Free Saint Errant by Leslie Charteris

And you’ll certainly have to talk to the sheriff if the gun that Lida was shot with happens to be registered in your name.”
    It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to be worth taking; and Simon felt an inward leap of optimism as he saw that at least he had come close to his mark. Kerr’s hand jumped involuntarily so that the ice in his highball gave a sharp tinkle against the glass, and his face turned a couple of shades lighter in color.
    “What sort of gun was she shot with?”
    “A thirty-two Colt automatic.”
    Kerr took it with his eyes. There was a long moment’s silence while he seemed to search either for something to say or for the voice to say it.
    “It could have been my gun.” He formed the words at last. “I lent it to her this evening.”
    “Oh?”
    “She asked me if I had a gun I could lend her.”
    “Why did you let her have it if you thought she was going to shoot herself?”
    “I didn’t think so at the time. She told me she was going to meet someone that she was scared of, but she didn’t tell me who it was, and she wouldn’t let me stay with her. She was rather overwrought and very mysterious about it. I couldn’t get anything out of her. But I never thought about suicide- then.”
    Simon’s blue eyes held him relentlessly through a cool drift of cigarette smoke.
    “And that,” said the Saint, “answers just half my question. So you weren’t thinking about suicide. So somebody told you. Who?”
    Muscles twitched sullenly over Kerr’s brows and around the sides of his mouth. “I fail to see-“
    “Let me help you,” said the Saint patiently. “Lida Verity didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. It wasn’t even a planned job to look like suicide. This unanimous eagerness to brush it off as a suicide was just an afterthought, and not a very brilliant one either. The sheriff doesn’t believe it and I don’t believe it. But there’s one difference between the sheriff and me. I may be a red herring to him, but I’m not a red herring to myself. I know this is one killing I didn’t do. So I’ve got a perfectly clear head to concentrate on finding out who did it. If anyone seems to be stalling or holding out ,on me, the only conclusion I can come to is that they’re either guilty themselves or covering up for a guilty pal. In either case, I’m not going to feel very friendly about it. And that brings us to another difference between the sheriff and me. When I don’t feel friendly about people, I’m not tied down by a lot of red tape and pettifogging legal procedures. As you may have heard.
    If you are covering up for a pal he must mean a lot to you, if you’re willing to let me hang you for him.”
    Kerr took another sip of his drink. It was a long sip, turning gradually into a gulp. When he set down his glass, the last pretense of dignified obstinacy had gone out of him.
    “I did have a phone call from one of the men at the dub,” he admitted.
    “Who was it?”
    “I don’t know exactly. He said: “The Saint’s on his way to see you. Mrs Verity just shot herself here. Esteban says to tell you not to talk.’ “
    “Why should this character expect you to do what Esteban told you?”
    Kerr fidgeted.
    “I work for Esteban, in a sort of way.”
    “As a shill?” Simon inquired.
    The other flushed.
    “I bring people to the club and I get a small commission on the business. It’s perfectly legitimate.”
    “It would be in a legitimate business. So you shill for the joint. You latch on to visiting pigeons around town and steer them in to be plucked.” Simon studied him critically. “Times must be getting tough, Maurice. I seem to remember that you used to do much better marrying them occasionally and getting a nice settlement before they divorced you.”
    “That’s neither here nor there,” Kerr said redly. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve never been mixed up with murder, and I don’t want to be.”
    The Saint’s cigarette rose to a last steady