Inspector Queen’s Own Case

The gray-faced man looked up quickly.

Richard Queen was seated in a chair behind the partition wall of the anteroom.

“I said that’s an interesting story about that girl’s murder last night,” he said. “From the way you’re reading it, Weirhauser, you agree with me.”

The private detective put the newspaper down on his desk carefully.

“Am I supposed to know you, pop?” He had a rough, nasty voice. “Or is this a stickup?”

“Come, come, George, cut the clowning,” the old man said mildly. “I thought we could talk before your girl got here, and I didn’t feel like waiting in the hall.” He rose, put his hat on the chair, and walked over to the desk. “I want some information from you. Who hired you to tail me?”

The investigator looked blank. “Am I supposed to be tailing you?”

“You were pulled off the job Sunday, whether temporarily or permanently I don’t know.” The Inspector’s tone was patient. “I asked you a question.”

“See that word Private?” Weirhauser said. “Get going.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, Weirhauser. Still doing a take-off on George Raft.” The Inspector laughed.

Weirhauser got up. “You going to get out, or do I have to heave you out?”

The old man stared at him. “Don’t you realize what you’ve stepped into? Or are you even stupider than you act?”

The gray was taking on a brick color. Weirhauser set his knuckles on the desk. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Inspector Queen glanced at his watch. “I don’t have any time to waste, Weirhauser. Let’s have it.”

“You talk like you’re somebody.” The man’s tone was jeering, but there was an uncertain note in it.

“You know who I am.”

“I know who you were. The trouble with you has-beens is you don’t know enough to lay down and roll over. You’re not Inspector Queen any more, remember?”

“Hand me that phone.”

Weirhauser’s color changed back to its normal gray. “What are you going to do?”

“Call Headquarters and show you whether I’m a has-been or not.”

“Wait.”

“Well?”

The investigator said, “You know I can’t give out that kind of information, Inspector.” He was trying to sound rueful and put-upon. “Agency work is confidential—”

“You should have stuck to chasing dirty divorce evidence.” The old man looked amused. “How do you like being mixed up in a murder? You didn’t bargain for that, did you?”

Weirhauser said quickly, “Who’s mixed up in a murder? I took a tailing job. I was told to tail you and the woman and to report your movements to my client and I did and that’s all.”

“You tailed me from hospital to hospital, you tailed me to an apartment house on 88th near West End, you found out I was asking for a girl named Connie Coy and that she was expected back from out of town shortly, and you reported that to your client Sunday evening. This morning, Tuesday, you open your paper and find that a girl named Connie Coy got back from Chicago last night and within the hour was shot to death through her window from a nearby roof. And you say you’re not mixed up in it, Weirhauser? You walked in here this morning trying to remember your prayers.”

“Look, Inspector,” Weirhauser began.

“Suppose we go downtown and tell one of the brass that you, George Weirhauser, holding a license to conduct private investigations, fingered Connie Coy for a client you refuse to name? How long do you think you’d hold your license? In fact, how long do you think it would be before you began yelping for a bail bondsman?”

“Look,” Weirhauser said again, licking his lips. “You’re way off base on this thing, Inspector. My client couldn’t have had anything to do with this—”

“How do you know he couldn’t?”

“Well, he’s...”

“He’s what? All right, maybe he didn’t have anything to do with it. Do you know where he was all day yesterday, Weirhauser? Can you alibi him for the time of the girl’s murder?”

The private detective shouted, “I didn’t go near the guy yesterday! Didn’t even talk to him on the phone. He told me Sunday night when I spoke to him that he’d changed his mind, the information I had for him wasn’t what he was after at all, he was calling the whole thing off. That’s all I know.”

The Inspector shook his head. “Try again, Weirhauser.”

“What d’ye mean? I tell you that’s all I know!”

“You’ve left one thing out.”

“What’s that?”

“The name of your client.”

Weirhauser got up and went to the window, fingering his lip. When he came back and sat down again his sharp eyes were sly.

“What side of the street you working in this deal... Inspector?”

“That,” the old man snapped, “is none of your business.”

“It just occurred to me.” The investigator grinned. “You might be in this up to your eyeballs yourself — you and this dame.”

“I am.”

“You are?” The man looked surprised.

“Sure,” the old man said. “I’m after your client, and I’m going to get him. And the less you know about it, Weirhauser, the longer you’ll sleep in your own bed. I’ve thrown away enough time on you. Who is he?”

“Okay, okay, but give me a break, will you? Honest to God, if I’d known this was going to wind up in a homicide, I’d have spit on his retainer and run like hell.”