Murder for Two

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I better cut this,” he said and got out his knife. He worked carefully, cutting the bandage in two halves. “You want to do it, or shall I?”

  “You.”

  “Hang on,” Casey said and got hold of one corner and ripped it free.

  Helen caught her breath when the tape stripped the tiny hairs from her wrist but she made no other sound and held the other one for him to repeat the operation. When he had finished she rubbed the whitened skin for a second and felt her mouth and lips where the tape had been pulled away.

  She got to her feet with Casey’s help and when she had pulled down her skirt, and given a hitch to her girdle, her fingers strayed again to her mouth and now Casey noticed the discolored patch of skin at one side. He thought it looked as if she had been slapped, and hard.

  “Damn them!” she said. “Oh, damn them!”

  “One of them clip you?”

  “With the back of his hand. I didn’t have a chance and I guess I lost my head and yelled at him—”

  She stopped suddenly, her lashes lifting as she stared at something beyond Casey. “Russ,” she said, and Casey turned and there in the doorway in back of Karen Harding was Russell Gifford, Rosalind Taylor’s husband.

  “What—” he said and stopped and tried again as he saw the disordered appearance of the room. “Mac! What’s happened?”

  Helen MacKay told him and this time Casey listened. When the man had come in, Helen had protested. She was, Casey knew, the kind who would, gun or no gun. She was beautiful and alluring and feminine, but there was a lot of determination in the set of her mouth and chin and she wasn’t the kind that would take a pushing around without fighting back. This time, however, that was a mistake. The man cuffed her, knocking her down. She didn’t know whether she had been knocked out or whether she had fainted but when she came to she was in the hall, her wrists and mouth taped and after that the second man had come.

  Russell Gifford listened in open-mouthed amazement, a sandy-haired man of thirty-five or so, with a round, blue-eyed face and a carefully clipped mustache. He wore a dark topcoat now and held his hat in his hand, and as Helen’s story unfolded, Casey began to wonder how Gifford happened to be here. He knew Gifford no longer lived with his wife, and he had heard that the fellow had an apartment of his own in the same building, which was logical in a way since the man acted as Rosalind Taylor’s business manager. But why he should happen in now—

  “I thought of the telephone right away,” Helen was saying, “but it took me a while to roll in here where I could get at it. I pulled it down on the floor by the cord. I couldn’t talk, so I kept bumping the receiver arm with my forehead.”

  She paused, her anger still riding her and her eyes flashing. “Then I realized that all I had to do was reach up and pull those strips off my mouth. There were three and when I got one off I could talk a little and kept asking Edward”—she indicated the night operator—“to come right up and bring a key. I had the others off before he got here—and right after that you came,” she said to Casey.

  “But,” Russell Gifford said in slow bewilderment. “Why? What could they have wanted?”

  “I don’t know.” Helen MacKay looked about and suddenly began to straighten papers and close drawers, her anger unabated.

  Russell Gifford put out an arm and stopped her. “What you need is a drink.”

  “Come on, Mac,” Casey said when the girl seemed about to protest, and at that they all filed into the living-room.

  Helen MacKay sat down and began to massage her wrists absently.

  Edward, the night operator, cleared his throat. “Is it all right if I go now?”

  Helen looked up, as though just remembering him. “Yes. Certainly, Edward. And thanks so much.”

  “That’s all right,” Edward said. He went to the door, hesitated. “Do—do you think I should ring the police?”

  “The police?” Helen MacKay frowned. She looked at Casey and then at Edward. “I don’t think so. I think we ought to wait until we’ve told Miss Taylor. She ought to know about it first, I think. By the way, Flash, where is she?”

  Casey let his breath out slowly. This thing that had happened here was beyond him, but he hadn’t forgotten about Rosalind Taylor. He watched Edward go out. It didn’t help his uneasiness any when he tried to figure things out, so he said:

  “That’s what I asked you before. You said she went out.”

  “Why, yes. About twenty-five after nine.” Helen MacKay looked surprised. “Wasn’t she to meet you somewhere at nine-thirty?”

