I went around to the front of the house. Wicker chairs and a table were on the screened front porch. The screened porch-door was hooked on the inside. I rattled it noisily. I rattled it off and on for at least five minutes, and got no response. I went around to the rear again, and knocked on the back door. My knocking knuckles pushed the door open half a foot. Inside was a dark kitchen and silence. I opened the door wider, knocking on it again, loudly. More silence.
I called: “Mrs. Collinson.”
When no answer came I went through the kitchen and a darker dining room, found a flight of stairs, climbed them, and began poking my head into rooms.
There was nobody in the house.
In one bedroom, a .38 automatic pistol lay in the center of the floor. There was an empty shell close to it, another under a chair across the room, and a faint odor of burnt gunpowder in the air. In one corner of the ceiling was a hole that a .38 bullet could have made, and, under it on the floor, a few crumbs of plaster. The bed-clothes were smooth and undisturbed. Clothes in the closet, things on and in table and bureau, told me this was Eric Collinson’s bedroom.
Next to it, according to the same sort of evidence, was Gabrielle’s bedroom. Her bed had not been slept in, or had been made since being slept in. On the floor of her closet I found a black satin dress, a once-white handkerchief, and a pair of black suede slippers, all wet and muddy–the handkerchief also wet with blood. In her bathroom–in the tub–were a bath-towel and a face-towel, both stained with mud and blood, and still damp. On her dressing-table was a small piece of thick white paper that had been folded. White powder clung to one crease. I touched it with the end of my tongue–morphine.
I went back to Quesada, changed my shoes and socks, got breakfast and a supply of dry cigarettes, and asked the clerk–a dapper boy, this one–who was responsible for law and order there.
“The marshal’s Dick Cotton,” he told me; “but he went up to the city last night. Ben Rolly’s deputy sheriff. You can likely find him over at his old man’s office.”
“Where’s that?”
“Next door to the garage.”
I found it, a one-story red brick building with wide glass windows labeled _J. King Rolly, Real Estate, Mortgages, Loans, Stocks and Bonds, Insurance, Notes, Employment Agency, Notary Public, Moving and Storage_, and a lot more that I’ve forgotten.
Two men were inside, sitting with their feet on a battered desk behind a battered counter. One was a man of fifty-and, with hair, eyes, and skin of indefinite, washed-out tan shades–an amiable, aimless-looking man in shabby clothes. The other was twenty years younger and in twenty years would look just like him.
“I’m hunting,” I said, “for the deputy sheriff.”
“Me,” the younger man said, easing his feet from desk to floor. He didn’t get up. Instead, he put a foot out, hooked a chair by its rounds, pulled it from the wall, and returned his feet to the desk-top. “Set down. This is Pa,” wiggling a thumb at the other man. “You don’t have to mind him.”
“Know Eric Carter?” I asked.
“The fellow honeymooning down to the Tooker place? I didn’t know his front name was Eric.”
“Eric Carter,” the elder Rolly said; “that’s the way I made out the rent receipt for him.”
“He’s dead,” I told them. “He fell off the cliff road last night or this morning. It could have been an accident.”
The father looked at the son with round tan eyes. The son looked at me with questioning tan eyes and said: “Tch, tch, tch.”
I gave him a card. He read it carefully, turning it over to see that there was nothing on its back, and passed it to his father.
“Go down and take a look at him?” I suggested.
“I guess I ought to,” the deputy sheriff agreed, getting up from his chair. He was a larger man than I had supposed–as big as the dead Collinson boy–and, in spite of his slouchiness, he had a nicely muscled body.