She stammered when the lieutenant asked if she worked for Sheila Vincent, and he calmed her down by saying she was under no suspicion and that all he wanted was to find out a little about her employer’s habits.
“You just worked there days, huh? What time did you usually come in the morning?”
“Nine-thirty was my usual time, sir.”
“You had your own key? Have you got it now?”
Marie had it and produced it at Devlin’s direction, and then when he went on with his routine questions Murdock reflected upon the one definite accomplishment of the day. At Centre Street, Devlin had talked with some of the laboratory men, and while he was thus engaged Murdock looked over a selected group of official photographs; after flipping through a hundred more of these he had picked out the man named Harry.
Harry Guyer, the record said, and listed a half-dozen arrests and two convictions for assault. Devlin was pleased. He said Harry was a guy that could be hired cheap and they should be able to pick him up in a day or so and how about Nick?
Murdock could find no picture of Nick, and after a while Devlin said they’d better go see the district attorney’s man. That resulted in an informal question-and-answer period, out of which nothing very tangible resulted so far as Murdock could see, the assistant he talked with being as noncommittal as Devlin.
“We may ask you to sign a statement later,” he had said, “but that will be all for now. Thanks for coming in.”
Now, bringing his attention back to Marie Waterman, Murdock could not see that Devlin was adding much to what he already knew. Marie never worked nights. She always left at four o’clock and never stayed to prepare dinner. She did not know about Miss Vincent’s nighttime gentlemen friends but had seen Arthur Calvert, George Stark, Owen Faulkner, and Ira Bronson at one time or another during the day.
“You haven’t any idea who phoned you the other morning and told you not to come?”
“It was a woman. That’s all I know. I guess I thought it was Miss Vincent.”
“Did she ever do that before?”
“No, sir.”
“And she was generally up and around when you got there at nine-thirty?”
“Yes, sir. ’Less she had a hang-over. If her door was closed that meant she did,” Marie added. “Then I did my neating up quiet until she told me to get breakfast.”
Devlin let it go at that. He said Marie had nothing to worry about and if they needed her again they’d let her know.
When they got back in the car Murdock sighed—a little louder than was necessary in order that the effort would not go unnoticed.
“One thing,” he said, “going around with you a guy gets to meet a lot of people.”
“I got a key out of it, didn’t I?” Devlin said. “That makes three I’ve got—the one on the chain in Vincent’s bag, the one the Jordan girl had, and this one. I wonder how many more there’ll be?”
“Two.”
Devlin took his eyes off the road to direct them quickly to Murdock. “How do you know?”
Murdock told him what Sheila had said. “One of them has a V filed in the top.”
“You’re getting to be quite a help,” Devlin said. “Don’t forget you’re going to introduce me to Mrs. Stark.”
Miriam Stark looked very young and pretty when she opened the door. She wore slacks and a jersey which brought to light certain pleasant improvements Murdock had not suspected the night before, and her bare feet were thrust into soft-soled, ballet-type slippers.
“Oh, hello,” she said to Murdock and glanced at Devlin without interest.
Murdock introduced the lieutenant and saw suspicion darken her eyes. “I promised to introduce him,” he hastened to add. “But I’m not sponsoring him.”
“Come in,” she said indifferently and led the way into the living-room. “Sit down. There are cigarettes in that box.”
She dropped into a pillow-backed club chair and swung her legs over the arm. She gave Murdock a raking glance that seemed to say it was all his fault, and he knew that, as with Lois Edwards, she had made up her mind that he had already confided in the police and was, within certain limits, working with them.
Devlin sat down, holding his hat brim with both hands and letting it dangle between his knees. Then he went back to work, his voice direct and decisive but not unpleasant.
“You knew Miss Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like her?”
“I loathed her.”
“She was a friend of your husband?”
“A business friend,” Miriam said.
“You just got back from Reno. You went there for a divorce?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you get it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I changed my mind.”
It went like that for three solid minutes, and Murdock was impressed not by her spunk but by her skill in making what she said sound so convincing. Devlin asked where she stayed, when she left. He wanted to know where the plane stopped and at what time she arrived in New York. When he ran out of questions he stood up.
“Am I to infer by this that I’m under some suspicion of murder?” Miriam asked.
“Anyone who knew Miss Vincent is under some suspicion, Mrs. Stark,” Devlin said evenly. “So long as I am on the case. I’m particularly interested in people who loathed her.”
“Well,” Murdock said when they were once again on the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” Devlin said.
“Could I remark that I’ve had all I want of your company for one afternoon?”
Devlin did not seem to hear the crack. His square face was set and unsmiling, and his shrewd observant eyes seemed lost in thought.
“I’ll drop you off wherever you say,” he said. And then, as he started the car, he said, “I think we might build up a nice murder motive for that dame without half trying. If I can prove she’s lying about when she got in town I might have a crack at it.”
Murdock remained silent, the memory of that one glimpse of the woman in Sheila Vincent’s foyer still vivid in his mind. He could not prove it was Miriam Stark, though he knew this to be so, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to.
