Crimson Clue

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘Yes, Mr. Murdock’, he said. ‘No, Mr. Murdock, I don’t remember seeing your cases.’

  ‘Well, somebody took them, damn it.’ Murdock’s voice was ragged now, his neck flushing with his anger. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I could ask the waiters.’

  ‘I asked them—some of them.’

  ‘I’ll inquire in the kitchen. If you’ll wait here, sir——’

  ‘Something wrong?’

  Murdock wheeled and one of the Elliott twins was at his shoulder. The white carnation in his buttonhole indicated he was Howard and Murdock eyed him narrowly, making an effort to keep his voice controlled as he explained what had happened.

  ‘That’s funny’, Elliott said. ‘What was in them?’

  ‘Films, camera, lenses, flash-unit, bulbs——’

  ‘But you have your camera in your hand.’

  ‘This was another, a Leica.’

  He started to continue and then he stopped. For out of the turbulence in his mind there came, tardily, another thought that centred around the dead man upstairs and the pictures he had taken.

  ‘All right’, he said. ‘Forget the equipment. How about the guy in the third-floor closet?’

  ‘Is there someone in a third-floor closet?’

  Murdock opened his mouth but anger and exasperation left him momentarily tongue-tied. He saw Elliott smile indulgently, heard his cultured voice digress, as though Murdock’s previous remark was unimportant.

  ‘I’m sorry about your equipment, old man. Can’t imagine who would have taken it.’ He turned to the butler and gave instructions about questioning the help. ‘I’m sure it will turn up’, he said to Murdock.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Naturally we’ll pay for it—I mean in case it doesn’t. After all, it’s our responsibility.’

  ‘It’s insured’, Murdock said; then, as a new thought came to him: ‘Where’s Jeff?’

  Howard said he wasn’t sure. He said he’d have a look around, and why didn’t Murdock wait in the library. He said he doubted if Jeff knew any more about the matter than he did but he would be only too glad to ask.

  Murdock glanced at his watch and saw it was a quarter after seven. He told himself he was in no hurry. He went into the library and began to pace the floor; he had finished his third round trip when Jeffrey Elliott came in still wearing his yellow carnation.

  ‘What’s the beef, kid?’ he said.

  Murdock told him in blunt, incisive tones.

  Elliott stared at him. ‘You’re kidding’, he said slowly.

  Murdock repeated his charge. He said there was a man in the third-floor closet; he said the man was dead. What he got in the way of a reaction was a tolerant sort of grin that infuriated him.

  ‘Look, kid’, Jeff said. ‘I’ve got no time for fantasy. You know what I think?’ he said, tapping Murdock’s shoulder lightly. ‘I think you’ve been hitting that champagne too hard.’

  ‘You think so?’ Murdock said, trying not to yell. ‘Well, let’s go upstairs and see.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s.’

  They left the room and marched along the hall. Lew Klime, leaning idly against the wall next to the stairs to the basement, watched them pass. A man and a woman were saying good night to Luther Canning at the front door, the man weaving slightly as he clung to his wife’s arm. Canning turned as the door closed and started up the stairs while Murdock and Jeff fell in behind him.

  They continued on up that way, unhurriedly, keeping step. They swung round the newel post at the second floor landing and mounted steadily. At the top Canning turned to look at them. ‘Oh’, he said, blinking. Then, without another word, he continued to his workroom and closed the door.

  ‘All right’, Jeff said. ‘Let’s see your corpse.’

  Murdock stepped to the closet, hesitating with his hand on the knob. As he did so he felt the first thrust of doubt. He did not know why, but it occurred to him that either Jeff Elliott was going to get the shock of his life, or else——

  He pulled the door open, glanced at the floor to find it bare. Stubbornly then he reached for the dangling string and yanked on the overhead bulb. At the rear were the piles of newspaper-wrapped bundles and in the back of his nose the smell of mothballs. That was all.

