“Why nurse it along?”
Hestor stood up, her expression bored, weary. “I’ve missed enough of the party already. I want to get back. Nate’ll be looking for me.”
Murdock did not move. He just stood there facing her, standing close to her now that she had risen. His lean face was sullen, his eyes brooding.
He said: “Out of my princely salary of ninety a week”—the voice was cynical—“you get thirty-five. That part is okay, but if you think I’m going to keep paying without getting anything for it—”
“You get your freedom, don’t you?” Hestor’s voice thinned out.
“No. I get the right to live alone, but—”
“That ought to be enough. It’s what you wanted.”
“Only partly. I’ve tried to be fair, to do the decent thing, to give you grounds and pay all expenses—and what does it get me? Spite.”
Hestor’s blue eyes blazed. “I’m entitled to something,” she snapped, and her accent slipped back to the chorus.
“I don’t want a compromise.”
“All right.” Hestor hesitated, measured him with her eyes, and one penciled brow arched as she studied him. “If you want to pay, I’ll give you your divorce.”
Murdock waited, silent, afraid to accept a solution so simple.
“You expect to pay, don’t you?” Hestor pressed.
“Certainly. I told you I’d keep on—”
“You’ll do better than that. Suppose you lose your job? I’m not taking any chances. But I’ll sell you the divorce. For ten thousand in cash we’ll forget about the alimony and—”
“I haven’t got that much, and you know it.”
“Get it, then. It ought to be a bargain.”
“It is,” Murdock said, and his voice was sharp with anger and exasperation. “But how—”
“Oh, it is?” Hestor smiled at him, but her eyes were bright and glaring. “Then either get it or let it ride, and you’ll pay anyway. Mark Redfield drew the contract, and it ought to be good. I don’t need the money, but I like getting it, because”—her voice rose—“it evens up for what you didn’t give me when I married you.”
Murdock’s jaws went white at the corners, and his lips drew tight. “Don’t be cheap.”
“Cheap?” Hestor was white and shaking and her accent was somewhere between the coal mines and burlesque. “You go to hell!” She seemed to choke on the sentence. Her hands drew into fists at her sides, and Murdock thought for a moment she was going to strike out at him.
He stared at her, incredulous.
“Who do you think you are?” she demanded, her white, rigid face thrust close to his. “I’m not good enough for you, is that it?”
Murdock said: “That isn’t what I—”
“Oh, yes it is. I’m cheap. Because I gave you what I thought most men wanted—”
“Hestor!” Murdock’s face was taut.
“What you need is a woman with the same narrow ideas as yours. Somebody prim and proper and cold and passive. Somebody who will make you sleep alone and let you come to her once a month to—”
Hestor’s voice shrilled. The sort of voice which held all its nuances in the early stages, it had nothing left for emphasis but to talk louder and louder. And Murdock stood there rigidly, his face gray and stiff-lipped until Hestor ran out of breath.
Still shaking and infuriated, her outburst stopped as abruptly as it had begun. As she caught her breath, there was a silent instant when she seemed to relax from reaction; then she twisted, shouldered past him.
Murdock caught her at the door and got his hand on the knob. Those two or three seconds’ respite were enough to tighten his grip on himself. He had failed again. He always failed—with her. No matter how he approached her, he was wrong. Regardless of his intentions to argue reasonably, he ended up saying the wrong things. Or would that make the difference? She held the whip hand. She could flaunt her power, and he could not take it. Perhaps because he had never, from the first week or so, respected her.
Wrongly or rightly, that was the case. And maybe she sensed this. Probably she did. Then there was nothing to be gained by mere talk. She held the advantage and she could continue to hold it until such a time as it pleased her to compromise for reasons of her own. He took a breath and stiffened there as he took his last chance.
“I’m going to get clear.” His voice was a bit thick, but level enough to surprise himself as he heard it.
“Open the door!” Her stare was glaring, poisonous.
