Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  “All right, Tim.”

  Orcutt slid his elbows across the table, eyes intent beneath his black brows. Ordinarily rather close-mouthed and inclined to have all the facts before he spoke, he now surprised Murdock by voicing the theory that he had spoken of the previous night after Valliere had left Felton’s apartment. He described the bracelets, spoke of their history, and said that he had reason to believe that Valliere had sold them to Sidney Graham.

  “Graham had to tap Wilbur Arnold for enough money to swing the deal,” he said, “but even so he got them cheap because he still had to get them into this country. You came with him because you had a plan of your own. If Graham was successful in getting the bracelets past the customs—and he was successful because of Harry Felton, as you know—you could then hijack them, knowing that Graham would not dare squawk to us.”

  The effect of all this on Valliere was negligible. His half-smile remained as he stroked one sandy brow with his index finger. His voice, when he replied, was casual and indifferent.

  “My dear man,” he said. “If you had the slightest proof of what you say you would not sit there talking about it, you would take me into custody. All you have, as I see it, is a theory, a singularly fantastic one, I might add; nothing more. Frankly I must confess that I’m not even sure I understand you.”

  Orcutt leaned back, red-faced and baffled. “Okay,” he said. “But don’t leave town. I expect to prove that theory before I finish.”

  Valliere turned to Bacon. “Look here,” he said mildly. “Am I under arrest or anything?”

  “Not yet, you’re not.”

  “Then do you mind if I pop off? I’ll still be at the Garland in case you change your mind.”

  He stood up then, smiled mechanically. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said, and went out.…

  The interview with Louis Tremaine was even less productive. He submitted to Quigley’s questions politely. His thin, angular face remained impassive when he spoke of those he had met aboard the Kemnora and his black eyes were inscrutable.

  Murdock, remembering the things Elsie Russell had told him, paid little attention to the questions. Here, in the presence of this mild-mannered man, he found it hard to accept the motives Elsie attributed to him until he recalled the brass knuckles Tremaine was supposed to be carrying. The result of all this served only to baffle Murdock even more because, while he realized that Tremaine had every reason to administer a beating such as Felton suffered, there was no way of connecting the Frenchman with the actual murder. He listened while Quigley spoke of the photograph which had been taken aboard the Kemnora but even in this Tremaine remained composed.

  “Yes,” he said, “I did go to see Mr. Murdock about that picture.”

  “Why? I mean why was it important to you?”

  “Because of personal reasons, sir.”

  “We’d like to hear them.”

  Tremaine spread his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  Quigley accepted the refusal, but only temporarily. He went on to other things, came back to those personal reasons, and got the same sort of answer. Finally he gave up.

  “Very well, Mr. Tremaine,” he said, “we’ll let it go for now.” He turned to Murdock. “Make us a print of that negative, will you? I’d like to have a look at that picture.… You can go out this way,” he said to Tremaine, indicating the door that led directly to the hall. To Keogh he added: “Get Sid Graham in here.”

  Sidney Graham looked tough, truculent, and uncomfortable when he took his chair beside the conference table. He had loosened his collar and the knot in his hand-painted cravat and the cuffs which showed beneath the sleeves of his sport jacket were getting soiled.

  “We’ve booked your friend Lee Hammond as a material witness and are allowing him bail,” Quigley said. “We could do the same for you if you’d play ball.”

  “The kind of ball that’ll give you a chance to tag me with a murder rap?” Graham laughed harshly and his deep-set eyes held hostile glints. “You’ll admit me to bail anyway and you know it,” he added. “And when you do I’ll get it up.”

  “You still deny that you were at Felton’s apartment last night?”

  “I do.”

  “You weren’t waiting at the foot of the hill in a parked car when Murdock went up?”

  “No.”

  “We talked with Wilbur Arnold,” Orcutt said. “He told us about the bracelets.”

