Where There's a Will

by Kip Chase

  Having made his way back to his desk by way of the men’s room and the water bottle, Sullivan attacked his typewriter in a desultory fashion. At a quarter to eight the city editor made his appearance. He stopped at Sullivan’s desk.

  ‘Eight o’clock in the conference room’, he said.

  Sullivan nodded glumly. Every morning the city editor and the managing editor met the department heads to decide on the day’s play of the news. Reporters were invited only if a story they were working on was a possibility for the banner headline. Sullivan knew the circulation manager had been complaining bitterly about the slump in street sales. He knew the managing editor was scratching desperately for eye-catching headlines. He also knew there was nothing like the murder of a rich old lady to sell papers. This did not please him. As does any good reporter, he liked to have his story on the top of page one; but not murders. They depressed him. His mood was not helped by the realization he had nothing new to offer his bosses.

  The conference began with a spirited discussion on the news merits of a story that had just broken from Washington on a new low in farm prices. The city editor was in favour of making it the lead story. The managing editor, a tall, thin man who chain-smoked cigars, was against it.

  ‘I know it’s important, John,’ he was saying to the city editor, ‘but people out here just aren’t too interested in the farm prices. We’ll have the Old Man write an editorial on it. But meantime we got to sell these damn’ papers. Now, Sullivan, what’ve you got on DeVoors?’

  ‘Nothing fresh’, Sullivan said.

  ‘Oh, come on’, the managing editor said impatiently. ‘Damn’ near anything would do. Nice angle you got on Carmichael, by the way. What’s the latest from him?’

  ‘I talked to him last night’, Sullivan said. ‘He says they’ve got nothing. Just have to keep plugging.’

  ‘Hmm-mm-mm. How about “L.A. Police Expert Baffled in DeVoors Murder”—that would do for an angle. Use that for a lead, then rewrite.’

  ‘Sir,’ Sullivan said, ‘that doesn’t seem fair to me. Carmichael was just called in on the thing yesterday.’

  ‘I suppose so. Well, the police are baffled, aren’t they? Try that. “Police at a Dead End—No Clues—No Arrests”—that line.’

  ‘O.K. But it still seems premature. This is only the third day.’

  ‘Damn it’, snapped the managing editor. ‘Three days is three days. They should have something.’ He was irritable because he knew Sullivan was right. But those street sales were in a bad way, and with the new presses still in hock. … ‘Or maybe they’re holding out on us. What’s your impression of that chief over there … what’s his name?’

  ‘Delmar’, Sullivan said. ‘I think he’s all right.’

  ‘I hope so. God help him if he’s trying to be cute. We’ll stamp all over him. Well, all right, John, use the farm prices, make ‘em good and black. Say, we can run that shot Michaels got yesterday of DeVoors’s secretary. The one with the legs. Put it above the fold. Sullivan, get the outlines out for that right away, and about eight inches of rewrite to go with it. And, John, check with Sports for a page one item on the Series’ Opener tomorrow. Then I want a banner Wednesday for the four-star on the final score—barring war. Now, what the hell are we going to do about Red China?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ELINOR WYCLIFF was the type of blonde who looked extremely well with a dark tan. It accented her brown eyes and toned up a face that otherwise might have been considered only mildly pretty. Carmichael and Pinkie had arrived sharply at eight, but Elinor had already had her morning dip and was just on the point of leaving the pool when Pinkie and the old gentleman in the wheelchair approached her. Carmichael explained briefly who he was and what he wanted. Elinor sat down in a wicker chair beside the pool, draped herself in a white terry-cloth robe and lit a cigarette. She regarded Carmichael narrowly before she began speaking.

  ‘As I understand it, you’re primarily interested in what I can tell you about Mrs. DeVoors personally, and everyone else connected with the household?’ Her voice contained a hint of New York.

  Carmichael nodded. ‘That’s right, Miss Wycliff. How about starting with your late employer?’

  ‘I assume you already have the impression Mrs. DeVoors was a disagreeable woman. There isn’t much I can add to that. She had a nasty mind and a vile temper. If you’re wondering why I put up with it—for the same reason all her employees did. Money. She paid very well. I got five-fifty a month plus board and room. I couldn’t touch that anywhere else. I had to leave college in my senior year, when I ran out of money. I got this job and I’ve stuck with it. I like nice things.’

  ‘Why do you suppose Mrs. DeVoors paid so well, Miss Wycliff?’ Carmichael asked.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ the girl answered. ‘Nobody would stay with her if she didn’t.’

  ‘That’s a pretty good reason’, Carmichael admitted. ‘Now how about the guests, the Count and Countess, for instance?’

  ‘I like her, don’t like him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I think they’re both phonies. But he expects to be treated like a real count, all that bowing and scraping business, and she doesn’t seem to care much.’

  ‘And what makes you think they are impostors?’ Carmichael asked.

  The girl shrugged. ‘You’ve met them. It seems to be the general consensus. And that story about fighting for “our beloved Emperor” when he was fifteen. Just a big phoney.’

