Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Did I?”

  “You did. It was dark. A good lawyer would make a monkey out of you with that kind of testimony, but I don’t want it to get that far, understand?” He stood up and said: “You’ve got the reputation of being a smart operator. So stay smart. You didn’t see me last night and if you keep on saying you did you’ll be taken care of. If I can’t handle it personally I’ll get somebody that can.”

  Graham’s tone was neither loud nor bombastic; it was curt, controlled, and convincing. It nettled Murdock that he should think so. He examined his pipe, puffed twice to keep it alive. He wanted to say something, anything at all, to show that he was not impressed, an impulse motivated by the fact that in reality he was impressed.

  What he finally said was a mistake. “You were also seen going into Felton’s place.” Those were the words and he knew they were badly chosen even before Graham gave him an answer.

  Something flickered in the man’s eyes, as though an invisible curtain had opened and closed just long enough to show the calculation of the mind behind them. Then they were veiled, inscrutable as Graham said:

  “I’ll take care of that, too.”

  Murdock wanted to say he was only kidding and he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He cursed inwardly at his stupidity. Then the knock came, a knock so loud it seemed to shake the room and stun its occupants.

  For a long second no one moved. An ominous silence settled upon the room. Then a deep brusque voice, muffled but authoritative, broke the silence.

  “Open up in there!”

  Graham’s hand came out of his pocket. He pointed the automatic it held right at Murdock’s stomach.

  “Open up!” the voice said again. “It’s the law.”

  Graham spoke through his teeth. “Why you stinker!”

  Murdock stiffened, his eyes on the gun, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the hand tighten. In that first moment he could not move and in the next one he was afraid to. He saw only the gun, and the hand that held it, and he thought: This is where I get it!

  From the corner of his eye he saw Lee Hammond move. Finally, after what seemed like a minute and a half but in reality could have been no more than a second, he began to think. He forced his glance up and spoke quickly as an idea came to him.

  “There’s a fire escape by the bathroom window.”

  He saw the indecision in Graham’s eyes and pointed towards the inner hall, his pipestem a guide post.

  “In there.”

  Hammond started for the doorway as the knock came again. Graham watched Hammond, glanced back at Murdock. Then, his mind made up, he moved swiftly, backing into the doorway with his gun still up.

  “Let ’em in before we get out of here,” he said, “and we start blasting.”

  “Go on,” Murdock said, starting to breathe again. “I’ll hold them off.”

  He heard a window slide up. He stood right where he was until he had counted five. Then he went over and opened the door.

  Phil Doane stood in the hall, his round face pale and his eyes bulging. He swallowed as if to say something but no words came out and Murdock, not believing any of this, stepped past him to look up and down the hall. When he found there was no one but Doane a sudden weakness struck at him and he could feel a tremor start along the backs of his legs.

  “Oh, my God!” he said thickly and backed unsteadily into the room.

  12

  FOR awhile then Kent Murdock had nothing to say. He put his pipe on the coffee table, a little surprised that he still carried it, and snatched up his drink. He spilled a little on his chin in his eagerness to swallow, and wiped it with the back of his hand. He heard Doane close the door but did not look around then; instead he went into the hall, pausing briefly to glance at the open bathroom window, then continuing on into the kitchen where he got a glass.

  Phil Doane stood in the center of the room, his eyes still wide but the color coming back into his cheeks. He swallowed visibly and started a grin.

  “Boy,” he said, “was I scared.”

  “You were scared? Hah! Of all the crazy damn—” Murdock could not continue just then because his voice was unsteady. To busy his shaking hands he fixed Doane a drink and handed it to him. “Here,” he said. “Drink some of that and then start talking.”

  “I saw ’em come in.” Doane drank deeply. “They told me in the city room you’d been asking for me. They said you were going home so I thought I’d come by and see if I could promote that drink.… What did Graham want? Was he getting tough?”

  “Graham,” said Murdock, “stopped by with a gun in his pocket to tell me not to testify against him.”

  “Oh.” A note of doubt crept into Doane’s voice. “Well, I didn’t know. I came around the corner just as Graham and that Hammond gorilla walked in downstairs. I figured they were on their way to see you and I knew Graham had taken a run-out on the cops this afternoon. When I got up outside the door—”

  He paused, a little sheepish now. “I guess it sounds goofy now but I was worried then. I didn’t know the score and I figured if Graham thought the cops were outside he wouldn’t try anything. I—I forgot there wasn’t any back door to the place. I was just getting ready to run when you opened up.”

  “They went out the fire escape,” Murdock said. He did not point out the danger of Doane’s idea. The stunt was typical of the youth and that it very nearly backfired was of no importance now. He relived again the moment of fright he had when Graham’s hand tightened on the gun but he understood that Doane’s action, crazy though it was, had been done in his behalf. “You did all right,” he said. “You get A for effort.”

  He finished his drink, Doane forgotten during the next few minutes while he let his mind experiment with an idea that became more disturbing the longer he thought of it. Gradually a narrowness grew in his dark eyes and a frown dug in around their corners. Finally he stood up.

  “Pour yourself another,” he said and went into the bedroom to put on his shoes and gather up his coat and vest. He came out knotting his tie as Doane settled back with his second drink.

