“I don’t know,” Murdock said. “I’m trying to find out if there is any connection.”
“Let’s stick to the report for now, then, shall we?”
Murdock lit a cigarette, glanced about for an ash tray, and found one on the coffee table in front of Prentice. He toyed absently with the match and said, “Miss Sutton was worried about what I had read in that report. We talked it over last night but we didn’t reach any agreement. I know it’s important to you both, because I can imagine what action your wife would take if she found out about it. I’m not so sure about Miss Sutton.” He glanced at her and she was watching beneath drooping lids, her expression untroubled.
“Maybe she’s already made up her mind hot to marry Donald caldwell; if he happens to have read that report, she may no longer have the chance. But somehow I doubt if his father showed him the things Mike Quimby discovered. I have an idea the report was only recently turned in, but I do know that old Caldwell must have talked to you about it, Mr. Prentice; otherwise you wouldn’t have lifted the key to his files from Miss Kenyon’s bureau.”
Prentice’s mouth twitched. “I beg your pardon?”
Murdock looked right at him, his tone incisive but not unpleasant.
“Look,” he said patiently. “I’m not guessing about this, you know. You can pretend I am, or not, as you please.”
Prentice looked very handsome, very assured. He dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand.
“I’m beginning to believe you,” he said. “May I ask how you knew?”
“I was there,” Murdock said.
“Not in Fay Kenyon’s room, surely.”
“In Caldwell’s study.” Murdock made no mention of why he had been in that room. “I heard someone at the door,” he said, “and ducked behind a chair. You came in and went to one of those built-in corner cupboards, unlocked the files, and took out some papers. Later I checked with Miss Kenyon. She said she was in her room most of the afternoon; she said she had a tray sent up. When she found the keys were missing we decided they must have been taken while Larkin was going around notifying the others of the meeting in the drawing-room. I forgot to ask her about the report, so I don’t know if she had been told what was in it or not.”
He glanced at the match in his hand. “That takes care of one report.” He stood up, moving to the ash tray on the coffee table. He dropped the match and in the same continuous movement reached out and took hold of Prentice’s right hand, which lay on the sofa beside his thigh. Before the big man knew what was happening, Murdock had turned the wrist so he could see the back of the hand. There was no ring, but on the little finger there was a strip of skin lighter than the tanned area around it, and on the edge of the strip was a little cut, now scabbed over.
He let go of the hand and backed to his chair. “And that,” he said, “takes care of report number two.”
Prentice forgot his accent. His face darkened, and his eyes were hostile. “What the hell’re you talking about?”
“About that second report. The copy that was made of the original you took from the study files.” Murdock’s chuckle was wry and unamused. “You ought to take your ring off before you throw your punch.”
Prentice glowered but said nothing. He glanced again at Monica Sutton, who watched him with enigmatic eyes. She raised her penciled brows and let them drop back, a gesture that was as effective as a shrug. When Prentice saw her red mouth twist in a grudging smile, he took a breath and said, “All right. I apologize.”
“You were lucky,” Murdock said.
“Because I got out without being seen?”
“Because the reports were still there.” Murdock grunted softly, remembering what had happened and how he had watched Harvey Blake take them from Larkin’s desk and hide them. “Harvey Blake beat you to those copies,” he said. “You were a little late in searching Larkin’s desk, weren’t you?”
“Apparently.”
“You must have just finished looking when I came back to the library.”
“I didn’t know where else to look,” Prentice said. “I was just standing there trying to think what to do next when you came in. If you had turned on the overhead light you would have seen me. I’m sorry I had to strike you like that but—”
He did not finish, and Murdock knew that there was not much more to be said. To his mind Prentice still had a good motive for murder, and though it seemed probable that he had told the truth when he stated he had not known about Mike Quimby, it did not eliminate the possibility that he had hired Ross Neely. Having lived at Caldwell Manor, he could have known Neely’s abilities as a thug and a developer of pictures without knowing that he worked for Quimby.
