Free Don't Lie to Me by Donald E. Westlake Page B

narrow room, almost a hallway, and they had set up a folding table and several chairs at the end to the left. Grinella and Hargerson were behind the table, the male stenographer to one side, and Goldrich a bit apart and sideways so as to face the rest of the group. Inspector Stanton was leaning his back against the wall behind the detectives, watching with an abstracted manner, his arms folded over his chest.
    It was a simple run-through. They asked questions and I supplied answers: how long I’d worked here, what my hours were, what I knew of museum routine, who I had seen here and when. Neither John Doe nor the woman visitor was mentioned, nor was my own past until the very end, when Inspector Stanton suddenly said to the stenographer, “No need to copy this.”
    â€œYes, sir.” He left pad and pen on the table, and leaned back in his chair.
    Stanton said to me, “You were on the force once yourself, Tobin.”
    â€œYes, I was.”
    â€œI looked into your history.”
    I couldn’t help glancing at Hargerson, knowing he was the one who would have brought my history to Inspector Stanton’s attention. But Hargerson was busy scanning some notes he’d made, and so was Grinella.
    â€œBased on your history,” Stanton said, “I wouldn’t have much use for you. In fact, I was a bit surprised to see you’d been given a private investigator’s ticket. So I looked into it a little more, and it turns out you still have some friends on the force.”
    Did he consider that good or bad? It could go either way, and I couldn’t tell which it was from his expression. “Yes, sir,” I said.
    â€œThey think well of you,” he said. “Further, they tell me you’ve been helpful once or twice in the last few years.”
    â€œA little,” I said.
    He gave a small smile. “On murder cases,” he said. “Do you feel helpful on this one?”
    The smile had told me he was on my side. I returned it, and said, “I’m afraid not, sir. Not this time.”
    Hargerson was now frowning at me. The tones of voice had communicated themselves to him, and he wasn’t happy.
    Stanton said, “Well, do keep your eyes open.”
    â€œI will,” I said.
    He nodded, dismissing me. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” I didn’t look at Hargerson again, but got up and left the room. Edwards took my place, and I headed downstairs. I was free now until nine tonight, so I might as well go straight home.
    Heading for the front door, my eye was caught by another butt-can standing against the wall, and I suddenly realized I’d already had my third run-in with Maverick cigarettes. A crumpled pack in a wastebasket. The design of the pack had been familiar, but the lettering a little off, so that I hadn’t really noticed it, but still it had stuck in my mind. In a wastebasket in the workroom downstairs, next to a carton where old rags were kept.
    My hand was on the doorknob, but I didn’t go out. I could hear faint murmurings, interrogations still going on in various parts of the building. I pictured the workroom again, my mind full of that workroom now, with the small detail of the cigarette package in the wastebasket. What were the other details of the room?
    I turned to go back upstairs, and halfway up I met Inspector Stanton coming down. He looked at me with mild surprise, saying, “Forget something?”
    â€œI remembered something,” I said. “Do you have a minute?”
    He stopped. “Of course.”
    We stood across from one another on the stairs, and I said, “The other night, I was thinking about the body I found, and the trouble somebody went to in carrying it up these stairs. Why not just open the door and throw it in? Then I thought it might have been done by somebody with a key just to one door, and they wanted to leave a question as to which route was used coming