by John Ball
“Premature?” Linda suggested.
“Thank you. As you wouldn’t appear undressed on the streets of San Bernardino, would you?”
“Certainly not!”
“Yet we might live to see the day when it will be quite customary on the beaches, the way things are going.”
“I’m sure of it,” Linda agreed. “But I understand what you mean. I’ll make a date with you. Let’s agree to celebrate the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth anniversary of the date that you catch the murderer. Things ought to be different then.”
“Of course they will be. You’ll undoubtedly be married, for one thing. Perhaps I will be, too.”
“Well, I should hope so. Goodbye, Virgil.”
“Goodbye, Linda.” He backed the car around, and drove out onto the highway.
chapter 10
The telephone of Walter McCormack, the millionaire business manager of Roussel Rights, Inc., was not listed, so Tibbs had to spend a few extra minutes before he had the residence of the millionaire on the line. When he did get through, the person who answered was not cooperative.
“Mr. McCormack is not available to see anyone,” he was informed.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Virgil replied patiently. “I’m speaking officially, as a police officer. I have under investigation a very serious matter in which Mr. McCormack is at least indirectly involved. It is essential that I see him as soon as possible.”
If his words had any effect, the results were not apparent. “Mr. McCormack is not available. If there are legal problems involved, I suggest that you call his attorney, Mr. Michael Wolfram.” The line went dead.
His temper rising, Tibbs checked the directory again and called the attorney’s office. Being turned down on a request for an official interview was almost unheard of, particularly by people who might be under suspicion. When the telephone receptionist answered Wolfram’s line, Tibbs was unintentionally short with her. In a few seconds he had the attorney on the other end and explained his problem.
“Mr. Tibbs, the same tiling happens to everyone. Please don’t take personal offense,” Wolfram explained. “Mr. McCormack is an extremely reserved person and usually makes his own rules. He prefers to see no one and that’s the way it is. I spend a good deal of my time placating people who have had the same experience as you had. If you call personally at his residence, he might see you, but I rather seriously doubt it.”
“How would you suggest I arrange to see him?” Tibbs asked. “I must do so as soon as possible.”
“You might write him a letter. He reads his mail and then does whatever he thinks best. I’d allow a week, though. Mr. McCormack doesn’t like to be rushed into anything.”
“As his attorney, could you call him and point out the need to see me now?”
“Mr. Tibbs, please understand that it wouldn’t be of any use. He has given definite instructions on the point. I believe a letter would be your best solution.”
His temper now thoroughly aroused, Tibbs left the office and pointed his car westward toward Malibu. It was a long drive, and he had to watch himself in the hurrying freeway traffic not to let his irritation upset his judgment. To change his outlook, he turned on the radio and listened to a play-byplay of the California Angels, who were having a good one with the Yankees. By the time he reached the Pacific shoreline, he had regained his usual composure.
The residence of Walter McCormack was set well back and heavily screened by shrubbery. At the entrance there was a sign that unnecessarily read “PRIVATE”; heavy metal gates made it clear that casual visitors were not wanted. Virgil parked his car, walked up to the small uninviting pedestrian entryway, and let himself in.
Once on the grounds he admitted to himself that the seclusion was pleasant. As the terrain rose, a view of the ocean was unfolded and the cool air off the water had a refreshing saltiness. The huge lawn, which was beautifully kept, surrounded a big half-timbered English manor house that reigned with patrician dignity. It was the kind of home no policeman could ever hope to have.
As Tibbs approached the house up the wide driveway, he saw a sizeable Negro in blue coveralls who was washing a black Cadillac with a garden hose and a large soft sponge. The man looked up as Virgil came closer and stopped his work for a moment to observe him. Tibbs continued up the driveway until he was within speaking range.
“Is Mr. McCormack in?” he asked. The big car suggested he was, but the question served a purpose.
The chauffeur looked at him in surprise. “There’s no work to be had here. McCormack gets anybody he needs through an agency.”
“I’m not after work,” Virgil answered. He took out a small leather case and displayed his shield.
The chauffeur looked at the shield and whistled softly. “Trouble?” he asked.
“Maybe not, but I’ve got to see Mr. McCormack. What’s the best way?”
The big man shook his head slowly. “There just ain’t no best way. Mr. McCormack is a real tough man. Lots of people try to see him, but he doesn’t see nobody.”
“Has he an office?”
“No office—he don’t need one. He’s got all the money he needs. All he wants to do is stay here and enjoy himself.”
Tibbs looked again at the long rolling vista of the ocean. “I can’t blame him for that,” he said. “But I’ve got to see him just the same.”
Eloquently the chauffeur lifted his shoulders and let them fall. Then he directed the water from the hose back onto the side of the car and began to wipe slowly, dividing his interest between his work and the conversation in progress. “Don’t bother to ring the front doorbell. It won’t do you no good.”
“Somebody should answer,” Tibbs said reasonably.
“Maybe, but you won’t get in—not even with that badge you got. I know. The orders are to let no one in, no matter who. Anybody who lets anyone in gets fired, right then. So if you make ’em let you in, somebody loses his job.”
