by Kip Chase
Next he checked the desk. The first drawer he opened contained a tin of powdered milk, a box of sugar cubes, an empty coffee jar, and a spoon. Nothing else. Another drawer produced only stationery and envelopes. The stationery was of two types: one headed ‘Peninsula Art Association, Goodall Gallery, Palos Verdes, California’; the other read ‘The Goodall Gallery – Hubert Goodall, Owner’. The only other drawer held a small cardboard filing cabinet. In this were bills of lading on paintings received and shipped, miscellaneous correspondence, and receipts of one kind and another. Carmichael went through the files carefully, but discovered nothing he considered significant. A cursory inspection of the workbench along the wall turned up nothing; nor did the bathroom with toilet and sink tightly jammed into the small space.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Carmichael, after having again gone over the entire building, decided his trip had been a waste of time. He was on his way out when the front door opened and banged into the side of the wheel-chair, almost tipping chair and occupant on to the floor. It was Jennifer.
‘Oh, Mr. Carmichael,’ the girl gasped, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Behind her the deputy sheriff loomed apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was okay to let her in, seeing as it’s her place.’
‘It’s all right’, Carmichael said, trying to assume a pleasant expression. He wheeled backward cautiously to avoid further impact with the door.
‘Well, come on inside, girl’, he said ungraciously.
Jennifer slipped inside the hallway, closing the door behind her. ‘I – I can leave if I’m interrupting something’, she said haltingly.
‘No, no. It’s all right. I was just leaving myself. Now that you’re here, though, maybe we could have a little chat.’
Jennifer’s face twisted into an expression of despair. ‘Do we have to talk about “that”? I’ve told you everything I know, honestly I have. I’ve told you and told you.’
‘No, Jennifer. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Come on over here and sit down.’ Carmichael wheeled over next to a small wooden bench in the centre of the first exhibition room. ‘Did you know that I have a grandson about your age?’ Carmichael began in a pleasant conversational tone.
Jennifer’s eyes widened with interest. ‘No, how old is he?’
‘Well, let me see. I think he must be about twenty-two. Yes, he is twenty-two. He went into the Army right after his twenty-first birthday, and his last birthday his mother sent him a cake. I remember it was his favourite kind – a banana sponge cake with chocolate frosting. It turned my stomach to look at it.’
Jennifer smiled. ‘I know how it is. Geraldine says some of the things I eat would make a goat sick.’
‘Is Geraldine one of your girl friends?’
Jennifer’s face lost its expression of gaiety. ‘No. She’s my grandmother. I shouldn’t call her Geraldine, I suppose. Hubert didn’t like it. But she doesn’t seem to mind.’
‘Well,’ said Carmichael quickly, trying to change the subject, ‘next time Pinkie gets home maybe I can do him a favour by introducing him to you.’
‘He’d think I’m too young. I’m only seventeen, you know, and I’m still in high school. But next year I’ll be eighteen and I’ll be in college. I won’t be too young then.’
‘No, I guess you won’t be.’
The girl and the old man chatted on.
Why do we adults have to involve our young people in our sinful lives, Carmichael was thinking. Ah, well, he added to himself philosophically, everyone has to grow up sooner or later. Skilfully he led the girl into describing her life at school, her friends, and her interests. But she was strangely silent on what the future held for her. When queried about what she would be studying in college, she dismissed it with, ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter much, really. I’ll probably get married the first year and that will be the end of it.’
‘And who will you be marrying?’ Carmichael asked in an abortive attempt at playfulness.
Jennifer shot him a quick, suspicious glance. ‘Why, I don’t know. Somebody rich and handsome, I suppose.’
Carmichael nodded gravely. ‘Of course.’
Finally Carmichael broke off the conversation with a tired wave of his hand. ‘Well, young lady, it’s been delightful. But I have to leave now.’
Amid protestations from Jennifer, he wheeled himself out of the front door, exchanged pleasantries with the deputy, got himself into his car, and drove off.
