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  Whirling with the speed of a cat, she pointed the gun at him. There was a long moment of silence.

  Then she said in a wondering voice, “Well, well. The pleasant young man who murdered my husband. Raise you hands, please.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  INSTEAD OF complying with the order, Horton merely stood with his hands at his sides and looked her up and down with deliberation.

  She wore a plain black dress which might have passed for conventional mourning attire on another woman. But even with its decorously high neck and wrist-length sleeves, it didn’t suggest mourning on Velda. Skin tight, it only served to outline every one of her curves. Perched on her head was a tiny black hat with a veil pushed up to her forehead. The hat added an incongruously civilized touch to an otherwise pagan picture. With the gun in her hand, and with her graceful body in the sinuous crouch of a panther ready to spring, Velda looked like some wicked priestess from an H. Rider Haggard novel.

  Slowly Horton walked toward her. The gun’s safety clicked off. He halted three feet away.

  “If you think I won’t shoot, take one more step,” she said quietly.

  But her threatening attitude was oddly tempered by the look of appraisal on her face. Even holding him at gunpoint, she was unable to resist estimating him as a man.

  Horton said calmly, “I’m kind of curious to see if you will,” and took another step toward her.

  Velda’s nostrils flared and she squeezed the trigger.

  Horton gave her a wolfish grin as the hammer clicked home, took a final step and jerked the gun from her hand.

  “There has to be a shell in the chamber,” he said. “Like this.” He drew back the slide, let it slam forward again and pointed the gun at her. “Now it will work fine.”

  Velda drew in her breath and her eyes widened enormously. “What do you want?” she whispered.

  Horton clicked on the safety, lowered the gun and contemplated her. “Nothing, really. I was just trying to get out of the house without you seeing me. Wasn’t it rather a fast funeral?”

  She stared at him, saw from his inquiring expression that he really expected an answer and said mechanically, “It was a cremation. They don’t take long. What are you doing in my house?”

  “Bringing your husband’s gun back,” he said, wagging it. “I meant to leave quietly and let the police find it, but now I think I’ll wait till they arrive. You might try to get rid of it if I left you alone.”

  “It was you who took the gun?” she asked. “Why? What did you have against John?”

  The question puzzled him. “What?”

  “If you went to the trouble to steal his own gun to kill him with, you didn’t kill him for the reason the papers said. You planned it to look like I did it. Why?”

  Horton said, “Are you under the impression I came here and stole this gun before the murder?”

  “Well, didn’t you?”

  He frowned at her. “I took it yesterday, made a test firing and had the bullet compared to the murder slug. When I was satisfied it was the murder gun, I brought it back for the police to find. What are you trying to pull?”

  Her mouth rounded to a small circle. “You mean you didn’t kill John?”

  “Come off it,” he said impatiently. “You think with your husband’s gun tabbed as the murder weapon, you can get away with the innocent act? Nobody but you had access to it.”

  “I didn’t. It was gone before the murder. John looked for it the night the threat arrived.”

  “Sure,” he said cynically. “You’d already hidden it somewhere else. If you think you can wriggle out by getting the cops to believe I burglarized your house for a gun in order to kill your husband, think again. They bought the theory that I killed him to avoid arrest, but you’d never in a million years convince them it was premeditated murder by me. You have to have a motive to pull a premeditated kill. And I never saw your husband until a few minutes before he died. Is this gun registered with the police?”

  After staring at him for a moment, she said huskily, “I don’t know.”

  “You can bet it is,” he said confidently. “The chairman of the Civic Crime Committee wouldn’t be likely to own an unregistered gun. And with your motive, you’re cooked. Everybody in the know has heard the rumor that Quincy was divorcing you.”

  Velda ran the pink tip of her tongue over her lips. In a low voice she said, “You really didn’t kill him, did you? I believe you.”

  “You ought to,” he said cynically. “Since you pulled the trigger yourself.”

  “I didn’t,” she insisted. “It’s another frame-up. Everybody was framed for this. First Manzetti, then you, now me.”