  “You going out?” Doane’s glance was uncertain.

  “As soon as you finish your drink.”

  “That won’t take long.”

  “A few minutes isn’t going to make any difference. Take your time.”

  Doane was already half through his drink. He watched Murdock put on his coat and get his hat and topcoat from the closet, his eyes speculative.

  “Okay,” he said. “I won’t ask you where you’re going.”

  “I have to check on a thing. Just remembered it.”

  “And I got the drink I was yelling about. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.” Doane put down his glass. “Come on. I’ll walk over to Boylston with you.”

  Business was slack at the Rendezvous when Murdock went in at ten o’clock. He passed up the hat-check girl, saying he was not staying, and once inside he found the interior darker than the street outside so that it took him a few seconds to see that, other than the three or four men who stood at the bar, only one table was occupied. Here a party of late diners was just finishing up but there was no light on at the bandstand and no one at the piano.

  He told the bartender Scotch and water and when he had his drink he asked if Ray Wylie had come in yet. The bartender said no. He took the bill Murdock offered, walked lazily to the cash register and rang up the sale. When he came back with the change Murdock said:

  “What time does Bert start with the piano?”

  “Should be here now.” The bartender glanced up at the clock over the door. “He was in about an hour ago but he went out.”

  “Ray didn’t come in at all?”

  “Not tonight, she didn’t.”

  “When does she usually come?”

  “Around nine.” The bartender plopped an ice cube in a small glass, dumped in some soda water. He swished it around the ice, drank thirstily, dumped the cube out, and belched. “Around nine usually,” he said.

  Murdoc
k finished his drink but held on to the glass. “Bert say anything to you when he went out?”

  “Not a word.” The bartender looked up, tipping his head to one side as though it had just occurred to him that in Murdock he had a rather nosy customer. “Bert came in around eight thirty,” he said, making sure that his words were explicit, “and went out back. A little later that party you see at the table sent the waiter after him and Bert came in and played a couple of numbers on the piano. They gave him a hand but he turned out the light and came out here to that booth”—he hooked a thumb towards the telephone booth in the foyer—“and when he came out of there he went into the back room again. Next time I see him he’s just breezing past with his hat and coat.”

  “Thanks,” Murdock said dryly. “I guess that takes care of everything.”

  “You’re welcome, mister. You want to leave any message?”

  Murdock said no. He left his change in payment of the information, nodded to the hat-check girl as he passed, and went outside, turning left and paying no attention to the traffic that rolled along the narrow one-way street.

  A breeze from the east which had risen since sundown plucked at his coat tails as he walked sightlessly towards the lights of the corner parking lot where he had left his car. When the attendant backed it out for him, he drove along Stuart Street, heading west.

  The street where Ray Wylie lived seemed more cheerful in the intermittent glow of the street lamps than it did in daylight, due perhaps to the lighted windows which served somehow to lend a certain warmth to the drab exteriors. Cars were parked along both curbs and Murdock had to go on to the next block before he found a vacant space. Other than a strolling couple and a man walking a wire-haired terrier, he saw no one as he strode back to the girl’s apartment, and he went up the stone steps quickly, the concern he had first felt back in his rooms now an urgency that grew in him with each passing minute.

  He found the main floor unlocked as it had been that afternoon. The lower hall was dimly lighted and crowded with baby carriages and strollers, and as he climbed the stairs through the stuffy air the sound of radios came from behind each closed door, the programs varied so that it gave the effect of walking through a record shop while all the booths were occupied.

  It was somewhat quieter as he went along the top floor hall to this door near the rear where the shadows were thickest. He knocked quickly, his impatience crowding him. He stooped to see if any light showed in the crack beneath the panel and then the door opened and Bert Carlin was standing there, the light at his back and his face obscured.

  “Bert,” Murdock said. “I was down to the Rendezvous and they said you’d gone out. Is Ray here?”

  For a second or two Carlin did not move but stood clinging to the doorknob, a tall man, thin and slightly stooped. He seemed to sway slightly as he stepped back.

  “No,” he said finally and turned away, leaving the door open.

  Murdock came in slowly, watching the other move to the chair beneath the floor lamp. It was a chair with an upholstered back and seat and wide maple-colored arms. Next to it was a small table which held an overflowing ashtray, a fifth of whisky, and a glass of water nearly empty. Carlin slumped into the chair and now the light was better, revealing the flushed face and the brooding, half-closed eyes.

  Murdock glanced about the drab, uninviting room as he closed the door. “Where’s Ray?” he asked.

  When there was no answer he advanced a step, the apprehension growing in him. He could smell the liquor on Carlin’s breath; it hung in the air like disinfectant from an atomizer.

  “Where’s Ray?” he said, more sharply this time.

  “Sit down.” Carlin’s voice was thick. “Have a drink—on Ray.” He waved at the bottle and now the bitterness which festered in him colored his words. “It’s her bottle. She don’t drink but she keeps one around for me.”

  He peered at Murdock and there was something savage and vindictive in his bloodshot stare. “You want a glass?” He started to get out of the chair and as he did so his coat caught on the arm, hiking above his waist. That was how Murdock noticed the gun butt protruding from a hip pocket.

