Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  She went on to describe a routine of picture taking that was similar to the first assignment, and Nason paid slight attention to her words, because the resentment was building in him now and it was hard to keep it buried. What made it worse was that her outward guilelessness and easy manner were so deftly done that he would have certainly believed her had he not remembered what she had done to him and realized what she was after.

  To keep busy he went to his desk, took out his checkbook, and pushed a pad of release forms toward her, asking her to fill one out and sign it.

  “You’re a fifteen-an-hour girl, aren’t you?” he said, glancing at his watch. “Fifty-two, fifty, right?”

  She nodded as she signed the release and went on as though there had been no interruption. “And then the next day—Friday,” she said, they came to my place and asked me if I knew a photographer in Boston. They said they had a client in Attleboro. They didn’t want to go to some big studio, but if I knew a one-man studio that would not be too expensive they would phone up and make arrangements.”

  She accepted his check, folded it absently. “I thought of you right off,” she said, “but I was a little worried by that time and I phoned Mr. Carson and told him what they had said.”

  “But not what you had on your mind.”

  “No. Because—” she hesitated with some embarrassment—“well, because it seemed so silly.”

  Yeah, Nason thought, very silly indeed.

  “When Mr. Carson said he thought it would be all right to go,” Linda said, “I told Mr. Fallon about you. Later he called back and said he’d made a date, and so this morning we came.”

  Nason nodded. He picked up the necklace and examined it more closely, running his finger over the green stones, which were graduated in size, nine in all, and ranging from around two or three carats to the center stone whose weight he could not even estimate.

  He inspected the necklace and brooch, finding the same green stones here, though in the bracelet they were evenly matched and in the brooch there were two medium-sized ones and a large stone in the middle. All three pieces looked heavy and were—not, he realized, because of the metalwork which was thin and fragile-looking, but because of the very weight of the stones.

  “Why,” said Linda, “should they want so many pictures of me? And always with the costume jewelry? Why would a manufacturer want photographs of these particular pieces?”

  Nason shrugged. He had been listening without much interest, his thoughts elsewhere.

  “Maybe he wants to copy them. Have they any value? They’re not real gem stones, are they?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “They’re imitations, naturally—glass, I suppose.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite. They were my mother’s. When I first started to model, before I went into the Red Cross, I wanted to wear them on a job once, and she wouldn’t let me. She said they were altogether too cheap to be photographed in. As a matter of fact, she wouldn’t let me wear them on the street.”

  “What comes next?”

  She stared at him.

  “It’s not enough,” he said, determined now to say what he thought and get it over with. “Not for a story. No newspaper would buy that as it is. There’s no sock, no topper.”

  He heard her catch her breath, saw her stiffen, her eyes wide open and bewildered. “Oh!” she said, her voice hushed. “You don’t believe me?”

  “What did you expect?” he said flatly.

  “But—” She paused, and for a moment the bewilderment was still in her face. A spot of color grew around each cheekbone, and she moistened her lips and tried again. “But why should I make it up? What reason would I have to—”

  “The same reason you broke a date with me to have dinner with that guy in New York. I hope he was a big operator—”

  She cut in on him before he finished. “So that’s it!” she said, and now all bewilderment had gone and her eyes were bright with scorn. “I thought there must be something wrong.” She laughed abruptly but there was no humor in her tone. “We didn’t have a date,” she said. “I said I’d phone you at your hotel and I did.”

  “Oh, sure,” Nason said.

  “I left word I could meet you at ten, but when I called back they said you’d checked out.”

  “Right,” said Nason, remembering the camellia and how he had waited in his room until nine o’clock, thinking and drinking himself into a mood that grew blacker with each passing minute. “I checked out. I happened to get a look at you and your big operator having dinner and I figured if that was the kind of publicity you wanted—”

  “As a matter of fact, he was a big operator.” Linda’s face was pale and set now, and her chin was up. “And if you had come over to the table instead of running off—”

  She stopped as someone knocked at the door. Nason hesitated as her gaze wavered and slid away. When the knock was repeated he stepped past her and opened the door; then he stopped still and stared at the man in the hall.

  He was not tall but he was thickly built, with a jut-jawed face and not much neck. He wore a stained and dirty hat with the brim snapped down, and his coat was blue and shiny at the seams. Dark glasses obscured his eyes, and Nason had no time for further inspection because he was suddenly aware of the short-barreled revolver which was pointed right at his stomach.

  “Back up, bud!” the man said. “And stay quiet!”

  Chapter Three

  IN THAT FIRST MOMENT of surprise and shock Jerry Nason stood rigid and tight-nerved, seeing only the gun and the ugly hole in the muzzle. But the voice helped him think again, and now, as he backed slowly from the door, the tightness went away and he was relaxed and at ease, his blue eyes darkly brooding.

