Sheriff on the Spot by Brett Halliday Page A

a little cry of anguish, throwing one hand up to cover her face.
    Pat caught her by the shoulders and drew her aside gently to let Deems and Morgan view the huddled body of Fred Ralston on the floor.
    Harold Morgan whistled shrilly. “A dead un, by God!” He stepped forward to look down at the body wonderingly.
    Pat’s gaze was concentrated on Joe Deems. The hotel proprietor stood very still, his yellowish eyes slitted downward at the corpse. First there was a fleeting look of triumph, then of slow puzzlement on Deems’ face. He wet his lips and said hoarsely, “What kind of game is this, Sheriff? What’s that dead man doing in Kitty’s room?”
    Pat said, “That’s what I’m wondering.” He took hold of Deems’ arm and drew him forward. “Take a good look,” he urged. “See if you can identify him.”
    The faint sound of Kitty’s sobbing filled the hotel bedroom as Joe Deems looked down steadily at the dead man. He wet his lips again and muttered, “Looks like the Denver man that came in on tonight’s stage. What was his name?”
    â€œFred Ralston,” Pat supplied grimly. “As you know plumb well.”
    â€œThat’s right. That’s the name he signed to the hotel register.”
    â€œKnifed,” Morgan grunted. He was on his knees examining the body. “Right through the heart, looks like.”
    â€œWhere’s the weapon?” Deems demanded explosively. “You can’t stab a man through the heart without using a knife.”
    â€œI reckon we better ask Miss Lane about that.” Pat turned to the sobbing woman and demanded harshly, “What’d you do with the knife when you stuck him?”
    She didn’t seem to understand. She shook her head in bewilderment. “The—knife?” she repeated stupidly.
    Pat moved to her side and gave her a little shake. “The knife you killed him with. It ain’t here.”
    â€œIt—isn’t?” She sounded disbelieving, but somehow glad. She steadied herself, then went on rapidly. “Why do you think I know anything about it? You don’t think that I—that I—” She faltered with a look of horror on her expressive face.
    â€œHe’s here in your room. Locked in from the outside. An’ you’ve got the key,” Pat pointed out grimly.
    â€œI don’t—I don’t understand. Who is he? How did he get here?”
    â€œMaybe he came in through this side door,” Morgan offered eagerly. He got up and opened the door into Ralston’s room. “Yes sir,” he reported. “Door’s unlocked. And there’s a suitcase and hat here on the bed.”
    â€œThat’s the room that was assigned to Mr. Ralston,” Deems put in sharply. “Number fifteen. I remember Tom Forrest told me he asked for that number particular.”
    â€œNow, I wonder why he’d do that?” Pat mused. “Bein’ a stranger in town an’ all. I expect lots of men would like to move into the room next to yours, Miss Kitty, but how did this man from Denver know which one to ask for?”
    â€œHow do I know?” she cried wildly. “I never saw him before. I don’t know anything about all this.”
    Deems’ expression hardened. He circled the body, went to stand in front of the two chairs with the table between them. He pointed to the whisky bottle and two glasses on the tray. “You’d better tell the truth, Kitty,” he said slowly, with his back to her. “You’re likely to get into real trouble if you try to protect someone. This is murder. It’s serious.”
    She took a step forward with flashing eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, Joe. If you think that I—”
    Deems stepped aside and lifted his eyebrows. “You can see for yourself, Sheriff. Kitty was in here drinking with some man before supper.”
    Pat nodded slowly.