Murder with Pictures

by George Harmon Coxe

  Seconds later Lieutenant Bacon of the Homicide Squad rushed into the bathroom, slid to a stop on the tile threshold.

  “You seen a girl, Kent?” he lipped.

  “When?” Murdock said, and with the recovery of his composure his tone was guileless.

  “Now, damn it! She got off at this floor and—” Bacon broke off, dashed down the little hall. Murdock heard him barking profane commands to some unseen associates until the pounding of the water obliterated the voice. Murdock stood there rigidly and felt the chilled pressure of the girl’s hand on his shoulders. Not until now did he feel any embarrassment. But it did not last and he finally managed to say:

  “Well, what do we do now?”

  “Wait,” the girl whispered.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I mean—” The girl broke off and Murdock felt her body tense against his as Bacon’s voice cut in on them again.

  The Lieutenant stopped in the doorway. “I’m gonna take a look around. She might’ve sneaked in while you were here. You wouldn’t’ve heard her.”

  Murdock said: “Go ahead.” But when Bacon disappeared he did not dare risk speaking again, so he waited until the Lieutenant returned.

  “Well, she ain’t here, that’s a cinch.” Bacon hesitated, pushed back his felt hat, and surveyed Murdock with eyes that were steady, and gray, like his hair. “You’re one of those early risers, huh?” he said.

  “I haven’t been to bed.”

  “There was a party upstairs in Redfield’s place.” Bacon pushed aside his coat-tails and put balled fists on his hips. “Maybe you were in on it?”

  “I was there for a while, yes.”

  “Hah.” Bacon’s lips parted in a thin smile, and one eyebrow cocked. “That’s swell. I want to talk to you.”

  “And I want to talk to you,” Murdock said, and made his voice flat. “What’s this girl gag? Can’t I take a bath without some cop busting in and—”

  “Come on,” Bacon cut in. “This ought to interest you, it’s right down your alley.”

  Murdock nodded, unperturbed. “Okay.”

  The girl was all right now. He did not have any answers, but he found room amid the race of his disordered thoughts to remember his last conversational exchange with this girl upstairs. Now a sliver of grim humor knifed through his brain. “Okay. Wait’ll I take a cold one.”

  He reached for the shower control as he spoke and turned it to COLD. The result was an icy torrent that stiffened him and pushed his breath through his teeth. He heard the girl gasp, felt her fingers contract. But she made no other sound and he turned off the water.

  Bacon lingered in the doorway.

  Murdock said: “There’s some Scotch in the kitchen cupboard. Pour one if you like while I’m getting dressed.”

  Bacon grunted, and disappeared in the hall. Murdock pulled open the shower curtain, stepped out of the tub, and caught up a towel. The girl yanked the curtain around her as he turned and moved out of her sight to one side of the opening. When he had rubbed down, he wrapped the towel around his waist and went into the bedroom.

  When Murdock stepped into the living-room a few minutes later, Bacon got up from the davenport. He waited silently, his eyes slightly narrowed as Murdock approached.

  “So you were at the party? What time did you leave?”

  “Around two-thirty—two-twenty, I guess it was. What about it?”

  “But you haven’t been to bed?” Bacon’s tone was skeptical, but not unpleasant.

  “I fell asleep in the chair,” Murdock said. He scowled, then continued irritably: “And I don’t like riddles.”

  “Neither do I, but—”

  “Then why don’t you speak your piece? Who’s the girl? What—”

  “I don’t know yet,” Bacon said slowly, “but I’ll find out. You got a camera here?”

  “I got one I can use in a pinch.” Murdock’s scowl remained fixed and he reached for a cigarette.

  “Get it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to get big-hearted and give you the break you’re all the time yelling for. Somebody knocked off Mark Redfield in his apartment.”

  “When?” Murdock’s eyes widened as doubt and uncertainty surged through him.

  “Tonight—this morning.”

  “Murdered.” The word was more of a statement than a question, and Bacon nodded, adding dryly: “Get the camera and come on.”

