by Kip Chase
Carmichael unrolled more of the tape.
‘It looks like that was the only phone call since Mrs. DeVoors’s murder’, he remarked.
‘That’s not right’, Pinkie said. ‘How about the call Dr. Newton made that night to his father?’
‘All the calls aren’t necessarily here’, Lydia explained. ‘Jack’s father probably took the call in his room. He has an extension there. And it isn’t hooked up to this. Or he took it here and flipped this switch before he lifted up the receiver. Then it doesn’t record.’
‘Let’s hear what’s on there’, Carmichael said.
Lydia put the tape back in the machine, pushed a button marked ‘reverse’, then when the stamped section had passed the centre of the machine, flipped another switch. A voice, recognizable as Jack Newton’s, came out of the speaker.
‘Hello, dad.’
‘Hello, Jack. How are you?’
Lydia turned away and bit her lip. ‘That’s Jack’s father’, she said shakily. Pinkie could understand her queasiness. He had not even known the dead man, but of course he had seen him. Now, hearing that voice and remembering the blue face, the wet hair plastered down over the forehead …
‘Just thought I’d check up on you. It’s been a little while’, Dr. Newton’s voice said.
‘Glad you called. I’m going out on the fences in about an hour. So if you call in the next couple of days and there’s no answer, don’t worry.’
‘When’ll you be back?’
‘Wednesday for sure. Series starts. Say, wasn’t Snider terrific today? What a wind-up for the season!’
‘I haven’t been following. They keep me pretty busy here.’
Philip Newton laughed. The eerie sound made goose pimples stand out on Pinkie’s neck.
‘I’ll make a fan out of you yet, son. When will you be up?’
‘I’ll try and make it Wednesday.’
‘Swell, see you then.’
There were two clicks and the voices stopped, but the whirring of the machine continued. With a shudder, Lydia reached over and shut it off.
‘I didn’t realize it would shake me up so’, she said. ‘He was a great old guy.’
‘Where were the old tapes kept?’ Carmichael asked gently.
‘Old tapes? Oh, yes, when a tape would run out, a little light would go on. Phil, Jack’s father, checked it regularly and when the light was on he’d take out the used tape and put in a new one. The old one he’d check to see what the first and last date was, put it in a little box, write the dates on the outside, then file it in that cabinet over there.’ She indicated a large metal filing cabinet in one corner.
Carmichael wheeled himself over to the cabinet and opened a drawer. Cardboard boxes with dates neatly printed in ink were filed chronologically. The dates went back to July, 1954.
‘When did Mrs. DeVoors get this gadget?’ Carmichael asked.
‘I don’t know, she’s had it ever since I’ve been up here.’
Carmichael opened one of the boxes. Inside was a tape, tightly rolled. He unrolled a small section. At one point there was a piece of Scotch tape splicing the electronic tape together.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, holding it up.
‘That stuff’s pretty fragile’, Lydia answered. ‘Breaks sometimes when you handle it. Just splice it together with Scotch tape and no harm done.’
‘Well,’ said Carmichael, ‘somebody’s got a lot of listening to do.’
‘You mean,’ said Lydia, amazed, ‘you’re going to have someone listen to all of that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Why, that’ll take weeks.’
‘That’s one thing we have plenty of—time’, Carmichael said. ‘I guess that’ll do it for now. You can go on home if you like, Lydia. Thank you very much for your trouble.’
‘Glad to help. And I learned plenty, too. Guess I’d better check in on Jack. See you.’ She walked out. Carmichael and Pinkie heard the cough of her ancient car as it headed down the hill.
‘Just one question, grandpa’, Pinkie said.
‘And what’s that, boy?’
‘Doesn’t the L.A. police department have any psychologists on the payroll?’
‘As a matter of fact, we do. And the universities are always willing to co-operate.’
‘Then why get this girl, who is still a student, to give you the dope on these people?’
‘Just who do you think I was trying to get the dope on, Pinkie?’ Carmichael asked irritably.
‘Oh’, said Pinkie.
