The Line Is Dead | Page 4

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 woman were momentarily silhouetted by the glow of a distant street lamp. Advancing, they were absorbed by shadow, though he could distinguish them as darker masses, and moving.
Carver made for the rear. He had barely got to the stoop when a flashlight beam, lancing down the long hallway, softened the darkness about him. He paused at the jamb and risked pressing his face against the pane.
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