Mrs. Devarest had double chins, pop eyes, loved her liquor and food, and made inane remarks. Her first name was Colette.
Two members of her family were living with her. Jim Timley was a bronzed young man who evidently went without his hat in a fruitless attempt to cure a baldness that was creeping up the top of his forehead. His hair was dark. There wasn’t any wave in it. He kept it cut short on top, and it looked as though the sun had baked all the life out of it. But his eyes were clear, steady hazel. He had a good-looking mouth, and even, regular white teeth which showed when he smiled. The way he gripped my hand indicated he went in for outdoor sports in a big way. He was Mrs. Devarest’s nephew, the son of a dead brother.
The other member of her family was a niece of Mrs. Devarest, a Mrs. Nadine Croy, who had a little girl named Selma, about three years old. Selma had an early dinner in her nursery and then went to bed. I didn’t see her that night. Mrs. Croy was the daughter of Mrs. Devarest’s sister. I gathered she had money. She was about twenty-nine, and had quite evidently watched her diet and her figure. She picked her way carefully through the dinner. She had large black eyes that seemed somehow apprehensive. No one said anything about Mr. Croy, so I didn’t ask any questions.
There was a wooden-faced butler, and a couple of rather plain women servants. There was a maid named Jeannette who had curves and class. I found out Mrs. Devarest had a chauffeur, but I didn’t meet him then. It was his night out. Mrs. Devarest went in for servants and social paraphernalia. Dr. Devarest didn’t like to be waited on. He liked to be left alone, whenever he could get away from his practice—which wasn’t often.
After dinner Mrs. Devarest handed the doctor a list of calls that had been relayed from his office nurse. He suggested I go up to the study with him while he checked up.
The study was just as he’d described it. I sat down on a chair that was wedged in between a lot of formidable-looking electrical equipment. He settled down in his easy chair, pulled a desk telephone over to him, propped the list of calls up on the chair arm, and said, “Open the door of that electric cardiograph, Lam.”
“What’s the cardiograph?”
“The one on your right.” I opened the door. There was no wiring in it, but there was a bottle of Scotch, one of Bourbon, some glasses, and a siphon of soda.
“Help yourself,” he said.
“Some for you?”
“No. I’ll have to go out.” I poured myself some Scotch. It was the most expensive brand on the market. Dr. Devarest started twisting the dial on the telephone. He had a nice bedside manner. His voice was very solicitous. Listening to his questions and advice, I gathered that his patients were wealthy and felt they had to consult him every time they had so much as a twinge. With most of them he got symptoms over the telephone, said he’d telephone a drugstore and have a prescription rushed right out. Two of them he promised to come and see. The rest of them he stalled off.
“That’s the way it goes,” he said when he’d finished the calls and hung up the telephone. “I’ll go make those calls. It’ll take about an hour. Want to wait here, or come with me?”
“I’ll wait here.”
“Look around,” he said. “My wife will give you every co-operation.”
“Those two calls?” I asked. “Are they really urgent?” For a moment there was a grimace of distaste on his face. “Hell, no,” he said. “But they’re regular patients who demand service. A bunch of damn neurotics who sit up playing bridge until after midnight every night, keep guzzling food into their stomachs, drink too damn much liquor, don’t get any exercise, are overweight, and past fifty. When you get that combination you’re headed for trouble.”
“Nothing the matter with them?” I asked.
“Sure, there’s plenty the matter with them,” he said. “Their blood pressures are high. Their arteries are caked up. Their hearts are going bad. Their kidneys are breaking down. It never occurs to them they have any responsibility in connection with their own health. When something goes wrong with one of their cars, they call the garage mechanic to come and fix it. When they get one of nature’s warnings they call me as their body mechanic to come out and fix ‘em up.”
