by Kip Chase
‘Going to the crematorium, chief?’ one of the reporters asked.
‘No.’ The chief climbed into a squad car waiting in a no-parking zone, and sped off. He ran over in his mind the men he would be talking to in the next half-hour: the lawyer, Lewis; Mrs. DeVoors’s doctor, Reeves; and a Mr. Finch, from Peters, Blake and Blum, the deceased’s investment company. Regular meeting of the Professional Men’s Club, the chief had muttered to himself when he made the arrangements. He had seen Lewis at the funeral, viewing the proceedings with unemotional eyes. The chief hoped the lawyer wouldn’t make the gesture of going out to the crematorium. That would mean a delay. He also hoped Carmichael would stick around. Chief Delmar was beginning to feel the case was slipping out of control. He needed the reassurances of a man of Carmichael’s ability to keep things in their proper proportion. Now this Veblen deal, damn it. Well, at least it gave the papers something to toss around. He directed the driver to stop at a coffee joint. He had hopes of soothing his jangling nerves.
Carmichael sat alone in the chief’s office. The usually faithful Pinkie had deserted him to chat with Miss Fuentes about police procedure, or so he said. Carmichael was grateful for the interlude. He adjusted one of his cushions at the back of his head and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. He anticipated a good solid half-hour nap before the arrival of the three men and the chief.
He miscalculated by five minutes. It was 4.05 when Delmar slammed into the room. Carmichael’s eyes were open the instant the knob on the door was turned but he couldn’t hide his befogged expression.
‘Been getting a little shut-eye?’ the chief asked kindly. He felt pangs of guilt. Carmichael was getting on, and in his semi-paralysed condition this case was probably quite a strain for the old man.
Carmichael rubbed his eyes. Pinkie, who had entered with the chief, quietly went into the adjoining bathroom and came out with a damp washcloth which he passed to his grandfather. Carmichael gently swabbed his face and handed it back with thanks. He turned to Chief Delmar. ‘Have our guests arrived?’ he asked.
‘Yep. They’re waiting out in the lobby. Just got here. If you’re ready to go, I’ll bring ‘em in.’
Carmichael nodded assent. The chief flipped a switch. ‘Okay, Miss Fuentes,’ he said, ‘will you have Mr. Lewis, Dr. Reeves and Mr. Finch come in please.’ He settled back with a sigh, only to spring to his feet a few seconds later when the three men entered the room. Chief Delmar introduced the doctor and Mr. Finch to Carmichael and Pinkie while the little lawyer, Lewis, perched gingerly on a leather-covered chair. Then he got right down to business.
‘I asked you here in the hopes we can straighten a few things out’, Delmar began portentously. ‘And now with the unfortunate death of Philip Newton, things are even more complicated.’ He paused and decided to abandon the attempt to pick his way carefully through the English language. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘things are just in a damn mess around here, that’s what it amounts to. First of all the money.’ He referred to a piece of paper in his hand and turned to Lewis. ‘I have here, sir, the sums of money going to various people as the result of Mrs. DeVoors’s dying. I jotted them down from the copy of the will you left us. I’d like to have you check them over with me. I’ll read them out, and if I’ve got anything wrong, just sing out.’ The lawyer nodded. Chief Delmar rattled off a list of charities and organizations, each followed by a sum of money. Then he paused. ‘Now here’s the important part’, he said. ‘Elinor Wycliff, fifty thousand dollars; Sra Kuru, to distribute to the Plateau of Supreme Oneness, fifty thousand dollars; Mrs. Elmer George, ten thousand dollars; George Awlsen, five thousand dollars; the remainder of the estate to Philip Newton.’ The chief looked questioningly at Lewis.
The lawyer gave a deprecatory cough. ‘That’s substantially correct. Minus the legal verbiage.’ He smiled.
‘All right. Now, Mr. Finch, what is the net worth of Mrs. DeVoors’s estate?’
Finch, a smooth-faced man dressed in tweeds with a Brooks Brothers cut, answered promptly, ‘We can’t give you an exact answer, of course. Some of Mrs. DeVoors’s money was in stocks whose prices vary day to day, some in real estate whose value is only an estimate. I have brought a complete inventory of the estate.’ He produced a portfolio of clipped typewritten sheets from an expensive-looking briefcase. He handed these to Chief Delmar.
‘You find a summary on the back page. The estate is estimated at fifty-seven million, eight hundred and thirty thousand, six hundred and twenty dollars. In round figures.’
Pinkie gulped.