It was only a few hours later that Pinkie had an opportunity to do a little research of his own. He was slouching past a bar in Westwood Village when he noticed an ancient, familiar-looking Packard in the parking lot. He ambled over and glanced at the registration on the steering wheel. The car belonged to Ivanov. On impulse Pinkie went into the bar.
The decor was pseudo-modern—red fuzzy wallpaper and shiny black and red fixtures—not the kind of place the young man normally patronized. He spotted the Count and Countess seated at a booth in a dark corner. Pinkie approached the booth, tripping over a small table in his path. The Count was speaking in low and what sounded like angry tones. He saw Pinkie and abruptly stopped talking.
‘Good evening’, Pinkie said, bobbing his head.
‘Good evening’, Ivanov answered coolly. The Countess smiled warmly. ‘Won’t you join us for a drink?’ she said, ignoring her husband’s glare.
Pinkie had gulped his way through a bottle of beer before the conversation took the inevitable turn.
‘And what sort of progress is your grandfather making, my boy?’ the Count asked suddenly. The Countess, who had been chattering about the delights of California weather, became suddenly silent.
Pinkie answered carelessly, ‘Hard to say. He only tells me half of what’s going on anyway.’
With elaborate casualness, the Count lit a brown-papered cigarette jammed into the end of a long, embossed silver cigarette-holder. ‘I was under the impression you were associated pretty closely with him’, he remarked.
Pinkie laughed. ‘“Associated” is hardly the word. He lets me sit in on some of the action, because I’m studying criminology at college. But it’s strictly a one-way deal.’
‘I see. But surely you have some idea of how the case is progressing?’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know any more about it than you do, probably. Maybe not as much.’
The Count lost his friendly look. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Pinkie took a long drink of beer. ‘Nothing much. I only mean that, after all, you were actually in the house when Mrs. DeVoors was murdered. Therefore it stands to reason there are some things you may know that even the police don’t know. Witnesses seldom tell everything they know, my grandfather says.’
‘And what does your grandfather say is the reason for that?’
‘Oh, usually just because they don’t think it’s important. Or they lie to protect themselves or somebody else. Say, this is pretty good beer. Too expensive, though.’ The look that flashed between the Count and Countess was not lost on Pinkie.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally it was the Countess who spoke.
‘I can understand how that would be’, she said thoughtfully. ‘And I think perhaps the time has come …’
‘Anna’, the Count growled.
‘… to set something straight.’ The Countess continued calmly. ‘With the case unsolved, and with this new dreadful murder, it is quite apparent the police will intensify their investigation. Certain things may come out that would be better set straight now. There is something I would like your grandfather to know. When I told him I did not leave my room the night Mrs. DeVoors was killed I lied. I went up to see the old lady about ten. I don’t know if this was before or after she was dead. I knocked on her door, there was no answer, so I left. That’s all there is to it. I saw nothing, heard nothing. When we found out the next morning she had been murdered my husband insisted we tell the police
we had been together all night, thinking to protect me. Perhaps the police would never have found this out—I don’t believe I was seen—but it might have come out. I would rather tell the truth. I really have nothing to hide.’
The Count puffed nervously on his cigarette but said nothing.
‘My grandfather would probably want to know why you wanted to see Mrs. DeVoors at that time of night’, Pinkie said gently.
The Countess gave a short sigh. ‘No reason in the world, really. I often have trouble sleeping at night—I don’t know why—and I find that talking to someone helps ease the nervous tension. My husband is very understanding, but …’ she gave the Count an apologetic look, ‘… sometimes it is necessary to talk to another woman. I sometimes imposed on Mrs. DeVoors to this degree. Actually,’ the Countess gave a wan smile, ‘I found that listening to Mrs. DeVoors’s troubles helped me to forget my own. Most of the problems, for both of us, were in our minds, I imagine. Anyway, I would appreciate it if you would pass this information along to your grandfather and Chief Delmar. I would be happy to answer any questions they may have, and I’m sorry if I’ve caused any trouble. It was just that my husband …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ the Count grumbled, ‘but it still seems unnecessary to me.’
Pinkie waited until morning to relate the story to Carmichael.
‘Hummpf’, was the old man’s only reaction.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Pinkie prodded.
