Eye Witness

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘Usher? Nah. What I know I get from observation and from things I hear.’ He ran his tongue round the inside of his cheek and presently he grinned. ‘Matter of fact I been watching Harry a little. I told you about the steady job I had with the rich guy and the young wife. Well, Harry’s the lad the old boy is jealous of; one of ’em, anyway.’

  ‘Harry knew Lee Farnsley?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to tell me the old guy’s name.’

  Rigby shook his head though some of his grin remained. ‘Not right now anyway.’ He gestured with the cigarette. ‘In my business a guy has to be careful.’

  ‘Sure’, Murdock said sardonically. ‘Ethics of the profession.’

  ‘Just good business.’ Rigby remained casual. ‘I wouldn’t try to kid you’, he said. ‘I can tell if I have to and it gets important, but you’re in a spot and pretty soon you’ll be telling the town cops all you know and I don’t want to spoil a good thing unless I have to.’ He hesitated, squinting one eye. He stopped rocking. ‘Why’re you so interested in Harry Usher?’

  Murdock discarded the idea of mentioning the diamond bracelet that Usher had left behind the mirror in Room 617 but he spoke of other things.

  ‘Usher had Room 617 before I did’, he said. ‘He checked out of the Greene and I assumed he was leaving town. He didn’t. At least he walked through the lobby at the State Hotel last night just after I registered there. I’m wondering why he thought he had to change hotels—if that’s what he did.’

  Rigby made no answer to this and none was expected. Murdock said: ‘Harry Usher knows Claire Emerson and she went to see Farnsley. Usher probably knew Farnsley. I happen to know Farnsley lifted a brooch from his wife and you say he was on the hook to Joe Apollo. I’m trying to find out who was at the Greene Hotel last night and I’ve got a hunch that if Farnsley wanted to sell that brooch he might have tried to get in touch with Usher.’ He leaned forward, his glance intent. ‘Now what about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘When I left you after dinner last night you said you’d keep looking for Farnsley. You said you might ’phone me later, or come in. Did you?’

  Rigby’s gaze shifted to some point outside the window and he began again to rock gently in his chair, the squeaking spring beating time. He dug his thumbs into his vest pockets. He looked back at Murdock, one eye closed against the spiral of smoke from his cigarette. Finally he grinned and his glance moved on.

  ‘You think of things’, he said in his hoarse voice. ‘Yeah, I called in.’

  ‘Ahh!’ Murdock said. ‘Who did you see? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing much. I went in through the bar—there’s an entrance on Fifth Street. I went to the house ’phones and asked for 617. A guy answered and I said: “Murdock?” and he said: “No”, and hung up.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I figured I had the wrong number.’

  ‘Was it Farnsley’s voice?’

  ‘I didn’t recognize it then. I’m not sure now.’

  Murdock leaned back, thinking hard but making little progress. ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Maybe around ten-forty.’

  Murdock eyed him steadily, instinct telling him that Rigby was not getting at the whole truth. ‘You figured you’d called the wrong room but you couldn’t bother walking to the desk and asking what room I had.’

  ‘I could have but I didn’t.’ Rigby shrugged. ‘Because I hadn’t found Farnsley. I happened to be walking by and I called in to tell you so. It didn’t seem very important. I went back to the bar, had a ‘ball, and went home.’

  ‘You didn’t see Joe Apollo?’

  Something flickered in Rigby’s gaze and was gone. He brushed ashes from his vest and then looked up, shaking his head.

  ‘No.’

  Murdock swallowed his disappointment. He asked if Rigby had seen Claire Emerson and got the same answer. Finally he rose and adjusted his hat.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong’, Rigby said, ‘I don’t want to tell you about that rich husband and his wife that likes Harry Usher, but if they get you over a barrel I’ll do what I can.’