From the steps of the Gallery Jennifer watched his departure with thoughtful eyes. The girl turned, started back into the Gallery, then apparently changed her mind and headed back for the house.
Geraldine Goodall was taking her afternoon nap. She heard the downstairs back door being opened. ‘Jennifer?’ she called out in a quavering voice. There was no answer. Then the old lady heard someone mounting the stairs. She started to call out again but the dryness of her throat produced only a hoarse croak.
The door opened and Jennifer entered the room. Geraldine Goodall put her hand to her heart. Her breath came in short gasps. ‘Goodness, child,’ she managed to say, ‘you nearly scared the wits out of me. Why didn’t you answer when I called?’
‘I’m sorry, Geraldine’, said Jennifer absently. ‘I guess I didn’t hear you.’
‘Well, that’s all right. Where have you been?’
Jennifer started to say, ‘Down at the Gallery’, but checked herself. ‘Oh, just out for a walk’, she said instead.
The old lady nodded weakly. ‘That’s good. We must keep up with our exercise, you know. It will put that glow back in your cheeks. Now then, I believe it’s time for my medicine. Where’s Miss Grisham?’
‘Miss Grisham isn’t here today. She was here yesterday’, Jennifer explained patiently. Mrs. Goodall’s doctor had decided she was in good enough condition that the nurse would be required only every other day.
‘Oh, yes’, Geraldine Goodall said. ‘So she was. Would you be a good girl and get my bottle of medicine for me? It should be right around here somewhere.’
Jennifer located the bottle and a drinking glass. She poured the thick pink syrup into the glass, measuring carefully with a tablespoon. The old lady drank the stuff greedily.
‘There now. I believe I’ll get up for a little while. Would you fetch my robe and slippers, please. I hate to be such a bother.’
When attired to her satisfaction, Mrs. Goodall extended an arm to her granddaughter. ‘Now, dear, if you’ll just help me down the stairs. I think we’re just in time to see “Gunsmoke”.’
Jennifer frowned. ‘Geraldine!’ she said with mock severity, ‘You know what the doctor said. No excitement.’
‘Oh, heavens, child. Don’t be silly. There’s nothing exciting about “Gunsmoke”. I know exactly what’s going to happen. There’ll be some unpleasant gentlemen who want to do something nasty, but Kitty will find out about it. Then Matt and Chester will straighten everything out, but somebody will get shot and they’ll have to call Doc. You call that exciting? I only watch it because it’s a part of our American heritage’, the old lady concluded virtuously.
Reluctantly Jennifer assisted her grandmother down the stairs.
Fourteen
AT SIX-FIFTEEN in the morning, two weeks and half a day after Goodall’s murder, a lifeguard found the body of Jeanie washed ashore just south of the Redondo pier. That afternoon the body was identified by Willie Delaney. At four o’clock Carmichael and Horowitz met in a grim conference of war in the detective’s office. Both were convinced there was a connexion between Jeanie’s death and Goodall’s murder.
The official report hadn’t come out yet, but the preliminary investigation listed her death ‘from causes unknown’. The story had carried only a twelve-point heading in most of the papers. Some of them hadn’t mentioned it at all. Obviously none of the reporters had connected the obscure bar waitress with the Goodall case.
‘Anything from the coroner yet, Carl?’ Carmichael was saying to Horowitz.
<
br /> ‘Nope. We should have the report in a couple of hours. I looked at the body. As far as I could tell it was a straight case of drowning.’
‘No lumps on the head or bruises?’ Carmichael asked.
‘I didn’t check her head,’ Horowitz admitted, ‘but there wasn’t anything obvious.’ Horowitz had been pacing the floor in quick, jerky strides. He angrily banged his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Damn it, Carmichael, this thing is getting out of hand. We’re no better off than we were the day Goodall was killed. And now we have another murder to worry about.’
‘We’re not sure this one is a murder, Carl’, Carmichael said soothingly.
Horowitz nodded glumly. ‘Oh, sure, it’s possible this floozy got plastered, went for a walk on the pier, and fell off. But if that is the way it happened, it’s one hell of a coincidence. You’ve got to admit that.’
