by Kip Chase
George smiled wryly. ‘What you’re really saying, Mr. Carmichael, is that I’m a suspect, is that right?’
‘What I’m saying is, everyone who ever had anything to do with Hubert Goodall is a suspect.’
‘Okay. Now you’ve heard all about my criminal record. Is there anything else?’
‘Nope. I hope you understand the reason for this. It isn’t particularly pleasant, you know, to go around digging up incidents out of people’s pasts that are better forgotten.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ George rubbed his forehead in a tired gesture. ‘It’s just that I’m getting pretty sick of this whole damn mess. Policemen coming around at all hours of the day; the papers running the thing into the ground.’
Carmichael smiled gently. ‘I’m a little sick of it myself. Well, it’s time for me to be moving on. Thanks for your time.’
Carmichael wheeled himself around towards the gate. ‘Any luck today?’ he asked brightly, nodding towards the diving gear.
‘Limit of abs, and Tony got a couple of bugs.’
Carmichael, who had a skin-diving grandson, did not require the explanation that ‘abs’ were abalone and ‘bugs’ were lobsters.
‘Must be pretty interesting’, he said politely.
‘Yeah. Underwater you can sometimes forget all your problems on dry land. Good therapy.’
Carmichael looked at George sharply. ‘Hmmm. I suppose so. Well, thanks for your co-operation.’
‘Sure.’
Carmichael was just backing his car out of the driveway when Pat Craig popped out of the front door and waved at him. ‘Mr. Carmichael’, she called.
Carmichael rolled down the window of the car. ‘Yes?’
‘You have a phone call here.’
Drat it, the old man said under his breath. ‘All right,’ he yelled back, ‘I’m coming.’
‘Hold on just a minute. Maybe I can take a message.’
Carmichael waited in the car, irritably drumming the finger-tips of one hand against the dashboard.
Pat reappeared moments later and walked over to the car. ‘It was Lieutenant Horowitz. He’d like you to meet him at the Goodall’s place. He said he’s leaving for there right away.’
‘Thanks.’
Carmichael backed the car into the street and took off with a protesting clanging of gears. Figure it will take Carl about twenty minutes from the station, he thought to himself. I don’t want to get there first.
He pulled into a drive-in and ordered a chocolate milkshake from the tightly-trousered, determinedly cheerful female car-hop. The girl collected her twenty-five cents, flashed a bright, insincere smile, and was gone. Carmichael sucked lustily at the chilled sludgy concoction, then leaned back with a sigh and rested his head against the back of the car seat.
An emotion he did not care for was overtaking him. It was frustration. He felt that the case had become a morass from which there was no escape. Again he forced his mind over the many approaches he had made to the case in the past few weeks. He felt there was some great simple truth eluding him. All it needed was a flash of insight to make the whole thing clear. And yet he knew also from hard-won experience, insight came only to the mind that was prepared for it. All the ingredients were there – the circumstances of the crime, the suspects, the facts of the investigations – but the catalyst was missing.
The girl arrived to take away the tray and the empty container. Wearily, Carmichael headed for the Goodall house.
A block from his destination Carmichael spotted an unmarked sheriff’s car parked at the kerb. Standing on the sidewalk, lounging against the front fender of the car, was Horowitz. Carmichael pulled in behind him.
Horowitz walked over, opened the inside car door, and slid into the seat beside the old man, banging the door closed behind him.
‘I figured you’d see me waiting here’, he said. ‘Thought we ought to have a little chat before we go ahead with it.’
‘Sure, Carl. What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, I’ve been trying to follow up on this suicide note angle and got nowhere. To tell you the truth, I’m getting a little panicky.’
I know what you mean, Carl, old boy, Carmichael thought, but he said nothing.
Horowitz continued. ‘So I thought I’d see Mrs. Goodall, show her the note, and get her reaction to it. Maybe talk to the granddaughter, too. What do you think?’
Carmichael allowed himself a twisted smile. ‘Do something, even if it’s wrong. Is that the idea?’
