Crimson Clue

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘She wrote me,’ he said, ‘and I answered her. For kicks, mostly, at first. You could tell she was society, and loaded. I got a bang out of it because it turned out she really fell for me. She said she was eighteen. I’d drive up to this little town and she’d sneak out of the dormitory and we’d go for rides.’ He paused, seeing perhaps the doubt and incredulity in her gaze.

  ‘Maybe you don’t believe me’, he said. ‘Maybe I don’t look so sharp now. But six years ago it was different.’ He indicated his suitcase on the luggage rack. ‘I got plenty of her old letters to prove it.’

  She answered quickly, afraid that he would stop or digress. ‘Why shouldn’t I believe you. What happened?’

  He told her and she listened, her mind busy, following the progress of this odd romance of a rich and headstrong girl who was infatuated, and the man who was less infatuated than fascinated by the possibilities of the romance. He had never known anyone like her, and his own wishful thinking led him to believe that things might work out. Her ardour and inexperience excited him and his imagination conjured up many pleasant, if unrealistic, pictures of the future.

  ‘We got a licence,’ he said, ‘and then a few days later a friend drove her into Santa Barbara. We got married and started north in my car.’ He paused, his mouth twisting unpleasantly with the pressure of his thoughts.

  ‘The trouble was,’ he said, ‘the word got out, but quick. She had an uncle living on a ranch not far from the school. She had a cousin working in Hollywood. They wired the old man in Boston and got the authorities working on it. The uncle, the cousin, and the cops caught up with us in Frisco that evening.’

  He grunted and said: ‘They read me page eight. They said Pat wasn’t eighteen like she said, but seventeen. That put me over a barrel; I couldn’t even argue. They could have put me away if they’d wanted publicity. They didn’t. They gave me a few bills for my co-operation and told me to blow. That was it. A few days later the marriage was annulled.’

  The things she had heard stayed in Audrey Wayne’s thoughts a long time. Later when Garvin questioned her about herself she answered automatically, hardly knowing what she said. He found out she’d been a singer, and later a stock player at one of the studios; that she’d done some radio and a little television work, that she hoped to do better in New York.

  ‘Why not try Boston first?’ he said as the plane approached Chicago. ‘I could help you there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I know a guy. A big shot. Song writer. I hear he’s a musical director at one of the local stations. I don’t know if I could get you a job but I sure as hell could get you an audition.’

  She made up her mind as the plane taxied to the unloading strip but not for the reason he assumed. She had no more faith in his ability to help her than she had in similar propositions made by other men in the past. Neil Garvin, she felt sure, had made the offer because he liked her and not because he expected any return favours, but her decision came from the earlier story he had told her, and the newspaper clipping she had seen. She made sure of one thing as they stood in the air terminal.

  ‘This cousin’, she said. ‘The one that helped break up your elopement. Was his name Elliott?’

  Garvin gave her a strange look. ‘Yes’, he said. ‘I think it was.’

  ‘Jeffrey Elliott?’

  ‘That’s the guy. Big and blond and sort of tough looking. You know him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, what do you know? A small world, hunh? Now how about you and me being bus-mates to Boston?’

  She smiled. She said he’d talked her into it, but in her mind was the thought that it would not be much out of the way to go to New York by way of Boston. She could afford to waste a day or two; she might even get a look at the wedding.…

  The hand on her arm snapped her reverie and brought her mind back to the moment and the passing New England countryside. She turned from the window and Garvin was grinning at her.

  ‘Nearly there?’ he asked. ‘I saw a sign that said something about Wellesley.’

  ‘Then it’s only a few more minutes.’

  ‘It hasn’t been too rough, has it? Considering the dough we saved.’

  He stood up and handed her her neatly folded jacket. He pulled his trench coat down and fumbled in one of the pockets until he pulled out a flat, manila-wrapped package. She saw then that it was a large envelope which had been folded into a squarish shape and securely fastened with Scotch tape. She watched him tap it, saw the bright gleam in his narrowed dark eyes.

