“Could be. But there’s fifty bucks in his wallet. A ring. A watch.”
“Yeah.” Krug sucked his teeth. “Any sign of a break-in?”
“Can’t tell yet.”
A flashbulb popped behind him, its lightning glare cast back by a large gilt-framed mirror hanging over the table. Half blinded, Casey saw his own and the others’ reflections as faceless shadows, like retinal ghosts. Then his sight cleared and they emerged again: two square, solid senior detectives, and a medium-sized, medium-good-looking, junior-grade self—tanned, muscular, but embarrassingly baby-faced compared to the other two.
“Housekeeper found him,” Timms was saying. “Lotte Something. A German name. I’ve got her stashed in a back room with a couple squad-car guys for baby-sitters.”
“She got any ideas about time?” Krug asked.
“Take a look.” Timms gestured toward the large room through the arch. “Lights are still on. Good chance, I say, it happened last night.”
They wandered through the arch into the large room, which looked to Casey as if it were used more for waiting than living. All the lamps burned brightly. The draperies were drawn. Ashtrays were full. “Looks like a club,” he murmured.
Krug scowled at him, but Timms nodded. “Good guess,” he said. “The neighbors say he ran his practice here, if you could call it that. Some therapy deal.” A smile flickered across his somber face. “Believe it or not, what we’ve got here is a dead hypnotist.”
Krug gaped at him. “Well, for sweet Christamighty—now we’ve really had ’em all!” He punched Casey’s arm. “Okay, sport, let’s get started. Like the book says, begin at the beginning. Let’s see what this hypnotist’s housekeeper looks like. Before she gets away on her broom, that is.”
TWO
Her name was Lotte Haas, a shrewd-looking, handsome middle-aged woman—more Valkyrie than witch, Casey decided. Sitting ramrod-straight in a hard chair, she glared at them as they entered what was obviously her own large comfortable bed-sitting room at the back of the house. She scarcely acknowledged Krug’s routine identification of himself and Casey. It wasn’t hard to imagine why the two patrolmen had looked so relieved to be sent away when she announced in loud uncompromising tones that she had told her story, there was no more to say, and as a naturalized citizen she demanded her right to an attorney.
Krug glanced at Casey. Another telly-watching legal expert, his sour expression said. Nowadays every boob in the world is an amateur shyster, thanks to ten reruns of Perry Mason. Casey explained to her how they could not accept any secondhand statements, even from other policemen. There was no need, he assured her, for an attorney present at this point.
“So?” she said doubtfully and thought it over. From the bathroom that Casey could spy through an open door came the slow drip-drip of a leaky tap. The floor creaked as Krug shifted impatiently. “All right,” she said finally. “Last night I am at my sister. Sunday and Monday always I go there. My days off. You understand? Then this morning, I walk back—”
“This sister,” Krug interrupted. “She lives here in Santa Monica?”
“Only now I have said I walk.” Her smile was contemptuous. “You think perhaps from the San Fernando Valley?”
Casey kept scribbling rapidly in his notebook. The sister’s name was Mrs. Annaliese Gorman. An address on Fourteenth Street south of Broadway. Mrs. Haas had left there at six o’clock exactly, arriving here about half an hour later…
“So you walk in about six-thirty,” Krug picked it up, “and spot the body?”
“Now you put words in my mouth! Is this not so bad as the secondhand statement?”
Krug sighed. He had little enough patience, none with women. “Okay, tell it your own way, Mrs. Haas. Just try not to take all morning.”
She entered the back door about half past six, the housekeeper repeated. She had a key for the front door, of course, but never used it. “And like always, I come first to my own room here. Hang up the coat. Put away the purse. So as not to disturb the Herr Doktor, change the street shoe which is heavy. I wear here the…” She searched for a word.
“Slippers?” Casey suggested.
“Ja, the shlippers I put on. Then to the kitchen for hot water in the kettle. Is too early for the Herr Doktor, of course. Even so, I think I look around, clean a little because he has the patients last night.” Her voice dragging then, she told them how she had discovered the body; the confusion of shock and terror and horror which had rooted her in the long hallway. Had she screamed for help? No, natürlich, why would she with no one in the house? Except—a shiver—perhaps the murderer. When she was able to move she had called the police—
“From where?” Krug interrupted. “Is there more than one phone in the house?”
