Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  “R stands for Rachel,” he said, and spread the handkerchief on his knee. He waited until she looked up. “I could have given this to the police you know, instead of coming here. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head violently, her chin set again.

  “I found it under Harry’s table.”

  “It isn’t mine.”

  “All right.” Murdock sighed and put it away. “But if it is, you’re being silly. I’ll have to tell the police what I think, and they’ll come here and check over the other handkerchiefs you have and compare the scent on this with what you use.…”

  She stopped him before he could continue. “What do you want?” she said, her voice taut.

  “I want to know when you went there—I don’t care why—and when you left, and who you saw coming out.”

  “How do you know I saw anyone?”

  “I don’t. I’m just hoping you did.”

  She eyed him squarely now, her lids narrowed and a new defiance in her gaze. “Why can’t you leave me alone? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  For a second or two Murdock was hard put to answer this one. He had to ask himself some questions and even then he wasn’t sure he had the answers. He approached the problem obliquely.

  “Bert’s a friend of mine,” he said. “I’d like to be a friend of yours. I wouldn’t want to hurt either of you. I don’t imagine you care too much about what happened to Harry Felton; very few people will. But it’s murder just the same and I know a little more about such things than you do. I think you should tell the police what you know about last night. If you do it voluntarily they’ll protect your confidence as long as they can, and if there’s anything Bert Carlin should know you can tell him yourself. If you do it the other way—and I’ve got to turn in the handkerchief—”

  “Why?”

  The question stopped Murdock cold. Why indeed? Having kept the handkerchief this long—he had been silent about it in the first place because he was afraid it belonged to Elsie Russell—it was unlikely that he would mention it at all. To do so would only bring accusations from Bacon and result in bad feeling on the part of the authorities. What he was saying to Ray Wylie was mostly bluff but he was sure now that she knew something that would help the police and he went on, not answering the question but talking around it.

  “They’ll find out anyway,” he said. “And when they do they’ll have to figure you’ve been deliberately holding out. They’ll probably hold you as a material witness, and that will mean bail, and a mess all around.”

  She seemed to accept the argument, for the defiance went out of her eyes and she leaned back in the chair, her shoulders sagging. She picked at a piece of lint on the knee of her slacks, smoothed out the fabric. Finally she said, not looking at him:

  “I met Harry on the Cape. We went out a couple of times. Later when I came up here looking for a job—well, I was just about broke and when Bert gave me a chance I called Harry up. I told him I was opening at the Rendezvous. I thought, being on a newspaper and all, that he might help me. He did—some. Once he brought the nightclub man on your paper in and there was a nice little notice the next day. It wasn’t the first time I’ve had to be nice to someone in order to help myself along and I wasn’t worried much about Harry because in the beginning there was nothing between Bert and me.”

  She paused, her voice lowered. “Twice after the show I went to Harry’s apartment to have a drink. That was all. Then, gradually, I began to see how Bert felt about me. I could tell he liked me and I realized before long that he was serious. When a girl knows that she looks at a man differently. He’s no longer just a companion or a date; it’s up to her to decide whether to start discouraging him in a nice way or whether to start thinking about getting married. When I got that far I didn’t have to do too much thinking about Bert. I hadn’t expected anything like that to happen. He’d been kind to me from the very first. He’d been considerate and thoughtful, doing little things that he knew I liked and never asking for a thing in return.”

  She took a breath and said: “I knew then that I didn’t want to discourage him. Neither of us had put on any act or tried to impress the other, and we liked the same things and our backgrounds were similar. I knew that if we went on together we’d get along, never being headliners probably, but having something between us that was even better. I wanted things to go on as they were and I didn’t want anything to spoil them. I told Harry I couldn’t see him any more and I guess he didn’t like it. Not because I was so much but because he was used to having his way with women and it hurt his pride. He cared nothing about me, really, and never had, but he still came to the Rendezvous.”

  “When did Bert tell you about Ginny Arnold?” Murdock asked.

  “About a week ago. And I began to get scared. I realized that Bert was telling me those things because he was afraid I was paying too much attention to Harry. Then Harry began making remarks when the three of us would be sitting around between numbers, never coming out with anything definite but giving the impression that he and I had secrets we must keep from Bert. He’d chuckle and wink, always putting on the act, and Bert watching it and getting moodier and more withdrawn each day. Finally I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t stand it any longer. That’s why I went there last night. I wanted to tell him that I was in love with Bert and please to let us alone.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About seven thirty.”

  “What did Harry say?”

  “He was angry with me for coming.”

  “Can you remember just what he did? What you did?”

  “He walked away from the door when he saw me and I went in and closed it. I told him why I’d come. I sat down by the table and he went on into the bedroom. He talked to me from there. He said I was a fool and he didn’t care anything about me or Bert. I was so surprised I started to cry and took out my handkerchief and then he came out, storming at me. He said he was in a hurry and for me to get out and stop bothering him.”

  “That’s when you dropped your handkerchief?”

