Double or Quits

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “When?”

  “A minute ago when you said something about a clue that wasn’t here.”

  “Not the clue that isn’t here,” I said. “But it’s the thing that isn’t here which may be a clue.”

  “What?”

  “The tennis racket.”

  “What do you mean?” I moved my hand in an inclusive gesture. “Apparently, she left without returning to her room. She’d been playing tennis in the mornings. She’d evidently played tennis yesterday morning. One plays tennis with a tennis racket. A tennis racket is quite apt to be in a case with a zipper pocket containing some tennis balls. There isn’t any tennis racket.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’ve looked the place over. I don’t see one.” There was perplexity in her eyes. “But she has a tennis racket. I know she has one.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “I don’t know. It seems—well, that certainly is strange.” We were silent for almost a minute. I could hear the click-clack of the alarm clock, and the sound of the wind whistling around the corners of the house, rustling the dry fronds of the palm trees outside the window. I was also conscious of some rhythmic undertone of sound which had been knocking at the door of my consciousness, demanding admission. But I’d been so engrossed trying to find some clue that I hadn’t really noticed it. Now I stopped to listen. It was a steady throbbing noise, such as might have been made by the motor in a big icebox—yet it had been running steadily.

  “The kitchen near here?” I asked.

  “Fairly near.”

  “I wonder if someone’s left the door of the icebox open.”

  “That motor,” I said. “It’s been running steadily.” She listened, pursed her lips, said, “Let’s go see.” I followed her from the bedroom, down a corridor, through a door, across a serving pantry, and into a modern kitchen which glistened with white enamel and electrical efficiency. There was a huge icebox by the end of the sink. The door was closed. The motor was silent. From the kitchen we couldn’t hear the sound of the motor.

  “Let’s go back and listen again,” I suggested.

  As we entered the corridor which ran the length of the wing containing the servants’ bedrooms, I could hear the sound again. “Where’s the garage?” I asked.

  She pointed down toward the end of this wing. “The driveway runs along here, right past these windows.” I listened more carefully. “Let’s go take a look. Can we get through here?”

  “Yes. There’s a door from the back of this wing.” She led the way, switching on lights. She opened a door, entered a tool room, containing an assortment of wrenches, packs, tyres and tools. The sound of the running motor was audible from here—just about the same as it had been from the bedroom. She opened another door which led to the garage. A blast of hot air, laden with the fumes of combustion, struck our nostrils. I gave one look, jerked back, took a deep breath, and sprinted for the doors. They were the kind that slide up with a counter-balanced weight holding them in place. I jerked up the one in front of the car in which the motor was running. It was a light club coupé with battered fenders and a finish which indicated it had been left out in the weather a good deal of the time.

  The wind came in with a rush, clearing the place of fumes. I ran back to the body of Dr. Hilton Devarest, got my hands under his armpits, and started dragging him toward the open air. Nadine Croy came to help me.

  I knew it was no use as soon as I got a good look at his face. I’d seen that peculiar colour on men’s faces before. It’s that reddish death colour which is associated with asphyxiation from carbon monoxide. Dr. Devarest was dead as a mackerel.

  Chapter III

  DR. DEVAREST’S residence was in an exclusive suburban neighbourhood. The sound of sirens brought annoyed silhouettes to lighted windows, then, as more sirens came, the lighted windows vanished behind heavy drapes as the neighbours resolutely shut out what had happened from its bedrooms and drawing-rooms. Burglary had been bad enough, but now a whole procession of sirens was making the night hideous.

  The fire department brought a pulmotor. The police came swarming out. Newspaper reporters took flashlight photographs. A deputy coroner arrived and checked up on the automobile. The hood had been raised as though someone had been trying to make an adjustment on the engine. There was grease on Dr. Devarest’s right hand—a very definite smear of dark grease. There was also an end wrench which had been thrust in the left-hand side pocket of Dr. Devarest’s coat. His surgical instrument bag which he usually kept in his car was on the floor near where his body was found. The gasoline tank was about a quarter full. Apparently, no one had heard Dr. Devarest drive in. From any evidence in the garage, there was no indication of how long he had been lying there.

