Hollow Needle

by George Harmon Coxe

  Aside from background and certain physical characteristics they had little in common. George, the bulky, brown-haired one, was known to all as a solid citizen and the one best fitted by temperament and inclination to carry on the tradition of his grandfather. Intelligent, capable, and long trained in management problems, he was the newly appointed head of Caldwell Diesels and an orphan since the death of his parents a few years previous. The blond was Evelyn’s son by her first husband. His name was Lawrence Alderson—everyone called him Larry—and, with none of his cousin’s reserve, he was an extrovert, individualistic and unpredictable, with a what-the-hell-let’s-give-it-a-whirl attitude, but no fool. At present he had no connection with the company but was making a name for himself in the advertising business, and as Murdock considered this on-the-spot character analysis, he realized that Larry had interrupted his uncle.

  “But if Gramp died in his sleep,” he said, “then he didn’t sign the new will. The speech we heard doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “He did sign the will,” Donald Caldwell said.

  “He what?”

  Harvey Blake was half out of his chair, his mustache twitching. The pallor was still in his face but his eyes were bright and suspicious.

  “He couldn’t have. He was supposed to sign it today when he made the speech.”

  There was no change in Donald’s voice. “He signed it last night,” he said wearily. “He was eighty years old, or would have been today. He knew he was living on borrowed time. I don’t know what made him change his mind, but he said he never knew, when he went to sleep at night, whether he’d wake up the next morning, and this time he didn’t want to take any chances because the plan was too important. He called Larkin and Fay in. They witnessed his signature.”

  He glanced at the girl on the divan, and so did Murdock, for he remembered now the knock on the door the night before and how he had opened it to find Larkin in the hall talking to her. “Yes,” she said, her voice subdued. She had been watching her hands and now her eyes came up. “I signed it at ten minutes after twelve this morning. So did Larkin.”

  Harvey Blake sat back but he wasn’t through. “Any person who is a legatee in a will, and who is also a witness to that will, may not receive his legacy under that will if his testimony is needed to prove the will. I know Larkin had been taken care of some time ago by an annuity, but Fay—”

  “Fay is not mentioned in the new will,” Donald said, then paused as though awaiting further argument. When none came he continued hesitantly and with obvious feeling. “Perhaps we were wrong in what we did,” he said. “We thought we could keep it a secret and—”

  George interrupted him.

  “No one blames you, Uncle Don,” he said. “The will was signed, and as far as the workers and country is concerned the speech has been made. If it hadn’t been for Murdock no one would have known the difference.”

  He eyed Murdock steadily. He had a lot of poise for so young a man and, because of his long training, there was an aura of authority and quick intelligence in his manner and his voice. “That is true, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “That part is. But maybe we ought to get the rest of it straight.” Murdock sat up and took time to light a cigarette. He looked back at George. “I took an infrared picture because I was annoyed at being told how I should do my job. I know now why I was guarded and watched this morning but I didn’t then. I was a little sore, maybe, but the picture I took was for my own satisfaction, a pigheaded gesture if you like, but nothing more. I had no intention of offering that picture for publication. To me it would be a souvenir, something I could talk about later on and maybe even be a little proud of. There was no harm in that picture itself, and there would have been no trouble if there had been no masquerade.”

  “That’s true,” George said, and would have continued if Murdock had not cut in on him.

  “As it turned out,” he said, “and looking at it from your viewpoint, that idea of mine was a mistake. But even so, I question your right to send two thugs to my office and take that picture by force.”

  He had their attention then. They glanced at each other and back at him, and he went on quickly to explain what happened.

  “One of them was Nick Taylor,” he said, “and the other was that black-browed monkey in the black suit—”

  “I don’t believe it”

  It was a woman’s voice, and Murdock knew without glancing round that it came from Fay Kenyon. He continued to watch George Caldwell, and George was looking at his uncle.

  “Is that true?” he said finally. “Who told them to go up there and do a thing like that?”

  “Larkin,” Donald Caldwell said. “At my suggestion.” He explained how Nick’s companion had found the used infrared bulb and his guess as to what had happened. “I know how it sounds now,” he said wearily, “but at the time there seemed to be no other way. We had to have that picture. I told them to buy it if possible but—”

  “No one said anything about buying it,” Murdock said. “At least not to me. The two of them walked in and grabbed the negative and print, and when I gave them an argument I got tapped on the head with a blackjack.”

  “Oh, fine! Blackjacks now, huh? If that isn’t a hell of a way to handle things!” Larry Alderson’s face looked disgusted and his scowl was directed, not at Murdock, but at his uncle and cousin. He had, as Murdock was to discover later, a blunt, tough way of talking that came, not from any early training or environment, but from some desire on his part to let everyone know that money and travel and good schools had not made a sissy of him. It was as though he were a little ashamed of having had so many advantages, and this way of saying things, perhaps natural enough now, had in the beginning been an affectation and perhaps a protest against the conventionalities expected of him. He was not a garrulous man, but when he talked he was emphatic and direct, and his language was often profane.

  “A blackjack!” he said again, still disgusted. “A typical Caldwell way of handling things! The guy’s got a right to be sore.”

