by Kip Chase
The tone of her question was half-joking, half-serious.
Tony paused before answering, then said reflectively, ‘I don’t know. Some guy who wanted the painting, I guess. That’s all I can think of.’
‘Well,’ said Pat brightly, ‘let’s play a little game. Each one of us will write down on a piece of paper all the people we can think of who might have done it. Then we’ll compare lists and then we’ll start eliminating.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Pat’, George said. ‘Leave it alone.’
‘No,’ said Pat obstinately, ‘I want to play the game. And so does Tony. Don’t you, Tony?’
‘Sure’, said Tony without enthusiasm.
‘Tony doesn’t want to play the game. I don’t want to play the game. Forget it’, George said.
‘Oh, I don’t mind’, Tony said. ‘Anything to keep your wife from pouting, George.’
Pat flashed a smile at Tony, stood up, and crossed the room to a writing-desk in the corner. The precise way she placed her feet when walking indicated to George she had been drinking too fast.
Pat returned with paper and pencil. ‘All right’, she said brightly. ‘Start with your number one suspect and work down.’
For a few minutes there was only the scratching of the pencils to be heard in the room. The lists completed, Pat collected the slips of paper from Tony and George and, seated crossed-legged on the floor, prepared to announce the results.
The first list she looked at was George’s. ‘Oh, George!’ she exclaimed in exasperation. Her husband had written:
1. Madame Chiang Kai-shek
2. Salvador Dali
3. Haile Selassie
Pat crumpled the paper in vexation and threw it on the floor. Then she looked at Tony’s list. It read:
1. Jock Harrison
2. Jack Christie
3. George Craig
4. Geraldine Goodall
5. The security guard
When Pat finished reading she looked up brightly and caught a strange look on her husband’s face. George was staring at his friend intently. His expression was hard to interpret. It might have been fear, or anger, or surprise.
She turned quickly to Tony. ‘Very good, Tony. Now we’ll see how it compares with mine.’ Pat had written:
1. Geraldine Goodall
2. Jennifer
3. Somebody we don’t know
‘Interesting’, George said, his voice normal. ‘There’s only one name you have in common. Mrs. Goodall. How come? Her name never would have occurred to me.’
‘My reason is easy enough’, Pat said. ‘If a man is killed, I automatically figure the number one suspect is his wife for reasons too numerous to mention.’ She giggled uncertainly.
Tony said, ‘That’s sort of the way I figure it. Also, she gets the dough.’
George turned back to his wife. ‘But why Jennifer, Pat? If I ever knew a sweet, innocent young girl, she’s it.’
Pat shrugged. ‘Darling, your talents don’t extend to understanding women, unfortunately. Or, perhaps fortunately’, she added thoughtfully.
‘I’m with George’, Tony said quickly. ‘The idea of Jennifer doing in her grandfather is ridiculous.’
Pat shrugged. ‘Maybe so. But why is George’s name on your list, Tony? You’re not serious, are you?’
‘Well, you said list of suspects. He’s one.’
I should think you more likely than George’, Pat cocked her head at Tony.
‘Oh sure’, Tony said. ‘But I wouldn’t put myself down.’
‘But why George?’ Pat persisted.
Tony looked discomfited. ‘I just think the police would figure anyone who didn’t like Goodall might kill him.’
Pat turned to her husband. ‘But you really didn’t dislike him, did you, George?’
George answered slowly, ‘No. At least not consistendy. Sometimes I got pretty mad, though.’ He smiled at his wife.
Tony drained his glass abruptly, then stood up, stretched his arms over his head, and announced, ‘It’s bedtime for me, folks. Thanks a lot. I’ll pick up my gear in the morning, George. I don’t feel like fooling with it tonight.’
‘Oh, don’t rush off’, Pat said automatically.
Tony shook his head obstinately. ‘Time to go. See you around.’
Outside, standing in the driveway, Tony gazed reflectively for a moment at the dark ocean below him. He then got into his car, closing the door with a bang.
