Crimson Clue

by George Harmon Coxe

  Even as he spoke, not trying to make it sound too important, it somehow seemed important that she say yes. He did not bother to wonder why, but he was looking right at her and he found the answer in her glance even before her words confirmed his hunch.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding genuinely regretful, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Murdock grinned to put down his disappointment. ‘No good?’

  ‘If you had asked me before——’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘I’d like to; I really would.’ She watched him stand up and grind out his cigarette. ‘That was Jeff’, she said. ‘He asked me and I said I would.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You couldn’t make it lunch tomorrow?’

  Murdock’s grin became more genuine because somehow he understood that she really was sorry. In another second he was over his disappointment.

  ‘I might.’

  ‘I could tell you all about my audition’, she said happily while she held his coat.

  ‘One o’clock’, Murdock said. ‘Here. Unless you call me to the contrary.’

  Chapter 13

  WHEN Kent Murdock got back to the office things were still quiet so he told Spencer to go out and get his dinner.

  ‘Take your time’, he said. ‘I’ve got nothing to do.’

  He reconsidered the statement after Spencer left and found it to be an exaggeration. He had plenty to do; just how much he realized when he opened a drawer and took out the thick sheaf of negatives he had exposed at the Canning reception.

  He had to make albums. He had to buy albums before he could make them and he had to have a dozen more copies of each print. But first he had to print up each negative so Pat could make her final selection. He could not ask a staff man to help him either because this was an outside job and he was the lad who was stuck with it.

  Reluctantly, but no longer able to put off with good conscience the beginning of the job, he took the negatives into the printing room and got to work, first rolling up his sleeves and then donning an apron to protect his trousers. He did not keep track of time but worked steadily, making one eight-by-ten glossy print after another, fixing, washing, putting them through ferrotyper and drier, and none too happy about the job of developing that someone had done for him. He quit when his feet got tired and his back began to develop annoying kinks. He was about three-quarters finished then, and when he looked at his watch he saw that it was twenty after seven.

  He realized then that he was hungry and, his present mood calling for a good dinner in pleasant surroundings, he went out and walked five fast blocks to a restaurant just off Stuart Street which had excellent food and no menu. You were told what you could have on that particular night—usually lobster and chicken, and either steak or roast beef—and you told the waiter and that was that.

  The hat-check girl gave him her customary smile and he waited in the dimly lit entrance while the headwaiter took care of the couple ahead of him. At the far end of the low-ceilinged room a piano player was working with a light touch which, along with the acoustical properties of the padded walls, kept the music soft and seldom interfered with one’s conversation. The bar was in an alcove on the left but even here the talk was quiet and restrained.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Murdock.’ The headwaiter bowed. ‘Alone tonight?’ He turned, taking in the room with a glance, and spoke to the captain who had come up behind him. ‘Table twenty-one for Mr. Murdock.’

  Murdock followed the captain to the right, and down along the row of leather-covered banquettes, seeing here and there someone he knew but continuing on until, close by, a man’s voice called to him.

  ‘Hey, Kent!’

  Murdock stopped. When he turned to glance back he saw Sydney French and Vivian Keith at one of the larger tables. French was beckoning and shoving over on the leather seat to make room.

  ‘Come on’, he said. ‘Sit down. You’re alone, aren’t you?’

  Up ahead the captain was pulling out a chair and waiting expectantly. Murdock wavered, not particularly wanting company but unable at the moment to think of an adequate excuse.

  ‘Please’, Vivian said. ‘We haven’t ordered yet.’

  Murdock thanked them and sat down. The captain came back, his disapproval showing as he gestured for a bus boy to set up another place.

  ‘Two more martinis, Albert,’ Vivian said, ‘and a double for Mr. Murdock.’

  ‘A single, please, Albert’, Murdock said.

  ‘We’re ahead of you’, French said.

  Murdock said that was a good way to be and then French was offering a cigarette while a sudden silence grew around them. Without knowing how much, if anything, the woman knew about Sydney French’s interview with Lieutenant Bacon, Murdock understood that the subject of murder was a closed one. Then he thought of something that would serve as a conversational gambit.

  ‘I made a print of your picture’, he said.

  ‘You did?’ Vivian turned, her mascaraed lashes wide. ‘And is it good? When can we see it?’

  Murdock laughed. He said maybe tomorrow. ‘I’ll make an extra copy.’

  ‘I’m dying to see it’, Vivian said. ‘I really am. How do we look? Is it awful?’

  ‘What she means,’ said French, ‘is does it flatter her.’

  Vivian said she meant no such thing and took a large swallow of the fresh martini. Then, abruptly, she excused herself and gathered up her things. As soon as she started down the room French sat down and opened up, his soft, round face troubled and unhappy.

  ‘That Bacon,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘is rough.’

  ‘He’s a cop. He was rough on me this morning and I’ve known him for years.’

  ‘For a while you’d have thought I was a suspect.’

  Murdock shrugged. Knowing Bacon’s manner and methods it was easy to understand French’s concern. He said that was all part of Bacon’s act.

  ‘In a homicide,’ he said, ‘Bacon suspects everybody. He would have had me under suspicion if he could have found a half-way decent motive.’

