Stark had a lot on his mind. He was, Murdock guessed, an impatient man, high-strung and restless, with perhaps a little stomach trouble and its accompanying irascibility. Apparently he had all he could stand for the moment, for he blew up at the sight of Bronson, not caring what he said or who knew it.
“What is it with Universal?” he said coldly to Faulkner. “You got a new open-door policy now so every chiseler and talent peddler can walk right in your office without being announced?”
Faulkner shrugged and looked too worried to reply. Bronson colored, and his lips bunched.
“I don’t like that kind of talk, George,” he said in his husky accents.
“Oh, you don’t like it,” Stark said, voice still cold. “Well, what the hell do you want? What right have you got to come busting in here?”
“I’ve got a right to protect my client’s interests.”
“What client? Your client’s dead.”
Bronson’s lips got thinner. He seemed to be trying to be casual and not let Stark’s taunts warp his judgment. He nodded slightly, indicating Dale Jordan.
“Miss Jordan is my client.”
Stark pushed away from the wall. His face was stiff, and his voice was no longer cold.
“God damn you Bronson!” he raged. “Sheila hasn’t been dead twelve hours and now you—”
“Cut it out, George!” Faulkner said. He didn’t get up and he sounded more tired than annoyed.
“I guess you’ve had a lot of practice,” Stark said, still talking to Bronson. “I guess you used the same technique when you chased ambulances and split fees. Well, go ahead. Give me an argument and see how fast I bounce you in the hall.”
“I have a right to be here,” Bronson said. “I’m not going to fight with you. If you don’t want me here Miss Jordan and I will leave,” he added with what dignity he could muster.
“You and Miss Jordan.” Stark grunted scornfully. “I’ll bet you got to her before the police—though how you could know enough—”
“That’s not true,” a voice said.
Murdock was surprised to find it came from Dale Jordan. So, apparently, was Stark. He turned and regarded her curiously.
“I went to Mr. Bronson,” the girl said, “because he knew about the program and I needed someone to advise me.”
“I should have come with her in the first place,” Bronson said.
“But I asked him not to,” Dale Jordan added. “I thought it was my place to tell you about Keith and what Sheila had done.”
“I waited until I thought that part would be over,” Bronson said. He looked at Stark. “I’m glad I came.”
“I’m glad somebody’s happy.” Stark had got his temper on safety now, and his manner was again sardonic. “The trouble is Miss Jordan has nothing to sell.”
“My husband has,” Dale said.
“But your husband isn’t here and he’s the only one—”
“Let it go, let it go.” Faulkner cut in. “I’m not interested in agents, I’m interested in Sob Sister.” He gave Stark a sidewise glance. “And so should you be. Let’s get back to your story,” he said to Dale Jordan. “Can you prove all those things you told us?”
The girl gave him a studied stare and said, “Certainly.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you. But that’s what I came to New York for, why I worked for Sheila for twenty-five a week—to get proof. Keith phoned me last night. He’ll be here next week. You’ll get your proof.”
Again Murdock believed her. Her arguments made sense and he liked the way she had handled the situation. Aside from some slight heightening of the color in her cheeks which seemed only to make her more attractive, she had been impervious to anger and to sarcasm and was now ready for the next question.
Owen Faulkner sighed loudly. He gave his signet ring a savage twist. He got up and mussed his hair a little more. He kicked at a drawer that was partly open.
“Boy what a business! It isn’t enough to produce and direct a show, you have to solve murders and worry about plagiarism.” He took a breath and digressed. “I knew damn well Sheila couldn’t turn out a show like that alone. I told you so,” he said angrily to Stark. “You didn’t think so. You thought I was nuts. Me—who worked with her and knew what made her tick. She always had to have a collaborator; she was never any damn good on plot and construction.”
Arthur Calvert moved in his chair and cleared his throat. “What about your client, George?” he said.
Stark ignored him. He was too intent on Dale Jordan. “Why didn’t you come to us in the first place?” he asked tightly. “You heard the program on the Coast. When you came to New York why didn’t you come here and say the show was stolen so we could—”
“I couldn’t prove it then,” Dale said. “And, anyway—” she hesitated and lowered her glance “—I wanted it to be a success. If you sold the show it would mean more money for everyone and then Keith would be able to go to Sheila.”
“And make a deal,” Stark said. “Maybe you could sue us.”
“We had no intention of suing,” she explained patiently, “or of making trouble. It was Keith’s idea, and Sheila stole it. He said it would be all right with him if they collaborated—it would be nice money for both of them and they could split the writing credit. If she wouldn’t agree, or denied the idea and outline were Keith’s, why then—”
She stopped as though realizing there was nothing more to be said. She pushed back the hair on one side of her forehead, giving Murdock her profile. Again he liked it. He liked to see a girl enough in love with a man to fight for him, and it was obvious that she wanted the best for her husband.
Stark shrugged. “Do you know this guy Harding?” he said to Faulkner. “Can he write the show?”
“Certainly he can write the show,” Bronson said.
“Standing on his head, no doubt,” Stark said, not even glancing at the agent.
