The murderer wanted the pictures Murdock took in Larkin’s room and in the hall, because he could not be sure what they might show. Alone, he could have stolen the extra film holders from Murdock’s equipment case, but that was not enough. He had first to make sure that he had the proper holders, and the only way he could be sure was to open them and develop the films, and here again—unless the killer was an amateur photographer in his own right—Ross Neely was the man for the job.
Neely had almost certainly developed those films and found them blank, and with that discovery the killer had been forced to gamble. He had to have those missing film holders. He had to send a man who would use force in whatever measure was necessary.
Here again Neely was the man, skilled in the application of physical punishment and without sympathy or compunction for his victim. That part had been understandable from the beginning, and what now seemed equally clear was that the killer had been forced to risk Neely’s suspicion because he had to have the man’s help. Not knowing what the negatives might reveal, he had but two alternatives. He could do nothing and risk immediate identification as the killer should the pictures prove incriminating, or he could send Neely for them in the hope that, should the pictures prove dangerous, he could buy Neely’s future silence and loyalty.
Considering now the amount of money available to those who lived at Caldwell Manor, Murdock was able to understand the killer’s choice, and his resentment smoldered anew when he thought about Eddie Kelsey and the pictures that he, Murdock, never had a chance to examine. Somehow he still did not believe they would show anything that would provide a worth-while clue, but the infuriating part about that theory was that now he could never be sure that his camera had not caught the killer in his flight down the hall.
His pipe was out by the time he had exhausted the subject. He had been puffing emptily for several minutes without realizing it, and now,, as he put it aside, he knew that his best chance lay, not in causing Neely’s immediate arrest, but in trying to find out first who had hired him. Neely impressed him as a man who would gladly serve a year or two in jail if there was sufficient money in it, and with the proper lawyer, the assault charge from the Kelsey attack might even be settled with a suspended sentence.
Yes, Neely could wait until he could check with Jack Fenner and with the police. Right now Murdock wanted a little more information about certain members of the Caldwell tribe and he picked up the telephone directory to look up the number of Larry Alderson’s advertising agency.
Not until he had got his connection and been informed that Alderson was not expected in that day did it occur to Murdock that such might be the case. It seemed obvious now, after what had happened at Caldwell Manor, that Alderson would not be working, and Murdock was impatient with himself for wasting time as he went back to the book and in vain tried to find Alderson’s private number. In this, information was of no help, but there were others—friends of his in the telephone company—who were more co-operative, and a few minutes later he was asking for the unlisted number.
The voice that came to Murdock was soft and formal, its cadence foreign as it asked who was calling.
“One moment, please,” it said when Murdock replied. “I will see if Mr. Alderson is in.”
“Hello, Murdock,” Alderson said presently. “What’s on your mind?”
“I wondered if I could come over and see you for a few minutes.”
“About what?”
“Well—I wanted to talk to you.”
“Um—I’m afraid not,” Alderson said. “I’m sort of tied up this morning, and if it’s about a job—”
“It’s not. It’s a little more important than that.” Murdock waited three seconds to see if Alderson would change his mind and then he said, “Last night you fellows asked for my co-operation and I said okay. I’m sitting on a story that would earn me a fat bonus. We could sell a lot of papers if the Courier told what happened to your grandfather and how that broadcast was made yesterday morning.”
“I know,” Alderson said. “We appreciate it.”
“But you haven’t got time to talk now,” Murdock said, a fine edge of irony in his voice. “You want a lot of cooperation when it benefits you, but you’re not handing out any of your own. I think I’m getting a little tired of that kind of co-operation. The word has a different meaning in my dictionary.”
“Okay!” Alderson’s chuckle was abrupt and mirthless. “When you put it like that I guess I have to go along with you. You can chalk up a round for you and come over now if you like. I’ve got the fourth floor.”
13
THE APARTMENT HOUSE where Larry Alderson lived was a rather small but expensive-looking building on Beacon Street. There was a high iron fence flush with the sidewalk, and beyond the gate a uniformed attendant stood in the doorway sampling the midmorning air and giving Murdock his careful appraisal. He continued this appraisal in a guarded sort of way while they went into the entryway so Murdock could state his destination and say he was expected; but only when these statements had been confirmed by telephone did the attendant condescend to smile and relay the information that Murdock was to go right up.
The elevator dumped him into a fourth-floor foyer. Here there was but one door and this opened presently to frame a small, dark man who looked like a Filipino. He wore a white jacket, and after bowing Murdock into the entryway, reached for his hat and topcoat.
“If you will wait in there, sir,” he said, and waved Murdock ahead of him into a large living-room before he turned and disappeared down a hall.
Murdock whistled silently as he glanced about, for here was a room that was right out of a Hollywood set except that it was more conservative and the furniture was genuinely good instead of old pieces touched up for the occasion. The thick gray carpet stretched from wall to wall and had the kind of nap that would feel good on bare feet. There was a grand piano in one corner, a built-in speaker that connected with some hidden radio-phonograph, itself a requisite of any up-to-date advertising executive, and a divan so long it could only have been custom-made. There were a couple of etchings such as Murdock owned, but there were also an Eakins and a watercolor by Winslow Homer and another oil that Murdock admired but did not recognize. He was examining the signature, which said: S. Howard, when he heard someone enter the room.
