Where There's a Will

by Kip Chase

  WHERE THERE’S A WILL

  Louis Delmar, Police Chief of the quiet Southern California town of San Margaret, is up to his ears in a sensational murder case and finds himself with too many suspects. Harassed to the point of desperation, he asks his old friend, Justine Carmichael, lately retired from the police, to help him.

  The murder victim—elderly rich Mrs. Constance DeVoors—was disliked by practically everyone—‘friends’, servants, and relatives. Only Count Ivanov professed to have found the lady ‘charming’. But then, the Count’s veracity is open to question.

  Chief Delmar’s prime suspect, Carmichael finds, is the murdered woman’s nephew, with whose tie the deed was done. But the evidence is flimsy; practically any of Mrs. DeVoors’s houseguests (characterized by the Chief as ‘a bunch of oddballs’) could have been the killer. Nor are the employees—a surly chauffeur, a Bible-reading maid, a cheerful cook, and a tanned, blonde secretary—exempt from the list of suspects.

  Despite the complications, Carmichael has faith that the ‘system’ will untangle the case. Only when the murderer strikes again does his confidence waver. But murder will out, and Carmichael scores a personal triumph by fusing his years of police experience with a brilliant analysis of the case, to trap the killer.

  First Published in Great Britain 1961

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62112-137-4

  © Copyright by Trevett C. Chase, Jr., 1960

  Printed in Great Britain by

  Ebenezer Baylis & Son, Ltd.

  The Trinity Press, Worcester, and London

  for Hammond, Hammond & Co. Ltd.

  87 Gower Street, W.C.I

  1160

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  WHERE THERE’S A WILL

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PROLOGUE

  SELF-CONGRATULATION was a nightly ritual with Mrs. Constance DeVoors. It usually occupied about fifteen minutes of her time immediately following her nightly nip of ‘medicinal’ brandy. This dosage was in addition to the medicinal martinis before lunch, the medicinal gin fizzes during the heat of the afternoon, and the medicinal after-dinner liqueur. Mrs. DeVoors was rich enough to indulge in her whims.

  And her great wealth was the first thing she would congratulate herself on each night: her home in the pleasant California town of San Margaret (far enough from Los Angeles to be smog free, but close enough to keep up with the social whirl of a metropolis), an investment programme that enabled her to live in luxury while her capital grew yet larger, her estate in the San Bernardino hills—yes, there was much to be thankful for.

  Having disposed of generalities, Mrs. DeVoors would get down to specifics. Today, she mused, had been one of her better days. To begin with, she had discovered several pieces of bone china tucked in the back of a what-not case which had obviously not been dusted in a week. She enjoyed castigating a servant, particularly if other servants or guests were present for the performance. Then at the lunch table she had found occasion to make several really very witty remarks about Countess Ivanov’s out-dated frock. The Countess had squirmed with embarrassment. Her guests were a delightful group, the old lady reflected.

  There was one exception, of course, but that undesirable would be gone shortly. The money in the drawer across the room would take care of that. Miss Wycliff had remonstrated with her tonight about keeping so much cash in her room, but Mrs. DeVoors had not been impressed. It was thoughtful of Elinor to be so concerned. Mrs. DeVoors considered herself fortunate to have such an attentive secretary, and such a young, pretty thing, too. Though there were unguarded moments when Mrs. DeVoors thought she caught a look of pure venom on the girl’s face. At such times Mrs. DeVoors could believe Elinor actually hated her. She was not displeased at the idea. It gave the old lady pleasure to know people hated her and yet were powerless to do her harm because of her wealth, cloaking her about like a fortress. How many people took a keen, hostile interest in her? In the dark she began counting on her fingers. My, there probably were dozens! It was a stimulating thought. Mrs. DeVoors slipped off to sleep with a crooked smile on her withered lips.