“What’s your name?” Tibbs asked.
“I’m Brown—Walter Brown. The boss don’t like it I’ve got the same name he has, so he calls me Brown all the time. He wanted me to change it once, and offered to have his lawyer fix it up. I told him I liked it the way it was.”
“Good for you.” Tibbs thought a minute and decided to leave and take a different tack. “I’ll see you later.”
To Virgil’s surprise the chauffeur put down his tools to walk him part way back to the front gate. “If you need any more help,” he offered, “let me know.”
Tibbs thanked him and handed him his card. “I’m going to try to get invited to see Mr. McCormack. If you happen to see him yourself and can do so, I’d appreciate your telling him personally that a police officer has been trying to reach him concerning an important matter.”
Brown accepted the card and tucked it carefully away in an inner pocket. “Now wouldn’t exactly be the time to do that. He’s been pretty upset lately. You read the papers?”
Tibbs nodded.
Brown dropped his voice a shade, although there was no one to overhear him. “One of his good friends got himself killed in a nudist camp and he didn’t like that one bit. Enough so now he won’t even see his lawyer. Mr. Wolfram is different; he can usually get in any time.”
“Any time?” Tibbs inquired.
“That’s right, night or day.”
“Does anyone else have that privilege?”
Brown shook his head. “Nope. Mr. Wolfram’s the only one.”
“Is there a Mrs. McCormack?”
“There was, but she’s been dead a long time. A real nice lady, too.”
Tibbs digested this information during lunch and then drove down the coast highway. In order to relax as much as he could, he stayed in the right-hand lane, where he could take in the sweeping vastness of the water and let it work its unhurried magic on his spirit. When he felt that he had indulged in his reverie long enough, he reminded himself firmly of the job he had in hand and pulled up at a roadside telepho
ne. The number of William Holt-Rymers, one of the four surviving stockholders of the Roussel holding company, was listed in Venice. Virgil dialed.
The phone was answered almost immediately. “Bill Rymers,” said a voice that was brisk but without harshness. It was a statement of fact.
Tibbs introduced himself and asked for an appointment.
“Where are you now?” Holt-Rymers asked.
Tibbs told him.
“Come on down—it’s an easy place to find. Be sure you turn off before Pacific Ocean Park. If you get there, you’ve gone too far.”
Virgil got back into his car and continued southward. He drove through Santa Monica and entered the less impressive Venice area, checking the street numbers as he went along.
A mile short of the amusement park he found the place he wanted; it was close to the ocean, fairly small, and wedged in between two other equally weather-beaten structures typical of close-to-the-beach property rented out on a weekly basis to summer visitors. The ancient wooden clapboards had been painted gray at some time in the past, as had all the other substandard buildings on the short block; now they had resigned themselves to the colorless hue bestowed upon them by sun, wind, and salt water. Virgil checked the number carefully and got out of his car.
The man who opened the door gave an immediate impression of height, leanness, and casual physical discipline. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, his face partly hidden by a short beard that suggested a jazz musician. Tibbs guessed him as about six feet, although he appeared taller because of his bare torso, which was tightly muscled and deeply browned by the sun. He wore Bermuda shorts and a pair of indifferent leather sandals, and a towel lay across his shoulders as though he had just come from a plunge in a nearby swimming pool.
“Tibbs?” he asked without ceremony. Before Virgil could answer, he shook hands briefly and firmly, and then stepped aside to let his guest enter; total informality surrounded him and infused the room he stood in. The furniture was plain, worn, but basic—the selections of a man who knew his own mind. The walls were vivid, in four different colors, which managed amazingly to achieve a look of harmony. The available light came though partially shuttered windows and formed angular shadows on the surfaces where it struck. Stuck about the walls were three unframed prints of works by Gauguin and several oil canvases whose virgin-white edges contrasted violently with the brilliant pigments of the wall surfaces. The whole effect was totally uninhibited, masculine, and doubtless matched the owner.
Holt-Rymers motioned his guest to a chair and said “Beer?” making the word an inquiry, a suggestion, and a commentary on the hot day.
Virgil knew better than to give a stiff answer to this man about being on duty. “Cold,” he said.
His host gave him a quick glance of approval and opened a refrigerator that stood in one corner of the room. Removing two cans, he popped the lids and handed one of the cans to Virgil. Then he settled himself into a chair and stretched out his long legs in an attitude of complete relaxation. “Begin,” he invited.
Since the conversation had so far consisted entirely of one-word speeches, Virgil was tempted to say “Murder,” just to see what the reaction would be. Instead he took a cooling drink and then started in a low key. “This concerns a business associate of yours, I believe—Dr. Albert Roussel.”
Holt-Rymers leaned back in his chair and pressed his lips together for a moment. “Al Roussel—one of the best,” he said. He let the obituary hang in the air for a few moments and then came back to the present. “Forgive me,” he went on. “It hit me hard when I heard it. I still don’t believe it. I’d read about the body in the nudist camp, of course—everybody has, I think. But it never occurred to me that it could be anyone I know. You just don’t think of things that way. Then, not more than ten minutes ago, I caught the newsflash.”