“In almost every room, ja.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “There I call.”
Through the open door of her bedroom they could see into the modernized kitchen with its color-coordinated vinyl and tile and enamel. On a long counter under what must be a crockery cupboard sat a white princess telephone.
“The police are here,” she went on, gesturing wildly. “Gott sei Dank, so quick! I try to call Annaliese, but the officer says this is not permitted—”
“Who besides you has keys?” Krug interrupted again.
“Why, Doktor Myrick, of course, and that Crewes woman.”
“Who’s that, his girlfriend?”
“Ach, what an idea!”
Casey thought the name was Cruz, a Spanish name, until she spelled it for them. Miss Crewes worked for Dr. Myrick also, it turned out, apparently as a secretary. Mrs. Haas didn’t know her address, but assured them it must be listed in the doctor’s personal directory. As for his activities last night, she couldn’t be certain, but from the looks of the front room, there was the meeting as usual. “Always they smoke and make terrible mess. Is the same thing every time.”
Krug inquired what sort of “meeting” she meant, but Mrs. Haas had trouble explaining. As near as she could get, they all talked together and the Herr Doktor supervised.
“An encounter group,” Casey suggested.
Ja, that was it. The meetings were held three times a week—Monday, Wednesday and Friday—beginning at seven usually, finishing by nine-thirty. In any case, never later than ten o’clock, because always the Herr Doktor went out at that time.
“Out where, Mrs. Haas?”
Her shrug was European. “To that Mona, I suppose.”
Krug looked to see if Casey had caught the name for his notes. “You happen to know where this Mona lives?”
“Is a local phone call, that is all I know. Two, three times he leaves the number, and I call him there when one of those Halbstarken comes crying to the door.”
“You mean one of his patients?” Casey asked.
“Hoodlums, ja. Bums they are, dopeheads. Is all the world over now—even in Germany!”
“About last night, Mrs. Haas,” Krug said. “I know it was your day off, but do you happen to know if he went out as usual? Or if he was expecting anybody after the meeting?”
She hesitated, appearing baffled for a moment by the double question. “Well, I know always he writes who comes to see him. In the book of appointments. But if he goes out…” She hesitated again. “No, I think maybe not. Because he calls me at Annaliese.”
“What time was this?”
“Ach, I cannot say for sure. Nine o’clock maybe? Annaliese has already the television turned on for the big movie. Then the phone rings and comes the Herr Doktor on so angry as I have never heard him. Somebody has ruined a tape, he says. Do I play the machine at any time?” She sighed feelingly. “Well, natürlich, I say no. Am I a fool to meddle with expensive equipment? No, it must be her, I tell him. That Crewes woman. A mistake she makes. Or maybe—” She stopped herself, and blinking rapidly, seemed to consider some idea which Casey could almost see developing. “Always they argue now,” she went on slowly. “Like something goes wrong. Ach, I cannot explain!” She pressed la
rge, pale, ringless hands to her ample breast. “But so ridiculous it is. A woman like that—” One hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened. “But you must not think I suggest…”
“All right, Mrs. Haas,” Krug said sourly, “we’re getting the message.” And with an old-timer’s skill, he pinned her down—five minutes of facts, no more feelings or suppositions. Then thanking her, he called in a reluctant patrolman to baby-sit again. “Women,” he muttered as they headed once more down the long hall. “Let her sit there and stew awhile, see what else she can come up with. We better check out that Crewes dame as soon as we can, too. Before she gets here. Her reaction might give us some bright ideas.”
They hadn’t taken the body yet, Casey saw. McGregor still crouched over it, high priest over a sacrificial victim. “Lieutenant’s upstairs,” he reported. “The way I hear it, there isn’t a sign of a break-in.”
“Very slick, this killer,” the latent-print specialist working in the hall added. “Sees all the movies, reads all the books. Would you believe a doorknob without a print on it?”