‘In a situation of this sort, there is of course the tax problem. We had hoped to confer with Mr. Newton, the, ah, late Mr. Newton, that is, on this point. As for the cash bequests, there is more than enough in various bank accounts to cover them. Now with these two deaths the final recipient of the estate will lose a great deal to the government, I’m afraid. A great deal. I haven’t had time to discuss this with Mr. Lewis since we heard of the other death just a few hours ago. I assume the nephew, Dr. Newton, inherits, Mr. Lewis?’
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. ‘I imagine so. I haven’t talked to Dr. Newton since we heard about his father. I do recall a conversation with Mrs. DeVoors some time ago on this point and she said she didn’t believe her brother had made a will. He hasn’t made one with us, that’s certain. I checked just before I came over here.’
Mr. Finch shook his head dolefully. ‘If people would just realize how much money, and trouble, a few simple precautions would save their beneficiaries … well, that’s neither here nor there. Dr. Newton will still receive a large sum of money, in excess of twenty million dollars, I should guess.’
Carmichael turned to Lewis. ‘If Mr. Newton, senior, died without a will, his son inherits everything?’
‘Everything that was left to his father by Mrs. DeVoors, except, as Mr. Finch pointed out, what the government gets. And assuming no other relatives turn up to make claims.’
‘And, as far as you know, Dr. Philip Newton has no other relatives?’
‘So far as I know’, the lawyer said.
Carmichael swung round to Dr. Reeves. Pinkie had taken an instant dislike to the doctor. His handshake, his smile, his murmured phrases of introduction had smacked of blatant insincerity. He was a man of medium height, whose clothes reflected his Hollywood environs. He was deeply tanned, and Pinkie suspected the rich overtones in his crisp, black hair were not entirely natural.
‘Now then, doctor,’ Carmichael said, ‘we come to your part in our puzzle. In an earlier conversation, Mr. Lewis told us Mrs. DeVoors suspected she was headed for a mental institution. Can you shed any light as to why she might think that?’
The doctor looked startled. ‘Why, I didn’t realize …’ he began, then paused and continued in a cool, professional tone. ‘What I was about to say, gentlemen, was I didn’t realize Mrs. DeVoors was that concerned about her medical background.’
‘Medical background?’ Carmichael inquired gently.
The doctor flashed a quick, staged smile at the old man.
‘Yes, sir. It’s an odd story. I had better begin at the beginning. Mrs. DeVoors first sought my professional advice about twelve years ago. She has been under constant treatment by me since then. I say ‘constant treatment’. She was a constant visitor. Many of her ailments were imaginary. I told her as much.’
I’ll bet, thought Pinkie.
The doctor paused. ‘When Mrs. DeVoors first came to me I asked her to fill out a standard form for her medical background; childhood diseases, operations, and so on. She brushed it aside. I tried to explain its importance, but she said she had had no medical treatment since she was a girl. She said she didn’t remember what illnesses she had had as a child, nor the names of any doctors who had treated her. I tried to jog her memory, but it was clear she did not wish to co-operate on that point. So I did without it. I had no choice. I have said many of Mrs. DeVoors’s troubles were imaginary. Some of them were not; and they were serious ailments. All of t
hem,’ here Dr. Reeves favoured his audience with a supercilious smirk, ‘—that is, if my diagnosis was correct—stemmed from one cause. She drank too much. Played hell with her liver, her sugar count, general metabolism. And dependent organs. I continually remonstrated with her on her drinking. On several occasions hospital treatment was necessary. This scared her and she would stop drinking for short periods. However, sooner or later, we were back to the same old problem. Actually she had a surprisingly rugged constitution or she would have been dead long ago. Some people are that way. Just can’t seem to kill themselves—I’m sorry; that was tactless. Anyway, I got ahead of myself. About a year after she came to me, Mrs. DeVoors reversed herself on her earlier refusal to supply me with any information on her medical background. It happened during a routine examination, as I recall.’
There was no sound in the room other than the doctor’s voice. His listeners were intent on every word.
‘At the end of the examination Mrs. DeVoors announced she had changed her mind about withholding information from me. She said she realized I could not look after her health properly if I didn’t have a complete picture. She said there was one thing in particular she thought I should know about.’
Dr. Reeves paused dramatically, then turned to Chief Delmar.
‘Chief, this information was given to me in confidence. The lady is now dead, her brother is dead and I realize this is a murder investigation. I trust to your personal discretion this will not reach the newspapers.’
The chief nodded in bewilderment.
