Kent Murdock moved to the bar and told Leon he thought it was time and ordered Scotch and soda. While he waited he leaned wide-spread elbows on the imitation mahogany edge and idly surveyed Leon’s innovation, which was fast becoming an institution.
The whole rig was clever. The mirror on the wall directly behind the bar was plastered with a soapy scrollwork, and on the neat shelves that bordered this display was the usual motley assortment of bottles: whiskies, gins, liqueurs. There was a length of brass rail, portable like the bar, which was made in sections so that Leon could do a made-to-measure business, like a tailor, and satisfy the demands of all comers whether the occasion demanded a kitchenette bar or a dance-hall set-up.
It was all quite authentic—except Leon’s name, which should have been Gus. He was bald, short, with a balloon-tire waist and fat dimpled hands that were red, like plums.
Mark Redfield joined Murdock as he finished his inspection.
“Making out all right?”
“Yeh.” Murdock turned on one elbow. “And now I know why I see so many lawyers hanging around the courthouse. It’s these fifty-thousand-dollar fees.”
“Sounds good, huh?” Redfield grunted disparagingly. “Maybe I’m a second Clarence Darrow, or a Max Steuer.”
“You do pretty well for a city like this.”
Mark Redfield spread his hands, let them flop on the bar, palms down. With his florid, big-nosed face and pompous, well-fed figure he looked more like a successful politician than a criminal lawyer. His voice, carefully nurtured for courtroom use, had a booming, confident timbre regardless of pitch. Shrewd, spectacular, an artist at innuendo and repartee, he was a showman whose color, personality, and reputation were such that many a case was half won the moment he stepped into a courtroom.
Flushed with victory, stimulated by drink, his attitude towards Murdock became fraternal, confiding. The bars were down. He forgot his pose and spoke as one insider to another, his voice thick, a bit hoarse.
“I’ve worked for Girard for ten years; more’n that I guess. I’ve made a lot of money from routine stuff. But this is the first big fee. And why? Because Girard is smart. He never was a killer.” Redfield shook his head. “It’s funny. Ten years in the liquor racket and never mixed in a killing. For two years now he goes around minding his own business, legitimate. And then, blooie!” Redfield blew out his breath. “I damn near missed; the toughest case I ever drew. But fifty thousand sounds big, huh? Well, I can use it, and I earned it and—”
He broke off and pushed back from the bar. “What is this,” he growled, “a lecture?” He made noises in his throat. “How do you like the party?”
Murdock said he liked it and, picking up the remainder of his drink, moved to the wrought-iron balcony railing.
The piano-player was talking to one of the other entertainers. The girl in the blue dress was still in the same chair, her position unchanged. Even her attitude seemed the same: aloof, superior. She acted as if she were sulking, yet did not look the type. And she was still alone.
For a moment Murdock watched her, noticing that her gaze was fixed upon Howard Archer, who stood in one of the open windows, his arm linked with Mrs. Redfield’s; then he turned and went down five steps, carpeted in green, with an exaggerated thickness.
Most of the living-room furniture was modern, either sharp-cornered or flagrantly rounded. The chair the girl had chosen, in the corner behind the piano, was, however, more conventional and so deeply cushioned he could not tell how tall she was. As he approached he saw that he had been right about her hair. Ash-blond, it escaped being straight by the merest trace of a natural wave. It was pulled back, hiding two-thirds of the ears, so that he was not sure whether it was long or just a long bob. The pale-blue dress looked soft and heavy and shiny. There was a little jacket which reminded him of a vest without buttons.
In the artificial light her skin had an outdoor, an almost dusky tan. The cheek-bones were prominent and made shadow spots; the mouth was wide, full-lipped. In spite of the good clean jaw-bone he saw that the mouth was sulky, had about it a set expression that seemed to complement the fixed and smoldering stare. She did not seem to see the people or be conscious of the group. Certainly she did not see Murdock as he stopped beside the chair.