‘Yeah, I guess that’s about it.’
‘Well, I agree. Besides, Mrs. Goodall should know about the note anyway, sooner or later. Let’s go.’
The door of the Goodall house was opened by Jennifer. She was wearing a neat grey dress. Her face had no make-up. Carmichael thought the girl looked more mature and poised than when he had last talked to her in the Gallery.
Horowitz explained they would like to speak to Mrs. Goodall and they were ushered into the living-room. They could hear Jennifer’s footsteps on the second floor and a door opening and closing.
In a few minutes Mrs. Goodall appeared. She greeted them with an attitude of resignation, then sank with a sigh into an overstuffed armchair.
‘Well, gentlemen, what is it now? Don’t we even get a Sunday in peace?’
Horowitz extracted the suicide note from his pocket and silently handed it to the old lady. Mrs. Goodall read the note with a puzzled expression, then re-read it. It seemed to take a little time before she comprehended its full meaning. Her puffy lower jaw sagged and tears came to her eyes. Her voice faltered.
‘But – but I – I don’t understand. Why, this couldn’t be. Where did it come from?’
Horowitz coughed discreetly. ‘It, uh, turned up in the course of our investigation. We’ve had our hand-writing experts check it and they say the signature is genuine, Mrs. Goodall.’
‘Why, yes … it does look like Hubert’s signature. But he never wrote this note.’
‘What is it?’ Jennifer interrupted. ‘What is this all about?’ She reached for the note.
Horowitz started to protest, but changed his mind and allowed the girl to take the piece of paper from her grandmother’s hands. The two men watched the girl closely as she read the note. Her face mirrored astonishment, then disbelief.
Horowitz turned back to Mrs. Goodall. ‘Why did you say he didn’t write it, ma’am?’
‘Why, I just know he wouldn’t. Hubert wasn’t the kind of man to do a thing like that. I just don’t believe it.’
‘And what do you think, miss?’ Horowitz asked, turning to Jennifer.
‘I agree with my grandmother’, the girl said quickly. ‘He wasn’t the kind of man to – to do that. Besides, how could he have? I mean . . .’ she paused.
Horowitz nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve thought of that, of course. The medical examiner seems to think it would have been theoretically possible, but not very likely. And of course there is no weapon.’
Mrs. Goodall shook her head feebly. ‘I just don’t understand’, she said falteringly. ‘Do you really think …’
Carmichael interposed gently, ‘Frankly, Mrs. Goodall, we don’t know what to think. We were hoping maybe you could help us out.’
The old lady continued to shake her head in bewilderment. ‘I just don’t understand’, she kept repeating. ‘I don’t understand.’
Jennifer placed her hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, grandmother. There’s just been some kind of awful mistake. It’s all right.’ She looked up at the two men, strong dislike in her eyes. ‘She can’t help you. Can’t you see that? Why don’t you leave us alone? I thought you were different, Mr. Carmichael.’
Carmichael looked the girl straight in the eyes. ‘Jennifer, don’t you realize we’re trying to find the man that killed your grandfather? Don’t you want us to do that?’
‘Yes – I – of course. But all you seem to do is pester us. I can’t see that it does any good.’
‘My dear girl,
we have what appears to be a suicide note. We have to try and find out about it, and to do that we have to talk to Mrs. Goodall. And to you. Doesn’t that make sense?’
‘Oh, I suppose so. I guess you’re right. It just seems as though you people are always questioning.’
Mrs. Goodall did not participate in the conversation. She sat quietly, except for one hand with which she kept mechanically smoothing out a pleat in her brocaded housecoat.
‘Anyway,’ Jennifer concluded, ‘you’ve heard yourself. Geraldine doesn’t think Hubert wrote it. And I don’t either. I don’t care what your handwriting experts say.’ She paused, then asked, curiously, ‘Where did you get it?’
Horowitz answered quickly, ‘We’d rather not say yet, miss, if you don’t mind.’