  5

  SHE WAITED THERE in the shower for some minutes after she heard the door close. She was shivering now. The dress was a clammy, clinging mass weighed down by the pressure of the water-soaked wrap. And it was not alone this that made her shiver. The chill was mental, built squarely upon fear and panic and desperation. Under pressure the nerves held their necessary taut pitch. With the reaction they were frayed. She felt weak and more frightened than ever.

  She finally pulled aside the shower curtain with a slow deliberate movement that was soundless. Water trickled from the soaked mass of her hair, oozed into her brows and down the back of her neck. She could hear the drip-drip of the drops in the residue in the tub, could feel them splash on her ankles.

  There was no other sound but her own breathing, and her courage returned slowly, warming her and bringing assurance. She finally moved out from under the curtain and, still standing in the tub, peeled the sodden wrap from her shoulders. The little jacket stuck. She had to twist out of it; the dress dropped like a wet washcloth when she undid the shoulder-fastening. She stepped out of it, avoiding its touch as if it were the only wet thing about her.

  Looking about the white, bare confines of the room, she saw there was a clean face-towel on a rack beside the washbowl, but no bath-towel. Doing the best she could with what she had, she began to rub her hair, continuing until the little towel was soaked. She shook her head then, neck arched back, until the hair settled to her satisfaction; then she sat down on the edge of the tub, pulled off her pumps, and peeled down her stockings.

  Dressed now in a brassière and brief silken shorts that were as tight as her skin, she started to remove them, thought better of it, and stepped down to the bath-mat. She pattered into the hall, found a narrow closet between the bathroom and bedroom doors. Armed with a turkish towel of huge proportions, she went back to the bathroom and stripped off the shorts and brassière.

  She went to work with a vengeance then, spending most of the time on her hair, rubbing it, massaging it until her arms were tired and she was out of breath. When she had finished she moved to the medicine-cabinet and peered into its glass.

  Her face had a ruddy, freshly scrubbed look about it and she continued to study herself until she was able to smile. It was not much of a smile, but it helped. Even when she stepped back, traces of it remained at the corners of her eyes. She glanced into the tub, frowned, and, remembering the outer door, ran into the living-room holding the towel about her breasts with one hand. She opened the door a crack, pressed the locking button. When she closed it she gave a little sigh of relief and relaxed her hold on the towel.

  Slowly she moved into the bedroom and opened the closet door. On a hook on the inside of the panel was a dressing-gown of green flannel. Tossing the towel on the four-poster, she opened the robe, held it in front of her, measuring it. Poised there, her feet a few inches apart and her arms stiff and angling upwards, the even thoroughness of her tan was at once apparent. Only at the hips and for an inch or so at the small of her back, was the skin white. From a little distance she looked like an Indian with a brief white bathing-suit.

  She turned quickly and slipped into the robe, knotting the wide strap tightly and turning up the sleeves until she found her hands. Then she faced the mirror on top of the maple chest of drawers and grinned at herself.

  The grin died abruptly as her thoughts leaped from the moment to the reason for her being here. Her eyes widened. Trouble filmed them and settled over her. She had
come back, but even now she did not know—

  She spun quickly about, searched the room with a quick glance, and moved into the hall and living-room. Her eyes found the telephone just inside the door. She swept it up, gave a number in a low, jerky voice.

  Fear, cold and gnawing, seeped into her brain. The operator said: “I’m ringing Charlesgate 8974.”

  “Keep ringing. There must be someone there.”

  She waited and tension gripped her until her muscles ached and her breath caught in her throat. She could hear the distant intermittent buzzing of the other telephone and began to count the rings. Then a sharp click knifed through one of those silent pauses. She said: “Hello, hello,” breathlessly.

  An interminable second or two later a man’s voice, which was low and sounded irritable and thick with sleep, said: “Hello.”

  She gasped: “Howard?”

  The voice said: “Hello. Yes—what—”

  She clicked down the receiver arm with her index finger and relaxed, propped there against the wall, lowering the two parts of the instrument until her arms were straight down. For a moment or two she stood there while the color surged back into the tanned cheeks and her breathing became regular again. Then she lifted the instrument, replaced the receiver, and gently set it on the stand.

