Борден Дил - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956

“I’d seen her around.”

“Any place in particular?”

He rinsed his razor. “The Rod and Gun Club.” He shrugged. “That other gin mill west of town. I forget the name.”

“The Saddle Club?”

“That’s it. The Saddle Club.”

“Ever date her?”

“Once or twice,” he admitted.

“Ever make her?” I asked him.

He looked at me and smiled. “Once or twice.”

“That could turn out to be quite an admission, Mr. Carver.”

“Liz was quite a girl.”

“You were seen with her?”

He shrugged. “It’s no secret. She had a reputation, and I’m a stranger. Small town people remember strangers.”

“What do you suppose she was doing out here last night?”

“Who?”

“Liz Peterson,” I said patiently.

“Good question. You got me.”

“You didn’t see her last night?”

“I sure as hell didn’t.”

“Has she ever been out here with you?”

He looked off in the direction of Miss Everly’s room and returned his gaze to me. “She sure as hell hasn’t,” he breathed fervently.

“Did Burns or Miss Everly know her?”

He shrugged again, carelessly. “I sure as hell don’t know.”

“You sure as hell better keep yourself available,” I advised him.

He stared at me. He was wiping his razor when I left.

The den was deserted. I used the phone on the desk. After a moment the shrill, nasal voice of Tillie Monroe filtered through the instrument.

“Operator,” she said.

“This is Sheriff Marking,” I told her. “Are we alone?”

“What?”

“Are we on a closed circuit, or can others listen?”

“It’s a closed circuit.”

“Good. I need some answers and I think you can help me,” I explained. “I must caution you not to repeat a word of our conversation to—”

“Why, Tom Marking!” she expostulated. “You know I never...”

“Of course, Tillie,” I soothed. “More a reminder than anything else.”

“Well, I should certainly hope so. I mean, after all.”

“Tillie, within the last two or three weeks have there been any calls for Mr. Rod Carver?”

“You mean long distance calls?”

“Long distance or local.”

“Well, there ain’t been any long distance calls. Local, of course, I wouldn’t be knowing about... unless I just happened to hear someone ask for him after I made the connection.”

“And did you?”

“What?”

“Just happen to hear someone ask for him?”

“Oh. Yes, once or twice, now that I come to think about it. It was a woman. Both times. She called from....” Tillie broke it off and backed up. “That is, as I remember, she called from the Rod and Gun Club.”

“I see. And Mr. Carver was at home in each instance?”

“Yes. She talked to him both times. Seemed to think she had some kind of date with him. He was always polite, talked to her in a low voice. Sounded like a real gentleman. From what little I heard, I mean.”

“And did Mr. Carver indicate to the woman in these conversations that he intended to keep the appointment?”

“I really couldn’t say, I’m sure,” she informed me loftily. “After all, I wasn’t eavesdropping! ”

“Did Miss Everly receive any phone calls in the past two or three weeks?”

“No,” Tillie admitted, “she didn’t. But the man, Mr. Burns, did. Land, he must’ve run up sixty or seventy dollars in long distance tolls in the past week alone. Talking to California. It was about one of Miss Everly’s books. Mr. Burns... he’s her agent, I understand... an’ some fellow in California named Jefferson have been haggling over how much the book was worth. And land sakes, Tom, you’ve no idea how much that Jefferson fellow was willing to pay. No book in the world’s worth it to my notion, except maybe the Bible, but Mr. Burns kept laughing and telling him, ‘No, no Barney, you’ve got to do a lot better’n that,’ just like seventeen thousand dollars was cactus or something.”

“I see. Now about today. How about giving me a rundown on the calls made from here this morning, Tillie?”

“Well, about seven-fifteen or so, Charley called the coroner. Then, a little while after that — around eight, I guess — Charley called Sim Baker. Then... lessee... I think it must’ve been around eight-thirty, Sim called the coroner. Then, somewheres around nine, Sim called Milo Ennis at his photo shop here in town. That’s all the calls there was, Sheriff.”

“You’re sure you haven’t forgotten any, Tillie?”

“Listen here, Tom Marking, I’ve been handling this switchboard since you was still running around in knee britches an’ a snotty nose and I’ll have you know...”

I hung up; she was sure.

The coroner came with Milo Ennis. Milo looked grumpy. “You picked the day I’m due at the high school for class pictures,” he told me accusingly as he lugged his equipment upstairs.

Pete Hardy waddled across the room to me. The coroner is a short, heavy-set man in his sixties. A horseshoe of white hair tops his balding dome and accentuates the red of his face. Something was bothering him.

“Has the deceased’s family been notified?” he asked me in a low, confidential voice.

“She has no family that I know of, Pete.”

He frowned. “Was she a woman of means, or will the county have to, ah... defray the expenses?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The bank could tell you if she had an account or not.” I checked my grin. “The phone’s in there.” I indicated the den. Most county officials double in brass and Pete is no exception. In addition to being the coroner, he also owns the Hardy Funeral Home. Devensville boasts two mortuaries, and Pete isn’t above using his official capacity to fudge a little on his competitor.

Pete was making his call when Bartel came out of the kitchen, wiping his mouth. “The states attorney just called, Marking. While you were upstairs. Said to tell you he was coming out. I’m to tell you he’s coming with Sim.”

“Okay,” I nodded. “And Charley, where’s Mrs. Donald? I haven’t seen her all morning.”

Bartel laughed. “Too much excitement for the old girl, I guess. She was running around here like a chicken with its head cut off. She wasn’t doing no good here. I told her to go home. Told her I’d square things if Ed asked about her.”

I nodded. “I can talk to her later, if necessary.”

He looked at me narrowly. “What the hell do you suppose Gib Dolan wants out here?”

“I invited him,” I said and went out in the yard. The registration card on the steering post of the dirty, beat-up Chevy listed Liz Peterson’s age as twenty-four. I looked around a bit, walked down the short driveway to the road, then went back to the house.

Upstairs I stood quietly and watched Pete Hardy make a perfunctory examination of the deceased.

Milo finished his pictures and left.

Ed Williamson was in the kitchen, fixing a lunch for Bartel and the coroner.

The guests were in their rooms.

Gib Dolan, Sim and I held our conference in the den. Sim filled us in on what he had learned in town. It wasn’t much, but one point was interesting: No one close to the dead girl seemed to know that she had been pregnant.

I gave them the information I had accumulated, trying to present the facts in an impartial manner. I spelled out my conclusions. The states attorney is a young man, competent and articulate. He’s also ambitious. He listened intently.

When I had finished, the room grew still. In the silence the elderly clock on the wall hammered out its endless story, punctuated at irregular intervals by the rasp of Dolan’s heavy breathing and by the roar of Sim’s cigarette hack.