Kill Me Tomorrow by Richard S. Prather Page B

man’s name until Tuesday, but I’ve made it my business to find out what I could about him since then.” He puffed on his cigarette and blew smoke out in a thin blue-gray stream. “You see, at first it was more of a joke than anything else. Then when Mary and I talked to Mr. Reyes for the second time—and realized he really had mistaken me for a hoodlum—it wasn’t so funny.”
    â€œYeah. OK, I’ll buy that.”
    He looked straight at me, his gaze level and direct, not entirely friendly. “It is of very little importance to me whether you ‘buy it’ or not, Mr. Scott.”
    â€œSorry, I’m sometimes more abrasive than I should be. Especially when investigating a murder.” I meant to go on, but Mr. Yarrow’s expression deteriorated.
    â€œMurder? Oh … I suppose you mean the killing of this Civano?”
    â€œNo. I was speaking of Mr. Reyes.”
    â€œReyes? He’s been killed?” He shook his head rapidly.
    â€œMaybe I’d better back up a little. I haven’t any evidence he’s dead—none except the fact that he hasn’t returned to his home since Tuesday night.”
    â€œMy word,” he said blinking. “Didn’t he go home after we talked to him at the church?”
    â€œMaybe he started to. He didn’t get there. Did Mr. Reyes say anything to you indicating he might have been going someplace else from the church?”
    Mr. Yarrow shook his head rapidly again. “He didn’t say anything. Just thanked Mrs. Blessing and me—indeed, he apologized for the trouble he felt he’d put us to. That was all. Then he left, and Mary and I left a few minutes later.”
    He put out his cigarette, saying in a somewhat puzzled tone, “I’m surprised Mary didn’t mention that.”
    â€œI got the impression it didn’t strike her as very important.”
    â€œIt strikes me as important. Suppose he is dead? I don’t like being one of the last people to have seen a man who …”
    â€œLook, I don’t want to take too much of your time, Mr. Yarrow. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate your telling me just what did happen when Reyes talked to you Tuesday morning, and again that night.”
    He nodded, and described the A . M . and P . M . meetings with Gil Reyes. Except for minor and unimportant variations it agreed with what I’d already been told. I said, “When you heard the name Joe Civano it didn’t mean anything to you?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œHow about the name Lecci? Pete Lecci?”
    He looked at me blankly, and shook his head.
    â€œAt one time he was called ‘The Letch.’”
    â€œThat’s an odd name. Very odd—is he a criminal, too?”
    Instead of answering, I said, “I guess that’s about it. Thanks for putting up with my questions, Mr. Yarrow.”
    â€œIt’s quite all right, Mr. Scott.”
    I got to my feet. “By the way, I was a little curious to know how it happened you were talking to Mrs. Blessing at such an early hour of the morning. She explained you’d brought some papers by for her signature.”
    â€œYes. I … often do that. Thank God I’m running the agency for her—she signs anything I put in front of her.” I thought he was going to let the implied question pass. I wouldn’t have blamed him. But he didn’t. After a short pause he said, “I rather doubt that Mrs. Blessing mentioned this, Mr. Scott. But I have—twice—asked her to marry me.”
    â€œI see,” I said.
    After another brief pause he added, “It was a rather early hour. I presume you are possessed of discretion—”
    â€œI am the very soul of it, Mr. Yarrow.”
    He smiled, seeming relieved. So I added, “The only thing I’m interested in is what’s happened to Reyes. And maybe a couple other things going on here at the