  The deputy coroner had me point out as nearly as I could the position of the body at the time I had found it. He raised up the turtleback in the car, and prowled around inside. A moment later he brought out two rubberized cases containing tennis rackets.

  I looked at Mrs. Croy, and warned her to silence by partially lowering the lid over my right eye.

  The deputy coroner looked at the cases, said, “Humph,” took out the tennis rackets, and looked them over. Both of them showed signs of having been well used. One of them was a heavy-bodied racket of about fifteen ounces with a good thick grip. The other was a light racket of a sort which would be used by a woman.

  I gathered from the expression on the deputy’s face as he turned the rackets over in his hand that he didn’t know much about tennis, and the rackets meant but little to him. He put them back in their cases, tossed them back into the storage compartment in the rear of the car, and prowled around looking for something else. When he failed to find anything, he dropped the turtleback into position and twisted the handle down so as to lock the catch.

  The deputy prowled around the front of the car. A pair of expensive pigskin driving gloves were on the seat. “Anybody recognize these?” he asked.

  Mrs. Croy said, “They’re Dr. Devarest’s.”

  “He usually drove with gloves?”

  “Yes.” The coroner said, “Humph!” He tried the glove compartment on the car. It was locked. “Who’s got a key for this?” he asked.

  Mrs. Croy said, “The ignition key’s in the lock on the car. Won’t that open the glove compartment?” The deputy grunted an acknowledgment of the suggestion, took out the key, looked at it for a moment, then fitted it to the lock in the glove compartment. The metal door dropped down on its hinges. A small light automatically turned on, illuminating the interior. I saw a small stack of jewel cases.

  The deputy pulled them out, opened one of them. It was empty. “Anybody any idea what these are?” he asked.

  Mrs. Croy couldn’t keep the startled exclamation from her lips. The deputy looked at her curiously. “Well,” he asked. “what’s the matter?”

  “Are—are they all empty?” The deputy picked up one or two, shook them, snapped them open, said, “Yes, they’re all empty—wait a minute. Here’s one ” He took out a ring, a big square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds.

  “Any idea how this got there?” he asked Mrs. Croy.

  She had complete control of herself now. She spoke with the precision of one who is watching her words carefully. “The jewel cases are very similar to those in which Aunt Colette—Mrs. Devarest—keeps her jewels. The ring which you are holding in your hand is, I am quite certain, a ring belonging to her.”

  “What’s the stuff doing here?” the deputy asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” One of the radio-car officers came forward and said, “Cripes, Joe, there’s a report out on those jewels. The safe in Dr. Devarest’s study was burgled some time Monday night or Tuesday morning. We’ve got a description of the whole business. Wait a minute ” He pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, thumbed through the pages, said, “One square-cut three-carat emerald, surrounded by eight white flawless matched diamonds, mounted in platinum ring.”

  �
�That’s the baby,” the deputy coroner said.

  The men exchanged significant glances. The radio-car officer turned to Mrs. Croy. “How’d this stuff get here?” he asked.

  She said, “I don’t know.” He turned to me. “Let’s see. You’re a private detective?”

  “Right.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  “Dr. Devarest. I was waiting for him to come back. He wanted me to check on some phases of the safe robbery.”

  “What phases?”

  “He didn’t say.” The officer said, “Let’s go talk with Mrs. Devarest.”

  “Okay. Let me finish up here. Now, let’s see. Your name’s-Lam, huh?”

  “Right.”

  “Exactly where was the body when you discovered it?”

  “Just where I showed you.”

  “Well, you didn’t show me well enough. Anybody got a piece of chalk?” No one produced a piece of chalk.

  The coroner said, “I may have one.” He opened a brief case, fumbled around, brought out a piece of chalk, and said, “All right, now mark there on the floor right where the body was lying. Make a little diagram. Mark the position of his head, of his feet, and of his arms.” I marked out the outline on the cement floor.

