Clues for Dr. Coffee, page 19
“What about Major Thissel?” Dr. Coffee asked.
“He’s gone back to Washington,” said Lieutenant Quail.
“He’s what?”
“He left Northbank for the airfield about an hour ago. I guess he’s halfway to Washington by now.”
“Why, that—! And General Spence promised—!” The pathologist reached for the phone.
“The major is really not under General Spence’s command,” Quail said. “He was only here on assignment from the C.I.D. in Washington. He finished his investigation, so he went home.”
Dr. Coffee’s hand was still on the phone when it rang.
“Pathology,” he said. “Oh, hello, Max. I was just going to call you. Major Thissel—You did? … The air field? … I see.… Really? … I’ll be damned! … He will, eh? … Maybe you’d better set up a meeting with the general. Or I will.… Okay, Max, I’ll wait for you here.”
The pathologist replaced the instrument and turned to Quail.
“Major Thissel will return to Northbank if his testimony is needed,” he said. “That was Detective Ritter of Homicide at the airfield. I suppose you know the major was here to investigate reported irregularities in the finances of General Spence’s unit.”
Yes, sir.
“You’re General Spence’s finance officer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“How much were your accounts short?”
“They weren’t short at all, sir. There was an apparent shortage of ten thousand dollars, but it was all a mistake. Some Wac corporal must have punched the wrong key on the adding machine. It didn’t take Major Thissel long to find out that the money was in the bank, all right, and that the books balanced. He found the error and went home.”
“Yes, well.…” Dr. Coffee stood up and extended his hand. “Thanks for coming in,” he said. “And as for that question that you didn’t quite ask, the answer is, No, she wasn’t.”
The round brown face and pink turban of Dr. Mookerji appeared in the doorway when Lieutenant Quail had left.
“Am delegated by Miss Hudson, who cannot interrupt current counting of red blood cells,” said the Hindu, “to inquire as to present life expectancy of Captain Joseph Buford, U.S.A.”
“You may tell Doris,” said Dr. Coffee, grinning, “that the captain’s prospects of longevity are unchanged.”
The day before the Northbank County Grand Jury was set to indict Buford for the murder of May Flowers Marling, General Spence condescended to have lunch with Dr. Coffee and Max Ritter. To Dr. Coffee, the luncheon represented Captain Buford’s last chance. From what he had learned of the general, the grand jury would believe him implicitly.
Brigadier General Spencer H. Spence, the pathologist had discovered, liked to think of himself as a general’s general. He was certainly not a soldier’s general. He had never commanded anything except enforced respect—it would do a G.I. no good to cross the street to avoid saluting; the general would cross, too—and divers projects of military procurement and construction. None of the ribbons in the fruit salad adorning his welltailored chest was for combat, yet the general was a fierce fighter for the prerogatives of his rank and for what he considered a fair shake for the Army. The Army was a way of life to which war and heroics were only incidentally related, a haven from competition, and a sure, if slow, road to security. He had performed unspectacularly in the housekeeping branches of the service, but the tedious routine of promotion had at last elevated him to one-star rank. Now that he had reached a somewhat flabby and pasty-faced fifty-eight, he was no doubt looking forward wistfully to a second star so that he could retire with the increased pay of a major general. In any event, whatever his lack of imagination and martial glory, the general’s integrity was above reproach. And if he testified that he had seen Captain Buford running from the scene of May Marling’s murder, the captain’s goose was already in the oven.
Goose just happened to be the specialty of the house at Raoul’s the day the general came to lunch with Dr. Coffee and Max Ritter. Raoul was a red-faced black-mustached Norman who ran a two-by-four restaurant one flight up, around the corner from the Barzac soup cannery in the grimy industrial section of Northbank. Every Wednesday Raoul served Cassoulet Toulousain—goose simmered in a great earthenware pot with white beans, lamb, sausages and onions stuck with cloves—and the air of the little place was bright with the fragrance of garlic, thyme and laurel.
