1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles (7 page)

Without looking at her tortured face, he caught hold of her and slung her over his shoulder. She was heavy, and he staggered a little as he walked back to the car. He bundled her into the trunk and closed it. Then getting into the car, he reversed it up the dirt road until he came to the turnaround.

He pulled up, set the brake, got out of the car and opened the trunk. He took out an old Army trenching tool he had picked up in a Miami store. Then he got the girl over his shoulder and carrying the tool in his hand, he walked across the sand to the nearest high sand dune. He dropped her at the foot of the dune, then straightened to look along the miles of deserted beach. Satisfied he was alone, he knelt beside the girl’s body and began to undress her. This task sickened him, but it had to be done.

Ticky had said, ‘Get all her clothes. They’ll have the College laundry marks on them. We can’t take a chance.’

He had trouble getting her girdle off. He cursed softly, sweat blinding him, as he wrestled with it. Finally, he got it off. Now she was naked. Around her bruised, swollen throat she wore a gold cross on a thin gold chain. He couldn’t leave that on her. He hated touching it. He had been brought up as a Catholic and although nothing of his religion had stuck, the cross reminded him of the church he had gone to as a kid with its blaze of candles, the smell of incense and the throb of the organ.

He dropped the cross into his pocket and made a bundle of her clothes. Then picking up the trenching tool, he climbed up the dune and began shovelling the sand down on the naked, murdered body.

A buzzard circled overhead, its wide wings making a shadow on the sand. It was still circling in ascending spirals long after Algir had finished his gruesome task and had driven away.

* * *

At 09.45 hours, Fred Hess walked down the passage that led to Captain Terrell’s office. He rapped on the door, pushed it open and walked into the room.

Terrell was sitting at his desk. Beigler was sitting on the window ledge. Both men were drinking coffee.

‘Well, Fred, what have you got?’ Terrell asked, pushing a carafe of coffee across the desk and waving to a chair.

Hess sat down and helped himself to a cup of coffee before saying, ‘It all points one way, Chief. She killed him and then herself. Lepski has been checking, and here’s what we’ve come up with. Williams went to bed at eight o’clock with a heavy cold. At 10:10 the people across the way thought they heard shots, but weren’t sure. They had their TV set on and it was blaring. The husband, Dixon, looked out of the window to see if there was anything to see. Muriel Devon’s car was parked outside her bungalow. He went back to the programme. As it finished, he heard

Muriel’s car drive away. The doorman at La Coquille saw Muriel arrive in her car. He thought she was pretty drunk, but she was steady enough to walk so he let her in. She arrived at around eleven so she must have driven straight to the restaurant from her place. It would take that time.

The barman says he saw her come in and Edris put her in the end banquette. The barman says he remained behind the bar the whole time and he is certain no one went near the banquette except Edris who served her with a whisky sour. The hypo that killed her carries some blurred fingerprints, one of them, probably all of them, Muriel’s. We haven’t found a thing to make us think she didn’t kill him and then herself.’

Terrell nodded.

‘What did Charmers say about the handwriting on the suicide note?’

‘I gave him the specimens we found in her apartment. The handwriting matches. She also owned the gun. She took out a licence three years ago in New York. It’s a fact Williams was cheating her. He was planning to go off with a Mrs. Van Wilden, a rich old bitch, living at the Palace Hotel. I’ve seen and talked to her.’ Hess made a grimace. ‘When she heard Williams was dead, she had hysterics. She was taking him to the West Indies to manage her estate out there.’ Hess sneered. ‘She had a lucky break, but I didn’t tell her so. Lepski talked around and the neighbours say Williams and Muriel were always fighting. Well, I guess they’ve had their last fight, no loss.’

Terrell finished his coffee.

‘Doc says she died of heroin poisoning. No doubt about that.’ He thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Well, I guess we can close the file. This is one of the easy ones.’

‘How about her husband?’ Beigler said. ‘Do you want me to find him?’

‘We’ll want him for the inquest,’ Terrell said. ‘Then there’s the daughter.’ He scratched the side of his jaw. ‘Funny Hamilton hasn’t been around this morning.’

Hess grinned.

‘Browning’s talked to him. He gets so many free meals out of Browning, he’s playing this one down. There’s barely a mention of the shooting and that’s on the back page.’

