Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 Read Online Free PDF

             "He was my best friend. At least, in New York . I didn't really know anyone else, except
Professor Stonegell. Al was my best friend because he was just about my only
friend."
                   "Are you sorry you killed him?"
asked Levine.
                   This time, Perkins twisted around in the chair
again, ignoring Crawley . "No, sir," he said, and his eyes
now were blank.
                   There was silence in the room, and Crawley and Levine looked at one another. Crawley questioned with his eyes, and Levine
shrugged, shaking his head. Something was wrong, but he didn't know what. And
Perkins was being so helpful that he wound up being no help at all.
                   Crawley turned to the stenographer. "Type it up formal," he said. "And
have somebody come take the pigeon to his nest."
                   After the stenographer had left, Levine said,
"Anything you want to say off the record, Perkins?"
                   Perkins grinned. His face was half-turned away
from Crawley , and he was looking at the floor, as though
he was amused by something he saw there. "Off" the record?" he
murmured. "As long as there are two of you in here, it's on the
record."
                   "Do you want one of us to leave?"
                   Perkins looked up at Levine again, and stopped
smiling. He seemed to think it over for a minute, and then he shook his head.
"No," he said. "Thanks, anyway. But I don't think I have
anything more to say. Not right now anyway."
                   Levine frowned and sat back in his chair,
studying Perkins. The boy didn't ring true; he was constructed of too many
contradictions. Levine reached out for a mental image of Perkins, but all he
touched was air.
                   After Perkins was led out of the room by two
uniformed cops, Crawley got to his feet, stretched, sighed,
scratched, pulled his earlobe, and said, "What do you make of it,
Abe?"
                   "I don't like it."
                   "I know that. I saw it in your face. But
he confessed, so what else is there?"
                   "The phony confession is not exactly
unheard of, you know."
                   "Not this time," said Crawley . "A guy confesses to a crime he didn't
commit for one of two reasons. Either he's a crackpot who wants the publicity
or to be punished or something like that, or he's protecting somebody else.
Perkins doesn't read like a crackpot to me, and there's nobody else involved
for him to be protecting."
                   "In a capital punishment state,"
suggested Levine, "a guy might confess to a murder he didn't commit so the
state would do his suicide for him."
                   Crawley shook his head. "That still doesn't look like Perkins," he said.
                   "Nothing looks like Perkins. He's given
us a blank wall to stare at. A couple of times it started to slip, and there
was something else inside."
                   "Don't build a big thing, Abe. The kid
confessed. He's the killer; let it go at that."
                   "The job's finished, I know that. But it still bothers me."
                   "Okay," said Crawley . He sat down behind the desk again and put
his feet up on the scarred desk top. "Let's straighten it out. Where does
it bother you?"
                   "All over. Number one, motivation. You don't kill a man for being a
pompous ass. Not when you turn around a minute later and say he was your best
friend."
                   "People do funny things when they're
pushed far enough. Even to friends."
                   "Sure. Okay, number two. The murder method. It doesn't sound right. When a man kills
impulsively, he grabs something and starts swinging. When he calms down, he
goes and turns himself in. But when you poison somebody, you're using a