He did not shout, though he wanted to. His voice was even, its restraint giving it a connotation of grim indifference. “You work for Mr. Caldwell,” he said.
“We do,” said Nick.
“I don’t,” Murdock said. “So maybe you ought to tell him that if he’s not ready in five minutes he can take his own pictures.”
And now, stepping back and closing the door, Murdock was annoyed with himself for being annoyed, for making what sounded like a childish remark. Having come here he was going to get a picture, even if Mr. Caldwell made the rules. He had put up with unreasonable requests and odd characters before and he could do it again.
He told himself that this was not an ordinary assignment, that these were not ordinary people. But even as he repeated these arguments there grew within him a curious uneasiness that left him strangely disturbed.
He remembered again certain incidents that he had noticed since his arrival. Taken individually they meant nothing. Collectively they had bothered him, and as his mind went back he had a curious feeling that somewhere in the house something was wrong.
There had, he realized, been a little of that feeling the night before, though he had not recognized it as such. Now that he knew his door had been watched, probably since early morning, he gave credence to impressions heretofore ignored. It was not that he was being momentarily held as a prisoner; it was the feeling that should the master of the house so desire, a person could be held here indefinitely.
He remembered the wall and the mechanically operated gates. He saw how easy it would be to isolate someone, once the co-operation of certain key servants was assured. He was not an unduly imaginative man, but as he let his mind explore the possibilities, he had the uncomfortable feeling that while he was in the house he would do just about what he was told. He had an idea that there would always be someone close at hand, watching, politely but firmly insisting that such and such a directive be obeyed, ready at any time to supply force when necessary so long as it was applied with the proper apologies. There was, somehow, the atmosphere of a feudal castle about the place, and in spite of the cheerful room and the bright morning sunshine, he had trouble in trying to shake off the uneasy spell his mind had woven. He was still at it when the door opened and Donald Caldwell came in.
His smile was quick and fleeting, and except for the fact that his slim, slight figure was encased in a neat business suit instead of a uniform, he had all the attributes of a successful chief of staff. He asked if Murdock had slept well. He hoped that he had been comfortable, but he made it sound as though this was only something to say and that he did not particularly care.
“We’re ready now,” he said. “There are just one or two things I would like to speak about. You understand there is to be just one picture.”
“What?”
“Why, yes,” Caldwell said, sounding surprised.
Murdock had turned to get his equipment case. Now he straightened, gave Caldwell a quick incredulous glance, and then eyed him squarely.
“This picture is going to be published all over the country,” he said, his voice sardonic but patient. “It’s the first one your father has had taken in nine years, and it may be his last. I should think you’d want the best you could get.”
Thin brows lifted indulgently at so obvious a statement. “We do, naturally.”
“Well, the best way to get it is to take four or five exposures, with different poses and angles. Then select the one you want.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Caldwell made a nervous gesture with one hand. The chief of staff’s impatience was apparent, as was the quiet finality of his words. “My father has never liked publicity or photographers.”
“He went to a lot of trouble to make sure he got one down here this time.”
“Because of the importance of the occasion,” Caldwell went on, frowning but otherwise ignoring the interruption, “he has consented to pose once. His eyes are weak and he hates to face a flash bulb. For that reason you will set up your camera some distance from his desk.” He opened the door to let Murdock precede him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we requested the best photographer available. I’m sure your picture will be a good one.”
Nick and his mean-looking companion were still waiting in the hall. They fell in behind Murdock as he moved off beside Donald Caldwell. He walked on thick gray carpet for what seemed like a hundred yards, crossing the center hall, circling round the stair-well railing, and coming at last to the door behind which he had heard voices the night before. Caldwell opened this, motioned him in.
The escort remained outside as the door closed, and Murdock saw that he was in a large pine-paneled room, well stocked with books and lamps and easy chairs. Apparently the study-living room of a suite—he got a glimpse of an adjoining bedroom through an open door as he advanced—he noticed the built-in cabinets beneath the bookshelves, the small maple desk, the corner cupboards; then his attention centered on the larger desk in the far corner of the room and the man who sat in the shadows behind it facing a microphone, the cable of which ran along the floor and out the window.
Even though the man was sitting down, it was evident that he was tall and thin, with bony shoulders hunched by age, and a gaunt, deeply lined face, its paleness contrasting sharply with the familiar shell-rimmed glasses that had characterized the Caldwell photographs for twenty years and now obscured his eyes. He sat stiffly in a high-backed, leather-upholstered chair, his white hair neatly combed, neither nodding nor speaking as Murdock entered but waiting motionless until Donald Caldwell stopped twenty feet from the desk and indicated that it was from this spot that the photograph should be taken.
Murdock started to protest. He was about to argue that if he could take but one exposure he wanted a good one and that he should be the judge of where it should be taken. Yet even as he thought of these things he knew that to say them would be a waste of time. Already conditioned by the spell of the house and the regulations that governed its operations, he accepted this newest directive, but as he did so, his mind was busy with other things.