‘I’m glad for the daughter’s sake,’ Terrell said. ‘See if you can find Devon in the book, Joe.’

Beigler crossed to the shelf of reference books and picked up the telephone book. He flicked through the pages.

‘Here he is. Melville Devon, 1455, Hillside Crescent. Shall I call the house?’

‘Go ahead.’

Beigler put the call through. After a brief delay, a woman’s voice said, ‘This is Mr. Devon’s residence.’

‘City Police,’ Beigler said. ‘Can I talk to Mr. Devon?’

‘He’s not here. You can get him at the bank.’

‘What bank’s that?’

‘The Florida Safe Deposit,’ the woman told him. ‘I can give you the number if you’ll hold on.’

‘That’s okay,’ Beigler said. ‘I can find it, thanks,’ and he hung up. ‘He works at the Florida Safe Deposit Bank,’ he told Terrell.

Terrell frowned, then snapped his fingers.

‘I know the fellow. I didn’t know his first name. I once played golf with him in the Country Club competition. Nice guy. He’s the Vice President of the bank. Important man. Well, what do you know? If Hamilton finds out, even Browning can’t stop him publishing a story. Wife of V.P. of Florida Safe Deposit Bank in murder and suicide tangle! Can you imagine? I’ll handle this, Joe. I’ll call him.’

The telephone bell rang. Beigler picked up the receiver.

‘Ticky Edris asking for the Chief,’ the Desk Sergeant said.

‘Hold it.’ Beigler looked at Terrell. ‘Edris on the line. You want to talk to him?’

Terrell frowned.

‘What does he want?’ He held out his hand for the receiver. When Beigler passed it to him, he said into the mouthpiece, ‘Put him on, Charley.’

Edris came on the line.

‘Captain Terrell?’

‘Yeah. What is it, Edris?’

‘It’s about Norena Devon,’ Edris said in his piping voice. ‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, Captain, but I want to trace her father. As a friend of the family, I called the school and Dr. Graham has broken the news to her. She’s on her way home now. She’s very upset. Here’s my problem. There’s no money in the apartment. Of course I can provide for her and I will, but before sticking my neck out, I thought her father should be consulted. He may want to take charge. You see the position I’m in, Captain. I don’t want to put my foot wrong, but I want to be helpful.’

Terrell scratched the side of his jaw as he listened.

‘I’ve located her father, Edris,’ he said finally. ‘I’m going to speak with him right now. For his and his daughter’s sake, the less publicity about all this the better. If you’re such a friend of the family and want to help, you can help. I’m going to talk to the Coroner. It could be fixed that you identify the woman as Muriel Marsh and you give evidence of the relationship between her and Williams. I think the Coroner would agree to leave Norena and her father out of it. It depends on you.’

‘You can count on me, Captain,’ Edris said. ‘I’ll do anything to help. I’m as anxious as you to spare the kid any publicity.’

‘Okay. I’ll talk to Devon and the Coroner. As soon as I know how they feel about it, I’ll telephone you. What’s your number?’

‘Seacombe 556.’

‘Right,’ Terrell said, scribbling the number on his blotter. He hung up and pushed back his chair. ‘All right, boys, you get on with your other jobs. I’ll finish this one off.’

When Hess and Beigler had gone, Terrell called Alec Brewer, the Coroner. He explained the situation to him.

‘Mel Devon?’ Brewer’s voice sounded shocked. ‘He’s an old friend of mine. I never. You’re sure it’s the same man, Frank?’

‘Same name,’ Terrell said. ‘I haven’t talked to him yet. Could be I’m wrong.’

‘You’d better check. I can’t believe it. You check, Frank, and call me back.’

‘Maybe I’d better go down and see him.’

‘You do that, and be careful, Frank. Mel’s an important man in this City.’

The Florida Safe Deposit Bank was founded in 1948 by a syndicate of immensely wealthy men who had either retired to live in Paradise City or who spent three months of the year on vacation there. These men were determined to have a completely safe place in which they could keep their bonds, their cash for gambling, their wives’ jewellery and furs and their gold and silver plate, used from time to time on special occasions. Since the bank had been opened, Paradise City had ceased to have the highest burglary rating of all the rich cities along the Florida coast. It now claimed the distinction of the lowest crime rate with the least number of criminals.