  “Let’s not horse around,” Graham said. “Arnold sent me some money for a deal. That’s all he knows.”

  “What did you buy with the money?” Orcutt asked.

  “That’s my business.”

  “Guy Valliere told us differently.”

  Murdock waited, wondering if Graham would fall for the bluff, but not for long. The expression in the other’s face, the scorn in his gaze, gave him the answer before the words came.

  “What does Valliere have to do with it? He’s just a guy I met on the boat.”

  “You met him in Havre,” Orcutt said. He leaned forward as if to continue; then stopped as Keogh came into the room. The sergeant whispered something to Bacon, who whispered in turn to Quigley. The two turned their backs to the room, Bacon still whispering while Quigley nodded. When he was ready to look at Graham again his eyes were quick and interested behind the glasses.

  “Ask her to come in, Sergeant,” he said. Then, to Graham: “We’ll give you a little recess, Sid. You can wait in the next room until we’re ready.”

  Graham stood up, his frown puzzled as he moved to the door. He had to stand aside as Keogh came in with Ray Wylie. He gave her a quick startled glance and then went on into the adjoining office and closed the door.

  Keogh told the girl she could sit down. “Says her name is Wylie,” he said to Quigley and then stepped back to wait beside the door.

  Ray Wylie’s glance touched Murdock but there was no sign of recognition in it. She sat down, not bothering to unbutton her cloth coat, and folded her hands in her lap, her face pale but composed.

  “Your name, please?” Quigley said.

  “Rachel Wylie.”

  “Address? … What is your occupation?”

  “I’m a singer—at the Rendezvous.”

  “What prompted you to come here, Miss Wylie?”

  She hesitated, lowering her head a moment while she moistened her lips. Then her head came up and she looked right at Quigley.

  “I read about what happened to Harry Felton,” she said. “I thought I should tell you that I was in his apartment last night.”

  That did it. They sat up, all of them. Chairs scraped and Murdock could see the knowing glances, the smiles of suppressed excitement. But they waited for Quigley and presently he asked her to tell in her own words just what happened.

  She told it all as she had told it to Murdock, leaving out only her real reason for going to see Felton and the background which prompted her visit. In a clear, low voice she said she had gone to see him about some publicity, had stayed no more than five minutes. When she went out she had nearly run into two men who were coming in from the sidewalk.

  Quigley got the essential details very quickly. He made sure that she could identify Graham and then, as he glanced at the stenographer to make sure everything had been taken down, the girl spoke.

  She said she hoped they would respect her confidence. She didn’t want to have to talk to reporters. “I came here because I thought it was the right thing to do,” she said, “so could you please keep my name out of it?”

  Quigley stepped round the table as she stood up. “I think we can, Miss Wylie,” he said. “At least for the present. In any case rest assured that we will do all we can for you … Here, you can go out this way.”

  He opened the door to the hall, watched her go. When he came back he was grinning and rubbing his hands. “All right, Sergeant,” he said to Keogh. “Now let’s have our friend Graham in here again.” Keogh opened the door to the adjoining office and stepped through. An instant later Murdock heard a curse followe
d by the angry rumble of the sergeant’s voice. Almost at once he was back in the doorway, red-faced and apoplectic.

  “He’s gone,” he yelled. “He told Mike we were through with him—”

  He got that far and then Bacon, Quigley, and Orcutt were all talking at once, all of them outraged and, at first, dumfounded. Murdock said nothing. He rose quietly, hearing now the explanation and how, with Keogh remaining in the conference room, Graham had gone into the other room straightening his tie and coat, and kidding a little with the plain-clothes man there while he bluffed his way into the corridor. Now, steering clear of the others, Murdock backed out of the big room and went swiftly along the hall and down in the elevator to the foyer where Phil Doane still waited.

