Fashioned for Murder

by George Harmon Coxe

  It was a good thing he did.

  For as he stood there in the darkness, his hand on the knob and listening to make sure no one was in the hall, he heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs and knew at once that they were coming up.

  It did not bother him then because he expected them to continue on to the floor above, but when, a moment later, he realized they were coming down the hall he uttered a silent oath and waited impatiently for them to pass.

  He was not ready for what happened then—he was not ready at all. For suddenly, the hall was still and there was no other sound and he was standing there, the tension hitting him all at once, shocking him strangely as he realized why the steps had stopped outside the door.

  The sound of the knob turning came an instant later. The door creaked as some weight was thrown against it. And Jerry Nason stood there, his mind racing, wondering what came next, thinking of Linda and what would happen later if he got caught here.

  He had no idea as to who it was that wanted to come in—he did not care. But when he heard, faintly, the sound of keys, he stepped back, thinking hard, knowing that somehow he must not be discovered.

  He remembered the layout of the two rooms but could recall no closet he had seen or any place to hide. Then, in his desperation, he had a brainstorm and acted swiftly as he heard the key being fitted in the lock. With a silent prayer that the first key would not work, he stepped back and, on tiptoe, unscrewed the hot bulb from its socket in the green reflector.

  A moment later he was beside the door, his back against the wall. He flattened there as the bolt clicked and the door began to swing. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness now, saw it stop, and he heard the snap of the light switch.

  He heard it snap twice more, quickly. The door opened still more, and a bulky shadow appeared at the end of it. Slowly then, the panel swung back. The shadow was still there, motionless now, and Nason was ready, wanting only to get out but knowing the odds were on his side if there was any battling to be done.

  His palms were damp, and he remembered to hold his breath. He could hear the pumping of his heart, and now the breathing of the intruder seemed to fill the room. Still, there was no sign of movement. It was only a second or two that he waited this way, though it seemed much longer, and then the bright beam of a flashlight shot across the room and angled upward to focus on the green shade and empty socket.

  Nason set himself as much as he could without moving, prepared for instant action should the light move his way. Fortunately, no action was necessary. The beam knifed down from the shade and slid to the right, centering on the doorway to the other room. The bulky shadow moved behind it, across the floor and through the opening. A switch clicked, and the adjoining room was bright, the shadow vanishing to become a silhouette against the glow beyond.

  The shape of that silhouette seemed strangely familiar to Nason, but he did not linger for a second glance. When the man moved out of sight to one side without revealing his face, Nason reached for the doorknob and, with the proper pressure applied, turned it silently until the latch was clear.

  With the door open, he went swiftly through and into the hall. He did not attempt to latch the door but closed it as far as he could, leaving it ajar but making no sound when he let go of the knob. Then he was tiptoeing down the hall, down the stairs that creaked occasionally in spite of his caution, and out on the sidewalk.

  It was quiet here and, except for two or three lighted windows in the block, quite dark. Traffic flowed along it as the light changed on the corner, and the few pedestrians paid him no attention as he crossed the pavement diagonally and moved back into an areaway door to light a cigarette.

  He found he still had the light bulb in his hand. He put it down in the corner of the step, remembering now the used flashbulb in his pocket and placing this beside the other. He realized that he was breathing hard. His collar was damp with perspiration and so was his head. He took off his hat and wiped the sweatband, thinking now of Linda Courtney, knowing he was going to be late but telling himself it would be best to wait a little longer.

  The traffic current flowed past him three times before his vigil paid off. He did not see the man come down the stairs. One minute the doorway was empty and the next a man was standing in front of it, glancing up and down the street before turning left and starting along the sidewalk.

  As he passed the lighted window of the lunchroom, Nason knew who he was. He could not get a good look at the face, but he saw the blue coat and gray hat, the profile of the bushy mustache, the blocky figure, and was instantly convinced that this was the man Linda had spoken of, the one who had followed her aboard the train in South Station.

  He stepped out of the entryway, and now .the man was half a block ahead, stopping beside a gray coupé, unlocking the door. Nason lingered behind a parked sedan. Presently the coupé’s lights went on, and he could read the license plate. He repeated the number three times to imprint it on his brain. When the coupé angled out into the street, he started briskly toward Seventh Avenue.

  There was a small bar on the corner of Linda’s street, a tastefully decorated place with Venetian blinds so set that one could see the dimly lighted interior with its black bar and red leather stools. Nason was stretching his legs when he walked past it, intent upon the doorway farther down the street, and he was well beyond the entrance when someone dashed out and called his name.

  “Jerry! Jerry!”

  Linda, bareheaded and without a coat, was running toward him as he turned. Then her hands were on his arms, tightening there while some reflected light fell upon the frightened whiteness of her face.

  “I knew you had to come back this way,” she said. “I waited for you.”

  Nason took her hands and pulled her close, feeling the coldness of them, pressing them hard as he sensed her mood and knew that something was wrong.

  “You mustn’t go back,” she said tensely, giving him no chance to speak. “Not yet. Someone is there.”

