“No,” Selby said, “we’d hardly put Cushing in the category of a dog poisoner.”
“Who else?” the veterinarian asked.
“Mrs. Larrabie was in here, the dead man’s widow. She looked over the things in the suitcase and in the brief case... And Fred Lattaur, your lawyer. He came in to tell me he’d pay off my note when he had your case settled. He wouldn’t have any reason to poison the dog.”
“Let’s take a look around and see if we can find some more,” Dr. Perry said. “We can speculate afterward. Each one of us take a room. Make a thorough search.”
They looked through the rooms and Selby found another of the peculiarly distinctive bits of poisoned meat.
“Anyone else been in here today?” Selby demanded. “Think carefully, Perkins. It’s important. There’s more to this than appears on the surface.”
“No... Wait a minute, Mrs. Brower was in. She’s on the war path,” the coroner said. “She thought I had five thousand dollars that had been taken from the hotel. She insists that it’s her husband’s money.”
“Did she say where he got it?”
“She said Larrabie had Brower’s wallet, and that the five thousand-dollar bills had been in Brower’s wallet. Therefore, Brower was entitled to them.”
“What did she want you to do?” Selby asked.
“She wanted me to give her the money. When I told her I didn’t have it, she wanted to take a look at the wallet. She said she could tell whether it was her husband’s.”
“Did you show it to her?”
“The sheriff has it. I sent her up to the sheriff’s office.”
Selby said abruptly, “You can give the rest of the stuff back to Mrs. Larrabie, Harry. I’m going to take that camera. Tell her she can have the camera in a day or two, but I want to see if there are any exposed films in it. They might furnish a clew. I’ve been too busy to give them any thought, but they may be important.”
“A darned good idea,” the coroner said. “That chap came down here from the northern part of the state. He probably took photographs en route. Those camera fiends are just the kind to put their friends on the front steps of the capitol building at Sacramento and take a bunch of snapshots. You may find something there that’ll be worth while.”
Selby nodded and pocketed the camera.
“You let me know about that dog,” Perkins said anxiously to the veterinarian. Then he turned to Selby. “I want something done about this poisoning. At least drag these people who’ve been in here in for questioning. And I’d start with Mrs. Brower. She looks mean to me.”
“I’ll give you a ring in an hour or two,” Selby promised. “I’m pretty busy on that murder case, but I have a hunch this poisoning business may be connected somehow with that case. I’ll do everything I can.”
“It’s commencing to look,” Dr. Perry said, “as though this wasn’t any casual poisoning, but something that had been carefully planned to get Rogue out of the way. I’d guard this place day and night for a while, if I were you, Perkins.”
Selby said, “Good idea,” and left Perkins and the veterinarian talking as he started for his office.
Chapter XIV
Selby felt absurdly conspicuous as he parked his car in front of the actress’s residence. There was something about the quiet luxury of the place which made the stone Peiping lions on either side of the porch stairway seem as forbidding as vicious watchdogs, frozen into immobility by the temporary command of a master, but ready at any moment to rush forth and repel an intruder.
Selby climbed the stairs. The vine-covered porch gave a hint of cool privacy for the hot days of summer.
A military butler, with broad, straight shoulders, thin waist and narrow hips, opened the door almost as soon as Selby’s finger touched the bell button. Looking past him to the ornate magnificence of the reception hallway and the living room which opened beyond, Selby felt once more that touch of awkward embarrassment, a vague feeling of being out of place.
That feeling was dissipated by the sight of Shirley Arden. She was wearing a cocktail gown, and he noticed with satisfaction, that, while there was a touch of formality in her attire, it was only the semi-formality with which one would receive an intimate friend. When she came toward him she neither presumed too much on their previous acquaintance, nor was she distant. She gave him her hand and said, “So glad you could come, Mr. Selby. We’d probably have felt a little more businesslike if we’d dined in one of the cafés, but under the circumstances, it wouldn’t do for us to be seen together.
“The spaciousness of all of this is more or less a setting. I have to do quite a bit of entertaining, you know. The two of us would rattle around in here like two dry peas in a paper bag, so I’ve told Jarvis to set a table in the den.”
She slipped her arm through his and said, “Come on and look around. I’m really proud of the architecture.”
She showed him through the house, switching lights on as she walked. Selby had a confused, blurred recollection of spacious rooms, of a patio with a fountain, a private swimming pool with lights embedded in the bottom of the tank so that a tinted glow suffused the water, basement sport rooms with pool, billiard and ping-pong tables, a cocktail room with a built-in bar, mirrors and oil paintings which were a burlesque on the barroom paintings of the Nineties.
They finished their tour in a comfortable little book-lined den, with huge French doors opening out to a corner of a patio on one side, the other three sides lined with bookcases, the books leather-backed, de luxe editions. There were deep lounging chairs, a davenport, coffee tables, and, in the center of the room, a table had been set for two, with rose-shaded lights shedding a diffused radiance over the white cloth and the glitter of silver.
Shirley Arden motioned him to a seat, flung herself into one of the chairs, raised her feet to an ottoman with a carelessly intimate display of legs.
She stretched out her arms and said wearily, “Lord, but it was a trying day at the studio. How’s the district attorney business going?”
“Not so good,” he told her, his voice uncompromisingly determined.
The butler brought them cocktails and a tray of appetizers, which he set on the coffee table between them. As they clicked the rims of their glasses, Selby noticed the butler placing the huge silver cocktail shaker, beaded with frosty moisture, upon the table.
“I don’t go in for much of this, you know. And, after all, this visit is official,” Selby said.
“Neither do I,” she told him, laughing, “but don’t get frightened at the size of the container. That’s just Hollywood hospitality. Don’t drink any more than you want. There’s an inner container in that cocktail shaker, so the drink will keep cold as ice without being diluted by melting ice. You can have just as much or as little as you want.
“You know, we who are actively working in pictures don’t dare to do much drinking. It’s the people who are slipping on the downward path toward oblivion who hit it heavy. And there are always a lot of hangers-on who can punish the liquor. Try some of those anchovy tarts with the cream cheese around them. They’re really good — Jarvis’s specialty.”
Selby began to feel more at home. The cocktail warmed him, and there was a delightful informality about Shirley Arden which made the spacious luxury of the house seem something reserved for more formal occasions, while the warm intimacy of this little den gave the impression of having been created entirely for Selby’s visit. He found it impossible to believe her capable of deceit.