“Hi,” Larry Alderson said. He wore slacks and slippers and an old blue blazer, and his straw-colored hair lay flat and slick upon his skull. “You want a drink or anything?” he said in his brusque, tough way. “If not sit down somewhere and let’s get going with this cooperation you’ve been yelling about.”
Murdock grinned; he couldn’t help it. Hearing Aider-son talk reminded him of certain characters he had known in the entertainment business who talked that way because they had talked that way as kids and knew no other method of conversing. With Alderson it was an affectation that had apparently become a habit, and Murdock was again convinced that this manner of speaking amounted to nothing more than Alderson’s way of announcing that the wealth and background he had been endowed with could be safely ignored.
“Shoot!” he said when Murdock had settled in a chair by the window and he had taken a matching chair that faced Murdock’s. “Let’s get started. What’s on your mind?”
“A fellow named Ross Neely,” Murdock said. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s a mean bastard,” Alderson said frankly. “I don’t know why Gramp ever hired him.”
“Is he a company cop?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. I think he’s some outside guy.” He went on to elaborate on the things Nick Taylor had told Murdock the night before concerning the need for some protection at Caldwell Manor and how the family was occasionally bothered by cranks, some of whom were potentially dangerous. “I don’t know where Neely came from,” he said when he had finished.
“Maybe he worked for the outfit that did the outside investigating for your grandfather. Maybe he was assigned to the job.”
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“Maybe.” Alderson screwed down one blond brow. “Why?”
Murdock told him about the pictures he had taken the night before and what had happened to Eddie Kelsey. Alderson listened quietly, and now his face was sober and he kept his gaze centered on some object outside the windows.
“The guy that killed Larkin sent Neely after those pictures, is that it?” he asked finally.
“How else can you figure it?” Murdock hesitated. “Who could have ordered him to do the job?”
Alderson was visibly upset. He waved a hand impatiently. “Anybody.”
“Let’s be a little more specific. Would Neely have done it for you, if you’d ordered him to?”
“Sure.”
“Did you?”
“Sure,” Alderson said. “‘Neely,’ I said, ‘there’s a guy that works for the Courier-Herald named Eddie Kelsey. I hate his guts. Go up there and kick him around.’” He looked at Murdock, his grin sardonic. “Now isn’t that a hell of a question?”
Murdock had known about what to expect. He intended to ask other questions. He did not expect the answers to be truthful except when Alderson wanted to make them so, but he meant to ask the questions anyway and see how the answers stacked up when all the results were in. Now, though he fashioned a grin with his lips, his eyes remained darkly probing.
“Somebody sent him up there,” he said. “He would have obeyed you. He certainly would have obeyed Donald Caldwell and your cousin George. I guess he would have done the same for Arthur Prentice. So how about Harvey Blake?”
“Probably. For all I know Blake could have recommended him in the first place.”
Murdock digressed at this point because he did not want Alderson to jump to conclusions yet and perhaps refuse to talk. He kept his tone casual as he remembered the things Monica Sutton had said about this grandson of Old John’s, and he mentioned them now as he asked why Alderson had refused to work for Caldwell Diesels as his cousin had done.
Alderson sat back and tossed one leg over the arm of the chair. “Maybe I got the wrong kind of conditioning,” he said. “I had to work in the factory during summer vacations ever since I was sixteen. It was the old boy’s way of training me. He figured that George and I would one day be running the company, and I guess it was a good enough idea except that I hated the damn factory and its machines and everything about it. I couldn’t do anything about it then because Mother didn’t give a damn one way or the other. She was busy having her own good time and she said Gramp knew more about training boys for business than she did so I should do what he said.”
He shrugged and said, “So that’s how it was until I was twenty-one and went into the Navy. I told him then I wasn’t coming back to the plant. He fussed and fumed and read the riot act and said I was a damn fool. He said I’d work for him or he’d cut me out of his will. I said I wouldn’t work for him no matter what he did, and I didn’t. I had some money and a couple of friends just starting in the advertising business.”
He went on to repeat the things Monica Sutton had said the night before and when he finished, Murdock said, “How come George is president instead of your Uncle Donald?”
“One reason is because George is young and Gramp was looking ahead. He figured if George worked out as he hoped he would, he would be alive long after Uncle Don was dead and the company would then be in good hands for quite a while. Another reason is that George is like Gramp in a lot of ways, and he is also like his father.”
He said, “Gramp liked George’s father the best of his three children, probably because George—George, Senior, that is—did what Gramp said. He was a grand guy and he was a hard worker, ambitious and faithful, and he really knew the business. Of course, Uncle Don did, too, but he’s a different type of guy. I guess he worked just as hard as George, and he was a couple of years older, but he didn’t have the front. He’s on the small side, and a little shy, and he was a good man at planning and policy matters, a good organization man who could think things out and co-ordinate them. But he couldn’t stand up and talk to the men like his brother could, and George had been trained as a sound production man, and so when Gramp retired ten years ago he made George—I’m still talking about George, Senior—the front man and put Donald in as first vice-president.”
