The Zebra-Striped Hearse

24

THE BLACKWELL HOUSE was dark. I pressed the bell push, and the chimes inside gave out a lonely tinkling. I waited and rang again and waited and rang and waited.

Eventually I heard footsteps inside. The veranda light went on over my head, and the little maid looked out at me sleepily. She was out of uniform and out of sorts.

“What do you want?”

“Are the Blackwells in?”

“She is. He isn’t.”

“Tell her Mr. Archer would like to speak to her.”

“I can’t do that. She’s in bed asleep. I was asleep myself.” She yawned in my face, and hugged her rayon bathrobe more closely around her.

“You go to bed early, Letty.”

“I had to get up early this morning, so I thought I might as well catch up on my rest. Mrs. Blackwell took some sleeping pills and left strict orders not to be disturbed. She went to bed right after dinner.”

“Is Mrs. Blackwell all right?”

“She said she had a blinding headache but she gets those from time to time.”

“How many sleeping pills did she take?”

“A couple.”

“What kind?”

“The red kind. Why?”

“Nothing. Where’s the lord and master?”

“He left early this morning. He had a phone call, about Miss Harriet, and he made me get up and make breakfast for him. It isn’t a regular part of my duties but the cook sleeps out–”

I cut in on her explanations: “Do you know where he is now?”

“He went up to Tahoe to help them search for her body. That’s where the phone call was from.”

“They haven’t found her, then?”

“No. What do you think happened to her?”

“I think she’s in the lake.”

“That’s what he said.” She stepped outside, partly closing the door behind her. “He was in bad shape at breakfast. He couldn’t eat he was so broken up. I didn’t think he should go off there by himself. But he wouldn’t let me wake up Mrs. Blackwell, and what could I do?”

She crossed the veranda and looked up at the stars. She sighed, and laid a hand on her round pink rayon bosom.

“How long have you been working for the Blackwells?”

“Two months. It seems like longer. I mean with all the trouble in the house.”

“Trouble between Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell?”

“They’ve had their share. But it don’t behoove me to talk about it.”

“Don’t they get along?”

“They get along as well as most, I guess. A-course they’ve only been married eight or nine months. It’s the long pull that counts, my daddy says, and the Colonel must be twenty years older than her.”

“Is that an issue between the Blackwells?”

“No, I don’t mean that. Only it makes you wonder why she married him. Mrs. Blackwell may have her faults, but she’s not the gold-digging type.”

“I’m interested in what you think of her and her faults.”

“I don’t talk behind people’s backs,” she said with some spirit. “Mrs. Blackwell treats me good, and I try to treat her good back. She’s a nice lady to work for. He isn’t so bad either.”

“Did they take you up to Tahoe in May?”

“That was before I started with them. Just my luck. They were talking about going up again in September, but it’s probably all off now. They wouldn’t want to stay in the lodge so soon after what happened there. I wouldn’t want to myself.”

“Were you fond of Harriet?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I never saw much of her. But I felt kind of sorry for her, even before this happened. She was a real sad cookie, even with all that money. It’s too bad she had to die before she had any happiness in life. She put on a pretty good front, but you ought to seen the crying tantrums she threw in the privacy of her own room. My mother is a practical nurse, and I tried to calm her down a couple of times.”

“What was she crying about?”

“Nobody loved her, she said. She said she was ugly. I told her she had a real nice figure and other attractive features, but she couldn’t see it. This was in June, before she went to Mexico. It’s easy to understand why she was such a pushover for that artist guy – the one with all the names that murdered her.” She looked at the stars again, and coughed at their chilliness. “I think I’m catching cold. I better get back to bed. You never can tell when they’ll get you up around here.”

She went back into the dark house. I went down the hill and turned left on Sunset toward my office. I drove automatically in the light evening traffic. My mind was sifting the facts I’d scraped together, the facts and the semi-facts and the semi-demi-semi-facts. One of the semi-facts had become a certainty since I’d learned that the tweed coat had been found near the Blackwells’ beach house: the Blackwell case and the Dolly Campion case and the Ralph Simpson case were parts of one another. Dolly and Ralph and probably Harriet had died by the same hand, and the coat could be used to identify the hand.

I spread it out on the desk in my office and looked at it under the light. The leather buttons were identical with the one Mungan had shown me. Where the top one had been pulled off there were some strands of broken thread corresponding with the threads attached to Mungan’s button. I had no doubt that an identification man with a microscope could tie that button and this coat together.

I turned the coat over, scattering sand across the desk and the floor. It had a Harris label on the right inside breast pocket, and under it the label of the retailers: Cruttworth, Ltd., Toronto. My impulse was to phone the Cruttworth firm right away. But it was the middle of the night in Toronto, and the best I could hope for was a chat with the night watchman.

