100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The Quick and the Dead by Helen McCloy

She was a remarkable woman. Basil Willing recognized that the moment he saw her.

She opened the door of his beach cottage without knocking. Behind her a jagged streak of lightning split the night and vanished. Thunder roared above the steady drumming of the surf. An edge of white foam thrust its way up the sand; beyond, the ocean was a blackness — as void as if nothing were there, and never had been. Thunderstorms were rare in California, but when they came they were, like most things California, larger than life.

She was like a storm herself, all darkness and suddenness, all flash and tumult. Basil remembered that the words hurricane and houri have the same root.

“Sorry to bother you.” Her voice was rich, deep, warm. “My telephone is dead. May I use yours? I live next door.”

“Of course. Over there by the stairway.”

She wore a silk sheath, shrill yellow like a flame in the dimly lighted room. Her sandals were gilt; her only jewel was a big round brooch on one shoulder, bits of coral and turquoise pieced together to form the image of a Nepalese god. An artful woman to combine yellow-pink and yellow-blue with yellow.

“Damn! Your phone is dead too! What am I going to do now?”

“What’s the trouble?”

“I’m Moira Shiel.”

“The singer? Max and Moira?”

The team specialized in folk songs and satirical sketches. They were famous for their quickness in picking up each other’s cues when they ad-libbed, as they often did, even on television. Moira was the better actor; Max, the better musician — he had perfect pitch.

She nodded. “I just had a phone call from the Santa Barbara police. Max’s father was found dead there an hour ago, at nine o’clock. He lived alone. A neighbor heard his dog barking and called the police. They said he had died of a heart attack about eight thirty.

“They called me because they couldn’t locate Max. They had tried the studio in Burbank first, but the night staff said that Max had left there alone, in his car, at six, telling everyone that he was driving to Santa Barbara to have dinner with his father. The police had also tried to call Max’s house in Santa Cristina, a hundred miles south of Burbank, but there was no answer. His wife should have been there, but she wasn’t.

“I don’t want Max to hear this news suddenly, on his car radio. He adored his father. The shock would prostrate him for weeks, perhaps months. I got the Santa Barbara police to promise they would not release the news until I found Max, but they can’t hold it back indefinitely. What shall I do? If your phone is also not working it means the line is down all along Malibu Beach. I may not be able to reach him for hours.”

Basil glanced at his watch. “Ten after ten now. If he left Burbank at six, he should certainly be in Santa Barbara by this time. I suppose you could drive to Burbank, or to Los Angeles, and find a telephone that’s working and—”

“I wouldn’t dare leave my house for so long. The line may be fixed at any moment. A call might come through from Max and I’d miss it.”

“Then why don’t I take you home and drive to Los Angeles myself? I can give Max the message, if you’ll tell me the most likely numbers to call.”

There was a fire already burning on the hearth in her living room. She stood before it turning the pages of a small black address book. “First, his home number. That’s one I always forget — I suppose, because I so rarely have occasion to use it.”

“I always assumed you and Max were married,” said Basil.

“Oh, no. He was married when we teamed up. Katie, his wife, is nice, but—”

She stopped at the sound of a car on the road that runs above the beach houses at Malibu. In a few moments footfalls were noisy on the wooden steps that led down to her house. She ran to the front door.

“Miss Shiel?” The man in the doorway was stocky and curt. The police. How could you always tell, even without the uniform?

“I’m Carson Dawes, Lieutenant, Los Angeles Police.” He smiled at Basil. “Good evening, Dr. Willing. You probably don’t remember me, but I’ve been attending your lectures on forensic psychiatry at the University.”

“Dr. Willing?” Moira whirled to look at Basil. “You’re a sort of policeman, too!”

“Sort of. I’m really a psychiatrist.”

“Sorry to trouble you. Miss Shiel,” Dawes went on. “But I couldn’t reach you by phone from Los Angeles, so I came out to the beach.”

“My line is down. The storm.”

“I’m looking for your partner, Max Weber, Do you know where he is?”

