by Kip Chase
‘Now, the Newton murder. The only real suspect on the motive angle is the son, Dr. Newton. But this, to my mind, is hard to reconcile. Philip Newton was an old man; he had a bad heart. His son is no fool. It doesn’t seem logical he would kill his own father for money which would probably be his before many years anyway. And we have repeated testimony the father and son enjoyed a close relationship. This means if the son, for one reason or another, were desperate for money he could no doubt get it from his father, who was then a very rich man. Further, because of this bond between them, it makes patricide even more improbable. Now, under the motive category—by a large stretch of the imagination—I suppose we might include Lydia Drew. Reasoning as follows: Lydia is engaged to Dr. Newton. She kills the old man figuring the son will inherit, and she will be in for her share when she and the doctor are married. But even considering her background, this seems highly improbable. And would she figure ahead far enough to kill the old lady too? Pretty shaky ground. With “opportunity” we have our one real chance. There hasn’t been time yet to do much there. It’s possible the sheriffs may turn up someone who saw a car go into the lodge last night, and that the car can be traced. It’s possible, when we talk to the people at the DeVoors house tomorrow, we’ll turn up something. Someone saw someone go out, something like that. It’s also possible we won’t know any more a week from today than we know now. And there are always the long shots: the murders are unconnected, or a homicidal maniac is responsible, or Newton killed the old lady, then committed suicide, though that would be tough to figure. How to wrap a necktie round your own neck, die, then fling yourself into a swimming pool.’
Carmichael sipped at his stout, leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘What you think, Pinkie?’
Pinkie had been lounging on the sofa, alternately chewing on a rubber band and gulping his share of the dark amber drink. He hastily removed the rubber band from his mouth. He had been following his grandfather’s dissertation with interest, but, called upon for comment, could think of no worthwhile contribution. He finally said, ‘It just beats me. Can’t make head nor tails out of it. One thing, though, I like to know—was the old man strangled with his own tie?’
‘Well, to begin with the coroner didn’t seem to think he was strangled. But the tie round his neck belonged to Dr. Newton.’ Pinkie whistled.
Carmichael went on, ‘Dr. Newton says it was a tie he kept at the lodge. He had some clothes up there, so that doesn’t mean much.’
‘Now, about this motive part’, Pinkie said. ‘You say the money doesn’t seem to be it—that is, for old man Newton—what do you think? He was killed because he knew something?’
Carmichael grunted. ‘Could be. If we knew why he didn’t want his son there that night, it might help.’
Pinkie snapped his fingers. ‘Say, I just thought of something!’ Carmichael regarded him sourly. ‘Remember that gizmo Lydia showed us in the den, that recording hook-up on the phone? Maybe there’s something on that tape that would help.’
Carmichael stroked his chin. ‘Could be’, he said grudgingly. ‘Could be at that. Certainly should be checked. But don’t get too puffed up about it. Somebody would have thought of it sooner or later. Maybe Louie already has.’
‘Maybe’, Pinkie said smugly.
Carmichael wheeled himself over to the phone. He called the station in San Margaret and got Lydia’s phone number from the duty sergeant. The chief was not in.
‘She’s probably with Dr. Newton’, Pinkie volunteered as Carmichael dialled the number.
‘Hello, Miss Drew?’ Carmichael smiled thinly at his grandson. ‘Sorry to disturb you at home. I have a favour to ask. You remember those tests you told me about? I wonder if you could bring them over to the lodge tomorrow afternoon and we could go over them?’
Pinkie crossed the room and put his ear close to the telephone. Lydia Drew’s breathless voice was unmistakable.
‘Yes. I could do that. I thought I’d spend the day with Jack. He is still almost in a state of shock. But this evening he headed over for the lab. I guess the work will take his mind off it. I feel rotten myself.’
‘There’s no rush’, Carmichael said hastily. ‘We can wait.’
‘No, it’s just as well. Jack told me he’s going to spend all tomorrow in the lab. Keep the reporters off his neck and keep him from thinking about it, he said. He asked if I would make the funeral arrangements. I’ll see about that in the morning and then drive up to the lodge in the afternoon.’
‘Fine’, said Carmichael. ‘I’d really appreciate it. I have to go over in the early part of the afternoon to the DeVoors house anyway. I’ll plan to get up to the lodge about four.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Oh, one thing, Miss Drew.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know how to operate that telephone recorder? I want to hear what’s on the tape that’s there now.’
‘Sure. I’ll give you a hand with it.’
‘All right, thanks again. Tomorrow at four.’ Carmichael hung up. He turned to Pinkie. ‘And so to bed’, he said, draining the last of his stout.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE town of Tia Juana, contrary to popular belief, is north of the Mexican—U.S. border. The Mexican border town, well known to generations of San Diego sailors, is named Tijuana. The two communities are separated by only a few miles of highway and the border inspection stations. Tia Juana, the American town, cannot be termed a metropolis. It consists of a couple of stores, several petrol stations and a disproportionate number of motels. They are handy for tourists who want to spend the evening in Mexico but prefer to sleep in what they consider the ‘safety’ of the United States.
