Free Date for Murder by Louis Trimble Page A

heard coming up. Mark and the Chief stepped to the doorway to see a light, thin young man with a wispy blond moustache propel himself toward them in brief jerks. He carried a black bag in one hand.
    “It’s about time, Doc,” the Chief said. “Take it easy; there ain’t no hurry on this case.”
    Dr. Nesbit stopped and wiped perspiration from his high forehead. In spite of his life in this desert country, he was very pale. To Mark he had always been a local seven day wonder. Where everyone else lolled, Dr. Nesbit bustled; where they grew tanned he seemed to grow more pallid.
    “You said to come up here right away,” he said. “I couldn’t—obstetrics case, very important—but I made it as fast as possible.” He spoke in explosive sentences. “What’s the trouble?”
    Mark said, “Before we go down, Chief, how about a look at Grant Manders?”
    The Chief regarded him owlishly. “Think he might be faking, huh?”
    “It’s a chance,” Mark conceded.
    “What is this?” the Doctor demanded. “Is there someone ill? Come, Chief, I haven’t all day.”
    Mark grinned. “Down the hall, Doc. Take it easy; it’s hot.”
    “Bah! Hot! Only two heat prostration cases this week.” He sounded put out.
    The Chief wagged his head and led the way down the hall to the door of Grant Manders’ room. He put one hand on the knob and then dropped it. “The Queen ain’t around anywhere, is she?”
    Mark glanced toward the stairs. “Not that I can hear,” he grinned.
    The Chief turned the knob, and the door opened. The three men went quietly inside; Mark closed the door behind them. The room was quite large, with one side hidden by opened decorative screens. The bed stood against the far wall, between the bath and the French doors opening onto the balcony. Grant Manders lay out at full length, completely relaxed, his lips blowing and falling with his heavy breathing. His body, clothed only in the bottoms of a pair of blue silk pajamas, was damp with sweat in spite of the air-conditioning, and his brown hair was plastered in locks over his forehead. His eyes were closed loosely.
    “What is supposed to be the matter with him?” Dr. Nesbit demanded, bustling up to the bed.
    “He got drunk and passed out last night,” the Chief said. “We want to know if he’s still so full of liquor he can’t wake up.”
    Dr. Nesbit shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.” He bent over Grant and carefully raised one eyelid with the ball of his thumb. He peered into the exposed eye, moving his body so light from the windows fell across Grant’s face. “He is quite drunk,” he said. He bent and sniffed at Grant’s breath as it blew outward. “But it certainly didn’t occur last night.”
    “Four this morning,” Mark said.
    “Nonsense,” the Doctor snapped. “This man hasn’t been in this condition over three hours or so. Possibly since seven o’clock. Merely an estimate, of course, but a fairly close one.” He removed his thumb and let the eyelid slide back into place. Grant Manders didn’t even turn over. “This is a much more recent case than the one you mentioned. Sometime between then and now he has had more to drink, a good deal more.”
    The Chief sucked in his breath. “You mean he might have woke up and then got himself drunk again?”
    “Certainly. I mean he did just that—or someone did it for him.”
    Mark said, “I wonder if he could have faked it last night, Chief?”
    “He isn’t faking now,” Dr. Nesbit assured them.
    The Chief spotted the wastebasket and spit into it from ten feet away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll damn soon find out if he was. Let’s go downstairs. The body’s out there, Doc.”

Chapter
IX
    D R. NESBIT blinked in the bright sunlight as he bent over Link’s remains. He looked quizzically at the Chief, a half grin on his face. “Who covered the corpus delicti, Chief?”
    “Idell did,” Mark answered.
    The doctor lifted the candy-striped towel which