Murder Plus: True Crime Stories From The Masters Of Detective Fiction

Brett Halliday — who was really David Dresser — is best known as the creator of one of the most famous fictional private eyes, the two-fisted, tough-talking redhead from Miami, Michael Shayne. Rivaling only Hammett’s Sam Spade and Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe in popularity, Halliday’s Shayne made his debut in 1939 in Dividend on Death. In the years that followed, he appeared in 12 movies, with Lloyd Nolan and later Hugh Beaumont in the title role, on radio starring Jeff Chandler, and on television with Richard Denning. Despite the favor Shayne won with fans, as a literary stylist Halliday was no match for his predecessors. Both Hammett and Chandler were capable of dazzling turns of phrase, lavish description and detail, and pitch-perfect dialogue. Stylistically understated, what distinguished Halliday’s writing over the course of more than sixty Shayne novels was his ability to tell a good story. Not a talent that makes critics gush with praise, but an undervalued talent to be sure. Underappreciated, too, is the fact that Halliday was also a top-notch true crime reporter. See for yourself in this story about a grisly slaying in a small Colorado town, one of many compelling tales Halliday published in Master Detective during the mid-1940s.

Murder with Music

It was ten o’clock at night. Sheriff John Martin, of Sandhill, Colorado, leaned back with a wide yawn on his ruddy, good-humored face, stretched his long arms, then turned off the radio beside his desk. He and Deputy Sheriff Lem Whitaker had lingered late in the Sheriff's office listening to the hour-long newscast over Denver’s Mutual outlet.

The Sheriff tugged the wide brim of a soiled white Stetson down on his forehead, and said, “Ready to call it a night, Lem?”

Whitaker was a lean man with a body as tough and stringy as whipcord. His face was burned the color of old leather by the Colorado sun, and his legs were permanently bowed from many years in the saddle. He nodded and thumped his chair forward to get up. “Might as well get to bed,” he agreed.

Sheriff Martin switched out the bright light over his scarred desk. Whitaker walked to the door, and the Sheriff followed him out, pulled the door shut, and they went together down the silent hallway of the otherwise deserted courthouse.

Whitaker pushed one of the big double outside doors open, and stopped abruptly, cocking his head to one side and gazing westward toward the towering peak of Lookout Mountain, against the base of which the town was nestled.

“Someone coming hell-bent down the old road,” he muttered. “Twice as fast as it’s safe to take those horseshoe curves.”

The Sheriff listened with him a moment, and nodded. “Some crazy kids from the university,” he surmised. “We’ll have some broken necks up there one of these nights.”

“There it comes down the last stretch,” Whitaker pointed out. “Sixty miles an hour.”

They started down the broad steps together, both officers listening to the roaring motor as it rushed toward the village at breakneck speed, both of them momentarily expecting a nasty accident.

“He’s swinging up this way!” the Sheriff exclaimed as they reached the sidewalk. “Might be trouble. Let’s wait a minute and see.”

He stopped and got a sack of flaked tobacco and brown cigarette papers from the pocket of his tan corduroy shirt.

He was fashioning a cigarette when the car swung around a corner a block away and its headlights silhouetted the two men.

Brakes screamed and the big black coupe lurched to a stop in front of them. A door was flung open and a man jumped out excitedly. “That you, Sheriff? There’s been an accident up on Lookout Mountain. A car went over the cliff and killed the driver.”

The speaker was Nate Morris, a rugged young man who had a small ranch on Table Mountain and who lived in Sandhill during the winter months.

Martin asked, “You’re sure he’s dead?”

“Yes. I went down a drop of 200 feet to the car — at the foot of the third horseshoe curve. That place they call Inspiration Point. He’s pinned under the car, dead.”

“Get a wrecker and some men to help you,” Martin directed his deputy, “and get the Coroner out here.” Turning to Nate Morris, he asked the young man, “Do you want to drive me back up there and tell me more about it on the way?”

“Sally’s with me. My wife.” Morris indicated his coupe, and for the first time the Sheriff noticed a white-faced girl huddled in the front seat. “It’s been a terrible shock to her and I’d like to take her home before I go back.”

The Sheriff nodded briefly. “You saw it happen, eh?”

“Not exactly. We stopped there at the Point to park for a little while and watch the moon come up over Denver. We heard a radio playing very faintly as we sat there.” Morris shivered and glanced at his wife.

