The D.A. Breaks an Egg

10

Otto Larkin, the paunchy chief of police, leaning backward to keep his balance, walked with short, cautious steps down the inclined ramp to the basement storage level of the Central Garage.

The man at the window of the control booth looked up, saw who it was, nodded, and said through the open window, “Good afternoon, Chief.”

Larkin nodded. Shrewd, glittering eyes surveyed the garage as though expecting to uncover some clue by the mere intensity of his survey.

The garage attendant said, “Something I can do for you, Chief?”

“We had a murder last night,” Larkin said importantly.

“So I read in the paper. Daphne Arcola.”

“Daphne Arcola nothing! That was some pipe dream the county officers conjured up. We weren’t in on that bull.”

“You mean she wasn’t the one who was murdered?”

“That’s right. This dead girl came from Montana and had red hair. This Daphne Arcola has red hair and comes from Montana. That’s how the mistake was made. Thank heavens we didn’t make it.”

“And this woman isn’t dead?”

“The corpse is dead as hell. There’s nothing dead about Daphne Arcola. I guess The Blade is really going to pour it on the county officials tonight.

“Well, that’s their hard luck. What I’m interested in now is finding a car that may have any bloodstains on the cushions. That’s particularly true of transient cars. Now you folks have some trade that comes over here from the hotel, and...”

“They have the murder car already,” the attendant said.

“Who has?”

“The sheriff and the D.A. The sheriff had a technical man down here making casts of the tires. I understand they’re going to move the car to the county garage.”

“What car?”

“It has an Illinois registration and belongs to Dorothy Clifton, I understand. She’s visiting out at the Lennox place. Didn’t the murdered woman put in a call to the Lennox place?”

“Not the murdered woman,” Larkin said, “but the one who... Say, let’s take a look at that car.”

The garage attendant said, “Maybe I’m talking out of turn. I wasn’t told to say anything about this. I...”

“What the hell do you mean, talking out of turn?” Larkin demanded. “You’re talking to the Law.”

“Well, it was the Law that put it in here.”

“Get busy and show me the car.”

The attendant led the way to the automobile. Otto Larkin looked it over carefully. “Belongs to Dorothy Clifton,” he said, “and Dorothy Clifton is visiting with the Lennox family?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“That’s mine too,” Larkin said. “They had a burglary out there last night. I’m investigating that, too.”

“Must keep you pretty busy.”

“Sure does... You say they made casts from these tires?”

“That’s right.”

Larkin bent over and owlishly examined the tires. Then he straightened, said, “Okay, I just wanted to check on it. Who brought it in?”

“She brought it in and then said she was turning the ticket over to the sheriff. After a while one of the deputies came down and had the ticket for the car, and went over it...”

“Search it for blood spots?”

“The way it looked to me, they searched the car for everything. Then they made casts of the tires.”

“Those tire treads seem to match with tracks we found out at the scene of the murder,” Larkin said importantly, “but don’t say anything about this. Just keep it under your hat.”

“Okay.”

“Not to the newspapers. Not to anyone.”

“I understand.”

Larkin picked up speed in his stride as he puffed his way up the inclined ramp to the sidewalk where his car was parked. He jumped in, stepped on the starter, and drove to the big frame house on Chestnut Street.

He got out and pounded his way up the stairs, rang the bell.

The housekeeper who came to the door looked at him with tired eyes, and said, “Who’d you want to see?”

“I’ll begin with Mrs. Lennox,” Larkin said.

“She’s in the living room. I’ll let her know that...”

“I’ll let her know myself,” Larkin said, and pushed his way importantly into the living room.

Mrs. Lennox had been writing a letter at the antique writing desk. She looked up with nervously fluttering eyelids, saw the chief of police, and hastily put a blotter over the face of the letter.

“Why, good afternoon,” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t telephone.”

Larkin walked over to a chair and sat down. “What’s this about Dorothy Clifton’s car?” he asked abruptly.

“What about it?”

“That’s what I want to know. What about it?”

“She drove out from Chicago. She had a little motor trouble, sort of a tuning-up job, I believe. It’s a long drive, you know.”

“So what did she do?”

“Took the car into the garage this morning, I believe.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs in her room.”

“Let’s get her. I want to talk with her.”

“I... I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Larkin said, “If you’ll get her down here, we may be able to clear up a lot of things.”

Mrs. Lennox said, “Just a moment.” She arose from the desk, started for the door, then turned back to pick up the blotting paper, fold the sheet of stationery on which she had been writing, put it in an envelope; and holding the envelope in her hand, stalked out of the living room.

As soon as she had left, Larkin jumped up from the chair, moved swiftly over to the writing desk, picked up the blotter, looked at it, saw that he could decipher nothing from the face of the blotter, put it back on the desk, went back to his chair, sat down, crossed his legs, and waited.

