I slumped back and said, “But Martha said Arthur was at home all evening.”
“With her,” Burke reminded me. “And we know she was lying. Instead of being at home with her husband she was out at Malvern’s. And all this,” he went on slowly, “is disregarding the most important phase of the case. Let’s not forget the newspaper advertisement and the murderer’s calling card.”
I muttered, “Oh, hell!” and wiped my forehead. I was ready to admit there was a whole lot more to the detecting business than appeared on the surface. I kept still while Burke went on slowly:
“Jelcoe will be checking Arthur’s rifle with the death bullet. Perhaps he’ll get something conclusive. Arthur might have put in the ad and used the calling card to throw suspicion away from those too closely connected with the crime.”
“I wonder if Jelcoe found a clue in the papers he went through in Malvern’s study.”
“Quién sabe?” Burke smiled amiably. “It looks as though he might have found a lead that sent him to young Malvern.”
I asked curiously, “Are you and Jelcoe conducting two separate investigations?”
“It appears that we are. He’s hungry for a chance to show me up and gloat over me. This would be perfect, having been played up by the papers with the advertisement directed to me.”
Burke didn’t seem to be the slightest bit worried about Jelcoe getting ahead of him. I wondered if anything in God’s world could ruffle the man’s calm. I had already seen enough of Jelcoe to realize the tremendous tension between them. And Burke smiled blandly as though it were nothing more than a billiard game they were playing.
He lit his pipe and puffed on it while I nervously reread some of the old newspaper accounts. There were pictures of Arthur looking very natty in his uniform—and a picture of the bride. I looked at that fifteen-year-old picture of Martha Malvern for a long time. She was dimpled and looked flushed and starry-eyed. Another image came between my eyes and the page as I stared at it. The Martha Malvern we had just seen out in the adobe house. I gritted my teeth and wiped my forehead again as I pushed the paper aside.
There was a knock on the door, and a detective entered in response to Burke’s call. It was one of the men he had sent after Mrs. Arthur Malvern. He said, “We’ve got Mrs. Malvern outside. We checked up around the neighborhood like you said, and found a Mexican woman that knows a lot about last night.” He paused significantly.
Burke said, “Spill it.”
“Mrs. Malvern drove away in their rickety car about ten o’clock last night. Mr. Malvern came over about ten-thirty and said he had a bad toothache and would she stay with the children while he hunted up a dentist. She went over and stayed with the children until Mrs. Malvern came driving back—about an hour later. She said Mrs. Malvern was surprised to find her husband gone and acted like she was plenty worried. And this woman says”—he paused again to add weight to his words—“that when they telephoned and asked her to tell Malvern about his father that she went right over and Malvern wasn’t home yet and didn’t get home till well after midnight.”
The silence in Burke’s office was so thick you could cut it with a knife. He took the pipe out of his mouth as though it tasted bad, and said, “You didn’t break any of this to Mrs. Malvern?”
“No, sir. She doesn’t know we were checking up.”
Burke said, “Send her in,” and he didn’t look at me.
Martha Malvern had put on a shabby but clean cotton dress, stockings, and cheap shoes with run-over heels. Black hair was drawn back severely from her face, and the cosmetics she had put on accentuated the ghastly color of her skin and the thinness of her cheeks.
She came in hesitantly and we both got up. Burke asked her to sit down and then inquired whether her husband had returned.
She sat down with a negative shake of her head. Her eyes were staring and hopeless. Burke said gently, “I don’t want this to be any more of a shock than it has to be. I’ll tell you what I know and you can do your own explaining—if you wish. Though it is my duty to inform you that anything you say may be used against you—or your husband—and that you are entitled to the services of a lawyer to advise you before making a statement.”
Martha Malvern thanked him listlessly. She didn’t seem to understand the import of what he had said.
“We know that Mr. and Mrs. Perkins are your foster parents and that Mrs. Perkins agreed to have the front door left open last night so you could see Mr. Malvern and make a last appeal to him. That you did see him, and that your husband was not at home when you returned. That he did not return for perhaps an hour later. What have you to say?”
