In the morning I went to Biarritz House, a nursing home on Graceland Avenue, north of 38th Street. It was a large white-frame structure in comfortable grounds which looked just like a high-class nursing home should. And nothing but high class would be appropriate for a Belter Mother-In-Law.
I didn’t know much about Ella R. Murchison. Most of the information Belter had given me had been about his wife, Paula, and himself.
Until the previous day, he had ‘known’ that his wife was the Murchisons’ only child, and that they had been longtime residents of Indianapolis. He had met Paula when she was nineteen and had played in a piano recital of the students of Louis Dettlaff, then a prominent instructor of the keyboard arts. Belter’s younger sister had also played. Douglas was introduced at a reception after the performance. It was in May of 1955.
They were married in June of 1957. Belter’s impression was that his wife’s family was hard up before the war, but better off afterwards. Certainly when he met Paula, she and her mother lived comfortably enough, in a small house on 42nd Street, just east of Central. She’d had a good piano at home, and lessons with Dettlaff didn’t come cheap. Paula had attended School 60, at 46th and Central from the fifth grade, and then Shortridge High School. Belter didn’t remember the home address on 42nd, but would be able to recognise the house. He recalled its proximity both to a library branch and to the Uptown Cinema on College.
All he knew about the Murchisons before the war was that they had lived in a different house, and that Earl W. had held a variety of jobs before joining the Army. He had died on the way to Europe in 1942 in some sort of shipboard accident. For whatever reason, Paula had told her husband comparatively little about her early childhood.
I parked in the Biarritz drive and at about a quarter past ten I asked at the central desk for Mrs Murchison.
‘My my,’ said the gently southern accented nurse. ‘What a lucky lady our Ella is.’
I began to preen in the face of unwonted flattery when the nurse made clear what she meant. ‘That makes three visitors for her in two days. Could you go down there and ask for Mrs Howard, please, honey.’
She pointed. I went.
Mrs Howard was not gently accented. She was forward and bustly and warm and left her menu planning to take me to the room.
As we walked along the corridor, I asked easily, ‘How is Mrs Murchison today?’
‘Oh, fine.’
‘I was talking to Doug, Mr Belter, and he said that yesterday she was off about poisoning again.’
‘We’re all Borgias here from time to time,’ Mrs Howard said with a smile.
‘It must be difficult when she’s minded that way,’ I said.
‘We get our fill of “poison tasting”,’ she said. ‘But generally in the end we leave the food on her table and go away. When we come back it’s gone. Now, I can’t testify that she eats it, but she’s not exactly wasting away, our Ella.’
‘Do all the residents eat in their rooms?’
‘No, no. But she fell twice a couple of weeks ago so we’re being a bit careful.’
We stopped in front of a door marked ‘23’. Mrs Howard knocked, paused and went in. ‘Another visitor for you, Ella. A young gentleman. Are you decent?’
Mrs Howard waved me to follow her into the room and pointed to a chair near the bay window which surveyed large landscaped gardens at the back of the house.
Ella Murchison sat in another chair facing the window. She was crocheting, and glanced towards me and Mrs Howard brightly. A substantial woman, she looked fifteen years younger than her advertised age.
‘This is Mr Samson,’ Mrs Howard said. ‘He knows your Douglas and your Paula too, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll be back a little later on.’
Mrs Howard left.
Ella Murchison did not return to her work. She watched me carefully as I sat down.
‘Hello,’ I said cheerfully.
‘I don’t know you,’ she said.
She was not in doubt.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You’re not that young. Are you a gentleman?’
‘I try to say my please and thank yous.’
‘Mrs Howard says that you know Douglas and Paula. Do you know my grandsons too?’
‘I’ve heard a little about them. And I haven’t met Paula yet.’
She picked up her crochet work and began hooking the yarn dexterously.
‘It’s very pretty,’ I said. ‘What is it going to be?’
She didn’t answer at first. Then she put the work down, faced me again and said, ‘What do you want, Mr Samson?’
All notions of possible indirections departed. ‘Your son-in-law has hired me,’ I said.
‘To keep me company?’ she said without laughing. ‘What a kind and thoughtful boy he is.’
‘Not to keep you company,’ I said.
