by Kip Chase
‘I suppose so. In the meantime, it’s a pain in the neck. What do I care about nutty old men who get themselves killed, or stolen paintings. That’s what really gripes me, that adult intelligent people could get excited over such trivialities and then they don’t seem to give a damn about the really important things that are going on in the world.’
‘Important things, John?’ George’s questioning tone was only slightiy tinged with sarcasm.
‘Yes, important things. This generation is privileged to live in an age which is experiencing the most significant scientific breakthroughs since Newton. George, mankind is standing on the threshold of the universe, and this morning some chippie secretary asked me if it was true that Goodall was sleeping with his granddaughter.’ John snorted in derision. ‘Now I ask you.’
‘That’s an angle I hadn’t heard’, George commented.
‘Oh, I think I know where she got the idea’, John said. ‘I forced myself to read one of the newspaper stories the other day on the case and it intimated as much. It’s ridiculous, of course.’
‘Why ridiculous?’
‘Why, from what I’ve heard of Goodall, from you and others, he just wasn’t that sort of man. Or maybe he was. I don’t know. The point is, who gives a damn?’
‘I agree. Let’s change the subject. How’s work been going? Aside from your current problem, that is.’
John brightened. He then explained in some detail the problem he was having in hitting on the proper combination of ingredients for manufacturing a solid-state diode his company was working on.
‘You see,’ he explained, ‘we not only have to worry about the crystalline structure which gives us the single direction conductor characteristic, but because this is going to be potted we have a heat transference problem. Now, what we could do . . .’
George listened with what he hoped was an intelligent expression on his face, understanding little of what his friend was talking about. His thoughts retrogressed to the original topic. How many lives, George wondered, were being touched by the tragedy. Quite a few, he decided. Some only incidentally, like John. Other people who would have a professional concern – reporters, policemen, eventually probably lawyers, jurists, probably followed by prison employees, including perhaps an executioner. It was a strange thing, he reflected. The lives of all these people influenced in varying degrees by a single incident of violence, and this not counting the deep and personal loss that must be felt by the dead man’s relatives and close friends. This brought another question to George’s mind. In point of fact, did Hubert Goodall have any close friends? Business friends, certainly, and acquaintances. But genuine friends? George cast his mind back in a vain effort to recall someone who might fit into that category. Though he had not been intimately acquainted with Goodall, he thought that somewhere along the line he would have known of any of Goodall’s personal friends. There were none. Odd, he thought. And for the first time since the killing George felt a pang of genuine sympathy for Hubert Goodall. He forced his attention back to what John was saying.
‘So that’s another problem, you see. If these manufacturers would concern themselves as much with quality control as they do with cost analysis they would really be ahead in the long run.’
George nodded solemnly.
‘Well, I guess I’ve bored you enough’, John grinned. ‘But shooting off my mouth does seem to help me get back my sense of perspective. Thanks. Guess I’ll be moving along.’
‘Like to stay to supper? Pat’s out shopping. She should be back pretty quick.’
‘No, thanks. Talking to you I just got an idea I’d like to do a little checking on. Think I’ll sneak back into the plant.’ John absently set his now-empty glass on the rounded arm of the chair. It immediately fell to the hardwood floor and broke with a cheerful tinkling sound. ‘Oh, sorry’, John said. He ambled out through the front door, a faraway look on his face.
George picked up the bits of glass and ice thoughtfully, then sponged the few remaining drops of liquid from the floor. The light was about gone for the afternoon, so instead of returning to his porch studio he decided to take a walk on the beach. Pat should be home by the time he got back.
In fifteen minutes, when he returned, Pat was not there. But Carmichael was. The old man, his weatherbeaten Ford parked in the driveway, was patiently sitting in his wheelchair at the foot of the steps.
‘Beautiful spot you’ve got here’, he remarked pleasantly as George mounted the pathway from the beach.
George nodded, a look of annoyance and curiosity on his face. Could this be a salesman, he wondered. Hardly likely in a wheel-chair.