“What do you do? Give them a diet and ”
“Diet, hell ! They’d get another doctor tomorrow if I suggested they do anything. They want me to do it. And how the hell are you going to watch your food when you’re eating four or five dinners a week that are social ceremonies? I can’t do it myself, and my patients can’t—and won’t. I treat the symptoms, give them hypnotics, tell ‘em that if they’ll stay in bed tomorrow morning there’s no reason they can’t go to Mrs. What-You-May-Call Her’s shindig tomorrow night, and—say, why the hell am I telling you all this?”
“Because I wanted to know.” His voice got cold all at once. “Confine your curiosity to finding Miss Starr,” he said. “I’ll take care of my medical practice.” When he had his hand on the knob of the door, I said, “Well, I know who has the jewellery. It isn’t Miss Starr, by the way.”
“Who is it?”
“You.” I noticed then that the flesh around his eyes was so puffy he couldn’t get them really wide open. He was trying hard enough.
“Me!” he said.
“That’s right.”
“You’re crazy ! ” I said, “No. It’s a pretty safe bet. The jewel robbery just couldn’t have happened the way you say it did. You’ve given the police a description of the jewellery. They’ll get it back if it’s pawned. A thousand is too much to pay for a reward, and you offered it too easily.
“My guess is there was something in that safe you valued very highly. You found it was missing. You had to find out who had it. You couldn’t resort to ordinary means. So you got your wife to give you her jewellery to put in the safe. You put the jewellery in all right, then you opened the safe and took it out, and called the police the next day. In that way you put pressure on whoever had taken the thing you wanted. Nollie Starr couldn’t stand the pressure. When she realized you’d planted the jewel robbery, she knew she was licked. That told you all you wanted to know. Now you want to talk with Miss Starr.” He closed the door and came back toward me, walking slowly, ominously, as though he intended to hit me. When he was within two steps of my chair, he stopped and said, “Lam, that’s preposterous.” I said, “After all, I’m here to help you. You can’t help a patient if he lies to you about his symptoms. I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth. It isn’t the jewels you want from Miss Starr, is it?” He said, “Well, your reasoning is all wet. You find Miss Starr and get the jewels back. Then you’re through. Just confine yourself to that and—and don’t make so many deductions.” He looked at his watch, said, “I have to see those two patients. I’ve got to stop at the drugstore to rush out some prescriptions. You sit right here in the study. You’ll find some interesting reading in that diathermy machine. I’ll tell you the low-down when I return.”
“Which is the diathermy machine?”
“The one over here to the left of that easy-chair. Sit down, turn on the light, and read.”
“When will you be back?” He looked at his watch again, and said, “I’ll be back by nine o’clock—nine-thirty at the latest, And don’t go making any more deductions. Don’t talk with anyone. Sit down and read.” He turned and walked rapidly out of the study. I had the impression he was glad to get away.
Chapter II
IN the spring and late fall, Southern California has peculiarly violent desert windstorms, known as “santanas,” sometimes called “Santa Anas.” For hours before such winds start, the sky will be clear and dustless. The details of objects miles away can be seen with startling clarity. The air will be warm, listless, devoid of life. Silk or rayon garments will crackle with static electricity.
Then suddenly a blast of wind comes sweeping down from the east and north, a hot, dry wind which churns particles of dust so fine they filter between dry lips, grit against the surfaces of teeth. As a rule, these storms blow for three days
, and three nights. Those sections which are protected from the wind itself nevertheless feel the dehydrating effects of the dry, hot air. People’s nerves get raw. They are listless and irritable. Perspiration is sucked up by the dry air so the hot skin becomes gritty with dust.
I sat in Dr. Devarest’s study and did a little thinking. There was a balcony, and when the air became so close it seemed no windows in the room were open, I stepped out to this balcony.
One look at the star-studded sky, and I knew a santana was coming. Stars blazed down with such steady brilliance the heavens seemed filled to overflowing. The air out of doors seemed as close as it was in the study—warm, dry devitalizing air that made one’s nerves stand on edge.
