“This looks interesting,” mused Martin as they went back to his car. “This address is just a block from where the dead man lived.”
He drove out First Avenue to Vine and turned to the right. Number 183 was a small apartment building with a big garage at the rear, with private stalls for the cars of tenants. The Sheriff stopped in front and said to Whitaker, “Let’s go back to the garage to look for that Buick before we go in.”
They found a dark blue Buick sedan in one of the stalls. A woolen auto robe was crumpled up on the back seat. The truck was unlocked and there were a couple of tire tools inside, but neither of them showed any evidence of having been used to dig in the dirt recently. The motor of the Buick was warm, however, as though it had been standing in the garage not more than an hour.
They returned to the front of the apartment building and entered. Martin found a typed slip bearing the name “Mr. and Mrs. D. L. Waring” under the box marked 1-C, and the Sheriff led the way down a wide, richly carpeted hallway.
The door of No. 1-C was closed and there was no transom to indicate whether there was a light inside. Martin rang the bell and waited. After about thirty seconds he put his finger on the button and held it down.
The door finally opened. A black-browed young man scowled at the Sheriff and his deputy from beyond the threshold. He had broad shoulders and was in his shirtsleeves, wearing pants and shoes but no tie.
He nodded when Martin asked, “Mr. Waring?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’m Sheriff Martin from Sandhill. May we come in?” The Sheriff started forward.
Waring’s scowl deepened and it seemed for a moment that he was going to block Martin’s entrance. He stepped aside, however, with a surly, “I was going to bed. I don’t know what you want here.”
The living-room of the apartment was small, but nicely furnished. Martin looked around slowly and then asked, “Is your wife in?”
“She’s in bed.” Waring thrust his jaw out angrily. “See here. What do you want, anyway?”
“We’d like to see Mrs. Jessica Waring.” Martin’s drawling voice was deceptively mild.
“What about?”
“Murder.”
The quietly spoken word seemed to reverberate through the room. The young man hesitated, then turned and strode across the room to jerk a door open. “Couple of cops out here want to see you, Jessica.” He turned back, fuming. “I don’t know what this is all about. What does my wife know about murder?”
“That’s what we want to ask her,” Martin told him. He got out the makings and rolled a brown-paper cigarette.
A tall, slender girl came out of the bedroom. She wore a polka-dot dressing gown. Her blond hair was worn in a long bob, and this combined with her unrouged face to give her a look of childish innocence. She looked curiously at the two officers and asked in a husky voice, “Did David say you’re the police?”
“From Sandhill.” Martin amplified watching her closely.
She blinked her eyelids and went across the room to a cigarette box. She lifted one out and lit it, went to a chair and sat down. “What on earth is this all about?”
“We want to know if you were in Sandhill this evening, Ma’am?”
“Of course she wasn’t,” Waring said violently. “She’s been home all evening with a sick headache.”
Martin sat down in a straight chair and said, “Let’s let the lady answer the questions.”
“That’s right,” Jessica Waring said. “I had to break a dinner engagement with my husband because I didn’t feel like going out.”
“But you were out?” Martin asked Waring.
“Yes. To dinner with some friends. I got home less than half an hour ago.”
“Did you drive your Buick?”
“No. We’re short on gas and I took a taxi,” the man replied.
“Who did drive your Buick this evening?”
Jessica started slightly, but then sat back, veiling her eyes with long dark lashes.
“No one,” Waring said harshly. “It’s been in the garage.”
“Is that right, Mrs. Waring?”
“I suppose so. I’ve been lying down since late afternoon.”
Martin said, “The motor is still warm.”
Waring glanced sharply at his wife. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and strolled over to stand in front of her. “You have been lying down, I suppose?” His voice trembled slightly and was queerly harsh.
“Of course, dear.” She fluttered her long lashes tremulously. “I told you I didn’t feel like going out.”
Martin said, “I’m sorry, but I have proof that your Buick stopped at a filling station just the other side of Sandhill for gas about nine-thirty tonight.”
Waring swung about and demanded angrily, “What sort of proof?”
“A C-coupon was turned in for the gasoline. One that was endorsed with your registration number.”
Mrs. Waring smiled lazily. “David is always giving his coupons away.”
“The car we’re looking for is a big blue Buick. And a woman answering your description was driving it. I’m afraid the filling station man will identify you, Mrs. Waring.”
“All right. What of it?” She tossed her head and her voice sharpened. “Suppose I did get to feeling better and go for a little drive? I didn’t want to tell you, David,” she confessed, “because I knew you’d accuse me of having just pretended to be sick to get out of that dinner engagement.”
Her husband snorted, went to the end of the divan and slumped down, glowering at the toes of his shoes.
“So you went up on Lookout Mountain just for a drive?” the Sheriff asked easily.
“Yes. I felt that I had to go out and get some air.”
“Alone?”
“Of course I was alone. I often drive alone at night.”
“Do you know the place they call Inspiration Point?”
The girl’s hesitation was only momentary. “Do you mean that parking place where the college kids stop to neck?”
Martin nodded. “Did you stop there tonight?”
“Alone?” She laughed lightly. “I noticed a car parked there as I drove past. The couple who were in it didn’t seem to need any company, so I kept on going.”
“On your way up or down?”
“Driving up. That is, I’m not sure whether it was there when I drove back or not. I didn’t notice.”
“Who was the man in the back seat of your car when you stopped for gas?” the Sheriff shot at her suddenly.
She widened her eyes. “I told you I was alone.” She glanced quickly at her husband, who had turned his head to stare at her. “It’s the truth, David. I swear it is. There wasn’t anyone with me.”
“You told the man at the filling station it was your husband and that he had passed out from too much whiskey,” Martin reminded her.
“Oh, that?” She laughed shakily. “It was just the robe bunched up on the back seat and I thought it would be a good joke to tell him that, when I saw him looking in suspiciously.”
“He says it was a man.”
“Jessica!” David Waring sprang to his feet, trembling violently. “Did you go out with that skunk again? After you promised me? Did you?”
Martin nodded to Whitaker. The deputy lunged forward and put his body between husband and wife. He gave Waring a little shove, and said, “The Sheriff'll ask the questions around here.”
Jessica said, “No, David, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I haven’t seen him since I promised you.”
“What man?” Martin asked grimly.
She didn’t look at him. She was staring past Whitaker at her husband, imploringly. Waring made a little defeated gesture with his hand, and muttered, “Skip it. Forget it.”