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Authors: Graham Landrum

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BOOK: The Rotary Club Murder Mystery
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Frederick M. Middleton, M.D.
<<
 
 
 
 
 
I
was delayed at the office and did not arrive at the Borderville Inn until about ten minutes after twelve. I parked in the upper parking lot, the lower lot being full by that time. In consequence, I had farther to walk and was delayed still more.
The Inn is built in the form of a C around a swimming pool. The west side of the enclosure can be entered through an opening between two of the wings. As I came through this opening, I realized that something unusual was going on.
In front of one of the first-floor rooms halfway to the Inn office stood Gene Spencer, Nancy Attwood (manager of the motel), and a young fellow in a blue blazer with the Inn monogram on the breast pocket. I was in time to hear Nancy say, “Go ahead, Jim. Break the door open.”
With that, the young fellow lunged with his shoulder at the door, but nothing happened. He took another try at it, and I heard wood splintering.
By that time, I was close enough to see that the door had been on the chain and that Jim had merely hit the door hard enough to jerk the chain from the doorjamb.
Mrs. Attwood entered the darkened room, turned on the
light, and immediately exclaimed, “Dear God!” Gene Spencer followed her and drew in his breath suddenly and audibly. I trailed young Jim into the room and saw lying composedly on the bed the body of a man about forty-five years old.
Gene Spencer, looking around, saw me and said, “Thank God! Here's a doctor.”
I stepped past Gene and examined the figure on the bed. There was a small entry wound below the chin. The bullet had passed upward and blasted quite a hole in the cranium. Blood and brains were spattered about, and it appeared that the bullet was imbedded in the headboard. Near the man's right hand, I saw a service .45 automatic.
“I am of no use here, Gene,” I said. “Only the undertaker can do anything for this man.”
“My God!” Gene moaned, “It's the district governor!” The dead man was Charles Hollonbrook, who was to have addressed our club that very day.
“How long,” Gene asked, “how long since it happened?”
The air conditioner was on and would have had an undue effect on the body. I am no coroner, but I made a guess.
“I would think it happened about the middle of the night.”
Gene was visibly horrified. He had his hand up rubbing his forehead and kept saying, “Suicide! Suicide!” under his breath.
To discover any suicide is a great shock, but for the president of a Rotary Club to find that his district governor, who was about to address the club with a speech designed to inspire confidence and ring the changes on the glories of Rotary, had taken his life not a hundred feet from the dining room where the club was now assembled—that was indeed a blow.
“It certainly appears to be suicide,” I said, “but let's look around and see what we find.”
The room seemed to be in perfect order. Hollonbrook's glasses were on the bedside commode table and next to them was a small bottle. Aware that the police would undoubtedly look for fingerprints, I carefully picked up the bottle with my
handkerchief—it was a popular brand of sleeping pills. I unscrewed the lid and saw that there were three tablets left. That, of course, did not indicate how many had been taken, since I did not know how many pills had been in the bottle when Hollonbrook checked in at the motel. The coroner would have to tell us whether any pills had been taken. Could the pills have been brought along as an alternate means of suicide? I did not think so. I felt that all the tablets would have been taken if suicide had been intended—or, alternately, the bottle would be full if the pills had been intended as a second option.
Under the bottle was a square of paper of the sort found in desk pads. Across the top of the page was printed: “From the Desk of Charles Hollonbrook.” On the paper was scrawled: “Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't make it today, C.J.H.”
I directed Gene's attention to the note.
Mrs. Attwood said, “I'm calling the police,” and picked up the phone before I could warn her about fingerprints. But whether we were concerned with murder or suicide, it was unlikely that a call would recently have been made from that phone by anyone but Hollonbrook.
While Mrs. Attwood was calling, I said to Gene, “I think we should not necessarily conclude that this is suicide. The determination is for the coroner and the police to make.” Of course, it certainly looked like suicide from the nature of the wound, the proximity of the gun, and the note. Nevertheless, it seemed strange that a man would jot a suicide note on a sheet from the desk pad in his office instead of writing it properly on Inn stationery conveniently available in the room.
