He let go of the automatic the instant he opened the door. He stared, openmouthed in this first moment of wonderment and incredulity. He backed up as Rita Alderson lurched into the room and he smelled the strong odor of whisky before he noticed the glazed look in her eyes and the slackness of her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said as she weaved past him. “You must be a sound sleeper.” She wheeled unsteadily, spreading her legs for balance; then peered at him. “But no, you weren’t even in bed.… You oughta get that buzzer fixed.”
For a few seconds after he had closed the door Murdock just stared at her. She stood in the center of the room, weaving a bit as he approached, her smile lopsided and pathetic. She was wearing a brown gabardine skirt and a blue cashmere sweater and a camel’s-hair coat that had nearly slipped from one shoulder.
Because he had never seen her like this it worried him. He had never known her to take more than two drinks and it had always seemed to him that she did this, not because of any appetite for liquor, but simply to be sociable and one of the party. He had seen drunken women before and a few had disgusted him. But he had no such feeling now as he studied the half-closed eyes and the slack red mouth which had been unevenly smeared with lipstick.
Even as he asked himself why this had happened she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. With that the bag which had been under one arm thumped heavily to the floor, though he did not wonder about the sound at the time.
“Hey,” he said, finding his voice at last. “What is this?”
“’Mmm a little drunk,” she said. “Would’ve been drunker,” she added, slurring her words, “if the place hadn’t closed. Freddie’s Bar,” she said. “You know it? A real nice place.”
He had to put his arms about her when she leaned on him. He had to hold her, feeling the rounded softness of her body beneath the sweater, heavy now that he had to support her weight. For a second or two she rested her forehead against his shoulder and then she tossed it back and tried to focus.
“You like me, don’t you?”
“I think you’re wonderful,” Murdock said.
“Not wonderful,” she said. “Just a little. Because of George. George was the one that thought you were wonderful and maybe I did too. Because I could talk to you and you treated me like a lady.… That’s a laugh, isn’t it?” she added as her voice trailed off. “Me a lady.”
She drew her head back still further, peering up at him now. “But you don’t have to worry. I don’t want to sleep here, but you’re my friend, aren’t you?”
“Sure I’m your friend.”
“Then all you got to do is give me a drink and some money, and I’ll go quietly. ‘S a promise.”
Again her head fell forward and when she made no move Murdock slid a finger under the soft chin and tilted it back. Had it been a man he could have slapped his cheeks and given him a shake to make him pay attention. Now, when he tried to hold her away so she would look at him, she giggled.
“Look, Rita,” he said. “This is no good.”
“What’s no good?”
“This. I mean—”
“You’re my friend, aren’t you?” she said without opening her eyes.
He did not answer this and in his mind there was only confusion and, somehow, alarm. Because he had to know how such a thing could happen he wanted her attention. He reached for a lock of blonde hair that had fallen forward to obscure one eye, apparently for the lack of a bobby pin, and as he brushed it back he saw the bruise, not large, but bluish now at the side of her forehead.
He did not ask about it. He did not think it would do any good, but it suddenly came to him that this girl was afraid. Whatever had happened earlier had either frightened her or in some way so shattered her emotional balance that she could no longer cope with the situation by herself and she had turned to whisky as an antidote. He told himself it had to be that way. There could be no other explanation.
He withdrew his hand and tilted her chin again. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”
“What?”
“I’ll make the drink.”
“Good.”
“And then I’ll take you home.”
With that her eyes opened. “Oh, no.” She tried to shake a finger at him, her smile suddenly crafty. “And let old Harriett see me like this? Wouldn’t she like that?”
“She’ll be in bed,” Murdock said. “It’s nearly two o’clock.”
“Henderson won’t be in bed,” she said. “He’ll know and he’ll tell.… Nope,” she said, in arbitrary tones. “Not little Rita. That’s why I came here. Cause you’re my friend.”
“What about Jerry?”
“Go to Jerry with me like this? Are you kidding?”
She hiccuped and said: “Oops, excuse me,” and then she was continuing her argument. “And besides Jerry wouldn’t understand. I love the guy but he don’t understand things like you do.… Just give me ten dollars—spent all my money buying Scotches and soda—and I’ll go quietly.”
“Where?”
“Why, to a hotel,” she said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll buy me a bed.”
That answered one of Murdock’s unasked questions because now he knew what had been in her mind. Alone, and not knowing whom to turn to, she had come to him, not the girl he had known as his friend’s wife, who, perhaps sensitive about her background, had always been conscious that she must be a lady and use the manners and the language expected of her. Because of Harriett—who had given her permission for the marriage because of George’s insistence and a mother’s fear of alienating him—Rita had always been on the defensive. Now she spoke with the usage of one who had worked as a waitress and known the rough edges of the entertainment world, not tough, but in the vernacular and unconcerned about her tenses.
“A bed,” she said. “That’s all I need so I can shack up by myself. Ten dollars, hunh? For a friend?”
“Okay,” Murdock said, his mind beginning to fashion a plan of his own.
