The D.A. Calls It Murder

Chapter XIX

Selby pushed his way through the door of his private office to encounter the disapproving eyes of Sylvia Martin.

“Well?” she asked.

“She told me the truth, Sylvia,” he said, “the whole truth.”

“Again?” she inquired sarcastically.

Selby went on doggedly, “Now that I know all the facts, I can appreciate how impossible it was for her to have done any differently than she did. It would have utterly ruined her career.”

“So,” Sylvia said, “she decided to ruin yours instead. That’s what I hate about her, Doug... It’s what she did to you — and what she’s trying to do... Oh, hell, skip it!... Now that you have her story, do you know who the murderer is?”

“I think I do.”

“Brower?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her directly but said, “Sylvia, I want you to check my conclusions. I’m going to go over this thing with you step by step. First, I’m going to tell you what Shirley Arden told me. I’m going to ask you, of course, to regard it as a sacred confidence.”

He began at the beginning and told her everything the actress had told him. When he had finished, she said slowly, “Then, if that story is true, Brower had no reason to murder Larrabie.”

Selby nodded.

“And Brewer’s silence is due to an attempt to protect himself against some misappropriation of cash.”

Again Selby said, “Probably it wasn’t a misappropriation. Larrabie wouldn’t have helped him out of an embezzlement. The probabilities are Brower had the money in cash and the cash was stolen, or else some friend betrayed him.

“The really significant thing about the whole business is that, despite the importance of getting that five thousand dollars, Larrabie wouldn’t leave Madison City. Now, then, Larrabie had written some man with whom he was to do business here. That man telephoned him, asked him particularly if anyone knew of the letter, and then asked Larrabie to come here and register under an assumed name, using the utmost secrecy.”

“Well?” she asked.

“The man who got the letter wasn’t the man to whom it was written,” Selby said.

“What are you talking about, Doug? You can’t know that.”

“So far,” he told her, “I am just indulging in theories. Now, let’s start checking up on facts.”

She glanced at her wristwatch and said ironically, “Yes, my editor always likes facts. Particularly when the paper is going to accuse someone of murder.”

“The first thing to do,” Selby said, “is to study those photographs again.”

“Why?”

“To find out just when they were taken. Take a magnifying glass, Sylvia, and study every detail. See if you can find some definite clew. While you’re doing that I’ll be doing some other stuff.”

“What other stuff?” she asked.

“Detective chores,” he told her, grinning.

He picked up the telephone and said, “Get me Sheriff Brandon.” A moment later he said, “Rex, I’ve got a lot of news and a lot of theory. The news isn’t worth a damn unless the theory checks with the facts, so I want to find out the facts.

“I’m going to give you the manufacturer’s number on that miniature camera. I want you to find out what dealer had such a camera in stock. Trace it through the wholesaler and retailer, get a description of the purchaser.”

He read off the numbers on the lens and body of the camera and then said, “Just as soon as you get that information, let me know. But get it and get it at once, at all cost... And here’s something else, Rex. It’s a bet I’m afraid we’ve overlooked. Try to bring out any latent fingerprints on the space bar of that portable typewriter. Do it as soon, as possible.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said. “In the meantime I’m trying to trace Cushing. I think I’ll be able to put my finger on him inside of an hour.”

Selby frowned, said slowly, “Well... Okay, but don’t get rough with him. And be sure I can reach you by telephone. I may want some fast action. I’ll explain later.”

He hung up the telephone and called the coroner.

“Harry,” he said, when he had the coroner on the line, “I want to know something about Larrabie’s suitcase.”

“All right, what about it?”

“You took it into your custody?”

“Yes.”

“Kept it in your office?”

“Yes, in the back room.”

“And Rogue, your police dog, was always on the premises?”

“Yes.”

“When was the dog poisoned?”

“Why, yesterday morning — you were there.”

“No, no, I mean when did you first find out he’d been poisoned?”

“It was sometime around twelve o’clock. I’d been out and when I came back the dog seemed sick. He wagged his tail to show he was glad to see me, and then dropped down on the floor and drooped his ears. His eyes had a peculiar round look to them, I can’t tell you just how they looked because you’d have to know the dog to appreciate his change of expression. Dogs’ expressions change just like people’s do.”

“And where was the dog when you came back?”

“In my office; but there’s a narrow door leading to the back yard, so he could get out, if he’d wanted to.”

“But he was where he could guard the office?”

“Sure. No one could possibly have entered that office. Rogue would have torn them to pieces.”

“Thanks,” Selby said. “I just wanted to make certain. I think the poisoning of the dog is particularly important.”

“So do I,” Perkins said. “If I can find out who did it, you’ll have another homicide case on your hands.”

“How’s the dog getting along?” Selby asked.

“He’s going to pull through all right. Dr. Perry sat up with him all night. It was touch and go for a while, but he’s going to be okay.”

