Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  Then Nason knew who it was.

  He saw a gray, thin face, drum-tight and shiny with agony and perspiration. Thick-lensed glasses gleamed brightly in the room’s lights, like twin mirrors. Behind them Nate Fallon’s eyes were clouded and unseeing, while a crimson trickle bubbled from a corner of his twisted mouth, staining the chin.

  It was over very quickly—too quickly. Nason tried to put down his amazement so he could think. He wanted to say something but found no words, no time.

  Fallon rocked drunkenly on his widespread feet. He said, “He tried to—” and then the bubbling was louder, rising in his throat to choke back the words that followed. He put out a clenched fist as if to fend off some unseen danger. Then his head rolled forward, his knees buckling as his body started to sag, the gray hat falling crazily.

  Nason caught him as the knees touched the floor. For a moment he held the man, trying to prop him up. Then, feeling the body go slack and the full weight of it come down against him, he knew it was no use to hold on longer and put one foot behind him, pulling back and lowering Fallon gently to the floor, turning him as he did so that he might lie on his back. He saw then that the eyes were open and staring; the crimson stain at the mouth had stopped bubbling. Finally, in one last, lifeless gesture, the clenched hand rolled from the chest to the floor and lay still.

  The sound of a radio, faint but distinct, forced itself into Nason’s consciousness, and some remote part of his brain translated the sound and made him wonder why he had not heard it before. He became aware of other things and forced himself to look up. He saw then that the hall door was still open. He saw Linda standing there beside it, her cheeks chalky and her lashes wide with shock and incredulity.

  He pushed up from his knees and walked to the door. When he closed it the radio was quiet. He took the girl’s arm. It was stiff and unyielding, and he shook it gently until she looked at him.

  “Jerry,” she said, her voice shaky. “What’s the matter with him?”

  Nason had seen many men die in action. He had photographed others, civilians who had died violently. He had seen too many to be mistaken now, but he did not want to say so.

  “I don’t know. You’d better sit down.”

  He put more pressure on her arm, and she moved unprotestingly to a chair, her gaze on him now, waiting for some other answer.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said as she sank into the chair.

  Nason said he’d find out and left her there. He knelt again beside Nate Fallon and took one limp wrist in his hand. There was no pulse now, and he unbuttoned the blue topcoat and then the blue suit coat. There was no mark of any kind here so he turned the body slightly, holding it on one side while he glanced at the back. The dark stain here and the two tiny breaks in the fabric told him that the slugs were still in Fallon’s body.

  “Yes,” he said. “Somebody shot him in the back.”

  He pushed back on his haunches and tried to think while he examined the dead man, not looking at the face but at the clothing and the angles the body made on the floor. He noticed again the clenched hand, and obeying some intuitive impulse, he reached for it.

  It rested knuckle down and limp upon the rug, and by holding the wrist with one hand, he had no trouble opening the fingers. Behind him Linda’s hushed voice said, “What is it, Jerry?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and now, leaning across the body, he opened the fingers still more, and something green and glistening spilled out on the rug, followed by a second and a third object like the first.

  Unable yet to see quite what they were, he opened the fingers wide and found three rectangular green stones resting in the palm, still warm with body heat. He picked them out with nervous fingers; he pushed the hand aside to get at the stones on the rug, no longer thinking but acting automatically.

  Then he had them all. Six brilliant dark-green stones, identical in size, shape, and color. He pushed back, squatting like a Hindu fakir, breath held, feeling Linda beside him now, kneeling down, her face looking over his shoulder and close to his.

  Chapter Eight

  THE ROOM WAS STILL NOW, and Jerry Nason heard no sound but the thudding of his pulse. For perhaps ten seconds he stared blankly at the green stones in his palm, feeling Linda’s presence but not hearing her breathe. He saw that his hand was trembling and had a curious desire to laugh at this display of nerves and weakness.

  He let his breath out and gulped another quickly. He swallowed the dryness from his throat, and the stiff immobility of his body began to ease its grip so that he became aware of his cramped position and aching muscles. He moved his shoulders and shifted his weight, and some of the tension in his chest went away as he turned and saw Linda’s face six inches from his own and felt her breath upon his cheek.

  “Jerry,” she said, her voice a whisper. “They look like the stones in my bracelet.”

  Nason stood up, giving Linda his hand and pulling her with him. “Yes,” he said, and put the stones on the table under the light. He arranged them, one next to the other, and saw that they were indeed identical in size, rectangular, step-cut stones of fiery green.

  “We’ll have to call the police,” Linda said.

  Nason did not reply. He was thinking now, trying to fashion some plausible sequence from the disordered confusion in his mind. Glancing about the room as he tried to concentrate, his eye fell on the table lamp in front of him. It had a pointed, ornamental top that unscrewed when he put pressure on it, revealing a conical hollow space an inch in diameter and twice as deep.

  “We don’t have to tell the police about these,” he said, putting the stones in the opening and replacing the top. “Unless you want to—not until we find out what this is all about.”

