Murder Impossible Page 14

  'Mr. Morgan and I have met all too often,' Lieutenant Redaway said. He glanced at Sam. 'I heard you had a new partner.'

  'This is Sam,' I said. 'He doesn't bite or make a mess.'

  'The gentleman of the firm. As a private detective, Morgan, I would think you'd have noticed that "Sam" doesn't suit that animal's gender.'

  'It's short for Samantha,' I explained. 'Since Sam's been neutered, we use the male pronoun for the sake of convenience. But we have impressive, and accurate, business cards.'

  'Don't tell me. I already heard. Sam Spayed.'

  'Correct. And he's got a bloodhound nose.' Which was true. Sam is a drab brown animal who looks like a mixture of a hundred breeds, the last generation of which might have been a bulldog, but his nose is one hundred percent pedigree bloodhound. 'We'd like to examine the death scene,' I said, to both Vincent Creel and Redaway, 'before the scent grows any colder or is obliterated by official bungling.'

  Vincent led me, Sam and Redaway to a ground floor study. 'I've heard you employ unusual methodology,' he said to me. 'I've also heard you get results. I want this stigma removed from our family at any cost. As we agreed at your office, I will give you carte blanche in every respect to solve my brother's murder.'

  I nodded. Sam shoved his pushed in bloodhound nose against Creel's pants leg, snuffled, and gave Creel his weird kind of canine grin that might mean anything.

  When Vincent had left us in the study, Redaway rolled out the hostility. 'I hate to see you here,' he said. 'You can muddle a case more thoroughly than any shamus I know.'

  'If the case weren't muddled to begin with,' I replied, 'Sam and I wouldn't have been hired by Vincent Creel.' I looked down at the large oval bloodstain that Sam already was sniffing. 'That's where Carl Creel's body was discovered, I suppose.'

  'Your deductive powers are at full strength,' Redaway said. He was as mean as his hatchet face and tiny glittering black eyes suggested.

  'Fill us in,' I told him, knowing he couldn't refuse. Vincent Creel had hired me, and like any smart cop, Redaway respected the Creel family's political clout.

  'Carl was working here in his study the night before last,' Redaway said around a smelly cigar he was lighting, 'when the other family members heard a shot. They all rushed in from various places in the house. Carl was lying on the carpet, having died from a single .22 bullet to the brain. Those French windows were wide open, and the family dog, Caster, a big Irish setter, was seen running up that hill as if chasing someone into the woods. It was obvious to all that Carl was dead, so Vincent phoned the police first, then a doctor.' Redaway crossed his arms and pretended to be a smokestack.

  'That's it?' I asked.

  'That's a quick overview,' Redaway said. He looked down and grinned as Sam coughed at the cigar smoke and glared at him.

  I looked around the study. Not a large room, it was furnished expensively with a desk, small sofa, velvet chair, bookshelves, oak filing cabinets. Besides the French windows there were two other windows. The door to the hall was spring loaded and had no latch.

  'Not your locked room type of crime,' I said. 'What about the motive?'

  'Carl had announced his intention of donating all his movie and book sale profits to the Insomniacs Society, a research group in New York. Creel himself was a chronic insomniac. The rest of the family were losing sleep because they might lose the money.' 'What you're saying is—'

  'That everyone in the house at the time of Carl Creel's death had a motive. Furthermore, everyone had opportunity.'

  Sam sighed and stretched out where a sunbeam cast a bar of light across the floor. He gets discouraged easily. I have to do the heavy thinking.

  'One of the Creels in that other room did the killing,' Redaway said, 'but there's no way we can get an indictment as long as they claim it was the work of an intruder whom Carl Creel surprised.'

  'A jury won't buy that old intruder line,' I told him.

  'They will if we can't produce a weapon. And no gun was found. The Creels were all here together less than a minute after the shot was fired, so there was little or no time to hide the weapon. We've searched this house and the surrounding grounds thoroughly. No gun. The defense attorney can say, quite logically, that the intruder took it with him.'

  'So maybe it was an intruder after all. A burglar surprised by an unlucky Creel.'

  Redaway sneered around his cigar. 'Maybe the butler did it?'

  Sam and I exchanged glances. 'What about the butler?'