  Even then she remained standing and the sequence of the drama unrolled before her mind quickly, but with the clearness of a slow-motion film. The whole idea had been silly, an impulsive course of action born of anger and worry. It would have been better, she told herself, if she had not come back. Luck—that and nothing else had allowed her to escape.

  She exhaled slowly and in relief, let her eyes drift around the room. In spite of her keyed-up nerves she was aware that she liked it, and this thought led her to Kent Murdock. She had learned his name before she left Redfield’s apartment; there was a touch of shame in her memory that brought back the details of their first meeting. She had been a boor, an unmannerly little brat.

  She walked to the windows at the end of the room. Over the river the growing daylight was muddy, coating the already drab factory buildings on the other bank with a leaden, colorless brush; the Technology buildings looked gray and cold and austere. Turning, she moved back to the wing chair and switched off the floor lamp beside it. From a jade box she took a cigarette, lit it, and sank into the chair.

  She drew her feet up under her and snuggled down in the robe. She liked the way he reacted to the emergency. He had been perfect, natural and at ease with the policeman. Even that cold shower.

  She felt warm and safe enough now to look upon that impish gesture with amusement, to understand the sense of humor which prompted him to take advantage of her.

  6

  THE PLAIN-CLOTHESMAN at the door stood aside and Murdock followed Lieutenant Bacon through the entrance foyer and into the living-room. Another plain-clothesman, who was walking idly about, stopped idling long enough to notice them, then he continued to the terrace windows and looked out.

  The place was otherwise deserted, its outstanding characteristic the smell of stale tobacco smoke. Leon’s bar still stood in the dining-room, its mirror and decorative bottles intact. Apparently no effort had been made to tidy up: glasses of all shapes and sizes were everywhere, glasses and overflowing ash-trays. Bacon continued on to a doorway on the right wall, and Murdock found himself in a comfortably furnished pine-paneled and book-filled room. He put his little camera-case and tripod just inside the door.

  Mark Redfield lay on his side, one arm doubled under him and the other outstretched above him, pillowing his head. There was something horribly unfamiliar about the limp and boneless set of the limbs that spoke of death as surely as a coroner’s verdict. His heavy face, curiously white now, was relaxed, peaceful. Upon the wrinkled shirt-front was a wide red stain reaching down towards the floor and disappearing in his waistcoat. At the upper edges of the stain was a gray-black smudge.

  Murdock took in the picture of death at a glance and caught his lower lip between his teeth as he looked up. There were three other men in the room: a fingerprint man and a photographer from headquarters, Sergeant Keogh, and a thickset, sullen-looking fellow who sat on the window-seat between the bookcases, nursing a grudge and a somewhat battered face.

  Keogh said, “Where’d you pick him up?” and nodded a greeting to Murdock.

  “He lives here,” grunted Bacon.

  Murdock said: “Hello, Tom.”

  Keogh grinned, added: “That’s swell, another suspect already, huh?”

  Bacon took off his hat, wiped his forehead, put the hat on again, and pushed it back. He nodded to Keogh. “Take this down.” Then, to Murdock: “Now, who was here?”

  Keogh took out a little black notebook and a pencil. Murdock named those he knew at the party, and Bacon asked: “That all?”

  Murdock shook his head. “Another half-dozen or so besides the entertainers, but I don’t know their names.”

  Bacon grunted and fell silent.

  Murdock voiced the question that had been bothering him; he was careful to speak casually, a bit lightly. “What’s the girl trouble you were all steamed up about?”

  “I wish I knew.” Bacon shook his head. “The telephone operator on the desk downstairs saw her come in about four-thirty, maybe a little later. She had a blue dress and a dark cloak; a blonde and a looker. But we didn’t know about it until it was too late. She was hiding in a closet in the foyer. Mahady, out in the other room, caught a glimpse of her sneaking past the door. She caught the elevator and went down to the lobby. I was down there and she must’ve figured me as a copper because she jumped right back in the car. It stopped at your floor. I think she’s still in the building.” Bacon grunted and his lips tightened. “If she is, she won’t get out today.”

