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

went back to gawking at the intruder in the gallery. How was Sterling DeGroote involved in this mess? Catfish had no choice but to find out.

“I’ll let that dry while I ask you some more questions,” he said. Catfish tried to see the bloody mark, but he was too far away.

“So Peter, do you know what your father’s talking about?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe you better tell us, then.”

Peter looked silently from Catfish to his father.

“Peter, tell us,” Catfish repeated.

The elder DeGroote slid to the edge of his seat. His wife clutched his arm. “It’s all right, son. Tell him.”

Hands on the witness rail, Peter took a slow, deep breath. “I did go to the Red Front and Miss Jessie’s that night, and I’m not proud of it—but I didn’t have anything to do with Georgia’s death. I didn’t want anyone at Baylor to know I was at a whorehouse. I was afraid they’d expel me right before my graduation.”

Several members of the jury shifted uneasily in their seats.

“So I told my father. Later, after we heard about Cicero being arrested, Father said since Cicero had been caught red-handed, he’d plead guilty and nobody would have to know I was ever there.”

Catfish swiped away a rivulet of sweat from his forehead. “So you told your father you were at the sporting house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he said nobody would find out you were there if Cicero pleaded guilty?”

“Yes.”

That didn’t make sense. “Why did you assume Miss Jessie and her employees wouldn’t tell the police you were there?”

“They just wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Peter looked reluctant to speak. “Because they work for Father.”

What? That couldn’t be.

A murmur rustled through the gallery.

“They work for who?” Catfish asked.

“My father owns Miss Jessie’s whorehouse. It’s in her name, but he owns it.”

“So Miss Jessie, Miss Sadie, and Big Joe all work for your father?”

“Yes.”

Catfish pressed his temples. What did it mean? “They lied to protect you and your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you shot Georgia Gamble?”

“No, sir, I did not.” Peter glanced at the jury, then at the paper in front of him. “Compare the marks. You’ll see.”

Killers lie.

Catfish wiped away the sweat from his temples. Every person in the courtroom watched him intently, waiting to see if he would step forward to compare the marks. He glanced into the gallery at Henry Sweet. Henry nodded. Catfish resisted the urge to look to the left but did. Schoolcraft flashed him a grin.

He took a step back. Exhaustion drained every muscle.

“Catfish, are you finished?” the judge asked.

He had no choice.

“No, sir.”

Catfish walked over to the witness stand. He laid the pistol on the paper side by side with the drawing, studied it a moment, turned the derringer to face the opposite way, and studied it again.

He stepped back. The boy was telling the truth.

“Pass the witness.” He went back to his table, unable to meet his client’s gaze, and sagged into his chair.

“Papa?” Harley whispered. “Does it match?”

Catfish rubbed his forehead with one hand. Who killed the whore? If it wasn’t Peter—just as he thought all along: Orman was the killer.

“Papa?”

“It’s Orman,” he whispered back.

“What?”

“Captain Blair, do you have questions?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor, a few more.” Blair walked to the witness stand and examined the finger marks for himself. He left the papers and gun there and went back to his table. “Peter, let’s get to the truth of this. Tell us what happened when you went to the bawdy house.”

“I went there about nine thirty or ten—maybe later, I don’t remember. I went upstairs with Georgia. I liked her. She was nice to me, and we were . . . together. Then I left for the Red Front to get a beer. After that, I went back to Miss Jessie’s and up to Georgia’s room. I found her in bed with Cicero. I got mad and yelled at him to get out, and he yelled back. Georgia tried to get us to stop. I yelled at her for being with him, and she said he was no man compared to me. She laughed at his manhood, and that made him madder. He got up in my face.”

The boy looked at Cicero this time, frank and forthright.

“That’s when she pulled her derringer from the drawer and pointed it at us and told us both to get out.”

Cicero gripped the table.

Peter’s head shook ever so slightly. “I slugged him, and I left. I was mad. I just ran out.”

“Where did you hit the defendant?”

Peter shifted his focus back to Blair, his face sober. “In the head.”

“With your right or your left fist?”

“Right.”

“Did you knock him to the floor?”

“He fell back on the bed.”

The pieces were coming together more clearly now. The boy must be telling the truth; how else would he know about the blow to Cicero’s head? But when had Orman arrived?

“Was Georgia alive when you left?” Blair continued.

“Yes, sir. I swear to God.”

“Alone with the defendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And she had the derringer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened then?”

“I went downstairs to leave. Just about the time I got to the downstairs hall, I heard the gunshot. Miss Jessie asked me what happened, and I told her. She got her gun and we all went back upstairs. We found Georgia dead and Cicero lying unconscious on the floor. Miss Jessie told me to leave, she’d take care of things. So I did.”

. . . Orman . . .?

“Where did you go after you left Miss Jessie’s?”

The words were tumbling from the boy like a creek after a gully washer. “I went to the Pacific Hotel. I was supposed to pick up my father, who was playing cards there. He was expecting me.”

“Tell us what happened there.”

“I went in and found Father in the bar with Mr. Orman, Mr. Schoolcraft, and Mr. Shaughnessy.”

Catfish’s head snapped up. Of course! Orman was in cahoots with Schoolcraft.

“So your father was playing cards with Bud Orman, Thaddeus Schoolcraft, and Cooter Shaughnessy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you speak with them about what happened to Miss Georgia?”

“I did.”

Catfish gazed at the dizzying rotation of the ceiling fan above. But Orman already knew what had happened,