  ‘And Kuru, is he a phoney too?’

  Elinor thoughtfully watched her cigarette smoke. ‘I don’t think so. I believe he’s sincere enough. Just happens to be a screw-ball.’

  ‘Is he really an Indian?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  ‘And why,’ said Carmichael, as he let his gaze wander over the rolling grounds, ‘do you think he’s sincere?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t seem to get anything out of it’, the girl answered quickly. ‘Oh, he gets a free ride at the house, but no cash that I know of. And it would hardly seem worth the effort otherwise.’

  ‘I believe the chief mentioned something about a particular cult he belongs to. Do they get any money?’

  ‘Yes, The Plateau of Supreme Oneness. That’s what the outfit calls itself. Mrs. DeVoors sent them a cheque every month.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know. She wrote it out, put it in an envelope, addressed it and gave it to me to mail, with the rest of her letters.’

  ‘Where was it sent?’

  ‘The address was somewhere in India, Rama-something-or-other. I could look through her address-book for it if you wanted.’

  Carmichael stroked his nose. ‘I don’t think, that will be necessary, thank you. You realize, of course, Miss Wycliff, the organization could be a fake and this Kuru fellow could be getting a kick-back from confederates in India.’

  Elinor looked startled. ‘Why, I guess that never occurred to me. Could be.’

  ‘Hmmm … mm … mm. Now, how about Mr. Veblen?’

  ‘A likeable old soul. I know practically nothing about him. He showed up several weeks ago and just sort of moved in. Mrs. DeVoors didn’t like him.’

  ‘But she let him move in?’ Carmichael asked.

  ‘Yes. Rather odd, I thought. But she was an odd old lady. She always treated him civilly enough, but obviously was nervous when he was around. He’s a writer. I suppose he’s told you.’

  ‘Does he actually write?’

  ‘I guess so. He has a little nook up on the third floor. Spends a lot of time there. I sort of like the old bird and I’ve tried to talk to him a couple of times. He’s polite, but distant. He leaves everybody alone and vice versa.’

  ‘That leaves us Jack Newton and Lydia Drew’, Carmichael said.

  ‘Oh, you’ve met Lydia. A real character. I was her room-mate in school, you know. Just a normal, high-spirited girl who happens to be convinced psychology is just what the world needs more of.’


  ‘And Dr. Newton?’

  ‘He’s a deep one. Gets himself all wrapped up in his projects. But absolutely above-board, I think. Devoted to his father.’

  ‘Now—a very important question, Miss Wycliff. I want you to think it over very carefully. Who, besides you and the lawyer, knew about the fifty thousand dollars?’

  Elinor slowly snuffed out her cigarette. ‘I didn’t mention it to anyone, I’m sure of that. I don’t know what Mr. Lewis might have said, of course. But Mrs. DeVoors might have told anyone about it, and there would be no way of knowing.’

  Carmichael drummed his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. ‘You’re quite right of course.’ He paused. ‘Miss Wycliff,’ he said suddenly, ‘who do you think killed Mrs. DeVoors?’

  ‘I have thought a lot about it, naturally’, the girl said slowly. ‘I believe it was done by a burglar. I mean a burglar from the outside.’

  ‘You mean you think some man just happened to find the room with the money in it, then strangled Mrs. DeVoors without premeditation?’ There was an overtone of sarcasm in Carmichael’s voice.

  ‘It doesn’t sound plausible, I know. But I just can’t picture anyone in the household being involved in murder.’

  Carmichael sighed. ‘Thank you, Miss Wycliff. I appreciate your co-operation. Now, will you be so kind as to ask Countess Ivanov to step out here?’

  ‘I think she’s in her room. I’ll ask her.’ Her head high, Elinor Wycliff walked back to the house.

  Countess Ivanov appeared in a purple brocade dressing gown. An elaborate heraldic device was embroidered in red on one of the pockets. She was a dark-eyed, clear-skinned woman, with a mature, healthy glow not yet dimmed by age. Her voice was soft, but clear. Carmichael questioned her closely for fifteen minutes but found she could add little to what he already knew. On the point of her own and her husband’s activities the night of the killing she was quite clear.

  ‘I can assure you, Mr. Carmichael,’ she said, ‘neither I nor my husband left our room the night Mrs. DeVoors was killed.’

  ‘But you and the Count occupy separate bedrooms, do you not?’ Carmichael queried.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Then how do you know the Count did not leave his room?’

  ‘On that particular night the Count stayed with me in my bedroom’, the Countess said firmly.

  When she had left, Pinkie remarked, ‘Guess that lets them out.’

  ‘Bosh’, said Carmichael. ‘If you’re going to take every word that’s told you lying down, you’ll never make a cop. Now what time is it? We are supposed to be at the chief’s office to talk to that lawyer fellow at ten.’

  As they were leaving the house Carmichael caught a glimpse of Mr. Veblen hovering about the drive and called him over.

  ‘Tell me, Mr. Veblen,’ Carmichael asked pleasantly, ‘what is the name of the book you’re writing?’

