by Kip Chase
Hodges reddened. ‘You’re right, Mr. Carmichael. I slipped up there. Pretty stupid.’
‘Not at all, lieutenant’, Carmichael assured him. ‘Everybody makes mistakes. That’s why police work entails all of us checking on each other. Even then it isn’t airtight. If I’d thought you were slipping, I wouldn’t have brought it up just to embarrass you. Just one of those million and one things that has to be clearly established. Thanks.’
Hodges left with a crestfallen expression on his broad face.
‘Well,’ remarked the chief as the door closed, ‘it looks like young Newton’s alibi will stand still for this one. We’re checking on the drugstore where he says he stopped, and with his landlady. If they verify his story and if Sandleigh was right in his estimate of the time of death, it couldn’t have been the doc.’
‘If, if’, grumbled Carmichael. ‘My unfavourite word.’
‘Anyway,’ the chief continued, unperturbed, ‘I can’t see him putting a necktie round his old man’s neck and strangling him. Can you?’
‘No,’ admitted Carmichael, ‘I can’t. But just because it doesn’t seem likely to us doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened that way.’
‘Sure, sure’, the chief agreed hastily. ‘But you’ve got to start assuming some goddamn thing to start with, and at this point I’m going to assume the doc was telling the truth. What do you think about that visitor theory of his?’
‘It’s as good as any. But it don’t help a lot. It’s pretty obvious he had a visitor, but it doesn’t get us very far even if we can reckon that visitor was expected. I’d like to get over to the DeVoors house and see what that bunch there has to say for itself, now they know about Newton.’
Chief Delmar grunted. ‘Reminds me, we got two calls from the house while we were gone. Jean—Miss Fuentes—talked to them. One from Awlsen, wants me to call back, the other from the maid, the young one, just said she wanted to talk to you. Wouldn’t say why. But she doesn’t want you to call her. Miss Fuentes wouldn’t give her your home phone number. Let me call Awlsen, then we can take a ride out and you can see what the girl wants. But I don’t want to start checking alibis until Sandleigh gives us the final word on the time. Okay?’
Carmichael groaned. ‘I’m an old man, this running around is wearing me out. I’ll go out with you tomorrow and see what she wants.’
The chief nodded. He picked up the phone and dialled the DeVoors house.
‘Awlsen?’ he said. ‘Chief Delmar. What’s on your mind?’
The chief listened for a few minutes without interruption. There was a look of surprise mingled with annoyance on his face. He asked a few sharp questions. He hung up and turned to Carmichael with an air of disgust.
‘Veblen’s gone’, he said.
‘Gone?’
‘I had one of the boys call Awlsen this morning and tell him about old man Newton. Told him to have everyone at the house sit tight. When Awlsen went to tell Veblen, his room was empty. Cleaned out, no clothes, no typewriter, no Veblen.’
‘Anyone see him leave?’
‘Awlsen says no. Nobody’s seen him since last night. Must have left when everybody was asleep.’
Carmichael whistled. ‘That makes it rough.’
‘Damn tootin’ it does’, the chief snorted. ‘Means an A.P.B., no telling how much time tracking him down. And maybe all for nothing. The crazy old bastard maybe just decided to take a little trip. Hell!’
‘Might be just the break you need, Louie’, Carmichael said mildly.
‘Maybe.’
The chief passed a tired hand over his eyes. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘this is getting me down. Something else I forgot. Called a little conference for this afternoon. That lawyer, Lewis; the old gal’s doctor, fellow named Reeves—just got in town; and a man named Finch from Mrs. DeVoors’s investment company. Four o’clock. Want to sit in?’
Carmichael’s chin sank to his chest. ‘I’ll grab a sandwich somewhere and see how I feel. Guess I can last it out. How about the funeral, you goin’ to that, Louie?’
The chief nodded glumly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A LIQUOR salesman was talking to the bartender at DiVedi’s. Awlsen, hunched over a Scotch and water at one end of the bar, ignored the conversation. He was interested in conversation only when he could be the centre of attention.
