by Kip Chase
‘Sure, Jock. Sure you can.’
‘That’s a good boy, Willie. For reasons we needn’t go into, I wouldn’t want the news about this little business of mine to get around.’
‘You mean what you set up with Jeanie?’
Jock Harrison reached over and patted the bar-owner on the shoulder. ‘That’s right, Willie, that’s exactly what I mean. Say, is she around now?’
‘Well, ah, I don’t know. She’s not due in until six. Sometimes she comes in for a little chow about this time. Just a sandwich, you know, we keep stuff in the kitchen for the help. I’ll... ah . . . check.’
‘You check, Willie.’
Willie Delaney stood up rapidly, then scuttled away in the direction of the bar. Seconds later, he was back. ‘No, the porter hasn’t seen her. I guess she hasn’t been in yet. You want me to tell her something for ya?’
‘I’ll deliver my own message, Willie. Thanks. And don’t forget what I told you. I wouldn’t want you to forget, Willie.’
Willie smiled nervously and gave a short laugh which echoed ghost-like in the empty room. ‘Sure, Jock, you can count on me.’
Jock Harrison again patted the bar-owner on the shoulder, nodded, then lumbered out of the room leaving a thick purple pall of cigar smoke in his wake.
Willie was still sitting down, drumming his finger-tips against the table top when, less than two minutes later, Jeanie walked in through the front door. Her high heels tripped lightly across the dance floor.
‘Hi, boss’, she said brightly.
At the first sound of her footsteps Willie had glanced up apprehensively. Now he greeted her with a frown. ‘You see Jock Harrison?’ he demanded abruptly.
Jeanie looked puzzled. ‘When do you mean?’
‘I mean just now. Just when you came in’, Willie snapped.
‘No. I didn’t see him. Say, how do you like my new dress?’ She turned around slowly as she supposed a model would do. ‘Knocks you out, don’t it? I saw one just like it in one of them fashion magazines, but I got this down on the Strand. Twelve bucks, plus tax.’
Willie glanced grumpily at the dress. It was light green, of some shiny material, cut closely in a pseudo-Chinese style. It had a mandarin-type collar with a plunging neckline. Across the hips the dress was skin-tight. Up one side was a slit extending to halfway between Jeanie’s knee and the top of her thigh.
‘You got robbed’, Willie said. ‘Sit down. I want to talk to ya.’
He related the conversation he had had with Harrison, concluding with, ‘So for Christ’s sake keep your mouth shut. A little dirty politics is one thing, but this is murder.’
‘But you’re the only one I told about it, Willie’, the girl protested.
‘Well, he heard about it, and it wasn’t from me’, Willie grumbled.
‘Does he still want to make the tape?’ Jeanie asked. ‘I mean, is it all off now, or what?”
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything more about it, and I don’t want to know anything more. Just forget it, you understand? Forget it.’
‘All right, Willie. Okay if I get myself a sandwich?’
‘Sure, sure. Go ahead.’
Jeanie walked away uncertainly, her bright green dress catching an occasional reflection from the mirror behind the bar.
Willie lit himself a cigarette. He puffed quickly, his chin cupped in the palm of one hand. A hell of a note, he was thinking. Why do I always have to get involved in these things? I try to keep my nose clean. I run a good business, don’t cheat the customers any more than the rest of these crumbs around here, and what happens to me? Wind up getting a guy like Jock Harrison sore at me, that’s what happens. Well, it can’t be helped, I guess. He snuffed out his freshly-lit cigarette and walked over to the bar.
‘A shot of Daniels, Hal’, he said to the bartender, who was idly fanning out some bar napkins in preparation for the second shift trade. Willie sipped at the whisky reflectively. He wished to hell he hadn’t been so quick in advising Jeanie to take Harrison’s job.
Ten
JENNIFER lay on her bed and wept. It had been two days since her grandfather was murdered, and between her own shock and the attention required by her grandmother it was the first chance the girl had to have a good cry. The strain had caught up with her. Her slim body heaved convulsively as she tried to muffle her sobbing with a pillow over her head. Finally, she cried herself out and fell into a light sleep. She was awakened by a gentle rapping at her bedroom door.
