The Case of the Turning Tide

Chapter 18

Frank Duryea nodded to the three people who entered his office. Jack Elwell took the initiative. He stretched out his hand, and said, “I’m Elwell. Mighty glad to know you. Only too glad to come up here and do anything we can. Stearne was a nice chap, and if we can do anything to help bring his murderer to justice, we want to do it... Ain’t that right, Ned?”

Fielding nodded.

“My partner, Mr. Fielding,” Elwell introduced.

Duryea shook hands.

“My wife,” Fielding said, turning to the young woman at his side.

Duryea bowed again, muttered, “Mrs. Fielding.”

“They were married yesterday,” Elwell explained, grinning. “Little romance in the office going on right under my nose. They flew to Yuma and got spliced. Now, what can we do for you?”

Duryea said, “You control some Ventura County oil leases. You’d given Stearne an option on them. He had until midnight Saturday to exercise that option. Is that right?”

“That’s right. And he never exercised it.”

“His special administratrix did?”

“That’s a question for the lawyers. As far as we’re concerned, we’re in the clear. The option read that he didn’t have any rights whatever in the property after Saturday. The option period wasn’t to be extended by operation of law, by holidays, or by any other cause whatsoever, whether it was anything within the control of either or both of the parties, or something entirely beyond their control, or an act of God. You see, I made an option one time with a fellow, way back when they were declaring holidays in order to give the banks a rest, and I got in a big lawsuit over it. When I drew up this option, I made it cover everything.”

“Then you didn’t get any letter from Stearne accepting the option?”

“Absolutely not.”

“The attorney for the estate says such a letter was mailed.”

Elwell regarded the district attorney with clear-eyed candor. “I’m going to tell you the truth, Mr. Duryea. Stearne intended to mail that letter all right. I think he had it all written and was intending to mail it, but something happened to him before he mailed the letter.”

Duryea said cautiously, “That would, of course, be very important, because it would go a long ways toward fixing the time of death. The copy which Mr. Hazlit showed me bore a notation which I understand is in the handwriting of the deceased, that the original had been dropped in the mail at the post office just before five o’clock. There’s a possibility, of course, that the copy was mailed first, and Stearne’s written notation related to what he intended to do.”

Elwell said, “That’s exactly what happened. He mailed the copy from some box here. He intended to take the original to the post office himself. The reason he didn’t mail it was that he was murdered before five o’clock.”

“You’re sure you didn’t receive any such letter?”

“Absolutely. It wasn’t in the mail. Why, you can ask Martha here — Mrs. Fielding. She’s been with us for a good many years. She’s the one that got the mail on Monday morning.”

Duryea looked at Mrs. Fielding.

She surveyed him with placid eyes and expressionless countenance. “I got to the office Monday morning,” she said. “I looked in the door and the mail was there in the letter chute. There were quite a few letters, and they hadn’t dropped down to the floor. They were still stuck in the chute. That was be-cause there were so many of them.”

Duryea nodded.

“I took them out and looked through them to see what return addresses were on the envelopes. Then I took my paper knife and slit them open, and took out each letter and read it.”

“Why did you do that?” Duryea asked.

“To know whether it was a matter I could handle, like an order, whether the letter went to Mr. Elwell, or to Ned — Mr. Fielding.”

“That’s your usual custom?”

“Uh huh.”

“What do you do with the envelopes?”

“Fasten them to the letters with paper clips. Mr. Elwell told me always to do that...”

Elwell interrupted to say, “That’s my universal business custom. She’s done that ever since she started working for us. I always want the envelope preserved until after I’ve seen the letter.”

Duryea said, “I’m going to ask all of you to make written sworn statements.”

“Sure thing,” Elwell said, “only too glad to do it.”

Martha Fielding said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Duryea, I’d like to type my own statement. I guess I’ve been a stenographer too long not to feel nervous about things that are dictated. If you’ll let me have a typewriter, I can write it out, and it will save you the trouble of dictating it.”

“Put all the facts in it,” Duryea said.

“Oh, certainly,” she told him, and smiled.

Gramps Wiggins escorted a light-haired, reluctant young woman into Duryea’s outer office. “The district attorney in?” he asked.

Duryea’s secretary said, “He’s engaged. Was he expecting you?”

