Primed for Murder by Jack Ewing Page B

respond.
    “Twice you did just fine. You even managed to bring back a couple items for yourself. But this last time you didn’t do exactly as we asked. Am I right?”
    “Right?” Artie repeated when no one volunteered an answer.
    “Yes.” Mr. Puterbaugh’s voice was barely audible.
    “Your fingerprints were everywhere—we checked,” Leo said. “So you must have examined it pretty closely.”
    “Of course.” Mr. Puterbaugh’s reply had a touch of heat. “What did you expect? It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hold an actual—”
    “Only just holding it wasn’t good enough for you, was it, Jim? Mr. G figured you’d do something stupid once you knew what you were carrying. He was right. But you exceeded expectations: you were dumb enough to write about it.”
    “I had to.” Mr. Puterbaugh’s voice went hollow, as if he were a criminal explaining compulsions that made him do wrong, preparatory to pleading for understanding and compassion at the sentencing. “It was as though a doctoral dissertation had fallen right in my lap. I could not pass up the chance.”
    “That’s what Mr. G suspected. So he sent Artie over to look around. Guess what he found? Your complete manuscript—in the hands of another man.”
    “I took it away from him,” Artie said.
    “That’s not all you did,” Sandy said.
    “Yes.” Leo sighed. “Unfortunately.”
    “I had to cool him,” Artie explained. “He was already in the house. The place was a mess when I got here, books and crap scattered everywhere—he’d tossed it pretty good. He had the papers. I said gimme. He didn’t say a word, just jumped me with a knife. So I laid him out. A guy’s entitled to defend himself. Least I did it quiet, without using my piece.”
    “You left him in the middle of the den.” Sandy sounded as though she were complaining about poor maid service. “I almost had a heart attack when we returned home and found him lying—right there—all bloody.”
    “I’m sorry about the inconvenience and the shock to your system,” Leo said dryly. “I sent people over as soon as the call came in. The mess was cleaned up as quickly as possible while you returned to your grocery shopping.”
    “Who was the dead man?” Mr. Puterbaugh asked. He could have been inquiring if it was going to rain.
    “No idea,” Leo said. “He’d already jimmied his way in by the time Artie arrived. He was after the item you brought in. Good thing you’d already dropped it off. I assume he believed your manuscript would help him locate the object in question.”
    “He had no I.D. on him, nothing but the knife,” Artie inserted. “Didn’t say zilch, just came at me with the blade. Cut me good before I put him down. See?”
    “How did the man know where to find us?” Mr. Puterbaugh asked.
    “Somebody must have blabbed,” Leo said.
    “Not me,” Sandy said. “And not Jim.”
    “Not important,” Leo said. “He won’t be telling anybody anything.”
    There was a moment of silence for the departed. “Artie,” Leo said conversationally, “says the man looked Latino.”
    “I couldn’t say,” Mrs. Puterbaugh murmured. “I didn’t see his face. I certainly didn’t stick around to examine him.”
    “He was Mex,” Artie said. “Seen their kind before. One pitched for the Mets.”
    “He could have trailed you back home from there,” Leo said.
    “He followed us thirty-six hundred miles?” Doubt laced Mr. Puterbaugh’s voice. “He stayed with us at Hot Springs, Mammoth Caves and other places we stopped all the way back to Syracuse?”
    “Why not?” Leo said. “You were having a good time, seeing sights, thinking about your dissertation. You couldn’t be bothered to check if you’d grown a tail.”
    Artie said, “It don’t matter where he came from. He’s gone now.”
    “What did you do with the body?” Mrs. Puterbaugh asked.
    “There you go again, Sandy,” Leo said, “asking dumb questions.”
    “But it could be important.