‘I fell for it. We went up to the apartment. Morgan Birks opened it with his key, and went into the bedroom. It was dark. I had a flashlight, but Morgan said his wife always woke up when there was a light in the room and for me to feel my way. I’d asked him just before we went in if there was anyone except his wife in the place, and he said no, his wife was the only one there.
‘I fumbled my way along through the dark. I could hear her breathing there on the bed. I decided I’d clap my hand over her mouth and then grab the money belt. Morgan Birks was over near the foot of the bed somewhere. I couldn’t see just where, but I could hear him breathing, too. I reached out, trying to get my hand where I could clamp it over her mouth all at once. I wanted to get it where I could feel from her breathing that it was right over her nose. I stuck it out there in the dark and kept moving it around until I could feel her breath on the palm of my hand — well, then she woke up.
‘And I swear to heaven, gentlemen, that I never had a chance. She was quicker than a cat. That rod came around and blazed off in my face before I could do a thing about it. I’d made a grab for her, but she’d moved and all I got was a handful of pillow. And then this gun went off right under my nose, and then she jumped out of bed and made for the door. And as soon as I heard that scream, I knew it was Alma and not Sandra.
‘Well, we stood there for a minute until we heard the outer door slam, and then I turned on my flash. Morgan Birks said, “You dirty bungler. You’ve ranked the job!” ’
‘I didn’t say anything. I was looking at the rod on the floor. I knew it was the gun I’d given Alma Hunter. She’d shot and then dropped it when she’d beat it for the door. Morgan Birks was still cussing me. I reached down and picked up the gun. I said, “Birks, you can’t shoot square even when it’s a showdown, can you?” He said, “What do you mean?” I said, “You know damn well what I mean. You planted Alma Hunter on me and said it was Sandra.” ’
‘I think he read what was going to happen then in my eyes. He ran past me and tried to get to the door. Well, he never made it, I shot him through the back of the head. Then I dropped the gun on the floor and had to move the body back in order to open the door. I went out to the corridor, down the back stairs, out through the alley door, took a taxicab, went home, and went to bed.’
‘Did you report to Cunweather?’
‘Not then. I figured that was the way the chief would like to have things and there was no use getting all excited about it.’
‘Did you go to sleep?’
‘I was just getting to sleep when Alma Hunter called me on the telephone. I hadn’t expected she’d do that— Well, you know the rest. I put on an act about being sleepy so that the landlady had to call me three or four times.’
The sheriff said, ‘By God, I believe you, Lam.’
The district attorney said, ‘Wait a minute. That would mean the gun was fired twice.’
‘Sure, it was fired twice,’ I said.
‘What became of the first bullet?’
‘How the hell do I know? It’s stuck in something.’
‘The gun couldn’t have been fired twice,’ one of the Los Angeles officers said. ‘The magazine holds seven shells. There were six shells in the gun when the boys from Homicide found it.’
I said, ‘I’m telling the truth. I can prove it. I loaded that gun myself. I put seven shells in the magazine, then I jacked one up into the barrel. Then I took the magazine out again, and put an extra shell in. That made eight shells. You get the box of shells in the bureau drawer of room 620 in the Perkins Hotel, and you’ll find there are eight shells gone from the box.’
The sheriff said, ‘He’s right. That accounts for that extra empty cartridge they found in the room.’
The two men from California got up. ‘Well, Donald,’ one of them said, ‘you’re going back with us. Get your things, and we’ll start now.’
‘I don’t want to start now,’ I said. ‘And I don’t have to.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m in Arizona,’ I told him. ‘I don’t like California. It’s too damn hot going across the desert. I’m getting along fine here. I like the jail, and I like the treatment. You give me the dose here and I’ll take it.’
‘Surely, Donald, you aren’t going to make us go to the bother of getting extradition, are you?’
‘I’m not going to leave here.’
One of the cops moved forward belligerently. ‘Why, you dirty—’ The sheriff put a hand on his arm. ‘Not here, buddy,’ he said in a slow drawl that packed plenty of authority.
The district attorney said to the jailor, ‘Take him back to his cell. We’ve got some telephoning to do.’
‘I want a paper and a pen,’ I said.
They exchanged glances, then the sheriff nodded. ‘The jailor will bring them to you.’
I went back to my cell. It was so cold I could hardly keep my knees from knocking together, but I sat there with chattering teeth and wrote by the dim light of a jail incandescent.
After an hour they came back for me. The sheriff said, ‘The stenographer has written out the confession you made. We want to read it to you, and if it’s correct, we want you to sign it.’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ll sign it, but here’s something that I want filed.’
‘What is it?’ he asked, looking at the scrawled pages.
‘That,’ I said, ‘is the application of Donald Lam, also known as Peter B. Smith, for a writ of habeas corpus.’
The sheriff said, ‘Donald, you must be crazy. You’ve confessed to cold-blooded, deliberate, premeditated murder.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I killed a rat. Are you going to file this application for habeas corpus, or do I refuse to sign the confession?’
‘I’ll file it,’ he said. ‘I thought you were just a stir-crazy punk. Now I know you’re nuts.’
Chapter 13
The courtroom was packed with sweltering humanity. Outside, the sun was melting the pavement in the streets. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but it was already hot. Out in the open air, the heat was dry and easy to bear. Inside the crowded courtroom, the air was soaked with the perspiration of curious spectators.
Judge Raymond C. Oliphant came in and took his seat on the bench. The bailiff called the court to order. The judge looked down at me with curious but kindly eyes. ‘This is the time heretofore fixed,’ he said, ‘for hearing the application of Donald Lam, also known as Peter B. Smith, for the writ of habeas corpus. Are you ready, Mr. Lam?’
‘Yes, your honor.’
‘Have you a lawyer to represent you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you intend to secure one?’
‘No.’
‘I believe you have some funds, Mr. Lam?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘You’re able to hire an attorney if you want one?’
‘I am.’
‘And you don’t want one?’
‘No, your honor.’
The judge turned to the district attorney.
‘Ready for the state,’ the district attorney said.
‘You have filed a return to the writ?’ the judge asked.
‘We have, your honor. It sets forth that the defendant is being? held in custody by virtue of a warrant for his arrest for first degree murder issued in the State of California. Extradition proceedings are being taken, and we expect at any moment to have the requisition flown to Phoenix by plane, and have a writ of extradition issued by the governor of Arizona. I believe I am safe in assuming that this will be done within a matter of hours.’