Eye Witness

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘I also forgot my coat’, Murdock said.

  ‘And you haven’t been back?’ She motioned to the davenport, settling in the opposite corner and tucking one leg under her.

  ‘I started to and changed my mind.’ He studied her a moment. ‘You didn’t see him last night, did you?’

  ‘Me?’ Heavens, no!’ She spoke emphatically, then paused. She traced with her finger the pattern of the cloth which stretched across her knee and a frown began to spoil the smoothness of her forehead. ‘But I know he came here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After I telephoned him and before he came to see you. I guess it was while Murray and I were having dinner.’

  Murdock said: ‘Oh?’ questioningly and waited.

  ‘He hasn’t lived here for more than a year’, she said, still working on the dress, ‘but he keeps some of his things here. He only has a couple of hotel rooms and there’s not much storage space so I said he could leave some of his things here—like winter coats in summer and summer things in winter. Naturally he hasn’t any key but the janitor knows him and last night he let Lee in. He made it a point to tell me when I came back—the janitor, I mean—and I said that was all right. I thought it was until I went to bed. Then I could see that someone had been in my dresser drawers.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I’m not sure what he wanted but what he took was a brooch of mine that was my mother’s.’

  She went on, but Murdock was no longer paying much attention. He was aware that she was explaining that the brooch was not terribly valuable—it had probably not cost more than five or six hundred dollars—but he could not be sure of the details. Instead his mind went immediately to the bracelet which had been left behind the mirror in room 617. He remembered how the man, Harry, had come for it, his words, his actions; he recalled how Harry had walked through the lobby of the State Hotel the night before after he, Murdock, had registered.

  He remembered the things Simon Rigby had said about Farnsley’s indebtedness to one Joe Apollo, and how Farnsley had later corroborated in part this information. He speculated briefly on the importance of these facts and wondered if there could be any connection between the two pieces of jewellery; then he thrust the subject from his mind and forced himself to concentrate on other things even though it seemed clear now that Lee Farnsley had taken the brooch in order to get sufficient money to placate Joe Apollo. For all this was none of Murdock’s concern. He had come here with one idea in mind and the answer to this was all-important. He had to know who beside this girl knew that Lee Farnsley was occupying Room 617 last night, and though he had no enthusiasm for the job in this case, he could no longer duck it.

  ‘Did Murray Leonard know where Lee was?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘How did he know?’

  ‘I ’phoned him after you called me.’

  Murdock rolled a cigarette between his fingers, his angular face grave, a new narrowness veiling the disturbed darkness of his eyes. Somehow he felt no elation at the discovery; somehow he had expected some such answer.

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at him, then, brows climbing, her halfsmile curious. ‘We had dinner last night after I ’phoned Lee about the divorce. I told Murray what happened and what Lee threatened to do, and he said he’d like to talk to Lee. You know’—she waved one hand—‘sort of man to man.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told Murray he’d only be wasting his time, but he thinks there’s a lot of bluff in Lee and he had the idea that if he talked to him he could make Lee listen to reason.… Why?’ she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice as Murdock hesitated. ‘Is something wrong? Did something happen last night?’

  Murdock let his breath out slowly. He could not meet her glance now, but he had his say. ‘Lee was murdered last night. Someone who knew where he was walked in on him.…’ He went on quickly before she could interrupt, telling what he knew and what he had done.

  She was staring at him when he finished, her face white with shock and her mouth stiff. In those first seconds her reactions seemed normal and right. She said: ‘How horrible’, thinking of her husband and then, because there had been nothing left between them, her concern was for Murdock, who was her friend.

  ‘But they’ll think you did it’, she said, her eyes still shocked.

  ‘Sure’, Murdock said. ‘What else can they think? It’s my room and Lee is dead there and I’m missing. The fellow in the next room can tell them all about the argument.’

  She was still watching him and now, for the first time, her mind seemed to move on past the surface meaning of Murdock’s announcement and consider the implications of his other questions. Already the uncertainty was growing in her widened eyes and it was hard to watch her features crumble about them. He waited, and now her lower lip began to quiver, and suddenly she hunched over on the davenport, leaning towards him so she could put her hand on his arm.

  ‘But you don’t think Murray went there last night’, she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t do that, Kent.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Not after I told him what happened with you. I explained how you had to get out. I warned him that Lee was in a vile mood. I only called him because he said at dinner that he’d try to find Lee.’

  She caught her breath and now her fist pounded on his arm as an accent to those words which tried so desperately to convince. ‘I remember I said, “It’s a good thing you didn’t find Lee to-night with him in that kind of mood.” And Murray said, “I guess you’re right.”’ She fastened her fingers on his arm, the strength of her grip surprising him. ‘He didn’t do it, Kent. He couldn’t. You’ve got to believe me.’

  Murdock said he believed her. He stood up, having no stomach for further discussion. He had hurt her enough already, and because he hated himself for what he’d had to do he would have left then if she had not jumped up and blocked his path.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ She grabbed his lapels, her voice ragged.