“It was ghastly. We couldn’t tell where the music was coming from. We were alone up there. Then I noticed a couple of those big guard rocks along the edge weren’t in place. I got out and investigated with my flashlight and saw the tracks where a car had gone over. Then I realized the music was coming from an automobile in the bottom of the canyon. Sally stayed in the car while I went down to investigate. Then I came to town as fast as I could.”

“We heard you,” Martin told him dryly. “Lucky you’re not at the bottom of a canyon, too. Go ahead and take your wife home and then come back.”

Deputy Whitaker had already hurried off to get a wrecker and the Coroner. Sheriff Martin went around the corner to his parked car, got in and headed up the narrow twisting road that climbed sharply up the mountainside directly above Sandhill.

In its time, the Lookout Mountain road had been a marvel of engineering, with its steep grades and sharp curves, a portion of the main highway west from Denver over the Rockies. In later years it has been superseded by a wide, smooth highway following the gentle gradient of Mount Vernon Canyon a few miles south of Sandhill. Now the road was used only by local residents, sight-seeing tourists, or occasional night-roaming couples who found it a safe place for necking parties.

The Sheriff stopped his car 100 feet below the wide shelf on the edge of the cliff known locally as Inspiration Point. He turned the machine crosswise to block the highway, to prevent the wrecker or any other car from getting past to spoil the tracks at the scene of the accident. He got out a big focusing flashlight, stepped off the side of the road and circled down the mountain toward the canyon floor.

He felt a tingling in his spine when he heard the muted sound of music through the night silence. The moon had risen, casting an eerie light over the mountainside. The radio in the wrecked car was tuned to Station KFEL in Denver, and the orchestra was playing Don’t Ever Leave Me.

His flashlight showed a light sedan turned up on its side in the bottom of the canyon ahead. The body of a man was pinned under the lower, right-hand side of the car. The upper part of his body protruded through the open window of the right door, with the steel top of the sedan crushing his chest. He had a nasty head wound and there was a pool of blood on the ground. He was a young man and his lips were crimsoned with a woman’s lipstick.

The car radio continued to play softly while Martin flashed his light inside the wrecked car. There was a smear of blood on the instrument board where he could have received the head wound. The key was in the ignition and it was turned on. The headlight switch was also on, though all the lights were out.

Other cars were roaring up the road from Sandhill. They were halted by the Sheriffs parked car, and Whitaker’s voice floated down to him. “Where are you, John?”

Martin flashed his light up the hillside. “Send the Coroner down here if he’s with you. Don’t let anybody go up to the Point until we look it over. I’m coming up now.”

His flashlight clearly showed the course the automobile had taken as it plunged straight down, indicating that it had turned end over end in the course of its journey.

The Sheriff was puffing strenuously by the time he reached the top. Whitaker was there ahead of him, flashing his light around the unpaved parkway that had been smoothed outside the arc of pavement.

“This gravel doesn’t show up tracks very well, but there’s no sign of skidding or anything like that,” he announced. “Looks like the car was driven straight over the edge.”

Martin flashed his light on the heavy granite boulders, set about three feet apart in a curve on the very edge of the precipice to act as a guard wall. There was a gap where two of the boulders were missing.

“A light car couldn’t possibly knock two of those boulders out of place,” he protested. He went to the edge and knelt down with his light, carefully examined the two places where the dislodged rocks had been.

“They were pried up and pushed over the edge to make a gap,” he surmised, pointing out marks in the hard ground such as might be made by a crowbar or similar tool.

“The outer edge was dug away first,” Whitaker agreed, “so it didn’t take much leverage to put them over.” He straightened up and looked at the Sheriff grimly. “Looks like an intentional accident. Fellow pried the boulders out and then drove over.”

Martin shrugged and switched off his light. “Looks that way. We’ll have to find the tool he did it with. Might as well bring the wrecker up now and let a cable down. I’ll go back down and see if the Coroner is through.”

Coroner F. J. Fulgreen and Assistant County Attorney Albright were examining the wrecked car and the body when the Sheriff went back. The radio was still sending soft music out into the night, and the Coroner reached inside the car and switched it off with an exclamation of annoyance.

“It does sound sort of ghostly,” Martin agreed, “but if it hadn’t been for the radio playing we might not have known about the accident for days.” He told them how Nate Morris had heard the radio and come down the slope to investigate, and then explained what he and his deputy had deduced from the physical evidence above.

