“Why does a man make it any different?”
I said, “A big, powerful man could have shot him in the alley or in an automobile or out in an auto camp, loaded the body into a car, parked in the alley, thrown the body over his shoulder, taken it up to Helen Framley’s apartment and dumped it. Then he could have gone to a picture show and started building himself an alibi. Didn’t it ever occur to you as slightly strange that Endicott dashed in to Las Vegas just to see a movie? He must be some little fan.”
Kleinsmidt shook his head. “It’s lousy,” he said. “It stinks.”
“All right, you wanted me to give you something you could take to the chief. Don’t say I didn’t do it.”
“It’s your story,” Kleinsmidt said. “Even the way you tell it, it’s full of holes. If I tried to put it across, it would rise up and hit me on the chin.”
“Okay, it’s your funeral.”
“It may be my funeral,” he said, “but you’re going to be the chief mourner. Come on.”
I said to Bertha, “You can address my mail care of Lieutenant Kleinsmidt.”
“Like hell I will,” Bertha said, getting to her feet. “Who the devil do you think you are?” she demanded, glaring at Kleinsmidt. “You aren’t going to get away with this. I guess they’ve got lawyers in this town.”
Kleinsmidt said, “Sure they have. You go right ahead and get ’em. Mr. Lam is coming with me.”