He asked: “When did you see him yesterday? What time did he come home and pack? Is there any servant there who can tell you where he was in the morning?”
She said: “I’ll see,” and left the telephone. When she came back a minute or so later, she added: “He went out about ten; he came back about a quarter after one and started to pack furiously. Why? Is there—”
“I was just wondering,” Murdock said, and trouble clogged his brain.
He talked awhile longer, changing the subject immediately, and hung up. Again he got the office operator and asked for MacShane.
“Got anything?” he asked.
“Not yet,” MacShane said. “Two of ’em have come back. Didn’t find anything. And say, shouldn’t we cross Tripp’s picture off that gallery?”
“Leave it. He could have called,” Murdock said flatly. “We got to make sure. Ring me up when those other two men come in. I’ll be up here in the library until I hear from you.”
Jerry came back with a half-dozen large envelopes in his hands. Murdock moved over to an oak table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He began his work systematically by emptying all the envelopes and sorting out his material in chronological order. When he had finished his preparations he began to read, starting back four years previous when the Cusick brothers tried their extortion scheme on Girard.
By noon he had read little more than a quarter of the story. He rang for Jerry and asked him when he ate. Jerry said any time. Murdock got an office boy and sent him out for sandwiches and beer and pie.
Murdock liked Jerry. An old-time newspaper man who had become stuck on the copy desk, he had retired only to become irked with the sudden idleness. A job had been found for him in the library and, according to Jerry, he intended to keep within smelling-distance of printer’s ink, within sight of the city room, until he dropped.
They talked as they ate, sitting there on the library’s worn leather divan, and then, shortly after one, Murdock resumed his study of the clippings. He made notes as he read, jotting down the salient features of the story. Always one sentence kept cropping up in his mind, a sentence that, even when he finished the last clipping, shortly after six o’clock, was still unanswered:
“Acting on an anonymous tip, Captain Keller, Sergeant Anthony, and Detectives Reed and Crosetti of police headquarters found Girard alone in his apartment.…”
Murdock repacked the envelopes and stood up. He stretched, put both hands in the small of his back, arched it, and yawned. He said: “Acting on an anonymous tip,” softly, and his lean face got somber, his eyes brooding and thoughtful. Then, driven by the impulse of inspiration, he went out into the city room and walked over to a desk near the windows.
A small man with a black mustache and prematurely gray hair looked up from his typewriter, surveyed Murdock with tired brown eyes, and said: “Hy, Kent.”
Murdock answered: “Hello, Naylor.” He slid one thigh over a corner of the desk. “You busy?”
“Not too busy. What’s on your mind?”
“You’re the one who followed through on Joe Cusick and the Girard trial, huh?”
“One of the ones,” Naylor grunted.
“Come in the library for about five minutes.”
Naylor looked puzzled, but he stood up and followed Murdock across the room and through the swinging wooden gate. Murdock offered a cigarette and Naylor accepted as he sat down on the divan. When they both had lights, Murdock said:
“I’ve been reading up on that job until I’m bleary-eyed. Listen while I unload, and check me if I’m wrong. I want to be sure I got the story right.”
Naylor leaned back, smiling wryly. “Shoot.”
“Four years ago the Cusicks tried to take Girard for twenty thousand dollars, and the plan backfired. Girard saw the thing through. Redfield refused to take their case and they went up. The night after they were released from prison, Joe Cusick was found dead in an automobile three blocks from Girard’s apartment, shot once through the head. A roundsman found him at eleven o’clock, and about the same time he was calling in, headquarters got a tip. They beat it right down to Girard’s place, found him alone in the apartment, and searched the place. They found just two things.”
Murdock hesitated, turned on the divan to face Naylor. “They found a gun with Cusick’s fingerprints on it, and they found what looked like bloodstains on the rug.” He glanced down at the slip of paper containing his notes and read what had been a headline: “Blood Clue in Cusick Slaying.”
