Murder with Pictures

by George Harmon Coxe

  “When you go.”

  “When I—”

  “He’s gone now.”

  There was no answer.

  “That’s what you came for, wasn’t it?” Murdock pressed stubbornly. A new bitterness crept into his voice. “You wanted to make him see reason; sauce for the goose, inverted. And we’ve both botched the thing some way. I mean, you can go home now. You did all you could do.”

  There was no answer to this either.

  “You can’t use that as an excuse any longer,” Murdock blurted.

  “I didn’t think I needed an excuse.” Joyce Archer’s voice was stiff now, cold. “What I told you was a long time ago—it seems a long time. I thought things were changed. But it was a mistake, then, this afternoon.”

  “It was a mistake with things as they are with me.” Murdock wiped his face, crumpled the handkerchief in his fist.

  “Then why don’t you come here and tell me so to my face?”

  “Because I’m scared.”

  “Of me?”

  “Yes. Of me, too. Of both of us.”

  “Need you be?” The voice was relieved now, low, vibrant.

  “You know. I’m old enough to know when to be scared. I’m just a mug, a newspaper man. I’ve had most of my illusions knocked out of me. But I’m not that much of a mug—or if I am, not with your kind of a girl.”

  “Then you still have an illusion or two left.”

  “I know what it is to do a thing impulsively and regret it.”

  “It wouldn’t be impulsive now, would it?”

  “You’d better go home.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Go home and stay there and think it over and then—”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference.”

  Murdock wiped the handkerchief across his face again.

  “If you stay there,” he said sharply, “you’ll stay there for good. And here’s something else. You’ve been there three nights. I’ve tried to be polite and considerate and decent because you’re young and temporarily dissatisfied, and disgusted with your brother and life in general. You’ll react to all this emotional drive some time and see things as they are. Then you’ll hate me and yourself and—”

  “I hate myself now, most of the time.”

  Murdock cursed softly in his exasperation. “Anyway, I think I’m going to New York.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m fed up with my job.”

  “I thought you liked newspaper work.”

  “Maybe I do, but I can’t know how well until I get away from it. I want to try some advertising work, some portrait stuff, and see—”

  “Well, why not? Couldn’t I go?”

  “No.”

  A woman’s purring voice broke in. “Deposit another five cents, puleeze.”

  “Wait a minute,” growled Murdock and he fished for the handful of coins in his pocket. He had one five-cent piece left, jammed it into the proper slot, and the gonglike bell rang in his ear. “Hello.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hello.”

  “Why can’t I go?”

  Murdock felt momentary relief at the sound of the familiar voice again; then his face grew taut and his eyes were miserable in the shadows.

  “Because I won’t take you. I’m married and until—”

  “I know that.” This impatiently. “You’re not seducing me. I’ll be glad to get away from here, to be with someone, even if only for a short while, who will try to understand and maybe be a little kind.”

  “I won’t take you.”

  “I don’t blame you for not respecting me. But do you hate me as well?”

  “Hate you?” exploded Murdock.

  “Then why—”

  “All right.” Murdock felt the pounding of the blood at his eardrums, the hot stifling pressure of the little booth. His mouth, his throat, seemed dry and parched. He went on in a quick, almost savage voice:

  “If you want to know, I love you. I don’t know what else could make me this way. You’re what I want, what I’ve always wanted. I like the way you talk; I like your mind and your spirit and the nerve that made you run away and break into my room. I like the way you feel about your brother and your naturalness and frankness and the lines of your body and the way you walk across a room. I like—Damn it! I like it all. But I don’t want a sample. I want it for good. If you want to wait, maybe I can work the thing out. I’ve got to work it out. But—”

  “It took you a long time to say so.” Joyce Archer’s voice was alive and throaty, joyful.

  “If that’s what you wanted, you’ve got it,” Murdock snapped.

  “I thought I was right. It’s so much nicer to be sure. Because I’m that way. And that’s why I said things had changed and why I don’t want any excuse any more. If we are honest with ourselves, we don’t have to wait. It’s silly.”