The bank had proved such a success that all the big jewellers, the hotels, the three Casinos and the various private clubs used its modern safes in which to keep their cash and valuables. The Bank had three armoured trucks, each guarded by four ex-Ranger guards, that delivered or collected from its clients, and only once had one of the trucks been attacked. This had been a daring attempt by six vicious gunmen, but the attack had failed. Five of the gunmen and one of the guards had been killed. The reputation of the guards’ shooting from this battle scared off any further attempts.

When the Texas oil billionaires invaded Paradise City during the vacation months, they all used the Bank as their pocket book, and during this period, it was rumoured that there were more money, securities and jewellery under its imposing roof than under any other single roof in the world.

Captain Terrell parked his car in one of a number of parking bays, got out and walked up the wide steps to the Bank’s entrance.

Two guards, wearing smart grey blouses and breeches, knee boots and peak caps worn straight, Colt .45 automatics on their hips, eyed Terrell, then saluted him.

‘Morning, Chief,’ one of them said. ‘Official?’

‘No,’ Terrell said and paused. He knew both men. He had shot against them at the .22 Rifle Club and knew them to be exceptional marksmen. ‘I wanted to see Mr. Devon.’

‘Second desk on the right as you go in,’ the guard said.

Terrell nodded and walked into the vast reception hall with its marble pillars, its Ali Baba vases of flowers and its discreet lighting. The hall was circular in shape and between each pillar stood a desk at which an executive sat either writing, telephoning or discussing business with a client.

A thin, balding man, dressed in a dark grey tropical suit sat at the second desk on the right. A mahogany plaque with the word Information in gold letters stood on the desk.

He glanced up. Recognizing Terrell, he nodded and smiled.

‘I’d like a word with Mr. Devon,’ Terrell said. ‘Urgent private business.’

If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it.

‘Sit down, Captain Terrell,’ he said and reached for the telephone. He had a murmured conversation while Terrell sat and looked around the hall. This was the first time he had been inside the bank and he was impressed.

‘Mr. Devon will see you right away,’ the man said, replacing the receiver. He indicated the elevator at the end of the hall. ‘Third floor.’

Terrell nodded his thanks, crossed the hall and entered the elevator. He was whisked up to the third floor where a pretty girl, her dark hair making a neat frame for her face, was waiting. ‘Come this way, Captain Terrell,’ she said and led him along a wide, long corridor to a door of polished, panelled mahogany. She opened the door and stood aside, murmuring, ‘Captain Terrell, Mr. Devon.’

Terrell entered a large airy room, luxuriously furnished with a handsome desk as the only piece of office equipment. Above the wooden carved fireplace hung an early Van Gogh. Lounging chairs, a Louis XIV cabinet, converted into a cocktail cabinet and rich Persian rugs completed the furnishing. Four large windows overlooked the Yacht Club basin and the sea.

The man behind the desk stood up and offered his hand. As Terrell shook hands, he remembered him now more clearly.

Mel Devon was thirty-nine years of age. He was tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. His close cut brown hair was flecked with grey. His features were regular. His skin was burned brown by the sun and wind, his eyes blue and steady, his mouth firm and humorous. He gave the impression of ability, shrewdness and kindness.

‘It’s some time since we met, Captain,’ he said, waving Terrell to a chair. ‘I’ve often thought of that game we had. I never see you at the club these days. Don’t tell me you’ve given up golf?’

Terrell sat down.

‘I don’t play as regularly as I would like. I turn out on Saturday mornings but that’s about all the time I can spare.’

‘How’s the game?’

‘Pretty steady. You still playing off six?’

Devon smiled. He seemed pleased Terrell should have remembered his handicap.

‘I’m down to four now.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Not my idea. I get an awful beating every now and then.’

He leaned back in his chair and rested his big hands on the desk. His look of inquiry told Terrell that although he was pleased to see him, he was busy.

‘Mr. Devon,’ Terrell began slowly, ‘I’m making inquiries about a woman. It is just possible you may be able to help me. Her name is Muriel Marsh Devon.’

Devon stiffened. His mouth tightened and a sharp probing expression came into his eyes.

‘That’s the name of my wife, Captain,’ he said. ‘Is she in some kind of trouble?’

‘You could call it that,’ he said and scratched the side of his jaw. ‘She died last night - suicide.’

Devon became motionless. He stared fixedly at Terrell who felt sorry for him.