She plumped up her hair with her two hands. ‘If I’m going to have company, I should get myself ready.’
‘He’s worried about your daughter.’
‘You may not think me much to look at now,’ Mrs Murchison said, ‘but in my day I had looks. Oh yes. Not bad in my day.’
I stopped talking.
She said, ‘There’s one or two old codgers in this place who don’t think I’m so bad even now, you know. You look surprised.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well, be surprised as you like. It’s true.’ She looked at me sharply. ‘You haven’t brought me any chocolates, have you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Fancy that. Visiting a lady without bringing her anything. Some of my old gentlemen buy me chocolates every week, out of their pocket money. But I don’t touch them.’ She bent forward and narrowed her eyes. ‘They put things in those chocolates. They do. You can scoff. You can mock. But I’m on to their little game. So, no sooner do the boxes come in than they go out. Straight in the basket. They can’t fool me that way. Not me.’
She stopped talking and picked up her crochet work again.
I sat quietly with her for a long couple of minutes.
Finally, I tried again. ‘Paula is upset,’ I said.
Mrs Murchison didn’t take her eyes off her work. ‘So, don’t you try to get into my good books by bringing me candy another time. I’m too smart for that. Too smart.’
I rose and went to the door. I opened it, and then closed it without going out.
Immediately the old woman lowered her hands and turned with a sigh. When she saw me still standing in the room her reaction was fierce. ‘What are you trying to trick me like that for? You think it’s goddamn funny to play pranks on old women? You get out of here.’
I nodded, and left.
Mrs Howard was in the foyer talking to the nurse at reception. She turned to me as I approached. ‘Has she sent you to get something?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘That wasn’t much of a visit,’ Mrs Howard said, with a practised tone of faint criticism.
‘It seemed to be as much as she wanted,’ I said.
The southern nurse said, ‘She had two visitors yesterday, Connie.’
Mrs Howard said, ‘Really?’
‘Yes, honey. That Chinese housekeeper of her daughter’s, and then her son-in-law. I’d think she was just about visited out.’
Mrs Howard said to me, ‘I was off yesterday.’
‘She got on to poisons,’ I said.
Both women laughed briefly. Then Mrs Howard shrugged. ‘She ate breakfast this morning without a word.’
‘I didn’t feel it was a delusion,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Howard asked. ‘That someone is poisoning her?’
‘I felt she turned it on, so as not to talk to me. She seemed very alert. Much younger than her years.’
Both women nodded in agreement. I asked, ‘Does she get a lot of visitors?’
‘Oh, the family’s quite good. Daughter, grandchildren, pretty regularly,’ Mrs Howard said.
‘And the Chinese housekeeper,’ the nurse said.
‘I think she’s Japanese, Barbara.’
‘Oh my!’ the nurse said. ‘Anyway, she comes too.’
‘Three or four times a month, I’d say. Oh, they’re not bad. They bring her things. Books and magazines, yarn, tapes of concerts sometimes. They’re musical, you know. Definitely among our good relatives.’ She looked at the nurse. ‘What percentile would you say?’
After a moment’s thought the nurse said, ‘Nothing like the Grosses or the Fallowfields, of course. But . . . top twenty?’
Mrs Howard nodded. Then to me she said, ‘Maybe if you come back in a couple of days she’ll be more receptive. Unless visiting again would be too inconvenient for you.’
The burden of retaining the Belter top-twenty rating was squarely on my shoulders.
I was on the road again by eleven. By pre-arrangement I was to call Maude Simmons between eleven and half past. Where better to make a telephone call than from a pay phone at the Indiana Bell office on North Meridian?
Maude sounded tired. ‘I’ve only had time for the information off the surface. The one-cut skim. You understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘O.K. Just checking.’
‘A girl’s got to keep things straight,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ she said, acknowledging unspecified stresses. ‘A girl sure has.’
I’ve known Maude superficially for years, primarily through this sort of occasional commercial relationship. I know little about her, except that she has an unquenchable thirst for funds from which she seems to enjoy no material benefit. Some day, if I get rich, I’ll ask her for background on herself. And she’ll give it to me, if I pay.
‘I didn’t come up with anything at all on a Lance Whisstock in the newspaper files, but I haven’t gone for court records on his divorce. You want those?’