For he was not sure Rita could even get to a hotel under her own power. Even if she could she would attract attention that could be embarrassing. The other alternative, that he take her to a hotel and help her register, had no appeal at all and so, under the circumstances, she would have to stay here.
He found a ten-dollar bill and gave it to her, watching her peer at it closely before she thrust it into her coat pocket. Then, to his surprise, she came up on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth with a soft, wet peck that was no more than a gesture.
“You’re a doll,” she said.
“Sure,” Murdock said. “You can tell me about it while we’re having that nightcap.”
“That’s right. Gotta have one more for the road.”
“Because you’re scared?” Murdock said, softly and not sure she had heard him.
“How did you know?” she said, and then swayed sideways so that he had to hold her, first steadying her and then leading her to the divan.
When he went out to the kitchen she had her head back on the cushion and her eyes were closed. When he returned with the two drinks he thought she might have passed out, but when he spoke she opened her eyes. She sat up with an effort and took the glass.
“Cheers,” she said, and took a swallow of whisky and water. She made a face and then, as though the devil were driving her, emptied the glass. When she looked at him her chin was wet and she leaned forward. “Just what I needed,” she said and, her eyelids closing, let the glass slip from her fingers.
Murdock was on his feet as she sagged and he caught her before she could topple forward. He held her that way until he could fix a cushion and then he eased her body into the corner so that her head looked comfortable.
For a long moment he looked down at her, knowing somehow that this was the best way even as he felt the pressure of the growing disturbance in his mind. For that brief interval his dark gaze was soft with understanding and pity and then, remembering the unfinished b
usiness in his darkroom, he turned quickly away.
This time, because of some intuitive impulse he did not bother to analyze, he locked the door behind him. He made the five remaining prints. One by one he put the first batch on his small ferrotyper, squeezing out the excess water and waiting until they buckled before taking them off. When he made a pile of these and put the negatives on top, he repeated the process with the more recent prints. Then, taking time to clean up, he let himself out of the room and locked the door behind him.
The girl had not moved from the corner of the divan, and after he had carried his work to the bedroom he came back to look down at her. For a second or two he considered trying to rouse her. If it had been a man—or some women—he could have managed. A pot of coffee brewing while he removed the clothing, or most of it, and then a forcible submission under a cold shower had done the trick before. But his better judgment told him to let well enough alone.
Gently then, he raised her body sufficiently to free the camel’s-hair coat, and only when he held it up did his thoughts turn back and hang on a known fact that jarred him strangely. He tried to dismiss this thought but it would not go and now he took another look at the coat, aware that in its present condition it did not measure up to Rita’s careful standards. The quality of the material was excellent but the coat was wrinkled. It had been a long time since it had been pressed—or did it seem so because it had been wet?
Not tonight. There had been no rain. But what of the tall girl in such a coat who had come out of Brady’s building and darted toward the corner in that brief downpour while Frank Kirby had watched from across the street?
Now, unable to think beyond the troublesome question, not even wanting to speculate, he folded the coat and put it on a near-by chair. In the bedroom closet he found a pillow and an extra blanket. He had already decided that chivalry and the desire for his guest’s comfort could better be ignored, everything considered. For it was one thing to give his room to a sober woman and something else again to take the risk with someone in Rita’s condition. Suppose, when she woke to find herself in bed, she forgot what had happened the night before?
“Unh-unh,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”
And so he did the best he could with what he had, lifting her limp form slightly so he could get her body flat, removing the spectator pumps and straightening the legs, putting the pillow under the blonde head and then tucking the blanket lightly about her before he stepped back.
Her handbag still lay on the rug and when he picked it up its weight surprised him. He carried it to the chair, intending to put it on her coat and then, prompted by some impulse he did not bother to classify, he opened it and saw the automatic pistol buried beneath the heterogeneous clutter of personal effects.
Absently then, he put the bag aside, his gaze narrowed and intent as he weighed the gun in one palm and identified it as a small calibre Mauser with plain wooden stocks, lighter than most American guns firing the same type bullet. Not thinking any more about it, he slipped out the clip and, tipping the gun sideways, jacked out the shell in the chamber so that it fell on the coat.
He thumbed more bullets out of the clip. Together with the one in the chamber there were six in all, and when he tested the spring he knew the clip would hold at least two more shells. He smelled the muzzle and could only guess that it had not been fired recently. The fact that the gun had not been loaded to capacity meant nothing in itself since not everyone made a habit of using a full clip; it saved the spring to carry a lesser number of shells unless a particular occasion demanded more.
But it bothered him nevertheless. It supported his hunch that fear of some sort had brought Rita here when alcohol proved insufficient to give her courage, and now, as he replaced the automatic, his glance strayed to the locked door of his darkroom.