  Murdock was not impressed by the statement. He had his doubts about Simon Rigby. Rigby had confessed to being fast on his feet. His manner was somewhat less than forthright. Murdock had an idea that where Rigby was concerned the prime consideration was a dollar, but for all of this he did not believe there was any viciousness in the detective’s make-up; there was, it seemed, too much congenital laziness in the man to make him dangerous in any physical sense.

  ‘Do something for me now’, he said. ‘This thing may be on the news wires now and the Courier-Herald’s going to be wondering about their number-one camera. Call them and reverse the charges. Get T. A. Wyman. Tell him I’m okay but that I’m being questioned and may need some help. Ask him to tell Walter Dorrance what happened.’

  ‘Sure’, Rigby said. ‘Right away.… You going back to your room?’

  Murdock said yes. He said he’d been lucky until now and he did not want to crowd that luck too far. And so he went out and down the stairs, turning up his coat collar against the cold morning air as he walked back to the main street and turned toward the hotel. Ahead of him he saw the sign of the bus terminal and again he turned in here, not for anything to eat this time but because he remembered there was a barber’s shop connected with the waiting-room.

  The clock over the lunch counter told him he had been gone only forty minutes of the original hour he had allowed himself before surrendering to the police, and because he was without friends and knew that he might face a rough session with the authorities he wanted to look as neat and as prosperous as possible. A glance at the others in the waiting-room told him that everyone else was warmly clad and it came to him, not without humour, that to some he probably looked like a vagrant who was down on his luck. Well, that was a matter that could be fixed in the twenty minutes which remained. A quick shave and a shine, a proper combing of his hair, would help some in creating the impression that he was a respectable citizen.

  He reached the door of the shop and entered without interruption. He took off his hat, catching sight of himself in the mirror and not liking the beard-streaked face that looked back at him. Then, even as he stood there, he saw in the mirror the two men who moved up behind him.

  They were about the same size, these two, conservatively dressed and with no particular distinction; yet something in the way they moved, the easy assurance that was both purposeful and confident, left no doubt in Murdock’s mind as to their profession. He felt the touch on his arm as they moved close, saw the flash of a detective’s shield as it was shoved in front of him.

  ‘Where you from, Mac?’ one of them asked.

  Murdock felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, needing no diagram to know that the two plain-clothes men had been assigned to watch the bus terminal and that he, Murdock, had blundered right into their hands because of an idea that he could help his cause by looking his best. He turned now, his expression fixed.

  ‘New York.’

  ‘Got business here?’

  ‘I came up to see about a job.’

  ‘Any identification?’

  Murdock almost said yes but caught himself in time. He shook his head, knowing he was licked, that there was nothing he could do about it, but hating to give up while there was still hope.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ he said, pretending it did not matter.

  ‘Just a routine check, Mac.’

  ‘I don’t get it. I’m no vagrant. Here. Look.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out several dollars in bills. ‘What’s the beef?’ he said, blustering some. ‘Can’t a guy get a shave without——’

  He let the sentence dangle because he saw the pair was not impressed. He noticed the glances they exchanged and he had seen the look before when used on others.

  ‘Let’s take a walk’, they said. ‘Let’s go have a little talk with the lieutenant.’

  It was
a four-block walk, past the Greene Hotel and up a cross street. Nobody spoke, but always there was a hand on each of Murdock’s arms. They marched up the station-house steps that way, through the heavy outer door and the swinging doors inside, until they stood before the sergeant behind the elevated desk.

  Murdock made no resistance when they searched him since there was nothing he could do. They found his wallet at once and passed it to the sergeant, who opened it, stared, then fixed his gaze severely on Murdock. Motioning the two officers toward him he showed them the identification in the wallet.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘You can read, can’t you?’ Murdock said, his patience wearing thin and his resentment mounting.

  ‘Where’d you get this?’

  ‘I just stuck up a train.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The sergeant’s smile seemed both sardonic and triumphant. He reached for the telephone and when he had the police operator he said: ‘Get me Lieutenant O’Brien at the Greene.’

