A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

stuff about Johnny Dornan. You have no idea what I know.”

I yanked open the door. “I’m sure it will all come out in your trial. Not in my newspaper.”

“Johnny Dornan threw a race nine years ago in Maryland,” he blurted out. Mrs. Blaine resumed her typing.

I paused in the threshold and peered back at him. “Can you tell me about that?”

“Sure. Come back in and sit down. I’ll tell you. They’re not gonna pin this on me.”

Bruce Robertson behaved after that. In fact, I suspected that his bravado and profanity was all an act, one that he’d practiced for years to compensate for his unimpressive physical stature. In his business, he surely ran up against tough guys every day. A paperweight like him needed to project confidence and ooze malice or he’d be flattened by some other Caspar Milquetoast of a gangster. And I thought Jimmy Burgh deserved more credit than I’d originally given him. I, too, was doubtful that Bruce Robertson had it in him to kill a man.

“Tell me about the race,” I said.

“It was a small track. Nothing like Pimlico. Or Saratoga. A dirt oval with a crappy grandstand. Horses maybe a step or two faster than an army mule. But they had pari-mutuel betting, so folks didn’t care if the horses weren’t Ridan or Jaipur, ready for the Kentucky Derby. They still came out thinking they could handicap the nags and win.”

“Not a big-time racecourse,” I said. “I get it. Now, about Johnny Dornan.”

“Whatever happened to painting a picture?” he asked. “Geez, some folks don’t appreciate a raconteur.”

“Johnny Dornan.”

“Okay, okay. So, Johnny was a morning rider back then. Went by the name Johnny Sprague. Only about twenty or twenty-one. He had promise, to be sure. But he was a kid. Rough around the edges, but not afraid to push his mounts and take chances. He arrived from somewhere in Canada one fine day in the company of a lady. Well, lady might be giving her too much credit.”

“Vivian McLaglen?”

“That’s her. Only she was going by Coleman at that time. Hiding from her past, I think, because she wasn’t some daisy-fresh maiden, if you’ll pardon my language.”

“I’ve heard that kind of thing happens. What’s next?”

“So Vivian Coleman brought the green kid down from north of the border and introduced him to her boyfriend, a fellow named Dan Ledoux.”

“She was playing with both Johnny and Dan Ledoux?”

“She was the town bicycle. Everyone had a ride.” That prompted yet another snort from Mrs. Blaine. Robertson continued unfazed. “But Johnny was a project of hers. Ledoux worked for a guy named Mack Hodges, a local crook trying his hand at horse racing. The two of them baked up this idea to throw a race, but they needed a patsy.”

“Enter young Johnny Sprague.”

“Bingo. And Vivian Coleman was the bait to lure him.”

“So how did it work? The fix, I mean?”

Bruce Robertson was in his glory now. A born storyteller, he reveled in the spotlight and enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Even his cold eyes had warmed as he unfurled his tale like a mainsail.

“The horseflesh wasn’t exactly the best in the country, but there were some decent runners. Someone’s gotta win, after all. Unfortunately for Mack Hodges, none of his horses were gonna do better than the occasional show. Not much money in that. So he got the idea that, with a little help—on the perfect day—maybe his best horse could eke out a win over a big favorite. The purse, plus some heavy betting, would make for a handsome payday.”

“But how was he going to beat the favorite?” I asked.

“That’s where Johnny came in.”

“He rode the favorite?”

“Exactly.”

I reflected on that bit of information for a moment. Something didn’t make sense. How could Mack Hodges control who would be riding the competition? And an apprentice rider at that.

“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “If Vivian McLaglen lured Johnny Sprague to Maryland for her boyfriend, Dan Ledoux, and this Mack Hodges, how did he end up riding someone else’s horse?”

“That’s what I don’t know. I got my sources, but they didn’t know everything. Or they weren’t telling.”

“Who was your source on this information?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Was it Ledoux?” asked the sheriff, breaking his silence.

Bruce frowned. “I can’t reveal my sources. But if it was Dan, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you.”

“Without a source, you look more and more guilty,” said Pryor.

“I can’t help that. If I told I’d be risking my own neck when I get out of here.”

The sheriff laughed. “That’s a good one. What makes you think you’re ever getting out?”

“I swear I didn’t kill them people,” he shouted. “I had no reason. Why would I do it?”

“I heard you were selling the information on Johnny Dornan to other gamblers,” I said.

Robertson scoffed. “Why would I sell the dirt on Johnny? I just told it to you for free.”

“Only because you can’t sell it now that Johnny Dornan’s dead. You can’t blackmail a dead man.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not admitting to selling no information. And I still didn’t kill no one.”

I shifted gears and tried to rile him. “You met Johnny Dornan at midnight the night he disappeared, didn’t you?”

“What? No. I didn’t meet him then or any other time.”

“He had an appointment with someone named Robertson.”

“Must’ve been some other Robertson.”

“Maybe someone named Robinson?” I asked.

“Robinson who? Crusoe?”

I was getting nowhere fast. Bruce Robertson was sticking to his story, which seemed reasonable to me anyway. He didn’t know crucial bits of the tale of Johnny Dornan’s race-fixing scandal nine years earlier. And without the complete picture, I was hardly better off.

“Where were you the night of Friday, August tenth?” I asked.

He smirked. “I already told the sheriff. I was in the company of a lady.”

Pryor snorted a laugh.

“Okay, not exactly a lady,” said Bruce. “But she had all the right parts; I can tell you that ’cause I inspected ’em all myself.” He paused to look me in the eye. “Three times.”

Mrs. Blaine took a moment—and