Fifth Key

by George Harmon Coxe

  Murdock crossed his ankles and found he needed a shine. “In case Harding can’t prove it was his show, in case he can’t prove to everyone’s satisfaction that Sheila stole the idea and stories from him, why, it would still be Sheila’s show, wouldn’t it? It would be your property now, wouldn’t it, Owen? If she didn’t leave a will and had no relatives?”

  Faulkner bunched his brows and considered this. After a few seconds he grunted and gestured emptily. “I suppose so. Yeah, I guess it would.”

  George Stark chewed on this a moment. He eyed Faulkner aslant, seemed to sense the implication Murdock had made; if so he was not pleased.

  “Look,” he said to Murdock, “if you came up here to work on this murder, forget it. We’ve got other troubles. I don’t give a damn who owns the show. What I want is some scripts and we can’t find any.”

  “He means the ones Sheila had written in advance,” Faulkner explained. “The first day Dale Jordan said Sheila was three scripts ahead but she couldn’t find any copies for us, either at Sheila’s place or at the office. We told her to keep looking and—”

  “And now,” Stark cut in, “we can’t even find her. We’ve tried everything and called every place.”

  Murdock put his cigarette out. He hauled one leg in and crossed his knee. “I thought Sheila delivered one advance script,” he said.

  “She did.” Faulkner waved his hand to indicate the pages scattered about. “We’ve been doing some rewriting.”

  “That’s for this coming Monday, isn’t it?” Murdock said. “You’re set for that show, anyway. Maybe by that time Keith Harding will show up and write the next one for you.”

  “Maybe he will and maybe he won’t,” Stark said. “And how do we know he’s any good? How do we know he can write it and keep it up to standard? And anyway, that’s working too close. We ought to have scripts well enough in advance so we can get them Mimeographed and okayed by the sponsor and our agency boys.”

  “I thought you could get writers,” Murdock said. “That’s what somebody told me. Didn’t you say—”

  “He said it, all right,” Faulkner said glumly.

  “Well”—Stark glanced about defensively—“I can. If I have to.”

  “It looks like you have to.” Faulkner’s eyes were growing stormy as his patience grew short. “So go ahead, George. You talked big enough; let’s see your writers if it’s going to be so goddam easy to get them.”

  “Go to hell,” said Stark and turned back to the window.

  Murdock was thinking of the things Dale Jordan had told him. The scripts and stories she had patched up so laboriously were in the hotel safe and he remembered now that there were notebooks with them.

  “Dale Jordan might have notebooks,” he said. “Did she take dictation?”

  He saw both men look at him and scowl.

  “Sure she took dictation,” they said.

  “Well, if she transcribed those advance scripts and has the notebooks, why couldn’t she type up new copies?”

  It took Faulkner another five seconds to register. His face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning, and Stark was right with him.

  “Christ, yes!” Stark said. “Why didn’t we think of it?”

  Faulkner was already reaching for the telephone. He grabbed it, stopped. He swore softly and slammed it down.

  “We don’t know where she is.”

  Murdock gave them a moment to recover; then he said, “I do.”

  “You do?” Faulkner swung round in his chair.

  “Well, where?” Stark demanded. “What’re we waiting for?”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” Murdock said. “Take it easy.”

  “Take it easy, hell,” Stark fumed.

  Faulkner, watching Murdock, read correctly the expression on the photographer’s face. He glanced impatiently at Stark.

  “Take it easy,” he said.

  Stark started to sputter, cut it short, and went back to the window. He sat on the sill and folded his arms, his bony face tight and eyes simmering.

  “She’s been hiding out,” Murdock said.

  “From what?” Faulkner wanted to know.

  “A couple of nights ago I took her home and we walked in on a guy with a gun.” He turned to Stark. “I told you about that.”

  Stark was suddenly interested and no longer outraged. He listened while Murdock gave a brief recital to Faulkner, and then explained that Dale Jordan telephoned her husband and was advised to get out of her apartment.