“Suicide?” Albright asked doubtfully. He gestured toward the dead man. “That lipstick on his mouth looks mighty fresh to me.”

“It is fresh,” said Fulgreen quietly. “I wiped off a sample for possible laboratory analysis later. He kissed some woman a very short time before he died.”

“Lots of neckers park up on the Point,” Albright said.

“But where is she now? Where was she when the car went over? What do you get as the cause of death?”

Fulgreen disregarded the first two questions as rhetorical, and answered the third. “He’s bruised badly around the head, and that blow on his forehead from the instrument board probably caused a concussion. Offhand, I’d say the life was crushed out of him by the weight of the car across his chest.”

The wrecker had been brought up to the edge of the cliff above, and a steel cable was lowered to the battered sedan. A hook was attached to the rear axle, and the car was hoisted gently off the body.

The dead man was well-dressed and had the pale complexion and soft hands of an office worker. His billfold held $32 in cash, and papers that indicated he was William Petty of 127 South Race Street, Denver, Colorado, a bookkeeper. A driver’s license and registration certificate in the leather key-container on the ignition substantiated this identification and showed the wrecked car belonged to him.

After it was hoisted up onto the roadway above, Martin had it examined carefully for fingerprints, and then directed a number of volunteers with flashlights to search all along the slope for a tool that might have been used to pry the boulders loose from the edge. This search was unsuccessful, though the rocks themselves were both found in the bottom of the canyon, and they showed traces of having been pried up and rolled over the cliff.

While this search was going on, Sheriff Martin drew Nate Morris aside from the others to question him more fully.

“I came back as soon as I felt I could leave my wife,” the young rancher told him. “She was terribly upset.”

“Murder is enough to upset any woman,” the Sheriff said.

Morris looked surprised. “Murder? I figured the car had just gone out of control making the turn and plunged over.”

“I don’t think so.” Martin didn’t go into details, but said, “Tell me again exactly how it happened. Did you and your wife just drive up here to see the view?”

“It was a sudden impulse.” Morris shrugged. “It was a pretty night and — well, we did some of our courting here on the Point two years ago.”

The Sheriff nodded his understanding. “Did you meet any cars coming up?”

“I don’t think — wait a minute! There was a car coming down just as we started up that first long slope. There was a woman driving and she crowded me pretty well over the edge.”

“A woman? Alone?”

“Yes. As near as I could tell. She flashed by so fast I couldn’t be positive.”

“What kind of car?” Martin was taking notes.

“A sedan. Dark blue or black. I think it was a big car. Perhaps a Buick.”

“Let’s see. It must have been just about nine-thirty. We had been listening to ‘I Love a Mystery, ” Morris recalled. “I turned it off when the program ended at nine-fifteen, and it was a few minutes later when we decided to drive up here.”

“That the only car you met?”

“That was the only one. We drove on up and found the Point deserted. I guess we’d been parked there about ten minutes when we first heard that music drifting up and couldn’t place it. Then, I’ve told you about seeing the guard rocks missing and going down to investigate.”

“Did you touch anything down below?”

Morris shuddered. “Only the man’s wrist. His body was still warm, but there wasn’t any pulse.”

The Sheriff snapped his notebook shut. “That helps a lot,” he told the rancher. “Do you think you’d recognize the woman driver if you saw her again?”

“I’m afraid not. The moon wasn’t even up, you know.”

Whitaker came up just then to report that the searching party had been unable to find any trace of a tool that might have pried the boulders loose.

“I didn’t expect you would find it,” said Martin. “Whoever it was, carried the tool away with them. It’s murder. Or a suicide pact that only one of them went through with. Come on with me.”

With his deputy beside him as he drove down the steep grade, he told Whitaker about the fresh rouge on the man’s lips and the woman driver whom Morris had met.

“I don’t believe a woman could have pried those boulders loose,” the deputy objected.

“That’s why I mentioned a suicide pact,” Martin agreed. “Either that or there was some other man in the vicinity who knocked William Petty unconscious and sent his car over the edge.” He had reached the north and south straightaway at the bottom of the slope, and slowed to turn into a lighted filling station on the right.

The proprietor came out, and as soon as he recognized the Sheriff, he asked eagerly, “What’s goin’ on up to the Point? See a lot of cars up there.”

“Car went over and killed a man. You been on duty long, Jeff?”

“Since six o’clock.”

“Many cars go up or down the mountain tonight?”