The car was a 1958 Buick convertible. He had bought it new in the days when he had been living high on an expense account. The car now had more than 70,000 miles on the speedometer and showed the effects of hard driving.
Tony backed out of the driveway skilfully and headed for Hermosa Beach. As he flashed past a petrol station he noticed a clock in the window read 12.30. Might as well have one for the road, he thought to himself.
He found an empty parking space near the ‘Swinging Times’ and pulled in. From inside the bar came the sound of a girl’s voice overriding the blare of the band. Tony smiled to himself. As usual Willie Delaney had talked some girl into singing on Pat’s night off. These girls were invariably amateurs with ambitions to be professionals. Willie always assured them this was their big chance to show what they could do in front of an audience. If they went over, Willie hinted, he would give them a contract. The girl would sing for maybe three Sunday nights in a row before Willie would regretfully announce he couldn’t use her any more. This way he kept new faces coming into the place and never got in trouble with the union. Of course, the girls weren’t paid, but they did get free drinks and occasionally, in a burst of generosity, Willie would give them a five dollar bill.
Tony paused before the open door of the ‘Swinging Times’, then, instead of going in, he turned towards the beachfront. All the business establishments were closed except for the bars and a hamburger stand on the corner. The music from the ‘Swinging Times’ receding behind him, Tony turned left on to the Strand. He walked slowly, the fingertips of his right hand idly brushing across the top of the short cement wall that separated the walkway from the beach.
Most of the houses were dark, but occasionally a living-room would be lighted, revealing people playing cards or watching television. Tony’s own apartment above a garage was in back of one of these houses. It lacked the swank appointments of some of his former dwelling-places, but it provided for his needs quite satisfactorily.
Tony walked past his own place, however, feeling he wasn’t quite ready to go home. When he reached the lifeguard station he turned back and retraced his steps. Reaching the pier, he turned his back on the beach and the ocean and headed for the ‘Swinging Times’.
Thirteen
CARMICHAEL AND HOROWITZ were interrogating Jack Christie. Horowitz had had the realtor under surveillance for several days with no results. The time had come, Horowitz had decided, to do some direct questioning.
Christie was a small man, with a disproportionately large head and thick, protruding lips. He wore his dark hair quite long in an obvious attempt to conceal the balding area at the back of his head.
The men were seated in Horowitz’s office. Christie was perched on one of the straight-backed chairs. He was dressed in an expensive-looking brown flannel suit with a sombre tie.
‘I tell you, gentlemen,’ he was saying in a nervous whining voice, ‘I had nothing at all against Hubert Goodall. Nothing at all.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Christie’, Horowitz said soothingly. ‘But we have had these persistent rumours concerning some sort of disagreement between you and Goodall. Something about land. And’ – Horowitz gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders – ‘in a murder case we have to check everything, you know. Now, if you could just tell us what this was all about we would certainly appreciate it.’
‘Well.’ Christie looked from Horowitz to Carmichael, then back to the detective. ‘It was not much, really. There was some land up by Goodall’s place. A hundred-acre parcel, more or less. I was neg
otiating to buy it with some – ah – other people. We planned to sub-divide. Goodall heard about it and got upset. I don’t know why, and – well – that’s all there is to it.’
‘Mr. Christie,’ Carmichael interrupted gently, ‘wasn’t that land zoned for half-acre lots?’
‘Yes. We intended to comply with the zoning’, Christie said quickly.
Carmichael nodded. ‘And you had no idea why Goodall objected to this development?’
Christie hesitated. ‘Well, yes. I have an idea. He just didn’t want a housing development across from where he lived. Thought it would bring down values or something. That’s ridiculous, of course, it would increase the values if anything.’
‘And that’s all there was to it, Mr. Christie?’ Carmichael pursued gently.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Mr. Christie,’ Horowitz said suddenly and sharply, ‘do you know a girl named Jeanie who works at the “Swinging Times” bar in Hermosa?’
Christie, obviously taken by surprise, worked his thick lips nervously a few moments before answering. ‘I – ah – don’t know. Maybe I do.’