“On the strength of this they took him down, questioned him while they built up a case, booked him. A specialist testified that the spots on the rug were human blood, but at the trial the defense experts offered a rebuttal to show that this blood could not be definitely proved to be Cusick’s. They found out that Cusick’s fingerprints were on the gun picked up in Girard’s place, but the hitch was that this gun had not been fired—it was a different caliber from the slug found in Cusick’s head.
“The D. A. built up a good case, but it was circumstantial. Cusick had been seen in front of Girard’s apartment, and the D. A.’s case was that Cusick came back to give Girard another shakedown, that Girard shot him and then lugged the body down the back way, put it in a car, and drove three blocks, to where the cop found it.”
Naylor puffed on his cigarette and said nothing. Murdock frowned at his slip of paper, read: “Absence of Clues Aids Defense.”
“Redfield’s defense,” he continued, “was merely a complete denial. No one had seen Girard on the street, but he admitted being out shortly before the stated time of Cusick’s death. His story was that someone must have tried to frame him and had planted the gun in his apartment while he was out—but had made a mistake and left the wrong gun—and then had tipped off the police to come and search his place. He denied all knowledge of the crime and made no attempt to explain the bloodstains on the rug.”
Murdock put the paper in his pocket. “Is that the story?”
“Just about,” Naylor said, dropping his cigarette on the floor and stepping on it. “It was just one of those things where there was a reasonable doubt and Redfield was the sort of bird to make the most of it. At that, he had a hell of a job. Those bloodstains worried the jury, even though they could not be used as conclusive evidence.”
Murdock said: “What’s your own opinion?”
“Me?” Naylor stood up. “Hell! He was plenty guilty! Cusick tried to put the finger on him, and Girard beat him to it.”
Murdock pushed his lower lip out to overlap the upper and got to his feet. Naylor started to leave the room, and Murdock watched him thoughtfully until he reached the door; then he called:
“Hey!”
Naylor turned.
“How about that tip?”
“That’s one thing that worked both ways,” Naylor said. “If it wasn’t for that, the police wouldn’t have got to Girard—not so soon anyway. And yet it helped his story. Because if somebody else had knocked off Cusick, it would be natural to plant a gun and tip the police to Girard.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Murdock said. “What I mean is, have they ever found out where the tip came from?”
Naylor shook his head.
“It just came through to the telegraph bureau—” Murdock began.
“The guy asked for Captain Keller, told him that Girard had killed Joe Cusick, and hung up.”
Murdock remained motionless, watching the door for some minutes after Naylor left. In his résumé of the story there had crept into his mind a half-developed idea which intrigued him. It was, he told himself, fantastic, far-fetched. Nothing in what he knew or had read gave him any reason to believe in this idea, yet it remained a possibility—a possibility that could never be definitely proved. Grunting softly, he turned, grasped the telephone from the table, and asked for police headquarters. While he waited for his connection a wry grin pulled at the corners of his mouth.
“Keller?” he asked a moment later. “This is Kent Murdock up at the Cour
ier-Herald. I got a question I want to ask.”
A gruff voice said: “Hello, Murdock. I don’t know about the answer, but you can ask.”
“You got the tip-off on Girard the night you searched his apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t know where it came from?”
“No.”
“Do you remember just what the fellow said to you.”
There was a slight pause and then Keller seemed to clear his throat. “He said: ‘Nate Girard just knocked off Joe Cusick. If you get down to his place quick enough you might catch him before he can cover up.’ ”
Murdock’s tight little grin etched itself deeper. There was a certain resigned bitterness in his expression, in the depths of his dark eyes. He said: “Thanks, a million,” slowly, pulled down the receiver arm with a finger, and held it for several seconds without hanging up. Finally a recurring thought stirred him to action and he sighed audibly, moved the receiver arm up and down, asked for MacShane.
“You got anything yet?” he demanded.
“Yeah,” MacShane said, and his voice was sharp with interest.
“Well, why the hell—” Murdock began.
