Chapter Ten
THE sidewalks were well-filled with workers from the down-town stores, recently closed, and it was still cold, though there was a rawness in the air now that suggested rain might be on the way. Two buses waited in line for the corner traffic light to change, and behind them cars piled up along the block while some of the impatient drivers began to work their horns.
Murdock watched all this with a benign and interested eye. It felt good to be out wearing a coat like other men and, like other men, do as he pleased without fear of the police. He glanced towards his left, the familiar route that went past the State Hotel and the bus terminal, and set out leisurely in the other direction, coming now to the corner, catching the orange light and turning left. He walked two blocks before it came to him that he was hungry and now he began to examine the signs and storefronts in search of a likely looking place to eat. When he found one that appealed to him he turned inside. The sign over the door said Studio Grill.
His first glance as he surrendered hat and coat to a woman just inside the door was one of approval, for this was a clean and nicely furnished room with tables and leather banquettes along the wall in the rear and a pleasant, semicircular bar extending from the right-hand side. Above this and the banquettes at the rear were rows of photographs and caricatures of people who, in the opinion of the proprietor, had some claim to fame, reminding Murdock of Sardi’s and the pictures he had seen of the Hollywood Brown Derby. All within the range of Murdock’s vision were inscribed To Al—with various terms that ranged from ‘Best wishes’ or ‘Best regards’ to ‘Affectionately’ in the case of a blonde dancer.
Speculating on the meaning of all this as he took a stool beside a man who sat next to the wall, it seemed to Murdock that Al was a man of great ego where the entertainment world was concerned and used his friendship for those he knew professionally as an advertisement for his establishment or—and this seemed more likely—he was an ex-entertainer in his own right, perhaps a frustrated one, who had come at last to prefer a business of his own to the unpredictable vicissitudes that formed the occupational hazards of a profession which was none too secure at best.
When he had ordered his Scotch and water Murdock let his thoughts run on, considering the history of the city and finding it altogether fitting and proper that there should be an eating place like this. For Uniontown had always had the reputation of being a good show town. In the old days vaudeville had thrived here, and even now its one remaining legitimate theatre was more often occupied than not. Road shows did well in Union town; in addition it was one of the bestknown spots for trying out a new production. Relatively close to New York, it became the first stop for a fledgling play or musical comedy, and it was here that the wrinkles were ironed out of the script or book before the company moved on after a three-day run, its next stop usually Boston for a more thorough trial.
‘Is Al the owner?’ he asked when the bar-tender brought his drink.
‘Yeah. Al Arquette.’
‘An actor?’
The bar-tender glanced up at the row of pictures over his head and grinned. ‘He’d like to hear you say that. Vaudeville. Al was a hoofer.’
Murdock was still thinking, and without conscious effort on his part the focus of his thoughts changed abruptly. On the chance that he might get a little information along with his drink, he said: ‘Do you know a fellow named Harry Usher?’
‘Sure. An agent—he says. He generally eats here when he’s in town.’
‘A friend of Al’s?’
‘A friend of everybody—to hear him tell it’, the bartender said. ‘Right, Mr. Preble?’ he added, addressing the man next to Murdock.
‘Yes, indeed’, said Mr. Preble. ‘Harry is quite a boy. Represented me for a short period.’
Murdock gave his attention to Mr. Preble, a plan of action taking shape in his mind when he had a good look at the other. For what he saw was a slender, immaculate man who looked to be about sixty but could have been younger, a man who had the flushed features of a steady drinker, the most prominent of these being a generous and rosy-hued nose. His suit was a double-breasted blue serge, frayed slightly along the cuffs; his shirt had French cuffs, also frayed but clipped close and tidily clean, and on the third finger of his left hand he wore a large and fancy-looking onyx-and-gold ring. More important, he had been drinking a Manhattan—the cherry which remained testified to this—and his glass was now empty.
‘Are you in the profession?’ Mr. Preble asked.