Jeff shook his head. “That new highway has just about ruined my business. Several cars went up earlier, but none of ’em stopped for gas. I saw Nate Morris go by a-hellin’ it right about ten o’clock.”

“We know about him,” Martin said. “Any others?”

“One. Only customer all evenin’. She bought five gallons on a C-stamp. That was about nine-thirty, I reckon.”

“What kind of car, Jeff?”

“A big blue Buick. Had a Denver license, I recollect. She came down in a big hurry. Didn’t wait for me to clean her windshield. An’ you know I had a kinda funny hunch about her.” Jeff laughed sheepishly. “You know how ’tis when you’re alone an’ not much to do. There was a sort of funny bundle on the back seat, an’ I got the idea she didn’t want me to clean the windshield on account of she didn’t want me to look in.

“Well, sir, I made mention of it to her when I gave her the change. Just kiddin’, you know. Said it looked like she had a body back there. She said her husband had drunk too much and passed out. Then she roared away in a big hurry.”

The Sheriff thought about this information for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. Let me have her license number and I’ll—”

Jeff broke in, “But I didn’t notice the number. I can’t remember all the—”

“You said she got gas on a C-stamp, Jeff.”

The gas station proprietor nodded in a puzzled way and then suddenly grinned. “I see what you mean, Sheriff.” He turned and hurried into the station.

Martin got out and followed him inside. He came back with a Denver license number, remarking grimly to Whitaker, “One good thing about those OPA rules. Person has to write his license number on the gas coupons. I’ll stop by the courthouse and call this number in to the Courtesy Patrol in Denver. Save time by having them look it up while we’re driving in. I got a pretty good description of her from Jeff,” he added. “Young and thin and pretty. Wearing a little red hat and lots of lipstick.”

Half an hour later the Sheriff and his deputy pulled up in front of Courtesy Patrol Headquarters in Denver. The sergeant in charge had checked the automobile registration number and had a name and address written on a slip of paper. Sheriff Martin took it. It read: “David L. Waring, 183 South Vine Street.”

“This looks interesting,” mused Martin as they went back to his car. “This address is just a block from where the dead man lived.”

He drove out First Avenue to Vine and turned to the right. Number 183 was a small apartment building with a big garage at the rear, with private stalls for the cars of tenants. The Sheriff stopped in front and said to Whitaker, “Let’s go back to the garage to look for that Buick before we go in.”

They found a dark blue Buick sedan in one of the stalls. A woolen auto robe was crumpled up on the back seat. The truck was unlocked and there were a couple of tire tools inside, but neither of them showed any evidence of having been used to dig in the dirt recently. The motor of the Buick was warm, however, as though it had been standing in the garage not more than an hour.

They returned to the front of the apartment building and entered. Martin found a typed slip bearing the name “Mr. and Mrs. D. L. Waring” under the box marked 1-C, and the Sheriff led the way down a wide, richly carpeted hallway.

The door of No. 1-C was closed and there was no transom to indicate whether there was a light inside. Martin rang the bell and waited. After about thirty seconds he put his finger on the button and held it down.

The door finally opened. A black-browed young man scowled at the Sheriff and his deputy from beyond the threshold. He had broad shoulders and was in his shirtsleeves, wearing pants and shoes but no tie.

He nodded when Martin asked, “Mr. Waring?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m Sheriff Martin from Sandhill. May we come in?” The Sheriff started forward.

Waring’s scowl deepened and it seemed for a moment that he was going to block Martin’s entrance. He stepped aside, however, with a surly, “I was going to bed. I don’t know what you want here.”

The living-room of the apartment was small, but nicely furnished. Martin looked around slowly and then asked, “Is your wife in?”

“She’s in bed.” Waring thrust his jaw out angrily. “See here. What do you want, anyway?”

“We’d like to see Mrs. Jessica Waring.” Martin’s drawling voice was deceptively mild.

“What about?”

“Murder.”

The quietly spoken word seemed to reverberate through the room. The young man hesitated, then turned and strode across the room to jerk a door open. “Couple of cops out here want to see you, Jessica.” He turned back, fuming. “I don’t know what this is all about. What does my wife know about murder?”

“That’s what we want to ask her,” Martin told him. He got out the makings and rolled a brown-paper cigarette.

A tall, slender girl came out of the bedroom. She wore a polka-dot dressing gown. Her blond hair was worn in a long bob, and this combined with her unrouged face to give her a look of childish innocence. She looked curiously at the two officers and asked in a husky voice, “Did David say you’re the police?”

