The D.A. Breaks an Egg

“We had a murder last night,” Larkin said importantly.

“So I read in the paper. Daphne Arcola.”

“Daphne Arcola nothing! That was some pipe dream the county officers conjured up. We weren’t in on that bull.”

“You mean she wasn’t the one who was murdered?”

“That’s right. This dead girl came from Montana and had red hair. This Daphne Arcola has red hair and comes from Montana. That’s how the mistake was made. Thank heavens we didn’t make it.”

“And this woman isn’t dead?”

“The corpse is dead as hell. There’s nothing dead about Daphne Arcola. I guess The Blade is really going to pour it on the county officials tonight.

“Well, that’s their hard luck. What I’m interested in now is finding a car that may have any bloodstains on the cushions. That’s particularly true of transient cars. Now you folks have some trade that comes over here from the hotel, and...”

“They have the murder car already,” the attendant said.

“Who has?”

“The sheriff and the D.A. The sheriff had a technical man down here making casts of the tires. I understand they’re going to move the car to the county garage.”

“What car?”

“It has an Illinois registration and belongs to Dorothy Clifton, I understand. She’s visiting out at the Lennox place. Didn’t the murdered woman put in a call to the Lennox place?”

“Not the murdered woman,” Larkin said, “but the one who... Say, let’s take a look at that car.”

The garage attendant said, “Maybe I’m talking out of turn. I wasn’t told to say anything about this. I...”

“What the hell do you mean, talking out of turn?” Larkin demanded. “You’re talking to the Law.”

“Well, it was the Law that put it in here.”

“Get busy and show me the car.”

The attendant led the way to the automobile. Otto Larkin looked it over carefully. “Belongs to Dorothy Clifton,” he said, “and Dorothy Clifton is visiting with the Lennox family?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“That’s mine too,” Larkin said. “They had a burglary out there last night. I’m investigating that, too.”

“Must keep you pretty busy.”

“Sure does... You say they made casts from these tires?”

“That’s right.”

Larkin bent over and owlishly examined the tires. Then he straightened, said, “Okay, I just wanted to check on it. Who brought it in?”

“She brought it in and then said she was turning the ticket over to the sheriff. After a while one of the deputies came down and had the ticket for the car, and went over it...”

“Search it for blood spots?”

“The way it looked to me, they searched the car for everything. Then they made casts of the tires.”

“Those tire treads seem to match with tracks we found out at the scene of the murder,” Larkin said importantly, “but don’t say anything about this. Just keep it under your hat.”

“Okay.”

“Not to the newspapers. Not to anyone.”

“I understand.”

Larkin picked up speed in his stride as he puffed his way up the inclined ramp to the sidewalk where his car was parked. He jumped in, stepped on the starter, and drove to the big frame house on Chestnut Street.

He got out and pounded his way up the stairs, rang the bell.

The housekeeper who came to the door looked at him with tired eyes, and said, “Who’d you want to see?”

“I’ll begin with Mrs. Lennox,” Larkin said.

“She’s in the living room. I’ll let her know that...”

“I’ll let her know myself,” Larkin said, and pushed his way importantly into the living room.

Mrs. Lennox had been writing a letter at the antique writing desk. She looked up with nervously fluttering eyelids, saw the chief of police, and hastily put a blotter over the face of the letter.

“Why, good afternoon,” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t telephone.”

Larkin walked over to a chair and sat down. “What’s this about Dorothy Clifton’s car?” he asked abruptly.

“What about it?”

“That’s what I want to know. What about it?”

“She drove out from Chicago. She had a little motor trouble, sort of a tuning-up job, I believe. It’s a long drive, you know.”

“So what did she do?”

“Took the car into the garage this morning, I believe.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs in her room.”

“Let’s get her. I want to talk with her.”

“I... I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Larkin said, “If you’ll get her down here, we may be able to clear up a lot of things.”

Mrs. Lennox said, “Just a moment.” She arose from the desk, started for the door, then turned back to pick up the blotting paper, fold the sheet of stationery on which she had been writing, put it in an envelope; and holding the envelope in her hand, stalked out of the living room.

As soon as she had left, Larkin jumped up from the chair, moved swiftly over to the writing desk, picked up the blotter, looked at it, saw that he could decipher nothing from the face of the blotter, put it back on the desk, went back to his chair, sat down, crossed his legs, and waited.

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Lennox and Dorothy Clifton returned to the living room.

“This is Dorothy Clifton,” she said, “my older son’s fiancée.”

“How do you do?” Dorothy Clifton said.

“Mr. Larkin is the chief of police here,” Mrs. Lennox explained.

“Yes, so you told me.”