Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  Hammond said: “Whoosh.” His face was instantly greenish and his knees buckled. He dropped his hands as he started to double up and Murdock hit him again in the mouth.

  Hammond lowered his head to protect his jaw. His hat was still on and he was peering up past his brows. He was pressing upwards with both hands, as though trying to lift himself so he could breathe and at the same time keep his insides in place.

  Murdock did not throw another punch. He had no target and he knew Hammond was not going down. Instead he tried to step around the big man, his destination the bedroom where he kept a gun in the bedside table.

  As though reading his mind, Hammond lurched over to block him off. He was ready to take whatever punishment was coming while he fought for breath but he was not letting Murdock pass.

  He pulled one hand away from his body, the arm dangling. He was braced on spread legs and his eyes were ugly and pain-ridden. His battered face was wet with perspiration and blood trickled from his mouth, but he was still dangerous.

  Murdock knew it. He stepped back and reached for a heavy brass candlestick which stood at one corner of the mantel. He balanced it in his hands and got a good grip on it. He circled over and opened the door, feeling Hammond’s gaze upon him though the other made no sound.

  “I’m going to telephone the police,” he said. “You’d better be out of here before they come, big boy.” He moved easily but alertly towards the telephone stand, keeping close to the walls. “Get in my way,” he said, “and I’ll slug you for keeps.”

  Hammond was almost erect now but he had been hurt. It showed in his eyes and in the twisted shiny features. There had been a day when he could take such blows and come back for more but that day was over. He had kept his feet; he had survived, but he seemed now to realize that Murdock meant what he said, and the incentive to remain was no longer enough.

  He did not look round as Murdock passed him. He began to move, slowly at first, as though each step hurt him. He headed for the door, one hand still holding his stomach. He went out, lurching a little as he turned beyond the doorway and disappeared. He did not bother to close the door.

  Murdock replaced the telephone he had lifted. He went over and closed the door, clicking the night latch. He put the candlestick back and the surface of the metal was wet where his hand had clutched it. He stepped to the windows and pulled one of the curtains back; then he looked down at the sidewalk below.

  Lee Hammond stood on the curbstone while he glanced up and down the street. He stepped to the pavement and started diagonally across, slowly at first and then picking up speed with his lock-kneed, pigeon-toed stride.

  Murdock let the curtain fall and discovered that his hands were still damp. He took out a handkerchief, his fingers trembling a little as he wiped his palms and then his brow. He had no stomach then for straightening up the room. That could wait until morning. What he wanted most was a drink followed by eight hours of sleep.

  18

  KENT MURDOCK slept soundly that night. The one drink and the warm bath combined to make an excellent sedative, for there were no dreams that he could remember and the bed was smooth except for the one shallow groove where his body had rested. He might well have slept another hour if the telephone had not wakened him at nine o’clock; he was, in fact, tempted not to answer it until his mind cleared and he remembered what had happened the day before.

  He went grumbling into the hall and living room, and his voice as he spoke was hardly cheerful. An instant later, however, he was wide awake and attentive while a small thrill of excitement began to work along his bare spine.

  “My Paris call?” he said quickly. “Yes … Yes, I’ll hang on.”

  It was the operator at the Courier-Herald who spoke first. After that he could hear other operators somewhere along the thousands of miles of wires and finally an accented voice said: “Mr. Kent Murdock? … Go ahead, please.”

  Max Tyler answered his hello, his voice sounding far-off but familiar. He said it was two o’clock over there and he had waited until now because he hadn’t wanted to get Murdock up too early.

  “You got a pencil and some paper?” he said. “Or do you want me to give it to you now and then send a copy over by airmail?”

  Murdock said he’d get a pencil. He found one in the mess which was his desk, grabbed a piece of paper, and swung a straight-backed chair around by the telephone.

  “I thought I might hear from you yesterday,” he said.

  “I could have called,” Tyler said. “I had some stuff but I thought I’d wait until I had more.”

