Murdock lit another cigarette, then leaned forward so that the upper half of his body was supported on elbows propped on the chair arm. “The bills helped. Cusick’s coming here helped. If you want some other guesses, I’ll give them to you.
“I wasn’t interested in the Redfield murder—at first. But even then there were a couple little things that didn’t fit; not to my mind. Redfield was killed with a small-caliber gun, probably his own. He was killed after some little struggle; the broken finger showed that. It looked as if he pulled a gun on somebody and this somebody was quick enough to grab it. The contact wound bore this out—as though the gun was turned on him, possibly with it still in his hand.
“But any kind of murder would point towards Sam Cusick, if it could be proved he was around. And he was. He had it in for Redfield and you; and he was a killer. That part was okay. I think he was Bacon’s choice from the first.”
“He wasn’t yours, huh?” Girard prompted lazily.
“No.” Murdock’s grin was centered entirely on his lips, an outward movement only. “And anybody can guess. Redfield must have weighed two hundred and thirty or so, and he was better than six feet tall; Cusick couldn’t weigh a hundred twenty-five with a machine-gun under his arm.”
Murdock shook his head, his smile fixed. “It didn’t fit. Cusick could never have put up a fight against Mark Redfield, much less broken his finger. And Cusick was not the kind to get in a spot where he’d have to put up a fight. That kill was not his kind of a job. He was a gunman from the word go, remember that. He carried a forty-five and he knew how to use it. If he had gone after Redfield, he would never have given Redfield a chance to get his own gun; certainly he would never have got close enough to risk a fight. A high-school boy could have taken Cusick with one hand. What made him so dangerous was that he was well aware of the fact. Assuming that Redfield was alive when Cusick went back to get that twenty-five thousand, Cusick would have been in the driver’s seat all the time he was in the room. He had technique; he was an expert.”
Girard said: “It sounds all right.”
“And by eliminating him,” Murdock continued levelly, “only you and Archer were left. Either of you were physically able to do that kind of a job. Neither of you carries a gun. It looked to me as if someone came to Redfield’s place and threatened him. He was drunk, and he might have been yellow. My guess is he pulled his gun and was too slow to use it.
“A little while after that I began to get interested in the case. Not to be the fair-haired boy and outsmart the police, but because I finally found the sort of girl I’ve wanted all my life, and I could not get rid of Hestor. I told you about putting Fenner on you that night. For a while I had no reason to doubt him, and I could find no motive why you should have killed Redfield. But I couldn’t figure Archer either. He was hot-headed, he was in love with Redfield’s wife; they’d had a fight. But I could not see him coming to kill Redfield deliberately. Yet if he had killed him at all, it had to be figured that way. Here’s what I mean.”
Murdock crushed out his cigarette and leaned forward again.
“He was seen coming back fifteen minutes or so after Redfield was killed. Now, if he had originally come to kill him, had killed him, he might have come earlier—come and gone out the back way—and come in again to make a better case for an alibi. But if he killed as Redfield was killed, probably on impulse and with no premeditation, he would not have bothered to sneak in the back way in the first place.”
Girard’s cigar ash dropped to his vest unnoticed and he said, grudgingly: “You think of things.”
Murdock hesitated. He felt a certain stiffness to his body, as though he had been holding the same position for hours. He pulled his shoulders back, finally settled comfortably down in the chair.
Girard said: “You going to guess some more?”
“I might as well.”
“Then”—Girard pulled himself out of the chair—“maybe we’d better have a drink.” He stopped at the door. “This is one of the times when I wish I had a man; but I’ve never got used to having one around. I tried it once—a Jap. He got in my way.”
He came back a few minutes later pushing a mahogany cellaret. “Name it,” he said as he stopped beside his chair.
“I’ll stick to Scotch,” Murdock said.
“Soda?”
“Please.”
Girard mixed Murdock’s drink, poured out a whisky glass full of rye. “To crime!” he said sardonically, and took the whisky straight before he sat down.
