by Kip Chase
‘Yes’, he agreed. ‘It would seem obvious. Except for a very interesting situation here, Mr. Ortega. When the guard arrived, he checked in with Mr. Goodall. In this room here. There was no one else in the building. That was about five o’clock. Goodall said he didn’t want to be disturbed so the guard didn’t check again until his relief came on at one o’clock this morning. They checked the back room together and found the body. The safe had been opened. We got here about fifteen minutes later, the medical examiner a few minutes after us. He said Goodall had been dead six or seven hours. That would place the time of death somewhere around seven o’clock. The first guard swears he saw nothing, heard nothing, and never left the building. But while the guard was here, Mr. Ortega, someone entered the building, killed Goodall, drilled his way into the safe, took out the painting, and got out of the building. There are no windows in this room. The only entrance is through that corridor.’ Horowitz waved his pencil in the direction of the door. ‘And there are no windows in the corridor, either. The only way to get in here is by going right past the guard’s desk. All right. This leaves us with two possibilities: one, the guard is lying; two, there’s a way of getting into this room we don’t know about.’
There was an apologetic cough from the man in the wheel-chair. ‘One other possibility, Carl’, he said.
‘Yes, Carmichael?’
‘Mr. Goodall may have committed suicide.’
The detective looked startled. ‘It don’t seem very likely, Carmichael. There were three or four stab wounds in the stomach, and besides there’s no weapon.’
‘Oh, I agree, Carl. Of course he didn’t kill himself. It’s ridiculous. I just said technically it is a possibility.’
Horowitz nodded in acknowledgement, then turned back to Tony. ‘How about it, Mr. Ortega, any other way to get into this room?’
Tony shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. You can see for yourself, the walls are probably about a foot thick.’
Detective Horowitz circled the desk and approached the safe. Idly he ran the tip of a blunt finger along the inside of a hole that had been drilled in the safe door directly above the lock. He turned abruptly to the man in the wheel-chair.
‘What do you think, Carmichael? Pretty screwy business.’
Justine Carmichael gave a deep sigh. With an impatient gesture he brushed back a stray strand of grey hair with one of the big-veined hands that had been lying quietly in his lap. Why, he was asking himself, did he allow himself to get involved in this sort of thing. When he had retired from the Los Angeles Police Force seven years ago he had vowed that after forty years he was through with police work. He felt he had earned a rest. But the reputation he had built up as the hard-working and occasionally brilliant chief of the Homicide Division had betrayed him. A dozen times during these seven years he had been asked for assistance in tough homicide cases. Each time he had accepted and each time he had given himself an excuse – the appeal had been made by an old friend he couldn’t turn down, or the case was particularly tough and intriguing, or he had incurred in the past an obligation he felt he could not ignore. These reasons were only partially valid. Motivating factors he did not care to admit to himself included a strong sense of obligation to the profession he had served so faithfully, coupled with a still active mind discontented with the lassitude of retirement. His presence at the Goodall Gallery on this night, however, was one of pure chance. He had been a guest at the Horowitz home for supper. After the meal he had stayed for a pleasant evening of reminiscing, and had still been at the house when the call had come from the sheriff’s sub-station, shortly after one o’clock, for Horowitz to return to duty. Had the killing been the result of a bar-room fight or a family quarrel, the man on duty would have handled it, but the special circumstances of the crime and the prominence of the victim required that the top-ranking detective handle the investigation. Horowitz had invited Carmichael to come along.
Carmichael wheeled himself over to where the detective was standing by the safe door. The old man leaned forward and squinted into the darkened interior of the safe.
‘Going to go over this for prints, Carl?’ he asked pleasantly.
Horowitz nodded. ‘Yeah. Man on his way up from the lab.’
Carmichael grunted. ‘Got a flashlight?’ he asked.
‘There is a light socket in the safe’, Tony interrupted. He reached into a desk drawer, extracted a light bulb, and handed it to Horowitz.