Owner of the El Capitan Motel is Mrs. Lila O’Leary. Mrs. O’Leary was mildly upset. A new customer, who had arrived the previous afternoon, had provoked some complaints by other guests. The man had certainly seemed harmless enough. About seventy, Mrs. O’Leary judged, with a kindly face and bright blue eyes which seemed unusually perceptive. He had arrived by the noon ‘bus carrying a battered suitcase and a portable typewriter and had asked for a room for an indefinite period. He had not even asked for weekly rates. Mrs. O’Leary had been delighted to accommodate him. Too many of her customers were young couples down for a night’s outing. Mrs. O’Leary suspected many of them were ‘without the benefit of clergy’, as she put it to her friend and neighbour, Mrs. Simmons. But what could a person do? Motels are a rough, competitive business, you just can’t turn customers away and expect to stay in business. And now this little unpleasantness with Mr. Johnson—that was the name the old gentleman had signed on the register. The occupant in number 103, next to Mr. Johnson, had roused Mrs. O’Leary at 1 a.m. the previous night to complain that Mr. Johnson was still typing, making sleep impossible. The walls were not designed to keep out that kind of noise, the customer had observed. The customer was a salesman of farm implements, who came through Tia Juana regularly. It would not be wise to offend him. Mrs. O’Leary had knocked on Mr. Johnson’s door and made her request, couched in apologetic phrases. Mr. Johnson had stopped typing, but he had obviously not been happy about it.
Mrs. O’Leary told the story to Mrs. Simmons.
‘… and now,’ she concluded, ‘it’s about check-out time and I suppose he’ll leave.’
‘Well, dear,’ said Mrs. Simmons, ‘why don’t you move him down to that end room? You’re hardly ever full up in the autumn so these rooms in between will be vacant most of the time. ‘Course I know it isn’t as nice a room, but you could knock off a dollar a night on it. He’d probably be happy to take it.’
Mrs. O’Leary brightened. ‘That’s a fine idea. Now why didn’t I think of that? I swear, Georgia Simmons, you should be in business!’
‘No thanks, dear’, Mrs. Simmons retorted. ‘I’ve been through that mill. I’ve got myself a man now, and I mean to relax.’
‘I’ve got a man, too’, Mrs. O’Leary said sourly. ‘But I don’t do much relaxin’.’
&nbs
p; Mrs. Simmons tactfully changed the subject. ‘What do you suppose the old man is writing?’ she asked.
Mrs. O’Leary shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe his whatchamacallit, auto-bio-graphy. This morning he was asking about how to get across the border. Maybe he decided he needs one more fling.’ She giggled. ‘Those girls will give him a fling, all right. Guess I’ll go ask him now about changing rooms.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHIEF DELMAR was sitting at his desk, staring out of the window, when Miss Fuentes informed him through the intercom. that Dr. Sandleigh wanted to see him.
‘Send him right in’, said the chief with interest.
The medical examiner entered, carrying a manila envelope. He dropped it on the chief’s desk, then seated himself in a chair. He took out a cigarette and calmly tapped it against a fingernail before lighting it.
‘Autopsy report?’ Delmar asked.
The doctor nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be in, so I wrote a little note to you. Thought you might have some questions so I thought I’d stick around.’
The policeman waded through the report. After three pages, he still wasn’t sure just what had killed Philip Newton. He looked up at Dr. Sandleigh.
‘I gather, doctor,’ he said, ‘you can’t figure out if this man died of strangulation or a heart attack?’
‘That’s right. I vote for the heart, my assistant says the necktie did it. My personal opinion of what happened is this. Killer puts tie round the old man’s neck, Newton is frightened, he struggles. His heart gives out and he’s actually dead before the tie is tightened sufficiently to cut off his air long enough to kill him. I base this on … well, if you like medical gobbledegook, you can read the report. My assistant thinks the strangulation actually killed him, then in his final convulsions, the right ventricle restricted and … well, I suppose it doesn’t matter much to you people, one way or another.’
‘No,’ said the chief, ‘I guess it don’t. Now, how about this time business? That doesn’t seem very clear either.’
Dr. Sandleigh stretched his legs out and lounged back in the chair. ‘The water sort of fouled us up there. If we could know how long he had been submerged, it would help. You see, the water was heated, and that would tend to speed up the processes of deterioration. We assumed the man was killed, then dumped in the water immediately, or at least very shortly thereafter. Going on that assumption, we placed the time of death at about ten on Monday night. But there’s a lot of leeway there, a couple of hours on either side, depending on the circumstances.’
‘Great’, said the chief in a disagreeable voice.
Dr. Sandleigh allowed himself a slight smile. ‘I thought that would make you happy. Sorry. Medicine, alas, is not the exact science we would have our patients believe. Usually we can come pretty close on this sort of thing, but with a complication in the right place, it can goof us up. Anyway, I thought I’d better explain it to you.’
‘Thanks’, said the other. ‘I appreciate your coming over. Not that you’ve been much help.’ He gave a weak laugh.