  And then, as he drew her closer to the wall, the words came tumbling out, and there was nothing he could do but listen.

  Chapter Nine

  LIEUTENANT TREYNOR was a shrewd-eyed, competent-looking man with sandy hair and a thin, straight mouth that did not move much when he spoke. About forty, he wore a neat gray herringbone suit, and his wing-tipped Oxfords were well polished. As he stood with his back against Linda Courtney’s bedroom window there was little indication from his appearance that he dealt in homicide. Only the steady, narrowed eyes, the quiet, business-like manner of speaking, the certain relentless quality of his attack suggested that crime was his business-and-that he might be a hard man to fool.

  In the living-room the route man from the medical examiner’s office had completed his inspection of the body, and the morgue attendants were waiting for the police photographer to finish his work before removing the body. Plain-clothes men prowled restlessly about the little apartment, but here in the bedroom Treynor was questioning Linda and Jerry and the building superintendent, whose name was Daly, while one of Treynor’s assistants wrote things down in a stenographer’s notebook.

  Daly leaned against the wall, looking sullen and uncomfortable. He wore trousers and a smoking-jacket; inside his slippers his feet were bare. His hair was thin and rumpled, and his voice sounded abused.

  “All I know,” he said, “is Miss Courtney rang my bell downstairs and said she’d got locked out and would I come up and open the door.”

  “That was around a quarter of eleven,” Treynor said. “Because you were listening to the radio and you think the program was about half over. So you came up with them and unlocked the door.”

  “And then I started down the hall to the elevator. I heard someone turn the light switch, and right after that Miss Courtney screamed.”

  Jerry Nason did not hear the rest of it. He was going over in his mind the story he would have to tell, and he felt sure that under the circumstances he had done the right thing. He had known from the beginni
ng that he was sticking his neck out when he concerned himself with things that were within the province of the police. He had wanted to know about Norman Franks, and had believed that he could go to the man’s office and back without its being known. With luck, he could have done so. The trouble was the luck was bad.

  It seemed clear now that the one who had tried to unlock Linda’s door—tried, because there was no way of knowing whether an entrance had actually been made—was the one who had shot Franks. Apparently he had followed his victim here, not attempting to get into the apartment immediately, but working up to it and possibly deciding on this course when he saw Nason leave.

  But, in fleeing by the fire escape, Linda had, in effect, locked herself out, and, having heard her story, Nason saw what they were up against. His original plan—to tell things about as they had happened but postponing the time fifteen minutes—was no longer valid since they were now locked out of the apartment. It had been his idea that once the door had been opened by the superintendent, Linda was to scream—a natural enough reaction —and both must pretend that this was the first knowledge of the murder.

  He glanced up as Daly stepped to the door. Treynor was saying, “It’s okay for now. If we need you we’ll know where to find you.”

  Daly muttered some reply and went out. Treynor smoothed down the hair at the back of his head and transferred his gaze to Nason.

  “You had a hat and coat on when you came back, according to Daly,” he said. “Miss Courtney had neither.”

  Linda answered this one and she was very good, too. Her composure was adequate, her voice low but steady. “It’s only a half a block. I often go there without a coat.”

  “Only this time you forgot your key.”

  “No,” said Nason. “We were only going to get a quick one. I wasn’t sure I’d be back and then I remembered I’d left my suitcase.” He kept his tone patient, and he was thinking every second. “She fixed the lock so she could get back in. She expected to be back in ten minutes and she didn’t want to bother with her pocketbook.”

  “All right.” Treynor’s voice remained quiet. It was impossible to tell whether he believed this or not. “So this guy Franks is able to get in. He does get in. He falls over dead. So who locked the door so you couldn’t get in?”

  Nason smiled. He pretended this was a very elementary question. “Franks locked it, I suppose. He came in and thought he was being followed by the one who shot him—maybe he was being followed—and did what anyone else would have done. He fixed the lock so the killer couldn’t get to him.”

  “Very convenient.” Treynor sighed. “Franks didn’t have any keys on him. If you hadn’t left the door unlocked—”

  “He would have died somewhere else,” Nason said. “And we wouldn’t have to answer so many questions.”

  “Umm.”

  Treynor moved away from the window, crossed the room, and came back.

  “Franks was Fallon when you knew him,” he said. “He worked with a dame called Irma Heath. Describe her again. See if you can think of anything new.”

  Linda folded her hands in her lap and repeated the story she had already told about how she had worked for Fallon and Heath. She described the woman as best she could. She told how she had recommended Nason’s studio to the couple and why. She said nothing about the holdup in Boston, for Nason had warned her about this, explaining why they must omit that part of the story so long as those three costume pieces were in his possession or in the apartment.

  Treynor heard her out, nodding from time to time, working his lips silently. Now he said, “Strike you as funny that Franks, with two slugs in him, would want to come here?”

  “Certainly,” Nason said. “The only way I can figure it is that he wanted to tell us something.”

  “He could have phoned.”

  “Wouldn’t that depend on where he was when he was shot?”

  The faintest of smiles touched the lieutenant’s eyes and was gone. “You carrying a gun?” he asked abruptly.

