Murder on Their Minds

by George Harmon Coxe

  The clock at the far end of the room said it was twenty minutes after twelve when Murdock walked into the dimly lighted interior. It was a small place, quiet now, with a long bar on the left and a dozen or so tables on the right topped with black glass. There were only three customers at the bar and Murdock kept his distance as he ordered a beer. When it came he asked the barman if he worked nights.

  “Not this week.”

  “When do you go off?”

  “Six.”

  Murdock said he was from the Courier. He said he would like to talk to the man who had been on duty the night before and could the barman give him his name and telephone number.

  “Sure.” The fellow consulted a small notebook next to the cash register. “Sam Marcus,” he said, and read off the telephone number. “He’ll be here at six but if you want him before that you can give him a ring.”

  Murdock thanked him. He finished his beer and stepped into the telephone booth to dial the number. A pleasant-voiced woman answered. When she said Mr. Marcus was out and asked if she could take a message, Murdock said he would call again.

  19

  WHEN Kent Murdock went back to his office after lunch Delaney, who was still filling in for him, said that a woman had called twice but would not give her name.

  “Said she’d call again,” he said. “Here, sit down.”

  “Stay there,” Murdock said, “you’re handling the job.”

  “Then how about you handling it for ten minutes while I duck across the street for a quickie?”

  Murdock laughed and said all right. He sat down behind his desk, checked the assignment book, and glanced automatically at the monitor which told him which of the company cars were in use. He had a cigarette burning and was staring out the window when the telephone rang. The voice was instantly familiar.

  “Kent?” Rita Alderson said. “I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Not good. Not good, but better. I think I’ll live. I’m terribly ashamed about last night. I’ve never done a thing like that before and—”

  Murdock interrupted her because he could tell she was embarrassed and finding the going difficult. He said it was nothing to be ashamed of.

  “What time did you leave?”

  “About eight o’clock. At first I didn’t know where I was. I had this frightful head and I couldn’t remember how I got there. Then I did remember and I found the ten dollars in my pocket, and I couldn’t go home then, not the way I looked and felt, so I came here and went to bed.”

  “Where?” Murdock said.

  When there was no immediate answer he let the silence continue for a second or two before he said:

  “Jerry was around this morning. He wanted to know if I knew where you were. He found a handkerchief of yours on the divan. He was sort of upset.”

  Again the silence.

  “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “But I’m glad I got out in time. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. I don’t want to talk to anybody until I’ve had time to think.”

  “You can’t just keep staying there, can you?”

  “Not without more money,” she said. “I didn’t have any bags so I had to pay for the room in advance. I can’t sign for anything and I had to eat something. If I tell you where I am do you have to tell anyone else?”

  “Not right now anyway.”

  “And will you come and talk to me and bring me a little more money?… I’m at the Harvey House,” she said, mentioning an old residential hotel outside the downtown district.

  Murdock thought about Denham and wondered how long it would be before Rita saw an afternoon paper. He decided against telling her about the murder now, but there was something else he could do, something he had been thinking about all morning. When he understood that now was the time to do it he said:

  “I’ll be over a little later in the afternoon. How much money will you need?”

  “Oh, just a few dollars. In case I want to stay here another night.”

  Murdock did not question the last statement. In his own mind he had an idea that Lieutenant Bacon would find her before then, once he discovered that she was missing, but all he said was that he would bring some cash with him.

  Henderson, the Alderson butler, listened to Murdock’s request with a hesitant sort of disapproval all his own.

  “I’m not sure Mrs. Alderson will want to see you, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “The police have been here and I know she’s very upset.”

  “Will you ask her, Henderson?” Murdock said, as he stood half in and half out of the doorway. “Just tell her,” he added, trying out a bluff, “that if she doesn’t see me the police will probably be back in a very few minutes.”

  Henderson did not like the proposal but neither was he willing to take the responsibility of an outright refusal. “Come in, please,” he said with obvious reluctance. “I’ll give her your message.”

  He turned and went up the stairs, bald head gleaming and his thick torso bent at the waist. He moved soundlessly, and he returned the same way, saying nothing at all until he stood directly in front of Murdock.

  “You’ll find her in the drawing room,” he said. “She asked me to tell you that she hopes you won’t be long.”

  Harriett Alderson was sitting in her favorite wing chair, her back angling toward the river windows so that her thin patrician face was partly in shadow. She sat motionless as Murdock approached, her gaze fixed and imperious. She did not ask why he had come or invite him to sit down but spoke with cold directness.

  “Henderson tells me that you gave me the choice of seeing you or the police.”

  “I had to tell him something,” Murdock said.

  “And you’ve been reduced to threats, is that it?”

  “I think it’s important.”

  “To whom? Is your interest due to any consideration for me, or my family?… I don’t understand you, Kent. You were always welcome in this house—”

  “Because of George.”