  Chapter 5

  FOR the next few seconds Kent Murdock stood where he was, not trying to explain the dead man’s disappearance but wondering why he was not more surprised. He recalled again the pictures he had taken and the circumstances surrounding his act. In his imagination he heard again the clicking sound and now he knew it must have been a door being surreptitiously closed by someone who knew exactly what he was photographing.

  He had no proof. There was still a chance that his equipment cases had been taken because of their value. It seemed more likely they were taken so that the films that would confirm his story could be destroyed; for until or unless they were destroyed, there would be small point in trying to dispose of the body.

  Now he snapped off the light and stepped into the hall. Jeff watched him, standing tall, handsome, his gaze enigmatic but assured as Murdock measured him. Only then did his mind go back to the things that had been said downstairs, only then did the other’s reaction begin to strike him as odd.

  Somehow there had been altogether too much assurance in Jeff’s attitude. He had been told that there was a murdered man in an upstairs closet. He had scoffed, which was natural, but when Murdock pressed the point he had at no time shown concern or doubt. Why, unless he knew the closet would be empty?

  ‘Well?’ he said dryly.

  Murdock made no answer but stepped round him and started for the stairs. He continued on without glancing back until he reached the library and then he sat down behind the kneehole desk and reached for the telephone.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ For the first time Jeff’s voice was quick and demanding. ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Call the police.’

  ‘But’—he came round the desk—‘I’ve already told you we’d pay for your loss.’

  ‘I remember’, Murdock said. ‘I’m talking about Homicide.’

  Jeff was leaning flat-handed on the desk. Now he straightened his gaze hard and challenging.

  ‘Okay’, he said flatly. ‘Call. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say and I’ll still be here when you try to prove it.’

  Murdock glared back at him but he left the telephone alone. Because suddenly the hot anger which had been driving him gave way to reason. For now, with his frustration in its proper place, he understood how it was.

  He had made a mistake in not calling his friend Lieutenant Bacon at Headquarters—the reason no longer mattered—and now it was too late. He could still call and tell his story, and maybe Bacon could get a search warrant and maybe he couldn’t, but even if he did, even if the house was searched, what good would it do now?

  The dead man had been moved——

  By whom?

  ‘Where’s Saul Damin?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know’, Jeff said. ‘I’ll ask Klime.’

  Murdock watched him leave, still asking himself questions. Where was Damin and the uncle from California—Todd Canning? He stood up to pace the room, brows twisted and his dark eyes smouldering. His mind kept reaching for something that would help and suddenly he remembered something else.

  He swore softly. Jeff Elliott had just said: ‘I’ve already told you we’d pay for your loss.’ Actually he had offered to do no such thing. Earlier, Howard Elliott with his white carnation had made such an offer, but not Jeff. He, Murdock, had not seen the two of them together since his arrival and now he knew why.

  Jeff—or was it Howard?—was busy helping to move the dead man and Howard was playing two parts, switching his white carnation for a yellow one and adopting his brother’s breezy way of speaking to cover up the other’s absence.

  The thought angered Murdock anew, and in his frustration he picked up the Graphic and started from the room. As he came int
o the hall he saw Howard Elliott—or was it Jeff—approaching, and behind him came Todd Canning, and Damin, and the other twin.

  ‘Here’s Damin’, one of the twins said.

  Saul Damin surveyed Murdock with his hooded eyes, his expression quizzical.

  ‘What’s this about a dead guy?’ he asked calmly.

  Murdock looked at him. He took his time inspecting Todd Canning’s weathered, angular face and what he saw told him nothing at all. He glanced at the twins.

  He wanted to say: ‘All right, so you played me for a sucker. You or one of your guests strangled a man, and someone was lucky enough to see me take his picture. Two or three of you got rid of him and then swiped the films I had and now you dare me to prove it.’ That was what he wanted to say but he couldn’t, because right now he was licked and he knew it. Instead he said:

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, seriously’, Todd Canning said.

