Харлан Эллисон - Murder Plus - True Crime Stories From The Masters Of Detective Fiction

“Neither do I. There might be something in the call Trumbull had from that woman this morning. From what the operator told us, it sounded like she just wanted to make sure Trumbull was in his room.”

“And when she found out that he was she came up and murdered him? That could be. But we can’t trace the call.”

“She might not know that. I suggest we drop a story in the paper to the effect that we know who she is and that she’ll save a lot of trouble for herself by coming in voluntarily.”

“It’s worth a try,” I told him.

Stopping at the plant of the La Tumara Tribune, we found the editor-publisher, J. Lee Rowan, busily engaged in getting out an extra on Trumbull’s murder. Naturally he had little information beyond the bare fact that the millionaire oil-man had been killed, and he welcomed the chance to run the story about the mysterious phone call. While he was talking with Carter, I went back to the photographic laboratory at the rear of the shop.

As a daily newspaper and the owner of the largest job-printing plant in the country, the Tribune could afford a much greater investment in photographic equipment than the sheriff's department. I had an improvised darkroom and other essentials in my home; but Mr. Rowan had placed their facilities at my disposal and frequently I used them. In return for this courtesy, we made available to them such of our pictures as were news.

L. A. “Red” Craig, the photographer, promised to develop the films and send them over to the sheriff's office at once.

“Now, I really am in a hurry today, Red,” I told him. “Don’t waste time in pulling any tricks on me.”

“Certainly not, Chet,” he said solemnly. But there was a twinkle in his eye.

Red and I had practically grown up together in La Tumara, and he seldom lost an opportunity to play a practical joke on me. On one occasion, which I remember particularly well, he superimposed the portrait of a bathing beauty upon a picture I had taken of a wrecked car. He did not change the negative, of course, and the only harm done was the temporary shock to my nervous system.

Since it was now mid-morning and neither Sheriff Carter nor I had eaten, I ran into a restaurant on the way back to the courthouse and got a carton of coffee and a few sandwiches. We were just sitting down to eat in the sheriff's office when the phone rang.

He picked up the receiver, talked for a moment, then motioned for me to take the extension phone.

J. E. Parker, the manager of the Parker-Kern Hotel, was on the wire. “I’ve just been talking to those two bellboys you interviewed this morning. I find they concealed something they should have told you.”

“Yes?” There was a snap to Sheriff Carter’s voice.

“One of our day bellboys had arranged with them to come on shift early so that he could carry down Mr. Trumbull’s baggage. It seems that he waited on Mr. Trumbull regularly, and he could get a much bigger tip than they could. Of course, the hotel doesn’t approve of mixing shifts for such reasons, and the boys were afraid they might be fired. But when they got to thinking it over—”

“Where is this other boy?” Carter interrupted. “Is he on duty now?”

“Well, he should be. According to the time-clock, he punched in at 5:50 this morning. And his street clothes are still in his locker. But no one has seen him — or remembers seeing him. Apparently he dressed in, and got out of, the locker room before any of the other boys got down.”

“Don’t you have a man on duty at your service entrance?”

“We do. But he’s principally concerned in seeing that everyone who comes in punches the clock. After they’re once in and in uniform he just watches to see that no hotel property is carried out. Our employees have to use the rear entrance all day in the course of their work.”

Sheriff Carter groaned audibly. “What about the night elevator operator, Harry Knox? If this boy had gone to Trumbull’s floor wouldn’t Knox have seen him?”

“Not necessarily. The boy could have used the stairs. More than likely, however, he would have borrowed the service elevator. The operator doesn’t come down to work until 6:30; employees use the front car at night.”

Mr. Parker gave the boy’s name as Jack Sibbons and his residence as 453 South Main Street.

Leaving our food almost untouched, Carter and I sped the few blocks across town to the address. It was in one of the dingier sections of the city, bordering on the business district. Once the home of a pioneer rancher, it had, in recent years, been converted into a rooming house. The proprietor was Mrs. Olaf Walling, the wife of a refinery company employee.

“Jack left for work at 5:40 this morning,” she stated. “I looked at the clock when I heard him go out because he and Olaf usually left about the same time and I thought, perhaps, Olaf was late. About 6:15 he came back in his uniform; said he’d forgotten to send his washing to the laundry. He ran upstairs, and came down a minute or two later with a suitcase. He put it in his car and drove off, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“Do you know what laundry he patronizes?” I asked.

“Yes. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t go there. I looked in his room a while ago, and everything’s gone that was worth taking. Fortunately, I’d collected my rent in advance.”

A brief inspection of Sibbons’s room revealed that he undoubtedly did not intend to return. Nothing had been left behind but a pair of worn-out socks and a few magazines.

Using Mrs. Walling’s telephone, Sheriff Carter dispatched a pick-up request to the State Highway Patrol. Largely due to Mrs. Walling, he was able to give a minute description of the suspect and his car, and it seemed certain that it would be only a matter of time until he was picked up.

The “extra” issue of the Tribune was already on the streets as we drove him back to the office. And as we walked down the corridor of the courthouse, County Attorney Max Radford called to us from his quarters. We entered and he led us back to an inner room.

“This is Mrs. Brock, boys,” said Max, nodding toward a smartly dressed woman of about thirty. “She’s the lady who called Mr. Trumbull this morning.”

The woman patted her blonde hair uneasily. “All I did was call him. I never went near the hotel.”

“Suppose you tell us the whole story,” suggested Carter.

The woman gave her name as Jane Brock, and stated that she lived at the Empire Hotel at Main and Elm streets. She was a waitress in the Ramble Inn.

“Mr. Trumbull used to drop in at the Inn quite frequently when he was in town,” she began. “He was kind of flirty, like some men get at his age, and he was always kidding me about taking me back to New York with him. Well, yesterday he came in and, as I’d been having a little trouble on the job, I asked him if he really meant it about going to New York. He said he did, and I told him I’d think it over and let him know the first thing this morning.” She broke off, blushing. “It wasn’t like it sounds. I just thought I might be able to get a better job in New York.”

“So you called him this morning?” I prompted, after a moment’s pause.

“Yes. I was going to tell him I didn’t think I’d better go. When he answered the phone, though, he sounded so angry I got scared and hung up.”

Drawing us to one side, County Attorney Radford revealed that he had checked Mrs. Brock’s story with the night clerk at the Empire Hotel. He declared that she had called the Parker-Kern from her room at about 5:30, and that she had not left her room at the time he went off duty at 7 o’clock.

There was no reason for detaining her, and she was excused with our thanks.

Not more than an hour later, the highway patrol notified us that they were bringing in Jack Sibbons. He had been picked up less than forty miles away from the city while trying to repair a tire on his jalopy. He had only twenty dollars in money on him, and no valuable papers of any kind. He professed to be in ignorance of the fact that Trumbull had been murdered.