Eye Witness

by George Harmon Coxe

  That mood of panic held him tightly until he reached the head of the stairs and then it broke wide apart as reason and native intelligence came tardily to his rescue. He swore bitterly and stopped dead. He turned deliberately and walked back along the corridor, hearing now the faint squealing of brakes somewhere outside.

  He went on into the office, continuing to the desk. He reached across and picked up the telephone. He dialled the operator and when she answered he asked her to get him police headquarters. As he waited he heard the pounding of steps along the corridor and the sound of them in the anteroom. Then two uniformed men were crowding the doorway. They looked at Rigby, they looked at him.

  ‘Who you calling, mister?’ the older one said harshly.

  ‘Police headquarters.’ Murdock nodded towards the still figure in the chair. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  ‘I’ll take it’, the policeman said, and even as he handed over the telephone Murdock could hear a voice on the other end of the wire saying: ‘Hello—hello!…’

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE murder of Simon Rigby—it was soon established that he had been shot once through the chest at close range—coming as it did so soon after the still unsolved death of Lee Farnsley, had a very noticeable effect on the normally calm and workmanlike manner affected by Lieutenant O’Brien.

  Arriving less than a minute after the radio patrolmen—a fact which Murdock had reason to comment on later—he had plunged into the investigation with a nervous irritability that indicated clearly the inner turmoil which was working on him. His grey eyes were harassed behind the rimless glasses, his voice was clipped and irascible, and as soon as he got the bare outlines of Murdock’s story, he banished the photographer to the anteroom and told him to stay there until he was wanted.

  Murdock did as he was told. From his perch on the settee he watched detectives tramp in and out of the office as O’Brien assigned them to their tasks; he saw the popping of flashbulbs and the glare of floodlights as the police photographer went about his work. The medical examiner came with his little bag and departed ten minutes later, followed closely by two ambulance attendants bearing Simon Rigby’s mortal remains on a blanket-covered stretcher. Shortly after that O’Brien was ready for Murdock. He came out to the anteroom accompanied by his tough assistant, Mike Breen, who sat next to Murdock on the settee while O’Brien remained standing.

  ‘Let’s have it again’, the lieutenant directed, ‘exactly as it happened.’

  Murdock started with the telephone call that came to the hotel. He got just that far when O’Brien interrupted.

  ‘You sure it was Rigby?’

  ‘I thought it was.’

  ‘And you looked at your watch. Why?’

  ‘To see what time it was.’

  ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘Look’, Murdock said, a flush touching his angular face. ‘I didn’t kill Rigby. I don’t know anything about it beyond what I’ve told you. I don’t know why I looked at my watch but I did and the waiter saw me.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Murdock told him and mentioned the room number. O‘Brien summoned a plain-clothes man from the hall.’

  ‘I want you to start here and walk to the Greene Hotel’, he said. ‘Move right along but don’t hurry too much. When you get there ride up to Room 528 and then clock yourself so I can see how long it takes. While you’re there look up a freckle, tow-headed waiter that served soda and ice from room-service about nine o’clock.’

  He looked at Murdock, walked away, and came back. ‘So you didn’t kill him, huh? You didn’t kill Farnsley either—according to you. You could be clear on that if you’ve told the truth; the trouble is the others I’ve talked to—Apollo, the Emerson dame, Harry Usher—say different. Maybe you’re clear on this one too but I’m giving you nothing until you prove it.… Go ahead. You got the call and you walked down here. Then what?’

  Murdock told him.

  ‘Some one slugged you when you walked in here?’ O’Brien said. ‘Where’d he hit you?’

  Murdock put his hand to the side of his head near the hairline.

  ‘You ain’t even marked’, Mike Breen said.

  Murdock continued his exploration, finding now a slight abrasion near his temple. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing.

  ‘You can hardly see it’. O’Brien said. ‘You can’t describe the guy, either, hunh?’

  O’Brien made an abrupt circuit of the little room. ‘The way it figures now,’ he said, his voice more moderate and talking not so much to Murdock as to himself, ‘Rigby saw the guy that killed Farnsley. He lied when he told who he’d seen that night he came to call your room. He knew a hell of a lot more than he let on and he saw a way to make a few bucks—the stupid fool—and found out too late the killer would not pay blackmail.’

  ‘How did those cops get here so soon?’ Murdock asked as a new thought occurred to him.

  ‘The telephone tip came to headquarters. We put it on the air and this was in their territory.’

  ‘What about the gun, was it Rigby’s?’

  ‘It checked with his permit.’

  ‘That’s the one he was shot with?’

  ‘Looks like it. Recently fired. One shell discharged.’

  ‘That’s good’, Murdock said evenly. ‘That’s fine. It all figures out very neatly. I killed Farnsley but I had a good story and I talked myself into the clear—except that Rigby found out different. He put the bite on me and I knew I couldn’t take a chance with him so I walked down here to-night, took his gun away from him, shot him, thought up the story about getting slugged and then tipped off the police. I hung around here so they’d be sure to pick me up——’

  ‘Don’t get smart’, Breen said.