“Nope, but I gotta see him right away.”

“One of the deputies perhaps could...”

Wiggins said impatiently, “You go tell him that Mr. Wiggins is out here and has to see him right away, that it’s important. You get me, important?”

She left her typewriter, vanished through a door marked PRIVATE, and returned presently to say, “You may go right on in, Mr. Wiggins.”

Gramps took the young woman’s arm and said, “Right this way.”

She muttered something in an undertone, and Gramps said, reassuringly, “Forget it. There ain’t nothin’ to it. Just let me talk with him.”

Duryea was worried. He was beginning to realize that this murder case, in place of clarifying itself, was becoming more and more complicated. If Elwell and Fielding were telling the truth, — if Stearne had been murdered before he had mailed that letter of acceptance, the district attorney had a valuable clue as to the time at which the murder actually had been committed. If, on the other hand, these men were falsifying the evidence so as to make a second sale of the oil leases, Duryea dare not permit himself to be imposed upon. It would be fatal should he attempt to build a case on the strength of their testimony.

“I can give you only a very few minutes,” he said to Gramps, and he placed his watch on the desk.

Gramps nodded. “Got a young woman here that knows something,” he said. “Name’s Rodman — Alta Rodman.”

Methodically, Duryea reached for a memo pad. “Miss or Mrs.?” he inquired, holding his pencil poised.

“Mrs.,” the young woman said.

Gramps motioned Mrs. Rodman to a chair, settled himself, and crossed his legs.

“Well. What is it?” Duryea asked.

“Mrs. Rodman,” Gramps explained, “is workin’ as an usher in a motion picture theater. She’s done some stenographic work, though, an’ she wanted to get on steady if she could as a secretary somewhere. She left her name around with the different employment agencies, an’ she said she was willin’ to go anywhere durin’ the daytime an’ do stenographic work. You see, because she worked nights as an usher, she could have her days free to...”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to offer Mrs. Rodman any...” He broke off abruptly as the look on Gramps’ face warned him. “Are you the young woman who went out to the Gypsy Queen Saturday afternoon?” he asked, turning to Mrs. Rodman.

She nodded.

“You took some letters for Mr. Stearne?”

“Yes.”

Duryea took a long breath, picked out his watch, dropped it back in his pocket, and said, “About what time did you go aboard?”

“I want to keep out of it. I’ve got to keep out of it. You can’t use me as a witness.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

Gramps Wiggins piped up, “She’s workin’ nights. She’s afraid that they’ll fire her if they find out she’s when goin’ out daytimes doin’ work on the side. I told her mebbe you could keep her name outa the papers.”

Duryea said, “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that. I’ll do my best, however.”

Gramps said in a kindly voice, “He’ll take care of you some way. Now just go ahead an’ tell him what happened.”

She looked, not to Duryea, but at Wiggins.

“You do what I tell you.” Gramps said firmly. “We ain’t got time for a lot o’ monkeyshines.”

“But the papers...”

“I’ll talk ’em out of it,” Gramps promised. “I can lie like a house afire when I make up my mind to. You just go ahead an’ tell the skipper here about what happened.”

She said, in a low voice, “I’d done some work for Mr. Stearne once before, and Saturday he telephoned and asked me to come down to the yacht right away.”

“And you went?” Duryea asked.

“Of course. It was good pay.”

“And what happened?”

“Mr. Stearne said he had some letters. There were half a dozen.”

“What were they?”

Gramps interposed. “I had her bring her notebook. The letters are in there, written in shorthand just as she took ’em down when he dictated. She can write ’em out again.”

Duryea said, “My secretary will furnish a typewriter. Mrs. Rodman can do it right here in the office. Now, was there a letter to Elwell & Fielding?”

“Yes.”

“And you mailed that?” Duryea asked, feeling that he was at last getting something definite.

“No, sir, I didn’t. I mailed a copy of it to Mr. Stearne’s office.”

“You didn’t mail the original to Elwell & Fielding?”

“No, sir. He made a notation on that copy, and told me to address an envelope to his office in Los Angeles. He said I could drop the copy in the mailbox; but the original he said he’d mail personally at the post office. He said he’d have to swear that he’d mailed it himself.”

“Now, what time was this?”

