dates.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. Her breath came a little quickly now. “There were only a few pits and no signs of the dates at all. I know he kept them on the nightstand. Where were the other pits? Did he swallow them?”
“In the wastebasket?” Mark suggested. He was beginning to see her point.
“It’s across the room, by the dresser. They all are.” Idell lit a ciga ret with fingers that shook slightly. “I think whoever—well, whoever poisoned him took those dates out of the room when they took his body downstairs. It’s only an idea, of course, but Link loved dates so and everyone knew of it and—”
“You think then someone put cyanide into his dates,” Mark said, “and stole the dates after Link died to hide the evidence?”
Idell nodded. “He ate one too many dates.”
Leona’s voice spoke from behind them. How silently the woman moved! “You might say he was dated to death.”
Chapter
VII
T HE Manders’ ranch was out of the city limits of Indio, so Chief Deputy Sheriff Tom Rourke came plodding out with two assistants shortly after nine o’clock. After a half hour’s careful interrogation of Idell, Leona and Mark, which elicited little in the way of information, he suddenly demanded, “Where in hell is everybody?”
He was rather short and thick-set, and the summer heat made rivulets run down inside his collar and stain his face with sweat. He wore a straw hat pushed back on his head and a white shirt open at the neck and a pair of whipcord breeches and boots. He mopped at his face with a soiled handkerchief while he talked.
Mark grinned at the Chief’s explosive question. “As far as I know, Chief, they’re still sleeping it off.”
“Party, huh?” he said, his moon of a face holding a wise look.
“We went to bed around four this morning,” Idell said. “All but Uncle Frank, that is. He went to bed an hour before.”
“Any drunks?”
Leona’s lips curled slightly. “Miss Manders and myself were sober, I think,” she said.
The Chief looked at Mark. “You covering this story?” He referred to two newspaper features Mark had done on him when he had wanted a little extra money. He had flattered the Chief almost beyond human consumption, and they had been warm friends ever since.
“You aren’t a newspaper man?” Idell sounded frightened.
“Not for two years,” Mark assured her. “I used to be a New York police reporter. But now I’m on space rates like any other country correspondent. I do very little, though, even now.” He knew what she was thinking, and he wanted her to know that he was not there for that, but because he wanted to help her; he hoped she caught the personal note his voice held.
Idell threw back her head and laughed, a genuine warm bit of laughter that helped release the tautness built inside her. It was much more relaxing than the drinks had been, she thought suddenly. The others looked at her suspiciously, as if they thought she would go into hysterics. She didn’t bother to explain; she couldn’t, very well. It would be too much for her to tell Mark she had thought him a local boy!
“She found him,” Mark told the Chief doubtfully. He looked toward the body.
The Chief’s eyes followed his gaze. “Bayless called Doc Nesbit. He’ll be up to take a look pretty soon. And Riverside is sending the boys down.” He sighed ponderously as if the whole affair were already a trial. “I suppose,” he said, “we ought to wake ‘em up and start moving.”
“Breakfast, please,” Sing chanted from the doorway behind them.
The Chief jumped and turned quickly. “For gosh sakes!”
“Our cook,” Idell smiled. “We may as well eat and get it over with.”
“I ate,” the Chief said.
“Coffee then,” she offered. “And it’s much cooler in the house.”
The Chief nodded almost enthusiastically. “Okay. Bayless,” he said to the taller of his two men standing by, “stay here and watch that—the remains. And,
“You don’t understand,” she said. Her breath came a little quickly now. “There were only a few pits and no signs of the dates at all. I know he kept them on the nightstand. Where were the other pits? Did he swallow them?”
“In the wastebasket?” Mark suggested. He was beginning to see her point.
“It’s across the room, by the dresser. They all are.” Idell lit a ciga ret with fingers that shook slightly. “I think whoever—well, whoever poisoned him took those dates out of the room when they took his body downstairs. It’s only an idea, of course, but Link loved dates so and everyone knew of it and—”
“You think then someone put cyanide into his dates,” Mark said, “and stole the dates after Link died to hide the evidence?”
Idell nodded. “He ate one too many dates.”
Leona’s voice spoke from behind them. How silently the woman moved! “You might say he was dated to death.”
Chapter
VII
T HE Manders’ ranch was out of the city limits of Indio, so Chief Deputy Sheriff Tom Rourke came plodding out with two assistants shortly after nine o’clock. After a half hour’s careful interrogation of Idell, Leona and Mark, which elicited little in the way of information, he suddenly demanded, “Where in hell is everybody?”
He was rather short and thick-set, and the summer heat made rivulets run down inside his collar and stain his face with sweat. He wore a straw hat pushed back on his head and a white shirt open at the neck and a pair of whipcord breeches and boots. He mopped at his face with a soiled handkerchief while he talked.
Mark grinned at the Chief’s explosive question. “As far as I know, Chief, they’re still sleeping it off.”
“Party, huh?” he said, his moon of a face holding a wise look.
“We went to bed around four this morning,” Idell said. “All but Uncle Frank, that is. He went to bed an hour before.”
“Any drunks?”
Leona’s lips curled slightly. “Miss Manders and myself were sober, I think,” she said.
The Chief looked at Mark. “You covering this story?” He referred to two newspaper features Mark had done on him when he had wanted a little extra money. He had flattered the Chief almost beyond human consumption, and they had been warm friends ever since.
“You aren’t a newspaper man?” Idell sounded frightened.
“Not for two years,” Mark assured her. “I used to be a New York police reporter. But now I’m on space rates like any other country correspondent. I do very little, though, even now.” He knew what she was thinking, and he wanted her to know that he was not there for that, but because he wanted to help her; he hoped she caught the personal note his voice held.
Idell threw back her head and laughed, a genuine warm bit of laughter that helped release the tautness built inside her. It was much more relaxing than the drinks had been, she thought suddenly. The others looked at her suspiciously, as if they thought she would go into hysterics. She didn’t bother to explain; she couldn’t, very well. It would be too much for her to tell Mark she had thought him a local boy!
“She found him,” Mark told the Chief doubtfully. He looked toward the body.
The Chief’s eyes followed his gaze. “Bayless called Doc Nesbit. He’ll be up to take a look pretty soon. And Riverside is sending the boys down.” He sighed ponderously as if the whole affair were already a trial. “I suppose,” he said, “we ought to wake ‘em up and start moving.”
“Breakfast, please,” Sing chanted from the doorway behind them.
The Chief jumped and turned quickly. “For gosh sakes!”
“Our cook,” Idell smiled. “We may as well eat and get it over with.”
“I ate,” the Chief said.
“Coffee then,” she offered. “And it’s much cooler in the house.”
The Chief nodded almost enthusiastically. “Okay. Bayless,” he said to the taller of his two men standing by, “stay here and watch that—the remains. And,
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