The D.A. Breaks an Egg

Selby glanced at the typewriting, frowned, and said, “It was filed a short time before Rose Furman was murdered. Whoever wrote it out must have been planning the murder at that time. It will show premeditation. Now, unless I’m mistaken, Rex, this was not written on Rose Furman’s typewriter, the one that was in her apartment. That’s a portable. This seems to have been written on another machine. Now this... wait a minute, Rex.”

“What is it?” the sheriff asked.

Selby said, “Put yourself in old A. B. Carr’s position. What would he normally have done?”

“What do you mean?”

Selby said, “Daphne Arcola is mixed up in this thing. Her testimony can be damaging to old A. B. C. Ordinarily he would have moved heaven and earth to get her out of jail as soon as she was put in.”

“Well, he tried his best,” Brandon said, grinning. “At least he tried to move me.”

“No, he didn’t, Rex. He tried to bluff us out of arresting her but after that he didn’t do a thing. He quit cold and went tearing on down the highway toward Los Angeles. Ordinarily he’d have followed along, yapping at our heels, demanding that we take her before the nearest and most accessible magistrate, get bail fixed, and...”

“Okay,” Brandon said, “I get it. What do we do, Doug?”

“We get to Los Angeles just as fast as we can,” Selby said.

Daphne Arcola interposed hotly, “I have some rights! You can’t drag me around all over the country wherever you happen to want...”

“Better quit talking and find something to hang hold of, sister,” Brandon told her. “As things stand right now, you’re about to have the ride of your life.”

25

Selby looked at his watch, made a mental calculation. “We can’t make it, Rex. We’ll have to telephone.”

Brandon slowed the car. “Okay, what do we do?”

Selby said, “The next public phone we see rush through a call to Bert Hardwick at the Los Angeles sheriff’s office. Tell him to pick up Barton Mosher. Tell him not to make any charge unless he has to, but, in case he has to, to charge him with the murder of Rose Furman. And just to make a good job, charge him with the murder of Carl Remerton.”

Brandon glanced sidelong at Selby to see whether the district attorney meant what he said, or was merely putting on an act for the benefit of Daphne Arcola. Then, spying the sign of a pay phone ahead, he abruptly braked the car.

While Brandon was phoning, Selby settled himself in the cushions of the car, filled his pipe.

Daphne Arcola said, “You don’t have to be so tough. Perhaps if you’d act a little more human you might find there was more percentage in it.”

Selby turned toward her, started to say something, then suddenly reached for the siren button as he saw Sylvia Martin’s light press car rocketing along, trying to make speed.

At the sound of the siren she risked a sidelong glance, then threw on brakes, brought the car to a weaving stop.

“Well, well, the press,” Daphne Arcola said, as Sylvia Martin parked the car and came racing back. “I presume this is entirely accidental.”

Sylvia ran up to the county car. “Oh, Doug, I’m so glad to see you I could kiss you. Old A. B. C. headed for Los Angeles and he took...” She suddenly broke off as she saw Daphne Arcola.

“Hop in, Sylvia,” Selby invited. “Get in the back seat. Your car should be all right there.”

She opened the door on the rear, jumped in.

“I thought we lacked something,” Daphne said sarcastically. “Now we’re all fixed, friendly press, everything!”

Brandon returned to the car, grinning. “I got Hardwick himself, Doug. You know what’ll happen. He’ll really go to town.”

“That’s fine,” Selby said. “It was a break getting Hardwick personally. Now we can relax. Old A. B. C. will walk right into the trap.”

“Better tell me a few things,” Brandon said, then catching sight of Sylvia Martin, “Why, hello, Sylvia. How did you get here — fly?”

“Darn near,” she said.

“Good to see you. Wish you’d arrived sooner. Go on, Doug, just what did happen?”

Daphne Arcola missed the sidelong glance the sheriff gave the district attorney.

“We can deduce what happened now, Rex,” Selby said. “Carl Remerton went to Windrift, Montana. He was a liberal spender. I wouldn’t doubt if perhaps old A. B. Carr has a finger in the pie in Mosher’s gambling outfit up there, and I presume you, Daphne, were a professional come-on.”

“Save your breath,” she said acidly. “Don’t waste it asking me questions.”

“That’s what must have happened,” Selby said. “Daphne took Carl Remerton in tow. She saw that he had plenty of action and that he kept going to Barton Mosher’s place. Mosher saw that he lost plenty. Then Remerton became suspicious and they had to get rid of him.”

Selby stole a swift glance at Daphne Arcola.

“Or,” he went on, “something happened and they decided to give him knockout drops and that finished his heart.

“In the meantime, his sister hired a detective to find out what had happened. That really bothered Mosher. The fat was in the fire.