The D.A. Calls It Murder

Chapter XI

They returned to Madison City by train. As the rumbling Pullman clicked smoothly over the rails, nearing the familiar environs of, the city, Sylvia Martin went forward to the vestibule, where Selby, standing braced against the motion of the car, was moodily regarding the scenery while he smoked a cigarette.

“Listen,” Sylvia said, “I know the wife of a Methodist minister here quite well. Don’t you think it would be a good plan, under the circumstances, to have her go there?”

Selby nodded.

“Why so pensive?” she asked him.

“I’m just thinking,” Selby said, “that I may have overlooked a bet.”

“How?”

“About that Brower angle. I should have made arrangements to locate him and have him subpoenaed as a witness. He knows more about this thing than we do.”

“You think that he knew Larrabie was going to Madison City?”

“Of course he did. What’s more, he must have known that Larrabie was going to register under his name.”

“Why? What makes you think that?”

“Because Brewer gave Larrabie his cards and his driving license.”

“Unless Larrabie... No, he wouldn’t have done that.”

The district attorney smiled and said, “No, I would hardly gather that Larrabie was one who would knock his friend on the head with a club in order to get possession of an automobile which was probably worth less than fifty dollars.”

“I wonder if they didn’t come here together.”

“Perhaps.”

“But why?”

Selby shrugged his shoulders and said, “This is too deep for me, and I have a hunch it’s going to be a humdinger — one of those everyday sort of cases where everything seems to be so confoundedly simple that all you have to do is to pick up the pieces and put them together. But when you pick up the pieces you find they just don’t go together. None of them fit. It’s like solving a jig-saw puzzle where you can’t get any single piece to fit into any other piece. You’ve got no toe-hold, no starting point. Perhaps we’ve got the pieces of half a dozen separate jig-saw puzzles all scrambled together.”

“Listen, Doug,” she said, “I’m going to get horribly commercial.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a swell story out of that trip to Riverbend. The city editor is simply wild over it.”

“Well?” he asked.

“All those little touches,” she said — “for instance, did you notice that the door on her house wasn’t locked? She was staying there at night all alone, with her husband out of the city, but she didn’t even lock the door. That’s the kind of people they are and that’s the kind of community Riverbend is.”

He nodded and said, “But it isn’t everyone who would have noticed that about the door not being locked, and not very many would have realized its significance. It was a good story and you’re entitled to the credit, Sylvia.”

“You gave me the breaks.”

He smiled down at her and patted her shoulder.

The train whistled for Madison City, started to slow to a stop.

“What I’m getting at,” Sylvia said, “is that this is good for another story. I’d like to get an exclusive on it.”

“Well?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, “suppose you turn Mrs. Larrabie over to me?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to keep her where... well, to be frank, where reporters for The Blade couldn’t get at her.”

“How would she feel about that?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to explain things to her and see how she feels about it. In that way I can get her living expenses paid. The paper would stand the expense.”

Selby nodded slowly and said, “I can’t give any official sanction to it, Sylvia. You’d better leave me standing here while you make your arrangements directly with Mrs. Larrabie. I’ve subpoenaed her to appear before the grand jury next week. I don’t care what she does in the meantime.”

She nodded, smiled and left him.

Selby finished his cigarette. The train ground slowly to a stop. The porter opened the vestibule door. Selby stepped to the platform, helped the two women to alight. Sylvia bent toward him and whispered, “It’s all right. She understands, and she’s grateful. She’s going to stay with me. Suppose you go on to your office and leave us to shift for ourselves?”

“Very well,” he said, “she has her subpoena. My duty’s discharged when I’ve given her that. She’ll want to see the body. There has, of course, been a post-mortem. You’d better prepare her for the shock of that. I’m going to my apartment and get a bath and get into some clean clothes. Also, I’ll want to get in touch with Brandon and have a conference.”

She grabbed his hand, gave his fingers a quick squeeze.

“Thanks, Doug,” she said.

He took a cab to his apartment, realized that he’d need to go to Los Angeles to retrieve the automobile he’d left at the airport. He felt a swift thrill of anticipation and realized that it was due to the fact he’d remembered his promise to Shirley Arden.

He turned hot water into his bathtub, telephoned the courthouse and asked for the sheriff. When he heard Rex Brandon’s voice on the line he said, “Okay, Rex, we’re back.”

“You brought the woman with you?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“Sylvia Martin has her in tow. Just between you and me, Sheriff, I think she’s worked out some deal with her for exclusive story privileges.”

