Fifth Key

by George Harmon Coxe

  “That’s very good of you,” Stark said sarcastically. “What were we drinking, anyway?” he said when a waiter drew near. He gave the order and said, “I assume it’s all right to smoke.”

  Devlin took it, his square face slightly flushed but otherwise unchanged and looking very unlike a detective with his brown suit and regimental-striped tie.

  He waited until the drinks were served, and then, before he could get started, Stark said, “Look. Maybe you’ve got something to say to Murdock and Faulkner and me but it certainly isn’t necessary that my wife and Miss Edwards stay.”

  “I disagree,” Devlin said.

  “Oh, what difference does it make?” Miriam said. “As a matter of fact, I think I’d like to stay. Wouldn’t you, Lois?”

  Lois Edwards made no reply. She was watching Owen Faulkner covertly and she looked scared.

  “The point is,” Devlin said, “I’ve got five of you here and every single one of you had a very nice motive for killing Miss Vincent.”

  “Nuts,” Stark said.

  “Furthermore,” Devlin said, as though he had not heard, “it’s been two days—nearly three—since the murder, and the inspector seems to think I’ve wasted enough time. You want to hear the motives or will you take my word for it?”

  “I want to hear them,” Stark said.

  “Okay, let’s start with you.” Devlin’s voice took on added crispness. “You were in love with Sheila Vincent—or thought you were,” he said, as though stating an unassailable fact. “Your wife found out about it and went to Reno. Then Miss Vincent gave you the brush.”

  Stark’s thin face flushed. He seemed about to protest, decided not to, and kept his glance away from Miriam. “She used you, didn’t she?” Devlin said. “On this radio show. She used you.”

  “All right, she used me.”

  “She was in love with you—or let you think she was—until you got a sponsor and the program was in the bag. Until you were out on a limb and couldn’t renege without admitting to the sponsor that you had been sold a bill of goods.”

  “I had no intention of reneging,” Stark said coldly. “It was a good show. It is a good show.”

  “But she threw you over when she had what she wanted.”

  “I admit it. Everyone knows it. What about it?”

  “It makes a nice motive,” Devlin said calmly. “You couldn’t call it jealousy—not then. But we could call it hate, or revenge. Or maybe you can put a word to it,” he added. “You’re in the advertising business.”

  He turned in his chair, and Miriam Stark stared back at him. “We can take you next,” he said. “You had the same sort of motive, though with you, and under the circumstances, I think jealousy might be the word. You’d lost your husband and—”

  “Just a minute.” Stark put his hand on Devlin’s arm and his eyes were nasty. “If you think you can—”

  “Please, George,” Miriam said. “Go on, Lieutenant.”

  “I was going to say that you changed your mind in Reno, that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You decided not to get the divorce. You decided you wanted to keep your husband.”

  “I decided I wasn’t going to let anyone like Sheila have him.”

  “Exactly. But you didn’t come back when you said you did. You came back a day early and you were in New York the night Miss Vincent was killed. And why should you make a play like that if—”

  “Wait a minute.” Stark leaned forward, his brows askew. “What was that about Miriam being here?”

  Devlin repeated what he had said.

  “That’s a lie,” said Stark.

  “Is it?” Devlin said, still watching the woman.

  “No.” Miriam took some of her drink and put her glass down. “It’s no lie, George. It’s just as he says.”

  It took Stark a while to understand and somewhat longer to accept what his wife had said. His facial muscles worked and set themselves; he fiddled nervously with his mustache and watched his wife drink again and toy with her glass.

  “Could I have a cigarette somebody, please?” she asked.

  Murdock gave her one and held a light.

  Stark finally said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “You can believe it or not,” Devlin replied. “I can prove it. Miss Edwards?” he said, indicating that it was now her turn.

  Lois Edwards looked right back at him. “You needn’t go into detail on my account. I had a motive and I admit it. I hated Sheila Vincent. She used Owen for her own selfish purposes and made promises she had no intention of ever fulfilling.”

  “Like giving him a divorce.”