Carmichael pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to where his police badge was pinned, and handed it to George. George glanced quickly at the badge and handed it back.
‘You must be Mr. Carmichael’, he said.
‘That’s right. Picked that up from the newspapers, I imagine?’
‘Yep. You want to talk to me about Goodall, I suppose?’
‘Right again. Could we go inside?’
‘Sure. How do we get that contraption up the steps?’ George said, glancing at the wheel-chair.
‘Those steps are pretty steep’, Carmichael admitted. ‘Do you have a back door?’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot. It’s on ground level. Right this way.’
Once inside the living-room Carmichael looked about appreciatively. This place is just as nice on the inside as the outside. Clean and simple. That’s the way I like it.’
‘Is that the way you like your murder cases too, Mr. Carmichael?’ George asked with a tight smile.
Carmichael gave a brief cackle. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. I never thought of it that way. Well, we might as well get right into it. I hope you don’t mind a few questions.’
‘Not at all. I think I need some lubrication, though. Would you care to join me? I have Scotch, bourbon, or beer. Water and soda only.’
Carmichael pursed his lips. ‘Well, strictly speaking, an officer on duty shouldn’t be drinking. But also strictly speaking, I’m not an officer on duty. Semi-official, you know. I’ll have Scotch on the rocks.’
The drinks were mixed and a few more pleasantries exchanged. Then Carmichael got down to business.
‘In the first place, Mr. Craig, I’d like you to understand my position here. As you probably know, I am actually retired. I sort of slid into this case by chance, and the sheriff’s department asked me to stick with it in helping them out in any small way that I could. Which I am happy to do, of course. Professionally speaking, it’s an ideal situation for me. I have the run of the place so to speak, and yet I’m not really responsible to anybody. And most of the tiresome details that make up ninety per cent of police investigation I don’t have to worry about. But I was a cop a long time, Mr. Craig, and one thing I learned and learned well: unless you’ve got a clear-cut case – burglary, murder, bunco, whatever – you can pretty generally count on a lot of leg work. Now I’m in a good position because a lot of that leg work is being done for me – checking on alibis, checking on backgrounds, and just generally snooping around. This leaves me free to get the kind of information I want.’
‘And what kind of information is that, Mr. Carmichael?’ George asked.
‘Skip the “mister”. Just plain Carmichael will do fine.’
The old man took an appreciative sip of his drink. ‘I am trying to determine a pattern. This necessarily starts with the victim. What kind of man was he? What was his personal reputation, his business reputation? Who were his friends? How did he spend his time? What were his interests? When I have these answers I should have a much better idea of who would want to kill him. That’s half the battle. Then, out of those people you have to find out who had the chance to do it. It’s the same old story – motive and opportunity.’
George frowned slightly. ‘It seems to me, Carmichael, you are taking a rather odd approach. I can’t see that motive is much of a factor here. The motive is obvious – to steal the painting
Goodall had to be killed.’
‘Quite possibly, Mr. Craig. Quite possibly. But for various reasons there’s no point in going into right now I am not putting too much stock in the robbery motive. Well, I’ve done enough talking. Would you be kind enough to give me a little background on Goodall.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything you can tell me about him.’
George leaned back on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘I guess that shouldn’t be too hard to do. I first met Goodall when I was still an art student at U.C.L.A. That was, let me see, about four years ago. At that time he had an exhibition at the Gallery one of my teachers said was worth seeing. Hogarth, I think it was. Just etchings, but very good. I wasn’t impressed with the rest of the Gallery. Anyway, I met Goodall. Somebody or other introduced us. After I got out of school and started making a modest name for myself I would run into him occasionally here and there. We really didn’t get to know each other until I moved to this place. That would be about two years ago. He asked me if I would be interested in joining the Peninsula Art Association.’ George paused and ran a finger reflectively around the inside of his glass. ‘Do you have any interest in art, Carmichael?’