“Okay by me,” Brandon said. “The Clarion stuck up for us during the election. You didn’t see last night’s Blade, did you, Doug?”

“No.”

“Better take a look at it. They’ve got a pretty good roast in there. What’s this about the motion picture actress you’re shielding having told you the man’s name?”

Selby gripped the receiver so tightly that his knuckles ached.

“What’s that? Something in The Blade about that?”

“Yes. They’ve put it up in rather a dirty way. They’ve intimated that you’ve been reached by money or influence, or both; that you’re throwing up a big smoke screen to protect some prominent motion picture actress who’s involved in the murder; that you met her at a secret conference and she told you who the murdered man really was. The Blade threatens to publish her name.”

“Good God!” Selby said.

“Anything to it?” the sheriff asked.

“Yes, and no,” Selby told him. “I’m protecting Miss Arden... that is, I simply didn’t make her name public because I’m satisfied she had no connection with the case. I’d have told you about it if it hadn’t been necessary for me to rush up to Riverbend to make that identification absolute.”

“I was wondering,” the sheriff said slowly, “how it happened you were so certain that Larrabie of Riverbend was the man we wanted. You must have had a tip from somewhere.”

“In a way, yes.”

“Did it come from this actress?”

“Let’s not talk about this thing over the telephone,” Selby said. “Suppose you run out to my apartment? We can talk here.”

“I’m just going to the Madison Hotel,” the sheriff said. “I understand Cushing’s found a guest who heard some typing across in three twenty-one. Suppose you make it snappy and meet me there?”

“I’m all grimy from travel,” Selby said. “I’m just climbing into the bathtub, but I can make it in about fifteen or twenty minutes... only, wait a minute, Rex, I haven’t a car. I left mine down in Los Angeles.”

“Suppose I drive around and pick you up?” the sheriff suggested.

“That’ll be fine,” Selby told him. “Be here in ten minutes.”

He dropped the receiver back into place.

So The Blade knew about Shirley Arden, did they? And they’d turned the blast of dirty publicity on her. Damn them! He’d make them suffer for that. It was a dirty shame to drag her into it. That’s what politics would do.

He stood there, eyes smoldering with rage, his fists clenched, his legs stretched far apart, and it wasn’t until he heard the splash of water on the tiled floor of the bathroom that he suddenly realized he’d left the hot water running full force.

Selby flung bath towels on the floor to mop up the surplus moisture, tubbed hastily and met Sheriff Brandon in exactly twelve minutes from the time of the telephone call.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m getting fed up on this yellow journalism. I’m...”

“Take it easy, son,” Rex Brandon advised, starting the car toward the Madison Hotel. “You’ve fought your way through a lot of stuff without losing your head. Don’t begin now.”

“It’s the damned injustice of it,” Selby said.

“Lots of things in the world are unjust, Doug.”

“I can take it as far as I’m concerned,” Doug Selby went on, “but when it comes to dragging in a woman, jeopardizing the career of an actress and perpetrating the dastardly libel by insinuation I get all fed up.”

“The best way to win a fight,” the sheriff remarked, “is never to get mad, and, if you must get mad, never let the other fellow know it. Now, get a smile on your face. We’re going up and find out about that typewriting business. Maybe we’ll run on to Bittner and maybe we won’t. But, in any event, you’re going to walk into that hotel smiling.”

Selby took a deep breath, slowly his face twisted into a set grin.

“That ain’t a smile,” Rex Brandon said, “that’s the sort of face a man makes when he’s got a pain in his stomach. Relax a little bit... there, that’s better.”

He swung his car in to the curb in front of the hotel. Together, the two men entered the lobby.

George Cushing came toward them, his face twisted into a succession of grimaces. His head jerked with St. Vitus-dance-like regularity toward the counter, where a man in a blue serge business suit was engaged in a low-voiced conversation with the clerk. On the counter in front of the man was a letter.

“Step right this way, gentlemen, if you’re in search of rooms,” Cushing said, and taking the surprised sheriff by the arm, led him over to the counter. He said to the clerk, “These two gentlemen are strangers in the city. They are looking for rooms.”

The clerk looked up at Brandon and the district attorney. Recognition flooded his features, then gave place to a look of puzzled bewilderment.

“They’re strangers in the city,” Cushing repeated. “They want rooms. Go ahead and dispose of your business with this man.”

The man in the blue suit was too engrossed in his own affairs to give any particular heed to the conversation.

“It’s my money,” he said, “and I’m entitled to it.”

Cushing bustled importantly behind the counter and said, “What seems to be the trouble, Johnson?”