  “Sure. But it fits you best. Why’d you tell the police you never left home Saturday, when you were at the used-car lot only a few minutes before your husband’s murder?”

  “I thought it would help you,” she said in an earnest voice. “I figured you’d done me a favor by killing him, and I didn’t wish you any harm. I didn’t want to have to testify that I’d seen you there.”

  “Yeah,” he said without belief.

  “You’ve got to believe me.” Tentatively she reached out to touch his shoulder. “I swear I didn’t kill him. Until this morning it never even occurred to me he might have been killed with that gun. Until Helen accused me to my face.”

  “Helen?” he said, startled. “Helen Quincy?”

  “Yes. At the funeral. I knew she hated me, but I never thought she’d say a thing like that. She was awful.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said I might at least have had the grace to stay home from the funeral of the man I killed. I was so flabbergasted, all I could do was ask what she meant. She accused me of using John’s own gun on him. She said that when the police checked it, they’d know the truth and I’d pay for what I’d done. That’s why I came straight here when I got home. To make sure the gun was still missing. I was never so surprised in my life to find it there.”

  Momentarily Horton was nearly as flabbergasted as Velda claimed she had been to hear of Helen’s outburst. Then understanding hit him when Velda said, “Even hysterics is no excuse for her to talk to me like that.”

  Even uncomplicated funerals are conducive to feminine hysterics. With Helen believing Velda had married her step-father only for his money, and now convinced that the woman murdered him, it was no wonder she had lost control when she saw Velda at the funeral. Under the stress of her emotions, it wouldn’t have occurred to Helen that lashing out at Velda might give her warning to dispose of the gun.

  “Look,” he said in a tone of finality. “I don’t care who killed your husband. I just know I didn’t, and I’m not about to take the rap for it. The police are going to find this gun right where it was. If you can talk your way around the evidence, you have my blessing. But don’t expect my help. I’m concerned solely with getting myself off the hook.”

  Gently but firmly, he pushed her aside from the dresser. Wiping the gun again, he replaced it in the top drawer. Then he took Velda’s elbow and steered her to the door.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to hold back.

  “Downstairs to wait for the police.”

  She resisted, but she was no match for his strength. Relentlessly he forced her down the stairs and into the front room. When he finally released her arm, she rubbed the place he had gripped her and glared at him with indignation.

  “Don’t get any ideas about making a break for the stairs,” he said. “Or for anywhere else. Just relax until the police arrive.”

  Tossing her head, she walked over to stare out one of the front-room windows. Watchfully, Horton followed, ready to grab her if she suddenly tried to run. Halting behind her, he glanced through the window over her shoulder.

  Across the street a gray Oldsmobile sedan was parked with a man in the front seat and two in the back. As the house was set well back from the street, the car was too far away to make out the men’s faces.

 
Horton smiled grimly. “Police stake-outs,” he guessed. “Lieutenant Grady isn’t taking any chances of your sneaking the evidence out of the house while he’s getting a search warrant. It’s not more than fifteen minutes since I phoned in. Pretty fast work.”

  Velda turned slowly and looked up into his face.

  “Why do you want to do this to me?” she asked. “I told you I didn’t kill him.”

  “Neither did I. And the gun will prove it.”

  “Don’t you care that you’ll get out of it only at the expense of another innocent person?”

  Horton shrugged. “I’m not making up evidence to convict you. All I did was put the gun back where I found it. If you’re being framed, I’m not the framer.”

  “Maybe together we could figure out who the real killer is,” she urged. “It must have been one of Manzetti’s men. He meant to frame me, then when you accidentally got the blame, he just didn’t bother to go through with the original plan. All Manzetti would care about would be not to be suspected himself.”

  “It’s possible,” Horton admitted. “Maybe you can sell it to the police.”

  Her hands slid up to his shoulders. “If you’ll let me hide the gun before they get here, we’ll work on the solution together. I’d make it worth your while. In every way.”

  “How?”

