Where There's a Will

by Kip Chase

  ‘I don’t know, for sure, but she told the old lady she was eighteen when she took her on. She may be eighteen, but she’s all woman!’

  ‘Well, what do you make of the murder any way, George?’ the customer asked. He had heard enough in the past of the chauffeur’s amorous exploits.

  Awlsen put on his thoughtful face. ‘If I was to tell you what I think,’ he said, sententiously, ‘you wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Try us and see’, the bartender said.

  ‘I think her own brother done it!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  Awlsen wagged his head. ‘I’m not kidding. Stands to reason. Who gets the money? He does. And him always so meek and quiet like. Never liked him since the first time I saw him. He was just too damn’ nice to everybody. There ain’t nobody doesn’t dislike somebody. I think all the hate in him just got stored up, then he finally couldn’t stand it any longer and he done her in. Tired of being her caretaker.’

  This interesting demonstration of psychological insight was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. The bartender answered.

  ‘Yep, he’s here. O.K., I’ll tell him. Sure you bet.’

  ‘Your girl, George’, the bartender said. ‘Says you better get on back, the cook’s complaining about your being gone so long.’

  ‘Complaining, is she? Well, the day I dance to her tune I’ll look for another place. Give me another one here.’

  ‘Looks like you’re going to have to look for another place anyway’, the customer pointed out.

  George gave a surly smile. ‘Guess you’re right at that.’

  Two more customers came in. They were local regulars who immediately began to question the butler about the murder. He told them what he knew and when he ran out of what he knew embellished on the facts. Finally, one of the new arrivals took exception to George’s prophecy that the murderer (Mrs. DeVoors’s brother, according to his theory) would be behind bars in twenty-four hours.

  “Bull.” The customer shook his head. ‘I’ve seen that brother of hers around. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. He pulled me out of a ditch one night with a jeep. A nice guy. I remember we talked about baseball.’

  ‘All right,’ Awlsen said, ‘we’ll see how nice he looks when they get ready to fry him.’

  ‘Don’t fry in California’, another customer pointed out. ‘Gas ‘em. Cyanide.’

  ‘Whatever they do, he’ll get it’, was Awlsen’s retort.

  After his fourth drink George Awlsen left his companions to return to the unpleasantries of a day’s work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PINKIE was impressed by the quarter-mile drive leading to the DeVoors house. Carmichael was not. He had seen his share of mansions and the carefully tended landscaping, the tasteful arrangement of statuary and the general aura of opulence was lost on him. The old man had spent most of the ride closely questioning Chief Delmar on the routine of the household. He had learnt that, while there was a main gate complete with gatehouse, there was no attendant. The imposing façade of the wrought-iron gates was presumed to discourage casual visitors. However, it seemed Mrs. DeVoors had been an admirer of gadgetry. A photo-electric contrivance rang a bell in the servants’ quarters whenever a car passed through the gates. While the main gate was the only carriage-entrance to the estate, it would be entirely possible for an individual on foot to get in unnoticed either by crawling under the level of the photo-electric arrangement, or by scaling the iron fence—a not particularly difficult feat, as Chief Delmar pointed out.

  An even simpler method would be to enter the grounds through a small gate in the fence near the house at the back of the lot. As Mrs. DeVoors regarded the device on the main gate as protection against unwanted visitors, the gate at the back was supposed to be kept locked. However, the imposing padlock was only closed far enough to give the appearance of being shut. Servants and guests used the handier gate extensively, except when under the eye of Mrs. DeVoors. The murderer would have had an easy time coming through the small gate, and approaching the house under cover of the thick foliage in that section of the grounds.

  These possibilities did not deter the chief from his theory that the killing was done by someone familiar with the household, or who had been coached by an insider. He reiterated his chain of reasoning that the murderer would have had to have either a key to the victim’s bedroom (assuming the maid were telling the truth), or have knowledge of the back stairway. Either event would presuppose prior knowledge.

