Lady Killer

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I disagree.” Valliere gave out with that easy grin and shook his head. “Where there’s life there’s hope, you know. With a little start I think I might make it.” He backed again to the closet and opened the door. “It may be a little crowded in here but there’s room for you all and there’s a key in the door.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Bacon said bluntly. “I’ve got a half dozen men outside right now.”

  “I doubt it. If you had any men outside they would have come in before now. Mrs. Arnold, if you please.”

  He stood back as Ginny moved slowly past him without a word.

  “Just stand back as far as you can,” Valliere directed as the woman entered the closet. “Now, Wilbur. If you’ll be good enough to join your wife.”

  Beside Murdock, Bacon began to move. His face was grim and pink in the cheeks, his eyes determined. He did not actually take a step but he shifted his feet and his weight. Murdock watched Arnold start to obey the order, and apprehension grew swiftly in him now, not because of Arnold but because of what Bacon might do.

  “Look, Valliere,” he said. “The lieutenant’s not kidding. He really has some men outside.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Valliere’s glance was shifting rapidly now as he tried to watch Bacon and Arnold at the same time. “Once I have you all snugly put away I’ll have a look.”

  Arnold was at the closet door. “You’re a fool, Guy,” he said. “There was a time when I might have kept my secret. Now I can’t see that it particularly matters what I do.”

  He spoke without bitterness; or so it appeared. He glanced at Bacon, smiled faintly and then, with what seemed like an effortless but lightning-fast movement, he struck with his cane, a slashing, expertly timed stroke that smashed sharply down on Valliere’s right wrist.

  Murdock was looking right at Arnold when it happened and yet the thing was done before he realized it. One instant the man was talking, his manner poised and confident. In the next, there was this blur of motion, the crack of the cane on flesh and bone, and then the gun was spinning through the air.

  It struck the floor and began to skid across the polished surface before anyone could move. Instantly, as though this was the signal they all waited for, everyone seemed to move at once.

  Valliere cursed softly and reached for the pocket where he had put Bacon’s revolver, but even in the act of reaching he turned. For that skidding gun had spun in Bacon’s direction, coming to a stop not far from Bacon’s feet.

  It was then that Valliere made his choice, and not for a second did he hesitate. He must have realized instinctively where his main chance lay, for he was an intelligent man and the odds were easy to assess. He still tugged at the gun but he saw Murdock start to move, and Bacon stoop for the gun on the floor, and in that same instant he wrenched the door open and darted into the night.

  Arnold stood where he was white-faced and immobile. Bacon scooped up the gun and yelled a warning but Valliere was gone. Murdock beat the lieutenant to the door but not by much. They were on the wide stone landing almost together and Valliere was on the sidewalk turning away from the police car beside which stood two blocky figures.

  One of them yelled a warning—Murdock never knew which one—and Valliere half-turned, his arm up. Then two shots exploded a split-instant apart, the muzzle blasts briefly visible, one from the left and one from the right. As their echoes died Valliere staggered and grabbed at the iron fence paralleling the sidewalk, clinging there as the gun fell from his hand.

  It was all over in a second or two, and for that time Murdock stood where he was and the traffic rolled unconcernedly along the pavement. Then, as if by prearranged signal, brakes squealed and cars skidded to violent stops. Drivers leaned from windows, and farther up the street horns began to blow. At the same time Bacon was running down the steps; so was Murdock.

  He recognized the man who had been standing by Keogh as Tim Orcutt, but he did not turn towards Valliere. He went swiftly to the police car and dragged out his camera and case, his movements automatic and sure as he wound his shutter and checked the film-holder. He was ready for his first picture as Bacon and Orcutt helped the wounded man back along the walk; he took his second shot from the top step as the trio came up, Valliere sagging between the two officers but still on his feet while Keogh brought up the rear. For once there was no complaint from Bacon.

  21

  GUY VALLIERE lost consciousness shortly after he was brought into the Arnold home, and while Keogh was on the telephone getting the official wheels turning Bacon and Orcutt examined the wound in the big man’s chest.

