Murder Most Ingenious

by Kip Chase

  The Monday evening following the first showing of the Gauguin, the three buddies met in a small bar next to the ‘Swinging Times’ for a couple of beers. When Pat first began working at the ‘Swinging Times’ it had been their habit to meet there occasionally, but they soon found the crowd and the noise made easy conversation impossible. Now they would stop in, tell Pat where they were, then retire to the next-door bar. When she was not singing she would join them there. The owner of the ‘Swinging Times’ disapproved of this, as he believed it was part of the singer’s duty to mingle with the customers between numbers. However, Pat had reached a degree of prominence where this sort of thing could no longer be really expected. She figured the owner should be grateful that she did any extra-curricular work at all.

  George and Tony were discussing the exhibition while John listened politely. Only when the value of the painting was mentioned did he show any interest.

  ‘One hundred and thirty thousand dollars?’ John gave a low whistle.

  Tony said, ‘Old man Goodall thinks it’s worth more than that. Maybe one-fifty. What do you think, George?’

  ‘I’d say Goodall is right. The painting was probably insured a number of years ago and hasn’t been revalued. But then Gauguins took a dip a while ago. There are so many of them, you know. If this is a really fine one, one hundred and fifty thousand might even be conservative.’

  ‘My God, what I could do with that money’, John said.

  ‘You could build yourself one hell of a stereo set, that’s for sure, John’, George said.

  John made a gesture of annoyance with one hand, almost succeeding in tipping over his glass of beer. ‘With that kind of money I could really accomplish something. Why, do you know, just last week I put out seventeen hundred bucks for a temperature compensated calibrator? Seventeen hundred bucks! And a month ago it was three hundred dollars for a DC scope.’ John shook his head woefully.

  ‘Doesn’t McMillan have all that stuff?’ Tony interrupted. McMillan was the research company where John worked.

  ‘Why should you have to buy any equipment?’

  ‘Because I’m working on a project of my own. I have to account for all the time I put in at McMillan. If I use their gear and their money, they’d have patent rights. It says so in the contract. And even using my own time and equipment McMillan would still contest the patent. But at least I’d have a fighting chance.’

  ‘Ah, ha,’ said George, ‘you’re not the pure, dedicated scientist you’ve always pretended to be. You have a mercenary streak, just like the rest of us humans.’

  John shrugged. ‘I suppose I am interested in money. I never really thought about it much. I just figure I’d have it coming. That’s all.’

  ‘Don’t we all’, said Tony softly.

  George smiled at his friend. ‘What’s the matter, buddy? The Goodall Gallery getting you down?’

  ‘Not too much. Just feel a little restless once in a while.’

  ‘That figures. Got any long-range plans in mind?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. Just where the hell am I going and that sort of thing. I’ve got sort of interested in this art business and it is a business, though you highbrows might not think so.’

  A waitress wearing tight pants and a tighter sweater ambled over to the table. ‘Ready for another round, dears?’ she asked, in nasal mid-Western accents.

  ‘Sure’, said Tony. ‘Three more.’ He kept his eyes on the girl as she minced back to the bar. He was thinking that a year ago such a girl would have been a desirable acquisition; now, while he still appreciated the exterior qualities he felt the need for something more. He recalled the conversation between himself and George on the subject. ‘What you’re looking for, Tony,’ George had said, ‘is awareness. Goodall’s granddaughter Jennifer has it. Pat has it. It’s a quality difficult to define, but unmistakable.’

  Tony ran a finger around the edge of his empty beer glass. His perspective on many matters had been sharply altered in the course of the last year.

  ‘Oh, I know it’s a business, all right,’ George was saying, ‘but like any other business you have to know the product you’re dealing with. You’re a pretty sharp boy, Tony, and you’ve done a damn good job at the Gallery. But you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn about art, and you’ve got to have capital. That is, if you’re thinking in terms of dealership. Now, managing a gallery is something else again. If you are really serious about it, you could probably do okay. But you’re not the type, any more than John here.’

  Tony shrugged. ‘I’m not the type for anything, except maybe the Marine Corps. And you know how I feel about that. But I gotta make a living. This is as good a way as any.’

