When I got home I was as jumpy as a flea; even a couple of double ryes didn’t do me any good. I just could not imagine what had made her do it. It wasn’t as if it was in a jealous rage. It was all so utterly cold-blooded.
The stink the newspapers raised in the morning would have suffocated a skunk. They played it all over the front page. There were photos of Rabener; there were photos of Fanquist behind the bars. She looked as calm in jail as she did when she shot him. I guess nothing this side of hell would rattle that baby. But she wouldn’t talk; she wouldn’t say why she had shot Rabener. They worried her for hours in a nice way. That’s one thing she had in her favour. She was such a dizzy-looking number that there was no cop strong enough to get tough. A week or so before the trial came on I ran into the local police captain. He was having a snack at Sammy’s Bar. I spotted him through the window. I walked right in and parked on the next stool.
He looked at me with a cold eye that the cops reserve for newspaper guys and started bolting his food like he was in a hurry.
“Don’t strangle yourself, Cap,” I said, “I’ve got plenty of time and I won’t run away.”
“I know,” he said, sticking a sandwich way down his throat. “But I ain’t got nothing for you.”
“Tell me one thing,” I returned, “has she talked?”
“Not a word; not one goddam word.”
“O.K., Cap. I won’t worry you again.” I slid off the stool. “That was a nice little red-head you were leading into temptation last night; I admire your taste. Well, Cap, I’ll beat it.”
The Captain looked like he was going to have a stroke. His neck expanded and his eyes looked like poached eggs. “Hey!” he said in a strangled voice. “Where do you get that stuff?”
I paused. “I didn’t get any stuff, Cap,” I said, “it was you who were doing the trafficking.”