A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(109)

“You want to hear my theory?”

They both settled their gazes on him.

“You actually told me yourself,” said Archer.

Douglas frowned. “You’re going to have to spell it out, Archer. My thoughts are not too clear right now.”

“One question. Have the police been by to see you?”

Douglas wiped his brow. “No. But I think that situation is about to change, from what I’ve heard. But tell me why someone would want to kill Wilson.”

“Your wife has an alibi for the time Ruby Fraser was killed. She was with friends for dinner. Now, that alibi needs to be verified, and it will be. But the thing is, as you told me, Wilson Sheen was your only alibi for the time Fraser was murdered. You had dinner with him and then a meeting during the time Fraser was killed. Which means you no longer have an alibi, because dead men can’t give them.”

Douglas swallowed the rest of his bourbon and collapsed back against the chair. “Right,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Beth looked worriedly at him and then said to Archer, “What can be done?”

“I’m not sure. But I do know that your husband is being set up as a patsy to take the fall.”

“I never had anything to do with Ruby Fraser, I swear.”

Archer glanced at Beth. She had told him she didn’t know whether her husband was sleeping with the lady. But now, in her countenance, he only saw belief in Douglas’s words. She gripped his hand to show her support.

“Okay, I believe you,” said Archer.

“You do?”

“I’ve seen and heard of other ladies throwing themselves at you. No go on their part. Why would that be?” He looked at Beth. “Because he loves you.”

Beth looked at Douglas, and Archer saw a glimmer of tears there, from both of them.

“But you’re not out of the woods,” continued Archer. “Talk to me about the island.”

“I don’t know anything about—good Lord, what is that?”

A door could be heard banging open; there was a shout followed by mingled cries, and feet pounding fast toward where they were. Archer had risen, his hand moving to his .38. The Kempers stood, too, staring at the doorway, their arms around one another.

Archer quickly moved the hand away from the gun when he saw who was arriving at the party.

Chief Carl Pickett and four of his beefy coppers, looking all nice and shiny in their brass buttons, clipped hats, shoulder straps, big guns, and brash countenances.

Archer could see they were all excited, and he knew why. Rousting a poor slob was not a thrill; they probably did it every day. But slinging mud at the rich, carrying them out of their palaces, now that could get a man’s blood going.

Pickett eyed all of them there, and a grin spread over his face as he extracted a small stogie from his pocket and took a moment to light up.

“Well, well,” said Pickett as the three stood there staring at him.

“What do you want?” demanded Douglas. And it was clearly a demand.

Pickett strolled over to him. “Don’t go all high and mighty on me, Kemper. You might be married to the boss’s daughter, but that means shit to me.”

“I’m my own boss.”

“Whatever you say. But what I’ve come here to say is, you’re under arrest.”

“For what!”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you and upset the missus?”

“You’re damn right you do,” insisted Beth.

“Okay. You’re being arrested for the murders of Ruby Fraser and Wilson Sheen.”

“What would possibly be my motivation?”

“You were bedding Fraser, and Sheen found out and was blackmailing you for it,” replied Pickett. “That comes out, you’re not going to be the mayor of this town.”

“That’s absurd,” cried out Beth. “He was not sleeping with that woman.”

“Well, then, how did we find a pair of his cufflinks in her bedroom? Along with a shirt belonging to him that has blood on it, and that matches the blood type of the deceased woman? How did two witnesses swear on the Bible that they saw him in the company of Miss Fraser on the night she died? And that they had seen the two a week earlier in Mr. Kemper’s Rolls-Royce Phantom?” Pickett sidled up to Kemper and said in a low voice. “If you want to screw around with other women, you really need to do it in a low-down Ford.”

“And Sheen?” said Archer.

Pickett gave him a withering look. “What are you doing here, whatever your name is? Willie off in the bottle and sent the schoolboy to cover for him?”

“The name’s Archer. And what evidence do you have that Kemper killed Sheen?”

Pickett got so close that Archer could smell the cheap gin on the man’s breath. “Well, let me tell you, Archer, the autopsy on Sheen showed enough barbiturates in his stomach to make a horse go nighty-night. And Sheen and Kemper were seen having drinks at the club earlier that night. A perfect setup to slip the man a mickey and then come back later and kill him.”

“You’re crazy,” said Kemper. “I was having dinner with Wilson when Fraser was killed.”

“Sure, sure you were. Anybody else verify that?”

“No, we were at the office alone.”