  She did not hear the rustle at the window curtain, nor see the figure slip across the polished floor of the bedroom. She became aware of something round her neck. It was tightening. She tried to sit up and scream. She could only raise herself slightly and she could not scream at all. There was no air, no air.…

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE elderly man in the wheelchair looked as though he might be a retired industrialist—quick, blue eyes in a face both tanned and seamed, but lacking the lifeless folds that often characterize old age. His thick, grey hair was only casually brushed. He propelled himself with vigour along the unshaded pavements of North Hollywood. Here, it might be assumed, was a man who had spent the peak of his manhood serving some thriving Mid-western community. Now, crippled with one of the chronic ailments of the elderly, he had retired to the friendly climate of Southern California to pass his remaining days in well-deserved tranquillity. He was at this very moment, no doubt, on his way to join some cronies in the daily pinochle game held at the local park.

  Such was the impression one might get. It was entirely erroneous. The affliction suffered by the old gentleman was not brought about by geriatric decay, but was the result of a thirty-eight calibre, 158-grain slug which had lodged against his spine. One of the outstanding surgeons on the West Coast had removed the slug but had been unable to prevent the resultant partial paralysis. And that tender smile was induced, not by the prospects of pinochle—the old man loathed the game—but in anticipation of the purchase and consumption of a fifth of Irish whisky. The old man was Justine Carmichael, four years retired from the Los Angeles Police Department, Homicide Division.

  Carmichael’s plans for the day were destined to failure. He had travelled a little more than a block from his home when the progress of his wheelchair was abruptly halted from behind.

  ‘What the devil…’ Carmichael began, as he twisted about in his seat. The chair was being deftly turned round and headed in the opposite direction.

  ‘Now take it easy, Carmichael’, said a voice familiar to the old man. ‘If you just want some fresh air, we’ll just take a little walk together. But if you had any idea of stopping in at McRafferty’s, forget it.’ McRafferty’s was the nearest liquor store to the Carmichael home.

  ‘Now see here, Pinkie,’ the old man whined, ‘I wasn’t going there at all. I was just…’

  ‘Sure, sure. You were just enjoying the sunshine. Of course. Now look here, grandpa …’ the owner of the voice wheeled the chair round so that he faced Carmichael, ‘… you know what the doctor said—no likker. And that’s what he meant. You might just as well make up your mind that’s the way it’s going to be.’

  Carmichael regarded his grandson balefully. He had a real affection for the boy, but there were moments … Such a moment had come. Staring accusingly straight into the eyes of his grandson, Carmichael spoke slowly and clearly.

  ‘Boy, in another year you will be twenty-one. I shudder to think that flesh and blood of mine should reach lega
l voting age in gross ignorance of the fundamental rights of the citizen. What you and your misguided mother are doing in restricting me from my God-given rights is illegal and immoral, a civil wrong and a criminal offence. It is only through considerable self-control that I have hitherto refrained from lodging a formal complaint. If you continue to exercise this illegal interference with my freedom of movement you’ll find yourself in the penitentiary. There are limits to my generosity.’

  Pinkie broke into a hearty guffaw; he was solidly built, broad-shouldered, with a round, guileless face.

  ‘Gramps, you are the greatest, the absolute greatest. “Formal complaint!” That will be the day. And you know you couldn’t do it even if you wanted to. We had a case the other day in class…’

  ‘In class!’ the old man snorted.

  Pinkie’s formal education was the subject of much debate in the Carmichael household. When Pinkie’s father died in the boy’s tenth year, it had seemed only natural that Carmichael, a widower, should move in with his daughter to preserve the family unity. That unity had subsequently had some bad jolts, but had never been cracked. It had come closest to rupture when on graduation from high school, Pinkie announced he wanted to join the police force. Carmichael had been delighted. Pinkie’s mother had been none too pleased but had voiced no strong objections as long as her son first completed his college education.

  Carmichael’s reaction had been explosive. ‘Go to college to be a cop?’ the old man had shrieked. ‘Let him learn the same way I did—on the beat. It’s the only way. When I was a goddam’ youngster …’ Pinkie’s mother had been firm—no college, no joining the force. Her decision prevailed.

