Ellery Queen's Magicians of Mystery, page 8
Quinlan said, “Hadn’t I better get the photographer and have a picture taken of these tracks?”
“Can’t you do it?”
“No. I’ve got a fingerprint camera and that’s all. Anyway, that’s a little beyond my technique.”
“Well, just make some measurements of that gouged-out place in the tire and sort of sketch the pattern you can see,” the sheriff said, “and we’ll get going. I want to do some more work in that house.”
Quinlan said, “If that should turn out to be important evidence—”
“Well,” the sheriff said, “I guess you and I can remember those tracks well enough to identify the automobile, can’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
“Go on.”
“Nothing.”
“All right,” Bill Eldon said at length. “Tell you what you do, George. Take a page from your notebook and just tear off a bit here and there until we get it so it just fits that place out of the right front tire.”
Quinlan nodded. He took a page from his notebook and bent over the tracks in the moist earth, carefully tearing off little bits of paper until he had the size and shape to suit him. “It’s an exact fit, Bill.”
“All right,” the sheriff said. “You keep it. Now let’s drive on to the house. I want you to take a look at that cigarette case.”
“We’ll obliterate these tracks,” Quinlan objected.
“But we’ll know the car if we ever run across it on account of that tire,” the sheriff drawled. “Come on, George.”
Quinlan started to say something, then checked himself.
They drove through the plowed strip of ground to the level field where the car jolted along over the weed-encrusted road, through the big shade trees, to the Higbee house.
The sheriff led the way to the creaking side door which he opened.
The scurrying of rats and mice for shelter was distinctly audible, a pattering of tiny feet beating a tattoo of panic on the floor.
The sheriff paused long enough to lower the angle of the flashlight. “At least one woman, and at least one man,” he pointed out. “Sort of zigzagging around.”
Bill Eldon shifted the beam of his flashlight. “This way to the kitchen, George.”
They entered the kitchen. The beam of the flashlight showed the table with its waxed paper, the lipstick, the cigarette stubs, and the charred groove in the table. The beam of the flashlight illuminated the silver cigarette case, glanced from it in a splash of reflected light on the cobwebbed ceiling.
Quinlan opened the fingerprint outfit he was carrying, carefully gripped the corners of the cigarette case with rubber-tipped tongs, and dusted powder over the silver.
“Hump! That’s funny.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There isn’t a print on it.”
“Maybe the person who handled it was wearing gloves,” the sheriff said. “How about the lipstick?”
Quinlan managed to get two prints from the lipstick that were legible enough to give results.
The sheriff seemed unimpressed to the point of disinterest. His flashlight was exploring the floor. “One burnt match,” he said. “That’s significant.”
“I don’t get it.”
“If you were lighting three cigarettes how many matches would you use?”
Quinlan grinned. “If a good-looking girl was sitting across the table from me I’d use one—wait a minute, I’d use two.”
“That’s right. But there’s only one.”
“Then something must have happened to one of the burnt matches. Perhaps a pack rat carried it away.”
“Nope,” the sheriff drawled. “It ain’t that. The way I figure it, the man was a chain smoker. He and the girl sat down here at the table. They had some sandwiches, then they settled down for a smoke. He lit her cigarette and lit his own—one match. After they’d smoked their cigarettes he lit his second one from the stub of the first. The girl only smoked one cigarette. When she’d finished it she took out her lipstick and started to fix up her mouth—and it was then something happened, right at that particular moment.”
“How do you fix it as being at that time?”
“Because they jumped up and were startled. The man put his cigarette down on the table and never had a chance to get back to pick it up. It lay there and burned that groove. The woman dropped her lipstick.”
“And then?” Quinlan asked.
“And some time after that,” the sheriff said, “the girl was found stabbed in a plowed field with no tracks going in either direction, not even her own.”
“How long after that?” Quinlan asked.
“That, son,” the sheriff said, “is something we’ve got to find out. By puttin’ two and two together, you get an answer, and it don’t seem to be the right one.”
It began to rain about three in the morning, a fine, misty cold rain. By daylight the tangled grass and weeds of the field were glistening with moisture, and the dark lumps on the ridges of the plowed ground reflected the sullen daylight which filtered through the low bank of clouds.
The bent figures of the sheriff and George Quinlan moved slowly along over the boundary between the grassy field and the freshly plowed earth. With the thoroughgoing patience of veteran trackers they inched their way along, covering every foot of ground.
Daylight was well advanced and the drizzle had stopped when they returned to their point of beginning.
“Well,” Quinlan said, “that settles it. No one left this piece of ground after the murder was committed, so the body must have come in from the outside—unless it was dropped from an airplane.”
The sheriff straightened. He rolled and lit a cigarette. “I noticed one thing back there in the house, George. You remember where those drapes hang over the door? There’s a long braided silk doodad with tassels on it—but there’s only one. Shouldn’t there be two?”