“Is there a darkroom at Caldwell Manor?” he asked as the thought occurred to him.
“Why—” Prentice examined the little finger where his ring had once been, his momentary indecision leaving no clue as to the thought that prompted it—“yes. There is.”
Murdock nodded and stood up. “When did you see Neely last?”
Prentice forgot about his finger. He brought his glance up, frowned. “I really couldn’t say. I mean, I don’t seem to remember seeing Neely since sometime yesterday morning.”
“You couldn’t have sent him to the Courier-Herald last night, then, could you?”
“Hardly,” Prentice said. “Why should I do that?”
Murdock examined the broad handsome face. There may have been some challenge in the eyes, but he was no longer competent to judge appearances. All he knew was that the man’s smile showed large even teeth, that if Prentice was worried he did not show it.
Monica Sutton remained curled up on the sofa, elaborately paying no attention to this last exchange, reminding Murdock of a contented cat who was quite satisfied with the world as it was. She smiled at him when he said good-by, but she did not rise or go to the door with him, and when Murdock trudged down the stairs it occurred to him that the only thing he had learned in the last half hour was that Arthur Prentice had been the man who hit him in the darkness of the library.
“You’re doing all right, bub,” he said to himself as he came out on the street. “A few more sessions like that and you’ll never solve anything.”
As he spoke he noticed that Jack Fenner’s car was still parked near the corner. The detective was reading a paper behind the wheel, and Murdock, knowing he was still visible from the Sutton apartment in case anyone was interested, walked past the car on the opposite side of the street, continuing until he had rounded the corner.
Three minutes later Fenner sauntered round the same corner and joined him. “Playing it kind of cagey, aren’t you?” the detective said.
“You’re not through yet,” Murdock said. “I still want to know about Prentice. If he goes back to Caldwell Manor you can forget him, but if he stays in town I’d like to know where he goes. I’ll either be at home or at the office.”
A shower and a Scotch-and-water helped to freshen Murdock’s resolve and proved a good antidote for the feeling of discouragement that had been moving in on him all day. He had gone to a lot of trouble and spent considerable time questioning people without getting any real break, and as he rode back to the office he made up his mind to get in touch with the police if he and Fenner could not locate Ross Neely that evening.
So far T. A. Wyman had not bothered him, but an attack like Neely’s could not go long ignored. By morning Eddie Kelsey would be well enough to talk, and once he had told his story and his identification of Neely was positive, a warrant could be sworn out. As for now, Murdock had no new ideas and very little hope unless Jack Fenner could turn up some new lead; meanwhile there was no use in avoiding the office.
He was glad he had come when he swung into the studio, for there was a man sitting in a tipped-back chair in the corner, and it was immediately apparent that he did not belong there. He was reading the latest edition, and when he lowered it to see who had come in, the spade-jawed face of Nick Taylor was revealed.
“Hi!�
� Murdock said, pleased somehow to see his caller. “What brings you to town?”
Nick stood up, and he still wore his Brooks suit. He had his hat pushed well back on his curly head. He folded the paper carefully and put it aside, his jaw relaxed but his pale-blue eyes something less than friendly.
“What was the idea of threatening Fay?” he asked flatly.
“Is that what she said?” Murdock grinned disarmingly and dropped into a chair.
“She said you were going to get me pinched.”
“Don’t you think I could?”
“Maybe. For a while, anyway. But why not tell me instead of scaring her?”
Murdock said, “I had to scare her a little to make her talk. I knew she was in love with you and I had to find out some things about Neely. She gave me some stall about not giving out information about what went on in the house, so I had to worry her a little.”
“It’s no stall,” Nick said. “Those are the orders.”
“That’s what she said.”
Nick thought it over. He was not angry, or even very resentful. He took off his hat, examined the sweatband, clapped the hat back on.