As Mrs. Attwood had taken up the phone, she had knocked a book off the table. When I reached down and picked the volume up to replace it where it had been, I saw that it was
Break In
, a Dick Francis novel, with a bookmark inserted twothirds of the way through it.
Gene kept repeating, “Suicide! Suicide!” as though he had not heard me.
About that time, I looked around and saw the young fellow who had broken the door in. He was in difficulties, face pale and eyes large. It was obviously the first time he had seen a corpse anywhere but at a funeral home.
“I guess we should stay here until the police come,” I said.
“Yes!” Mrs. Attwood said in a rather firm voice. In spite of her apparent self-possession, she was pretty well shaken by the event. I believe that there had never been a violent death at the Inn before. This would not be good publicity for the motel. So it was an especially rough experience for her.
“Maybe we should look around further,” I said.
The Borderville Motor Inn was built some time ago, when it was customary to enter the rooms from an outside walkway. The room has but the one entrance, and the remainder of the exterior wall is a plate-glass window, heavily draped and incapable of being opened. The room measures some twenty-five by fifteen feet. It contains a shag carpet and two beds, with the commode table between them. On the opposite wall is a low chest with a platform to hold luggage.
At the rear, there is a closet to the right and a door at the left, which opens on a small compartment containing the bath and toilet. Between the two, there is a counter into which a basin is fitted. There is absolutely no means of entering the room except through the door at the front. In the ceiling above the basin in this particular room, there is a square that looked as though it might be removed—no doubt to provide access to wiring or perhaps plumbing. But since there are rooms on the second floor of the motel, obviously there would be no way of entering the lower room through that square.
I did not see how anyone could have gotten in without waking the sleeper, could have then killed him, could have gotten out of the room, and could have secured the chain. It had to be suicide—obviously. But on the face of it, two things immediately seemed wrong to me: The note was one thing, but
the other was altogether wrong. Nobody ever committed suicide when he had read only part of a Dick Francis novel.
I looked at the deceased's clothing: his suit neatly hung ready to put on, his shoes beautifully polished and carefully placed below the suit, his shaving equipment, placed on the counter ready to use, along with his toothpaste and toothbrush. It certainly looked as though the man who had gone to bed had expected to get up in the morning.
I went back to the center of the room. On the lowboy was a traveling clock ticking very quietly. I picked it up (with my handkerchief, of course). It had been set to go off at 7:30 and undoubtedly had done so.
Just then the patrolman came. After Mrs. Attwood explained what had happened and each of us had been identified, Gene told the policeman that he needed to say something by way of explanation to the club; and the officer permitted Gene and me to leave but instructed us to return and be questioned by the sheriff, who was expected momentarily.
Coming into the dining room as late as I did, I found the food on the steam table meager and thoroughly picked over. However, I got a sliver of the roast pork, a little more than a spoonful of English peas, and a quarter of a tomato by way of salad.
When I joined the boys at the front table, they were greatly excited over what had happened, as were the men at the other tables. I reported what I knew. All told, I doubt that any former district governor has provided us with as interesting a meeting as the one we had on that Tuesday. On the other hand, the interest of that day was nothing compared with the consternation when the truth about our district governor came out a number of weeks later.
When I had finished my lunch, I went back upstairs and found that the sheriff had arrived. Having appointments scheduled throughout the afternoon, I persuaded him to hear my evidence first so that I could go about my business.
The following morning I read this story in the
Banner-Democrat:
SUICIDE AT LOCAL MOTEL
Police were called at 12:15 Tuesday to investigate the circumstances of the death of a guest at the Borderville Motor Inn.
The victim was a white male approximately forty years of age. He was found in bed, apparently a suicide.
Personnel at the Inn had no inkling that anything was amiss until approximately 11:40 a.m., when Eugene Spencer, 628 Dominion Terrace, attempted to reach the deceased by phone.