  'Bart—that's the butler—was off that night and has a concrete alibi. He was at the racetrack with Jenny, the Creel's cook. Witnesses confirm.'

  'What about footprints outside? And you said the dog chased someone.'

  'We're in the middle of a drought; the ground was too hard for footprints. And Caster wandered home after an hour or so, empty pawed.'

  Sam seemed to smile, baring his teeth for an instant in that quick, good natured snarl of his.

  'If there was no intruder,' I asked, 'what do you suppose the dog was chasing into the woods?'

  Redaway shrugged. 'A squirrel, a rabbit—who knows? Dogs are always running after something.'

  Still grinning, Sam got up and sat by the door. He had an uncanny sense of timing in a case.

  'It's time for me to talk to each of the suspects,' I said.

  'Sure,' Redaway said. 'Especially the butler.'

  * * *

  The family members told Sam and me what they'd already told the police. Not one of them didn't complain about having to tell the story again.

  Millicent Creel had been in the sewing room, talking on the phone to a friend, when she'd heard the shot. The friend had verified Millicent's story, and had even heard the shot herself over the phone. Millicent had excused herself and rushed to investigate. She'd reached Carl's study at almost the same time as her brothers. They knocked several times in quick succession, then threw open the door to find Carl dead on the floor. The French windows were standing open, and in the distance they saw Caster running into the woods as if in pursuit of something or someone.

  Robert Creel had been in his upstairs bedroom taking a late afternoon nap. James, having just returned from hunting with Caster, had been showering in the bath adjoining his own bedroom. Wearing only a towel, he had rushed from his room and seen Robert already running down the stairs. They had reached the study door in time to see Vincent Creel burst onto the scene from the basement, where he had been engaged in his hobby of woodworking, and they'd seen Millicent scurrying along the hall from the direction of the sewing room.

  'Calculate the distances,' Redaway said when we were again alone. 'Any one of them could have shot Carl Creel, then made it back to where he or she could pretend to be rushing to the study with the rest of the Creels.'

  'After stashing the gun,' I added.

  'Now if you'll just tell me where,' Redaway said, 'we'll simply pick up the gun, make an arrest, and wind this thing up.' He was the only man I knew who could gnash his teeth and smoke a cigar simultaneously.

  Sam stretched out near the sofa and made a sound somewhere between a growl and a chortle.

  'Is that dog laughing at me?' Redaway demanded, seriously.

  'The smoke bothers him, is all,' I said. 'I'd like to speak to the butler and the cook.'

  Redaway rolled his eyes, but he sent for Bart and Jenny.

  Bart the butler told me he'd been at the racetrack at the time of the murder. At the moment the trigger was pulled, he was losing ten dollars on the daily double and he had the witnesses and worthless stubs to prove it. He said Jenny had been with him, using her complicated system of astrology in conjunction with the names of exotic spices to place her bets. She had won twenty-seven dollars; Bart had lost fifty. They often went to the track together, usually with similar results.

  Jenny was busy preparing lunch so I went to the kitchen to question her, and to see what sort of exotic spices she used. The Creel kitchen was as large and efficient looking as the kitchen of a good sized restaura
nt. There were food grinders, heavy duty processors, a commercial size freezer, and a gas double oven that covered half of one wall. Something smelled good.

  Jenny was a middle aged, round shouldered woman with her blonde hair pinned in a bun above a wary frown. Sam whiffed the aroma of cooking and sidled right up to her as I introduced us. Also in the kitchen was a tall, gangly Irish setter I took to be Caster. Sam and Caster ignored each other, which didn't strike me as odd. That was Sam's way, and apparently Caster's.

  'I'm told you were at the track at the time Carl Creel was murdered.'

  Jenny nodded. She was adjusting the temperature on the eye level oven.

  'What did you think of Carl Creel?'

  'Did you ask the others that?' She fixed her shrewd, gambler's eyes on me.

  'No. Their alibis aren't as good as yours and Bart's. They'd be less likely to give an honest answer.'

  She smiled faintly. 'I didn't like him,' she said. 'Carl Creel was a vicious and miserly man. No one liked him.'