Quinlan laughed. “Shucks, Bill, the way this place has been left it’s lucky there’s even one. But there should be two. I’ve got the same sort of drapes at home.”
The sheriff thought for a while. “What do you s’pose frightened those people after they’d just eaten?”
“I’m darned if I know,” Quinlan said. “I’m an officer, not a mind reader. It must have been shortly before the murder, and that must have been after dark. Seems strange they’d have been eating sandwiches then. They must have planned to stay all night searching. And speaking of eating, I’m going home, change my wet clothes, and have some breakfast.”
“Well, now,” the sheriff drawled, “guess I’ll drop in at a restaurant and—”
“A restaurant!”
“Uh huh. My sister-in-law’s stayin’ up at my house.”
Quinlan laughed. “Come on up with me—no, hang it, if you don’t change your wet clothes you’ll catch cold. Get up to your house and get into some dry clothes.”
The sheriff looked down at his wet trousers, sighed wearily. “Well, I s’pose I’ve got to.”
It was a few minutes before nine when Beryl Quinlan saw Roy Jasper turn the corner and come walking toward the house.
Beryl ran to the door, whipped it open, and dashed down the stairs. Roy saw her coming and flung up his arm in a gesture of greeting. They met at the edge of the sidewalk.
“Roy!”
“Hi, Beryl!”
She gave him her lips in a swift eager kiss, then pulled away.
“Hey,” he said, “what’s the idea of such a nervous little peck?”
“We may have an audience. Come on, I want to talk with you. When did you leave the fort?”
“Last night—late.”
“Been up all night?”
“Just about. Couldn’t get a bus until after midnight. Travel sure is heavy these days.”
“Where were you when you telephoned me, at the fort?”
“Just outside of the fort, a row of telephone booths there. Why?”
“Oh, just wondering. Let’s not go in for a minute. Dad’s been out pretty much all night on a case and came home soaking wet, took a hot bath, changed his clothes, and has to go to the office in a minute. The family will engulf you if you go inside. Let’s sit out on the porch.”
“Suits me,” Roy said. “This isn’t front-porch weather, though. Been raining here?”
“Just a drizzle. It quit about an hour and a half ago. Let’s sit here. How about a cigarette?”
“How about a kiss, baby? We don’t have an audience here.”
She gave him her lips.
“That’s better. What’s the matter, honey?”
“Just getting a good look at you. How about the discharge?”
“Don’t know yet. Think I may get it.”
“And how about my cigarette?”
Roy casually produced a silver cigarette case, snapped the catch with his thumb, opened it, and extended it to Beryl.
“Roy!” she exclaimed.
He glanced up quizzically at the sound of her voice.
“That’s the case I gave you for Christmas.”
“Sure. What’s funny about that?”
“I—I thought perhaps you’d lost it.”
His forehead puckered into a puzzled frown. “Now what gave you that idea? And do you really want a cigarette?”
“Of course,” she said, taking a cigarette.
He took one and lit her cigarette, then his own. He dropped the case back into his pocket, regarding her thoughtfully. “What’s the big idea?” he asked.
“I—oh, nothing. Roy, how much did you pay for that telephone call last night?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I really got even with the telephone company that time,” he said. “I let one of the other boys come in and place a call to a nearby town while I was waiting. The rate there is only twenty-five cents. I guess the operator got the calls mixed.”
“What happened to the other boy?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Roy said. “He wouldn’t have paid any more than twenty-five cents on his call, and they couldn’t make him. I got to feeling a little cheap about it afterwards. I hope they don’t take it out of the telephone girl’s salary, but, honey, you know how it is. I’ve been stuck so many times when I’d stay in a hotel and put in a call—”
“That wasn’t the fault of the telephone company. That was the fault of the girl at the hotel switchboard. She didn’t clear the line right away and naturally the telephone company had to charge you for all that extra time.”
“Well, he admitted, “I felt cheap about it afterwards, but there was nothing I could do. You see, honey, you were on the line and I didn’t want to take time then telling her she’d made a mistake in my favor and having her wait and look up the call. I—”
The door opened. George Quinlan took two or three steps before he caught sight of the couple from the corner of his eye. He whirled almost apprehensively, then laughed nervously and said, “I didn’t know you two were out here. Hello, Roy. When did you get in?”
“Just now.”
Quinlan came across and shook hands. “Been up all night,” he said, “and I’m a little jumpy. Had breakfast?”
“Yes, thanks, had it more than an hour ago.”
“There’s some coffee on the table. Mrs. Quinlan will be glad to see you.”
“We’ll be in in a minute,” Beryl said, and then smiling at her father said, “Tell Mother, will you?”
That gave the deputy his cue. He said, “I will. See you later, Roy,” and went back into the house.
“What’s the big case?” Roy asked.
“A murder down at the old Higbee place. I understand she’s a girl around my age, blonde, stabbed in the back.”
“The old Higbee place?” Jasper asked, frowning.
“Yes. A man named Beckett bought the place and had started to plow. He found the body.”