I went back to the study. The cabinet Dr. Devarest had indicated was an elaborate affair equipped with dials, switches, and indicators. A metal plate on the front bore the legend, “Continental Diathermy Laboratories, Inc, De Luxe Model AAA-6.” A little investigation showed me where there was a hinge and a catch on the side. I opened the little door. A recess beneath a tangle of wires was filled with books. I pulled out three or four, adjusted the reading lamp, settled back, and started to read.
When I had finished the third chapter, the wind struck. It struck with the force of a solid wall. The house swayed with the force of that first terrific gust. All over the place I could hear doors slamming, could hear people running, and the sound of closing windows. The study was on the south and west side of the house, so the force of the wind did not sweep directly in through the windows, but it soon became necessary to close them because of the infiltration of fine dust that eddied in through the openings.
I went back to my book, and became interested in it. As is so frequently the case with a professional man who reads for relaxation, Dr. Devarest was a good judge of mysteries. This book made me think I was really working on the case. Time passed unnoticed.
Behind me a board creaked.
My nerves are always on edge during those windstorms. I dropped the book from me, jumped, and whirled.
Nadine Croy was standing there regarding me with her dark, apprehensive eyes. She smiled slightly at the way I jumped. “Were you going to wait for the doctor?” she asked.
“Yes.” Her hesitation was the quiet contradiction of a well-bred woman. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven. I said, “He told me he’d be back by nine-thirty at the latest.” She said, “I know. He sometimes is very erratic—when he’s making a night call and encounters an emergency. Mrs. Devarest thought perhaps you’d like to return in the morning.”
“Would it inconvenience the family if I waited?” I asked. She said, “We can arrange to put you up here—if you feel quite certain that’s what the doctor wants.”
“I don’t know what he wants,” I said, “I only know what I want. I’ve got to get to work. I want to get some more data from him. I want to wait until he comes in, then get started.”
“Perhaps I could help you.” I was a bit dubious about that. She watched me for a moment, then closed the study door and said, “Sit down, Mr. Lam. Perhaps we can put a few cards on the table and understand each other better.” I sat down. More than ever I saw something in her eyes, some hint of tragedy. It seemed that she was dreading something. Perhaps it was just that her eyes were too big for her face. She said, “I’m sorry Dr. Devarest employed you.” I didn’t say anything to that.
“Because,” she said, after a brief pause, evidently for the purpose of drawing me out, “I know what you’re after.”
“The jewels?” I asked.
“The jewels,” she said, and the way she said it was as though she had given a sniff of contempt. “You’re after the things he had in his safe.”
“Perhaps you know more than I do,” I said.
I saw her eyelids droop just a bit as she considered the possibility of that suggestion; then she shook her head and said, “No. Dr. Devarest would have to take you into his confidence. You’re after the things that were in that safe, the things that he tried to keep me from knowing about.” I kept quiet.
“You’re not very talkative, are you?”
“There hasn’t been anything to discuss so far.”
“You might tell me whether my uncle has—been frank with you.”
“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with the doctor.”
“Have you found out anything about Miss Starr?”
“That’s what I’m waiting for.”
“Can you explain that a little?”
“I want to search her room. I want to check over the things she left behind.”
“The police have been all through them.”
“I know, but I want to look, anyway.” ‘Would you mind if I showed you?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. You’re holding yourself aloof as though—as though you’d been warned not to talk to me—or as though you suspected me of something.” I grinned at her. “I never pick my suspects until after I’ve found some evidence. So far I haven’t even started to find the evidence.” She said, “Come on, then.” I put the book face down on the little smoking stand by the chair, and followed her through Dr. Devarest’s bedroom, down a long corridor, down a flight of back stairs, and into a wing at the back of the house. She opened the door of a room and said, “This is it.” The room was cheaply finished and furnished. Aside from that, it was neat, clean and comfortable. There was a white enamelled iron bedstead, an ordinary pine dressing-table, with a big mirror, a large bureau, a chest of drawers, a closet, a washstand above which was a little medicine cabinet, one rather dilapidated-looking overstuffed leather chair, a small table with a desk light, three straight-backed chairs, a small night stand by the side of the bed, and a cheap alarm clock that had a very audible metallic tick, a steady nerve-racking click—clack—click—clack—click—clack.