“I had to come up,” he said. “So I thought I’d stop in. There was a guy here who said he wasn’t sure if you’d be in today, but he said it was okay to wait.”
Murdock kept the grin turned on, and it did a lot for his lean, angular face. It eased the tired lines around the mouth and eyes, softening both with temporary good humor. He remembered how he had thought Nick might be a guy he could like, given the proper circumstances; this had occurred to him even when Nick was pushing him around. Here, away from his work, Nick was just a nice youngster, more rugged than most, with that hint of recklessness in his eye that was some-how contagious. Now, as though a little embarrassed at his surly greeting, Nick gave his own grin a chance.
“I’ll buy a drink,” Murdock said. “It’s a little early, but how about dinner?” He stood up and took the other’s arm when Nick hesitated. “Come on. I’ll tell you why I wanted to know about Neely. Just let me tell the operator where I’ll be.”
They went downstairs and out on the street, turning into an alley and coming presently to a restaurant that looked comfortably masculine and featured beamed ceilings, solidly built tables, a minimum of chromium and leather, and excellent food.
They had a quick Martini, ordering a second when the first was served. After that they agreed on Cotuits on the half shell and broiled live lobster with French-fried potatoes. They split a mixed green salad, ordering coffee later, and it was not until this was served and the dishes were cleared away that they made any real effort at conversation.
With a cigarette going, Nick uttered a satisfied sigh and leaned back. “I’ve never been here before,” he said. “I want to bring Fay sometime. She loves lobster.” He sighed again and considered, reluctantly it seemed, a less pleasant subject. At least his air of complacency slid away, and his glance grew somber. “What about Neely?” he said finally.
“Do you know what happened last night?”
“Where?”
“Here. At the office.” And as he spoke Murdock realized he would have to start at the beginning. He had explained the Eddie Kelsey attack so often that it seemed to him that everyone must know about it by now. Yet he could see that this was not the case. Some of those at the paper knew, and Fenner, and Mike Quimby. But he had not discussed the matter with anyone else at the Caldwell estate, avoiding the subject when he talked on the telephone to Fay Kenyon as well as in his conversations with Monica Sutton and Arthur Prentice. Only Larry Alderson had been told what had happened, and now Murdock gave the same explanation to Nick, watching the pale-blue eyes narrow and the tightness work again at the angles of his mouth.
“Why would Neely come to the Courier?” he asked finally.
“For the same reason that someone at Caldwell Manor swiped the film holders in my equipment case.”
Nick tipped his head, squinting to keep the cigarette smoke from his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “I forgot about that.” He brought his glance down. “And you didn’t tell it straight last night, either, did you? You led us to believe some of those films that were stolen had been exposed. You had a couple of holders stashed away some place, huh?”
“I had them in my pocket.”
“The guy who swiped them found it out.”
“He knew I had them. He had Neely develop the ones from the case and found out they hadn’t been exposed.”
“Just what kind of pictures were they? What was on ’em?”
“Nothing that—”
Nick gave him an angled glance that was mildly disgusted. “Look,” he began.
“I was going to say that they showed nothing important.” Murdock took time to explain exactly what the three pictures were and how he had gambled on getting a shot of the killer fleeing down the hall. “They were important only to the man who shot Larkin,” he said. “And then only because he wasn’t sure—just as I wasn’t—whether I had a picture of him or not. He saw the light from the flash bulb, and he must have been just turning the corner. He sent Neely because he had to make sure.”
“And in the end he drew a blank. You really haven’t got anything that’s worth a damn.” Nick snorted distastefully. “That Neely,” he said. “Old John got him down there to be tough, and he was,, but John didn’t send him up there last night.”
“You wouldn’t know who did?”
“Not counting the servants, he probably would have done the job for anybody in the house, excepting maybe me. So long as he got well paid, Neely would—”
Nick did not get a chance to finish the sentence because the headwaiter had stopped at the table to tell Murdock he was wanted on the telephone. Murdock rose and followed the man to the cigar counter, and when he picked up the instrument, Jack Fenner said, “Why the hell don’t you stay where you say you’ll stay?”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll be at the corner of Hemenway and Westland by the time you get there. If I were you I’d hurry it up.”
