Daphne darling:
This letter will probably come as a great surprise to you.
I’m married, and, believe it or not, I’ve married a rich man! I am now Mrs. Alfonse Baker Carr. How does that sound to you, dear?
I know that we always used to talk about what we would do if we could ever manage to marry some rich man, but I can tell you, Daphne, that never has there been anything in our wildest dreams which could even approximate the facts connected with my marriage. Facts which I’m not at liberty to even discuss — at least in a letter.
My husband is one of the leading criminal attorneys in Southern California. I understand his clients refer to him as “Old A. B. C,” and whenever there is talk about getting caught or, as they call it in crook jargon, “beating the rap,” someone will show that he is wise to the ropes by smiling and saying, “It’s just as simple as A. B. C.”
My husband is tall and handsome, with clean-cut, regular features, high cheekbones, a square jaw, flowing wavy hair that has turned partially white. He wears sideburns, and looks very much like a banker, or a senator, or perhaps it would be better to say some very distinguished actor or diplomat. He is always exceedingly polite and considerate, but I don’t think he is in the least in love with me. Yet he has taken me into his palatial home here in Madison City, and the way he treats me, you’d think he married me for love. He treats me like a lady!
Perhaps I should explain that “palatial” home. My husband is trying to retire, but his clients won’t let him. He no longer handles the ordinary run-of-the-mill practice, but only takes cases which appeal to him, or because of former attachments with some client, or something of that sort. I think he has all the money he wants and I don’t think money means anything to him any more, or ever did mean a lot.
He married me because of certain things that I can’t discuss, only they weren’t what you’re probably thinking. I had thought that perhaps he would see that it was made just a legal marriage and let it go at that. However, I think he’s afraid that I might get a divorce, and if that happened there might be legal complications. So apparently he is determined that I shall have no cause for divorce, and having decided that he’s stuck with me for three years, he’s going to make the best of it.
Now that doesn’t really explain things either. It’s one of the most peculiar situations you ever heard of. It would make a movie look tame by comparison. However, darling, I want you to know that I am married and that my address is here in Madison City, and your letters should be rather circumspect because... well, because...
I’m sorry that I can’t invite you to visit us, not just yet anyway; but you know how it is. However, if you’re ever passing through Madison City, or even if you’re in Los Angeles, let me know where you are and I’ll try and visit you somewhere and we’ll talk over old times a little.
This certainly is a strange world!
And if you’re ever in real serious trouble remember that — “It’s just as simple as A. B. C.”
Lovingly yours,
Brandon cocked a quizzical eyebrow at the district attorney. “Interesting,” he said.
“I’ll say! Now take a look at the rest of this stuff, Rex. Here’s a book of traveler’s checks issued in denominations of ten and twenty dollars. Now that’s strange.”
“Why?” Brandon asked. “That’s the way...”
“Sure, that’s the way most women in her position would travel,” Selby said, “but look at the wad of money she has. Something over sixteen hundred dollars in currency, and yet she has this book which now has... let’s see what was in it when it was issued.”
Selby counted through the traveler’s checks and the torn-off stubs, said, “It was originally issued for seven hundred and fifty dollars. The hundred-odd that’s been cashed could just about be her... Oh, oh, here’s something folded up very tightly. Looks like a telegram.”
Selby unfolded the telegram, said, “Get this, Rex,” and spread the yellow paper out on the desk.
The telegram, sent three days before, addressed to Daphne Arcola at Windrift, Montana, simply said, UNDER CIRCUMSTANCES WILL BE GLAD TO SEE YOU. SUGGEST YOU COME TO MADISON CITY, REGISTER IN MADISON HOTEL UNDER YOUR OWN NAME, AND THEN CONTACT.
“And the telegram is signed simply ‘ALPHABETICALLY SIMPLE.’ ” Brandon said, “and was sent from Los Angeles.”
The two men looked at each other.
“Well,” Selby said, “we have one trump card this time.”
“What’s that?”
“The man can’t commit bigamy,” Selby explained, grinning. “He can’t marry any more witnesses.”
Brandon grinned. “You have something there, Doug.”
“Let’s go down and look at the tires on that car and see if they check with the impressions we found there in the soil,” Selby said.
They walked down the stairs of the Courthouse and then out the back way to the parking lot in the rear which was usually reserved for county cars.
“Take a look for one with an out-of-state license,” Selby said. “A... here it is, two-door convertible. Let’s be a little casual about looking it over, Rex. We don’t want to attract a crowd of spectators.”
They walked around the car, giving careful attention to the tires.
“Well?” Selby asked.
“It’s the one,” Brandon said grimly.
“Well, let’s keep it to ourselves for the moment, Rex. We’ll have to impound the car, of course, but we can do it so it won’t attract attention — and I’m going to take that key, go back to Room 602 in the Madison Hotel and search that baggage some more. Now that I know what we’re up against, I’m going to feel my way.”
“Just what are we up against?” Brandon asked.
Selby said simply, “We’re up against Old A. B. C.”
8
Selby, walking down the sixth-floor corridor of the Madison Hotel, took from his pocket the key to Room 602, inserted it in the spring lock, clicked back the bolt, stepped into the hotel room and closed the door behind him.
The room was dark, the windows closed. Only a relatively small amount of diffused daylight filtered through the drawn shades into the room.
Selby noticed at once that there had been several changes in the room since he and Brandon had left it, changes which he presumed were due to an invasion by Otto Larkin, the officious chief of the Madison City police.
The suitcase had been unpacked and the garments spread over the back and across the arms of a chair. Bottles and jars had been placed on the dressing table.
Selby frowned irritably. He had wanted to study the way that suitcase had been packed. He felt that he might get a clue to...
Something sounded unmistakably like the creaking of a bedspring.
Selby whirled, noticing even in the dim light that, the bed was no longer neatly smoothed down with the counterpane in place and...
With a quick, explosive motion, the covers were thrown back. A young woman, clad in sheer gossamer silk, gave Selby a glimpse of long white legs as she flung herself out of bed to the floor, stood for a moment with the silken nightgown falling about her. Suddenly as realization of Selby’s presence gripped her, she reached for a robe which was thrown across the bottom of the bed. Then, evidently thinking better of it, she jumped back into the bed and pulled the covers up close to her chin. “What are you doing here?” she demanded angrily. “How dare you enter my room!”
Selby stood, wordless in surprise.
“Why you... you thief... you Peeping Tom... you...!”