The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (58 page)

“And the motive?”

“Money. McCabe had a bundle. Larry’s one of the minor heirs, but fifty thousand or so isn’t hard to take at his age.”

“Larry’s going to be a doctor,” Dana flared. “He wants to save lives. And he didn’t need the money. His uncle was going to see him through med school.”

“That’s true,” Ader said. “But a quick fortune might tempt even a potential doctor.”

“Not only potential ones,” I said a little enviously, thinking of the ocean cruiser I’d like to own some day. “But just how did you tag Larry as the murderer?”

“Because the young hot-head acted like a complete fool. He left enough evidence-you couldn’t call them ‘clues’; they’re much too obvious – to convict an archangel. Let me show you the sketch.”

Here Ader reached into his briefcase, and brought out a scale diagram which indicated the position of the body on the beach and the footprints made by the Colonel and those made by the murderer – to the body, and away from it.

“The sand was quite unmarked to begin with,” Ader said, “smoothed out by the tide the night before. We found the colonel’s prints, leading from the stairs across the sand to the water, and then back to where he lay down on his blanket. Then there are Larry’s tracks from the stairs to McCabe, and back. Nobody else’s there except the dog’s, which go all over, above and beneath the others. The beach is accessible only from the house and the sea; there’s no possible approach at the sides for they’re sheer rocky cliffs. That perfect privacy is what makes the property worth $200,000. Now, considering all that, what can any sensible person conclude? McCabe’s only visitor, as clearly shown by the tracks, was Larry Channing.”

“I suppose you checked all the prints.”

“Of course. Although it was hardly necessary. Larry admitted walking out to see his uncle about seven-thirty, while the rest of the family still slept. He even told us that they quarreled again. It wasn’t the first time. You see, the colonel didn’t want him to marry a poor girl like Dana.” A tinge of bitterness came into Ader’s voice. As an honest cop, he was always one jump ahead of the finance company. “The old man said that nobody but a fool married except for money, that love was a typically modern delusion, confined largely to soft-headed teen-agers and the women who read confession magazines. It’s just as easy to fall for a rich girl as a poor one, he maintained. That’s how he got his own fortune-by marrying a wealthy widow, no beauty, needless to say. The hell of it is, that gives the boy a better motive than money alone. The colonel was mad enough to cut him off for picking Dana. In that case, no med school.”

“Sounds pretty bad. What about the weapon?”

“Well, since McCabe’s skull was crushed, we looked for some kind of club. It wasn’t near the body, so we figured Larry got rid of it. But blamed if we didn’t find it right in the house, at the back of his own closet. It’s Larry’s pet walking stick, an ebony one with a roughly rounded, heavy knob for a handle. It had been carelessly wiped. There’s still some blood and hair on the thing. Now isn’t that a stupid way to commit murder?”

At that Dana leaped up, her eyes blazing. “He didn’t do it, that’s why! Don’t you see it’s too obvious, too easy?”

Ader grimaced.

“I’ve thought of that,” he said, “and in a way I agree. Unless he hoped to make us think that way – to believe he was framed, and very crudely at that. Larry is a bit hot-tempered, as I’ve said, but no fool. And only a prize idiot would leave a damning trail like this one. Talk about painting yourself into a corner. This bird put on a dozen coats.”

I had been studying the diagram while Ader talked, and now I groaned. “It was sure to happen some day. I might have known.”

“What’s that?” the lieutenant demanded.

“I’ll tell you. If Larry is innocent, you’ve got a real classic here – a locked room murder, basically. The tracks on the sand show plainly that nobody else came anywhere near the victim. Are you positive he was killed by a blow from that stick?”

“Not yet, although I’d bet on it. But there’s been no autopsy yet, and the stick hasn’t been tested by a pathologist. All we’ve done so far is check finger-prints and tracks. They’re all Larry’s and the colonel’s. The rest is up to you. But the man’s skull was dented badly, so if anything else killed him, the blow was superfluous, which makes no sense. However, the body’s at the morgue; I’ll have it brought here. You can have the stick any time, too.”