“So far,” he went on slowly, ignoring her command, “I’ve sort of taken my medicine. I’m tired of the taste. If I can’t give you grounds, maybe I can get them from you. You’ve gone about with no interference from me. How often I might not know if I didn’t work for a newspaper. There were three or four before Girard. And during the trial it was Andrew Sprague. And now Girard is free, he’s back. Well”—Murdock opened the door—“if I get evidence I’ll use it. Watch yourself, Hestor!”
Hestor Murdock stopped in the hall, turned, and gave him a sweet, bitter smile that was as deliberate as the contempt in the voice, which had recaptured its accent. “Thanks for the advice—and the cigarette, darling.”
Murdock stood in the open doorway for several seconds after Hestor left. His threat, born of no preconceived idea, stirred his imagination, and a thin little smile relieved the grim cast of his lean, angular face. He knew Hestor had been chasing around—would have known it even if he had not seen her frequent companions, because he knew Hestor. She still wanted a thrill, any kind of a thrill.
For the past year she had become a minor fixture on the radio. The fair voice of hers took on enchantment through the microphone and the manipulations of the radio engineer. He did not know what she earned—probably twice what he did. And she could always wear clothes. Now she had the money to buy them. It was absurd to think of her without the companionship of men. Yet heretofore Murdock had not cared. He did not care now. But the idea was worth considering; in fact …
He stepped into the hall. Hestor was just disappearing in one of the self-operating elevators. He watched it until the door clanged shut. Then, as he stood there, groping for the next step in his new-found idea, a man moved into view at the far end of the hall.
The fellow was swinging round the newel post of the front stairs. He was in view but a second, and in that second his eyes caught Murdock’s as he continued his climb. The thin, scrawny figure, something about the momentary glimpse of the white face, brought identification to Murdock. Sam Cusick, brother of the man of whose murder Nate Girard had just been acquitted.
Murdock pursed his lips, seemed undecided for a moment. There was nothing actually out of the way in Cusick’s being here, and Murdock was so selfishly wound up in his own problem that he abruptly dismissed the man from his thoughts. He stepped back into the room, crossed to the telephone stand near the doorway leading to the bedroom hall.
He found the number he wanted in the telephone book, asked for it abruptly. He had to wait two or three minutes before a sleepy voice answered. He said:
“Fenner? Kent Murdock—yeah. Listen, you busy?”
The voice muttered a curse, growled: “I’m in bed, you cluck.”
Murdock grunted impatiently. “Sure, but are you busy?”
“How can I be busy when—”
“Skip it and listen. I’ve got a little job for you.”
“For yourself?” This incredulously. “Now?”
“Hell yes, now! Get dressed and get over here—right away.”
Fenner groaned, finally said: “All right, all right. Keep your pants on.”
“Right away!” Murdock repeated sharply, then an undertone of grim amusement crept into his voice. “And listen. I’m expecting a cut rate.”
4
JACK FENNER WAS a slim, wiry young man with a pale, wedge-shaped face and alert agate eyes. When Murdock let him into his apartment twenty minutes later, his new-looking blue suit showed no signs of hurried dressing; his
red and blue striped tie sat neatly on a clean shirt, and his black oxfords were well polished. He pulled up the tails of a worn gray topcoat and dropped a somewhat battered felt hat in his lap as he sat down in the wing chair.
“What’s the job?”
Murdock moved in front of the chair and looked down at Fenner for a moment without speaking. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth, studied the end.
“I want you to follow my wife.”
“Oh.” Fenner looked down at his hat, back at Murdock. “And what’s the sweat? You know where she is tonight?”
“She’s upstairs. Girard is throwing a little party at Redfield’s place. She’s with him.”
Fenner pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I thought you were divorced.”
“Just separated.”
“Pay her anything?”
“Sure.”
“And you want to get out from under.”
“I don’t mind paying, but I want the divorce.”
“Why won’t she give you one?”
