Hollow Needle

by George Harmon Coxe

  Murdock awoke with a start to find the sun streaming into the room and his body damp with sweat. He lay there several minutes in an effort to rationalize the dream before it faded. Try as he might, he was unable to complete it, but he was also unable to dispel the vivid impression of reality. It was not until he had showered and gone out for breakfast that he was able to cast off the effects of the nightmare and give his thoughts to other things, the first of which was an inspection of the morning paper.

  The story of the Neely murder had been given three paragraphs on an inside page. It said that Ross Neely, a private detective of such and such an address, had been found in his room shot to death shortly after seven the previous evening. It touched briefly on Neely’s record as a former policeman and said that several clues had been uncovered and an arrest was expected shortly.

  Murdock went through the paper carefully, looking for some further mention of the Larkin shooting, but when he could find nothing he finished his breakfast and then went to the telephone booth to call Lieutenant Bacon. He had hoped to learn what, if anything, had been done about Arthur Prentice, but the lieutenant wasn’t in his office and the man on the switchboard did not know when he would be back.

  So Murdock walked three blocks, got his coupé from the garage, and drove to the hospital. Here he found that Eddie Kelsey had been moved to a private room, and when Murdock peeked in the door Eddie was sitting up reading the newspaper. Eddie must have heard the door open, for he looked up and saw Murdock, and then his young face cracked wide in a grin.

  “Hiya!” he said. “Boy, am I glad to see you! Where’s everybody been?”

  “They wouldn’t let anybody in yesterday. How’s the head?”

  Eddie had a crew haircut, and he turned his head to show Murdock the place where the bump had been. There was a small shaved area here and a small scab but no longer any noticeable swelling.

  “It don’t even ache,” Eddie said. “They say I can get out of here tomorrow. You couldn’t get ’em to make it today, could you?” he asked plaintively.

  “You stay where you are,” Murdock said.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me anymore.”

  “You’re getting paid for it, aren’t you? It’s for free.” He took the paper away from Eddie and turned to the account on Ross Neely. “Did you see this? That’s the guy that slugged you.”

  Eddie’s eyes got wide. “The hell you say!” He read the story quickly. “Sweet Christ!” he said. “No foolin’?” He put the paper down, eyes still wide. “Why?” he asked, and then as another thought occurred to him: “Did you get the prints I shoved in the blotter pad?”

  Murdock winked. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said. “You couldn’t have thought of a better place. Tell me about it,” he said, and pulled up a chair.

  “I was just getting ready to go home,” Eddie said. “The prints were dry, and you said to hide them somewhere in the desk, so I thought of the blotter because it was big and flat. I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t think to look there—”

  “I didn’t until the blotter was changed.”

  “—but I knew you’d phone me and I could tell you where they were. Anyway, I was wondering if I also ought to hide the negatives when this guy walks in. He wants to know where the pictures are that you brought in, but he’s a tough-looking monkey and I tell him I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Eddie chuckled. “But he won’t buy that. He don’t go for that at all. Before I know it he latches onto me—Jesus, he was strong!—and the next thing I know he got a hammer lock on me way up to the back of my neck and I’m marching into the printing-room. Well, the three negatives are there on the wires, and this guy must know something about pictures because he spotted them right away. He pushes me in the corner and takes those negatives off the wire. He holds one of them up to the light for a better look, and right then I make a break for it. I get halfway to the door, I think, and then the ceiling falls in on me.”

  Murdock let his breath out and his smile was gentle. “Why did you make a break for it? You knew he was a tough guy.”

  “Well, hell!” Eddie said, sounding as if this were a very foolish question indeed, “I figured those negatives must’ve been important or you wouldn’t have told me what you did, and I know this guy’s going to get away with them unless I can beat him to the elevator and get some help.”

  “All right.” Murdock thought about the convertible, but he knew it would be better to wait until Eddie got out before telling him about it. He felt shamed before the simple fact of Eddie’s loyalty and he did not know what to say. “You shouldn’t have taken the chance, Eddie,” he said finally. “But I’ll always remember that you did.”

  “Aww—” said Eddie and then, covering his own embarrassment, he said, “Why’d Neely get rubbed out?”

  “It’s a long story.” Murdock was tempted to stall, until it came to him that Eddie deserved the best. “I can’t tell you much of it, or the details, because I don’t know too many. I can tell you a little if it’s strictly between us and off the record.”

  Eddie’s eyes brightened, and he hiked higher on the pillows. “I’m clammed up,” he said. “Solemn word.”

  “I think the butler down at Caldwell Manor was murdered the other night,” Murdock said. “You saw those pictures I took? Well, I think the murderer knew I took them. I guess he was afraid something might show up that would nail him, so he sent Neely after them. The trouble was, Neely got ideas. He didn’t turn those negatives in. He told the one who hired him some lies about what those negatives had on them, and he wanted a price for them. I guess he got a little greedy and he got paid off with two slugs in the chest.”

  Eddie’s eyes were round and serious. He whistled softly as Murdock rose and moved toward the door. He swore absently, still serious, and Murdock winked again.

  “Off the record, now,” he said.

  “Solid!” said Eddie and returned the wink.

