“No, but I’ll get in.”
“You want to bet?”
“Even money?”
Wyman was silent again, his manner puzzled but not annoyed as he surveyed Murdock’s well-cut tweeds, the white shirt with its button-down collar, the regimental-striped tie. It was part of the photographer’s stock in trade that he always dressed well; his good taste complemented his careless good looks and gave him a presence denied to most of his associates. Not that his concern for his appearance ever stopped him from busting into tough situations with a camera, for it was characteristic of him to accept the occupational hazards of his profession—an occasional bruise and a general mussing up being the worst of these—without complaint so long as he got the picture he wanted. He was intimidated by neither riots nor the rituals of society functions, and Wyman had long been aware that what any photographer could do, Murdock could probably do better.
He did not know whether the answer was luck, persistence, shrewd tactics, or a combination of all three, but he did know that Murdock was the best. Now, remembering these and other things, the managing editor sensed that something important lay behind Murdock’s casual remarks. Something was bothering him, and Wyman knew from past experience that in such cases it was best to give his ace photographer plenty of leeway and plenty of backing in case he needed it. Recalling other occasions when a reasonable indulgence had paid dividends in pictures, and not really expecting an explanation until Murdock was ready to give it, he nevertheless tried once more.
“What makes you think you can make it? Did you charm them into accepting you socially this morning?”
Murdock started a grin but it did not materialize. He did not know quite what to say because he was not sure himself what he was going to do once he arrived at the Caldwell place. But he knew he was going. He had acquired over the years a newspaperman’s ability to spot a phony, and like all of them he resented misrepresentation. His experience that morning had been unusual, even for him, and what happened since then had aroused the normal curiosity that was part of his equipment. This alone had prompted him to investigate, and having gone this far, he could no longer deny the suspicion and excitement that had been working on him during the past hours.
He did not answer Wyman’s question. He said, “I’m going to grab a sandwich. I should be down there around seven-thirty. If you don’t hear from me by eleven or so, maybe you’d better check up.”
Wyman peered at him. He scowled and blew out his breath. He leaned back, his manner elaborately resigned, his expression suggesting that his capacity for understanding had been exhausted.
“Whose script have you been reading?” he demanded. “Are the Caldwells practicing mayhem secretly these days?” He waited five seconds, and when his sarcasm drew no reply, he said, “Sounds screwy as hell. You know that, don’t you?”
Murdock admitted as much to himself. He had gone all over that. He could not tell Wyman how he had felt that morning. It seemed now that even then he had sensed something wrong in that house. And though he felt sure he was right, he was aware that no one would believe that a man could be held a prisoner against his will in such a place, not with the name Caldwell behind it. Yet to him, the impression was still quite real and he knew of no other way to play it but straight.
“Yes,” he said. “Very.”
“And you can’t tell me about it?”
Murdock was tired of questions and impatient to be off. He decided to let Wyman have it. “I can tell you this. I don’t think John Caldwell made that speech this morning.”
“Nuts! I heard him. I’ve heard him speak before. It was his voice.”
“I don’t question that,” Murdock said quietly. “Call it a hunch if you like, but I’ve got an idea John Caldwell wasn’t even alive when that speech was made.”
For a second or two Wyman sat motionless in his chair; then he jerked erect in it, the cigar slipping from his mouth. He grabbed for it, missed, and forgot it.
“What?” he said, his voice incredulous. He swallowed and waved one hand, and now heavy sarcasm replaced the incredulity in his tone. “Oh, sure. The old boy was murdered. They propped him up in his chair while you took a picture of him and somebody forged his signature to that will he was supposed to sign. A ventriloquist made the speech. After that they called in the family doctor and bribed him to sign a death certificate and falsify the cause and time of death. Then they put the pressure on the undertaker—”
Murdock cut him off.
“Part of that could be right,” he said. “That speech you heard could have been made earlier, say on a tape recorder, and then replayed for the broadcast. The radio engineer was not in the room. The ‘mike’ cable went out the window, probably to where the engineer had set up his equipment.”
Murdock stood up and continued, unmoved by Wyman’s reaction, his voice still quiet.
“And if I’m right, I wonder why Donald Caldwell and Larkin, the butler, played it that way. I’d like to find out who else was in on it.”
6
THE REPORTERS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS who had flocked to the Caldwell gatehouse that afternoon only to be barred from the grounds had given up in despair by the time Murdock arrived, and though the gateman said no after Murdock had parked his car, he did listen to what the photographer had to say. In the end he agreed to ring the house, and when he had the butler on the phone, he repeated Murdock’s message.
It’s that photographer fellow who was here this morning,” he said. “He’s out here now and he says he has an extra infrared picture that Nick didn’t get. He wants to know should he come in and talk to you about it or should he go ahead and let the paper publish it.”
For a second or two the gateman listened, then he hung up slowly, his expression puzzled as he shook his head. “I’ll be damned!” he said in slow bewilderment, and pressed the lever that opened the narrow gate. “You’re to wait here until someone comes for you.”
