Murder on Their Minds

by George Harmon Coxe

  Nothing changed in Kirby’s face except the color and when there was no reply, Murdock said:

  “Unless you were calling on someone in that building you were in your office from before nine until nine-o-seven when you phoned the police. Doing what, Kirby?… You ducked into the little conference room when Rita knocked. You had to stay there and watch her walk off with the reports but there were still the original documents in Brady’s coat. Did you get them? Did you put them in an envelope and drop them in the mailbox in the lobby before you phoned? What about those two thugs you hired to look for the negatives I’d made? When did you call them?

  “You knew Rita had the reports,” he said, “and that didn’t worry you because you had the original documents. But there were still those negatives to worry about. Once they came to light you had no pitch to make and nothing to collect from Rita or anyone else because the secret would come out. I can understand why you sent those two punks to my place, but why did they bother Sally Fisher?”

  “I had to be sure,” Kirby said. “When Brady came back from your office that afternoon I asked if he got his negatives and he said you were to leave them in your desk. He said if he didn’t pick them up he’d ask the girl to. I found the originals on him but no negatives. I had to figure she might have taken the envelope home with her.”

  Murdock understood it now, just as he remembered how he and Bacon had discarded the possibility that it might have been Kirby who had hired the two. They had reasoned it out and it had seemed an acceptable premise at the time because, lacking some facts, they had drawn the wrong conclusion.

  “You phoned them from your office, didn’t you?” he said. “Before you called the police. It was the only time you could have phoned them. I guess they must have owed you something from the days when you were a cop.”

  Kirby did not deny this. Instead he began to curse in savage tones, at Murdock first, and then at Brady.

  “He walked in on me like he always walked,” Kirby said. “Not making a sound. I looked up and there he was. I hadn’t even finished reading the report. When he saw what I was doing he blew his stack, the silly stupe. He grabbed them and I tried to argue with him. I told him he could collect fifty grand from the dame”—he glanced at Rita—“if he’d just hold out a little on the old woman. He swung at me and missed and then he nailed me good.”

  He leaned forward and now his jacket gaped open and Murdock saw the strap that anchored the shoulder holster. Then, because Murdock was not quite finished, he said, his contempt obvious:

  “You couldn’t take it, hunh? You were quick on the trigger when you were a cop and you never changed.”

  “Nobody does that to me and gets away with it,” Kirby said. “Sure I grabbed for the drawer. I got up with the gun. The crazy fool tried to take it away from me, and that’s where he made his mistake.”

  Murdock let his breath out slowly, sick inside as the picture came to him and tormented by some odd desire born of rage and bitterness and, perhaps, vindictiveness. Because the reaction was so foreign to his nature he held it in check, reminding himself that there was a little more to be done.

  “You’re the guy I walked in on at Brady’s apartment. You had to be sure there was nothing there that could spoil your plan.”

  “I should have dropped you then,” Kirby said. “It would have saved me the trouble of doing it now.”

  “And Denham,” Murdock said. “He nearly took care of you, didn’t he?” He turned to glance at Rita, who seemed not to have moved a muscle. “You told him about Kirby, didn’t you?”

  She bobbed her head, her voice a whisper. “I had to. I was afraid not to.”

  “Maybe Denham had the right idea,” Murdock said to Kirby. “He didn’t want you cutting in and he missed you by only a couple of inches.”

  Kirby swore again. “But he missed.”

  “And you took care of him because you didn’t want to cut him in on the profits.”

  Kirby’s answering grunt was a dry, contemptuous sound. “Think again,” he said. “You’re slipping with your guesses. Denham had a gun and he thought he was big time. I could tell by looking at him—so could Bacon, I’ll bet—that he was a mean one. I was cutting in on him and he didn’t like it. He figured they’d never get him for dumping me so he tried.”

  He grunted again and cleared his throat. “Maybe the money was an angle but it wasn’t important,” he said. “When a guy is gunning for you and you can’t yell for protection you haven’t got much choice. You’re his target all the time. I could wait until Denham found his chance to take another shot at me or I could go to him first.… There was nothing to it,” he said.

  “I phoned him and made a date. I said we should talk it over because there was enough for both of us. I knew he’d take his car and I knew he’d come with a gun. He did, with me hiding in back just like you figured. The gun was right there on the seat beside him. All I had to do after I jammed my own gun against the back of his neck was lean over and pick it up.”

  Murdock swallowed and started to get up. What he wanted would now be on tape and as he came slowly to his feet he looked at the automatic in Kirby’s hand. It had never worried him because he had unloaded it the night before and there had been no extra bullets in Rita’s handbag.

  He watched Kirby rise and get his balance and when he saw the brightness in that pale and narrowed gaze he knew that Kirby would not hesitate to shoot. For himself all he had to do was cover five feet before Kirby knew the gun was empty and what he wanted most was to get his hands on the man responsible for Tom Brady’s death.

  The bitterness was spreading through him now and he no longer had to contain it. He could feel the slight tremor in his knees. When he spoke his voice was shaking.

  “What are you going to do with the gun?” he said.