  Carmichael, tucked in the back seat of the squad car with his collapsible wheelchair in the trunk, nodded agreement. In describing the personality of the victim, the chief grew caustic. ‘Regular old bitch’, ‘society dragoon’, and ‘crazy old woman’ were a few of the phrases he used. Mrs. DeVoors, he made clear, was actively disliked by almost everyone who knew her. Her regular ‘friends’ were for the most part a fawning bunch of sycophants who were able to endure the old lady’s personality only through hope that a whimsy on her part would enrich their pockets. Her background, before she met and married Peter DeVoors, heir to an estimated thirty million dollars, was a mystery. None of Mrs DeVoors’s acquaintances could fill in the blank space. Chief Delmar hoped to clear up the gap in the dead woman’s life with the expected appearance of Philip Newton, the trail-riding brother. On this point Jack Newton had been adamant. His answer to all questions on his aunt’s pre-marital career had been a stolid, ‘You’ll have to ask dad about that.’

  As the squad car pulled up to the door of the house, obviously designed as a compromise between baroque architecture and the demands of a Southern California climate, the chief concluded, ‘That’s the way it is, Carmichael. I’m going to have everybody out here go through their little song and dance again and you can sit in. Give you a chance to get the lay of the land at the same time. Then for some lunch and I’d appreciate your impressions.’

  The man who answered the door was identified, sotto voce, by Chief Delmar, as George Awlsen.

  ‘Old lady didn’t have many servants considering the size of the place. Guess she was too tough to get along with’, the chief remarked as they were ushered into a drawing-room which appeared to Pinkie’s startled eyes at least the size of a football field. Carmichael backed his chair into a corner of the huge room, while his grandson perched gingerly on a chair of modern design which turned out to be more comfortable than it looked. The chief, who remained standing, said to the butler, ‘All right, Awlsen, would you please notify the servants and guests I would like to see them again—here.’

  ‘Countess Ivanov and Miss Wycliff are at the pool, sir. They are …’ Awlsen gave a slight cough, ‘… in bathing attire. Should they take the time to change?’ In the line of duty, and with chlorophyll-scented breath, he was a different man.

  ‘Nope, we’ll just leave them out this time.’ Chief Delmar turned to Carmichael. ‘There’ll be enough here for us to handle right now any way. We can talk to those two later.’

  While Awlsen was assembling the group, Pinkie took stock of the room. Two or three tapestries hung from each wall. Seven niches—he counted them—were recessed from the walls at various points. Each contained statuary; several of which caused him to look twice. There were no rugs on the polished stone floor. The outside wall held four enormous picture windows looking out over the beautifully landscaped grounds. The furniture was of varying periods but did not produce an effect of incongruity. Chippendale reposed cheek by jowl with the latest models of mechanized contour chairs, of which there were three, all placed so they faced the windows. A grand piano in one corner was dwarfed by the dimensions of the room. The vaulted ceiling, Pinkie noticed by craning his neck, was made up of conical settings each intricately designed, but no two alike.

  The group the butler assembled consisted of a young girl in a light blue maid’s uniform; an older woman dressed in white, whom Carmichael assumed to be the cook, Mrs. George; a tall, robust man in his early sixties, dressed in vaguely theatrical Russian-
style clothes; a finely-featured, dark-complexioned young man wearing a black suit and a fez, and with a small round red spot just between and above his eyes; an elderly, shambling old gentleman whose only distinguishing characteristic was his piercing blue eyes; and Awlsen.

  ‘All right, folks’, Chief Delmar began. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to answer some more questions for us. You’ve answered some of them before but Mr. Justine Carmichael, who has had a great deal of experience in the homicide detail of the Los Angeles police, has kindly consented to give us a hand here. So I want him to hear each person’s story just as he tells it. I know it’s tiresome but I’d appreciate it if you’ll all bear with us. I’ll give you fair warning,’ he added jocularly, ‘this probably won’t be the last time either.’

  A collective sigh of resignation went round the group.

  ‘Now then,’ the chief continued, ‘we’ll start with Mrs. George. Would you please tell us again just how you found the body, ma’am?’

  The middle-aged woman in white nodded her head firmly. She presented a matronly appearance, pleasantly off-set by a good-humoured alertness. ‘Yes, sir’, she said. ‘I went up to Mrs. DeVoors’s room at eight o’clock to wake her up, same as usual …’

  ‘Mrs. DeVoors always got up at eight?’ Carmichael interrupted.