Then, his thoughts sliding off on a tangent, he considered the report in his pocket that had to do with one Myron Wortman. Here was something that he really wanted to tell Devlin about and yet he could not without admitting where he got it. That’s what happens, he thought, when some dope like you tries to be a detective. Sinking a little lower in the seat he told Devlin to let him out at the south end of Times Square.
12
IRA BRONSON HAD OFFICES EN SUITE on the tenth floor of a building on the east side of the Square not far from where Seventh and Broadway become formally acquainted. The reception room sported two leather-covered benches done in imitation maple, a table with some old copies of Variety and Film Daily, a desk in the corner behind a railing, at which a bespectacled girl was pounding a typewriter. At another desk, also behind the railing, and strategically placed beside the gate and the entrance to the private office beyond, sat a sleekly coifed and made-up redhead who had weight, height, and curves in abundance.
When Murdock asked if Mr. Bronson was in she asked his name and looked him over, her blue eyes cataloguing details with accustomed expertness and deciding finally that it would be safe to send his name in. She got up, walked two steps, hips swinging, opened the door, and went in. When she came back she was more friendly.
“You can go in,” she said.
The inner sanctum was nicely done. The rug was dark blue and thick, the walls paneled in some bleached wood and plastered with framed photographs of the great and near great, all duly autographed for Ira. There were two leather chairs, a leather divan, a heavy desk, a leather desk set and blotter, a carafe, tray, and glasses.
Ira Bronson was flat on his back on the divan, his head pillowed on one hand, his sparse black hair awry. He flipped his free hand and waved M
urdock toward a chair.
“Hello,” he said. “Glad to see you. Sit down. Have a cigar.”
Murdock said he would smoke a cigarette and sat down. He said it was a nice room, and Bronson liked that. “Cost enough,” he said. “But you got to have some front in this racket.” He rolled over on his side, the angle of his head putting three chins where two had been before. “What’s on your mind?”
“I want to talk about Sheila.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, go ahead.”
Murdock examined his cigarette and gathered up the loose ends of thought that had been cluttering up his mind. Now that he was here he was not sure what he wanted to say, nor did he have any clear-cut idea of what he wanted to prove. Regarding Bronson as he waited, he remembered the physical characteristics of the man named Myron Wortman and tried to reconcile them to the figure on the couch.
“Shoot,” Bronson said.
“Give me time.” Murdock waved the cigarette in an idle gesture. “Wait’ll I think out what I want to say.”
“Why bother? She wasn’t any pal of yours, was she?”
“I used to work with her.”
“She told me.”
“The police still don’t know who killed her.”
“So?”
“So I took her home the other night and I went in for the drink. That sort of makes me the last man to see her alive, the police say. And there’s a guy named Devlin who’s got me pretty high on his list. I’d like to get off that list; I’d like to get back to Boston.”
“And where do I come in?”
“Maybe you know who killed her. You could have killed her yourself for all I know.”
“There have been times when I thought about it.”
“You were johnny-on-the-spot the next morning.”
Bronson grunted. “I told you about that. I wanted to be sure she got out of bed so we could clean up those contracts.”
“Also,” said Murdock, “you beat it right up to her office after that to give it the once-over. Maybe you were looking for a confidential report on a man named Myron Wortman.”
A muscle moved in Bronson’s jaw and was still. He looked at the star sapphire on his little finger, blew on it, and began to polish it on his sleeve.
“Who the hell’s Wortman?” he said.
Murdock’s mind detoured the question and raced ahead, a new interest building up where none had been before. He remembered details about Bronson that he had forgotten and his gaze was narrow and remote as he spoke.
“Whoever strangled Sheila probably had a key to her place,” he said. “A guy like you who was around her a lot could have picked up one of those keys without much trouble. Remember the first night when we were having dinner at Armand’s?”
“What about it?”
“You sat down with her bag on your knees. You kept it out of sight under the table while we talked. If your fingers were busy you could have got the keys. You could have got them at Stark’s. No one went to the door with you when you left. It would have been a cinch to—”
“If a guy wanted to kill her he wouldn’t need a key,” Bronson said. “He could always ring the doorbell, couldn’t he? And when she opened up he could move right in, couldn’t he?”
That stopped Murdock for a moment. Not when she was dead to the world, he thought, and knew he could not say so. He knew also that this sort of questioning was a waste of time. He took another tack.
“How long have you had this office?”
“Couple of years.”
“Where were you before that?”
Bronson continued to polish his ring. “In a hole in the wall a couple of blocks up the street.”
“Always worked in New York?”
“No. Chicago’s my home. I came here seven or eight years ago.”
Murdock asked if he had been in the same business in Chicago, and Bronson shook his head. “I was doing publicity for some movie houses and making a buck or two on the side when I could. I came to New York on a deal and decided to look around while I was here. I latched onto a job here at more dough and after a couple of years I bought a piece of a small agency up the street. Guy named Goldman. He had a few people—no big personalities but enough small stuff to make a living—and I brought a few more in.”
He examined the ring and was satisfied with his work. “Goldman had ulcers,” he said. “I bought him out three years ago. I’ve been doing all right ever since.”
“How long was Sheila with you?”
“Two years.”
“You worked for ten percent?”