  ‘Well, anyway, son,’ Carmichael had commented, ‘you can enjoy four years’ straight vacation before you have to go to work.’ With Pinkie now entering his third year of university work, Carmichael was still unconvinced of the value of a degree.

  ‘Okay,’ Pinkie continued, pushing the wheelchair a little faster, ‘let’s not start that again. Here, have a look at the paper. Real juicy murder over in San Margaret.’ The young man thrust a late edition of a metropolitan paper into Carmichael’s lap.

  Carmichael grumpily accepted the paper. He glanced through the lead story hastily.

  ‘Humph,’ he began, ‘does have some interesting aspects at that. Rich old lady, house full of bizarre characters, a missing fifty thousand dollars. Shouldn’t have too much trouble finding the guy though. It’s when you find an old lush in an alley with his head bashed in and his wallet missing—that’s when the chances are good it will end up in the unsolved file. But this looks like an inside deal. All the odds are against the killer. I see they didn’t release the identification of the necktie. Or maybe they didn’t have it by press time.’

  ‘What do you mean “identification”?’ Pinkie asked.

  The old man smiled slyly. ‘That phone call a little bit ago was Louie Delmar, police chief over in San Margaret. Told me about this case and asked if I’d be interested in giving him a hand. Probably remembers when I helped him out in the Andrews killing. That was a honey. Young gal had her torso slit from neck to groin with a cross-cut saw. Well, I don’t know. This wheelchair doesn’t make things any easier. Might drop round tomorrow at that, though.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain what you said about the necktie.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Seems the necktie the old lady was strangled with belongs to a nephew of hers. Young doctor over at General in L.A. Louie hadn’t been able to get a hold of him yet for questioning.’

  ‘And why do you say all the odds are against the killer?’

  ‘Just are, that’s all’, the old man snorted. ‘A couple of hundred trained men, if they’re needed. And all the time in the world to track him down. Follow up everything. Something has to be checked up? Okay. Put another dozen men on it. This is a big case. Rich old lady, society leader, gets lots of newspaper space. Old Louie will want this one bad. And he’ll get it.’

  ‘Yeah, but San Margaret doesn’t have these couple of hundred men you’re talking about’, Pinkie objected.

  ‘They’ll get all the help they need from L.A., and the sheriffs. We cops hang together, you know. I’m not saying they’ll get this guy tomorrow, or the next day. But chances are damn good they will get him. And that’s something these newspapermen can’t seem to understand. A few days go by and they start yelling about “the murderer still at large”. Oh, well, I suppose it’s their business.’

  ‘Just one more question, grandpa’, Pinkie asked.

  ‘Hmmm?’ The old man shot his grandson a suspicious glance.

  ‘How about letting me tag along with you tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Monday. You got classes.’

  ‘Aw, grandpa. This is what I’m supposed to be studying, for Pete’s sake. When will I get a chance like this again?’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough. But,’ he added crankily, ‘I’m not even sure I’ll take Delmar up on his offer.’

  The young man suppressed a smile.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE people of San Margaret are proud of their new courthouse and gaol. The building is of glass and cinder block. It has a slate roof with cupolas projecting from the two ells which make up the court-rooms on one side and the police department and gaol on the other. The colour motif, set off harshly by the morning sun, is provided by alternating panels of dark grey and bright orange tiling projecting at intervals along the base of the building. It is an architectural monstrosity. The designer, who is not a member of the American Institute of Architects, is a friend of the mayor.

  Chief Louis Delmar’s office is to the left of the duty sergeant’s desk with its adjacent switchboard, and across from the squad-room. The office is furnished with uncomfortable leather-covered chairs. Anyone sitting on them finds himself fighting a constant battle to keep from sliding off. The chief’s own chair, however, is as nearly modelled on an over-stuffed armchair as propriety will permit. It is also appreciably longer-legged than the leather-bound chairs. The chief’s desk, of scarred mahogany, is also proportionately higher. The chief is sensitive about his limited stature. Other than this excusable vanity, he is a most engaging fellow; and police officers who are competent and also have a pleasing personality are hard to come by. Chief Delmar was now giving a demonstration of his affability.