The doctor stood. ‘Any time, chief. If you have any more questions, give me a buzz.’ He left the room.
Sighing, Chief Delmar reached into his desk and pulled out a cigar, lit it thoughtfully, and then called in Detective-Lieutenant Hodges to give him the news—such as it was.
By the time he had conferred with Hodges, straightened out a few recent lapses in departmental procedure, and had a hot lunch at home, he felt better. After lunch, he phoned Carmichael.
‘Might as well come right on out to the DeVoors house’, he said. ‘I’m headed there now, no reason for you to come in to the station.’
Carmichael agreed. The chief told Carmichael about his visit from Dr. Sandleigh. ‘That’s the story’, he finished. ‘Doesn’t help us much. I’ll bring along the report for you to look over. See you in about three-quarters of an hour?’
Chief Delmar was almost light-hearted as he made the now-familiar drive up the approach to the DeVoors house. Only now, he thought to himself, it isn’t the DeVoors house, it’s the Newton house. He smiled to himself. The taxpayers were really getting their money’s worth out of this case. He was putting in twelve, fourteen hours a day. The usually phlegmatic Hodges was fast approaching nervous collapse—there wasn’t a member of the police department who didn’t feel the strain. Even Miss Fuentes was not her usual seductive self. Well, that’s the way it went sometimes. But as long as Carmichael was on it, Delmar had faith in the future. He had almost boundless confidence in the crotchety old man.
The chief was met at the door by Awlsen, as usual.
‘Everyone is downstairs but Mr. Kuru’, the butler informed him. ‘I believe he is in his room.’
‘Okay, Awlsen,’ the chief said genially, ‘don’t bother. I’ll get him.’ He mounted the stairs with dignity, telling himself he should get over to the Y.M.C.A. one of these days and start trimming down that spare tyre. He knocked on the Indian’s room, got no response, and opened the door. Sra Kuru, stark naked, was standing on his head in the middle of the room. He presented a curious picture. The chief looked startled. He started to back out of the door, coughed, then cleared his throat.
‘Mr. Kuru’, he said finally. There was no indication the little Indian heard him. His eyes were tightly shut. The chief heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find Awlsen watching with amused eyes.
‘If you’ll pardon me, sir,’ he said, and stepped into the room, ‘he often does this.’ Then, turning to the Indian, he called in a loud voice, ‘Mr. Kuru!’
The brown little man made a convulsive movement. His eyelids fluttered open. Slowly he lowered his legs, then flipped himself over on to his haunches.
‘Yes?’ he asked, squatting on the floor and smiling pleasantly up at the two men.
The chief again cleared his throat. ‘Like to see you downstairs for a few minutes’, he said.
Kuru smiled. ‘Certainly. Give me five minutes.’ He got to his feet. The chief departed hastily.
As he descended the stairs, Delmar was happy to see Carmichael wheeling himself through the front door, assisted by Pinkie. On reaching the foot of the staircase he motioned the two arrivals into the main living-room, where the servants and guests were huddled in a corner.
‘I won’t keep you long’, Delmar announced. ‘But we’ll have to wait until Mr. Kuru arrives. He said he’d be right down.’ The group sat in silence for five minutes. Then Kuru appeared.
‘All right,’ said the chief, ‘I’m sure you all know the purpose of this, ah, gathering. I want to know where each one of you spent Monday evening and night. Also, whether you own a car, and if you do, the make, model and colour, and where you keep it. We’ll start with you, Miss Wycliff.’
The girl looked steadily at the chief. ‘Monday evening I had supper at seven. We all did. I was feeling uneasy, this whole business has been upsetting, to say the least. I thought maybe a film would relax me, so that’s where I went. I got there about eight and got out at eleven-thirty. I went in my car. It’s a ‘55 Ford convertible, green. I keep it in one of the garage stalls in the back.’
‘What film did you see, Miss Wycliff?’
‘Night of the Hunter and Little Boy Lost, at the Strand. Do you want me to tell you the plots?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘No’, said the chief with a grim smile. ‘I take it you went alone. I do want you to tell me of anyone who might have seen you there. Did anything happen to make the ticket-taker or the girl in the box-office remember you? Or the candy counter attendant? Did you buy anything?’
‘No. They might remember me. More likely not.’
Chief Delmar turned to the rest of the group. ‘Did anyone see Miss Wycliff return?’
‘I heard a car come in after I’d gone to bed’, Mrs. George volunteered. ‘I knew Miss Wycliff had gone out, so I assumed it was her.’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know. It might have been twelve.’
The chief took
out a notebook and scratched briefly with a stub of a pencil. Then he looked up. ‘You next, Mr. Kuru.’
‘I also left the house on Monday evening’, Kuru said smoothly. ‘I went for a walk. I have no car.’
‘How long a walk?’
‘I don’t know. Several hours, I should imagine. When I got back the house was dark.’
‘Is it your habit to walk for “several hours”, Mr. Kuru?’ The chief’s voice had an unpleasant edge to it.
‘Yes. For me it is not at all uncommon.’
‘And I suppose you saw no one who could identify you?’
‘I don’t believe I did.’
