The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

“I agree,” Harley said. “He’s not the kind of fellow to strong-arm anybody.”

Catfish paced around the room in circles. Not that kind, huh? But Lowe must be the right one—he’d run off like a scalded dog when Harley asked him about the sporting house. He was hiding something. The guilty do flee when no man pursued, even guilty men who didn’t look the part. Maybe he had some kind of connection with Bud Orman. And even if he wasn’t the killer, maybe he’d seen Orman there.

“Is Lowe in the city directory?”

“Yes, sir,” Harley answered. “He lives on Mary Street.”

“Good, let’s pay him a call at home. I expect he’s not too keen on folks knowing about his visits to Miss Jessie’s. That’s probably why he skedaddled.”

“Right.”

Catfish checked his pocket watch, then settled into his swivel chair and lit a cigar. They’d visit him after finishing with Jasper.

The colonel had been standing dutifully by the door, ready to leave every time his master paced toward the door. He ambled over and collapsed with a groan under Catfish’s dangling hand.

“Jasper, let’s go back to Miss Jessie a minute. You said her carriage passed right in front of you. Did she see you?”

“Yes, sir. She turned toward me and just looked me right in the eye, then went on about her business.”

“Anybody with her?”

“Just a hack driver.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, sir. Didn’t pay him much mind.”

“Wasn’t the same hack you saw the night of the killing, was it?”

“Oh no, sir. That one was red, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t have but one seat.”

He yanked the cigar from his mouth. A one-seat hack? Couldn’t have been for hire—must have been a personal carriage, maybe even the killer’s buggy.

He gave Jasper a paper and pencil to sketch it. The boy drew a buggy with one horse, one seat with a spindle-back, and no top.

Didn’t see many like that around. Should be able to find it.

He curled the tip of his mustache. “What’d the horse look like?”

“Tall roan, maybe sixteen, sixteen two. Didn’t have no markings.”

Catfish leaned forward, arms on his knees. “When the salesman handed over that box to Miss Jessie, what else did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Did she give him anything?”

“No, sir.”

“She didn’t pay him?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s peculiar.” But it was consistent with Sadie’s story.

“Maybe she bought it on credit,” Miss Peach suggested.

“Or she could have paid before when she selected the item,” Harley said.

Catfish leaned back. “Not likely. Sporting girls don’t go inside stores. I’m inclined to agree with Miss Peach that she bought it on credit. Likely a hat. Maybe picked it out of a catalog?” He turned to her. “They have a mail order business?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lowe was a customer of Miss Jessie’s, and she was a customer of his. Catfish whirled his chair around and tapped cigar ashes into a tray on his desk. “There’s another possibility to consider.”

“What’s that?” Harley asked.

He puffed on his White Owl. “Maybe he barters goods for sport.”

“Surely not.” Harley shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he just pay Miss Jessie rather than pay the store? People would ask why he’s buying things.”

“I’m not thinking he pays the store.”

“He steals from his own employer?” Miss Peach asked.

“He’s in a perfect position to. Nobody would question him.” He put out his cigar. “Yes, sir, that’s what’s happening—he’s doing in-kind trade with the sporting girls. Maybe Bud Orman arranged it.” He got up and paced toward the door. How could they confirm Lowe’s arrangement with Jessie? He looked at Miss Peach. “How about you going to Sanger Brothers to check your account balance?”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t have one.”

“No, but maybe Miss Jessie does. If she does, that would explain why she didn’t pay him. If she doesn’t, my theory might be right. It’s likely nobody but Winky-Blinky has seen her face to face.” He laughed at the thought. “Say, could she call in on that talking-phone to order something? Like a mail order?”

“She could.” Miss Peach looked uncomfortable. She blotted the ink on her pen and rested it on her notepad. “So what I hear you suggesting is that I go into Sanger’s pretending to be Miss Jessie?”

“You’re our only female thespian.”

“What do I do if she does have an account there?”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his money clip, and peeled off a ten-dollar treasury note. “Make a payment—and here’s my wager that she doesn’t have an account. But after you get back, whether she’s got a credit line or not, call up Miss Jessie on that talking-phone and tell her you’re from Sanger Brothers and want to see if she’s happy with her recent purchase.”

“It’s a telephone,” she said with a smirk.

“What?”

“It’s not a talking-phone. It’s just a telephone.” She groaned. “A telephone’s only purpose is to talk.”

“Exactly. You can’t send a telegram through those wires, can you?”

“Of course not.”

“So it’s a phone just for talking, not telegraphing.”

She stood up. “Mr. Calloway, I’m your stenographer, not your witness, so I would appreciate it if you don’t cross-examine me.” She placed her hands on her hips and aimed a glare right between his eyes. Mighty bold for such a slip of a girl.

“I’m sorry, Miss Peach,” he said as innocently as he could. The poor girl complained all the time that he cross-examined her. “I was just explaining what I meant. But whatever you call it, I want you to go check your balance before you start talking on it.”

“Yes, sir.” She went into the front room but popped her head back through the doorway before she left. “You know, you’re not paying me enough to be a spy.”

“Go on, now.” He flicked his hand at her. “Scat.”

The colonel got up expectantly but settled back after she left alone.

“Mr. Calloway,” Jasper said, “do you mind if we have some private talk?”

Catfish wheeled his chair to face Jasper. “Of course. Harley, why don’t you go to the livery and get the surrey? We’ll drop off Jasper at Baylor on the way to see Buford Lowe.”

“Right,” Harley