Murdock winked at the gateman and stepped through. By the time he had a cigarette going, Nick Taylor loomed up out of the darkness, and though Murdock could not get a good look at the other’s face, the voice was just the same.
“Let’s go, slugger,” Nick said. And when they started up the driveway: “You must like it here.”
“They like me, too,” Murdock said. “Remind me to swear out a warrant for you and that gorilla you run around with.”
Nick made some reply but Murdock did not hear it. The excitement and anticipation were building pleasantly in his mind now, and he became aware of a confidence he had not felt before. He had known somehow that he could get inside the grounds, for it had become clear to him that Larkin was in on the secret and, putting himself in Larkin’s place, he knew that mention of that infrared picture could not be ignored. Larkin might not believe there was an extra copy, but he could not take the chance of sending Murdock away until he had made sure.
Donald Caldwell and a tall, thin man with a bony face and an egg-bald head were waiting in the hall. When Nick moved off beyond the stairs and disappeared, Murdock turned to the bald man, surveying him with half-closed eyes, remembering where he had seen him before.
“You knocked on Miss Kenyon’s door last night, Larkin,” he said. “But you looked different when I saw you this morning.”
“I beg pardon, sir.” The voice was deep, respectful. “I don’t believe we met this morning.”
“Upstairs,” Murdock said. “Only you wore a white toupee and shell-rimmed glasses.”
“You’re mistaken,” Donald Caldwell said coldly. Then, his suspicion mounting as he watched Murdock open his equipment case, he said, “Why did you bring that?”
“I like to have it handy. Also I thought I might take a couple of new pictures in exchange for these.”
He handed Caldwell the envelope containing the two head-and-shoulder enlargements of John Caldwell, one made from the pool picture he had taken that morning, and the other a copy of the photograph taken nine years before.
Donal
d Caldwell glanced at them, his thin-nosed face tight and suspicious. “These are not infrared pictures,” he said. “Are they, Larkin? You said you had an extra copy of an infrared, picture,” he added accusingly.
“The picture I have is in my head,” Murdock said. “I told the gateman what I had to tell him to get in.”
Caldwell’s lips tightened. “We should have known it was nothing but a cheap trick.”
“It’s a little more than that.” Murdock kept his voice level, ignoring Caldwell’s contempt because he had expected it. “I thought I ought to tell you about this idea of mine before I did anything about it. Or should I have told my city editor first?”
His words and the undisturbed sincerity of his tone made an impression on Caldwell. He glanced covertly at Larkin, got himself in hand before he spoke.
“What is it you have to say?”
“I did a lot of research this afternoon after I had that little visit from Nick Taylor and his friend,” Murdock said. “I even found an old story on Larkin. It was written back in the twenties. It told how your father hated publicity and said he was camera-shy, and that he often used a double when he appeared publicly. Larkin was that double because he had your father’s build and the same-shaped head and features. The story said Larkin was an expert with make-up and could fool nearly everyone except at close range. Maybe that’s why Larkin was hired in the beginning,” he said, and took a breath before he went on to explain the peculiarities of pictures taken with infrared film.
“Nick and his pat did a good job,” he said. “But Nick didn’t get there soon enough. I had a chance to study that photograph. A lot of things show up in infrared pictures that you don’t see in ordinary film. You didn’t see the picture yourself so you’ll have to take my word for what I saw. To me the lines in the forehead of that photograph did not look right; they looked as if they had been put there with make-up or grease paint because your father’s face was more deeply lined than Larkin’s. If I had a print to show you I think you’d see the mark where the toupee or wig fitted across the head.”
“Nonsense.” Caldwell’s voice had gone up a tone. His mouth was white and he had to wet his lips before he could continue. “You have no picture. What you are saying is merely your interpretation of what you saw, or thought you saw.”
Murdock gave him a tight, humorless smile. “Is it?” he said. “Well, here’s something else that maybe I can prove. Any criminologist will tell you that, aside from fingerprints, one of the most characteristic features of any person is his ear. Each man’s is different and distinctive, either in the shape or contour of the helix or the lobule, or in the way it is attached to the head. So take a look at that nine-year-old picture of your father.” He indicated the three-quarter-view photograph, which showed the left ear plainly. “Compare it with the enlargement taken this morning. Look at the lobes and then tell me it’s the same man.”
He glanced up at Larkin, who stood three inches above him and towered above Caldwell, seeing the long, close-set ears, comparing them with his enlargement, knowing for sure that he was right. He started to say so and then realized that no further argument was necessary.
Caldwell let his breath out and the hand holding the photographs dangled at his side as his shoulders sagged. He was watching Larkin with tortured eyes, and now he said, “I suppose we’ll have to tell the family.”
Larkin’s gaunt face was impassive, but his lips were set, his eyes half closed. Finally he nodded, and his chin came up. “Yes,” he said. “They’ll have to know the truth now, I’m afraid, sir.”