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Lennox and Dorothy Clifton returned to the living room.

“This is Dorothy Clifton,” she said, “my older son’s fiancée.”

“How do you do?” Dorothy Clifton said.

“Mr. Larkin is the chief of police here,” Mrs. Lennox explained.

“Yes, so you told me.”

“What about your automobile?” Larkin asked.

Dorothy glanced swiftly at Mrs. Lennox, then pleadingly at the chief of police. “It’s... it’s in a garage.”

“I saw it in the garage. What about it?”

“It... I drove out from Illinois, you know, and I...”

“You gave the parking ticket to the sheriff?”

“To the district attorney.”

“Why did you do that?”

“They... I think they wanted to look the car over.”

“Dorothy!” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed.

Larkin said, “The marks on your tires match the tire marks that were found at the scene of the murder.”

“I... I was afraid...”

“What have you to say to that?”

“Nothing.”

“How did your car get there?”

“I’ve explained that to the district attorney.”

“Well, explain it to me,” Larkin said.

Mrs. Lennox said frigidly, “Really, Dorothy.”

Dorothy said, “I didn’t see any reason for making a scene about it. I don’t know who was driving the car. I simply cannot identify the driver.”

“What in the world are you talking about, Dorothy?”

“What driver?” Larkin asked.

“It was after I had gone upstairs,” Dorothy said. “I had undressed and was standing by the window. I’d left my car so that it blocked the driveway. I felt that it was something of an imposition, but I understood none of the cars would be taken out of the garage until morning, so I... well, I still don’t know who it was that drove the car.”

“Dorothy, what on earth are you talking about?”

“And,” Dorothy went on defiantly, “when I looked through the car, I found this purse.”

“What purse?”

“A purse that evidently belongs to Daphne Arcola. I took it to the district attorney this morning.”

“Why didn’t you say something last night? Why wait until this morning?”

“I... I didn’t realize it was important until this morning.”

Larkin said, with heavy sarcasm, “Your story is now that someone took your car. You thought enough of it to sit up and wait until you saw what time the car came back. Then you went down and looked it over. You found a purse. You didn’t say anything to anybody... When was this, before the house was broken into or afterwards?”

“Before, just before.”

“What do you mean, just before?”

“I believe I know what she means,” Mrs. Lennox said, as Dorothy hesitated. “When I heard the sounds of the screams, I ran to the head of the stairs. I was in time to see Dorothy on the stairs, carrying a purse under her arm. She had turned and was running down the stairs, but I know absolutely she couldn’t have left the corridor and gone downstairs. She must have been on her way up and then turned around...”

“That’s right,” Dorothy said, looking Mrs. Lennox squarely in the eyes. “I had gone down to look in my car. I had found the purse, and was coming back. I had started up the stairs. I was about a third of the way up when I heard the screams. I didn’t know what to do for a moment. Then I heard your steps in the corridor, and so I turned and started down the stairs in the direction of the screams.”

The silence that followed was heavy with suspicion as Mrs. Lennox glanced apprehensively at the chief of police, then hastily averted her eyes.

“So,” Larkin said, “you were downstairs, right near Moana’s bedroom where the burglary was committed at the very time the screams sounded?”

“I told you I was approximately a third of the way up the stairs.”

“You’d been prowling around the house at night, and...”

“I had gone down to look over my automobile. I wanted to see... well, I wondered who had taken it.”

“And you didn’t tell the police any of these things?”

“No, why should I?”

“You told the district attorney this morning.”

“Because then it appeared that the purse that was in my car belonged to the murdered woman.”

“Dorothy, what are you saying!” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed sharply.

Larkin said, “And it looks as though your car was the car that was used by the murderer.”

“I know nothing whatever about that.”

“Who knows you were in your bedroom all the time your car was out?”

“No one, naturally,” Dorothy said, with dignity. “A single, unmarried woman hardly keeps an alibi in her bedroom.”

“Dorothy,” Mrs. Lennox said acidly, “are you trying to convey the impression that some member of this family took your car without your permission?”

“Someone took it.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you...?”

“I thought at first my car was just being moved out of the driveway. Then when it was gone... well, I waited to see what time it came back. I naturally was curious.”

“It’s a shame that you didn’t share your curiosity,” Mrs. Lennox said.

“What was I supposed to do?” Dorothy asked.

“I don’t think there’s any need to discuss it at this time,” Mrs. Lennox said, with frigid formality.

Dorothy got up to leave the room. “Under the circumstances, I assume you’ll be happier if I go to the hotel.”

“Just a minute, just a minute,” Otto Larkin said heavily. “I’m not satisfied with your story — the one you have now.”

“It’s the same one I always had,” Dorothy said. “I tried to spare embarrassment to the family of the man I love. If you want to ask me any more questions you may call on me at the hotel.”

And she went swiftly out of the room leaving a cold, hostile silence behind her.