Free Murder Is My Business by Brett Halliday

head slyly. “You just tell Jeff Towne that. Tell him I was Johnny-on-the-Spot an’ saw it all. That is, don’t you go tellin’ him who ’twas. He’s got a fearful anger when he’s riled up. He’s liable to think he can shut me up cheaper’n he can pay me to keep quiet. Like they say in Mexico, ‘Los muertos no hablan.’ ”
    Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and frowned at the old man. “Los muertos no hablan?” he repeated. “The dead don’t talk, eh?”
    “That’s it,” Riley cackled. “I wouldn’t feel safe in my bones if Jeff Towne knew I saw what happened Tuesday afternoon.”
    “You’re talking about blackmail,” Shayne charged.
    “Call it what you like, Mister. I don’t want much. Say, three thousand. It ought to be worth that for him to get elected mayor.”
    Shayne said, “You’ll have to put your proposition to Towne yourself.”
    “I tell you I don’t dare do that. You’re gettin’ paid to clear him, ain’t you? If I tell the police what I know, you’ll never collect a penny from Towne.”
    “Why not?” Shayne snapped.
    “ ’Cause,” the old man chortled, “los muertos no pagan, either.”
    Shayne considered that statement frowningly for a moment. His knowledge of the Spanish language wasn’t extensive, but he did know that pagan meant pay. “Do you mean you have information that’ll lead to Towne’s death?”
    “A man don’t live very long with a hangman’s noose ’round his neck.”
    Shayne said angrily, “You’ve been beating all around the bush without saying anything. What is the information you’ve got for sale?”
    “All right, Mister. Here it is.” The old man’s eyes glittered venomously. “I saw Jeff Towne kill that soldier Tuesday afternoon. Saw him choke the life out of him with his own hands down by the river.”
    Shayne said, “You’d better tell the police what you saw.”
    Josiah Riley stared at him incredulously. “Ain’t you workin’ for Towne?”
    “Not to cover up murder.”
    “If I tell the police, I won’t get paid nothin’,” the old prospector whined.
    “Try the Free Press,” Shayne suggested contemptuously. “Neil Cochrane will pay you something for that information. And now you can get out,” he ended casually.
    Riley got to his feet. He licked his lips and started to protest further, but Shayne’s uncompromising appearance stopped him. He went hesitantly toward thedoor, lingered there a moment as though he simply couldn’t believe the interview was over, then sadly went out.
    Shayne poured himself a drink when he was alone. He tugged at his earlobe with his right hand and went to a curtained window to peer out somberly. A newsboy was trotting down the street shouting a headline of the Free Press. Shayne couldn’t hear what he was shouting. He went to the telephone and ordered a copy of the afternoon paper sent up. A sudden and enervating lassitude gripped him. He moodily went back to his chair and sat down to wait for the paper.

CHAPTER TEN
    The Thursday afternoon Free Press was headlined: Audacious Autopsy. Shayne emptied his glass and settled back to read the front-page story.
    It wasn’t signed by Neil Cochrane, but it had been written by him. It began by reminding readers of the paper that the Free Press had fearlessly predicted yesterday that an autopsy would be performed on the body of the traffic victim in an effort to whitewash Jefferson Towne, and it went on at length to denounce scathingly the city authorities, who were being pushed around by an out-of-town shamus retained by Towne to do his dirty work for him.
    It took Doctor Thompson’s cautious medical report and tore it apart phrase by phrase, emphasizing the unreliability of such post-mortem indications, edging dangerously close to libel by broadly hinting that the police surgeon had been influenced, by Towne’s position and wealth to make such a report.
    Shayne grimaced and poured himself another drink when he finished reading the article. It was