‘No’, Murdock said, wondering how he could buy Preble a drink. ‘I’m a newspaperman. From Boston. I met Harry yesterday and I have some friends who might want to talk to him if I could be sure he was reliable.’
‘Oh, I guess Harry Usher is reliable enough.’
‘He seems pretty young.’
‘Yes, doesn’t he’, Mr. Preble said. ‘Looks like a boy. though I understand he’s thirty-five.’
‘A lot of bounce’, Murdock said.
‘Quite. Ebulient, one might say.’
Murdock took some of his drink and glanced about. He said he had never been here before. ‘It’s very pleasant’, he said. ‘What’s the bar-tender’s name?’
‘Charles.’
‘Oh, Charles’, Murdock said when he caught the bar-tender’s eye. ‘I think Mr—ah—’ He glanced at Preble, waiting.
‘Preble. Edgar Preble’, said Mr. Preble.
‘I think Mr. Preble would like another Manhattan.’
‘Oh, now, really——’
‘It will be a pleasure, Mr. Preble’, Murdock said, finding he was talking almost like his new-found companion. ‘I’m having another as soon as I finish this and no one likes to drink alone.’
‘I must agree with you there’, said Mr. Preble. ‘A dreary business.… Well’, he said, and was persuaded, ‘if you insist.’ He shot his cuffs and pushed the glass forward about an inch with the tips of his fingers. ‘Just a shade less vermouth this time, Charles. If you please.’
Mr. Preble offered a cigarette from a thin silver case and accepted a light from Murdock when he had fitted his own cigarette into a long black holder. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the cocktail Charles served him, but his voice remained resonant and majestic.
‘Your health, sir’, he said. ‘Very good of you, I’m sure.’
‘I’m glad to know you think Harry Usher is reliable’, Murdock said. ‘I spoke to one of his clients—a girl who plays the piano down at the Club Ebony—and she seemed to like him.’
‘I know who you mean. Yes, I think Harry has two or three clients working here in town.’
‘None of them big.’
‘Well—no.’
‘It must take a lot of them to make a living on that ten per cent. Doesn’t he have any names?’
‘I doubt it. He’s had some likely prospects but always someone else comes along with a bigger office, and a reputation, and plenty of promotion money.’
‘I suppose it’s all right if he can keep those he has working steadily.’
‘Hah!’ said Mr. Preble. ‘That, apparently, is the secret of Harry’s success. He does—keep his people working, I mean. Oh, not all of them, naturally.’ He carved a circle in the air with the end of his cigarette. ‘What I mean to say is: Harry operates best on a quantity basis, the theory being, I imagine, that if he has enough clients he can manage to have a sufficient number working at all times to make the venture profitable to Harry; a theory, I might add, to which I do not entirely subscribe. It is fine for those who are in demand, but for the others——’
He let the sentence dangle, managing somehow to convey the inference that his own affiliation with Harry Usher had ultimately been cancelled because of some lack of demand for Edgar Preble. Murdock was tempted to pursue the career of Mr. Preble further, but he did not want to say anything that might embarrass the other, and he was glad that the momentary depression which had settled over the man—due no doubt to an unpleasant memory or which had as its foundation so
me association with Harry Usher—soon passed. Mr. Preble was, it seemed, a resilient character, and with the help of the last half-ounce of his Manhattan his former casual cheerfulness was restored intact.
‘Yes’, he said, ‘Harry does well. He has some connection with a booker in New York—I do not know exactly what the arrangement is—but I do know that it operates favourably for Harry and is responsible for some of his success. It’s rather an amazing business these days, you know’, he said somewhat ambiguously since he did not mention what business he had in mind. ‘My own impression is that Harry has his best luck in what might be called the nightclub circuit. So many of them—even those which might well be called gin-mills—seem to feel that they must offer entertainment of some sort. Of course television is beginning to change the pattern somewhat, but even so you would be surprised to know that a variety of acts are offered, some for a mere pittance, some doing quite well even in the smaller towns.’
