Hollow Needle

by George Harmon Coxe

  Kelsey answered it. “It’s Bartlett,” he said, referring to the city editor. “He wants to see you right away.”

  Murdock sighed and shook his head. He said all right and told Kelsey to make some quick eight-by-tens.

  “And Eddie,” he said. “Don’t send these upstairs. I don’t want anyone to see them but you and me. I’ll probably be back before you finish, but if I’m not—”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  Murdock said that would not be necessary. “Put the prints some place in my desk where they’ll be safe and go on home. You can leave the negatives on the wire here and I’ll take care of them when I get back.”

  Upstairs, Bartlett leaned back from his desk when he saw Murdock coming and motioned him to a chair. He had a lot of questions to ask, and it took him a long time because every other minute one of his telephones rang and he spent more time that way than he did talking to his picture chief. When, finally, Murdock was able to get away he was stopped by a couple of rewrite men before he could get out of the room. They wanted to know the same things Doane did, and so Murdock told them a story.

  He made it sound as though it were inside information. It was, he said, unofficial, of course, and only his theory, but he thought that the butler, who had been close to John Caldwell for over forty years, had broken under the strain of Caldwell’s death and had shot himself.

  He did not know whether they believed him or not, nor did he care since they were only reporters, but he told it straight and they finally went away. Doane on the other hand, having overheard part of the story, still looked hurt.

  “You told them,” he said, pouting. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I was busy,” Murdock said, “and I’ve got to get back.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Doane said, once again demonstrating his persistence.

  The fourth-floor hall was quiet when they stepped from the elevator. Doane, his injured feelings partially restored at being allowed to tag along, had begun to hum a tuneless melody. He was right behind Murdock when they swung into the studio anteroom, and when Murdock stopped, Doane bumped into him, bounced off, and said, “Hey!”

  Murdock did not feel the bump, nor did he hear what Doane said. He was staring at his desk, with its open drawers and ransacked contents. Papers and films were strewn about, and there were some broken plates from a file of old ones he had kept through the years because they represented some of the best things he had done.

  He did not feel Doane go past him, nor did he think beyond the fact of the immediate destruction before him. But in those moments that he stood there, Doane had been moving; this was one time Doane was ahead of him. For though the reporter had seen the ransacked desk he must have thought of something else, because when he yelled and Murdock wheeled, Doane was nowhere in sight.

  “Kent!” cried Doane, his voice taut with horror. “Oh, Christ!”

  The sound of that voice struck at Murdock and a quick chill knifed along his spine. He started for the doorway leading to the printing-room and darkrooms, his heart racing and his throat dry as his brain telegraphed an answer.

  Fear drove him hard as he swung into the alleyway, grabbed the edge of the doorway, and lunged into the half-light of the printing-room. Then he saw the sprawled figure on the floor, and Doane kneeling beside it, and Doane’s twisted, anguished face as he looked up and pleaded wordlessly for help.

  “Eddie!” Murdock breathed. “Eddie!” he said, his voice thick.

  And then he was beside Doane, seeing the small dark stain on the side of Eddie Kelsey’s head, knowing even then what must have happened.

  He took one of Kelsey’s hands in his, and it was warm. He felt for a heartbeat, and then he could not tell whether the slow, even pulsing came from Kelsey’s heart or his own.

  Doane hadn’t moved. His face was stiff and he was breathing through his mouth in loud, spasmodic gasps.

  Murdock shook him. “Get ahold of him,” he ordered. “We’ve got to get him out where we can see. Go on, damn it! Get his legs— That’s it. Now easy.”

  They lifted Eddie Kelsey gently, and just as gently stretched him on the anteroom floor. They put a folded coat under his head, and while Doane got on the telephone and told the operator to get a doctor, Murdock again felt for a pulse beat.

  This time he found one. And so great was his relief that for a second or two the strength went out of him and his knees were weak as his eyes traced the trickle of blood on Kelsey’s face and saw that it came from a lumpy gash two or three inches above the right ear. He was shaking a little now as reaction hit him. His voice got harsh and angry as he sought to break the effect it made on him.

  “Where’s that doctor?”

  “I only just called,” Doane said.

  “Well, call again! No, never mind,” Murdock said, aware now of his unreasonableness. “Just take it easy.” He glanced again at his desk, his mouth a mean, hard line and his dark eyes smoldering. “There’s a bottle in there somewhere if you can find it,” he said, and went back into the printing-room.

  Here a wire had been stretched along one wall next to the ferrotype dryer. Recently developed films were hung here on clips, and one part of the wire ran past a warm-air vent for rapid drying of the negatives. There were some clips on the wire now but no negatives, and Murdock knew that it would be a waste of time to look any farther for the negatives and prints Kelsey had made.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said to Doane as he went through the anteroom and down the hall.

  At the elevators he punched both the up and down buttons and then paced impatiently back and forth until a door slid back and the night operator peered at him.

  “Who’s been up here since Doane and I went out?”

  The operator, blinking a little at Murdock’s tone and held by his bright, hot gaze, started to name a couple of photoengravers who had been out for a beer. Murdock cut him off.