Selby hung up the telephone as Amorette Standish entered the room, and said to Sylvia Martin, “Your city editor’s been calling up. He says he has to have some basis for that story. He says that, so far, there hasn’t been a darn thing except your unsupported statement to back up the story, while all the evidence he can get is pointing the other way.”

Sylvia looked up from the strip of films, grinned and said, “Did he say ‘not a darn thing,’ Amorette?”

“No,” Amorette said, smiling, “he didn’t say ‘darn thing.’ He was madder than a wet hen. He used plenty of language.”

“You tell him I’m too busy to come to the telephone,” Sylvia said, “that I’m working on the details of the yarn and getting the facts all co-ordinated; that the story’s absolutely okay and he can count on it. Better throw a scare into him. Tell him a Los Angeles paper has offered me a thousand dollars for the inside yarn and is holding a wire open to the office. Ask him if he wants to be scooped on a local story by a Los Angeles newspaper.”

Amorette sighed and said, “Well, I’ll put cotton in my ears and try to put it across.”

“It won’t be so bad,” Sylvia said cheerfully, “if you can stick it out for the first ten seconds, the copper wire will melt and short the connection, so you won’t have to hear the rest of it.”

She turned to Selby and said, “Doug, these pictures were taken Wednesday noon.”

“How do you know?” he asked, his voice showing his excitement.

“You can analyze the shadows, for the time of day. They show the picture was taken right around noon. Now, then, the Rotary Club meets at the Madison Hotel every Wednesday. When it meets, there isn’t enough room for the members to park their cars on the main street and in the parking lot next to the hotel, so they spread down the side street and take every available parking space. At other times during the day it is very seldom the parking spaces on the side street are filled up.

“Now notice this picture. It shows the main street. Now here’s the next one, that’s looking down the side street. You see, there isn’t a single vacant parking space on the whole street. I’ll bet anything you want, these pictures were taken Wednesday noon, while the Club was having its meeting.”

Selby said slowly, “That’s darned good reasoning, Sylvia. I think I’ll have to put you on my staff.”

“You sure will,” she told him, “if we don’t have some facts for my city editor pretty quick. I can stall him just about so long and then I’ll be finished. At that time I’ll be completely and entirely out of a job.”

“Well,” he told her, “you can’t get on up here because I’ll be out of a job, too.”

He picked up the camera, studied it carefully and put it back in its worn leather case.

“Why is the camera so important?” Sylvia asked. “And how could those pictures have been taken so long after Larrabie’s death?”

“That,” he told her, “is the thing on which any real solution of this case must turn. It’s a fact which doesn’t coincide with any of the other facts. In other words, it’s like an odd-shaped piece in a jig-saw puzzle, something which looks difficult but really furnishes the key to the whole business, if it’s interpreted correctly.”

He picked up the telephone, called Dr. Perry, and when he had him on the phone, said, “Doctor, this is Doug Selby, the district attorney. For reasons which I won’t try to explain over the telephone, the poisoning of Perkins’s dog becomes a clew of greatest importance. How’s the dog coming along?”

“I’m going to pull him through,” Dr. Perry said. “I worked with him most of the night. If I hadn’t gotten him just when I did, it would have been too late. Even ten minutes longer would have been fatal.”

“Can you tell me anything about the poison that was used?”

“I think,” Dr. Perry said, “that the poison was compounded by an expert. In other words, the man who did it was either a doctor or a chemist, a druggist or someone who knew a great deal about drugs, and probably something about animals.”

“I wonder if you can take time to run up to the office for a few minutes?” Selby asked. “I want to get some definite and detailed information. I’m expecting to bring this case to a head within the next couple of hours.”

“You mean you’re going to find out who put the poison there?”

“I think I’m going to go farther than that,” Selby told him, “and find out who murdered Larrabie. But keep that under your hat. I’m telling you because I want you to realize how important your co-operation may be.”

“I’m dropping everything and coming right up,” Perry promised.

“Thanks,” Selby told him.

He hung up the telephone, returned to a study of the strip of negatives, then he rang up the manager of the telephone company and said, “I’m particularly interested in tracing a call which was sent from Madison City some time within the last week or ten days to William Larrabie at Riverbend, California. I wish you’d look back through your records and see what you can find out about that call, and let me know.”

Receiving a promise of assistance, Selby dropped the receiver back into place and turned to meet Sylvia Martin’s anxious eyes.

“Doug,” she pleaded, “is this all a bluff, or do you have a theory?”

“I’ve got a theory,” he said.

“Well, for the love of Mike,” she pleaded, “kick through. I’m in on this, too, you know. And, if things start breaking, I’ve got to know enough so I can keep the story straight.”