‘I think so.’ They would, at least, give me a former address and a former wife.
‘And how about high school and college transcripts?’
‘Yeah, those too.’
‘And you didn’t give me anything about parents.’
‘I don’t have anything about parents.’
‘You don’t have a lot, do you?’
‘I hope you don t intend to charge me for that newsflash,’ I said.
‘Now, Murchison. Speaking of whom, there’s not a lot on them either. Almost nothing on the mother and father, and little enough on Paula Helen.’
‘Let’s hear about Paula Helen.’
‘I’ve got some piano concerts in the mid-fifties. You want to know what she played?’
‘No.’
‘Then she married Douglas Alan Belter, second son of Steven G. Belter. You know who he is?’
‘Yes. Banks, not piggy.’
‘Six branches in town, plus a few elsewhere in the state. I can give you a lot on the father.’
‘No.’
‘Douglas is in the business. Married Paula Helen June the first, 1957. Tabernacle Presbyterian on East 34th. She was twenty-one. He was twenty-two. You want the guest list? The menu?’
‘How about sending me a copy of the guest list?’
‘O.K.’
‘There must have been something about her parents in the wedding story.’
‘ “The bride’s mother is Ella R. Murchison, widow of Earl Wilmott Murchison.” ’
‘Very revealing,’ I said.
‘Must have been love,’ Maude said. ‘No list of any domains Princess Paula brought to the kingdom.’
‘Wonderful thing, love.’
‘The Douglas Belters are social. Musical associations. Charitable money. There’s a lot of it, but nothing looks special. I can make copies and send them too.’
‘All right.’
‘Children: two sons. Raymond William in ’59, Charles Arthur in ’61. I haven’t looked for items on them.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘It’s not very exciting, Al.’
‘If I want things in more detail, I’ll get back to you.’
‘I hear you looked lovely on TV,’ she said. ‘Didn’t get to see you myself, but they say you came across like a fine wine.’
She waited a moment for me to rise to the bait, but I was silent.
‘Full-bodied. Must have done business a power of good.’
‘I had a couple of calls.’ Not counting Mr Lyon.
‘How did you find Tanya Wilkerson?’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘Word is she’s a real bitch when you get to know her. But destined for big things.’
‘I’ll try not to be hurt when I get left behind.’
‘Gotta go.’
She went.
From the phone booth it was only a few steps to the Reception Desk of the Indiana Bell Administration office.
A serious young man in a dark suit sat before a glass case of speciality telephones which ranged from a push-button Micky Mouse to a model with built-in scrambler, not usually needed by politicians.
‘May I help you?’
‘I’d like to see the telephone books for 1934 through 1947 please,’ I said.
As he stared at me, I thought I heard a million synapses open and close. But finally he said, ‘You’ll want our Archives office. Third and fourth floors.’
The Archivist was genuinely pleased to see me. ‘It’s all part of my job,’ he said, ‘to assist with public and commercial enquiries.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘And schools,’ he said with enthusiasm. He was a small bald man with bristles coming out of all sorts of places.
He led me to shelves which bore Indianapolis telephone directories through the ages. ‘We have the only complete set of these books in existence,’ he said proudly. ‘Some were pretty hard to locate.’
‘Do many people use them?’
‘I’ve had a few, a few,’ he said. ‘Will you be able to finish your work today?’
‘It should only take a few minutes,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he said, clearly disappointed. ‘Good.’
It only took a few minutes.
I’d come to the books on the off-chance that the Murchisons before the war had telephones. They did, and to simplify matters they had only one listed address, on East New York Street, for the years 1934 through 1945. In 1946 the address changed, to East 42nd Street, and for the first time the listing was under Ella R. instead of Earl W.
While I was about it I went farther back in time. 1932 was the first year for the New York Street address. There were no phone numbers for either Murchison back through 1920.
I returned to the Archivist. ‘They’ve been a great help,’ I said.
I seemed to have made his day.
Then I unmade it. ‘Do you have a copy of the current directory?’
‘The current one?’
‘Like, this year’s,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘I want to look up a number.’
‘That’s not what they’re here for,’ he said sternly.
