The D.A. Breaks an Egg

Selby found the light switch, clicked the room into brilliance.

The girl who was seated in the bed had red hair. Her blue eyes had ceased to be startled and showed amused appraisal. Her skin was creamy smooth, and Selby had seen enough of her figure when she had jumped out of bed to realize that she would have passed muster on any bathing beach.

“Well,” she said, “they have good-looking district attorneys in this community.”

She pushed herself upward in bed, let go her hold on the covers to reach for the extra pillow and, with a careless, graceful gesture of her arm, swept the pillow behind her head as she propped her back against the head of the bed.

She made no move to retrieve the covers which had furnished a protecting screen.

Instead, she reached casually over the bedside table, extracted a cigarette from an open pack, tapped it gently on the edge of the table, placed it in her parted lips, snapped a match into flame, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and smiled at Selby’s evident uneasiness.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Don’t you know that women smoke when they wake up in the morning?”

“It isn’t that.”

“Oh I see. You’re married and your wife doesn’t smoke. You don’t approve.”

“No,” Selby said.

“No what?”

“I’m not married.”

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Tell me about the murder.”

“The occupant of this room,” Selby said, “left here and went for a walk in our park. Someone slipped up behind her and slipped a dagger into her back, penetrating her heart. Death was instantaneous.”

“How long did she have the room?”

“Apparently not very long. She arrived sometime between seven and eight, chatted with the night clerk who’s on duty from seven to three, made a couple of telephone calls, bathed, went out and got herself murdered.”

“When?” she asked.

“Last night. The hotel had absolutely no right renting this room again. It...”

“I rented it last night,” she said.

“Well, they had no right to let you have it.”

“It was all in order when I moved in. And I rented it at about seven-thirty or eight, and I remember chatting with the clerk on duty.”

Selby experienced a sensation of sickening apprehension. “What,” he asked, “is your name?”

“Daphne Arcola,” she said. “What’s yours?”

For a long moment Selby stood silent.

“Well?” she demanded.

“My name,” he said, “is Selby. You say that you’re Daphne Arcola?”

“Yes.”

“Any way of proving it?”

She laughed. “The situation,” she said, “is not without its humorous aspect. A man surreptitiously enters my bedroom and then asks me if I can prove my identity.”

“The name of the woman who was murdered was Daphne Arcola,” Selby said.

“Say, who are you kidding?”

“No, that’s the truth.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m rather a healthy corpse. Look me over. But, I guess you already have. Say, what sort of a gag is this?”

“Can you prove that you’re Daphne Arcola?”

“Of course I can.”

“We might start with a driving license,” Selby said.

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at now.”

“What,” Selby asked, “am I getting at?”

“My purse was stolen. Apparently you have some way of knowing that.”

“When was it stolen?”

“I went to a movie. My purse was on the seat beside me. When I got up to leave the purse wasn’t there.”

“Did you complain to the management?”

“Don’t be silly. The management isn’t responsible for purses. I had it coming to me I guess, and I had a lot of money in it, too.”

“How much?”

“Oh, a hundred-odd dollars in small stuff, fifteen hundred dollars in big bills, and some travelers’ checks.”

“And what time did you come in and get to bed?”

“What’s the matter, is there a curfew in this town?”

“I want to know.”

“Is it any of your business?”

“I think it is.”

She said, “You’ve been asking a lot of questions. Suppose you show me that you’re the person you’re supposed to be.”

Selby took a cardcase from his pocket, moved over to show her one of his cards as district attorney of Madison County. Then he showed her a driving license.

She studied them thoughtfully, said, “Yes, I guess you’re okay,” and moved her feet over, making a place for him to sit on the foot of the bed. “So I’m supposed to have been murdered,” she said.

“What time did you get back to the hotel?” Selby asked, “and how did you get in?”

“By asking the clerk who was on duty at the time for the key to this room. It wasn’t the one I’d chatted with earlier in the evening.”

“Then it must have been later than three in the morning.”

She laughed. “What powers of deduction you have, Mr. District Attorney!”

“What time did you get in?”

“I’m certain I couldn’t say. What time is it now?”

“It’s getting along toward ten o’clock.”

She said, “That’s a mean trick getting a girl up at this hour. I intended to sleep until one or two o’clock.”

“You still haven’t told me what time you got in.”

“Well, it’s none of your business.”

“I think it is. Not only were you supposed to be murdered, but I haven’t convinced myself yet that you’re the person you claim to be.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Selby. I wasn’t that suspicious with you.”

“You didn’t have to be. I showed you a card and a driving license.”