  When he winked she knew she was expected to say something so she asked what it was.

  ‘It’s going to make me my fortune’, he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Check with me a month from now and see if I’m not right.… Do you know any hotels in Boston?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘A clean one. Respectable but cheap? We could get rooms at the same place. Maybe we could have dinner.’

  She made no reply to this but watched him put the envelope back in his pocket, wondering why he spoke so often in terms of enigma, wondering how one could be a man’s constant companion for more than thirty hours and still know so little about what he was really like.

  Chapter 3

  THE Canning home was an oversized structure of stone and timber, with a tower at one corner, too many gables, and a rambling porch, canvased in on one side for the reception. The grounds, walled in on all sides, extended the depth of the block, with a main gate at the front and a smaller, service entrance on the street in back.

  Kent Murdock, arriving in a taxi a little after three, was waved in by the gateman as soon as he had identified himself. He unloaded his paraphernalia on the front steps—two cameras, the Leica and the small Speed-Graphic, two equipment cases, one of them bulging with flashbulbs—and a moment later the door opened and a houseman came to assist him. One of the Elliott twins was waiting as they crossed the porch, but Murdock did not know which one until he spoke.

  For the twins were identical in the outward physical aspects such as height, weight, colouring, and facial structure. They stood about six-feet-two, with rangy, athletic builds that seemed as fit now at thirty as at twenty-one when they both rowed in the same shell. Their close-cropped hair was light brown and curly, their eyes dark blue, their faces rectangular, with straight noses and close-set ears.

  Their similarity ended, however, with their physiques. Howard, they said, was quiet, reserved, conscientious, serious minded. He had a proper way of speaking, his manners were impeccable, and it was he who had gone into the family business after college and the Navy, trying hard ever since to keep it operating at a profit.

  Jeffrey, on the other hand, was impulsive, quick tempered, independent, and gregarious. His manner was off-hand, his speech of the vernacular. He had rebelled early at the family business and had had some success in writing while in college. After the war he had done some pieces on the Pacific which had eventually sold to Hollywood. He went out there on an assignment and stayed on to free lance, at first for the movies and after that in radio. Coming East two years ago he had got into television on station WXCD and was presently a producer and part owner.

  The man who stood there now with his pearl-grey ascot and cutaway that had been tailored with loving care had a yellow carnation in his buttonhole for—as Murdock was to learn—identification purposes. When he opened his mouth it was Jeffrey Elliott who spoke.

  ‘Hi, Murdock’, he said. ‘Come in. Pat gave us the word.’

  He led the way along a broad bare hall to a small closet behind the staircase, announcing that Murdock could use this as a base of operations and that his equipment would be safe there.

  ‘You can look around now if you like’, he added. ‘The presents are downstairs’—he pointed to a stairway leading down beyond the closet—‘and champagne’s on the porch. Pat said we were to leave you alone, but I think she wants a picture when she comes out with the old man around a quarter of four … Oh
, do you know my brother, Howard?… Kent Murdock.’

  Murdock shook hands with a man whose looks and dress were identical with Jeffrey’s, except for the carnation in his lapel, which in this case was white. His voice, however, was more precisely articulated, more pleasant.

  ‘It was nice of you to come’, he said. ‘If there’s anything at all we can do please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Murdock thanked him, slipped out of his topcoat, and hung it in the closet. Then, as the twins moved off, he busied himself with his equipment and presently he was ready to look over the house.