“No, I was trying to reach him myself when the line went down. His father, Abraham Weber, died suddenly of a heart attack this evening in Santa Barbara.”

“I know,” Dawes said. “When I called Mr. Weber’s number, trying to find Max, a Santa Barbara policeman answered the phone and told me all about it. They were trying to locate Max, too, he said. They had just talked to you and promised you they’d not release the news until he was found. That was when I tried to call you and discovered your line was down. The studio people in Burbank had told me Max was in Santa Barbara with his father. But he wasn’t. Interesting. If he had been, it would have given him an alibi.”

“An alibi? For what?” asked Moira.

“His wife, Katie, was murdered this evening.”

“But who would want to kill poor Katie?”

“Who but Max? They were on the verge of divorce — as you probably know.”

“I didn’t.”

“The Santa Cristina police called us a little while ago and asked us to bring Max in for questioning. Under California community property law, Katie would get half of everything if there were a divorce. That seems to be very inconvenient for Max just now — as I understand it, he wants to start his own recording company and needs all his capital. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about that?”

“Of course I knew. That’s business. We’re partners.”

“Katie Weber was in the Santa Cristina house this evening, sitting beside a picture window. According to medical evidence it was about eight thirty when someone fired a shot through the window and killed her instantly. No one heard the shot. Her body was found by her housekeeper, who had left the house at eight, when Katie was still alive, and returned at nine to find her dead. Where was Max at eight thirty?”

“I don’t know, but he would never kill Katie.”

Dawes looked at her skeptically. “Tough luck for a murderer to have his only alibi-witness die a natural death while he’s committing murder and so blow his carefully planned alibi sky-high.”

“How dare you assume that Max and his father would plan a cold-blooded murder together?”

“Before Abraham Weber retired, he was a lawyer for the racketeers. He never committed a crime himself, but he was not exactly punctilious about the letter of the law. And he loved his son. The heart attack suggests that the old man knew what was going on tonight and the excitement was too much for him. If I’m right — if Max did plan to use his father as an alibi-witness — the Lord hath delivered him into our hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“You asked the Santa Barbara police not to release the news of Weber’s death until Max was found, so Max cannot possibly know his father is dead. When we pick him up, he’ll undoubtedly claim he was in Santa Barbara with his father at eight thirty, the time of the murder, never suspecting that his father was already dead at eight thirty. That will prove that Max was not at his father’s house at all tonight. We’ll hardly have to question him. We can just sit back and let him talk himself into the gas chamber.”

“That’s horrible!” cried Moira. “You’re setting a trap for him!”

Again there was the sound of a car on the road above the beach. Moira was already at the door. Dawes drew her back, almost roughly.

“That may be Max Weber now. I left word with the highway police to bring him here if they picked him up within an hour of the time I left Burbank. Miss Shiel, if you try to warn him in any way, I’ll have you charged as an accessory after the fact. You must not speak to him at all — not a single word. Understand?”

“Yes.” She moved like a sleepwalker to the piano bench and sat down. Basil offered her a cigarette. She took it with trembling fingers. It was Dawes who opened the door when the knock came.

The first man to enter was slender, frail, shy. Basil had an impression of intelligence and sensitivity but without strength — always a dangerous constellation. He was followed by a uniformed highway policeman, who spoke to Dawes.

“We picked him up on the grass verge beside the freeway, Lieutenant. He was just outside Burbank, headed south. He said he was on his way home to Santa Cristina.”

Basil knew what the Lieutenant was thinking: Max could have driven to Santa Cristina instead of Santa Barbara when he left the Burbank studio, shot his wife, and then returned to Burbank, so he would re-enter Santa Cristina from the north, as if he had driven south from Santa Barbara. He’d find some witness on the road between Burbank and Santa Cristina to confirm his driving south at that hour — possibly a filling station man, whom he’d talk to when he stopped for gas.

“Moira!” Max ignored the others. “Have you heard the radio? Katie is dead — murdered—”

He started toward Moira, but Dawes put a hand on his arm.