‘Sure’, Carmichael agreed amiably.
The detective continued his erratic pacing, his blunt face reflecting anger and frustration.
‘Well, what’s your next move, Carl?’ Carmichael asked pleasantly.
Horowitz glanced at his friend in irritation. ‘Next move? I don’t have any next move. We go through the motions, that’s all. Same old story. Dig for witnesses. Check with the known acquaintances, starting with Mr. Jack Christie.’
‘Sure’, said Carmichael. ‘But one thing I’d like to point out.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When you pull in Christie I suggest you be discreet about it. What I’m thinking is, right now the newspapers haven’t connected up the two killings – that is, assuming this girl was murdered. It might be to our advantage to keep it that way. If there is one murderer he might not be quite so careful if he thinks we haven’t connected the two.’
Horowitz ran the palm of one hand along his fleshy chin. ‘Yeah. I guess you’re right. We’ll do our questioning of Mr. Christie on the q.t. And I don’t guess we have to worry about him doing much talking. What a mess!’
‘Look on the bright side of it. Two murders mean the killer had twice as many opportunities to make a mistake. That makes our chances twice as good.’
Horowitz glared at the old man. ‘Carmichael, you’re sounding more like a criminologist and less like a cop every day.’
‘I’m getting old, Carl. Now let’s go to work.’
The news of Jeanie’s death was received by the employees of the ‘Swinging Times’ with relative unconcern. ‘She was a good kid’, Joe the bartender remarked to the day-shift barmaid.
‘Yeah. Say, didja hear how it happened?’ the girl asked.
The bartender continued his careful polishing of the glasses. ‘No. Paper didn’t say much. She was probably gassed when she left work last night. Wandered out on the pier and fell in, I guess.’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
The only members of the crew who seemed more than casually concerned were Pat Craig and Willie Delaney. The bartender noticed that when Willie returned from his down-town trip to the morgue in the afternoon he was pretty upset. Willie had ordered a couple of double Scotches and tossed them down within half a minute of each other. I guess looking at a body like that would be enough to shake anybody, the bartender thought.
When Pat came in to work she had a drawn, pinched look about her face. Twice during her first number she fluffed a line. When she had finished her first performance she hurried over to Willie who was lounging in a corner of the bar.
‘I’m sorry, Willie’, she said. ‘I guess I’ll have to take the rest of the night off.’
‘What’s the matter?’ With a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth and five or six more double shots under his belt Willie had regained some of his own composure.
‘I don’t know. I just feel lousy. Could you get somebody to sub for me?’
Willie frowned. ‘Because of Jeanie?’
‘No . . . yes . . . I don’t know. I just don’t feel so hot.’
Willie attempted a fatherly attitude. ‘Look, if it’s Jeanie I don’t blame you. She was a sweet kid. I don’t feel too good myself. But, hell, Pat, there’s nothing we can do about it. Probably make you feel better to work anyway.’
‘Willie, I’m sorry. I’m not gonna finish tonight. I hope you can find another girl.’ Abruptly, Pat turned and left.
Willie shrugged, then started mentally running down the list of girls whom he might con into finishing out the night without pay. He selected the most likely prospect, made a quick phone call, and returned with satisfaction to his position at the end of the bar.
Willie had just ordered another drink when he saw John Williams sitting by himself in a corner. Or at least John was sitting as much by himself as possible during a busy night at the ‘Swinging Times’. On his left was a pseudo-beatnik-appearing couple, while on his right he was jammed thigh-to-thigh with a beefy, bushy-eyebrowed individual whose heavy-handed pawing tactics were being systematically repulsed by his date.
Willie raised his eyebrows in surprise. He knew the story of the three war heroes and was casually acquainted with John, but he seldom saw him in the ‘Swinging Times’, and then only with Tony or George.
Willie squeezed his way over to John’s table. ‘Evenin”, he said amiably. ‘You here alone?’
John glanced up with a look of suspicion. ‘Yes. Why?’ He didn’t like Willie Delaney’s type, and specifically he didn’t like Willie Delaney.