  “Not to me. Because I’ve sat there in my place three nights and thought about you and fought with myself, knowing that whether you liked me or not you were a good enough sport to keep your part of the bargain. You came to spite your brother and you would have carried on rather than back out. I’ve gone this far. I’m going to wait until we can start out right. It’s worth it. We can see each other, all right, and go places and do things, but—”

  “How long will it take to get your divorce?”

  Murdock groaned. “Hestor knows how to spite, too.” With the weight of his confession off his mind, with the knowledge that Joyce had accepted it and felt as he did, his tone was lighter. Some of the stiffness went out of his lips and he forgot about the sweat on his face and forehead. “I’m beginning to think it’s a woman’s complex.”

  “You mean she won’t give you one? On any grounds?”

  “No,” Murdock said flatly. “Not till she’s ready. I can buy her off; that’s the only way.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Joyce Archer’s laugh, distorted by the instrument, shrilled in his ear and he flared: “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing. I’m not rich enough to scare you off, but I’ve a little. Enough to—”

  “Oh, no,” Murdock cut in. “It’s my mess. I’ve got to clean it up.”

  “But I’m in it now.”

  “Yes, but at best I’ll probably be a lousy guy to have around the house. I balled things up once before. Maybe I’ve learned something. But at best I’m no bargain—even without cost. You’re entitled to something better—to the best break I can give you.”

  “But what does it matter if—”

  “No!” warned Murdock. “A bought husband, huh?”

  “Don’t be a grouch!”

  The silky-voiced operator broke in upon him again. “Your time is up. Deposit five cents, puleeze.”

  Dismay settled over Murdock. There was no other nickel in his pocket. He said: “Wait!” Then, fairly shouting: “You go on home because—”

  He heard Joyce’s laugh again, heard: “I suppose I’ll have—” and then the line went dead.

  16

  HESTOR MURDOCK LAY in the perfumed depths of her bath and parboiled herself blissfully. Her legs were stretched out. She had a rubber-covered and luxuriantly soft pillow behind her head so that she could lean comfortably against the slightly sloping head of the tub. Her arms lay idly along the sides and the steaming water, a pinkish color now, came to her armpits; her back was slightly arched, bringing her breasts close to the surface so that the occasional movement of her body set up miniature ripples which threatened to bare them at any moment.

  This, the first five minutes, was always the best. She did not want to stir herself. The warmth, the lift of the water, gave her an ethereal sense of floating, of hanging suspended, naked, motionless, in hot, lush space. But it did not last. It was never until she felt chilled that she realized the water had cooled. Then it was too late to recapture the ecstatic mood; too lat
e to do anything but hurry out of the tub and take a brisk rub-down and tell herself she would not make the same mistake next time.

  But there was time enough tonight; the water had nearly scalded her. And Girard would not call until ten o’clock. He had wanted to pick her up at the studio. But to get the most enjoyment out of these hours with him, she had to start off right.

  The broadcasts always left her nerves ragged and high-strung. It was not like the stage. Nothing to judge how she was going over except by the dead-pan audience beyond the glass panels. Trained seals. Polite. Clapping when it was expected of them. Filing in and out like a jury. It was time, she told herself, she got used to this. A year and a half she had been broadcasting. Not an important program, but the hundred and fifty a week was three times what she had made in the chorus. It was that time-clock efficiency with which everything was conducted that keyed her up like this.

  A hot bath, though, a cocktail, and a change of clothes—these made a difference. She stirred in the tub, and the pillow slipped down her back into the water. She picked it out and tossed it on the floor, sat up, and reached for the lavender-colored soap.

  When she had finished she called: “Anna,” and a moment later a stout Negress with a good-natured face and gold ear-rings in pierced ears came into the room. She had a towel over her arm, which she unfolded and held up in front of her. The towel was so long she had to peer over the top to see that her position was correct to receive her mistress. When Hestor stepped from the tub, she turned her back and Anna wrapped the towel about her and let go of it.

