Murder with Pictures

by George Harmon Coxe

  “You can’t win a case on that evidence.”

  “I can try,” Murdock charged.

  “You’d have to prove I was actually in her rooms all of that time.” His voice was deprecating. “All you know is that I went in the building with her.”

  “That’s right,” Murdock said flatly. “But it just happened to come at the right time.”

  “How do you figure it?” Girard asked suspiciously.

  “Like this.” Murdock leaned forward and took special pains with his words. “If you weren’t with Hestor all that time, you might have been out. And if you were out, say by the back door, you might—I say might—have been in Redfield’s apartment at four o’clock.”

  Girard’s eyes were like black metal disks, and his face seemed to stiffen. Otherwise his expression did not change. For a half-minute he sat there silently; then he took a breath and said: “I see what you mean, but—”

  He never finished the sentence. The next word died in his throat because in the same instant the door swung open, slammed back against the wall. A squat, bull-necked fellow with a flat nose and a squarish face stood in the opening, a heavy revolver in his hand.

  Murdock did not look at Girard. He just stared slack-jawed at the gun, at the man; and the color oozed from his face with recognition. Hymie. Cusick’s playmate!

  Hymie stepped into the room, said: “Just take it easy!” as he closed the door.

  21

  GET UP!”

  Hymie moved to the center of the room, waved his gun. Murdock stood up; Girard stood up. Hymie circled round behind Murdock and stepped to the doorway leading to the other rooms. Groping along the wall until he found a light-switch, he snapped it on; then he stood aside, said:

  “Come on! Grab air and come on down here in front of me!”

  Girard’s face was stiff, his eyes smoldering. He raised his hands slightly, glanced over at Murdock, then back at Hymie, who said, “Maybe you think I’m foolin’,” irritably.

  Girard shrugged and a forced smile pulled at his mustache. He started for the doorway; Murdock followed him.

  “Keep those hands up where I can see ’em,” Hymie said. “Just behave. You’re goin’ down that hall and unlock the back door.”

  Murdock kept his hands shoulder-high, realizing bitterly that if he were first, there might be a chance to get his own automatic from the topcoat pocket. But with Hymie’s gun in his back—

  Girard stepped into a linoleum-floored kitchen and stopped in front of the door. Reflected light from the hall was sufficient to make visible the distinguishing features of the room. Hymie moved sideways, like a crab, keeping his gun in front of him, covering Murdock and Girard. He reached for the key in the door; he turned it without looking at it, stepped aside.

  Instantly the knob turned. The door swung slowly, and Sam Cusick sidled through the opening. Murdock watched the forty-five automatic in his hand until Cusick’s sharp, thin voice said: “All right, let’s go back in the other room.”

  They moved out of the kitchen in single file. Girard, then Cusick, then Murdock with Hymie’s gun in his back. In the living-room Girard started to sit down. Cusick said: “Wait a minute,” and slapped his hands over Girard’s pockets. He turned towards Murdock, motioning Hymie to watch Girard. He repeated his search until he found the gun in the topcoat pocket.

  He took it out, tossed it up, and caught it deftly. He slipped it in a side pocket and grinned. “You won’t need it now,” he grunted.

  Girard sat down in the cushion-back chair. Murdock lowered his hands and turned about so that his hips leaned against the rectangular table holding his camera and plate-case. Hymie moved over by the door and Cusick stood near the center of the room where he could watch both men.

  Cusick said: “Hymie’s been watching the place. I couldn’t. They’ve made me hole up, the bastards! But it don’t matter. Hymie saw the two cowboys come out.” He glanced at the squat man. “You didn’t tell me about Murdock. You’re slippin’.”

  “He musta been in that taxi,” Hymie growled. “I couldn’t get a good look at him. Anyway, how did I know he was comin’ up here?”

  “That’s why I sent you up the front way,” Cusick said. “To make sure.”

  Murdock slid his hands along the edge of the table until his arms appeared to prop him up. He glanced at Girard, who was watching Cusick with an expressionless face and eyes that were fathomless.

  And Cusick—Murdock studied the man. He still wore the same tight-fitting blue coat and gray gloves. He was so thin and small he looked harmless except for the heavy automatic and the gloating, pitiless look in the close-set eyes which kept guard over that long, boneless nose.

