Jade Venus

by George Harmon Coxe

  “No.”

  Murdock watched Damon. The vein in his forehead was still visible and now the face had an immobility that suggested that Damon was consciously holding it that way lest it disclose something he did not want it to disclose. Against Yates’s logic, his own replies did not make sense and knowing this his only defense was a flat plea of ignorance.

  “That’s very strange,” Yates said. He took off his thicklensed spectacles and cleaned them. “Very strange. You see, between the lines of the original letter another and much more important letter had been written—in invisible ink.”

  “How do you know? If you haven’t got the original?”

  “It is the only assumption possible in view of the content of the second letter. If you had received that letter, Mr. Damon, it would explain a great many things.”

  Yates put on his glasses. “You would have known, for instance, that the Andrada collection which arrived the other day would be coming along some time after you read the letter. You would have had time to install Arlene in the Andrada house. You would have had time to contact Erloff and Leo and have them standing by for any strong-arm work that might be necessary. You couldn’t know that Murdock would appear. Actually—”

  “What would be my idea?” Damon said. “Assuming that I got this secret letter. To steal the collection?”

  “To steal one picture in that collection. A picture called the Jade Venus.”

  Murdock lit a cigarette. He felt the same way Bacon looked—resentful, exasperated, and nasty. He was convinced, and so were Bacon and Yates, that Damon had received the letter and had done all the things Yates was now suggesting. Yet Damon sat there unperturbed and Yates had to play it as if it was all news to Damon.

  “I imagine that, knowing what the letter contained, you expected to make some sort of break or burglary as a means of getting the picture. Having Arlene in the house would simplify things, providing you could take care of Arlene afterward. But when she saw the telegram Murdock sent Andrada and you knew that Murdock was coming, you saw a much easier way of handling things. You knew which train Murdock was coming on, and your men got on that train in Providence, found out which passenger was Murdock, and followed him from the train. That is, this plan would have been easier if Andrada had not known what Murdock looked like.”

  “You must excuse me if I’m a little slow,” Damon said. “Not knowing what was in this letter, it’s a little hard for me to follow you. I read about the arrival of the collection in the Courier. I went to the house and Andrada showed me some of the things. Murdock came to me the night of the attack on Andrada and asked about a picture he called the Jade Venus and when it turned up in my gallery the next day I immediately phoned the police. That seems to be the extent of my knowledge. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  He pushed his chair back and picked up his gloves. Bacon glowered at him and Yates straightened his papers.

  “Tony Lorello delivered that letter—with its hidden message—to someone,” he said. “Otherwise he would not need a copy. Whoever got the letter hired the four people we had in here a little while ago. When they talk—”

  “And they will,” said Bacon.

  “—then we will know for sure. Apparently Lorello made the mistake of trying blackmail, or at least letting it be known that he had the copies. Naturally whoever had the originals had to put him out of the way.”

  “I see what you mean,” Damon said. “It’s too bad you can’t get Lorello’s story, isn’t it?”

  Bacon got up fast. He looked ugly and he started around the table intent, it seemed, on reaching Damon. Yates rose and got in his way. Damon picked up his hat and pushed back his chair. He did not seem to notice Bacon. He opened the door and put the hat on.

  “I’ll be interested to know how your theory works out, Yates,” he said, and went out.

  Bacon began to talk with profanity and vigor. He expressed his opinion of Damon and what he could do with him, given a locked room and no one to interfere. Yates ignored the outburst. He said:

  “You didn’t expect anything else this time, did you? We’re coming along. He knows we can convict Erloff, Leo, and Cassaldo. We’ve got him worried.”

  “Worried?” Bacon gulped air and closed his mouth. He looked at Yates almost pityingly. Yates was perhaps twenty-eight or -nine and Bacon was fifty and the difference in their experience was even vaster. “Worried,” Bacon said and now he was calm again, resigned. “For twenty years that guy has been beating the best we had. In this department and in your office. You go ahead and worry him, Yates. Worry the hell out of him.”

