Murder at the Open

by Angus MacVicar

  “Aren’t we, indeed!”

  “Finally, Gordon Cunningham. He’s a shifty-looking character and was against the idea of the merger. Why should he be, when his client was so willing to bring it about? The answer might be instructive, and it’s my opinion, Angus, that the odour in the woodpile is strongest in this area — though, of course, my sense of smell may be at fault. On the other hand, a cursory estimate of Cunningham’s personality raises the question — has he the guts to do a murder? Here’s another thing. With those pince-nez, I doubt if he can see a yard in front of him in the dark.”

  As it all sank in, it was my turn to frown. “To begin with,” I said, “you inferred that one of these people had done it. Now you’ve flatly contradicted yourself.”

  “Rubbish!” he answered, confident in rectitude. “I’ve simply been demonstrating the complexity of our problem. Big Sam will try to solve it on the basis of material evidence. Our gambit will be psychology. Tomorrow, if we get a chance, we’ll observe our subjects individually, beginning probably with the athletic Miss Garson. She intrigues me, that woman. To win the American Ladies’ she must have nerve and determination — and a great deal of sheer physical strength. Yet I have a feeling that she’d much rather have a reputation for feminine glamour than for playing man-size golf.”

  “A case of split personality?”

  “I wonder?” said Aidan.

  2. Monday

  To the the relief of almost everyone concerned — Gerald Micklem and his Championship Committee, the golf correspondents (now thankfully relieved of reportorial burdens outside the comfortable routine of the golf game), the television and radio commentators and the burgeoning hordes of spectators gathering for the three great days — the main contingent of competitors from America arrived safely on Monday morning. The barrel-bodied Nicklaus, only twenty-three but already a golfing legend; the short-swinging Doug Sanders; the strong and experienced Doug Ford; tiny, ex-champion Gary Player and his brother-in-law Bob Verwey; the tall and elegant Tony Lema — they were all there, and the greatness of this particular Championship was guaranteed.

  But those of us who wanted a British win were comforted by the thought that so short a period of practice provided the invaders with small chance of gauging the subtleties of the Old Course — especially Nicklaus and Lema, who had never been in St Andrews before. Besides, strong winds were prophesied by the local weather pundits, and this we imagined would be greatly to the advantage of the home professionals. Surely such men as Peter Allis, Harry Weetman, Christy O’Connor and Neil Coles — all powerful hitters of the ball — would have an opportunity at last to show their mettle in turbulent conditions.

  I was keen to watch the great men practising; but Aidan, as a rule so avid for golf, had other targets to aim at.

  We spent most of the morning in the hotel. The Inspector, obviously starved of new ideas and practical clues and constantly harassed by the crime reporters, was in a taciturn mood. His growls, however, failed to disturb Aidan, who kept shooting at the first of his targets and eventually got from Big Sam full details of the medical evidence.

  Three powerful blows had been aimed at Lingstrom’s head as he lay on his back. The first of these had probably killed him. From the clean-cut nature of the wounds, the doctor was of the opinion that a metal instrument with a short, blunt-edged blade had been used — a description which fitted any of the irons from a 7 upwards.

  Within certain limits, the time of death was bound to be a matter of guess-work, because the body had been buried in sand that was slightly damp. The general conclusion was that this had probably hastened the onset of rigor mortis, though Aidan remarked to me privately that during a recent visit to the seaside with a gaggle of wild young nephews, when he was set upon and partly buried by them in damp sand, his experience was that he became very warm indeed.

  “Of course,” he added, “I remained alive — though considerably shattered in spirit — and Lingstrom was dead. My blood was thumping madly through my veins. His was stagnant. This, I suppose, could make a difference, though my biology is vague. It’s an interesting point. Very interesting indeed!”

  I had overheard an excited small boy telling his mother in the hall that Eric Brown had just shot a 68 in a practice round, so I was only vaguely conscious of what Aidan was saying. Could the ‘Bomber’ do it, when it came to the crunch? This, to me, was much more apposite than dry medical questions. It was only with an effort that I got back on the murder-beam.

