Crimson Clue

by George Harmon Coxe

  The address proved to be near the foot of Beacon Hill, on one of those sloping, one-way streets where the old, flat-roofed houses stand close to the sidewalk and differ from one another only in the shape and colour of their doorways. A car was pulling away from the kerb about a half block ahead of Murdock as he eased downhill in gear, and he angled into the vacant spot. He cut his lights and motor and locked the doors because he had a camera behind the seat; then he walked back perhaps fifty feet, past a narrow alleyway, to find that Klime’s house adjoined this.

  The street was so dark that he had to strike a match to find the brass number next to the recessed entryway. There was no fanlight and when he stepped into what seemed like total blackness he had to fumble along the panel before he could find the knob.

  There was a patent closer of the pneumatic kind on the door. This no longer worked efficiently so that the door was closed but not latched, and he pushed into a dimly lighted vestibule just about large enough to turn around in, aware now of the sound of a radio somewhere inside. He saw from the mailboxes on the wall that there were apparently only four apartments, one to the floor, and of these Klime had number two.

  Backing out on the street again, Murdock glanced up at the windows above. On the second floor the shades were drawn but it seemed to him that there was some light beyond them, not bright but enough to be noticeable. He was still not sure when he came back to the vestibule, but having come this far he stubbornly decided to keep going. If Klime was home he’d pay him a visit and have a look around; if not——

  He pressed the button above Klime’s mailbox, pressed it again. When there was no answer the second time he tried the inner door, found it unlocked, and went into a narrow hall, beyond which, and no wider than the entryway, were the stairs. He knew then that the radio or television sounds came from the single door on the right, the volume almost deafening.

  At the second-floor landing he knocked at the door. He knocked a second time and then again, louder this time because he could hear the sound of radio music, not from the set on the floor below but closer and more muted.

  Finally he took out the thin steel strip his detective friend had given him and forced it into the crack opposite the bolt. He felt this ease back and turned the knob, hesitating now, no longer confident and suddenly aware of some new uneasiness which had begun to work along the muscles of his stomach.

  His hand was moist on the doorknob and he could feel the warmth creeping along his back and neck. The little hall, lighted by a single small bulb which burned ahead where the stairs turned upward, seemed stuffy, and he could feel the prickle of perspiration at his hair-line.

  ‘Okay’, he said, talking to himself. ‘So you’re nervous. So if Klime is waiting inside and you walk in on him like this you’ll be in a spot.’

  Still muttering, he pushed the door open about six inches and slid his hand round the corner to put the lock on latch. He knocked again, aware now that the music was coming from this room. Then, not understanding why this should be, but driven by something quite aside from any conscious prompting, he stepped inside.

  There was no hall. He was right in the living-room and the light he had seen came from a floor lamp which stood beside a desk in one corner of the long, narrow room. The music came from an expensive console radio-record player which stood between the two windows, its lower doors open and the television eye staring blankly. Down at the end of the room and occupying most of the wall were the built-in shelves that Hilda had mentioned, all of them filled with records.

  A small hall opened next to this wall but no light showed beyond. There was no sound but the dance orchestra on the radio, and when Murdock had looked carefully about he advanced and turned off the power, some atavistic impulse telling him something was wrong but finding nothing at all but instinct to confirm the impression.

  Finally, remembering why he had come, he began to move slowly toward the hall in search of Klime’s darkroom. He noticed the filing cabinets beside the desk, the two home recorders that stood on a table diagonally opposite. Then, as he drew even with the desk, he saw Lew Klime.

  Klime was on the floor next to the desk chair which had been pushed back against the wall. Klime was on his side, knees slightly bent, his rugged, lopsided face half buried in the carpet. A few inches from one outstretched hand was a short-barrelled revolver.

  Murdock saw this much in his first glance; then he stopped in his tracks, every muscle tense. Outside on the street a car rolled downhill, its muffler backfiring gently; other than there there was no sound but the thudding of his heart, and, faintly from the apartment below, the blare of the television speaker.

  Murdock realized he was breathing with his mouth open. He closed it. He stepped slowly toward the inert figure, the perspiration breaking out along his sides. He saw the partly open centre drawer of the desk but there were no signs of a struggle and now, peering down at Klime with mounting amazement, he knelt and reached for the outstretched hand.

  He held the wrist a long time. He concentrated to shut out the sound of his own pulse, and as he did so he saw the thin dark stain on the man’s shirt front, the other stain on the rug which seemed to grow gradually as he watched it.

  By that time he knew that Klime was past all help. He knew, too, that he had not been dead long, for the wrist he held was nearly as warm as his own.

  Replacing it gently he looked at the gun, wanting to pick it up but stifling the impulse. He pushed up from the floor. His palms were wet and he took out a handkerchief and wiped them. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead, his glance moving to the telephone as the first shock of his discovery passed and he forced himself to think.

  What he did then was motivated by years of training. For experience had shown him that it did not pay to waste an opportunity for pictures. You took them when you could before you lost the chance forever, and you made excuses later if excuses were necessary. Another couple of minutes could make no great difference to the police now and time meant nothing at all to the dead.