“Hello.” He bowed slightly.
“Hello.” The girl did not look up; her voice was flat, disinterested.
Murdock’s brows lifted. He noticed that she had nice hands. Her nails were natural.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
Still the girl did not look up. This time her voice was cold, a bit sharp. The tone irritated Murdock, and a frown started to work at the corners of his eyes.
“Are you alone by choice or—”
“By choice.”
This time the voice held a definite undercurrent of annoyance. The eyes did not shift their gaze.
Murdock felt the flush that tinged his lean face. His eyes narrowed slightly. There it was. He asked for it and he got it. He did not mind the answer, the implication that he was intruding and unwelcome; but he resented the tone. The brief thought of trying to laugh off his admitted embarrassment fled before this resentment. He straightened up, found his voice stiff, sardonic, when he spoke.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have made the mistake. But, you see, I came late. I thought it was one of those parties where you can speak to anyone and at least be sure of a reasonable courtesy.”
The girl’s eyes, sullen, then uncertain, came up and caught his. He saw that they were darker than her dress, a smoky blue. And there was something sharp and clean and honest in her face which the make-up could not hide. Then he turned and moved towards the terrace windows.
Howard Archer spoke and stepped aside to let Murdock pass. Rita Redfield offered her hand. Murdock held it and said: “Mark did a swell job today.”
“It’s about time. What we need is bigger and better crime waves.”
Archer, tall and blond above his gleaming shirt-front, looking like something out of a polite drawing-room movie, touched his pointed mustache with a thumb-nail and said: “It’s the Shylock in her,” in a languid drawl.
Rita Redfield was beautiful, dark, and society—or formerly so. Dressed in a brown velvet gown that molded a full, high-breasted figure and set off her well-modeled, if arrogant, neck and shoulders, she was a showy brunette, fifteen years younger than her husband. Beautiful in a superficial, jaded way, her make-up was the work of an expert and enhanced her beauty without making any pretense of naturalness or disguising the selfish mouth, the haughty lift of the trim brows.
Murdock smiled, turned his head. The girl in the blue dress had returned her stare to Archer but as Murdock watched, the eyes shifted to meet his. The nod he gave her was like his smile: good-humored now, but with a touch of mockery. He let go of Rita Redfield’s hand and moved out to the terrace.
The night was cool, yet soft. There was no moon, but countless stars combated the darkness and made it blue instead of black. Below, the river was wide and shiny black, splashed here and there with a sheen from the light-studded arcs of Harvard and Longfellow bridges, the huge electric clock on the other bank.
Murdock moved slowly down the length of the terrace, working his way through a confusion of wicker chairs and having a hard time identifying their temporary occupants. He found Nate Girard leaning against the railing at the far end. There was a woman at his side. They were both looking into the night so that, with her dark dress, the only discernible feature was her blond bobbed hair. Moving to the rail, Murdock leaned there beside her.
“Hello, Hestor.”
“Oh, hello.” There was no welcome or interest in the voice.
Girard turned. “I told Hestor you were here.”
Murdock did not answer. He took out his cigarette-case, offered it to the woman, who refused. Girard was smoking a cigar. Murdock lit his cigarette, inhaled. An awkward silence closed in and he let his thoughts idle for a minute or so as he s
moked; finally he jerked them back to the focusing-point he had decided upon.
He did not feel like arguing. Neither did he intend to drift like this indefinitely. His thoughts shot off on a tangent and touched briefly the girl in the blue dress. Something about her attracted him; he felt this in spite of his irritation at her manner, regretted somehow his stiff, churlish speech.
He forced himself to concentrate on Hestor again. She’d probably argue about going with him; before he got through she’d lose her temper. It would be difficult, he knew that. Seeing her here with Girard was what had made up his mind to try again. Perhaps she would be more inclined to agree this time. Anyway—
He said: “Could I borrow my wife for a while?”
Girard laughed softly. “Why—certainly.”