  The orchid bath-mat was as thick as a rug. Hestor seemed to flatten her feet on it. When she had the towel adjusted to suit her, she turned around.

  “Did you bring the shaker in?”

  “Yes, m’m.” Anna bobbed her head up and down.

  “Then lay out my black velvet.”

  Anna’s head bobbed again. “Anything else, m’m?”

  “That’s all.” Hestor started to dry herself, and Anna moved to the door. “Oh, Anna, and leave the door unlocked.”

  Anna went out. She was a good investment. Lucky to get one as good for part-time work. She had no need of a full-time girl. She was never up until noon, was she? And she never needed Anna after nine o’clock or so at night. Of course, it would be nice to have a full-time maid; she’d have one some day.

  Hestor dropped the towel at her feet, slipped into feathered mules and picked up the blue crêpe negligee on the white chair. As she started to go out, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and stopped in front of it. Facing herself this way, she studied her image for a few seconds, then replaced the negligee and presented her left side to the glass.

  She cocked her head with the chin up and surveyed herself from the corner of her eye. Not bad at all. In fact—Her hands moved up to her breasts, moved under them to support them. They were still firm, the skin smooth and rounded. And they did not need support. Her hands came away. Thank goodness, she had not yet lost her figure.

  She was thirty. If she watched herself, took a little exercise, and ate sensibly she would be just as good at forty. But why not? Her figure had never been anything but a source of pleasure. It had never troubled her; she had never had to baby herself. Her hands moved to her stomach. Rounded, yes. But she was not the flapper type. Slender enough, but not depending upon a dress to proclaim her sex.

  She smiled, turned away, and picked up the negligee. She did not put it on; she carried it into the bedroom and tossed it upon the ivory four-poster. Opening a round, flowered box of powder, she reached for the puff. The handle was eighteen inches long, gently curving; the puff itself was about the size of half a cantaloupe.

  What, she wondered as a cloud of powder settled about her, would be the upshot of Girard’s attention. He was a bachelor; there might be a possibility of marriage. But if not, if the affair was of any duration, he would probably make some sort of settlement. She had heard he was generous. And certainly there was money enough. Besides, he was a gentleman. An ex-bootlegger, but a gentleman. Until she had met him, six months before, that line of business had designated a type. Girard was different—well educated, polished. She liked the way he talked, the way he wore his clothes, the way he ordered dinner. And there was a deference, an almost inborn deference, in his manner towards her.

  She smiled at herself and put down the powder-puff. The black velvet lay on the bed. It would be a job getting into it, but it was worth the effort and, once on, its sleek tightness made a girdle unnecessary, and the effect was—she had seen men look at her in night clubs—well, adequate, certainly. She contemplated the dress a moment, then stepped over to the bedside table and picked up the cocktail-shaker, a severe cylinder of chromium and black enamel. She shook it five or six times, poured dark red liquid into the single silver cocktail cup. Manhattans were her favorite. She liked the sweetness of the Italian vermouth, the jolt of the rye whisky. But she had to be careful. They were heavy. At least to her. Two, not more than three, or she felt sleepy and thick-headed.

  She drank the first cocktail quickly, poured the second and carried it to her dressing-table, sat down on the cushioned bench. Her make-up did not take long, because she was an expert, her training and experience dating to pre-burlesque days. Fortunately her eyelashes were good—long and with a natural sharp upward curve; mascara was unnecessary. Stroking them with a tiny brush for a few seconds, she surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction, touched the stopper of the perfume-bottle under each ear, then finished the second cocktail.

  She sat down on the bed, picked up the sheer silk stockings, her thoughts reverting to Girard. Then, as she crossed her legs, the sound of the door-buzzer broke her reverie. She stood up, slipped a foot into the mule which had fallen to the floor.

  He was early; too early.