Dr. Coffee arrived early and chose a table overlooking the top of the stairway. He had just told Raoul to chill two bottles of Livermore Valley Pinot Blanc when Max Ritter arrived and pulled out a chair opposite. The pathologist waved him off.
“Sit over here, Max. Do you mind? I’m saving that for the general.”
The detective blinked. “What gives?” he asked. “Is this chair bugged or something?”
“I want the general to sit opposite me,” Dr. Coffee said. “I have a theory which is probably all wrong, but I want to give it a try. Have you anything to report?”
“A couple things,” Ritter said. “First, this Major Thissel opens up to me before he flies to Washington and admits he give us a wrong answer when he said he didn’t know what May was doing in his office. She’s there because he sends for her. He wants to keep her waiting so he can run through her apartment with no audience. This is before the murder, so he’s not the guy who leaves the place looking like a rummage sale the morning after. His chauffeur makes an affidavit. Seems the major thinks he might find some clue to where’s the ten grand missing from the general’s accounts. Only the ten grand ain’t missing after all.”
“What made Major Thissel think it was?” Dr. Coffee asked.
“The general thinks he spots a shortage and yells for C.I.D. help. Another thing. I find out where May Marling’s dough comes from. She owns a big piece of the Wild Blue Yonder Bar and Grill. Buys it with the late Sergeant Marling’s G.I. insurance money and maybe a smile or two for the Blue Yonder boss.”
“Is a bar and grill that kind of gold mine, Max?”
“Wild Blue Yonder is. Gambling upstairs. Big stuff. Roulette, craps, blackjack, faro—take your pick. The redhead makes a fine shill. Ex-fighter pilot name of Jack White runs the joint. He’s the guy arranging the redhead’s funeral. I got a stake-out on him.”
“Do you think Jack White profited financially from May’s death?”
“I’m checking. But White sure as hell ain’t the guy the general sees running down the stairs. He’s a husky bruiser, twice the size of Buford and dark as an Arab. Hey, here come’s the general now.”
General Spence emerged from the doorway, patently out of breath. He paused a moment, looking around the room with ill-concealed distaste. When he spotted Ritter, he headed for the table. He was not a big man, but his cocky bearing seemed to add to his stature. He walked with a curious jerky gait, Dr. Coffee noted, kicking out his toes slightly with each step. He nodded his greetings without shaking hands and sat down to pant audibly for a moment.
Dr. Coffee leaned across the table solicitously, hoping he would not appear to be smelling the general’s breath.
“Something long and cool to drink, General?” he suggested. “I’m afraid Raoul doesn’t have a Martini license. Some wine, maybe?”
“A tall glass of water, please,” said General Spence. “I’ll have a little wine later.”
The general had more than a little wine later. In fact, both bottles were empty by the time the casserole had been emptied of its goose and beans, the flakes of French bread crust swept from the red-and-white checked tablecloth, and the general repeated for the ninth time that he was convinced Captain Buford had killed May Marling and that he was certainly going to testify to that effect before the grand jury the next day.
“The autopsy showed the girl wasn’t pregnant,” Dr. Coffee said. “That sort of removes the motive you attribute to the captain, doesn’t it, General?
“Not if she told him she was in a family way. How would he know she was lying?”
“There’s one point that’s not quite clear to me,” Dr. Coffee said. “You say you saw Captain Buford burst from Major Thissel’s office after you heard the shot, and that he ran down the stairs and out of the building. Now the street entrance is immediately opposite the foot of the stairs, is it not?”
“It is”.
“So that Captain Buford had to turn neither to the right nor left to exit to the street?”
“That is correct.”
“He didn’t look back to see if anybody was following him?”
“He did not.”
“In other words, you saw him only from above and the back. You didn’t see his face.”
“I don’t remember if I did or not. But it was certainly Buford.”
“Aren’t you just a little reluctant, General, in a matter of life and death, to positively identify a man whose face you didn’t see?”
“My dear Coffee.” The general smiled condescendingly. “I’m so familiar with the officers of my command that I can recognize any of them by a gesture, by the way he walks or carries his head. And Buford happens to be the only towheaded captain in my outfit.”