  “Yes.”

  Devlin put his elbow on the table, leaned a corner of his jaw in his closed fist, and examined Owen Faulkner. “I’m going to skip you for a minute,” he said and fastened his shrewd gaze on Murdock.

  “You want to talk here or down at headquarters?”

  “Here,” Murdock said. “Whenever you’re ready. What’s my motive?”

  “You know as well as I do.”

  “But you can’t figure premeditation.”

  “Not like the others, no. You had this kind of a motive—a man and a woman have been drinking, having a party. Things get a little out of control. She plays up one way or another and tells him things, or lets him believe what he wants to believe, and they do some more drinking after they get home and then the woman decides she doesn’t want to play any more. Maybe the guy gets mean or maybe it’s her fault because she’d been drinking. He reaches for her, and she slaps him or fights back. Very often,” he said, “the woman gets choked or beaten to death.”

  Murdock’s grin was fixed and mirthless. “Sheila wasn’t marked up—so you said. Neither was I.”

  What may have been a glimmer of respect showed briefly in Devlin’s eyes and was gone. “I wondered if you’d think of that,” he said. “Still a motive could be made to fit.”

  “But it isn’t as good.”

  “No. But I’ve got something else. You didn’t go back to your hotel that night at one-thirty—or anything like that time.”

  Murdock waited. Here it comes, he thought. He didn’t know why or how Devlin knew, but something in the detective’s manner told him that in one way or another Devlin had evidence to substantiate his statement.

  “Who says so? What bellboy or clerk or what-have-you?”

  “The chemist says so,” Devlin said. “You had a drink with Sheila Vincent. The glasses were still there, with water from the melted ice. And in the bottom of each glass was a touch of sediment, a bit of deposit. I had it analyzed. It was chloral hydrate.”

  He paused, and no one said anything. Over at the bar someone upset a glass and a girl giggled. At a near-by table a man was arguing quietly with his companion.

  “The p.m. on Miss Vincent showed chloral hydrate. Enough to prove that she was killed while the drug was still effective and had not been assimilated by her system. She was unconscious when she died—like I suspected. If she was unconscious, so were you, my friend. If you got out of that apartment before daylight you were lucky.”

  Murdock felt the eyes of the others upon him. One of the women made some murmur of concern, though he did not know which one. And it amazed him a little that he felt no great consternation now that he was caught. Instead an odd sort of relief began to permeate his mind and only when he became aware of this did he realize how great was the strain he had been under the past two days. So, knowing it was silly to argue longer or try to bluff, he reached into his pocket and took out the photograph Rudy Nagle had given him. He gave it to Devlin.

  He said, “Maybe that will give you an idea why I couldn’t admit it until I had to.”

  Devlin glanced at it, scowled, then looked up, eyes wide open. He did not show the print to anyone else but put it quickly away. “I see what you mean.”

  “You notice it was taken while she was alive.”

  Devlin seemed unaware of the others now. He nodded and his gaze was remote.
“Any idea why?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve got an idea who.”

  “So have you, I think.”

  Miriam Stark coughed softly and cleared her throat. “What does one have to do here to get another drink? That is, if you have no objection, Lieutenant.”

  Devlin did not bother to look at her. He was, it seemed, adding many things up in his mind and he continued to work at it until the five fresh drinks were served. Still watching Murdock he said, “We got an anonymous tip on a petty-larceny private-eye tonight. Name of Rudy Nagle. Did you call in?”

  “Yes,” Murdock said. “From a pay station.”

  “Well.” Devlin made a display of his surprise. He grinned. He dry-washed his hands and leaned back in his chair. “That’s the first straight answer I’ve got from you since they assigned me to this case. Things are looking up, huh? Are you ready to take a plea?”

  Murdock knew it was just something to say and he waited for Devlin to settle down again. It took perhaps five seconds. “That’s the second accessory rap I can tag you with.”

