“Have you notified the coroner?” Selby asked.
“Yeah, sure. He’s out on a funeral right now. We expect him in any minute.”
“Look through his things?” Selby asked of Brandon.
“Not yet. We were sort of waiting for the coroner.”
“I’ve been on lots of cases with Harry Perkins, the coroner,” Larkin said. “He ain’t a bit fussy about red tape. If we want to save time by taking a look through things, it’ll be all right with Harry. As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s anything to it. He probably had a bum ticker and taking a double dose of sleeping medicine put him out.”
“I was wondering,” Selby said, “if perhaps he had something very valuable he was trying to guard. I still can’t see why he should have gone to all that trouble to lock the door and then prop the chair against it.”
He approached the bed and gently raised the corner of the pillow to peer under it. He did this without disturbing the body. Finding nothing, he slid his hand in a fruitless search under the pillow. He turned back the bedclothes, saying, “We might just as well be certain about the cause of death.”
The body was attired in a thick flannel nightgown. Selby pulled the bedclothes back up and said, “No sign of any foul play. Well, I guess it’s just, a routine matter. We’ll notify his wife.”
“I told George Cushing to send the wife a wire,” Sheriff Brandon said. “I wanted her to be notified so she could decide what she wanted done about the body.”
The chief of police frowned slightly. “I’m sorry you did that, Sheriff. That’s one of the things the coroner likes to do. You know, he’s an undertaker, and he usually mentions in his telegrams that he can prepare the body for burial.”
The sheriff drawled, “Harry was out on a funeral and I wanted to get some action. He can send her a wire when he comes in, if he wants to.”
Selby looked around the room.
The dead man’s coat and vest were in the closet, carefully placed on a hanger. The trousers had been caught by the cuffs in the top of the bureau drawer, and hung down almost to the floor. A single suitcase was on the chair, open.
“That’s his only baggage?” Selby asked, “a suitcase and a portable typewriter?”
“There’s an overcoat and a brief case in the closet,” Brandon said.
“What’s in the brief case?” Selby asked.
“Just some newspaper clippings and some typewritten stuff — a sermon or a story or something — a lot of words slung together.”
“Have you looked through the pockets of his clothes?”
“No.”
“Let’s do it. You take the clothes and I’ll take a look through the suitcase. I can’t help thinking he must have had something valuable with him, or he wouldn’t have barricaded that door. His letter intimates as much.”
The suitcase, Selby found, was packed with scrupulous care. The garments were neatly folded. He noticed two clean shirts, some light underwear, several starched collars, a worn, leather-backed Bible, a pair of spectacles in a case bearing the imprint of a San Francisco oculist, and a half dozen pairs of plain black socks. He saw an oblong pasteboard medicine box with a label on which had been written in pen and ink, “For Restlessness.” There was also a leather case containing an expensive, foreign-made miniature camera.
“Hello,” Selby said, “this is a pretty good outfit for a small town minister to be sporting. They cost about a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Lots of people like this guy was are camera fiends,” the chief of police pointed out. “A man has to have some hobby, you know. God knows, his clothes are shiny enough, and the overcoat’s badly worn at the elbows.”
“Where was his wallet?” Selby asked.
“In his coat pocket,” Brandon said.
“Any cards?”
“Yes, a few printed cards bearing the name, ‘Charles Brower, D.D., Millbank, Nevada,’ ninety-six dollars in cash, and about two dollars in small silver. There’s also a driving license.”
Selby looked once more at the still figure on the bed.
Somehow, a feeling of indecency gripped him. The man had been a human being, had had his hopes, fears, ambitions, disappointments, and now Selby was prying into his private life... Only the official obligation of discharging his duty prevented him from being a sublimated Peeping Tom.
He found himself wondering how physicians must feel when they are called upon to make intimate examinations of people who are utter strangers, yet must bare the innermost secrets of their lives. Of a sudden, he felt completely fed up.
“All right,” he said, “I guess there’s nothing to it. Have the coroner take charge. He’ll probably want an inquest. By the way, George Cushing would appreciate it if there was no publicity or talk of suicide. It’s just a natural death.”
He turned away toward the door of three twenty-one, noticed the splintered casing where the bolt had been forced, and said casually, “What’s the room on the other side, Rex?”
“I suppose the same as this,” the sheriff remarked.
“I think it has a bath,” the chief of police volunteered. “The way the hotel is laid out, there’s a bath in between rooms, and the room can be rented either with or without a bath. This room didn’t have the bath connected with it, so the bath’s probably connected with the other room. There’s a wash-stand with running water. He has his shaving things over there, see?”
Selby noticed the wash-stand, with a glass shelf above it, on which reposed a shaving brush, the bristles of which had been worn down from much use. In addition to the brush, the shelf held a safety razor, a tube of shaving cream, a tooth brush and a can of tooth powder.
Selby idly inspected the knurled knob on the door which led to the shut-off bathroom. He twisted the knob and said, “Let’s see if this door’s open on the other side.”
Suddenly he frowned, and said, “Wait a minute, this door wasn’t bolted. Did someone twist this knob?”
“I don’t think so,” Larkin said. “The bellboy reported to Cushing and Cushing told everyone nothing in the room was to be touched.”
“Then why didn’t Cushing get in through three nineteen? He could have unlocked the door from the other side and wouldn’t have had to force the other one open.”
“I think that room’s occupied,” Larkin said. “Cushing told me three twenty-three was vacant, but someone’s in three nineteen.”
Selby nodded and said, “Well, I’m going back to the office. I guess there’s nothing I can do here.”
A knock sounded on the door of three twenty-one. Brandon called out, “Who is it?”
“Harry Perkins, the coroner.”
“Go around to three twenty-three, Harry, and come in that way.” A moment later the tall figure of the bony-faced coroner came through the connecting door.
Larkin made explanations.
“We were just looking around a bit, Harry. You were out on a funeral and we wanted to make sure what it was. It’s just a combination of an overdose of sleeping medicine and a bum pump. There won’t be enough of an estate to bother with. He’s got about a hundred bucks, which should cover your costs of preparing the body for shipment. The sheriff wired his wife. Perhaps you’d better send her another wire and ask her if she wants you to take charge.”
The sheriff said, “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t know you liked to send those wires yourself.”
“That’s all right,” the coroner said. He walked over to the bed, looked down at the still form with a professional air and asked, “When do I move him?”
“Any time,” Larkin said. “Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”