  And then he was talking about Guy Valliere, mentioning certain facts that Murdock already knew but adding others that had been gathered on the spot. He was an experienced man, Tyler, and he not only knew how to dig for information but also how to collate it so that he could present it with precision and intelligence. Wasting few words, he talked to Murdock for five minutes and when, finally, he hung up, Murdock had a page of notes that added greatly to his knowledge of Guy Valliere.

  He stood up and surveyed the disordered room distastefully, wishing now that he had taken the time to straighten it the night before. He did not dare leave it for the woman, who came an hour or two each day to clean up and make his bed, for fear that she would think he had been a participant in a drunken brawl, so as soon as he had bathed and shaved he started to work.

  It did not take too long to get the furniture in shape and arrange it neatly, but he spent a long time at the desk before he made any sort of order out of the scattered letters, bills and receipts. The bedroom was easier, because he had interrupted Lee Hammond before that worthy had done too much damage, and once this was attended to he put some water on for coffee while he slipped on a clean white shirt and added a plain maroon tie.

  There was tomato juice in the icebox and he had a glass, standing by the sink where he could watch the coffee and the toaster. When he finished his second cup of coffee and his cigarette, he stacked his dishes and slipped on his suitcoat, a blue unfinished worsted. He looked very neat and well-groomed as he came into the living room, but his dark eyes remained thoughtful and his angular face had a somber cast as he picked up his hat and topcoat.

  He was still thinking about Guy Valliere as he went out. He knew where he should go with the information he had but there was another call he wanted to make first; that is why he drove directly to Bert Carlin’s place and pounded on the door until it opened.

  Carlin looked seedy and hungover as he stood back to let Murdock enter. He looked as if he had washed, but he needed a shave and his hair, what there was of it, was a network of matted strands untouched by any comb. His eyes were bloodshot, his long-jawed face slackly depressed.

  “Hi,” he said listlessly. “Come in.”

  Murdock took in the stockinged feet, the wrinkled shirt, the trousers that looked slept-in. He glanced about the large untidy room which, with a bath and a cubby containing an icebox and a hot-plate, constituted the apartment. The furniture looked third-hand and the daybed was open and mussed.

  “Tough night?”

  “Sort of,” Carlin said.

  “I called the Rendezvous. They said you were drunk. What time did you start?”

  “I don’t know. Around eight, I guess.” Carlin explored a crumpled pack, found a smoke and sank into the nearest chair, the cigarette dangling unlighted from his lips. “Ray hasn’t come back yet.”

  Murdock struck a match and held it to the end of Carlin’s cigarette. He had a folded newspaper in his coat pocket and now he took it out and handed it to Carlin.

  “Page three,” he said. “Near the top.”

  Carlin opened the paper. Murdock could not see his face because of the paper. He could see the edges shake and then the top snapped down and Carlin’s red-rimmed eyes focused on him.

  “Graham,” he whispered. “Somebody got him.”

  “Yeah.” Murdock strolled about the room. “Where were you around nine o’clock?”

  “I don’t know. S
omewhere getting a drink.” Carlin let the newspaper slide to the floor. “But where’s Ray? Graham grabbed her and he’s dead and—”

  The words trailed off forlornly but Murdock was not watching Carlin then; he was looking at the man’s coat which had been stretched across the back of a chair. It hung lopsidedly, as though from some weight on one side, so Murdock explored a pocket and hauled out the revolver Carlin had carried the other night.

  He walked back to the piano player with it. He broke it and tipped five unexploded shells into his palm. He smelled the muzzle, put the shells into his pocket and held the barrel up to the light.

  “It looks clean now,” he said. “Six chambers and five shells.”

  “I read somewhere it was safest to keep the hammer on an empty chamber,” Carlin said and then glanced up, eyes narrowing. “But what the hell is the difference? I didn’t kill him.”