She gazed across the table at him apathetically. “Nothing.”
“You admit these facts?”
She took a deep breath and nodded.
“Mr. Malvern was adamant?” Burke asked gently.
I don’t know whether she understood what adamant meant. A laugh came from her lips that was like a stricken cry. “He told me he was glad we were starving. That I deserved to starve. That my children deserved to starve.” She added into the silence, “I’m glad he’s dead. Even if Arthur did it.”
That was all. Her chin was lifted and her eyes were brighter than they had been before.
Burke did not press her for any more. I would have gone out of the room if he had done so. He told her she would be required to testify at the inquest and had a matron take her away. Then he requested Jelcoe to come in.
Chief Jelcoe wore an expression akin to a smirk as he came in. Burke asked him if he had a pick-up order out for Arthur Malvern. Jelcoe seemed a little surprised and irritated, but covered up with another smirk and said the order had been out since early that morning.
Burke leaned back and lit his pipe. Then he casually asked, “How about the rifle? Does it check with the bullet?”
Jelcoe’s eyelids fluttered up and down. “What rifle?”
“Arthur Malvern’s. The one you got at his house.”
Jelcoe was plainly disconcerted to find that Jerry Burke was on the same trail. He hesitated and muttered that the experts weren’t through comparing the bullets yet. “It’s a U.S. Krag, though,” he announced exultantly, “freshly cleaned and oiled—and hid away behind a trunk. Besides the gun,” he went on, “I’ve got enough to convict young Malvern. I’ve already given the story to the afternoon papers. As soon as I learn who the visitor was last night, I’ll have the case tied up tight.”
“What,” Burke asked, “did you find in Malvern’s papers to incriminate his son?”
“Plenty.” Jelcoe leaned forward triumphantly. “I had an idea all the time the answer would be in those papers you overlooked. I found”—he paused dramatically and his eyelids did their little dance—“a letter from Arthur Malvern dated a month ago threatening his father if he did not come to his financial assistance.”
Burke asked indolently, “Are you going to the inquest?”
“Of course.” Chief Jelcoe seemed astounded at the lack of effect his bombshell created.
“That’ll be fine,” Burke murmured; “you can listen closely to the evidence and perhaps you can tie the rest of the knots in your solution. Too bad you didn’t wait until you could give the full story to the papers.”
Chapter Eight
I DIDN’T GO TO THE INQUEST. Burke argued that I should attend for the local color required for my novel, but somehow I couldn’t go down and hear the testimony Martha Malvern would be forced to give against her husband.
I read all about it in the newspaper. The coroner’s jury brought in the routine verdict that Charles Malvern had been murdered by a person or persons unknown to the jury. That was that. I felt a little better about it. At least they hadn’t conclusively tied Arthur Malvern up to the murder.
The papers reported a full case against him, however. That was Jelcoe’s doings. It looked to me like a queer way to set out to apprehend a missing man. The rifle found in the Malvern house was played up in a big way. The experts were undecided w
hether it was the death weapon or not. That was all that kept the jury from bringing in a different verdict.
The night edition of the Free Press had a lot to say about Jelcoe handling the crime, and plenty of veiled sneers at Burke for what they termed his bungling of it. I saved all the news accounts for future reference, and went to bed early. A general alarm was out for young Malvern and I pitied him.
Nothing happened the next day. I put in some time at the typewriter making copious notes on the case and working out a plan for a book. I was worried because I didn’t have nearly enough material for a full-length novel. I figured that as soon as they caught Arthur Malvern he would confess and the shouting would all be over. From the material on hand, it looked as though I might fashion a slim novelette out of it.
Reluctantly I set myself to drag the outline of a new cow-opus out of my mental matrix, deciding to give the mystery novel idea a pass for the time being. I worked late that night, and slept late the next morning.
Burke’s phone call woke me about eleven-forty. I got up and answered it not more than half awake. His voice brought me out of my dope in a hurry: “Malvern’s lawyer came back from Washington last night. I’ve an appointment with him. Want to go along?”
