The Clue in the Clay

By Dolores Hitchens

A San Francisco police detective becomes obsessed with a sculptress’s apparent suicide—and hounds his new wife into helping him solve the case . . .
 
When Officer Charles confronts a man acting erratically early in the morning on a quiet residential street in San Francisco, he presumes it’s a case of public intoxication—until the man blurts out that Mabel Edwards has hanged herself. The sculptress, who’d been working on a menacing-looking Druid statue, is indeed dead. And when the shaken officer briefly leaves the scene, his only witness disappears.
 
When Det. Lt. Stephen Mayhew, on his honeymoon in San Francisco, hears about the death from his old pal Charles, he’s not convinced it was suicide—especially after he hears the nasty comments made by Mabel’s elderly neighbors. To his new bride’s dismay, he’s soon obsessed with his hunch, peppering everyone with questions and asking poor Sara to help him re-create the crime scene. How can she say no? That’s what she gets for marrying a policeman . . .
 
Previously published under the name D.B. Olsen

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: May 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781504084642

Dolores Hitchens

Dolores Hitchens (1907–1973) was a highly prolific mystery author who wrote under multiple pseudonyms and in a range of styles. A large number of her books were published under the moniker D. B. Olsen, and a few under the pseudonyms Noel Burke and Dolan Birkley, but she is perhaps best remembered today for her later novel, Fool’s Gold, published under her own name, which was adapted into the film Bande á part directed by Jean-Luc Godard.

Book preview

ONE

Swanson Street was always quietly decorous on Sunday mornings, as befitted a careful neighborhood; so that there were few, if any, people about on that day early in June to observe the remarkably odd behavior of the little man in the green overcoat.

The little man came running hatless around the corner of number one hundred twelve, from the rear. He was a childishly plump and pink little man, with a horridly adult convulsion of fear upon his features, and a gait as jerky and mechanical as a toy’s. He stopped in the front yard to clutch at the building with one hand, and to pull at his collar with the other; a shrill wheeze that may have been meant for a scream came through with the automatic promptness of a steam-whistle; he shivered once, violently; and then he collapsed into a ludicrous green heap on the lawn. Nor did he move afterwards.

Number one hundred twelve, was the smallest house in the block. It was of mellow orange brick, with a roof of shingles cunningly bedeviled into looking like thatch; and the whole place, including the tiny front yard and the flagged path, had an appearance of mild facetiousness, of smirking from under its near-thatch roof up at its three- and four-storey neighbors. On its oaken door, done in antique metal, was a name plate which read:

M

ABEL

E

DWARDS

Sculptress

The word Sculptress also seemed facetious, and somehow a bit improper, in the face of the smug ancient dwellings that surrounded the little house.

Some minutes later, a window in the most dingily correct house of all, which stood next door, came to life with a face. Bitter eyes looked past a beaked nose; saw the prone little man; widened in anger and scorn. Ten minutes after that, Officer Charles came upon the scene, having been notified through his call-box from headquarters that a drunken man was adorning and disturbing the Sunday rectitude of Swanson Street, to the anguish of its proper inhabitants.

Officer Charles investigated the fallen little man, found life in him, and got him to his feet. Steady there! Had a little too much to drink, haven’t you? And then marked the absence of any odor of liquor, and looked more closely at the pale, hatless, sagging figure. The little man began to come to himself, goggling frightened eyes to heaven.

Sound rumbled in the short throat; died away to whispers; renewed itself. Miss Edwards! it came out at last, half-recognizable. She’s … she’s … h … h … Dreadful silence while the little man got through swallowing. She’s hanged herself! the little man managed, all in one breath as though he might never draw another.

Officer Charles was slow. Dust yourself off, now. You’re all right. And don’t be laying in the yard. He held the green figure gently erect.

The little man was obviously glad of shelter and support. He clung to Officer Charles’ bosom, and let his breath out in a long relieved sighing. It’s perfectly hideous. And I stumbled on her, not knowing. She’s hanged herself, Officer. Done it in the night, I guess.

Officer Charles, having digested the thought that the man was not really intoxicated, pushed him abruptly away. What’s that you’re telling me?

Miss Mabel Edwards, the little man said very distinctly. She has hanged herself beside the back door.

Officer Charles obviously did not believe him. Some woman has killed herself? You mean that?

The half-bald little head trembled forward in a nod.

Officer Charles took hold of a green shoulder, not gently. Look here—this is straight goods, is it? The little man winced, and admitted that it was. Well, snap out of it, then. Show me the body! The shoulder faltered away; but Officer Charles kept hold of it. Come on. Lead the way.

