“It’s not that easy,” Martin told him. “This is a murder investigation.”
“Good heavens! You don’t think my wife had anything to do with a murder, do you?”
“I don’t know. That’s for her to say. What man is he talking about, Mrs. Waring?”
“It’s nothing, really. David got an absurdly jealous idea a couple of months ago. It was foolish on my part. Innocent, but foolish.”
“What’s the name of the man?” the Sheriff demanded of Waring.
“I don’t even know his name,” he muttered. “I found a note he’d written my wife. That’s all I know about it. But I’m sure it’s over. She wouldn’t break her promise.”
Martin said, “You’d better give us his name, Mrs. Waring, so we can check up.”
She shook her head defiantly. “It was just an innocent flirtation, but my husband’s so jealous I’m afraid of what he might do if he ever found out.”
“And you insist that you were alone in the car tonight?”
“I do.” She clamped her lips together tightly.
The Sheriff got up and went over to a low table near the door that held a red pocketbook, with a little red hat lying on top of it. He picked them up and asked, “This is the purse you had with you tonight?”
She nodded mutely.
He opened it and searched through it, finding and palming her tube of lip-rouge in his big hand. He laid the purse down, slid the lipstick in his pocket, told Whitaker, “We’ve got another stop to make in Denver,” and stalked to the door.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Waring said anything as they went out.
Going down the hall, the deputy asked, “What do you make of it, John?”
“I don’t know. If we can find anything to connect her with William Petty, I think we’ll have something. It’s a cinch she’ll be up to something tonight. If her husband followed her out there and caught her with Petty — or if she drove out alone and caught Petty with another woman — anything might have happened. On the other hand, she may be telling the truth. All except being out there alone. I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Neither does her husband,” said Whitaker soberly. “I bet there’s hell to pay in 1-C the rest of the night.”
They went out to their car, and Martin drove around the block to 127 South Race. It was a big, old-fashioned dwelling that had been converted into housekeeping rooms. Though it was almost midnight, the porch light was on, and a silvery-haired old lady was knitting in the big living room when they walked in.
She looked up with a gentle smile, but shook her head sadly. “I haven’t a single vacancy, gentlemen.”
Martin said, “It’s about one of your roomers, Mr. William Petty.”
“Oh, yes. I was waiting up to let him in. I always like to know everyone’s in and the door’s locked before I go to bed. Has anything happened to Mr. Petty?”
“There’s been an accident,” the Sheriff told her. “Do you know where he went tonight — or with whom?”
“Why, I think he and Larry Johnson went out together. Larry’s one of my roomers, too. But he came back an hour ago and he guessed Bill would be in soon. Mercy me! Is it serious?”
“He’s been badly hurt, Ma’am. Could we see this Larry Johnson?”
“Yes. He’s right upstairs. I’ll show you his room.” The landlady bustled out of her chair. “My, my. It’s too bad about Mr. Petty. Such a nice young man. Always so jolly and full of fun.”
She led the way up a wide staircase and knocked at a door at the top. A sleepy voice said, “Yes?”
Martin opened the door and switched on the light. A tousle-headed young man blinked at him in surprise from the bed.
“These gentlemen want to talk to you about Bill Petty, Mr. Johnson,” the landlady announced from the doorway. “He’s been hurt.”
“That’s too bad.” Johnson sat up and pulled the blanket about his shoulders. He laughed, and said, “Don’t tell me the husband came home unexpectedly.”
“Why do you say that?” Martin asked sharply.
Johnson grimaced. “I really didn’t mean anything. Only... well, Bill always had some woman on the string and I wondered—” He hesitated, then went on hastily, “I was just kidding. What did happen?”
“I understand you were out with him tonight.”
“No. I went to a show by myself.”
“Why, Mr. Johnson,” the old lady reproved him from the doorway. “You know you and Mr. Petty went together. I heard you talking about what picture you’d go to at breakfast this morning.”
“I know we did at breakfast this morning, Mrs. Crane. But Bill changed his mind this evening and went out alone.”
“I don’t think you had ought to fib about it,” she said, shaking her head. “I saw you drive away with him in his car with my own eyes, right after supper.”
“Sure, he drove me downtown. But he dropped me off at the Orpheum and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Can you prove it?” Martin asked.
The young man scowled at that. “I don’t get it,” he protested. “Why should I have to prove that?”
“Petty has been murdered!”
“Murdered?” Johnson’s jaw dropped.
“I don’t know anything about it,” Johnson said soberly. “I’m sorry I kidded about Bill. He was a good guy. I can tell you all about the picture at the Orpheum. And I may have my ticket stub in my pocket. But I didn’t see anybody I knew all evening.”
“Did Petty tell you where he was going tonight?”
The young man hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
“Give you any idea what he planned?”
“I suppose I’d better tell you the whole thing,” the youth said reluctantly. “We had planned to go to the show together tonight, but when I went into Bill’s room after supper he told me it was all off. He showed me a note he’d gotten in the mail and said it was the kind of date he didn’t want any company on.”
“What did the note say?”
“It said—” Johnson screwed up his face in thought. “I think it’s still lying on his dresser where I put it down.” He slid out of bed. “I’ll show you.”
The officers stood back to let him go out into the hallway and into a room two doors down. He turned on the light, and sighed with relief as he pointed to the littered dresser top. “There it is. I thought I remembered him leaving it there.”
The Sheriff and his deputy strode over to read the few words written in ink on a double sheet of heavy feminine notepaper.
Meet me tonight the same place. Must see you.
The Sheriff put it in his pocket, careful not to ruin any fingerprints that might be on it. “You say Petty got this in the mail?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Did you see the envelope? Notice when or where it was mailed?”
“I didn’t see the envelope.”
“How about you, Mrs. Crane?” Martin asked the landlady. “Did you notice any mail that Petty received today?”
“I can’t say as I noticed it particular. He got several letters.”
“What did he tell you about this note?” Martin looked hard at Johnson.
“Nothing much. Except it was a pretty special date and he wouldn’t need me along. I had an idea, well, that maybe it was a married woman.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Johnson shrugged defensively. “Except that he was always getting mixed up with married women.”
“Can you give us any names?”
“No. He was always mighty closed-mouthed about his lady friends.”
“Ever hear him mention one named Jessica, for instance?”
Johnson appeared to be thinking. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”
He was unable to furnish any other relevant information concerning his friend’s possible actions of the evening, nor did a thorough search of Petty’s room reveal anything of consequence.