  ‘Crimes of Violence and their Social Significance’, Veblen said. He gave an apologetic smile and crept into the house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DETECTIVE-LIEUTENANT ELROY HODGES was entertaining Miss Fuentes in the squad-room. He viewed his recent rise to public notice with mixed feelings. His name in the papers, the attention of the reporters, the open interest of Miss Fuentes—these were all very fine. But he had a nagging fear he had made some blunder in his initial investigation. If a murder case goes into the third day with nothing to go on, it can develop into a very tough nut indeed. In Hodges’s limited experience with murders he had found the criminal was apprehended very quickly or very likely not at all. Had he slipped up somewhere? He cursed the luck that had put Chief Delmar in Los Angeles as a complaining witness in Superior Court at the time the call came from the DeVoors house.

  ‘What do you think of that doctor fella’, Miss Fuentes was saying. They were discussing The Topic.

  Hodges slowly shook his crew-cut head. ‘The guy ain’t very friendly, but he’s no killer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s the respectable type. Got a good job and all that. These kind of guys don’t go around strangling old ladies. Course I’m not saying it can’t happen, but I just don’t figure this guy for a killer.’

  ‘But it was his tie, wasn’t it?’ Miss Fuentes protested.

  ‘Yep. But that don’t mean nothing. He says he left it at the house a while back. Anybody could have picked it up.’

  Miss Fuentes shifted in her chair so her pectoral muscles were in profile to the policeman. Hodges tried to keep from staring.

  ‘Well,’ she said, smoothing down her dark hair, ‘I think you boys better come up with something pretty quick or things are going to be awful uncomfortable around here. The chief was in a terrible mood this morning. He didn’t even notice my new blouse. He’s usually very good about that sort of thing. Four dollars I paid for it. On sale.’

  ‘I noticed it right away’, Hodges was quick to acknowledge. It was true, he had noticed the blouse but had refrained from commenting for fear of being misinterpreted. The blouse was of some translucent material which made it possible not only to see the style of Miss Fuentes’ brassière, but also its colour.

  ‘Well, he didn’t,’ Miss Fuentes said. ‘I think it’s sort of cute. Do you?’

  Hodges frantically cast about for something to look at besides Miss Fuentes’ brassière. ‘Sure. Looks great … I—ah—saw you snooping into those reports in the chief’s desk before he came in this morning’, he said to change the subject.

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t care. But I couldn’t get much out of them. Say, who’s Lydia Drew? She’s been in plenty of trouble.’

  ‘You see that blonde girl that was in here yesterday looking for the chief?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘No! Why she looked like a college kid. What’s she got to do with the DeVoors case?’

  Hodges gave a knowing smile. ‘She does go to college. She’s Dr. Newton’s girl friend.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t that beat all. She looked like she was still wet behind the ears. Possession of narcotics, burglary, resisting arrest—a regular hell-cat.’

  ‘Yep. We didn’t even know she was connected with DeVoors till she came in looking for her boy-friend yesterday. The chief ran her name through R. and I. in L.A. last night and that’s what they came up with. It all happened when she was just a kid in high school, though. I don’t think the chief put much stock in it. He’ll have her back and sweat her a little though, I’ll bet.’

  Miss Fuentes shook her head. ‘I’ll be darned. And her looking like one of those stuck-up sorority girls. Just goes to show,’ she said virtuously, ‘you can’t tell a book by its cover. Turned up anything else?’

  ‘Not much. We musta made fifty phone calls on the servants. Fellow Awlsen—the butler—has a couple of five-oh-twos, and that maid, the young one, was fired from her last job. The lady just said she didn’t like her. It’s taking more time with the guests. We’re checking immigration for the Russians and that guy from India. And the secretary is from New York. Nothing’s come through on her yet.’ Hodges sighed. ‘It’s a hell of a headache.’

  He was rewarded with a sympathetic look from the girl. Miss Fuentes was a comparative newcomer at the job. Hodges was not sure if she understood about his wife being sick. He was debating to risk asking her for a date when he heard the back door of the station open. He had picked up a pencil and log sheet when Pinkie wheeled Carmichael through the rear door of the squad-room.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, lieutenant,’ Pinkie said, ‘but it’s easier to get in this way. Is the chief in?’

  ‘Yeah. Go right ahead.’

  A pink-cheeked little old man with wispy white hair was with Chief Delmar in his office. He was introduced as Roger Lewis, lawyer of the late Mrs. DeVoors.

  ‘I was just telling Chief Delmar,’ Lewis said, ‘this tragedy has shocked me deeply. Anything at all I can do to help …’

  ‘Of course’, Carmichael nodded.

  ‘Mr. Lewis was going
over the will’, Chief Delmar said; ‘would you please repeat that last part, sir?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly.’ The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘Now I have a copy of the document here. The funeral, which I will attend of course, is this afternoon, so I had planned to have the formal reading tomorrow afternoon. It is customary, you know, to wait at least a day after the last rites.’ He glanced questioningly at Carmichael and the chief. They both nodded agreement.