“Are you sure that the insignia—?”
“I’m positive, I tell you. I have twenty-twenty vision. Never wore glasses in my life. And even a blind man can see a captain’s bars at ten paces.”
Dr. Coffee seemed to be studying his empty wineglass which he turned slowly in his fingers. “General,” he said, “I wonder if you would do us both a favor. Come back to my lab with me now.”
“Now?” The general glanced at his wrist and squirmed in his seat. “Impossible. I’m already late for an appointment.”
“Later this afternoon, then?”
“What for?” The general stood up. “I see no reason—”
“It won’t take a moment, General, and I promise that this will be strictly private—between you and me. I’d like a sample of your blood.”
“My blood? Certainly not.”
“I strongly advise you to come, General,” the pathologist said quietly. “Otherwise I may be forced to give medical testimony before the grand jury tomorrow that you may find rather disagreeable.”
“I’ll not be blackmailed!” the general declared.
“This is a matter of life and death, General—not only for Captain Buford, but quite possibly for yourself.”
Tight-lipped, General Spence glowered but said nothing.
“I’m at Pasteur Hospital, General. I’ll be in my lab until six-thirty this evening,” Dr. Coffee said.
“Don’t stay on my account,” the general said. “Thank you for the lunch. ’Afternoon, gentlemen.”
As General Spence’s steel-gray crewcut disappeared into the stairway, Max Ritter leaned over to watch his descent.
“Hey, he didn’t go out,” Ritter reported. “He turned back toward the phone booth. Who do you think he’s going to phone?”
“Nobody, Max. The little-boys’ room is also in that direction.”
The detective frowned. “What do you think he’s going to do, Doc?”
“I think he’ll come to see me today,” the pathologist said. “I. also think there’s sixty per cent chance the grand jury won’t indict Buford tomorrow—one hundred per cent if you can dig up a good substitute suspect. Can you, Max, in less than twenty-four hours?”
Ritter grunted. He shrugged. He rubbed his long nose. Then: “Any ideas, Doc?”
“Just the ones you’ve given me. First, find what the murderer was looking for on May Marling’s person and in her apartment. Where? Well, you mentioned a possibility before lunch. What about May’s partner?”
“Yeah.” Ritter nodded. “I thought of the Wild Blue Yonder. But this Jack White is a tough baby and he don’t have what you might call a soft underbelly. His joint is across the river in a different state. The cops and the sheriff’s office on the other side ain’t very co-operative with Northbank police. I don’t say they’re corrupt or anything, but they just think gambling’s no worse than a bad cold.”
“Then why not short-circuit the cops and the sheriffs office? I doubt if Jack White can subvert the U. S. Air Force. Didn’t you say, Max, that most of his clientele comes from McAbrams Field?”
“Doc, you’re a genius! I’ll throw the Air Force at him. Co-operate, or the Wild Blue Yonder is off limits to all military personnel. ’Bye, Doc. Call you later.”
Dr. Coffee puckered his lips in a silent whistle as he jotted figures on his desk pad.
“Most revealing,” said Dr. Motilal Mookerji, peering over his shoulder.
When he heard his office door open, Dr. Coffee looked up to see Doris Hudson standing in front of him.
“You still here?” the pathologist asked. “I’ll report you to your union for staying overtime without time-and-a-half pay. Why don’t you go home, Doris?”
“You know very well why,” Doris said. “Wasn’t that General Spence that just walked out of the lab, looking grim and white around the gills?”
“Your power of observation is most acute, Doris.”
“Then it was general’s blood sample that Dr. Mookerji ran through the photoelectric colorimeter. Bloodsugar estimation, wasn’t it?”
“Yes on both counts, Doris.”
“I peeked at the reading,” the girl said. “Rather high—no?”
Dr. Coffee nodded. “About twice normal,” he said. “Does the general’s blood-sugar have anything to do with getting Captain Joe Buford out of jail?”
“In a way, yes.”
