“Listen, Bishop,” I said. “I’m on a spot! If Browder doesn’t slap me in jail, he’ll at least be so mad I’ll never get any more news from him. What’ll I do?”
The Bishop tossed off his drink. “Just tell him who’s guilty, and let him take the credit. Give him a big play in the paper, and everything will be square again.”
“Yeah. And how am I supposed to tell him?”
“Who does Mrs. Good think killed Ralph?”
From the middle of a conversation about pink organdy and lace Mrs. Good said: “That Howell slut.”
“Is she?” the Bishop said. “Damn good-looking too. I think we ought to go out and see her, Eddie.”
Mrs. Good hung up the receiver and swung around and spat at the cuspidor. “A coming-out party for the McPherson brat,” she said. “That little pushover’s already been out more times than an alley cat. Where you going, Roscoe?”
The Bishop was pegging out the door. “Eddie and I are going to see if what you say about Nancy Howell is true. Come on, Eddie.”
“A lot of good it’ll do you, at your age!” Mrs. Good yelled.
I said, “For the first time in my life I’m looking forward to being fired,” and went wearily after the Bishop.
Chapter Four
Enter — The Dead
Since her father’s death Nancy Howell had moved from the huge colonial home in which they had lived to a small white bungalow a half-block away. She was alone when we got there, except for a Negro maid who let us in, then went back to the kitchen to go on with preparations for dinner.
Miss Howell was still suffering from strain and shock, and it showed in her face, but she tried to smile at us. “I suppose y’all have to do this,” she said, “but really I don’t want to talk about it any more. I want to... to forget.”
She was wearing a white linen dress. She had an excellent figure and although the dress looked modest enough you could tell she was under it. Her eyes, without tears in them, were more blue than gray. Her face was pale and there were shadows under her eyes.
We said the usual things and sat down and talked a few minutes. And then, abruptly, the Bishop said: “Is there any chance, Miss Howell, that the face you saw at the window wasn’t John Bollo’s monkey?”
She stared at him and a little of last night’s fear came back into her eyes. “What else could it have been?”
“It could have been the murderer.”
I could see her throat move as she swallowed. “I only had a glimpse of it, and it was beyond the window. It was small and hairy. That’s all I could tell. It must have been the monkey.”
The Bishop said: “If you thought it was somebody, would you be afraid to say so?”
After a moment she said: “I see what you mean, Mr. Atticus.” The fear was gone from her eyes now. She looked straight at him. “If I had seen the man who killed Ralph and recognized him, I wouldn’t be afraid to tell you, to tell the police. I wouldn’t be afraid of what he might do to me. My father taught me how to use a gun, Mr. Atticus, and I can take care of myself.”
“I’ll bet old Wayne did teach you,” the Bishop chuckled. But his little puckered features sobered almost instantly. “I didn’t mean that you were afraid. I thought there might be some other reason.”
“You mean that — that he was somebody I am in love with?”
“Somebody that you have reason to protect.”
“I wasn’t in love with anybody but Ralph.” Her gray-blue eyes turned to me then. “Maybe I wasn’t really in love with him. I liked him. I don’t know... But I wouldn’t protect anybody who shot him.”
“Not even Ben Steiner?” the Bishop asked.
She gave just the barest kind of start. But her voice was steady when she said: “Not Ben Steiner. I’ve had dates with him. I like Ben. But I’ve never loved him and I’ve never owed him anything.” After a moment she added: “Why do you name him?”
“He seems to have skipped out of town. And the cops are looking for him.”
Her lips parted as though to speak, then closed again. Her breathing had quickened.
“What?” the Bishop asked.
“Nothing. Except that I don’t believe Ben killed Ralph. I’d never believe it.”
The phone rang then and she answered. It was evidently some girl friend offering condolences. They talked for a few minutes, and when Miss Howell replaced the phone and turned toward us again her face had gone completely bloodless. Her eyes seemed to overflow their sockets and there was a tortured look in them.
“All I want,” she said huskily, “is to forget everything. And I’ll never be able to. They won’t let me.”
“Who won’t let you?”
“The persons who are supposed to be my friends. They keep calling. They keep reminding me. They think I killed him!”
The Bishop and I stared at her. I seemed to be still hearing what she had said, and it was incredible. Finally the Bishop said: “You’re just upset. Why would anybody think you killed Ralph McDonald?”
“But they do think that! If only there was some way I could prove to them, could prove to everybody, that I’m innocent!”
“If you spotted the real murderer that’d be proof,” the Bishop said.
She looked at him for long time out of those too wide, gray-blue eyes. She closed her eyes slowly and pressed her hand over them for a moment. “I don’t know the real murderer,” she said.
And about then I had my brain storm. I said: “There’s a way you can prove you’re innocent. There’s a way you can prove it if you haven’t fired a gun at any time the last day or two. The paraffin test!”
“What’s a paraffin test?”
“I did an article for the paper on it a month or two back when I was writing about some of Lieutenant Browder’s new methods. It’s a way they can prove whether or not you’ve fired a gun during the last few days. If you have, there will be nitrate sticking to your hand. There’s no way to wash it off. And it will show up in the test.”
She was showing excitement. “Does the test take long?”
“Not very.”
“Then I want it made. Now! I want everybody to know I didn’t kill Ralph. Will you take me where they make it?”
I was suddenly remembering Browder and feeling unwilling to face him. But the Bishop said: “Sure. We’ll take you down to headquarters.”
As we were driving past the paper on the way to police headquarters the Bishop said: “Just let me out here, Eddie.” I started to argue with him, but I knew it wasn’t any use. He’d rooked me again. I let him out and with no small amount of trepidation I drove Miss Howell on to headquarters.
For the first time in all my dealings with the Bishop, however, luck was with me. Browder hadn’t yet returned from chasing after Ben Steiner, so I told Bill Piker what was wanted and he set about making the test on Miss Howell’s hands.
Muddy Marshall was there. He seemed about two thirds tight and was in his customary good humor. He said: “So you’re accused of the murder too, Nancy. I’ll get a client out of this yet, if I have to defend myself.”
I asked if they were accusing him.
“No formal charges,” he said grinning. “But they found my shoeprint in one of the flowerbeds, and I’m supposed to hang around until Sherlock Browder gets back and then explain everything.”
“What were you doing in the flowerbeds?”
“Ah-ha!” he said dramatically. “Not what you think. I was chasing after that damn monkey of John Bollo’s. I wanted to give it a drink of whiskey.”
“When was that?” I asked. “Was it before or after the shot?”
It was the way he looked at me then, for just a split instant, that gave me the idea he might not be as drunk as he pretended. He said: “I don’t know exactly. I never heard the shot.”