  French combed his moustache with a thumbnail, looked glumly into the glass, and then drained it. He sighed. ‘Yeah’, he said. ‘I guess you’re right. It’s just that—well, you know I keep thinking of that other jolt and——’

  ‘How much does Vivian know?’

  ‘About that? Nothing.’

  ‘About Garvin.’

  ‘Vivian reads the papers. I told her I knew him.’ French began to twist the stem of his glass between his guitarist’s fingers. ‘I told her he’d looked me up the other night and hit me for a job because I figured she might somehow find out and then——’

  He stopped short, making a quick facial gesture that implied caution, and focused his eyes beyond Murdock’s shoulder. Then Vivian was there, smiling brightly at them as they rose, and fluffing her reddish-blonde hair.

  ‘Do you think,’ she said, ‘we might have one more round while we’re ordering?’

  French summoned the waiter. He said they wanted another drink but they’d order first and what was good.

  ‘The roast beef.’ The waiter rolled his eyes. ‘Exquisite.’

  ‘With baked potatoes and a salad?’ French glanced round to see how his suggestion was received.

  ‘For me, yes’, Murdock said.

  ‘The salad,’ Vivian said, ‘but no potatoes.’

  ‘Anything first?’ asked the waiter hopefully.

  ‘A crabmeat cocktail’, Vivian said after due consideration.

  French said that was all right with him and Murdock said he would pass up the first course.…

  They were waiting for coffee when Audrey Wayne and Jeff Elliott came in. French spotted them first as they came down along the opposite side of the room. He tapped Murdock’s wrist and nodded his head sideways.

  ‘Jeff Elliott.’

  Vivian peered beyond him and watched the couple sit down. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘By his clothes. The brother, Howard, dresses like a banker.
’

  ‘And who do you know that’s a banker?’

  ‘Bankers dress conservative’, French said. ‘All the books say so.’

  ‘The girl is quite pretty’, Vivian continued her inspection. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘She’s his ex-wife’, Murdock said.

  French opened his mouth, stared, closed it. He grinned his disbelief. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I didn’t know he’d ever been married’, Vivian said.

  ‘Neither does anyone else in this part of the country’, Murdock said, and then went on to tell briefly of the two-year marriage that had foundered.

  French said he’d be damned. ‘When I talked to her this afternoon she told me about her background but she didn’t say a word about being married.’

  ‘Oh?’ Vivian’s brows climbed again, her glance at once suspicious. ‘You talked to her this afternoon?’

  ‘Sure. I’m getting her an audition.’ French reached out and covered her hand with his own, holding it as he continued. ‘She was a friend of Garvin’s’, he said in the elaborately patient manner of one reassuring a child. ‘She came on from the coast with him. He spoke to me about her the night he arrived and I said I’d see her. She’s a nice kid. I wouldn’t be surprised if we could use her now and then.’

  ‘And why,’ Vivian said, ‘didn’t she ask her ex-husband if she wanted a job in television? He’s higher up than you are.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t know how high up he was,’ Murdock said, ‘or maybe she had too much pride.’

  She gave him a tilted look which suggested that she did not quite understand what he meant.

  ‘I mean, it would depend on how you felt about your ex-husband, wouldn’t it? Under some circumstances you might ask for help; under others he might be the last guy in the world you’d go to.’

  French sighed audibly. ‘This is getting a little involved’, he said. ‘All I know is I interviewed her.’

  ‘You told us, darling.’ Vivian smiled at him and her small red mouth relaxed. ‘But if you have all these openings in television I should think you might think of me.’

  ‘I do’, French said. ‘Constantly.’

  The coffee came and with it French ordered brandy. The conversation veered to more musical subjects and Murdock asked if French had any new songs that looked good. French said no; he said he had to do so much work at the studio fooling around with other people’s music he never had any time for his own.

  ‘Maybe when we go away,’ he said, looking at his fiancée, ‘I’ll get a chance to knock out something new.’

  ‘If you have time’, Vivian said, her eyes holding his over the top of her brandy glass.

  ‘If I have time.’

  ‘You could call it “Honeymoon Song”.’

  French insisted on taking care of the bill, arguing that it could constitute payment for the two prints Murdock had promised to give them. He held Vivian’s mink and she explored the edges of her hair with practised fingers, glancing over at Audrey and Jeff before she picked up her bag and gloves. When French said he wanted to speak to Jeff a moment, Murdock walked with Vivian to the foyer to claim his hat and coat.

  Vivian watched him, yawning extravagantly behind her small hand. ‘That’s the trouble with martinis’, she said. ‘I love them, and if I have more than two before dinner I either have to go to bed or start in all over again and make an evening of it.’

  Murdock remarked that hers was a universal complaint and she said: ‘I don’t know what Syd’s plans are but we’d love to have you join us, whatever they are.’

  Murdock thanked her and shook his head. He refused French’s offer of a ride and said he needed the exercise. They said their good-byes on the sidewalk and then Murdock started down the street in long easy strides, his head up and shoulders squared as he sucked in the cool night air.

