“I don’t know why they do it, because we never pay any attention to names, anyway. We make them put a street address opposite their names on the register, because we want to know where to send things, in case they leave something valuable behind. It gives us a good mailing list and sometimes it’s of value against fraud, but not very often.”
“Whom did this man know in the hotel?” the district attorney asked.
Cushing raised his eyebrows. “In the hotel?” he asked. “Why, I don’t suppose he knew anyone.”
“Whom did he know in town?”
“I couldn’t tell you about that. No one that I know of. A man who hadn’t done much traveling and came here from Millbank, Nevada, wouldn’t be apt to know anyone here in the hotel, or in the town, either.”
“When Sheriff Brandon and I were coming out of campaign headquarters on the fifth floor the other morning,” Selby said, “this preacher was coming out of a room on the fifth floor. It was a room on the right-hand side of the corridor, and I’d say it was somewhere between five-o-seven and five nineteen.”
Cushing’s face showed emotion. He leaned forward. His breathing was distinctly audible.
“Now, listen, Doug,” he said, “why not lay off of this thing? You’re not doing the hotel any good and you’re not doing yourself any good.”
“I’m going to find out who this man is and I’m going to find out how he died and why he died,” Selby said doggedly.
“He’s some bird from Millbank, Nevada, or some near-by place,” Cushing said. “He knows this man Brower in Millbank. He knew Brower was away on a fishing trip, so he figured it would be a good time to use Brower’s name.”
“Who occupied those rooms on the fifth floor?” Selby insisted.
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”
“Get your register.”
“Now, listen, Doug, you’re carrying this thing too far.”
The, district attorney said, “Get the register, George.”
“We keep the register in the form of cards.”
“How do you file those cards?”
“Alphabetically.”
“Then you copy them somewhere into a daily register. Go get it.”
Cushing got up, started for the door, hesitated for a moment, then came back and sat down.
“Well,” Selby said, “go ahead, get the register.”
“There’s something about this,” Cushing said slowly, “that I don’t want made public. It doesn’t concern this case in any way.”
“What is it?”
“It’s something that won’t be shown by the register, but you’ll probably find out about it, if you get to nosing around... And,” he added bitterly, “it looks like you’re going to nose around.”
“I am,” Selby promised.
“There was a guest here Monday who didn’t want her identity known.”
“What room was she in?”
“Five fifteen.”
“Who was she?”
“I can’t tell you that, Doug. It hasn’t anything to do with the case.”
“Why don’t you want to tell me then?”
“Because she came here on business. It was rather a confidential business. She was trying to keep it from becoming known. She signed a fictitious name on the register and made me agree I’d say nothing about her having been here. She only stayed a couple of hours and then went back. Her manager, I think, stayed on a little longer.”
“Who was she?”
“I can’t tell you. She’s famous and she didn’t want the newspapers making a lot of hullabaloo about her. I don’t want her to think I’ve broken my promise. She comes here sometimes when she wants to get away from everything, and always has the same room. I sort of keep it for her... and... well, that’s why I’m telling you all this. I don’t want you stirring up any publicity about room five fifteen.”
An idea suddenly crystallized in Selby’s mind, an idea so weirdly bizarre that it didn’t make sense, yet was entirely on a par with the other developments in the case.
“That woman,” he said with the calm finality of one who is absolutely certain of his statements, “was Shirley Arden, the motion picture actress.”
George Cushing’s eyes widened. “How the devil did you know?”
Selby said, “Never mind that. Tell me all you know.”
“Ben Trask, her manager and publicity agent, was with her. Miss Arden went in by way of the freight elevator. Trask saw that the coast was clear.”
“Did anyone in the hotel call on her?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Did Trask have a room here?”
“No.”
“What is this room, a bedroom?”
“It’s a suite; a bedroom, sitting room and bath.”
“Any outside telephone calls?” Selby asked.
“I wouldn’t know. I can find out by looking up the records.”
“Do that.”
Cushing fidgeted uneasily and said, “This preacher left an envelope in the safe. I had forgotten about it until this morning. Do you want me to get it?”
“What’s in it?”
“A letter or something.”
“Yes,” Selby said, “get it.”
“I’d like to have you sign for it.”
“All right, bring a receipt and I’ll sign.”
The hotel manager stepped from the office for a few moments, then returned with a sealed envelope, across the flap of which appeared a scrawled signature, “Charles Brower.”
“That his writing?” Selby asked.
“I think so, yes.”
“Have you checked it with his signature on the register?”
“No, but I can.”
“Wait here,” Selby told him, “while I open the envelope. We’ll list the contents.”
He slit the end of the envelope with a knife and pulled out several folded sheets of hotel stationery.
“Well,” he said, “this looks...”
His voice trailed into silence as his fingers unfolded the sheets of stationery. Five one-thousand-dollar bills had been folded between two sheets of hotel stationery.
“Good Lord!” Cushing exclaimed.
“You sure the minister put this envelope in the safe?” Selby asked.
“Yes.”
“No chance for any mistake?”
“None whatever.”
Selby turned the bills over in his fingers. Then, as a delicate scent was wafted to his nostrils, he raised the bills to his nose; pushed them across the table and said to Cushing, “Smell.”
Cushing sniffed the bills. “Perfume,” he said.
Selby folded the bills back in the paper and slipped both paper and bills back in the envelope.
“Take a strip of gummed paper,” he said. “Seal up that envelope and put it back in the safe. That’ll keep the odor of the perfume from being dissipated. I’ll want to check it later... Now, then, who had room three nineteen?”
“When the body was discovered, a man by the name of Block was in the room.”
“Where’s he from? What does he do, and how long have you known him?”
“He’s a traveling salesman who works for one of the hardware firms in Los Angeles. He comes here every month and works the outlying towns and the dealers here, usually makes a two-day stand.”
“Has he checked out yet?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s just about due to check out.”
“I want to talk with him.”
“I’ll see if he’s in.”
“Who had the room before Block?”
“I’ve looked that up. The room hadn’t been rented for three days.”
“The room on the other side — three twenty-three?”
“That was vacant when the body was discovered, but had been rented the night before to a young couple from Hollywood, a Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Smith.”