  He watched the man close the door, seeing now the flattened nose and the way the right ear had been beaten into what is sometimes called a “cauliflower.” The man advanced slowly, and Nason retreated, glancing at Linda, who stood by the table, a new paleness in her cheeks and the fingers of one hand pressed against the line of her jaw. Her lashes were high and it seemed to Nason that she was doing a good job of looking scared.

  “Keep backing!” the gunman said. “You, too, lady. And stay quiet!”

  Linda moved away from the table, still watching the gun. Nason was even with her now, and as he retreated with her he saw the man’s head cock.

  A quick step brought him to the table. He reached for the necklace and stuffed it in his pocket. Still intent upon Nason, he groped for the bracelet and brooch and put them with the necklace.

  “Okay,” he said. “Just stay there and be smart.” He began to back toward the door. When he reached it he felt behind him for the knob, opened it, started through. He waved the gun once before he closed the door. He said, “Stick your head in the hall and I’ll blast it off!”

  The door closed, and silence swept the studio. Nason glanced slantwise at the girl, and after a second or two she let her breath come out. He saw her swallow—she was looking at him now—and let her fingers slip from her jaw, the hand swinging down. There was a chair close by, and she turned toward it. “Well,” she said weakly and sank into it.

  Nason lit a cigarette and stepped in front of the chair, eying her narrowly and with a certain perverse amusement. “He sure knew what to look for, didn’t he?” he said.

  “What?”

  “I figured there would be a snapper somewhere,” he said. “And rather neat, too.”

  “What?” Linda was sitting up now, lips parted and incredulity clouding her gaze. “What did you say?”

  Nason went on as though he had not heard. “I guess the next step—you hope—is for me to call the Bulletin and get one of my reporter friends down here—with a camera.” He laughed abruptly. “You know, it might make page three at that, and the tabloids should do even better for you. With plenty of cheesecake and your looks the New York sheets might even pick up the story.”

  No longer seeing the girl but building up the idea in his mind and a little
pleased with himself for spotting her story as a phony in the first place, he said, “Of course it’s not exactly original. We used to get them all the time at the Bulletin. Actresses and movie stars and models are always losing priceless heirlooms or getting held up or some such thing. But we might get a story out of it at that.” He grunted softly. “I’m a little surprised that you didn’t say what you wanted in the first place and—”

  The girl’s voice cut in on him, cool and controlled. “I see,” she said. “You think I made this up?”

  He gave her his attention, seeing the stiffness in her lips and the frosty glint in her eyes. It annoyed him to think that she should maintain this attitude, and he said so.

  “Cut it out!” he said. “The thing is too pat. Who but you and Fallon and Irma Heath knew the pieces of jewelry would be here? How would an itinerant stick-up man know about them? Why should he pick this particular time and why should he be interested in jewelry that by your own admission has no value?”

  He would have said more if she hadn’t jumped up and whirled away from him. He had to stretch his legs to get to the dressing-room door ahead of her.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

  She looked him up and down and took her time about it. The fury in her stare jolted him a little, and when she answered him he hardly recognized her voice.

  “I’m going to get dressed,” she said. “That will take me about three minutes. Then I’m getting out of here.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Oh?”

  “You started this, and we’re going to play it out.” “Are we?”

  “We were held up, weren’t we? You lost some jewelry, didn’t you?” He hesitated and now he was nearly as angry as she was. “I don’t know whether you figure on reporting it later or not, but, to be sure, I’m reporting it to the police right now.”

  She caught her breath. She said, with all the contempt in the world, “You—you’re despicable!” But she made no move. She stood right where she was while Jerry Nason went to the telephone and asked for police headquarters.

  Detective Sergeant Murray was a tall, unexcitable man with a lot of thick black hair and more patience than most of his colleagues. Nason had asked for him over the telephone because he had known Murray in his Bulletin days and preferred to have the investigation in the hands of a friend rather than to have it handled in the routine manner of most cases. Now, arriving with a plain-clothes man Nason did not know, Murray shook hands and asked how it was going and what about the holdup.

  Nason told the story as it happened. Murray listened attentively, making notes from time to time, and when he had the details of the robbery down he turned to Linda Courtney.

  “What sort of jewelry was it, Miss Courtney?”

  “It wasn’t jewelry, really,” she explained. “They were costume pieces.”

  She went on to describe them, and Nason sat back and listened vaguely, taking the opportunity to inspect her while she was busy with Murray. She had the green suit on now and the beanie, and she was very poised and assured—so much so that for the first time a trace of doubt appeared in his consciousness.

  Not meaning to, he found himself speculating on the softness of her skin and curve of her mouth. He liked the way her brows arched above the gray eyes and the way she held her head. When, finally, he realized what she was doing to him and felt again that warm tingle of excitement in his blood, he brought his mind resolutely back to the matter at hand.

  The sergeant was saying, “And you’re sure the pieces had no value?” And then Linda was telling him the same things she told Nason, the repetition making the story even less convincing. As though realizing this, a certain note of defiance crept into her voice as she answered Murray’s questions.