“He just came in.”
“I’ll bet he’s been in for hours and you forgot—”
“Nuts!” yelled MacShane. “I tell you he just finished telling me and—wait a minute”—he broke off—“he says how about the case of whisky?”
“He’ll get it,” Murdock rapped and knew now, with a quick tightening of his nerve ends, that MacShane had produced. “Who’s the guy?”
“Nate Girard!”
Murdock’s lips pulled back in a seemingly self-satisfied smile.
“You’re sure?” he charged, his voice sharp, metallic.
“Sure I’m sure. It’s one of those side-arm, all-night restaurants. On Charles.” He gave the address. “The counterman says he remembers. What the hell do you want, a—”
“Okay, okay,” Murdock cut in eagerly. “Thanks—”
“Thanks, hell!” rapped MacShane. “You gonna make anything out of it? Is there gonna be a story that we can peddle a few sheets on?”
Murdock spoke impatiently. “I don’t know. I doubt it like hell. Just one of my screwy ideas that probably won’t work out. But keep it under your hat and I’ll have a crack at it.”
“Don’t forget to make it break right,” MacShane warned.
“If it breaks”—Murdock glanced at his strap-watch, saw that it was nearly seven-thirty—“if it breaks at all, I oughta have something by nine or ten. How does that—”
“Made to order,” MacShane cheered. “Now show something or I’ll cross you off my list.”
19
KENT MURDOCK ATE a hurried dinner at Durgin Park’s and reviewed incessantly the information he had digested during the day. From the beginning he had had no set ideas about the murder of Mark Redfield. In the first place, he had never aspired to police work. Not one to nourish the idea that he could compete with the detective bureau, he was interested, ordinarily, in just one thing: taking pictures. His close contact with the police in the past had paid dividends; by playing ball with them he was able to get better pictures; often they were exclusive shots which were denied the run-of-the-mill camera man.
The chance which brought him the sight of Sam Cusick in the second-floor hall on the night of Redfield’s murder had enmeshed him in the killing. But even so, he would never have suffered from any delusions of solving the case except for Joyce Archer—and Hestor.
There was the real reason: Hestor. The dramatic meeting with Joyce had introduced him to the case and heightened his interest in no ordinary way; through her he was interested in her brother. But his work would have finished with Archer’s flight had it not been for Hestor. He would probably make a fool of himself trying to follow up fragmentary evidence that, no matter how he considered it, seemed too inadequate to be brought into court—even if he were right.
But by the time Murdock paid his bill and pushed out on Hayward Place, his mind was made up. If he was right, he could—although it was a will-o’-the-wisp conception—see two chances to win. Either would do, but he had to have one.
He went back to the office, got his camera and plate-case. For once he was not particularly concerned about pictures, but the habit was strong; there was always a possibility he might get something exclusive enough to earn Wyman’s bonus. He was not at all prepared for Phil Doane’s interruption of his thoughts as he stepped into the third-floor hall.
He asked: “What the hell do you want?” irritably.
“Where you going?” Doane asked, unperturbed.
“Home.”
“Then what you got the box for?” Doane cracked eagerly.
“Listen!” Murdock snapped, and his eyes were as hard as his voice. “I said I was going home.”
“All right, you’re going home,” Doane said and the eagerness left his tone. “But,” he continued stubbornly, “you’re not gonna stay. You’ve got something.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell by the look on your pan.”
Murdock battled irritation and uncertainty, started down the hall for the elevators. Doane, tagging behind, took the somber-faced photographer by the arm as they reached the little foyer.
“Aw, listen, Kent,” he pleaded. “You said you’d give me a break. Van Husan’s on the war-path. Hell, there’s got to be a story if there’s pictures, ain’t there? I won’t cramp your style, honest. Just let me—”
“I’m not going out on any tip,” Murdock snorted. “I’ve just got a little hunch—”
“Your hunches are okay with me,” Doane added.
