You Live Once by John D. MacDonald

where it was found in a car, and the tire marks were carefully obliterated where the car passed over soft bare ground. An extremely valuable wristwatch had not been removed from the body, and police have eliminated robbery as a motive, despite the fact that the dead girl’s purse has not yet been found. At the dinner party before her death she was carrying a small black envelope purse with a gold clasp. She …”
    My phone rang and I turned the radio down. It was Hilver. “Mr. Sewell, the captain wants you should come down and leave off fingerprints. I was supposed to tell you today out at Pryor’s but he sent me off and I forgot about it.”
    “Right now?”
    “Right now.”
    There isn’t any answer to that. I agreed, put my tie and jacket back on and went on down to police headquarters. It is a grimy old red stone building, full of the varied stinks of a hundred years of crime and punishment. A sergeant behind a wicket told me where to go. A bored man wrote down my name, age, height, weight, marital status, employment, and place of birth. He rolled my fingers on an ink pad and then on a printed card. When he was through he gave me one paper towel and sent me over to a chipped sink in the corner of the room.
    “Can I go now?”
    “Sit down over there,” he said. I sat. He left the room. I sat and sat. There was an electric clock on the wall. Every two minutes it clacked loudly, jumped forward two minutes and caught up with Time. A garage girl on a wall calendar had snared her skimpy skirt crawling through a barbed wire fence. Some jokester had given her a complete set of hirsute adornment. I kept yawning so hard I shuddered. I got sick of looking at the wooden floor, one high table, one low table, four chairs, the taninstitutional plaster wall. Sometimes people would walk down the hall, by the open door. That, at least, was mildly entertaining. A sniffling girl went by once, a short fat matron prodding her in the back with a bitter knuckle. Another time a man started whooping and yelling and roaring. He stopped in the middle of a roar, stopped very, very abruptly. A young cop went by trying to sing.
    At eleven-thirty Kruslov came in. He was in shirtsleeves, his tie untied, the two ends hanging down in discouraged fashion. He stared at me, obviously puzzled. He turned on his heel and left. I called after him but he didn’t answer.
    Ten minutes later he came back with a sheet of paper in his hand, studying it. He sat on the low table. “Sewell. Let’s see what we got. Clear print of first and second finger of left hand on rear of side mirror, smudged print of left thumb on face of mirror. Section of print of right thumb, clear, on horn ring.” He put the paper aside and stared at me.
    “I told you I drove the car,” I said angrily. “I adjusted the side mirror. I guess I blew the horn once. Now you’ve proved I’ve driven the car.”
    He yawned and stuck a fist against his mouth. “Relax. Relax. You shouldn’t have been told to stay around.”
    “Can I go now?”
    “Gus says you’re a working fool. He says you spend more time on his back than off it.”
    “Gus and I get along.”
    “He said that too. He hasn’t missed a day, except vacations, since they opened that plant. Twenty years around machines, the last six at that place.”
    “He’s a good man.”
    He yawned again. “I should have gone into that racket. I figured this would give me retirement. Now Gus gets retirement too, maybe better than I do. What’s there left to make a man go on the cops?”
    “Has Yeagger confessed?”
    “No. We’re letting him go. It took a long time tocheck, but it checked out finally. We had to contact half the people in the hills. He quit work Saturday at six. He spent from eight to midnight in a beer joint. Then he and another guy picked up two girls who came into the beer joint. They had a car and a bottle. They went to a hunting camp up near Grey Lake and stayed right there until noon Sunday. This Yeagger