Murder on Their Minds

by George Harmon Coxe

  As he slipped out the film holder and turned off the lights he saw Brady stuff the originals back in the manila envelope and now, as he turned into the corridor leading to the printing rooms, the detective followed to wait in the doorway.

  Turning off the safelight, Murdock put the films in the developer and set the timer. When he had put the cover on the tank he turned the safelight back on and waited, his mind busy in spite of himself and revolving not only about Rita Alderson but about three other names he had recognized, all belonging to, or associated with, the Alderson family. One was on a San Francisco marriage application; the other two were on the signature cards of a Miami Beach hotel, though this in itself was not significant since he had not noticed the dates or length of stay. What he still did not understand was Rita Alderson’s nervous concern or the impulse—stupid or not—that had brought her to see him. For, to the best of his knowledge, there had been no mention of her name nor of her maiden name—Rita Carr.

  “How much did you see?” Brady asked suddenly. “How much do you remember?”

  “Not much,” Murdock said. “As a witness I could only testify that I photographed fourteen items for a retired cop named Thomas Brady.”

  Brady chuckled, still trailing as Murdock took the dripping films back to the printing room and dumped them into the big fixing tank. As he did so the telephone rang and when he answered it a man’s voice asked if Brady was there.

  “For you, Tom,” he said, and then listened to a one-sided conversation that was almost entirely monosyllabic.

  “Yeah.… What?… Sure.… Okay, right away.” Brady hung up, stuffed the envelope in his coat pocket, and straightened his hat. “I gotta go,” he said. “How long do you think for the films?”

  “You want them dry, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, maybe a half hour.”

  “I’ll tell you what you do,” he said as he went back to Murdock’s office to pick up his briefcase. “I’ll pick ’em up later, or send for ’em. Put ’em in an envelope and write my name on it. If you have to go out, leave it here on the desk.… Or maybe you’d better put it in the middle drawer. I’ll write a check for your services when I get back to the office and I’ll have no argument from you.”

  And with that declaration he hooked a powerful fist that grazed Murdock’s jaw playfully, winked, and was gone, nearly knocking over Walt Carey, who at that moment trudged in through the doorway, equipment case slung over one shoulder, his camera in hand.

  Carey was twenty years older than Murdock and probably the best-known photographer in town. He had never done anything else nor worked for any other paper but the Courier. He had piled up too much severance pay for anyone to consider firing him, so he went his own unpredictable way, seldom missing an assignment and accompanied always by a breath that carried the aromatic odor of whisky. The younger men on the staff considered him a character, and in a way he was, a stocky, paunching man who wore a cap and baggy clothes, the jackets of which seemed too small and never matched the trousers. Now, with no more than a grunt as his greeting, he unshouldered his case, put the camera with it, and shuffled on into the darkroom corridor. He was still there five minutes later when the telephone rang and changed Murdock’s plans.

  For the message from Matt Dennis, the day city editor, informed him that a DC-3 with a wheel stuck was at present circling the airport and would probably be landing in another twenty or twenty-five minutes.

  “Who’ve you got?” the editor demanded. “Keith Howard,” he added, mentioning one of the newer reporters, “is out there now but no camera.”

  “Me and Carey,” Murdock said. “Hold on while I check with him.” He flipped an inter-com switch connecting with the developing room and asked Carey what he had.

  “A couple of ‘B.O. musts’,” Carey said.

  Murdock checked the assignment book and the monitor and then said: “Carey’s working on some business office stuff, Matt. Unless you’ve got somebody closer I’d better duck out there myself. I’ll take a radio car and keep in touch.”

  He reconsidered his decision as he hung up, but when he had ticked off the available photographers who were working that shift he saw that he was still the logical choice. But he remembered Brady’s negatives too, and realized that there had only been time for him to clip half of them to the wires which were strung up to the left of the fixing tank where they could dry in the warm-air fan. As he hesitated, Carey came in with two films in metal clips.

  “Do something for me, Walt,” Murdock said. “See these seven negatives? String them up right next to these others for me, will you? And when they dry, put them in an envelope, write Tom Brady’s name on it, and stick it in the middle drawer of my desk.”

  “Sure,” Carey said. “Sure.… What’s with you? Going to work for a change?”

  Murdock told Carey about the crippled plane and Carey cursed softly. “B.O. musts,” he said resentfully. “You know what I think the business office should do with them, don’t you?”

  “I know, Walt,” Murdock said, chuckling.

  “If they have to have so many pictures let them hire their own cameras.”

  “Sure, Walt,” Murdock said, still chuckling. “Sure. Just don’t forget what I told you.”

  3

  THE AIRPORT assignment turned out happily for all concerned, but particularly for fourteen passengers and a crew of three. For nearly an hour, while the suspense built and preparations were made on the ground to take care of the casualties, the crippled DC-3 circled low over the field. When, finally, the landing could no longer be postponed, the pilot’s skill, and a stroke of great good fortune that snapped the half-lowered landing wheel into its proper position the instant it took the weight of the plane, enabled all aboard to walk into the terminal unscratched.