  “She had some notebooks,” Murdock said, making no reference to the other stories. “I could phone her for you and ask her if she’d want to type up those advance scripts for you. She could do it in Sheila’s office, I suppose. But it’s up to her,” he said. “If she doesn’t want to I still won’t tell you where she is.”

  “Aren’t you overplaying the melodrama?” Stark said.

  “If I am,” said Murdock grimly, “it’s because—”

  “Never mind,” Faulkner cut in. “Just call her and tell her how it is.”

  Murdock rose and clapped on his hat. “Who around here,” he asked, “can tell me about payroll deductions and things like that?”

  Faulkner looked at him as if he were crazy. He started to make some comment but something in Murdock’s steady gaze stopped him.

  “Milton Leahy,” he said.

  Murdock asked where he could find Leahy and when Faulkner told him he said, “Call him, will you? Tell him I’m going to stop in his office.”

  “Will you phone Dale Jordan first?”

  “I’ll go downstairs and call her from a pay station. Then I’ll come back and see Leahy.” Murdock walked to the door. “I wish you’d ask Leahy to co-operate. I want to get a little information.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Faulkner said.

  Murdock went out, the last glimpse of Faulkner and Stark suggesting that they thought he was crazy but not dangerously so. He went down in the elevator, walked to a cigar store, and called Dale Jordan.

  “Of course I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Just bring the notebooks,” Murdock said. “Leave the other stuff in the safe. I think it will be all right, but I’ll look in on you later.”

  Milton Leahy’s office was located on the twelfth floor, and when Murdock gave his name the secretary told him he could go right in, motioning him into the adjoining room which was presided over by a small, balding, and very neat little man who said, “Yes, Mr. Murdock. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to find out just how much the company withholds from employees in the way of tax and social security deductions and whatever else there is. Say on a weekly check of a hundred and fifty dollars and one of three-fifty.”

  Milton Leahy smiled condescendingly to indicate the elementary aspects of this layman’s question. He said it depended. It varied with circumstances and could not be answered until he had all the facts of the case.

  “For an example—” he began.

  “For example,” said Murdock, “let’s take Miss Vincent. Her earnings were in that bracket.”

  Leahy worried his lower lip and pinched both together. Murdock thought he was about to balk and mentally crossed his fingers and presently Leahy sat up and pressed a button.

  “You wish to know her net pay?”

  “I don’t have to have the exact figure.”

  “There would be no exact figure for all fifty-two weeks, because the social security tax is only deductible on the first—”

  Murdock smiled. He said he knew that. “Within a few dollars would be all right,” he said.

  Leahy spoke to the secretary who had entered. He said he would like the figures on Miss Vincent’s net pay for the last payroll period.

  “Sit down, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “I’ll have the figure for you shortly.” He busied himself with some papers on his desk and Murdock examined the room idly for three minutes and then the secretary came back with a slip of paper.

  Leahy thanked her. He
glanced at the figure, elevated his glance, and read it aloud. Murdock repeated it, his interest stirring, then mounting quickly as his mind groped into the past and came up with details he remembered. He was back in Sheila’s office in those few moments and it was the morning he had searched her desk.

  He saw again her checkbook and the figures she had written there. He could not be sure they were identical with the figure Leahy had just read to him, but it was close enough. Then he recalled what Ira Bronson had said and stood up, his excitement making it difficult to keep his voice casual.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks very much. You mailed her checks direct to her each week?”

  “She picked them up here,” Leahy said. “She called for them herself.”

  “And paid her agent by personal check.”

  “I assume so,” Leahy said, and went back to his papers.

  Murdock walked out, staring sightlessly ahead and walking automatically to the elevators. He was not conscious of his fellow passengers nor the ride down, so intent was he on his thoughts, and it was not until he was on the sidewalk that he remembered where he was. When he set off down the street his smile was fixed but genuine, reflecting accurately his state of mind.