  While I was bent over, working on my outline, I saw a face appear at the crack of the partially open door that led to the tool-house. It was a dark face, handsome in a full-lipped, sensual way. The eyes were watching me with eager interest. Apparently, the man was about to come in, but he had checked himself, waiting to see what I was doing.

  “You had no business moving that body until I got here,” the deputy charged as I finished.

  “I didn’t know it was a body until after I’d moved it.” The coroner took the chalk from my hand, dropped it in his brief case, said, “Don’t anybody move this automobile. Don’t touch it. Now I’m going to take the fingerprints of everyone here, just to check up on those jewel cases. After that, we’ll go talk with Mrs. Devarest. You two better come along.” They took our fingerprints. The man who had been standing at the door of the tool shed wasn’t there any longer. They labelled our fingerprints, then Mrs. Croy and I followed the officer and the deputy coroner into the house.

  Mrs. Devarest was in her bedroom. The maid said she was being attended by Dr. Gelderfield, a friend of Dr. Devarest’s who had come over to do what he could. He was called in whenever Mrs. Devarest wasn’t feeling well. Doctors didn’t treat their own families, she explained garrulously, and as Dr. Gelderfield’s father was sick, Dr. Devarest treated him, and Dr. Gelderfield returned the compliment by treating Mrs. Devarest.

  Dr. Gelderfield came out to meet the deputy coroner. He was a tall, thin, square-jawed individual who used close-clipped, decisive speech to impress his listeners. After listening for a minute he broke in definitely, “Mrs. Devarest is not to be disturbed. She has had a terrible shock. I’ve just given her a hypo. You may ask her to identify this ring, and that’s all!” The officer and the detective entered the bedroom. The doctor said to Mrs. Croy, “You two can remain here,” and then followed the others.

  Mrs. Croy looked at me. “What do you make of it?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of—you know—everything. The jewel cases being found in that glove compartment.” I said, “It might have been any one of a number of things.”

  “What, for instance?”

  “Oh, lots of things. One of those calls, you know, may have been from the thief who wanted to ransom the jewellery. The doctor might have given him the money, returned to the garage, and ”

  “Then what happened to the jewellery?” she asked.

  I said, “He’d been lying there for some time before we found him. Anyone could have opened the glove compartment by taking the ignition key out of the automobile.” She thought that over for a while, and said, “You can’t take the ignition key out with the motor running.” I said, “I’m not really trying to sell you the idea. I just _ brought it out for you to look at. It’s something you can try on for size.”

  “Well, it doesn’t fit.”

  “All right then, it doesn’t fit.” The door from the bedroom opened. Dr. Gelderfield came out. “You’re the detective?” he asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “I mean the one Hilton hired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Devarest wants to see you. She’s nervous and unstrung. She’s suffered an intense shock. I’ve administered a hypodermic. It’s commencing to take effect. Try to be brief. Don’t argue with her. Just say something reassuring. It doesn’t make any difference what it is.”

  “Lie?”

  “Sure. Tell her anything. Relieve her mind. I want her to go to sleep.”

  “When do I go in?”

  “As soon as those others come out.” He frowned and said, “They were starting. Here they come now.” The deputy coroner and the radio officer came out of the bedroom. They were talking in low tones. They didn’t seem even to notice Mrs. Croy and me. Dr. Gelderfield nodded his head in a silent gesture toward the door of the bedroom, and when Mrs. Croy started to follow me, motioned her back.

  I walked on in. Dr. Gelderfield came behind me and closed the door softly.

  Mrs. Devarest was propped up in bed, three pillows behind her head and shoulders. She was wearing a blue negligee. Evidently the maid or Dr. Gelderfield, or both, had undressed her in a hurry. Her stockings were on the floor, her clothes on a chair. A corset-like girdle which laced with soiled pink strings was draped over the back of the chair. It wasn’t the way Colette Devarest would have liked to receive masculine visitors.

