CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
A pounding on his hotel room door woke Sheriff T. C. Lyons from a sound sleep. He jolted upright in bed and yelled, “Who the hell is it.”
“It’s me, Sheriff, John Bryce. I’m the owner of the Parker Hotel.” A pause, then, “There’s been a murder.”
“Damn it all, man, who was murdered?” Lyons said
“I don’t know, Sheriff.”
“How do you know he was murdered?”
“Looks like he was gut shot.”
Lyons swung his legs off the bed. “Sounds like murder, all right.”
“Then he fell over a pile of bricks,” Bryce said.
“Fell over a pile of bricks?”
“Yeah, Sheriff, in the dark.”
“I’ll be right over,” Lyons said. “Wait a minute, Stella Morgan has a room in your hotel, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, the widow Morgan is an honored guest.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Lyons said.
The sheriff took time to rouse Lou Hunt, one of his more competent deputies, and the two men made their way to the Parker, walking through a blustery wind that pulled at their clothing and lifted mustard-colored veils of dust from the streets.
John Bryce, looking worried, wringing his hands, met Lyons on the hotel porch. “He’s round back, Sheriff.” Then, “Isn’t this a terrible thing?”
“Let’s take a look at the body, and I’ll tell you if it’s terrible,” Lyons said.
* * *
“It’s terrible, all right,” Lyons said. “Looks like he was hit with a scattergun.”
“And then he tripped over the bricks,” Parker said.
“That would explain the bruises on his head, huh?” Deputy Hunt said.
“Maybe,” Lyons said. And then to Bryce. “The dead man’s name is Lucian Carter. He was a close friend of Mrs. Morgan.”
“Oh, she’ll be so upset when she hears about this,” Bryce said, wringing his hands again.
Lyons said nothing. He examined the body again, closer this time. When Carter tripped and fell he’d hit hard, and there was a deep, almost triangular indentation in his skull above his left eye, that could have been caused by the corner of a brick. Lyons examined the ground, deep in thought. A shotgun blast to the belly causes massive bleeding, but there was no blood trail leading to the brick pile. Then it dawned on him. Carter didn’t trip over the bricks . . . he fell on them from a height. The sheriff’s eyes scanned the hotel wall. There was a second-story window almost directly above where the body lay, and Lyons said, “Bryce, what window is that?”
The man glanced upward and said, “Ah, that’s the window of the linen closet.” He puffed up a little. “The Parker prides itself on its clean linens.”
“Let’s take a look up there,” Lyons said.
* * *
“Sheriff is . . . is that the deceased’s blood on my closet floor?” John Bryce said. His face was ashen, and he looked as though he was washing his hands without soap or water.
“That would be my guess,” Lyons said. He examined the windowsill and pointed out some dried, rust-colored stains. “Blood,” he said.
“Oh, dear,” Bryce said. “My poor sheets.”
“Lucian Carter was tossed through this window,” Lyons said. “And that was sometime after he was shot. There’s a blood trail across the floor and into the hallway.” He stepped out of the closet and examined the carpet. “Bloodstains lead to this room,” Lyons said.
“Ah, that is Mrs. Morgan’s room, but I doubt—”
“Open the door, Bryce,” Lyons said.
“I have a master key, Sheriff, but I don’t think I wish to disturb—”
“Open the damned door,” Lyons said. “He pulled his Colt from his waistband and let Bryce smell the muzzle. “Am I going to have trouble with you?” he said.
“No, not at all, Sheriff,” Bryce said, flustered. “Now just let me knock first to be polite.”
“Lou,” Lyons said.
Without a word, Hunt raised his boot and crashed the door in. The deputy grinned, bowed, and said, “After you, Sheriff.”
Gun in hand, Lyons stepped into the room and looked around. “She’s flown the coop,” he said. His eyes went to the blood on the floor and wall. “And that’s Lucian Carter’s blood for sure.”
Hunt said, “Looks like she dragged him from here to the linen closet window and tossed him outside,”
“Not she, they,” Lyons said. “Stella Morgan couldn’t manhandle Carter across the hall and into the closet by herself. And she sure as hell needed help throwing him out the window.”
“Sheriff, what about my broken door?” Bryce said, wringing his hands at a rapid rate.
“Send your bill to the county sheriff as soon as one is appointed,” Lyons said. He smiled at Hunt. “The shotgun wound didn’t kill Lucian Carter, the fall from the window did. I finally have enough to charge Stella Morgan with murder.” He thought about that for a few moments.
Bryce said, “Detective Pip Ogden has a room in my hotel. I’ll go talk with him first and see what he thinks.”
Lyons consulted his watch. “It’s almost six. I don’t have much time.”