Murdock realized his throat was dry, that he was genuinely thirsty, when he took his first swallow. He drank two-thirds of the highball quickly, then put the glass aside and lit another cigarette. Over the match-flame he watched Girard, and he began to see why the man had been so successful. He was calm, at ease, with an almost detached manner that was tolerant, polite. But for the alertness of his eyes, he might have been listening to a friendly account of a personal experience.
Murdock tossed the match into an ash-tray and settled himself in the chair again. “I didn’t begin to get really hot about the thing until yesterday. I had just one good idea—that telephone call the killer made to Redfield’s apartment. I’m not clear as to why he made it, although it might have been done with some idea of making it fit with an alibi. But it doesn’t matter. Still”—Murdock moved the hand holding the cigarette in a careless arc—“it was interesting, and the police had not followed it up, as far as I knew. And I had a hunch on how I might run it down.”
He explained his work with MacShane, and Girard’s eyes widened. He said: “Neat,” and Murdock continued:
“I didn’t find out about it until this evening. In the meantime I’d talked to Hestor—last night. I was after a divorce and I told her about Fenner. There was something in her manner, in her reaction to my statement that you were there from three-thirty until five-thirty that morning, that really made me think I was wrong. I can’t explain it, but I believe that little reaction did as much as anything to show me you were not there. And then this evening I found out for sure. You made a call from a lunch-room on Charles Street at around four-thirty the morning Redfield was murdered.”
Murdock sucked on his cigarette, hesitated a moment, and when he continued he did not raise his voice or attempt to give any added emphasis. Actually the emphasis came from the very matter-of-factness of his tone.
“You knew you were going back to Redfield’s when you left. And while you couldn’t know about Fenner—although you might have seen him—you did not want anyone to see you leave Hestor’s building. You went out the back way, went back to Redfield’s place by the back way. You had a fight and he pulled the gun on you—the telephone was probably knocked off as he fell.” Murdock shrugged. “You saw what you’d done. And then the phone rang when the operator called back.” Murdock took a breath and shook his head. “That must have been a bad moment.”
“It was,” Girard said grimly.
“And then you got out as fast as you could—by the back way. As I said, I’m not quite sure why you called back, but it would not have been hard—at that hour—to get to this place unseen. There’s no desk clerk or anything here, so this part was made to order. When Bacon got you down at headquarters, you told him you’d tell where you were only if charged with murder. And you were big enough to get away with it.”
Murdock smiled wryly. “I suppose if they’d actually booked you, you’d got to Hestor and paid her to tell your story.”
“I never got that far with the idea,” Girard said.
“Tripp must have worried you,” Murdock added dryly. “He saw you, huh? And you paid to stall him. And Cusick couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pay except with the gun.”
“Tripp,” Girard said, his voice angry for the first time, “was a fool! And yet”—he hesitated, his voice calming—“it’s a nice break for me he was.”
Girard smiled then, and pushed erect in his chair. “The way you tell it,” he said, pouring another drink of rye, “it does
n’t sound so bad. But you’ve overlooked the most important factor—from the standpoint of the police. There’s no motive. Why should I want to—”
Murdock said: “It must have taken a lot of practice to get your kind of control.” He grunted softly. “I don’t think you went back to kill Redfield—but I can think of a reason why you might have had some idea. And as long as it doesn’t cost anything to guess, I’ll try it once more.”
Murdock’s voice was clipped, sharp. “Redfield was so hard up he tipped off the police about Joe Cusick’s murder so he could defend you and earn a fat fee. You must have told him something about it.”
Girard did not speak for fully a minute, and again from somewhere in the room came the rhythmic ticking of the clock. Murdock picked up his glass and finished his drink. Girard tossed off the rye and sucked at his lips. Then he said, flatly:
“Why didn’t you tip off the police?”
“There’s one reason,” Murdock said. “And that one leads to another. Right now this second seems the more important. But”—Murdock’s brows knitted in a scowl, and his eyes were brooding, troubled—“well, I’m just a button-pusher. It’s not my job to condemn or acquit. You’ve always seemed like a decent sort to me. I rather like you, not that you give a damn; but like you or not, no matter how morally justifiable your motives might appear, I’d turn you in in a minute if I thought it would do any good!”