  Bronson and his twenty percent, he thought. Phuie!

  20

  THE VENETIAN BLINDS in Sheila’s office windows were slanted upward and from the street nothing was visible except the dim glow beyond and a threadline crack at the bottom, where light from the room escaped. Diagonally across the darkened street, in an areaway corner, Kent Murdock shifted his weight from one foot to the other and lit his tenth cigarette, shielding his match as best he could and glancing at his watch before it went out.

  He had come at eight o’clock, when night claimed the street, and now at nine-twenty, he began to wonder whether this self-imposed vigil was not a lot of nonsense. No one, including Dale Jordan, knew he was out here as yet and that was the way he wanted it until she finished her work and was ready to leave.

  What made him come at all was the responsibility he felt for the girl’s safety. For until she agreed to come here and type those scripts for Faulkner she had been safe at her hotel and it had been his own fault that she was now up there working.

  At the moment he still had no definite proof as to the murderer’s identity. He did not know whether the stories the girl had saved from Sheila’s wastebasket had any connection with the murder or not; what he did know was that they were sufficiently important to someone to warrant the entering of Dale Jordan’s apartment with a gun.

  Approaching footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he drew farther back in his corner while a man and a woman walked by and turned the corner. He glanced round the edge of the steps and saw a man coming slowly along with a dog on a leash. Presently they drew abreast but the dog, a Scottie, was more interested in curb smells than anything else and Murdock remained in the deep shadow unnoticed.

  He stretched and glanced up at the office window, his mind returning to Dale Jordan. He knew she was not alone now. Ten minutes earlier a taxi had stopped opposite the doorway leading to the upper floors and Owen Faulkner and George Stark had alighted and hurried inside. They were still there and Murdock reminded himself again that nothing could happen to the girl so long as the men were together.

  If anyone entered that building alone—Ira Bronson, for instance—Murdock intended to go up and join the party. Now in spite of his efforts to reassure himself he began to worry about the present callers. Why didn’t they get out of there? What were they doing?

  He saw a foursome round the corner and start down the street, the women in evening dress and the men in black coats and dinner jackets. They were hurrying and one woman was complaining and her escort was arguing.

  “It was your idea, wasn’t it?” he said. “We were doing all right at the other place.”

  “I didn’t like the crowd.”

  “We’ll be lucky if we get a table at this place,” the man said, “or even a taxi.”

  They went on, still arguing, and a minute or so later Murdock heard some sound across the street and glanced over just as Faulkner and Stark came out of the entrance next to the fur store. Standing a moment on the sidewalk they discussed something that Murdock could not make out and then separated, Stark striding toward Fifth and Faulkner hurrying toward Madison.

  Murdock felt better. He still felt a little silly, but his anxiety was less apparent until another twenty minutes ticked by and he found himself thinking about Lieutenant Devlin and wishing he could stop. In the end his common sense won out and he had to admit that if Dale Jordan was in any potential danger the thing that counted most was her safety and that was Devlin’s province. Not just any cop who would need a lot of things explained to him, but Devlin. And with this decided he left his hiding place and walked two fast blocks to a drugstore and put in his call.

  When he could not locate the lieutenant he got the desk operator to take a message and made him repeat it. He gave his name and the address of Sheila’s office and said Devlin was to come there when he could.

  Walking back he wondered just what he was going to tell Devlin when he did come but he did not wonder long; for when he moved back in his areaway it occurred to him that he had been gone more than five minutes and that even now someone might be upstairs with Dale.

  His imagination picked up the thought and garnished it with numerous possibilities, all of them grim. Minute by minute this mental pressure moved in on him and, no longer able to stand still, he was about to leave his hiding-place and cross the street when he saw a man turn the corner and start along the building fronts.

