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

waited at the bottom of the stairs to see if anyone came down.”

“Where was Miss Sadie?”

“I think she was in a back room. We all met at the stairs.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. It was quiet.”

“What did you do?”

“We went upstairs, outside Georgia’s door, but didn’t hear anything. I knocked and called her name, but she didn’t answer.”

“What happened then?”

“We opened the door.”

“What’d you see?”

“She was on the bed, shot dead. There was blood everywhere.”

“Describe how she appeared.”

Catfish raised his eyebrows. It was coming—the look of ineffable terror.

“Her eyes were open. She had a look of ineffable terror.”

The only two times he’d ever heard the word ineffable uttered in Waco were by that sporting woman in that courthouse.

Blair turned his back on the jury and crossed the room, stopping between the defense table and the judge’s bench. Damn, Catfish should have warned Cicero about this. Blair always did this in murder cases.

Don’t look down, son!

Slowly, deliberately, Blair faced Cicero, eye to eye. Cicero appeared unsettled and looked down.

“What else did you see?” Blair asked, without taking his eyes off Cicero.

“Mr. Cicero was passed out on the floor.”

“Where was he exactly?”

“At the foot of the bed. Sprawled on the floor.”

“Describe him,” Blair said, still staring at Cicero.

“He was naked and unconscious. A derringer was on the floor near him.”

Blair finally lifted his stare from Cicero, who looked up only when Blair sauntered back toward the court reporter’s desk. Cicero shot a glance at his lawyer.

Catfish suppressed any reaction. The jury was still watching.

Blair retrieved the derringer from the desk. “Did it look like State’s Exhibit One?”

“That’s Miss Georgia’s gun. She kept it in the nightstand by her bed in case of trouble.”

“What else did you see?”

“Empty Lone Star beer bottles all over.”

“What did you do?”

“Big Joe checked Miss Georgia, but she was dead. He held my gun on Mr. Cicero, and I went downstairs and telephoned the police.”

“Was the defendant ever awake before the police arrived?”

“Just once, for only a minute or so.” She eyed the jury and opened her mouth as though she intended to add something but decided against it. She peered at Catfish.

He stiffened. Something was up.

“Then he passed out again.”

“I see,” Blair said. “Between the time the defendant and Miss Georgia went upstairs and the time you heard the scream and the gunshot, did anyone else go to her room?”

She lifted her chin and nodded without hesitation. “No.”

Catfish watched her closely. She thought she was as formidable as he.

“How can you be sure?” Blair asked.

“We had only one other gentleman visiting after that, and he went to a downstairs bedroom with Miss Sadie. Nobody else went upstairs.”

“When did the police arrive?”

“Within minutes.”

Blair nodded to her. “Thank you, Miss Rose. Pass the witness.”

“Ma’am,” Catfish said, rising to question her from his table, “this is not the first time we’ve met, is it?”

“I’m not sure. Are you one of my customers?” She gave a coy smile, causing some of the jurors to grin.

Yes’m, you are formidable.

He smiled back at her. “No, ma’am. Our meeting was strictly in daylight and on business. My son, Harley, and I visited you at your house not too long after this incident. You remember now?”

“I think so.” She glanced at the jurors. “We have so many men visit us.”

“Well, ma’am, we asked to talk with you about what happened when Miss Georgia was killed, didn’t we?”

“Oh yes, I remember now.”

“And you refused to discuss it with us, didn’t you?”

“I recall it was a busy day.”

“All right, well, I’m happy to discuss it now,” he said in a genial way, “if that’s fine with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Tell me, Miss Rose, you own that sporting house yourself?”

“I do, as I told the other gentleman earlier.”

“Well, what causes me to ask is that an associate of mine talked to Miss Sadie about it,” he said, scratching his head, “and Miss Sadie told her a man actually owned the place and that you called him the boss.”

She seemed untroubled. “I doubt she said that, because it’s not true.”

The fleas were hopping. He glanced at Harley.

Catfish ambled back to the bar rail behind Blair.

“Well now, Miss Rose, you’ve got a mighty fancy sporting house, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I’m proud that it’s a very nice place to entertain guests.”

“Yes, ma’am. It sure is. It’s the only brick sporting house in the whole Reservation”—he made a sweeping gesture toward that part of town—“isn’t it?”

“I believe that’s correct.”

“It’s two stories and has electricity and a talking-phone?”

“You must mean a telephone.”

“It’s right there on Washington Avenue, not back on the other side of the creek?”

“That’s true.”

“Would you say you’ve got the best venue for a sporting house in the whole Reservation?”

“Probably.”

He faced the jury with a dubious expression. “And you own it by yourself?”

“I do, as I said before.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well, now, Miss Rose, you came to Waco in 1893, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you bought this place pretty soon after getting here?”

“I suppose.”

“Bought it from Bud Orman?” he asked, hurling the name into the jury box again.

Still no signs it hit.

“Yes.”

“Let’s see,” he said, “that was after he got tried for murder, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know the man.”

“So you moved here last year,” he said, pacing along the rail, “and almost right away you bought the only brick sporting house around?”

“I believe I answered that earlier.”

“Before you came here you lived in New Orleans?”

“I did.”

“Did you go by the name of Jessica Rose Reneau when you lived there?”

“Sometimes.”

“You were a sporting girl in New Orleans?”

“I was an actress. Reneau was my stage name.”

“Oh, an actress.” That just might have been the truth. “You haven’t done any acting since you moved to Waco, have you?”

“No, I’m a business owner now.”

“So you wouldn’t have any reason to use the name Reneau here in Waco?”

“I might have, I don’t recall.”

“When Bud Orman deeded you that property, didn’t you go by Jessica Rose Reneau?” He walked to the defense table and picked up a document. “In the legal papers?”

“I might have.”

“You