And that should have been that, but for an odd coincidence some nine months later. Eisenmenger, he admitted to himself later, was already having doubts about one or two aspects of the case, but they were little more than vague qualms, like the fact that he noticed one day that Davina Muir had suddenly gone up-market, and was now operating from a far more salubrious establishment in Cheltenham town centre.
Not, in itself, a smoking gun, but it came back to his mind when he was waiting for an inquest to start. His case concerned a man who had been killed at work, crushed by a tree that he had been felling on a steep grassy bank. He had turned up on time, but the first case of the day had considerably overrun and so when he entered at the back of the court, the case scheduled before his was only just starting. It was on the death of Davina Muir. She had been killed in a road- traffic accident, after her BMW M3 soft-top coupe had hit a tree after finding a patch of black ice on a frosty morning in February. The police accident-investigation officer reckoned that she had been travelling at one hundred and five miles per hour.
He had thought at once that here was a further sign that she had come up in the world and he wondered how; perhaps the well-dressed man sitting in a sombre suit comforting two teenage daughters was the explanation; perhaps she had remarried.
But he soon learned from the remarks addressed to this man that she hadn't remarried. She had divorced ten years before and this was her ex-husband.
And suddenly Eisenmenger felt sick.
* * * *
David Codman was courteous but guarded. He sat in the living room of his rather sumptuous mansion house at Aston Cross and handed out tea and biscuits to his visitors. He emanated confidence and contentment; Helena could see no sign of bereavement either about his person or about the house; there were no pictures of Alice, although there was one of a rather attractive blond woman.
Through the smoke of a cigarette, he said, “I don't think I understand."
Helena repeated the name. “Davina Muir. She died in a car crash some months ago."
"Did she? What is that to me?"
"You knew her."
"Hardly knew her. I went to her for help in giving up smoking on a few occasions, that was all."
"Following which, you killed your wife and tried to hack off her head."
He closed his eyes, clearly upset at being reminded. “I appreciate that,” he said after a suitable time and in a tone that signalled he thought that they were being unnecessarily crass. “Don't think that I don't lie awake at night."
Eisenmenger explained, “I went to see her when we were planning your defence."
He nodded enthusiastically. “I know you did. You have no idea how grateful I am to you two. If I hadn't had such a dedicated team looking after my interests, I might not have been cleared."
"We were dedicated enough to look into her background after she died."
He smiled. “Dedication, indeed."
"I hadn't realized that she had once been a general practitioner."
"Really?” He took a sip of tea. It was Earl Grey and very nice. “Neither had I."
"And divorced."
He put his cup down. “Far too common, these days."
Helena had not touched her cup. “She had the perfect life. She was married to a surgeon, she had two children at public school, and she had her own career."
"So what happened?” His frown was perplexed.
"She discovered that her husband was having an affair. She loved him, I think; loved him deeply."
"Believe me, I know how she felt."
"It destroyed her, literally. She went to pieces, decided that she wanted to examine gin bottles rather than patients."
"She was never drunk when I saw her."
"Unfortunately, one or two of her patients weren't so lucky. She was struck off and had to look after two young children. Not able to practice medicine, she had to find money where she could. She had experience as a hypnotherapist, and she turned to that as a way of making a living."
He stretched and looked up at the ceiling, where the original plasterwork still lived; he radiated boredom as he said, “Forgive me, but I don't really see why this is relevant to anything."
Eisenmenger hastened to explain. “Because she was married to Mr. Robert Bell, and the woman he was having an affair with was your wife."
He jerked his head forward. “Alice?” Helena almost thought that it was genuine. Eisenmenger nodded. “Alice."
"But... “
"Your wife was a serial adulterer, Mr. Codman. But then, I think that you knew that."
"This is preposterous. She'd had an affair, I know, but it was a one-off. She told me so."
Helena asked, “How come everyone in the apartment block knew it except you?"
He turned to stare at her. If he was acting, he was doing it well, she thought. “I don't know . . . I didn't know anything of this."
Eisenmenger was watching him intently. “It's a bit of a coincidence that you should be getting therapy from the woman whose whole life had been ruined by your wife's adultery, don't you think?” Mouth open, eyes wide, David Codman said nothing and Eisenmenger continued, “Who approached whom, I wonder? I suspect that she approached you; her premises were at that time far too down-market for a man such as yourself. You had the perfect cover—your previously expressed desire to stop smoking—and you attended her flat in Southgate Street, and there you and she hatched a plan to kill Alice in front of everyone, and then to get away with it. She was medically trained, knew enough psychology to make it plausible that in your so-called hypnotised state it could be claimed that you confused a hatred of spiders with a hatred of cigarettes and, of course, a hatred of your wife. You made it as bad as you could for yourself, laying on the evidence so that the case against you was overwhelming, and that was brilliant. The assault a few days before the murder was an especially nice touch. After all that, the case against you was so solid, no one could possibly think that it had been set up deliberately to make you the one and only suspect, which meant that when someone came up with the theory that got you off, no one would ever be able to conceive that it was all a double bluff."
"I went to prison for months. You can't believe how horrible that was."