The girl shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter to me. Now, was there anything else?’
Horowitz stood up. ‘No, thanks. We’ll keep you in touch with what’s going on.’
‘I’ll bet you will.’
Outside the house, Carmichael turned to the detective. ‘I believe I’ll have another look at that gallery, Carl’, he said. ‘I’ll see you back at the station in about an hour, if that’s where you’re headed.’
‘Okay. You sure are interested in that building.’
‘Well, that’s where the answer is, you know.’
Carmichael wheeled himself off vigorously with a cheerful wave of his hand.
Horowitz stood for a moment and watched until the wheel-chair disappeared from view around a clump of rhododendron. He pursed his lips reflectively, then turned and walked slowly towards the police car.
Using the large brass key Jennifer had given him, Carmichael entered the building without difficulty. He wheeled himself slowly down the hallway leading to the back office. Intuitively he felt that somewhere in the building was the answer to the puzzle.
Inside the murder room, he paused and looked slowly about: the desk, the two chairs, the safe with its half open door, the door leading to the tiny bathroom, and the workbench along the wall. A vice was clamped on one end of the bench. In the corner were stacked empty picture frames of varying sizes, most of which were of simple design with a natural wood finish. A few were heavy and ornate, finished in gold or silver gilding. Next to the frames were stacked materials for crating – quarter-inch sheeting, odd-sized pieces of plywood, metal binding tape, and a large box half-filled with wood-wool.
Carmichael turned his attention to the workbench. At one end of the bench was attached a vice; a few scraps of wood lay scattered about. The only other things on the bench were a small, unopened tin of black enamel paint and a tin of plastic wood. Above the bench was a rack of shelves containing more paint, shellac, wood putty, wax, and various shades of wood stain. A rack next to the shelves held a claw hammer, a screwdriver set, pliers, a putty knife, and a two-foot wrecking bar. There was nothing more.
With a look of annoyance, Carmichael wheeled back to the dead man’s desk. Things were just as they had been when he made his last examination. Inside the safe he poked about the picture racks, scrutinised the ceiling and floor, then backed his way out. Another examination of the small cramped bathroom yielded nothing new.
He started to enter the corridor, then paused. He leaned his head against the back of his seat, closed his eyes, and tried to arrange his thoughts in an orderly fashion. Just seconds before a thought had occurred to him which, on first consideration, struck him as absurd. Yet, was it possible.
Sixteen
HOROWITZ was gulping thick black coffee from his over-sized cup when Carmichael came banging through his office door. The detective grunted a greeting, then resumed pawing through the papers stacked in disorderly piles on his desk.
‘Seems like there sure are a lot of people involved in this damn thing’, he grumbled. ‘How did you make out?’ Horowitz peered sharply at Carmichael. ‘You’ve got an awfully pleased look about you.’
‘Carl, I’ve got an idea I want to discuss with you. But wait till I’ve finished before you jump all over me. There are a couple of points I haven’t really thought out yet. Okay?’
‘Okay. Wait’ll I get some more coffee.’
The conversation began at four-twenty. By five-thirty Horowitz had run out of coffee. The deputy who was sent out for more noticed Horowitz was in a mood of suppressed excitement. Twenty minutes later, Horowitz poked his head out the door and barked down the hall at the desk sergeant, ‘George, locate Goodall’s granddaughter and get her down here, now!’
The afternoon light faded; outside the street lamps blinked on.
Jennifer arrived accompanied by a burly deputy. Her face wore a strained, nervous expression as she was hustled down the hall to Horowitz’s office. Night came to the city At eleven-forty-five an unmarked sheriff’s car pulled out of the lot behind the station. At the wheel was Horowitz, with Carmichael at his side.
The car roared down Torrance Boulevard, cutting over on Highway 101 towards Palos Verdes.
Pat Craig was lounging on the sofa in her front room, a half-consumed can of beer in her hand, when she heard the car in the driveway. She turned her head in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Better keep your pants on, darling, someone’s coming.’