  The three rooms on the right side—two living-rooms and a sunroom—had been emptied of furniture, and wide connecting doors had been thrown open so that the guests could circulate unhampered from room to room, or to the enclosed porch by way of the French doors which opened from each room. Murdock glanced about with a professional eye, looking for light sources, estimating values, wondering how much help he would get from the two huge chandeliers that hung in the two front rooms. In one corner a skinny youth sat on the piano bench, tapping out one-finger notes while the bass player tuned up. At one side the drummer was setting up his traps but Murdock did not recognize any of the three so he wandered out to the porch. Here a bar had been set up at each end, and waiters were stacking glasses while the barmen emptied cases of champagne bottles into tubs of ice and opened other bottles on the back bar for those who wanted something stronger.

  Back in the main hall, Murdock continued past the closet and down the carpeted stairs to an enormous panelled playroom where a number of tables had been placed end to end and piled with the largest assortment of silver, glass, china, and leatherwork that he had ever seen at one time.

  For a moment or two he could only stare. When he advanced to get a closer look he became aware of the two men who stood in the shadows of one wall. Then a voice said:

  ‘Mustn’t touch.’

  Murdock recognized the speaker when he glanced up. He knew who the other man was, though he had never met him. Both wore blue suits, and the man who had spoken was slim and dark and thin-nosed. His name was Saul Damin. He was a private detective and senior partner in the agency of Damin and Klime. Now, watching Murdock approach with small, hooded eyes that were seldom still, he introduced his partner.

  ‘You know Lew Klime?… Kent Murdock.’

  Klime was a broad-shouldered bruiser with a rugged, lopsided face and reddish hair. He did not offer to shake hands but nodded casually.

  ‘Hi’, he said.

  Murdock said: ‘Hi’, and looked at Damin. ‘I hope you two are bonded.’

  ‘You know we are.’

  ‘With this kind of loot a guy could set up quite a business.’

  ‘Hah’, said Klime, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You want to take a picture of us?’ Damin asked, grinning.

  ‘No’, Murdock said and turned back to the table. ‘Who sold the Cannings on having guards?’

  ‘I did’, Damin said. ‘It’s not only the poor that get light fingered.’

  ‘You still do work for the Canning Mills?’

  Damin nodded. ‘Monthly retainer. I told them we’d be glad to come up and hang around a few hours … How about a spot of that vintage stuff they’ve got upstairs?’

  Murdock glanced at his strapwatch and shook his head. He said he had to get a picture of the bride and her father.

  He was ready when they came down the stairs, and Patricia was a beautiful sight to behold in her white lace dress and little cap and sweeping train. There was a radiance in her cheeks Murdock had seldom seen and music in her voice when she said hello to him.

  He was using a film pack in the Graphic and he worked fast, focus fixed, and experience telling him when to press the shutter release. He caught the father and daughter coming through the wide doorway arm in arm, Luther Canning blinking at the flash, a bulky man not much taller than the girl, bald, uncertain, and wearing a harried, absent look.

  Murdock was waiting again as they came down the front steps to the limousine, and got his second shot there. He asked them to hold it as the father helped the daughter into the car, and he got his last picture of the two in the back seat just before they got under way. Then he came back into the house and decided to sample the champagne.

  He sampled it twice, sipping slowly and taking his time as he sat near the front railing in the late afternoon sunshine and looked down across the now deserted driveway. He was not sure how long it would be before the bride returned as Mrs. Armington so after about ten minutes he came back into the drawing room to find the orchestra ready for business.

  Sydney French was talking to his men and Murdock went over to say hello. French shook hands, grinning happily when Murdock told him that Pat had said he would be there in person.

  ‘To keep my hand in,’ French said, fooling with the E-string, ‘and to get a good look at the inside of a joint like this.’

  All of which, Murdock knew, was true. Sydney French no longer had to play guitar if he did not want to, which in some ways was a shame. For he was known to be the best man in New England, and it was Murdock’s contention that on a chord guitar, with almost any kind of backing, he was the best since the late Eddie Lang.

  A local boy, he had played all over the country, with big bands and small, never getting much publicity except among musicians. He was sideman and a good one, but it was not until he reappeared on the local scene three years previously that he had hit the jackpot, not as a guitarist but as a song writer of three hit tunes, two of which, ‘Eternally’ and ‘The Man for Me’, had been in the top ten for weeks.