Helena murmured, “No gain without pain, David. A price worth paying if you were going to get away with murdering your wife."
"Rubbish."
Eisenmenger asked him, “You asked for us specifically, didn't you? Because we have a reputation for thinking laterally, and you wanted someone to do that, someone who would be eccentric enough—perhaps peculiar enough—to think of hypnotherapy and follow it up."
"How could I have known that you would come up with the right theory? It would have been a colossal risk."
Helena disagreed. “A risk, but not a colossal one. You laid clues out for me—that stuff about the earplugs and the blood surging through your head, for instance. Anyway, if John hadn't made the connection, I suspect that the fallback was to have Davina come forward with a few ‘suggestions’ to help us."
He appeared to have got over his incredulity, had settled on mockery. “What about the tattoo of the spider? How could I predict that she would get that when she did?"
"I think that you suggested it to her. Gave her some soft soap about how sexy you thought it would be, perhaps."
"Prove it."
They both noted that he had gone from complete denial to taunting them with the lack of evidence. Eisenmenger smiled. “You know that we can't."
Codman returned the smile. “Shame."
Helena said to Eisenmenger, “Come on, we'd better be going."
They stood up and Codman was all confidence once more. As he showed them out of the heavy wooden front door, he said, “Thanks for the entertainment.” Neither of them replied, but as the door was closing behind them, Eisenmenger turned just in time to see Codman wink at him.
In the car, Eisenmenger asked, “How far have you got with tracing where Davina Muir got her sud
den injection of cash following Codman's acquittal?"
She sighed. “He hid his traces well."
"I was afraid of that."
"Don't worry, John. We'll get him. Sooner or later, we'll get him."
Copyright © 2010 Keith McCarthy
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Novelette: THE LIST by Loren D. Estleman
"Shamus-winner Estleman's captivating second mystery [novel] to feature L.A. film detective Valentino (after 2008's Frames) focuses on legendary screen actress Greta Garbo,” said PW in its recent starred review of Alone (Forge). Valentino began his crime-solving career in the pages of EQMM, and he's back this month with a case revolving around a haunting period in American history (especially for the movie industry).
The shop was one of dozens like it in Tijuana, with Louis Vuitton knockoffs hanging like Chinese lanterns from the ceiling, shelves of ceramic skulls wearing Nazi biker helmets, and cases of vanilla extract in quart bottles, the kind the Customs people seized at the border to prevent parasites from entering the U.S. A muumuu covered the female shopkeeper's tub-shaped body in strips of crinkly bright-colored cloth, and until she moved to swat a cucaracha the size of a fieldmouse on the counter, Valentino thought she was a giant piñata.
"Buenos dias, señora," he said.
"Buenas noches, señor," she corrected, scraping off the remains on the edge of a large can of refried beans.
It was, indeed, evening. He'd started out from L.A. early enough to get there by nightfall, but the rickety heap he was driving these days had blown a radiator hose in San Diego and it had taken the mechanic two hours to fashion a replacement because that model hadn't been made since Nixon.
"Buenas noches. Yo busto un hombre Americano se gusta—"
"I beg your pardon, sir, but are you trying to say you are looking for someone?"
"You speak English?"
"Everyone in Tijuana speaks English, but no one understands whatever language you were speaking. Whom do you seek?"
"An elderly gentleman named Ralph Stemp."
She smacked the swatter again, but this time there appeared to be nothing under it but the counter. “I do no favors for friends of Stemp. You must buy something or leave my store."
He decided not to argue with her scowl. He took a box of strike-anywhere matches off a stack and placed it before her. She took his money and made change from a computer register; the bronze baroque antique on the other end of the counter was just for show. He said, “I don't know Mr. Stemp. I'm here to do business with him."
"If it is money business, pay me. He died owing me rent."
He had the same sudden sinking sensation he'd felt when the radiator hose blew. “I spoke to him on the phone day before yesterday. He was expecting me."
"Yesterday, in his sleep. He's buried already. He made all the arrangements beforehand, but he forgot about me."
Remote grief mingled with sharp frustration. Ralph Stemp was one of the last of the Warner Brothers lineup of supporting players who appeared in as many as ten films a year in the 1940s, more than double the number the stars made. He was always some guy named Muggs or Lefty and usually got shot in the last reel. Whatever insider stories he had had gone with him to his grave.
That was the grief part. The frustration part involved the unsigned contract in Valentino's pocket. A cable TV network that specialized in showing B movies was interested in a series of cheap heist pictures the ninety-year-old retired actor had directed in Mexico a generation ago, and Stemp had agreed to cut the UCLA Film Preservation Department in on the sale price if Valentino represented him in the negotiations. The films were trash, but they were in the university archives, and the department needed the money to secure more worthwhile properties. Without the old man's signature, the whole thing was off.
He excused himself to step out into the street and use his cell. Under a corner lamp a tipsy norteamericano couple in gaudy sombreros posed for a picture with a striped burro belonging to a native who charged for the photo op.
"Smith Oldfield here.” There was always a whiff of riding leather and vintage port in that clipped British accent. The man who for all Valentino knew ate and slept in the offices of the UCLA Legal Department listened to the bad news, then said, “You should have faxed him the contract instead of going down there."