  “There were many others who came because they were friends of my children. Some I approved of and some I did not, but all were, I hope, treated with politeness and consideration. Well, there’s a limit to everything. I don’t know what you want but you might as well know that I do not intend to be badgered by you. The death of Mr. Brady was a tragic thing and I am deeply sorry because I liked him. The police seem to think that there may be a connection between his death and someone in the family. I happen to disagree but I recognize their authority in such matters. I do not recognize yours. Now what do you want?”

  Murdock shifted his weight and felt the warmth in his face because he recognized the truth of what had been said. He had been welcome in this house and there had been the unstated impression that Harriett Alderson had liked him in her way. He liked no part of what he was about to do but, remembering Tom Brady, he knew that he had waited long enough.

  “What did the police want?”

  “They asked questions. Of me and Gloria. By now I suspect they are questioning Donald and Jerry. And all about this half brother of Rita’s who came once for dinner and was never asked again.… As if we could possibly know who killed him,” she added disdainfully. “They even asked to make a tour of the house.”

  “You mean they searched it?”

  “How do you mean, search?… They asked about Rita and I said she wasn’t here and hadn’t come home at all last night. They seemed to think I was lying. That lieutenant, whatever his name is, insinuated that she was hiding here. I had Henderson take them through the house.”

  “But they didn’t actually search it,” Murdock said quickly. “You know, go through the desks and chests and—”

  “Certainly not.”

  The answer gave Murdock new hope. “I’d like to,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’d like your permission to search Rita’s rooms.”

  She leaned forward slightly in her astonishment before her mouth tightened.

 
; “You certainly may not have my permission.”

  “It’ll be easier that way.”

  “For me or for you?”

  “For both of us. You don’t want me here and I don’t like being here under these circumstances. But I’m willing to bargain with you.”

  “There will be no bargain.”

  “If I find what I’m looking for,” Murdock said, as though he had not heard, “I’ll turn it over to you.”

  “No.”

  “All right.” Murdock sighed and gestured emptily. “That’s why I have to use threats. It’s the only way I can get anywhere with you.… It’s like this,” he said. “I found out some things this morning. In some ways I know more than the police do because of the photographs I took for Tom Brady. I expect to tell Lieutenant Bacon what I know because in the end this has to be a police job. But I’d like to wait a little while. I’d like to talk to you first—if I find what I’m looking for.”

  He hesitated and said: “But if you don’t want it that way then I’ll have to tell the lieutenant now. When I do I’ll guarantee he’ll come back here with a search warrant. As a matter of fact I think he’ll be back with one anyway. It’s just a question of time once he finds Rita.”

  When Murdock spoke like that he was convincing and even Harriett seemed to realize that this was no empty threat. As though recognizing the statements for what they were, she said, nothing changing in her face or in the clipped, cold cadence of her voice:

  “You know where to go. I’ll be here when you finish.”

  Murdock got out as quickly as he could and climbed to the fourth-floor suite, making no sound as he moved upward and not knowing whether Gloria was still in the house or not. The small sitting room, which was done in pale-gray and ivory, presented no problem since it offered very little space for concealment. There was the chaise and a matching chair, odd tables and lamps, a small television set, and an antique maple table-desk and chair. When the three drawers revealed nothing of interest he went on into the bedroom.

  The bureau, the lowboy, and the vanity yielded nothing to interest him and a glance into the bathroom was enough to stop him in the doorway. That left a dressing room and a huge closet, and when Murdock saw the three pieces of matched luggage stacked in one corner he reached for the largest case. Even as he picked it up he knew it was not empty. Something slid back and forth with a thump as he tipped it from side to side and now he put it flat on the floor and examined the fastenings. The manipulation of the keys he had in his pocket plus a bit of force sprung the lock and then he was looking at a bulging briefcase with Tom Brady’s initials stamped on one side.

  His discovery did not surprise him greatly and he sat there on the floor to examine the papers which had been crammed inside. Most of these were carbons of the reports Brady had accumulated in his brief career as a private investigator and it did not take Murdock long to find what he was looking for: two sets of sheets, an original and a carbon, held together with paper clips.

  In a matter of minutes he had scanned the twenty-odd sheets in Brady’s report. This served to supplement the documents he had collected and added very little to the assumptions Murdock had already made. When he was sure, he put the other reports back into the briefcase, replaced it, and put the suitcase back where he had found it.

  Harriett Alderson was still in the wing chair, her cane propped against it and her hands in her lap. Her chin maintained its tilt of defiance, but for the first time her dark eyes seemed apprehensive as she saw Murdock approach and noticed the papers in his hands. When he had moved another chair so that he could be closer to her, he sat down.

  “Brady was pretty pleased with the job he did for you,” he said, “at least in the sense that he had accomplished what he set out to do. He said that if he produced there would be a nice bonus for him.”

  “That’s true.”

  “How much?”