“I went aboard the yacht about three o’clock and left shortly after four.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“No, just the two men.”

“And you mailed some letters from the mailbox near the yacht club?”

“Yes. Mr. Stearne told me to put them in the first mailbox I came to, and I knew that mailbox was there. Before I dropped them in the chute, I took a look to see that there was another collection of mail that afternoon — it being Saturday, you know — and I just thought I’d make sure.”

“What time did you mail them?”

“A few minutes after four o’clock. There was a sign on the box saying there was a mail collection at four-twenty-five.”

Duryea said, “Now begin at the beginning and tell me just what happened.”

“Well, I don’t know that there’s very much to tell. Mr. Stearne telephoned about half past two and asked me how soon I could be there. I told him in about twenty minutes, and I guess I got there in about fifteen. I was all dressed to go out, and all I had to do was grab my notebook, some pencils, my purse, put on a hat, and go. I...”

“Go on a streetcar, walk, or...”

“Took a taxi,” she said. “He asked me to do that.”

“And you discharged the taxi there at the parking place by the yacht club?”

“Yes.”

“And then what did you do?”

“Walked out to the float.”

“You knew the yacht, of course?”

“Yes. I’d seen it before.”

“And someone came out to take you aboard?”

“Yes. Mr. Right.”

“You’d met him before?”

“Yes.”

“When you got aboard, what happened?”

“Mr. Stearne seemed in a very good humor. He was in the cabin, where the steering wheel is, and card tables, and so forth.”

“Then what?”

“He said he wanted to give me some dictation. I sat down at one of the card tables. Mr. Stearne started dictating right away. He dictated those letters, walking back and forth while he was dictating. He’s a fast dictator. He knew what he wanted to say, and said it. You know, lots of persons talk rapidly enough when they’re just talking, but as soon as they start dictating they’ll dictate a word or two, then stop and think, and then dictate another word or two, then stop some more, then ask you what it was they’ve said, and when you read it to them, they’ll say, ‘Strike it out.’ ”

Duryea grinned.

Mrs. Rodman said hastily, “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Duryea interrupted. “The shoe fits about nine out of every ten men who dictate.”

“Well, Mr. Stearne wasn’t that way at all. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, and he’d say it, giving you eight or ten words at a time, then pausing just for a second, and then giving you eight or ten more words.”

“He dictated half a dozen letters?”

“I think so, five or six.”

“Were they long?”

“No. This one to Elwell & Fielding was the only long one. The others were short.”

“Would you say that he completed his dictation by three-thirty?”

“Before that. Well, wait a minute. By the time he started dictating... well, perhaps it was around twenty minutes past three when he finished.”

“Then what?”

“Then Mr. Right took me down into the lower cabin and fixed up a typewriter on a taboret.”

“A portable machine?”

“Yes.”

“Were you accustomed to it?”

“I can type on anything.”

“Wouldn’t it have been more convenient to have done the typewriting up in that upper cabin?”

“Probably, but they didn’t want to be disturbed by the noise of the typewriter. That’s why I went down in the lower cabin. At least, I suppose so.”

“How long did it take you to write the letters?”

“Oh, around thirty minutes.”

“But you didn’t leave the yacht...”

“No, sir. I finished the letters and went back to the upper cabin. The two men were talking. I think they were angry. Mr. Stearne told me to go out and wait for a few minutes. I stood at the rail for nearly five minutes, looking over at the other yachts. Mr. Right came out and went down to the lower cabin. Then Mr. Stearne called to me to come in with the letters. His face was flushed, and he was short and curt. He read the letters, signed them, and told me to seal and stamp them. I put them in their envelopes and put on the stamps. Then was when Mr. Stearne said he’d mail that letter to Elwell & Fielding. And he took the carbon copy I’d made for his office and wrote something on it, then put it back in the envelope. He gave me ten dollars and wanted to know if that was satisfactory. I told him very much so, and he said Mr. Right could take me ashore, and I could mail the other letters at the first mailbox. Mr. Right rowed me ashore, and that’s all I know.”

“Did you notice any change in Mr. Right’s manner?”

“Well — not particularly — although I don’t think he said a word to me, except to say good-by when he put me ashore.”

“You have your notebook with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to have you write those letters out so I can study them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Duryea picked up the telephone. “I’ll have my secretary provide you with a typewriter and...”