  Despite Aidan’s bizarre speculations, however, it was ninety per cent certain that the murder had taken place some time between midnight and two o’clock; and the evidence of the broken wrist-watch was a fairly conclusive pointer to the time of the fatal attack.

  “I don’t know about you, Angus,” said Aidan, “but I have the impression of some effective stage-management in the background. I can’t point to anything specific. It’s simply that such clues as we have all seem to point in different directions, which is unusual in a murder case. It’s also significant, I think, that every one of our suspects has an alibi. This is not only unusual, it’s impossible!”

  I agreed with him.

  *

  While studying the general medical report on Lingstrom, Aidan’s interest had been caught by the passing mention of a tattoo-mark. His second target, therefore, was permission from the Inspector to visit the mortuary, so that he could have another look at the body.

  Unexpectedly, such permission was forthcoming after only a slight and mainly formal argument. I suspected that in his state of frustration Big Sam was hoping Aidan might come up with some comment or suggestion which would break the log-jam of his ideas.

  He accompanied us to the hospital.

  The mortuary was dim and cold and sickly with formaldehyde. The attendant in his white coat — an oldish man with a narrow face and damp grey moustache — was also dim and cold. When he uncovered the body on its sliding slab, he licked his thin lips and allowed his prominent adam’s apple to move up and down alarmingly as he swallowed.

  The corpse was naked after the post mortem; but Big Sam murmured that the clothes and effects could all be inspected at the police station.

  I doubt if Aidan heard. He was gazing at the body with his head on one side like an artist surveying a model. I saw that the tattoo-mark on the upper left arm was in the shape of an eagle standing on a sheaf of broken arrows.

  In a harsh voice oiled by saliva, the attendant said in my ear: “The first American we’ve had. What a difference from the average local!”

  Aidan and Big Sam, bending over to examine the mark in detail, had no mind to rescue me. In a horrified maze of politeness, I replied, “What kind of difference?”

  “The fleshy covering, sir. Its colour and consistency. Our cadavers are pale and poorly nourished in comparison. I understand the Americans eat a lot of steaks. Could this be a reason, do you think?”

  “Possibly,” I replied, with the sick notion forming at the back of my mind that the scrawny attendant was simply another corpse reactivated by the formaldehyde.

  Aidan and Big Sam were talking.

  “A souvenir of war service?” said my friend.

  “Could be,” replied the Inspector. “Miss Garson tells me he was in Sicily and Italy with the Third American Division. Colonel of an engineering unit.”

  “Reminds me of something. The eagle, I mean.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Ever heard of the John Rich Society?”

  “The Christian Conservatives of America?”

  “Yes. I’m almost certain that this is — or was — their emblem. I’ll check in the University Library.”

  Big Sam frowned. “Are you suggesting it may have a bearing on the murder?”

  “Who knows? The John Rich Society was founded before the Second World War as a kind of counterblast to the growing influence of the Fascists. Its aims were also right-wing, but while the Fascists were warlike and anti-Christ, the John Rich Society advocated peacefu
l and Christian means to attain their ends. Hence the broken arrows — a variant on the swords into ploughshares motif.”

  Big Sam grunted. “Am I not correct in thinking that soon after the war the Society was disbanded?”

  “Oh, certainly. When the Fascist-Nazi philosophy was counted out in 1945, the Society became irrelevant.”

  But a thin question still hung in the air. Was the tattoo-mark relevant to a present-day murder?

  At last, to my intense relief, the body was covered up and slid back again into its icy niche. Aidan put some coins into the bony hand of the attendant and bade him good morning.

  Outside in the fresh air I felt better; but it was a long time before I got the smell of formaldehyde out of my nose and the cold, damp picture of the mortuary attendant out of the forefront of my memory.

  *

  On our way back to the hotel we spent half-an-hour in the University Library and confirmed that Aidan had made no mistake about the tattoo-mark.

  After lunch we discovered from the receptionist — a natural brunette who tried to conceal friendly efficiency under a glamorous blonde hair-do — that Miss Garson was alone in her room, working. Aidan led the way upstairs, like an enthusiastic mountaineer.