  Yates smiled at him and went out. Bacon looked at Murdock. “Well?” he said.

  Murdock stood up. He felt about the same way Bacon did. He did not know who had killed Andrada and Lorello and he did not know where the Jade Venus was. His only consolation came from his belief that Damon did not know where it was either.

  “By the way,” Bacon said. “What did you think of this guy Watrous’s story?”

  “Watrous?” Murdock said, puzzled by the digression. “What story?”

  “About him wanting to buy those three lousy pictures-including your Jade Venus—that came with the good stuff in the Andrada shipment? Offered a thousand dollars for them, didn’t he? Did it ever occur to you that he could have an interest in that picture?”

  “He offered to buy the other two when the Venus was stolen.”

  “He sort of had to offer to buy them then, didn’t he? If the story about wanting them for some show was going to stand up.”

  The idea had occurred to Murdock, though not recently. Now he did not know what to think so he said nothing.

  Bacon walked around the table. “Maybe I ought to check on Mr. Watrous a little more,” he said. “But anyway, it’s a break you’re not a newspaper man again. I don’t have to worry about you spilling anything. Once the press ties up these two murders—brother, will that make a stink.… And Gould. I got to talk to him. Lucky he’s on special stuff. He can put two and two together. He’s smart, but I think he’ll play ball. I think he’ll hold off if I promise to let him in on the finish—if any.”

  He opened the door and they started down the hall. “Don’t look so sour,” he said. “Hell, we’ve got four of Damon’s little helpers. That’s four less he’s got working for him. Pretty soon he’ll have to go it alone.”

  Murdock was staring straight ahead, the line of his mouth flat and hard. “That,” he said evenly, “is what I’m hoping.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  THREE COME CALLING

  KENT MURDOCK’S CAR had been stored for a year and a half, and he had telephoned the garage yesterday, asking them to take it off the blocks and get it in shape. It was ready for him when he finished with Lieutenant Bacon and he picked it up at the garage on his way to the hotel.

  It was seven o’clock before he got to his room and he showered immediately, had a drink sent up, and had the valet take some laundry out. He ate downstairs alone and shortly after nine he was back in his room with the late newspapers. When he saw that there was only a paragraph buried inside about the death of Tony Lorello, he put the papers aside and stretched out on the bed.

  Physically, he was tired. Mentally, he was exhausted. He had, he realized, been on the go from the moment he got off the train two nights ago and he had learned a lot of things and he had his own ideas about some of those things. Yet, in the way of concrete results, he had practically nothing that counted and he did not know what to do next.

  As far as any routine investigation went, Bacon and his cohorts could accomplish more than Murdock could and he knew it. There were still people to talk to—Gail Roberts, and Louise, and Roger Carroll. The point was he did not feel like talking just to pass the time away, and he did not feel like chasing around any longer without a definite destination in mind.

  He still did not know who had killed Andrada or Lorello. He did not know where the Jade Venus was. It was good to know that he had been right ab
out Bruno Andrada and George Damon, that he had figured correctly that far and that the idea which had brought him from Italy had been right. But that was no longer enough.… And what happened to Fenner? he thought indignantly.

  He considered trying to get the detective on the telephone and then, such was his frame of mind, he dismissed the impulse. To hell with it. I’m through chasing until I’ve got something to chase about. If anybody wants to talk to me, let him come here.

  He did not have to wait long, for he was still grousing at himself and things in general when the telephone rang. He got up and answered it.

  “Carl Watrous,” the voice said. “I’m downstairs. Doing anything?”

  Murdock said he wasn’t and to come on up.

  Carl Watrous came in with a folded newspaper in his hand. He took off his coat and hat and threw them on the bed and showed Murdock the piece about Tony Lorello.

  “I just saw that,” he said. “I thought I’d stop by and see if you knew anything about it.”