  John broke into the conversation. ‘George is right, Tony. I don’t doubt that you could do a good job. It’s just that you need something you can really throw yourself into. Something that would help use up some of that nervous energy. I don’t think that puttering around in an art gallery is the answer for you.’

  ‘I don’t putter around. Even in a little six-room operation like Goodall’s got.’

  ‘All right. Maybe not’, John conceded. ‘But you’d always be working for somebody. Probably somebody like Goodall. Does that appeal to you?’

  ‘No. But I’ve known worse guys. I didn’t know you knew Goodall’, Tony said curiously.

  ‘I don’t really’, John answered. ‘Met him once at George’s, and I read about him in the paper every once in a while. Then there’s Jack Christie. I hear plenty from him. Do you know Christie?’

  ‘I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place him’, Tony answered.

  ‘Well, he’s my landlord, among other things. Big real estate man. Posters all over the South Bay. I’m sure you’ve seen them. Honest Jack Christie, he calls himself. I stop into his office once a month to give him the rent – that is, when I remember. Usually, when I forget, he sends a girl around, but once in a while he comes himself. I forget pretty often. Anyway, one time I mentioned to Christie that I had a friend who worked for Goodall. “God help him”, he said. Then he spent a while telling me what he thought of Goodall. They’re involved in some sort of land deal together and Christie claims Goodall is a crook and a liar, among other things. I didn’t pay much attention to the details.’

  Tony smiled. ‘I’ll mention Christie’s name to the old man one of these days and see what sort of reaction I get. Speaking of reactions, take a look at those drooling men at the bar. Your wife just walked in, George.’

  It was after four in the morning when John got home. The three men and Pat had finished off the evening at the Craigs’ house when Pat got off work. There had been more beer and an argument between Tony and George concerning the stability of current price tags of the work of modern masters. During the discussion John had attempted to correct a minor distortion he had noticed in the upper registers of the Craigs’ hi-fi set. He was pretty sure all it needed was a simple adjustment of the audio-input trim pots. Unfortunately, his usually very delicate sense of touch had been impaired by an evening of drinking. The hi-fi set was now inoperative. Full of remorse, John had consumed several cups of Pat’s black, strong coffee. He had then vowed he would not leave the house until he had repaired the malfunction. But George and Pat had been firm. The repair job had been postponed.

  Reaching home, John, full of coffee, was too restless to go to bed. He descended instead to the basement, groped about on his workbench, and found an FM tuner chassis he had been working on intermittently. The sheet metal had been scribed and centre-punched, and some of the holes had been drilled. Working methodically, he placed the chassis between two small blocks of wood, then inserted it in his bench vice, checking his sketches to make sure he had positioned the punch marks correctly. He then went to work with his electric drill.

  Twenty minutes later the holes had been drilled. Next step was to saw a slit diagonally into each of the corners so that the edges of the chassis could be bent over for its supports. It was now twenty minutes to five, an
d John was faced with a decision. If he went to bed he would have two hours’ sleep before his alarm rang. Was two hours worth bothering about? He began to look for his metal saw.

  Six

  DAWN CAME to Los Angeles. Downtown, half a mile from the huge gleaming City Hall, the winos huddled in the doorways along Fifth Street began to stir. Under the cloak of darkness, the police were tolerant. When light came to the city, the winos must move on – to a mission, to another doorway, to jail.

  In the San Fernando Valley the miles and miles of spanking new housing tracts slept peacefully.

  The columnists and the people they wrote about in Hollywood were just getting to bed, or just getting out of bed and going home.

  The South Bay area was quiet. The sand on the beaches was damp and reflected a dull sheen from the early morning dew. At the ‘Swinging Times’ the doors were closed and bolted, the bar and cocktail lounge deserted. But from a back room there was to be heard the soft clink of glasses and a murmur of voices.

  ‘I raise you five.’

  ‘I fold.’

  ‘All right, Hal, I gotta see you to keep you honest.’