‘In 1910 Mrs. DeVoors spent eleven months in, or attending, a county hospital for treatment of syphilis.’
If Doctor Reeves expected a shocked response, he was disappointed. No one said anything. He went on.
‘I communicated with the hospital, it’s in San Francisco—that is, it is now—when Mrs. DeVoors was treated it was outside the city limits. Anyway, they sent me a copy of their records. She was discharged as cured. I questioned her closely as to possible recurrences of the disease. I re-examined her with a particular view of possible recurrence. I was convinced Mrs. DeVoors’s recovery had been complete.’
Carmichael coughed gently. Dr. Reeves turned to him with an ill-concealed air of impatience. It was clear he enjoyed the sound of his own voice.
‘Did Mrs. DeVoors indicate why she thought the cure had not been complete?’ Carmichael asked.
‘Yes. I was just coming to that. She said she had read the disease could lie dormant for years, then reappear. She said she had read that on its reappearance it might attack the brain, resulting in the patient going insane. Then she recited various things that had happened to her lately which she feared were symptomatic. Periods of mental confusion, lapses of memory, headaches. I questioned her closely on these incidents. I came to the conclusion her fears were groundless. Her “mental lapses” appeared to me to be a combination of advancing years and the old problem—too much alcohol. I told her this, as tactfully as I could. I only partially convinced her, I’m afraid. Every so often she would bring it up again, and I would have to re-explain to her the medical improbability of her suspicions. This last year she became more and more difficult to convince. But I didn’t realize she took it as seriously as Mr. Lewis has indicated.’ The doctor paused, seemingly disappointed his contribution was over. ‘Are there any questions?’ he concluded hopefully.
Chief Delmar hitched forward.
‘Mrs. DeVoors didn’t tell you how she contracted the disease?’
‘The usual way, I should imagine’, Dr. Reeves said sarcastically. ‘As to particulars of who and when, no, she did not confide in me.’
‘Mr. Lewis,’ Carmichael asked, ‘you have indicated a close friendship with the late Mr. DeVoors. Do you know if he knew of this phase of his wife’s background?’
The lawyer shook his head. ‘I have no idea. However, he was the kind of man who wouldn’t be particularly influenced by a thing like that.’
‘Had Mrs. DeVoors been married before?’ This from Chief Delmar.
Again Lewis shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I never heard mention of it from either of them.’
Pinkie had the feeling he was at a tennis match as he twisted his head from one side to the other following the questions.
Carmichael asked, ‘If Mrs. DeVoors did have a husband previous to DeVoors, isn’t it likely she would have mentioned the marriage in making her will, because of possible legal complications?’
‘Yes’, said the lawyer. ‘It seems likely she would have. She was very concerned about seeing her money would go just where she wanted it. I believe if there had been any—ah—untidy ends, she would have questioned me about the legal position. But, I could be wrong.’
Chief Delmar followed with queries to Finch concerning the ramifications of the huge estate. Lewis answered more questions on the legal procedures to be undertaken before Dr. Newton would be in actual possession of his share of the money. At one point the servants’ bequests were discussed. Carmichael introduced the topic.
‘Mr. Lewis,’ he said, ‘I noticed the amounts going to employees—Mrs. George, Miss Wycliff and Awlsen, the butler—seem disproportionate. Do you know why?’
‘I would say the bequests were normal, under the circumstances’, Lewis countered. ‘Except perhaps that Miss Wycliff’s inheritance is high. But Mrs. DeVoors was a capricious woman—she acted on impulse, and she apparently liked the girl. Normally, servants who have been with their employers for a number of years are given an appreciable amount of money, presumably to compensate for their inability to collect pensions. Of course, since the social security law has been changed to provide for personal servants, things are a bit different. Still, servants of very wealthy people are generally provided for, either by a lump sum as in this case, or by a trust fund, the principal of which reverts to the estate on the death of the servant. In Mrs. DeVoors’s case, none of her servants had been with her long enough to warrant any sizeable inheritance.’
‘Wouldn’t you call fifty thousand dollars “sizeable”?’ Carmichael asked.
‘Yes. As I said, Miss Wycliff was an exception.’
At five-fifteen the chief and Carmichael seemed satisfied they had acquired as much information as they could digest, and the conference came to an end. When he had thanked his three departing visitors and returned to his desk, the chief sighed and drew a box of long black cigars from a drawer. He made a perfunctory offer to Carmichael and Pinkie, then chose and lit a cigar thoughtfully.