  ‘One of the twins can tell you’, Murdock said. ‘I’ve had my say for now. When the police find the body I can identify him. But for now—forget it.’…

  The Forbes Hotel stood not far from Back Bay station, a weathered brick building that had never been one of the city’s best. In recent years it had become more definitely second rate until now it appealed mainly to those who wanted a small, moderate-priced hotel which could still be called respectable. The old dining-room had been remodelled—and cheapened—and there was a modernized but uninviting grill room that served club breakfasts; there was a bar near the elevators where drinks were priced about a nickel under the market.

  It was after eight o’clock when Kent Murdock sauntered through the lobby and looked over the loungers in the black leather chairs and divans, standing idly by until the desk clerk was unoccupied.

  ‘I wonder if you could help me out’, he said. ‘I have an appointment with a man who’s staying here and I’ve forgotten his name.’

  The clerk looked him over and was apparently satisfied with what he saw. Do you know the room number?’

  ‘Oh, yes. 322.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ The clerk consulted a rack behind the cage on the left. ‘Mr. Garvin.’

  Murdock snapped his fingers and put on what he hoped was a proper expression of good humour and chagrin.

  ‘That’s it. His first name is——’

  ‘Neil.’

  ‘Thanks’, Murdock said. ‘Always like to be able to call a man by his name.’

  He backed away and headed for the elevators, wishing again that he had taken the key from the late Mr. Garvin’s pocket while he had the chance. As substitutes he had in his pocket a ring of keys he had been accumulating for some time. He had detoured past the office on his way here to pick them up, and now he was hoping one of them might work.

  As it turned out he did not have a chance to try them because when he found Room 322 near the end of the corridor he tried the knob automatically, knocking first as a precautionary measure, waiting a moment, then feeling the latch turn freely. He did not speculate then as to why the door was unlocked, though he found out later; instead he congratulated himself on his good fortune, pushed into a lighted room, and almost immediately understood why this should be.

  His first glance told him the room had been searched and this annoyed him, even though he told himself he should have expected it. He closed the door, walked slowly through the entrance hall and past the darkened bathroom. He saw the open suitcase on the bed, the dirty linen it contained. There were some letters on the bedside table, some in envelopes, some not. All were handwritten. He could see that much though he did not immediately inspect them.

  The two small bureau drawers were partly open and he glanced in at the clean handkerchiefs, socks, and underwear. The drawer below this held pyjamas and three clean shirts; the other drawers were empty. The closet yielded one grey suit, a sports coat which was violently colourful, and a pair of slacks. Except for handkerchiefs and paper matches, the pockets were empty.

  He moved back to the centre of the room and slowly looked it over again, his hat pushed back, hands on hips and fanning out the skirt of his topcoat. He was still there when the knock came at the door.

  ‘Come in’, he said, and watched it open.

  The girl who came in was tall and slender. Her simple camel’s-hair coat was open to reveal the dark dress underneath, and she carried a red shoulder bag. Her blonde hair was two toned and worn rather long, her brows full and even so that her eyes had a deep-set look. They opened wide as they saw Murdock, and after her first quick step forward she stopped.

  ‘Oh’, she said. ‘I thought—isn’t Neil here?’

  Murdock smiled to reassure her but his mind was groping. For something about this girl was familiar and he could not remember what it was. He knew he had seen her, and recently, and while he jogged his memory he took off his hat and tried to stall.

  ‘Mr. Garvin?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  He watched her glance uncertainly about the room. He saw then that she carried a flat, brown-paper package, and as she looked at it, he remembered. This was the girl he had seen sitting on the stone bench outside the Canning home. She had worn a suit then and he had wondered about her as he inspected her from the staircase window.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ he said, ‘but he should be back any minute.’

  ‘Well’—she hesitated, then smiled—‘will you tell him the clerk gave me the envelope and that I’ll keep it for him.’