  At the time, he had a small band of his own and was doing some arranging for station WXCD. Presently he had two bands which he booked but seldom played with. Later he had a radio programme of his own, and currently he was acting as musical director for two television shows at the same studio and, in extra-curricular work, was engaged to a young divorcee who had both money and looks.

  ‘Play pretty’, Murdock said.

  French hit a full chord, a large man in his early thirties with brown hair and eyes, a small moustache, and a pink, rounded face beginning to get soft. Unlike the other members of the band he was resplendent in striped trousers and a short, Oxford grey jacket so that he looked more like a wedding guest than a musician.

  ‘Don’t I always?’ he said.

  ‘Most always’, Murdock said, and then, as the butler came up to announce the arrival of the bride and groom, he hurried into the hall to photograph their entrance.

  The house filled rapidly once the bridal party had arrived and for a while Murdock was a busy man. Instinct and training told him what to photograph and he recorded the usual things: the receiving line, the bride and groom dancing, the bride dancing with her father and the ushers, the groom with the bridesmaids, the cutting of the cake.

  Later he stopped Howard Elliott with his white carnation and asked for suggestions for other pictures that the bride might want. He was standing with Howard when Pat danced by with a wiry, straight-backed man he had noticed before but did not know. Two things had made him noticeable: the slight limp with which he moved and the deep, sunburned colour of his lined and bony face. He did not dance well and he looked uncomfortable in his cutaway and now, as Pat saw Murdock and the camera, she stopped dancing and brought the man over.

  ‘This is my Uncle Todd’, she said. ‘Todd Canning—Kent Murdock.… Todd came all the way from California to make sure I was properly married. Could we have a picture?’

  The man nodded and mumbled some acknowledgment. When he shook hands his grip was hard and calloused, the inspection of his keen grey eyes thorough.

  ‘How do you want it?’ Murdock asked, lifting the camera.

  ‘Like we were dancing,’ the girl said, ‘only we won’t. Put your arm around me, Todd. And smile, as if you enjoyed it.’

  The thin smile came briefly and Murdock caught it. Then, as the two danced off, he asked Howard how long he thought it would be bef
ore the bride tossed her bouquet. When the twin said probably not for a while, Murdock said it would be a good time to get more flashbulbs.

  Skirting the dancers in the front room, he reached the hall and was then confronted with a jam of people, effectively blocking off the little closet and his supplies. A glance at the tabs of his film pack told him he had two exposures left, and since he had a spare pack in his pocket he decided to make the change now; but not here, with people jogging his arm and crushing the camera against him. He still had three bulbs in his pocket, enough for the moment, so instead of waiting for the jam to disperse he turned to the more open spaces of the stairs and second floor.

  He reached the landing by the window just as a half dozen chattering women started down from the second floor, so he waited there and glanced out of the window into the gathering dusk. That was how he happened to see the girl sitting on the stone bench between the hedge and the wall.

  He could see that she was blonde, and from the distance she looked pretty. But what held his attention was her manner of dress, which seemed neat and stylish enough but hardly proper for an occasion like this. She wore a brown suit, tailored rather than dressy, and while he watched her, her attention seemed centred on the front of the house.

  Still wondering, he turned away, and found the stairs momentarily clear, so he went on to the second floor to find it only slightly less congested than the one below. No one paid any attention to him, or to the camera in his hand, so after a quick and none too hopeful look, he moved on to the second flight of stairs and started up.

  Here, on the third floor, it was quiet and he stood a moment, getting his breath. He glanced about for a place to sit down and there was none in the long hall. Then, because he had been on his feet ever since he had come, he decided to sit down for a minute while he changed film packs. Because of this simple and impulsive decision he was able to take an unexpected picture and one that, in some ways, might better have never been taken at all.