“Wiped, you think?”
“Clean as a whistle. Want to bet your murder weapon’s a blank, too?”
“With my luck,” Krug groaned, “why fight the odds?” He squatted by the body, staring at the massive wound which had all but destroyed the back of the dead man’s head. “A ten-, fifteen-pound hunk of brass—anybody who could lift it could’ve done this.” Then he rounded on Casey irritably. “For Chrissake, will you quit gulping? Go heave if you have to and get it over with. We got work to do.”
“I’m all right.” Casey swallowed hard. “It’s the smell, I guess.”
“Wait’ll you get one that’s gutshot, then you’ll worry about smell.” He sucked his teeth. “Could easy be a woman. All she had to do was come up behind him, grab that thing and take one good swing.”
“She’d have to be strong.”
Krug grinned. “Like that kraut back there, right? From the looks of her, she could shot-put that statue through a second-story window.”
One of the medical men joined them, starchy whites crackling like paper as he squatted beside them. “We’re ready to take him any time the lieutenant says the word, Al.”
“He’s upstairs. You got any opinions here?”
“Well, in layman’s language, he’s in second-stage rigor. Coagulation looks like plenty of time, though. Roughly, I’d say last night. Closer than that, there’s no telling till we do the post. Help a lot if you could find out when and what he had for dinner.”
“Probably a pint of blood and a couple spiders—What else would a self-respecting witch doctor eat to keep his strength up?” Grunting, Krug pushed himself upright. “Okay,” he said to Casey, “let’s have a quick look around, then we’ll hit the secretary.”
Behind the sliding door to the right of the stair they found a small austere office. Locked files and bookcases lined the walls. A large metal desk and chair and a love seat were the only other furnishings. All looked battered, Casey noticed; even the metal desk was chipped and scarred. On the laminated wooden desktop sat an expensive-looking tape recorder. No pictures, no notations on the calendar block. Casey tried the desk drawers, but they were locked also. “If Mrs. Haas is the snoopy type, she’s probably learned to live with a lot of frustration. Either that or she’s an accomplished lock picker.”
“Not her, she’s the crowbar type. You think this is Myrick’s office?”
“Looks pretty plain for a man who wore three-hundred-dollar suits and handmade shoes.”
Leaving the sliding door open, they crossed the entry to the large room they had seen before. The draperies had been opened now, but the lamps still burned. More than ever, the room looked un-homelike to Casey. They passed through a connecting door catercorner to the fireplace, entering what had been meant to be a dining room when the house was built.
“Hey,” Krug breathed. “Looks like some millionaire head shrinker’s office, don’t it?”
“Eames chairs, antique desk, Persian carpet—you’re so right.”
“Another tape machine, too. What the hell, I thought a hypnotist’d have a lot of mumbo-jumbo stuff lying around.”
“Looks like he was Doktor, all right.” Casey pointed to a framed parchment full of heavy Gothic lettering which hung near the desk. “PhD, not MD.”
“Big deal,” Krug sneered. “The way I hear it, you can buy those by the dozen if you got the right connections.” He opened a door opposite the desk and peered into the long hallway. Then he tried another door. “Locked,” he said disgustedly.
“Pantry,” Casey guessed, remembering schoolmates’ houses of this same vintage. “Probably leads into the kitchen. Mrs. Haas’s room is on the other side. Or a breakfast room, maybe, and then the maid’s quarters. Looks like those glass doors to the driveway are sealed.”
But Krug wasn’t paying any attention to him. Peering intently at the tape recorder, he tentatively pressed the PLAY button, and the reels began to turn, emitting a hissing sound. “Nothing on it,” he muttered. “This is probably the one he chewed her ass about last night.”
While they listened, Casey scrutinized the appointment book on Myrick’s desk. Tooled leather, he noticed. Everything the best. Hypnotism looked to be very profitable. Under Monday, August 28—yesterday—he found two names, then Mona at noon, and nothing else until the seven o’clock slot, where someone had scrawled Group Five. “Not a very busy day.”
