Mum's the Word for Murder

by Brett Halliday

  And I couldn’t forget the deer heads and the .22 rifle and shotgun. People don’t hunt deer with either a .22 or a shotgun. Deer hunting calls for a heavy-caliber rifle—a .30-caliber or the like. Of course, it might be coincidence that such a rifle wasn’t in evidence.

  But I was in a hurry to get the typing to Burke and have it checked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HE WAS WAITING FOR ME in his office when I came in feeling that I had made a good showing for the afternoon. I shoved the manuscripts at him, explaining where I’d got them. He called a cop to take them into the identification division and have them checked against the samples of Mum typing we had on hand.

  Then I settled back and told him everything that had happened during the afternoon, being as careful as I could to give him an actual picture of Devoe and his reactions without coloring my impressions. He nodded with a pleased expression as I retold the conversation concerning the Devoe-Ullendorf affair, and sat up straight when I finished by telling about the antlered gun rack lacking a hunting rifle.

  “What was your personal impression of Devoe?” he asked when I ended.

  I hesitated. I wanted to be absolutely honest. “He seems perfectly sane. Unemotional. I liked him better at the end of the afternoon than at first meeting. Probably the effect of the manuscripts. I naturally have a fellow feeling for a poor devil who collects rejection slips. On the other hand, I’ll be damned if he doesn’t seem the cold-blooded type to plan a thing like this and carry it through without a bobble or a quiver just as it’s been done. If the typewriter checks—”

  Burke nodded. “We’ll wind up the case tonight if the typing checks.” He drummed on the desk in that impassive, irritating manner of his.

  “All we lack is a motive,” I said brightly.

  Burke cleared his throat. There was one thing I sincerely appreciated about Jerry Burke. He never scoffed or seemed amused at my amateurish efforts to help. “I had a busy afternoon also, Asa. I picked up a lot of little things which just about go together to form a noose around the neck of your gambling writer.”

  “At the bank?” I was excited.

  Burke nodded complacently. “It’s curious,” he rumbled, “how many things can be learned from the study of an individual’s financial affairs.”

  I waited for him to go on, hoping I wasn’t in for another lecture on the drier aspects of scientific crime detection.

  “They were very helpful at the bank. I had a long talk with the head of the trust department that has been managing Mrs. Ullendorf’s affairs, and obtained access to the record of her account dating back to the cash deposit of four hundred thousand dollars the day the final decree was signed in the Ullendorf divorce.”

  The man was driving me mad with his deliberation. I asked, “That much?” and bottled up all other questions seething inside of me.

  “Four hundred grand. One quarter of which she immediately withdrew—in cash—a hundred thousand dollars which disappeared without a trace. The rest of the money was invested for her in Government bonds.”

  I whistled. “A hundred thousand would have staked Devoe’s gambling-house venture nicely.”

  “Exactly. It’s significant to note that Mrs. Ullendorf’s withdrawals during the next two years, while large, are amply justified by her style of living. An average of slightly less than a thousand dollars a month.”

  He paused irritatingly again and filled his pipe. I waited, feeling that something inside of me was getting ready to explode.

  Burke consulted his little book after lighting his pipe. “Eight years ago, in July, the lady withdrew ten thousand dollars in cash. It disappeared. Another eight months of steady withdrawals. Then another ten thousand. She seems to have eased up after that. No more unexplained cash withdrawals until two years later. Then another ten thousand. Following that, at irregular periods of from four to eight months, her account shows a periodic drain of sums dropping from ten thousand to two thousand dollars up to August of last year. Since August there have been no more of these mysterious sums of cash withdrawn from her account.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. It wasn’t a pretty picture that formed before my mental vision. Relentless extortion by a pasty-faced gambler over a period of seven years. That first hundred thousand dollars told the story of some sort of prearranged plan between the former man and wife. Something which Devoe had held over her head to force contributions from her whenever he needed money. I was beginning to find the detecting business wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed.

  I opened my eyes and protested wearily, “If she was paying Devoe off steadily, he would be the last man in the world to murder her. That would be killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

  “Note the declining amounts. From ten thousand to two thousand. We can gather that she was resisting extortion more and more. Nothing since last August. You will recall that the mythical old woman did kill her goose to get all the golden eggs at once.”

  “Does she leave her money to him?”

  “That remains to be ascertained. We found no will. There is a large sealed envelope with instructions that it is to be opened after her death. I’ve arranged with the District Attorney to have it opened in court tomorrow.”

  A detective came in with Devoe’s manuscripts and laid them on Burke’s desk with a shake of his head. “Not the same typewriter, sir. The exhibits were typed on a machine with badly worn, old type. These scripts were typed on a practically new machine.”

  That took the wind out of me. I had known the manuscripts were going to be the final clue. I looked at Burke helplessly.

  He smiled and said, “We couldn’t expect anything else, Asa. Our Mum would have disappointed me if he hadn’t been clever enough to type his death notices on another typewriter. Come on, let’s go out to dinner.”

  Several hours later we sat on the opposite sides of a table in my living-room, a table that held an empty brandy bottle and two empty glasses. Devoe’s stories were on one end of the table, where I had placed them when coming in from dinner. We had talked ourselves out.