“I know you would,” Girard said simply.
Murdock said: “Thanks. Believe it or not, it helps some to know that.”
His lips tightened and he continued doggedly: “But I’ve been around long enough to recognize certain facts, and in this case—” He broke off, pushed out his lower lip, “I’d like to hear your story before I start the hard part. That is, if you want to tell it.”
Girard stood up immediately, moved to the door. Opening this, he looked into the hall, closed the door, locked it. He came back to his chair, said: “I don’t know why not. Nothing that’s said here, with no witnesses, can do me any harm.”
His lips, framed above by the clipped mustache, fashioned an enigmatic grin. He lit a fresh cigar, spoke in quick, low tones.
“It starts with Joe Cusick. And it’s like I told you and everyone else. Strange as it may seem, I didn’t kill him. You came the closest the night of the party when you said: ‘But you know who did.’ I do. Ever since I started bootlegging, I had a man with me. A bodyguard if you want to call him that, but he was more than that. A friend, and a damn good one.”
“Nick Peters?” Murdock asked.
Girard nodded. “My man Friday. Well, he was here the night I got the call from Joe Cusick. Before I opened the door, I chased Nick into the bedroom. I didn’t know who the caller was and sometimes it was better to seem to be alone. Anyway, Cusick came in with the gun in his hand. He came to the point immediately. He wanted money, but I knew that wasn’t all. He was the same type as Sam, and I had an idea that once he got the money—But to hell with all that. I argued and when he lost his head and set himself with the gun, Nick let him have it from the doorway.” Girard nodded his head towards the inner hall.
“And there we were. And that’s where I made my first mistake. We might have made out all right with a self-defense plea. But I knew my reputation was against me; I had never been mixed up in a killing, and I didn’t want to stand trial—or have Nick take the rap for me. So I called Redfield. He came right over and we doped it out. To protect Nick, we decided to ship him to New York and get him out of the way. We carted Cusick’s body down the back stairs, put it in a car which we found unlocked, and Nick drove it off. He was to take his own roadster and skip. I came back here, cleaned the rug, and went to bed. That’s how the police found me.”
Girard took the cigar from his mouth. It was out, but it did not seem to matter, because he put it back between his teeth and chewed on it as he apparently marshaled his thoughts.
“It didn’t take me long to find out my mistake. There were plenty of breaks—all bad. The police found Cusick’s unfired gun. That was bad enough. But the worst—” Girard shook his head, spoke bitterly. “Nick Peters was killed in an automobile accident early the next morning, near Rye. If you check you’ll find a little paragraph in the papers. I had no witness at all then, and it was up to Redfield. The self-defense was out, unsubstantiated. They cut me off from newspapers,” Girard continued slowly, “or I might have tumbled sooner. You see, I didn’t know how the police got to my place, how they knew anything about the killing. I didn’t find out until the trial was half over. But when I found out about the anonymous tip, I knew. I knew it had to be Peters or Redfield, and I was sure of Nick; he was that kind.”
Girard laughed softly.
“So I was stuck. Redfield double-crossed me and I had to have him. I couldn’t let on. Staying in jail didn’t improve my mind. Fifty thousand to Redfield, another thirty for costs, experts, all that stuff. Two months in jail, and a harrowing sort of experience which pulled me right next to that electric chair.
“But I played along, and when I got the verdict, I threw the party at Redfield’s—still playing along. Then, that night, I was going back there”—Girard’s voice thinned out and took on a metallic hardness—“to even up in some way. I wanted to throw the fear of God into him; I wanted to get back that fifty thousand. Not because I was broke without it, but just—” He hesitated.
Murdock said: “I know.”
Girard shrugged: “I went out the back way at Hestor’s because I expected trouble. What, exactly, I didn’t know. I had no gun; had no thought of murder; but I did want to see the dirty bastard squirm.