  “She didn’t show up.”

  Helen MacKay made her red lips round. “Oh,” she said quietly, and now her anger went away and uncertainty replaced it.

  Gifford came back with a tray. He mixed a drink and handed it to Helen. He told Casey to help himself and seemed to discover Karen Harding for the first time. “I’m Russell Gifford,” he said. “Could I fix you something?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Helen said. “This is Miss Harding. She’s a friend of Casey’s. They were supposed to meet Rosalind some place. You haven’t seen her, have you? I mean this evening.”

  Gifford said he hadn’t. “I just stopped by now to—ah, see her a minute about—ah, something. I say,” he added abruptly, “you don’t think these two gunmen who came here—”

  “How does anyone know what to think until we’ve seen her?” Helen said. “Russ, do you think we should call the police?”

  “Damned if I know,” Gifford said worriedly. “I think we should and yet if we do and it turns out we shouldn’t have—well, you know how Rosalind gets when something we do goes wrong. I don’t know. I’d be inclined to wait, but if you want to, all right.” He put down his glass and brushed at his mustache with his thumbnail. “I wish I knew what those two men wanted,” he said, and turned and went back into the office.

  Casey remembered Karen Harding and he had to admit she was keeping her word. She hadn’t got in his way, nor caused him any trouble. She had hardly spoken since she arrived and now she sat at the far end of the room, wide-eyed with suspense and interest and from time to time glancing into the office as though not wanting to miss a thing.

  “What do you think, Flash?” Helen MacKay asked.

  “Don’t ask me. I was supposed to meet her and she didn’t show and so I came here and found you. I’ve got nothing to do with it. In fact, I don’t know why I’m hanging around.”

  He pulled in his feet and stood up and as he did so a buzzer sounded and Helen MacKay glanced quickly at the door. “I’ll get it,” Casey said and went over to it.

  Two men stood in the hall. One was tall, slender, well-dressed, and darkly good-looking; the other was shorter, red-faced, and blocky. They looked at Casey and he stared back. All three were obviously surprised but with Casey there was something else that crowded out his surprise, a sudden, deep-rooted feeling of tension that slowly began to take hold. For the tall man was Lieutenant Logan and the other was his running-mate, Sergeant Manahan.

  “Well,” Logan said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  Casey backed up, aware of that curious tingling inside him now and aware that it sprang not from the fact that these two were police officers, but that both were attached to Homicide.

  When they saw the two women they took off their hats. Gifford, his back turned as he sorted some magazines on a table across the room, straightened around and gaped at them.

  Logan, taking this all in, said, “Oh,” in an oddly quiet voice. “You could introduce us, couldn’t you?” he said to Casey.

  Casey did, still wondering as he closed the door.

  “I guess your decision is all made for you, Mac,” Gifford said.

  “But”—Helen MacKay wet her lips and looked incredulously from Logan to Manahan—“how could you know we were just talking about calling you?”

  “Were you?” Logan’s voice was quiet, even, polite. “About what?”

  “Somebody walked in on Miss MacKay a while ago,” Gifford said. �
�Two men with guns. They tied her up and searched the office.”

  Logan’s eyes narrowed with interest as he heard the details but he kept his voice casual. “Hmm. I see. Get what they wanted?”

  “We don’t know what they wanted,” Gifford said.

  Logan looked at Casey. “And where do you fit?”

  Casey told him and he had scarcely finished when someone else pressed the buzzer. This time Gifford answered the door and when it opened a lean, tanned man entered slowly. He was tall, with a slight stoop, a plain, almost homely-looking man with plain-looking clothes.

  “I was looking for Miss MacKay,” he began and then he saw her and said, “Helen.”

  The girl jumped up and went to him. “Stanley,” she said and took his hand. “I’m sorry, Stanley, but something happened and—” She checked herself suddenly, as if aware of the others, and faced the room. “This is Mr. Furness. I think you know Mr. Gifford, and this is Miss Harding, Mr. Casey, Lieutenant Logan and Sergeant—”

  She groped and Manahan said, “Manahan.”

