The Sporting House Killing G. Powell (best free novels .TXT) 📖

The deputy held the derringer up for her to see.

“I presume when she was shot.”

The deputy took it to the jury box as she answered, walking it past them. Each juror leaned forward to examine the bloodstain on the right side of the short barrel.

“Do you know who owns the derringer?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Miss Georgia’s. She keeps it in her room for protection against unruly men.”

To Harley’s utter surprise, Papa jumped to his feet. “Pardon me for interrupting, Your Honor—amicus curiae here—but maybe you were wondering where she kept her derringer?”

Everyone turned to see who the curious spectator was. Harley covered his eyes with one hand.

“I sure was, Catfish,” the judge answered, “but I don’t need no curry-eye help.”

“Sorry, Your Honor,” Papa said, sheepishly retreating to his seat.

Sometimes Papa did things Harley’d never dream of doing himself. He cut a glance at his father, hoping to remind him they weren’t making an official appearance here. They didn’t even have a client yet, although he had the distinct impression Papa believed otherwise.

“Where’d she keep it, ma’am?” the judge asked, glaring at Papa.

“On a nightstand right next to her bed. She kept it in the drawer.”

Papa started to get up again, but before Harley could grab his sleeve, Judge Gallagher extended his hand in a stopping motion. “Was it on the same side of the bed she was laying on?”

“Yes.”

“What else did you find in her room?”

“Just the usual things you might find in a lady’s bedroom.”

“Was anything on the nightstand?”

“I believe there was a box of Ozmanlis pills and a hairbrush.”

Harley had never heard of an Ozmanlis pill. Papa’s expression didn’t change.

“Did you see anyone else in the room?”

“A gentleman passed out drunk on the floor.”

Harley glanced at Papa, who kept the witness in his sights.

“How do you know he was drunk?”

“I saw him drinking in my parlor, and he was already tipsy when he went upstairs with Miss Georgia. He took a box of beers with him, and we found all the bottles scattered around the room, empty.”

“Where was he laying exactly?”

“On the floor at the foot of the bed.”

“Where was he in relation to the gun?”

“It was about two or three feet from him.”

“Describe the gentleman for us.”

“He was in his late teens or early twenties. He had wavy black hair. He was unclothed.”

“Completely naked?”

She dabbed her eye. “Yes.”

“To your knowledge, was he Miss Georgia’s customer?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know his name?”

“It was Mr. Cicero.”

***

After the inquest, Papa tried to talk with Miss Jessie but she hurried off, escorted by a large man who wouldn’t let him near her. Papa stopped to see the girl’s body. Sergeant Quinn, who was still stationed by the body, arms crossed, allowed them to look.

Harley hadn’t seen many shooting victims. She was so young and pretty. Miss Jessie had been right; she looked scared. Papa pulled the cover down to inspect the wound. Right in the heart. He asked if he could turn her over to see the exit wound, but Sergeant Quinn said there was none.

“Look at the whore, Mildred,” a lady said from behind them outside the bar rail.

Word must have spread quickly, and now a small stream of townspeople were crowding in to see the body. It was that way with any killing, but a dead prostitute stirred even more curiosity. There were some boys, of course, but the women escorted them right back out of the courtroom. Over and over, the word “whore” popped out of the low gabble of the crowd while they leaned across the rail straining to see, pointing and whispering among themselves. Sergeant Quinn didn’t let the gawkers inside the bar rail.

Whatever her sins, she didn’t deserve this. Harley was ready to leave.

Quinn spoke to Papa. “You involved with this one?”

“Maybe. Don’t know yet. Got the boy in the calaboose?”

“We do.”

To Harley’s relief, they departed for the county jail, which was just behind the courthouse in a two-story red brick building with limestone quoins, the same second-empire style as the courthouse. Harley was interested in architecture and much admired the public buildings designed by one of Papa’s friends, Waco architect Wesley Dodson.

Deputy Whaley allowed them to meet with Cicero away from his cell. The boy was handcuffed, but the jailer shut the door and left them alone with him around an old, beat-up table. Papa had sent for Miss Peach, and she joined them.

Cicero Sweet was tall and lanky, with wavy black hair and a pleasant disposition. Miss Peach would probably consider him quite handsome. He seemed polite and not the murdering type. He acted like a scared boy trying hard not to show his fear.

“Your father and I go way back,” Papa said.

Cicero laid his hands on the edge of the table, but then gripped it tightly. “Yes, sir.”

“He wired me this morning, asked me to help you. He probably can’t get here himself till tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll wire him as soon as we leave here and let him know we made contact.” Papa gestured to Harley. “This is my son and law partner, Harley, and this is Miss Peach, our stenographer.” She pulled a notepad and pen from her bag. “She’ll be taking down what you say today, so we’ll have it later to remember exactly what you told us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Papa could turn from gregarious to sober in the blink of an eye. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands under his chin. He spoke with a calm confidence. “Cicero, you’re in mighty serious trouble.”

“Yes, sir, so it appears.”

“Tell us about it.”

“I don’t have much to tell. I don’t know anything about a murder.”

Papa nodded his head as if he was carefully considering that answer. “Can you explain to me how you got yourself in that bothersome circumstance?”

“No, sir.” Cicero shrugged. “I can’t really do that.”

Harley’s head popped up from his notebook. Didn’t he understand how serious this was? How damning the circumstances?

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t remember anything.”

Harley wrinkled his nose. “You don’t remember going to the bawdy