“From Sandhill.” Martin amplified watching her closely.

She blinked her eyelids and went across the room to a cigarette box. She lifted one out and lit it, went to a chair and sat down. “What on earth is this all about?”

“We want to know if you were in Sandhill this evening, Ma’am?”

“Of course she wasn’t,” Waring said violently. “She’s been home all evening with a sick headache.”

Martin sat down in a straight chair and said, “Let’s let the lady answer the questions.”

“That’s right,” Jessica Waring said. “I had to break a dinner engagement with my husband because I didn’t feel like going out.”

“But you were out?” Martin asked Waring.

“Yes. To dinner with some friends. I got home less than half an hour ago.”

“Did you drive your Buick?”

“No. We’re short on gas and I took a taxi,” the man replied.

“Who did drive your Buick this evening?”

Jessica started slightly, but then sat back, veiling her eyes with long dark lashes.

“No one,” Waring said harshly. “It’s been in the garage.”

“Is that right, Mrs. Waring?”

“I suppose so. I’ve been lying down since late afternoon.”

Martin said, “The motor is still warm.”

Waring glanced sharply at his wife. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and strolled over to stand in front of her. “You have been lying down, I suppose?” His voice trembled slightly and was queerly harsh.

“Of course, dear.” She fluttered her long lashes tremulously. “I told you I didn’t feel like going out.”

Martin said, “I’m sorry, but I have proof that your Buick stopped at a filling station just the other side of Sandhill for gas about nine-thirty tonight.”

Waring swung about and demanded angrily, “What sort of proof?”

“A C-coupon was turned in for the gasoline. One that was endorsed with your registration number.”

Mrs. Waring smiled lazily. “David is always giving his coupons away.”

“The car we’re looking for is a big blue Buick. And a woman answering your description was driving it. I’m afraid the filling station man will identify you, Mrs. Waring.”

“All right. What of it?” She tossed her head and her voice sharpened. “Suppose I did get to feeling better and go for a little drive? I didn’t want to tell you, David,” she confessed, “because I knew you’d accuse me of having just pretended to be sick to get out of that dinner engagement.”

Her husband snorted, went to the end of the divan and slumped down, glowering at the toes of his shoes.

“So you went up on Lookout Mountain just for a drive?” the Sheriff asked easily.

“Yes. I felt that I had to go out and get some air.”

“Alone?”

“Of course I was alone. I often drive alone at night.”

“Do you know the place they call Inspiration Point?”

The girl’s hesitation was only momentary. “Do you mean that parking place where the college kids stop to neck?”

Martin nodded. “Did you stop there tonight?”

“Alone?” She laughed lightly. “I noticed a car parked there as I drove past. The couple who were in it didn’t seem to need any company, so I kept on going.”

“On your way up or down?”

“Driving up. That is, I’m not sure whether it was there when I drove back or not. I didn’t notice.”

“Who was the man in the back seat of your car when you stopped for gas?” the Sheriff shot at her suddenly.

She widened her eyes. “I told you I was alone.” She glanced quickly at her husband, who had turned his head to stare at her. “It’s the truth, David. I swear it is. There wasn’t anyone with me.”

“You told the man at the filling station it was your husband and that he had passed out from too much whiskey,” Martin reminded her.

“Oh, that?” She laughed shakily. “It was just the robe bunched up on the back seat and I thought it would be a good joke to tell him that, when I saw him looking in suspiciously.”

“He says it was a man.”

“Jessica!” David Waring sprang to his feet, trembling violently. “Did you go out with that skunk again? After you promised me? Did you?”

Martin nodded to Whitaker. The deputy lunged forward and put his body between husband and wife. He gave Waring a little shove, and said, “The Sheriff'll ask the questions around here.”

Jessica said, “No, David, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I haven’t seen him since I promised you.”

“What man?” Martin asked grimly.

She didn’t look at him. She was staring past Whitaker at her husband, imploringly. Waring made a little defeated gesture with his hand, and muttered, “Skip it. Forget it.”

“It’s not that easy,” Martin told him. “This is a murder investigation.”

“Good heavens! You don’t think my wife had anything to do with a murder, do you?”

“I don’t know. That’s for her to say. What man is he talking about, Mrs. Waring?”

“It’s nothing, really. David got an absurdly jealous idea a couple of months ago. It was foolish on my part. Innocent, but foolish.”