Mr. Preble elaborated the thought in his cultivated phrases and Murdock, catching the bar-tender’s eye, signalled for fresh drinks without saying anything to disturb the monologue. This time Mr. Preble made no protest when a Manhattan was placed before him. He slid his fingers around the stem of the glass with a practised care and skipped no more than a syllable or two of his dissertation when he sampled the cocktail.
Murdock was delighted. Mr. Preble was certainly not drunk or even approaching inebriation. How many drinks he had had before Murdock appeared was known only to him and the bar-tender; what he had taken since merely oiled the larynx and stimulated a brain that had, apparently, only been waiting for a chance to express itself.
‘I might add’, he said now, sucking at his lips, ‘that Harry Usher is not entirely dependent upon the commissions he receives as a flesh pedlar. Harry has a vast enthusiasm for anything at all—in a legitimate legal sense, you understand—that will turn him a dollar’s profit. Harry knows people; he cultivates them easily, always with an eye towards some possible future advantage to Harry, I dare say.’
He crushed out his cigarette and said: ‘If you would like to buy a nice fur piece, say a mink stole, for your sweetheart, Harry will get it for you at a price. New or used, it seems to make no difference. Would you like a nice diamond ring?’ Mr. Preble winked confidentially. ‘Harry knows someone who has just what you want. A nice oriental rug, perhaps, slightly used? Would you like to invest some money in a theatrical enterprise? Harry can get you a piece of any kind of show you like. He can get you a piece of five shows, all of them, naturally, potential hits. He has, to hear him tell it, an “in” with the élite circle of insiders without whose sponsorship it is impossible for an outsider to make an investment in a proposed production.’
He sipped some of his cocktail, turning the glass absently in his fingers. ‘Yes, one has to admire Harry if only for what you so aptly described as “bounce”. Another generation would have called him a go-getter, though to me it always seemed that his operations were at a rather low level.’
‘Were you serious about the ring?’ Murdock asked.
‘Oh, my, no. I had nothing actually in mind. What I meant to say was that Harry could be persuaded to find you just what you wanted and for somewhat under the price you would pay in a shop. If you had something like that to sell, Harry might oblige you if you gave him time to scurry around and find a likely buyer. I don’t say that he’s in the second-hand jewellery business but—well, I’ll give you an example.’
Murdock was thinking about the diamond bracelet that Harry Usher had left clipped in an envelope behind the mirror in room 617. He watched Edgar Preble push back a shirt cuff, exposing a wrist watch in a white metal case.
‘Note this’, Mr. Preble said. ‘Army surplus. A cheap affair, but dependable. I had another one, a lovely thing, given to me by—ah, an admirer. Eighteen carat gold, a jewelled, imported movement, a gold band. At the time I was suffering from a lack of funds and I approached Harry after I learned that I could get but eighty dollars from a pawnbroker. Harry gave me one hundred and twenty, took it to an expert who works for one of the local jewellers, and had it cleaned and polished until it shone like new. He later sold it for two hundred and fifty dollars, and at that the one who bought it saved considerable over the original price.’
‘I imagine he’s quite a lad with the women’, Murdock said, still probing.
‘Oh, indeed he is. They like him. He has a way with him and he is not afraid to spend a little something when the occasion demands it.’
‘I heard a little about that’, Murdock said. ‘I understand his latest is some woman here in town who’s married to a rich husband, an older man.’
Mr. Preble chuckled. He said he’d heard the same thing, that it was a matter of common knowledge and no longer a secret, even to the husband.
‘Leone somebody’, Murdock said, mentally crossing his fingers.
‘Leone Thorpe’, Mr. Preble said promptly. ‘A very pretty woman. Used to be a model. Has a nice voice, they say.’ He glanced at his glass and found it empty; he sighed and slid from the stool, hesitated, and then, firmly and in his most impressive tones, he said: ‘Charles!… You must let me buy you one before I go’, he said to Murdock. ‘I can’t stay to join you—had no idea it was so late—but I insist that——’
Murdock cut him off. He had his doubts as to the healthiness of Mr. Preble’s financial standing. He said he appreciated the offer but he made it a point never to have more than two drinks before dinner. He had enjoyed Mr. Preble’s company; it was a great pleasure.