  ‘No, sir, like I said, I wake her up at eight. Sometimes she gets right up. Sometimes she’ll just lay in bed a good part of the day. I knocked on her door. She didn’t answer, of course. I tried the door. It was locked.’

  Anticipating Carmichael’s next question, Mrs. George quickly added, ‘Sometimes she locks herself in and sometimes not. It wasn’t unusual. So I let myself in with my key. Those are Mrs. DeVoors’s regular instructions. She’s a heavy sleeper and just knocking doesn’t always wake her up. I didn’t see right off what was wrong. She was lying sort of sideways with her head hanging almost off the bed. The bed was all mussed too. I went over to wake her up. Then I saw right away she was dead. Tie round her neck like that and her face all blue. I sort of caught my breath—didn’t scream though—then I hurried right out to tell someone. First person I saw was Miss Wycliff. She was just going down the stairs. I told her what I saw and we both went back in the room. Miss Wycliff, she felt Mrs. DeVoors, loosened the tie, I think, and said she was dead all right. Getting stiff, she said. Right away she called the police. And that’s all I know of the whole thing, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. George’, Carmichael said. ‘A clear, concise report. I believe in your statement to the police you said you had noticed the windows to the porch were open?’

  The cook nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right. I said that. And so it was. Fellow who did it must have come off the balcony from the other bedroom.’

  Carmichael nodded. ‘And how many keys were there to Mrs. DeVoors’s bedroom?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Four. Mine, Mrs. DeVoors’s, an extra one she kept in a desk in her room, and Miss Wycliff had one.’

  ‘You mean four as far as you know, Mrs. George’, Carmichael corrected apologetically.

  Mrs. George looked startled. ‘Yes, sir, as far as I know’, she acknowledged.

  ‘Now then’, said Carmichael, turning to the girl in the maid’s uniform. ‘Your name, I believe, is Lily Rogers? Would you tell me please, just what you know of this unfortunate affair?’

  ‘N-nothing, sir’, the girl stammered, studiously avoiding looking at Awlsen. She would have been attractive but for squirrel-like teeth.

  ‘But you were in the house the night Mrs. DeVoors was killed’, Carmichael pursued.

  ‘Yes, I was. But I don’t know nothing about it. I just finished my duties, went to bed at ten o’clock. read my Bible, and went off to sleep.’

  ‘Very commendable, I’m sure’, murmured Carmichael. He added in a louder voice, ‘And you didn’t learn of the murder till morning?’

  The girl bobbed her head vigorously. ‘That’s right, sir. Mrs. George told me. Almost made me sick, when I heard.’

  ‘And did you see the body?’ asked Carmichael.

  ‘Good Lord, no’, answered the girl.

  ‘Well, Miss Rogers—by the way, it is “Miss”, isn’t it?’ The girl nodded. ‘You don’t seem to be able to help us much so far as the crime itself is concerned.’ Carmichael accompanied this mild reproof with what he considered a reassuring smile. ‘So perhaps you can tell us a little about the victim. To begin with—did you like her?’ He uttered these last four words so suddenly and sharply that the girl worked her mouth for a few seconds in alarm before managing a reply.

  ‘She—she paid well.’

  ‘That isn’t what I asked.’

  The maid shot a frightened glance at Mrs. George. The cook said, ‘Don’t be a baby, Lily. Of course you didn’t like her. It’s no secret. Nobody liked her.’

  ‘That’s right’, the girl said with relief in her voice. ‘Nobody liked her.’

  Carmichael turned to the butler. ‘Now, Awlsen, your statement to the police struck me as rather interesting. You said you went to bed about eleven, and never left your bed until you got up at seven the next morning. Then you said you could prove this if you had to. What did you mean by that?’

  The butler’s face assumed a rigid demeanour. ‘I mean just that, sir. Like I told the police, I’m not saying anything about that “proving” part now. I just gave them fair warning, if they tried any funny business I could prove where I was. I have nothing more to say.’

  Miss Rogers grew pale.

  ‘But surely, Awlsen,’ Carmichael said, ‘you realize this mysterious attitude creates a suspicion about your movements that night, which as far as I know wouldn’t otherwise exist?’

  ‘I have nothing more to say’, the butler repeated sullenly.