‘Just a minute, please’, Jennifer said. She got up quickly, smoothed out her dress, went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, drying it briskly with a heavy towel. Then she opened the bedroom door, to be confronted by the nurse who had been called in to take care of Mrs. Goodall during the crisis.
Jennifer pushed back a stray wisp of light brown hair. ‘I . . . I was resting.’
The nurse, a dumpy, pudgy-faced woman, smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, my dear, but there are a couple of gentlemen to see you.’
‘Oh? Who?’
The nurse coughed discreetly. ‘Policemen, I believe they are.’
Jennifer’s face twisted into an expression of annoyance. ‘I don’t know why they can’t leave us alone. There’s nothing more we can tell them. Do they want to see my grandmother, too?’
‘They just asked for you.’
‘All right. I’ll be right down.’
When Jennifer descended the stairs she found Carmichael and Lieutenant Horowitz sitting stiffly in the front room. The lieutenant rose when the girl entered the room. Without offering to shake hands, Jennifer sat down and stared solemnly at Lieutenant Horowitz. There was an awkward silence, then Horowitz said, ‘We’re sorry to bother you, miss.’
‘I’m sure you are’, Jennifer said sharply.
‘But’, Horowitz continued smoothly, ‘I’m sure you’re as anxious as we are to find the man who killed your grandfather.’
The girl’s eyes softened. ‘Oh, yes. Of course I am.’
‘Fine. Now then, would you mind telling us just what happened the night your grandfather was killed? By the way, I believe you have met Mr. Carmichael? He was with me that first night.’
‘Yes, I believe I remember him.’ The girl shot a quick, curious glance at Carmichael, then looked back at Horowitz. ‘Why do you want me to tell you again? I already answered all your questions.’
Horowitz dipped into a coat pocket and brought out a scuffed leather-covered notebook. ‘That’s right, you did. But we really didn’t get a very complete story from you. You were upset, naturally, and I didn’t want to make it any harder on you. Now, let’s see . . .’ Horowitz consulted the notebook. ‘You last saw your grandfather alive about three o’clock when you went over to the . . .’ Horowitz squinted at the page ‘. . . Gallery. You talked to him briefly, then left. You had supper about six with your grandmother, went out to visit a friend, came home about ten, watched television for an hour, then went to bed. Sometime after midnight you were awakened by your grandmother who told you what had happened. Is all that correct?’
Jennifer nodded. ‘That’s right. That’s just the way it was. There isn’t anything else I can tell you.’
‘Well, miss, if you’ll pardon me there’s quite a bit else you can tell me. Now let’s start from the beginning. Please think very hard and don’t leave out anything. Take as much time as you like. Why did you see your grandfather that afternoon?’ Horowitz had been speaking in a soft, soothing voice, but his last question was sharp and clear. The girl started.
‘It was nothing important. He called the house and said he was out of coffee. He asked me to get some for him. So I did.’
‘You mean you took him a cup of coffee?’
‘No. He kept a jar of the instant kind in his office. You know – it’s powdered and you mix it with hot water in the cup. He drank gallons of it when he worked late at night. He said he had run out and wanted some more. I went to the store, got a jar, and took it to hi
m. That’s all.’
‘Your grandfather was in the back room?’ Horowitz asked.
‘Yes. He and Tony were there. They were going over some books of some sort. I just stayed a few minutes. They acted like they didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Did your grandfather seem upset?’
Jennifer frowned in concentration. ‘No. He seemed perfectly natural. He did say not to expect him for dinner, that he would work right on through.’
‘Wasn’t that unusual?’
‘No. It happened fairly often. If he got going on a project he wanted to keep right on with it. He said people ate too much anyway.’
There was a brief silence while Horowitz flipped back through his notebook. His look was one of baffled frustration.
‘All right, miss,’ he said finally, ‘just one more question. Is there anyone you know, or could conceivably think of, that would want your grandfather dead?’