“You know the rest. When I told him what I thought, he denied it, naturally. But I kept after him, told him I’d get the money—the whole fifty thousand—or twist his filthy neck. Well, he went all to pieces. When he snatched the gun from the desk drawer, I grabbed him. I think that broken finger of his pulled the trigger.”
Murdock blew out his breath and sat up in the chair. “Peters saved your life and you got him out of the way to give him a break. And Redfield double-crossed you into holding the bag. What a pay-off!”
“That isn’t all,” Girard said bitterly. “Cusick—Sam—came in Redfield’s place before I could get out. I hid behind the living-room davenport.” Girard grunted savagely. “He didn’t stay long. But that’s why he went after you and Tripp. He thought, and he was probably right, that the police—”
The telephone rang, interrupting him, and Girard looked at it, startled. When he finally lifted the receiver he said: “Hello—yes. Sure, just a minute.” He turned to Murdock. “For you.”
The woman who answered was the Courier-Herald operator. She said: “Mr. Wyman. Just a minute.” There was a pause, then Wyman’s voice boomed across the wire.
“Hey, when you coming in?”
“Pretty soon,” Murdock said. “A half-hour maybe.”
“I’ll wait. I want to see you.”
“How did the shots come out?” Murdock’s voice took on new interest instinctively.
“Terrific! Terrific! Every God-damn one of ’em! The hottest thing we’ve—But never mind. You hurry it up!”
Murdock felt the grin tug at his mouth. He went back to his chair and sat down. He reached over and poured another drink without bothering about ice.
Girard said: “That’s about everything except the phone call that you were smart enough to pin on me. But for once you were wrong. I know why I did it at the time. It may not sound convincing now, but I was rattled. I never killed a man in my life until then and I couldn’t think quite as logically as I can now. And the hell of it was I didn’t know if he was dead or not.
“I never touched him after he dropped. I wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure. And I was panicky. If he was still alive, it would make no difference to me and I wanted him to have his chance. If he was dead I had to know, wanted to hurry up the discovery. I waited here for the police.” Girard lifted one hand, let it drop to the chair arm. “Looking at it
now, it was just one of those dumb ideas. But I was fogged, and I did it and—”
He broke off, shrugged as though dismissing an unpleasant subject. “That’s the story. But you haven’t yet explained why you didn’t turn me in—not all of the answer.”
Murdock put aside the drink untouched.
“I’ll tell it to you another way,” he said slowly. “I said it was blackmail. This is it.” His skin seemed to stretch taut across his cheek-bones, like a banjo-head, and he made an effort to speak deliberately.
“You’re going to Europe. Take Hestor!”
Girard flushed. He shook his head negatively, but he did not speak.
“Take her with you,” Murdock said, his voice ominously slow, “and get her to write me a note. I want her to say she’s tired of our arrangement, that she’s going with you and that I can have a divorce if I want it.”
“Suppose she won’t?” Girard said caustically.
“She will!” Murdock argued. “I know her. She will. It will cost you something, but it will cost you more the other way. And when you go I’ll manage to be on hand to get a couple pictures of you on board. That, and the note, and Fenner’s story will get me a divorce in a hurry.”
“What if I don’t?” Girard wanted to know.
“Then”—Murdock spread his hands and reached for his drink—“I’ll have to turn this stuff, this information, over to Bacon.”
“You couldn’t convict—”
“Not in a million years,” Murdock broke in brusquely. “And there you have the reason why I didn’t turn you in. They can’t convict. Tripp’s dead. I’ve got a chance to prove you made the phone call; this picture of the money should prove you paid Tripp a thousand dollars. Against this, for the right sort of treatment—financial and otherwise—you can probably get Hestor to say you never left her apartment. You could probably persuade the lunch-counterman to change his mind—because you have dough. I’m not damn fool enough to kid myself about that. And if the D.A. tried you, and he might take a chance, Howard Archer and his sister and Rita Redfield would have to be dragged through the mess. There’s no use in it, because if you get wise to yourself we can get round it. That’s why I’m here.
Murder with Pictures Page 21