  While he waited he motioned the plain-clothes men to take Murdock away. They started through an open doorway and down a drab corridor, and just before they turned into another room Murdock heard the sergeant’s voice on the telephone.

  ‘We got your man, Lieutenant’, he said. ‘Yep. No doubt about it.… At the bus station; found the missing wallet on him.… I’m telling you. This is the guy that killed Kent Murdock.’

  Chapter Seven

  IT took Murdock two or three minutes to dispel the fog of incredulity that the sergeant’s announcement had created, and by the time he was ready to protest the two plain-clothes men had been joined by a third who was going around the room pulling down the shades.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ he said.

  They ignored him. They had put him in a chair in the centre of the room under a metal reflector, but this had no significance at the time because of his amazement.

  ‘I’m Kent Murdock’, he said again. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’

  They continued to ignore him and he did not understand this because at the moment he could not see how the police could believe the dead man in Room 617 was Kent Murdock. To be sure a man named Kent Murdock had registered and been assigned that room. Presumably, and at first glance, the victim found there was Kent Murdock since his bag, topcoat, and equipment case were also in the room. But surely Lee Farnsley had some identification on him. Surely there was some way——

  ‘All right, Mac’, someone said. ‘Make it easy on yourself.’

  Murdock disciplined his thoughts and took stock of his captors, finding the pair who had picked him up to be of average size and build neither young nor old. The one who now spoke, however, was thick shouldered and powerful looking. He had a deep, resonant voice and he swung a chair about so he could face Murdock.

  ‘We can be out of here in a few minutes’, he said, ‘and nobody’ll get hurt. We know about what happened and I’ll tell you how it was so you’ll see we’re not kidding. Also I can tell you it don’t shape up as a premeditated job. It might’ve happened to anyone but you got yourself elected.’

  He hunched forward, his tone superficially confidential. ‘This guy Murdock checks in yesterday afternoon. He’s probably on the loose last night and he has a couple of drinks and he picks you up in a bar. I guess he asked you up to his room for a drink, hunh? And you have a couple more—or anyway he does—and you think he’s drunker than he is. You get a look at his roll and think you can lift it. Only he isn’t quite that drunk. He’s sore now and he takes a swing at you, and to protect yourself you grab that glass candlestick with the candle in it that they have in case the power fails. You slug him to save yourself, slug him again as he goes down. You lose your head and hit him again and the candlestick breaks. You grab the wallet and blow; probably didn’t even know he was dead.’

  He gestured expansively. ‘That’s how it was, wasn’t it? And what I’m saying is that if you lay it on the line with us you’ll probably squeak through on a manslaughter rap. You look like a sensible guy so let’s start at the beginning. What’s your name?’

  Murdock took a breath, telling himself he must not lose his temper. He clamped his hands on the chair arms. ‘Look’ he said patiently, ‘I’ve tried to tell you before. I’ll try again.’ He tapped his thumb against his chest. ‘I’m Murdock. I’m a press photographer—from Boston.’

  The big man sighed loudly and gestured resignedly. He stood up, nodding to one of the others, and snapped on the light in the reflector as the room lights went off.

  Murdock knew how it was then, but he didn’t believe it. He tried to get out of his chair, but unseen hands grabbed the back of his coat collar, slamming him back and pinioning him there. The man in front of him produced a length of rubber hose and rapped it against his open palm.

  ‘You get one more chance to talk nice’, he said. ‘I’m asking you nice. What’s your name?’

  Murdock knew what came next. He had seen such things happen to others, though not recently, for it was a system seldom used these days in intelligently run departments. He remembered an incident a few years back when he had seen force used after a particularly brutal murder. He did not recall feeling any great sympathy for the victim on that occasion because he had known the dead man and the suspect was a truculent and vicious character. On the whole, however, he could find no moral justification for such tactics and felt only revulsion when he saw them practised. But he knew the routine from other days, the tricks, the nuances of barbarism that were most effective. And always these things happened to hardened criminals, to cop killers, to the ignorant and stubborn who could be forced to speak in no other way. That such a thing could happen to him so infuriated him that it took a tremendous effort even to think, to realize there was only one way to cope with a situation. He went about it now, his voice curt, cold, and defiant.