  'Do you think anyone here disliked him enough—'

  'I wouldn't know. I'm a cook, not a psychologist.' She reached into the sink and picked up a steak bone. 'You have a nice dog.' She offered the bone to Sam, who turned his head away in refusal. He was poisoned on the Hatfield case and has since been leery of food from strangers.

  'The hell with you,' Jenny said, and gave the bone to Caster, who promptly took it out the back door. 'Sam's independent,' I said.

  'Bad mannered is what he is.' She began chopping onions. 'Is this the daily menu?' I asked. A list was attached to the refrigerator with a magnet. 'It is.'

  'The same every week?'

  'Every other week,' Jenny said, 'for variety.'

  'Roast beef on Mondays? Ham on Thursdays? Steak on Fridays?'

  'On odd weeks,' Jenny told me acidly.

  'Who does the shopping?'

  'Either me or Bart.'

  'What do you do with garbage?'

  'We put it outside in a can with a plastic liner. It's picked up once a week and taken to the dump.' Chunk! went the knife through the onion.

  Sam and I got out of there. Sam's eyes were watering.

  I talked to James again, next. He told me he hadn't really been hunting on the day of his brother's death, merely walking in the woods and shooting at various objects for target practice. I went down to see Vincent, in the basement. He had his power tools out; he was making a handsome walnut plaque featuring the Creel family crest of two crossed oil derricks on a field of green. Nothing illuminating in that conversation. When I left Vincent, I hunted up Lieutenant Redaway.

  'Making any progress?' he asked sarcastically. Sam glared at him.

  'I think I have this one about wrapped up,' I said. 'Will you arrange for everyone to meet in Carl Creel's study after lunch?'

  Redaway stood staring at me with an expression of hostile incredulity. 'Okay,' he said, 'but if you ask me, it's all a ruse so you can stay for lunch.'

  'Steak and salad today,' I said.

  'Now how would you know that?'

  I smiled. 'A little detective work, lieutenant.' Sam gave his chortling little growl and we moved on. I had a few things to do before lunch.

  After lunch, the household, including Bart and Jenny, gathered in Carl Creel's study as I'd suggested. We were joined by a tall, stoic police sergeant named Evans, sent for by Redaway at my request. Everyone stood about uneasily, trying to avoid stepping on the bloodstain. Caster sat near Robert Creel, enjoying an ear rub.

  'It's time for the Milo Morgan show,' Redaway said with a sneer. All eyes in the room rotated in my direction, even Sam's.

  Since I already had everyone's attention, I figured I'd keep it. 'I know who the killer is,' I said, 'and I will set about proving it.'

  Sam ambled over and sat by the door, wearing his stern expression.

  'The key to the case is Caster,' I said. 'When he was seen dashing into the woods, everyone assumed he might be chasing someone. But perhaps he was running from someone, or, more accurately, to someplace. When I saw him leave the kitchen with a bone this morning, it occurred to me that many dogs have special area, where they bury their bones or go to chew on them, and usually the instant they're given a bone they dash for that place. It's an instinctive thing involving protection of food, and dogs are such slaves to instinct that their behavior seldom varies.' Sam seemed to be frowning at me. 'Most dogs,' I added.

  'Murderers are not as predictable as dogs,' Redaway said. 'Unless you think Caster shot Carl Creel, get to the point.'

  'Your story, James,' I said to the youngest Creel, 'is that you were out shooting the day of the murder, and that Caster was with you.'

  James nodded, his grey eyes cool and unblinking.

  'That indicated to me that Caster, who was in the room when Carl Creel was shot, was not gunshy.'

  An expression of disbelief suddenly transformed Redaway's narrow face. 'You're not saying that Caster was trained to get rid of the gun!'

  'A dog couldn't be reliably trained to do that—not to the point where anyone would make a murder charge on it. Not to mention that the gun still might be found.'

  'This seems to be leading us nowhere, then,' Millicent Creel said impatiently, her podgy features in a frown. When she subsided, I turned to Vincent.

  'I've been down to the basement to examine your woodworking tools,' I said calmly. 'I found what I was looking for.'

  'Which was?'

  'Bone,' I said. 'Minute fragments of bone.' Vincent's feet edged him a little towards the door. Sam growled and Redaway moved over to stand by Vincent. Redaway, though still disbelieving, was catching on.