  Murdock tried once more to reach Lieutenant Bacon when he went to lunch, but the answer was the same, so he came back to the studio. He tossed his hat and coat down, and then, his thoughts still on Eddie and the pictures he had developed, he walked over to the file cabinet and brought out the prints he had put there the day before.

  At his desk he laid aside the photograph that showed the empty hall, and gave his attention to the two he had taken in Larkin’s room. He had done no more than glance at them before, but now he studied them closely. He was not looking for anything in particular and he saw nothing new. What did happen though was that his memory was refreshed by the scene, and presently he was, in his imagination, standing again in that room, remembering how the fear had struck at him as he realized the killer waited in the closet. The one-inch crack of darkness showed clearly in the first photograph, but there was no suggestion of anything behind it, no hint of a possible clue.

  After a while he stood up and paced about the room, moving back and forth beside the iron rack that held the coat hangers, unconsciously inspecting the walls, which, once a bright, clean buff color, were now scarred and chipped and filled with penciled notations and telephone numbers. He stood at the window a minute or two gazing sightlessly out across the rooftops. He could see the windows of an office three buildings away, and the girls working there, and now something was plucking at his mind, but he did not know what it was then, and was, in fact, only vaguely aware of what was going on.

  Coming back to the desk, he glanced again at the photographs. He sat down and began again his absent study of the prints while the plucking went on in his mind. How long he sat there he was not sure, nor was he particularly aware of the trend of his thoughts, so that when the idea finally came to him, it seemed full-formed and complete, and he sat up, swearing softly at his inability to see and analyze one fact that now seemed so obvious. Inspecting the premise, he was aware that the physical details had been known to him from the first; the trouble was, he had been too occupied with other things to assess the situation p
roperly.

  Even now he was not sure that he could prove anything, but he knew he had to try, and, putting the prints in his equipment case, he was about to leave when he realized he was going to need some expert assistance and an intelligent plan of action. He did not worry about fitting all the incidents and characters into the proper places, but he did drop back into his chair and spend a few minutes concentrating on those bits and pieces that seemed essential. When he was satisfied that he had no alternative, he picked up the telephone and asked the operator to get him state police headquarters.

  Presently he got his man, a sergeant in the Bureau of Identification named Wybeck. He asked if there was anything new on the Caldwell case, but Wybeck did not seem to know, or if he did he would not say so. He had been one of those who came that first night to Caldwell Manor to assist Captain Alger in his investigation, but all he knew now was that no arrest had been made.

  “I want to ask a favor,” Murdock said. “Not officially. On a personal basis.”

  He went ahead with what he had in mind and he had to argue some, but in the end Wybeck gave in and agreed to meet him at the Caldwell estate in an hour.

  There were two police cars parked opposite the gatehouse when Murdock arrived. One was empty—there were still two state cops assigned to the house, though no one knew just why—and Wybeck got out of the other.

  The sergeant, a stocky, red-faced man, was in uniform. This and a practiced official manner served to get them past the gateman without much argument, and as they walked up the drive Murdock explained what he wanted done, and the sergeant, though skeptical, was glad to co-operate once he understood what Murdock hoped to do. He had misgivings on just one point.

  “We should’ve told the captain,” he said.

  “No,” said Murdock. “This is just a hunch of mine, and you’re going to check it for me. We’ll tell the captain when and if we get anything!”

  A footman, apparently notified of their coming by telephone from the gatehouse, was waiting on the steps, and Wybeck wasted no time as they crossed the porch and entered the wide main hall. He said he was here on official business and asked to be shown to Larkin’s room. Murdock said he wanted to see Miss Kenyon and would wait in the drawing-room. He moved toward it as he spoke, and the footman, somewhat bewildered but unable to do two things at once, moved up the stairs with the sergeant.

  Murdock put down his equipment case inside the doorway and wandered into the long, beautifully furnished room, admiring the dado and the authentic old pieces in pine and maple and cherry. Until now he had seen the room only at night, and he walked slowly about, inspecting individual pieces and appreciating again Old John Caldwell’s good taste as well as the restraint he had used in keeping his love for antiques restricted to the highboys and chests and occasional tables, while accepting the conventional and comfortable in the divans and easy chairs.

  He could hear, faintly, the sound of a piano being played somewhere, and when he could not locate the soand he moved toward the door that opened from the left, rear side of the room. He could see, presently, a grand piano, and he went on, finding himself in what might have been a music room, for in addition to the piano there was a huge console-type radio and record player, and next to it another console that, when opened, disclosed a television screen.

  A door on the right led to the second of the two rooms that adjoined the rear of the front room, and Murdock saw that this was a conservatory of sorts. He did not linger here but walked back into the drawing-room, hearing again the sound of the piano, remembering now the ballroom that was supposed to occupy most of the right wing. When he saw twin doors that opened in the right direction he went over and opened one of them, and then he knew where the piano music came from.

  The ballroom opened up ahead of him, but in the near corner was a smaller grand, its canvas cover thrown back. Seated before it, playing some popular piece whose title escaped him, was Fay Kenyon.

