Sellers said, “You must have got here just before Bertha did, then.”
“That’s right,” I said.
Sellers quit laughing. He got up off the sofa, walked over to the door and said, “Show me how you pulled this thing shut after you got in there, Lam.”
I knew I was trapped. There wasn’t any handle on the inside of the door.
Sellers grinned, and said, “That makes it nice. Stick your wrists out, Donald.”
“Wait a minute, Frank. I want to go over this…”
“Stick your wrists out,” he said, his voice suddenly ringing with brutalized authority.
I knew that tone of voice. T knew the gleam in his eyes. I put my wrists out and Sellers snapped on handcuffs, then he searched me for weapons and said, “All right, now sit down. If you have any talking to do, start talking. You’re under arrest. You’re charged with the murder of Lucille Hollister. Anything you say can be used against you. Now talk your damn head off, if you want to.”
I said, “I didn’t kill her.”
“Yeah, I know. You just came in and found her dead and smeared lipstick all over your mouth and then went into the other kid’s bedroom and waited for her. I’d never have thought it of you, Donald. I always knew you were a queer piece of fish, but I never thought you were like that.”
I said, “Let’s go back to the beginning on this thing, Sellers.”
“Oh, nuts,” Sellers said, and then added hastily, “But go ahead. Keep talking.”
I said, “All you’re listening for is for me to say something that will incriminate me. Now, give a guy a break. Get your mind free and clear of all that prejudice. Forget you’re a cop and let’s see what we can make of this.”
“It’s your party,” Sellers said. “Go ahead and serve the refreshments.”
I said, “Let’s go into the history of this thing, Sellers. Lucille Hollister was crazy about her young sister, Rosalind. Rosalind was in love with Stanwick Carlton. Stanwick Carlton’s wife may have done a little playing around. Lucille thought she did, anyway. She wanted to bust up Stanwick’s marriage.”
“Who told you all this?” Sellers asked.
“Lucille.”
“When?”
“Just before she died.”
Sellers’ eyes lit up with the gleam of a hunter finding a fresh trail. “So you admit you were in the bedroom with her just before she died.”
I looked him in the eyes and said, “Yes.”
“Why did you kill her, Donald? Was it a sex murder?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “In the first place, I didn’t kill her. In the second place, it wasn’t a sex murder. Someone killed her to keep her from talking.”
“About what?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, what I’m trying to find out.”
“Go ahead,” Sellers said, and then turned to Claire Bushnell. “You heard him admit that he was with her just, before she died.”
Claire Bushnell, white-faced, tense, nodded.
I said, “That accounts for Lucille Hollister. She was trailing Minerva Carlton, but on this trip Minerva Carlton wasn’t playing around.”
“I see,” Sellers said sarcastically. “She went in that auto camp with Dover Fulton because he wanted to teach her how to play tiddlywinks, and she took her blouse off so the sleeves wouldn’t get wrinkled.”
I said, “Minerva Carlton was playing a deep game. She came to Claire Bushnell, here, and gave her a cheque for five hundred dollars and instructions as to what Claire was to do. Claire was to get Bertha Cool to find out about a man who was calling on Claire Bushnell’s aunt.”
Sellers glanced at Claire Bushnell.
She nodded.
Sellers, interested now, said, “Go ahead, Lam. What’s the sketch?”
I said, “I got on the job. I shadowed this man to the Westchester Arms Hotel. He was staying there. He was registered under the name of Tom Durham — now why do you suppose Minerva Carlton wanted him shadowed?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Sellers said. “I’m not a mind reader.”
I said, “When Lucille Hollister went to the motor court with me, she opened her purse and took out a packet of cigarettes and some matches. She left both cigarettes and matches on the table. The matches had the imprint of the Cabanita Club.”
“So what?” Sellers asked.
“And,” I went on, “when she took out the cigarettes she had evidently forgotten that she had used the cigarette packet as concealment for a little piece of paper. It was a piece that had been torn from the menu of the Cabanita Club, and on it had been written, KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT.”
“And that was the place where Lucille Hollister steered you?” Sellers asked.
“That’s right.”
“The place where Dover Fulton and Minerva Carlton committed suicide?”
“The place where they were murdered,” I corrected.
Sellers said, “Well, well, the party’s perking up. You mean they were murdered, with the door locked from the inside?”
“That’s right.”
“Keep talking,” Sellers said. “We may have you on two or more counts of murder, just in case we can’t convict you on the first one.”
I said, “The door was locked from the inside, all right, but who knows when it was locked?”
“What are you getting at?”
I said, “There were several shots fired.”
“That’s right. One in the suitcase, one in Dover Fulton, one in Minerva Carlton.”
“That’s four,” I said.
“Four!” Sellers said. “Are you nuts? That’s three.”
“Four.”
Sellers said, “What are you trying to do, start an argument?”
“How many shells were fired out of Dover Fulton’s gun?”
“Three.”
“Only two loaded shells were left.”
“Well, that’s because he usually carried it with an empty space in the cylinder under the hammer. Lots of people do that because it’s safer.”
“So there was one empty chamber, three fired shells, and two full shells in Dover Fulton’s gun.”
“That’s right.”
“Four shells were fired,” I said.
Sellers began to look at me with a certain element of respect. “Of course, Lam,” he said, “you could be right. What do you know about it?”
I said, “I putting two and two together.”
“And making four,” Sellers said, grinning at his own joke.
“And making four,” I told him. “If Dover Fulton had been shooting the gun in a suicide-pact, how could he have fired the shot into the suitcase?”
“He could have shot at the girl and missed her the first shot.”
“Missed her by that wide range? The suitcase was down on the floor.”
“Hell,” Sellers said, “she could have been bending over by the suitcase, just getting ready to put something in it, and he decided he’d surprise her.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “She’s down by the suitcase, on her knees, just getting ready to open it. Dover Fulton shoots at the back of her head. He’s going to catch her by surprise.”
“Well,” Sellers said, “it could have been that way.”
I said, “All right, figure the surprise element. Then what does she do?”
“Well, naturally, she’d jump up.”
“And turn to face him,” I said.
“Well, so what?”
“Then the second shot would have been in the front of her forehead.”
“Not necessarily. She turned to face him, then saw what was happening and started to run.”
“And then he shot her right in the back of the head.”
“That’s right.”
“In other words,” I said, “he misses her slick and clean when she’s down on her knees and he’s standing right close behind her, but when she jumps up and starts to run, he makes a perfect bull’s-eye.”