  He turned even as the thought came to him, some sense of urgency driving him as he crossed the room, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He hurried down the narrow stairs, checking both inside and outside doors to make sure he could get back in.

  Out in the darkness of the street he found his car keys and then had a little trouble locating the small keyhole. He wasted twenty seconds getting the door unlocked and then he reached in behind the seat to get his camera and his case. He had them out on the sidewalk and was just closing the door when it happened.

  He never was sure what it was that warned him, or even if he had been warned at all. It might have been the click of a door behind him that activated the first small flutter of fear, the rattle of a knob; it may have been nothing but instinct working on nerves that were already taut and sharply tuned.

  All he saw at first, slantwise and never quite focusing, was a moving shadow darker than the entryway itself. He had not yet turned and all this came from the corner of his eye as the shadow moved again and told him it was a man.

  He was straightening then, camera in one hand and the case in the other, starting to turn and in the same instant seeing the white blur of a hand and the glint of blue steel.

  Instinct and the memory of the dead man upstairs did the rest and in this Murdock was lucky. Had he completed his turn and faced the man in the doorway he never would have had a chance. For there was no time now; only that split instant when this odd compulsion of shock and fear made him dive toward the rear of the car, away from this metallic thing which he knew somehow was a gun.

  It was.

  He heard it explode and reverberate along the empty street as he ducked round the fender. He felt the fender shudder as the slug tore through it. Then he was scrambling on hands and knees, the camera and case forgotten on the pavement, hearing the second shot and flattening as the rap of running feet echoed on the sidewalk.

  He never actually saw the man in his entirety. From his spot
behind the rear bumper he saw only the legs from the knee down, running, but not smoothly, leaving the impression that the man moved with a limp.

  It meant nothing at the time because he had no time for idle speculations. The pressure was on him as he saw the legs wheel into the alley and now he was on his feet reaching for his camera, and adjusting the focus by his sense of touch, winding the shutter, grabbing a bulb from the case as he wheeled and started for the alley.

  Because he had been badly scared, anger was the force that motivated him now. He stepped round the corner and threw up the camera, centring it down the black corridor. He did not really expect to get a picture. It was just something he had to do as a retaliatory gesture.

  He tripped the shutter and in the flash that followed he saw only the outlines of the alleyway and at the end, something that looked like a board fence. He kept moving, ejecting the bulb and reaching for another, his nerves ragged while reason battled anger.

  Then he stopped, his anger in hand.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ he said half aloud, then continuing to himself: ‘The guy’s got a gun. He’s either over that fence and away or he’s down there waiting for you to stick your neck out.’

  The lecture helped. He started to retrace his steps, breathing hard and a noticeable trembling at the back of his knees as the perspiration began to dry coldly up and down his spine. He told himself the man had not really wanted to kill him. He had been hiding in the darkened part of the apartment all the time he, Murdock, had been in the living-room. He had thought Murdock had gone and had hurried out only to be nearly trapped on the sidewalk. He had shot as the only possible way to prevent recognition and if Murdock had stopped to take a good look——

  There was no need to finish the thought and he put it from his mind. He stopped at the entrance of the alley-way and glanced up and down the street. Somewhere across the way he heard a window bang down. He wondered if someone would be calling the police and realized it did not matter.

  The living-room was as he remembered it but the tension was still working on the back of his legs. His fingers were shaky as he put down his camera and case, not from what had happened outside but from the speculation as to what would have happened had he persisted in exploring the rest of the apartment.

  It took a while to get the thought from his mind, to restore within him the proper nervous equilibrium. His work helped. He took two pictures of Lew Klime from different angles and then got a close-up which showed torso, hand, and gun.

  Because he wanted to be sure what else there was to the apartment before he telephoned Lieutenant Bacon, he left his camera and stepped into the inner hall. A few feet down on the right was a doorway and he felt inside and found a light switch. When he tripped this he saw that beyond a little jog on the left was a kitchen. Ahead of him was another door in a built-in partition. Apparently this had once been a dining nook which Klime had enclosed and made into a darkroom. It was complete with sink, enlarger, trays, timer. There were paper cabinets, drawers, cupboards. On a counter were three wooden filing cabinets about three inches by five; when he examined these Murdock saw that all were well filled with negatives.

  It would take an hour or more to go through them so he gave up any idea he may have had about looking for a particular negative. He stepped back and went along to the doorway at the end which gave on the bedroom and the bath beyond.

  When he came back to the living-room he took his exposed film holders and tucked them in his topcoat pocket. He took the coat off, folded it, and put it neatly on the window seat out of the way. He put his camera and case on top of the coat, added his hat. Then he went over to the desk and, handkerchief in hand and as gingerly as he could, dialled the Courier’s number.

  When he had finished he hung up and dialled Police Headquarters. After some delay he got through to Bacon and said what he had to say.