  Murdock said: “Well, what’s the idea?”

  He made his voice level, a bit disdainful. And he was afraid he knew the answer to the question. If Girard thought enough about Cusick to hire bodyguards, and if Cusick thought enough about Girard to put Hymie watching the house, the answer was fairly obvious. But he wanted to talk, to get Cusick’s mind on other things. He wanted to stall. It was apparently the only chance. Doane was outside and unless he should—He cursed himself for browbeating the fellow. Doane would probably stay right there in the taxi as he was told. But if he should take a chance—The front door was still unlocked and—

  “Nate knows,” Cusick broke in, “don’t you, Nate?”

  Girard did not answer. Cusick’s voice got thin, stringy with emotion. “You put the slug on Joe. I’m gonna pay off!”

  “You’re wrong,” Girard said finally. “I didn’t kill your brother.”

  “That’s what you say,” Cusick sneered. “And you even got a jury to believe you. Well, if the law can’t make you pay, I can.”

  “You’re awfully damn sure about it,” Murdock said.

  “You’re damn right I’m sure.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Cusick lipped. “When Joe and me got out of the clink we were gonna even up with both Nate and Redfield. Maybe not knock ’em off, but make ’em pay for the jolt we got. But it was gonna be one or the other. And we flipped a coin. Joe drew Girard. And I know, see?” Cusick’s chin—what there was of it—came out. “I know Joe came here that night to put the pressure on.”

  “Why didn’t you testify for the State, then?” Murdock cut in. “It would have made a better case and—”

  “Yeah?” Cusick sneered. “That’s what you think. But if I’d told what I knew, old Redfield woulda changed his plans and made it self-defense. And I didn’t want Nate to squirm out of it.” He hesitated, mouthed a curse before he spoke to Girard.

  “Joe came here to get you. The cops found his gun here, so I know damn well he came. And he never got a chance to use that gun. Now you’re gonna see just how it feels.”

  Murdock’s face went stiff. He knew exactly what Cusick meant; he knew that regardless of the eventual outcome, Cusick intended to stick to his plan. Murdock’s brain grabbed at the only available way to distract the gunman.

  “And you had to knock off Spike Tripp too, huh?”

  Cusick’s blazing eyes shifted quickly to Murdock. Murdock met them steadily, but he felt a tingling of his nerve ends as he saw the sudden change of Cusick’s interest. Somewhere in the room the ticking of a clock broke the silence with a monotonous regularity. Then Cusick spoke in a soft, ominous voice.

  “I hadn’t figured much on you, Murdock. But why not? Now that you’re here it might not be a bad idea. See how it looks. I’m hot on this Redfield job. The cops would’ve framed me for it just as sure as hell. All they had was this: you saw me; Tripp saw me. But with my record that’s about all they’d need to get me the chair.

  “I was gonna pay a call on Redfield that night. I’d heard he’d got twenty-five grand of Girard’s fee in cash. I was gonna go up there and get it. Because I was up against it, and I didn’t have much to lose, and I knew Redfield was yellow. With twenty-five G’s I could’ve skipped, and if I’d got in, I’d’ve got it, too. That’s why you
saw me on the stairs. How the hell did I know there was a party on? I had to run out. But I came back and—but to hell with all this crap!” Cusick shifted the automatic in his hand, and his eyes were at once wary, as though conscious of some new thought.

  Grunting softly, he moved over behind the motionless Hymie and locked the apartment door. Murdock felt a despair that clogged his brain and got in his throat. His face gave some little clue to his thoughts. Cusick must have noticed this, because he grinned at Murdock briefly, said: “That’s better.”

  Hymie said: “Well, what’re we waiting for?”

  Cusick snapped: “Nothing,” and moved over to Girard. Girard watched him silently, and if he knew any fear—as he must have—he did not show it. Murdock saw this and marveled at the man’s self-control. The eyes were a gambler’s, brooding but otherwise inscrutable; his face held a grayish tinge, but in no other way did he reveal his thoughts.

  He said: “So you’re going to gun us out, huh? Murdock and me?” He hesitated and his brows lifted. “You don’t think you can get away with it, do you?”