  “Use it. What the hell do you think? On you and on her. It’s her gun, ain’t it? So let the cops figure it.”

  “Okay,” Murdock said and let his weight come forward. “Use it. And what’re you going to do when you find out it—”

  Murdock was moving as he spoke. He had it all worked out. He was sure he had the time he needed. That his plan went awry and erupted in unexpected violence was not his fault; for though he had weighed the tangibles and found them to his liking he could not forecast the future nor could he prevent fate, in the form of Lieutenant Bacon, from taking a hand.

  It was not that Murdock had forgotten Bacon. He had glanced at the hall door from time to time and it would not have surprised him to see it open now. But Bacon had been dealt a hand and he had played it the way that seemed best to him. For the door that swung open as Murdock spoke came not from the hall but from the connecting room.

  Murdock heard it before he saw it because he stood sideways at that door. He had no chance to finish the sentence, to tell Kirby that the automatic he held was not loaded, and in later years there were times when he wondered whether he would have finished the sentence even if there had been time.

  But in that first instant his momentum carried him toward the man and the gun. That was all he had in mind until he saw Kirby step back and hesitate as though selecting his target; then, ignoring Murdock, he swung the gun toward Bacon and Sergeant Keogh.

  They both yelled at the same time. They said: “Drop it!”

  Both had guns in their hands, but it was Keogh who fired when Kirby squeezed the trigger and then yanked hard at it. Had the automatic been loaded, Kirby would have had the first shot, since his mind was already made up, but now it was Keogh, no killer by choice, who fired, aiming low so that his slug slammed into Kirby’s thigh, twisting him instantly and then knocking the leg from under him.

  He hit the floor at an awkward angle, the automatic dropping as he fell. By then Murdock had slid to a stop. After that there was no time left and he could only stare in helpless horror as Kirby rolled and came to his good knee with his own short-barreled revolver in his hand.

  Bacon yelled again and so did Murdock, though he was
not aware of it. Even the girl cried out some protest. All went unheeded as Kirby, ignoring the odds and driven by some compulsion beyond his control, completed his turn. Then, his mind triggered by desperation or by some ingrown characteristic that had made him so handy with a gun in the past, he fired.

  So did Bacon and Keogh.

  The three shots came almost like a volley to rock the room with sound, but it was a ragged volley, one shot—Kirby’s—coming a split instant too late.

  And this time the two policemen knew the score. They had to play for keeps and they stood there as the sound died away, watching Kirby fold over on his knee and tip slowly on his side.

  Murdock did not see him collapse. He was watching Bacon and Keogh holster their guns, seeing now the man who stood behind them and understanding at last how this had come about.

  For the third man was a headquarters specialist named Jansen. His field was electronics and wire-tapping and he still held a headset in one hand. How long the three had been in the other room was unimportant now, but, remembering the time he had taken to telephone Rita, Murdock knew that Bacon could have taken his station first. Bacon had given the half hour he had promised, but Bacon was a professional and he had played his cards accordingly.

  Now he and Keogh moved back from the twisted figure on the floor. Bacon collected the two guns and Keogh jerked the counterpane from the bed and spread it over the body. By that time Bacon was ready for Murdock.

  “You wanted to play it your way, hunh?” he said, his tone testy with reaction. “You would have stopped one for sure, going for the gun the way you did, if we hadn’t decided it was time to crash in.” He hesitated, frowning down at the automatic. “It must’ve jammed,” he said. “He might have nailed one of us if it hadn’t.”

  “It’s empty.”

  Bacon did not believe him. He pulled back the slide to make sure. He looked up, brows bent and gray eyes cloudy with bewilderment.

  “You knew it,” he said finally. “That’s why you—” He let the sentence hang and tried again. “He never had a chance,” he said.

  “He had a chance,” Murdock said. “He could have settled for a slug in the leg. He didn’t have to go for his own gun. And anyway,” he said bluntly, “he killed Tom Brady, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Bacon said, thoughtful now. “That’s right, he did.”

  “He asked for what he got,” Murdock said. “Forget it.” He turned then to get his midget recorder. He turned it off and brought it back to Bacon. “How much did you get?” he asked.

  “All of it,” Bacon said. “We got here before you did. We had a bug on the door.”

  “All right, now you’ve got two sets,” Murdock said and opened the instrument to wind the tape and remove the cartridge. By that time Bacon wanted to know more.

  “I still don’t get it,” he said. “How did you know the gun was empty?” He listened as Murdock explained and then said: “But why did she”—he glanced at the girl—“try to use it here?”

  “I told her to.”

  “What?”

  Murdock hesitated as he put his thoughts in order. He knew it would not be easy to make Bacon understand, but he had to try.

  “I telephoned her before I came.”

  He glanced round and found Rita still sitting on the love seat, her young face white with shock and an odd blankness in her gaze. Because he wanted to help her, he went to her and took her hands in his.

  “It’s all right,” he said, hoping that if he could make her talk she would feel better. “It’s the best way. Tell the Lieutenant what I told you over the telephone.”

