Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

A Cleverly Rearranged Murder by Richard Purtill

Yes, I suppose they are marvelous gadgets and I could probably afford to get one, but I have rather a prejudice against them; I’ll tell you why. It happened last spring when I was in San Diego looking for picture subjects. I don’t know if you realize I’m a poet. I suppose if you do you wonder, like most people, how I make a living at it.

It started when I made a birthday card for a friend with a photograph I’d taken myself and some lines of my verse inside. At the party everyone exclaimed over the card and someone said I should go into business making them.

She was probably joking, and it wouldn’t have gone much further if I hadn’t had a cousin with a print shop. But Harry, my cousin, liked the idea and we hunted through vacation pictures until we found some that I could fit verses to. Harry made up the cards and we managed to place a few at local gift shops. The demand grew slowly, but eventually I was able to give up my job at the shoe store and spend my time looking for picture subjects. Since I’m not a professional photographer, I take many pictures for every one we can use, and the best pictures don’t always inspire me to verse.

So I spend a lot of time wandering around new places, snapping away and jotting down ideas for verses. I probably travel more than I need to, but since I can deduct my photo trips as business expenses I feel I might as well enjoy my occupation and see a bit of the world.

The trip to San Diego had been a good one. I’d walked from the Embarcadero to the Zoo and was on my way back with some pictures and some ideas. On that trip I got the pictures of the old men in the park that went with my verses on loneliness: that’s sold very well. Some pictures of young people on roller skates sold well for a while, and I’ve reused the verses on youth that I wrote for them.

The sun was getting low and I was beginning to get hungry, so when I came to a little restaurant with the sign AUTHENTIC LEBANESE CUISINE, I decided to give it a try. I like all kinds of ethnic food. When I went in, though, all of the tables in the small room were empty, and I nearly left. Then I heard what sounded like a television news program coming from an open door at the back of the room. I hesitated, but I was tired and hungry; perhaps whoever was watching, the television would be as glad for my business as I would be for some food and a place to sit. I walked over to the door and peered in.

The first thing I saw was a large color television set on top of a bookcase. I had been right; it was a news program. For a moment my attention was caught by something the announcer was saying about tomorrow’s weather. There was a big reclining chair between the door and the television set with such a high back I couldn’t be sure whether someone was sitting in it or not. Clearing my throat, I said, “Excuse me.” Then I saw the foot.

It was sticking out at the bottom of the chair at a strange angle and I noticed automatically that the shoe it was wearing, though well worn, was an expensive one. I took a few steps toward the chair and then stopped when I saw the huddled shape sprawled in front of it, a heavy-set man with a bald head wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. With vague thoughts of first aid I bent toward the man. Then something hit me a vicious blow on the side of my head and I fell fathoms deep into dark, disturbing dreams.

I woke to find a rugged face with a stern, accusing expression close to my own. “You want to tell me about it, buddy?” said a voice.

I shut my eyes and opened them again. The face was still there. I tried to move my head but that hurt too much, so I moved my eyes from side to side to get my bearings.

I was back in the main room of the restaurant, sprawled on a chair that had been pulled away from a table. The room with the television set and the sprawled body seemed to be full of men and I saw the intermittent glare of flashbulbs out of the corner of my eyes as I looked back at the stern-faced man.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Detective Cominski, San Diego Police Department,” he said, and I realized that some of the men in the other room were wearing police uniforms. The man before me was wearing slacks, a sportjacket, and a colored shirt with a rather lurid tie. He was as big as a football forward and looked rather like one. He went on, “What happened is what I want to know. We found you in the back room with the proprietor, George Klouri. It looks like there was a fight. Klouri’s dead. You want to tell me about it?”

I touched the side of my head very carefully. There was dried blood there. I tried to gather my wits. “I came in for a meal,” I said. “The place was empty but I heard a TV. I went toward the room with the TV and there was a man lying on the floor. When I bent over to look at him, something hit me on the side of the head.”

Cominski’s expression didn’t change. “O.K., that’s your story,” he said. “Now let’s have some details. What time did you come in here?”

I shook my head and winced at the pain. “I don’t wear a watch, and I hadn’t really noticed the time,” I said. “But, since the news was on, I suppose it must have been some time between five-thirty and six-thirty. I saw a local weather forecast when I first looked in.”