  It happened in the drawing room to the right of the entrance, and when Valliere was stretched on the floor with his coat for a pillow, Arnold ordered his wife from the room and then stood by while Orcutt and Bacon opened vest and trousers. The bullet had entered high in the chest and taken a slight upward course, apparently striking no bone since it passed clear through the torso. There was not much blood and it was Bacon’s opinion that the wound would not prove fatal.

  The search of Valliere’s pockets was perfunctory, for Orcutt was at the time interested only in objects of a certain size. He found what he wanted presently, not in any pocket, but in a money belt strapped to the man’s waist under his shirt. When he extracted the two bracelets and stretched them on the rug, Murdock could understand why they were valued at a quarter of a million dollars, for they were an inch or more in width, of heavy old gold, and thickly studded with diamonds and rubies that caught fire as the overhead light danced from the myriad facets and was reflected with dazzling brilliance.

  Orcutt, when he saw them, said but one word: “Ahh.”

  “So that is what I sent Sidney Graham twenty thousand dollars for,” Wilbur Arnold said quietly. “Well—I must say the man knew his business.”

  Bacon’s sentiments were in line with his profession. “I guess this should wrap it up for sure.”…

  Within a matter of minutes an ambulance came, and with it a police surgeon who made a quick inspection of Valliere and ordered him off to the hospital. By this time Murdock was ready to telephone the paper but when he went back to the library he found Keogh behind the desk. Keogh said no.

  “What do you mean, no?” Murdock said.

  “Bacon’s orders. No phone calls till he says so.”

  Murdock found Bacon and repeated the request. The answer was still no. “You’ve got your pictures,” the lieutenant said. “What more do you want? You can do what you like when we leave but until then there’s no story going to be phoned from here.”

  With that Bacon used the telephone himself. He got the district attorney’s office, talked awhile, hung up. He had a conference with Orcutt, another with Wilbur Arnold, after which Arnold called his personal lawyer and explained the situation. By the time he had finished, his wife, who had disappeared when the ambulance came, walked into the library carrying a tray with Scotch, soda, ice, and glasses.

  This was a strangely subdued Ginny. Against the pale background of her face her eyes were darkly disturbed and she kept them averted as she asked if anyone would like a drink. Bacon and Orcutt, apparently a little surprised at the invitation, refused politely. They seemed embarrassed now that the situation was in hand and Bacon nodded to Keogh, motioning him away from the desk and telephone.

  As they left the room Arnold followed, and now Ginny fixed a drink for herself. “Won’t you join me, Kent?” she asked.

  “Not now, thanks.” Murdock watched her carry her glass to the leather divan and sit down. When she had tasted the drink she glanced up.

  “Will they put him in jail? Wilbur, I mean?”

  Murdock said he did not think so. “It’ll be up to the district attorney but I doubt if there’ll be any charges. They got Valliere, and that’s the main thing.” He went behind the desk and sat down, one hand on the telephone. “Of course if they try Valliere he will probably tell the whole story.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have done it,” she said in a s
mall voice. “I shouldn’t have called you. I—I don’t know why I did.”

  Murdock did not know either, and he had no time to speculate upon the matter because Arnold came back, carrying the hat, coat and cane he had left in the hall. He folded the coat on a straight-backed chair near the door, put the hat and cane on top of it, and then walked to the tray without a word. He poured a half-inch of whisky and took it straight. As he turned away Murdock rose from behind the desk, postponing his telephone call and taking a chair on the other side of the room.

  “Well, why don’t you say something?” Ginny said.

  “I intend to, my dear.” Arnold wiped his lips with a handkerchief and sat down in the desk chair. “You wanted to telephone your paper, Murdock?”

  “It can wait.”

  “Good. Because I’d like to talk to you.” He tucked the handkerchief in his breast pocket and patted it. “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you know about these murders. You were there right after Harry Felton was killed; you happened along the same way last night when Sidney Graham was murdered. All I really know is what I’ve read in the papers, but you’ve followed the case closely.”