When he had turned out all the lights but the one nearest the divan, he went through the short hall to his bedroom, thinking now of the prints and the negatives that luck had brought him after Tom Brady had worked so hard to get them. Not until then did it occur to him that Rita’s drunkenness was anything but genuine and it shocked him a little as the alternative came to him. She had been drinking. But she also had at one time been an actress and if she—
He put the supposition from his mind, deciding he was too tired and confused to do it justice. But he did take a precaution. When he closed his door he turned the key, his grin humorless and eyes brooding as he reminded himself that locking a woman out of his room was something of a switch.
17
KENT MURDOCK did not immediately think of his uninvited guest when he opened his eyes the next morning. He had overslept by fifteen minutes and it took him a while to get his mind clicking and his memory working on the things that had happened the night before. But when the truth came to him he jumped out of bed and reached for his robe, not caring whether this was the proper way to confront a lady before breakfast but wanting to see what had happened.
He gave a tug at the doorknob until he remembered he had locked it before going to bed. He gave the key an impatient twist and stepped into the little hall, craning his neck as he leaned part way through the living room doorway. He saw at once that the divan was empty but he still was not satisfied and called out.
“Rita?” Tentatively. “Rita?” More loudly this time.
By then he could see that the coat and bag were gone, so he went barefoot into the living room and kitchen to make sure he was alone. While there he put water on for his coffee, not surprised that she was gone and a little grateful when he thought how embarrassing it might have been, for her at least, if he had found her still asleep. The knowledge had a salutary effect on his frame of mind and gave him a chance to look ahead with anticipation to the prints he had made the night before but not yet examined.
By the time he had shaved and showered the water was ready for his coffee, and while it dripped he dressed, resisting the impulse to take a peek at the photographs until he had his orange juice. There was no bread left for toast so he took his coffee back to the bedroom and then, straightening out the bed as best he could, he spread the prints out on top of it. Without making an effort to examine them in any sort of order, he glanced at one after the other, not exactly reading them but absorbing facts and details until a rough pattern of understanding began to unfold in his mind. There were ten minutes of this concentrated effort before he heard the buzzer, and this time he swore softly, not angrily but with resignation.
How, he asked himself, could he avoid this incessant interruption? What did he have to do, move? The place was getting to be like South Station and for a moment as he stood up he glared in the general direction of the hall door. Then, as the humor of the situation began to undermine his irritation, he gathered up the prints, stacked them, and looked about for some place to put them.
Impulsively then, he lifted the mattress and slid them in on top of the box spring. The negatives he tucked into the inside pocket of a gray flannel suit hanging in the closet. Sliding a gray jacket from its hanger he started for the door as the buzzer ended its second summons, and by this time he was no longer annoyed. For in his present frame of mind, buoyed up as it was with the knowledge he had so recently gained, he did not particularly care who wanted to see him and it did not surprise him much when he opened the door to find Jerry Alderson standing there.
Alderson’s entrance was tentative and uncertain. His brown eyes looked worried and his brow was furrowed and there was a certain apologetic hesitancy to his speech.
“I was hoping I’d catch you,” he said as he entered. “I—it’s about Rita. Do you know where she is?”
“No,” said Murdock, glad that he could speak the truth.
“I thought she might have called.”
“Oh? Why would she do that?”
“She didn’t come home last night,” Alderson said, and it was now apparent that the uncertainty in his glance was based on worry. “Henderson says she went out some time after ten. She didn’t com
e back.”
“You didn’t see her last night?”
“No.”
He started to move about the room, eyes probing before him, and the way he acted reminded Murdock of Keith Howard. For although Jerry was older and chunkier and clad in better fitting and more expensive clothes, he had the same air of suspicion about him. Now when his gaze fastened on the divan Murdock said:
“What made you think she’d come here?”
“I didn’t think so. I just had to be sure. She hasn’t many friends and—”
“How about Denham?”
“He wasn’t in.”
The reply came absently and there was a sudden change in attitude as Alderson stopped, nostrils dilating as he began to sniff. Unconsciously Murdock imitated him and it was not until then that he became aware of the faint but unmistakable fragrance that hung over the room. He had not noticed it last night, perhaps because the smell of liquor was so strong, but it was here now and it was definitely not a male odor.
Now he watched Alderson lean over the divan, his misgivings rising. He saw the other lift the pillow and sniff again. The blanket which had been twisted aside was lifted and then Alderson pounced on something wedged in the cushions. When he wheeled and held up the hand-kerchief, Murdock knew he was in for trouble.
He shifted his weight as Alderson strode toward him, remembering what Howard had done and quickly deciding that once was enough. He did not know whether talk would help but he spoke quickly as Alderson stopped and his hands clenched. The gleam in the bright brown eyes was the tip-off and Murdock said:
“Don’t swing unless you’re ready to duck.… Sure she was here,” he said, his tone curt, impatient, and hard. “Why? Because she was afraid. Afraid to go home. Afraid to come to you. She had a bruise on her face where somebody clipped her.” He took a breath and in a last effort to shock some sense into the man said: “She was drunk.”
That did it. Alderson blinked and something happened deep in his eyes. He swallowed and a different sort of anger came.
Murder on Their Minds Page 14