XVII. Below Dull Point
The telephone bell brought me out of sleep a little before ten the following morning. Mickey Linehan, talking from San Francisco, told me Cotton had arrived at his mother’s house at between seven and seven-thirty Saturday morning. The marshal had slept for five or six hours–telling his mother he had been up all night laying for a burglar–and had left for home at six that evening.
Cotton was coming in from the street when I reached the lobby. He was red-eyed and weary, but still determined.
“Catch Whidden?” I asked.
“No, durn him, but I will. Say, I’m glad you jiggled my arm, even if it did let him get away. I–well, sometimes a fellow’s enthusiasm gets the best of his judgment.”
“Yeah. We stopped at your house on our way back, to see how you’d made out.”
“I ain’t been home yet,” he said. “I put in the whole durned night hunting for that fellow. Where’s Vern and Feeney?”
“Pounding their ears. Better get some sleep yourself,” I suggested. “I’ll ring you up if anything happens.”
He set off for home. I went into the café for breakfast. I was half through when Vernon joined me there. He had telegrams from the San Francisco police department and the Marin County sheriff’s office, confirming Fitzstephan’s alibis.
“I got my report on Cotton,” I said. “He reached his mother’s at seven or a little after Saturday morning, and left at six that evening.”
“Seven or a little after?” Vernon didn’t like that. If the marshal had been in San Francisco at that time he could hardly have been abducting the girl. “Are you sure?”
“No, but that’s the best we’ve been able to do so far. There’s Fitzstephan now.” Looking through the café door, I had seen the novelist’s lanky back at the hotel desk. “Excuse me a moment.”
I went over and got Fitzstephan, bringing him back to the table with me, and introducing him to Vernon. The district attorney stood up to shake hands with him, but was too busy with thoughts of Cotton to bother now with anything else. Fitzstephan said he had had breakfast before leaving the city, and ordered a cup of coffee. Just then I was called to the phone.
Cotton’s voice, but excited almost beyond recognition:
“For God’s sake get Vernon and Feeney and come up here.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Hurry! Something awful’s happened. Hurry!” he cried, and hung up.
I went back to the table and told Vernon about it. He jumped up, upsetting Fitzstephan’s coffee. Fitzstephan got up too, but hesitated, looking at me.
“Come on,” I invited him. “Maybe this’ll be one of the things you like.”
Fitzstephan’s car was in front of the hotel. The marshal’s house was only seven blocks away. Its front door was open. Vernon knocked on the frame as we went in, but we didn’t wait for an answer.
Cotton met us in the hall. His eyes were round and bloodshot in a face as hard-white as marble. He tried to say something, but couldn’t get the words past his tight-set teeth. He gestured towards the door behind him with a fist that was clenched on a piece of brown paper.
Through the doorway we saw Mrs. Cotton. She was lying on the blue-carpeted floor. She had on a pale blue dress. Her throat was covered with dark bruises. Her lips and tongue–the tongue, swollen, hung out–were darker than the bruises. Her eyes were wide open, bulging, upturned, and dead. Her hand, when I touched it, was still warm.
Cotton, following us into the room, held out the brown paper in his hand. It was an irregularly torn piece of wrapping paper, covered on both sides with writing–nervously, unevenly, hastily scribbled in pencil. A softer pencil had been used than on Fitzstephan’s message, and the paper was a darker brown.
I was closest to Cotton. I took the paper, and read it aloud hurriedly, skipping unnecessary words:
“Whidden came last night . . . said husband after him . . . frame him for Collinson trouble . . . I hid him in garret . . . he said only way to save him was to say he was here Friday night . . . said if I didn’t they’d hang him . . . when Mr. Vernon came Harve said he’d kill me if I didn’t . . . so I said it . . . but he wasn’t here that night . . . I didn’t know he was guilty then . . . told me afterwards . . . tried to kidnap her Thursday night . . . husband nearly caught him . . . came in office after Collinson sent telegram and saw it . . . followed him and killed him . . . went to San Francisco, drinking whiskey . . . decided to go through with kidnapping anyway . . . phoned man who knew her to try to learn who he could get money from . . . too drunk to talk good . . . wrote letter and came back . . . met her on road . . . took her to old bootleggers’ hiding place somewhere below Dull Point . . . goes in boat . . . afraid he’ll kill me . . . locked in garret . . . writing while he’s down getting food . . . murderer . . . I won’t help him . . . Daisy Cotton.”