  “I didn’t happen along last night,” Murdock said, and then he told about his campaign to find Graham and how the circulation department had cooperated.

  Arnold listened carefully, rubbing the tips of his fingers together and making no attempt to interrupt until Murdock had finished.

  “There’s no doubt, is there,” he said, “that Valliere took the bracelets from Graham?”

  “None in my mind.”

  “But the police were wrong in assuming that Graham killed Harry Felton.”

  “Apparently,” Murdock said. “But just what they do think is something they neglected to tell me. They wanted Valliere and they got him.” He paused and said: “Why don’t you ask Lieutenant Bacon about it?”

  “I tried to.” Arnold shrugged. “I thought he and I might discuss the matter privately but he said he had to be at the hospital when Valliere recovered consciousness.”

  It took Murdock a moment to understand that Keogh and Bacon had left the house, for he had not heard the front door open and close and he had assumed that the lieutenant would announce his departure. Now a feeling of annoyance came to him until his common sense told him that Bacon was doing just what any good cop would do: stick with the man who could give him the most answers. He put his hands on the chair arms and would have risen had not Arnold questioned him again.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said I’d be grateful if you’d help me get things straight,” Arnold said. “That is, if you’re not too pressed for time … You still think that Valliere was the man whose silhouette you saw in the alley?” he asked when Murdock hesitated.

  “Yes.”

  “Well”—Arnold spread his hands, replaced his fingertips—“then since Valliere took the bracelets from Graham it would seem that he also killed him.”

  “It would seem so,” Murdock said, his hands still on the chair arms, “but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

  A look of annoyance flickered in Arnold’s eyes. “But according to the theory held by this customs man—”

  “Orcutt.”

  “Yes. Well, according to Orcutt’s theory, Valliere sold the bracelets to Graham and followed him over here hoping, should Graham be successful in smuggling them in—which he was—that he could later steal them back. Valliere did just this.”

  “Sure,” Murdock said. “But why should Valliere kill Graham?”

  “Why—to get the bracelets.”

  “Graham had a bump on his head. The medical examiner thinks he was slugged before he was shot and that he probably lost consciousness, at least temporarily.” Murdock leaned forward emphasizing his words. “If this is so, then Valliere had no reason to kill Graham because Graham was dealing in smuggled goods and couldn’t squawk.”

  Arnold frowned. “You’re saying that Valliere struck Graham, took the bracelets, and that later someone came in and killed him.”

  “No,” Murdock said. “I only said that if Valliere slugged him for the bracelets he had no need to kill.”

  “I’m sorry.” Arnold sighed resignedly. “I’m afraid I can’t follow you.”

  Murdock hesitated while he put his thoughts in order. They gave him some trouble because there were so many of them and it was hard to know just where to start. It occurred to him that Bacon was the man who should be doing the talking. But—and this annoyed him again—Bacon wasn’t here. Bacon was at the hospital, interested at the moment only in Guy Valliere, and now, on impulse more than anything else, but realizing that this might be his best chance to test his own theory, to get some information that might otherwise be difficult to uncover, he leaned back in the chair.

  “When Felton was killed,” he said, starting at the beginning because he wanted to make himself clear, “the police settled for Sidney Graham because I had seen his car, and Rachel Wylie had seen him enter the apartment building about the right time. And the police have their own way of working, Mr. Arnold. In some cases they prefer not to arrest a suspect until they have the evidence pretty well in hand. But when there is a way of holding such a suspect, even when the case isn’t too complete, they usually grab him and worry about details later. It was that way with Graham, with one difference—Graham walked out of headquarters because the police got their signals crossed and gave him the chance.