  Murdock’s voice got sharp in spite of himself. “What time was he killed?”

  “Between four and four-thirty, we think.”

  Murdock exhaled slowly, but it must have sounded something like a sigh of relief, because Bacon eyed him sharply and said: “That’s all right with you, huh?”

  Murdock avoided his gaze. “Where’s the gun?”

  “Haven’t found it.”

  Murdock moved around the body and took out a cigarette as he stopped in front of the thickset man. “Been working you over, Spike?”

  “Don’t they always?” the fellow growled.

  “He ran into a door,” Keogh said. “Didn’t you, Spike? We found him hiding in a closet in the outside hall.” Keogh cocked one eyebrow at Murdock and spread his hands, an expression of mock resignation on his broad Irish face. “He tried to run and when we chased him he goes smack into a door. He oughta know better.”

  A small man with pince-nez and a black bag bustled through the doorway and greeted the room with a smile and a cheery “Hello, boys, what’s all this?” He put down the bag and opened it, glancing at Redfield’s body as he did so.

  Bacon and Keogh grunted acknowledgments. Murdock nodded.

  The examiner, sinking to one knee beside the body, spoke as his fingers went through their practiced routine.

  “Girard got out just in time. Anybody lined up for this?”

  “Naw,” growled Bacon. “We just got here.”

  Keogh moved over to Murdock’s side. “One thing,” he confided, “it’s a break for the force. Without him to defend ’em there’s a lot of mugs around town that’re gonna end up in a cell. He sprung more guilty guys than any three other lawyers in town.”

  Murdock smiled wryly. “A noble thought.”

  Keogh said: “Utsnay,” hesitated, added: “Where’s the camera?”

  Murdock moved to the door and picked up a small metal tripod and a square leather case. Opening it, he took out a flash-gun, a bulb, and a little camera in its own case, about the size of a fifteen-cent can of tobacco.

  Keogh, who had followed him, asked: “What the hell’s that? Can you take pictures with it?”

  Murdock nodded. “My newspaper stuff i
s at the office. This is some of my own rig. It’ll take anything. You have to enlarge ’em, but it’s twice as fast and—”

  “Then why don’t you quit carrying that trunk around and use it all the time?”

  “Because”—Murdock pulled out the tripod—“never mind. Will you take my word for it or do we have to argue it out?”

  Keogh grinned and subsided. Murdock glanced at the examiner, then back at Keogh. He liked the stocky Sergeant, liked Bacon, too. They made a good pair, complementing each other, working well in double harness.

  Bacon was tall, gray, stiff, with a dry, laconic manner. Keogh had a box-like face, a tough appearance; he was self-confident, loud, and suspicious of everyone. Neither man was brilliant, neither was spectacular, unduly imaginative, or blessed with more than average intelligence. But in their own line of work, which was often dull and almost always of a routine nature, both were hard, competent, and so honest they leaned over backwards.

  “It looks like a contact wound,” the examiner said as he straightened up. “I’ll give you the bullet and a full report in the morning—today.”

  “When’d he get it?” asked Bacon.

  “I’ll guess for you. Between three-thirty and four-thirty; probably about four. It could be suicide except for one thing.”

  “We haven’t got the gun yet,” Keogh broke in.

  “That isn’t what I mean.” The examiner snapped shut his bag and delivered his ultimatum with full consciousness of its import. “The index finger of his right hand is broken. Looks as if it had been snapped back. That’s the trigger finger, isn’t it?”

  “Oh.” Bacon scowled, then his eyebrows came up. “We figured there was a scuffle. That cinches it.”

  Murdock set up his tripod when the examiner left. Bacon cautioned: “Take a couple. The room is okay; I don’t mind the body, but no close-ups or anything.” He stepped back and his eyes fell on Spike Tripp.