‘Oh, I guess we can take her story at face value, at least until we find out otherwise. Just one thing she didn’t point out.’
‘What?’
‘If she left her room during the period of time she says, it not only destroys her alibi, it also means the Count has no alibi for the same period of time. Could be that’s why he was so anxious to “protect” her. Damn it!’ the old man said with sudden fury. ‘Why are people such liars?’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT was just ten days later that ‘the dam broke’, as Carmichael later put it. In the interim, only one item worthy of note had been uncovered. Carmichael got it from Chief Delmar several days after the talk with Lydia at the lodge. The day following the talk he had announced that Pinkie was to return to classes because he, Carmichael, was going to sit at home for a while. The case was now chiefly a matter of leg-work. He expected to keep in touch with San Margaret by phone, he said, and he assured his grandson that all pertinent information would be duly passed along. The chief’s call came under that category. Not that it seemed to help much. Carmichael had been perusing the editorial page of the Los Angeles Sun when the phone rang.
‘Carmichael?’ Delmar’s voice was not ebullient.
‘What have you got, Louie?’
‘Couple a items of interest. Not much help; but anything is good to get, these days.’
‘I’m listening hard.’
‘Item one. Mrs. George is not Mrs. George.’
‘Hmm … mm ..?’
‘Mrs. George, that is the cook at DeVoors—well, her name’s Rosy Grendell. That was a good hunch of yours. There is a real Mrs. George all right. Worked at those places Hodges checked. Mrs. George—er, Mrs. Grendell, gave phoney references.’
‘How’s it check out?’
‘We had Mrs. George, damn it, Grendell, down here this morning. She admitted it right off. She said the real Mrs. George was a friend of hers. She, Mrs. Grendell, needed a job in a hurry, and she had never worked in a private home, but she could cook. So she went to her friend, Mrs. George, and asked if she could “borrow” her name. We called the real Mrs. George, made damn’ sure she was legitimate, and she said that was right, just the way Mrs. Grendell told it. Damn’ people just don’t realize how much work they make for us. Now we got a lot of new checking to do.’
‘Too bad, Louie. What else?’
‘This doesn’t mean anything, but I thought you’d be interested. Turns out the Count isn’t so much a phoney after all.’
‘No kidding?’
‘That’s right. Got a big fat report from the immigration service yesterday. They checked on him pretty good before they let him in. He’s no Count, but he’s a Russki okay. Immigration said they’re convinced the story he gave them is true. Even that stuff about fighting “for our beloved Emperor” is on the level.’
‘I’ll be damned. How about the Countess?’
‘Not too much yet on her. She was already in this country when she met the Count. She’s also Russian, seemingly, but the boys in Washington are having a little trouble locating her file. Said they’d give me the dope as soon as they locate it.’
Carmichael gave a low whistle. ‘Well, it might work into something.’
‘It might. Oh, yeah. Something else. We got a teletype from San Francisco the other day. Augustus Veblen was on their police force, back in pre-World War I days. He quit just after his probationary period was over. They don’t know what happened to him. Just helps confuse the issue. And, let’s see, sheriffs haven’t found anyone who saw any car head up towards the lodge the night Newton was killed. We checked the butler’s alibi. It’s okay. Funny thing, though, the bartender says Awlsen was there, but he can’t name any customers who might have seen him. Anything new with you?’
‘Nope’, said Carmichael. ‘Thanks for the call.’
‘Sure thing.’
But it was when Sullivan paid his visit to Carmichael that things really began to open up. He arrived at nine in the evening. Pinkie let the reporter in and called his grandfather from the kitchen where the old gentleman had been investigating the beer supply.
Sullivan did not waste much time with preliminaries.
‘I’ve got a hot one, Mr. Carmichael’, he said, flinging himself down on the sofa. ‘I’m on my way in to write it up right now. But I wanted to let you know about it before you read it in the paper.’
‘Before I read what in the paper?’ Carmichael said peevishly.
‘Just a little angle, a nice little angle’, the reporter grinned.
‘Well, if it’s any more along the lines you’ve been printing I’m not sure I want to hear it. You’d better watch your step. That article about Dr. Newton came damn’ close to the “invasion of personal rights” law. Damn’ close.’