  “I was worried when you didn’t come,” Furness said to the girl. “Is—is something wrong?”

  “Furness?” Logan said questioningly before anyone could reply. “You’re a friend of Miss MacKay’s?”

  He said he was. He said he had met her through Miss Taylor. “I was Miss Taylor’s first husband,” he added, as though that explained everything.

  Logan’s brows climbed and he looked at Manahan without speaking. Furness repeated his question to Helen MacKay, and Casey listened to her sketchy account with his ears and kept his mind on the lieutenant.

  Logan’s eyes were never still. He stood quietly, letting Helen MacKay repeat the things he had already heard, watching her, watching Furness and Gifford.

  “And you two gentlemen,” Furness said to Logan and Manahan, “came to investigate?”

  “Not exactly,” Logan said. “We were checking up on Miss Taylor. No one of you saw her tonight—that is except you, Miss MacKay? And you say she left here at twenty-five past nine? To meet you,” he said to Casey. “That right?”

  “Do you know where she is?” Helen MacKay cut in. “You do know,” she said quickly, her voice rising.

  “Why yes, Miss MacKay, we do.”

  Casey took a breath. He wasn’t aware that he held it, but he did. And the tightness was in his back and he seemed somehow to know what was coming next because he’d known Logan a long time and he knew the lieutenant’s manner had been just an act. Casey had sensed that something very wrong had happened from the moment he’d seen the two officers, but he had been afraid to go beyond that. Now he waited with the others until Logan went on.

  “She’s in her car—at least we think it’s her car. About two blocks from here. Somebody shot her through the back of the head.”

  For a long moment after that the silence in the room was deadly. Someone’s labored breathing broke it and Casey saw it was Gifford. Then Karen Harding gasped and Helen MacKay’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling her own cry, and now her skin was not smooth and olive but white and stiff. Furness tightened his hands on her arms. Gifford took a half step forward.

  “Surely you’re not serious. You mean she’s dead? Why—why, that would be murder.”

  “Yes,” Logan said. “It is murder.”

  Casey shifted his weight and felt the stiffness go out of him. He swallowed and found his throat dry. He looked at Karen Harding and when he saw how pale she was he went to her and touched her arm.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “You want to sit down?”

  “Oh, but it’s so horrible.”

  “Sure,” Casey said and slid his hand under her elbow when Logan continued.

  “We came up to see if anyone was here that could identify the car. Some one of you had better come along.” He paused, studying them again. “In fact, I think you’d better all come. It won’t take long and then we can come back here. I’ll have to ask you a few more questions.”

  He looked at Casey. “And leave that camera of yours here, understand? We’re keeping the other papers away from that car and I’m playing no favorites—yet.”

  Chapter Four

  LOGAN ASKS QUESTIONS

  THE STREET where Rosalind Taylor’s car was parked was little more than a block-long alley leading down toward the river, a one-way affair flanked on one side by a high brick wall and on the other by the side of an apartment house. A fair-sized crowd had gathered at one end and was being held back by two uniformed huskies who listened with dead ears to the complaints of various members of the press. When Logan’s car arrived with Manahan and Casey perched on the running-boards, a howl of protest arose.

  “How does Casey rate it?” they yelled. “If he can get in, we can get in.” Which in theory was right but in practice, futile. “Get one for us, Flash,” they said, and from their distant point flashbulbs popped so that they would not return entirely empty-handed.

  Casey dropped to the pavement as Logan stopped the car. Up ahead, Rosalind Taylor’s sedan stood at the curb. Beyond was a long gray ambulance and diagonally across the street was another police sedan and a radio squad car. A half-dozen plain-clothes men idled about, poking flashlights here and there; the police photographer had set up a camera and was focusing it through the open door of the sedan. Leaning inside was the doctor from the Examiner’s office.

  The others in Logan’s party stood in a huddle on the sidewalk, all except Karen Harding, who had moved back as though she wanted to stay as far away from the scene of death as possible. The dome light of the sedan was on and an ambulance orderly was holding a flashlight for the doctor when Casey moved up and glanced through one of the windows.