The detective stepped gingerly inside the safe, his large frame almost filling the small space. Awkwardly he screwed the bulb into the ceiling fixture, pulled the light cord, and backed out of the safe.
Carmichael wheeled himself half into the safe to get a better look; there was a musty smell about the place, he noted. In one corner leaning against a wall-rack was an empty frame with bits of canvas clinging to the wood. ‘This the frame for the Gauguin?’ Carmichael asked.
‘Yes, sir’, Tony answered.
‘Looks like the painting was cut out with a knife, probably the same one used on the victim’, Carmichael remarked. The old man bent down to examine the floor of the safe. He picked up two tiny bits of blue thread and solemnly handed them to Horowitz. He then directed the detective’s attention to what appeared to be a tiny pile of metal shavings just inside the door. He looked up quizzically at Horowitz.
‘Shavings from the drilling?’ he asked.
‘Probably. We’ll check them.’
Carmichael grunted, then backed his wheel-chair out of the way.
Horowitz resumed his questioning of Tony.
‘Who knew that painting was here, Mr. Ortega?’
‘Anybody who could read the newspapers.’ There was a touch of sarcasm in the tone that the detective was quick to pick up.
Horowitz grinned. ‘Oh, I read the newspapers, all right, Mr. Ortega. Last time I looked Williams was hitting about ·306.’
Tony smiled back. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant there was no secret about the Gauguin being in the Gallery. As I said, it’s been on exhibition for over a week.’
Horowitz nodded. ‘All right. For the moment let’s forget the painting. Who would have personal reasons for killing Mr. Goodall?’
Tony put a hand in one pocket and leaned against a wall, his forehead furrowed in concentration. ‘That’s a pretty tough question, Mr. Horowitz. I really don’t know too much about Mr. Goodall’s business dealings, except for the Gallery, of course. He could be pretty unpleasant when he had a mind to. I suppose you could find lots of people who didn’t like him, but as for killing him . . .’ Tony shook his head. ‘I don’t know anybody who’d do that.’
‘Who are some of these people who didn’t like him?’
‘Well, on the Art Association Board of Directors there was Tom Evans, Will Donovan, and, of course . . .’ Tony stopped abruptly.
‘Yes, Mr. Ortega? Of course who?’
‘Well, you’re bound to find out one way or another. George Craig and Goodall didn’t get along too well. George is a friend of mine – a good friend. I would bet my life that he didn’t do it.’
The detective’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘George Craig and Tony Ortega. Sure, I know you guys. Came back from Korea with a bucketful of medals. There were three of you – the Three Musketeers, the newsboys called you. Well, what do you know about that. Who was that third guy?’
‘John Williams.’
‘Yeah. John Williams. My wife and I saw that movie they made about you a couple of years ago. That was great. Really great. Well, I guess seeing bodies lying around doesn’t bother you much, eh, Mr. Ortega?’
Tony didn’t smile. ‘It bothers me, Mr. Horowitz.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Well, where were we? Anybody else you can think of that didn’t like Goodall?’
‘There’s a fellow named Christie. He’s a realtor in the area. You probably know him. He and Goodall were fighting about some sort of land deal. I can’t think of anyone else offhand, but if you ask around you’ll turn up a lo
t more.’
The detective shot a sharp glance at Tony. ‘I gather you weren’t an admirer of the old man’s, either?’
‘He was okay once you got to know him. He had a sharp tongue, but he treated me fairly and I hadn’t any complaints.’
Horowitz started to ask another question but was interrupted by the opening of the door. A plain-clothes man popped his head inside the room and said to Horowitz, ‘There’s a doctor up at the house going to give sedation to the wife and granddaughter. You want to talk to them any more tonight?’
Horowitz shook his head. ‘It can wait till morning, I guess. What’s keeping the man from the lab?’
The plain-clothes man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Had to get him out of bed, probably. He should be here pretty quick.’
Horowitz closed his notebook with a snap and jammed it into his coat pocket. He turned to Tony.
‘All right, Mr. Ortega. Keep us notified of your where-abouts please.’
Tony nodded. He left the room with another curious glance at the body.