  Not waiting for her answer, he went to his suitcase, opened it, and took out a small camera and flash unit. He inserted a bulb and adjusted shutter and focus as he looked down at Nate Fallon.

  “Why, Jerry?” Linda said.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and this was the truth. For he was acting upon a habit that still remained from his newspaper days, a habit based upon the theory that you could never tell when a picture might be helpful, that the time to take one was when you had the chance, lest the opportunity be wasted.

  Light exploded in the room as he pressed the shutter release. He put the camera back in his bag and tucked the used flashbulb in his pocket. Then, moved by the same impulse that prompted him to take the picture, he stepped back to the body and went to one knee while he slipped his hand inside the open suit coat. There was a wallet here, and he brought it out, finding in one of the compartments several business cards imprinted with the name: Norman Franks, and a west-side address. Removing one of the cards, he handed it to Linda while he replaced the wallet. She read the name aloud.

  “Norman Franks,” she said. “Nate Fallon. What does it mean, Jerry?”

  “Read the address. That’s only three blocks from here,” he said when she obeyed. Then, still goaded by the original impulse, he forced his hand into the man’s trousers pocket, hearing the girl’s protest but keeping at it until he pulled forth a ring of keys.

  He rose and took the card from her, and, understanding now what was in his mind, she said, “Suppose the police find out?”

  “Let’s hope they won’t,” he said. “I can be over there and back in fifteen minutes. The police’ll never know the difference.”

  You hope, he thought, remembering other times when he had worked with the police in Boston. In those days he had helped when he could, knowing that such cooperation paid off in favors and pictures. He remembered others who had tried to outsmart the police only to wind up with nothing but regrets for their trouble, and he did not kid himself about the risk he was taking.

  With luck he would be back as he had said, knowing something about Franks—or Fallon—and the authorities would be none the wiser. If he called them now he would have no chance of getting into Fallon’s place, and there was little likelihood that he could disc
over what was behind all this. Once the police took over, they would be asking questions, not offering information, and so it came down to a very simple proposition—take a chance and perhaps find out what Fallon had been up to and why he had been murdered, or sit back and forget the whole business.

  “I think it’s worth a try,” he said. He tossed the keys up and caught them. He took her hand and grinned as he pressed it reassuringly. “We’ll call the cops the minute I get back.”

  He went to the door, closing his mind against the trouble he saw in the girl’s face. “Don’t open this for anybody but me,” he said. “Promise?”

  “All right,” she said. “If you’ll promise to hurry—and be careful.”

  She watched the door close and heard Nason try it to make sure it was locked. The sound of his steps faded quickly, and then the room was still again. She took a cigarette from the box on the end table and lit it, her back to the still figure on the floor.

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she put the match away. Her nerves remained edged, and traces of fear remained in the background of her thoughts now that she was alone. There was even a momentary thrust of anger because of the things Jerry Nason had done and the way he had left her, until, remembering the six green stones and what had happened before, she could understand why he had acted as he had. For this murder had a background of danger that had its roots in the past, and presently she was forced to admit that she was as anxious as Nason to find the true explanation of these things that had been happening to her.

  It was silly, she told herself, to be afraid now. The door was locked, and she was quite safe here. Presently Jerry would be back, and they could let the police take over. She glanced at her watch, wondering how long he had been gone. She moved over to the lamp, touching its ornamental top but making no effort to unscrew it as doubt and uncertainty began again to close in on her. Suppose they were real emeralds that Fallon—or Franks—had stolen? Suppose he had taken them from her bracelet and the theft had been discovered by someone who had known their worth?

  She shook the thought from her, reminding herself that this was impossible since it would mean that her mother was involved. She tried to think back to the period following her father’s death. There had, she knew, never been much money. The insurance he left was insufficient to live on indefinitely, but there were a few stocks, which, of little value then, had increased in price so that by selling a few shares from time to time, her mother found ways to manage until, she, Linda, was able to work. She remembered how her mother had tried to augment her small resources by writing stories and articles for some of the smaller magazines. She had, in fact, sold an occasional piece and was always working on some manuscript that would be sold—she thought—or a fancy price and thereby launch her properly into the literary spotlight.

  She put her cigarette out and moved to the window, glancing once again at her wrist watch. Four minutes had passed since her last look, and she visualized the crosstown street and the location of Fallon’s address, knowing that Nason must already have reached it. She shivered unconsciously while she wondered what he was doing, and then, still watching absently the street below and the opposite sidewalk, she heard the sound in the hall.

  In the silence of the night she often heard the faint hum of the elevator in operation, and it may have been this that first attracted her attention. She was not conscious of this now, but she was suddenly aware of the muted but distinct sound of someone’s steps.

  She turned toward the door, listening hard, counting the steps, hearing them stop. Then the quiet in the room exploded, and there was no sound but the angry drone of the buzzer.

  She took a step toward the door before she realized what she was doing; then, as the buzzer stopped and knuckles drummed lightly on the panel, some premonition of danger engulfed her, and she stopped, stiffening into immobility, her gaze frightened and fixed.