  “The cops may ask you.” Murdock tossed the gun on the bed. “They’ll check this too, just in case.”

  “But look—”

  “You look. Graham grabbed your girl. You got yourself a gun.”

  He hesitated thinking again about the tall man he thought he had seen in the alley behind Graham’s hideout. He did not like the idea much. There were too many things wrong with it. He studied Carlin again, his thoughts a mixture of sympathy and disgust.

  “You’d have been better off checking the hotels in town instead of running around with a gun.”

  “You think that’s where she is? Some hotel?”

  “Where would she be? You got a card, didn’t you? It said she was all right and not to worry.”

  “I got thinking about the card.” Carlin put his cigarette out, his dejection muting his words. “She wrote it but it don’t mean it’s the truth. Suppose somebody held a gun on her and told her what to write. She’d do it, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t you? I got thinking about it last night. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think about checking hotels.”

  “It was only a thought,” Murdock admitted. “Sid Graham never was a killer. He might if he had to, and he threatened me, but I doubt if he’d hurt your girl unless he had to.”

  It was this idea that he himself had clung to when he found Ray Wylie was missing. He had never forgotten that it was his fault that she became involved as a witness against Graham, and there had been times when he was just as worried as Carlin was now. The post card had relieved his mind considerably and though Carlin’s premise, that force could have been used, had merit, the background of Sidney Graham suggested that such force would only come as a last resort. Now Graham was dead. An account of that death was in the morning papers.

  He glanced at his watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after ten. He was about to mention this to Carlin when the telephone rang.

  The piano player got to it in a hurry. He said: “Yeah?” and then something happened to his face and to his voice that tipped off Murdock even before he heard the rest of it.

  “Ray,” Carlin said. “Is that you, Ray? …”

  Murdock tried not to listen to the rest of it. There was something in Carlin’s voice that he had never heard before. In its choked cadence there was joy and gratitude and a lot of other things that Murdock could not put words to. He went over and sat down to stare blankly out the window. He fired a cigarette and sat there until he heard the telephone click in place. When he turned Carlin’s eyes were wet and he was blinking fast though his smile was radiant.

  Murdock felt the impact of the other’s emotion and because it embarrassed him he spoke gruffly. “What did I tell you?” he said.

  “You were right.” Carlin rubbed his hand across his eyes. “She was at a hotel. She just read about Graham in the paper.”

  “Tell me the rest of it. What else did she say?”

  Carlin was already tearing off his shirt. He threw it at the bed, unbuttoned his trousers and stepped out of them. “I got to get cleaned up,” he said. “Come in here.”

  Murdock followed him into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub while Carlin began to shave.

  “Graham and Lee Hammond came and got her that night just like we thought,” Carlin said. “They let her pack a small bag and hustled her out to a car and they scared her plenty. They said if she played ball and did exactly as they said she wouldn’t get hurt; if she crossed Graham in any way he’d have her taken care of.”

  “Where did he take her?”

  “To the Alden Hotel.” Carlin rubbed lather along the line of his jaw. “Graham drove her around the block while Hammond went in and got a room for her under a phony name. He got the key and he also got a post card before he came back and got in the car. Graham knew about Ray and me so he said she could write me and he told her what to say, the idea being he didn’t want me snooping around or going to the cops.”

  He began to scrape with the razor and said: “Well, she wrote what he said and he told her to stay put. He said to have her meals sent up and not to try to phone me or anyone else until she heard from him. He said if she tipped off the cops he’d get to her one way or another and if he couldn’t get her he’d see that I was knocked off. I don’t know all he said but she had to believe him and she did, and now she wants to talk to me before she says anything to the police.”

  He put down the razor, his long face still outlined with lather, and reached for the shower faucets while Murdock got out of the way.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t much help and I’ll be lucky if I’ve still got a job.” He stepped out of his shorts and then paused, one foot over the side of the tub, the other on the floor. “You don’t think I had anything to do with what happened to Graham, do you?”