  ‘Okay’, he said. ‘I’ll talk.’

  ‘Ahh!—’ said the big man.

  ‘Just tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it. I just want to get you clear on one point. Swing on me with that hose and I’m coming after you. It won’t do much good maybe, and I can’t take the three of you, but this I know: You can’t handle me without marking me up, and once you do you’re cooked. It’ll be all over the front page of the Ledger and when that happens the three of you will be out walking a beat again.’

  The big man laughed out of the darkness. The others joined in, but somehow there was a lack of spontaneity to the chorus. Murdock let them guffaw for three seconds and then he went on, warmed up to his task now, not raising his voice but giving a harsh compulsion to his words that was impressive.

  ‘You’re not fooling with some petty larceny vagrant this time. I know what I’m talking about, and you know I know.… You think I’m not Kent Murdock?’ he asked bitterly. ‘Then call up Simon Rigby.’

  ‘That peeper?’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe him on oath’, a second voice added, a suggestion of doubt in its cadence where none had been before.

  ‘You know Murray Leonard over at the Ledger?’ Murdock said. ‘Well, get him over here. It’ll take five minutes and it might possibly save you your jobs. Go ahead. Let’s see who’s Murdock and who isn’t.’

  There was a flat silence when he finished. He did not know just how he was doing, but he had them thinking. The silence indicated that they might be wondering how such reasoning and such words could come from a vagrant who had been picked up in a bus station barber shop without an overcoat and with a two-day stubble streaking his face. He took advantage of their indecision to add one more suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t you start checking on a fellow named Lee Farnsley’, he said. ‘Just for the fun of it.’

  That ended the discussion and it was not a clean-cut victory. It was a draw, a no-decision contest; for just then the door opened and a dim rectangle of light moved across the room and framed the radiator and steampipe. The room light went on and the cone of overhead brightness was snapped off. Behind Murdock som
eone spoke quietly and now the big man walked past him, his voice joining with another.

  Murdock did not bother to glance round but blinked his eyes to wash away the brightness that had been punishing him. He lit a cigarette, shaking a little now in his reaction, hearing the door close. When he finally got around to inspecting the room he found one of the men who had picked him up tilted back in a chair near the door watching him idly.

  It was that way for perhaps five minutes when the door opened again and a lean, straight-standing man came in and motioned the plain-clothes man from the room. He walked over to raise the window shades, then turned to Murdock, a sandy-haired, bespectacled fellow in a neat grey suit.

  ‘I’m Lieutenant O’Brien’, he said and drew up a chair. ‘I understand you’ve been telling the boys you’re Kent Murdock? A photographer?’

  ‘With the Courier-Herald in Boston. Who’s the big guy with all the muscles?’

  ‘Mike Breen. He works with me sometimes.’

  Murdock grunted, an ironic sound. ‘I know the system. Mike is the toughie who softens them up, and then you come in and turn on the reasonableness and charm. You give out with that father-like advice until you’ve got the poor guy thinking you’re a friend of his, that all you want to do is help him.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s that way’, O’Brien said, unperturbed. ‘This time Mike thought he was working on a killer. He still does. The two that picked you up were working on a routine stake-out. You looked like a “vag” and they brought you in.’

  ‘I showed them I had money.’

  ‘Vagrancy is a useful and elastic term. If you’re what you say you are you should know how police work. Why quibble about methods?’ He brought out a small, leather-covered notebook, glanced at it. ‘Mind telling me when you registered at the Greene?’

  ‘About ten to four yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘You drove down from Boston?’

  ‘Right. I left my car in that parking lot down the street from the hotel.’

  ‘What’s your Boston home address?’ When he had an answer O’Brien produced Murdock’s wallet and went through the papers and cards. ‘If you weren’t Murdock you could have got that address from this driving licence.’