Gramps Wiggins cleared his throat, firmly and significantly.

Duryea glanced up at him.

“Mrs. Rodman can use any typewriter,” Gramps Wiggins said.

“Exactly,” Duryea said, reaching for the telephone again.

Gramps coughed, significantly.

Duryea stopped and frowned.

Gramps said, “You was fixin’ to ask her about that typewriter, wasn’t you, son?”

“She said she could use — oh, yes, the typewriter on the yacht. Do you remember that typewriter very clearly, Mrs. Rodman?”

“It was a portable.”

“Did it have a new ribbon or a new platen?”

She thought for a moment, said, “The platen wasn’t new, no. The ribbon was all right, I guess. I don’t remember about that, but it worked all right.”

Gramps grinned at the district attorney. “Now you’re gettin’ there, son,” he said. “You’re movin’ right along — just a whizzin’.”

When the door had closed, Duryea turned to Gramps Wiggins. “I owe you one for that.”

“Wasn’t anything,” Gramps announced. “I just rang up all the employment agencies to ask about stenographers that were free for part time work. I got a whole list of names and on the list there were only three people who had the initials ‘A.R.’ Shucks, there wasn’t anythin’ to it. I just got in touch with every one of ’em.”

“I thought you were on a wild-goose chase,” Duryea confessed. “I thought Stearne had dictated that letter to C. Arthur Right, and Right had put his initials, ‘A.R.,’ on it. You see, Right had started working for Stearne as his secretary.”

“Yep,” Gramps said. “I thought about Right as soon as I saw those initials, and then I decided against it.”

“You’d already thought of it?” Duryea asked.

“That’s right. You see, Right’s initials are ‘C.A.R.’ Everyone calls him Arthur, but he writes his name C. Arthur Right. If he’d put his initials on there it’d have been the same way he signs his name, not just ‘A.R.’ ”

Duryea grinned. “Well,” he admitted, “you were right. And it looks as though that typewriter we found was a plant.”

“As I see it,” Gramps said, “this here Moline woman is the one who stands to make all the profit by having it appear that Right died first. Ain’t that right?”

“Well — yes.”

“Whoever switched typewriters,” Gramps went on, “knew certain things and didn’t know others.”

“What?” Duryea asked.

“Didn’t know that a stenographer had been called in, and sent out letters on Saturday afternoon, but did know that when the bodies were found, there was a typewriter near Stearne.”

Duryea frowned down at his desk as he considered the problem, then picked up the telephone, called the sheriff’s office, found that Lassen was out, and talked with the undersheriff. “I’d like to have that typewriter which was taken from the Gypsy Queen last night sent up to my office right away. As soon as Sheriff Lassen comes in, ask him to give me a ring.”

Duryea hung up.

Gramps said, “That Moline woman. Now, she’s a deep one. That Gypsy Queen was going some place around three o’clock. It wasn’t just an ordinary cruise. Stearne wanted Nita Moline along. But why should she have got up here so early on Sun-day? She got up plenty early in Los Angeles.”

Duryea nodded. “Keep right on, Gramps.”

“P’haps two yachts was meetin’ out there in the ocean, an’ then again... And this girl on the Albatross may have known all about it an’ decided to go out an’ keep the appointment instead of the Gypsy Queen. Don’t overlook any bets on that Albatross.”

“I’m not,” Duryea promised. “Miss Harpler is due at the office late this afternoon. I expect to ask her questions in considerable detail.”

“That’s good.”

The undersheriff opened the door of the office, bringing in the portable typewriter.

Duryea picked up the telephone, said to his secretary, “Ask Mrs. Rodman to come in here. I want her to take a look at a typewriter.”

A few moments later, Mrs. Rodman appeared, laid some letters on Duryea’s desk, said, “There’s only one more, besides that long one about the leases.”

“Take a look at this typewriter,” Duryea invited.

She studied it carefully.

“Is that the typewriter on which you wrote those letters?”

She shook her head with slow deliberation.

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“How can you tell?”

“In several ways. But this typewriter has rubber cushions on the keys. The one I used didn’t.”

The silence which followed was broken by a wheezing chuckle from Gramps Wiggins. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere!” he said.