  She caught up the negligee, shrugged into it, and tied the sash tightly about her waist as she moved into the living-room. Then, instead of going to the door as she had intended, she turned and went back to the inner hall, turned again, and called: “Come.”

  The smile died on her lips as the door swung inward. Kent Murdock stepped through the opening, stopped there with one hand on the knob, the other removing his brown felt. Irritation and resentment flared up in Hestor’s face. The lips dipped at the corners, and her shoulders sagged slightly. For a second or two they stood there staring at each other; then Murdock closed the door and Hestor started towards him.

  “I’m going out,” she said flatly.

  “All right,” Murdock said, just as flatly. “I won’t stay long.”

  Hestor stopped in the center of the room, seemed about to speak. Instead she shrugged, took a cigarette from a plain silver box, and spun flame from a lighter. She forgot about holding the negligee. It gaped open at the throat and friction loosed the sash slightly. Murdock sat down on a chair arm, let both hands and the hat hang loosely between spread knees. Hestor turned and threw herself down on a chaise-longue with a striped silk damask covering.

  “You can stay five minutes,” she said, “but it won’t take me that long to say no.”

  Murdock’s thin smile was mirthless. “Who is it, Nate Girard?”

  Hestor did not answer immediately; she simply watched Murdock through the spiraling smoke from the cigarette and did a lot of thinking in a very short time.

  Suppose she gave him his divorce. She would have to give him one eventually; she would want one herself. And if she was not careful—She knew him well enough to realize that, comparatively easy to get along with up to a certain point, Murdock was not the sort to take too much from anyone without fighting back.

  So far she had been careful, and lucky, in that Murdock apparently did not care what she did. Men, the companionship of men, were as necessary to her life as food. Yet until Girard there had been none sufficiently important or attractive to warrant even a semi-permanent liaison. During the time Girard’s trial was in progress Andrew Sprague had seemed attractive to her, but now that Girard wa
s out again—

  She said: “I’m going out with him tonight, if that’s what you mean.”

  Murdock nodded, turned the hat between his hands. “Why don’t you do something about it? It might cramp your style some time, being tied up to me.”

  “I like it that way now.” Hestor felt her irritation mount. “What’s your trouble, the Archer girl?”

  Murdock’s eyes narrowed slightly. He hesitated. To tell the truth would only serve to rekindle Hestor’s already smoldering spite; to deny—His chin came up; he spoke sullenly.

  “Yes.”

  Hestor smiled with taunting sweetness. “Really?” Her voice thinned out. “Well, what can you do about it?”

  Murdock watched her and she met his gaze defiantly. Let him wait, then. She was in no hurry. She liked to see him squirm. Damn him, anyway! There was something about him, even now, that attracted her. Perhaps it was his similarity to Girard—or perhaps Girard’s similarity to Kent furnished the spark for this new affair. They had much in common. Something vital and clean; a hardness, but an innate fairness; intelligence and educated minds that she did not entirely understand, but which she knew enough to respect. And she had come a long way herself. These last two years had made a difference. With her present knowledge, with the right sort of handling, she could have held Murdock—at least longer.

  But it was just as well. If he was still attractive to her, so was Girard. And Girard had money. He was older; he would probably demand but little and she could find other outlets, given money and leisure, for any surplus of desire. Her experience with Murdock would help her with Girard. She would know how to handle him now. She’d know when to hold back. And—she revived the thought with sudden bitterness—she could never bring Murdock back, even if she wanted him.

  What did he expect in marriage, anyway? Look what she had given him. And he had spurned it; that was it, spurned her. Well, let him wait. Let him see how it felt. What if she really tricked him into marrying her? Hadn’t she done her best to fulfill her obligations? She brought him youth and a beautiful body, an intensity of feeling that he could not get from one woman in a hundred. And it had not been enough—or, paradoxically, it had been too much. She had tried too hard. She could not tune him to her pitch. The thought of the quick cooling of his ardor—what little he had—infuriated her and—