  She knew, somehow, that this was not Jerry. She wondered if something had changed his mind and he had hurried back without carrying out his intention. She wanted to call out, to ask who was there, but her throat was constricted and she could make no sound.

  For a second or two she stood that way, that awful tightness in her face and in her heart; then, before her horrified gaze, she saw the knob turn slowly to the left. She watched it stop and could hear, it seemed, the pressure being applied to the door as the caller tried to open it.

  As silently as before the knob turned back.

  Three seconds ticked by in deadly silence while her imagination rioted and an icy finger slid swiftly up her spine and spread across her back.

  She waited, breath bated, held by some horrible fascination she could not resist. When another second ticked by and nothing happened, she listened for some sign that would tell her the intruder had gone. Instead, she heard the unmistakable metallic sound of a key being inserted into the lock.

  Terror struck at her then, releasing her mind and her muscular paralysis. A silent sob rose in her throat. Then panic came upon the heels of her terror, giving her new strength, and, hardly knowing what she was doing, she found herself running across the room, away from the door and into the little hall.

  She fled along its semidarkness, and it had never been so long. She did not hear the key again, for there seemed to be no sound but the hammering of her heart, and now her fear told her that she would never reach the kitchen, that she would never have the strength to cross it and get the window open.

  But she was still running, with the cold vacuum in her breast and her throat dry, and then, somehow, she had the window open and was climbing through to the grilled-iron platform of the fire escape.

  The night was all about her now and the breeze that swirled up the alley and between the buildings was cold, like her hands, as she moved away from the window and drew herself toward the yawning hole that opened on the ladder. Below her the blackness stretched to the alley floor. She could not see where the ladder went but concentrated on the first few steps, lowering herself through the hole in the platform, feeling the iron rung under her instep, and then the next one, and the one after that.

  The steel was cold against her palms, and rough with paint and rust. She told herself she must not trip or catch her heels. In her concentration she forgot to worry about what was below her, and now, finding a second grated platform beneath her feet, she caught her breath, heart hammering, knowing that this was the last stop.

  Not waiting, she lowered herself through the hole and down the few remaining rungs, seeing vaguely the floor of the alley and coming now to the end of the ladder. No longer thinking, she managed to get her knees on the last rung. She glanced down and a fit of trembling seized her because the ground seemed so hopelessly remote. Then, the fear still driving her, hanging hard to the last two rungs and with one hand on each, she pushed her knees off into space.

  She got both hands on the last rung. For a second she dangled there, feeling a nebulous hysteria reaching for her until she fortified herself against it. Waiting until her body hung straight down, she let go and fell giddily through the blackness, a sob in her throat.

  Jerry Nason found the address without trouble, a narrow doorway sandwiched in between a cheap lunch room and an electric-appliance shop, now dark. There was no light in the vestibule, and he struck a match to look at the directory nailed to one wall, finding the name Norman Franks lettered there with five others; opposite the name were the figures 202.

  Somewhere above a light burned dimly, and Nason climbed wooden stairs that had been hollowed out by years of use and creaked protestingly under his weight. At the second-floor landing he saw that the light came from a floor above and went quietly along the hall until he found the number he wanted.

  He had the keys in his hand now, and, after leaning close to inspect the lock, he selected two that looked as though they would fit. The first one did the job, and he stepped quickly into the blackness beyond, closing the door behind him before flipping the light switch.

  He sa
w, in the rays of the green-shaded bulb that dangled from the ceiling, that he was in a small room with one window, two chairs, and a battered typewriter desk. An open doorway on the right led to an adjacent office, and, after a quick glance about, he crossed to this, located another switch, and turned it on, finding himself in a long, narrow room much larger than the first.

  In the corner to his left, near the window, was an ancient roll-top desk. Running along the opposite wall were a sink and a series of benches with wall cabinets above them; down the middle of the room was another long bench on which were a small lathe, a power drill, several vises, and racks containing a wide variety of precision tools.

  With the keys still in his hand, Nason stepped to the desk. When he found it locked, he tried his keys until he found one that worked, and, having rolled back the top, he was able to open the drawers, the center one first, then the top right-hand drawer. That was as far as he got; that made the trip worthwhile. For in this drawer were three pieces of costume jewelry, and the first glance was enough to tell him they were Linda’s.

  He had an idea now as to what constituted the real profession of Norman Franks, and his first impulse was to continue his search and confirm his suspicions. It occurred to him that he might even find some evidence that would point to the person who had killed Franks, but he knew that this was a police job. He had never felt any inclination to play the detective and had come here merely to get some idea as to what was behind the masquerade that Nate Fallon had assumed. He had not expected any such luck and he remembered his promise to Linda Courtney. It seemed now that the important thing was to get back to her and let the police take over. He did not know yet how much he should tell them, but it was best to take the jewelry and get out. When he had talked things over with Linda, he would know more what to do.

  A glance at his watch told him he had been gone ten minutes in all, and so he closed the desk, making sure it was locked, turned off the light, and walked into the anteroom. Because he did not want to step out and perhaps run into someone in the building who might remember him, he turned off the light here before he moved to the door.