The old man shook his head.
‘Well,’ George continued, ‘artists and art-hangers-on are a peculiar breed, and in an art association you usually get a pretty representative group. There is the small minority, the genuine artists. Then there are the pseudo-artists; and then the other ninety per cent. The patrons. Funny thing, patronage. There are a lot of implications in that word – political, moral, economic. Anyway, people who actually put up hard cash to support Art, with a capital “A”, do so for one of two reasons: they appreciate art and want to further its growth, or they are simply seeking the social prestige, recognition, whatever, that they think they get in exchange for their money. Well, I seem to be wandering far afield. Anyway, for various reasons, some good and some bad, I told Goodall I’d join the group. Within a year I was made a member of the Board of Directors. Goodall did this, primarily, I think, because I was achieving a reputation of sorts and my name would look good on the letterhead. I say Goodall did this because he actually ran the show. There were seven members of the Board of Directors besides himself but it was Goodall who ran things. Occasionally some of the others of us could muster up enough of a majority to overrule him, but it was always a struggle.’
‘There were differences of opinion, then?’ Carmichael broke in.
‘Yes. A few – concerning what we were going to spend the money on, what exhibitors were to be shown, techniques for soliciting funds, things like that. Actually it sounds like a big deal but it wasn’t at all. I went to the meetings once a month and that was about it.’
‘I suppose you don’t have any idea who killed him?’
A quick look of apprehension flashed across George’s face, then was gone. ‘No, I haven’t. It was a complete surprise and shock to me.’
‘Mr. Craig, do you know a man named Jack Christie?’
‘Why, yes. He’s a realtor in the area. I don’t know him personally.’
‘Were you aware that Goodall and Christie were involved in some sort of disagreement?’ The old man’s question was delivered in a light conversational tone, but his blue eyes were bright and alert.
‘No’, George said. ‘I don’t know what it would be about. As far as I know Christie had no interest in art.’
The front door opened and Pat walked in. George looked up startled.
‘Oh, hi. I didn’t hear the car.’
‘I parked it out on the street. There’s another car in our driveway and I didn’t want to block it in. It belongs to this gentleman, I suppose’, she said, smiling at Carmichael.
‘Yes, ma’am’, Carmichael answered politely.
‘And you must be Mr. Carmichael’, Pat said. She crossed the room and held out her hand. ‘I’m Pat Craig. Or more properly, Mrs. George Craig, as you no doubt have gathered.’
Carmichael shook hands heartily. ‘Very happy to know you, Mrs. Craig. Sorry to intrude in your house like this.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind a bit’, Pat said quickly. ‘It’s about Goodall, is it?’
‘That’s right. Your husband has been co-operative, but, I’m sorry to say, it hasn’t been much help. Maybe you can be.’
Pat laughed. ‘I doubt it, Mr. Carmichael. I doubt it very much. But fire away.’
Pat plucked a cigarette from a wooden box on top of one of the low tables. She tapped the cigarette decisively against her thumbnail, then sat down in one of the canvas-backed chairs. She was wearing a man’s white shirt knotted at the waist and tight black pants with a sliver of bare midriff showing between the two. On her feet were the type of rubber slippers one buys on sale in a drugstore.
Things certainly have changed since I was a boy, Carmichael was thinking to himself. Any woman caught running around in a get-up like that would have been thrown in jail. However, the old man admitted to himself begrudgingly, on Pat Craig the outfit looked good.
Carmichael cleared his throat. ‘Well, Mrs. Craig, maybe you can help at that. Did you know Goodall?’
‘Only through my husband. Goodall wasn’t the type to hang out in the “Swinging Times”.’
‘The “Swinging Times”?’ Carmichael asked blankly.
‘Yes. That’s a bar in Hermosa. I sing there.’
‘Who owns the place?’
‘A fellow named Willie Delaney. Do you know him?’
Carmichael furrowed his brow. ‘No, I don’t think so. Should I?’