  ‘Nothing yet.’ He put his hands on hers. ‘But I have to find out who might have known Lee was in that room. I want to see his girl friend, that Emerson girl. I want to see Simon Rigby.’ He shook her gently.

  ‘Stop worrying about Murray, baby. Worry about me. I’m the guy the cops want. I’m the guy they’ll settle for, too, unless I can work out an alibi and show them there were others who might have called on Lee.… What’s the Emerson girl’s address?’

  She mentioned a street and number, her tone hollow, the look in her hazel eyes vacant as she followed him to the door. He squeezed her hand hard as he felt behind him for the knob and then he turned and went out quickly.

  Chapter Six

  THE neighbourhood where Claire Emerson lived was on the fringe of the business district, a street of narrow-front brick houses that looked as if they had been constructed from the same set of blueprints. Flat-topped and flaunting wooden steps and covered entry-ways, they differed from each other only in the colour of their trim and their state of repair as they marched along in an unbroken block-length row. Apparently designed for single occupancy, they had long since been remodelled into rooming houses and small apartments, and the number Murdock sought, a buff-trimmed house, had been made into three suites.

  Claire Emerson occupied the top floor, and when she opened the door in response to his knock there was not the slightest recognition in her glance. Considering this, her reaction—she took one quick look at his bearddarkened jaws and tried to shut him out—was not surprising.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ he said, putting his weight on the panel. ‘You walked in on me yesterday afternoon at the Greene Hotel. Room 617, remember?’

  She looked at him then, her blue eyes examining him suspiciously. He could not tell whether she remembered him or not, but she stopped trying to close the door.

  ‘You were looking for Harry’, he said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She hesitated, yielding no ground, her expression still w
ary. ‘Well, what do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Lee Farnsley.’

  ‘Why?’

  Murdock had not planned it this way. She had seemed so friendly yesterday that he had hoped he might kid around a bit and perhaps get some information before he had to tell her why he had come. The crack in the door was wide enough to show him that she was not fully dressed, and he knew that under the circumstances she would be unlikely to admit him, even if she had been friendly.

  ‘Because someone beat him to death last night’, he said bluntly, ‘and I want to talk to you before the cops do.’

  That got him in. The effect of his announcement was like a physical blow. She took a backward step, a half-staggering movement, forgetting about the door as she caught her breath. One hand fluttered to her throat. The other clutched the light-blue wrapper that covered her nightgown, and her mouth worked silently.

  ‘Last night?’ she stammered finally.

  Murdock went in and closed the door, watching her closely, wondering if there was something beside shock in her gaze. He touched her arm and led her to a chair. He glanced about the cheaply furnished room, noting the mussed daybed, the portable radio, the flowered slip-covers, badly fitting and in need of a cleaning. When his glance came back to her she was watching him, her face white and shiny without its customary make-up.

  ‘Why should the police come here?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘You saw him last night, didn’t you?’

  Her ‘No!’ came quickly, as though she expected the question and had her denial ready.

  ‘But he ’phoned you.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ She broke off sharply and he watched her features stiffen as suspicion again replaced the enigmatic expression he had noticed. ‘Who are you?’

  Murdock’s idea of the telephone had been no more than a shot in the dark, fired at random and based on wishful thinking in his quest for more information. Now, encouraged by his discovery and stimulated by its implications, he took out his wallet and showed her his press card, knowing it explained nothing, really, but hoping she would not realize this. He spoke hurriedly, telling her how he had known Farnsley. He gave his explanation of what he thought had happened, and as he spoke he recalled his earlier impressions of this girl.

  Pretty but dumb, Rigby had said. He himself had thought her self-assured, ingenuous, with a flashy surface hardness unusual in one so young. Now, noting the rounded figure, not all of which was contained in the nightgown and wrapper, and remembering her job at the Club Ebony and the associations such work demanded, he wondered if she was as ingenuous as she had seemed. Traces of shock still lingered in the corners of her eyes but there was another force working there, too, the reflection of which seemed both crafty and disturbed.

  ‘So he telephoned you’, he said, pressing his advantage and hoping for the best. ‘What time?’

  ‘About half-past ten.’

  Murdock remembered that he had left Farnsley around ten-twenty. He said: ‘Why? I thought you’d had a fight?’

  ‘We did but he said he had to talk to me. He said his wife was getting a divorce and he had to see me right away.’

  Murdock thought: That much is true anyway, and now the excitement was rising in him because something told him that the odds were finally beginning to break in his favour.

  ‘You went over there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See anyone you knew in the lobby?’

  ‘Not when I went in.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Her clenched hands made a deep pocket in the fabric between her thighs, and her feet, bare except for tattered mules, were squarely planted on the floor. ‘I didn’t think about the room number until I knocked. Then I remembered Harry had that room——’

  ‘Harry who?’

  ‘Harry Usher, my agent.’

  ‘Go on’, said Murdock, filing away the name for future use.

  ‘I remembered you were there that afternoon. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knocked anyway.’