  “I didn’t have to call at all,” Murdock said. “I knew if I stayed we’d be busy quite a while and I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to—” His glance touched Owen Faulkner and he pulled it back. He thought Devlin noticed this and he said, “I had a date to buy back that picture and I walked in on the killer in the dark. There’s a slug in the doorframe.”

  “We saw it.”

  “It was meant for me,” Murdock said. “Nagle was dead when I went back and turned on the light.”

  Devlin thought it over. He inspected the others casually, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.

  “Maybe we’re boring these people,” he said to Murdock. “You still have a lot of talking to do but it can wait. Your wife didn’t have any relatives, did she, Mr. Faulkner?” he asked presently.

  Owen Faulkner seemed momentarily startled at the digression. His hand moved as though about to rumple his sandy hair but he checked himself and reached for his glass. “Not that I know of,” he said.

  “She didn’t leave any will, either. She had a couple of insurance policies and some bonds and a little money in the bank. I guess you’ll get them.”

  “Look,” Faulkner said. “I didn’t kill her. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You know plenty about it,” Devlin said.

  “I don’t care if she left me a million,” Faulkner went on as though he had not heard.

  “I understand she owned this show of yours, Sob Sister. She had the story rights or whatever you call them. So now you’ll own that, too, won’t you, and collect on any royalties that come in?”

  Faulkner forgot where he was and rumpled his hair. He looked harried and miserable. He said he didn’t know. He hadn’t thought about it. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But if we don’t get some scripts pretty soon it won’t make any difference. Wait a minute!” he said abruptly. “What’s the matter with me? No, I won’t get Sob Sister. Sheila didn’t even own it, according to Dale Jordan.”

  He went on fast, his voice incisive now and a gleam in his eyes. He explained the story Dale Jordan had told him about her husband and her assertion that she could prove Sheila Vincent never really owned the show.

  Devlin listened. He considered the others from time to time and when Faulkner finished he said, “But you thought Miss Vincent owned the show, all of you. You didn’t know about this plagiarism business until she was dead.”

  He had more to say, and Murdock sat listening and wondering how Devlin could get so much information in such a short time. Faulkner’s jaw got tighter and tighter, his cheekbones whiter; finally he stopped talking and sat sullenly until the detective had finished.

  “Okay,” Devlin said. “I just wanted to show how you stand.” He paused, then spoke abruptly to George Stark. “You have a key to Miss Vincent’s apartment,” he said. “I’ll take it, if you don’t mind.”

  Stark stared, his jaw sagging. His hand started for his pocket, stopped; then, as though realizing the movement had given him away, he went through with it. Devlin took the key, examined it, and said thanks.

  “I’m sorry I had to do it this way,” he said and then turned to Miriam. “I figured you already knew, anyway.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with studied disinterest. “I knew.”

  “There were five,” Devlin said. “This one and Miss Jordan’s and the maid’s; one we found on a chain in Miss Vincent’s bag. There’s one more,” he said and then it was in his hand, the one with the V filed in the top that Murdock had left in Nagle’s pocket. “This one,” Devlin said.

  The girl at the bar giggled again, and a man laughed with her. From the inner room there came faintly the sound of the trio and the man at the near-by table seemed to be making progress in his argument.

  “According to Miss Jordan,” the detective went on, “Miss Vincent was careless about keys. She was always misplacing them. It would be a simple matter for anyone to pick up one or get it from her bag. She wouldn’t be likely to remember about it. But this one had a V on it. She told Miss Jordan she lost it a few days back—the afternoon that she had lunch with you, Mr. Faulkner.”

  Owen’s face was still stiff, but Murdock noticed that Lois Edwards had slipped her hand into his beneath the table.

  “You gave it to Rudy Nagle,” Devlin said. “You had a little job for him. I found out he worked for Miss Vincent once and maybe that’s how you got in touch with him. Anyway, you told him what you wanted and you gave him this.”

  Devlin produced Faulkner’s check for a hundred dollars, displayed it, and returned it to his pocket.