“I’ll bring her back,” Murdock added dryly.
Hestor Murdock turned towards her husband, but he could not read the expression in her face, which in this light was just a flesh-colored oval. He thought she was going to speak, but she remained silent until Girard withdrew; then she said, indifferently: “Is it a game?” with an accent obviously cultivated.
Murdock took her by the arm. “I want to talk to you.”
“All right.” Then, as he drew her towards the nearest window, her voice showed pique. “Can’t you talk here?”
“No.”
“Well, where, then?”
“Downstairs. In my apartment.”
Murdock kept the pressure on her elbow and they stepped into the living-room. She moved more readily there until they reached the entrance foyer. Here she stopped short, faced him.
“If you think I’m going down there to talk about divorce—”
“Listen.” Murdock’s lean face was sombre, his eyes humid. “I want to talk to you, and I’m not going to do it here.” He glanced at his strap-watch. The hands showed two-twenty and he said: “This party is good for a couple hours. You won’t miss anything. Fifteen minutes or so is not going to spoil your night, is it? Or am I unreasonable to suppose—”
“Oh, all right.” Hestor Murdock flashed a look of impatient exasperation, whirled away from him. Murdock stepped in front of her and opened the door.
3
MURDOCK’S APARTMENT, AN inexpensive, two-room kitchenette-and-bath suite, was on the second floor, rear. Hestor stopped just inside the door as Murdock closed it, and it was apparent that her impatience had not lessened as she spoke.
“Well?”
Murdock achieved a grin, made an effort to be pleasant. “Relax,” he said. “I can’t talk to you this way. How about a drink?”
“I’ve been drinking champagne. I’ll wait.”
Murdock’s brows lifted; then suddenly the grin broadened and it paid dividends in the form of a grudging smile from Hestor. She shrugged, moved across the room to the worn, comfortable-looking divan, and sat down.
“All right,” she continued. “I’m relaxed—or I will be when you give me a cigarette.”
Murdock held a light for her, blew out the flame, and bent the paper match between his thumb and first two fingers. He walked across the room, wheeled, returned to the divan, and stood there spread-legged, looking down at his wife.
Hestor Murdock, née Schultz, came from a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania. By virtue of a figure which would have done for a torso by Gaudier, by practice in dancing, plus a fair voice, she had worked herself up through burlesque to the front row of the chorus. It was there that Murdock had first seen her. He realized she had changed but little since then.
Thirty, he thought. Plump, but upon close inspection, plump in the right places. And the gown, black and of a material that was something like sequins only finer—a sort of metallic cloth—was typical, somehow. Showy. Like Rita Redfield. The difference was that Rita’s showiness was on a higher plane because she was born that way and did not have to work her way up from small-town squalor.
Hestor’s hair was yellow-blond, real yellow; and it had been waved so that it seemed to stick sleekly to her head. But it was frowsy in the morning; he remembered that. The rouge, the lipstick could not hide the sullen, sensuous character of her face, the droop of her lips. And she was smart, with the smartness of a woman who had been around in the world and had suffered somewhat from the contact. Yet it was her body that remained her chief asset. The tightness of the gown, and the way the light reflected from the metal cloth, accentuated the mounds of her breasts and reminded him that it was this body, dancing in the front row of a musical-comedy chorus, that had attracted him. He was aware of it now.
“Well?”
She broke in on his thoughts and he realized that she was watching him with a tolerant, half-amused gaze. He colored slightly, but spoke doggedly of the idea which was again foremost in his mind.
“Why not call it off? A divorce will—”
Hestor Murdock stiffened slightly. “I was enjoying myself,” she said irritably and her eyes were sulky. “You pick a nice time to bring that up.”
“Well—”
“I’m satisfied the way it is.”
“You may not always be so well satisfied.”
“It will be time enough then.”
She started to get up. Murdock reached out and, without pushing, kept her from rising. He said: “Wait.” She did not force the issue. Instead she settled herself again, puffed lazily at her cigarette, and watched him through the blue haze that hung between them.