  ‘Then Lee let you in.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head violently, her blonde hair whipping across her cheeks, her eyes suddenly evasive. ‘I knocked three times and——’

  ‘Cut it out!’ Murdock’s tone was curt and incisive. ‘He called you at ten-thirty. You went right over. I didn’t leave there until ten-twenty. Don’t tell me Lee was killed in a fight during that time. Don’t tell me he was too drunk to open the door. You knocked and you went in, and you can tell me what happened then or I’ll ’phone the police and you can tell them.’

  He was driving his words at her now. The things he said made sense and her defences crumpled because she was not ready then to summon the proper arguments to combat his accusations. She might have done so had she been telling the truth, but as it happened she was guilty as charged. When he made as if to rise and carry out his threat she put out one hand.

  ‘Wait’, she said, and now she leaned back, her shoulders sagging and no longer concerned with the effort of holding her wrapper closed. ‘All right’, she said. ‘He did open the door.… But I wasn’t there more than three or four minutes’, she added quickly. ‘He told me about the divorce and said he was going to fight it and I’d have to help him.’

  She sighed and said: ‘Then he wanted me to stay and I wouldn’t. He was drunk and I could tell he was in a mean frame of mind. And anyway we’d settled all that the other day and I made up my mind then that it was going to stay that way. When he tried to reach for me I pushed him and got out before he could stop me. He was still talking when I slammed the door.’

  Murdock accepted this. He did not know whether the details were right and he did not particularly care, now that he had established the fact that she had seen Farnsley alive. Whether she killed him or not was a police matter now, and so his mind continued its exploratory course.

  ‘Did you see anyone in the hall?’

  ‘A man was just getting out of the elevator as I shut the door. I passed him in the hall and when I rang I saw him stop and knock, but I don’t know if it was Lee’s room or not. He was old. I’d never seen him before.’

  ‘So you came downstairs and saw someone you did know?’

  ‘Joe Apollo.’

  Murdock repeated the name half-aloud, his excitement churning when he remembered what Rigby had said about the money Farnsley owed.

  ‘He owns the Club Ebony where I work’, Claire Emerson said. ‘And I guess he was there in the lobby when I went in but I didn’t see him. He asked me where I’d been and I told him.’

  ‘Did he say how long he’d been there?’

  ‘No. He just said he was waiting for Lee.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nothing. I went out.’

  Murdock stood up. Already he had more information than he had expected and he was still afraid the police might come looking for the girl and find him here. Yet in spite of the new nervousness that was riding him he lingered for another question. For in his mind he was back in the Greene Hotel, coming from the elevator in his fury with Lee Farnsley, seeing again the man who watched him from the chair by the pillar. Something about the man had caught his attention then, and he remembered him now.

  ‘Would this Apollo have a moustache, a dark-skinned fellow of about forty? Might be wearing a fitted blue coat and a light-grey hat?’

  ‘Yes’, the girl said.…

  Simon Rigby’s office looked more depressing by day than it did by night, possibly because its defections were more noticeable. The little anteroom offered a wooden settee, circa 1910, a table cluttered with old magazines, two straight-back chairs. In the office proper the sunlight streaming through the one window served only to magnify the coating of dust, and the spots on the wrinkled suit which covered his spare frame were more apparent.

  The detective’s long-jawed face revealed nothing as he listened to Murdock’s story. He smoked a cigarette down to his customary half-inch size before discarding it and then dropped it into an ashtray
filled with others of identical length. He rocked gently in the squeaky swivel chair. Occasionally he nodded to indicate he was following the story, but his glance was seldom still, and it finally occurred to Murdock that what he had originally taken for alertness in the flat-brown eyes might in reality be nothing more than shiftiness and uncertainty.

  ‘You’re in a spot’, Rigby said when he had the details. ‘My advice is for you to get back to the Greene and turn yourself in.’

  ‘I intend to’, Murdock said, ‘but by holding out this long I know that two people were at the hotel looking for Farnsley last night; I also know there were two others who knew where he was.’

  ‘You’re not figuring the Farnsley woman did it, are you?’

  ‘I’m only saying she knew, and that she told her boy-friend.’ Murdock pushed his hat back and stared glumly out the dusty window, at the things he saw in his mind and not in the street outside. ‘Do you know a man named Harry Usher?’

  ‘Usher?’ said Rigby, sounding a little surprised, ‘Yeah. I know him.’

  ‘He’s an agent; handles Claire Emerson.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Ever hear that he might do a little jewellery business on the side?’

  ‘What do you mean, jewellery business?’ Rigby’s glance stopped roving and grew interested.

  ‘I knew a fellow in Boston who ran a nightclub. He also knew jewellery values and did a bit of buying and selling—buying from clients and entertainers who were hard up and selling to those who were flush.’

  Rigby considered the question silently. Finally he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know. All I know for sure about Harry Usher is that with women he does all right. He breaks fast at the barrier and he don’t do too bad in the stretch. He’s probably about thirty-five and looks twenty-eight, maybe because he’s got so much bounce. A quick man with a buck, they say …’

  He broke off, aware that Murdock was watching him closely. When he brought out a pack of cigarettes and gave it his attention Murdock said:

  ‘You know quite a lot about him. Is he a friend of yours?’