‘I guess not. He’s never been in any trouble as far as I know, but he hangs around with a crummy crowd.’
‘Like who, Mrs. Craig?’
‘Well,’ Pat shot a swift glance at her husband, ‘Jock Harrison, for example.’
‘Jock Harrison, and . . . Jack Christie, maybe?’ Carmichael pursued.
Pat looked startled. ‘Why, yes, but I wouldn’t exactly call Jack a crummy character. He has a regular business and all that.’
Carmichael pinched his nose reflectively between thumb and forefinger. ‘Mrs. Craig’, he said, ‘we have had information that Christie and Goodall had some sort of disagreement on a land project. Do you know what that would be about?’
‘No’, Pat said slowly. ‘But there is something I know I probably should tell you. Harrison was trying to get material to blackmail Christie. He approached one of the girls at the club to help him out. She seems like a good kid and I don’t want to get her in trouble, but I think this thing is too serious to be covered up.’
‘I think you’re right, Mrs. Craig’, Carmichael said seriously. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Well, Christie had a girl friend, this girl at the club. Her name is Jeanie. Harrison knew about it. He came to me and asked me to try and talk Jeanie into planting a tape recorder in her room when she was with Christie. I told him I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. He talked to Jeanie himself and I guess she went along with it. At least that’s what I gathered. But I don’t think they ever went through with the deal. Will this get Jeanie in trouble?’
‘Depends’, Carmichael said. ‘If she went through with it, it might. But right now we’ve got more important things to worry about than petty blackmail. Somebody will have to talk to her, though, and see where it ties in with Goodall, if at all. Now, let’s see. Harrison approached Jeanie on this before the murder. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And after the murder the whole thing was cancelled?’
‘I don’t know about that. I guess if you’re going to have to talk to Jeanie she could tell you.’
Carmichael nodded. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Craig. Well, I think I’ve imposed on you long enough.’ Carmichael absently sloshed the remains of his drink around in the bottom of his glass.
‘One more for the road, Carmichael?’ George asked.
The old man’s face brightened. ‘Well, maybe for the road.’
>
When his second drink was finished and after a pleasant exchange of small talk, Carmichael wheeled himself out to his parked car, followed by George and Pat.
‘Want some help getting in, Carmichael?’ George asked.
‘No, thanks. I need the practice. I have a grandson who used to wet-nurse me, but he’s in the Army now and I have to learn to fend for myself.’
While he was speaking, Carmichael had opened the door of his car. Leaning forward, he grasped the steering wheel firmly and pulled himself into the driver’s seat. He then turned back to his wheel-chair and with a few deft motions collapsed the chair into a single oblong unit, then stuffed it into the back seat.
‘Automatic shift, with the brake handle on the steering-column’, Carmichael pointed out. With a cheerful wave of his hand he backed out of the driveway, narrowly missing a picket fence bordering the sidewalk.
Carmichael’s next stop was the sheriff’s sub-station. Minutes later he was sitting in Horowitz’s office describing his visit to the Craigs.
The detective listened soberly. ‘That business about Christie is interesting’, Horowitz commented when Carmichael finished speaking. ‘I guess we should do some more digging around, though.’
Carmichael nodded assent, then asked, ‘How are you making out with the guard?’
‘Oh, yes. The guard’, Horowitz said glumly. ‘Well, let’s see.’ He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. ‘Otis Phipps’, he read. ‘Age, fifty-seven. Height, weight, distinguishing marks, etcetera. I had two of the boys working on him most of the night, gave him a little sleep this morning, and now they’re at it again. He’s really got me buffaloed. You and I know by all logic his story couldn’t be right. Somebody has to be paying him off or threatening him, or something, but we just can’t shake him. He claims he was there all the time and that nobody went into that room. We put him through the wringer, at least as far as we dared. He doesn’t look like he’s in too good shape and there’s a limit, naturally. I’m about to give up and let him go. We’ll keep him under surveillance, of course.’