The little man waddled reluctantly round, and with the woeful precision of a duck, he pursued the narrow path that led through a tangle of shrubs into the back yard. Officer Charles followed him with a look of severity in his usually mild grey eyes. In the back, they came upon an incongruous addition to the house, planted untidily against the mellow brick: a small enclosed porch of wooden boards, not well painted, and with two wash-tubs half visible through the door, which was ajar. The little man lifted an unwilling arm. In there, he murmured. You’ll see that it’s just as I said it was. She’s quite … quite dead, Officer.

Officer Charles mounted three wooden steps, pushed the door wide, and went into the porch. The little man wobbled after him for a short distance; paused to become silent and apprehensive; and at last, with a bleated apology, disappeared behind a shrub to be sick.

Officer Charles found himself in a narrow, gloomy space; but there was light enough for him to see the stark figure that hung against the wall. To his right, as he glanced about, he saw tubs and washing paraphernalia. To his left was a door through the brick wall into the house, and just beyond it, by a rope from an iron hook from which a lighting fixture had been removed, hung the body of a young woman in a peach-colored satin-and-lace nightdress. Officer Charles looked inquiringly into her face, and then wished mightily that he hadn’t. He focused his attention upon other details: the overturned stool below her bare feet; the heavy ornamental lighting fixture, made in the fashion of an ancient lantern, that had been placed in one of the wash-tubs; the little man’s fallen hat, as ridiculously green as his coat; the row of soap-boxes … the bottle of bluing … anything but the dead girl and her terrible features….

Having made a quick examination of the place, and keeping his gaze down, Officer Charles came out. The little man was still behind the shrub, unmanfully gagging. The sight of his sickness did sudden and dreadful things to Officer Charles’ stomach; so that Officer Charles might be somewhat excused for the serious blunder he proceeded to make.

I’m going to call Headquarters, he got out in an odd voice. And added hurriedly: You’ll stay right here until I get back. I’ll want a statement from you…. Quiet, while Officer Charles turned his head and the little man ducked behind his shrub. … and so will the men from Headquarters.

The little man muffled his gagging with a handkerchief, and peeped frightened between the leaves. It’s only suicide, isn’t it? Nothing … er … worse?

Officer Charles managed a frown. That’s not for us to decide.

The little man slid meekly from behind the shrub, and looked sympathetically on while Officer Charles fought a rebellious breakfast. May I get my hat? he asked timidly. I dropped it in there. He did not look in the direction of his fallen headgear.

Officer Charles denied him. Don’t go in there again. Everything must stay as it is. You can have your hat when…. Damn! He started hurriedly on the path towards the front of the house. I’ll be right back, Officer Charles promised over his shoulder; but the little man did not pay him any heed. He was busy retrieving his hat from the wooden floor of the porch, and blowing off it such specks of dust as it had gathered.

Officer Charles was entirely out of sight. With a little quack of dismay, Green Overcoat scurried through the back gate and was gone.

Officer Charles was roundly berated and threatened with demotion for having let the little man get away. Suicides are carefully checked on, in San Francisco.

Officer Charles got very angry over the whole affair; and went home and soundly and inexcusably he kicked the cat. Whereupon his young wife took her cat and left for Mother and Oakland, after having called Officer Charles various kinds of a brute.

Officer Charles at first made light of her anger, and pretended a careless ease at meal-getting by opening a can of beans and trying to eat them for his supper. Admitting the beans flavorless, and the empty house hideously depressing, Officer Charles went out to get thoroughly drunk….

It was at Otto’s that he ran into his old crony and class-mate, Detective Lieutenant Stephen Mayhew.

The Mayhews had arrived in San Francisco that morning. Their honeymoon was but five days old; it had begun at Breakers Beach, where Lieutenant Mayhew was engaged in disrupting the schemes of malefactors; and had continued at Santa Barbara and Monterey, with interludes of Mayhew’s peculiarly frenzied style of driving.

Over their dinner in the hotel dining room, Sara Mayhew scolded her husband for being so self-conscious. And you’re so clumsy, besides, she said admiringly, watching him fumble a fork. Anyone would know that we’re just newly married. Can’t you be a little more graceful? More suave, let’s say. And put an ice-pack on your ears to cool them off; they’re terribly red, darling. They’re the only part of you that seems able to blush, and they keep doing it constantly. Buck up, dear. You’re such an obvious bridegroom! She mocked him with a pert mouth.

Lieutenant Mayhew, who is an extremely large man and as blundersome as a bear, put on a wounded expression. Sorry, darling, he apologized; and dropped a bite of pie into his lap. He went on in a hurry, as if to switch her attention from himself: Look, we’ve got to do something this evening. What’ll it be?