  “I must have. All I remember is that I got up and went out.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went downstairs. As I went out the doorway—you know how narrow it is—two men came in. I nearly ran into them but I didn’t want to look up because I was still afraid someone might see me.”

  “But you did look up. I mean you got a glance at them.”

  “One was a big man I’d never seen before. I’m sure the other one was Mr. Graham. I couldn’t think of his name then but I remembered that he had come into the Rendezvous a couple of times.”

  Murdock stood up and reached for his hat. He found himself believing the girl’s story and he understood how she felt.

  “Why don’t you tell Bert?” he said kindly. “He’ll believe you.” He glanced at his watch and went on to say that there would be a conference at police headquarters at three o’clock. “I think you ought to come down,” he said. “Ask for Lieutenant Bacon. He’s a nice guy, and he needs all the help you can give him.”

  He started for the door, came back. He took the pale-blue handkerchief from his pocket and dropped it in her lap. She sat unmoving, looking at it and saying nothing. After a moment, he turned and left the room.

  10

  THE murder of Harry Felton being a matter of public record, the fourth-floor corridor was somewhat congested as Murdock came along it just before three o’clock with Phil Doane tagging behind. The congestion came from members of the press who had not been invited to the conference and they ragged Murdock good-naturedly, sniping at him with cries of favoritism and wanting to know what he had done to merit special consideration.

  Sergeant Keogh stood at an open door, listening to the racket and when he saw Murdock he signaled a plain-clothes man from the room and started to disperse the uninvited.

  “I told you you’d have to keep the hall clear,” he said brusquely. “Now beat it, all of you.… Come on. Downstairs.…
All except you, Murdock. They’re waiting for you.”

  Murdock stepped past the two officers and so did Doane. At least he tried to.

  “I’m with him,” he said, indicating Murdock.

  “Yes, you are.” Keogh put out a hand and Doane bounced off it. “Out,” said the sergeant. “Downstairs with the rest of them.”

  “Listen,” Doane said plaintively.

  “You heard me.”

  Murdock glanced back as he entered the room, grinning because he couldn’t help it. He had warned Doane but the youth’s philosophy demanded that he try anything at least once. Now he was the trailer of the procession that filed down the stairs to await its quarry in the main-floor lobby.

  “Come in,” Lieutenant Bacon called from an inner conference room. “Sit over here in the corner and be quiet.… You know Mr. Quigley, don’t you?”

  Murdock said hello to the assistant district attorney, a curly-headed man with glasses who sat at the head of the table. He said hello to Tim Orcutt, and took a chair near the stenographer, who sat staring out the window, indifferent to his surroundings.

  “What do you know that we should know?” Bacon asked, not expecting any information but just making talk.

  “There was a fellow named Louis Tremaine that came in on the Kemnora yesterday. A French writer, I think.”

  “What about him?” Bacon narrowed one eye and came to attention.

  Murdock wondered himself, now that he had spoken. He had no intention of violating Elsie Russell’s confidence at this stage of the proceedings but there was something about the man that bothered him, and since Bacon was gathering up whatever odds and ends of information he could, Murdock decided Tremaine might as well be in on it.

  “I took a picture of him with Miss Russell,” he said. “And later he came to the office and wanted it. I don’t know why. I don’t think he had anything to do with Harry Felton; I’m just telling you what happened.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll find out,” Bacon said and then glanced up as Keogh appeared in the doorway to announce that Miss Russell had arrived.

  “All right,” Bacon said. “We want them one at a time. When they come in keep them happy until we can see them.”

  They stood up when Elsie Russell was ushered in from the outer office. Men usually did, even those who were inclined to ignore the amenities and had small regard for such things as class and good breeding. She was dressed as though she had gone for a walk in the park: tweed skirt, sweater, camel’s hair coat. She was bareheaded, a scarf was knotted loosely at her throat, and her gray eyes took in the room calmly as Bacon arranged a chair for her and introduced her to Quigley and Orcutt.

  “This is just routine, Miss Russell,” Quigley said. “We asked you to come in because we’re talking to all those that we know saw Harry Felton yesterday. You knew him before that, of course.”

  “I knew him when I worked on the Courier.”

  “Will you tell us the circumstances under which you saw him yesterday?”

  “He was with Mr. Murdock,” Elsie said. “Later he came to the stateroom for a drink.”

  “You didn’t talk with him privately at any time? … Did you see him on the pier?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Bacon cleared his throat. “Do you know a man named”—he consulted his notes—“Louis Tremaine?”

  “Why—yes.”

  “Could you tell us where he’s stopping?”

  Elsie mentioned a hotel, her glance sliding to Murdock and then moving on as though he was not there. Bacon stood up and went into the adjoining room as Quigley went on with his questions. He asked if Elsie knew Sidney Graham and she said she had known him a great many years.

  “You talked with him on the Kemnora?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Did he at any time say anything to suggest that he was trying to bring anything into this country illegally?”

  “No, he did not.”

  Bacon came back. Quigley asked a few more questions. Finally Elsie said: “May I ask why you are interested in Louis Tremaine?”