  11

  KENT MURDOCK had taken no pictures that afternoon and he had no story to tell Phil Doane as they rode back to the office. Doane, along with the other reporters and photographers who had waited at police headquarters, had seen the others who had been questioned but none would submit to an interview. Sid Graham, Doane said, had walked out as if he owned the place, his only announcement to the press being that if there was any statement to be made it would have to come from the official in charge.

  “I could use a drink—if you buy,” Doane said as they left Murdock’s coupe.

  “Not now.”

  “Later?”

  “Maybe,” Murdock said, adding that Doane had better check with the desk to find out if he still had a job.

  Doane agreed that this might be a good idea. “But I’ll be back,” he said.

  The studio was deserted when Murdock entered, and after he had rid himself of his hat and coat he sat down to light a cigarette and review the things that had happened. He was glad that Ray Wylie had come in to tell Bacon and Quigley what she knew, but he regretted the timing of her entrance. Had she come at another time Sidney Graham might not have known who she was; still it was unlikely that Graham would bother her now. He would probably be content to hide out awhile until he could get a lawyer and find out exactly where he stood.

  Other than this there had been no developments at headquarters that promised any leads, no information that Murdock did not already know—except for Guy Valliere’s background. Remembering now the address he had jotted down, he brought the slip from his pocket and then, because of all those involved this man interested him most, he picked up the telephone and asked for T. A. Wyman’s office.

  “Will you okay a Paris call?” he asked when the managing editor answered.

  “Paris, France?” Wyman said. “What for?”

  “It’s on this Felton murder. I want to get some background on a fellow that came over on the boat with Sid Graham. He got on at Havre.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. Who’re you going to call?”

  “Max Tyler,” Murdock said, mentioning an ex-Courier employee now working for a news service. “I think he’s bureau chief there now.”

  “Okay,” Wyman said. “Hop to it.”

  Murdock flashed the operator, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was ten minutes after five and he knew it would be five hours later in Paris—at least he thought it would. Perhaps not the best time to put in a call but he knew that the telephone people were pretty good at tracking down a party when they put their minds and resources to the task.

  Phil Doane came in a few minutes later, wanting to know about the drink.

  “Hell,” he said plaintively when Murdock said he had to stay around. “You have to go out to eat, don’t you?”

  “I’m sending for a sandwich.”

  “Oh fine,” Doane grumbled. “Pay day not until tomorrow and I can’t even promote a glass of grog.”

  “You’ll get it,” Murdock said, grinning, “but not now.… When you go upstairs send an office boy down, will you?”

  Doane lingered, looking thirsty. “Haven’t you even got a slug of something in your desk?”

  Murdock opened a drawer in which he sometimes kept a bottle. Doane surveyed its emptiness, gave up, and went out, grousing under his breath.

  The next couple of hours were dull ones for Murdock. He ate his sandwich and coffee at his desk, conferred with two of his men who came in to develop and print the pictures they had brought back. He checked with the desk to see that everything was taken care of, and twice he had encouraging reports from the operator on his Paris call. A little later the telephone rang again and this time the Paris operator said she had his party.

  When he had wasted a minute saying hello to Max Tyler and bringing him up-to-date on the state of the things at the Courier-Herald, he said he had a favor to ask.

  “I want to find out all I can about a man named Guy Valliere,” he said. He spelled the name, gave the Paris address he had copied down, adding such details as he remembered from the afternoon conference.

  “When do you have to have it?” Tyler asked.

  “The sooner the better, but get it as complete as you can. Call me tomorrow about this time if you want to.… Sure you can reverse the charges. And if you haven’t got it all by then, wait until the next day.” Then, to give Tyler a little personal incentive, he asked if Tyler remembered Harry Felton. “Well, Harry got himself killed last night. This Belgian may be mixed up in it.”

  When the night man came in a few minutes later, Murdock put on his hat and coat and said he would be home if anyone wanted him. Then, as he went along the hall to the elevators, he remembered his promised drink to Phil Doane, and pressed the “Up” signal.