"He didn't trust facsimile signatures. It was his suspicion and resentment that swung the deal. He never forgave the country for branding him a Communist, or the industry for turning its back on him. He agreed to the split so he wouldn't have to deal directly with anyone in the entertainment business."
"I'm surprised he trusted you."
He took no offense at that. “I ran up a monstrous long-distance bill convincing him. I suppose now we'll have to start all over again with his estate."
"A U.S. citizen residing in Mexico? With two governments involved, you'd be quicker making peace in the Middle East. And the heirs might not share his distaste for Hollywood. In that likelihood they'd cut you out and make the deal themselves."
"He outlived all his relatives, and judging by his crankiness in general I doubt he had any close friends."
"Have you any idea what happened to his personal effects?"
"I can ask his landlady. Why?"
"It's a longshot, but if he left anything in writing that referred to the terms of your agreement, even a doodle, it might accelerate the process. The probate attorneys could take their fees out of his share in the sale."
Valentino thanked him and went back inside to talk to the human piñata.She said, “The room was furnished. Everything he owned fit in a suitcase. No cash, and not even a watch worth trying to sell. Some rags and papers. You can have it all for what he owed me. One hundred sixty dollars American."
"What kind of papers?"
She smirked. “A map to a gold mine in Guadalajara. Go down and dig up a fortune."
"Can I take a look?"
"This is a retail shop. The peep show's across the street."
He exhaled, signed three traveler's checks, and slid them across the counter. The woman held each up to the light, then locked them in the register and moved with the stately grace of a tramp steamer through a beaded curtain in back. She returned carrying an old-fashioned two-suiter and heaved it up onto the counter.
He frowned at the shabby piece of luggage, held together by a pair of threadbare straps. He'd be months wheedling reimbursement out of the department budget, if the bean-counters even signed off on it. He'd given up on disposable income the day he undertook the mortgage on a crumbling movie theater that resisted each step in the renovation the way a senile old man fought change. It was his home and his hobby and his curse.
"I'm closing,” she said when he started to unbuckle one of the straps. “Open it someplace else."
Tijuana reminded him too much of Touch of Evil to stay there any longer than he had to, but he didn't want to risk taking the suitcase to the American side without knowing what it contained; an undeclared bottle of tequila, or perhaps an old movie man's taste for the local cannabis,would look bad on a job application under “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” after UCLA let him go. He drove around until he spotted a motel belonging to an American chain and booked a room. He was free of anti-Mexican prejudice but border towns were affiliated with no country but Hell. Alone in a room with all the personality of a Styrofoam cup, he hoisted the suitcase onto the piece of furniture motel clerks regard as a queen-size bed and spread it open.
He sorted the contents into separate piles: a half-dozen white shirts with frayed collars and yellowed buttons, three pairs of elastically challenged sweatpants, a gray pinstripe suit with a Mexican label, fused at the seams rather than sewn, filthy sneakers, a pair of down-at-heels wingtips, socks and underwear in deplorable condition, an expired Diners Club card in a dilapidated wallet empty but for a picture of Deanna Durbin (just how long had it been since wallets came with pictures of movie stars?), a Boy Scout knife, two tablets of Tums in foi
l wrap—pocket stuff—a three-dollar digital watch, still keeping time after its owner had ceased to concern himself with such information, restaurant receipts (Stemp seemed to have gone out of his way to avoid Mexican cuisine, but his tastes and more likely his budget had run toward American fast food), dozens of folded scraps of paper that excited Valentino until they delivered only grocery lists of items that could be prepared on a hot plate or microwave; receipts for prescription drugs, which if he'd left any behind, his landlady had appropriated for sale on the black market. Other ordinarily useful things, pens and pencils and Band-Aids, had probably been seized by default for the service they offered.
A sad legacy, this; that nine decades of living should yield so little of material value made a bachelor in his thirties wonder about his own place in the Grand Scheme. Well, he had hardly anticipated a complete print of Metropolis, but even the gossamer hope he'd been handed by Smith Oldfield, of some evidence to support the agreement he'd spent so many user minutes hammering out with the old man, had come to nothing.
Valentino lingered over the heaviest object in the case, a nine-by-twelve loose-leaf notebook bound in green cloth, faded, grubby, and worn shiny in patches by what appeared to have been many hands. The yellowed ruled sheets inside, dog-eared and thumb-blurred, reminded him of a dozen last days of school, when the detritus at the bottom of his locker served up the remains of the crisp stationery of the back-to-school sales of September. It seemed to contain a list, neatly typewritten in varying fonts as if it had been added to on different machines over time, and totally indecipherable. It appeared to be made up of random letters, suggesting no language he'd ever seen.
A code. Wonderful. From crossword puzzles to Rubik's Cube to Sudoku, there wasn't a conundrum or a cryptogram in existence that couldn't leave Valentino in the dust. He could track down a hundred feet of London After Midnight in a junk shop in Istanbul, but Where's Waldo? stumped him every time. If there wasn't an obvious motion-picture connection, he was useless.
EQMM, May 2010 Page 3