  How, he wanted to know, would anyone know the pieces were to be here in the studio on this particular day? Why should anyone steal something of no great value? Who were the couple who had arranged for the appointment, and where could they be reached?

  Linda did not know but said that probably the Carson Agency would have the address of Nate Fallon and Irma Heath; she told Murray how Carson could be reached. The sergeant nodded and glanced at Nason with an expression that said, “You wouldn’t kid me, would you, pal?”

  Aloud he said, “Funny, huh? What did the thug look like?”

  Nason told him.

  Murray closed his notebook and stood up. “Let’s go, Joe,” he said to his companion. “I’ll get the word out on the guy,” he said to Nason. “If he tries to pawn the stuff we’ll probably nail him. If you think of anything else that might help, Miss Courtney,” he added as he opened the door, “you’d better get in touch with me.”

  Linda stood up and smoothed down her suit. Not looking at Nason she walked to the dressing-room door, reached inside, and picked up her hatbox.

  “I suppose,” she said, still not looking at him, “that it’s all right for me to go now.”

  Nason got his hat and topcoat from the rack in the corner and met her at the hall door. “I’ll go with you,” he said and switched off the lights.

  She said nothing as they went along the hall, but when he reached for the hatbox she tried to pull it away. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said.

  He had hold of the handle now, his hand touching hers. She inched hers away but she hung on, and they continued that way down the stairs and found the corner to, Atlantic Avenue. Nason said nothing more, and after a half block she let go of the handle and walked along, heels clicking faintly above the traffic sounds, her small chin high as they crossed Dewey Square and joined the late commuters who were funneling into the station entrance and slapping their way through the glass doors.

  “You can make the seven-o’clock,” Nason said. “Have you got your ticket?”

  He might as well have been talking to himself but he kept step with her and waited while she stopped at the Western Union counter and wrote out a message. Then they were walking again, past the ticket windows to the lunchroom. She went inside, and he followed. There were plenty of empty stools, and when she selected one he was able to sit next to her. When the waitress stopped in front of them, Linda said, “Coffee, please,” and he said, “Two.”

  She was glancing about the room now, completely oblivious of him, and after a few seconds of this he said, “You’re sore, aren’t you?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  The waitress brought the coffee. Linda refused sugar and cream. Nason tried to sip his and burned his tongue, though this did not bother him nearly so much as the worry that had begun to mushroom through his chest. He did not know why, nor could he think what had started it. It was more than her being angry with him, because she had been angry for the past hour and he had not started to worry until just recently—until he had begun to think with reasonableness and no prejudice. He tried again.

  “So was I when you came,” he said. “I kept thinking about you and—” He stopped and turned on the stool. “Look, will you tell me the truth about just one thing?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “I’ll believe it. Will you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you really call my hotel that night?”

  That did it. She turned, inspecting him coolly but with some surprise. “At ten minutes of six,” she said.

  Nason groaned, propped an elbow on the counter and clasped his forehead. “I got in at six,” he said. “There was no message in my box and I went upstairs and waited—until nearly nine. I went over to Twenty-One for another drink and something to eat, and saw you with this guy and—”

  “Naturally,” she finished, “you wouldn’t want to give me the benefit of the doubt. That was Albert Wylie,” she added matter-of-factly.

  Nason groaned again, softly, not because he recognized the name and knew Wylie probably sold more expensive jewelry to people in New York than any one man in the business, but because he had made himself miserable for a week by jumping to con
clusions. Then, the worry having started, it rapidly grew worse when he remembered what had happened that afternoon. He recalled the things he had said, and presently he was remembering how she had talked to Sergeant Murray, not with embarrassment or any outward show of guilt —though she knew how improbable her story must sound—but forthrightly, with spirit and determination.

  He sat up suddenly as he saw where his thoughts were leading him. If she had told the truth, if the robbery was legitimate and not a publicity stunt—His mind hung there and he could think no more. He heard her speaking and brought himself to listen.

  “I had dinner with him because I thought it was important,” she said. “I told the message clerk that I would call you later, and I told Mr. Wylie when I accepted the invitation that I had another date and would have to leave before ten.” She paused, and her mouth twisted.

  “Imagine!” she said. “Imagine my taking up his time trying to line up some business for you!” She pushed her cup away and glanced at her watch. She said, “Oh!” and jumped up, reaching for the check the waitress had punched.

  Nason grabbed it. By that time Linda had the hatbox and was dashing for the door to the concourse. She had a good lead. She was pushing through the door before he could start for the cashier and when he reached the counter he had no change. He found a five-dollar bill and slapped it down, seeing Linda running toward the train gate and the uniformed man who was looking down at his watch.

  And then, standing there, telling the cashier that he would be back for his change, Jerry Nason saw something else.

  Thirty feet from the gate and leaning against the wrought-iron barrier that separated the train sheds from the concourse, a man stepped forward, snapping down the paper he had been reading and starting to run as Linda went through the opening.