  But apparently it was Doane’s unlucky day. The drink he had so shamelessly promoted was now at hand; the trouble was, Doane was not. “He’s around somewhere,” they told Murdock. “He must have just stepped out.”

  “Tell him I was asking,” Murdock said. “Tell him I’ve gone home.…”

  Outside the night was crisp and clear. The reflection of the city’s lights blotted out the heavens immediately overhead but beyond, along the edges, the stars stood out above the rooftops, and Murdock breathed deeply as he unlocked the coupe’s door and checked on the spare camera in the space back of the seat.

  There was activity on the loading platform as he drove slowly past the parked trucks that stood waiting for the early edition, and presently he was riding along the rim of the Public Gardens, dark now, like the sky above. Approaching the Ritz, he considered stopping in for a quick drink, but as he turned into Newberry Street he vetoed the thought in favor of a longer, more comfortable drink at his apartment.

  He went about getting that drink as soon as he got home, moving immediately to the kitchen and emptying a tray of ice into the thermos bucket. He put this and a bottle of Scotch on a tray, added a small pitcher of water and a glass. He put the tray on the coffee table in front of the divan and then went into the bedroom to get rid of his coat, vest and tie.

  He discarded his shoes in favor of slippers, still not touching the drink, donned an old flannel jacket with chamois pads sewed over the worn elbows, and selected a pipe. Blowing through it to make sure the stem was clean, he started to pack it. Before he could finish, the knock came at the door.

  Murdock straightened, his dark eyes impatient. He glanced longingly at his untouched drink, let his breath out in an exasperated blast, and walked slowly across the room. The knock came again as he reached for the knob and he said, “All right,” and opened the door.

  He got out of the way in a hurry then. He had to or get run over. For the man moved with the door, a red-faced fellow with a twisted nose and knobby ears, a bruiser who stood around six-foot-three and weighed well over two hundred. Beside him and slightly behind as he came into the room was Sidney Graham.

  Murdock backed up three steps instinctively, then stopped. The two men split, moving on either side of him and leaving him to shut the door. They were facing him as he turned back. He still had the pipe in his hand.

  He said, “Hi,” and crossed to the coffee table to find a match.

  Graham wore a trench coat with a turned up collar. He had both hands thru
st into the pockets and Murdock thought that one hand made a larger bulge than the other, as though there was something in it. He glanced at Lee Hammond, remembering now that Quigley had said the ex-heavyweight had been allowed bail.

  “Take a look, Lee,” Graham said. “Just to make sure.”

  Hammond went into the other rooms, came back. “Okay,” he said.

  “Sit down, Murdock!” Graham said. “Let’s have a little talk.”

  Murdock struck the match and gave his attention to the pipe, making sure he had an even light before he blew out the flame.

  “That was real cute, walking out on Bacon this afternoon,” he said. “What do you think it’s going to get you?”

  “Time.” Graham perched on the arm of the divan, one hand still in his pocket. His boxlike face was shiny in the lamplight, the skin tight across the cheek bones and around the thin mouth. “I want to take care of something,” he said, “while I can.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like witnesses that think they saw me around Felton’s place last night. Bacon’s trying to wrap a murder charge around me and I’m not going to stand still for it.”

  Murdock reached for his drink, unable to postpone his desire another second. He felt a little better after he’d had two swallows; not good because he was not sure what came next, but better. Lee Hammond watched him put the glass down.

  “What’s in the bottle?” he asked in a husky voice that had come originally from a ring injury and grown steadily worse.

  “Scotch.”

  “Good.” Hammond reached for the bottle and started to drink from it.

  “Get a glass,” Murdock said. “In the kitchen.”

  “Never mind the glass, Lee,” Graham said. “And never mind the drink. Put it down and pay attention.”

  Hammond hesitated, replaced the bottle reluctantly, and wet his lips.

  Graham said: “You made a mistake about seeing me in that car last night, Murdock.”