  It takes three slugs of brandy to really loosen Burke’s tongue. He had had twice three. We had been over every inch of the case from beginning to end. Every dead-end clue had come up for discussion and dismissal. It was well after midnight when Burke yawned and relapsed into silence.

  Everything pointed to Devoe. It was impossible to get away from him. Thinking about Devoe reminded me of his unread literary efforts. I picked one of them up—“Disinherited Bride”—and ruffled through the typewritten pages idly. It was neatly typed, a much better job than the average tyro does with his maiden efforts.

  Burke looked at me curiously as I started to read the first pages. “What sort of a writer is our murderous friend?”

  “No better than usual,” I told him, after reading the first two paragraphs. “A full page of hooey description obscuring the opening. The common beginner’s fault.” I started to toss the manuscript down in disgust.

  Burke halted me with a frown. “Wait. Don’t you suppose you could find some gems of literary genius in the script to make it imperative to see Devoe tonight?”

  I stared at him. “I don’t get you.”

  “Can’t you get enthusiastic enough about his story to just have to call him up tonight and invite him over to discuss it?”

  “What do I want Devoe here for?”

  “I don’t care where you meet him,” Burke said patiently. “Anything to get him out of his room. I’d give a whole lot to go through his room tonight—so we’ll really know where we stand tomorrow.”

  “You want me to phone him and lure him over here so you can burglarize his room?”

  “That’s the plot.”

  I shuddered. Feeling the way I did about Devoe, I didn’t care to talk to him over the phone, much less invite him to be a guest in my house. But I was into the mess now and couldn’t very well back out.

  I got up, not too graciously, and looked up the number of Devoe’s hot
el. Burke grinned at me as I called it. I asked for Devoe’s room and waited.

  His voice came over the wire sharply. “Hello?”

  “Devoe?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Asa Baker, Devoe. Do you remember? The writer who came in to see you with Gregory this afternoon?”

  His voice changed. “Yes. Of course I remember you.”

  “I’ve just finished reading your story, ‘Disinherited Bride.’” I tried to make my voice sound as enthusiastic as my words. “I couldn’t wait to tell you I think it’s tremendous. With a few minor changes, it’ll be a masterpiece.”

  “Well, now—” His tone was pleased, deprecatory.

  “I hope I haven’t disturbed you. I forget other people are not night owls like myself. But I felt that I’d like to talk it over with you while it’s fresh in my mind.”

  Devoe said, “You didn’t disturb me at all. The game is just breaking up.”

  “I’ve got a few places marked—” I hesitated. “Could you come over to my place right away and go over it with me?”

  “Can I? Like a shot!”

  I gave him my address. He said he’d be over in ten minutes. I hung up and went back to Burke disgustedly. “How long shall I keep him?”

  “Half an hour will be ample.” Jerry Burke got up alertly and took his hat. “You’d better read the opus,” he chuckled, “and mark those two or three minor changes needed to transform it into a masterpiece.”

  I picked up the brandy bottle as though I were going to throw it at him and he ducked out. Then I sat down with a pencil and skipped through the script, marking the worst places here and there. It wasn’t at all difficult to find plenty of places where changes would improve it, though the damned thing did show flashes of writing ability.

  Devoe arrived in a car ten minutes later. I met him at the door, explaining that I kept bachelor’s quarters and we wouldn’t be disturbed.

  I brought out a bottle of cheap whisky that I kept for unwelcome guests, and we had a drink while I prattled on about stylistic faults, plot-consciousness, dramatic conflict, lack of suspense, and allied twaddle.

  He drank it all in like a freshman at his first lecture on philosophy. Watching the clock, I went through his story page by page, killing time by telling him how good it was and minimizing its faults.

  I guess I talked coherently, for he listened as though it made sense. But it was the most ghastly half-hour I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t know what I was saying. The words flowed out subconsciously. I was thinking, This is Mum. This is the cold-blooded murderer who has planned two deaths and carried out his plans with clockwork precision.

  I caught myself studying his hands, envisioning a dagger tightly gripped, plunging into a woman’s heart on a darkened street in Juarez.

  I found myself furtively studying his trigger finger and shoulder, seeing a heavy rifle held unerringly until the sights steadied on their target—a man’s head.

  I’ve got too damned much imagination to fool with detecting. What that game needs is an unemotional type like Jerry Burke. A human machine, without nerves and with an untiring persistence that is almost Godlike.

  I was in a cold sweat when the thirty minutes ended. I’ve heard of cold sweats. That was the first time I realized the phrase meant anything more than a phrase. There were goose pimples all over me, and my clothes were damp.

  I ended that literary discussion abruptly when the time was up. Devoe was inclined to linger in the hope that I would flatter him some more about his story, but I yawned and said out loud that I was sleepy as hell and with difficulty refrained from telling him he’d oblige me by getting out and staying out.

  He took the rather broad hint and departed. I stood on the porch and watched his taillight disappear down the street. Burke’s car pulled around the corner before Devoe had gone three blocks. I judged that he must have been waiting for the man to leave, and I knew he had something when he came up the walk.