“This man says that he’s entitled to an envelope containing five thousand dollars which Mr. Brower left on deposit in the safe.”

Brandon moved up on one side of the man at the counter. Selby moved to the other side and nodded to Cushing.

“I’m the manager here,” Cushing said. “What’s your name?”

“You heard what I had to say a few minutes ago. You were standing over there by the safe. You heard the whole thing,” the man said.

“I wasn’t paying any particular attention to it,” Cushing said. “I thought it was just some ordinary dispute. Mr. Brower is dead, you know. We can’t hand over the money without some definite assurance that it’s yours.”

“I don’t know what more you want than this letter,” the man said. “You can see for yourself it says the money is mine.”

Cushing picked up the typewritten letter, read it, then placed it back on the counter, turning it so that Selby and the sheriff could read it without difficulty.

The letter was addressed to George Claymore, at the Bentley Hotel in Los Angeles. It read:

Down below the signature in the lower left hand corner was typed “Room 321, Madison Hotel.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you,” Selby volunteered, “I happen to know something about Mr. Brower’s death.”

“You do?”

“Yes, in a general way. You’re Claymore, are you?”

“Yes.”

“And that, of course, is your money.”

“You can read plainly enough what this letter says.”

“You were in Los Angeles at the Bentley Hotel when you received this letter?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see when it was mailed. It’s post-marked from here on Tuesday. When did you get it?”

“I didn’t get it until late last night.”

“That’s poor service,” Selby said.

The other man nodded. There seemed about him a curious lack of self-assertion.

“I suppose,” Selby said casually to Cushing, “the management here will want a brief statement of what the money was for and how it happened to be in the murdered man’s possession.”

He turned to the man at his side, smiled and said, “Go right ahead, Mr. Claymore, just give them a brief outline.”

“Well,” Claymore said, “it was like this. You see...”

He broke off, stared at the elevator, then turned abruptly toward the door.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Sheriff Brandon grabbed the man’s coat tails, spun him around, flipped back his own coat lapel to show a gold-plated star.

“Buddy,” he said, “you’re back right now. What’s the game?”

“Let me alone! Let me go! You’ve got no right to hold me! You...” He became abruptly silent, turned back toward the counter, stood with his shoulders hunched over, his head lowered.

Selby looked toward the elevator. Mrs. Charles Brower was marching sedately toward the street exit.

“She staying here?” he asked Cushing.

“Yes, temporarily. She’s insisting that someone pay her expenses. She’s hired Sam Roper.”

Selby said to Brandon, “Turn him around so he faces the lobby, Rex.”

The sheriff spun the man around. He continued to keep his head lowered.

Selby raised his voice and called, “Why, good morning, Mrs. Brower.”

The woman turned on her heel, stared at Selby, then, as recognition flooded her countenance, she bore down upon him with an ominous purpose.

“I’ve never been to law,” she said, “but I’ve got some rights in this matter, Mr. Selby. I just wanted you to know that I’ve consulted a lawyer and...”

She broke off, to stare with wide, incredulous eyes.

“Charles!” she screamed. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment Selby thought that the man wasn’t going to raise his head. Then he looked up at her with a sickly smile, and said, “As far as that’s concerned, what are you doing here?”

“I came here to identify your body.”

He wet his lips with his tongue, said in a burst of wild desperation, “Well, you see, I... I read in the paper I was dead, so I came here to see about it.”

“What about this five thousand dollars?” Brandon asked.

The man whirled. The typewritten letter was still on the counter. His face held the expression of a drowning man, looking frantically about him, trying to find some straw at which he might clutch.

“What letter?” Mrs. Brower asked, moving curiously toward the counter.

Selby folded the letter and envelope and thrust it in his pocket. “This your husband?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Let’s let him tell about it.”

Brower clamped his lips together in a firm, straight line.

“Go on,” Selby said, “I’d like to hear your story, Brower.”

The man remained mute.

“Speak up, Charles! What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Brower snapped. “You haven’t been doing something you’re ashamed of, have you?”

Brower continued to remain silent.

“Go on, speak up,” Mrs. Brower ordered.

There was something in the dominant eye of his wife which brought Brower out of his silence, to mumble, “I don’t think I’d better say anything right now, dear. It might make trouble for everyone, if I did.”

“Why, what’s the matter with you? You jellyfish!” she said. “Certainly you’re going to speak up. Go right ahead and tell your story. You’ve got to tell it sooner or later and you might just as well tell it now.”

Brower shook his head. Mrs. Brower looked at the men helplessly.

“Well, of all things!” she said.