The salesman finished gossiping about the other bartenders in the area, then slid smoothly into his sales pitch. The bartender was doubtful.
‘I don’t know’, Awlsen heard him say. ‘We could use a case of Grant’s all right, and two cases of Gordon’s, but I’m full up on brandy.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you’, the salesman leaned over the bar confidentially. ‘If you buy two cases of Christian Brothers, you get three bucks a case discount, you know. But if you get two cases of Coronet, I’ll give you six bucks off a case.’
The bartender tapped his fingers speculatively on the bar.
The salesman pressed ahead. ‘What the hell, Coronet is good stuff, you know that. And you’re going to need another case before the end of the month, anyway.’
Awlsen listened to the discussion with growing irritation. Why didn’t this character make his pitch and get the hell out? He had something important to talk over. Finally the salesman left. There were no other customers. Awlsen motioned the bartender over.
‘Hear the news, Don?’ Awlsen asked slyly.
‘’Bout old man Newton? Sure, it was on the radio at ten-thirty. Sort of shoots your theory in the ass, don’t it?’ the bartender grinned. ‘By the way, ain’t you going to old lady DeVoors’s funeral?’
Awlsen uttered a brief obscenity, indicating a negative answer, then continued, ‘I don’t mean Newton, I knew you’d hear about that. I mean the news about Veblen.’
‘Veblen? He the old guy who was staying out at the place?’
‘Yeah, he took off.’
‘No kidding.’ The bartender put up a finished glass and picked up another out of the drying rack. He whistled. ‘Looks bad for him. When did he leave?’
‘Don’t know, last night sometime. I called the chief when they got back from the lodge, and told him. He hot-footed it out to the house right away. He made a couple of phone calls and they found a cabbie who picked Veblen up about two last night. The old guy had his typewriter and suitcase. I didn’t hear where he took him. I guess they’re hot on him.’
‘I’ll be damned. They think he done both of them?’
Awlsen shook his head. ‘I’m not sure, but the chief didn’t act like he thought it was all wrapped up.’ The butler cleared his throat; perhaps this would be a good time …
‘Say, Don,’ he began casually, ‘I got sort of a problem.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s this way.’ Awlsen ran a nervous finger round the rim of his glass. ‘The night old lady DeVoors was killed, I was shacking up with that girl, the new maid.’
‘You told me.’
Awlsen swallowed. ‘Well, the thing is, after a while I was laying there, couldn’t get to sleep. I got restless, so I got up, put on some clothes and went into the lounge-room we have back there.’ The bartender watched Awlsen with narrowed eyes. The butler went on: ‘So I had a drink, maybe two, read a magazine, just played around for a while—then I went back to bed.’
The bartender continued thoughtfully polishing the glasses.
‘As soon as we found out what happened—about old DeVoors—I talked to Lily, that’s the girl, and told her not to say anything about us. Look bad. I figured she hadn’t been asleep when I got up, so I told her if she did have to say anything, to say I had been in bed all the time. I scared the hell out of her.’ Awlsen smiled at the memory. ‘But this afternoon I heard her calling the cops. Wanted to talk to the old guy, Carmichael. She didn’t say what about, but maybe she wants to start talking.’ Awlsen paused. ‘That could be bad.’
The bartender grunted.
‘So,’ Awlsen continued hurriedly, ‘I thought maybe you could say
I was in here for a couple of hours that night. No problem there, is there, Don?’ His false air of heartiness did not hide the anxiety in his voice.
The other carefully set down the glass he was working on and folded the towel neatly, not looking at Awlsen. Then he leaned against the back bar and stared full in the eyes of the disconcerted butler.
‘You asking me to alibi you for Saturday night?’ the bartender asked finally.
‘Hell, no’, Awlsen was indignant. ‘I don’t need no alibi. They’ll probably find out this Veblen did it anyway. I was just thinking, it might be a lot less … less … complicated if you was to help me out that way.’
