The D.A. Breaks an Egg

“You may quote me on anything I say to you,” Selby said. “If I had anything to say that was off the record I’d not trust it to the discretion of The Blade. And you can quote me on that, too.”

“I’ll do so,” Elrod said, his pencil flying over the folded sheets of newsprint propped against his knee.

Selby waited for the next question. Brandon eyed the reporter with hostility.

“Now let’s see, Mr. District Attorney, you find someone wearing a coat purchased in Windrift, Montana. You immediately grab a representative of the press and go dashing about town for the purpose of breaking into the rooms of anyone you can find who happens to be registered from Windrift, Montana...”

“All right,” Brandon exploded, getting up out of his chair. “You and your dirty, lying...”

“Hold it, Rex,” Selby said.

Elrod glanced from one to the other, grinning gleefully. “Go right ahead, gentlemen. Were you planning on assaulting me, Sheriff? By all means finish what you were going to say. I don’t want all my quotes to be from the district attorney.”

“He was about to tell you that any questions you want to ask of us as public officials, you may ask at this time, but that any criticisms should be saved for publication in your paper,” Selby said.

“Well, well,” Elrod observed. “How marvelous it is that you can read his mind so easily. I had thought he was going to say something entirely different.”

“Did you?” Selby asked suavely. “I’m certain he wasn’t. You see, I’ve known Brandon for such a long time I can tell exactly what he has in mind.”

And Selby’s eyes caught and held those of the sheriff, forcing him, by the insistent steady pressure of their concentration, back to his chair.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Elrod said, “about barging into rooms simply because the occupant came from Windrift, Montana.”

“And answered the description of the woman who had been murdered?”

“Well, that depends on how you phrase the description,” Elrod said. “I’ve seen the body, and I’ve talked with Daphne Arcola. In fact, I have an exclusive interview from her, and...” And Elrod broke off to glance gloatingly at the officials.

“Now, then,” he went on, “the murdered girl had red hair. She had blue eyes. The resemblance just about ends there. There was a difference in height; there was a difference in weight; there was a difference in age.”

“I didn’t have the two to compare,” Selby said.

“Oh, of course, of course. I suppose if you’d been district attorney of Los Angeles and a woman had been killed with the label of a San Francisco department store on her garments, you’d have insisted on searching the rooms of every woman from San Francisco.”

“That’s not a comparable situation,” Selby said, “and you know it.”

“No, I suppose not. I’m just trying to get what you consider is a comparable situation.”

Abruptly, Selby got to his feet, said, “I think we’ve answered all of your pertinent questions.”

“Well, Mr. Selby,” Elrod said, “I have been instructed to advise you that the position of The Blade is that your actions were exceedingly bucolic.”

“The Blade may take any position it damn pleases.”

Elrod pushed the folded newsprint back into his pocket, shoved the pencil into the side pocket of his coat, grinned maliciously, and walked to the door. “That is another good quote,” he called back over his shoulder.

“I think it would be worth what it would cost just to take that guy to pieces,” Brandon said.

Selby shook his head, lit his pipe, said, “It isn’t the man. It’s the paper. And he’s caught me off first base, Rex. I’ve simply got to take it. And The Blade would like nothing better than to have its reporter goad us into making some sort of physical attack.”

“I wouldn’t make a physical attack. I’d just grab his coat collar and hustle him out into the corridor.”

“And then what?” Selby asked, grinning.

“Then,” Brandon said, his eyes suddenly gleaming with anticipation at the thought, “I’d haul off my right foot and see how far I could kick him.”

“Exactly,” Selby said, “and you know the way The Blade would write it up. It would be that the irate sheriff, trapped by evidences of his own stupidity, being unable to offer any explanation for the things he had done, resorted to physical violence on the person of a flyweight disabled veteran who was merely asking for an explanation of the bizarre actions of the power-crazed authorities.

“No, Rex, we’re behind the eight ball and we’ve got to think our way out.”

10

Otto Larkin, the paunchy chief of police, leaning backward to keep his balance, walked with short, cautious steps down the inclined ramp to the basement storage level of the Central Garage.

The man at the window of the control booth looked up, saw who it was, nodded, and said through the open window, “Good afternoon, Chief.”

Larkin nodded. Shrewd, glittering eyes surveyed the garage as though expecting to uncover some clue by the mere intensity of his survey.

The garage attendant said, “Something I can do for you, Chief?”