Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The first man to enter was slender, frail, shy. Basil had an impression of intelligence and sensitivity but without strength — always a dangerous constellation. He was followed by a uniformed highway policeman, who spoke to Dawes.

“We picked him up on the grass verge beside the freeway, Lieutenant. He was just outside Burbank, headed south. He said he was on his way home to Santa Cristina.”

Basil knew what the Lieutenant was thinking: Max could have driven to Santa Cristina instead of Santa Barbara when he left the Burbank studio, shot his wife, and then returned to Burbank, so he would re-enter Santa Cristina from the north, as if he had driven south from Santa Barbara. He’d find some witness on the road between Burbank and Santa Cristina to confirm his driving south at that hour — possibly a filling station man, whom he’d talk to when he stopped for gas.

“Moira!” Max ignored the others. “Have you heard the radio? Katie is dead — murdered—”

He started toward Moira, but Dawes put a hand on his arm.

“You are Max Weber?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m Lieutenant Dawes, Los Angeles Police, and I must talk to you before anyone else does. Where have you been?”

Moira crushed her cigarette in an ashtray on top of the piano. Her restless fingers strayed across the keyboard.

“Miss Shiel, I know you’re nervous, but this is no time for playing the piano. Mr. Weber, where have you been?”

“Santa Barbara. I had intended to dine with my father but—”

“But you didn’t? Why not?”

“My poor father.” Max dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. “Dad died all alone. He must have died just before I got there at eight thirty. He was still warm.”

“You called his doctor?”

“No. I should have, shouldn’t I? But I didn’t. It was such a shock, I went kind of crazy. I drove around for a while, trying to realize what it would be like to live in a world without Dad. At last, I headed for home.”

“Still without notifying a doctor?”

“I was going to do that as soon as I got home. It didn’t seem to matter, really. Dad was gone. The... the thing lying there had nothing to do with him now... I was on the freeway, just south of Burbank, when I heard about Katie on the radio. It was just too much, coming on top of Dad’s death. I couldn’t drive. I pulled off onto the grass and a few minutes later the cops picked me up and brought me here.”

“I guess that lets you out.” Dawes couldn’t hide his disappointment. “I must apologize for—”

“Apologize?” Basil’s voice was sharp. “Lieutenant, are you assuming Max Weber was in Santa Barbara tonight solely because he knows his father is dead?”

“Yes. No one knew about Mr. Weber’s death except the neighbor who called the police and the police themselves and Miss Shiel and you. It wasn’t on the air, because Miss Shiel made the police promise they wouldn’t release the news until Max was found. She couldn’t have telephoned Max about his father’s death, because her line went down right after the Santa Barbara police called her and told her the news. I know, because it was then I tried to reach her myself. Obviously, she had no opportunity to tell Max that his father was dead before I arrived.”

“True, but Miss Shiel did have an opportunity to tell Max Weber that his father was dead after you arrived.”

“What do you mean? She didn’t say a single word to him!”

“Words are not the only means of communication.”

“You’re thinking of some sort of code?”

“I suppose it could be called a code.” Basil stepped over to the piano. Slowly he played seven notes. “Do you recognize those notes?”

Dawes looked blank, but the young highway policeman gazed at Basil with awe. “Well, I’ll be damned! Key of C natural. It would have to be. You must have perfect pitch, too.”

“No, I was watching her hands, as you were watching mine just now.”

“What are you two talking about?” demanded Dawes.

“These are the seven notes Miss Shiel struck on the piano: A B E D E A D. Abe dead. ”

“I hate you!” Moira screamed at Basil. “What business is it of yours? Why didn’t you leave it alone?”

“It’s all right, Moira,” said Max gently. “I might as well give myself up — I haven’t a chance without Dad to alibi me. The police will dig and dig until they trace the gun back to me.”

“Then... you did do it?” Moira’s voice was now a whisper.

“Yes, I killed Katie. For you as much as for the money. Moira, I love you so much...”

“Why the key of C natural?” Dawes asked Basil, later that evening.

“The enharmonic factor. On the keyboard, B sharp is also C natural, C flat is also B natural, E sharp is also F natural and F flat is also E natural. You can’t tell which note of these pairs is indicated unless the notes are written and the key indicated. C natural is the one exception — the one key that has no sharps or flats.

“Max Weber was quick to realize that if Moira’s playing was a message in code, it would have to be in the key of C natural — otherwise, he would have no way of identifying the notes — that is, the letters. Because he had perfect pitch, not just relative pitch, he was able to do what few people can do — identify a single note, or a small group of notes, played alone.

“Moira took advantage of Max’s gift on the spur of the moment. She was quick, but he was even quicker. They were quite a team, justly famous for picking up each other’s cues at an instant’s notice... I hope you’re not going to charge her as accessory?”

“I should,” said Dawes slowly. “But I won’t. Max’s punishment will be punishment enough for her... But I’m glad you were here. Dr. Willing — she fooled me completely.”

When three masked men walked into the bank with sawed-off shotguns that afternoon and calmly began to clean out the tellers’ cash drawers, I wasn’t even nervous. I was sure they weren’t going to get away with it. I was perfectly certain that five straight-shooting policemen, strategically placed, would be waiting for the robbers outside the bank door when they emerged.

That’s the way it would have happened, too, if it hadn’t been for Miss Coe, Robbsville’s leading milliner.

As proprietress and sole employee of a hat shop, just around the corner from the bank and felicitously called Miss Coe’s Chapeux, Miss Coe fabricated fetching hats for many of the town’s discriminating ladies. She was an excellent designer, whose products exhibited a fashionable flare, faintly French, that more than justified her use of the French word in her shop name.

Miss Coe was middle-aged, sweet, pretty, methodical, and utterly reliable. Indeed, her dependability was often the subject of admiring comment from local ladies who had become somewhat disillusioned by the unreliability of other tradesmen. “You can always count on Miss Coe,” they frequently told each other. “If she says she’ll have the hat ready on Tuesday at eleven, she’ll have it ready. She’ll be putting in the last stitch as you come in the door.” I had even heard remarks of this kind at my own dinner table, since my wife was one of Miss Coe’s steady customers.

But perhaps you are wondering what Miss Coe, a milliner — reliable and methodical as she undoubtedly was — could possibly have to do with the robbery of our bank?

Well, you may remember that some years ago, several of the companies that insured banks against robbery agreed to reduce the premium rates on such insurance if the insured bank was willing to conform to a certain security arrangement.