  Nason stared at him, unable to know in that first instant whether Treynor was kidding or not. He offered an expression of resignation. He held his coat wide and turned, lifting the tails to show his hip pockets.

  “It’s a question I always ask,” Treynor said.

  “I thought you were satisfied that Franks was killed somewhere else.”

  “I am. So is the doc. One slug angled over the heart and the other was lower down. And you never can tell. With some, they might lose consciousness right off; with others, no. A guy could live awhile. Franks did. Sure he was killed outside,” he said and looked hard at Nason. “And you were outside at the time.”

  Nason felt his face stiffen, and it took an effort to pry his gaze away. He swallowed and hoped his grin was convincing, reminding himself again that having lied once he must continue to lie—and convincingly.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I was.”

  “Of course you were with her all the time you were out.” Treynor’s tone was casual. “At the bar. The one on the corner, hunh?”

  Oh, Lord! thought Nason and he said, “That’s right.”

  Treynor nodded, stepped slowly round the foot of the bed, and picked up Nason’s topcoat that had been thrown there. He felt the pockets and then seemed to stiffen and thrust one hand swiftly inside.

  Nason watched the three costume pieces come to light, the blood draining from his face. He braced himself mentally and stole a glance at Linda Courtney. She was watching Treynor, and her mouth looked pale and immobile.

  “Well,” he said. “What’s all this?”

  “They’re mine,” Linda said quickly. “Costume pieces I sometime use when I pose.”

  Treynor was taking out a pocketknife. He had the necklace in his hand, carrying it under the light and turning his back so Nason couldn’t see what he was doing.

  “They’re not real, you know,” Linda said. “They’re just cheap pieces.”

  Nason waited stiffly, and not until Treynor turned and put the necklace with the other pieces did he begin to breathe again.

  “Yeah,” said Treynor, his experiment apparently satisfying him that this was so. “And how come they were in your pocket, Mr. Nason?”

  “I was taking them down to have cleaned—in the morning.”

  Treynor put his knife away, nothing showing in his face. He nodded to his assistant, who promptly closed his notebook. He went into the other room without a word, and Nason sat on the bed with Linda and waited for her to glance his way so he could wink and let her know it was all right.

  Lieutenant Treynor had his coat on when he returned. “We’ll find out more about Norman Franks. Maybe we’ll find out about this Irma Heath, though if she worked with him that name is probably as phony as Fallon’s was.” He said good night, the cadence of his voice suggesting that there were a lot of things that still bothered him. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. Stick around.”

  Linda watched him go. She remained that way until she heard the living-room door close; then her shoulders sagged, the mask she had constructed for Treynor’s benefit dissolved, and her weariness began to manifest itself.

  Nason walked down the hall to the living-room to make sure they were alone and that the door was locked from the outside. When he came back, Linda was examing the three pieces on the vanity table.

  “Do you think he believed you?” she said. “Why you had them in your pocket?”

  “As much as he believed anything.”

  “He’ll check with the bartender at the corner, won’t he?”

  “I’m afraid he will.”

  “And the bartender will remember me. His name is Gus. Only he won’t remember you.”

  Nason had been thinking the same thing. He had been thinking back to something worse that might very likely boomerang to their disadvantage. He remembered Sergeant Murray in Boston who had investigated the holdup and found himself hoping that Treynor would not learn about it and thereby get a description of the sto
len articles.

  He did not mention this to Linda. He watched her pull out a drawer and sweep the pieces into it, then step to a window and open it.

  “Was it crowded, Gus’s place?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Okay. I was there. Gus recognized you because he knows you. He just didn’t happen to see me.”

  “I didn’t buy a drink,” Linda said. “I sat down at a little table near the window where I could watch for you and told the waiter I was waiting for someone.”

  “I stopped down the street for cigarettes,” Nason said. “I came in right after that. We talked awhile and decided we didn’t want a drink.”

  “It doesn’t sound very good.”

  “It sounds awful, but we’ve got a chance if we stick to it.”

  He followed her down the hall to the living-room with its stale tobacco smell and blue-tinged air. Again Linda raised a window, and now he noticed his suitcase and went over to open it. He could tell that it had been searched, but his camera had not been unloaded, and he was glad that he had disposed of the flashbulb he had used. When he saw the pint flask he took it out and went down the hall to the kitchen. Not bothering with ice, he poured two drinks and added water. She accepted hers without comment and took a cigarette, her eyes concerned as they met his over the match flame.

  She did not speak, and Nason sat down and stretched his legs, his face slack with fatigue and shadowed with beard. As he sipped his drink his glumness increased, reflecting itself in the grim line of his mouth and the smoldering blue eyes. Presently the sound of her voice aroused him; he heard her say, “I guess we should have told the truth, Jerry. If we had phoned the police in the beginning—”

  “Yes,” he said. “But Treynor wouldn’t have believed that story, either.”

  That made him think of something, and he rose and went to the table lamp, unscrewing the top, then replacing it when he found the six stones still there. As he turned back he found himself examining the Lawson sofa and estimating its length.