“What about Doc Kurzin? Going to bypass him again?” Kurzin’s the coroner, an ancient incubus who missed his forte as a meat-cutter for some supermarket.

“I’ll have to, if we’re going to get anywhere. Your standing as an expert in this county gives me that right, officially.”

“All right,” I said, a little reluctantly, because to be honest, it seemed that the boy must be guilty. After all, most murders are not subtle; they are chock full of blunders. When a man is keyed up to the point of killing, he’s not likely to be a cool planner. “I’ll do the P.M. as soon as you get the body here to the hospital. Then, if you want to bring the stick later, I’ll see if the blood and hair are really the victim’s. Meanwhile, do the usual and make me one of your fine lists of suspects. You know, descriptions, character analysis – the works. You’ve a knack for that.”

“There are plenty of possibles,” Ader said glumly. “Four other heirs in the house, and I don’t think the colonel ever won any popularity contests in the army or out of it.”

“How many of the other suspects fly? Because, believe me, it’ll take wings or teleportation to explain how the old man got killed without the murderer leaving tracks on the sand.”

“That’s why I can’t help thinking Larry did it. I don’t want to believe it, but the alternative, as you say, means a parachute jump, or something. And,” he added in a bitter voice, “a similar jump in reverse-upwards.”

“Larry is innocent,” Dana said firmly to me. “If you remember that, you’ll find the explanation. You’re our only hope, so please try very h-hard.”

“I should warn you of one thing,” I told them. “I’m not an advocate, remember; I can’t take sides. What if the facts of my investigation—” I was going to say,” – put another nail in the boy’s coffin?” but had the good sense to hunt a different metaphor – “make the case against Larry even worse? Maybe you should give the job to Kurzin at that. He’ll mess it up so that the jury might give the boy all the benefit of the doubt.”

“You won’t hurt his chances. He didn’t do it, and that’s what the evidence is bound to show finally,” Dana said, her voice still firm.

Ader shrugged in half humorous resignation.

“You heard her,” he said. “I’m inclined to agree that there’s nothing to lose, really. The worst D.A. in the business couldn’t fail to get a conviction right now, with no further investigation.” He led his niece gently towards the door. “I’ll have the body brought over immediately. And I’ll drop by myself with the stick later, unless I get tied up somewhere.” He patted the girl’s shoulder sympathetically, and they left.

Watching Dana leave, chin up, I thought that if Larry was smart enough to pick her, he wasn’t likely to bungle a murder so badly. Then I thought my logic was getting worse than hers, so I went back to my roundworms.

The body arrived about ninety minutes later, and things being slack at Pasteur, I was able to get right to work. Beginning, as usual, with the head, I had to agree with Ader that the crushed skull certainly explained the man’s death. In addition, it was also true that the old boy was remarkably healthy otherwise, and could have reached a hundred. There were laborious tissue and toxicological tests possible, but I felt them to be counter-indicated. I had no doubt he was killed by a blow on the head. I was just finishing up these gross tests, when Ader came in with the walking stick.

He studiously avoided looking at the remains, even though everything was back in place. In another minute I was through, and covered the body with a sheet. Then Ader came closer.

“Well?” he demanded.

“He was killed by a clout on the head, all right. Let’s see that stick.”

He gave it to me. There was a plastic bag over the heavy end of the stick; the stem was thin, tough ebony, thirty-eight inches long. There was little doubt that egg-shaped handle could account for the bone injury. Whether it had or not remained to be seen.

The blood test was fast and simple, a matter of typing the blood. The hair didn’t take long either, using a good comparison microscope. I shook my head ruefully at the results, and Ader’s face was bleak. He had his tail in a crack, so to speak. On the one hand, he had a dream of a case, with none of the usual rat-race of finding reluctant witnesses and other sorts of elusive evidence. On the other there was his niece, Dana, a favorite relation I inferred, about to lose her beloved to the gas chamber, or, if they were lucky, to a prison for thirty years or so. Either way, the lieutenant wasn’t going to be happy. Unless, of course, we found a new candidate for the big jump.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is no help. McCabe was killed by this stick. I’ll stake my professional reputation on that – and will have to so testify under oath.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything else,” he said listlessly. “For Dana’s sake, I was only hoping. Anyhow, here’s that complete run-down on the rest of the household. Read it over tomorrow, and maybe you’ll think of something. You’ve done it before on more hopeless cases.”