  “Financially, for one way. Could you use ten thousand dollars?”

  “You’ll inherit at least the widow’s portion of over a million dollars if you aren’t convicted,” he said dryly. “Don’t be so generous. What’s another way?”

  She tilted her head until her lips were just below his chin. “You seemed to like me the day we met. I remember how you kept looking at me. I felt the same way.”

  “Don’t you always?” he asked with amusement.

  “What?” she said with a frown.

  Over her shoulder Horton saw one of the men get out of the car across the street and stare in their direction. Then he bent to say something to his two companions, and they started to get out of the car too.

  Horton dropped his gaze to Velda’s upturned face. “Too late,” he said with mock regret. “They’re starting to move in right now.”

  Firmly he removed her hands from his shoulders and moved to the center of the room. Velda gave him a stricken look and turned to peer out the window. Then she swiveled back and looked at him pleadingly.

  “Please,” she said. “They’re coming up the walk. I won’t have a chance if they find that gun. And I didn’t do it. I’ll pay you twenty thousand.”

  “I’m sorry,” Horton said with a shake of his head. “Argue it out with the cops.”

  The door chimes sounded, and when she made no move to answer, Horton went to the door. Flipping off the lock, he swung the door wide.

  Then, unsuccessfully, he tried to slam it closed again. Instead of police officers, Joey the Cut, Hippo and Russ stood outside. Joey caught the closing door with his shoulder at the same moment he snaked a forty-five pistol into sight. Stiff-arming Horton backward, he pushed into the entry hall and centered the gun between Horton’s eyes. His two companions came in behind him. Russ pushed the door shut with a click of finality.

  “Thanks for standing in the window, sucker,” Joey said with a totally humorless grin. “We’ve been tailing Velda for two days in the hope you’d show, but we never would of suspected you was in the house if you hadn’t been stupid enough to start loving her up right in the front-room window.”

  CHAPTER XXV

  WHILE JOEY held Horton under his gun, Russ patted his pockets, legs and beneath his arms in a quick but expert shakedown.

  “He’s not carrying anything,” he informed Joey.

  Joey motioned toward the front room with his gun. When Horton obeyed the gesture, the three men trailed through the archway after him. Velda was still standing by the window, her hands clasped before her and her eyes hopelessly staring at the floor.

  “You’ve got a reprieve, Velda,” Horton said to her. “They aren’t police officers. They’re Tony Manzetti’s men.”

  Velda’s head jerked up and she stared at the three men. Her eyes widened at the gun in Joey Ault’s hand.

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly.

  In a cold voice Joey said to her, “Looks like Tony’s first theory was right after all. You got Jimmy-boy here to rub your husband and set Tony up for the rap.”

  Velda looked from Joey to Horton without understanding.

  “Manzetti had the idea that I killed your husband in conspiracy with you,” Horton explained. “I talked him into a different theory, but now Joey here is convinced the first one was right. He thinks what he saw through the window was a love scene.”

  Velda raised her chin imperiously. “What do you men want?” she demanded.

  Fat Hippo said, “Come off it, babe. You know what we want. To take Tony off the spot you tried to fix for him.”

  Horton said, “You gentlemen in the mood to listen before you go off half-cocked?”

  Joey looked at him with hate. “I heard enough from you Sunday night, mister.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Horton said. “I’ve got it set up so that both Manzetti and I are in the clear. Tony’s Sunday-night plans are passé now. He doesn’t need me dead any more.”

  Russ said, “Yeah? Not according to our orders.”

  Horton said patiently, “The police are on their way here right now with a search warrant. They’ll find the gun that killed Quincy upstairs in a dresser drawer. It was Quincy’s own gun. Nobody but Velda had access to it. It’ll pin the rap squarely on her and let both Manzetti and me off the hook. If you’re smart, you men will get out of here before the police arrive.”

  Joey merely continued to glare at Horton. Hippo regarded him with stolid indifference. Only Russ looked thoughtful.

  “Maybe we better listen to this,” he suggested to Joey.

