The Rotary Club Murder Mystery Read Free

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.
    â€œI guess we should stay here until the police come,” I said.
    â€œYes!” 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.
    â€œMaybe 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