“This one out-hopelesses all the others,” I said. “And frankly, we don’t need suspects as much as we need ‘how was it done.’ One murder; one rather obvious killer – what’s the point in additional names?”

“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “But begin by assuming Larry is innocent, and then figure out how somebody else might have done it.”

“Very simple,” I replied. “All I need is another month and fifty per cent more brains. But I’ll try, Master.”

Ader left, looking desperately tired. He probably hadn’t slept much since the murder.

It was after eleven, but I didn’t feel pooped at all, so I sat down with the family dossier. Ader is very good at this sort of thing, and I could easily visualize the members of Colonel McCabe’s household.

There were five in the family itself, exclusive of the dead man. They were Larry, the nephew, a boy of twenty-four; two sons, Harry, aged thirty-two, and Wallace, thirty-nine; the colonel’s brother, Wayne, fifty-seven; and a cousin, Gordon Wheeler, twenty-eight. As for servants, an elderly couple kept the place clean and did the gardening. A middle-aged woman did the cooking.

When it came to motive, they all had it, except for the servants, who were provided for whether the colonel lived or died. For the family, it was a matter of money. McCabe was worth well over a million, his late wife having been the childless widow of a rich manufacturer. The colonel’s will was no secret. The two sons were down for $200,000 each; the brother, $150,000; Larry, $50,000; and the cousin, $30,000, all tax free. After a few small annuities to the servants, anything Uncle Sam left would go to the local museum, provided they kept McCabe’s arms collection, all of it, on permanent display.

For the old man fancied himself a military expert of high order. But instead of refighting the Civil War, and the one in 1914, he preferred to correct the errors of earlier generals. In short, he intended to rewrite Oman’s “The Art of War in the Middle Ages”.

One room of the house was devoted to a collection of medieval arms and armor. This was the responsibility of the cousin, Gordon, who catalogued the stuff, and kept it so polished and functional that McCabe could have left on a crusade at any moment, perfectly equipped with plate armor, sword, lance, dagger, and crossbow. Only a horse was lacking.

The late colonel was something of a bully at times, but not really a bad sort. There was no evidence that he interfered unduly with the members of his family, or that any of them had serious cause to hate him. It seemed to me, reading between Ader’s lines, that the only reasonable motive was money. For McCabe was possibly a bit stingy on handouts, although everybody had an allowance of sorts.

But, actually, motive wasn’t the basic problem here. My real job was just as I’d stated it to Ader: If Larry didn’t kill the colonel,
how
was it done? The “who” could wait, and would probably come from the method, I felt sure.

I took out the diagram and photos again. There’s a process called “brain-storming”, very popular on Madison Avenue. It consists of throwing the rational mind out of gear, and letting its motor race. You give your wildest fancies free rein, hoping to find gold among the dross. I tried that, and came up with some weird notions. The craziest was a theory that the murderer wore shoes giving fake pawprints of a dog. The trouble with that was the obvious shallowness of the prints on the photos. The coach dog weighed perhaps sixty pounds, this weight distributed over four paws. A 160 pound man would leave suspiciously deep prints by comparison. Still, I meant to have Ader check on the actual depth of the prints. I was desperate, you see.

But that “solution” didn’t even convince its inventor, so I took another tack, and this one gave me a thrill of hope. What if the approach had been from the sea? According to Ader’s notes, all members of the family were waterskiers, and the like-why not skin divers, too? If the murderer came out of the water, with or without special equipment, killed the colonel, and returned the same way, would he have left tracks, or would the tide erase them? Here was a very tenable possibility.

I was tempted to ring Ader at once, but it was after twelve, and I remembered his weariness. Wednesday would be soon enough. So I went home to bed, and dreamed of a skin-diving coach dog that terrorized the bathers.