“She didn’t have a car?”
“If she did it was parked around the corner. It would have been a cinch for me if I’d had any idea of what had happened. I didn’t, and now I’m hoping she didn’t have a car. If she took a cab there’s a chance I can find the driver. It’s going to be tough but I’m working on it. That’s another reason I’m holding out on Bacon. If I can find out who it was and dump it in his lap—” He broke off and shrugged. “Well, it might help.”
Murdock sat where he was a silent moment, finding nothing he wanted to say. When he noticed his glass and saw that it was not yet empty, he finished his drink. He pulled himself slowly out of his chair.
“It’s a better lead than I’ve got,” he said.
“If it works out,” Kirby said. “The good ones sometimes don’t. I’ll keep in touch,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get something on Denham.”
He started across the room with Murdock and then he stopped in the little entryway to open a closet door. “Wait a minute,” he said, and took a raincoat from a hanger. “Is this yours?”
Murdock took it and glanced at the label. He said yes, and asked where Kirby got it.
“The only way I can figure it is that that stupid butler at Aldersons’ handed out the wrong coats last night. I didn’t put mine on—it wasn’t raining then.”
“Neither did I,” Murdock said, remembering how he had tossed his coat into the back of the car.
“I didn’t notice it until I started to hang it up,” Kirby said, “and somehow it didn’t look quite right. When I saw the Brooks label I knew damn well it wasn’t mine.… Take it along,” he said. “I’ll pick mine up sometime or maybe you could take it to your office if you think of it; I can stop by tomorrow.”
Murdock opened the door, his glance moving once more to the bullet hole. “What about this?”
“Bacon’ll probably want to have somebody dig it out,” Kirby said. “I’ll tell him. You never know. It could be important.” He grunted softly and his voice thinned out. “One thing: this guy tries it again and old Kirby’s gonna shoot back.”
15
WITH HIS landlord’s permission Kent Murdock had made a few changes in his apartment during the years he had lived there, and one of the most important to him was his darkroom. Originally a dinette adjoining the kitchen, it was just the right size for his needs, and by adding two doors, some additional plumbing, and a special shade for the one window, he had made a self-contained and lightproof unit that was both compact and efficient.
Now, at twenty minutes after ten, he had his jacket off and his preparations made. The heat had been turned on in the small ferrotyper, he had the proper paper at hand, and he had adjusted his enlarger and easel to accommodate an eleven-by-fourteen print. Without stopping to sort out the negatives he inserted the top one in the enlarger and felt with his toe for the foot-action switch. Then, as he stood there in the subdued light of the little room, he heard the distant sound of the door buzzer.
For a second or two he stood immobile, muttering under his breath and undecided about what he should do. He remembered that the living room lights were on and he knew they were visible from the street. This suggested that if anyone wanted to see him, there would be a lot more buzzing before the caller gave up. Then, aware that there was no particular hurry about the job at hand and curious about the identity of his caller, he pulled the sheet from the easel, slid it into the proper drawer, and closed the drawer to keep out the light.
A tug at the bow loosened the apron and he tossed it on the counter. He took the pile of negatives and tipped the base of the easel a little so he could slide them underneath. Then he opened the door, snapped off the safelight and went out, closing the door behind him. He had one more thought as the buzzer sounded again and, perhaps because the experience at Frank Kirby’s place was still fresh in his mind, he took time to detour into the bedroom.
There was a .32 Colt automatic in the drawer of the bedside table. Although he had had it for many years—he did not think they made the model any more—it had been well cared for and it still looked like new as he lifted it and felt the oily coolness against his palm. Because he had not examined it in years, he checked the action and the clip before he jacked a shell into the chamber. Then, feeling just a little sheepish because such precautions were so foreign to him, but stubborn too when he remembered the negatives and the attempt that had been made the night before to locate them, he started for the door.
Apparently whoever was at the door was beginning to get annoyed because this time when the buzzer came to life the sound was continuous. Someone was leaning on it and the rasp of it jarred Murdock and he yelled ahead.
“All right!” he said, with mounting irritation. “All right!”
The buzzing stopped and so did Murdock as he glanced at the automatic and wondered what he was going to say if the caller turned out to be some friend of his. Where, he asked himself, was he going to put the damn gun?
And so, more embarrassed now than concerned, he saw his jacket and put it on. He shoved the automatic into the right-hand pocket and kept his hand on it as he reached out to turn the latch with his left. He twisted the knob and opened the door part way, still standing behind it. Then he let go of the gun, very glad that he had hidden it, as Keith Howard hurried past him, his young face strangely grim.
“Have you seen Sally?” he demanded.
“Sally?”
“Sally Fisher.”
Murdock shut the door and looked again at the young reporter, remembering the office gossip which had it that they were in love and expected to get married the next time Howard got a raise.
“No,” he said. “Did you try her apartment?”
“Naturally I tried her apartment,” Howard said, his voice jerky and high pitched with strain. “Four times I called there. I finally went over and practically forced the janitor to open up so I could be sure nothing had happened to her. She wasn’t there.”