  Murdock reached out to restrain him. Carlin wavered, sank back into the chair.

  “I don’t want a drink, Bert. Take it easy, will you?”

  “Take it easy, he says.” Carlin laughed unpleasantly. “You had to stick your nose in, huh?”

  “Did she tell you about Graham?”

  “Yeah, she told me. She told me about Harry Felton. You think I care about what happened to Felton? You think Ray does? But you did, huh? You scared her into going to the cops. She told me after she finished. My trouble was I wasn’t scared enough. I should’ve stayed with her.”

  Murdock pulled a straight-backed chair close to Carlin and sat down, not wanting to speculate on what had happened to Ray Wylie until he had the facts.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “We had dinner together. Afterwards she came here and I went to the club. When she didn’t show up I called here and there wasn’t any answer.”

  He said other things but Murdock was thinking now, trying to remember what Graham had said when he, Murdock, had foolishly mentioned the witness who had seen Graham entering Felton’s apartment building. He checked the time element to see if it would fit. It did.

  “I asked the guy who runs this place if he’d seen her,” Carlin was saying. “He said he saw her go out with two guys, one of them big.”

  “Did you check on her things here?” Murdock was reaching now, knowing the answer but not wanting to accept it. “Is anything missing?”

  “How do I know? I didn’t live with her.”

  Murdock glanced at the whisky bottle and then at Carlin, wondering how many drinks it would take to make him pass out.

  “I’ll have that drink, Bert,” he said. “Get a glass.”

  Carlin heaved out of the chair, came back with a glass. Murdock poured a drink for himself, a bigger one for Carlin, adding the whisky to the inch or so of water that remained in the other’s glass.

  “What’re you going to do with the gun, Bert?”

  “Look for Graham.”

  Murdock nodded, not bothering to point out that if the police could not find Graham it was unlikely that Carlin could. “Drink up,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  Carlin drank and shuddered. “I’m staying here.” He pointed at the day bed. “Right there.”

  He took out the gun, a somewhat battered revolver that looked like a .38. He put it on the table.

  “I’m a little drunk tonight,” he said, “but tomorrow I go looking for Graham. And if anything happens to Ray—anything bad”—he peered at Murdock, hesitating before he continued—“I’m liable to use this thing on you.”

  “Okay, Bert.” Murdock stood up. “But nothing’s going to happen to her,” he said with a confidence he did not feel. “Just take it easy, boy. Tomorrow I’ll help you look for Graham.”

  He moved to the door, opened it. Carlin was slumped back in his chair, his eyes half closed. When he did not look up, Murdock went out quietly and started down the stairs.

  13

  BY THE middle of the following morning Kent Murdock had the day’s work mapped out and his assignment sheet in order. Barring an unexpected news break there was little promise of any excitement in the schedule, and when the other photographers had gone he took young Walt Tracy into the printing room where he made a copy of the picture he had taken of Sidney Graham the previous morning.

  “Got a job for you, Walt,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “Mask this one down”—Murdock indicated the area on the negative he wanted reproduced—“and make some prints. Four by fives will be all right because all I need is the head and shoulders.”

  “Glossy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. How many do you want?”

  “A lot of them. Just keep making prints until I get back. I’m going downstairs.�
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  The man whose help Murdock sought occupied a cramped little office that boasted one window and some hand-me-down furniture. When he spied Murdock he eyed him suspiciously but with good humor. Finally he kicked the room’s other chair around so Murdock could sit down.

  “You’re out of your territory,” he said. “Slumming again, huh? Well, what is it this time?”

  “How do you know I want anything?” Murdock said, grinning because the other was so right. “Can’t I come down and say hello.”

  “Any time you guys from upstairs take the trouble to come down to this department it ain’t just to say hello.”

  Murdock sat down and offered a cigarette while he let his mind review an idea that had been growing there since the night before. The statement that he had made to Bert Carlin about helping him look for Sidney Graham had been made idly and without too much consideration for the truth. In spite of this the words remained in his mind long after he had gone to bed, and as a result there had come to him an idea and a plan of action that he had once used successfully many years ago.

  On the face of it, the thought that he might find Graham when the police could not, had little to recommend it until one understood that it was not an individual undertaking but depended instead upon the resources of a metropolitan newspaper and the cooperation of a particular department.

  The shrewd-eyed man in the baggy suit who watched him with that good-natured suspicion answered to the name of Leahy and his job on the Courier-Herald was that of city circulator. As such Leahy dealt in one of the most perishable products ever conceived by man, a big-city newspaper whose useful span was often limited by the number of editions it produced each day. To the average city dweller there was nothing deader than yesterday’s paper and there were some who classified any earlier edition in the same historical category.

  Leahy’s territory was the city and its adjacent suburbs. He distributed his papers on a timetable efficiency and he needed lots of help. As director of city circulation he had that help in his district men, newsstand men, corner hustlers, newsboys and carriers. Combined they outmanned the police department at least two to one and, properly indoctrinated, each one became a potential amateur detective, the word detective being loosely applied and its meaning limited to the business of snooping.