What do people do in San Francisco evenings?

Movies … Mayhew offered hopefully.

No. Too ordinary. And besides, you’d take me to see some murder mystery. And I don’t like them; not even the best. She shook a slim finger into Mayhew’s square face. See, darling? No murders on our honeymoon. Not even celluloid ones. Understand? Forget your business, you … you bloodhound! She tinkled a laugh at him; it took the edge from her words without removing their underlying sincerity.

We could take in the night-spots, Mayhew suggested. They’d be soothing.

She pretended anger. Such sarcasm! But I’ll overlook it, dear. The night-spots sound inviting. Let’s go. She stood up, erect and slender; and a glow of worshipful pride came into Mayhew’s dark eyes. She was in white chiffon, with a froth of ruffles and flowers across her breast; and her hair as smooth as a yellow ribbon around her head. Mayhew followed her from the room like a lamb.

It was at Otto’s that they ran into Mr. Franklin Charles, who was, it seemed, an old friend and college classmate of Lieutenant Mayhew. It further developed, over a round of cocktails at a corner table, that Mr. Charles was a police officer with domestic worries; that his wife was gone; that there had been some odd difficulty about a cat; that Officer Charles had allowed a little man in a green overcoat to slip through a back gate and get away; and that some foolish woman had killed herself.

Hummmm, Sara mourned, shaking her blonde head in sympathy. "It sounds like The House That Jack Built. You remember: This is the maiden all forlorn that milked the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that …

I know: the rat comes next. But we can do without him, darling. Mayhew was being very casual. Some woman killed herself?

Officer Charles bemoaned the beans. If my wife weren’t such a damned good cook, I’d let her stay till she gets her mad out. She never stays mad longer than a week. But I hate the canned stuff; it sticks in my throat, and damned if I can swallow it. He swallowed his cocktail as if to demonstrate; but it went down easily enough. My wife can make biscuits and pies like nobody’s business, Charles mourned, fingering his empty glass.

Mayhew was surveying the glittering chrome-and-crystal distances of the cocktail room. I suppose they’re sure it’s suicide. Did you find her, Frank?

No, I was just telling your wife…. Oh! I didn’t find the woman first. This little guy did. That’s what the trouble was about. I shouldn’t have let him get away without getting his name and address. Officer Charles fidgeted in memory of his humiliation. And now my wife’s gone, too. I’m a hell of a fellow.

What’s your favorite kind of pie? Sara asked brightly.

A kind my wife calls Apple-Cheese pie. She makes it with apples and cottage cheese and a sort of a custard mixture to hold it together. It’s damned good; but you never see it in restaurants. Officer Charles looked scorn at a waiter discreetly in the distance. I’ll bet that guy would drop dead if you asked him for it. He’s never heard of it.

Let’s try him, Sara suggested, lifting a hand to beckon the waiter.

Mayhew lit a cigarette; blew a mushroom of smoke to the ceiling. Why do you think the little guy ran out on you like that? Anything funny about the business?

Huh? Oh…. No, nothing wrong, I guess. Bailey’s working on it. As far as I could figure, she was just a dame that got tired of living and took the hard way out. Officer Charles’ face brightened with a cruel amusement as the waiter came close. Here! We’d like three pieces of Apple-Cheese pie, please. But the amusement died as the waiter simply bowed and withdrew in the direction of the kitchen. Do you suppose they have it? he asked, dumbfounded.

Of course not! Sara comforted him. He’s just gone to confer with the cook. When he comes back he’ll be crestfallen.

Who was the woman? Mayhew asked, very nonchalantly.

Woman? Officer Charles’ grey eyes grew round. Say—I’ve been talking about my wife! Didn’t I tell you I was married? He stared at Mayhew, half inclined to be indignant.

Mayhew let his cigarette sag into the ash-tray. Good God, man! Your wife has hanged herself?

No, Charles exploded. Dammit—I’ve been telling you—my wife’s left me and gone home to the old lady. And I can’t cook! I’ve either got to get down on my knees and beg her to come home, or eat out in restaurants. Great guns, what a life! The waiter had crept again to Officer Charles’ elbow. Well, what do you want? Huh? The pie? What about it?

The waiter admitted ashamedly that he was unable to serve the particular variety of pie requested.

See? moaned Officer Charles to Lieutenant Mayhew. They haven’t any. They’ll never have it. No, I wouldn’t care for plain apple. Go away.

Maybe it was murder, Mayhew said gently without any visible expression on his face, or any particular concern in his voice. It might be, you know. Your little guy running away like that seems kind of odd. As if he might know something about it, and were afraid that you’d get it out of him. What do you think?

