One Good Deed(52)

“That flask’s not even mine.”

“I know that. I’m not concerned with the flask per se.”

“What then?”

“I also recovered two glasses from your room. With the remains of drink in them.”

“Okay, I had a drink with Miss Tuttle, so what? I told you that already.”

“Well, the ‘so what’ is that’s a parole violation to be using alcohol, but again, I’m not concerned about that. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“For investigating a man being killed, you don’t seem too concerned about much.”

“Oh, you’ll see that I’m concerned about a great deal. And right now, I’m concerned about you. Now, there were fingerprints on the flask and the two glasses. You know about fingerprints?”

Archer looked at his hand. “I know everybody’s got ’em.”

“Right, and you know everybody’s fingerprints are different?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I had Miss Tuttle’s fingerprints taken today. I had them compared to the ones on the glasses and the flask.”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, I didn’t tell her why I wanted them.”

“Why’d you take her fingerprints?”

“Patience, son, I’m getting there.”

Shaw opened the door to the room and pointed at the doorknob. “See that white powder on there?”

“I see it, yeah.”

“I had it dusted for fingerprints. That’s what the white coating is. Fingerprint dust. Amazing things they can do with fingerprint dust.”

“Yeah, sounds exciting.”

“Now, there are three fresh sets of fingerprints on there, and only three.”

“Okay.”

“Miss Tuttle’s.”

“Well, sure. She opened the door and—”

“The maid who found the body,” interjected Shaw.

“Okay, but—”

Now Archer could clearly see the man’s line of reasoning, and he felt like he had just been dropped out of a plane and was free-falling to death. And what had Ernestine mentioned? Dan Bullock’s fingerprints on that knife had helped send him back to prison.

“And your fingerprints.” Shaw shut the door so hard, it caused a bang when the door met the doorjamb. “Which makes me wonder how they got on the doorknob, both coming and going? Since you’ve confirmed to me that you had never touched them to begin with, and that you had never been back to Mr. Pittleman’s room after you and Miss Tuttle left him here.”

Shaw leaned back against the wall, edged his homburg down a bit, folded his arms over his chest, and stared like a seasoned pointer on a bird at Archer. “So, I’m thinking what you told me before was a load ’a hooey, son. And somebody feeds me baloney, I don’t make a sandwich with it, I make an arrest.”

“You have a way with words, Mr. Shaw, I’ll give you that.”

“Now, I want you to start having your way with words, Archer, starting and ending with the truth. Anything less than that, the cuffs are going on you right now, son, just so we understand each other.”

Archer glanced at the doorknob as his mind processed all of this at a rapid pace. The only problem was, he could see no way around it other than the truth. But sometimes not only did the truth not set you free, it could send you right back to prison.

“Okay, I’ll level with you. When I passed by here this morning the door was open a crack. I thought Jackie—I mean Miss Tuttle—was maybe in the room. So, I walked in, that’s when I touched the doorknob.”

“Meaning you lied to me before?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Keep going, Archer, this is mighty fine stuff.”

“I saw the man sleeping in the bed. Well, I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw a towel on the floor. With stuff on it. I came closer to see what it was. Then I saw the knife next to the towel; they were both covered in blood. I went over to the bed to see about Mr. Pittleman. But it was too late. He was dead, his throat all butchered.”

“Then what did you do?”

Archer decided not to tell him about his debate on relieving some of the dead man’s cash because he could not see a way that would remotely benefit his case, which was now for shit anyway. Though he had taken the debt papers.

“Then I left. I opened the door and walked out.”

“Leaving your fingerprints behind?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you remove anything from this room or the body?”

Archer didn’t hesitate, because he knew to a man like Shaw that would be the same as lying.

“No sir.”

“You see anybody? Hear anybody?”

“No. It was just me.” Archer paused. “Now, I know this doesn’t look good.”

Shaw unexpectedly chuckled. “Well, you’re right about that, son, but it don’t take a genius, does it?”

“What happens now?”

“I have more than enough to arrest you, you know that?”

“Look, what would be my reason to kill the man? I was working for him. Him dead, I don’t get squat.”

Shaw chewed on the butt of his stogie. “Miss Tuttle made the same argument to me earlier.”