  “Now just a minute, Larry,” Donald said.

  Larry did not seem to hear this. “Why didn’t you have them pinched?” he said to Murdock.

  “I thought about it,” Murdock said, liking the other’s frankness. “And I still can. But I thought I ought to wait until I had a chance to talk to you.’

  “We’re glad you did.” George Caldwell bunched his lips and looked worried. He looked like a man who had tackled a job that was too much for him and was just beginning to realize it. “It seems we owe you an apology,” he said.

  He paused and then met the problem squarely. “But we can talk about that later. I don’t think that is the important thing now. You’re a newspaperman, Mr. Murdock. I suppose you have a rather terrific story but even you should realize that to publish it would do more harm than good. Now that you know the truth, may we ask your co-operation in preventing it from going any farther?”

  Murdock felt the hostility about him now, but he knew he was already far too involved to worry about appearances. What had in the beginning been a healthy curiosity and a newspaperman’s aversion to being played for a fall guy had brought him back here, and he knew what he had heard was only part of the truth.

  He had delayed telling of Larkin’s death because he wanted to hear as much of the story as he could. He hoped that before he was finished the guilty one might give himself away. It was impossible longer to remain silent or to ignore the supposition that if he had stayed in town Larkin might still be alive. Now, though he had not the slightest clue as to the killer, he found himself considering the possibility that there had been, not one murder, but two. He had gone to John Caldwell’s bedroom to make sure on this point, but he had been unable to face the ordeal of proving the theory. Now it was time for the next step.

  “Certainly you can have my co-operation,” he said, “but I don’t think any of us—with possibly one exception—knows the real truth yet.” He hesitated, framing his questions in a
dvance and wanting to be sure. “At one time it may have been the way he says”—he glanced at Donald Caldwell—“but it’s a little different now. Was Larkin a diabetic?” he asked abruptly.

  They looked at him as if he were crazy. Someone said no, and he said, “Why would he use a hypodermic needle, then?”

  “Because he suffered from bronchial asthma.”

  It was Fay Kenyon who answered, and as Murdock turned toward her she continued earnestly.

  “Mostly in the spring and fall. He had an attack not so long ago, and because we’re out in the country and it’s sometimes hard to get a doctor, he treated himself. He learned to inject a c.c. of adrenalin. It loosened the muscles or something so he could breathe. Sometimes he would take another c.c. if the doctor didn’t come within an hour.”

  “Adrenalin, hunh?” Murdock said softly.

  “What had all this to do with the subject?” George said.

  Murdock was thinking fast, constructing a hazy pattern that ignored the question. “Did Larkin come to each one of you and tell you about the meeting here?”

  He glanced about, waiting, eyes prying yet seeing nothing but nods and puzzled glances.

  Donald Caldwell said, “Why this concern about Larkin? If you need any further corroboration—”

  “If I do,” Murdock cut in, “I won’t get it from Larkin. Larkin is sitting up in his room now with a bullet in his brain!”

  Like that he gave it to them.

  But he made the mistake of trying to watch everyone at once. As a result he got nothing at all except a hazy impression of surprised, incredulous faces. He heard words of protest and disbelief, the shocked, primitive sounds that people make when faced with a situation they cannot cope with or accept. He tried particularly to watch Blake and Prentice, though he was not sure why, and they were on their feet with the others, turning away now that they were sure he meant what he said.

  Prentice, nearest the doors, pulled them wide. He went through fast, followed by the others, and within five seconds Murdock was alone, a feeling of failure and hopelessness settling over him as he realized that, though he had been in the presence of the murderer, he knew no more now than he did when he first saw Larkin.

  The hall was empty when he left the room, and he went along it toward the rear until he reached the corridor that led to the library and Larkin’s office. He wanted a telephone. He wanted to tell Wyman to get the police and the medical examiner on the job without delay. He knew that there was a switchboard in the house, but he figured on a couple of private wires as well and he hoped that Larkin’s office might contain one of these.

  There were, he remembered now, two ways of entering the office—through the adjacent library or by continuing along the hall and then turning right into a second corridor leading directly to the alternate door. This route, apparently used by servants and accessible from the service wing, was a little longer, and Murdock turned into the library, finding it dark but noticing that the connecting door was open and that there was a light on in the office.

  He stopped at once, and what stopped him were the sounds that came from the next room. He stood there, puzzled, aware that someone was opening and closing wooden drawers. Then, acting on impulse alone, not knowing who it was but instantly wondering why anyone should be prowling there at such a time, he slipped behind the open door and pulled it back to shield him.

  Seconds later Harvey Blake appeared in the lighted doorway. He was carrying some papers in his hand as he advanced to the center of the room, then stopping to glance about with an air of uncertainty and indecision. When he finally moved, he stepped directly to the bookcases, pulled out a volume on the third shelf, and secreted the papers behind it.

  Murdock waited where he was until the lawyer had gone and the hall was quiet. The light was still on in the office, and when he entered he saw that two of the desk drawers were partly open, that in the center one was a key, held by a silver chain to two other keys of about the same size.