  In another room upstairs over the bar the owner of the ‘Swinging Times’, Willie Delaney, and one of his waitresses, Jeanie, were discussing a problem. Jeanie was saying, as she pulled on her slip, ‘I just don’t know what to do, Willie. Jock Harrison isn’t the kind of guy you want to cross up and I could use the dough. But it’s sure a dirty trick on Jack, and I don’t think he’d ever believe that I didn’t have nothing to do with it. Though if Jock says he can fix it that way, maybe he can.’

  Willie Delaney was lying on his back on the bed, his eyes closed. He had pulled a grimy sheet over his naked body. Willie was sensitive about the size of his stomach. The mattress and the bedsprings had long since ceased to provide horizontal support. Willie looked as though he were lying in a hammock. As Jeanie finished speaking he rolled over on one elbow and sluggishly opened his red-rimmed eyes. His voice was high, and had an unpleasant whining quality.

  ‘What the hell, Jeanie, if Jock asked you to do it you’re already involved. You might as well pick up some loot.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The girl stepped into a satin shiny black skirt, then sat on the bed to put on her high-heeled pumps. ‘Got a cigarette, honey?’ she asked.

  ‘In my pants, on the floor there. Get me one too.’

  The girl extracted a cigarette, then handed the package to Willie. She lit up shakily.

  ‘Why do I get involved in these goddam situations?’ she complained. ‘Everywhere I go it seems like something comes up. It always looks good at first, but it always costs me in the end.’

  Willie smiled, revealing irregular tobacco-stained teeth. ‘No sweat, baby, go the route for Harrison. If it comes off, you’ll get paid, and Jock will know he can trust you. With a guy like that it can mean a lot. So Christie drops you. There are plenty of other guys like him around. Harrison’s a big man. He could help you a lot.’

  ‘Oh, hell, I guess you’re right. Well, time for mother to be getting home.’ Jeanie reached for her blouse, thrown carelessly over the foot of the bed.

  ‘I think maybe we got time for one more’, Willie said, arching his eyebrows.

  ‘Who are you trying to kid?’ The girl gave her boss a playful nudge and continued dressing.

  Seven

  THE DEPUTY SHERIFF was a large, ham-handed man; his red neck contrasted sharply with his khaki coloured shirt. It was two o’clock in the morning and he was engaged in a job he particularly disliked – trying to soothe a semi-hysterical woman. Awkwardly he patted Mrs. Goodall’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be all right, ma’am. The doctor’s on his way.’

  ‘I don’t want the doctor. I want my husband. What have they done to you, Hubert? What have they done to you?’ Geraldine Goodall’s voice was choked; her words barely understandable. Her eyes were glazed and vacant-looking.

  The deputy looked beseechingly at Jennifer huddled in the corner. ‘Maybe you could help, miss.’

  The girl, white-faced, only stared back. ‘You had better get Tony’, she finally managed to whisper. ‘Get Tony.’

  A plain-clothes man from the Sheriff’s Detective Bureau leaned over the girl. ‘Tony who?’ he asked gently.

  Jennifer closed her eyes, swallowed, licked her lips, and said with difficulty, ‘Tony Ortega. He works – for my grandfather. Maybe he can help you.’ Jennifer swallowed again. ‘His number’s in the directory by the phone . . . Just leave us alone. Leave us alone.’

  The detective turned to the deputy. ‘Get that man on the phone. Tell him to come up to that building in the back where the body was found.’

  When Tony arrived at the Gallery the headlights from several police cars and an ambulance illuminated the front of the building. A burly deputy escorted him to the back room. The door to the room was closed. The deputy knocked sharply on the heavy oak panelling. The door was opened from the inside.

  The scene in the room, etched sharply in shadow and light by the single bulb that hung from the ceiling, appeared to Tony unreal and theatrical. In front of the desk was the body of Hubert Goodall. He was lying partially on his back, a portion of his left arm tucked grotesquely under his hip. The other arm was flung outward, its crippled fingers clenched convulsively. Goodall’s mouth was open; his steely blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. The front of his soft brown worsted suit was slashed. Pieces of the brown material and of a white shirt were imbedded in the raw wound showing through the ripped clothing. There was not a great deal of blood.