  “He was on the Kemnora,” Quigley said. “He may know something that can help us. He also came to see Mr. Murdock about a picture. Have you any idea why he should be concerned about it?”

  Murdock mentally crossed his fingers and cursed himself for having mentioned Tremaine at all. For it occurred to him now that if Elsie told the truth, thinking that he had already passed along the information, not only would he be persona non grata with her but Bacon would have some things to say about his lack of cooperation, most of them uncomplimentary. He avoided her glance during the next few seconds; then let his breath out and relaxed as she spoke.

  “None at all,” she said coolly.

  Quigley nodded, exchanged glances with Bacon and said he thought that would be all, that he appreciated her courtesy in coming in. They stood up and watched her gather her coat about her and leave the room while Keogh, showing her out, lingered to say that the Arnolds were waiting.

  In contrast to Elsie Russell, Ginny Arnold and her husband looked as if they had just stepped out of the Easter parade. Arnold, as always, wore a dark coat and Homburg along with his cane and gloves; Ginny looked smart and expensive in a tailored suit, a hat that defied description but looked good on her, and a fur piece of stone marten about her shoulders.

  “I took the liberty of accompanying my wife,” Arnold said when he had been introduced to Quigley, “because I was at a loss to know why she should be asked here at all.”

  Quigley spoke soothingly. He said it was quite all right and came out with the same prologue he had given Elsie Russell.

  “You were acquainted with Mr. Felton, Mrs. Arnold?” he said when he finished with his preliminaries. “And you saw him yesterday on the Kemnora. Will you tell us about that?”

  Ginny spoke softly, her small face prettily assured, her dark eyes revealing nothing. She said Harry Felton had come to the cabin for a drink, she had not talked to him privately, and had not seen him on the pier.

  “Mr. Murdock was there.” She glanced at him long enough to bestow a small smile. “He can tell you how it was.”

  “You know Sidney Graham? He got on at Havre I believe.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And did you meet Guy Valliere?” Quigley asked.

  “Yes. A tall blond man. Quite good-looking.”

  “Did he get on at Havre with Mr. Graham?”

  “He got on at Havre. I don’t know that he was with Mr. Graham.”

  “Did you talk with him on board—Mr. Valliere, I mean?”

  “Only occasionally. When a crowd of us were having cocktails or something like that.”

  “Do you remember seeing him talking with Mr. Graham? Were they frequently together?”

  Ginny shrugged her trim shoulders. “Well—I remember seeing them together. Frankly I didn’t pay too much attention to either of them.”

  Quigley nodded. He repeated the question he had asked Elsie about whether Graham had given any indication that he might be bringing anything into the country illegally. When she said no, Quigley thanked her and then, rising, he thought of something else and asked her if she had met a man named Louis Tremaine.

  “I knew him slightly,” Ginny said. “I think he was a friend of Elsie Russell’s.” She paused before she turned away, her smile sardonic. “I met her coming out,” she said, “so I imagine you’ve already discussed Mr. Tremaine with her.”

  If Guy Valliere was at all concerned by the prospects of an official investigation he certainly gave no sign of it when he entered the room a few minutes later. Bareheaded, and wearing no topcoat though the afternoon was cool, he sported a tweed suit under which was a cashmere pullover, and his attitude as he sat down was one of slightly bored equanimity. In spite of this it occurred to Murdock that here was a man whose conduct might have at its core a certain reckless, let’s-take-a-chance philosophy, and he had
an idea that while Valliere might be a good man to have on your side if he agreed with you, he could be a very tough opponent.

  The things that came to light as the investigation got under way served to substantiate the hunch, and the more Murdock thought about it the more he realized that Mr. Valliere might be a very good suspect indeed. As a result he surreptitiously took out a pencil and a piece of paper and waited for Quigley to get on with his questions.

  Quigley did so almost at once. He wanted to know where Valliere was born, how old he was, what his business address was. Valliere said he made his headquarters in Paris and while Murdock jotted down the address, the big man went on to say that he traveled a great deal, had a small office in Havre but that his only semi-permanent address was the Paris one.

  “Your accent sounds more English than French,” Quigley commented.

  “I went to school there before the war.” He glanced at Bacon and Orcutt. “As I explained to these gentlemen last night.”

  “Any family?”

  “None. My father was killed early in the war, my half-brother was killed later in a bombing raid. My mother died three years ago.”

  “She was married twice then.”

  “Her first husband left her soon after my half-brother was born. She married my father two years later.”

  “You saw service during the war?”

  Valliere’s smile was faint but noticeable. “Some. With the Belgian Army from the beginning until Dunkirk. With the Free French in Africa. Finally with the Maquis.”

  “That how you picked up those bracelets,” Orcutt said.

  “I beg your pardon.” Valliere let one brow climb.

  Quigley frowned at Orcutt’s bluntness and impatience. “Later, Tim,” he said quietly.

  He shuffled his papers and went on with his questions, going over much that Murdock had heard the night before, repeating himself now and then but learning very little that he did not already know. Finally he leaned back and glanced at Orcutt.