  ‘And who shall I say?’

  ‘Oh, just tell him the girl in 531.’

  Murdock said he’d be glad to and was rewarded with another quick smile before she left; then he put his hat back on and stood there, wondering what all this meant. What, he asked himself, was this girl to Neil Garvin? Both had been at the Canning house but certainly not as guests. Why then? What was the connection?

  There was no answer to this and in the end he turned to the bedside table and the letters there. He picked up an envelope first and saw that it was addressed in an immature hand to Mr. Neil Garvin, at a Los Angeles address. The postmark was dated October 1945.

  He put this back and picked up the sheet beside it, a thin, blue-bordered, feminine bit of stationery, in one corner of which were the die-cut initials: PLC.

  The light was none too good here so he stepped over to the bureau lamp, repeating the initials silently, knowing even then whose they were but not yet accepting the fact. He read the salutation which said: My darling, turned to the bottom of the second sheet and read: Tour own Pat. The body of the letter he merely scanned but that was enough to tell him of the infatuated and passionate message which had been penned more than six years previously.

  Speaking only to himself, he said: ‘Patricia Lynn Canning’, then stared at the note with unseeing eyes, his thoughts troubled, intent, and so distant that he had no warning of what was to come.

  There was only some whisper of sound behind him, a fleeting instant of subconscious reaction; then, before he could move, the ceiling fell in on him and the lights went out.

  Chapter 6

  WHEN Murdock came to he was on the floor and his first conscious thought was spent in wondering how he got there. The room lights were still on, and as he sat up he saw his hat and picked it up, automatically punching it back into shape. His head ached but not severely, the centre of pain behind and above the right ear. Here there was a small but growing lump but the skin was not broken and he knew he was not seriously hurt.

  He stood up, wincing a little with the sudden movement. He brushed and straightened his coat as he glanced round. The room was exactly as he remembered it except for the letters. The one he had been reading was gone, as were the others—letters and envelopes—on the bedside table.

  It took no great mental effort to understand what had happened. He had very nearly walked in on someone who was searching the room. The fact that he had knocked before he entered gave the searcher a chance to duck into the darkened bathroom. Apparently the object of the search was
those letters. They had been found and put on the small table and one of them had been carried to the bureau light, just as he had done, for a more careful reading. As a result there had been no chance to retrieve the others when the knock came.

  This much seemed obvious. Equally obvious was the realization that it was Neil Garvin with whom Pat Canning had had her wild but brief affair so many years ago. Garvin had kept those letters. He had brought them on from the coast and had gone out to the Canning house, apparently believing that some price would be paid for them rather than let the prospective groom see them before the wedding. Now Garvin was dead, the letters gone.

  Murdock thought of these things with a smouldering resentment as he stepped over to the mirror and straightened his tie. When he saw his darkly scowling face he rearranged it so that only the eyes reflected his mood. After one more glance about the room he went out, leaving it as it was, walked along the corridor to the elevator, and pushed the button. When the door opened he asked the operator if he’d had any customers from the third floor in the last five minutes.

  ‘No, sir’, the boy said. ‘Not for about ten.’

  ‘What about the fourth, or fifth?’

  ‘Nothing from the fourth. There was a young couple on the fifth, and a girl, and an older guy.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  The boy shrugged. He said he wasn’t sure. Maybe about fifty, with grey hair and sort of thin. He didn’t bother to look.

  ‘Are you going down?’ he asked as the buzzer sounded inside the car.

  Murdock said no. He waited until the door closed, then located the stairs and climbed two floors. At the door of Room 531 he knocked three times; when there was no answer he rang for the elevator and rode down to the lobby.

  He felt like a drink but because he was disgusted with himself he denied himself that pleasure. He walked through the dimly lighted bar, idly scanning the faces of those who occupied the stools as well as those at the tables. He came back to the lobby and found a chair where he could see both the main entrance and the elevators.