  Tony raised his eyes to the safe behind the desk. The thick steel door stood ajar. There was the sudden flash of a strobe light. A police photographer, his four-by-five Speed-Graphic mounted on a tripod, was taking pictures of the body. Tony looked around at the rest of the people crowded into the small room. The plain-clothes man who had opened the door was leaning against the desk, notebook and pencil in hand. Two uniformed deputies were standing around, their faces stolid under their broad-brimmed troopers’ hats. In a corner of the room an older man sat quietly in a wheel-chair. His hair was grey and thick; his tanned face framed a pair of bright blue eyes. The plain-clothes man put the notebook and pencil down on the desk and held out his hand.

  ‘Mr. Ortega, I’m Detective-Lieutenant Horowitz.’

  Tony nodded and shook hands.

  ‘Pretty messy business’, Horowitz said conversationally. He picked up the pad and pencil. ‘What can you tell us about it, Mr. Ortega?’

  Tony ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘Nothing. Not a thing. It’s a great shock.’

  ‘I understand. You were employed by Mr. Goodall?’

  ‘Yes. That is, partly. I get two pay-cheques – one from Mr. Goodall, one from the Peninsula Art Association.’

  ‘Then you were really only partially employed by Mr. Goodall?’

  ‘Well, yes. Except I really worked for him. He was my boss.’

  The detective nodded. ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘This afternoon – that is, yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘That would be Wednesday. What time, Mr. Ortega?’ Horowitz continued speaking in a polite, conversational tone.

  ‘Oh, about four, I guess. I usually stay until five when the guard comes on, but I wanted to leave early today. Mr. Goodall was here. He said it was okay, he’d stay over until the guard came. We have to have someone here all the time, you know, because of the painting. My God, the painting! Did they get that?’

  ‘What painting?’

  ‘The Gauguin. “The Reclining Lady”. It’s in the safe.’

  Horowitz smiled gently. ‘Maybe you’d better look.’

  Tony skirted the body carefully and walked into the safe. Seconds later he reappeared holding an empty frame in one hand. ‘It’s gone. Cut out of the frame. A hundred and fifty thousand bucks.’

  Horowitz’s voice brightened. ‘It was worth that much?’

  Tony nodded. ‘Goodall thought so. It was insured for a hundred and thirt
y thousand. It doesn’t belong to us. It’s on loan. That’s why we had the guards.’

  The detective scratched at his closely-cropped hair. ‘Now let’s get this straight. You don’t normally have guards, but you had them because of this painting?’

  ‘That’s right. We got it on loan from the Coberly Collection, let’s see, a week ago last Monday. It was part of the agreement that we had to have an armed guard on the premises twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘Well, that certainly simplifies our motive. Was there anything else of value kept in the safe? Any cash?’

  ‘No. A couple of other paintings, neither of them worth much. No cash.’

  Horowitz turned to the old man in the wheel-chair. ‘You know anything about this painting, Carmichael?’

  ‘Nope,’ said the old man cheerfully, ‘I’m not the artistic type.’

  Tony looked at the man in the wheel-chair curiously. Horowitz said, ‘Mr. Carmichael is here in an advisory capacity, Mr. Ortega.’

  Tony waited for a further explanation, but none was forthcoming.

  Horowitz briskly returned to his questioning. Tony told a brief, clear story. He had left Hubert Goodall at about four in the afternoon. Mr. Goodall had intended to do some work in the back room. That was not unusual. He often used the room to work in when he didn’t wish to be disturbed at home. When Tony had left, Mr. Goodall had already started to work through a pile of papers at his elbow on the desk. At this point, Horowitz’s questions became more specific.

  ‘Now, Mr. Ortega, you have said that you wanted to leave early this afternoon. Why?’

  ‘I had some things to do.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Horowitz pursed his lips. ‘Maybe not. Who do you think killed him, Mr. Ortega?’

  ‘It seems pretty obvious. Whoever stole the painting.’

  Horowitz closed the notebook and slipped it into his pocket. He hitched himself up to a sitting position on the top of the desk.