I searched in vain for cleaners’ marks. Perhaps the coat had never been cleaned. In spite of its rough usage on the beach, the cuffs and the collar showed no sign of wear.

I tried the thing on. It was small for me, tight across the chest. I wondered how it would fit Campion. It was a heavy coat, and a heavy thought, and I began to sweat. I struggled out of the coat. It hugged me like guilt.

I knew a man named Sam Garlick who specialized in identifying clothes and connecting them with their rightful owners in court. He was a Detective Sergeant in the L. A. P. D. His father and his grandfather had been tailors.

I called Sam’s house in West Los Angeles. His mother-in-law informed me that the Garlicks were out celebrating their twenty-second wedding anniversary. She was looking after the three smaller children, and they were a handful, but she’d finally got them off to bed. Yes, Sam would be on duty in the morning.

While the receiver was in my hand, I dialed my answering service. Both Arnie Walters and Isobel Blackwell had called me earlier in the day. The most recent calls were from Sergeant Wesley Leonard and a woman named Mrs. Hatchen, who was staying at the Santa Monica Inn. Mrs. Hatchen. Harriet’s mother. The long loops were intersecting, and I was at the point of intersection.

I put in a call to the Santa Monica Inn. The switchboard operator told me after repeated attempts that Mrs. Hatchen’s room didn’t answer. The desk clerk thought she’d gone out for a late drive. She had checked into a single late that afternoon.

I returned Leonard’s call. He answered on the first ring.

“Sergeant Leonard here.”

“Archer. You wanted to talk to me?”

“I thought you wanted to talk to me. The wife mentioned you were here this afternoon.”

“I had some evidence that should interest you. I have more now than I had then.”

“What is it?”

“The coat Ralph Simpson had with him when he left home. I’m hoping it will lead us to the killer.”

“How?” he said, rather competitively.

“It’s a little complicated for the phone. We should get together, Sergeant.”

“I concur. I’ve got something hotter than the coat.” He was a simple man, and simple pride swelled in his voice. “So hot I can’t even tell you over the phone.”

“Do you come here or do I go there?”

“You come to me. I have my reasons. You know where I live.”

He was waiting for me on the lighted porch, looking younger and taller than I remembered him. There was a flush on his cheeks and a glitter in his eyes, as if the hotness of his evidence had raised his temperature.

I suspected that he was letting me in on it because he secretly doubted his competence to handle it. He had anxiety in him, too. He pumped my hand, and seemed to have a hard time letting go.

Mrs. Leonard had made lemonade and egg-salad sandwiches, and laid them out on a coffee table in the small overfurnished living room. She poured two glasses of lemonade from a pitcher clinking with ice. Then she retreated into the kitchen, shutting the door with crisp tact. I had forgotten to eat, and I wolfed several sandwiches while Leonard talked.

“I’ve found the murder weapon,” he announced. “I didn’t find it personally, but it was my own personal idea that led to its disclosure. Ever since we uncovered Simpson’s body, I’ve had a crew of county prisoners out there mornings picking over the scene of the crime. This morning one of them came across the icepick and turned it in.”

“Let me see it.”

“It’s down at the courthouse, locked up. I’ll show it to you later.”

“What makes you certain it’s the weapon?”

“I took it into the L. A. crime lab today. They gave it a test for blood traces, and got a positive reaction. Also, it fits the puncture in Simpson’s body.”

“Any icepick would.”

“But this is it. This is the one.” He leaned toward me urgently across the plate of sandwiches. “I had to be sure, and I made sure.”

“Fingerprints?”

“No. The only prints were the ones from the prisoner that found it. It was probably wiped clean before the murderer stuck it in the dirt. I’ve got something better than fingerprints. And worse, in a way.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Sergeant.”

“It’s a riddle for sure.” He glanced at the closed door to the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “The icepick was part of a little silver bar set which was sold right here in town last October. I had no trouble tracking down the store because there’s only the one good hardware store here in town. That’s Drake Hardware, and Mr. Drake identified the icepick personally tonight. He just had the one set like it in stock, and he remembered who he sold it to. She’s a local citizen – a woman my wife has known for years.”

“Who is she?”

Leonard raised his hand as if he was back on traffic point duty. “Not so fast. I don’t know that I’m justified telling you her name. It wouldn’t mean anything to you, anyway. She’s a Citrus Junction woman, lived here all her life. Always had a clean record, till now. But it looks dark for her, or maybe her husband. There’s more than the icepick tying them into the murder. They live directly across the road from the site where we found the icepick and the body.”