  Murdock stopped in the doorway. He said why didn’t Carlin go see his girl and worry about other things when the time came. He added that it might also be a good idea if Carlin would stay sober for a couple of days.

  19

  TIMOTHY ORCUTT, Special Agent, had an office high in the customs tower and from his window could be seen the lower harbour, the ocean, and the south shore. He was exploring this scene with a roving gaze when Murdock went in, and he took his time about swiveling his chair into position. His eyes were observant as always under their black brows but his muscular face revealed nothing as he spoke.

  “You got something, or is this just routine?”

  Murdock sat down unasked. He pushed his coat aside and took out the sheet of paper on which he had made his notes.

  “Have you found Valliere?”

  “No.”

  “Got anything new on him?”

  “What do you mean, new?”

  “I don’t know.” Murdock glanced at the paper he held. “But I talked to Paris this morning—a bureau chief I know there has been digging up some things for me—and I thought we might compare notes.”

  “Okay.”

  Murdock grinned. “I said compare. I didn’t mean I’d tell you what I know while you stay buttoned up.”

  Something that might have been amusement flickered in the agent’s eyes. He pushed a button on his desk and when a girl entered he asked for the file on Guy Valliere. When it came he opened it on his desk.

  “All right,” he said. “You first.”

  Murdock began to talk and Orcutt, a pencil in his hand, began to make some notes of his own, not many, but every now and then he would jot something down, or write on one of the papers in the folder. He went through all of these as Murdock continued, saying very little but nodding from time to time.

  “You did all right,” he said when Murdock finished. “For an amateur, that is.” He allowed himself a small smile. “So let’s see what we know about Guy Valliere”—he surveyed Murdock as he paused—“always remembering that all this is off the record and not for publication. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Valliere was born in Brussels like he said, of a Belgian father and a French mother. Let’s start with the mother.” He glanced at his file and mentioned her maiden
name. “Born in Lyons of middle class parents—the father was what we call a civil service employee—and had a sister that we’ve lost track of. She was born in 1899 and that made her around nineteen when she married this American officer in Paris. Whether she actually married the guy or whether it was just put down that way we’re not sure, but the thing we do know is that she had a child by this officer after he had deserted her and come back to the States.”

  “The child was a son.”

  “Right. He would be about thirty now if he were alive but he isn’t. He was killed during the war; in ’42 according to this. The mother died later.… Now about a year or two after this son was born the girl married a Belgian citizen who had a small jewelry business. A year later there was a second son born to the girl—Guy Valliere, which was the old man’s name, and our line on him is pretty clear.”

  “He had a good war record,” Murdock said.

  “Apparently he did. Although he lived most of his life in France and England he beat it back to Belgium when the Nazis started to roll and left with the British at Dunkirk. He fought in North Africa with the Free French and later he was in the French underground and that’s where the jewelry business comes in.”

  Orcutt shuffled some papers and said: “His old man was a small-time jeweler and the boy worked for him before the war so he got to know something about values. Furthermore, it wasn’t only the Germans who grabbed up jewelry when they could; there were plenty of wealthy Frenchmen the underground didn’t like, and a lot of that stuff was confiscated on one pretext or another; sometimes it was plain robbery. Anyway, this countess—her name is in the file somewhere—had these bracelets along with a lot of other things. She lost what she couldn’t hide, and as I told you, she’d already got some of it back.

  “We don’t know if Valliere was the guy who actually stole the stuff but he got his hands on some of it—it could have been turned over to him to dispose of—and our men over there heard he was supposed to have the bracelets. We still can’t prove that he had them but we do know Graham saw him in Havre and that Valliere didn’t have them on him when he came through customs the other day. We know Graham cabled Wilbur Arnold for twenty thousand and was supposed to put ten of his own with it, making thirty thousand dollars he paid out for something that wasn’t on him when he landed.”