‘I know’, said Sullivan. ‘I’m not any happier about it than you are. But I don’t have to worry about getting sued. The managing editor is behind me a hundred per cent. It was the city editor’s idea anyway. And they have to make the final decision what runs on this stuff. But this will interest you. We’ve been doing a little digging on the missing Mr. Veblen. First thing we found out—he was on the San Francisco P.D. years and years ago. 1910, to be exact.’
‘We know that’, Carmichael said. ‘He resigned. Then we lost him till he showed up at DeVoors.’
‘You mean it says on the records he resigned’, Sullivan grinned. ‘He was fired.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep. Found a man in ‘Frisco who was on the force with him. Says the department was just being kind in letting him resign. He had no choice. He got fired for a shakedown. Although how anybody could get fired for that in San Francisco in 1910 I can’t see. Anyway, this guy says Veblen was caught taking a rake-off from a cat-house.’’
So?’
‘So, I also found one of the girls who worked in that very place. I have a lot of friends in ‘Frisco.’
‘I can see what type’, said Carmichael. ‘Now pull the rabbit out of the hat. What’s the big deal?’
‘Oh, nothing much’, said the reporter casually. ‘Just so happens one of the other girls in this place was a nice young chick named Constance Newton.’
‘WHAT!’
‘Constance Newton’, Sullivan said, slowly and distinctly. ‘That wasn’t the name she used, but this gal said she knew her real name all right. Knew her back in Buffalo. Constance looked her up when she got out to the coast. The girl, she’s an old bat now, says she’s often wondered what happened to Connie. Rather int
eresting.’
‘And you’re going to print it?’
‘Damn tootin’ we’re going to print it. High falootin’ society gal, murdered in her bed, got her start as a prostitute. And the missing man in the case got bounced from the force for taking bribes from the cat-house? It’s terrific. I don’t care much for yellow journalism, Mr. Carmichael, but this is a bona fide top story. I figure we can hit the streets with it in the morning, then have a follow-up on police reaction. I’m telling you this in good faith. And I’m not pulling any punches about what we’re going to do with it. I’d appreciate it if you would keep it under the official hat until we break it.’
‘Fair enough’, Carmichael acknowledged. ‘But I don’t like it.’
‘It’s my job. I imagine there were parts of your job you didn’t like at times either.’
‘You’re right about that’, Carmichael sighed. ‘Well, you did a detective job, and it might help us out a lot at that, too.’
‘Thanks. I’ll get going. I’ll check with you tomorrow.’ Sullivan made a hurried departure.
Carmichael turned to Pinkie. ‘See if you can get Dr. Newton on the phone. Tell him to get right over here. It’s urgent.’
Thirty-five minutes later the doctor arrived. He was not in a good mood.
‘All right, Mr. Carmichael,’ he said as soon as he had been let in, ‘you asked me to come and I came. I hope it’s important enough to drag a man away from his work.’
‘It’s important. Sit down. Give the doctor a beer, Pinkie.’
Dr. Newton brushed aside the offer. ‘Thanks, but I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible. What’s on your mind?’
‘If you’ll bear with me just for a minute, doctor. A few preliminary questions.’
‘Great Scott,’ exclaimed Dr. Newton, ‘is that all? Okay, I’m here now.’
‘Somewhere along the line,’ Carmichael said, ‘I heard that this unpleasantness with your aunt started with an argument you had with her some years ago. Would you tell me what that was about, please?’
The doctor groaned. ‘I don’t see why I should, but … it was when she put my father to work up at the lodge. Dad had just been retired and was starting to get his social security. Aunt Constance offered him this job at the lodge. At first I thought it was pretty nice of her. He would have a place to live, and I couldn’t help out financially, I was still at school. I figured dad would stay at the lodge and have someone to help him out with the heavy stuff. It turned out that wasn’t what she meant. She meant to have dad do all the work. I blew my top. She just laughed at me, said it “would be good for him”. That did it. I called her a … well, I wasn’t very polite. That was the parting of the ways for us.’