  Carmichael shrugged. ‘You household employees may leave’, he said. ‘As for the others,’ his eyes swept over the three remaining men, ‘I would like to have a little look round the place and then talk to you. If you’ll oblige me by staying in this room, or nearby, I would appreciate it.’ He wheeled himself round to face the chief. ‘Now then, Louie, if you will lead on to the bedroom …’

  Carmichael, with Pinkie’s help, negotiated the broad, heavily-carpeted staircase with a minimum of blasphemy. The old man was thinking. In a run-of-the-mill murder there wasn’t really a great deal of imagination required. Careful, trained investigation—but not imagination. Some feature of the case could normally be followed up to the inevitable arrest of the killer. The murder weapon, perhaps, or an obvious motive, witnesses—there was usually something. But here, things were too fluid.

  He mentally shook himself. This was no proper attitude ! Of course there were half a dozen good leads that hadn’t yet been followed up: who knew about the fifty thousand dollars in the old lady’s desk, for example? According to the statements he had read, everyone but Elinor Wycliff denied knowledge of it. A little adroit questioning might turn up something there. And how about the key situation? Was there another one in existence Mrs. George didn’t know about? Then, of course, there was the complete investigation ordered by the chief on the people involved. Might take weeks for something to turn up there. But certainly worth checking on. Carmichael smiled to himself. What the hell was he worrying about? It was Louie’s problem. But his years of training would not be denied. He continued his mulling … who benefited? … the missing brother, he supposed; that will be interesting, when we get a hold of him … and just what was to be made of Mrs. DeVoors’s selection of house guests? So many things …

  The staircase terminated in a landing. Chief Delmar pointed to the left. ‘Down that way is two bedrooms, one used by that Indian guy, the other one empty; beyond that, the servants’ quarters. Five bedrooms, two of them not used and a sort of a sitting-room, TV, bookcase, stuff like that. Want to have a look?’

  Carmichael shook his head, ‘Not now.’

  The chief turned to the right. He showed Carmichael two bedrooms with connecting doors to a bathroom which he identified as oc
cupied by the Count and Countess, and another vacant bedroom. Carmichael looked briefly into each room. He seemed more interested in its relation to the plan of the house than its specific contents. He examined closets, all doors leading to closets or bathrooms and even leaned out of the windows to a perilous degree to ascertain whether access could be gained by them. The master bedroom, where Mrs. DeVoors had died, was in a separate wing making a right-angle turn into the hallway. Also in the ell, beyond the intervening bedroom, was Elinor Wycliff’s room, with its own bathroom.

  Mrs. DeVoors’s room, a large one, showed no signs of the struggle. The bed was over-sized, with a bedstead of an elaborately carved dark wood. The bedspread, embroidered with the initials ‘C.N.D.’, appeared to be satin. A pink, filmy canopy was overhead. Against one wall was a dressing-table. It looked large enough to hold appurtenances for the cast of a Broadway musical. A large curved mirror was mounted on the chest-of-drawers across from an old style escritoire. Chairs, table and divans completed the room’s furniture. The room was lit entirely by fluorescent tubing, most of which lurked behind decorative panels or was hidden by frilly valances. The outside wall held three large windows opening out on to a porch. A simple hooking device allowed the screens to open and shut with the windows or to be adjusted separately. Carmichael examined these with special care.

  ‘Not locked the night of the murder?’ he asked. The chief nodded negatively. He pointed to the escritoire. ‘Money was in the top right-hand drawer of that,’ he said, ‘in a money box. Whole thing gone.’

  ‘How did Mrs. DeVoors happen to have that much cash around?’ Carmichael asked.

  ‘Mrs. DeVoors’s lawyer brought it over the night she died. Fellow named Lewis. She called him up Wednesday morning and asked for the money. Lewis says he doesn’t know why she wanted it. He didn’t ask her why and she didn’t tell him. He said it’s happened before. He brought the money over that evening and got a cheque from her for it. He was delayed and didn’t get here until about ten that night. The old lady was in bed, but had him come up to the bedroom. Elinor Wycliff was in the room. He says he saw Mrs. DeVoors put the money in a cash box, then put it in the drawer. Then him and the girl left.’