“I’m afraid,” Selby said, “that if you don’t speak up, we’re going to have to detain you for questioning, Mr. Brower.”

A little crowd had collected in the lobby, and the interested spectators served as a magnet to draw more curiosity seekers.

The sheriff said quietly, “I think I’d better take him along with me, Doug. You stay here and look into that other angle. Then come on up to the jail. Perhaps he’ll have changed his mind.”

Selby nodded.

“Make way, folks,” Brandon said cheerfully.

Mrs. Brower swung into step beside her husband and the sheriff. “Don’t think you’re going to take him where I can’t talk to him,” she said grimly. “He’s got an explanation to make to me... Out on a motor trip, huh? Resting his nerves, eh? The very idea! What sort of goings-on is that for a respectable married man, and a parson, at that.”

Selby watched the crowd trail along uncertainly, saw the sheriff push his prisoner through the door and into the automobile, saw Mrs. Brower, with the calm finality of one who has implicit faith in herself and her ability to do anything she decides upon, climb into the rear seat of the automobile with her husband.

The sheriff started the car.

Selby caught Cushing’s eye, jerked his head toward Cushing’s office and said, “Let’s have a little chat.”

Selby followed the hotel man into the office and faced him.

“What about it?” the district attorney asked.

“This chap showed up out of a clear sky,” Cushing said, “came walking up to the desk big as life, and asked if Mr. Brower was in his room. The clerk was flabbergasted. I was over by the safe. I pretended not to be taking any great interest in the conversation. The clerk told him, no, Mr. Brower wasn’t in, and then the chap produced that letter and said Brower had left five thousand dollars in the safe for him. I signaled the clerk to stall him along, and I was just starting for the telephone booth to put in a call for you when you came walking in the door.”

“You don’t know anything more about him than that?”

“That’s all.”

Selby said, “Get out that envelope. Let’s check the signatures.”

“I haven’t it. The sheriff took it up and locked it in his safe yesterday night.”

“All right, I’ll keep the letter,” Selby said. “Now, I understand there was someone who heard typewriting in three twenty-one.”

“Yes, a Miss Helen Marks.”

“Where is she?”

“In her room.”

“What’s the number?”

“Three seventy-two.”

“Have you talked with her?”

“Only generally.”

“What’s her story?”

“She heard typing in three twenty-one when she came in Monday night. She says it was some time around midnight.”

“I think I’ll talk with her,” Selby said; “give her a ring and tell her I’m coming up.”

“Listen,” Cushing pleaded, “this thing keeps getting worse and worse. Guests are commencing to get frightened. Now, I’m entitled to some consideration from your office, Selby. I want you to catch that murderer.”

Selby grinned and said, “Perhaps if you hadn’t been so insistent that we hush it all up at the start, we might have got further.”

“Well, that looked like the best thing to do then. You can understand my position. I’m running a hotel, and...”

Selby clapped him on the back and said. “Okay, George, we’ll do the best we can. What was that number, three seventy-two?”

“Right.”

Selby took the elevator to the third floor and knocked on the door of three seventy-two. It was opened almost immediately by a dark-complexioned young woman in the early twenties. Her eyes were very large and smoke-gray. She wore a checked black and white tailored suit. Make-up showed bright patches of color on her cheeks. Her lips were smeared with lipstick until they were a glossy red.

“You’re Mr. Selby,” she asked, “the district attorney?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Helen Marks. Come in. They said you were coming up to see me.”

“You heard the typewriting in room three twenty-one?” Selby asked.

“Yes. It was Monday night.”

“What do you do for a living? Do you work?”

“I’m not doing anything at present. I have been a secretary and a night club entertainer. I’ve clerked in a dry goods store and have done modeling work in Los Angeles.”

“What time was it you heard the sounds of the typewriting?”

“I don’t know. It was when I came in. Sometime around midnight, I would say, but that’s just a guess.”

“What had you been doing?”

“I’d been out with a boy-friend.”

“Doing what?”

Resentment showed in her eyes. “Is that necessary?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“We went to a picture show.”

“Not until midnight.”

“No, then we had some drinks and danced.”

“Then what?”

“Then he drove me to the hotel.”

“Straight to the hotel?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did he see you as far as the elevator?”

She frowned, and said, “Now, listen, I’m being a good sport and giving you the breaks in this thing. Don’t ask so many questions.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Marks, but it’s necessary. You can rest assured that I’ll keep anything you tell me in complete confidence, insofar as I can do so.”

“Well, yes,” she said, “he came to the elevator with me.”

“Could this have been before midnight?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t before midnight.”