  “I don’t mean guys who work here. Outsiders. There must have been somebody.”

  “Oh,” the operator said. “Yeah. A husky, black-haired fellow. Kinda thick-faced. Thick eyebrows, one of them crooked. Tough-looking monkey.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Wasn’t there another guy? A young, curly-headed fellow in a brown suit?”

  “This fellow I mean came up alone.”

  Murdock turned away and moved slowly down the hall. He knew now who had done the job on Kelsey, and he knew why he had been sent. There was even an instant when his thoughts slid off on a tangent long enough for him to be glad Nick Taylor hadn’t had a hand in the assault, and then the bitterness came flooding back. He cursed Bartlett and the telephone calls that had so lengthened the interview. He cursed himself for stopping to talk with the two rewrite men, and then he made a savage effort to dismiss these thoughts and think constructively.

  He told himself that Eddie would be all right, that when he regained consciousness he could identify the man who had come for the pictures. Once that man was caught—Ross, Nick had called him—the trail would lead back to the one who had sent him here.

  An hour ago he had thought himself well out of the Caldwell affair. It was a police job and no longer any of his business; he was satisfied to have it that way, or so he thought. Instead he remained in the Caldwell case up to his ears. Only now it had become a personal matter, and on that basis he had no alternative but to stay with it and do what he could to even up for Eddie—yes, and for Larkin.

  The doctor was moderately optimistic but he would make no promises. “I doubt if he has a fracture,” he said, when Eddie Kelsey had been placed on a stretcher and taken away, “but we can’t be sure until we get some X rays.”

  Murdock had cleaned up around his desk, replacing most of the things that had been taken from the drawers. Now as he straightened his blotter pad and telephone, T. A. Wyman and the night city editor stood by and watched the doctor put on his coat.

  “When will he be able t
o talk?” Wyman asked.

  “I can’t tell you that, either,” the doctor said. “Head injuries are tricky. With a concussion like that he may come to in a couple of hours; it might be a day or more. There’s no sure way of telling.”

  “Just see that he gets the best of everything.” Wyman walked to the door with the doctor, glanced back at Murdock. “Come up when you finish, Kent.”

  Murdock sat down wearily alter Wyman and the city editor had gone. There were tired lines around the corners of his dark eyes now, but he felt immeasurably better since the doctor had issued his verdict. He doodled absently on the worn blotter pad, telling himself it was time he had a fresh one and making a note to order one, trying to get his mind off Eddie Kelsey, not wanting to go up and talk to Wyman but knowing it was a thing he must do.

  Just how much he should tell he was not sure, and although he debated the matter when he climbed the stairs a few minutes later, he was no closer to a decision when he entered Wyman’s office than he had been when he started.

  The managing editor opened a desk drawer and brought out a bottle of Scotch. He motioned toward the carafe and the two clean glasses. “I don’t approve of drinking during business hours, but go ahead and pour one. Pour two—and go easy with the water. Sit down,” he said after Murdock handed him his glass. “I think it’s about time you brought me up to date on some things.”

  Murdock tasted his drink and slid down in his chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. He was still thinking about Eddie Kelsey rather than what Wyman had said. When he continued to gaze sullenly at the opposite wall, Wyman prompted him.

  “What’s the matter? The Caldwell money got you scared?”

  “It’s scared others.”

  “You think it’s going to scare the medical examiner and the district attorney?”

  “Not scare,” Murdock said. “Just keep them cautious.”

  “Was that butler murdered—or did he—”

  “He was murdered.”

  Wyman leaned slowly forward in his chair, his eyes intent “But we can’t print it. Is that it?”

  Murdock gestured with his glass. “You know what you can print and what you can’t. This is no open forum, and you’re not going to run the opinions of one of your photographers. Larkin was murdered, and Captain Alger knows it but he’s not saying so yet. Not until there’s an autopsy and the medical examiner is ready to release his report. In a couple of days the M.E. and the state police and the district attorney’s office will give you something you can print. Until then it’s like the release I phoned in—Larkin was found dead, the victim of a mysterious shooting.”

  Wyman rubbed his nose and there was no argument in his glance. He was well aware that no newspaper would print a murder story until it was safe to do so, and what Murdock said made sense. Of course, Wyman did not know about the hypodermic needle or the actual time of John Caldwell’s death, and Murdock did not tell him because this phase of the case was off the record and he had promised his co-operation.

  “All right,” Wyman said. “Get back to Kelsey. Why was he slugged?”

  “It should have been me,” Murdock said bitterly.

  “Never mind that. Answer my question.”

  Murdock pulled his legs in and told Wyman about the three pictures he had taken. He said his equipment case had been searched at Caldwell Manor, and if he had any sense he would not have left Kelsey alone.

  “You believe the murderer was afraid you got a picture of him in the hall and sent this thug up here to get it.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And what’re you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to get the guy that did it—if I can. Kelsey can probably identify him tomorrow—his name is Ross something—and I’ll find out what I can about him. I want to learn what I can about the Caldwell company police setup, at least in the local plant. Also,” he said, thinking about the reports that had been taken from him, “I want to find out who might be working for the Caldwells in a confidential capacity.”