  O’Brien had better control of himself now. He took no offence at the sarcasm. ‘It can be figured.… What is it, Anson?’ he said to a detective who appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I got a counterman from that restaurant downstairs. He says he saw a guy run out of the doorway. You want to talk to him?’

  O’Brien did and the counterman was ushered in, a burly fellow wearing a white jacket and apron, both of them soiled.

  ‘You work downstairs?’ O’Brien asked. ‘How did you happen to see this man come out of the doorway?’

  ‘I was on the sidewalk having a smoke.’

  ‘Do you know what time it was?’

  ‘It was twelve minutes past nine.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The clock said so. Maybe it wasn’t right but that’s what it said.’

  ‘What clock?’

  The counterman wet his lips and glowered at O’Brien. He got his jaw set and spoke gruffly but with elaborate care.

  ‘Right across the street is a real estate office. There’s an electric clock in the window and it’s got a light on it—like a neon rim that goes around the outside of it. It’s the only light in the place and you can see the clock okay. It said twelve past nine.’

  ‘Before or after you saw the man?’

  ‘Just before. I lit up and when I had the smoke going I looked across the street and then started to walk back and forth, you know—sort of pace up and down in front of the restaurant window. I got over to one corner when this guy tears out of the doorway and damn near knocks me over as he cuts by me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. He was already by me.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He said excuse me, or something like that and I called after him askin’ why he didn’t look where he was going.’

  O’Brien asked Murdock to stand up. ‘Take a look at this man’, he said to the counterman. ‘Is he the one you saw?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The fellow frowned, squinting his eyes. ‘I didn’t get too good a look but I think the other guy was huskier. Yeah’, he said, ‘and I think the guy that ran into me wore glasses.’

  O’Brien let his breath out and glanced at Mike Breen. He nodded thoughtfull
y and then addressed the plainclothes man. ‘This one is through for the night’, he said, indicating the counterman. ‘Go down with him while he changes his clothes and tell the boss you’re taking him to headquarters for a little questioning.’

  ‘Wait a minute’, the counterman blustered, ‘I told you all I know.’

  ‘We want you to tell it again’, O’Brien said.

  Murdock watched the counterman turn and leave without further protest. Later he had cause to be grateful for the circumstance that had provided this witness, but right now he could not think beyond the fact of the other’s sketchy description. He saw, in his mind’s eye, a man who would fit such a description but his thoughts would not stop there; they went beyond, bringing with them a curious inner reaction that was a mixture of shock and some mental sickness, a reaction that came from the realization, until now delayed, that the one who had killed Lee Farnsley, perhaps without premeditation, had changed his tactics.

  From the information at hand, the death of Simon Rigby could be interpreted only as a planned and deliberate murder. The telephone call to Murdock—he still felt certain it had been the detective’s voice—as yet made no great sense, and the time element was so short that no one, not even the medical examiner, could say whether Rigby had been shot ten seconds after he hung up or five minutes later. The killer could have walked in right after that call and, managing somehow to locate the detective’s gun, fired once at close range. Either that or Rigby had been forced to make the call at gun point and then …

  The idea dangled and was lost as O’Brien’s voice came to him. When he glanced up the lieutenant had a small piece of paper in his hand, a wrinkled slip that looked as if it had been crumpled once and then straightened. He was reading off a telephone number and now he said:

  ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘It’s the number of the Greene Hotel, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s another number written here on top of that one. One of my men thought he recognized it and we checked. It’s the number of the Evening Ledger.… Mike’, he said to his assistant. ‘What do you say we pick up Murray Leonard?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Send a man to the Ledger, though he probably won’t be there now. Find out his address and have someone go to his home. When you find him bring him down for questioning and tell him nothing.’ He glanced back at Murdock as Mike Breen went out. ‘You ready?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Murdock stood up and sighed. He felt put-upon and weary from the emotional strain he had been subjected to and he still did not know why O’Brien could not believe him. ‘I should think that telephone number you’ve got written down there would prove that I told you the truth.’

  ‘It would help if we were sure Rigby wrote it’. O’Brien adjusted his hat, settled the collar of his topcoat. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to call your friend, Walter Dorrance, or John Gates?’

  Murdock said no. He said he didn’t think he was going to need a lawyer this time and was O’Brien going to give him a ride on the city or were they walking. The lieutenant allowed himself a thin smile. He said he had a car and the ride was free.

  Chapter Twenty

  WHEN Lieutenant O’Brien finished questioning the tow-headed waiter, who was already at headquarters when Murdock arrived, he dismissed the fellow and leaned well back in his chair.

  ‘Lucky you’, he said, reaching for his pipe. ‘If it wasn’t for that counterman and the waiter where would you be?’

  ‘Up to my neck in one of Mike Breen’s third degrees’, Murdock answered dryly. ‘You don’t mean I’m clear?’

  ‘Not quite.’ O’Brien unrolled his oilskin pouch and dug his briar into it. ‘Not quite. Assuming that you killed Farnsley—and I don’t think there’s any doubt that Rigby was shot to death because he knew who did kill Farnsley—you could have got that same telephone call at five past nine. That waiter doesn’t know what Rigby said, you know. It could have been Rigby telling you it was time for the pay-off and to get down to his office or else. You could have gone down there and shot him and got trapped there by Leonard. You could have been the one waiting in the anteroom. You could have taken a swing that missed and got knocked flat, like you say you were, and Leonard could still have run out and been seen by that counterman.’