Caldwell stepped to the wall and pressed a button, glancing at his watch as he did so. “Is everyone here? Lawrence hasn’t gone back to the city? Blake is here. Then tell them I would like them all in the drawing-room at eight o’clock. That will give them a half hour to get ready.” He turned as Nick came down the hall. “Will you and Larkin show Mr. Murdock upstairs, please?”
He stepped aside with the butler, spoke a few words. Larkin nodded. “If you’ll come this way, Mr. Murdock,” he said, and then they were going up the stairs and around the stair-well railing in the second-floor hall to another, narrower stairway and up this to the third floor. Near the end of a lateral corridor Larkin opened a door, snapped on the light. Reaching inside, he removed the key from the lock.
Murdock stopped, his resentment rising again as it had that morning when he had been ordered about.
“Wait a minute!”
“He’s only kidding, Larkin,” Nick said. “I think he likes it here.”
Murdock glared at him; then, seeing the small bluish lump on the side of Nick’s jaw, he felt better. “You could be right,” he said.
“You’re a newspaperman, Mr. Murdock,” Larkin said in his soft, deep voice. “We wouldn’t want you to try to use the telephone until you’ve heard the whole story. I’m sure you understand.”
The way Larkin put it, it sounded very reasonable, and before he knew it, Murdock had been eased into the room and the door had closed.
When he heard the lock click into place he glanced over what appeared to be a servant’s room, currently unoccupied. There was a single bed, bureau, a lamp, and two chairs, but there were none of the accessories usually present when a room is being used, and when he had completed his inspection, he shucked off his coat, tossed it on the bed, and lit a cigarette.
For a moment then he felt an understandable elation that came from being right, but the feeling was of short duration. In the beginning of his suspicion he had jumped to a conclusion that did not stand up; he had thought that John Caldwell’s dead body had somehow been propped in the chair for his picture. Now that he was sure that Larkin, with his toupee and make-up, had been the man who posed behind the desk, he was still confused and uncertain. So far he had been right, but now that he had proved his point, the expected feeling of accomplishment was strangely absent. Instead there was an odd restlessness upon him that left him worried and upset.
It’s this damn house! he thought.
He remembered how he had felt that morning when he found Nick and the other thug outside his door, and the sense of impotence was even stronger now as he glanced about. He had been a prisoner earlier, and with the knowledge had come an intuitive feeling that there must be some good reason why he had been so carefully watched. Now that same feeling was back again, stronger than before, and though he would normally have scoffed at such things as premonition and intuition—except possibly when applied to a woman—the feeling remained.
He tried to tell himself that this was nothing but imagination, but it did not help much. For he could no longer ignore the fact that he now possessed information that the Caldwell family would go to great lengths to suppress, and he was convinced that should anyone desire, he could be kept in this house indefinitely, were it not for the fact that he had told Wyman where he would be. He was glad about that; he admitted now that this was something beyond his experience. But all this did not help his restlessness. The pressure was still building up, and his nerves were jumpy, and presently he stood up and began to pace the room.
He had no thought of escape when he opened the lone window and looked out. It was merely something to do, and he breathed deeply, his hands on the sill, seeing now that the window itself was a modified dormer, with a foot-wide gutter two feet below it and a wall on either side which sloped back from the vertical until it met the roof proper. It would, he saw, be a simple matter to edge along the sloping wall, and having accepted the principle, the impulse struck him and he acted on it at once.
There was no particular objective in his mind when he started. He had no thought of telephoning—not yet, at least—nor did he expect to take a picture, though he came back for his camera and a flash bulb; rather it was his way of defying the edict of the house and the authority it had held over him, a method of counteracting his feeling of helplessness, and was probably born of that same streak of contrariness that had prompted him to take the infrared picture that morning.
Taking a moment to orient himself, he saw the crack of light under the door and carefully picked his way toward it. Luckily he had a clear path and did not stumble. He reached for the knob, turned it, and stepped into the hall.
Then, before he could close the door, he heard the shot.
It was not loud, owing probably to the thickness of the walls and doors, but it had a distinctive, explosive quality that he had heard before. At any rate, he identified it instantly, standing stiffly now, every muscle tense. He glanced up and down the deserted hall, a feeling of shocked amazement spreading through him as he realized that the shot had come from close by and to his left.
A nerve tightened in his chest, and pressure expanded quickly within him as his mind rebelled. He turned left, a sudden urgency prodding him, and then, as he took a step, the door behind him, caught by the draft from the open window, slammed shut with a crash that shook the wall.
His nerves, already taut and sensitive, reacted violently. Without actually moving his feet he felt as if he had jumped a yard, and he swore softly as he steadied himself. He listened for some other sound. When he heard nothing but the thudding of his heart he stepped to the next door, knocked, though he knew not why, and opened it.
He stepped into a lighted bedroom, much larger than the one he had left but simply furnished, then stopped as his horrified gaze fastened on the man who had slumped across the table-desk—a tall, bent-shouldered man whose bald head glistened in the lamplight and was darkly stained along the ear and jaw at one side.
Hollow Needle Page 5