The Frame and the Dame

We found Inspector Warren Day bent over reports in his office. When we entered, he bowed his skinny, bald head to peer over his glasses at us, scowled at me, then turned the scowl into a simper when he looked at Fausta. In theory, Warren Day is a woman hater, but bare female shoulders have an odd effect on him. The yellow halter which went with Fausta’s shorts left her shapely, tanned shoulders exceedingly bare. Behind their thick-lenses the homicide chief’s eyes bulged noticeably.

“Miss Moreni,” he said with choked affability, “sit down.” Then he looked at me and the bulge left his eyes. “What do you want, Moon?” he asked sourly.

The greeting was routine. For years, Day and I have maintained a cooperative agreement: I get in his hair, and he gets in mine. Yet, beneath the surface, I respect his ability as a cop, and I think he likes me — admissions neither of us would make to the other even under torture.

I said, “You’ve got a friend of ours down here on some asinine charge of murder.”

The inspector scowled at me. “Greene, eh? I been half expecting you, since I knew he worked for Miss Moreni.” He paused to simper at Fausta, then sat back in his chair and clasped hands over his lean stomach.

“We got him cold,” he said abruptly. “It’s his gun, and the shooting was witnessed. There isn’t a thing you can do for him.”

“Mind giving details?” I asked.

The inspector did not mind. The woman, he told us, was Mrs. Minerva Talcott, and her husband, Henry Talcott, was the corpse. The facts in the case were essentially what Fausta had told me, with the additional information that the shooting had occurred at approximately two thirty a.m.

“Mrs. Talcott is the witness you mentioned?” I asked.

Warren Day nodded. “And Greene admits the gun was his.” He frowned suddenly, and rumpled the fuzz over one ear. “Why he was carrying a gun on a date, I don’t know. When we asked him, all we got was a blank look and a stupid answer. He said, ‘I should leave it home and maybe have somebody steal it?’ ”

For the first time that morning, Fausta grinned. “He has a permit for the gun, you know, Inspector. One of his duties at El Patio is to act as house officer.”

“Greene admit he shot this Talcott?” I asked.

The inspector gave me an irritated look. “Naturally not. What killer does, aside from those who bump off their spouses or lovers?”

“Mind if we see him for a few minutes?”

He glowered at me, obviously preparing to refuse, then glanced at Fausta’s shoulders and emitted a preoccupied grunt of permission, which seemed to surprise him. Once out, he decided to stand by it though, modifying his decision only to the extent of limiting our visit to five minutes.

Mouldy was flat on his back on a canvas drop-down bunk when the turnkey led us to his cell. When he saw us, he swung to his feet, arranged his misshapen face in a smile of pure pleasure, and thrust a hairy forearm as big around as my neck through the bars. I took his hand cautiously, gave it a quick squeeze, and dropped it before his enthusiastic friendliness could break any fingers.

“Sarge,” he said happily, “I figured you and Fausta would be down to spring me.” The “Sarge” was a holdover from army days, and I had given up trying to break him of the habit.

“Spring you?” I repeated.

“Yeah.” He looked at the turnkey. “Well, what you waiting for? Open the door!”

I said, “You’re a little ahead of yourself, Mouldy. This is just a five-minute visit. Talk fast, and give me the whole story.”

But talking fast was not one of Mouldy’s talents. He was willing enough to tell his story, but somewhere between Mouldy’s brain and his vocal chords was a maze in which ideas frequently got lost before he could express them. By virtue of dogged questioning and the kind-heartedness of the turnkey, who risked the inspector’s wrath by letting us stay ten minutes instead of five, I finally managed to piece together Mouldy’s version of what had happened. But the ordeal left me almost exasperated enough to let him take the rap.

The “Talcott dame,” as Mouldy referred to her, had dined at El Patio three nights in a row, and each night stopped a few minutes to chat with Mouldy.

“She acted kind of lonesome,” he said. “Though why a dandy-looking babe like her should be lonesome, I couldn’t figure. She said she liked me because I reminded, her of a polio athletic man.”

“A what?” I asked.

“Polio athletic. She said that was some kind of cave man.”

“Paleolithic,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, one thing led to another, and first thing I know she invites me to drop over some time. I tell her I work till one a.m., and she says make it one thirty some morning. I ask, what morning? The one coming up, she says. This was about nine last night, see. So when we close at one, I shed my tux, put on another suit, and drive over to her apartment.”