“Damned if I know; maybe it’s a complex.” Murdock walked across the room, turned, and came back. He pulled a straight-backed chair around to face Fenner and sat down. “Maybe it’s a lousy trick, putting a private dick on her, but—”
Fenner’s lips twitched in a smile. “I resent that. You don’t think much of my racket, huh?”
“I think you’re a bunch of chiselers.” Murdock smiled. “But you’re the best of the bunch and—”
“All right, all right.” Fenner returned the smile. “You want evidence.” He cocked one eyebrow. “We don’t have to frame anything?”
Murdock shook his head. “Framing is out. Straight or not at all.”
Fenner looked relieved. “What did you marry her for in the first place?”
Murdock did not resent the question because he knew Fenner’s interest was friendly rather than professional. They had known each other for a long time and each had helped the other at times in the past. He found himself unburdening some of the tangled thoughts that, pent up for so long, sought and accepted an outlet.
“I don’t know. It was just one of those things where you do something and then wish to hell you hadn’t the next day. A mistake, that’s all, and probably my fault.”
Murdock’s eyes touched some remote object, fastened there. “She came here with the Love Song—it opened here. I happened to get in on the first night and there was a party afterwards. I met her, and I gave her a rush. It was just a good time—so I thought. And she, well—”
“I know,” Fenner said dryly. “I saw the show. She was a looker and she was built.”
“I had a good time, all right,” Murdock went on, “but that’s all I figured on. I knew the show was moving on to New York and I thought that would be the end of it. Understand, I never was serious about her. I had a date with her Saturday night. The show folded. She was sort of worked up, down. And I picked that time to go soft. We had a few drinks and somebody—probably me—said: ‘Let’s get married.’ And there we were.”
Murdock’s tone grew amused in a grim sort of way. “We tried it for three months. But it just didn’t work. She was a damn good-looking woman, and she was built. When you say that, you’re through.”
“You’re kinda bitter about it,” Fenner said.
“Not about that part. It was my mistake. I’m bitter about the rest of it. I told her I’d give her grounds. She didn’t want it that way. So we got Redfield to draw up a little agreement—you can see what a sap I was in those days—and we separated.”
“She won’t sell out?”
“For ten thousand, and I don’t think she’s interested in the installment plan.”
Fenner looked down at the polished tips of his oxfords, spoke without lifting his head.
“What’ve you been waiting for? You got another girl that—”
“No!” rapped Murdock. “But—” He broke off, scowled. “But to hell with all this! What’s the matter, you guys got a new code of ethics or something? I give you a job and—”
“Okay!” Fenner grinned and stood up. “I’ve seen her around. She’s been stepping some. We can do. Only I was just interested, Kent. For a photographer, you’re not a bad guy, and I wondered how you tangled in the first place.”
Murdock glanced at his strap-watch. “It’s five of three. The party won’t last much longer, so you’d better go downstairs and wait.” He moved to the door with Fenner, and the detective said:
“I’ll see what happens when she goes home and call you.”
Murdock went back to the wing chair, picked up a copy of the Courier from the magazine stand. A four-column head said:
GIRARD ACQUITTED
JURY OUT 4 HOURS
He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, then removed it and, turning to a taboret table, dropped it in an ash-tray. He picked up a stubby brier with a scarred bowl and a mouthpiece nearly obliterated by tooth marks. Filling the pipe from a silk and rubber pouch, he struck a match, sucked slowly in deep puffs until he had an even light. Then, tamping the top with a match-box, he puffed gently, cuddling the smoke in his lips, and pushed down in the chair.
The shrill of the telephone woke Murdock some time later. He saw he had remembered to put aside his pipe, but he had no recollection of falling asleep. Pulling himself erect with a groan, he arched his neck to eliminate the kinks and crossed to the telephone.
When he growled: “Hello,” Fenner said:
“They’re over at her apartment.” Murdock glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly five o’clock. “They left Redfield’s at three-thirty and came straight here.”
Murdock said: “What’s the rest of it?”
“They’re still in there—at least Girard hasn’t come out.”
“Stick around another half-hour and then go on home.”