‘Oh, come on, now’, Horowitz snapped. ‘You know her, all right. As a matter of fact she’s your girl friend, isn’t she?’
‘Of course not. I’m a married man, Lieutenant.’
Horowitz leaned over the realtor menacingly. His soft, apologetic attitude was gone. His voice was hard and crisp. ‘Look. I don’t give a damn about your personal problem. I’m on a murder case. It’s a tough case, but sooner or later we’re going to get a break and until that break comes we have got to snoop and dig and pry until something turns up. It’s a dirty job and we don’t win any popularity contests. But somebody has to do it. Now, you’re tied into this because you knew Goodall, if for no other reason. The girl’s tied into it because she knew you. That’s the way it goes. One big daisy chain. Now I don’t like this any better than you. If you want to co-operate with me, fine. Everything that’s said between us will stay confidential. If you don’t want to co-operate, there are a few items I could slip to the reporters that would make you pretty unhappy. Now which way is it?’
‘Lieutenant, you’re trying to blackmail me’, Christie said with an attempt at bravado.
Horowitz waved his hand in an impatient gesture. ‘Okay. Have it your way.’ He started to pick up the phone on his desk.
‘Oh, I’ll tell you’, Christie said. ‘I just don’t like to be pushed around.’
‘Believe me, I don’t enjoy pushing. Now, what’s the story?’ Horowitz said.
‘Well, I’ve, ah – known Jeanie for about six months. She came up here from San Diego. Her husband was in the Navy. He didn’t treat her too good. Like I say, she come up here and she got this job at that place. I felt sorry for her and – well – one thing led to another.’
‘Sure’, said Horowitz. ‘How did you meet her?’
‘Oh – just in the bar.’
‘Just in the bar, eh? What is your relationship, Mr. Christie?’
Christie wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand nervously. ‘Well, I...’ he began.
‘Oh, I don’t mean that’, Horowitz said. ‘I mean how much do you confide in her? What does she know about your business? And, most important, what does she know about Goodall?’
Christie shook his large head in irritation. ‘She knew nothing. She was just a girl to me, that’s all. I didn’t confide in her. She probably never heard of Hubert Goodall, until he was killed, of course.’
‘Did she know your business, Mr. Christie?’ Carmichael interposed.
‘My business? You mean my profession? I suppose so. I am rather well-known in the area, you know.’
‘But you never discussed business matters with her?’ Carmichael persisted.
‘Well – I – ah – perhaps might have casually mentioned in passing some deal I was working on.’
‘But the Palos Verdes development wasn’t one of them?’
With indignation in his voice Christie answered, ‘Absolutely not. That was a delicate transaction. I don’t go around blabbing about that sort of thing to every barmaid I meet.’
‘Oh, then there are other barmaids, are there, Mr. Christie?’ Horowitz interjected smoothly.
The realtor flushed a brick-red. ‘Now look here, Lieutenant. I’ve been honest with you in my relationship with this girl, but there’s a limit.’
‘All right’, Horowitz said easily. ‘I guess we don’t have to go into that.’
The anger was draining from Christie’s face, but he was still aroused. ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ he went on, ‘I wasn’t the only man she had on the string. A couple of times I’ve gone to her place and she hasn’t answered the door. I knew she was in there with somebody. And then I’ve noticed a couple of little things to indicate another man’s been around . . . if you know what I mean.’
‘Is that so?’ Carmichael said with interest. ‘Do you know who this man is?’
‘No, I don’t. I do know that Willie Delaney has a reputation for getting more out of his barmaids than just a night’s work. But I know a little something about Willie. Now, I don’t want to say anything against the man, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you . . . he’s got a room upstairs over the place where he takes his girls. He doesn’t go to their places. Afraid he’d be seen. If his wife found out she’d slit his throat. She’s Eyetalian ...’
Horowitz, who had been staring hard at Christie, now turned, his swivel chair squeaking loudly, and gazed out of the window. ‘Just one more thing’, the detective said absently, gazing at the asphalt-shingled roofs on the building across the street. ‘How well do you know Jock Harrison?’