“Who wound the clock?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Starr left yesterday.”
“Yes, yesterday afternoon.”
“It’s a twenty-four-hour clock, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I guess so, yes.”
“Even if she’d wound it yesterday morning, it should have run down by this time.” She said vaguely, “I don’t know. The police have been in here. They might have wound it.” I picked up the clock, and tried winding it. It was just about run down. The alarm had been turned to silent. The dial showed it was set for six-fifteen.
“Would you like to look around?” she asked.
I said, “Yes.” Mrs. Croy seemed dubious for a moment as to whether to leave me alone, then drew up a chair and sat down, watching me as I prowled around through the closet and the various drawers.
“The police have been all through those things,” she said again.
“I know. I’m looking for the things they missed.”
“Such as what?” she asked.
I held up a pair of woman’s pigskin driving gloves. “Such as these.”
“What about them?” I took the gloves over to the little desk light. “Notice anything about them?” I asked.
“No.” I took a handkerchief from my pocket, held it tightly over my forefinger, ran it across the fingers of the gloves, showed her the grease stain on the handkerchief.
She frowned. “Well?” she asked.
“Graphite grease,” I said. “It has its uses, but it isn’t as common as ordinary cup grease. These are her gloves?”
“Why, I don’t know—I guess so. They were there on the dresser, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Then they must have been hers.”
“Any idea how she could have got graphite grease on them?”
“No.”
“It’s fresh, you see. She must have been working around some sort of machinery within the last few days.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Croy said in a tone of voice which showed she still didn’t get it, or else was trying to belittle the significance of my discovery.
“No. She used the streetcar to go uptown on her days off.
When she was on the job and had occasion to go anywhere for Aunt Colette, the chauffeur drove her, of course.” I said, “I notice some shorts and rubber-soled tennis shoes in the closet. There are half socks that smell of rubber and foot perspiration.” She laughed and said, “Miss Starr is athletic. She liked to play tennis whenever she could inveigle the chauffeur into playing a set with her.”
“Did she have leisure time in which to play tennis?”
“Only in the mornings.”
“What time did she start work?”
“Breakfast was at eight. Her duties began immediately afterwards. She’d take the mail in to Aunt Colette. Aunt Colette would sip coffee, open mail, and dictate replies.”
“The tennis, then, was before breakfast. That explains why the alarm clock was set at six-fifteen.” Mrs. Croy’s eyes showed sudden interest. “Say, you do get things.” I didn’t say anything to that.
I opened the medicine cabinet and looked in at the bottles, jars, and tubes. “This her toothbrush?” She laughed and said, “Really, Mr. Lam, I can’t identify her toothbrush. It’s a toothbrush, and it’s there. After all, what difference does it make?”
“Because if it’s her toothbrush, it indicates that she left in very much of a hurry.”
“Well, you don’t need to worry about that. I can assure you she left in very much of a hurry. As you can see, she didn’t even come back to her room—not long enough to take anything.” I pushed my hands down in my pockets, and leaned back against the bureau, staring down at the painted floor.
“Well?” she asked. “What’s so important? Really, Mr. Lam, conceding that you’re a very skilful professional detective, you must admit the police aren’t exactly stupid. They’ve been over the place in detail. I think you can rest assured they’ve found every important clue that’s here.”
“How about the clues that aren’t here?” I asked.
She said, “That’s one of those enigmatic questions, isn’t it?” I didn’t say anything. After a while her curiosity impelled her to ask, “Hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. What were you referring to?”
Double or Quits Page 2
