Then suddenly Burke swung off the highway on a narrow road which climbed up the hillside to a cottage of weathered logs in a clump of straggly oaks and jackpine. I came out of my peaceful musings and recognized the Leslie Young cabin.
Two cars were already parked beside the rough rock wall. One was a black Chevrolet sedan and the other an official police car which I recognized as Chief Jelcoe’s.
Burke pulled up behind the police car and said with a slow grin: “Jelcoe is Johnny-on-the-spot, as usual.”
I saw the chief as I got out. He came to the front door and peered out when he heard us drive up. Sunlight glinted on his bald head and his eyelids started twitching in their peculiar and memorable way when he recognized me.
I went up the path and held out my hand, but he had eyes only for Jerry Burke. He nodded to me and spoke jerkily to Burke:
“I told you the answer would be right here, didn’t I?” Crafty triumph showed on his thin face. “No use chasing all over Mexico when here’s your murder case all in the bag.”
He held out his hand, palm up, showing half a dozen small brass cylinders with snubby lead points.
Burke picked one up and looked at it thoughtfully. “Good work. They’re .25’s all right. Where did you turn them up?”
Jelcoe looked cautiously into the house and his right eyelid did a solo rigadoon. In a hoarse whisper he said:
“Don’t spoil it. I want to spring these on her all of a sudden. She’s resting on the back porch while I’ve been poking around. I reckon she didn’t expect me to find the evidence hidden in a baking powder can in the kitchen.”
“Probably not,” Burke agreed. He dropped the bullet back into Jelcoe’s hand with the others. “Have you found the pistol yet?”
“No. But I will. I figure she ditched it in the ravine after killing her husband. I’ll have a search party comb every inch of the slope.”
Burke nodded absently. His mind seemed to be on somethnig else and I had a feeling that he wasn’t particularly disturbed about Jelcoe’s find. He said, though:
“Perhaps you can frighten her into admitting something by sticking these bullets under her nose without warning.”
I wanted to laugh. Burke has a way of saying things in deadly earnest, yet giving an impression, to one who knew him as well as I did, that he was laughing inside.
“Just my idea,” Jelcoe said emphatically. He turned back into the house with a stride as nearly a strut as his thin legs and rounded shoulders could manage.
Burke and I followed him into a large living room. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the floor, and at one end there was a huge fireplace of native stone. Rows of well-worn books filled the bookcases lining one side, and a long center table was littered with books and papers. A covered typewriter sat on a desk in one corner.
Up above was a narrow balcony with its balustrade strewn with bright shawls and Indian rugs. A triple row of shelves held an array of what-nots which I imagined Leslie Young had brought from Mexico. There was nothing in particular to give the room an air of disarray, yet the impression was given. As if Myra Young gave little time and thought to housekeepng.
Jelcoe wore rubber-soled shoes and had a catlike way of treading soundlessly. He reminded me of Slim Summerville in a burlesque. We followed him to a door leading onto a screened rear porch which gave onto a splendid vista across a small wooded valley. The stone gables of the magnificent Dwight mansion peeped through treetops on a small plateau beyond the valley.
Myra Young lay outstretched on a leather-cushioned glider. She wore a man’s khaki shirt, faded riding breeches and well-worn boots. Her black hair was uncombed, her mouth sullen. Little lines ran down from the corners of it as if she spent many hours with desperately unhappy thoughts, during which her lips drooped. Her dark eyes were smouldering when she looked up from a book in her lap and saw Jelcoe standing in front of her. She didn’t seem to notice us standing slightly behind him.
“I told you to go ahead with your detecting and leave me alone,” she flared.
“I’m all through.” Chief Jelcoe’s voice was oily with certitude. “I believe you told me you didn’t have a pistol?”
She tensed and then relaxed. “I did tell you that. And I haven’t.”
“Then why are these hidden in your house?” Jelcoe palmed his find under her nose.
She glanced down at the brass cylinders and shrugged disdainfully. “Hidden?”
“In a baking powder can where you didn’t think I’d find them.”
“It’s no concern of mine whether you found them or not.”
“Is that so? Where’s the pistol that they fit?”
“It was Leslie’s pistol.”
“A .25?” Jelcoe leaned forward and his voice was harsh. “That’s a lady’s choice... not a man’s.”
“Leslie bought it for me... for my protection when I was alone here while he was traipsing off God-knows-where.” Myra Young managed to put a sneer into the words without changing her facial expression.
“Ah! He bought it for you? Then you did own a .25 pistol? Why didn’t you tell me that yesterday instead of denying it?”
“I don’t own a pistol. I’ve never owned a pistol. Leslie bought the one those bullets are for.” She swung her legs off the cushions and sat up, seeing Burke and me behind Jelcoe. Her eyes narrowed and she said:
“Reinforcements, eh? Are the three of you going to try and beat a confession out of me?”
Jelcoe waved a bony finger under her nose. “Where is that pistol?”
“I don’t know.” She stood up and her lips were twisted. Her hips filled out the riding pants, and the loose shirt didn’t wholly conceal full breasts.
“Someone stole it three weeks ago. It disappeared after that Yates wench was here the last time. You might ask her where it is. She probably stole it because she was afraid I might use it on her... and I might have. Now, get the hell out of my house... all of you. If you want to accuse me of murdering my husband, get out a warrant and arrest me. Until you’re ready to do that I don’t want to see any of you around here again.”
Her face was white and her lips seemed swollen, drawn away from her teeth. Burke and I went out the front door into the sunlight while Chief Jelcoe backed away, protesting that she should be interested in helping discover who murdered her husband.
“Why should I be?” Her shrill voice carried out to us in the front yard. “I’m not weeping any tears over him. He got what he’s been asking for. Whoever shot him probably had a good reason. Don’t ask me to help you.”
Jerry Burke looked at me with twinkling eyes while Jelcoe backed hastily out the front door.
“She certainly doesn’t give a damn who knows how she feels about the whole thing,” I suggested.
Burke nodded. “She’s on the verge of hysteria. I’d say she isn’t responsible...” His voice trailed off into silence as Jelcoe came up, sputtering indignantly:
“She’ll be a surprised widow if I do come back with a warrant. She was here by herself yesterday afternoon, with no alibi and every chance in the world to have pulled the job. A stolen pistol! I wonder who she meant by ‘that Yates wench’?”
“Miss Laura Yates,” Burke told him with a smile. “She lives in an apartment in the 3800 block on Tularosa. She’s the last person known to have seen Leslie Young alive.”
Jelcoe’s jaw sagged and both his eyelids did a hula dance. “Is she the one Young met up the canyon?”
Burke nodded. “Her apartment hasn’t been searched for lethal weapons.”
Chief Jelcoe went trotting toward his car. Looking after him, I asked:
“Do you suppose he’ll find the pistol?”
“Not in Laura Yates’ possession. If she did steal a .25 automatic and kill her paramour with it, she’s too cagy to leave it lying around for Jelcoe to find. Come on. We’re going up the canyon where X marks the spot.”