Black Is the Fashion for Dying by Jonathan Latimer

said in a surprisingly clear voice. “Can—always talk.” He seemed to be in a world where time had slowed down. “My job—in life.”
    â€œYour job right now is to tell us what you did up to the time of the shooting.”
    It seemed to take forever, but Graves managed to cover everything, not missing a move and even quoting some of the dialogue. He told of leaving Lisa by the pistol, of leading the bearers into the tent and telling them to put the litter on the cot, of bending over Caresse and pulling back the blanket to see where she was hurt.
    â€œYou’re sure you pulled the blanket down?” Walsh asked.
    â€œQuite sure.”
    Walsh swung around to Sergeant Grimsby. “It was over her when we got here, wasn’t it?”
    Thumbing back through his notebook, Grimsby found the page he was looking for. “‘Entire body covered by blanket,’” he read.
    â€œWho put it back?” Walsh eyed Gordon. “You do it when you found she was dead?”
    â€œI didn’t touch anything.” Gordon’s face was alert. “What are you getting at?”
    â€œI wish I knew.” Walsh sighed. “Make a note, Grimsby.” Grimsby made a note. Walsh scowled at Graves. “Go on, man.”
    There wasn’t much further to go. Still speaking slowly and distinctly, a scholar translating hieroglyphics on an eroded monument, Graves told of Lisa’s entrance, of the two shots, of the struggle for the pistol and of his wrenching it from Lisa upon the arrival of the hunters. “It fell—beside the fire.”
    â€œWhich is where we found it,” Walsh observed. He glanced at Gordon. “Everything check?”
    â€œThat’s the way I saw it.”
    â€œOkay.” Jaws working over the gum he had at some time put in his mouth, Walsh regarded Graves speculatively. “You hear anything strange? Like, maybe, two shots from somewhere else?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œToo bad. Now what’s with this speech we hear you made?” His eyes went to Grimsby. “With all the big words?”
    Grimsby already had the right page in his notebook. He read, “‘Could kill Caresse, completely compunctionless, carnivorous, contemptible creature.’”
    â€œYou left out calumnious,” Gordon said.
    Grimsby put it in.
    A faint smile, more the echo of a smile than a smile, curled the corners of Graves’ mouth. “Meant every—word—of it.” His eyes seemed clearer.
    â€œThat don’t sound so good,” Walsh said. “With the dame being killed a couple of minutes later.”
    â€œWould admit—I killed her—old boy,” Graves said. “If could think—how I did it.”
    â€œVery sporting.” Walsh nodded agreeably. “You work on that. And so will we. Maybe we can get together later.”
    â€œPleasure,” Graves said.
    A policeman came and took him away. Grimsby wrote industriously in his notebook. Walsh took out his gum, examined it dubiously, then put it back in his mouth again. “Complicated,” he said. “But that lad’s not as drunk as he’d have us believe.” A strange detective appeared, handed him a cardboard box and an envelope. “From Ballistics, Captain.”
    â€œFine.” Walsh ripped open the envelope, at the same time saying, “Get them two gun guys.”
    The two gun guys proved to be the prop men. They waited uneasily just inside the tent while Walsh finished reading the report he’d taken from the envelope. Both men, Blake thought, looked as though a sudden noise would land them in the next county.
    â€œAlf Romero,” Walsh said at last. “And Gus Romero. Brothers?”
    â€œUncles,” Gus said. “I mean he’s my uncle. Alf is.”
    â€œAnd your story’s you loaded the pistol with blanks, stuck it in the holster and never touched it again?”
    â€œIs truth,” Alf