“John Farnham!” Doris almost screamed. “How’d you know it was John Farnham?”
“It almost had to be John,” the sheriff said wearily.
“What clues pointed to him?”
“No clues,” the sheriff said, “just human nature.”
His wife asked, “What was it, Bill? Are you too tired to tell us?”
“No,” the sheriff said, “I’m not too tired. But I just got sort of sick of the case. You see, Elizabeth Dow was murdered when she got to snooping around and found an old paper Marvin Higbee had left in the house. Well, that old paper had been there for a long time and nobody had bothered about it, but the minute the Dow girl started looking, somebody sat up and took notice.
“Well, naturally, you’d sort of figure that it was because Elizabeth Dow went there that the murderer became alarmed and felt he had to do something, so the question was, who knew she went there? Well, it seems that Roy Jasper knew it, but he didn’t tell anyone, and it seems her automobile was parked out in front when Sam Beckett and John Farnham drove up. Sam Beckett was only interested in buying the place, but John Farnham was in the real-estate business and he was trying to get Beckett to buy it. Well, that’s all there was to it. As soon as I heard that, I knew what must have happened.”
“What?” his wife asked curiously.
“Why,” the sheriff said, “anybody that knows anything about real-estate people knows that when a place is for sale and a realtor who has it listed comes up and finds a car parked and somebody apparently looking over the place, he does just one thing — takes the license number of the car and looks it up to see who was interested. It’s a habit that real-estate people have. So when John Farnham looked up the license number and found the name Elizabeth Dow, he immediately put two and two together, because he knew that Elvira Dow had nursed Higbee in his last illness. So Farnham closed the deal with Sam Beckett and then beat it down to San Rodolpho to see Elizabeth Dow. But he met her coming back — only, of course, she didn’t recognize him.
“So John tagged along behind her car to see where she was going. When it turned out to be the Higbee place again, John followed her in, got a carving knife out of the drawer in the sideboard, and... Oh, shucks! There wasn’t anything to it soon as you got to figuring Farnham would naturally note the license number of any car parked at the place.”
“And that’s the way you solved the case?” Doris asked.
“That’s about it.”
Doris sniffed, “And to think the taxpayers hand you money for that! Why, everyone knows how real-estate people jot down car numbers!”
The sheriff chuckled. “This here consulting criminologist didn’t know it. If he did he didn’t think of it — not until after I pointed it out to him.”
Part Two
The Case of the Hungry Horse
1
It was 7:55 when Lew Turlock answered the phone and was advised that long distance was calling Miss Betty Turlock. Would he please put her on the phone?
“She isn’t here.”
The voice of the operator had that synthetic sweetness which showed Lew Turlock he was talking directly with the city. The Rockville operator would have spoken more naturally. Sometimes the local girls tried to imitate the voices of the metropolitan operators, but it never quite clicked, probably because they overdid it.
“When will she be in?” came drifting dulcetly over the party line.
Lew called over his shoulder to his wife, “Betty wasn’t coming home tonight, was she, Millie?”
“She’s spending the night with Rose Marie Mallard,” his wife called back. “Who wants her?”
“Long distance,” Turlock said to his wife and then into the phone, “she won’t be here tonight.”
“Is there another phone number where we can reach her?”
“Nope,” Turlock said, “no other number. The folks out where she’s staying don’t have a telephone.”
He hung up and went back to a perusal of the Rockville Gazette.
“Now who in the world do you suppose would be calling Betty from the city?” Mrs. Turlock asked.
Her husband merely grunted.
“Seems as though you could have found out who it was,” she said. “Betty wouldn’t sleep a wink if she knew someone was trying to get her from the city.”
Lew started to say something, then lowered his paper and cocked his head, listening.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“Those horses over at Calhoun’s,” Turlock said, “they’re acting mighty queer. A lot of snorting and stamping.”
“Well,” Mrs. Turlock said tartly, “let Sid Rowan worry about that. We’ve got enough to do without worrying about the neighbors’ horses. Sid’s getting lazier every day. Anyhow, I don’t see how you can hear them. I can’t hear a thing.”
Turlock said shortly, “Just guess my ears are tuned to horse noises. That mare of Lorraine Calhoun’s is a package of dynamite. Sounds like she’s kicking the side of her stall.”
With the boom in land values, Lew’s next-door neighbor had sold out six months ago to Carl Carver Calhoun, a wealthy broker. It had been difficult for Turlock to adjust himself to this new situation. In the first place, Calhoun was only there on week-ends. He had hired Sid Rowan and his wife to look after the place, paying a salary that Turlock was firmly convinced was exactly twice as much as any couple were worth, four times as much as Rowan was worth.
Under the new owner, the adjoining property had undergone a steady transformation. The cattle and work horses had been sold, and high-spirited riding horses had taken their place. A couple of dairy cows had been retained and a half-dozen heads of beef cattle, but the rest had been sold. A tennis court had been built and a swimming pool was now in process of construction.
Calhoun was cordial enough. In fact, he went out of his way to be friendly. But, as Turlock had pointed out to his wife, you just couldn’t make a real neighbor out of a millionaire. “Go over to borrow a cup of rice,” he had pointed out, “and when you went to pay it back, like as not they’d smile and say, ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ ”
The telephone rang again.
This time the voice of the long-distance telephone operator announced that her party would speak with anyone who answered the phone. A second later, a girl’s voice, touched with impatience, asked, “Who is this talking, please?”
“Lew Turlock.”
“Oh, you’re Betty’s father, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Look, would you do something for me?”
“What is it?”
“You don’t know me. I’m Irma Jesup, a friend of Lorraine Calhoun and also of your daughter. Now listen, it’s very important that I talk with Betty. I have to reach her no matter where she is.”
“There isn’t a phone out where she’s staying.”
“I understand. But is it far from where you are?”
“Six or seven miles.”
“Look, could you get word to her? Or perhaps some neighbor who has a phone would call her? Couldn’t you get word to her some way?”
“Well, I suppose I could,” Turlock said reluctantly, “if it’s downright important.”
“Well, it is. Just tell her to call Irma Jesup at Trinidad 6273. And she’ll be using a neighbor’s telephone, won’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell her to reverse the charges so there won’t be any trouble about that. Tell her I’ll be waiting right here at the telephone.”
“You want to give me that number again?”
The voice was impatient with the delay and Lew Turlock’s stupidity. “It’s a pay station, Trinidad 6273. Tell her that Irma Jesup wants her to call at once. I’ll be waiting by the telephone. She may call me collect. Now is that plain?”