“So you called him this morning?” I prompted, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes. I was going to tell him I didn’t think I’d better go. When he answered the phone, though, he sounded so angry I got scared and hung up.”
Drawing us to one side, County Attorney Radford revealed that he had checked Mrs. Brock’s story with the night clerk at the Empire Hotel. He declared that she had called the Parker-Kern from her room at about 5:30, and that she had not left her room at the time he went off duty at 7 o’clock.
There was no reason for detaining her, and she was excused with our thanks.
Not more than an hour later, the highway patrol notified us that they were bringing in Jack Sibbons. He had been picked up less than forty miles away from the city while trying to repair a tire on his jalopy. He had only twenty dollars in money on him, and no valuable papers of any kind. He professed to be in ignorance of the fact that Trumbull had been murdered.
Around noon, the arresting officers, Mike Kindle and J. P. Rhodes, arrived in La Tumara with their prisoner. A rather slender youth of about twenty-two, he was still dressed in his bellboy uniform. He was so badly frightened that he was almost in hysterics.
Before he was well inside the office he was shouting accusations that he was being framed.
Carter sat looking at him silently, and Sibbons suddenly grew quiet. Sheriff Ike had that effect on people.
“That’s better,” he drawled, approvingly. “No one’s going to frame you, | Sibbons. We are going to ask you some questions. The answers to those questions will decide what’s going to happen to you. It’s up to you, not us. Understand?”
Sibbons gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, you went to Mr. Trumbull’s room this morning, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you go up there?”
“I don’t know exactly. It was around 6 o’clock — earlier than I was supposed to have been there. I thought I’d help Mr. Trumbull do his packing and stall around a little and by that time it’d be all right for me to be seen in the lobby.”
“How did you get up there?”
“I walked. His room’s just on the fifth floor, you know.”
Carter nodded. “All right. What happened after you got there?”
“Nothing.” The youth’s glance wavered. “I decided maybe it would be better not to go in after all.”
The sheriff shook his head soberly.
“That’s foolish, Sibbons. It’s not helping your case to pretend you didn’t know about the murder. You must have known. If you didn’t, why did you try to leave town?”
“Well, I didn’t kill him, anyway.”
“We’re waiting to hear your story,” observed Carter.
“I... I just rapped on the door and walked in. That’s the way we usually do when it’s a man’s room. We don’t wait for them to answer the door.
“As soon as I looked in I knew something was wrong. The room was all torn up like someone had been searching it. Then, I saw Mr. Trumbull and I knew he was dead. I figured I’d better get out of there fast.”
“Why didn’t you report the crime?”
“I was afraid to. I didn’t have any business being there.”
“You’ve been in trouble with the law before, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t!” Sibbons protested.
Carter ignored the answer. “What was the other trouble about? Murder?”
“No! It was for — they said I stole a watch from a man at a place I was working at. But that’s a long time ago! I was only seventeen when that happened!”
“Why did you run away this morning? Can’t you see you made things worse for yourself?”
Sibbons started to speak; then, he bit his lip sullenly and remained silent.
“Have any reason to kill Trumbull?” Carter persisted.
The bellboy shook his head nervously. “No. Why should I?”
County Attorney Radford, who had been listening in on the interview, spoke up.
“You’ve got a bad case against you, Sibbons,” he said. “Let’s see how it stacks up. Point number one, you sneaked into the hotel and up to Trumbull’s room. Second, you were in there between the time he was killed and the time the body was found.”
“Point three, no one but an employee, such as yourself, could have taken that lamp and got behind Trumbull without putting him on guard. Four, you pulled a sneak on us. And finally, you have a record. Now, if you’ve got anything to say for yourself you’d better say it — and fast!”
The youth licked his lips nervously but said nothing.
Radford leaned above him and demanded, “Did you kill Trumbull?”
Sibbons shook his head in a frantic, scared way. His voice trembled. “No. No! I had no reason to kill him. Honest to God! Look, gents, gimme a break. Honest, I didn’t touch him. I got a record but I’m not a murderer. I... I want a lawyer!”
He stopped talking and no amount of questioning or prompting could get him to say more.
Carter and I saw him lodged in the county jail on a charge of suspicion of murder. We then had our long delayed breakfast and returned to the office.
While the sheriff thoughtfully rolled a brown-paper cigarette, I opened the package of photographs which had arrived from the Tribune and began to go through them. I came to the third one and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Then, feeling foolish, I threw down the print and reached for the telephone.
The sheriff looked at me inquiringly. “What’s up, Chet?”
“Just look at that! Red Craig’s been monkeying with our pictures again. I’m going to call him and pin his ears back.”
Carter inspected the print closely. “Red got that sense of humor from his father. The old man got shot in the leg for it, too, when he was about Red’s age—” His voice stopped and he pulled open a drawer and took out the magnifying glass we used in comparing fingerprints. After studying the photo for several seconds he laid it on the desk before me. “That picture hasn’t been doctored, Chet. It’s a picture of Trumbull’s room before the murder — either his room or one just like it. Red might have had an artist paint out the body with an air-brush but he couldn’t have put the room in order and show the bed made up.”
He was right. By this time I had cooled down enough to look closely. It was simply a picture of a room in the Parker-Kern Hotel, identical to the one occupied by the mining magnate. But how had it got in with the pictures I took of the crime scene?
I got Red Craig on the wire.
“Hi, Chet,” he said cheerfully. “How’d you like the body-snatching stunt?”
I started to tell him just what I thought of it when he stopped me.
“Wait a minute, Chet. Don’t get on the prod yet. Let me tell you about it. We’re getting out a new advertising folder for the Parker-Kern — we do all their job printing for them.
“Well, a few weeks ago I was up there shooting stuff for it, indoors, outdoors, view from the roof terrace, everything. This new piece is more like a college catalogue than a resort folder. No — let me finish telling you. One of the shots was of a deluxe bedroom, same as Trumbull’s. The management tries to make them look like guest rooms in a wealthy home but they’re all as much alike as peas in the pod. Every ash tray, every flower vase — they’re all alike. Lamps, bureau scarfs, do-dads, everything. Well, I just couldn’t resist giving you a ‘before and after’ view of your murder room. No hard feelings, I hope.”