I said, “Hell, yes,” and he said he’d pick me up in ten minutes. I was ready for him. It was a little before noon, and Burke’s face was grim as I got in the car beside him. I knew something important was up and asked him what it was.
“Don’t know yet. Judge Stone called me this morning and said he had important information.”
“Judge Stone of Stone, Jordan, and Stone?” I asked.
“Yes. Judge Stone was Malvern’s personal attorney and the firm handled all his legal affairs.”
We were driving south on Oregon. He turned onto Main Street and pulled up in front of an imposing office building. The directory listed the firm’s offices on the sixth floor. We went up in the elevator and down a thickly carpeted hall to the reception room, where a redhead took Burke’s name in to Judge Stone’s private office and came out with a motion for us to enter.
Judge Stone was a portly, placid man. Bald, gray mustache, eyeglasses fastened to a broad black ribbon. He shook hands with Burke and nodded to me when Burke introduced me. Then we all sat down and Judge Stone folded his hands on the clean desk in front of him.
“I was naturally shocked and disturbed by the newspaper accounts of the—ah—tragedy, Mr. Burke. I realized at once that I was in possession of information of the utmost importance and I was on the point of returning immediately when later accounts convinced me that a delay would not be fatal inasmuch as Chief Jelcoe was undoubtedly upon the trail of the true miscreant.” Burke filled his pipe and didn’t say anything. He eyed the judge warily and waited for him to go on.
“I understand you have not yet apprehended young Malvern,” Stone went on with ponderous deliberation.
“Not yet,” Burke conceded. “As a matter of fact, I’m not at all positive we’ll have anything when we do get him.”
I sat up a little straighter at that. I had been out of touch with Burke since the inquest, but he had promised to let me know if anything developed and I was pretty sure he wasn’t holding out any new clues on me. I wondered if it was just stubbornness that made him say that. The newspapers had played up the Arthur Malvern angle pretty much as exclusively Jelcoe’s work.
The judge harrumphed and fiddled with his glasses impatiently. “You haven’t,” he said impressively, “heard me out.”
“True enough.” Burke blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “There are a lot of holes in Jelcoe’s theory. Perhaps you can plug them up.”
“I believe I can.” The judge drew two legal documents from a drawer and laid them upon the desk. “Here,” tapping one of the documents, “is an office copy of a will Mr. Malvern made in 1927. Quite the regular form, leaving to his son the greater portion of his estate with such other bequests as are natural for a man of his position. And here, sir”—Judge Stone tapped the other neatly bound copy with a portentous air of exceeding gravity—“is a will drawn up for Mr. Malvern less than two months ago—an amazing document in many ways. May I read it to you?” He unfolded the bound sheets.
“Don’t bother to read it,” Burke said quietly. “Tell me how it differs from the former will.”
“Perhaps the most important feature is the date upon this document,” Judge Stone said sonorously. “Although drawn up two months ago, it is dated April 30th—two weeks hence—and is, as yet, unsigned. Therefore, of no effect. Mr. Malvern intended to sign it upon April 30th—if Arthur had not by that date complied with his father’s demand that he give up the farce of his impossible marriage and arrange to divorce the woman who bears the Malvern name.”
Burke crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “And I suppose this new will cuts Arthur off without a penny—in effect, a definite threat of disinheritance to force him to desert his wife and family?”
“Exactly.” Stone’s voice was triumphant. “Though you use too harsh a term. Mr. Malvern had repeatedly offered to do the right thing by the woman and her children if Arthur would come to his senses and divorce her.” Arthur Malvern went right up to the top in my estimation when I heard that. It must have taken guts to stand out against his father under those conditions.
“Arthur knew of this, of course?” I heard Burke asking quietly.
“Absolutely. He met his father in this office and received his father’s ultimatum. Mr. Malvern was tired of shillyshallying. He was a just man, and it irked him as much as it would you or me to see the woman and her children going without the necessities of life because Arthur refused to let her go. He was determined to end the impossible situation once and for all.”