‘Let’s you and I have a little chat, Carmichael’, Horowitz said, jerking his head towards the door of the room. Horowitz opened the door so Carmichael could manœuvre his wheel-chair out into the hall.
‘We’ll be in one of these other rooms. Let me know as soon as the lab man arrives’, Horowitz shot back over his shoulder to the deputies. They nodded solemnly in unison.
They found their way into the Early California Art Room where Horowitz dropped heavily on to a redwood bench. He took out a cigarette, thoughtfully tapped one end against the package, and lit up. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
The old man leaned back in his wheel-chair, his fingers laced behind his thick grey hair. His voice was gruff but not lacking in warmth.
‘It’s a little early to say, Carl. It shouldn’t be too tough. Picture thieves are a rather specialized breed.’
‘You figure robbery was the motive, then?’
Carmichael shrugged. ‘A hundred and thirty thousand dollars is a lot of money. Of course a thief can’t get that for it, but if he’s a professional it still would be well worth his while.’
Horowitz furrowed his forehead, his dark eyebrows almost meeting above his nose. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘it might just as easily be a personal enemy of the old man’s and the painting was taken just as a cover-up.’
‘Could be. The reason I’m inclined to think not is the method of the killing.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, look. We’ve got what appears to be an impossible situation. Somebody walks past an armed guard, kills Goodall, breaks into the safe, takes the painting, and gets out – again without the guard seeing him. There’s only one answer to that.’
‘You mean, the guard’s in on it?’
‘That, or he was sleeping – which doesn’t seem very likely. This thing was planned. The killer had to bring the murder weapon with him and he had to bring the drill to open the safe. Doesn’t seem likely he would hope that the guard just happened to be asleep. And that means a pro.’
The detective nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s the first approach, all right. I just have the feeling there is something more to this thing than meets the eye.’
One of the deputies clumped into the room. ‘The reporters have begun to show up’, he said to Horowitz. ‘They want to talk to you.’
‘I’m busy,’ Horowitz snapped, ‘and keep them the hell out of here.’
The deputy shook his head glumly. ‘We’ll try.’
‘Don’t try. Do it.’
The detective turned back to Carmichael. ‘What’s your suggestion? Hang on the guard tonight and sweat him a little?’
Carmichael shook his head. ‘Let him go home, but keep him under surveillance. Do some digging tomorrow and see what you can come up with. Better to have a little something to go on before you take him in.’
Horowitz nodded. ‘You’re probably right. Guess I’m a little nervous. We don’t get many society-type murders back in the sticks. Usually it’s a wife clubbing hubby over the noggin with a beer bottle in some trailer court.’
Carmichael laughed. ‘It’s no different in the Big City, Carl. No different at all. Well, let’s get on with it.’
Eight
GEORGE CRAIG did not learn of the murder until almost noon Thursday. He was working in his studio, a glassed-in porch overlooking the ocean, when Pat opened the door. George looked up in irritation. Pat knew he didn’t like to be disturbed when he was working. His face softened at the sight of his wife. With her hair drawn carelessly back from her forehead, no make-up, and her eyes still dewy-eyed from sleep, she radiated an appealingly girlish quality.
‘Sorry to bother you, darling’, she said. ‘Just heard some rather interesting news on the radio.’ She paused for dramatic effect.
‘Well?’
‘Goodall was murdered last night.’
‘Goodall? Hubert? Are you kidding?’
‘I am not kidding. Somebody killed him and then stole the Gauguin.’
‘I’ll be damned’, George said slowly. ‘Was he shot?’
‘No. It was a knifing.’
A dark look of apprehension crossed George’s face. ‘A knife? Are you sure it was a knife?’
‘I guess so, he was stabbed to death. In the stomach.’
Slowly George picked up the brush he had laid down while talking to Pat, dipped it into a mayonnaise jar filled with turpentine, then carefully rubbed it dry with a rag.
‘Well?’ said Pat finally. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘I better call Tony.’ George put the brush down abruptly and headed for the phone in the living-room.