  “Somebody shot him last night around one-thirty or two.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Murdock hesitated. Watrous’s broad face was sober now; so were his pale-blue eyes. He wore a fresh white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his coat.

  “No,” Murdock said.

  “Funny, meeting him like that last night. I haven’t seen Tony in years. He was just a kid when he played at the 44 Club. He was only there a couple of months. Got so homesick he had to come back. His mother was alive then and the family lived in Lowell or Haverhill or some place like that.”

  He took the cigarette Murdock offered and fired it with his gold lighter. “He stopped in a couple of times after that—in the office, I mean. That’s when I was with Myer. But what the hell can you do for a guitar player? Unless he does classic stuff, unless he’s Gomez. And even that’s no bargain.”

  He stretched his legs and put his head back and stared at the ceiling. “It’s a tough racket, music. I know. Took lessons on the piano and I guess my mother was sorry she ever started it. When I was in short pants I was playing in traps for quarters and a piece of pie. I quit high school after two years. I wanted to go on the stage and went in amateur contests all over the place and if I was lucky I sometimes picked five bucks here and there. Carl Watrous, the boy actor. Brother, was I bad.”

  He chuckled and the sound was curiously soft for Watrous. He went on, unaware of Murdock now and talking to the ceiling.

  “When I was eighteen I had a band of my own. Five pieces, non-union. Strictly scab. You should have heard us. Then I played with a couple of bigger bands but I still liked the idea of the stage. I got a job as a spare comedian in a fourth-rate burlesque company. Made the circuit through New England and New York for a while but was still pretty bad so I started hanging around theaters and did errands for a producer and watched how a show was put together. Then I got this job with Myer and began to be a poor man’s talent scout.” He fell silent until the cigarette burned his finger.

  “But guitar players. You get with a band or in radio, maybe, playing with studio bands—if you’re good. That’s where the dough is if you like that sort of work. And if you can’t make that then you do what Tony was doing; you get a good trio. That way you can always work. There are a million spots like the Silver Door around the country these days and a million guys to play in them. It’s the same with any instrument. Take the piano. There are thousands of competent piano players and most of them’ll never be anything more. A few get good spots with top bands and if they can arrange they can get in the chips. Of course a guy like Art Tatum—”

  “You like him?” Murdock asked.

  “Like him? Hah.” Watrous grunted softly. “Now you’re talking about a piano player. Probably the greatest in the world in his line. Do you know his stuff?”

  Murdock nodded. He said he had a lot of Tatum records. He said he especially liked Tea for Two and Anything for You.

  “Two of his best for my dough,” Watrous said. “Some people say he plays too much piano. And sometimes he does. I think he righthands a lot of pieces to death but when he gets going with that big left—boy, then you’ve got something. A guy like that can make himself some money.”

  “And Teddy Wilson.”

  “One of the best. And there’s one more that belongs up there. A guy named Chittison. Herman Chittison. Plays up on Fifty-Sixth Street at a place called the Ruban Bleu—or some such name. Maybe he’s not quite so fast as Tatum or Wilson but I think he’s got more originality than Wilson and harmony—Lord God! I mean, he’s got five fingers on his right hand like everybody else but he uses them all and his left is solid and—”

  Watrous broke off as though suddenly aware that his enthusiasm for a good swing piano had taken the form of an enthusiastic lecture. He grinned. He said, “I kind of like a good piano.”

  Murdock knew what he meant. He felt the same way. Many a time he had sat for hours breathing stale smoke and carbon dioxide and drinking drinks he didn’t want just to listen to a piano player who had the feel for harmony and swing that he himself felt.

  “Yes,” he said. “I guess I’m that way too. I’d like to hear this Chittison. Has he made any records?”

  “A few. I’ll send you a couple. If you like Tatum and Wilson, you’ll like him. When he’s right you’ll feel the goose pimples start to grow all over.”