“What’s up?” Murdock said, his interest quickening under the urgency of Fenner’s tone.
“I don’t know,” the detective said, “and I’m not going to stand here guessing for you.”
The distant instrument clicked in Murdock’s ear before he could reply, and he glared at the telephone in his hand. Then, hanging up and muttering a little under his breath, he called for the check.
Back at the table he made his apologies, and Nick said it was okay because he had to run along, too. He thanked Murdock for the dinner, and they left together, separating on the sidewalk.
17
JACK FENNER WAS WAITING right where he said he would be. Murdock could see him pacing back and forth as the taxi approached the corner and the lights picked him out in the thickening darkness, but not until he had paid the driver and had a chance to realize where he was, did Murdock understand the significance of the location. Even then, with the excitement stirring suddenly inside him, he did not mention it. Instead he said, “Where’s Prentice?”
Fenner was already walking. “Come on,” he said.
They went round the corner, Murdock hurrying to keep pace, and now they were in the street of narrow-front, gray brick houses, all looking alike with their stone steps and vestibules and glass-paneled doors. Halfway down the block Fenner stopped. Then they were standing there, looking across the street at the house they had visited early in the day to ask about Ross Neely. The only difference was in the darkness, and in the lights in some of the windows, and now a nervous impatience began to color Murdock’s thoughts as his excitement spread and his imagination began to work.
“Is Prentice in there?” he said when he could stand the silence no longer.
“I don’t know.”
Murdock turned irritably. He started to snap at Fenner and then controlled the impulse. Deliberately he brought out cigarettes, and just as deliberately he lit one. By that time the
detective was ready to offer some information.
“I picked him up when he came out of the Sutton dame’s place. I had to leave my wagon because it’s a one-way street and he walked the wrong way. He got a cab at the bottom of the Hill, and so did I. I think he went to see Mike Quimby.”
“What do you mean, you think he did?”
Fenner was sarcastically patient. “I didn’t go in with him, but he went to that address, and he didn’t know I was tailing him, so I got in the elevator with him. He got off at Mike’s floor, and I went up one more and walked back. He either went in to see Mike or he went to see an insurance agent, a firm of architects, or a personal loan company.”
Murdock nodded, knowing that there was a good reason why Prentice might want to talk to Mike. “What time was that?”
“Just before five.”
“So?”
“So I came back down and waited in a cab for him. He showed up twenty or twenty-five minutes later and got another taxi and started this way. He stopped at a place on Boylston for a drink, and that took him ten minutes or more, and then he came out here, paid off the cab, and went in.”
Murdock silently congratulated himself. He was a little proud of the foresight that had prompted him to have Fenner follow Arthur Prentice.
“How long did he stay?”
“Quite a while. In fact,” said Fenner, “unless he came out while I was calling you, he’s still in there.”
Murdock was suddenly confused. The pressure was still working on his stomach, but his mind couldn’t keep up. He was not prepared for such an answer and the best he could do was to say, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure of part of it,” Fenner said, “but I had a hell of a time being sure— Gimme a match,” he said, and then went on with a discourse on the difficulties of his job. “You hire a guy like me to tail somebody, and it isn’t enough that I have to stay with him, I have to call you back and tell you how I’m doing. A thing like this is a two-man job, but I have to do it all by myself, so here’s what I do.”
He got his light and said, “I wait a half an hour after Prentice goes in. I don’t dare leave because I don’t know when he’s coming out, and the nearest phone is a block and a half away, so when I can, I signal a cab with its flag up, give the driver a buck, and tell him to phone you and then come back and tell me if he gave you my message. But you’ve got other plans. You’re not home, and the driver comes back and says he can’t get any answer.”
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