“Did they make a good team?” Murdock asked, hoping he could keep Alderson talking.
“Sure. Fine. Everything was all right until George got killed in that plane crash. At that time young George was still a kid. He couldn’t step into any position of authority, so Gramp made Donald the president. I think he told him then that he would eventually put young George in the spot his father had, and he kept training him for that purpose. A little while back I guess Gramp decided George was ready, so he put Donald up as sort of chairman of the board where he could keep on coordinating things and be ready to advise George whenever he needed help.” He turned suddenly from the window and peered at Murdock, as though just remembering why he had come. “But what the hell has this got to do with Ross Neely?”
Murdock admitted to himself that there was very little connection. He knew a little more about the inner workings of the men who ran Caldwell Diesels, but none of it was of any help in determining who had sent Neely after the pictures.
“What does Arthur Prentice do?”
“Him?” Alderson’s eyes clouded and his tone suggested he was not too fond of his current stepfather. “Oh, he’s some sort of vice-president, too. Kind of a public relations man, I guess.”
“Would the company police come under Prentice?”
“How do I know?” Alderson asked, still frowning. “Neely wasn’t a company cop, if that’s what you mean.”
“I know he wasn’t. I think Neely worked for a private agency, who assigned him to the estate. Any idea who that agency is?”
“None.”
“Ever hear of Mike Quimby?” Murdock paused, and when Alderson looked at him and said nothing, he said, “Quimby has an agency. I think your grandfather used him.”
“For what?”
Murdock took a cigarette from a near-by box, gestured with it before lighting it. “To check up on people, and their backgrounds.”
Alderson looked up, a little hostile. “Why should he do that?”
“I thought you might know.”
“I don’t know anything about it.” Alderson leaned forward in his chair, looking very big and very irascible at the moment. “And furthermore I don’t know what the hell you’re driving at.”
Murdock lit the cigarette. He knew the interview was about to be terminated and so he came directly to the point.
“You know someone killed your grandfather and Larkin. You know it was someone in that house, and you ought to have a pretty good idea that the servants had nothing to do with it. Whoever did the job sent Neely to the studio.”
“That’s what you say, and you could be right. But if you think I did it, you’re crazier than I thought. I know damn well Donald didn’t do the job, and neither did George. If you think either Arthur Prentice or Harvey Blake is your boy, I guess you can try to prove it.”
“Would Neely do a job like that for Monica Sutton?”
“Who knows what Neely would do?” Alderson stood up, tall and blond and glowering. Murdock rose with him.
“She’s a good-sized woman,” he said. “She could have used that needle and she could have shot Larkin.” He hesitated and said, “This Quimby I mentioned made a report on her for your grandfather. He made another report on Harvey Blake; it had to do with some woman named Pryor from New York.”
Larry Alderson seemed not to hear. His smooth face was expressionless and there was no warmth in his gaze.
“I guess that’s enough co-operation for one morning, pal,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll have Victor get your coat.”
Murdock put out his cigarette. There was no arrogance in his manner because he knew the dismissal was deserved. He nodded, his smile an automatic, meaningless gesture. “Thanks a lot,�
�� he said. “Do you mind if I use the phone before I go?”
“On that stand over there,” Alderson said. “Help yourself,” he said and walked away.
By the time Murdock picked up the telephone he was alone in the room, and in less than a minute Jack Fenner answered.
“What did you find out about Quimby?”
“He’s your boy,” said Fenner. “Works on a yearly retainer; has for ten or twelve years.”
“Tell me about him,” Murdock said, remembering that Quimby had once been a member of the city police force, but unable to recall much about his early activities.
“He was a lieutenant in the detective division,” Fenner said. “A year or so before he opened the agency he was assigned to head a detail that guarded John Caldwell on some trip. Caldwell took a liking to Mike. He asked for him on one or two occasions when he had to appear in public, and they say he was the one who told Mike that if he ever wanted to open a private agency, he could count on Caldwell for a certain amount of business every year. I guess Mike figured it might be a good thing. Anyway, that’s what he’s been doing ever since.”
Murdock said that was just what he wanted to know. “Do you know a fellow named Neely?”
“What does he do?”
“I thought he might be an ex-cop who worked for Mike.”
“Oh, that Neely? Sure,” Fenner said. “I know of him. Ross Neely, isn’t it? Haven’t heard much about him the last couple of years. He used to be a tough cop. A little too tough, I guess. Anyway, he was always in trouble. I didn’t know he worked for Mike.”
Murdock asked the detective to meet him outside Mike Quimby’s office in an hour, and Fenner said he would. Murdock put the telephone down. He did not know how long the Filipino houseman had been listening or what he had heard, but he was standing near the hall doorway now, Murdock’s coat and hat in his hands. Murdock took them, slipped on the coat while the man opened the door; then he was in the foyer waiting for the elevator.
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