“In what way, Doctor? Good or bad?”
Dr. Coffee raised his eyebrows at his Hindu assistant, who said: “For General Spence, bad. For Captain Buford, fairish to good, I think.”
Doris tried to read Dr. Mookerji’s face, which was more expressive than his reply. She thought she caught a smile and immediately beamed.
“Can I call Ruth, Doctor? Can I—?”
“Hold on, Doris. Not so fast. All I’ve done so far is persuade General Spence not to testify before the grand jury tomorrow. What happens next depends on whether the D.A.—”
The ringing phone interrupted him. Dr. Coffee’s grab was quicker than Doris Hudson’s.
“Pathology,” he said. “Hello, Max. Did you…?” He leaned back, listening. He could not have looked more smugly pleased if he had just discovered the cause of the common cold. “Good boy, Max…. He will? … Oh, that’s wonderful. … Well, I guess that wraps it up.… I see. … Sure, Max. I’ll be here.”
He hung up, still very smug.
“Well?” asked Doris anxiously.
“Well what, Doris?”
“That was Lieutenant Ritter.”
“Great stars, Doris, I can’t hide a thing from you, can I?”
“Doctor, you’re mean! You’re a sadist! Stop torturing me and tell me what Max said.”
“Max? Oh, he said he was being unavoidably detained at the District Attorney’s office.”
“Doctor, stop! What did he say about Joe Buford?”
“Oh, yes. Buford.” Dr. Coffee chuckled. “Maybe you’d better phone Ruth after all. Tell her to put on her prettiest dress and hurry down to the county jail. They’re going to turn her sweetie-pie loose in about half an hour.”
“Doctor, you angel! I knew you’d do it! You better plan on a champagne supper tonight. I know Ruth and Joe are going to want to thank you.”
“They’d better thank Max Ritter, Doris. He’s the one who dug up the real culprit. He’s at the D.A.’s office now, swearing to a homicide complaint.”
“And who, please,” asked Dr. Mookerji, “is felonious murderer?”
“That’s for the courts to decide,” Dr. Coffee said, “but the warrant is for the arrest of Lieutenant Frank Quail.”
Dr. Coffee and Max Ritter did not have a champagne supper. Instead they were back at Raoul’s, eating eels stewed in red wine and drinking Corton 1945 while the detective told his story.
“You were right about this guy Jack White,” Ritter said. “He had what the murderer was looking for, all right. But he don’t open up till I tell him the Wild Blue Yonder is going to be off limits unless he plays ball. I also tell him that giving a bum alibi to a murderer is not only perjury but makes him an accessory to murder after the fact and that he can be extradited. Besides, I think he was a little soft on May Marling himself. Anyhow, he says he’s only doing a favor for a good customer and would never poke sticks between the spokes of the wheels of justice. So he tells all.
“Seems this bird Quail drops a wad—but a real wad—playing blackjack at the Wild Blue Yonder. He’s trying to make an impression on this May Marling while she’s still Buford’s baby doll. And when Buford moves out, Quail moves in—and the redhead really falls for Quail. When he tells her the ten G’s he dropped at the blackjack table is Army money he sneaked out of General Spence’s till and that Washington is going to investigate, she covers up for him. She gives him the dough so the accounts will balance for Major Thissel, but she does it by check made out to Quail personally—and she keeps the canceled check.
“Then she finds out that Quail is going to run out on her, too. He applies for a transfer without telling her, but she has her own CIA. The Wild Blue Yonder intelligence network keeps her up to the minute. So she gets mad. So that’s the way the louse is going to pay her back for saving his skin, is it? Well, okay, so two can play dirty! When she gets word that Major Thissel wants to see her, she decides to tell all. Only she leaves the canceled check with White for safe keeping.
“And what does Quail think when he sees her waiting in the major’s office? That she’s bringing the check to show to Thissel. She may even have told him she was. You know how redheads are. So he kills her to get it, because he wants to stay out of jail and in the Army. And when he don’t find it, he ransacks her apartment. He’s got a key, remember.