The detective nodded without changing expression but his voice was a little friendlier as he said, “O.K., let’s let the medic look at that head while I check a couple of things. Then we’ll begin at the beginning and get a formal statement from you.”

He moved off and a man in white cleaned my wound carefully and put something on it which stung. “A bandage would be more trouble than it’s worth there with your hair in the way,” he said cheerfully. “It’ll swell up some, but if you keep it clean it should be O.K.”

By the time he was through with me Cominski had returned. He took a seat across the table from me, produced a notebook, and began to read something from a card inside it. With a shock I recognized the words I’d heard only on television programs: “the right to remain silent,” “if you cannot afford an attorney—”

The detective finished reading and produced a pen. “Let’s start with your name and address,” he said calmly.

Resisting an impulse to plead for some reassurance that I wasn’t really a suspect, I said as calmly as I could, “My name is Walter Kane. I live in the Beachside Apartments in Venice. Here in San Diego I’m staying at the Aztec Hotel downtown.”

Cominski nodded. “And the purpose of your visit to San Diego?”

There are some people you just don’t tell you’re a poet, and Cominski was one of them.

“I’m taking pictures for greeting cards,” I said. “My cousin and I are in partnership— My camera! Was there a camera with me when you found me?”

The detective shook his head. “No sign of one,” he said. “I’ll ask you for a description of it later and if it was stolen we’ll do what we can. Where were you before you got to the restaurant? Can you think of anything that’ll narrow the time down?”

I explained that I’d been wandering around looking for picture subjects and he took me through my arrival at the restaurant and every detail I could remember of what had happened. Then he drummed his fingers on the table and considered.

“Latest local news on TV is six o’clock,” he said. “We can probably find out which channel you saw and when the weather comes on the show. Trouble is, the guy who found you and Klouri and called us is a waiter here. He says he worked from five to seven and then went home to take a break; business picks up again around eight. That’s when he found you — eight o’clock, when he came back. According to the waiter, Klouri was O.K. when he left. We’re trying to find some regular customers and check that. There’s no TV news you could have seen after seven. The TV unit isn’t hooked up to its antenna and it’s tuned to Channel 3, which is a blank channel. Have you got any explanation for that?”

I shook my head. This time it didn’t hurt so much. “But I suppose someone could have been trying to steal the TV — struck down Klouri first, then me when I wandered in.”

The detective nodded. “Could be,” he said. “Most times we get a businessman killed, some kind of robbery’s involved. The trouble is we got this conflict on time with you and the waiter. Till we get that figured out I’m afraid we’ve got to hold you both. Give me a description of that camera and then take it easy for a while. I’ll see if we can get some coffee for you. I’m staying here at the scene in case we get a customer who can give us some information.”

He moved off to another corner of the room and began talking to a small, dark man with a bulbous nose who was wearing black trousers and a cardigan sweater over a white shirt and dark tie. I supposed he must be the waiter. A uniformed man brought me some coffee in a styrofoam cup. I wondered why they didn’t use the restaurant’s cups. While I was sipping the coffee another uniformed man brought in a tall, white-haired man with a beak of a nose.

Cominski left the table where he was talking to the dark man to greet the white-haired man. He glanced around and led the other man to a table as far away as possible from both myself and the man I presumed to be the waiter, but the room was so small I could overhear a good deal of the conversation.

The white-haired man said, “Stephanos, yes, that’s my name, Platon Stephanos. I live opposite in the big apartments there — 9C is mine. I am Greek, but there is no good Greek restaurant here, and George is not a bad cook. Yes, I was here earlier for coffee and to talk to some of the younger men who come in after work. Now I am back for my dinner and I find a policeman at the door!”

I couldn’t hear all of Cominski’s question but Mr. Stephanos’ reply was easy to follow. “Yes, I was here till about seven, when Stavros the waiter goes home and George goes to rest his feet. He is not a good waiter, you know, Stavros. Always he bangs the dishes on the table and tonight he was worse than usual. But he is a cousin of George — what can you do? What? No, George I don’t see yet tonight. When the men come from work he is busy in the kitchen. Later he has time to talk sometimes.”

That was the important part of what Platon Stephanos had to say, but it was another ten minutes before Cominski ushered him out of the door with thanks. The detective hesitated, then came over to me.

