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

Harley was shocked his old-fashioned father would suggest the use of a modern contraption. Miss Peach’s parents had given her an Eastman Kodak Number 2 pull-string camera, and she had been taking photographs of the colonel outside the office. She told Harley that Papa had laughed at the small black box and expressed grave doubts it could generate photographic images without glass plates, but when she gave him a snapshot of Colonel Terry, he’d been impressed.

So Harley spent one late afternoon at the window and again the next morning. He peered between the drapes at Orman’s place, the lights out behind him, binoculars in his lap and Kodak by his side.

It was ridiculous.

The first two efforts were uneventful. The second afternoon of spying was particularly hot. There was no fan in the room, so he opened the window to let the warm summer breeze blow directly into his room. He rested the binoculars on the windowsill, folded his arms, and sat back to watch. At some point, despite his best efforts, he fell asleep in his chair.

He snapped awake to cackling laughter on the street below. The breeze had blown the drapes back, exposing both spy and spyglass to the street below, where Orman stood gawking.

“Your daddy still looking for a whore, sonny?” He bent over double, laughing. “I’d be happy to give him those Ozmanlis pills.”

That was it. He’d had enough. He rushed back to the office.

Even after all this, Papa wasn’t bending. Harley braced himself over the work table with both hands, glaring at his father.

“It doesn’t make sense, Papa,” he railed. “It’s a waste of time. Orman just doesn’t have anything to do with this case.”

“Hold on there, young man—”

Harley shoved the binoculars across the table toward him. “I’m done spying on Orman.”

“You’ve just got to trust my judgment on this,” Papa replied. “Look, sometimes things don’t make sense. They just happen. Bud Orman’s the very kind of fella who’d get mad at a sporting girl and shoot her because it suited him.”

Papa stood up and pointed a shaking finger at Harley. “If Henry Sweet had given up on me, you wouldn’t be here today.”

He stormed out.

Harley felt pinned in place, unable to move. I’m not a quitter. Please don’t think that.

Miss Peach appeared in the doorway and leaned against the door jamb. “Are you all right?”

“Sure.” He wasn’t.

“Why’s he so stuck on Orman?”

Harley’s stomach tightened. “I have no idea. It just doesn’t make sense to me. We’re just over two weeks away from trial, and we have no proof whatsoever that Bud Orman was involved in any way, much less that he was the killer.”

“Yet he believes it more than ever,” she said. “It’s as though the weaker our defense gets, the more he digs in.” She came closer and leaned against the edge of the table. Her voice was softer. “Mr. Harley, is there something else going on with him? Maybe something the two of you don’t talk about?”

Harley dropped his head into his hands. There’d been talk at the courthouse that Papa had lost his touch—but that had been eight years ago. And Papa had tried the Lawson assault case just last year, and he’d been brilliant. He’d won the case.

“I don’t know what to do,” he finally answered, still staring down at the floor between his feet, “except pray that things don’t get any worse before he comes around.”

Chapter 21

It was June eighteenth. Two weeks from trial and, in Harley’s view, they had no defense. Yet, Papa didn’t seem worried. They were reviewing the week’s upcoming appointments together when William Brann dropped by their office unexpectedly that Monday afternoon.

Other than their brief introduction at the McLelland Bar, Harley hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know Brann, although Papa enjoyed his company. Brann wasn’t yet forty, about ten years older than Harley. Even a few minutes of conversation revealed a man who was intolerant of intolerance, stalked hypocrites like prey, relished the persona of provocateur, and searched continuously for provocation. The San Antonio Express had sent him to Waco to cover the Sweet case, which was now scheduled to begin in a fortnight.

Brann candidly admitted this case made a better story than the usual whorehouse killing because upstanding citizens sanctioned the sin. On the other hand, he was uncomfortable at appearing to join forces with the likes of Preacher Jones. While the wages of sin might be death—spiritual death, according to Jones—Brann found worldly death a more compelling subject for his storytelling talents. It was clear that his narrative required a victim, not necessarily innocent, and a villain, not necessarily profligate, though a story embarrassing to public officials also suited him just fine.

It was no coincidence that a rival newspaper was interested in the case too. Today, apparently, they’d beaten Brann to the story.

Brann sat on the corner of the worktable. “Have you read the Daily Times-Herald today?”

Harley rocked back in his chair. “That’s the new Dallas paper, isn’t it?”

Brann nodded.

Papa looked disinterested. “I only read Dallas papers right before I get the dyspepsia.”

“Well,” Brann said, “you might go next door and stock up on Pleasant Pellets. You’ll need them after you read this.”

Papa sighed. “What is it?”

Brann produced a copy of the offending paper and read the headline aloud: “‘The Sporting House Killing.’”

“Sounds more like the title of a potboiler,” Harley said.

Brann continued reading. “‘College Boy Slays Waco Whore in Legal Bordello.’”

Papa chuckled. “The mayor won’t care much for that.”

Nor his imps, Harley thought.

“Neither will Baylor,” Brann replied.

“Who’s the reporter?”

“Babcock Brown.”

“Let me see.” Papa reached for the paper. “Coffee’s on the stove, Brann. Help yourself.”

Brann poured a cup and settled at the head of the table. Papa adjusted his pince-nez and read the article aloud: “‘Waco’s legalized prostitution district, one of only two in the country, known by locals and indulgent city leaders as The Reservation, was recently the scene of a skin trade murder. The McLennan County grand jury issued