  “We found the key and the check on Nagle. Somebody shot him in the middle of the forehead about a quarter of nine tonight, though the time is only a guess. Nagle gave Murdock a picture. He wasn’t satisfied with your hundred. He was willing to sell the negatives. I guess you know what the picture is, don’t you? The kind that would have given you an uncontested divorce without a squawk from Miss Vincent.”

  “You’re saying I framed Murdock,” Faulkner said, “but you’re not getting anywhere on the murder. If you had any proof that was worth a damn you wouldn’t be wasting your time talking to me here; you’d be talking to me in a cell—or one of your back rooms downtown.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” Lois Edwards’s voice was caustic and a note of strain ran through it that Murdock had never heard before. “Why don’t we all just go down to police headquarters and get it over with? Wouldn’t that be simpler?”

  Devlin was patient with her, but a little too elaborate. “It’s a thing we have to put up with, Miss Edwards,” he said. “It’s not exactly democratic practice but unfortunately it’s true. People who have money and clean records like yourselves can get good lawyers. You make a good impression before a grand jury. We have to be a little careful. It won’t help you any in the end, given a little more evidence, but it does give you certain privileges now.”

  George Stark had his confidence back. He was the smooth, articulate account executive of Gray & Rankin once more. “That’s too bad,” he said. “It rather complicates matters, doesn’t it?”

  Devlin understood sarcasm when he heard it but he was a good man and he gave no indication that he recognized it now. “For the moment, Mr. Stark.”

  “You have five suspects,” Stark said, “all with motives and, according to you, opportunities.”

  “I have seven suspects.”

  “Oh?” Stark said.

  “I had them until a little while ago and now it looks like I’ll have to settle for six. Number six is an agent named Bronson. I guess you know him. Number seven is Arthur Calvert.”

  “Calvert?” Miriam said. “Nonsense.”

  “What motive could he have?” Stark asked.

  “Same as you. Miss Vincent gave him the bounce for you, didn’t she?”

  “But that was different,” Lois Edwards said. “She helped Arthur, too.”

  “I’m not arg
uing.” Devlin cut a slice of air with the edge of his hand. “I said I crossed him off. He’s in the hospital.”

  Murdock put his glass down, and somewhere in his chest a nerve jumped and began to tighten. He stifled the question that came to his lips and waited, knowing somehow that this was an announcement that Devlin had been waiting to make.

  “What happened?” Stark said when the lieutenant did not continue. “Did someone try to—”

  “It looks like someone did,” Devlin said. “He was unconscious when the ambulance got there.”

  “Got where?” Murdock said.

  “To his room. He’d been drinking whisky that was loaded with some drug.” He gave Murdock a slant-eyed glance. “Probably the same drug that knocked you out. Only Calvert had more of it in him.”

  “And you think the killer planned to come in later,” Stark said, “like he did with Sheila?”

  “Maybe,” Devlin said. “Could be he didn’t need to come back. The trouble is we’ll never know now. Calvert might have died with just the drug alone. Luckily he had a phone call and the landlady went up to get him and she couldn’t get any answer. She knew he was in so she opened the door and found him. We figure that wasn’t too long after he passed out. They got him to the emergency hospital and pumped him out. They say he’s going to be all right tomorrow.”

  “Then—” Faulkner swallowed before he continued “—then he must know who killed Sheila—And Nagle—if the same one did both.”

  “Maybe he knows, maybe not. The point is the killer thinks Calvert knows, or has some evidence. It could be something that Calvert isn’t even aware of yet.” Devlin kept his narrowed gaze on Faulkner, continued quietly but with deliberate accents.

  “Murdock was framed by Rudy Nagle. Nagle took the doped whisky away with him afterward. Maybe it was at his office. Or maybe he only had the drug there. Someone shot him tonight and knew he had still another job to do and took the stuff away with him. Calvert’s a bit of a lush, isn’t he?”

  “He used to be,” Stark said. “He takes a couple now and then but he’s all right.”

  “But he takes a couple,” Devlin said. “And the killer would know that. So he goes to Calvert’s place and plants the liquor—if it happened to be the brand Calvert used—or fixes the contents of a bottle that’s there.”