“All right,” he said, and began to unpack his camera and tripod.
Donald Caldwell, apparently satisfied that the photographer’s reply was an acceptance of the house rule, looked relieved. This was a mistake born of ignorance. For if he had been more familiar with press photographers he would have known that, to a man, they violently objected to being told how to take their pictures. In this respect Murdock was no different from the others. When people told him what he should do with a camera, he usually found a way to circumvent restrictions, and already an idea born of annoyance and resentment, and nurtured by a natural stubbornness that occasionally asserted itself, was taking shape in his head.
In putting up his tripod he managed to get it two feet ahead of the spot Donald had designated. He got the camera angle he wanted, adjusted shutter and focus. Then, from his equipment case, which was packed for nearly every contingency, he took a-holder containing infrared film instead of the regular panchromatic kind.
Selecting an infrared bulb, which had the characteristic of emitting no perceptible light when it went off, he inspected his flash gun and extension cord. He stepped to one side after giving the camera a final check, and held the reflector over his head.
“Is that the pose he wants?” he said to Donald Caldwell.
Caldwell glanced at his father, nodded. Murdock tripped the shutter and then, as part of his act, swore softly when there was no burst of light.
“What happened?” Caldwell’s tone was irritable.
“Defective bulb.”
Murdock removed the bulb, deposited it in a near-by wastebasket. “I’ll have to try another,” he said. “Better use a fresh film, too, if I can only take one shot.”
He went swiftly about the job of changing film holders and flash bulbs. He reset his stop opening and shutter speed. He asked for, and received, permission to move the camera to one side, explaining that he believed the angl
e might be better. Then, looking at the motionless old man at the desk, he released his shutter and light exploded in the room.
To carry out his act he suggested that it would be safer to take another exposure. When the expected impatient refusal came, he shrugged it off and turned away so that Donald Caldwell would not see the smile working in his dark eyes.
He felt immeasurably better as he packed his case and slipped the regular film holder in his pocket. He had no idea that the infrared shot would ever be published, but he could make a print and have it for a souvenir; he would get a kick out of telling the boys back at the office how he’d outsmarted the Caldwells for all their precautions. He forgot his earlier anger sufficiently to say thanks to the old man at the desk and, feeling like a small boy who has successfully raided the cooky jar, he was even able to look with tolerance upon his escorts who waited in the hall—until Donald Caldwell closed the door and said, “Now if you’ll let us have that film.”
Murdock cocked his head, not understanding. “Film!” he said vacantly,
“We’ll develop it here.”
And now Murdock had his answer, but he still did not believe it. He stared, brows twisting. “What did you say?”
“We’d like to develop the negative and make a print,” Caldwell said, his smile embarrassed but sounding as if this were the most natural request in the world. “We’d like to make certain that the picture is suitable for publication, you know.”
“Oh.”
It was all Murdock could say in those next seconds because he was burning up inside and his wrath was choking him.
“You do,” he said finally. “You want the best photographer down here for a special job, but you insist on telling him how to do that job. You want to develop and print the shot your way.”
“Why, yes.” Caldwell glanced at the others. He seemed worried about the stormy look in Murdock’s eyes and uncertain of his reaction. “You have it in your pocket, I believe.”
Murdock glanced at the husky in the black suit. Beneath the scarred brow the little eyes were alert and taunting, as though they enjoyed the scene and hoped there’d be an argument, promising a full measure of brutality if the opportunity presented itself. He looked at Nick. He had been pushed around by gangsters and muscle men before, but never by one in a Brooks suit. He had an idea that Nick would be hard to take even if the odds were favorable, and it was clear now that he could never get out with that film holder no matter what he said or did.
“Okay:” He brought out the film holder, his glance scornful.
“Thank you. We appreciate your co-operation.” Donald Caldwell took the holder and gave it to the man in the black suit, who turned and moved silently away. “Nick will take you downstairs after you have packed. I don’t imagine it should take too long, and if there is anything you’d like—a drink, perhaps?”
Murdock turned away, not trusting himself to reply. He strode across the center hall and down the corridor to his room. He threw his things into his overnight bag, Nick watching him but saying nothing, and then walked back along the hall and down the stairs. On the first floor Nick touched his arm and they went along the transverse hall back of the stairs, passing the closed door of the library and turning off this hall into a narrow passageway that ended in a door.
“We can wait in Larkin’s office,” Nick said. “Larkin’s the butler,” he added as Murdock entered the room. Then, the blue eyes steady but a faint smile on his lips, Nick said, “I know how you feel, Mac. With me it’s just a job. I get well paid for doing what I’m told.”
Murdock looked at him then. He noticed the service button in the lapel of the Brooks suit, inspected the rugged face above it. Remembering Nick’s reserved friendliness the night before, he wondered what was responsible for the change in manner, and then dismissed the thought as unimportant as he decided that under the proper conditions this might be a guy he could like.
“Okay,” he said. “Would it be all right to hear that broadcast? Or is it just for members of the family?”
Nick gave the grin a chance. “Why not?”