Jennifer shook her head violently. ‘No. No. There is no one. I have thought and thought about it. Last night I lay awake for hours thinking and thinking. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing. I just can’t imagine.’ The girl’s voice broke in an only half-controlled sob.
‘All right’, Horowitz said gently. ‘Thank you for your help. That will be all for now, unless Mr. Carmichael has anything he’d like to ask you.’
The old man stirred restlessly in his wheel-chair. When he spoke the natural gruffness of his voice was considerably softened.
‘Jennifer, I know how upsetting this whole thing must be to you, and I don’t want to make it any more difficult. But there is one thing. Frankly, I think you’re holding out on us.’
Jennifer’s eyes widened in dismay. Her lips started to form the word ‘no’, but Carmichael refused to let himself be interrupted.
‘Now I don’t necessarily mean about the killing, but I have the impression there is something you’re not telling us, something you probably think has nothing to do with your grandfather’s murder. But I assure you, we need every scrap of information we can get. Now, what is it that’s bothering you?’
The girl looked straight into Carmichael’s eyes. ‘There’s nothing more, Mr. Carmichael.’
Back in the squad car both men were silent for a few minutes, each pursuing his own train of thought. For Horowitz the case had several ramifications. In addition to his natural desire to see justice done there was his career to think of. A speedy and successful closing of the case would certainly be to his benefit – promotions, pay raises, and all the rest. Whereas if the case dragged on over a long period of time or, worse yet, wound up in the Unsolved File, it certainly would do him no good and would jeopardize future promotional possibilities. His anxiety to do a good job, therefore, had a special bite to it. It was his first really big case and he didn’t want to muff it.
Carmichael, on the other hand, could afford a more objective viewpoint. While he shared Horowitz’s natural desire to bring the criminal to justice, he had no compulsion to prove himself on the case. He had already demonstrated his ability many times over. He had no particular desire or reason to enhance his own reputation. Further, there were certain points he need not concern himself with. He knew and respected Horowitz and trusted him to follow with meticulous care the normal police routine involved in such a case. Witnesses would be questioned, alibis would be checked, laboratory facilities would be utilized. Knowing this, Carmichael felt he could allow himself the luxury of theorizing. Hardworking cops like Horowitz had little time to probe the psychological aspects of a murder case. They worked on rules of evidence. With a short sigh Carmichael closed his eyes, slid down in the front seat, and rested the back of his neck against the top of the seat.
Horowitz took a quick look at the old man, and a pang of guilt assailed him. I really had no right to involve him in this, he thought. He’s earned a rest. When I’m his age and have my pension I don’t think I’d care for some hick deputy sheriff to put me back in harness. Well, what the hell, he rationalized, Carmichael can pull out any time he wants to. And besides, sometimes I think he almost enjoys it. Horowitz forced himself back to practical considerations. Tomorrow morning, he told himself, I’ll have to get this thing organized. It looks like this isn’t going to be one of those two-day jobs, he glumly conceded. Now, who can I spare in the department full-time for leg work, and who can I borrow from downtown? Hell, we don’t even have a decent list of suspects yet. That Christie business will have to be looked into pretty carefully. Then there’s the family, of course, though right now the possibilities don’t look too good there. Like Carmichael says, our best bet is the guard. He had to know more than he’s telling. Nobody walked through that adobe wall, that’s for sure. Guess it’s time to get him and sweat him a little. It was a prospect the detective did not look forward to.
Eleven
JOHN WILLIAMS was beginning to get a little annoyed. At some time in the past he had casually mentioned Hubert Goodall’s name to one of the secretaries he had dated. Since the murder the girl had plied him with questions and uncovered his relationship with George Craig and the murdered man. His working day was now constantly interrupted by people who dropped by his desk to squeeze out any information they could concerning the crime. Unfortunately, news was at a low ebb and the newspapers were playing the Goodall case for all it was worth.