“Are we talking about Mr. and Mrs. Stone?”

He looked at me in surprise. “You know Jack and Liz Stone?”

“I interviewed her this afternoon. He wasn’t there.”

“What were you doing – questioning her about the Simpson killing?”

“We discussed it, but I didn’t consider her a suspect. We talked mostly about her daughter Dolly – and what happened to her.”

Leonard made a lugubrious face. “That was a bad blow to the Stone couple. The way I figure it, psychologically speaking, the murder of their girl could of drove them over the edge. Maybe Simpson had something to do with that murder, and they killed him in revenge.”

“It’s a possible motive, all right. Simpson was definitely involved with Dolly and her husband. Have you questioned the Stones?”

“Not yet. I just got Mr. Drake’s identification of the icepick tonight. I talked it over with the Sheriff and he says I should wait until the D. A. gets back from Sacramento. He’s due back tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to make a serious mistake, the Sheriff says.” Clear sweat, like distilled anxiety, burst out on his forehead. “The Stones aren’t moneyed folks but they’ve always had a good reputation and plenty of friends in town. Liz Stone is active in the Eastern Star.” He took a long gulp of lemonade.

“Somebody ought to ask her about the icepick.”

“That’s my opinion, too. Unfortunately my hands are tied until the D. A. gets back.”

“Mine aren’t.”

He regarded me appraisingly. Clearly he was asking himself how far he could trust me. He tossed down the rest of his lemonade and got up.

“Okay. You want to take a look at it first?”

We rode in my car to the courthouse. The icepick was in Leonard’s second-floor office, where a map of Citrus County took up one whole wall. He got the thing out of a locker and set it on the table under a magnifying glass on a flexible arm.

A tag bearing Leonard’s initials was wired to the handle, and the wire sealed with lead. The square-cut silver handle felt cold to my fingers. The point of the icepick was sharp and dirty, like a bad death.

“There’s a corkscrew that goes with it, part of the set,” he said. “If Liz and Jack Stone have the corkscrew, it ties it up.”

“Maybe. Are they the sort of people that would use a silver bar set, or any kind of a bar set?”

“I never heard that they drank, but you never can tell. One of them could be a secret drinker.”

“Secret drinkers don’t fool around with fancy accessories. Do I have your permission to show them this thing, and ask for an explanation?”

“I guess so.” He wiped his forehead. “Long as you don’t go to them in my name, I guess it’s all right. But don’t make any accusations. We don’t want them to panic and go on the run.”

I let him out on the sidewalk in front of his house and drove to the west side. The Stones had an upstairs light on. The man who came to the front door was in his pajamas. He was a thin man with bushy sandy hair and defeated eyes.

“Mr. Stone?”

“Yessir.”

“I had some conversation with your wife today.”

“You’re the detective, are you?” he said in a flat voice.

“Yes. I’d appreciate a few minutes more with your wife, and with you, too.”

“I dunno, it’s getting pretty late. Mrs. Stone is on her way to bed.” He glanced up the stairs which rose from the hallway. “Is it about Dolly?”

“It’s connected with Dolly.”

“Maybe I can handle it, eh?” He squared his narrow shoulders. “It was a terrible sorrow to my wife what happened to Dolly. I hate to see her dragged back to it all the time.”

“I’m afraid it’s necessary, Mr. Stone.”

He took my word for it and went upstairs to fetch her, climbing like a man on a treadmill. They came down together wearing bathrobes. He was holding her arm. Her face and neck were shiny with some kind of cream or oil.

“Come in,” she said. “You shouldn’t keep a man waiting on the doorstep, Jack. It isn’t polite.”

We went into the living room, where the three of us stood and looked at each other. The awkwardness developed into tension. The woman pulled at the oily skin of her throat.

“What brings you here so late? Have you found something out?”

“I keep trying, Mrs. Stone.” I got the icepick out of my pocket and held it out by the tip. “Have you seen this before?”

“Let me look at it.”

She reached out and took it from me by the handle. Her husband leaned at her shoulder, one arm around her waist. He seemed to depend on physical contact with her.

“It looks like the one you bought for Mrs. Jaimet,” he said.

“I believe it is. What’s this little wire tag doing on it?”

“It’s just to identify it. Where did you buy it, Mrs. Stone?”

“At Drake Hardware. It’s part of a set I got for Mrs. Jaimet as a wedding gift. Jack thought I spent too much money on it, but I wanted to get her something nice for once. She was always good to us and Dolly. Twelve dollars wasn’t too much for all she’s done.” Her eye was on her husband, and she was speaking more to him than to me.