“What’s the name of the man?” the Sheriff demanded of Waring.

“I don’t even know his name,” he muttered. “I found a note he’d written my wife. That’s all I know about it. But I’m sure it’s over. She wouldn’t break her promise.”

Martin said, “You’d better give us his name, Mrs. Waring, so we can check up.”

She shook her head defiantly. “It was just an innocent flirtation, but my husband’s so jealous I’m afraid of what he might do if he ever found out.”

“And you insist that you were alone in the car tonight?”

“I do.” She clamped her lips together tightly.

The Sheriff got up and went over to a low table near the door that held a red pocketbook, with a little red hat lying on top of it. He picked them up and asked, “This is the purse you had with you tonight?”

She nodded mutely.

He opened it and searched through it, finding and palming her tube of lip-rouge in his big hand. He laid the purse down, slid the lipstick in his pocket, told Whitaker, “We’ve got another stop to make in Denver,” and stalked to the door.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Waring said anything as they went out.

Going down the hall, the deputy asked, “What do you make of it, John?”

“I don’t know. If we can find anything to connect her with William Petty, I think we’ll have something. It’s a cinch she’ll be up to something tonight. If her husband followed her out there and caught her with Petty — or if she drove out alone and caught Petty with another woman — anything might have happened. On the other hand, she may be telling the truth. All except being out there alone. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“Neither does her husband,” said Whitaker soberly. “I bet there’s hell to pay in 1-C the rest of the night.”

They went out to their car, and Martin drove around the block to 127 South Race. It was a big, old-fashioned dwelling that had been converted into housekeeping rooms. Though it was almost midnight, the porch light was on, and a silvery-haired old lady was knitting in the big living room when they walked in.

She looked up with a gentle smile, but shook her head sadly. “I haven’t a single vacancy, gentlemen.”

Martin said, “It’s about one of your roomers, Mr. William Petty.”

“Oh, yes. I was waiting up to let him in. I always like to know everyone’s in and the door’s locked before I go to bed. Has anything happened to Mr. Petty?”

“There’s been an accident,” the Sheriff told her. “Do you know where he went tonight — or with whom?”

“Why, I think he and Larry Johnson went out together. Larry’s one of my roomers, too. But he came back an hour ago and he guessed Bill would be in soon. Mercy me! Is it serious?”

“He’s been badly hurt, Ma’am. Could we see this Larry Johnson?”

“Yes. He’s right upstairs. I’ll show you his room.” The landlady bustled out of her chair. “My, my. It’s too bad about Mr. Petty. Such a nice young man. Always so jolly and full of fun.”

She led the way up a wide staircase and knocked at a door at the top. A sleepy voice said, “Yes?”

Martin opened the door and switched on the light. A tousle-headed young man blinked at him in surprise from the bed.

“These gentlemen want to talk to you about Bill Petty, Mr. Johnson,” the landlady announced from the doorway. “He’s been hurt.”

“That’s too bad.” Johnson sat up and pulled the blanket about his shoulders. He laughed, and said, “Don’t tell me the husband came home unexpectedly.”

“Why do you say that?” Martin asked sharply.

Johnson grimaced. “I really didn’t mean anything. Only... well, Bill always had some woman on the string and I wondered—” He hesitated, then went on hastily, “I was just kidding. What did happen?”

“I understand you were out with him tonight.”

“No. I went to a show by myself.”

“Why, Mr. Johnson,” the old lady reproved him from the doorway. “You know you and Mr. Petty went together. I heard you talking about what picture you’d go to at breakfast this morning.”

“I know we did at breakfast this morning, Mrs. Crane. But Bill changed his mind this evening and went out alone.”

“I don’t think you had ought to fib about it,” she said, shaking her head. “I saw you drive away with him in his car with my own eyes, right after supper.”

“Sure, he drove me downtown. But he dropped me off at the Orpheum and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Can you prove it?” Martin asked.

The young man scowled at that. “I don’t get it,” he protested. “Why should I have to prove that?”

“Petty has been murdered!”

“Murdered?” Johnson’s jaw dropped.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Johnson said soberly. “I’m sorry I kidded about Bill. He was a good guy. I can tell you all about the picture at the Orpheum. And I may have my ticket stub in my pocket. But I didn’t see anybody I knew all evening.”

“Did Petty tell you where he was going tonight?”

The young man hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

“Give you any idea what he planned?”