  He did not touch them then, but picked up the telephone and got the Courier-Herald. He told Wyman the butler had been shot. He asked that the authorities be notified and insisted that he knew nothing more but would call back. He hung up as soon as he could, and after considering the keys a moment he recalled the visit of Arthur Prentice to the second-floor study files and pocketed them. Then he went back to the library, turning on the overhead light as he did so.

  The sheets of paper that Blake had hidden proved to be typewritten and separated into two sections, each one being held by a paper fastener. He saw at once that they were confidential reports and were neither originals nor carbons, but copies done on plain paper and taken from the originals. There was no clue as to who had made the investigation, but as he scanned the pages he saw that one had to do with Monica Sutton, the other with Harvey Blake.

  Wondering how long it would be before Nick came looking for him, he read enough of the Sutton report to see that it was concerned with certain visits Arthur Prentice had made to her Boston apartment, and then turned to the Blake report. When he saw that this had to do with a separation and some woman named Pryor, he moved to the far end of the room and put both reports behind a book on the bottom shelf. For he had heard the footsteps in the hall, and he was ready and waiting in the center of the room when Nick Taylor barged in.

  “Been looking for you, slugger,” Nick said. “Thought you’d be upstairs with the others.”

  He hesitated while he glanced into the office and when he looked back at Murdock his pale-blue eyes were cold and unpleasant.

  “You knew all about Larkin when you came downstairs,” he said bluntly.

  “Yes,” Murdock said, and explained briefly how he knew.

  “You didn’t see the guy in the hall? Well, why the hell didn’t you spill it when you came down? What was the idea of clamming up and playing cagey?”

  Murdock inspected the grim lines of the other’s face and decided Nick had a right to be sore. For some reason he no longer resented Nick’s part in the attack on him in the studio, though he resented mightily the character who had tapped him with the blackjack and nearly asked where he was. But he saw Nick was waiting, the spade jaw like a rock as he worked the fist of his right hand into the palm of his left.

  “Three reasons,” Murdock said. “One, I wanted to know the story behind that frame-up this morning. Two, I wanted to know about that hypodermic on Larkin’s desk. Did you see it?” he asked, digressing. “Know what was in it?”

  “They say adrenalin.”

  “You know what adrenalin does to people with high blood pressure and hardened arteries and a weak heart?”

  He paused again, and now things were happening in the depths of Nick’s eyes. Nick no longer seemed to have the old enthusiasm for his job. Nick did not look so tough any more; he looked worried and concerned.

  “Where do you think the missing needle is?” Murdock said. “The part that broke off?”

  “You think it’s in Old John’s arm? You think he was murdered?”

  “And so do you. Last night sometime, or early this morning. Larkin found him dead in bed, all right, and maybe it looked like a natural death at first, but somehow Larkin guessed the truth. He kept it to himself, probably on account of the innocent ones in the family, and he talked Donald into going on with the masquerade so no one else would ever know the difference.”

  “Then you have to show up,” Nick said. “And Larkin has to go upstairs to tell everyone there’s going to be an important family meeting in the drawing-room; only there’s one guy that wants no part of that. He knows that Larkin has the answers and he can’t take a chance. He follows Larkin up to his room—”

  “Or pulls a gun right then and takes him up,” Murdock said.

  “Yeah.” Nick walked around in a tight circle and came back. He cocked his head. “What’s reason number three?”

  Murdock had to think back to know what Nick meant, and then he said, “When I found out about the needle I thought if I le
t the family have it cold the killer might tip his hand.”

  “Did he?”

  “If he did,” Murdock replied sourly, “I didn’t see it.”

  “You wouldn’t kid me, would you?”

  “I might, but I’m not.”

  Nick rubbed his chin and glanced again at the office. “I guess you’ve been at that phone, huh?”

  “You don’t think you can keep the police out now, do you?”

  Nick sighed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I guess you can’t.”

  “And this time,” said Murdock, “it’ll be the state police instead of company cops.”

  Nick said that would be a change, but there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

  8

  THE CALDWELL ESTATE, situated as it was outside the metropolitan area, came under the jurisdiction of the state police, and the man who conducted the preliminary investigation—the district attorney was out of town and not expected back before morning—was Captain Alger.

  A chunky, graying veteran, who wore a salt-and-pepper mustache and rimless glasses, he had arrived a few minutes after Murdock telephoned and had already taken statements from the others in the house as to their whereabouts between seven-thirty and eight. He had his men looking over the house and grounds, ostensibly for the purpose of finding the murder gun, and now he and Doctor Wright, the medical examiner, together with a uniformed officer who sat at the desk taking notes, were holding court in the library.

  Attendance was by invitation, and in addition to Murdock, those present were Donald and young George Caldwell, his cousin Larry Alderson, and Harvey Blake, the attorney. Murdock, sitting in the corner and being as inconspicuous as possible, was listening to Doctor Wright’s comments on the death of Old John. It was established now, as Murdock had surmised, that the old fellow had been murdered by an injection of adrenalin. The needle had been found buried in the muscles of the right arm, and Wright was now defending the family doctor, who had signed the death certificate that afternoon.