  “How’re you going to find out all this?”

  “I’ll find out,” Murdock said. “For one thing, I’m going to call Jack Fenner in the morning,” he said, mentioning a private detective whom he had known a long time.

  Wyman nodded approval. “Yes,” he said. “Get Fenner. Stay with this and I’ll put someone else in your job for the next few days. You can get what money you need from the cashier.” He walked to the door with Murdock, jabbed him lightly in the arm. “But don’t get your neck out so far you can’t get it back.”

  11

  KENT MURDOCK ARRIVED at his apartment sometime after one. His step was heavy and the weariness was riding him as he moved along the hall, and his only thought at the moment had to do with a nightcap and a hot bath as he unlocked the door. Yet, the instant he started to push it open, something happened and the instincts that had failed him once before that night now warned him of some new threat.

  He obeyed that warning, his mind instantly alert and sharply tuned, aware now that he smelled cigarette smoke where none belonged. There was another odor, too, less pronounced but more fragrant. He did not stop to analyze it; instead he pushed the door wide, stepping back as he did so and reaching a hand round the casing to snap on the wall switch as he hugged the corner.

  For a moment he stood there as the light blazed brightly, tensed and well shielded from the room, one eye staring; then he moved into the opening, his glance sweeping the corners of the room. Finally the corners of his mouth warped in a small grin and he centered his attention on Monica Sutton, who watched him interestedly from the depths of his easy chair.

  “Hello,” she said in her husky voice. “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t know when you’d be in, and I didn’t want to wait outside in the car.”

  Murdock closed the door, his sigh of resignation audible but not annoyed. “That damn janitor is a pushover for pretty women.”

  “I told him I was an old friend,” Monica said. “It only cost me twenty dollars.”

  “You’re spoiling him.” Murdock slipped off his coat and was at once glad that she had come. Here, he knew, was a chance to get some information if he used the proper methods, and to let her know that he was pleased, he made his smile attractive and his eyes approving as he got out cigarettes. “For twenty bucks you should get a lease. Would you like a drink?”

  She said she would, and he said he could give her rye or Scotch. She said Scotch would be wonderful if he had plenty, and with plain water, please.

  When he came back from the kitchen with the two highballs he saw that she had moved to the sofa, and as he handed her the drink she made a place beside her. She had slipped off her short mink cape, and the black crepe dress, though demure in neckline, was close-fitting and nicely filled with Monica’s curves where they counted most. She drank without speaking, her artfully shadowed eyes inspecting him over the rim of her glass; then she settled back, one hand on the black handbag which lay in her lap.

  She said she supposed he was wondering why she had come, and he said, “A little.” She was still watching him, her glance enigmatic and faintly calculating, as though she was trying to make up her mind just how she should start.

  “I wanted to find out how much you know about that report on me that was in Larkin’s desk,” she said finally, “and how much you intend to tell the police.”

  Murdock sipped his drink. He considered the woman and the remark. He decided that at the proper time he would pretend he had read the report thoroughly, but first he had some questions of his own to ask. He put on a look of mock disappointment and sighed again.

  “I was hoping this was a social call,” he said, amusement twinkling in the depths of his eyes, “but if it has to be strictly business—”

  “Oh, not just strictly.” Her voice was faintly pouting, and he saw that she was playing a part, too. Her smile was promising, and her red mouth curved invitingly, but deep down her eyes were troubled and uncerta
in.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll make a deal. I’ll answer your questions and you answer mine. I’ll ask first.”

  She took some of her drink. She shrugged a rounded shoulder, put both of them back so the fabric tightened across her full breasts. “All right,” she said. “What’s the first one?”

  “Who’s Ross?”

  She frowned then, and he saw that she had not expected this and did not know whom he meant. He described the man more fully, and she said, “Oh, yes. Why—he’s a guard of some kind.”

  “Is Ross his first name or last?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard him called Ross, but I really don’t know what the rest of it is.”

  He studied her a moment, disappointed but believing her. Then, because he did not want her to think this was the only question that mattered, he brought forth another. “All right,” he said. “Then tell me something about Larry Alderson.”

  She frowned again, then looked at him. “Like what, for instance?”

  “He used to fight with his grandfather, didn’t he?”

  “Not fight, really. They argued. John wanted him in the company and he didn’t want to come.” She went on to say that Larry had worked summers in one of the Caldwell plants until the war came and he went into the Navy; that while in the service he had staked two college friends of his in some advertising agency, and since his discharge had continued actively as a partner. The agency had done extremely well but had never been able to land any of the Caldwell business, probably because of the grandfather’s objection to Larry’s participation in the other venture.

  “Now that his grandfather is dead, what would you say Larry’s chances are of getting the Caldwell accounts?”

  She sighed again and there was impatience in her reply. “I don’t know. Really.”

  “Guess, then.”

  “Well—I’d say his chances are good. Donald likes him and so does George, and I guess they have the say.” She readjusted her bag. “Why shouldn’t they give him some business?”