“I guess you couldn’t help hearing,” he said. “That pretty well confirms the waiter’s story and makes it kind of hard to see how you could have come in here when a news broadcast would have been on television. Till we get that cleared up I’ll have to ask you to stick around.”

Even though the restaurant was comfortably cool, I could feel myself sweating and wished I had never mentioned that newscast. “Couldn’t Klouri have had some sort of special antenna that brought in programs from some other area?” I suggested desperately.

Cominski shrugged. “There’s no sign of anything like that and I don’t see a thief stealing an antenna—” he began, then suddenly fell silent. “Hold on here,” he said unnecessarily and strode out the door.

There was a long, long wait, but eventually Cominski returned with a grim smile on his face. Behind him was a man in uniform carrying a large cardboard carton. Cominski and the other man went into the room where I had found Klouri’s body and closed the door.

After another endless wait, Cominski opened the door and beckoned to me. The television set was on and as I got to the door a man on the screen was saying “—should burn off by noon and the afternoon will be sunny.”

I gaped at Cominski. “That’s the same weather report I saw when I came in!”

He nodded. “Exactly the same weather report,” he said, and pointed to a rectangular object sitting next to the television set. It had two round tuning dials like those on a television set and a row of buttons along its front. In a small rectangle in the upper left-hand corner red numbers glowed.

“This is a video cassette recorder — VCR, they call it,” said Cominski. “They’re just beginning to show up on robbery reports. When you said that about the antenna and I said a thief couldn’t walk away with an antenna, it struck me that he could walk away with one of these.” He pushed one of the buttons and there was a loud click. The picture on the TV changed. He pushed another button and there was a whir, then a click. He pushed still another and the TV screen went grey for a moment, then the weather forecast began again.

“Suppose you’ve got a job that keeps you busy during news time but you like to watch the news,” said Cominski. “You push a button on this gadget and it records the news for you on a video cassette. The TV doesn’t even have to be on. Then, when you have the time, you turn to Channel 3 and push some buttons to rewind your tape and play it back. You sit down in comfort and watch the six o’clock news at seven-fifteen. That’s what Klouri was doing.” He looked over my shoulder and said, “You must have known Klouri had this gadget, Stavros. How come you didn’t tell us?”

I turned and saw the bulbous-nosed waiter just behind me, turning pale under his sallow skin.

“We found this under some trash in the alley,” said Cominski, “along with this.” He held up a camera I recognized as mine. “A man would be kind of foolish to carry them very far in broad daylight. But he might come back for them later.” He looked hard at Stavros. “I think we might find some fingerprints on one or the other of these unless the guy who put them out there was in less of a hurry than I think he was.”

The waiter’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. “Goddamned bloated capitalist!” he said. “He could buy expensive toys like that for himself, but he wouldn’t pay his cousin a decent wage! I begged him for a raise, told him I’d met this girl but he just laughed at me. Well, he’s not laughing any more!”

The next day I went down to the police building on Market Street to sign a statement and to say goodbye to Detective Cominski.

“Sorry you had a bad couple of hours,” he said. “The way I read the crime scene, it really didn’t look to me like Klouri could have knocked you out in a fight, and I didn’t believe any murderer would be stupid enough to knock himself out and lie next to his victim just to mislead the police. But that business about the newscast did make it look like you were lying, and that’s something we’re always alert for. Lying — or suppressing evidence, like Stavros did.”

“Did he make a deliberate attempt to involve me?” I asked.

Cominski shrugged. “You or any other drop-in customer. He went back after he left at seven o’clock, but first he had a drink to get his courage up. He made a pitch for a raise and Klouri laughed at him. He hit Klouri with a bookend, probably harder than he meant to. Then he started thinking again and figured if he just walked out he’d be the number-one suspect. He left the TV on and hid behind the door, hoping for a casual customer he could implicate in some way: maybe grab him and claim he’d caught him walking off with the money from the cash register and then found Klouri dead. He was a tough little guy, but you’re pretty big. He was afraid to do anything but drop you. I don t know how clearly he thought out what would happen when you said you saw the six o’clock news at seven-thirty, but I guess he figured it would confuse things if he hid the VCR and your camera. Or maybe he was just greedy and wanted to fence them. He’s clammed up since that one outburst. But, whether he planned it or not, it was that VCR that nearly got you into big trouble.”

As I said, they’re marvelous gadgets. But do you blame me if I’m somewhat prejudiced against them?