhere.

Forcing his voice to sound natural Anson said, "I know all about that. It's to do with this murder case. The police want to check everyone's alibi; everyone remotely connected with Barlowe. I happened to have sold Barlowe an insurance policy so I'm involved. It's just routine. Don't let it worry you."

Jones took a half smoked cigarette from behind his ear, stuck it on his lower lip and set fire to it.

"It's not worrying me, Mr. Anson. I thought it might be worrying you. You see, I told him you were right here in this office between nine and eleven. I told him you were using the typewriter."

There was a sneering tone in his voice that made Anson's eyes move intently over the fat, sly face.

"That's right," he said. "I told him the same thing. Just as well I didn't have company that night, isn't it?" He forced a smile.

"Yeah," Jones said without returning Anson's smile. "Well, I told him you were here, but he's only a private dick. What if the cops should ask me?"

"You tell them the same thing, Jud," Anson said, his voice sharpening.

"You can't expect me to tell lies to the cops, Mr. Anson," Jones said, shaking his head. "I can't afford to get into trouble ... they could make me an accessory ..."

Anson felt a chill growing around his heart.

"What do you mean? Accessory? What are you talking about?"

"You weren't in your office that night, Mr. Anson."

Anson sat abruptly on the edge of his desk. His legs felt as if they wouldn't support him.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his voice husky.

Jones dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and trod on it.

"I had run out of cigarettes," he said. "I thought I might borrow a couple from you. I knocked on the door. No one answered, but the typewriter kept going. I knocked again, then I thought something must be wrong. I opened the door with my pass key. You weren't there, Mr. Anson. There was a tape recorder playing back the sound of a typewriter working and very realistic it sounded ... it had me completely fooled "

Anson felt cold sweat run from his armpits down his ribs.

Sunk! he thought, now what am I going to do?

His immediate impulse was to take Barlowe's gun from the locked drawer in his desk and murder Jones. The thought was scarcely in his mind before he dismissed it. He would never have the strength to move this great hulk of a body from his office once Jones was dead. He had to gain time to think.

"That's right, Jud," he said. "I wasn't in my office but I had nothing to do with the murder ... nothing at all."

Jones, who had been watching Anson closely, smirked. Anson could smell the sweat of excitement and fear coming from the fat man.

"I'm sure, Mr. Anson ... never crossed my mind you did have anything to do with it. I just thought I'd better let you know if the cops asked me. I'll have to tell them the truth." He cocked his head on one side, and went on, "it wouldn't do any harm, would it, Mr. Anson?" Anson said slowly, "Well, Jud, it might." Jones managed to look sad.

"I wouldn't like that. You've always been good to me. What sort of harm would it do?"

"I could lose my job," Anson said. "I set up this alibi because I was fooling around with a married woman and her husband is on to me. I wanted to prove I was right here instead of being with her." Even to him, this sounded pretty feeble, but he had no time to think up something better.

"Is that right?" Jud said and leered. "You were always sharp with girls." He paused to scratch the back of his fat neck.

"Well, maybe I could forget it if that's all it is. Maybe I could ... I'll have to think about it."

Anson smelling blackmail, said quickly ... too quickly, "If a hundred dollars would be of any use to you, Jud ... after all, although I have nothing to do with it, this is a murder inquiry. How about a hundred bucks and you keep me in the clear?"

Jones lolled his massive frame against the wall. "Well, I don't know, Mr. Anson. It worries me. To tell the truth, my wife is far from well. The doc says she should go away. The climate here doesn't seem to agree with her. Moving is an expensive business. You couldnt run to a thousand, could you? For that I'll forget everything and you will be doing us a good turn."

Anson suddenly became calm. He realized the situation. He told himself he would have to kill this fat, hulking blackmailer, but he would have to stall him until he got him where he could kill him in safety.

"A thousand!" he exclaimed. "For Pete's sake, Jud! Where do you imagine I'd find that kind of money? Two hundred is the best I could do."

Jones shook his head. His expression became more sorrowful. "I'd like to help you, Mr. Anson, but suppose the cops found out I had lied to them? What would happen to my wife? They could put me away for. a couple of years. Two hundred bucks is no good to me."