‘What you want is an alibi’, the bartender said flatly. ‘Or there ain’t no such word. And the answer is no. You’re a good customer, George, and I don’t mean nothing personal, but you’re playing around with a murder. And I don’t want no part of it.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Awlsen passionately, ‘do you think I killed the old lady?’
‘No, I don’t. But if you didn’t, just tell the cops the truth. They don’t have a thing on you. It’s better than getting yourself all mixed up.’
Awlsen made a last desperate plea. ‘There’s nothing to get mixed up about. I tell them I was in here. You verify it. No strain, no trouble.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, to hell with you,’ Awlsen lost his temper, flung down the last of his drink and stamped out. The bartender methodically unfolded the towel and again picked up a glass to polish. His expression was thoughtful.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SULLIVAN was being accorded the privilege of aprivate conference with the city editor. The managing editor had graciously donated his office for the occasion, while he, the managing editor, spent the afternoon at a meeting of publishers and editors being held in the private rooms of one of the better hotels. The meeting was sponsored by a publicity-wise electronics company—food and drinks were of the executive variety.
The city editor nervously rolled a pencil back and forth across the desk—the desk he hoped to occupy in a few short years. He was complimenting Sullivan on his handling of the DeVoors story.
‘You’ve been right with it; we’re way ahead of the field’, he was saying with forced enthusiasm. Sullivan listened in silence. How the hell would you know, he was thinking to himself. Sullivan had spent some time on the desk and held no brief for the ‘new’ type of city editor. Instead of being a top-notch reporter moved up the ladder, the position was now used as a bottom rung for the executive ladder in the hierarchy of the newspaper. Oh, sure, they went through the motions. Couple of years on the beats, some fill-in on the wire desk, dummying the back pages, then sitting in on the conferences—and there you are, a city editor. With a nice master’s degree behind it all to prove you were executive material. Sullivan was of the opinion his present boss wouldn’t know a news story if it walked up and spat in his face.
‘But, I was wondering …’ The city editor paused, laced his fingers together, and stared at the ceiling. ‘Maybe we can scratch a little deeper and really turn this circus upside down.’ He cocked an inquiring eye at the reporter. Sullivan said nothing. After a prolonged silence he realized he was expected to comment.
‘Like what, John?’ he grunted, fishing for a cigarette as he spoke.
‘Like finding out who killed the old lady and her brother.’
Sullivan allowed himself a sour smile. ‘Come off it. Those days went out with the demise of Richard Harding Davis.’
‘Well, I wasn’t really expecting that. Just trying to shock you into a little imaginative reporting. That’s the only way we get any around here.’
‘But,’ protested Sullivan innocently, ‘you just got through saying we were doing a good job on it. That is, I was doing a good job.’
‘Oh, you are, you are. It’s just that I have the feeling we’ve got a real plum here, just waiting for someone to pluck it. The police are blundering around like a bunch of keystone cops. ‘Course, that’s about all you could expect from a country town like San Margaret.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sullivan said mildly. ‘Delmar is no fool, he’s got plenty of help, and with Carmichael on the thing the chances are fair to middlin’ they’ll pull it out.’
‘They might and they might not.’ The city editor gave up the pencil and instead drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘The front office is willing to spend a little time and money on this. I have a few ideas.’ He glanced quickly at Sullivan, but getting no response, continued: ‘The murders look like they’re tied together. That’s what the police think and that’s what seems logical. I see it this way. Go after those people at the house. Dig just as far and deep as we can. We may come up with something. Could be big. But even if we don’t, we get a lot of good copy material. A pair of fake Russians, that Indian nut, a writer who runs away, that secretary doll with lots of art on her around the swimming pool. Good stuff. You got the idea?’
‘I’m not sure’, Sullivan said slowly. ‘You want me to run a series on these characters?’