Christie snorted in derision. ‘I know of him, that’s about all. I don’t like his business methods.’
Horowitz turned back quickly to catch the realtor’s reaction to the question. ‘You haven’t seen Harrison, or had any messages from him, in the last, say, two weeks?’ the detective asked.
‘No. Why should I?’
As far as Horowitz could discern, Christie’s face reflected only mild surprise at the question. He turned to Carmichael. ‘Anything else, Carmichael?’
‘I don’t think so, Carl.’ Then he added to Christie, ‘We certainly appreciate your co-operation, Mr. Christie. You’d be surprised how many so-called civic-minded people try to hide things from the police.’
‘Oh, that’s all right’, Christie said grumpily, only partially mollified. ‘Can I go now? Monday mornings are usually pretty busy for us.’
‘Certainly, certainly’, Carmichael said heartily.
Horowitz said nothing, but waved his hand in dismissal.
‘Well, what do you think, Carmichael?’ Horowitz asked as the door closed behind Christie.
The old man shrugged. ‘Hard to say. But better keep an eye on him.’
‘I think so, too.’
Carmichael continued: ‘There’s one thing I’d like to do this afternoon, Carl. That’s go back up to that gallery of Goodall’s and look around a little more. I can make it by myself if you have other things to do.’
Horowitz scratched at his closely-cropped brown hair. ‘Well, there’s plenty to do, all right. What do you expect to find?’
‘I don’t know, Carl. I just have a feeling that we’ve overlooked something in that building.’
The detective grunted. ‘Could be. Tell you what, I’ll drive you up there and then when you’re ready to come back give me a call.’
Carmichael raised his hand in protest. ‘It’s all right, Carl. I can make it by myself. I don’t like to be babied, you know.’
Horowitz grinned. ‘Yeah. I know. Okay, go ahead.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ Horowitz called as Carmichael reached the hallway, ‘you know that polygraph you wanted on Phipps?’
‘Yes?’
‘Found out Phipps has high blood pressure. Can’t use the machine.’
Carmichael nodded glumly. ‘Okay. Too bad. See you later.’
; In the parking lot behind the sub-station, Carmichael had angrily to brush away two solicitous deputies who wanted to help him into his car. He completed the necessary manoeuvring himself and triumphantly drove off with a horrible clashing of gears. When he arrived at the Gallery he found only a uniformed deputy sheriff who, recognizing the old man, touched his cap respectfully as Carmichael wheeled up the walkway.
Inside, the Gallery was deserted. First Carmichael wheeled slowly through the four exhibition rooms. He had been shown before where the Gauguin had been hung. He now noted another painting had been used to fill the blank space. He completed his tour of the rooms and wheeled into the hallway extending down one side of the building. The door of the murder room was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and entered.
The desk had been cleared of papers, the safe door closed, and the blood cleaned up. Otherwise, the room was the same as when he last saw it. The old man paused, his head sunk in thought. This business of how the murderer got in and out is ridiculous, he was thinking. There is a logical answer, of course, but I’ll be damned if I can see it. The guard must be lying. Yet I have seen a lot of liars in my time, some of them pretty good ones, and if this fellow isn’t telling the truth he’s the best actor I’ve ever come across. Okay, let’s assume Phipps isn’t lying. Now then. How many ways are there to get into this building? By door – just one, the main door. That’s it. And each room has two windows. That’s one door and six windows. Period. No, wait a minute.
Thoughtfully, Carmichael turned and wheeled back down the short hallway. Yes, of course. How could I have missed that? Behind the desk in the hallway was another window. Carmichael started to run his hand along the window ledge, but then withdrew before touching the wooden frame. Instead he peered closely at the window. It was locked, he noted. The screen was also locked from the inside. Carmichael frowned thoughtfully and made his way back to the office at the end of the hall.
Skirting the desk, he pulled on the handle of the safe door, swinging the door open. By bracing himself with one arm he managed to reach the light cord and give it a tug. Carefully he inspected the floor, the walls, and the ceiling of the safe. He could discover nothing he had not seen the first time.