‘Hell’, responded her husband’s muffled voice.
Pat langorously dragged herself from the couch, flipped on the porch light, and opened the door. She was greeted by Horowitz, already half-way up the front steps.
‘Evening, Mrs. Craig’, he said respectfully. ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of night, but it’s important. Carmichael is with me. Okay if we come around by the back?’
‘Yes, sure. I’ll turn on the lights in the patio.’
Ensconced in the living-room, Carmichael began conversationally, ‘Not singing tonight, Pat?’
Pat gave him a quick smile. ‘Nope. I have a cold. Not much of a cold, but enough for an excuse.’
‘Hmmm’, Carmichael grunted. ‘Well, we might as well get right to it. We think we have the Goodall case whipped; at least we have pretty strong suspicions. But there is a problem left.’ The old man paused, looking expectantly at the couple.
George Craig sat silent, his face set and expressionless. Pat broke in excitedly, ‘Well, who did it?’
There was a grim smile around Carmichael’s lips when he answered, ‘Yes, that would be the natural question, wouldn’t it?’ He leaned back in his wheel-chair and brushed away a swatch of grey hair that brushed against his forehead. ‘Well, I don’t want to be mysterious about this, but let me tell you in my own way the line of reasoning that led us to our conclusion. That way you can both see what the problem is.’
George spoke up. ‘Before you begin, Mr. Carmichael, would you mind telling us why we are to be the privileged recipients of this information?’
‘In good time, Mr. Craig, in good time. Now then, where to start? Let’s start where all police investigations have to start – who had the motive and who had the opportunity? The most obvious puzzle here is opportunity. How does someone get into the room, kill Goodall, break into the safe, and get out – all without being seen by the guard? Impossible. So, our first approach was that the guard must be lying. We investigated him thoroughly, looking for a tie-in with any of the people involved in the case. Couldn’t find any. One of our best weapons in a situation of this sort is the polygraph – ah, lie detector’, Carmichael explained in answer to a puzzled look from Pat. He continued, ‘But it developed Phipps, the guard, had high blood pressure. The machine doesn’t react properly in such cases so we couldn’t use it. In the meantime what seemed to be an insignificant thing had stuck in my mind. It didn’t mean anything at the time, but it nagged me a little. That was the empty coffee jar. We had questioned Jennifer about her activities the afternoon of the day Goodall was killed. She said that a little before five o’clock she had brought him a jar of instant coffee – it was a new jar – she had to make a special trip to the grocery store to get it. She said when Goodall worked late he drank a lot of coffee. But
when the office was searched after Goodall’s killing, the coffee jar was empty. At least we assume it was the same coffee jar, because that was the one there. Now I have known some pretty heavy coffee drinkers in my time’ – Carmichael slid a sideways glance at Horowitz – ‘but no one that could drink a whole jar of instant coffee between five in the afternoon and seven at night, which was the estimated time of death. Further, Goodall’s coffee cup was clean – washed clean. With these facts we could only assume the following: as soon as he got the coffee jar from Jennifer, Goodall started drinking coffee at a prodigious rate, had gone through the whole jar in about two hours, then threw the jar away, carefully washed out his cup, then settled down for another couple of hours of work without coffee – Jennifer said he usually worked late once he got started. Doesn’t seem very plausible. We would expect the normal course of events to be that he started drinking the coffee by mixing hot water from the tap into his cup, and remixing as he ran out. He was interrupted in his work, killed, and the murderer made his escape. But this would mean, one, that there would be only a relatively small amount of coffee gone from the jar, and two, there would have been coffee, or at least remains of coffee, in the cup.’
George had been listening intently. He interrupted with, ‘Now just a minute. I can see that the amount of coffee consumed is odd, but I could think of a couple of explanations for that. As for the cup, it could be that Goodall made it a habit to wash out his cup every time he finished it and start in with a clean cup each time. He was sort of the fastidious type anyway. And the murderer might have just come by when Goodall was between cups.’