Mr. Preble accepted the explanation. He paid Charles for the two drinks he had before Murdock arrived and left a ten cent tip. He walked steadily to the checkroom near the door, was helped into his Chesterfield, put his hat on with care. He saluted Murdock and Charles from the doorway with a courtly wave before he turned and left.
‘Another Scotch and water, Charles’, Murdock said. ‘And bring the check.… Is it all right to take the glass to a table? I’d like to order a dinner.’
Murdock dined leisurely on cherrystones, lamb chops and a green salad, finding the food excellent, but taking little stock of his surroundings as the place filled up. Instead he considered the things that Mr. Preble had said about Harry Usher and his activities. Until now Harry Usher had remained something of an enigma who, by virtue of certain opportunities offered, seemed to hover on the edge of any theory of murder that Murdock had weighed without ever actually materializing as a suspect who should be seriously considered.
He had said nothing about this man to Lieutenant O’Brien during his questioning because he simply had forgotten about Usher and, had he remembered him, there was no evidence to show that Usher knew anything about the killing. There was the business of the diamond bracelet, which might or might not be pertinent; there was this affair with the woman named Leone Thorpe, she of the jealous and elderly husband, who in all probability had been the woman who telephoned asking for Harry right after Murdock had first gone to Room 617 the previous afternoon.
Aware at last that his thoughts concerning Harry Usher were producing little in a concrete way, he paid his check and went out on the street, turning at the next corner and moving aimlessly along until he saw the movie house up ahead. He kept on until he joined the ticket line, having no particular desire to see the picture, but simply because he wanted more time to think.
He took a seat on the side, and though he watched the screen the objects of his interest remained those who had known that Lee Farnsley had occupied room 617 the night before. He ticked them off in his mind again and again, inspecting facts and details as they occurred to him, but never getting beyond them. He was vaguely aware that the picture was a comedy and at one point there was a scene where the bridegroom walked into the ingénue’s room by mistake, for a moment then Murdock wondered if there could be a parallel.
Suppose that someone had walked into the wrong room? Suppose?… Murdock got that far and then a small, persistent part of his mind rejected the prem
ise. If such a thing had happened it meant that some stranger was the guilty one and this he did not want to believe. Such a theory tied in with Farnsley’s missing wallet, but to accept it meant dismissing as suspects all those who were personally involved and who might have wanted Farnsley out of the way or, failing this, disliked him sufficiently to have been goaded into a fight that ended fatally.
When he finally left the theatre the subject of Harry Usher still remained uppermost in his thoughts, particularly the decision that had prompted the man to change from one hotel to another. Why? What was Usher afraid of? Or was he motivated by some other reason?
Murdock had no answers, but he wanted one, and once his mind was made up he set out briskly, heading back to the territory he knew so well and coming at last to the desk of the State Hotel. The clerk who came from behind the cage was not the one Murdock had seen the night before and he readily complied with Murdock’s request for Harry Usher’s room number.
‘Four-o-nine, sir’, he said. ‘The house ’phones are at the end of the counter.’
Murdock moved to his right, satisfied now that Usher had registered here the previous afternoon or evening. Then, as he started to lift the telephone, he heard a clipped, imperative voice make the same request he had made.
‘Mr. Harry Usher’s room number if you please.’
The clerk’s glance slid to Murdock and he pulled it back. He said: ‘Four-o-nine, sir’, and watched the man turn quickly away, a trim-figured man who looked to be in his middle fifties, not tall but holding himself erect. In profile his face was angular and grimly set, and the purposeful way he walked matched somehow the imperiousness of his voice.
Murdock lifted the telephone when the man entered the elevator. He gave the house operator the room number and listened to the distant telephone ring three times before he hung up, the feeling growing in him, though it was no more than an intuitive impression brought on by his estimate of the recent caller, that perhaps it was just as well for Harry Usher that he was not at home.
Eye Witness Page 9