Owen Faulkner said he had heard of Harding. He supposed he could carry on the program. “We’ve got a script for next week. How many was Sheila ahead?” he said to Dale.
She hesitated and caught her lip. “Three more,” she said, and Murdock wondered if she was lying or if she didn’t know that the copies of those three scripts were no longer in Sheila’s office file, just as there were no longer copies in the living-room desk.
“What about your client, George?” Calvert said again.
George Stark seemed to notice the actor for the first time. His glance was patronizing, a little disdainful, and seeing this, remembering the negligee in Calvert’s closet, Murdock sensed the bad feeling between the two men and wondered if its foundation was jealousy. Finally, his tone as cool as his glance, Stark said, “He doesn’t care who writes the show so long as it’s good.”
“The show’ll be all right,” Faulkner said. “If your husband can write it,” he said to Dale, “it’s all right with us. He can get the same deal Sheila had.”
“If he can prove he owns it,” Stark said. “Hell, I can get writers. What we need is a clear title to the show. And some action by the police. If they don’t clean up this murder—and in a hurry—my guy is liable to change his mind.”
Bronson leaned over Dale’s chair. “Will you need me any more?”
“Like she needs two heads,” Stark said.
The girl smiled at the chunky agent and it was as if neither had heard what Stark said. Dale thanked him for coming, and he said he had a date now but would telephone later. He told her not to worry and that everything was going to be all right.
“So long,” he said to the room and went out without actually meeting anyone’s eye.
The telephone rang a moment later, and Faulkner picked it up. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, certainly. Just a minute—For you,” he said and handed the instrument to Stark.
Stark took the call standing up. “Hello,” he said, and then all at once something happened to his face. The tension went out of it and his mouth opened and for a second more nothing c
ame out. “Miriam!” he said, his gray eyes widening. “Where? … When?” He leaned down and got both elbows on the desk, his face toward the wall. “But I thought—” He stopped and listened some more. “You didn’t … You are? … That’s swell. Certainly I am.” He listened again. “Just as soon as I can.… How about Armand’s? … Yes, at the terminal across from Grand Central … ’By, honey.”
He hung up, straightened. After a moment he turned, and there was a smile on his thin face Murdock had never seen before. It touched the eyes, softening them, and there was a controlled eagerness in his voice and nothing at all to suggest his recent resentment and exasperation.
“Miriam,” he said. “She just got in at La Guardia. She called it off.”
“Called what off?” Faulkner said.
“The divorce.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Faulkner.
Stark grinned. “Me, too. I’m meeting her down at the terminal in a few minutes,” he said. Then, with no reference to Sob Sister and its more recent complications, without even saying good-by, he opened the door and walked out.
8
OWEN FAULKNER LEANED BACK in his chair and shook his head absently, still watching the door that George Stark had closed. “What do you know about that?” he said, speaking to no one in particular.
“He’s a lucky guy,” Arthur Calvert said.
“You can say that again.” Faulkner turned. “I wonder what changed her mind?” he said and then, noticing Murdock, he said, “She left two weeks ago. She was his second wife.”
“Oh?” Murdock said, hoping for more.
“The first one divorced him a few years back. He’s got a boy around twelve or so, living with the mother. Out in San Francisco. That’s where George came from before he hit New York.” He scratched his neck. “I really thought Miriam would get it this time,” he said. “Didn’t you, Ardthur?”
“It looked that way to me.” Calvert nodded. “That’s why I think he’s lucky. That Miriam is a looker, and her old man has dough, and she was in love with George. Must be she still is.”
Dale Jordon stood up. She looked a little embarrassed, and that made the others embarrassed when they realized they had been ignoring her.
“I’ll go now,” she said as the three men rose. “I hope you won’t be angry.” She gave Faulkner a small smile. “But if you are, please be angry with me and not with Keith. It’s not his fault, you know.”
“I’m too tired to be angry with anyone,” Faulkner said. “All I want is to have a good show. Stark talks big about getting writers, it’s a conditioning process they go through before they get to be account executives that makes them act that way. Between us, he’s a little nuts—about writers, I mean. Good ones are damned hard to find and if your boy, Keith, has got anything on the ball—and he must have if he created Sob Sister—I’m his pal.”
Dale’s smile flourished. She smoothed down her dress, and Murdock moved to her side. “I’ll ride down with you,” he said. He held the door for her, said, “See you,” to Faulkner and Calvert, and went out with the girl.
It was nearly six when they reached the sidewalk, which was busy with traffic now as dusk closed in rapidly on the street, and as though by common consent they stopped at the curb while Murdock got out cigarettes and gave Dale Jordan a light. Then, on impulse, he suggested a drink, not just because he liked her but because he wanted to find out everything he could about Sheila Vincent and those who knew her.
The girl smiled up at him and with only a moment’s hesitation, said, “That would be nice. I’d like one.”
Her answer pleased him and her ready acceptance surprised him a little. It always did when he issued such invitations and it was a genuine surprise, a feeling of good luck and accomplishment, though he had, according to his friends, little reason to feel any such reaction.
