She laughed abruptly. “I don’t know how he could have thought anything else. I left in a rage. I threw things. I’d known he had been seeing her, of course. He was always seeing somebody—actresses and writers and one thing or another. But I knew drat was part of his business and there was this deal on for Sheila’s show and he had to take her to lunch and dinner and introduce her to the client and that was all right, too. I guess it was the third time I saw the lipstick on his collar—after I knew he’d been out with her—that did it.”
She shrugged thin shoulders. “Anyway, I went down to her place and rang the buzzer. It was around eleven-thirty at night, and I could tell by the lights that someone was home. It took her about three or four minutes to open the door and the minute I saw her face I knew George was there.”
“Did she try to stop you?”
“Certainly she tried to stop me. But if she’d had a gun she couldn’t have stopped me then. I pushed right past her and George was standing back in the room so he could not be seen by anyone in the foyer.”
She began to tap two fingers on the table top. “I don’t know what I said, but it was plenty. And what made it worse was that Sheila didn’t say anything. George tried to calm me down. He said he was sorry. He said my shouting wasn’t becoming to me, and Sheila just stood there in a blue housecoat and smiled. She was so damned smug and superior about it—if you can imagine Sheila being superior about anything—that I finally realized why.”
The fingernails were tapping less loudly now, and the huskiness in her voice became more noticeable.
“It was just as if she’d struck me in the face with her fist,” she said. “I just stared at her for a minute, knowing that the things I had said and the scene I’d made had only aggravated the matter. I knew then why she was being superior about it all. She could afford to be because she thought she had already won, and that nothing I could do would change it. There wasn’t anything I could do about it then but leave. I simply could not cope with her and got out.
“George caught up with me on the sidewalk,” she said “He came home with me. I wouldn’t talk to him and he had very little to say, either. He was quiet and depressed. He said he was sorry. ‘There’s nothing else I can say,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect you to understand and I guess you can’t forgive me either.’”
She took a breath. “Well, we got home, and I said I was going to Reno. I started to pack and all of a sudden noticed that he was helping me with my bags and it ocurred to me that perhaps he wanted me to get a divorce. That was when I started to throw things.”
Murdock gave her another cigarette and glanced over his shoulder to see if Stark was on his way back. He kept his fingers crossed, hoping the woman would go on. She did, calmly now, the urgency and feeling gone from her voice.
“I think he was in love with her,” she said. “Actually. There just isn’t any other explanation for his actions.”
“If he was,” Murdock said, “he was all over it before last night.” He sipped his brandy and remembered again the way George Stark had looked as he stood there with Sheila in the kitchen. “What changed your mind?” he said. “Did George ask you to come back?”
“No, damn him! But I had three days on the train going out and two weeks there and I didn’t know a soul—or want to know anyone—and I did some thinking. I’m thirteen years younger than George and I’ve more or less always had my way and I don’t suppose I was particularly well equipped to do my own fighting. Everything was done for me and all I had to do with Dad was cry or make a scene and I got what I wanted. And that sort of thing doesn’t give you much training in understanding the other fellow’s troubles or viewpoint, nor even to care particularly what they are.”
She put the cigarette down and folded her hands. “Well, I used the time I had for thinking. Perhaps that was when I grew up, I don’t know. I do know that I began to realize that maybe I’d had the best of the bargain with George, after all. He’s very successful, you know, and has always given me whatever I wanted, but he works so hard and it’s such a hectic business he’s in, that he simply never had time to rest. We were always going out, and that was mostly my fault, and I’m a pretty matter-of-fact person, I suppose, and not overly demonstrative surely, and it dawned on me that maybe George wasn’t getting all he had a right to expect.”
She glanced up, straightened a little, and put a smile on her mouth. “George is coming back,” she said. “I just wanted to say that I also got to thinking about Sheila. I knew she was a tramp and I was sure I was better for George than she was—if I cared enough to try. He’d always been sweet and thoughtful and, as far as I knew, faithful—and if I didn’t know I didn’t care—and I knew right then that I was a silly little fool coming out to Reno when what I should have been doing was staying in New York and fighting. I made up my mind I’d get him back from Sheila if it was the last thing I ever did—Hello, darling,” she said, her voice all affectionate again. “You were gone a long time.”
“I know it,” Stark said. “I’m sorry. But that was Ed Murray over at Sampson and he had a thing he wanted my advice on and of course he had to tell me all the details.” He sat down and gulped his brandy.
“I hope you haven’t been boring Murdock,” he added when he’d wiped his lips.
“I hope not,” Miriam said.
“I enjoyed it,” Murdock said. “Would you like another drink before you go?”
The Starks said no, and George signaled the waiter and asked for the check. “Miriam hasn’t even been home yet,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you’re back, baby.”
Murdock watched them, his glance darkly speculative. He wondered if George Stark would be that glad if he knew his wife had been in town the night before.
10
KENT MURDOCK HAD EVERY INTENTION of going into the hotel bar and ordering a double Scotch but when he walked through the lobby the empty leather chair near the cigar counter looked too comfortable to resist. He glanced about, half expecting to see one of Lieutenant Devlin’s men waiting for him, but when he could find no one who looked the part, he sat down, realizing for the first time how tired he was.