I stared at the man in utter disgust. He sounded, by God, as though the whole thing was Arthur’s fault. He reminded me of Hitler in September of 1938 denouncing little Czechoslovakia as the aggressor nation because she had the effrontery to protest armed invasion and national extinction at the hands of the forbearing Nazis.
I glanced at Jerry Burke to see how he was stomaching Judge Stone’s attitude. His face was expressionless, but he couldn’t keep the flame of contempt out of his eyes. He got up and said, “As matters stand now—Arthur will inherit under the old will?”
“Precisely. And had Mr. Malvern lived fifteen days longer, Arthur would have received nothing. There is your motive, Mr. Burke.”
Burke said, “Thank you,” and walked out. I followed him, hanging back just long enough to enjoy the slack-jawed look of astonishment on Judge Stone’s face.
In the elevator, I said, “It looks bad for young Malvern.”
Burke shook his head sadly. “It does. But damn it! I’m for him. No matter what happens, nothing can take that money away from his family now. He’ll be better off if he’s never found.”
“You mean suicide?” I asked as we went through the lobby to his car.
He nodded glumly. “It begins to look like that. It’s time he turned up if he’s alive.”
He drove me home without saying anything more. When I got out, I said, “This is pretty much of a fizzle for a book, Jerry.”
He looked at me with a queer expression and said, “Don’t despair of your chickens before your eggs start to hatch. I’ll call you the minute anything turns up.”
I watched him as he drove away, wondering what the hell he meant. He wasn’t ready to admit the case was closed. Again I wondered if it was just stubbornness that wouldn’t let him see the plain truth. I didn’t think so. Men don’t achieve Jerry Burke’s reputation by being childish. I had a feeling there was something more behind it.
The evening papers played up Judge Stone’s information in a big way, not neglecting to mention that Burke had belittled the importance of the clue and that Stone had gone to Jelcoe to get the publicity he felt it deserved. In the minds of all the bright reporters, it was the conclusive link in the case against Arthur Malvern. As a motive, it was perfect. There
had been a rather weak motive before, but this seemed to clinch it.
I went ahead with my Western novel and tried to forget the Malvern murder. Nothing happened for another three days. Then Burke called me late in the afternoon to say Arthur had been picked up in an opium dive in Juarez and was in his office. Did I want to come over?
I made it in approximately nothing flat. Chief Jelcoe was there with a couple of other detectives and two members of the Juarez police force. Burke sat behind his desk and a poor drugged wretch writhed in a chair before him.
Arthur Malvern was pasty-faced and frightened. He looked as though he had been drunk a month, and he swore he had been hitting the pipe in Juarez ever since the morning after his father’s murder. That was a laugh—with half of the police of the world looking for him. He wasn’t cringing, but it had knocked him silly to be jerked out of his opium trance and learn he was charged with his father’s murder. Jelcoe was shooting questions at him when I walked in. A stenographer was taking down a transcript and Burke was listening with a peculiar expression on his face.
“You might as well come clean,” Jelcoe was shouting. “A confession will help you more than anything else. Who the hell ever heard of a man getting a tooth pulled at midnight?”
“I did,” Arthur gulped. “See?” He opened his mouth at Jelcoe and pointed to a gap on the upper right side of his mouth. “Good God!” he sobbed. “Don’t you think I know? It was ulcerated and had been giving me fits for a month. It got so bad I had to have it out.”
“Just when your father was getting conveniently bumped off so you’d inherit all his dough?” Jelcoe sneered.
“I did, I tell you! I did!” Arthur beat his fists on the desk top. His wrists were manacled. “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”
“Where’d you find a dentist at midnight? I suppose you met one out on the street and don’t know his name.”
“It wasn’t midnight. I told you it was about ten-thirty. And I went to Dr. Fenimore. He’s done all my work since I was a boy. He lives out on Yandell and has his office in one wing of his home. That’s the reason I knew he’d do it for me at night.”
Mum's the Word for Murder Page 6
