“And when was the morphine administered?”
“Any time from one to two hours prior to death.”
“How?”
“Well, I’m not certain about that,” Trueman said, “but there’s some chance a tablet containing the deadly dose might have been inserted in the box of sedative which the man was carrying with him. In that event he’d have taken the morphia thinking he was taking an ordinary sleeping tablet. The tablets were wrapped in paper so that they’d naturally be taken in a consecutive order. I’ve made a very delicate test with some of the paper remaining in the box and get a definite trace of morphia.”
“Could that have been a possible error on the part of the druggist filling the prescription?” Selby asked.
“In a tablet of that size, with that amount of morphia,” Dr. Trueman said, “the chance of honest error would be just about one in ten million.”
“Then... then it was deliberate, carefully planned murder,” Selby exclaimed.
Dr. Trueman’s voice retained its professional calm. “That,” he observed, “is a matter of law. I’m merely giving you the medical facts.”
Chapter VII
Selby rang Sheriff Brandon on the telephone and said, “Have you heard Trueman’s report on that Brower case?”
“Yes, I just talked with him. What do you think of it?”
“I think it’s murder.”
“Listen, Doug,” Rex said, “we’ve got to work fast on this thing. The Blade will start riding us.”
“That’s all right. We’ve got to expect to be roasted once in a while. But let’s chase down all of the clews and see if we can’t keep one jump ahead of the knockers. Did you get in touch with the San Francisco oculist?”
“Yes, I sent him a wire.”
“Better get him on the telephone and see if you can speed things up any. He may be able to give us some information. Now, here’s another thing. Room three twenty-three had been rented to a Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Smith of Hollywood. I told Cushing to get their address from the register. I wish you’d get that information, telephone the Hollywood police and see if you can get a line on the couple. If you can’t, you should be able to wire the motor vehicle department and find out if a Leslie Smith, of Hollywood, owns an automobile, and get his residence from the registration certificate. Also, see if a Leslie Smith had a car stored in one of the garages near the hotel.”
“Of course,” the sheriff pointed out, “he might have been using a fictitious name.”
“Try it, anyway,” Selby said. “Let’s go through the facts in this case with a fine-tooth comb. They can’t expect us to be infallible, Rex. Lots of murders are never solved, even in cities where they have the most efficient police forces. What we have to guard against is slipping up on some little fact where a Blade reporter can give us the horse laugh. Figure the position we’ll be in if The Blade solves this murder while we’re still groping around in the dark.”
“I get you,” Brandon said grimly. “Leave it to me. I’ll turn things upside down and inside out.”
“One other thing,” Selby said. “When you get George Cushing in the sweat box, he’ll probably give you some information about a certain picture actress who was in the hotel. You don’t need to bother about that. We don’t want any publicity on it right at the present time and I’ve been in touch with her manager. They’re going to be up here at eight o’clock tonight at my office. I’ll find out if there’s anything to it and let you know.”
“Okay,” Brandon said, “I’ll get busy. You stick around and I’ll probably have something for you inside of half an hour.”
As the district attorney hung up the telephone his secretary brought him a telegram from the chief of police of Millbank, Nevada.
Selby read:
“ANSWERING YOUR WIRE MARY BROWER FIVE FEET FOUR INCHES WEIGHT ONE HUNDRED SIXTY POUNDS AGE AS GIVEN TO REGISTRATION AUTHORITIES FIFTY TWO RESIDES SIX THIRTEEN CENTER STREET THIS CITY LAST SEEN LEAVING FOR RENO TO TAKE PLANE FOR LOS ANGELES REPORTED TO FRIENDS HUSBAND HAD DIED IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA WAS WEARING BROWN SUIT BROWN GLOVES DARK BROWN COAT TRIMMED WITH FOX FUR STOP CHARLES BROWER PASTOR METHODIST CHURCH THIS CITY FIVE FEET SEVEN INCITES ONE HUNDRED THIRTY FIVE POUNDS GRAY EYES HIGH CHEEKBONES AGE GIVEN ON CHURCH RECORDS AS FIFTY SIX HEALTH POOR RECENTLY LEFT HERE IN CHEVROLET AUTOMOBILE TWENTY EIGHT MODEL LICENSE SIX FIVE FOUR THREE EIGHT WEARING BLUE SERGE SUIT SOFT COLLAR SHIRT BLUE AND WHITE TIE TAN LOW SHOES HAS SMALL TRIANGULAR SCAR BACK OF RIGHT EAR RESULTING AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT THREE YEARS AGO STOP WIRE IF ADDITIONAL DETAILS DESIRED.”
Selby looked at the wire, nodded and said, “There’s a man who knows his job.”
Amorette Standish let her curiosity show in her voice.
“Were you wondering if she really is Mrs. Brower?”
“I was,” he said.
“And the dead man?” she asked. “Was he Mr. Brower?”
“I don’t think so. The woman says he isn’t, and the description doesn’t fit. Ring up the coroner and ask him to look particularly for the small triangular scar mentioned in the wire. I don’t think he’ll find it, but we’ll look anyway.”
As his secretary took the telegram and left the room, Selby got to his feet and began a restless pacing of the office. At length he sat down at his desk and started scribbling a wire to the chief of police at Millbank, Nevada.
“Ascertain if possible,” he wrote, “if Brower had friend probably a minister between forty-five and fifty-five about five feet five inches weight about hundred and twenty small-boned dark hair gray at temples small round bald spot top and back of head, interested in photography, probably had made several fruitless attempts to sell scenarios hollywood studios interested in motion pictures, last seen wearing black frock coat well worn and shiny black trousers black high shoes stop eyes blue manner very self-effacing enunciation very precise as though accustomed public speaking from pulpit, owns royal portable typewriter wire reply earliest available moment important thanks for co-operation.”
Selby gave the telegram to Amorette Standish to be sent. His telephone was ringing before she had left the office. He took down the receiver and heard Sheriff Brandon’s voice.
“Have some news for you, Doug,” the sheriff said.
“Found out who he was?”
“No, not yet.”
“Talk with that oculist in San Francisco?”
“Yes. He got my wire but had been pretty busy and had just hit the high spots going over his records. He hadn’t found anything. I don’t think he’d been trying very hard. I put a bee in his bonnet, told him to check over every prescription he had in his files if necessary. He said the prescription wasn’t particularly unusual. I told him to make a list of every patient he had who had that prescription and send me a telegram.”
“What else?” Selby asked.
Brandon lowered his voice.
“Listen, Doug,” he said cautiously, “the opposition are going to try to put us on the spot.”
“Go ahead,” Selby said.
“Jerry Summerville, who runs The Blade, has imported a crack mystery man from Los Angeles, a fellow by the name of Carl Bittner. He’s been a star reporter for some of the Los Angeles dailies. I don’t know how much money it cost, or who’s putting it up, but Summerville put in the call this morning and Bittner is here in town now. He’s been asking questions of the coroner and trying to pump Cushing.”
“What did Cushing tell him, do you know?”