  “I can try,” Cusick rasped. “And here’s something maybe you’ve forgotten, Girard. They can only burn me once.”

  “Once is generally enough,” Girard said insolently. “I understand it’s permanent.”

  “Always a wise guy, huh?”

  Girard appeared not to hear. “I’ve got a couple thousand here. If you’ve got any sense, which I doubt like hell, you’ll take it and take a run out while you’ve got the chance.”

  “I’ll take a run out anyway,” Cusick said. He shifted the automatic slightly so that it was trained directly on Girard’s chest. “But I’ve waited a long time for this and you nor anybody else is gonna talk me out of it. Do you want it like you are, or can you take it standing up.”

  Murdock’s gaze was fixed on Girard’s face. Judging by himself, he knew how the man must feel, yet Girard smiled. Murdock saw it and could not believe it. But the smile was there, somehow.

  Girard said: “I don’t suppose it makes any difference, but—” He started to get up and Murdock sensed the brittleness of his voice, and something in the hidden menace of the words decided him.

  He knew what to expect. Cusick was a killer, had always been a killer. Not insane, as one thinks of an insane man, he apparently had jumped the borderline in one direction. His prison term, at Girard’s hand; the shooting of his brother, the subsequent hounding of the police; Spike Tripp—all of these had nourished and built up the present state of mind until it was a complex, a phobia. It was fantastic somehow. Here in this lighted room—and happening to him. Yet—

  That Cusick would shoot, deliberately and in cold blood, Murdock had not the slightest doubt. And with this conviction his racing brain quieted, his thoughts became cold, steady, and ran along with machine-like precision. What difference did it make how he was shot? A slug in the chest was a slug in the chest. Better to take it fighting than standing against the wall with his hands in the air.

  A sidewise glance told him that Hymie, now held by the drama and suspense of the death scene, was more intent upon Cusick than himself. And Murdock put his right hand, which was already behind him, into the plate-case. He could reach just two things without shifting his position: a flash-bulb and his tripod.

  Picking up the bulb with thumb and forefinger, he clamped the other three fingers about the top of the tripod. Tensed there, holding his breath, he waited and felt the sweat come out on his forehead. His lips were dry and stiff; his tongue came out to wet them. It would take him one long step to reach Hymie’s side and—

  The faint sound that met his ears, a faint clicking sound like the closing of a distant door, sent an icy finger along his spine. To him that sound was loud, shockingly so. His glance shot to Hymie, who turned to look at him, giving no sign that he had heard. But Cusick had. His trigger finger was already tense and he took a backward step, glanced towards the inner hall, jerked his eyes back to Girard.

  Then it happened.

  Murdock’s hand whipped out from behind his back in a lightning-like movement. Pivoting, he swung the tripod, let go of the flash-bulb. All this before Hymie moved. Cusick’s gun wrist stiffened, Murdock saw that much; then he concentrated on the revolver in Hymie’s hand.

  The flash-bulb struck the edge of the table, exploded with a pop that, while not as loud as a gunshot, sounded peculiarly like one. Hymie swung the gun towards him. He heard Cusick curse. Then he completed his sweeping swing and smashed the tripod down on Hymie’s gun wrist as he lunged forward.

  The gun struck the floor as though Hymie had thrown it and skidded a few feet. Murdock kept right on moving. His lowered shoulder smacked squarely into the gunman’s stomach and they went down, arms and legs flying, Murdock on top.

  From then on, Murdock ignored Hymie. He felt himself being thrown off by the man’s brute strength. He did not struggle. His eyes were on that gun, and as he rolled clear his clawing fingers snatched it up. Then the roar of a gun shook the room.

  Murdock’s back was to Cusick, and as he struggled to spin around on his knees and bring his gun into play, he thought: “There goes Girard! And I’m next!”

  Time stood still. The fraction of a second as he lurched round was interminable. Every muscle in his body was tensed for the shock of the next bullet. When no following shot rang out he could not understand the delay until he swung his gun around and saw the reason.