  Chapter 17

  IN spite of himself Kent Murdock’s glance kept coming back to the lifeless figure of Lew Klime. There was nothing morbid in his interest; he was, in fact, not even aware that he was looking at the body so intent was he on his thoughts.

  He tried to recall all the things he knew about the man and presently his mind moved on from facts to speculation. He found himself comparing this scene of murder to the one in the Canning house, knowing there was a connection but unable yet to understand completely just what that connection was.

  Looking again at the dark-stained shirt and the way the jacket had fallen open he remembered how he had searched Neil Garvin’s pockets. Neil had used a hip wallet but maybe——

  Murdock moved on impulse then. He did not ask himself whether or not this was right, or consider the consequences. He simply stooped and slid his hand inside Klime’s jacket until he located the pocket. He felt the bulk of the wallet and withdrew it. He let it fall open, seeing the bills in one side, the identification in the other compartment. A plain white envelope rested loosely in the centre fold and Murdock removed it. He held it up to the light and saw the opaque outline inside.

  The envelope was not sealed and he stuck his fingers inside. Then he stood up and stepped closer to the light, pulse quickening with new interest as he pulled out the two negatives.

  He held them close to the bulb, one after the other. He knew in his own mind that they were the negatives he had taken of Neil Garvin, or copies of them, but it was hard to judge just what a blown-up print might show. The only thing he could be sure of was that Klime had run true to his reputation.

  He had developed the films that Murdock had taken and, as a precaution of his own, had made copies of the prints which resulted. He had kept them to himself—with or without Saul Damin’s knowledge—for possible future use.

  From this conclusion his mind jumped quickly to another which had to do with the letters Pat Canning had once written to Neil Garvin. Letters could be photographed too!

  He quit on that one when he realized that the letters would hardly be a motive for this murder. Those letters—he was convinced that either Damin or Klime had slugged him that first night and taken them away—no longer were so important now that the girl who had written them was on her honeymoon. These negatives, however, were something else again. If the prints came out they were additional proof of murder, but—he asked himself this honestly—would they prove that Neil Garvin was in the Canning closet? Unless there were some identifying details in the background there would be nothing to distinguish this from any other closet or small room.

  It was this that helped him make up his mind. He put the negatives back in the envelope, the envelope in his own pocket before he returned the wallet. Tomorrow morning he could make prints; it would be time enough then to go to Bacon. For tonight the lieutenant would have troubles enough without worrying about negatives which might possibly show nothing at all but a picture of Neil Garvin in a sitting position, and with no evidence to show whether he was alive or not.

  He moved away from the desk, wondering where Bacon was until he glanced at his watch and saw that no more than two or three minutes had elapsed since he had called. He moved to the record racks at the end of the room, recalling Hilda Klime’s remarks about her husband and seeing now the proof of her statement.

  Two thousand records, she had said, and Murdock agreed that she was not too far wrong. He pulled out a record to glance at the title and noticed that the envelope was numbered. He looked at another and then he noticed the thick leather notebook in the middle shelf. When he opened this he saw that Klime had indexed each item for easy finding, and as he glanced over the pages he knew that in music Klime’s taste was catholic indeed.

  There was Dixie, both old and new, with some of the titles starred to indicate something or other that was important to Klime. In the big band section the items ranged from Isham Jones and the Dorsey Brothers on down to Stan Kenton. There was a section on piano players with an excellent collection of Tatum, the early Waller, James P. Johnson, Wilson, and Chittison. There was a special section for classical m
usic and symphonies, and another that featured pop tunes and crooners, most of them worthless now and forgotten.

  When Murdock turned away a minute later he was genuinely impressed. There were a great many records there that he would have liked to own. There were evenings when he himself liked to sit at home with a couple of beers and some crackers and cheese while he listened to such records, and he found himself wondering what would become of them now.

  The recording machines on the nearby table held his attention for the moment as he turned away. They were the same make, one stacked on top of the other, the dealer’s tag still attached to the handle of the top one. He was wondering about this when someone knocked on the door.

  He turned, startled. He glanced again at the still form behind the desk. It was time for Bacon and his men, but Bacon would have announced his arrival with greater authority, if he bothered to knock at all.

  Murdock stopped in the centre of the room. ‘Come in!’ he called, remembering that the door was on latch.

  He watched the panel swing. Then, not knowing what to expect, he stood stock still and watched Todd Canning move into the room, followed closely by one of the Elliott twins.

  Murdock stared at them and they stopped just inside the room and stared back at him. Canning wore a belted trench coat and a grey felt hat with a brim somewhat wider than Murdock was used to seeing. Beneath its shadow the red, weathered face looked darker and more thinly framed than usual, the shrewd grey eyes all but lost in the bony framework surrounding them.

  ‘We were looking for Mr. Klime’, he said when he had glanced beyond Murdock to size up the room.

  ‘Come in.’

  The twin’s close-cropped head was bare. His hands were thrust in the pockets of his shaggy topcoat and the collar was turned up. He did not look like a banker. He reached behind him to close the door and then move up alongside his uncle.

  ‘Is he in?’ he asked with a curt impatience that indicated that he was Jeff.