After several unsuccessful attempts, Spencer notified Inn Manager Nancy Attwood that further efforts to rouse the guest should be made. Attwood and attendant James R. Rickets, 1392 Linden Way, forced the door.
The victim was lying in bed, a bullet through his brain.
Sheriff R. M. Bowser informed the
Banner-Democrat
that the dead man had shot himself with a .45 automatic pistol. He said also that a suicide note was found beside the body.
The name of the victim is being withheld until his next of kin can be found and notified.
It should surprise no one that I was well enough pleased to have been left out of this account. But I received a call from the
Banner
-
Democrat
on Thursday afternoon, and I appeared in a minor way in the story that they carried on Friday morning.
By that time, Hollonbrook's wife had been located and informed, the reporter had ascertained the biographical facts
about Hollonbrook, and Bowser had released the information that the automatic had been identified as Hollonbrook's property, which seemed to lend weight to the official contention that the death was suicide.
Pictures accompanied this story, including a shot of the chain that had been jerked loose from the doorjamb in order for motel staff to break into the room.
It seemed very obvious that this mechanism, once in place, would prevent admission from the outside without the cooperation of Hollonbrook. The fact that this mechanism was indeed in place and that the door was also locked in the conventional manner seemed to prove beyond possible doubt that Hollonbrook's death was suicide.
So in spite of the fact that I could not reconcile the note from Hollonbrook's desk pad and the unread portion of the Dick Francis book, and the obvious preparations he had made for the normal activities of the following morning, I certainly could not explain the death otherwise than as a suicide.
But I could not rid my mind of the suspicion that, in this case, suicide was the wrong verdict.
>>
Harriet Bushrow
<<
 
 
 
 
 
T
he Rotary Club has always been gracious and attentive to the Rotary Anns—that's the wives and widows of Rotarians. Now that they have women in Rotary, I just wonder how that is going to be in future years.
As I say, until now the boys have always had a “Ladies' Night” once a year, honoring us wives and widows of Rotarians. And how they have always handed us around!—as though we were something precious. A lot of it was just put-on-the toast to the ladies and the ladies' response, and the corsages and dinner favors—but we loved it just the same. Now with women's lib and equal opportunity, I don't suppose the boys will want to honor us in the old way. Can they honor the Rotary Anns without honoring the Rotary Andies? And will they provide corsages for the widowers the same way they have always done for the widows?
But that's completely off the subject. What I started to say was that Rotary was always a big part of social life for me and Lamar. Lamar went into Rotary when he was thirty-five and remained in it until he died thirty-two years later. And during
that time, some of the dearest friends we ever had were Rotarians and Rotary Anns.
The point is that many of the Rotarians were just as much friends when they were away from the Rotary meeting as they were when they were eating together at noon on Tuesday. And that's why Rotary meant so much to me.
We always had good times with Rotary friends and their wives. Often we would go on vacations with people we got to know through Rotary. But the thing that meant most to me then and does so still is the Rotary Bridge Club.
Of course, it never was a formal club at all. It started as just three tables of bridge, meeting twice a month; and we had more fun! It just happened that most of us were Presbyterians, and so, of course, we knew each other through the church as well as through Rotary.
But it was a long time ago that we had three tables of players. One by one, we have been passing over to the other side. But you know, the rest of us always saw to it that the widow or the widower had a way to continue to play with us. Sometimes we invited a new player to make up the number. And one year, two couples moved away to Florida about the same time.
What I am getting at is that there is only one table left. It is made up of me, Lona Champion, and Daisy Beth and Fred Middleton. So we are three Rotary Anns and Fred.
As you have already found out, the district governor died in the night between Monday and Tuesday, May 26/27. Then it was all in the paper on Wednesday and Friday. And then the Rotary Bridge Club met with Daisy Beth and Fred on Friday night.
Now do you think we did much serious playing that night? Oh yes, we bid and we made or did not make our bids, but our minds were altogether on one thing—and that didn't have much to do with the game.
Lona was having the time of her life because we were right there with Fred, and Fred had been on the spot even before the
police arrived, and he was telling us all about it. I have to admit I was just as excited as Lona was—like the old fire horse smelling smoke.