  Murdock had to admit that O’Brien was adept at figuring possibilities even when remote. He said so. He said he found the reasoning somewhat far-fetched. He might have said more had not a detective appeared to announce that Murray Leonard was outside.

  ‘Ask him to step in’, O’Brien said, and laid his unlit pipe aside.

  Murray Leonard had his hat in his hand and his sandy hair was tousled. He moved slowly and with deliberation and though his voice was quiet and assured when he spoke, his eyes were uncertain behind the shell-rimmed glasses and he had a hard time keeping them still. Murdock’s glance went at once to the big hands which hung at the man’s sides, but there in the shadows he could not tell whether any of the knuckles were marked or not.

  ‘I don’t get this, Lieutenant’, Leonard began. ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you’, O’Brien said easily, ‘just as soon as you’ve answered a few questions. It’s up to you, of course, and I guess you know your rights, but if you’ve nothing to hide I don’t imagine you’ll object to letting a stenographer take things down so we can have a record of some sort to refer to. Sit down.’

  A police stenographer entered, bringing a folding chair as there were no vacant ones in the little office. Murdock had backed his own chair into the corner by the filing cabinet and Leonard took the remaining chair across the desk from O’Brien.

  ‘What we’d like to know’, the lieutenant said, ‘is where you were this evening and what you did; say from seven o’clock on.’

  Leonard opened his topcoat and found a cigarette in a jacket pocket. He got a light and smiled at O’Brien. ‘This sounds pretty serious’, he said.

  ‘It is’, O’Brien said. ‘You are already under some suspicion in the death of Lee Farnsley. To-night we had another murder, a deliberate one that looks as if it had been done by the same one who killed Farnsley.’

  ‘In that case’, said Leonard in a rather feeble effort to treat the matter with an air of unconcern, ‘I’d better tell you the truth, I guess. Well, at six-thirty I met Mrs. Farnsley and Mr. Dorrance for dinner.’ He mentioned a place that Murdock had not heard of and said they had two cocktails and then dinner.

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Sometime after eight o’clock.’

  ‘You can’t be sure when? Then what’s the next time you can be sure of?’

  ‘Between eight-thirty and eight-forty Mr. Dorrance dropped me off at the Ledger. I believe he took Mrs. Farnsley home from there—at least that was the intention as I understood it.’

  ‘Any particular reason for stopping at the Ledger?’

  ‘I had some work I wanted to do.’

  ‘Do you generally work evenings?’

  ‘Practically never. I don’t have to on an afternoon paper. I like to keep regular business hours but to-night I had a couple of things I wanted to do.’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  Leonard hesitated while he put out his cigarette. When he continued he kept his eyes on the stenographer. ‘No one in the city room proper. There may have been someone in the wire room just around the corner.’

  ‘Then no one saw you while you were there?’

  ‘The elevator man saw me when he took me up.’

  ‘At eight-forty? And when did you leave?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’d say about nine-thirty.’

  ‘The elevator man see you then?’

  Leonard sighed audibly and sat up. ‘I don’t want to be difficult’, he said, ‘but I think I have a right to know what this is all about?’

  ‘It’s about the murder of a private detective named Simon Rigby, Mr. Leonard. Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’

 
; ‘You went to see him to-night, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘About five or ten minutes past nine. In answer to a telephone call he made to you.’

  ‘I didn’t go there at all.’

  ‘You didn’t take a poke at Murdock when he surprised you in the anteroom of Rigby’s office?’

  Leonard’s jaw set doggedly. ‘I already told you——’

  ‘Mike’, O’Brien called to Breen, who stood in the doorway. ‘Bring that counterman in.’

  Breen withdrew. When he returned he had the counterman with him, hardly recognizable now in his street clothes. He stopped just inside the doorway.

  ‘Your name?’ O’Brien asked.

  ‘John Drasnik.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘1412½ North Bryant Street.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  Drasnik muttered under his breath. ‘You know what I do’, he said truculently.

  ‘Answer the lieutenant!’ Breen ordered.

  ‘I’m a counterman. The Plaza Cafeteria, 218 Euclid Street.’

  ‘Tell us in your own words what happened around ten minutes past nine to-night.’

  Drasnik began his story and, because it was the same one he had told before, Murdock centred his attention on Leonard. He tried not to think about what came next but simply observed the big man as he sat motionless in the chair, the colour draining from his face as he watched the counterman. He did not move at all until O’Brien addressed him, asking him please to stand up.

  ‘Why?’ Leonard asked without stirring.

  O’Brien hesitated, continued to Drasnik. ‘Take a good look at this man’, he said, pointing to Leonard. ‘Is he the one who ran out of the doorway next to the cafeteria and almost knocked you down?’

  Drasnik regarded Leonard with steady eyes. He took his time and nodded slowly before he spoke. ‘It looks like him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He’s the same size and he’s got those glasses. Yeah, I’d say it was the same man.’