I said, “It’s now pretty well established that Amelia Jasper was out there at the KOZY DELL. She was putting the bite on Minerva Carlton. Minerva was in a spot. Someone had stuff on her that she didn’t want her husband to find out. So she ran in a ringer. Dover Fulton was called in to pose as her husband.”
“You’ve gone over all that before.”
I said, “Something went wrong. Here’s what probably happened. Dover Fulton pulled his gun. Both of these women were there. One of them rushed him and Amelia Jasper turned her back. Susie, the grim-faced maid, probably hit Fulton over the head with something. Fulton convulsively pulled the trigger of the gun, the bullet went into Mrs. Jasper’s hip. Minerva Carlton started to run. Susie picked up the gun and put a bullet through the back of her head. By that time, everybody was in too deep to quit. They rubbed Dover Fulton out and then decided they’d have to make it look like a murder and suicide. But they had an extra shot to account for. They finally figured out the scheme of putting that extra shot in the suitcase.”
“The suitcase was lying open on the floor. The blouse probably was on top of it. Minerva Carlton had taken off just enough clothes to make it appear she was delightfully informal with her husband in the motor court. Amelia Jasper grabbed a bath-towel and wrapped it around her leg to stop the flow of blood. She closed the suitcase, and in order to get it closed, simply wadded the blouse, which had been carelessly tossed on top of the clothes in the suitcase, into a ball and slammed the suitcase shut. They got out of there, went a mile or so down the road, perforated the suitcase, took one empty shell out of the gun so it would look as though Dover Fulton had been carrying the gun with one empty shell under the hammer, then went back to the motor court, put the suitcase in place, locked the door from the inside, crawled out through the window and went away.”
Sellers said wearily, “I get so damn tired of listening to your theories that don’t have anything to back them up.”
I said. “This isn’t a theory. This is what happened. I’m telling you because it’s an interview I’m going to give to the press.”
“Give it and be damned.”
I said, “It means that you’ve got off on the wrong foot. Instead of actually solving the murder of Lucille Hollister, you’ve got the thing all balled up and have let a woman shoot you in the hand and steal your car. That’s certainly going to put you in the position of being the prize boob. When you pose for the flashlight pictures of the newspaper photographers you can just see the headlines: WOMAN SUSPECT SHOOTS OFFICER, STEALS CAR, ESCAPES!”
Frank Sellers thought that over. He conjured up a picture of how that was going to look in print and didn’t like the picture.
I said, “You’re in this thing now to a point where you’ve got to straighten it out. Take half an hour with me and…”