“I suppose I’d better tell you the whole thing,” the youth said reluctantly. “We had planned to go to the show together tonight, but when I went into Bill’s room after supper he told me it was all off. He showed me a note he’d gotten in the mail and said it was the kind of date he didn’t want any company on.”

“What did the note say?”

“It said—” Johnson screwed up his face in thought. “I think it’s still lying on his dresser where I put it down.” He slid out of bed. “I’ll show you.”

The officers stood back to let him go out into the hallway and into a room two doors down. He turned on the light, and sighed with relief as he pointed to the littered dresser top. “There it is. I thought I remembered him leaving it there.”

The Sheriff and his deputy strode over to read the few words written in ink on a double sheet of heavy feminine notepaper.

The Sheriff put it in his pocket, careful not to ruin any fingerprints that might be on it. “You say Petty got this in the mail?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Did you see the envelope? Notice when or where it was mailed?”

“I didn’t see the envelope.”

“How about you, Mrs. Crane?” Martin asked the landlady. “Did you notice any mail that Petty received today?”

“I can’t say as I noticed it particular. He got several letters.”

“What did he tell you about this note?” Martin looked hard at Johnson.

“Nothing much. Except it was a pretty special date and he wouldn’t need me along. I had an idea, well, that maybe it was a married woman.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Johnson shrugged defensively. “Except that he was always getting mixed up with married women.”

“Can you give us any names?”

“No. He was always mighty closed-mouthed about his lady friends.”

“Ever hear him mention one named Jessica, for instance?”

Johnson appeared to be thinking. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

He was unable to furnish any other relevant information concerning his friend’s possible actions of the evening, nor did a thorough search of Petty’s room reveal anything of consequence.

As the two officers drove back toward Sandhill a short time later, Sheriff Martin said optimistically, “We’re coming along pretty well, at that. If this sample of Mrs. Waring’s lipstick checks with what’s on Petty’s mouth, we’ll get a sample of her handwriting and see if she wrote this note. That may clear it up.”

“Suppose the lipstick and the handwriting don’t check?”

“Then we’ll have to start all over again,” the Sheriff admitted. They were pulling into the environs of Sandhill, and he turned along a tree-lined street in the direction of the deputy’s home. He slowed the car and seemed to be thinking deeply, then suddenly struck the steering wheel a blow with his fist. “I’m a fool, Lem!”

He pulled over to the curb in front of Whitaker’s house and asked intently, “It was just ten o’clock when we left the office, wasn’t it?”

“Not more’n a minute or so after. We listened to the end of that hour-long newscast over KFEL and went right out.”

“And we heard Morris’s car coming down the hill when we got to the front door,” Martin went on, thinking aloud. “That couldn’t have been more than five minutes past ten at the most.”

“That’s right.”

“Even a young fellow like Nate Morris couldn’t climb down that slope and back up again in five minutes,” mused the Sheriff. “That sets the time exactly.”

He put his car in gear again and swung in a U-turn to go back up the street. “I’m going to ask Mr. and Mrs. Morris just one question and then I’ll know who murdered William Petty without waiting to get this lipstick analyzed or this handwriting checked.”

“It’s pretty late to rouse somebody out now,” the deputy objected.

“Not too late to put the finger on a murderer. And Morris can do it for us. He lives out on Elm Street, doesn’t he?”

Martin drove another block and swung to the right. As the houses along Elm Street became more scattered, Whitaker leaned out of his window to look ahead, and said, “It’s the middle of the next block, I think. A white stucco house.”

“They’re still up.” Martin indicated the lighted windows of the neat bungalow as he stopped in front.

The two men went up the path and the Sheriff pressed the electric button. They heard footsteps inside. Morris opened the door. He flung it wide open when he recognized the Sheriff and his deputy. “Come in. Glad you stopped by. Sally and I have been wondering what you’ve found out.”

They entered a long, comfortable living-room with Indian rugs on the floor and deep, restful chairs arranged cozily. Sally Morris was seated in an overstuffed chair in front of a low coffee table. A silver percolator was bubbling on the table and a tall bottle of brandy stood beside it. She looked up, but there was no welcoming smile. “We are about to make ourselves a coffee royal, Sheriff. Will you join us?”

She was quite young, with freckles splashed across her nose.

Martin said, “The coffee smells mighty good. Wouldn’t mind having a shot of royal first, I reckon, and then coffee on top of it.”

“Get some glasses,” the girl told her husband, and asked the deputy, “How about you?”

