The Line Is Dead | Page 4

hall would not be visible from
the street. Due to his unfamiliarity with the place, he had overshot his
mark; a similar old-fashioned house had tricked him. He had parked in
the shadows of tall trees. Finally, the avenue was wide, with a parkway
and row of palms down the center. Thus his arrival had not been
conspicuous.
Dodging blood splashes not quite dried dark, he began his survey. An
electric clock, knocked out of action by the fracas, had stopped at 9:47.
The time element, however, would not help Carver, for while the Vieux
Carre bartenders would remember him, and in one spot at least, Lowry,
their notions as to the hour would naturally be in round figures, give or
take thirty minutes.
Two things other than professional ethics, the last being a consideration
which a man who was in a tight corner would be inclined to ignore,
kept him from setting the clock either forward or back, within the limits
of the interval in which the coroner could place the time of death. Since

he had to work on this case, any attempt at faking an alibi for himself
might be making one for a man who might otherwise be charged with
the crime.
Lowry had actually been engrossed with his income tax. On the floor,
beneath the work table, was a duplicate return; there was also the
Internal Revenue bill for the current quarter. The amount on this was
several hundred dollars less than on the duplicate. A man who had the
answers to everything would be inclined to look for someone to eat out.
And scattered papers indicated that giving a chewing out to everyone,
from Congress down to the parish dog catcher, was a hobby of the
deceased. His bitter invective and polished style should have made him
a fortune. He gave his biting words away, and got a good bit of his
output published in Vox Pop and Forum and Safety Valve columns of
New Orleans and several other Gulf Coast city newspapers, all the way
to Biloxi. His success was clear: clippings taped to carbons of the
original blasts gave testimony.
A stamped envelope, freshly addressed to the Standard, lay on the table.
There was no letter to match. Carver frowned.
"That's an odd one! A fellow usually writes the letter, and then
addresses the envelope." He noticed a sheet of carbon paper.
It had been used only once; every impression of the type showed
clearly, though in reverse, so that it would be difficult to read without
holding it to a mirror.
He got just sufficient of the "Scathing indictment" to make him fold the
carbon paper and put it into the envelope, which he pocketed. There
had been words about income tax exemptions, and fumbling "experts."
Anything that had been the target of Lowry's indignation on that day
would be worth studying. Whether his written words were actually a
reasonable motive for murder was an open question, but Carver's hasty
glances at the samples convinced him that they were.

However, what promised to be a more pointed lead was in a
pen-written letter, addressed to Lowry, and apparently by a woman: I
can play just as dirty as you. If you think being dog in the manger is
going to get you anywhere, just keep at it, and see who gets paid off,
and how. It was signed, Guess Who? The shattered phone had kept him
from notifying the police, even anonymously. And now, with a
vindictive woman in the pattern, Carver had a greater stake than ever:
there was the danger of having Alma involved; and, however unjustly,
she would be, if the unknown woman in the case were cornered and
began to tell her side of things.
Jeff pocketed that letter, figuring he had sufficient detail. Whether he
could risk getting finger-print gear and his miniature camera for close
up shots of developed prints was a question which good judgment
would answer with a king size No. The same applied to frisking the
house.
A heel print in a pool of blood caught his eye. The track had been
duplicated on the floor, for several paces. It was anything but clear, and
was a job for a technician. His mounting uneasiness, and the urge to get
out and show himself again in the Vieux Carre, became so strong as to
scream a warning. With a dead phone, there might be visitors stopping
to leave a note.
Carver snapped off the lights.
HE HAD barely done so when a car pulled up in front. Instead of with
a lusty slam, its door had been closed too carefully, yet not softly
enough for him to miss it. The unlatching of the front gate was done
with too much care. A man and a