  To Murdock it seemed that he had seen a minor miracle enacted, but picture-wise the best he could do was get two shots of the crew while Keith Howard picked up a few usable quotes from some of the passengers. Howard, a collegiate-looking youth with a crew cut and an air of subdued excitement that he had been able to maintain ever since he had come to work as an office boy, was still talking about the experience as the company car rolled downtown at twenty minutes after six.

  The police radio was on, and because of long practice Murdock was able to listen to the dispatcher’s orders with one ear while the other was tuned in on Howard. That was how he happened to pick out a salient address, orient it instantly with his own position, and decide to follow it up while Howard was still talking.

  He was only vaguely aware that the dispatcher was calling a certain division car, but he knew the address was practically around the corner and when he heard the words: “Investigate disturbance,” he said: “Let’s have a look,” and pulled into the right-hand traffic lane as he came to the light.

  “What?” said Howard.

  “I think that address is Kelleher’s.”

  “The steak house?”

  “Probably only a drunk,” Murdock said. “But it’s sort of early for that, so let’s take a quick look.”

  He made the turn and saw Kelleher’s sign in the middle of the block. There was no indication of a disturbance as he pulled slowly past the entrance, but he double-parked and reached for his camera. As he stepped to the pavement he saw the police car make the turn behind him, so he hurried through the doorway, Howard at his heels.

  Kelleher’s had long been established as a good place to get steaks and chops and lobsters for anyone who was not interested in chrome, red leather, and an acre of mirrors. It had a sort of paneled, Old English atmosphere, the lighting subdued and the furniture heavy. There was no music at dinner but a trio came on around ten for those who wanted something to listen to after the theater.

  The coatroom was on the left of the foyer as you entered, the restrooms opposite, but now, as Murdock went in, the coatroom was unattended and the hatcheck girl was peering through the doorway to the main room. At this hour the place was not
crowded except for one spot in the middle of the room and as Murdock pushed through the fringe of onlookers he came upon the center of attraction—three men and a woman, not counting the two waiters who were holding one man, all talking at once.

  Murdock did not know what it was all about yet but he did not hesitate. His camera had been automatically set at twelve feet, there was a bulb in the flash gun; the aperture was right, so all he had to do was trip the shutter. In the resulting light he noticed that Kelleher was on the left, looking down at a gun he held in his hand as though he had never seen it before. The man in the center and held by the two waiters was red faced and voluble as he shouted at the older, balding man who stood close to a buxom and painted blonde of thirty or so. Until she saw the flash she had been giving her arguments to the captive man, but Murdock changed all that.

  Kelleher turned first, openmouthed but silent. The two waiters held on hard to their captive as he tried to lunge toward Murdock. The blonde also started forward as Murdock retreated. Her balding companion tried to restrain her but she shook him off, then stopped short as two uniformed policemen broke into the arena.

  “Come on,” they said. “Break it up. What’s the trouble, Mr. Kelleher?”

  Murdock had already twisted a fresh flashbulb into its socket and now, changing the focus, he stood on a chair and took his second picture. After that he retreated discreetly to the bar, which was now deserted except for a lone customer who sat unperturbed at the far end nursing a beer. Murdock glanced at him, looked again, and then walked over and took the stool next to Tom Brady.

  “What’re you doing here?” he said. “What’s the hassle about?”

  “Which question will I answer first?”

  “Either.”

  “The blonde and her friend,” said Brady in his detached way, “are having a drink at that far table by the wall when this lad comes in and walks over to them. There is some argument which I do not hear and then this newcomer takes the blonde’s arm as if he’s going to make her leave. She shouts at him and gives him a tussle and the one who is paying for her drink stands up and swings at him. Whereupon he yanks out the gun. The blonde hits his arm as he fires—I guess the slug went into the ceiling, luckily—and by that time the two waiters have grabbed him.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Never seen them before but the situation is familiar. When someone takes someone else’s girl there is likely to be trouble, though generally not with a gun.”

  Murdock watched two more policemen enter and confer with their associates and Kelleher. Presently the three combatants were escorted from the room, trailed by Keith Howard, so Murdock slipped off the stool and started to follow. He got as far as the doorway when he felt the tap on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Mac!”

  The hand which had been transferred to his arm belonged to a man named Al Parenti, a gambler and promoter of sorts who had a record of arrests for assault of various degrees, but no convictions, a blue-jowled man with black brows and thinning black hair.

  “Those pictures could make trouble for a friend of mine,” Parenti said. “I wouldn’t want them to get in the paper.”

  Murdock shook his arm loose, resenting the approach and Parenti’s manner.

  “I didn’t take a picture of you.”

  “I’ll be in it just the same. Also a lady friend of mine,” Parenti said. “She’s not supposed to be here, you know what I mean? It could make trouble for her and I wouldn’t want that to happen. Forget you took ’em and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Murdock looked at him, dark eyes morose and unfriendly. It would, he knew, be a simple matter to explain that there was very little chance that either of the pictures would be printed unless one of the principals was important for some other reason. That he made no such explanation was due partly to Parenti’s assumption that the picture could be bought at any price.