  “I hope you got plenty,” I growled, “to pay me for the worst half-hour I ever lived.”

  “I did get plenty.” He stalked inside and up to the table, tossing down a small object that glittered in the light.

  I picked it up and turned it over. A flat, brass key. The sort that fits a Yale lock. I asked stupidly, “What is it?”

  “I found it on a key ring in his bureau drawer. Can’t you guess what it fits?”

  “I’m not in any mood for guessing games.” I went to the cupboard, got out a bottle of decent whisky, and took a drink.

  “It unlocks Mrs. Ullendorf’s apartment,” Burke told me. “I stopped at the Obispo on my way back and tried it.”

  “So what?” I challenged.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “One more tiny link in the evidence that may convict Devoe. Here’s something else that may interest you more.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to me.

  I smoothed it out and stared at a printed form from the Eureka Typewriter Repair Shop, billing D. Devoe for typewriter repairs. The bill was marked paid and was dated April 1st, more than a month previously.

  I shook my head and said, “You’re still one up on me.”

  “His typewriter is quite an old model. But there’s a funny thing about it. The type is new. Almost unused. I have an idea the Eureka records will show that new type was put on Devoe’s machine April 1st. And don’t forget. Our experts say that the cards and advertisement show signs of all having been written at the same time—some time before April 1st.”

  I sat down and had another drink on that. Burke had one with me and we not-too-soberly agreed that the end of the long trail seemed to be in sight.

  Before he left that night, Burke told me he was going to have a plain-clothes man start shadowing Devoe at once. The actual arrest would wait until the next day after making a final check on Mrs. Ullendorf’s papers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WHEN I ROLLED OUT OF BED the next morning I felt sluggish and oppressed. I sat on the edge of the bed and yawned a couple of times and the fog disappeared from my brain and I was seized with the idea that important things would be happening. Today should write finis to the Mum murder case.

  It was almost nine o’clock. I went to the telephone and called Jerry Burke’s office. He wasn’t in. I tried his apartment and got him there. He confessed he had overslept and suggested we meet at the Eureka Typewriter Shop at 9:30.

  I put on coffee water and dressed. At 9:30 I walked into the Eureka Typewriter Shop just behind Burke.

  The sallow-faced fellow who came to wait on us wasn’t much interested in giving us information, but at Burke’s insistence he dug up a slip from a soiled file showing that on March twenty-second Devoe had ordered new type put on an Underwood typewriter. He said it would be impossible to locate the old type. That it had probably been thrown out long ago.

  That was the best we could do. It seemed to me to be enough. Burke had said all along that our man would prove to be fiendishly clever. This seemed to cinch it. He was clever enough to realize that all typewriters produce minor irregularities in their work which can be identified by an expert. After preparing the advertisements and cards, he had employed the very simple expedient of having the type changed—much better than getting rid of a machine which might be traced back to him.

  I said these things to Burke as we went from the shop to keep his appointment with the District Attorney and the Judge to see the sealed envelope opened. He nodded with a little more expression than I had seen on his face since the case began. There was evidence of tightening tension in his attitude, as though a fierce restlessness at last goaded him on. I gathered that a spark had finally lighted the slumbering fire within him and that there would be no more hesitation now until the end was reached.

  The District Attorney and another lawyer were waiting for us with the Judge in his private chambers. They were seated about a table with a large, sealed envelope lying on it. The other lawyer was introduced to us as one
of a firm retained by the bank; he was on hand to protect the interests of their deceased client.

  We drew up chairs, and the five of us sat around the table. With a glance at the Judge, the District Attorney picked up the envelope and said, “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?”

  The Judge nodded and the District Attorney tore open the envelope. There was drama packed into that moment. Here was a murdered woman come to life through words written before death. I know I was having a hard time with my breathing as he shook out a legal document and folded sheets of engraved stationery covered with flowing script.

  He unfolded the legal document first and glanced at it with pursed lips. “Mrs. Ullendorf’s will, dated December 29, last year.” His practiced gaze slid over the legal phraseology to the lines dealing with the disposition of her estate.

  “Everything is left to various local charities,” he announced, laying the will aside and taking up the folded sheets.

  I let out my disappointment in a long breath and glanced at Burke. At that moment, more than ever before, I felt like exploding a stick of dynamite under him. From his bland expression of unconcern, one would gather that he was pleased with the terms of Mrs. Ullendorf’s will. And I thought he was betting everything on the hope that at least the bulk of her estate would be left to Dick Devoe.

  The District Attorney began reading Dorothy Ullendorf’s written words in a dry, precise voice:

  “TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  “I will be dead when you read this. I can’t face having the truth known until I’m dead and beyond Dick’s power to hurt me. I know I am being weak to keep this all a secret until I’m out of the way. I don’t care. I have a feeling it won’t be very long now. Why mess up what little time I have left by telling something that should have been told years ago?

  “It’s Dick, of course. I’ve let him rule me through fear so long that I may as well let it go on until I’ll be out of the way where he can’t hurt me.

  “It began soon after we were married. Dick was subject to terrible spells. I’ve tried to pity him. It’s gone past pity now.