Pat dropped into a canvas-back chair and stared at the sunlight-dappled ocean. Her husband’s reaction puzzled her. For her part she was sorry that Goodall was dead, but she had known him only casually and the excitement of the circumstances of his death outweighed any small feelings of remorse she may have had. She had expected the same reaction from George. True, he had known the man more intimately than she, but Pat knew her husband disliked Goodall, though at times he had expressed sympathy for the old man. Pat’s thoughts turned to Goodall’s family – his wife and the granddaughter, Jennifer. It was the second tragedy in Jennifer’s life, Pat reflected, but the girl was young; she would survive. For Mrs. Goodall the adjustment to the death of her husband would not be so easy. The presence of Jennifer would ease the loneliness but Jennifer would be going away to school and then getting married, and the old woman would be left alone with her house and her thoughts.
From the living-room Pat heard the muffled tones of her husband’s voice. The conversation was brief. He reappeared shortly in the room.
‘Been talking to Tony’, he said. ‘The police had him up late. He’s still in bed. I’ll check with him later this afternoon.’
‘Do they have any idea who did it?’
George ran his tongue over his lips. ‘No. No idea.’
‘They must have some idea’, Pat persisted.
‘Sure. The guy that stole the painting’, George snapped. He turned aside and shakily lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then walked over to the window, leaned over, his palms on the window-sill, and stared intently at the ocean. ‘I’m sorry, Pat’, he said finally. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. This thing has unnerved me a little.’
Pat put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘I know, darling.’ She gave him a wifely pat. ‘You want to get back to work?’
‘No. I don’t feel like it right now. I think I’ll take a walk on the beach.’
He kissed Pat lightly on the cheek and then left the room, making his way down the exterior wooden steps that led to the sand below.
For a few minutes Pat watched her husband make his way up the beach. Then she turned slowly from the window, her face set in a puzzled frown.
At Sheriff’s Sub-station No. 17 there was an air of suppressed excitement. The outer office was crowded with reporters and photographers filling the air
with heavy blue cigarette smoke. They were clustered about in little groups, speaking in subdued voices. The officer at the desk carried on his regular duties, casting an occasional apprehensive eye at the men milling about.
A door to an inner office opened and Lieutenant Horowitz stepped out.
‘All right, fellows’, he said with forced cheerfulness. ‘You might as well leave. We won’t be issuing another statement until sometime this evening.’
None of the men made any move to go.
Horowitz shrugged. ‘Suit yourselves, but I’m telling you you’re wasting your time.’
One of the reporters spoke up. ‘How about that drill he used, Lieutenant. Has that been identified?’
Horowitz nodded glumly. ‘We know where it came from. It’s a Sears & Roebuck model and we identified the store where it was sold by the serial number on the drill. It was purchased sometime within the last couple of months but the people at Sears have no idea who bought it, and no fingerprints. It looks like a dead end.’
‘How about the murder weapon? Has that turned up?’ another reporter asked.
‘No, it hasn’t. Now look here, I could stand around all day answering your questions, but I’ve got work to do. We’ll let you know as soon as anything breaks. It’s not going to do you any good to stick around here.’ Horowitz turned back into his office with a stern glance over his shoulder at the reporters, none of whom had left.
Back in his office Horowitz gulped several cupsful of water from the cooler in the corner of the room. He then sat down heavily behind his desk, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at the wall opposite. He had had no sleep the previous night. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. Horowitz knew the most important time in solving a case were the first few hours following the crime. It was then that the trail was hot. But so far he had been frustrated in his attempt to make use of this time. A few of the preliminaries were out of the way, it was true, but no positive lead had been developed. He felt that having Carmichael in on the case was a stroke of good luck. This might well develop into one requiring the old man’s special talents. For straight police work Horowitz had no qualms about his own ability, but these exotic cases – his mouth twisted in distaste at the thought of the problems he might encounter. ‘Well, that’s the way it goes’, he said to himself. With a short sigh he picked up the phone and dialled the number of the County Coroner’s office.