  Girard was on the floor on his face. Cusick was on his knees. But—he no longer pointed that heavy automatic. It was still in his hand, but the muzzle was down, the gun dangling from one finger. His pinched face was white, slack-jawed; the eyes were staring. But there was a different look in them now, a hollow, vacant expression; the face hung loose. Murdock tore his gaze from the picture, jerked it up.

  Bacon and Keogh seemed wedged in the doorway to the inner hall. Both held right arms stiffly extended, and each hand ended in a service revolver. They moved out of the doorway with short, slow steps, separating on the threshold. Behind them were two other plain-clothesmen with guns drawn; behind this second pair was the slack-jawed figure of Phil Doane.

  Murdock blew out his breath, lowered the gun that trembled in his hand. Tense, aching muscles relaxed slowly. He turned his head, glancing over his shoulder. Hymie was sitting on the floor, both hands stretched high above his head. Then, as the sweat poured out on Murdock’s forehead and oozed down into his straight brows, he saw Cusick fall.

  The man wavered back and forth in a limp, rocking movement until he lost his balance. He went over on his face then, pitching forward slowly, easily, and settled there motionless on top of his gun.

  Nate Girard dropped into the cushion-back chair, touched a bluish lump in the gray-streaked hair over one ear with one hand, mopped his glistening, sweat-covered face with the other.

  “It’s the first time,” he said thickly, “the first time I was ever glad to see a cop. Who was the sharpshooter?”

  Keogh, who had bent forward, both hands on his knees gazing down at Cusick, straightened up and growled: “Me.”

  “I thought so,” Girard said, stuffing the now sodden handkerchief into his breast pocket.

  “What d’ya mean?” challenged Keogh suspiciously.

  “I mean”—Girard shook his head and grinned—“I mean it was nice shooting.”

  “Oh.” Keogh scowled, apparently undecided whether there had been a hidden meaning in Girard’s words or not.

  Bacon stepped to the telephone and began to bark instructions. Murdock had already opened his camera. His fingers were still a bit shaky and the palms of his hands were damp, but he fought his shakiness with activity. Doane was at his side, pop-eyed, vociferous.

  “Was it okay?” he wheezed. “I mean you told me to stay out there, but—”

  “Okay?” growled Murdock. “It was perfect, only”—he looked up and scowled—“why the hell did you wait so long?”

  “I saw Cusick coming down the street,” Doane said hurriedly
. “I saw him talking with this other guy and then the guy came in here and Cusick went down the street and into a little alley. So I followed him. And when I saw where he was going I—well—” Doane’s manner became apologetic. “I threw a bluff once—down to your place—and got away with it. But with two of ’em I thought I oughta call Bacon. I told him he oughta come up the back way and—”

  Doane broke off again, hesitated. “Was it all right? I mean the way I did it?”

  “All right?” exploded Murdock. He looked up from his camera and grinned. “Listen, I take it all back. I was wrong, like most wise guys are. You’re not a pest, you’re a miracle man. And I’m just a mug with luck enough to have a guy like you following me around and looking after me. If Van Husan don’t give you a raise on this—”

  “Jeeze!” gasped Doane, his face brightening. “I almost forgot. Where’s the phone?”

  “Wait!” Murdock grabbed Doane’s arm. “Give him a flash, tell him you’ll call back. Wait till you get the rest of the story. And”—he put down the camera and beat Doane to the telephone on the opposite side of the room, just as Bacon hung up. A half-minute later he was talking to MacShane.

  He said: “It broke, Mac. And on time. Put Van Husan on here and get the dope from him.” He turned, handed the telephone to Doane.

  Bacon was rubbing his chin and staring thoughtfully at Girard. Hymie, a sullen, glowering figure, sat on the davenport nursing a bruised eye and acting very subdued between the two plain-clothesmen who flanked him. Keogh had taken a cigar from the silver humidor, nodding in satisfaction as he smelled it.

  “All right.” Bacon pushed back his hat. “Speak your piece, Girard! All of it.”

  Girard sat back in the chair and told his story in simple, direct sentences. “That’s all there is to it,” he finished three minutes later. “He came here to gun me out, that’s all. He’d worked himself up to it and he was going through with it. Murdock happened to be here and”—he glanced at Murdock and grinned—“he must’ve pulled something out of a hat, but don’t ask me what.”