The first day or so, John tried to discourage his visitors. He told them he had never met Goodall and knew very little about him. As the days went by and interest in the case continued, John made it quite clear he was resentful of the questioning. He even went to the extent of painfully hand-printing a small placard to be placed on his desk which read, ‘THE BUTLER DID IT’. This grim attempt at humour only slightly discouraged the questioners. The fourth morning after the killing, John took occasion to complain to his supervisor about the situation. He accosted the man in the hallway between the chemical analysis lab and the prototype assembly room.
‘Ed,’ John began, ‘I have a problem.’
The supervisor, a ferret-faced man with thinning mouse-coloured hair, peered inquisitively over his spectacles at John.
John continued, ‘This damn murder case is driving me batty. Everybody in this company is trying to pump me for inside information. In the first place, I don’t know a damn thing about it and in the second place, even if I did, it’s seriously interfering with my work.’
The supervisor emitted a phony-sounding chuckle. ‘Oh, come on now, John,’ he said, ‘surely you’re exaggerating. Besides, they’re going to catch the guy that did it in a couple of days and it will all be over with. And even if they don’t, interest in this sort of thing can only last so long. I’m sure you can weather the storm.’
‘Dammit,’ John snapped, ‘it isn’t a matter of weathering the storm. I’ve got work to do and I’m being interfered with. I’d like you to do something about it. Not ten minutes ago I was working on a control circuit for that high-capacity diode we’ve been fooling with and some nitwit of a typist poked her head in the door and asked me if it were true that Goodall was maintaining an incestuous relationship with his granddaughter. This is getting ridiculous.’
‘Okay, John, okay. Tell you what. MacAffee’s on vacation for a couple of weeks. Why don’t you move in there for the time being. Being up in the executive wing, I don’t think you’ll get bothered much. Of course, this will start a flurry of rumours that you are replacing MacAffee, but that can’t be helped. I’ll speak to the Old Man about it this afternoon. I’m sure it’ll be okay.’
John nodded. ‘Thanks a lot, Ed. That should help.’ He turned to move down the corridor, but the supervisor’s voice stopped him.
‘Say, John, that isn’t true about the old man and his granddaughter, is it?’
John kept on moving. He walked straight to his office and dialled George Craig’s home phone number. Knowing the habits of his friend, John let the phone ring a full thirty seconds. He was finally rewarded for his patience by George’s impatient voice at the other e
nd of the line.
‘Hello?’
‘This is John, George. I’m taking the afternoon off. How about inviting me over for a drink?’
‘Sure. Come on over. Say, you always work Saturdays?’
‘Yep. Be right over.’
From the congested area bordering the Los Angeles International Airport where his firm was located it took John close on twenty minutes to reach George’s beach home. He pulled his steel-blue Karmann-Ghia into the driveway and stopped abruptly, bringing a protesting screech from the tyres. John mounted the stone steps quickly and entered the front room without the formality of knocking.
The sound of running water was coming from the kitchen. The water was turned off and George immediately appeared, drying his hands on a paper towel. He gave his friend a quick smile.
‘What’s this afternoon-off bit?’
John shrugged. ‘Just decided I didn’t feel like working.’
‘Welcome to the club. What’re you drinking?’
‘Scotch and soda. One ice cube.’
Drinks in hand, the two men adjourned to the living-room; George slumped in a canvas-covered wire-frame chair, John stretched out on the armless sofa, his feet propped up by an overstuffed hassock.
‘What’s the problem, Buddy?’ George began. ‘You’re not looking too happy.’
John sloshed the single ice cube around in his glass. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, this murder is sort of getting me down.’
‘Whatta you mean, getting you down?’ George’s voice scaled up in surprise. ‘You didn’t even know Goodall, did you?’
‘Of course not. It’s those idiot people at work. Somehow they got the mistaken impression I’ve got the inside line on this case and they’re about to drive me nuts with their fruity questions.’
George laughed. ‘Well, don’t let it get you down. It can’t last very long.’
‘You mean the police are on to something?’
‘Not that I know of. I just mean, one way or another, it’s bound to die down pretty soon.’