  ‘Very glad to see you, Carmichael’, he was saying, and he meant it.

  ‘This is my grandson’, growled Carmichael. ‘Call him Pinkie. He’s going to college to be a cop.’ There was only a hint of irony in the old man’s tone.

  The chief extended a dry, pudgy hand. ‘Glad to meet you, Pinkie. Now then.’ He smiled and settled back comfortably, his hands crossed across a tidy paunch.

  ‘I appreciate your calling an old milk horse back into service, Louie’, Carmichael said. ‘Now what’ve you got?’

  Chief Delmar’s smile did not leave his face, but somehow he managed to achieve a particularly woebegone expression.

  ‘Well,’ he began, ‘fellow named Sullivan from the Sun had the straightest story. But he jazzed it up in spots, of course. Did have a couple of details I didn’t bother to give you over the phone. Anyway, officially, here it is. Old lady DeVoors was strangled to death last Saturday night. Her nephew … Well, hell, let’s do it this way, Carmichael. I’ll give you the reports we have so far, then fill you in from there.—Miss Fuentes!’ he suddenly screamed into a desk intercom.

  Almost immediately a young, dark-haired girl with a voluptuous figure, ill-concealed in a straight, dark blue skirt and white blouse, appeared at the door.

  ‘Where’s the folder on DeVoors?’ the chief asked.

  Without a word or a glance at her boss’s visitors the girl crossed the room, opened the top right-hand drawer of the chief’s desk, pulled out a large manila envelope and placed it in his hands. She left the room, her head high, fully aware that two pairs of old tired eyes and one pair of young bright ones were riveted on that part of her anatomy which left the room la
st.

  The first report Carmichael read was that of Detective-Lieutenant Elroy Hodges. It read:

  0900, September 29, 1957.

  The undersigned officer was summoned to the home of Mrs. Constance DeVoors, 119 Suffolk Drive, to investigate a reported murder. Informant was Miss Elinor Wycliff, employee of Mrs. DeVoors. Victim was Mrs. DeVoors. Victim was found in bed, in night-clothes, apparently strangled with a man’s tie. Body was rigid, face was slightly blue. Limbs were convulsed in such a way as to indicate a struggle with assailant. Body was discovered by servant of deceased at 0845 this morning. Servant’s name is Mrs. Philip George. She is employed as a cook. Mrs. George said she had to unlock door to get in room. Entry is believed to have been gained through windows opening on outside porch. Sgt. Smith was assigned ‘fingerprint detail. Sgt. Robbins assigned photos. According to Miss Wycliff, Mrs. DeVoors’s companion and secretary, a cash box containing $50,000 is missing from a desk drawer in the bedroom. In addition to Wycliff and Mrs. George, persons in the house last night were: George Awlsen, chauffeur-butler; Lily Rogers, maid; Mr. and Mrs. Rostov Ivanov, guests; Sra Kuru, guest; and Augustus Veblen, guest.

  Interrogation reports as follows:

  Elinor Wycliff: ‘I spent the evening and night at the house …’

  Carmichael read the reports carefully, making notes in a spiral notebook he produced from a pocket. Following the statements was the initial report by the coroner, noteworthy for its brevity:

  ‘Initial investigation indicates victim died of strangulation between midnight and 1.30 on September 29. A complete report will be made following autopsy.’

  ‘The autopsy report just came in this morning’, Chief Delmar said. ‘I haven’t put it in the folder yet.’ Pinkie passed along two typewritten pages to his grandfather. The sheets confirmed, with considerable medical elaboration, the verdict of the initial investigation. The only deviation from the stilted medical terminology was a facetious statement at the conclusion of the report: ‘It is apparent the victim, in any event, did not have long to live, as she was suffering from advanced cirrhosis of the liver.’