“It was probably after midnight, then?”

“Perhaps.”

“How much after?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t look at my watch. I’m not accountable to anyone and I don’t have to tell anyone just what time I came in.”

“You heard this typewriting distinctly?”

“Yes.”

“And remembered it?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“You’ve made a living by running a typewriter?”

“Yes.”

“How did this typing sound to you? Was it the ragged touch of the hunt-and-peck system, or was it done by the touch system?”

“It was fast typing,” she said. “I don’t believe I could tell whether it was a touch system, but that typewriter was going like a machine gun.”

“How long did you hear it?”

“Just while I was walking past the door.”

Selby said casually, “And your boy-friend, I presume, can verify your statement?”

“Yes, certainly... Why, what do you mean?”

Selby smiled at her.

“Well,” she said, defiantly, “he came as far as my room.”

“Did he stay?”

“He did not.”

“Just went to the door of the room?”

“Well, he kissed me good-night.”

“Once or more than once?”

“Listen,” she said, “get this straight. This is the reason I didn’t want to say anything about what I’d seen. I was afraid a lot of people would start asking questions that were none of their business. I’m straight. If I wasn’t, it’s no one’s business except my own. The boy I was out with is a nice chap. I’ll say that for him. He’s a perfect gentleman and he knows how to treat a woman. He came as far as the room. He was here perhaps five minutes. He kissed me goodnight, and — believe it or not — he was darn nice and sweet about it.”

“And there’s nothing else you can tell me — about the typing?”

“Not a thing.”

“Can’t you place that time a little more closely?” Selby asked.

“Well, it was after midnight. It might have been quite a bit after midnight.”

“Don’t you know that it was much later than that?” Selby said kindly. “After all, Miss Marks, I don’t want to pillory you with a lot of questions, but this man died perhaps right around midnight. The question of time becomes important. Now can’t you...?”

“It was right around three o’clock in the morning,” she said sullenly.

“That’s better. Have you any way of fixing the time — definitely?”

“We danced until about a quarter to three. My boy-friend said he had to work in the morning and he couldn’t make too big a night of it. So we came directly to the hotel.”

“And went directly to this room?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think he was more than five minutes?”

“No.”

“You didn’t go as far as the elevator with him when he left?”

“Of course not. He saw me to my room and that was all. When he left, I locked the door, took my clothes off and tumbled into bed. I was a little weary myself. It had been quite a night — you know, we’d been hoofing it.”

Selby nodded.

“What’s the name of your boy-friend?” he asked.

“Do you have to call him?”

“I’d like to talk with him.”

“It’s Herbert Perry,” she said. “He’s working at a service station in...”

Selby stiffened to electrified attention.

“Herbert F. Perry?” he asked. “The young man who’s bringing a suit to determine heirship to the Perry Estate?”

She frowned for a moment and said, “I guess that’s right. He said something about some lawsuit he was in. I gathered from the way he talked he didn’t think he stood much chance of winning it. But he said if he could win it there’d be a big bunch of money in it for him.”

“And you don’t know where he went after he left this room?”

“Why, he went down in the elevator, of course.”

“But you didn’t see him go?”

“No, of course not.”

“How long have you known Herbert Perry?”

“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I just met him that night.”

“Who introduced you?”

She stared defiantly at the district attorney and said, “It was a pick-up, if you want to know.”

“On the street?”

“Certainly not! I stopped in at the bar at the Blue Lion for a drink. This boy was there. He was very nice. We got to talking.”

“Did he,” Selby asked, “seem to know anything about you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Did he know where you lived?”

“Come to think of it,” she said, “he did say that he’d seen me a couple of times at the hotel and had inquired something about me. He knew my name. He said he’d been wanting to meet me for a week, but didn’t know just how to arrange it. He was an awfully nice chap.”

“So then you spent the evening together?”

“Yes, we hoofed around a bit and had a few drinks.”

Selby smiled, and said as casually as possible, “Well, thanks very much for coming forward with the information. Don’t change your address without letting me know, because it may be important. It’s rather difficult to believe that this man was alive and writing on his typewriter at that hour in the morning... You don’t think there’s any possibility you could be mistaken in the room?”

“No, because I noticed there was a light coming through the transom. I wondered who could be writing at that hour in the morning.”

Selby smiled, thanked her again and sauntered casually out to the corridor. As soon as he heard the door close behind him, however, he raced for the elevator. In the lobby he crossed to the telephone booth, grabbed up the receiver and said to the operator in an excited voice, “Get me the sheriff’s office, quick!”