He stretched his legs out and put his head back, his hat in his lap, and then, paying no attention to those about him, he let his mind go back over the last twenty-four hours, considering the things that had happened, the people he had met. The result was discouraging.
He was not even close to any solution of the murder and had not, in fact, even a hunch that was worth anything. There were, unfortunately, too many people who knew Sheila and for whom life would be pleasanter with her passing. He went over them again in an effort to examine these motives and see if one was stronger than another.
Owen Faulkner and Lois Edwards had, in a sense, the same motive. They were in love, and Sheila, having promised to make marriage possible for them, was actually the means of keeping them apart. With her alive, Owen would continue paying her two hundred dollars a month and there could be no happiness for him or for the woman he loved. Either one might have reached the end of his rope and been goaded by Sheila’s conduct or his own resentment into action.
It was much the same with George and Miriam Stark only here there apparently was no prearranged agreement. Obviously Sheila had used her wiles and body to get Stark infatuated and thereby further the success of her program. She had, as last night’s kitchen episode testified, repudiated him. An excellent motive, if Murdock’s experience counted for anything, though no less strong than that of his wife. For, as he had just learned, Miriam was not only a jealous woman but one who was determined to get her husband back. Somehow she had returned to the city without it being known; she could not, therefore, have learned that her husband and Sheila had broken up. Last night when she called on Sheila she must, therefore, have assumed the affair still flourished and, thinking back to Miriam and her background, he had an idea that she would be quite capable of murder if it seemed the only way left to her.
“Yeah,”
he said, half aloud. “That makes four. The trouble is they are all about equal as to opportunity and motive.”
Dismissing for now the possibility that an outsider had strangled Sheila, he saw there were two possible suspects left—Arthur Calvert and Ira Bronson. Apparently Calvert stood to lose nothing, either economically or professionally, by Sheila’s death. He was set in his part, and with Keith Harding coming back to write the show, could look forward to the future without fear. He had been intimate with Sheila before she turned to Stark, and Calvert no doubt resented this. Like the others his motive might have been jealousy or revenge, though it did not stand up as convincingly as it did in the other instances.
And that left Bronson, the only one, so far as Murdock knew, who had no emotional trouble or attachment with the dead woman. It seemed, therefore, that if Bronson had a motive, it was not an emotional one but more likely one that had other personal or business reasons behind it.
Making up his mind to spend a little time on Ira Bronson the next day, Murdock found himself brooding about something else. The pictures that someone had taken of him and Sheila and which had not yet found their way into Devlin’s hands. Who had taken them, and why?
And who was the man who had been searching Dale Jordan’s apartment? Where did that fit in with the other facts relating to Sheila’s death? Or was that someone merely an opportunist who had seen a chance to do a job that had no direct connection with the murder, and acted accordingly?
He realized now that the one who had framed him and taken the picture need not necessarily be the one who had strangled Sheila. He could have done so after the picture was taken, but it was just as possible that someone else might have come in later, seen his chance, and taken it. Whatever the answer, it remained obscure to Murdock and when he realized he was making no progress, he gathered his legs in, sighed, and stood up.
He stayed away from the desk on his way to the elevator. He had a key in his pocket and he wanted no part of any messages that might have come in from Devlin or the police. Not tonight. Not until he’d had some sleep.
He bought a paper from the elevator boy, noting that it was ten minutes after eleven, and rode up reading the headlines. He walked along to 816, hat pushed back and weariness riding him. He unlocked the door, stepped in, turned on the light, and then stopped very still.
He felt nothing in that first minute but surprise. He looked at the man leaning against the closet door and the one sitting in the easy chair by the window. He tossed his paper on the bed and then, resentment crowding the surprise from his mind, he said, “Been here long?”
“Not long,” the man by the door said.
“You Murdock?” his companion asked.
The fellow by the door pushed away from it, a tallish youth with a hollowed-out face and a long pointed jaw. He was grinning confidently and seemed to enjoy the sound of his voice.
“Sure he’s Murdock. Who else?”
The man in the chair stood up. He looked like the characters who drive the car while the heavy in a gangster picture holds up a bank. He had the blue coat, bulging through the chest, the blunt jaw, the thick black brows. The gun in his hand had been there ever since Murdock snapped on the light.
He waved it carelessly now but not carelessly enough, considering the distance. “We took a look around,” he said. “Now we’ll give you a look. Then we’ll blow.”
“If you’re nice to us,” the thin youth said.
“You’ll blow now,” Murdock said.
He did not believe this himself but he had to try. It was something to say and he was not surprised at the answer.
“‘Now,’ he says,” the youth cracked.
“He’s only kidding,” said his companion. “Aren’t you, Mac?”
Murdock did not bother to reply. He did not know what it was all about nor what the two men wanted, but as sore and tired as he was, he was no fool. It was not the first time he had been confronted by two men with a gun and he knew how such things were.
He could start something and maybe the guy would use the gun and maybe he wouldn’t, but it was not a good gamble because you never could figure what a man might do with a gun in the heat of action. He knew now it was best to let them search him. If the opportunity presented itself, if someone got too careless, he’d have a crack at them and see how good they were. But first he had to try a shot in the dark.