“Twenty with Sheila.” Bronson noticed the look of surprise on Murdock’s face and raised himself on one elbow. “That makes me Uncle Shylock, huh?”
Murdock turned his hand holding the cigarette, let it flop back. “I wouldn’t know. Agents and percentages are out of my line; I was just wondering how it was.”
“I’ll tell you,” Bronson said, and grinned. “It’ll take a little time, but I’ll tell you. You hear a lot of talk about agents. They take the rap for this and that, and nobody likes them, but everyone admits it’s a soft racket. Agents never do a damn thing, if you believe all you hear, but pick up dinner checks and buy drinks and sit around sumptuous offices furnished with good-looking secretaries and squeeze their ten percent out of hard-working clients. There’s dough in it, they’ll tell you; big dough. And that’s no lie, brother.”
He eased over on his back and removed his glasses. He held them up to the light and forgot to put them on. “If you’re Morris, or Lyons, or Music Corp. you’re up there in the chips. Maybe you’re just a one-man job like me but you’ve got a couple of names. Maybe they’ve got their own radio show, or maybe it’s a name band grossing eight or ten grand a week on the average. Your radio star gets five or six. You get guest shots for him at three grand or three, five each time. You get ten percent. Nice, huh? No wonder people are jealous. But how does an agent get that way? Where does he get those clients? He’s not born with them, and unless it’s a family business he doesn’t inherit them. They don’t come breaking down the door and say, ‘Please, Ira, be a pal and handle me.’ Not the big ones. They’ve got agents. They’re doing all right. It’s very simple,” he said. “The kind you want you can’t get and the kind you don’t want are always in your hair. Am I boring you?”
“Not much.” Murdock waved him on. “Go ahead. I’ll be the straight man. How do you get your clients?”
“Sometimes we steal them.” Bronson paused for a moment’s reflection and what he said then carried the impression of sincerity. “You run into a guy that’s dissatisfied with the agent he’s got. He’s not getting enough dough, or enough work, or the spots he gets are not right, or maybe it’s the billing. Anyway, he’s unhappy. Every agent has people like that. Sometimes it doesn’t mean a thing because actors and entertainers are always unhappy about something. You know, they never get a break; Joe Doakes who has nowhere near the talent is getting more money, or has a show of his own or some damn thing. An agent expects that and knows what to do about it. But sometimes the beef is legitimate, and an agent hasn’t been doing the job he should. So, anyway, our client is unhappy, and I know about it. I pal around with him and be a nice guy and let him bend my ear and I know this—and so does every other agent—you can’t keep a client if he doesn’t like you and thinks you’re falling down on the job. When his contract runs out he’s going to change, so it’s only a matter of time. Okay.”
He took a breath, put on his glasses, and said, “So I can see how it is and I go to the agent he’s got now and tell him he’s going to lose his client anyway so why not make a deal now. If I like the client and think he’s going to be a valuable property under my handling, I’ll make an offer for his contract and we make a deal and everybody’s happy. That’s one way of doing it,” he said.
“Another way is where a client is not working, and this can happen for any number of reasons. Maybe it’s his fault; maybe he’s a boozer or maybe he’s too te
mperamental or having woman trouble. He may be a name who’s done big things. Now nobody’ll touch him—and that happens, believe me. He can’t get work and everybody thinks he’s poison. Everybody but me, let’s say. Maybe I think I can straighten him out. Maybe I can handle him better than anybody else—or think I can. Anyway I have an idea I understand his trouble and I take a chance after we talk things over. Maybe I’ll pay a little something for his contract and maybe, if he’s pretty far down, I won’t have to.”
Murdock said he could understand that, but what about new people. “You must get some young talent.”
“Oh, sure. I stumble over it every day—to hear them talk. The trouble is the world is full of mediocrity. And it doesn’t pay off. You’ve got to have more than that, and it’s up to the agent to spot the real thing when he sees it. Some you audition you know fight off should be driving trucks or selling stockings; once in a lifetime you’ll get one you know has what it takes. But mostly it’s the in-between ones. A guy has some talent but he lacks the personality or the drive or the ambition to put him on top. Or maybe you think he has talent and all he needs is experience. So then you gamble. You take him on. You coach him and get him auditions and hold his hand and flatter him—or maybe he’s the kind you have to bawl hell out of—and give him ten bucks now and then for coffee and cakes or a pint of rye.”
He sat up, grunting with the effort and said, “Sheila was something like that. She had damn little talent but she had everything else—ambition, front, the determination to succeed, all the ruthless equipment she needed, and no inhibitions like morals or dignity or any concern whatever for the other guy. She hounded me, always with a script under her arm she wanted me to read. You know why I took her on?” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.
“Because it was easier than arguing with her,” Murdock said.
Bronson opened his eyes and then he grinned. “You knew her better than I thought. Hah,” he said, “she cost me more in time not being a client than she would if I was working for her. But I told her it would be twenty percent and told her why. I said if I was lucky I might sell a script now and then for a hundred and a half or two hundred, and ten percent on that wasn’t worth the effort—not even twenty percent—and that the only way she’d make any steady money was by working with a collaborator. I was right, too.”
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