‘These are only for special occasions’, he explained.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Pinkie asked. He didn’t really care. He had been listening to other people talk for an hour and a half without saying a word. He felt he had to say something, if only to clear his throat.
Chief Delmar smiled sadly. ‘The occasion is, there is no occasion. Pretty rough going, eh, Carmichael?’
Carmichael stirred uneasily in his wheelchair. ‘It is that. The San Francisco angle was interesting.’
Chief Delmar agreed. ‘I’ll get one of the boys up there tomorrow’, he said, ‘See what he can dig up.’
Carmichael stifled a yawn. ‘We’ve had a busy day. I’m ready for the peace and quiet of your dear mother’s home.’ He turned to Pinkie. ‘Let’s move along, son.’
At the door the old gentleman paused for a final word with Chief Delmar. ‘I have the feeling I’ll be sleeping late tomorrow. What time are you planning to talk to the people at the house?’
The chief waved his cigar in a gesture of unconcern. ‘Don’t matter. A few things I’d like to do in the morning anyway. I’ll meet you there at one o’clock, okay?’
‘Fine. See you then.’ Carmichael scarcely had the energy to stare at Miss Fuentes as Pinkie wheeled him past the duty sergeant’s desk.
During the ride back, Pinkie did his best to pump his grandfather about his opinion of the murder of Philip Newton. Carmichael refused to be interrogated and finally said firmly, ‘Wait’ll we get home. We’ll have a
good supper, relax with a glass of beer and talk then.’ Pinkie had to be satisfied with that.
Some three hours later Carmichael kept his promise. Full of spare ribs and sauerkraut, the old gentleman had adjusted his chair to a semi-reclining position and was pulling with satisfaction at a pilsner glass of stout. The stout had been purchased over the strong protest of Pinkie’s mother. But with the imperiousness of a man rekindled with influence and importance, Carmichael was not to be denied. As the lady of the house occupied herself with duties in the kitchen, grandfather and grandson relaxed in the living-room.
‘I’ll tell you what, son’, Carmichael began in a kindly tone. ‘I know you’re anxious to hear my thoughts on the developments, naturally. So I’ll just give you a sort of an outline of where I think we are right now. This, I hope, will quench your youthful curiosity and at the same time may help me clarify my own thinking.’
He inhaled deeply on a cigarette, another restriction which had been recently relaxed, and remained silent. The pause became so prolonged Pinkie wondered if his grandfather had changed his mind. But Carmichael had only struck another train of thought. It was curious, he was thinking, how a pattern of living could be so obscured in a few short years. When he had been active on the force he had seldom got discouraged on a case. He knew the capabilities of the men working for him, he knew the value of his tools: the specialists, the lab, the informers, his own ability. It was as though the process of hunting down a killer were like operating an electronic brain. You kept punching buttons until the right answer came out. There were a lot of combinations, to be sure, but a man who knew his machine usually could make it work for him. Not always, but usually. But now he was woefully out of tune with the machine. He couldn’t seem to find the right combination of buttons. The formula was there, somewhere, but it eluded him. He forced himself to go over all the factors, again and again. Finally he began speaking to Pinkie.
‘This case is a curious one for your introduction to police methods. It is not typical. No, I don’t quite mean that. There’s no such thing as a “typical” murder. What I mean is this situation presents more complications than one might usually expect. To begin with, a double murder always complicates things, unless of course the nature of the second crime is such that it clarifies the issue. Unfortunately, Mr. Newton’s death has done nothing to clarify anything—at least not that I can see. It just means more possibilities to cover. In addition there are so many loose ends here—disappearing old men, screw-ball wills, phoney aristocrats, a woman everybody hated, and a man everybody loved. We’ve got everything. But the important thing …’ Carmichael passed a hand over his tired eyes, ‘… the important thing is to keep your eye on the fundamentals. Motive, opportunity. First, let’s examine the DeVoors business. Motive? Lots of it. Fifty thousand dollars, just to begin with. For Elinor Wycliff, another fifty thousand in the will; for the dead brother and his son, millions; Mrs. George was in for ten thousand; and we can’t even discount the butler. Men have killed for much less than five thousand dollars. As for the Count and Countess and Kuru, no known motive. So much for motive. Got more than we know what to do with. Now opportunity. This is even worth less. Anyone in the house could have done it. And for that matter, anyone outside the house. Park in the back, over the fence, and there you are. Except, as previously noted, it would figure to be someone with knowledge of the house. So what have we got? A big fat nothing.