  She blinked the long lashes and her eyes focused. “He said the police were looking for me and that he was coming over to give me a chance to talk. He said my only chance was to tell the truth even if he put the pressure on me.” She swallowed and said: “He asked me if I still had the gun and I said yes. He said to have it hidden somewhere handy so I could get it out in a hurry. He said when he accused me of killing Mr. Brady, when he used the word jury, I was to yank the gun out as if I was going to use it on him. I didn’t understand him and I said so and he said not to argue; to do what he said because it was my only chance.”

  She stopped, out of breath and still bewildered but with color beginning to tint her cheeks.

  “I still don’t get it,” Bacon said sourly. “It was a frame but—”

  “Look,” Murdock said. “I was sure Kirby was our man. I had a little evidence—you heard it—but I didn’t think it was enough. The only way to get what we needed was to make him talk. He was carrying a gun of his own; I knew that. Being the kind of guy he was I figured that when I crowded him, when he saw I had enough for an indictment, he’d pull that gun. He sure as hell wouldn’t talk, or confess to anything, unless he was sure he was in the driver’s seat. To make him talk I had to give him a gun and let him think—”

  “Yeah,” said Bacon. “That much I see. So you gave him the empty gun.”

  “I knocked it right at his feet,” Murdock said. “I knew he’d pick it up. And don’t forget, when Rita pulled the gun I was making it look as though I thought she was the guilty one, as though she pulled it because she was trapped. Once Kirby had the gun I had to hope he wouldn’t realize what had happened. I had to count on one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That he had murder on his mind. Just like Denham when he waited for Kirby earlier last night. Twice before Kirby had killed men with their own guns, and here it was again. If he thought he had to shoot he would be a lot safer using her gun than his own.” He shrugged, his grin twisted and humorless. “Of course, if he’d started to examine it I would have had to jump him and take my chances. The way I felt about Brady I figured I could do all right.”

  “You generally do,” Bacon said. “Though I’ll be damned if I know why.… Okay,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “What the hell am I arguing about? It worked.… Go ahead, get your picture.”

  “It’s the only thing that’ll be exclusive for the Courier,” Murdock said, “because it’s too late for the afternoon final and too early for the morning bulldog. This time you do the talking to the press. I don’t know anything about anything. Okay?”

  Bacon studied him a moment, gray eyes half open and busy before he nodded. “Okay,” he said, and turned to start giving orders to Keogh and Jansen.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Kent Murdock came into his office and slumped wearily down in his desk chair. The session at headquarters with Bacon, assorted brass, and an assistant district attorney had been both protracted and repetitious. Coffee and sandwiches had been served to sustain the participants and in the end no specific charges were filed against Rita Alderson, pending an additional hearing.

  Arthur Enders, as the family attorney, had appeared with Jerry Alderson to make the proper assurances, and when Rita and Jerry left together Murdock got the idea from the way they looked at each other that it mattered very little to either of them that Rita had never been legally married to George and would not therefore inherit anything from his estate.

  Murdock was glad about that because he realized what she had gone through during the past days, but he could not forget that there would be a funeral the following morning and now his dark eyes were brooding and his mood was black. Presently he knew he would lock up and go forth in search of two or three drinks, or maybe four or five, depending upon how he felt at the time. For he needed a lift, even an artificial one, and he felt he was entitled to it. All he needed was the energy to get himself out of the building and while he was waiting for the proper moment the telephone rang.

  “Kent?” a woman’s voice said. “This is Harriett Alderson.”

  “Oh?” said Murdock, who could not have been more surprised. “Well, hello.”

  “Arthur Enders has just left,” she said. “He told me what happened.”

  Murdock said: “Oh?” again because it was all he could think of.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot since this afterno
on,” she said. “Nobody has talked to me the way you did in years. I resented every word of it until I realized it was the truth. It helped enormously.”

  Murdock, a little embarrassed now, said he was glad.

  “I haven’t too many years left but I don’t think it’s ever too late to make a change for the better, do you?… And I was wondering—are you terribly busy? Could you come over for a drink?”

  Murdock cleared his throat and stammered and she helped him out.

  “Jerry and Rita are out somewhere. So are Gloria and Donald. It’s the first time they’ve been out together in I don’t know when. You see I talked to them and I think it’s done some good. So there’s only Henderson,”—her laugh came softly—“and I can’t talk to him, can I?”

  “Well—” Murdock said, his eyes no longer brooding.

  “I can offer you twelve-year-old Scotch and if you’re hungry I’m sure Henderson can whip up something.… For a little while? Just to talk. I—I could use a little more help if you have time.”

  The quiet sincerity of her words moved Murdock strangely, not only because they were unexpected but because he understood that for anyone heretofore so proud and imperious her need must be very real.

  And now, a grin beginning to soften the angles of his eyes, the idea suddenly had appeal. Why, since he was going to do a bit of drinking anyway, not take advantage of whisky that would not only be better than he would buy, but free.

  This was what he asked himself, and when he had the answer he said: “Sure. I’d like to.”

  He replaced the telephone gently, distance in his gaze as his brain assimilated the things she had said. For it came to him now that she was not the only one who needed help. In his present mood he could use some himself. If they could help each other for a little while, so much the better.