‘No reason. It’s just that I don’t remember seeing you in here alone before. You’re usually with one of your buddies.’
John grunted noncommitally. ‘I just got here. I’m looking for Mrs. Craig. Where can I find her?’
‘You’re just a couple of minutes too late. She finished her first number and then went home.’
‘You mean she won’t be back this evening?’
‘Guess not. Said she didn’t feel so good.’
John said nothing. He scooped the change on the change tray into one hand, rose, squeezed past the small table in front of him, and made his way out of the front door. Willie furrowed his brow in thought, then with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders returned to the bar.
John stepped into the cool, moist night air and closed the door of the ‘Swinging Times’ behind him. At the end of the pier to his left was a public phone booth. Briskly, John walked towards the phone.
Almost simultaneously with John’s leaving by the front door, an unmarked sheriff’s squad car pulled up and parked in the alley at the rear of the ‘Swinging Times’. A thick-necked deputy was driving. Next to him in the front seat was Horowitz. Carmichael was huddled in the back seat with his folded wheel-chair.
Horowitz got out and assisted Carmichael in setting up the wheel-chair.
‘Should be out in about twenty minutes, Bill’, Horowitz said to the deputy. Then he and Carmichael disappeared through the back door.
Half-way down the narrow hallway leading to the main section of the bar was a door. Without bothering to knock, Horowitz pushed the door open and indicated with a jerk of his head that Carmichael should enter the room.
As Carmichael wheeled his way into the darkened room, Horowitz reached up and flipped a light switch on the wall. The room contained a desk, two chairs, and in one corner were stacked several cardboard cases containing empty beer bottles.
‘You seem to know your way around here, Carl’, Carmichael remarked.
‘Yeah. I’ve done business with Willie Delaney before.’
‘Sounds like a trouble-maker.’
No. Not really. Willie figures it pays to keep his nose clean. But with a joint like this it’s just about impossible to stay out of trouble. But so far it hasn’t been anything serious. We’ve picked up a couple of junkies, once in a while a prostitute, guys get in fights – stuff like that. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Horowitz headed for the bar, shouldering his way through the crowd. He spoke briefly to the bartender, nodded, then squinted through the heavy haze of cigarette smoke until he picked out Willie De
laney leaning against the wall at the other end of the bar. In another minute Horowitz and Delaney were in the back room with Carmichael.
Brusquely, Horowitz made the introductions. Willie was effusive. ‘Very glad to know you, Mr. Carmichael’, he said, pumping the old man’s hand vigorously. ‘It’s a great pleasure. You’ve got quite a name for yourself in this town, you know.’
Carmichael smiled thinly. ‘Thank you, Mr. Delaney.’
‘Now then,’ said Willie, rubbing the palms of his hands together nervously, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Sit down, Willie’, Horowitz said easily. ‘This might take a couple of minutes.’
Willie obediently sat down, perched on the edge of a chair, his knees held together as if poised for instant flight.
‘We’d like to know what you can tell us about Jeanie.’
Willie furrowed his brow in an exaggerated attempt at thought, then he said, ‘Not much to tell. She drifted in one day looking for a job. I needed some part-time help, she was union, so I gave her a try. She was okay. Then, a couple of weeks after that, one of our girls quit and I hired her full time.’
‘What do you know about her personally?’
‘Nothin’. Like I tell ya, she just worked here.’
‘Look, Willie’, Horowitz said sharply. ‘In case you don’t know it we’re going all out on this. And whatever the truth is we’re going to find out. So you might just as well save us both a lot of trouble. I know how you operate here. Were you laying this girl?’
‘Aw, lieutenant’, Willie whined. ‘You know how it is. People work together and . . .’
‘Yeah, I know how it is. Just answer the question, Willie.’
‘Well, I guess maybe . . . couple of times we’d been drinking and . . .’
‘All right. Where did she live? Was she married? Who were her friends?’
Horowitz continued to pound home the questions unmercifully, dragging answers from the reluctant and perspiring Willie.