“Beckett?” Roy repeated the name after her as though trying to refresh his recollection. “Oh, yes, Sam Beckett. I know him. What in the world was this girl doing in the old Higbee place?”
“No one knows. They don’t seem to have any clue as yet to her identity.”
Jasper finished his cigarette. Almost mechanically he opened the cigarette case, took out another, and lit the second cigarette from the end of the first. “Guess that’s going to keep your father busy,” he said. “How about going in and getting some of that coffee, Beryl?”
Sheriff Bill Eldon propped the Rockville Morning Register in front of his coffee cup.
The Register had gone to press about two o’clock in the morning, and had relied on large headlines and bold-faced type to obscure the fact that the paper had but few facts concerning the murder.
The editorial attitude of the paper was hostile to the entire County administration and Sheriff Eldon expected no quarter from it. On the other hand, it did a pretty good job of news coverage, although it occasionally slipped some editorial barb into its factual reporting.
Bill Eldon read the account carefully and then slowly reread it in order to give himself that semblance of preoccupation which would curb the conversation of his sister-in-law.
Finally Doris could stand it no longer. She said, “Well, if you ask me, somebody’s making an awful fool out of you officers.”
The sheriff’s silence was a courteous suggestion that no one was asking her.
“Or,” Doris went on, “perhaps you’re making fools of yourselves.”
“Could be,” the sheriff admitted laconically.
“Will you kindly tell me, Bill Eldon, how in the name of sense any person can walk over moist, freshly plowed, loamy soil and not leave any footprints?”
“I didn’t say it could be done.”
“The newspaper says it has been done.”
“Well, I’m not responsible for what the newspapers say.”
“The way they talk about you makes you sound like an old fossil.”
“The Register is on the opposite side of the political fence.”
“Well, the Gazette doesn’t seem to be putting you up on any pedestal.”
“It won’t be out until tonight.”
“I’m not talking about this case. I’m talking about the way they’ve been writing you up lately.”
“They’re friendly.”
“Well, you’d better watch out for friends like that.”
The sheriff was silent.
“It does seem to me,” Doris went on exasperatedly, “that if you had more git-up-an’-git you’d command more respect.”
The sheriff grinned. “You don’t get respect from the opposite political party—not publicly and in print, anyway. If you move along slow and easy, you’re an old fossil. If you have git-up-an’-git you’re trying to cover your incompetence behind a smokescreen of hysterical activity.”
There was a moment of welcome silence while Doris thought this over. “Well,” she demanded at length, “who is this girl?”
“We don’t know.”
“What are you doing to find out?”
“We’ve got a couple of clues we’re working on.”
“What clues?”
“Cleaning marks on her jacket and skirt, the name of a store sewed inside the jacket.”
“A local store?”
“No, one in San Rodolpho.”
The sheriff’s wife interposed to say quietly, “Bill, you want me to send that suit out to be cleaned and pressed?”
“Please.”
“How soon do you want it back?”
“Soon as I can get it.”
“You going to get some sleep today?”
“Afraid I’ll have to keep going today. I—”
The telephone rang.
The sheriff went to the phone. He heard a woman’s voice say, “Long-distance call from San Rodolpho,” and then the voice of Everett Gilmer, the chief of police in San Rodolpho. “Hello, Bill. Think I’ve got your party located. The Acme Cleaners has a record of cleaning the jacket. The girl’s name is Elizabeth Dow. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. She live there?”
“Apparently. We have an address in an apartment house. She’s moved from there, but we’re tracing her. The description fits. Want to come down?”
The sheriff hesitated a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll be down. See what you can find out and have it ready for me by the time I get there. I’ll stop by the courthouse and pick up some photographs.”
The sheriff hung up the telephone and glanced over at the table. Seeing the alert angle at which the head of his sister-in-law was cocked, he said suddenly, “I’ve got to rush out. I’ll be back this evening.”
“Where are you going?” Doris demanded so eagerly that the words all ran together into one continuous rattle of sound.
“Out,” the sheriff said.
Everett K. Gilmer, chief of police of San Rodolpho, was a big bluff man whose twinkling eyes radiated cordiality to brother officers, but could assume an ominous hardness when scrutinizing prisoners. He said to Bill Eldon, “Well, Sheriff, I’ve got a line on her. If you’ve got some photos we might just check with someone who can make an identification.”
“Who you got?”
“Woman who runs the apartment house where she had an apartment for a while. When she moved she left a forwarding address. But I thought we’d better check up first with someone who can make an absolute identification. If she’s the one I’ve got quite a lot on her. And I think she’s the one.”
“Let’s go,” the sheriff agreed.
They drove to a frame house that had at one time been an example of three-storied prosperity, but with the spread of the business area it had now been turned into an apartment house.
The heavy-set woman who ran the place promptly identified the photographs which Sheriff Eldon produced.
“That’s the girl. That’s Elizabeth. What’s happened to her?”
“She was killed.”
“How?”
“Stabbed.”