Well, we talked it over and talked it over. And Fred made the observation that if the chain had not been on the door and the door had not been locked, he would seriously doubt that it was suicide. He didn't think the note sounded like evidence of suicide, and the poor man hadn't even finished his Dick Francis book.
“Of course it wasn't suicide,” I said.
“Why do you say that?” Lona wanted to know.
“Well,” I said, “you know very well that the dearest wish of every Rotarian in the country or maybe in the world is to be district governor. Not one of them would forgo being district governor even to go to Heaven-or Hell, for that matter. They love the idea of being district governor, and you know they do.”
Lona thought maybe that was right, and Fred kind of chuckled, but he didn't say I was wrong.
“And as for that locked room,” I went on, “I wouldn't let a thing like that stop me from calling it murder.”
“You wouldn't?” Fred raised his eyebrows.
Ever since I cracked (notice the professional language!) the Famous DAR Murder Case, people pay attention to me when I talk about crime.
“No, I would not.”
“You think a murder can take place in a locked room?”
“Locked room?” I said. “There is no such thing as a murder taking place in a locked room. The room was unlocked when the murder took place and then locked afterward.”
“What are you going to do about that chain on the door?”
Well, I didn't know the answer to that one, but I wasn't about to admit it. Still, if it was murder, it had to have been done by somebody who got out of that room. And if that somebody figured out how to do it, it stood to reason somebody else could figure it out, too.
So we argued about that for a little. Then Daisy Beth said, “I understand that they couldn't find his wife for two days.”
“Where did you hear that?” Lona was quick to ask.
“At the beauty parlor.”
Beauty parlor information can sometimes be pretty accurate. And if what Daisy Beth had just said was true, that would explain why the
Banner
-
Democrat
had not run the second story until the third day.
“Well, it looks like we have a real mystery on our hands,” Lona said. “And if anybody can find out just what happened, Harriet can.”
Then Daisy Beth said, “Oh, Harriet, you just must do it.”
I knew then that I should have kept my mouth shut, but I never was one to be quiet.
Fred was in rare form—went on quite a while teasing me the way he does. But pretty soon, he got just as serious as could be and said, “Would you really take the case?”
Well, just because I happened to figure out who killed that Mr. Garcia in the DAR Mystery, nobody needs to suppose I am a real detective. I am eighty-eight years old. Most folks think I am just an inquisitive old woman, and they may be right.
Fred would have none of that. He said, “Don't knock yourself. I have more confidence in your intelligence than I have in all the police in Virginia or Tennessee.”
Now wasn't that sweet of him!
Then all of them began to get at me about looking into the case to see if I could solve it.
“Well, you know there's not much that a nosy old woman can't find out if she just keeps asking questions long enough,” I said. And I must say that I'm pretty good at asking questions.
Fred became a bit reflective and said, “I honestly think there is something fishy about that suicide. I think the club ought to look into it. And, Harriet, I think you are the ideal person to do the snooping.”
Then Lona and Daisy Beth got into it and said it would be the very thing to do.
I had no idea anything would come of it. But with my big mouth, I said I bet a woman could find the culprit sooner than a man could. It was just in fun, and I didn't mean a bit of it. Even though I worked out that DAR Mystery, that was the kind of thing that would happen just once in a lifetime.
But the more I carried on, the more I thought Fred was really serious. And yet you know how it is with things that are talked about over the bridge table—nothing ever comes of them. So I thought very little about Hollonbrook and all that until Sunday morning at church, when Fred Middleton came up to me and said, “Harriet, get your detective kit ready and start working on that case.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Don't you know I would have to go to that town in North Carolina where that poor man came from?” But then I thought—and smiled. “You know one of my dearest friends lives in that town. If you'll pay my way down there, I promise you I'll sleuth till the cows come home.” Then I laughed and said, “I'll send you the bill, Fred Middleton.”
“It's a deal.” Fred smiled. “We have already put together ten Rotarians who are willing to take care of the expenses if you'll lend us your brain.”