  Rosalind Taylor wore the same tweed suit he had seen that afternoon. There was a dark stain on the collar now and if she had worn a hat it was not visible from where he stood. The upper part of her body lay on the front seat, the head toward the right-hand door, her legs and feet still angled toward the clutch and brake pedals.

  Casey backed away, depressed, a little sick inside; for while his business had conditioned him to the sight of violent death, he could seldom view it dispassionately and this time the victim was not just another woman, but one he knew well and had worked with many times. True, he had never been close to Rosalind Taylor—he sometimes wondered if anyone ever had—and there had been no real affection between them, but still—

  He moved around the car, wanting a drink, hearing Logan addressing his guests.

  “That’s her car, is it? All right then. Now one of you—how about you, Mr. Gifford? You were her husband. I know it isn’t pleasant but if you can make a formal identification now it will save you a trip to the morgue.”

  Russell Gifford detached himself from the others and moved to the door of the car. He stopped there a moment, holding to the frame. The police photographer stepped back. Gifford’s shoulders straightened for an instant and then he leaned inside, drew quickly back again.

  “Yes,” he said to Logan and turned away, head bent, hands thrust hard into his coat pockets.

  “I’ll be right with you,” Logan told them. “If you’d like to go back to my car—” He turned and spoke with two of his men. Manahan handed him a handbag and something else that had been wrapped in a handkerchief.

  “This is gonna be a stink,” the sergeant said, “her being a newspaper woman and all.”

  “You’ll think so when you see the morning papers,” Logan said. He spotted Casey and indicated his car with a jerk of his head. “Let’s ride. We’ve got some talking to do. Get Bert up there as soon as you can,” he told Manahan and moved away with Casey.

  That was when Casey remembered Karen Harding. He looked round guiltily and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw her standing with her back to the wall. She was alone and seeing her there so small and forlorn-looking, he felt a pang of compassion that she should be subjected to this sort of ordeal without having the slightest preparation for it.

  “Look,” he said,
moving up to her. “Don’t you want to go home? You don’t need her, do you?” he asked of Logan. “She was with me all the time and—”

  “But,” Karen Harding cut in, “I don’t want to go home. I think I should stay, just like the others. I—I want to know what happened.”

  Casey eyed her irritably, wondering how a guy could figure a dame. Here he’d been feeling sorry for her and she’d been eating it up. You couldn’t drag her away now. This was an experience that for her would never be repeated, and she intended to make the most of it. All right. The hell with it. Maybe he’d been that way himself the first time he ran into murder as a cub photographer.

  “Come on, then,” he said bluntly, “but I’m going to tell MacGrath I tried hard.”

  No one said a word on the short ride back, and for a little while after they had entered Rosalind Taylor’s apartment the silence remained with them. Helen MacKay sat down on the divan with Stanley Furness. Gifford took the ice bucket from the tray, collected used glasses, and went out. Karen Harding sauntered over to the table, put down her bag, and began to leaf through the magazines there. Even Logan seemed in no hurry to start things and Casey thought he knew why. Logan was worried. Logan was going to ask a lot of questions, and Logan wanted a stenographer here to take down what was said.

  Gifford came back with fresh glasses, more ice, and another large bottle of soda under his arm. His normally pinkish face was white at the corners and he looked pretty rocky, but he was doing his best not to show it.

  “I’m taking orders,” he said. “Helen?”

  They all took drinks except Logan and Stanley Furness, even Karen Harding accepting a glass with what sounded like real gratitude. Gifford sat down and drank deeply.

  “Well,” he said, “what are we waiting for, Lieutenant?”

  As though in answer to this the buzzer sounded and Logan opened the door. Matt Lawson was standing in the hall. When he saw Logan he blinked once and then his blunt-jawed face froze, revealing nothing. He took a half step, glanced in at the others.

  “Oh,” he said. “Am I intruding?” The phrasing was polite but his hoarse voice still sounded as if he had sand in his larynx.