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 desktop. “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.
I followed him out to a dusty car in front of the office. Rolly senior didn’t go with us.
“Somebody told you about it?” the deputy sheriff asked when we were riding.
“I stumbled on him. Know who the Carters are?”
“Somebody special?”
“You heard about the Riese murder in the San Francisco temple?”
“Uh-huh, I read the papers.”
“Mrs. Carter was the Gabrielle Leggett mixed up in that, and Carter was the Eric Collinson.”
“Tch, tch, tch,” he said.
“And her father and stepmother were killed a couple of weeks before that.”
“Tch, tch, tch,” he said. “What’s the matter with them?”
“A family curse.”
“Sure enough?”
I didn’t know how seriously he meant that question, though he seemed serious enough. I hadn’t got him sized up yet. However, clown or not, he was the deputy sheriff stationed at Quesada, and this was his party. He was entitled to the facts. I gave them to him as we bounced over the lumpy road, gave him all I had, from Paris in to the cliff road a couple of hours ago.
“When they came back from being married in Reno, Collinson dropped in to see me. They had to stick around for the Haldorn bunch’s trial, and he wanted a quiet place to take the girl: she was still in a daze. You know Owen Fitzstephan?”
“The writer fellow that was down here a while last year? Uh-huh.”
“Well, he suggested this place.”
“I know. The old man mentioned it. But what’d they take them aliases for?”
“To dodge publicity, and, partly, to try to dodge something like this.”
He frowned vaguely and asked:
“You mean they expected something like this?”
“Well, it’s easy to say, ‘I told you so,’ after things happen, but I’ve never thought we had the answer to either of the two mix-ups she’s been in. And not having the answer—how could you tell what to expect? I didn’t think so much of their going off into seclusion like this while whatever was hanging over her—if anything was—was still hanging over her, but Collinson was all for it. I made him promise to wire me if he saw anything funny. Well, he did.”
Rolly nodded three or four times, then asked:
“What makes you think he didn’t fall off the cliff?”
“He sent for me. Something was wrong. Outside of that, too many things have happened around his wife for me to believe in accidents.”
“There’s the curse, though,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, studying his indefinite face, still trying to figure him out. “But the trouble with it is it’s worked out too well, too regularly. It’s the first one I ever ran across that did.”
He frowned over my opinion for a
