Vernon looked at his feet and didn’t say anything. Rolly and Feeney were looking intently out through the open door–we were standing just inside it–at the rain. Nobody seemed to have any intention of speaking.
I asked, “No?” putting more doubt in my voice than I actually felt.
“No, he didn’t,” she cried, turning her face to me. “He couldn’t. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.” The pink went out of her face, leaving it white and desperate. “He–he was here that night–all night–from before seven until daylight.”
“Where was your husband?”
“Up in the city, at his mother’s.”
“What’s her address?”
She gave it to me, a Noe Street number.
“Did anybody–?”
“Aw, come on,” the sheriff protested, still staring at the rain. “Ain’t that enough?”
Mrs. Cotton turned from me to the district attorney again, taking hold of one of his arms.
“Don’t tell it on me, please, Mr. Vernon,” she begged. “I don’t know what I’d do if it came out. But I had to tell you. I couldn’t let him put it on Harve. Please, you won’t tell anybody else?”
The district attorney swore that under no circumstances would he, or any of us, repeat what she had told us to anybody; and the sheriff and his deputy agreed with vigorous red-faced nods.
But when we were in the Ford again, away from her, they forgot their embarrassment and became manhunters again. Within ten minutes they had decided that Cotton, instead of going to San Francisco to his mother’s Friday night, had remained in Quesada, had killed Collinson, had gone to the city to phone Fitzstephan and mail the letter, and then had returned to Quesada in time to kidnap Mrs. Collinson; planning from the first to plant the evidence against Whidden, with whom he had long been on bad terms, having always suspected what everybody else knew–that Whidden was Mrs. Cotton’s lover.
The sheriff–he whose chivalry had kept me from more thoroughly questioning the woman a few minutes ago–now laughed his belly up and down.
“That’s rich,” he gurgled. “Him out framing Harve, and Harve getting himself a alibi in _his_ bed. Dick’s face ought to be a picture for Puck when we spring that on him. Let’s find him tonight.”
“Better wait,” I advised. “It won’t hurt to check up his San Francisco trip before we put it to him. All we’ve got on him so far is that he tried to frame Whidden. If he’s the murderer and kidnapper he seems to have gone to a lot of unnecessary foolishness.”
Feeney scowled at me and defended their theory:
“Maybe he was more interested in framing Harve than anything else.”
“Maybe,” I said; “but it won’t hurt to give him a little more rope and see what he does with it.”
Feeney was against that. He wanted to grab the marshal pronto; but Vernon reluctantly backed me up. We dropped Rolly at his house and returned to the hotel.
In my room, I put in a phone-call for the agency in San Francisco. While I was waiting for the connection knuckles tapped my door. I opened it and let in Jack Santos, pajamaed, bathrobed, and slippered.
“Have a nice ride?” he asked, yawning.
“Swell.”
“Anything break?”
“Not for publication, but–under the hat–the new angle is that our marshal is trying to hang the job on his wife’s boy friend–with homemade evidence. The other big officials think Cotton turned the trick himself.”
“That ought to get them all on the front page.” Santos sat on the foot of my bed and lit a cigarette. “Ever happen to hear that Feeney was Cotton’s rival for the telegraphing hand of the present Mrs. Cotton, until she picked the marshal–the triumph of dimples over mustachios?”
“No,” I admitted. “What of it?”
“How do I know? I just happened to pick it up. A fellow in the garage told me.”
“How long ago?”
“That they were rival suitors? Less than a couple of years.”
I got my San Francisco call, and told Field–the agency night-man–to have somebody check up the marshal’s Noe Street visit. Santos yawned and went out while I was talking. I went to bed when I had finished.