“I reckon I’ll wait for the coffee, Mrs. Morris,” he decided.

Morris brought two glasses from the sideboard. He stopped beside his wife and held them out while she poured the brandy. He handed one to the Sheriff, saying, “I’ll drink one with you. How’s the investigation been going?”

“Good.” Martin gulped down the brandy and smacked his lips. “Just about got the whole thing tied up in a knot and all I need is to check one thing with you.”

“Go ahead. If there’s anything we can tell you, we’ll be glad to help.”

“It’s the exact timing,” the Sheriff explained. “That’s the most important point right now. I want you both to think hard. You figure you reached the Point a little after nine-thirty?”

“It couldn’t have been much later than that.”

“And you sat there awhile and waited for the moon to come up and then heard soft music and couldn’t figure where it was coming from. That right?”

“I imagine we were parked about ten minutes before I noticed the two guard rocks were gone. Then I realized the music must be coming from the radio of a car that had gone over and I told Sally to wait while I went down to investigate.”

“That makes it about right,” Martin agreed. “You were back in town by five minutes after ten. Give you three or four minutes to make the run — that’d give you ten or fifteen minutes to’ve got to the bottom and back up after hearing the music.”

“That’s about right,” the rancher agreed. “It’s a steep climb back up the cliff.”

“Which sets it pretty definite as being between nine-thirty and ten o’clock when you heard the music?”

Nate Morris nodded. “That’s a safe enough guess.”

Sheriff Martin shook his head slowly. “It’s a plumb bad guess, Nate. That car radio was tuned to Station KFEL. You forgot that KFEL has an hour-long news program without any music between nine and ten.”

“But — we heard it, I tell you.”

“You didn’t hear any music and I’ll tell you why, Nate. You were busy knocking Petty cold after finding him there kissing your wife — and then prying out those boulders and kicking his car in gear and guiding it over the edge from the runningboard. But couldn’t take a chance on him still being alive, so you slid down the slope to check. Then you got scared we might find your footprints or something to indicate that you’d been there and you tried to think up some good story to explain how you’d been attracted to the wreck that couldn’t be seen from above.

“The motor was dead and the lights were shorted out, and you thought of the radio. You turned it on, and by golly, it played. So you hiked back up to the top and listened for a moment, and that’s when you heard the music. Right after the program changed at ten o’clock. I’m sorry, Nate. That’s the only answer that fits the lie you told about hearing the music.”

Morris was breathing hard. His wife leaned forward to put her face in her hands, elbows propped on her knees.

“It’s absurd,” Morris protested. “There must have been music. We heard it.”

Martin said, “We’ll need a sample of your wife’s lipstick to compare with that on Petty’s mouth. And you’d better write us a note, Mrs. Morris. Just write: Meet me tonight the same place. Must see you. And sign it: Your kitten.”

Morris stepped forward with an angry exclamation, clenched fist upraised.

Sally leaped up with a cry of terror. “Don’t, Nate! They know everything. It won’t work. I told you it wouldn’t work. Oh, God help us!” She buried her face in her hands and wept hysterically.

Morris said, “All right, Sheriff. I killed him. I went crazy when I drove up and saw Sally in his arms. I jumped out of my car and hit him. When I saw he was unconscious, saw how easy it would be to run his car over the edge and make it look like an accident. But I had to be sure he was dead. And after I’d gotten down to his car, I realized the police have ways of tracing footprints and things. And someone might have seen me driving up there.

“I read in a book once about a radio that kept on playing after a car was smashed up, and I reached in with my gloved hand and turned the knob. An announcer came on. I didn’t think about what station it was. I just thought it would make a plausible explanation for me being down there.”

Later that night in the Sheriff's office, Morris repeated his confession before both officers, Assistant County Attorney Albright and a court reporter. He willingly signed a typewritten transcript of his statement, which told in detail how he had suspected his wife of secretly meeting a certain Denver man whose name need not be mentioned here and how he had followed them to their fatal tryst that night.

An information charging him with first-degree murder was filed in District Court, and on April 19th, 1944, he was brought to trial before District Judge A. H. Belton, and his attorneys were prepared to fight the case on the grounds of the unwritten law that allows a man the right to protect his home.

In a surprise move, however, the prosecution agreed to accept a plea of guilty to second-degree murder, and Nate Morris was promptly sentenced to life imprisonment in the Colorado State Penitentiary.