  She faltered when she saw him, her eyes surprised and a little startled, but he told her to finish the piece, and she did, playing pleasantly and well, though her hands were not large enough to do the things with the keys that Murdock liked to hear. When she stopped he smiled at her and leaned against the piano. He said she played well, and was she still sore at him.

  “Sore?” She smiled then. “When was I sore?”

  “Nick said I threatened you. When I called you up to find out about Ross Neely.”

  He saw her smile go away and guessed that she had heard what had happened to Neely. She was again dressed in black, which served to make her hair blonder and her tawny skin paler, and because he did not want her to think too much about Neely, he asked why she did not use the piano in the music room.

  “This has an easier action,” she said. “And besides no one can hear me if I play in here.”

  “I told the footman I wanted to see you.” He hesitated, wanting to ask a question that he had not asked the night he talked to her in her room. “Did you know that John Caldwell had a firm of private detectives working for him? Did you ever see any of the reports they turned in?”

  He saw at once that she did not, for her glance was puzzled and her smooth, small face held no trace of guile as she replied.

  “But you were his secretary,” he said.

  “Yes.” She offered a fleeting smile. “But just for routine things, charity requests and letters like that.”

  “He cut you out of his will,” Murdock said, aware that further discussion of the reports was useless. “Because he found out you were in love with Nick Taylor. But you’re going to marry him anyway, is that it? And then what happens?”

  “Then we’re going out to the Coast.” The good-natured voice came from the open door, and as Murdock turned, Nick Taylor came into the room, his Brooks suit neatly pressed. “Nick is going to take the dough he’s been saving and buy a piece of a flying school that a pal of his is operating. What brings you back, Steichen?”

  “I think I’ll crack this case for you,” Murdock said, his grin matching Nick’s. “I thought you got fired.”

  “I did. I’m staying on another week or so at the request of Mr. D. C. Play something, kitten,” he said to the girl. “Play ‘April in Paris.’”

  “Yes,” Murdock said, and signaled that he wanted to speak to Nick privately.

  The girl began to play as the two men moved to the doorway, and as Murdock-glanced across the drawing-room he saw Sergeant Wybeck move through the central hall on his way out. He thought, Well, he’s either got it or he hasn’t, and Nick said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “Do you know about Ross Neely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “No, do you?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Murdock said. “I got it this morning and right now that’s all it is—an idea. Have you got a gun?”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed and the good humor went out of them. “I can get one.”

  “Get it. Is Harvey Blake still around? Get him, too, and maybe you’d better speak to Donald Caldwell; it’s his house. If Arthur Prentice is available maybe he ought to join us.”

  “Join us where?”

  “In Larkin’s room. Whenever it’s convenient.”

  21

  KENT MURDOCK WAS SITTING at the late butler’s table-desk when Nick came into the room twenty minutes later with Blake and Caldwell, and Murdock saw at once that Caldwell neither liked nor understood the liberty he was taking. He still looked trim-figured and neat in his Oxford-gray suit, though he seemed small when compared to Nick’s bulk and Blake’s tall and slightly paunchy frame.

  “I don’t understand this, Murdock,” he said with ill-concealed asperity, “nor do I understand how you got inside the gate, but—”

  Murdock cut him off. He explained how he had come in. He said he had an idea or two, and he thought Caldwell would prefer to hear them privately rather than have him go to the police. He added that it was only because of his consideration for
the family that he had acted on his own this way and the words, delivered simply but with conviction, made an impression. Caldwell nipped one hand and apologized.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  Murdock glanced at Nick Taylor and asked about Arthur Prentice.

  “Mr. Prentice isn’t around,” Nick said.

  Murdock nodded thoughtfully, then looked at the others. “Prentice is in a tough spot, and I thought he’d like to hear this. I guess you know that he called on Ross Neely at the wrong time. He says Neely was dead when he arrived, and I believe him. In the beginning Prentice had a good motive for killing your father,” he said to Caldwell. “Not as good as some, possibly, but certainly an adequate one. He was worried about an investigation that had been made and the report on this that your father had. Do you happen to know what was in that report?”

  Caldwell’s mouth was pinched, his thin-nosed face stern as he glanced at Murdock and then Harvey Blake.

  “Yes,” he said. “I saw them.”

  “Then you know what they meant to Prentice.” Murdock paused, feeling no surprise that Caldwell knew of the report but wondering what his reaction had been. “Did you speak to Miss Sutton about—”

  “I did not,” Caldwell said coldly. “Nor do I care to discuss the matter now. When I have thoroughly considered all the implications of that report I will speak to Miss Sutton; until that time—”

  He gestured idly, and Murdock said, “Yes. Well, I thought Prentice might have a motive, but I had a talk with him last night and now I’m convinced that he had nothing to do with the murder. Your father was killed in the middle of the night, and if Prentice had done it because of the reports he would certainly have had time to get the keys to the study files and walk in there and get the report right then—at least one copy of it. He certainly would not have waited until the next evening to look around for the keys. But even so, the idea doesn’t stand up. Even if he got that report and Larkin’s copy it would be a bad gamble, because there was still the man who made the investigation—Mike Quimby—with a copy that would upset the whole plan.” He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t figure Prentice unless he was just a plain damn fool.”