“What is it,” Selby asked, “murder, suicide or natural death?”
“They don’t know. They say it’s a minister... I have an idea it’s the same chap who rode down in the elevator with us yesterday.”
“Where are you now?” Selby asked.
“I’m at the City Hall, picking up the chief of police. We’ll get to the hotel a few minutes before you do. The room number is three twenty-one. Go right on up. We’ll meet there.”
Selby said, “Okay, Rex,” hung up the telephone receiver and turned to his deputies. “You boys go to it,” he instructed. “You’ll have to handle the routine business of the office.”
Grabbing his hat, Selby raced down the marble corridor of the courthouse, took the steps of the wide staircase two at a time, jumped into his car and drove to the Madison Hotel.
He noticed that Brandon was ahead of him. The sheriff’s car, equipped with red spotlight and siren, was parked in the red “no parking” zone in front of the hotel. Moreover, a portion of the street was closed off where a force of men were installing one of the new ornamental lighting fixtures the city had recently purchased. Selby found himself caught in a traffic jam and it took him nearly ten minutes to extricate himself, find a parking place for his car and return to the hotel.
George Cushing, owner of the hotel, and the one to whom Selby had been indebted for the room used as campaign headquarters, approached with smiling affability.
A man in his early fifties, Cushing tried to maintain an air of smart, urban sophistication. He wore a pin-striped blue serge suit, meticulously pressed, and cut for men twenty years his junior. His pale, filmed eyes had puffy circles beneath them. His skin looked as though it had never known the sting of a biting wind, nor the warm touch of outdoor sunlight. But those pale, filmed eyes could be coldly insistent, and ten years of hotel management had taught him not to be backward in his demands.
“Now, listen, Doug,” he said, “this is just a natural death, see? It isn’t a suicide. The man took a dose of sleeping medicine, but that didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
“What’s his name?” the district attorney asked.
“The Reverend Charles Brower. He came from Millbank, Nevada. I don’t want it to be suicide. That gets unpleasant newspaper notoriety for the hotel.”
Walking toward the elevator, Selby hoped that the man would at least have tact enough to refrain from referring to campaign obligations, but Cushing’s well-manicured, pudgy hand rested on the sleeve of Selby’s coat as the door of the elevator opened.
“You know,” Cushing said, “I did everything I could for you boys during the election, and I’d like to have you give me the breaks.”
Selby nodded.
Cushing said, “The number’s three twenty-one,” and waved to the elevator operator to close the door.
On the third floor, Selby found no difficulty in locating three twenty-one. He knocked on the panels, and Rex Brandon’s voice called, “Is that you, Doug?”
“Yes.”
“Go over to three twenty-three, Doug, and come in that way. That door’s unlocked.”
Selby walked to the adjoining room. It was a typical hotel bedroom. He saw that the connecting door into three twenty-one was ajar. A long sliver had been smashed from the side of the door jamb. Rex Brandon called, “Come on in, Doug.”
Selby entered the room.
The little minister seemed strangely wistful as he lay cold and motionless on the bed. The eyes were closed and the jaw had sagged, but the face seemed peaceful, more dignified in death than it had been in life. The door had been locked and a chair propped against it in such a way that the back of the chair was braced directly underneath the knob of the door.
The room seemed filled with silence.
Otto Larkin, big, heavy-voiced chief of police, made haste to greet the district attorney.
“Everything’s just as we found it,” he assured. “He’d left a call for ten o’clock. The switchboard operator rang and rang and didn’t get any answer. A bellboy knocked and heard nothing. He tried a pass key and found the door was bolted from the inside. He climbed up and looked through the transom. He could see the man lying on the bed. He called to him two or three times and then reached inside and pushed down the transom. Then he saw that a chair had been propped under the doorknob. He notified Cushing. Cushing busted in through three twenty-three. That’s why the lock’s smashed. The connecting door has a double bolt, one on each side.
“Now, listen, Selby, I was pretty friendly with Sam Roper, and I supported him in the campaign. You know that. You can’t blame me for it — I’d worked with Sam for four years. But I want to work with you boys, now you’re in office. This is the first case we’ve had, so let’s not have any hard feelings that’ll keep us from working in harmony. I’d intended to come around and see both of you, but I just hadn’t had a chance. There’s a lot of things we should talk over.”
Selby said, “All right, we’ll talk them over at the proper time and in the proper place. What’s that paper in the typewriter? It isn’t a suicide note, is it?”
“No,” Brandon said, “it’s a letter to his wife, Doug. Read it, it’s sort of pathetic.”
Selby stepped over to the table. A portable typewriter held a large sheet of hotel stationery filled with writing.
Selby leaned over the machine and read:
“My dearest wife:
“Well, I’ve been, in Madison City a couple of days now, and so far haven’t accomplished much. I may be here another week, perhaps longer.
“The weather has been perfect. A fine warm sun blazing down from a deep blue sky, windless days and cool nights. It’s warm but not hot. The first morning there was a little fog but it didn’t last long.
“I’ll have a surprise for you when I come back. If I can contact just the right people, we’re going to have our financial troubles completely eliminated. And don’t think they won’t listen to me. They’ll have to listen. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.
“I didn’t sleep well on the train. I had some sleeping medicine to take, but it didn’t do much good, so tonight I took a double dose. I think I’m going to sleep fine. In fact, I’m sleepy right now.
“This is a busy city, with a street car line and several nice hotels. It’s less than a hundred miles from Hollywood, and I am going to go there before I get back, if I can spare the time. I’m sorry you can’t be here with me. I’m getting pretty sleepy now. I think I’ll go to bed and finish this in the morning. I’m awfully sleepy, dear. I’ll have a nice rest tonight. I’m going to leave a call for ten o’clock in the morning. Tomorrow I’ll look around, some more... No use, I’m too sleepy to see the keyboard now.”
There followed a word which had been crossed out by x’s.
On the table near the typewriter was an envelope addressed to: “Mrs. Chas. Brower, 613 Center Street, Millbank, Nevada.”
“Looks as though he took an overdose of the sleeping medicine,” Rex Brandon said. “We’ve checked up on the hotel register. He filled out a card when he checked in. He’s Charles Brower and he comes from Millbank, Nevada. He lives at 613 Center Street, the address on the envelope. So everything checks okay. The poor chap wanted to sleep... well, he’s sleeping all right.”
Selby nodded. “Why do you suppose he locked the door and then propped a chair against it?” he asked.
“You can search me,” Brandon answered.
The chief of police volunteered a theory. “He was a little guy,” he said, “and a minister. Some of those people get timid as rabbits, particularly when they’re traveling. Notice the way he talks about the hotels and things. I’ll bet he’s never done much traveling, and after Millbank this seemed like a big city to him.”