All of the elation fled from Sylvia’s manner. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said in a half whisper which was vibrant with sympathy.
“What is it?” the woman asked.
“I’m looking for the Reverend Larrabie.”
The patient eyes surveyed them both, looked past them to the automobile which had pulled up against the curb.
“Eloping?” she asked.
Selby had known this was going to be difficult. He had hardly realized it was going to be quite so awkward.
“No,” he said, “we’re looking for the Reverend Larrabie.”
“He isn’t here. I don’t expect him back for three or four days.”
“Are you Mrs. Larrabie?”
“Yes.”
“May we come in?” Selby asked.
She studied him with puzzled eyes and said, “What is it you want, young man?”
“I wanted to talk with you about your husband.”
“What about him?”
“Have you,” Selby asked, “a picture of him that I could see — some informal snapshot, perhaps?”
For a moment the eyes faltered, then they stared bravely at him.
“Has something happened to Will?” she asked.
“I think,” Sylvia Martin said impulsively, “it would be a lot better, Mrs. Larrabie, if you could let us make certain before we talk with you. We could tell if we saw a photograph.”
“Come in,” the woman said.
Selby held the screen door open. Sylvia Martin slipped through and put her arm about the older woman’s waist.
“Please don’t worry, dear,” she said, “there may be nothing to it.” Her lips were tightly held in a firm line as Mrs. Larrabie led the way into a front parlor, a room which was warm with the intimacies of living. A magazine lay face down on the table. Several periodicals were thrust into a magazine rack in the arm of a mission type chair, evidently the product of home carpentering. The shades were up and growing daylight furnished sufficient illumination so that they could see the interior of the room plainly.
The woman pointed to a framed picture. “That’s he,” she said simply.
Selby looked, and knew at once he had come to the end of his quest. The twinkling eyes of the apologetic little minister stared out from the photograph.
“May we sit down?” he asked. “I’m afraid we’re bringing bad news for you, Mrs. Larrabie.”
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“Do you know where your husband is?” he inquired.
“I think he’s in Hollywood.”
“Do you know what he went there for?”
“No. What’s happened?”
“I’m afraid that...”
“Sick?” she asked, in a calm, level voice.
“No,” Selby said, “... not sick.”
“Dead?”
Selby nodded.
Not a muscle of her face quivered. Her mouth didn’t even twitch at the corners. But two tears welled into her motherly gray eyes, trickled unheeded down her cheeks.
“Tell me about it,” she requested, still in that calm, steady voice.
“I’m the district attorney, of Madison City,” Selby explained. “That’s a city about sixty miles from Los Angeles.”
“Yes, I know where it is.”
“A minister came to the Madison Hotel and registered under the name of Charles Brower. He was found dead in his room. That was Tuesday morning. We’ve been trying to find out...”
“Why, I know Charles Brower,” she said, her eyes widening. “If that’s the one who’s dead...”
“But it isn’t,” Selby explained, interrupting. “We thought that the man was Charles Brower because he registered as Charles Brower, of Millbank, Nevada.”
“That’s right, that’s where Mr. Brower lives.”
“We notified Millbank. Mrs. Brower came on and said that the body wasn’t that of her husband.”
“But it couldn’t be Will. Will wouldn’t register under an assumed name,” she said with quiet conviction. “And he isn’t in Madison City. He’s in Hollywood.”
“Do you know why he went to Hollywood?”
“I think he went there to sell a scenario.”
Selby took the photograph of the dead man from his inner pocket.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Larrabie,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to disillusion you. Please prepare yourself for a shock.”
He handed her the photograph. He noticed that her hand trembled as she took it. He saw her face grow gray.
This time her lips quivered.
“It’s Will,” she sobbed. “He’s dead.”
Selby gently took the photograph of the dead man from her motionless fingers. Sylvia Martin knelt beside the other woman, her arm around the quivering shoulders.
“There, there, dear,” she soothed, “you must be brave.”
Mrs. Larrabie’s toil-worn fingers explored the pocket of the bathrobe. Sylvia, divining her intention, opened her purse and took from it a handkerchief, with which she dried the tears in Mrs. Larrabie’s eyes.
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said, “you’re very kind. Who are you?”
“I’m Sylvia Martin. I’m a newspaper reporter. Mr. Selby brought me with him. We’re trying to find out who... who...”
Her voice trailed away into silence.
“Who what?” Mrs. Larrabie asked.
“The circumstances surrounding the death of your husband were very unusual,” Selby said. “We’re not entirely certain just what happened; but his death was directly due to an overdose of sleeping medicine... that is, what he thought was sleeping medicine.”
“Sleeping medicine?” Mrs. Larrabie said. “Why, Will didn’t take any sleeping medicine. He didn’t need to.”
“The circumstances,” Selby insisted, “are exceedingly unusual. In fact, we think that death was neither natural nor accidental.”
“You mean,” she asked, staring at him, her surprised incredulity for a moment overcoming the numbing effect of her grief, “Will was... murdered?”
“We’re making a complete investigation,” Selby said.
Mrs. Larrabie gave herself over to tears. She sobbed quietly into Sylvia Martin’s handkerchief. Selby sucked in a quick breath, about to say something, but Sylvia flashed him a warning glance and shook her head. He remained silent, watching the crying woman with helpless sympathy.
Outside, the first rays of sunlight gilded the spire of the church, filtered down through the leaves of a tree to make a shimmering pattern on the glass of the window. Birds sang with full-throated vigor. The dog across the street burst into a paroxysm of barking, then was silent.
Mrs. Larrabie continued to sob into Sylvia Martin’s handkerchief.
Finally she said, “We were so close to each other. We’d been childhood sweethearts. Will had the most lovable, the most whimsical disposition... He had such a great faith in people... He was always going out of his way to aid people... Always looking for people in misfortune... He visited the jails, always wanted to help the unfortunate... That was going to cost him his position here... Mrs. Bannister thought he wasn’t devoting enough time to the members of the church. She was going to demand a change, and Will thought he could sell a scenario to the motion picture people and make enough money to devote all of his time to the unfortunate.
“He said the church members here were so smugly wrapped in their religion they didn’t need any attention; that it was the poor unfortunates who really needed to be shown the way to God.”
Selby said very gently, “I’ve got to ask a lot of questions about your husband’s life. I must find out everything I can about the people with whom he came in contact, particularly about anyone who might have had any reason for wanting to harm him. Perhaps it would be better, Mrs. Larrabie, if you told us in your own way everything that you can.”