The D.A. Breaks an Egg

15

Driving back to Madison City, Selby studied the mystery of Rose Furman with frowning concentration and Brandon refrained from interrupting the young district attorney’s thoughts.

It was as they were approaching Madison City that Selby said, “Rex, we’re confronted with a peculiar pattern. It isn’t a pattern of coincidence and it isn’t a pattern of accident.”

“What is it, then?”

“Let’s begin with Daphne Arcola,” Selby said. “She came to Madison City. Why?”

“The way it looks now,” Brandon said, “it’s because she knew Frank Grannis had been arrested here and then taken to El Centro.”

Selby said, “The thought keeps recurring to my mind, Rex, that Daphne may have gone to Madison City because of the letter Babe Harlan wrote telling her that she had married A. B. Carr.”

“And she came to visit her friend?”

“Not to visit Mrs. Carr, but to consult A. B. Carr. And that would explain that wire. Don’t forget, Rex, that Mrs. Carr mentioned something in her letter about her marriage and the peculiar circumstances in connection with it; but then went on to state that her husband was a wizard as a criminal attorney and that crooks who were wise would wink at each other and say, ‘It’s as simple as A. B. C.’ ”

Brandon thought that over until they had turned into the main street of Madison City. Then he said simply, “Doug, that’s the right track. Where do we go from there?”

Selby said, “We go to your office, and we call up the sheriff’s office at El Centro. Then we drive down there and start sweating Frank Grannis to see if he doesn’t have some of the answers we want.”

Brandon said, “Sounds reasonable to me.”

They turned off the main street and up the hill toward the Courthouse. Sylvia Martin’s headlights were dancing along right behind them.

“Sylvia’s making good time with that red buzz buggy of hers,” Brandon said.

They parked their car at the Courthouse and waited for Sylvia. The three of them walked up the echoing marble steps to the sheriff’s office.

The night deputy said, “This gentleman has been waiting to see you, Sheriff.”

Brandon turned around as a tall, slim young man with worried eyes came up out of the chair in which he had been sitting and moved toward the sheriff with outstretched hand.

“You may not remember me, Sheriff,” he said. “I knew you several years ago. I’m Horace Lennox. I...”

“Oh, yes,” Brandon said. “You’ve been in Chicago, opened a law office there, I believe.”

“That’s right. I... I have a favor I want to ask you, Sheriff.”

“What?”

“You’re holding Dorothy Clifton, my fiancée, in jail. I’ve flown out here to see her, and... well, I’ve run up against red tape on visiting hours and...”

The sheriff frowned dubiously, said, “Well, of course, right at this hour the prisoners are all asleep, and... probably the first thing in the morning... I wouldn’t hold you to visiting hours, but...”

Sylvia Martin, moving around behind the sheriff, tugged frantically at his coat tails in a series of quick telegraphing jerks.

Brandon looked back over his shoulder at her, then suddenly grinned and added, “However, under the circumstances, Horace, I guess you’re entitled to have most of the rules set aside. I guess Dorothy would be willing to be wakened in order to see you.”

He turned to his deputy. “Get the matron on the phone. Tell her we’re sorry to wake her up, but it’s important that Dorothy Clifton have a visitor, and...”

Lennox grabbed Brandon’s hand gratefully. “Sheriff,” he said, “you’ll never know what this means to me. I caught a night plane and... I know Dorothy is lying awake over there waiting for me. I told her I’d get here just as soon as I possibly could.”

“You’ve seen your family?” the sheriff asked, conscious of Sylvia Martin’s breathless eagerness.

“Yes, I came here and was told that I couldn’t do anything until you returned, so I went out to the house and talked with my mother. She’s very bitter. And I talked with Steve who’s inclined to be reasonable, if it wasn’t for Mom’s influence.”

Sylvia Martin stepped forward. She said, “I’ve never met you, Mr. Lennox, but I’m Sylvia Martin, of The Clarion.”

Lennox suddenly became cautiously dignified. “Oh, yes,” he said.

“And,” Sylvia went on, “our opposition paper, The Blade, is trying to make it appear that Dorothy Clifton is guilty of this crime and I’m absolutely certain that she isn’t. I’d like to have an interview with you after you’ve seen Miss Clifton, and see that... well, that her side of the story gets properly presented to the public. The fact that you’ve had enough faith in her to... well, you know, the general understanding is that all the members of your family don’t feel the same way, and...”

She broke off to let a pleading smile finish the sentence for her.

Horace Lennox said, “Few people understand the situation. The family, of course, are very nervous and... well, you might say, hysterical. I don’t think they’re in a position to have any real perspective as yet. I sympathize with them but their outlook is... well, the chief of police here has completely pulled the wool over their eyes.”

Sylvia Martin slipped her hand in the bend of Horace Lennox’s arm, gently piloted him to one side. “While the sheriff and the district attorney are having a conference,” she said, “and during the few minutes that it will be necessary to wait before the matron can get Dorothy ready to see you, I’d like to have you amplify that statement just a little so I can explain to my editor...”

Brandon, taking the hint, grinned at Selby, said, “Well, let’s go put through that telephone call, Doug.”

They retired to the inner office. Brandon rushed through an emergency call to the sheriff’s office at El Centro.

“Hello,” he said, “this is Rex Brandon, sheriff of Madison County, talking from Madison City. You’re holding a Frank Grannis down there, and we want to come down and talk with him. Well be down just as soon as... What’s that?”

The sheriff listened for a matter of nearly a minute, then said, “Well, I guess that settles it then. Who did you say this fellow was?... I see... I see. All right, thanks.”

The sheriff hung up the phone, turned to Doug Selby. “Well,” he said, “that does it.”

“What is it?” Selby asked.

“Late this afternoon,” Brandon said, “counsel for Frank Grannis managed to get bail for his client reduced to three thousand dollars, and within thirty minutes surety bail was furnished by a ‘friend’ of the accused.”

“Who was the friend?” Selby asked.

“The friend,” Brandon said, dryly, “was a man whom the sheriff says he’s satisfied Frank Grannis had never seen before in his life, but he put on a good act of backslapping cordiality. As soon as Grannis was admitted to bail, this friend loaded him in an automobile and whisked him out of the county.”

“The attorney, of course, was old A. B. C.?” Selby asked.

“That’s right.”

Selby put tobacco in his pipe, said, “Well, Rex, as the game starts flushing out of cover we begin to get more of a pattern.”

“It isn’t flushing out of cover,” Brandon said. “It’s getting into cover.”

“Well, let’s ring up that great super-sleuth, Otto Larkin, and find out about the murder weapon.”

Brandon picked up the telephone, grinned as he said, “Get me Otto Larkin. Tell him I want him up here. Tell him if he has any evidence in that murder case to bring it up.”

Brandon hung up the phone and said, “At least The Clarion will be able to run the story in the morning edition showing that we’ve identified the corpse and perhaps with an innuendo or two about the mysterious case on which this detective was working when she was murdered. That will give the other side something to worry about.”

Selby nodded, looked at his watch, and said, “I’ll bet Otto Larkin would like to cross the next half-hour right out of his life.”