Women seldom showed much hesitancy with Murdock, not only because he was a good listener and it did not take a woman long to find it out, but because he had the sort of dark, well-groomed attractiveness that women found pleasing in an escort. They may have sensed, too, that he was particular about his companions and were in turn flattered at his choice. Whatever the reason, he knew his way around, he was never aggressive or boorish in public, and it was part of his charm that he could always make the other person feel important.
“Swell,” he said. “I guess we both could use one. How about Armand’s?”
Dale said that would be fine and tucked her hand lightly inside his elbow and they walked like old friends to the corner and down Madison and around the next corner and into Armand’s, where the lights were adequate in the dining-room and somewhat more intimate in the section devoted to the drinking customers.
There were two seats at the bar, and Dale climbed up and munched a pretzel stick and acted just the way Murdock would have ordered her, had he had anything to say—as if she were very pleased to be here.
She said she’d have a Scotch and soda, and in a tall glass, if you please, and he ordered a Martini for himself. After that they talked about things of no importance and watched interestedly the people who came in, speculating on their relative importance and occupation.
She made her drink last while he had a second Martini, and he eyed the dining-room in the rear with its pleasant décor and comfortable banquettes and asked her if she wouldn’t have dinner, so long as they were already here. She was not coy about it and did not say she really should be going; she did not, in fact, say anything with words. She shook her hair back and glanced up at him slantwise. When she smiled he grinned back, caught Armand’s eye, and asked about a table.
Armand said, “In about ten minutes,” and it was then, just after they were seated, that Murdock saw George Stark move into the dining-room with a tall, blond woman moving gracefully at his side. She wore a plain black cloth coat and no hat and she was quite thin, with a fine-boned, patrician face.
Murdock stared at her. He forgot what he was saying. Stark did not see him, and he watched intently until the couple was seated, knowing he had seen the woman somewhere—or a picture of her—but unable to remember where.
“That must be Miriam Stark,” Dale said.
“You never met her?”
She shook her head, and Murdock took time out to order and then went back to his inspection of the woman. Presently Stark saw him. He did not wave, but simply nodded, and his wife, noticing this, glanced over at Murdock. It may have been that, or the way she put her elbow on the table and, with one hand on her cheekbone so that it covered roughly half her face, turned back to her husband. However it happened, Murdock sat very still, the suspicion growing in him as his pulse quickened.
In those next moments he became oblivious to his surroundings. He was not aware of Dale or what she was saying. He forgot to breathe, and an odd excitement began to build inside him. In imagination he dressed the woman differently, putting the black coat on and wrapping it tight, adding a close-fitting black hat and seeing clearly the distinctive, upward-slanting brow that remained visible.
He knew then. He leaned back and looked no more across the room. He smiled at Dale and acknowledged what she had just said while his mind focused down on Miriam Stark. She had telephoned her husband from La Guardia Field about an hour ago—or so she had said.
That much was possible but she had not just arrived from Reno. She arrived from Reno—or wherever it was she had been—sometime yesterday, or last night. For this was the woman who had come to Sheila’s apartment sometime after one that morning.
“Yes, me,” was all he had heard her say before Sheila closed the living-room door, but Murdock was satisfied that the woman who had said this was either Miriam Stark or her twin sister.
He said to Dale Jordan, “I guess she went to Reno on account of Sheila”
The girl sat back while the waiter served them. When he withdrew and she did not reply Murdock said, “How long had it been going on before—Sheila and George, I mean—before Mrs. Stark made up her mind to ge
t the divorce?”
“I don’t know,” Dale said, busy with her food.
After a pause Murdock said, “We’ve been pretty honest with each other up to now.”
The girl colored slightly. She nodded. “That’s why I’d rather not talk about Mr. Stark,” she said.
Murdock knew what she meant in spite of the ambiguity of her words. He said that was a good enough answer for anyone, and from then on they did not discuss Stark or Sheila Vincent or their relations with each other. They talked instead of Dale Jordan and her husband and in the next half hour Murdock learned all about Keith Harding and what a wonderful writer he was. He learned exactly how Dale had met him and was told the details of her bargaining with Sheila when she applied for work.
“I guess you don’t know who killed her,” he said.
“No.”
“Could you guess?”
“No,” she said when she had thought it over.
Murdock remembered something else. “Over in Faulkner’s office you said you could prove your husband created Sob Sister.”
“I can.”
“But you’re not ready to tell how.”
“I’ll tell you.” She smiled, turning her head, her hazel eyes direct. “But I can’t tell you here.” She waited until the table was cleared and the coffee served. “If you’ll come up for a minute when you take me home,” she said, “I’ll show you.”
It was eight-thirty when they left the dining-room, and Murdock, glancing back as they moved along the bar, saw that the Starks were still busily talking over their cocktails. He had an idea they might be there awhile, and on the ride home with Dale it occurred to him that if he came back within a reasonable time he might be able to move in on the twosome long enough to get a little information.
Now, as he paid the taxi driver, he was impatient to find out what it was the girl wanted to show him and ran up the brownstone’s steps, following her through the vestibule and up the thinly-carpeted stairs to the second-floor hall. She got her keys out as they went along it, and she unlocked the door without fumbling and stepped inside.
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