  “Until Graham was found murdered they had a theory that Graham and Lee Hammond beat up Felton to get the bracelets, and that later when Felton put on a robe he came at them with a knife which was turned against him. Later, when Valliere came into the picture I think they discarded that theory, but at the time I knew some things the police did not know, and I never was sold on the premise that Graham, once he got the bracelets from Felton, would hang around long enough for Felton to put on a robe and come at him with a knife.”

  “And who did you suspect?”

  “No one in particular,” Murdock said. “It was just that I happened to learn that there were others who had it in for Felton. One was Louis Tremaine,” he said, and went on to explain the things Elsie Russell had told him about the Frenchman and his purpose for coming to Boston. “I was wrong about that, and in any case Tremaine had a perfect alibi for the murder of Graham … Bert Carlin was another one I considered,” he said.

  “Harry Felton broke up Carlin’s marriage.” He glanced at Ginny who sat quite still on the divan, the glass still in her hand. “You know about that, Mr. Arnold, but what you may not know is that Carlin fell in love with Rachel Wylie only to discover that Felton had been working on her just as he worked on Ginny many years ago.”

  “I take it you finally eliminated him too,” Arnold said dryly.

  “Finally, yes. And when Graham was killed I had to consider Lee Hammond—until he came to search my apartment. That told me he didn’t have the bracelets.”

  “Yes, I see.” Arnold stifled a yawn. “Which brings us right back to Guy Valliere. Or is there still someone else?”

  “There’s your wife, Mr. Arnold.”

  “Ginny!” Arnold sat up, his thin, patrician face startled. “What utter rot! What possible connection could she have with Felton’s death?”

  “She had quite a lot to do with it.”

  “Kent!”

  The word came on a rising scale, an outraged sound, but Murdock was not looking at Ginny Arnold now; he was intent on something that fitted perfectly the pattern that had been growing in his mind. For another moment he sat quite still, held by the pressure of his thoughts, feeling an odd chill pass through him though the room was warm. He did not hear Arnold’s reply, but presently he stirred, addressing the man though his eyes were still focused across the room.

  “There was no connection between Graham and Felton in the beginning, Mr. Arnold. Graham could not radio Felton because he did not know him well enough to propose that Felton do some smuggling for him. Graham went to your
wife, Mr. Arnold. He knew a newspaper man was the answer to his smuggling problem, and he knew that your wife had been in love with Felton.”

  Arnold’s denial was quick and emphatic. “I don’t believe it.”

  Murdock ignored the interruption. He did not like what he was about to do but he knew of no other way. For the things that Ginny had told him in confidence could no longer be held back. It was too late to worry about the moral values involved and so he went ahead, going over the points that he and Ginny had discussed the night before when she was at his apartment, hearing her accusations as she tried to stop him but keeping on until he had finished. He forced himself to meet Arnold’s gaze. He said:

  “Ten thousand dollars was the price she agreed on. Because you’re old-fashioned in your speech and dress and manner, in the way you treat your wife.” He paused to glance about, feeling again the strange, almost decadent atmosphere of the room just as he had done the other morning. “She had no money of her own and she wanted some and this was a chance to get it. That’s what she told me, Mr. Arnold.”

  He went on quickly: “People involved in murder seldom tell the truth if they can help it. Sometimes they lie convincingly and it’s pretty hard to trip them up unless they go too far or try to speak of things about which they have only a limited knowledge. I told you before that in the case of Valliere there were two possibilities: the one the police have thus far accepted—that Valliere killed Graham to get the bracelets—and mine, which says Graham was killed for an entirely different motive. I think the same applies to Ginny’s story.”

  Arnold was watching his wife, his thin face tight and the fingers of one hand drumming nervously on the desk. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I still can’t follow you.”

  Murdock flexed his shoulders to ease the growing stiffness in his back. He felt the pull of tension on him; he felt as if he had been talking for hours. He swallowed to moisten his throat so he could continue.

  “It’s very simple,” he said. “Either she’s telling the truth, or she isn’t. If she isn’t—and I think it’s time we considered that possibility—we have a motive that hadn’t occurred to the police, or to me either—until the last couple of hours.”