  Murdock flattened himself against the stone wall, his gaze intent as the man, walking fast and keeping well to the inside of the walk, approached the doorway. There was something about the size and general make-up of the figure that was readily familiar, and when he stopped to glance up and down the street Murdock knew that the police had not yet picked up Ira Bronson.

  When, a moment later, the man disappeared in the doorway, Murdock stepped out and crossed the street, knowing it was time he moved in and had a look at things.

  Light glowed cheerfully through the frosted-glass panel in the office door, and Murdock did not bother to knock but opened it and stepped into the vestibule. He could see Bronson then, and heard the clack-clack of the typewriter stop, and only then did he realize that he was breathing hard.

  Dale Jordan craned her neck so she could see who had come in without leaving her desk. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Come in.”

  Bronson looked somewhat less pleased. He was sitting near the desk, his Oxford-gray coat still buttoned, his black Homburg on his knee. Behind the rimless glasses his brown eyes looked dark and impatient, and he had, at the moment, nothing to say.

  “Looking after your client’s interest?” Murdock said.

  “I decided I’d better phone him and tell him what I was doing,” Dale said.

  “Did you tell him about the rest of the stuff you’ve got?”

  “The scripts and stories? Oh, yes, he knows.”

  Bronson’s gaze shifted from one to the other but he did not speak until Murdock said, “What do you make of it?”

  “Make of what?”

  “Why anyone should want them.”

  “Who knows?”

  Murdock moved closer to the desk. “Been out of town today?”

  “Philadelphia,” Bronson said. “On business.”

  “According to Devlin you didn’t leave word with your secretary.”

  Bronson crossed his knees and looked bored. “Is it required that I account for my time to a detective?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Murdock said. “They picked up one of your hoods this morning. The tall one. Harry.” He paused but was unable because of the angle of the light, to see if his words had any effect. “I don’t know if they’ve got Nick yet, but I guess it doesn’t matter. Devlin said he’d know about you either tonight or tomorrow morning. He got your prints
from one of glasses on that desk set of yours and notified San Francisco.”

  This time Murdock was really on the target. The black Homburg fell to the floor. Bronson turned, and the light was on him now and the skin on his round face was no longer florid but pale and taut.

  “What did you say?”

  Murdock repeated his statement. The typewriter was still and so was Dale Jordan. Bronson reached for his hat, groping a little because his eyes never left Murdock’s face. Finally he found his voice again and said, “Why should he do that?”

  “Because we think you’re Myron Wortman, a shyster who jumped bail on the Coast five years ago. Look,” Murdock said and pulled up a chair. “It’s getting awfully late, Bronson. Let’s get a few things straight now.”

  He took a breath and said, “You didn’t come here from Chicago—except possibly en route from San Francisco. You were Sheila’s agent, I guess, but you didn’t pick up her checks at Universal and she didn’t pay you any twenty percent. You worked for free and you didn’t dare quit because you knew she’d turn you in to the police and back you’d go to the Coast.”

  Bronson made one more attempt at bluster. He set his jaw and his voice was strident. “If you’re trying to say I killed Sheila—”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m saying,” Murdock cut in, “and when I finish you can say what you want to say—if you want to. Somehow, and I won’t even attempt to guess how—Sheila got suspicious of you and put Rudy Nagle on your trail. I saw the report Rudy made on you so I know he got the goods.”

  “You stole it from Sheila’s desk that morning I surprised you here,” Bronson said, his voice no more than a whisper.

  “And you guessed right and hired a couple of thugs named Nick and Harry, and they were waiting for me that night when I went to my room. They didn’t get the report then because it was in the hotel safe, and there must have been another copy at Nagle’s office so they broke in there the next afternoon and had already lifted it when I walked in on them. That time they got my copy, but by then it didn’t matter, did it?”

  There was no longer any suggestion of hardness in Branson’s face. It was still pale, but puffy now, the eyes dull and hopeless. He seemed also to have withered inside his coat and when he sighed you could hear it all over the room.