“Okay,” said Fenner. “It looks like we’re making some progress.”
Murdock hung up, went back to the chair, and sat down. He did not feel the satisfaction he expected. To suspect Hestor was one thing, to have proof another. And he was uneasy in his mind now that he had taken the first step. There was something cheap and tawdry about the whole thing. That he was a party to the plot irritated him. He hoped he would not have to go through with it. Perhaps if he could build up a case-book of several such instances, Hestor would change her mind; they would not have to drag the evidence—his part of it—into court.
He leaned forward in the chair and ran lean fingers through his thick, straight, brown hair. It was tousled now, standing on end at the back. The black tie was askew, tucked up under one wing of his collar; his shirt-front was buckled and wrinkled.
For several minutes he sat there like that, immobile; then he stood up and went out to the kitchenette. From a pantry shelf he took a bottle of Scotch, nearly full, and a glass. He turned on the faucet in the sink, let it run while he poured an inch and a half of whisky into the glass. He tossed this down with a single movement, took a swallow of water, and then replaced the bottle.
He began to unbutton his waistcoat with one hand and pull at his tie with the other as he moved towards the bedroom. The whisky felt warm in his stomach. It erased the thick, sticky taste in his mouth, but his head was still fogged. As soon as he undressed he went into the bathroom, stood there for a moment like a man drugged and incapable of thought.
He brushed his teeth, then scowled at himself in the medicine-cabinet mirror. He finally took out his shaving accessories and set to work. He would not go to bed at all. He never got any rest that way; such a procedure always made him feel logy for the balance of the day. His thoughts stalled while he shaved, and then, with the remains of the lather still on his face, he turned on the shower, adjusted the spray to the proper warmth.
The shower bath was a combination arrangement, set in the tub, which was placed in one corner of the room. Murdock, facing the doorway, drew the circular-hung shower curtain just enough to keep the floor dry and stood there with his hands behind him, soak
ing up the warmth until he heard a sudden clicking noise, the sound of a door opening.
His first thought was that he had not locked the apartment door. His eyes darted to the full-length mirror which made one side of the bathroom door and which reflected, from its present angle, a narrow rectangle of the living-room.
He heard the door slam, and reached back to turn off the shower. Then the mirror reflected and framed the figure of a girl—a bareheaded girl with a blue evening dress and a loose wrap that was open and swirled around her as she stopped abruptly and stared about.
Sheer surprise robbed Murdock of logical thought. For a moment he just stood there and stared at the blond vision he had last seen in Redfield’s apartment. Then the girl’s eyes met his in the mirror. The eyes widened. She turned and ran out of his range of vision.
Murdock managed to turn off the shower. He heard the soft thud of running feet and pulled the shower curtain about him just as she dashed through the bathroom door.
For a long moment they stared at each other, the girl white-faced, frightened, Murdock holding the shower curtain at his waist and peering incredulously at her through the V opening at his face. He had no warning at all for what happened next. He opened his mouth, started to speak. The mouth stayed open. The girl leaped directly towards him, stepped over the edge of the bathtub. With a quick, continuous movement that he made no effort to forestall, she yanked the wet curtain from his grasp, ducked in behind him, her body close to his; then she pulled the curtain around them both.
“Turn the water on!” she gasped. “Please!”
Murdock obeyed without conscious thought. The water came down in a deluge. He heard it pounding on the girl’s wrap and she leaned close, her folded hands touching his back. In spite of the warmth of the shower the hands felt like ice and there was a tingle, a quick contraction of Murdock’s skin all over his body before she said:
“The curtain!”
Murdock took a new hold on the gaping curtain and pulled it together just as the living-room door banged back against the wall. He heard a man’s voice an instant before a tall, stiff-looking fellow in a loose-fitting topcoat dashed across the living-room and was mirrored briefly in the bathroom door. The man disappeared, came back a moment later to the visible rectangle. Then, like the girl, his glance touched Murdock, fastened upon him.
Murder with Pictures Page 3