  Her pop eyes looked at me as though they were having trouble in focusing. Her voice sounded a little fuzzy. She said, “What’s your name again?”

  “Lam. Donald Lam.”

  “Oh, yes—I’d forgotten. It was a shock.” Her eyelids fluttered closed, then snapped open again. “I want you to keep right on.”

  “With what?”

  “The investigation. You know what those men intimated?”

  “What?”

  “That Hilton had stolen the jewels…. He didn’t … It’s imperative that his name be vindicated…. He didn’t have any financial worries—making good money—forty thousand dollars in insurance—double in case of accidental death… . You’ll fix everything up for me, won’t you Mr.—what’s your name again?”

  “Lam.”

  “Won’t you, Mr. Lam?”

  “I’ll get on the job,” I told her.

  “Come and see me in the morning, will you?”

  “If you wish.”

  “I do.”

  “What time?”

  “After breakfast.”

  “Not before ten-thirty,” Dr. Gelderfield said in crisp, professional accents.

  She rolled her eyes toward him. Her voice was sounding thick now. “You want me to sleep, don’t you, Warren?”

  “Yes.” I said, “Go right ahead and get some sleep, Mrs. Devarest. Our agency will get on the job. We’ll work day and night. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Just lie back and take it easy.” Dr. Gelderfield slipped some of the pillows out from behind her head. “That’s the best thing to do, Colette. Let this young man work on it. Now, you’ve fixed that up, and you can dismiss it from your mind. Just let it go.”

  “Just let it go,” she repeated drowsily.

  Dr. Gelderfield motioned to me.

  I tiptoed from the room.

  Mrs. Croy was waiting for me. “What did she want?” she asked quickly.

  “Wanted me to come back at ten-thirty in the morning,” I said.

  For a moment there was a flash of anger in her dark eyes. “Aren’t you funny?” she said, and turned away.

  Chapter IV

  THE alarm went off at quarter to six. I was drugged with sleep. It took a cold shower to sting me awake. I shaved, dressed, went down to the garage, got out the agency car, and started a round of the municipal parks. It was tedious business, but there wasn’t much tr
affic, so I could get around fairly easily. The desert wind had quit during the night. The crisp feel of early morning was in the air. While the sun was up it wasn’t as yet hot. Even down in the concrete canyons of the city streets the air seemed filled with freshness, sharp contrast to what would happen during the next few hours when the sun softened the pavement and the lifeless air became filled with exhaust gases.

  Out at the parks, there were a few scattered tennis players. Some of them were women, attired in shorts. They looked at me curiously as I drove slowly along past the courts.

  It wasn’t until I got out to Griffith Park that I saw a mixed foursome playing. One of the girls interested me. She was as full of life as a steel spring. When she was serving, she’d toss up the ball, arch back her powerful body, then throw everything she had into an overhead smash which sent the serve whizzing across the net. When the ball struck it sailed into a long, powerful bounce that, on the first serve, all but knocked the racket out of the hands of her masculine opponent. He got on to her delivery after a couple of serves, and started smashing them back at her. That was only one of the things which convinced me he hadn’t played with her before.

  She slowed her serves down for her feminine opponent, and I realized the two girls were strangers.

  The girl in whom I was interested evidently knew the man who was her partner. He was a good consistent player, a little too inclined to be conservative. A bicycle leaned up against the wire fence, a sweater strapped to the handle bars.

  I parked my car, switched off the motor, lit a cigarette, and watched.

  They quit about seven-forty-five. There was a little conversation across the net, the sort of “Well, you gave us a nice game” stuff, and “Glad we happened to run on to you. We’ll try it again some morning”—“We should have a chance at revenge, but you were too powerful for us.” After a while the girl came out of the tennis court, unstrapped the sweater from the handle bars, slipped it on, and wrapped a button skirt around the shorts of her play suit. I went over and raised my hat.