  The hotel was quiet. Most of our fellow guests were out playing or watching golf. Some of the youngsters were bathing on the Kinkell Braes or in the Step Rock Pool, while a less active minority were no doubt visiting the Castle and its famous Bottle Dungeon, in which Reformers were imprisoned in the sixteenth century, or absorbing fresh air and colourful history on the Magus Muir, where Archbishop Sharp was murdered on 3 May, 1679, and where stands the monument to five Covenanters — Thomas Brown, James Wood, Andrew Sword, John Waddell and John Clyde — all falsely accused of being responsible for the Archbishop’s death and executed there.

  Our footsteps fell soundless on the thick carpeting of the corridor on the first landing. As we approached the door of Erica Garson’s room we passed another that was slightly ajar. Inside were insistent voices.

  Aidan halted me. “Bill Ferguson and Debbie Lingstrom. Listen!” he whispered, shamelessly curious.

  We waited. I knelt down, pretending to tie a shoelace, in case anyone appeared in the corridor to witness my guilt.

  “Darling, I’m not just being chivalrous, if that’s what you mean.” Bill’s affectionate concern had a salting of annoyance in it. “As far as I’m concerned, your uncle’s death makes no difference — ”

  “But it does! I know it does! Bill, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

  “I don’t care. I love you, Debbie. I’ve loved you ever since that wonderful day on Coney Island. Remember. The day we first met each other — after I’d been talking business with your uncle and was feeling like an amateur boxer who’d just sparred three exhausting rounds with a professional. You looked so fresh, so friendly, so happy. You were so excited on the roundabouts — ”

  “Please, please! You wouldn’t love me if you knew the truth.”

  “But why”

  “I’m not for you, Bill. Forget me. Put me out of your life. No, please — it’s for your own good! You’ll find someone else, someone clean and honest!”

  “Debbie, this is madness! You’ve got to trust me. I’m not an innocent child to be coddled and protected from the world. Tell me what’s hurting you. Tell me what you’ve done or what you haven’t done —”

  “I can’t, I can’t! It’s too horrible. We — we’ve been happy together. Don’t let us spoil it now.”

  A small gust of air blew in through an open window. With the startling effect of a well-timed climax in a play, the door clicked shut. The voices were blotted out.

  I stood up slowly, surprised to find that I had been listening so intently that my muscles were now stiff and sore.

  *

  Aidan made no comment on the conversation we had just overheard. But his high, balding forehead was wrinkled as he knocked on Erica Garson’s door, and I suspected it had come as a considerable shock to him.

  At the sound of her voice, however, sharply inviting us in, he made an effort. Wrinkles were submerged in the academic charm which has always caused so much havoc amongst his female students.

  Though surprised by our visit and at first inclined to be antagonistic, she found his friendly approach — and the implication that he was an accredited agent of the police — difficult to counter. As he commiserated with her on the tragic outcome of her holiday in Scotland, the suspicion in her eyes faded. The sinewy, golfer’s hands riffling the papers on the window-table became less tense.

  Two things puzzled me in her reactions — her chill reserve when Aidan mentioned Debbie’s name and a grimness which tugged at the corners of her mouth when he began to talk about her late employer.

  And about Lingstrom he talked a lot.

  “You have already discussed his business methods with Inspector McLinlock. What were his politics?”

  She glanced at him, sharply. “He voted Republican — almost inevitably, as a practising capitalist. Free enterprise was a fetish of his.”

  “Was he a Gold water man?”

  “No. He posed as the ruthless tycoon. But the atmosphere of violence and organised propaganda behind Goldwater made him uneasy. Said it reminded him of what went on in Europe in the thirties, when the Nazis and Fascists were coming to power. At heart he was a Socialist, I guess. He was too impulsive — too human, maybe — ever to be a real rip-roaring Republican.”

  “I know what you mean. His relationship with Cliff O’Donnel was a case in point?”

