Badge of Evil by Whit Masterson

Farnum’s been having quite a few visitors?”
    “Not to speak of. He hasn’t asked for anybody. Just lays on his bunk most of the time.”
    “His lawyer, maybe?”
    “Doesn’t have one that I know of. I guess the court’s going to have to appoint somebody.” The jailer led him down the row of cells, most of them empty after being cleaned out by the Monday morning court session. “No, I can’t recall anybody coming to see him. Except our own men, of course. Quinlan was in Saturday. So was Captain McCoy later on.” They halted at the last cell in the corridor. “Well, here he is, just like I promised. Hey, Farnum, wake up for company.”
    Farnum was lying face down on his bunk. He raised his head and stared at Holt for a moment, but didn’t speak. The turnkey unlocked the cell door. “Just yell when you want out,” he told Holt, then added humorously, “You — not you.” He locked the door behind Holt and walked off, whistling.
    Holt hesitated a moment, expecting Farnum to say something. When it became apparent that Farnum didn’t intend to initiate the conversation, he said, “How you getting along Farnum?”
    “All right.” Farnum regarded him sullenly. “What do you want?”
    “Like to talk to you.” Since there was no place to sit, with Farnum occupying the bunk, Holt remained standing.
    “I told you everything I had to say the other night.”
    “That’s what I thought, too. But this morning I hear you admit that you hid the dynamite in that outside closet under Shayon’s stairs. I’d like to hear about it from you.”
    “I haven’t got anything else to say. I read in the papers about the daughter having a boy friend, his address and all, and I guess I decided I’d rather have the cops after him than after me. So I took the rest of the dynamite over to his place and hid it there. I never really expected any trouble would come of it.” He chewed his lip, then added slowly, “I did it, that’s all.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me that the other night?”
    “I guess I forgot.”
    “That’s a little hard to believe, considering I asked you specifically about it.” Farnum didn’t reply. Holt said, “I hear you had some visitors over the week end.”
    “No,” said Farnum immediately. “I haven’t seen anybody.”
    “The jailer says that Captain McCoy and Sergeant Quinlan were both here and talked to you.”
    Farnum hesitated. “Oh, yeah — that’s right. Well, what about it?”
    “What did they want?”
    “Just to talk about things. I don’t know. They’re cops, aren’t they? Why shouldn’t they talk to me?”
    “No reason.” Holt got out his cigarettes and offered the pack to Farnum. The prisoner accepted one reluctantly and his eyes, when they met Holt’s were wary. “I’m curious about your loss of memory regarding the dynamite, Farnum. You understand, don’t you that it’s not going to make any difference in your case one way or the other?”
    “I told you I just forgot it,” Farnum muttered. He had to sit up to light his cigarette and he remained in an upright position on the bunk. Holt sat down on the other end, hoping to establish a more friendly relationship. Standing over Farnum put him too much in the attitude of prosecutor. Farnum didn’t seem to relax any, however.
    Holt said, “I don’t want you to be misled. You’ve confessed to murder and you’ll be tried for it. If anyone has given you the idea that a deal is possible, that you might get off easier if you admitted hiding the dynamite, too, then that person did so without any authority. Do you understand that?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Do you still want to stick to your story about the dynamite, on that basis?”
    Farnum stared at the floor of the cell. Holt noticed that the fingers holding the cigarette were quivering. Finally, Farnum said morosely, “I said I did it, didn’t I? What more do you want?”
    “The truth, perhaps.”
    “It is the truth. I thought I could fool the cops by framing