‘More than that. I want you to take a couple of men, three should do it, and follow up each one of the people involved here. I’ll give you Sterns off the rewrite desk, Phillips from the valley, and Klein. Start with Dr. Newton, everything you can get from the hospital, from the superintendent down to the fellow who cleans out that lab he works in, then his landlady, and personal friends, then medical school, clear on back through high school. He grew up in California, I understand, so you won’t have too much of a problem there. When we squeeze him dry, we’ll move on. We’ll do the easy ones first. Secretary next, then maybe this Veblen fellow. What do you think of it?’
Sullivan took a long pull on his cigarette. Actually, he admitted to himself, it wasn’t a bad idea. Personally he disliked this prying into people’s lives. Persons who, chances were, had done nothing to deserve having their private lives laid bare in public print. But that was business; people wanted to read about the spectacular crimes, anything about them, and that’s what sold newspapers. He sighed.
‘Not bad, John,’ he said. ‘’ Course we’ll be doing a lot of duplicate work. Delmar will be doing the same thing, has been for a couple of days, no doubt.’
The city editor nodded impatiently. ‘Sure, I know that. But those reports aren’t a matter of public record. We can’t get to them. We’ll have to go it alone. Besides, there’s always the chance we’ll turn up something they missed. That’s what I meant about solving the murders.’
Sullivan shook his head. ‘It’s possible. But we’ve got three guys, they have three hundred if they need them, plus the F.B.I., the State records, automotive registry, alien registration, national security act … just to mention a few.’
‘Well, we can get to those.’
‘Sure, but we got no I.B.M. machines to run facsimile cards through, and we got no …’
The city editor waved an impatient hand. ‘I know all that, but I figure it’s worth a try.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right. I’ll talk to the boys this afternoon.’
‘You’ll talk to them right now.’ The city editor snapped on the intercom. system.
An hour and a half later Sullivan was moodily taking his afternoon coffee break in a dingy café across the street.
In his younger days, he had had his coffee in the employees’ lounge, not wanting to miss a good assignment that might break in a hurry. As he sipped the muddy brew, he thought of the lost enthusiasm of his youth. I’m getting old, he decided. Not so long ago I would have been tickled pink to be on a story like this. A real chance to lay on the old by-line, and leg men to help out, too. But now? Just another job. And not a particularly pleasant one at that. If I were hot on the trail of some corrupt city official, I could enjoy it. But not this—snooping around, digging up any little piece of dirt that happened twenty years ago to somebody. Still, Sullivan reasoned, he had to give the city editor credit. It would sell newspapers. The young punk did have an idea once in
a while, but only once in a while. Well, at least he had got out of covering the old lady’s funeral this afternoon. Sullivan hated funerals.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE last rites were administered to Mrs. Constance Newton DeVoors amid a riot of activity. Attendants were unable to preserve the decorous atmosphere of the colonial-styled funeral home, besieged with hordes of reporters, photographers and the morbidly curious. Chief Delmar suffered through the service with a high sense of martyrdom. Not that he felt protocol called for his presence, but there was just a chance of it being worth-while. A glimpse of an expression on someone’s face, or any unusual occurrence, however slight, might have significance. It was just one of those million-to-one chances he could not afford to miss.
The Count and Countess, he noticed, made a brave show in full mourning. Elinor Wycliff appeared subdued, and Kuru seemed to lack the air of detached superiority he usually maintained. The servants, with Awlsen conspicuous by his absence, looked ill at ease. But only to that degree one would expect under the circumstances. The chief had a wild idea in the back of his head it was even possible Veblen would show up for the funeral. So far the old gentleman had not been traced past the down-town Greyhound depot in Los Angeles. No matter, he felt confident Veblen would be turned up before the week was out. But would it do them any good? Delmar doubted it.
The final unctuous performance of the boy soprano reached a wavering climax and the guests began to shift in their seats in preparation to leaving. A few more solemn words by the good-looking young minister and the ceremony was over. The chief battered his way out of the room, heavy with the scent of banked flowers, and gratefully took in lungfuls of fresh air. He scowled as a flashbulb went off in his face.