To Hestor, Kent Murdock was a paradox. He was hard, yet mixed with this hardness was a certain refinement of feeling that she could not understand. He was intelligent, well educated; yet he was a newspaper photographer and he liked his job. She hated him, yet she liked him. Even now he was attractive to her. Good-looking, with a knack of wearing clothes well, he had a masculine vitality that had found a responsive chord in her from the first.
Their marriage had been a mistake. But she did not regret it. What she regretted, and she thought of this with irritation, was that she could not hold him. Not that it mattered. She was better off now, much better off. His weekly payments added to what she made with her radio program enabled her to live as she had dreamed of living in her burlesque days. And—she had told herself this before—this marriage was only an experiment; an expedient, rather.
She had known girls in the chorus who had married well, profitably. Such had been her intention—to wait until she could be sure of the financial success of such a venture. If she could have the thrill of it at the same time, so much the better. But given the security, she could find other outlets for a nature high-strung with passion. Circumstances changed her plans decisively.
When Love Song opened in Boston, an immediate marriage had no place in Hestor’s thoughts. But when it closed on Saturday night after a week’s try-out and the company disbanded, she had seized the only chance offered. Only—she smiled as she put her cigarette to her mouth—she did not seize it, she made that chance.
She had met Kent Murdock at a party after the opening performance on the preceding Monday. She liked him, and she encouraged him; during that week he had taken her out nearly every night after the performance. Yet she had no false ideas about his interest. He wanted a good time; he had sufficient money to spend. She made herself good company. But she had experienced that sort of thing before. When the show moved on, the affair would be forgotten. Only this time the show would not move on. And at the time she had her rent paid in New York for a month, and little else. The show business was in the doldrums. There were no angels, no suitable offers of marriage in sight.
She remembered that Saturday night the show closed. They’d had supper after the performance and gone on to a speak-easy. She had taken the reins from her affection, let her passion flow; she had even cried a little, she remembered. And it had been she who suggested they get married—after she was sure that the half-dozen drinks and her methods had made him forget any resolve or inhibition about her he may have had sober.…
His voice checked her thoughts abruptly. “I’m p
erfectly willing to keep on paying you—as alimony.”
Hestor Murdock ground out her cigarette in an ash-tray. “What,” she drawled, “is the reason for the rush?”
“Rush?” Murdock scowled wrinkles into the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been separated over a year. I’ve asked you before.”
“I know. But casually. Maybe you’ve lined up number two.”
Murdock waited a moment before he answered. When he continued, his voice was level.
“There’s no one else. The point is, I want to know where I stand. We made a mess of things. We both may want another chance some day.”
Hestor frowned and looked away, her irritation rising again as she reflected how she could not hold him. The marriage was an expedient, yes; but with Murdock, because his virile hardness had attracted her, she had looked upon the venture with some excitement. It was to be a thrill. And into marriage she had brought a magnificent body, a well-sexed nature, and nothing at all of the give-and-take attitude. To her it was a physical, sexual thing; that and nothing more. Murdock had failed her there.
She knew that he looked with only partly concealed disdain upon her repeated demands, and she hated him for it. For the last month of their life together he had not slept with her. And there was no other woman at the time. Well—she tightened her lips and moved erect on the davenport—let him squirm. She was in no hurry. She could be free of him soon enough if it became necessary. Meanwhile she found that her married status helped her with other men. It seemed to furnish an enigmatic allure that made men more attentive.
Murdock knew he was losing his plea. He had long since accepted his part in the fiasco. He did not blame her for the failure. He had never been quite sure who had suggested the crazy idea of running off to get married in the first place. Probably he did. It did not matter now. In any case it had been an impulsive act. He regretted it and he expected to pay. But he saw no reason for continuing an arrangement that held no advantage, in his mind, for either of them. He held stubbornly to his plan.
Murder with Pictures Page 2