He started pacing the floor, talking in the mechanical monotone of one who is thinking out loud. “A hotel,” he said, “is a peculiar place. It furnishes a temporary home for hundreds of people. People are all very much alike. They have their jealousies, their loves, their hatreds, their hopes and ambitions. They practice their little deceptions. Their lives flow on in a regular routine rhythm, all being enacted within a few feet of each other.

“Here in this hotel, on the night of the murder, we had a minister of the Gospel in one room, a young couple who saw fit to register under assumed names in an adjoining room. And, somewhere in the background, was another minister who was in a serious financial predicament. He had to have money and have it at once. It was an amount which was far beyond what he could hope to obtain by any legitimate means. And in that hotel we had a room kept by a prominent motion picture actress. The hotel was operated by her father. No one knew of the relationship. No one knew of certain chapters in the life of this actress.

“We happen to know these things about these few people. There were others about whom we don’t know, but who must have had their own family skeletons, their own fears and hopes. They were all sleeping under the one roof.”

“Brower wasn’t there,” she pointed out.

“No one knows where Brower was,” Selby said. “He might or might not have been there.”

“But he was registered in Los Angeles.”

Selby smiled and said, “If you are going to be technical about it, there wasn’t any reason why Brower couldn’t have registered in the hotel in Los Angeles, left Los Angeles, gone to the Madison Hotel and taken a room under another name.”

Her face showed excitement. “Did he, Doug?” she said. “Did he? Oh, Doug, if we could only get something like that.”

He smiled and said, “Not yet, Sylvia, I’m simply mentioning possibilities.”

“But why point them out in just that way?”

“Because,” he said, “I want you to understand one fundamental thought, because it is of particular importance in the solution of this case.”

“What is it?” she asked. “I don’t see what you are getting at.”

“What I’m trying to establish is that people are, after all, very much alike. They have the same problems, the same complexities of life. Therefore, when we find what these problems and complexities are in the case of some of the people who were in the hotel, we shouldn’t make the mistake of considering that those problems must be interrelated merely because the people were temporarily thrown together in a physical environment.”

There was something ominous in her voice as she said, “Doug, are you starting out to try and prove that no matter what this actress did, she couldn’t have been...”

Amorette Standish opened the door and said, “Dr. Perry’s here, all out of breath. Says he broke every speed record in town and that you wanted to see him at once...”

“Yes,” Selby said. “Show him in.”

“Gee, Doug,” Sylvia remarked, “I sure hope something comes of this. That outline you’ve just given me about the hotel and all of the people in it would make a swell build-up for a smashing newspaper story climaxing the murder mystery.”

“Well,” he told her, “we’ll see if we can’t...”

The door opened and Dr. Perry bustled into the room. He had quite evidently been hurrying, and was breathing through his mouth.

He grinned at Selby and said, “Those damn stairs... Not as young as I used to be... Out of condition.”

“Sit down there,” Selby told him, “and get your breath. I didn’t mean for you to run yourself to death getting here, and you’ll need some breath to answer questions. By the way, Amorette, I want to give you some instructions. And, Sylvia, you can help me, if you’ll step this way for a moment. You’ll pardon us for a minute, Doctor?”

“I’ll say,” Dr. Perry panted. “I could use a breathing spell very nicely.”

Selby stepped into the outer room, drew Amorette Standish and Sylvia Martin close to him.

“Now, listen,” he said, “a call may come in about that camera. I’m anxious to find out...”

“Yes,” Amorette interrupted, “Sheriff Brandon telephoned. He said not to disturb you, but to tell you he’d talked with Mrs. Larrabie. She told him the minister got the camera through a retailer who sent to a dealer in Sacramento for it. The sheriff has a call in for the retailer in Riverbend, and he’s already talked with the wholesaler in Sacramento. They’re looking for the number and are going to call back. The sheriff said both calls would come to this office. He left word for them to call you direct.”

“All right,” Selby said. “If the call comes in while I’m talking with Dr. Perry and you get the numbers, just come to the door and beckon to me. And, Sylvia, I think you’d better be where you can listen in on that telephone call, and be absolutely certain that the numbers are correct.”

“But, when you already have the camera,” Sylvia said, “why be so worried about the numbers?”

He grinned and said, “Perhaps I’m making assurance doubly sure.”

She nodded dubiously. “And perhaps you’re stalling around so I don’t get a chance to hear what you tell Dr. Perry.”

Selby laughed, stepped back into the private office, closed the door and said, “Doctor, you know something of the facts about Larrabie’s death.”

“I’ve read the papers. What about it?” Dr. Perry asked.

“It’s my theory,” Selby said, “that the man who arranged things so Larrabie took that dose of poison was a man who must have known something of medicine and who must, not only have access to morphia but knew how to put it in a five grain tablet.”

Dr. Perry nodded.