  “I told him if I was satisfied with his work I would give him twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “He didn’t leave much of an estate,” Murdock said. “He has a daughter and two grandchildren. I think he earned the bonus and I’d like to be sure his daughter collects.” He offered the two reports. “This is what you bought,” he said. “They’re yours now. Go ahead, read them.”

  He had to put the reports in her lap before she accepted them and then she picked up her glasses from the chairside table. When she began to read Murdock lit a cigarette, not thinking about murder in the minutes that followed but unable to forget the trouble this woman had caused.

  When, finally, she put the papers in her lap and glanced up, her eyes looked frightened and now he put out his cigarette and spoke of the letter Brady had written to his daughter.

  “Brady made a point in that letter,” he said. “He was pleased with his success because he was a conscientious man, but he did not like what he had done. He said if he could afford it he would have preferred to repay you his salary and expenses and destroy his report. Do you know why?”

  He paused and when she made no reply he said: “He could see how much trouble his report might make. He said maybe it was all right for you to play God with other people’s lives but for himself he wished he had never taken the job.… Why,” he said, “couldn’t you let well enough alone? Isn’t a mother supposed to trust her sons? Aren’t they entitled to make their own mistakes?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No,” Murdock said, “I don’t. Was it jealousy? Because you didn’t approve of their wives? Or just because you wanted to run their lives the way you managed your husband? You’ve dominated Donald so there’s nothing left between him and Gloria; there never will be until he moves out of here. You drove Jerry out—”

  “What I did was for their own good.”

  “That’s only your opinion. Where did you get the idea of a private detective? What started it?”

  “George,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet. “What happened to George.”

  “It was an accident,” Murdock said.

  “I know that. My mind tells me that but I can’t help what I feel. Rita killed him, accident or not.… You don’t know what it’s like to sit here day after day with nothing to think about except the past. I had a lovely body. I was proud of it and the things I could do. I was popular and pretty and—”

  “You still are,” Murdock said.

  “—all because a fool horse refused a jump I’m sentenced to the life of a cripple. When I go out I have to have help. The doctors have told me how long I can expect to live but that does not worry me now. I admit I never felt Rita was good enough for George but I accepted her. Because she was George’s wife I offered her a home. But when that man came—I never did believe he was her half brother—I made up my mind I was going to find out the truth about him while I could.… And I didn’t approve of the way Gloria kept taking these trips by herself and leaving Donald. It was just by accident that I found out she and Arthur Enders were in Miami Beach at the same time, but I decided I had better know more about that too.”

  She said other things but Murdock no longer tried to follow her. For he had begun to understand some of the things that had made this woman what she was.

  An accident had robbed her of the thing she had once prized the most—her physical loveliness. An accident had robbed her of her favorite son. And so she had sat here brooding about the injustices of life, suspicious, resisting change, wanting desperately to cling to what she had. What made the situation all the more ironic was that she had been right in her suspicions. She had proved what she wanted to prove but in doing so she had supplied the potentials for murder. Murdock could not forget that, even as some new sympathy for her plight began to build inside him.

  “You proved your point,” he said. “And you were right, if that’s any satisfaction to you. You can send Brady’s check to his lawyer,” he said. “I’ll give you his name and address when you want it.”

  “Get out.”

  She straightened her should
ers and to Murdock it seemed that her eyes were blinking back unwanted tears, though he could not tell whether they came from anger or from shame. For even now she remained indomitable, refusing to admit her mistakes.

  “Unless you’d rather I called Henderson. I’ve had all the insolence I can stand for one day.”

  Murdock stood up. He said he knew the way out. He said that at the risk of appearing even more insolent he’d make a final suggestion.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I’d start practicing a little contriteness. Because if you don’t—now that those closest to you know what you’ve done to them—I have an idea you and Henderson will wind up having this house to yourselves.”

  He hesitated to see if she wished to say anything more. When she stared back at him he turned and left the room, fairly certain now that he knew who had killed Brady but knowing also that the evidence at hand might be insufficient to convince a jury.

  20

  KENT MURDOCK did a lot of thinking on his way home from the Alderson house on Beacon Street. He not only considered the reports again but he thought about Lieutenant Bacon and in this respect his conscience bothered him not at all. Technically, he was withholding information from the police, but he also knew that, in themselves, the reports were no longer important.

  Harriett Alderson had ordered them, she was going to pay for them, and they concerned her family. So long as he had the photographs of Brady’s accumulated documents what Harriett did with the reports could remain her business. The important fact was the certainty that Rita had taken them from Brady’s files after he was dead.

  “So now what?” he asked himself.

  The answers to this were many and varied and when, finally, the germ of an idea began to take root in his brain he knew that he would need a little assistance but, at least in the beginning, not of the official variety. The name that came to mind was Frank Kirby, and Murdock dialed the office number as soon as he let himself into the apartment.