Now that was just ridiculous. Of course, there was the DAR Mystery, but I had no idea of ever doing such a thing again. Besides, everything about the DAR case took place right here in Borderville, and that meant that Margaret and Lizzie and Helen, three other ladies in our DAR chapter, were all working on it. And then Helen had those contacts on the West Coast. So it wasn't as if I solved the mystery by myself.
But this case was bound to be different. You see there wasn't anybody around here that knew this Mr. Hollonbrook at all. And that seemed to say that the answer was all down there in North Carolina. I just didn't know whether I could do it.
But here they were offering to pay my expenses!
I said, “Fred, you rascal, what have you gotten me into?”
“But you are going to do it,” he said.
I said, “I'll have to think about it.” And then I walked off and left him.
Well, the more I thought about it, the more excited I was. And so I got up on Monday morning and put on my white dress with the big black polka dots and my white straw hat with the red poppies on it and my red kid shoes. I can't wear high heels anymore. My bunions won't allow it. But these are real nice shoes with heels about an inch high. And of course I wore my cut crystal beads—the same ones that I had to break to solve the DAR murder. But that sweet Helen Delaporte! She took the beads to Reinhold's Jewelers and had them sent to someplace in New Jersey where they strung them professionally.
There's nothing in the world I would take for those beads, because that darling Lamar gave them to me when we were married.
After I got myself all fixed up, I called Fred Middleton at his office. He's seventy-three, but he still practices. I said, “Fred, give me the number of that room where that man was killed at the motel.” It was 106. Then I got into my old DeSoto and drove over to the Borderville Motor Inn to have breakfast.
It is a right nice place. The folks are friendly and the food is good, even if it is a bit expensive. But breakfast is the reasonable meal, and that was part of the reason why I wanted to have a late breakfast there. You'll find out the rest of the reason in just a minute.
There was a nice head-in parking place in front of the Inn when I drove up just after 9:30. I rolled up the car window, locked the door, and walked to the entrance. Then I went in and stood there by the sign that tells you to wait for the hostess. When that young lady came, I asked her if they were serving on the deck by the pool.
The deck is just by the dining room, with a door right there,
and it is so pleasant to eat outside in good weather. It is very pretty and nice, with round iron tables and those big umbrellas that come out of the middle.
“Why yes,” she said, “if you'll just come this way.”
Now I had to be seated out there on the deck so I could see room 106, the room where this Hollonbrook was killed.
I sat down on the nice rattan chair and put my red purse on the table, where I wouldn't forget it.
The young woman came out and took my order. I decided to have orange juice, a waffle, bacon, one egg over easy, and coffee. It came to $3.50 and was more breakfast than I usually eat, but it was already so late in the morning that I could count that as part of my lunch and just eat a bowl of cereal or something at noon.
There was hardly anyone around—just the one lady in her bathing suit, lying on a chaise longue on the other side of the pool. But she had a book and wasn't paying any attention to me.
It was cool and pleasant enough as I sat there munching my waffle. The hostess had been nice enough to switch on the outdoor Muzak machine, and it was playing some nice, soft music. So I was just having an elegant time when I saw what I was waiting for.
You see, the motel part of the building goes right around that pool on two sides, with the office and dining room forming the third side. Where the two rows of rooms come together at the corner, there is a place where you can come through.
I had just finished my egg when the maid came along the walkway, pulling a cart with a vacuum sweeper and a big hamper on it through that opening. She was a little meager sort of white woman in a uniform that was attractive enough, but it just drooped on her.
I watched her drag that hamper up to the first door on the other side of the pool. Then she picked up a key hooked to a wooden paddle about a foot long that she had hanging over the
side of the hamper. She opened the door, wedged it open with a piece of wood, and then laid the key and the paddle over the edge of the hamper again.
She went inside, and in just a second the TV in that room began to blare out. Then she brought out a big pile of sheets and towels, dumped them into the hamper, and took the sweeper into the room. She pulled open the curtains and started vacking the rug.
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