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and when he tried to extract one his fingers trembled so violently he dropped it. When he finally got it in his mouth he forgot to light it and by now Murdock could see the wild look in his eyes as they roved the room, the fine film of perspiration on the worried face.
“She didn’t come to work at all,” he said.
Something about the cadence of his voice and the things he said were contagious. In spite of himself Murdock became aware of a mounting apprehension.
“I even tried the police,” Howard said. “They couldn’t tell me a thing—or wouldn’t.”
He was moving about the room now, not looking for anything but simply because he seemed unable to stand still. Not until he came to the mirror and caught sight of himself did he stop. He ran a finger inside the neckband of his shirt, which was damp like his face; he tried to straighten his bow tie.
“What made you think she might be here?” Murdock said.
“I couldn’t think of any place else to go. And I know she likes you. She told me once if she ever had any trouble or some problems, if she didn’t know what to do, she’d want to talk to you.”
“Why not you? You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Howard cried out in his uncertainty. “Some things you’d rather talk over with somebody else, even a stranger. And you’re older and—oh, how the hell do I know? All I know is she’s gone and—”
He stopped abruptly and picked something from the table beneath the mirror. Murdock could not see what it was, but he saw the youth stare at it and then he was striding forward, his face stiff and his eyes blazing. He opened his clenched fist under Murdock’s nose and Murdock saw the lipstick and remembered how Sally had stood in front of the mirror that morning working with it.
“It’s hers,” Howard said savagely. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“Okay,” Murdock said. “Take it easy. She—”
Howard did not even hear him. “Don’t lie to me!” He shouted. “Wher
e is she? God damn you, Murdock—”
He swung his right then, a wild impulsive blow that was probably born of desperation and hysteria. With no chance to duck or even to understand what was happening, Murdock was clubbed on the side of the head; because he was a bit off balance he went down, smack on his haunches and more surprised than hurt.
He nearly got up, for it was instinct that prodded him and anger came quickly. Then, somehow, he saw the anguished look on Howard’s face and understood that if he stood up he might have to swing in self-defense. Instead he reached back into the realm of reason and stayed put, his dark gaze intent and his voice curt and aggressive.
“She was here this morning,” he said, wanting somehow to jar some sense into the young reporter’s head. “She went from here to the police.”
That one word did it. Howard’s mouth opened and the unlighted cigarette dangled from his lower lip.
“The police? Why? What—”
Murdock cut him off. Remembering that Howard could not know what had happened to Sally Fisher the night before, he began to talk. In clipped, impatient tones he explained how she had been attacked. He tried to explain why as he told of the work she had done for Tom Brady.
“Lieutenant Bacon asked her to try to remember all she could,” he said. “She went to see him this morning. She came here first to ask me if she should.”
He stood up, still a little wary, and brushed off his trousers while Howard removed the cigarette from his mouth and a flush began to tint his cheeks. Without actually moving, Howard seemed to sag and then, as though fully understanding what he had done, he said, his voice husky with shame and awe:
“I don’t know what got into me. You should have clouted me. Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it,” Murdock said. “What you need is a drink.”
“No. That’s all right.” He paused and once again his gaze grew cloudy. “But where is she now, Kent? The police wouldn’t keep her all this time. Suppose—”
“It’s no good supposing. If I were you I’d keep ringing her apartment. Or if it’ll make you feel any better, go over there and wait. It’s not very late yet and maybe the police haven’t finished. When they do they’ll see she gets home all right.”
He hesitated, not yet admitting his own concern but not liking the advice he had given Howard.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You go home and park by the telephone. Give me a chance to scout around and see what I can find out.”
“But,” protested Howard with commendable logic, “if she should know something important, she could be in danger.
“If the police think so they’ll take no chances. You can bank on that. Let me talk to Lieutenant Bacon—he’s handling the case. Maybe he’ll talk to me when he wouldn’t to you.… Go on now.” He eased him over to the door and opened it. “Give me an hour. I’ll call you at your place. You’ve got a telephone, haven’t you? Well, write down the number for me.”
He waited while Howard made the notation on a piece of copy paper he found in his pocket. He tore off a corner and gave it to Murdock.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “But you’ll call? For sure?”
Murdock said he would. He waited until the reporter started toward the stairs and then he closed the door and went over to the telephone. For a moment he thought about the negatives in the darkroom and then he knew they could wait. He took the automatic out of his pocket and put it in a drawer. He dialed a number, asked for Bacon’s office, and was informed that the lieutenant was out.
“We expect him back,” the voice said, “but you never know.”
“Tell him I called,” Murdock said. “If he comes in before I get there tell him I said to wait.”
Lieutenant Bacon was sitting at his desk with his hat and coat on and one of his Little Wonder Panatelas in his mouth. He eyed Murdock aslant without moving his head and his greeting was gruff but not unfriendly.
“Now what?” he said. “And make it snappy. I want to get home.”
