Oakes rubbed his hands.
“Uh huh. Your dad was a good shot. So was John Spinner, and his son, Frank. And another tenant by the name of Bill Nevvin. Any one else?”
“Well,” said Mary Sutter. “I am rather good at it myself.”
II
Oakes glared at her disagreeably.
“Yeah?” he said. “Well, I don’t want to know nothing about that. Let’s take a look at the place where Spinner was shot.”
“Very well,” said the girl. “That was on the second floor. I’ll take you up there.”
At the door Oakes stopped and carefully scrutinized the lock.
“Scratched!” he muttered.
“What’s that?” said the girl.
“Never mind,” said Oakes, “We’ll see about that later.”
She led him along the corridor toward the stairway.
“Only two floors, ain’t there?” queried Oakes.
“Yes. Just two floors.”
“Uh huh. Now that John Spinner is croaked, who is in charge of the house?”
“His son, Frank, I think,” the girl told him.
“Well, is he around? I think maybe we ought to take him along.”
“If he is,” Miss Sutter said, “he’ll probably be in number twelve. That’s upstairs, too.”
They mounted the stairs and walked along the second floor hall toward the rear. The hall widened at the end, and close to the window which opened on the back of the house were several chairs and a small table. It was a sort of miniature social hall.
The girl pointed to one of the chairs.
“It was a hot night last night,” she said, “and Mr. Spinner was sitting there where he could get some air—”
“Let’s get this young guy, Frank Spinner, first,” interrupted Oakes.
Number twelve was the back apartment on the right, within a few feet of the space in which the chairs were. Oakes rapped on the door and waited. Presently the door opened and a young man looked out inquiringly. He was dark, rather handsome, and well and expensively dressed.
Oakes introduced himself and stated his business.
“Certainly,” said young Frank Spinner. “Look around all you want to.”
“Yeah,” Oakes said dubiously. “But I’d like to have you along.”
Frank Spinner shrugged indifferently, closed the door of his apartment and joined them.
“That your apartment?” asked Oakes, indicating the door of number twelve.
“I suppose it is just now,” said the young man. “It wasn’t, though, until this morning. It was my father’s.”
“Uh huh,” said Oakes. “And which apartment was yours?”
“Why, I lived across the street, in the Albert Manor. It’s a much better place, you know. My things are still there. Now that father is gone, I’ll probably sell this place — it’s a shabby hole, anyway.”
“Well,” said Oakes, “I know a lot of folks who would be tickled to death to live here. But that’s your business. Now, where was your father sitting when he was shot?”
The young man pointed to the swivel chair that the girl had already indicated. The chair was facing down the hall, toward the front of the building, the back of the chair toward the window at the rear.
“Is the chair in the same position as when Mr. Spinner was found?” queried Oakes.
“Exactly,” said the young man.
“And the bullet entered the forehead, indicating that the shot had been fired from farther down the hall?”
“Obviously.”
Oakes grunted, walked to the window and stared out absently. Back of the building was a row of small garages the roofs of which were several feet beneath the window. About ten feet separated the garages from the building.
Presently he returned to the others. He looked from the door of number twelve to the door of number thirteen, which was directly across the hall.
“These two apartments,” he asked Frank Spinner, “are the two back apartments?”
“Of course.”
“Who lives in number thirteen?”
“No one. It’s vacant just now.”
“Then, if your father was out in the hall here when he was shot, there was no one in either apartment at the time?”
“Correct,” smiled the young man. Oakes turned to the girl.
“And where was your dad when this happened?”
“Why, he was in the next apartment down the hall here, number eleven. That was vacant, too, and he was cleaning it up so that it could be shown to prospective tenants this morning.”
“Uh huh. And he heard no shot?”
“No, sir. No one heard it. The police say that a silencer was used.”
“Oh, sure. It was your dad who found Spinner dead, huh?”
“Yes. When he came out of number eleven, he noticed Mr. Spinner sitting there, facing toward him, slumped over. He spoke to him, and got no answer. Then, of course, he discovered what had been done.”
“Yeah. And it ain’t the first time the cops have tried to nail a guy because he was honest enough to report finding a stiff,” growled Oakes. “Another thing. Spinner, they say, died laughing. That is, he was heard to break off in the middle of a laugh. Did your dad hear him laugh?”
“No,” said the girl. “The door of number eleven, where he was working, was closed, of course. And dad’s hearing was quite poor.”
“Uh huh. Well, who did hear that laugh?”
“Oh,” put in Frank Spinner, “Bill Nevvin heard it. He says it was quite distinct.”
“Bill Nevvin heard it, did he? And where was he?”
“In his apartment. That’s number ten, right across from number eleven. Bill’s door was open a little at the time, and he was in his apartment, reading.”
III
Oakes waddled down the hall. It was just a few steps to where the doors of numbers ten and eleven faced each other. He looked at one door and then the other, then turned and looked back toward the swivel chair in which John Spinner had been sitting — and laughing — when he was shot.
Oakes walked slowly back to the others. He spoke to the young man.
“So Jerry Sutter was working in number eleven, and Bill Nevvin was reading in number ten, when Spinner got bumped off?”
“So it seems,” said Frank Spinner. “I know only what I’ve been told about that, of course.”
“Sure. And who is this guy Nevvin?”
Young Spinner smirked.
“It’s pretty well known around here,” he said, “so I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. Bill is a wholesale bootlegger.”
Oakes looked pleased.
“A bootlegger! That’s fine! Bill and your father were pretty thick, were they?”
“They were together a great deal.”
“Sure. When did they let you know about your father being shot?”
“A few minutes after Sutter found him. I was over in my apartment across the street, in the Albert Manor, and they phoned me.”
Considering that his father had been shot to death the night before, young Frank Spinner seemed very cool. Oakes apparently noted this.
“Your father didn’t seem to be very popular, huh?” he suggested.
“He didn’t deserve to be,” the young man said frankly. “He could be pretty mean at times.”
“Uh huh. And yet he died laughing.”
“Well, he laughed occasionally. The last time I saw him alive, which was early yesterday afternoon, he was laughing.”
“Yeah? What did he laugh at?”
“Well, Sutter was going down the stairs there. He slipped and fell. He really did look rather funny, and my father laughed then.”
Oakes glanced at the girl. Her lips were tightened and her face was flushed.
“Old man Sutter is a good guy,” Oakes said harshly. “But it’s interesting about that laugh. So Bill Nevvin heard it, huh? What do you think made him laugh — somebody tell him a funny story?”