  “I just take pictures, Parenti,” he said. “I have nothing to say about whether they’ll get printed or not.”

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “Then go talk to the city editor. He’s a reasonable man. Make your pitch to him. But if I were you I wouldn’t offer him money; he might have you thrown out.”

  He turned away before the other could reply, still smoldering inside as he stepped out on the sidewalk. He saw then that the trio had been placed in the back seat of one of the police cars, and now Keith Howard came up and said he was going to grab a cab and follow on over to the precinct house.

  “Just to see what happens,” he said.

  As he turned away Murdock saw the car across the street and the familiar face of Walt Carey hanging out the window. He went over and asked how Carey happened to be there.

  “I was out on a hold-up in Cambridge,” Carey said. “On the way back I heard the call on the police radio and figured it was Kelleher’s, so I thought I’d have a look. Was it anything?”

  Murdock told him and then, remembering Tom Brady, decided he might as well eat dinner here as anywhere else. A glance at his watch told him it was twenty minutes of seven and he knew Carey did not go off duty until eight, so he handed over the two exposed film holders and asked Carey to take them into the studio and develop them.

  “I’ll be back before you leave,” he said. “Just put the prints on my desk—two from the airport and two from here—and I’ll caption them when I get there. Okay?”

  His own car was still double parked so he drove it diagonally across the street to a parking lot and then called the city desk on the company radio to say where he was and what he was going to do. When he had switched off both radios, he locked the car and went back to Kelleher’s.

  The place was quiet now, with no sign that there had been any disturbance, and the room was beginning to fill up. Seven or eight of the bar stools were occupied but there was still an empty one at the end next to Brady and Murdock took it.

  “Are you working?” he asked. “Or just drinking?”

  “It’s a little thing that came in this afternoon,” Brady said. “Kelleher’s been thinking that somebody’s been chiseling or stealing his liquor. Neither Kirby nor myself are known here—the prices are a bit steep for my pocketbook—and we figured if there is any monkey business it might be better done during the rush hours. I will drink some beer and keep my eyes open until eight o’clock or so and Kirby will come and do the same around eleven, not that we expect to prove much.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Brady spoke softly, his glance oblique as it ranged the length of the bar.

  “It would be better not to,” he said. “They know now you are a newspaper man and I’m thinking that if we appear too friendly our light-fingered friend may become temporarily honest.”

  Murdock nudged Brady to show he understood and slipped off the stool. As he looked about for a small table he noticed that Al Parenti and the lady friend he was so concerned about were no longer in the room.

  It was a quarter of eight when Murdock parked the company car and walked back past the loading platforms to the entrance leading to the elevators. Here he met a youth named Jim Hughes, who was currently an office boy but had been promised the next opening on the staff. Hughes said that Carey had sent him out to get his supper and now, coming into the studio anteroom, Murdock yelled for Carey.

  When there was no reply he stepped into his office, turned on the light, and leaned over the inter-com.

  “Walt.”

  No reply.

  “Hey, Carey.”

  Still no answer and now, wondering about the film holders he had given Carey, he realized that no prints had been left on his desk.

  “Jim,” he said as he stepped back into the anteroom. “When did Walt tell you to go out?”

  “At seven. He said to be back at a quarter of eight because he was off at eight.”

  Puzzled, a frown warping his lean, dark face, Murdock turned and headed for the corridor. The printing room seemed empty at first glance but he steppe
d inside and then he stopped short, his breath caught and nerves contracting as he saw the crumpled figure on the floor.

  Even in the gloomy half-light of the room he knew this was Carey—the cap which lay near by told him this much—and as he leaped forward he saw the metallic gleam of the small clips that were used to hold the cut film scattered on the floor.

  “Walt!” he said, his voice harsh. “Walt!”

  Then he was on his knees, a horrible emptiness growing in him, shaking a shoulder, then turning the limp form gently and reaching for a wrist. Only then did he realize that Carey was breathing, the sound of it regular but labored and wonderful to hear. He let his own breath out and swallowed the tightness from his throat. As he let go of the wrist Hughes’s voice sounded behind him.

  “Is that Walt? What happened?”

  “How the hell do I know,” Murdock said, his tone rough with reaction. “Get on the phone! Get a doctor!”

  “W—what doctor?”

  “Any doctor, damn it. Tell the operator; she’ll know. Tell her to hurry it.”

  For a little while then Murdock was not sure what he should do. Anger had not yet begun to assert itself and the emotional impact remained an odd mixture of shock and gratitude as he slipped off his coat and folded it to make a pillow.

  Carey lay partly on his side, one hand outstretched. Still not knowing how badly he was hurt and seeing no blood, Murdock turned the body gently. When his fingers touched the swelling on the back of Carey’s head, he pulled them back and adjusted his makeshift pillow. Straightening now and seeing again the metal clips, he began to pick them up.