“It cost sixteen,” he corrected her. “I work all day for sixteen dollars take-home. But I’m not kicking. She was a good friend to Dolly.”

His wife took up the sentiment and breathed more life into it. “She was wonderful to Dolly, a second mother. Remember when Dolly used to call her Aunt Izzie? Not every woman in Izzie Jaimet’s position would permit that, but she’s no snob. She gave our Dolly some of her happiest hours.”

They clung to each other and to this warm fragment of the past. The icepick in her hand brought her back to the sharp present.

“How did you get ahold of this? I sent it to Mrs. Jaimet for a wedding gift. She doesn’t even live in town any more.”

“She used to live in town?”

“Right across the road,” Stone said. “We were neighbors with the Jaimets for close to twenty years. She sold out to the Rowlands after Jaimet died, and moved to Santa Barbara. But Liz and her kept in touch. She even invited Liz to attend her wedding. Liz didn’t go though. I convinced her she’d be out of place–”

His wife interrupted him: “Mr. Archer didn’t come here to listen to a lot of ancient history.” She said to me: “You haven’t answered my question. Where did you get ahold of this?”

She shook the icepick at me. I held out my hand, and she relinquished it. I put it away in my pocket.

“I can’t answer that question, Mrs. Stone.”

“I’ve been answering your questions, all day and half the night.”

“It hasn’t been quite that bad. Still I’m sorry that I can’t make things even with you. You’ll find out soon enough what this is about.”

“Is it the man they found across the road?”

I didn’t affirm it or deny it. “This may be important to you personally. It may lead to a solution of Dolly’s murder.”

“I don’t understand how.”

“Neither do I. If I did, I wouldn’t be here asking you questions. How well and how long did Mrs. Jaimet know Dolly?”

“All her life.” She sat down suddenly on the chesterfield. The net of time had drawn tight on her face, cutting deep marks. “That is, until about three and a half years ago, when she moved to Santa Barbara. But it didn’t stop then. She invited Dolly to come and visit her in Santa Barbara. I tried to talk Dolly into it – Mrs. Jaimet could do a lot for her – but Dolly never made the trip.”

“How could Mrs. Jaimet do a lot for her?”

“The way she did do a lot for her. Mrs. Jaimet is an educated woman; her husband was the principal of the high school. She used to give Dolly books to read, and take her on picnics and all. I was working in those days, and she was a real good neighbor. She just loved Dolly. So if you’re thinking she had anything to do with Dolly’s death, you’re ’way off the beam.”

“ ‘Way off the beam,” her husband echoed. “She was like a second mother to Dolly, being she had no children of her own.”

“Which was her secret sorrow. She never will have children now – she’s too old.”

Elizabeth Stone looked down at her own body. Jack Stone put his arm around her shoulders. She crossed her legs.

“Where can I get in touch with Mrs. Jaimet?”

“She’s living in L. A. with her new husband. I ought to have her address some place. She remembered me with a card at Christmastime. I think I still have that card in the bureau.” She started to get up, and froze in a leaning posture. “If I give you the address, you have to promise you won’t tell her who gave it to you.”

“I could promise, but it’s bound to come out. Nearly everything does in the long run.”

“Yeah, you have something there.” She turned to her husband. “Jack, will you get it for me? It’s in the top drawer of the bureau with the other special cards I saved – the one with the silver bells.”

He rose quickly and left the room, and she subsided onto the chesterfield. Her baby-blue eyes were strained and speculative.

“The man across the road was stabbed with an icepick. It said so in the paper. The icepick you have there, the one I bought for Mrs. Jaimet’s wedding – it couldn’t be the one, could it?”

“Yes. It could be.”

“I don’t get it. How would a lady like her get mixed up in a killing?”

“Some of the darnedest people do.”

“But she’s a real lady.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I may not be a lady myself, but I know one when I see one. Isobel Jaimet has class, the kind that doesn’t have to flaunt itself. I happen to know she has very good connections. Matter of fact, she married one of them the second time around. Her second husband was her first husband’s second cousin, if you can follow that. I met him years ago when he was staying with the Jaimets. He was very important in the military. The Jaimet family itself used to own the whole west side, before they lost it.”

“What is her second husband’s name?”

“Let’s see, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Anyway, it’s on the card she sent me.”

“Would it be Blackwell?”

“That’s it! Blackwell. You know him?”

I didn’t have to answer her. Her husband’s slippered feet were clop-clopping down the stairs. He came into the room carrying a square envelope, which he handed to his wife. She opened it.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,” the bright card said. “Colonel and Mrs. Mark Blackwell.”