“What did you do with Sally Fisher?”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Murdock said. “When she stopped by my place this morning and I sent her over here she forgot her lipstick. Her boy friend, one of our reporters named Keith Howard, just came over and found the lipstick and suggested I’d kidnapped her. He knocked me on my can.”
Bacon’s eyes opened and things happened behind them.
“That’s what you get for fooling around with other guys’ girls,” he said dryly. “Did he get away with it?”
“It’s not funny,” Murdock said. “The poor guy was half crazy. He’s been looking for her all day; he made the janitor open her apartment.… She didn’t come to work,” he said accusingly.
“We cleared that with your office.”
“Ahh,” said Murdock. “Then she’s all right.”
“Certainly she’s all right.”
Murdock’s breath came out in an audible sigh of relief. He realized now that he had been more alarmed than he was ready to admit, but he was not yet satisfied.
“You’re not still holding her here, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Where is she?”
“You can say she’s a guest of the city. In a suite, with room service and everything.”
“Alone?”
“With a policewoman.”
Murdock thought it over and watched Bacon savor his cigar. He rolled it gently between his lips. He worked on it in tidy puffs and his unconcern was so studied and selfsatisfied that Murdock found it irritating.
“Don’t be so damn smug,” he shouted. “If Sally’s in some hotel here I can locate her in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re bragging,” Bacon said, refusing to be nettled. “Maybe you could flush her in an hour. You find the hotel and the room, and you go up there and try to get in and you know what happens? I’ll tell you. That little police-woman of mine will put the collar on you and don’t think she won’t.”
He tipped his chair and his feet hit the floor as he sat up. “You think I’m kidding? You start nosing around and you’ll find out. You’ll get yourself pinched and if you do I’ll hold you overnight, so help me. What the hell do you think this is, some parlor game?”
Murdock stuck his chin out. “All right,” he said. “Now tell me you think Sally’s going to give you a verbatim account of those reports if you just give her time.”
“You’re slipping, son,” Bacon said. “You’re losing your grip. You ain’t thinking.” He leaned forward. “The kid remembered a couple of things this morning and she thought she might remember more if she had time. We didn’t want to hold her but we also remembered something maybe you’ve forgotten. If we know she typed Brady’s reports, maybe somebody else knows it. Maybe by now the guy’s worried about what she might remember. If the killer grabbed those reports it’s because they’re important to him. If the girl knows anything that can tag him—I don’t say she does, but our guy can’t be sure of that—she could get hurt.”
“Okay,” Murdock said, chagrined by his protests and impressed by the things Bacon had said. “Just forget I stopped in.”
“I wish I could,” Bacon said calmly. “We explained it to her,” he said. “The best we could without scaring her. We said we’d appreciate it if she would try to remember more details and that we’d take care of her job. We asked your boss to keep it quiet.” He shrugged. “We didn’t know about the boy friend, and she forgot to tell us.”
He stood up and settled his hat the way he wanted it. “I’m going home if you haven’t got anything more than this on your mind.”
Murdock thought about the negatives and decided not to get into an argument about them now. It was not that he felt any need to withhold the information from Bacon so much as the desire to complete his printing and find out just exactly what he had before he committed himself.
“Okay to use your phone?” he asked.
“For what?”
“I told
Howard I would call him.”
“Go ahead,” Bacon said. “Just be sure you don’t tip our hand.”
He waited while Murdock got an outside line and dialed his number. Then he was talking, his voice reassuring but uninformative.
“The police are taking care of her,” he said. “No, not here. She’s all right and they want to be sure she stays all right. So just act your age and simmer down. Why don’t you take that drink I recommended.”
“I will,” Howard said. “I’ll take it right now. And thanks, Kent. Thanks a million. I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk.”
Murdock hung up and said that was that. Bacon said he was glad of it and together they left the office and went along the hall to the elevators.
16
WHEN Kent Murdock had locked himself in his apartment he went immediately to his darkroom and began to make prints of the negatives he had hidden under the easel. Such work was almost automatic to him now and because of the subject matter he did not have to worry about dodging the prints or giving them any particular attention. He had nine of these finished and hardening when, for the second time that night, he heard the imperative summons of the buzzer.
This time the sound angered him. Because of the things that had already happened since he went to the hospital to see Carey, his nerves were jumpy and his disposition much the worse for wear. Even so, his immediate reaction centered about his work and he took the proper precautions before he opened the door and stepped into the living room. Not until then did he make up his mind.
“To hell with it!” he said softly, glaring at the door. “Buzz, damn you! See if I care.”
The sound came again, more insistent now, and he stayed where he was, bad tempered and obstinate.
He counted the third ring, and the fourth, and in his present mood he would have stayed there indefinitely if the pounding hadn’t started. For this was not the discreet rapping of knuckles; the sound he now heard was more like the thump of a fist. He knew that if it continued it would arouse other tenants and so, boiling inwardly, he strode forward in self-defense, remembering the gun in the drawer and jamming it into his hip pocket before he turned the night latch.
Murder on Their Minds Page 13