  He sighed, as though reluctant to drop the subject, and was silent. Murdock watched him and when Watrous spoke again, his tone had slipped back into thoughtfulness. “Even Tatum’s got a trio now. Or did have the last time I caught him in some spot on Fifty-Second Street. So has Chittison. It was the same with Tony. He was doing what he could and trying to make a buck and always trying to do a little better for himself.”

  He pushed out his lower jaw and rubbed under it. He put the jaw back and felt the second chin swelling there. “He was a good kid,” he said. “You think there could be any connection between that killing and Professor Andrada?”

  “I don’t know what the police think,” Murdock said.

  Watrous studied the end of his cigarette. Without moving his head, his glance slid obliquely to Murdock and stopped. “What you think is what interests me most.”

  Murdock smiled. “Why should it?”

  “Because I think you are a very smart operator. I thought so last night and I made a few inquiries today. They know you around this town. You used to handle the picture department for the Courier-Herald.”

  “So?”

  “So give out. Right now I’d rather have your opinion than Lieutenant Bacon’s. You had something on your mind when you came to town—before Bacon knew anything about it. You didn’t come just for the ride and since you’ve been here things have been happening. It almost looks like maybe I’m sort of a suspect or something.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Murdock said. “About the other, I could give you a guess.”

  “A guess would be fine.”

  “My guess is yes. There is a connection between the two. I think the same person did both jobs.”

  “Same gun?”

  “They don’t know yet.”

  “How about one more guess? Did Lorello’s death have anything to do with the picture you’re looking for? The Jade Venus?”

  “Lorello brought a letter back to this country from Italy. The letter told someone here what the Jade Venus is worth.”

  “What is it worth?” Watrous waited; then he grinned. “Okay, skip that one. Who got the letter?”

  “It was addressed to George Damon.”

  Watrous put out his cigarette. He passed his palm gently over his thinning brown hair. Murdock said:

  “I asked you last night if you’d seen Damon’s collection. You said no.… Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you say no?”

  “Because I hadn’t seen it.”

  “You were at his house the night Andrada was murdered.”

  A muscle hardened in Watr
ous’s jaw and one eyelid dipped. He hoisted himself in the chair and turned his body slowly to face Murdock.

  “Was I?”

  “Around eleven-thirty. I saw you come out.”

  Watrous eyed him steadily. “You get around,” he said. “Yes. Ahh—Damon has a Corot. I have one too but mine is one of the later Corots and not too good. I think I was taken when I bought that—not that it isn’t genuine. But I heard of this one Damon has. Done around 1850. Do you know Corot? No? Well, if you like landscapes and fluffy green-gray tones—” He let the sentence trail off.

  “I stopped in to see if Damon wanted to sell it. He didn’t. He didn’t offer to show his collection. I saw four or five things in the hall and along the stairs. That’s all.”

  “You weren’t there long then?”

  “No.” Watrous seemed about to say something more but didn’t. He watched Murdock and presently he said, “Why?”

  “I just wanted to get it straight,” Murdock said.

  Watrous was again silent. “Get back to the letter Tony brought. It was addressed to George Damon. Did Damon get it?”

  Murdock was still trying to reconcile the husky physical presence of this man with the things he had just heard. It did not seem in character that anyone so normally blunt and direct should talk about the impressionist, Corot, and fluffy green-gray landscapes. Especially it did not seem right that he should sound as if he meant what he said. And Watrous had sounded exactly that way.

  “He says not,” Murdock said.

  “Tony admit bringing the letter in?”

  Murdock shook his head, his eyes on the big man, watching the play of light and shadow across the rugged face, trying to see what went on behind the half-closed lids.

  “He didn’t admit it,” Watrous said, “but you know he had a letter.” He chewed on this awhile and then his eyes opened and his face relaxed. “I’m getting a little balled up,” he said. “I was never much good at puzzles. But it looks to me like you must have got ahold of that letter—or a copy.”