  'You used your skill with tools to fashion a simple gun out of bone,' I said. 'Something like the home made zipguns street gangs carry. Only instead of using a metal barrel, you drilled a hole in the bone the exact diameter of the bore of a .22 pistol, then created a functional hammer and firing pin. Oh, the weapon was crude, and you probably had to use both hands to aim and fire it, but it only had to fire one shot, and at very close range. After you fired the shot, you handed the gun to Caster, knowing he'd run off with it, gnaw on it, and bury it. You hurried to the basement. From there you pretended to be dashing upstairs to investigate the shot that you yourself had fired.'

  Vincent was obviously flustered. 'Morgan, if this is some pathetic attempt of yours to . . .'

  'To what, Mr Creel?' Redaway asked, finally on top of things.

  'You have no proof, Morgan!'

  That's when I pulled a jar of horseradish from my pocket and rubbed some on Caster's hind paws. I put a leash on Sam and handed the end of it to Sergeant Evans. 'Sam is an excellent tracker,' I said, 'and he loves horseradish. The scent should make it easier.' From another pocket I withdrew my steak bone from lunch and handed it to Caster. The big setter clamped his jaws on it, scrambled for traction, and dashed away through the French windows I'd made sure were open.

  'If you'll just follow Sam following Caster's scent,' I said to Sergeant Evans, 'I'm sure you'll come to the spot where a little of your own snooping around will uncover the murder weapon.'

  Sam had his gnarled nose to the carpet and was already snuffling and snorting like a steam engine straining uphill. Evans was stumbling, holding onto the leash, and leaning backward to keep his balance as Sam yanked him across the room and out the French windows.

  'Why don't we go into the den,' I suggested.

  The atmosphere in that den was cool, I can tell you. Cool and tense. No one said five words until, half an hour later, Sergeant Evans and Sam walked in. I don't know which of those tenacious crime fighters was grinning the widest.

  Evans showed us the bone he'd found a few inches beneath freshly turned earth. It was a neat job, all right, a big ham bone tooled into the rough shape of a handgun. A neat round hole had been drilled slightly off centre, to avoid the marrow. The empty shell was still stuck inside the drilled hole, which was of larger diameter for about four inches near the butt end, to allow for a tooled c
ylinder of bone to be propelled, probably by a powerful rubber strap, up to the cartridge to strike with a firing pin fashioned from a filed down pointed screw. That screw was the only metal part of the gun itself; a little more gnawing by Caster and it would have dropped off, along with the spent shell, leaving the whole apparatus to look like any dog mistreated bone unless someone examined it and noticed the drilled hole. I figured Vincent Creel had shot his brother, slid the rubber strap up his arm out of sight beneath his sleeve, given Caster the bone gun, and thought he was home free. A precision tooled perfect crime. Almost.

  Vincent Creel, his face now nearly Chinese red, snarled at me and started up from his big leather armchair. But Redaway and Sam both snarled back at him, and he settled down.

  Redaway got out a little card and read Creel his rights, then nodded to Evans, who put the cuffs on Creel and led him away. The rest of the family looked on in a state of shock, except for Millicent, who was dabbing at her potato nose with a handkerchief.

  'What I don't get,' Robert Creel said, 'is why Vincent hired a private detective if he was the murderer.'

  'To divert suspicion,' I explained. 'And he thought he was safe anyway.'

  'He also hired the most incompetent private detective he could find.' Redaway was his obnoxious self again. He knew he'd be credited with the arrest.

  'He wouldn't be the first to underestimate our firm,' I said pointedly.

  Figuring why should we stay around to be insulted, Sam and I made for the door. Redaway was in our path. Sam walked right at him and he moved. I turned. 'I'm sorry it couldn't have been an intruder,' I said to the still stunned Creel family. To Redaway I said nothing, not even goodbye. Sam and I let ourselves out and didn't look back.

  It wasn't until we'd got back to the office, Sam gazing out the window at the city skyline, me at my desk sorting through the mail that it occurred to me. Since we'd hung the crime on our client, there was nobody to pay our fee. This was some business! I cursed, crumpled the half written bill into a compact wad and hurled it into the wastebasket.