Krug was going through the drawers of the huge carved walnut desk with the speed of a housebreaker. Locating the personal address book Mrs. Haas had mentioned, he gave it to Casey. “Keep that handy, we’re going to need it.” He whistled as he opened the wide, shallow center drawer. “Look at this,” he said, plucking out a framed photograph. “Nice, hah?”
Casey stared at the artfully casual studio portrait, sighing unconsciously. A ravishing blonde. For Steve with all my love. Signed Lila.
“Lady killer,” Krug grunted. “So maybe—just maybe—one of ’em returned the favor? Come on,” he added impatiently, “let’s check with the lieutenant, then start tracking down the women.”
Cherchez les femmes, Casey thought. Even a homicide case can have its compensations.
THREE
From the top of the stairway they spied Lieutenant Timms standing in a doorway which opened into the second-story hall. “Come take a look,” he called. “See how the other half lives.”
Casey followed Krug, not into the master bedroom he had expected, but into a sumptuous sitting room, all leather and dark glossy wood. Another glowing carpet like the one in the office downstairs. Chinese screens instead of draperies covering the windows. One wall was a gallery of paintings. Against another wall was a complex of shelves, the lower part of which housed an intricate and expensive-looking stereo sound system, and a large record collection. The upper part held books in old bindings, what looked to be a collection of bound periodicals and here and there, small sculptured pieces.
Casey inspected one of the old volumes. Spirit Identity, read the faded print on the fragile title page, by William Stainton Moses. The book had been printed in the late eighteen hundreds. Wondering if it was valuable, Casey took a quick look at one of the bound periodicals: an English publication he had never heard of, called Light.
Krug kept whistling through his teeth while they looked around. Appearing annoyed finally, Timms said, “All right, leave it to House Beautiful for the last word. What’d you get out of the housekeeper?”
No wife, Krug filled him in, nobody in residence here but the decedent and his housekeeper. Possible trouble between Myrick and his secretary. Peering into the connecting bedroom as he talked, Krug beckoned to Casey. “Get a load of this playpen.”
Looking over his partner’s shoulder, Casey smiled. Somewhere with these superstuds, the Playboy influence always shows.
“Bathroom on the other side,” Timms was saying behind them. “There’s another down the hall, and two more bedrooms. Nothing
in the drawers or closets, so I guess she told you straight.” They could hear him sigh. “So far, nothing from the neighbors but gripes about all the activity here. Begins to look like our killer either got in with a key or Myrick let him in.”
“Could be somebody who stayed behind after that group deal.” Krug explained about the meetings on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
“Kids, hah?” Timms chewed his lower lip. “No wonder the neighbors squawked.” He looked more and more unhappy when they told him about the photo they had discovered in the desk. “So on top of everything else, we got here a womanizer?”
“Probably hypnotized ’em,” Krug agreed. “We got four already. A Mona, a Lila, that housekeeper and the Crewes dame.”
“All right, hit the secretary first. Then check out the housekeeper’s alibi. And not only with her sister,” Timms emphasized, “try the neighbors too. I want everybody nailed down tight on this one. You know the score, Al,” he added. “A murdered hypnotist’ll make great headlines. Isn’t a reporter alive won’t make a three-ring circus out of it if he can.”
As he drove off, Casey fished one-handed in the Mustang’s glove compartment, trying to find his sunglasses.
“You drive, I’ll look,” Krug told him, and pawed through the jumble. “Christamighty, you got everything in here but a collapsible bed. Look at that,” he marveled. “Three packs of cigs. Matches from every disco joint for fifty miles around. Kleenex. A Chap Stick. Nail file. Bottle opener. Pencils. Scratch pads. Breath mints. Hair spray…” He glanced at Casey, sniffing the can. “Perfumed, too. For a partner I got a closet queen?”
“It’s Joey’s. That’s a girl, Al. Joanna.”
“You serious about her?”
“Because I’m carrying her hair spray?”
“Come on, smartass, just answer the question.”
“Well, I suppose it depends what you mean by serious, Al.”
The Complete Krug & Kellog Page 38