Lord, I don’t know…. Officer Charles was beginning; when Sara Mayhew awoke to the state of her husband’s mind.

She had been fussing with the ruffles on the bodice of her white evening dress, pulling them into place where they had been crushed by her wrap; but she suddenly stopped all movement and sat perfectly still. When she looked up at her husband, her eyes were accusing. You promised! she cried, breaking in upon Officer Charles’ preamble to reasoning. You said that you wouldn’t!

Wouldn’t what? Mayhew asked, with the aggravating innocence of a bear caught licking a honey-pot.

Wouldn’t be a policeman. Not on our … our trip! You did promise; you know you did! Her young face blushed a pretty pink with anger. You promised me faithfully, that even if we should find a corpse under our bed, you wouldn’t go poking around to find who did it—who murdered it, I mean. And now you’re doing it!

Doing what? Mayhew looked out from under his black brows in mild reproach. What was I doing?

You were inventing a murder. Sara turned to Officer Charles in desperate appeal. Don’t tell him any more. He’s a murder-maniac. He collects murderers the way some people collect stamps. But I won’t have him doing it now. Stop telling …

The woman had clawed herself something awful, Officer Charles remembered meditatively, staring into a new cocktail. Great welts all over her face and neck—the Doc said she had done it trying to get the rope off, after it was too late. Hanging there by her neck against the wall, you know—no foothold in the bricks; the stool already turned over; and maybe changing her mind at the last minute. Clawed the rope. Dug into her face and neck with her nails. He downed his drink hurriedly. Made an ugly sight, I can tell you.

Sara drew back as Mayhew leaned forward. I suppose you’ve got pictures of her? he asked.

Sara touched his sleeve. What is it, Stephen? What’s in your mind about this thing?

He shrugged his great shoulders, and knitted his black brows in a heavy frown. I don’t know. Just a hunch.

We could drop into Headquarters. Bailey’d likely still be there. He’s got the pictures we took, and the dope on the woman. Want to do it? Charles included Sara in the invitation by a look in her direction.

Sara gave them a bitter-sweet smile. I wouldn’t care to go. No. But don’t let me keep you, gentlemen. Run along. I’ll be here when you come back.

I’m in the dog-house, as far as the Chief’s concerned. But Bailey’s always decent. He’ll talk to us. Charles got up, half-wearily, and stretched. Sure you wouldn’t like it, Mrs. Mayhew? It’s kind of interesting if you’ve never …

Sara bent over her drink. Thanks. I’ll wait here for you. She sipped a moment in silence; then looked up at her husband, standing beside his chair. Stephen; what is it? What on earth is there in it—to get you off poking into the thing?

Mayhew did not meet her look. It’s the little guy, darling. He shouldn’t have run away.

I would have, she admitted honestly.

I know—but … Mayhew smiled, and made a deprecating motion with one hand as if to belittle his own suspicions. It’s just that I’m-incurably blockheaded, dear. You’ve married a policeman.

He kissed her briefly on the cheek; and he and Charles swung away and were gone. Mayhew has been heard to wonder since, just what it was that first intrigued him about the case; what flaw it was in Charles’ recital, obvious even then, that told him there had been murder done.

What are you thinking about? Charles wondered, after they had got into a cab.

The bricks, Mayhew said slowly, as though his vision of the thing were just beginning. You said that she was hanging against a brick wall, didn’t you?

So what? Charles demanded.

Wait till we see the pictures, Mayhew decided.

TWO

Inspector Bailey was a small man, stoop-shouldered and lean, and with the terse friendliness of a terrier. He welcomed Officer Charles and Lieutenant Mayhew into a room filled with an acrid haze of cigarette smoke.

I’m a bachelor, he offered as if in explanation. I never have to go home. Mayhew? Heard of you. The Sticklemann case, wasn’t it?

Mayhew admitted modestly to his fame.

Charles broached the subject of that morning’s suicide. Mayhew here wants to talk to you about the Edwards woman. What about it?

Bailey shot a quick look in Mayhew’s direction, and drew deeply on his cigarette before answering. Then he moved deliberately to the other side of his immense, untidy desk, and searched through layers of papers until a sheaf of pictures came into view. He held them out towards Mayhew. Here are the photographs. I can’t say that I see anything out of the way. It’s suicide, as far as I’m concerned. He watched Mayhew’s dark face as the big man took the pictures and looked at them.

There was silence in the smoke-filled room while Mayhew scrutinized the photographs of the dead woman.

What do you know about her? he asked at last.

Bailey looked disappointed