Jonathan Craig - The Case of the Petticoat Murder

“There's just no one,” he said. “I sincerely believe I'ves never made what one might characterize as a real enemy.”

“Where do you work, Mr. Miller?”

“I'm with the McMurdon Dental Laboratories.”

“Doing what?”

“To put it succinctly, I construct dentures for people who have undergone major oral surgery.”

“You ever hear of a Doctor Clifford Campbell?”

“Is he a dental surgeon?”

“No. Neurosurgeon.”

“I don't think so. Should I know him, Mr. Selby?”

“No. It just occurred to me in passing.”

He looked at me for a moment. “I think you can appreciate my position, Mr. Selby,” he said. “In all friendliness, I think I have a right to know why you are here.”

“The police receive a great number of spite letters and phone calls and telegrams and so on,” I said. “We received one about you, Mr. Miller. It accused you of a crime.”

Once again I watched closely for reaction; and once again I saw nothing beyond what, under the circumstances, I should have expected to see.

“Are you serious?” Miller said. “A telegram about me? ”

“Yes.”

“And you say someone accused me of a crime?” He leaned forward. “Accused me of what?”

“Of murdering Nadine Ellison,” I said.

His enormous shoulders stiffened visibly and his mouth very slowly sagged open in what was either consternation or, if not, then something for which I could find no ready-made label.

“Good Lord,” he said softly. “Who would do a thing like that? Who could do a thing like that?”

“You still say you have no enemies?”

“I–I must have. I never realized a man such as I could ever affect another person so negatively that he…” He shook his head. “Whatever I did, I did unknowingly. I would have been willing to take an oath that—”

“No use punishing yourself,” I said. “It may have been a crackpot. Nine-tenths of them act just like everybody else — until they're alone. Then they do some pretty weird things. Chances are, this is just another instance.”

“You — you think so, Mr. Selby?” he said almost pleadingly. “I'd very much like to believe that. The thought that someone might have cause to… Well, you know what I'm trying to say, I'm sure.”

“If you're sure you don't know Nadine Elli—”

“Oh, but I am! Until you came here this evening, Mr. Selby, I'd never even so much as heard of her.”

“The telegram said we would find proof that you'd killed her.”

“Mr. Selby, may I see that telegram?”

“It was read to me over the phone.”

“Is it possible there may have been some mistake in the name? There are, after all, a great many Millers, you know.”

“No mistake,” I said. “It said the evidence was in the bottom drawer of your desk.”

His eyes swung toward the desk; then he rose, walked to it, and turned to face me. “Would you care to examine it, Mr. Selby?” he asked.

I crossed to the desk and watched him as he pulled out both of the bottom drawers and emptied them of their contents.

The drawer on the left held a miniature Speed-Graphic, old but well cared for, a Rolleiflex without a carrying case, a Leica, another 35 mm camera that looked as if it might be Japanese, and an assortment of flash guns, sun shades, interchangeable lenses, and filters in individual boxes.

The drawer on the right contained what was perhaps two hundred rolls of 35 mm film in aluminum cans, six or eight flat file boxes filled with transparencies, and a small, futuristic-looking color-slide projector.

Miller looked up at me, waiting.

“Thanks,” I said.

He sat rubbing the ball of his thumb back and forth against the back of the Leica case thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged and began to return everything to its place.

“Not precisely 'evidence,' Mr. Selby,” he said. “Except of a rather expensive hobby, perhaps.”

I nodded, thinking about Burt Ellison's call to Headquarters and the anonymous telegram addressed to me personally; and that the phone call and the telegram had all come in within a comparatively short period of time.

There was probably no connection between the two.

Still…

“I asked you about Nadine Ellison, Mr. Miller,” I said. “How about men with that last name? The particular first name I have in mind is Burt.”

He replaced the last box of transparencies in the drawer very carefully and shook his head. “The name 'Ellison' has been going around and around in my mind ever since you first mentioned it,” he said. “I'm certain I've never known anyone with that name, Mr. Selby.”

“Let's take a wild stab at nothing,” I said. “You know any young man, say, about twenty-six, with brown hair and eyes and a V-shaped scar on his right wrist?” I thought a moment. “He'd be a fairly recent acquaintance, if you do know him.”

“No one with a scar, no,” he said. “In all truth, I know hardly any younger men at all. I'm — one might almost say a recluse. Except for my work, and picture-taking strolls here and there, I lead a very withdrawn existence.” He closed the drawers and straightened up. “What was the nature of the evidence, Mr. Selby?”

“What?”

“Didn't the telegram tell you what to look for?”

“No.”

“In that case, it might be just anything at all, mightn't it?”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it could.”

“Then I suggest we continue with the desk, and then proceed in any way you like.”

“Why not?” I said. “One starting place is as good as another.”

“It's just that I have all my cameras and things in here,” he said. “I'd much rather handle them myself, Mr. Selby. You know how it is, I'm sure.”

I nodded. “Let's get started.”

“At least we'll have the exercise,” he said as he turned to pull out another drawer. “Perhaps it will help us enjoy a much sounder sleep.”

It takes a lot longer to search a one-room apartment when you don't know what you're looking for than it does when you do. When you have no idea at all, it's largely a matter of lifting and shifting and pawing and shuffling, and wishing you had taken the examinations for the Fire Department.

But there are tricks in every trade, and I used every one of them. I worked hard and rapidly, and, to my surprise, so did Albert Miller. It was he who did most of the lifting and shifting, and I who did most of the pawing and shuffling. For a man of his age, his energy was almost as amazing as his strength.

Even so, my search of Miller's apartment, including the removal of the back of the television set for a look inside the cabinet, took almost an hour. And when I'd finished, I knew no more about Miller than if I'd searched my own.

I HAD just gone out to the bathroom to wash my hands when the phone rang. As I started to run some water in the basin I heard Miller answer it and then ask someone to hold on.

“It's for you, Mr. Selby,” he called. “You want to take the call now, or would you rather call back?”

“I'll take it now,” I said as I turned off the water and walked back into the living room. “It's probably my precinct partner. I left your number on his desk.”

Miller nodded absently, glanced at the palms of his hands, and started for the bathroom. “I think I could profit from a little soap and water myself,” he said. “Feel free to use the phone as much as you like, Mr. Selby.”

The phone was on a nightstand at one end of the sofa bed. “Selby,” I said.

“Stan, Pete. How's the roving detective?”

“Bushed,” I said. “Nothing like a toss to wear you down.”