He stopped and drank from his beer can.
“You knew he was murdered?” Tibbs asked.
“I guess so. Of course I did. I just hadn’t connected Al with the anonymous body. I’m still confused, I guess. It wasn’t even in the morning paper. What I can’t figure out is why anyone would want to do in as fine a fellow as Al. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“He had one.”
“Yes, obviously, but I can’t bring myself to believe it.”
“How well did you know him?” Virgil asked.
“Very well. Perhaps I’d better fill you in. Do you know my line?”
Tibbs nodded toward the opposite wall. “If those paintings are yours, then you’re an artist.”
Holt-Rymers nodded. “Nicely put, and thank you. You’re right, I paint. Apparently to some purpose, because my stuff sells. Well enough so that I have a waiting list at the dealer who handles me. On the average, I do six canvases a year at around three thousand per, net to me, for the commercial market. The rest of the time I do what I please, paint what I like, and live here because I want to.”
He stopped for another few swallows of beer, leaned back, and went on, “Painting is like anything else. If you want to be any good at it, you have to learn how. I spent several years in Europe studying techniques, materials, and the rudiments of style.”
“Excuse me,” Virgil interrupted, “but have you ever sold any of your work to Walter McCormack?”
“Yes, he has a seascape of mine over his mantelpiece, but that isn’t how we met, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Sorry. Please go on.” As he drank from his own can, he realized how quickly his host had followed his logic.
“While I was in Paris learning my trade, I ran into Al Roussel. That was some time ago, before he made his pile. We had a lot in common, including the wish to live our own lives, and we got to be good friends. More beer?”
“I’m still good, thanks.”
“After we really got to know each other, Al told me about a new film process he had just worked out and that he thought might make a fair amount of money. When he explained to me what it would do, I agreed with him. He had some money in those days, but not a great deal, so we made a bargain. I had the luck to sell a couple of pieces and invested the money in Al’s venture. If it panned out, fine. If not, then all I was out was a couple of pictures.”
“That was a generous way of looking at it,” Tibbs said.
“There’s no such thing as success without risk. Well, as you know, Al came through and my little investment in him paid off handsomely. A woman he had known for some time put up some more capital, and a holding company was formed. It was largely four people: Al, Walter McCormack, a fellow named Ozzie Peterson who had made quite a bit playing professional football, and the woman—Joyce Pratt. Have you met her?”
“Yes,” Tibbs answered.
“She was the moving spirit and more or less ran things, with McCormack as the actual business manager. Then Al tossed in the golden apple:—he put it that since I had invested money in his work early in the game when no one else would take a chance on him, I would have to be an equal partner in the deal. That upset little Joyce a lot. As an artist, I had no social standing, of course, and my modest investment was peanuts compared to all the others. However, Al made it stick and I got a full fifth of the company. After that I could paint without having to worry where the beer and skittles were coming from. Now that I’m hung in a few museums here and there and the price of my stuff keeps going up on the market, Joyce has more or less accepted me as an endurable evil.”
“Now there’s a deal on to sell the company.”
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
“No. Even with Al gone, the assets will grow in value. The patents Al left us are basic, and aren’t likely to be outdated for a long time.”
“Do you know how Joyce feels?”
“She’s money-hungry and wants to sell. Since her husband died, she has no more coming in from that source and she wants all she can get right now.”
“McCormack?”
“I don’t really know, but he’s pretty
cagey and I would guess he’d like to hang on.”
“How about Peterson?”
“My guess is he would like to sell.”
“So it looks like two and two, then, with Dr. Roussel, up to the time of his death, holding the balance of power.”
“As I see it, yes.”
“Do you know what his feelings were on the matter?” Tibbs drank the remainder of his beer, which had lost its chill and was a little flat.
“Not definitely, but I’m pretty sure he was for hanging on. He knew his stuff was good and he had more coming up. The man was a genius in his field.”
“Did you see him any time during this last visit?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I was out of town.”
“Where?”
“Out in the desert by myself—painting.”
Tibbs decided, for his own reasons, on an abrupt change of subject. “I want to see Walter McCormack,” he said.
“And he won’t let you in,” Holt-Rymers said.
“Out at his place I was told that if anyone admitted me, he would be fired on the spot.”
“Probably true. McCormack is a stiff-necked old buzzard who still believes in the ruling aristocracy, of which he has elected himself a life member. Decent enough in his way, but to him a servant is a thing—a chattel. So are the citizens of the republic, with the exception of the few who travel in his circle.”
“How do you stand with him?”
“Strangely, he accepts me. In his opinion my pictures raise me above the masses because he happens to like them. I’m not considered to be on his level, of course, but I’m like Beethoven—allowed to live under the roof.”
“Can you get me in to see him?”
“I doubt it. Don’t misunderstand me—I’d be glad to try, but my tolerance doesn’t extend beyond myself.”
Tibbs laced his fingers together. “I’d like to ask a favor of you,” he said. “I’d like a three-day option to buy your stock in the holding company. I know you have an agreement and that I can’t exercise it. Also I don’t have that kind of money.”