“You are Max Weber?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m Lieutenant Dawes, Los Angeles Police, and I must talk to you before anyone else does. Where have you been?”

Moira crushed her cigarette in an ashtray on top of the piano. Her restless fingers strayed across the keyboard.

“Miss Shiel, I know you’re nervous, but this is no time for playing the piano. Mr. Weber, where have you been?”

“Santa Barbara. I had intended to dine with my father but—”

“But you didn’t? Why not?”

“My poor father.” Max dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. “Dad died all alone. He must have died just before I got there at eight thirty. He was still warm.”

“You called his doctor?”

“No. I should have, shouldn’t I? But I didn’t. It was such a shock, I went kind of crazy. I drove around for a while, trying to realize what it would be like to live in a world without Dad. At last, I headed for home.”

“Still without notifying a doctor?”

“I was going to do that as soon as I got home. It didn’t seem to matter, really. Dad was gone. The... the thing lying there had nothing to do with him now... I was on the freeway, just south of Burbank, when I heard about Katie on the radio. It was just too much, coming on top of Dad’s death. I couldn’t drive. I pulled off onto the grass and a few minutes later the cops picked me up and brought me here.”

“I guess that lets you out.” Dawes couldn’t hide his disappointment. “I must apologize for—”

“Apologize?” Basil’s voice was sharp. “Lieutenant, are you assuming Max Weber was in Santa Barbara tonight solely because he knows his father is dead?”

“Yes. No one knew about Mr. Weber’s death except the neighbor who called the police and the police themselves and Miss Shiel and you. It wasn’t on the air, because Miss Shiel made the police promise they wouldn’t release the news until Max was found. She couldn’t have telephoned Max about his father’s death, because her line went down right after the Santa Barbara police called her and told her the news. I know, because it was then I tried to reach her myself. Obviously, she had no opportunity to tell Max that his father was dead before I arrived.”

“True, but Miss Shiel did have an opportunity to tell Max Weber that his father was dead after you arrived.”

“What do you mean? She didn’t say a single word to him!”

“Words are not the only means of communication.”

“You’re thinking of some sort of code?”

“I suppose it could be called a code.” Basil stepped over to the piano. Slowly he played seven notes. “Do you recognize those notes?”

Dawes looked blank, but the young highway policeman gazed at Basil with awe. “Well, I’ll be damned! Key of C natural. It would have to be. You must have perfect pitch, too.”

“No, I was watching her hands, as you were watching mine just now.”

“What are you two talking about?” demanded Dawes.

“These are the seven notes Miss Shiel struck on the piano: A B E D E A D. Abe dead.”

“I hate you!” Moira screamed at Basil. “What business is it of yours? Why didn’t you leave it alone?”

“It’s all right, Moira,” said Max gently. “I might as well give myself up — I haven’t a chance without Dad to alibi me. The police will dig and dig until they trace the gun back to me.”

“Then... you did do it?” Moira’s voice was now a whisper.

“Yes, I killed Katie. For you as much as for the money. Moira, I love you so much...”

“Why the key of C natural?” Dawes asked Basil, later that evening.

“The enharmonic factor. On the keyboard, B sharp is also C natural, C flat is also B natural, E sharp is also F natural and F flat is also E natural. You can’t tell which note of these pairs is indicated unless the notes are written and the key indicated. C natural is the one exception — the one key that has no sharps or flats.

“Max Weber was quick to realize that if Moira’s playing was a message in code, it would have to be in the key of C natural — otherwise, he would have no way of identifying the notes — that is, the letters. Because he had perfect pitch, not just relative pitch, he was able to do what few people can do — identify a single note, or a small group of notes, played alone.

“Moira took advantage of Max’s gift on the spur of the moment. She was quick, but he was even quicker. They were quite a team, justly famous for picking up each other’s cues at an instant’s notice... I hope you’re not going to charge her as accessory?”

“I should,” said Dawes slowly. “But I won’t. Max’s punishment will be punishment enough for her... But I’m glad you were here. Dr. Willing — she fooled me completely.”