“—and even if I’m right, there might not be a story. This is personal, see? And I may get in a jam.”
“I like jams,” Doane insisted. “I ain’t been in one in a long time.”
“All right, quit arguin’!” Murdock blew out his breath, looked annoyed until his sense of humor filtered into the situation. He shook his head sadly and felt the grin wrinkle his face. He could not help it; Doane was that kind. You cursed him, resisted the impulse to commit mayhem only with the greatest of inward struggles—and yet you liked him.
“Will you do what I say?”
“Sure,” Doane blurted eagerly, his eyes brightening.
“And just what I say?”
Doane bobbed his head up and down, grinning broadly.
“Okay, then,” Murdock said. He slipped the strap of the plate-case from his shoulder, held it out to Doane. “Then lug this and see how you like it. And if we don’t get to first base—and we got two strikes on us now—don’t crab.”
When the taxi stopped in front of the Embankment Arms, Murdock told the driver to wait. As Doane started to push over on the seat, he added: “That goes for you too. Stay here till I come out.”
Leaving his camera and plate-case in the cab, Murdock crossed the sidewalk, called a greeting to the doorman, and swung through revolving doors which had been pushed back. The softly lighted lobby was quiet, its only occupant, besides the clerk, a stout, middle-aged man in a dinner coat, wearing glasses on a black silk ribbon and pacing back and forth in front of the desk.
The clerk, a sleek, white-faced young man, motioned to Murdock and he detoured past the desk without breaking his stride. The clerk held out some letters. Murdock took them and continued on to the elevators without looking at them. When he let himself into his apartment he snapped on the lights and went over to the secretary; he opened a drawer and took out the leather case which contained his candid camera and its accessories.
With no great hope for any pictures, he had been in the business long enough to go out on any job prepared. And sometimes the miniature camera with its expensive and beautifully made lenses got pictures where his newspaper camera failed. The camera was already loaded with a supersensitive speed film, and he substituted a 1.5 lense for the 3.5 wide angle which had been attached. This done, he snapped shut the camera’s
individual case and slipped it in his topcoat pocket.
A glance at his strap-watch told him it was eight-forty. He crossed to the wing chair, sat down on the arm, and pushed the brown felt back from his forehead, revealing skin deeply corrugated in a scowl. He sat there staring at the print by Benson for some minutes; the scowl remained constant. Finally he lit a cigarette, said: “You’re probably nuts,” softly, and went into the kitchen.
Here he poured a drink and chased it down with water from the faucet. As though unable to make up his mind, he held the bottle up, saw that it was nearly empty; then he replaced the bottle with a quick noisy movement, spun about, and strode down the hall into the bedroom. Snapping on the light, he circled round the foot of the bed to the maple stand, opened its lone drawer, and took out a thirty-eight automatic.
He switched off the light again, inspected the gun as he moved slowly across the living-room. The clip was full, but there was no shell in the chamber. He pulled back the slide to throw one into position, snapped up the safety. He was balancing the weapon in his hand, staring at it with thoughtful eyes, when he heard a knock on the door.
There was just one knock; then someone tried the knob. Murdock had no time to pocket the gun, but he was able to swing his hand behind him when the door swung inward and Joyce Archer stepped into the room.
In spite of his surprise at seeing her, in spite of the doubt, the uncertainty, that had filled his brain, he recognized once more the odd, unaccountable energy and excitement she brought with her into a room. Her personality banished emptiness with warmth and fullness, and he stood watching her while she came to him and lifted her lips as naturally as though it were a practiced gesture.
He kissed her and felt again the tingle of his skin, the welcome sweetness of her mouth, the faint scent of her hair. His arms came out to encircle her waist before he remembered the gun. He dropped them awkwardly, got the right hand behind him as he lifted his head.
She glanced at him curiously then, her smoky blue eyes unusually clear; soft but penetrating. Under this scrutiny he flushed and did not know why. She smiled and he smiled back at her.
Murder with Pictures Page 17