Over-harsh, I thought. Perhaps he thought so too, because he relented and fished a directory out of the desk drawer.
I leafed through to the Whisstocks. There was only one and that one not a Lance. I copied down the address and number, thanked the Archivist fulsomely, and left.
Since I was already in town, I parked at the Market Square lot and ventured into the Indianapolis Police Department.
I made for the Detective day room on the third floor. From the reception I learned that Lieutenant Jerry Miller was, indeed, in his cubbyhole.
‘Don’t let him know I’m coming,’ I said. ‘He might leave.’
The officer shrugged. He didn’t care.
When Miller saw me he didn’t complain, make a face, bury his head in a desk drawer, or jump out the window.
It was a sign that things were not well with him.
He put his pen down and rose. ‘It’s about lunch time, Al,’ he said. ‘What say we go out for a bite?’
He spoke as if it were a routine activity. I hardly remembered when I last ate lunch with the man. Though we were friends in high school, we’ve let social contacts lapse more recently. I visit him at work. And he is generally suspicious that I want something from him. Which, generally, I do.
‘Great,’ I said.
We went to a deli stand in City Market, across Market Street from the cop shop. We carried sandwiches and coffee and walked the sawdust-strewn aisles separating the sale of fish and meat and vegetables, leather work and used paperbacks and plastic toys.
At one point Miller’s gaze lingered on some candy canes in a confectionery display. I bought a couple and he seemed joyful.
He talked non-stop.
He talked about how he’d like to run a stand in the Market, but the waiting list was too long. He talked about some vacations he’d taken visiting family in Nebraska. How he had a cousin there with a plan to exploit Nebraska’s tourist potential. With an option on a lake. With zoning permission to build a road.
He talked about how much like his wife, Janie, his young daughter was already. ‘It’s uncanny,’ he said.
It was not an observation which brought him pleasure.
I hadn’t seen Janie for more than ‘Hello’ for years, because she doesn’t like me. She remembers doggedly the days when Jerry and I chummed up at school, and joy rode a time or two. She is highly ambitious for her husband.
‘It’s a hell hole in there,’ he said suddenly. I realised he meant at work. ‘There’s so much angling, dirty dealing. For promotion, for assignments, for funds, for manpower. Putting other guys down. Putting yourself and your friends up.’ He shook his head. ‘The biggest danger a working cop in this city runs is from a knife in the back at work.’
We stopped at a stand selling dried fruit, nuts, grains and health food.
‘You ever try this stuff? he asked.
‘Not in a big way.’
‘Maybe I will. I need something.’ He turned to me. ‘What did you want, Al? Something big, I hope?’
I looked surprised. I was surprised. Our history, since we went our career ways, has been of me having to use dynamite to prise even little favours from the man. He has high principles about what is right and what is wrong. Since he got the religion of being a policeman.
He saw my reaction. He smiled without happiness and lifted his shoulders. ‘I need a big case,’ he said simply, ‘if I’m not going to get stuck forever. If I’m not going to get farmed out to make way for the college-boy hot shots, I need to deliver. Hell, I do deliver, but I need a big case for decoration. You’ve done that for me a time or two over the years.’
He turned to walking the aisles again. Then he slapped me on the back. ‘Doesn’t have to be a mass murderer,’ he said jovially. ‘Baby-snatching, gang incest, or even a white-slavery ring will do. Hey, that’d give some nice visuals for the papers and TV. Stand me up with the white slave I’ve rescued.’
Miller is black.
‘You might take your life savings and hire a PR man,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the flat bit, Albert, my boy.’
‘I don’t have anything very promising.’
‘I’m considering all offers.’
‘I wanted you to check out what’s in the files on a man called Lance Whisstock.’ I spelled it for him.
He frowned.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve heard the name somewhere.’
‘So much the better,’ I said.
‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘You got it. Anything else?’
‘I have another job that started with a fake birth certificate.’
‘Why the hell does someone fake a birth certificate? To pretend the kid is legitimate?’
‘I don’t know yet. But there must have been something wrong with the real one.’
Miller blinked. ‘If not baby-snatching then maybe baby sale,’ he said. He sucked on his candy cane. ‘What can I do to help?’
It was December, but an offer like that is Christmas any time of year for a humble private detective.