He opened a door on the right and Murdock stepped into the library. The radio was already on, and three people were listening, two women and a man. When they glanced up and saw Nick, one of the women spoke.
“Come in and be quiet,” she said in a husky, sophisticated voice. “He’s about to start.”
4
KENT MURDOCK HAD NEVER HEARD that voice before, but he had seen the woman. Not clearly, for there had only been lamplight in this room the night before, but clearly enough to recognize her as the well-rounded brunette who had been with Mr. Prentice when Murdock returned the volume of Conrad. Now, as Nick made quick introductions, she inspected Murdock with sultry eyes that had no hint of recognition in them, and turned back to the radio.
The girl next to her on the divan was younger, blonder, with a tawny skin and a smile that flashed attractively when she saw Nick. She saved a little of the smile for Murdock when he said, “Hello, Miss Kenyon.”
The man who stood by the French doors nodded casually before he turned back to inspect the grounds outside. Dark-skinned and fortyish, sporting an Errol Flynn mustache though his hairline was fast receding, he had sufficient height to minimize a growing paunch, and looked reasonably slender in his slacks and Shetland jacket. His name, Blake, meant nothing to Murdock so he gave his attention to the studio announcer who was saying:
“… And now we take you to the Caldwell estate where our microphone has been set up. The next voice you will hear will be that of John Caldwell, the founder of the motor empire which bears his name.”
There was a brief pause, a slight change in the background hum, and then a new voice filled the room, higher than the announcer’s, less vibrant and, at first, hesitant.
“Good morning, men and women of Caldwell Diesels,” it said, and then the next words were lost in a slight disturbance that came, not from the radio, but from the room.
There was no word spoken, at least no understandable one, but there was a definite sound, like a stifled exclamation, and it came from Blake as he spun from the window to stare at the radio.
Everyone noticed it, and for a moment he stood there, jaw slack and oblivious of the others in the room. Then, as he became aware of what he had done, he swallowed and shook his head. He rubbed his mustache with a knuckle. He let his breath out.
“Startled me,” he said, his grin sheepish. “Sounded different than I thought he would.”
“Different?” The brunette’s husky voice was piqued, resenting, it seemed, the interruption. “How? Sounds exactly like him.”
Blake seemed not to hear her. He sat down on the arm of a chair, his dark face expressionless now, his eyes on the radio as the others settled back to hear what John Caldwell had to say.
Murdock did not pay too much attention to the opening remarks, which were outlining the history of the company and its progress over the years, but covertly examined the others in the room in an effort to get a clue as to their position and standing. He had known in the beginning that the Mr. Prentice he had seen the night before was Arthur Prentice and Old John’s current son-in-law; he also knew that the brunette was not John’s daughter and therefore not Prentice’s wife.
The name Nick had used was Sutton, which in itself meant nothing to Murdock. He put her age at thirty, noted with approval the line of thigh and the full, well-modeled curves beneath the cashmere sweater. In ten years she would probably be fat, but right now she was attractive in a dark, seductive way, and he had an idea that, left to her own devices, and over short periods, she could be a lot of fun.
The girl next to her had little in common with the brunette physically, for Miss Kenyon was small and neatly made, with a clear-eyed, fresh-looking type of attractiveness often referred to as wholesome. She was intent on the radio and its message, and Murdock, examining her profile and knowing only that she seemed very fond of Nick, let his thoughts move on to the speech. As he did so, he hea
rd something that made him sit up and realize that this was indeed an important broadcast.
It had always been characteristic of John Caldwell that he worked alone. Always as he expanded and established new plants he had handled his financing privately, distrusting bankers and their methods, so that today his empire was wholly owned by him and his family. It was his company to do with as he pleased, and what he was saying to Murdock and the others in the room, what he was saying to the hundred thousand employees who stood beside silent machines to listen to his words, was that he was, on this, his eightieth birthday, assigning a share of that company to them, without strings and without cost.
His voice went on, reviewing the long and excellent record the company had made in its labor relations, and Murdock remembered many things he had heard and read. An individualist always, Caldwell had been, one of the first to see that continued production and profits depended on satisfied workmen and an adequate wage scale. He had fostered a union of his men long before the Wagner Act, paying the highest wages in the field and adding the benefits of bonuses, pensions, and insurance plans as inducements to keep his turnover low.
Outside unions had tried throughout the years to organize the Caldwell employees without success, and though the leaders of these outside groups had made all sorts of fantastic charges about company-dominated unions and had brought all possible pressure to bear, the leaders of the Caldwell union had remained adamant. They believed they were better off than those who tried to organize them, and said so. They had figures to prove their contentions. They were satisfied with what they had, and as additional substantiation for such arguments was the fact that there had never been a strike in a Caldwell plant. There had been stoppages and layoffs due to secondary strikes and boycotts, all of which served merely to solidify the original union, but the production record of Caldwell Diesels remained unsurpassed, and Old John had trained his sons and grandsons to continue the tradition he had established.
Hollow Needle Page 3