“Why didn’t Bronson come himself?” he asked.
It did little good. The chunky man’s expression changed but whether it was surprise he saw or not, Murdock could not be sure.
“Do we know Bronson?” he said to his companion.
“What’s his racket?” The tall youth was still grinning. “We’re from the F.B.I, ourselves,” he said and was hugely amused at his wit. “We’re just checking.”
“Go ahead, Harry,” the chunky man said. “You,” he said to Murdock, “stand away from the bed so Harry can move around you. Just keep facing me, Mac, and everything’ll be all right. Go ahead, Harry. Perform.”
Murdock took two steps forward and one to the right. The man with the gun acted as if he’d done this before. He stayed back by the windows, a good six feet from Murdock, and he was no longer so negligent about pointing the gun.
The tall youth stayed out of reach as he came round behind Murdock. “The arms,” he said. “Out from the sides and level with the floor.”
Murdock raised his arms, eyes inspecting the rest of the room as he felt hands start to go through his pockets. He remembered the patched-up script he had taken from Dale Jordan long before the youth got to it but he had forgotten about the handkerchief with its odor of Piquante until the fellow found it.
“My, my,” he said. “Get a load of this, Nick.” He sniffed again and simulated a falsetto. “I think we’re divine.”
Murdock said, “Where’d you pick up the comedian, Nick?” and Nick frowned and spoke to his assistant.
“Cut it out, Harry. Throw everything on the bed. Never mind looking at the loot now.”
Harry was thorough. He emptied every pocket, including the watch pocket; he even unbuttoned the vest and made sure there was no hidden pocket on the inside.
“Okay, bum,” he said. “I guess you’re clean.”
“Over here,” Nick ordered.
He moved in a semicircle, keeping close to the wall when he could, and motioned Murdock to the chair he had recently occupied. “Sit down,” he said, “and put your hands on your knees.”
“You put them there,” Murdock said.
Nick let it go. He backed to the bed while Harry started through Murdock’s wallet, calling off each article he found. Occasionally Nick would take a quick glance at something but always the gun was ready and never was there more than a split instant when he wasn’t watching his man.
By that time Murdock did not care. He knew he was not going to start anything now, not when he had a telephone here that would get the house detective on the job before the two gunmen could reach the lobby.
He did reflect somewhat bitterly upon his reason for bringing Dale Jordan’s script with him. So it would be safe, he had said, and now he watched Nick examine it briefly and stick it in his pocket. That there would be no great harm done, since the girl had all the others, did not help his mood any, and he could foresee his embarrassment when he had to explain its loss. He sat morosely until the job was done and though he could not be sure, he did not think the two men took anything else but the handkerchief.
“I’ll give this to Hestor,” Harry said, and Murdock was about to protest when he thought better of it. He’d had plenty of time to turn it over to Devlin and he had not done so, so what difference could it make now?
“I hope you know what you’re looking for,” he said dryly.
“We’re through,” Nick said. “I told you we’d look and blow. Aren’t you glad you behaved? Come on, Mac. On your feet!”
Murdock sighed, and all the old weariness came back. He knew what came next and he was irritated becaus
e he had underestimated the chunky Nick.
“Where?” he said, more for effect than anything else.
“Out.” Nick grinned. “With us. We wouldn’t want you to phone the house dick we’re on our way down now, would we?” He motioned with the gun. “Get your stuff, here, and we’ll all go down together—me holding the gun, huh?”
And that is exactly what they did, walking three abreast, Murdock in the middle, down the elevator that way and through the lobby and out on the street. At the corner they turned and halfway down the darkened side street they waited until a taxi came along and then Nick and Harry flagged it and jumped in.
Murdock gave them no trouble, for on the way down in the elevator he remembered something and wondered if perhaps he had been more lucky than he first supposed. He had completely forgotten about the sealed envelope he had taken from Sheila’s office desk that morning and left in the safe; he had an idea that but for this lapse of memory he would have lost this, too.
Now, in the lobby again, he went to the desk and asked for the envelope. When he got upstairs he locked himself in and removed the outer covering, not opening the envelope but inspecting again the name and address imprinted in the corner. Tossing it on the bureau, he undressed and took a warm shower; he got out his flask and poured Scotch, adding a little water. When he had his pajamas on he climbed into bed and tore open the envelope.
There were two typewritten pages inside, single-spaced, and the letterheads were more informative than the imprint on the envelope. The letterheads said: Rudolph Nagle, with an address and telephone number, and then, Confidential Investigation of All Kinds.
“I might have known it,” Murdock said, and started to read what Mr. Nagle had done for Sheila Vincent.
The report, apparently compiled with considerable effort, had little to recommend it in the way of literary quality and concerned itself with facts, of which there were many, all relating to a man named Myron Wortman.
Murdock read it from start to finish to get the over-all picture and then came back to assimilate the details which seemed most important. What he learned was that Sheila Vincent was interested in the background of this Myron Wortman and particularly in the sequence of events that started five years ago in San Francisco.
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