“Now, then, you say that the one who poisoned this dog showed a considerable knowledge of medicine. I want to know just what you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Dr. Perry said, “that as nearly as I can find out, the poisoned meat contained not one active ingredient, but two. Moreover, the poisoning had been very skillfully compounded and had been placed in food combinations which would be particularly attractive to a dog.”

“And that, coupled with the number of poison cakes which had been placed around, would indicate to you that the poisoner was very anxious to get the dog out of the way?”

“Exceedingly so. He wasn’t taking any chances. Any one of those poison cakes would have killed the dog.”

“Now, in order to plant that poison on the inside of the room, the poisoner must have had access to that room, isn’t that right?”

Dr. Perry’s forehead twisted into a perplexed frown. “Why, of course,” he said, “that goes without saying.”

“Therefore the dog wouldn’t have been poisoned merely so the poisoner could have had a few minutes in that room.”

“Why?” Dr. Perry asked.

“Because he already must have had access to the room when he planted the poison.”

“That’s right... But wait a minute — how could he have planted the poison with the dog there?”

Selby said, “That’s exactly the point. You see, Doctor, we have more definite clews to work on when it comes to trapping the poisoner of the dog than we do in trapping the murderer of William Larrabie. Therefore, I want to be reasonably certain that one and the same man was guilty of both the dog poisoning and the murder. Then I want to concentrate on getting that dog poisoner.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Dr. Perry said slowly, “and I think I can assure you, Mr. Selby, both the dog poisoning and Larrabie’s death had this much in common — they were the work of some man who knew something of drugs, who had an opportunity to compound a five grain tablet containing a lethal dose of morphia, or who had access to such a tablet. And such a tablet, of course, would be exceedingly rare in the normal course of medical use. Also, the man knew something about dogs.”

Selby stared steadily at Dr. Perry. “Is there,” he asked, “any chance that Harry Perkins might have poisoned his own dog?”

Dr. Perry’s face showed startled surprise. Then he said swiftly, “Why, Mr. Perkins was all worked up about it. He was going to kill the man who did it. He told me to spare no expense. The man was actually crying when he thought the dog was going to die. There were real tears in his eyes.”

“Nevertheless,” Selby said, “he might have poisoned the dog and then rushed him to you in order to counteract the effects of the poison.”

“But why would he have done that?”

“Because he would want to make it look like an outside job. Mind you, Doctor, I’m not accusing Perkins, I’m simply asking you a question.”

Dr. Perry said, “You mean that unless the dog had been absent from the premises, which he wasn’t, the person who dropped that poison inside of the room must have been someone the dog knew. A stranger might have tossed it over the fence, but a stranger couldn’t have planted it in that room.”

“That,” Selby told him, “is right. Now, then, Perkins, I believe, is a registered pharmacist.”

“I believe he is, yes.”

“And the poison which was given the dog was rather quick acting?”

“Yes, very.”

“Isn’t it rather unusual that Perkins would have detected the symptoms of poisoning and brought the dog to you as soon as he did?”

“Well,” Dr. Perry said slowly, “it depends, of course; some people know their dogs so well they can tell the minute anything goes wrong. Still...” he let his voice trail away into thoughtful silence.

At that moment Amorette Standish knocked on the door, opened it and beckoned to Selby.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Selby said... “Although, on second thought, Doctor, I guess that’s everything I wanted to get from you. I’d like very much to have you make some investigation along the theory I’ve outlined and see if you can find out anything.”

Dr. Perry clamped on his hat, strode purposefully toward the door.

“You can count on me,” he said, “and also on my absolute discretion. I’ll be at the coroner’s for a few minutes, if you want to reach me. I have some questions to ask him.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” Selby said.

When Dr. Perry had left the office, the district attorney turned to Amorette Standish.

“We’ve got the numbers,” she said in a low voice.

The door of the other office opened as Sylvia Martin came from the extension line. She nodded and said, “I have them here. The sale was made to Mr. Larrabie shortly before Christmas of last year.”

“Well, let’s check the numbers,” Selby said.

He led the way to the private office, took the camera from the case, read out the numbers. Both girls nodded their heads. “That’s right,” they said.

At that moment the door of the outer office opened and Sheriff Brandon entered the room.

“Find any fingerprints on the space bar of the typewriter?” Selby asked.

“Yes, there are a couple of good ones we can use.”

“Were they those of the dead man?”

“No.”

“By the way,” Selby said, “what number did I give you on that camera?”

The sheriff pulled a notebook from his pocket, read forth a string of figures.

Sylvia Martin exclaimed, “Why, those aren’t the figures that we have, and... Why, they aren’t the figures that are on the camera!”

Doug Selby grinned. “Rex,” he said, “while I’m outlining a damn good story to Sylvia, would you mind sprinting down the courthouse steps? You’ll find Dr. Perry just getting into his automobile. Arrest him for the murder of William Larrabie.”