  “Listen hell,” Joey told him coldly. “Tony said clean up the case by rigging a suicide. That’s what we do.” He turned to Velda. “You’re gonna get lucky, sister. Tony don’t care about your part in this. All he wants is a nice clean confession by your boy friend. A confession by suicide. You just sit tight, and you’ll stay out of the chair for your part of it.”

  “What part?” Velda asked confusedly.

  With mild impatience Joey said, “Don’t play dumb with us, lady. Conspiracy to murder draws the same jolt as pulling the trigger. You let out a yap that we walked out of here with your boy friend, and we’ll toss you to the wolves. You’ll squat in the chair right next to him.”

  Velda suddenly looked hopeful. “You plan to take him away and arrange it so that there’s no doubt that he killed my husband?”

  “You got it, lady. And you’re in no position to yell copper. You’d yell yourself right into the chair.”

  “I wouldn’t say a word,” Velda said with enthusiasm. “The murder gun’s right upstairs. If you arranged it with that, it would be even added proof of his guilt.”

  “Hey!” Horton said. “A minute ago you were begging me to help you find the real killer.”

  “You should have accepted,” she spat at him. She turned back to Joey. “Let me show you the gun. We’ll have to hurry. The police may be here any minute.”

  Joey snapped orders to Russ and Hippo to cover Horton, waited until they drew guns and then gestured Velda toward the stairway. In the archway he paused to look back.

  “Don’t go to sleep this time,” he growled at the two men.

  Russ and Hippo showed no intention of it. They stood well back from Horton with their guns trained on him.

  As Velda and Joey disappeared up the stairs, Horton said, “Tony’s not going to like it if you unnecessarily complicate things. Joey just wants the pleasure of bumping me off because I conned him. If Tony was here, he’d tell you to leave it the way I’ve got it set up.”

  Neither man said anything.

  “Don’t let Joey steer you into risking a murder rap that’s not neces
sary,” Horton urged. “Why don’t you phone Tony and explain the situation?”

  Russ said, “Maybe we’ll take you to see him.”

  “That’ll be too late,” Horton said. “If you take that gun away from the house, it’s no good. The cops will tear this place apart looking for it. Then if we plant it back here later, they’ll know it’s a plant. It has to be found here now to make the rap against Velda stick.”

  Velda and Joey came back into the room. Joey still carried his forty-five in his hand. A sagging bulge in his coat pocket indicated where the murder gun was.

  Joey said, “Let’s get out of here before the cops arrive.”

  Russ said, “This guy’s got a pretty good argument, Joey. Maybe we ought to check with Tony by phone.”

  Joey’s eyes glittered with such sudden deadliness that Russ took an involuntary step backward. “You’re running things, Joey,” he said hurriedly. “It was just a suggestion.”

  Joey said in a quiet tone of finality, “This guy’s a con artist. He’s always got a good argument. We’ll do it the way Tony said.” He shifted his gaze to Hippo. “You got some suggestions too?”

  His tone made it a challenge. Hippo said, “I didn’t say nothing.”

  “Then let’s get moving,” Joey snapped.

  Looking at Velda, Russ said, “We just gonna walk off and leave her?”

  “She won’t talk,” Joey told him, gesturing Horton toward the hall. “She can’t afford to.”

  Horton said helpfully, “Maybe you’d better check that with Tony.”

  Joey gave him a shove toward the door.

  Russ said in a loud voice, “Listen, Joey. You’re running this show. But I don’t like the idea of leaving a witness around who can testify that we took this guy for a ride. What can we lose by taking her to see Tony?”

  Joey’s only real goal was to kill Horton. He was obsessed with the thought of vengeance to the point where nothing else really mattered to him. He said with a mixture of impatience and indifference, “Bring her along, if you want. But start moving.”

  When Velda started to open her mouth to register a protest, Joey suddenly let his eyes glitter at her. “I’ve got a short fuse,” he told her. “You say one word and I’ll put a bullet through your head. Move!”