Buried Caesars by Stuart M. Kaminsky

don’t want any trouble,” Hammett supplied. “You want to hold your job, raise your rabbits and retire without embarrassment.”
    “Something like that,” Spainy said, losing his grin and not too happy to be upstaged. Upstaging Spainy didn’t strike me as a good idea either.
    “We don’t get people getting shot in our town,” he said. “Residents don’t like it. And what they don’t like I don’t like. You know what I like?”
    “Rabbits,” I said.
    “And no trouble,” he added. “Now I’ll be quiet and you tell me everything there is to tell. I still got the victim’s widow to find and some explaining to do for her.”
    “I’m a private investigator,” I said.
    “I know that,” sighed Spainy. “And you,” he said, nodding at Hammett, “are a big-time writer, Maltese Falcon, Thin Man , that kind of stuff. Never read it. Wife does, though. Tell your tale and don’t waste time trying to impress the country folk.”
    “We were staying overnight with Pudge, Mr. Block,” said Hammeft. “He was depressed. As an autopsy will show, he was dying. He made up a story about two men waiting outside with guns to get us out of the house. Mr. Peters and I went out to look. Your men pulled up, thinking we were the two men, and we heard a shot inside the house.”
    “Simple so far,” said Spainy.
    Hammett brushed back his white hair and shrugged.
    “But you told my man Barry that a car had just pulled away,” said Spainy, shaking his head.
    “To protect Mr. Block,” I stuck in.
    “Dumb-ass story,” said Spainy, opening his desk and fishing for something.
    “Most true stories are dumb-ass,” said Hammett. “We were outside with your men when Pudge shot himself. They heard the shot.”
    Spainy found what he was looking for, a small jar of Postum. “J.V.!” he screamed.
    The door to his office opened instantly and the dark, pretty and slightly overweight woman in uniform who reminded me of Ann stepped in, biting her ample lower lip. Spainy threw the small jar to her. She juggled it, managed to keep it from falling and clutched it to her bosom like a back pulling in a pass from Sid Luckman.
    “Make a pot of that stuff, will you, J.V.,” Spainy said. “You two want some?”
    Hammett and I shook our heads.
    “Suit yourself,” he said, sitting down. “Hate the crap but I’ve got to drink something since I went off coffee. Hate tea. Don’t like cold drinks.”
    J.V. left with her small jar still clutched tight.
    “Could have been an accomplice,” Spainy said, returning his gaze to us and raising his eyebrows knowingly. “You could have had someone inside the house firing a gun. Block already murdered. Or you could have had a record of a shot or set up a gun to go off with some kind of timer.”
    “I thought you didn’t read detective novels,” I said.
    “Ah, hell. Jenny leaves ’em laying around. I pick up a few just to get ideas,” he said.
    “Maybe we hypnotized Carl,” said Hammett. “Made him shoot himself while we used the police for an alibi.”
    “Can’t make hypnotized people kill themselves,” said Spainy, pointing a finger at Hammett.
    “No? Maybe not, but what if they don’t know they’re killing themselves?” Hammett went on, warming to the game. “What if they’re told it’s a toy gun, or …”
    “… a new kind of thing to cut your hair,” said Spainy, leaning forward.
    I tried to catch Hammett’s eye. Spainy didn’t need help in turning a suicide into a murder and pinning it on us. He needed help in recognizing it was a suicide.
    “That’s nuts,” I said. “The man shot himself.”
    Spainy spun around once in his swivel chair, a complete, slow circle full of thought.
    “Seems so, seems so,” he agreed. “But I got a feeling something’s stirring here I ain’t been told. The rabbits are restless. I can feel it, but suicide’s better than murder. People are supposed to come here, feel good about life, not shoot themselves—but hell, maybe I