  “Sure. Cliff was all washed up, sodden with booze, apparently useless to anyone. But Conrad sent him to a sanatorium, then trained him to be his chauffeur and overlooked occasional backslidings. Cliff was grateful. He told everybody how much he owed to his boss.” She looked away from us. “Conrad liked people who admitted being in his debt,” she said, in a tight voice.

  Aidan put in, quietly, “Did you know Mr Lingstrom was a member of the John Rich Society?”

  She flushed. “So you’ve seen the tattoo-mark on his arm?”

  “Yes.”

  “He told me about that.” Already she had regained control. “He wasn’t a member of the Society at all, though he sympathised with their aims. The tattoo-mark was the result of a wild party in Tunis, before the Sicilian landings. A kind of dare, which afterwards he regretted. One of his buddies — a John Rich fan — had a badge from which the tattoo-merchant copied the design.”

  Aidan nodded. “‘But pleasures are like poppies spread! You seize the flower, its bloom is shed!’”

  “That’s true, I guess.” Momentarily she sounded wistful.

  “Cliff O’Donnel, now — did Mr Lingstrom know anything about his background?”

  “Of course.” She was the hard-voiced secretary again. “Cliff’s parents were hick actors. Touring mostly — one-night stands in the mid-west. He worked as an actor himself at one time, but like so many others became a television casualty.”

  Aidan frowned and tried a side-track. “Part of his job was to caddie for Mr Lingstrom. Is he a golfer himself?”

  She shrugged. “He knows the shots. Sometimes he played when Conrad couldn’t find another partner. But he lacks the eye and the enthusiasm of a real golfer.”

  The talk turned to golf in general, then to her own prowess in particular. She was modest about it.

  “I was lucky. My father was a lawyer — a District Attorney. He could afford to buy me lessons from the great Sam Snead, and maybe some of Sam’s style rubbed off on me. Anyway, unlike Cliff, I seem to have a natural aptitude for ball games.”

  “As do most left-handers?”

  “Sure.”

  Suddenly, ending the spell of reminiscence, Aidan said, “Tell me, Miss Garson, who inherits the Lingstrom fortune?”

  She faced him, eyes unflinching. “It’s no secret. Debbie and I share it, equally.”

  “I see.” He was gentle. “Mr Lingstrom regarded you more as an int
imate friend than as an impersonal personal secretary?”

  She didn’t reply at once; and with sudden embarrassment I saw that this sophisticated woman, disciplined to hardness not only by experience as a millionaire’s secretary but also by implacable competition in top-class golf, was trying desperately not to cry.

  Aidan watched her, blinking behind his horn-rims.

  In the end emotion defeated her. “It — it happened almost ten years ago,” she said, her deep voice wavering on the edge of breakdown, “soon after I won the American title. I gave up championship golf to become his mistress. The columnists had a real ball. But I loved him. I didn’t care.” Aidan succeeded in camouflaging his surprise but not his sympathy. “‘A tale long past and done,’” he said. “We may not need to rake the ashes.”

  “I will rake them for you.” Tears were raddling the powder on her dry, weather-worn cheeks. “Debbie grew up. Maybe he compared her freshness to my — to my fading charms. I don’t know. Anyway, he began to tire of me — not as a secretary but as a woman. As a secretary I was still valuable to him. As a woman — well, I’m no expert in that line: not one of those who can put on an act to please a man.”

  She hesitated; then, squaring her shoulders, continued: “One day, by mistake, I opened a letter for him marked “Confidential” and found that he planned to change his will. Debbie was to get most of the money. I was to be given a tenth share — the final payment on an unsatisfactory mortgage, I guess. The new will would have been signed next month, on our return to New York.”

  Aidan sighed. “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because you’d find out in any case.” Shrewdness was still there, though the ingredient of hardness was no longer dominant. “Because my affection for Debbie has been turning to hate. Because to remain a normal woman I must confide in somebody.”

  “I see.”

  “Professor Campbell,” she went on, “I’m not ingenuous. You must realise I had a motive for killing Conrad. But I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have killed him, because no matter what he did to me it wasn’t his fault and in my heart I still loved him.”