  After that dinner, exercise was exactly what he needed, and he went back to the Courier in a roundabout fashion, covering ten blocks without breaking stride or indulging in window-shopping. Back at his desk, he considered printing some more pictures but decided he was too lazy, so he sat there smoking for a few minutes, checked once with the City Desk, and told Spencer he was calling it a day.

  It was close to eleven o’clock when he climbed the stairs and let himself into his apartment. He hung his hat and coat up in the closet without bothering to turn on the light. There was enough reflected glow from the street outside to guide him across the familiar living-room and he went directly to the bedroom and snapped on the light. He was half undressed and in his stockinged feet when the telephone rang.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed it with grave suspicion. He let it ring again, afraid to answer it and afraid not to lest it be something about the Courier that needed his attention. Finally he sighed and reached for the offending instrument. After that he was very glad he had.

  Chapter 14

  AUDREY WAYNE was a puzzled and emotionally disturbed young woman when she got out of Jeff Elliott’s car at the entrance to the Forbes Hotel and thanked him for dinner and a very pleasant evening.

  ‘It was fun’, she said.

  ‘We’ll do it often,’ he said, ‘now that you’re going to work for us.’

  ‘I hope.’

  They both laughed and he said he would see her in the morning when he looked in on her audition. Then the policeman on the corner who had been eyeing the open infringement of the no-parking area, started toward the car and Audrey said good night and started slowly up the wide stone steps.

  The clerk gave her a smile along with her key, and she went over to the elevator and pressed the button, glancing idly into the bar and realizing for the first time how easy it would be for someone to come into the hotel that way and then take the stairs beyond the elevator. With luck one could come or go that way without being seen and she wondered if that was how the man had come who was waiting in her room the night before.

  When she realized the trend of her thoughts it surprised her. Why, she asked herself, should she think such things? Why should she feel so strangely depressed now when she had looked forward to the evening with such anticipation.

  At first she had been both thrilled and excited to be with Jeff again. He had always been easy to talk to, fun to be with. He had changed very little in manner or in looks. He still had that breezy, humorous way of talking and she liked the way he wore his clothes, the way his brown hair seemed to hug his head, the little mannerisms of voice and movement that she had all but forgotten. They had met without diffidence or self-consciousness, and because she still felt the pull of his good looks and masculinity she tried to analyse her feelings as honestly as she could.

  Within the hour she had asked herself if she still loved him and then, when she could find no honest answer, whether he loved her. She still thrilled to the touch of his hand. When he looked at her and smiled over his shoulder at her as they sat side by side on their bar stools before dinner she could feel her resistance melting. The soft huskiness of his voice had been intimate and convincing as they talked of other days, of troubles and regrets.

  Even now she could not be sure just when she had been first conscious of the change. It was nothing she could put her finger on, for the warm ecstatic glow inside her remained constant and undiminished when he began to speak of Neil Garvin.

  His smile seemed the same and the look in his blue eyes was intimate and flattering, but gradually she sensed that something had happened to his voice. He spoke casually at first as he questioned her about her trip East, his manner suggesting that it was unimportant and a matter of nothing more than idle curiosity. But he had been persistent.

  What did they talk about? How much did Garvin tell her about himself? What were his plans and why was he coming to Boston?

  In the end, of course, she had to tell him about the newspaper clipping and presently the glow was gone along with a small piece of her dream. She told him what she could remember, a small stir of fear
and uncertainty beginning to colour her thoughts. He was no longer looking at her, he was watching her, weighing things in his mind as the silence built up between them. Finally he took a breath and made a small gesture with one hand. Then, after pledging her to secrecy, he told her what he knew about Garvin.

  She listened with growing amazement as his story unfolded, and when he finished she did not know what to say, she only knew the vague whispering of fear was still working on her mind and warping her thoughts. When he asked if she believed him she said yes, and he said he had to tell her because he wanted her to know the truth, that after the things she had heard in Lieutenant Bacon’s office that morning he had been worried about what she might be thinking.

  ‘Is it important?’ she had said in her uncertainty. ‘What I think?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  She had believed him then, hadn’t she? And she still believed him——

  She turned, startled, when the elevator man spoke to her.

  ‘Did you ring, Miss?’

  She said she was sorry and stepped quickly into the car. She had her key ready when she reached her room, and something made her reach in to snap on the light and glance about before she could bring herself to step inside.

  Locking the door behind her, she left the key in the lock. She put her coat in the closet opposite the bath and went over to the bureau to put down her bag and remove her earrings. She unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head and then, turning, she saw the black, unshaded window.

  She smiled then, not knowing what was beyond it but taking no chances, starting briskly toward it, the dress dangling from one hand. She passed the foot of the low four-poster, at the same time reaching for the little ring which dangled from the shade. As she did so she felt her dress catch on one of the bedposts, yanking her back. She stumbled and half fell away from the window and as she went down she heard three sounds that came almost together.

  She knew later that the combination of dress and bedpost which yanked her backward had saved her life. At the moment she heard only a flat, clicking sound followed by a solid thud and then, simultaneously and from somewhere close but outside the room, she heard the explosion of the gun.