Hollow Needle

by George Harmon Coxe

  It was ten minutes of twelve when Murdock got back to his apartment, and although the telephone was ringing as he unlocked the door, he ran across the living-room and snatched it up before it could stop.

  “Hello.”

  “I’ve been trying to get you,” Arthur Prentice said.

  “Are, you coming over?”

  “You told Monica the police might be looking for me.”

  “If they’re not, they will be.”

  “Well, in that case I’d rather meet you somewhere else.” Prentice’s voice was unhurried but wary. “Not that I don’t trust you, Murdock. It’s just that I wouldn’t want to walk into anything that might prove embarrassing.”

  Murdock considered things, a little suspicious himself now but still wanting to talk to Prentice.

  “Where are you?” he said, and when the other mentioned a Huntington Avenue address, he added, “Stay there, then. I’ll get over as quick as I can.”

  “It’s a place called the Shantyboat,” Prentice said. “I’ll be out front.”

  It took Murdock quite a while to find a taxi at that hour. He had to walk to Boylston and stand on a corner for nearly twenty minutes before he could get a driver to stop for him, and as a result nearly thirty-five minutes had elapsed before he rode out of the underpass and began to approach the neighborhood where Prentice was waiting.

  For some reason he could not explain, the seed of suspicion first planted during the telephone call had flowered somewhat during the past minutes, and as the cab neared his place of appointment Murdock decided to make his approach a cautious one.

  There was still a fair amount of traffic, and along this section of the avenue the business activity was heterogeneous in character, so that there were bright spots from bars and restaurants and small night clubs, and interspersing these were shadowed vacancies to indicate that business here was of the daytime variety. The neon sign that proclaimed The Shantyboat in lurid letters proved to bean oasis in an otherwise darkened block, and as the taxi approached, Murdock told the driver to slow down and drive on past.

  When he saw someone standing on the curb he slid back on the seat so that he could peer around the edge of the window, and in another moment he could tell that the man was tall and thick-chested, and knew now that the face beneath the bare sandy-blond hair was that of Arthur Prentice.

  There was not much light here except in the sign but he could make out the door below it, flanked by two dimly lit ship’s lanterns. Darkened store windows mirrored the cab’s progress on either side of the night club. Farther on, two men stood talking as they watched a passing couple, but back by the Shantyboat Prentice stood alone.

  Nothing had changed as the taxi came back around the block. Prentice was trying to get a look at his wrist watch, something in his attitude suggesting a growing impatience. When he glanced up and saw the cab angling toward him, he stepped back, his attention centered there until he saw the door open. Murdock said he was sorry he was late but that he couldn’t get a cab. He paid the driver, watching Prentice move away as he waited for change, and then walked over to where the big man was waiting in the shadows of the adjacent store.

  “Do we talk here?” Murdock said. “Or do we go inside?”

  He saw Prentice hesitate and glance past him, and now the suspicion was working on him again, though he did not know why. Somewhat tardily he became aware that someone was coming along the walk behind him, but as it happened, it would have done him no good to wonder about those steps because there was no time. Prentice said something about talking here. The steps stopped, and large strong-fingered hands clamped on each arm just above the elbow.

  Startled though he was in that first moment, Murdock did not try to jerk free. He stood quietly, turning his head so that he could size up the two men who held him, recognizing them as the ones who had been standing farther down the street when he first drove by, knowing by their size and manner that they were policemen of some sort.

  “Company cops?” he said, asking no one in particular.

  “Just take it easy,” one of them said.

  “I am taking it easy.”

  “The car is down the street a way,” Prentice said.

  “A free ride?” Murdock’s laugh was abrupt and unpleasant. The suspicion had gone from him and in its place there was a growing anger and resentment. “Back to one of those third-floor hideaways you have at Caldwell Manor?”

  “Just take it easy,” the same man said, and now they were turning him and he was walking with them, their progress mirrored again in the shiny black windows and unnoticed by two girls who hurried past.

  Murdock took half a dozen steps, his anger fullfledged now, and corrosive. Just as suddenly he stopped, sliding forward a little on his heels as he braced his back and legs, feeling the hands tighten on his arms as they prepared to lift him.

  “You’re a fool, Prentice,” he said.

  “So I’ve been told,” the big man replied.

  “I covered up for you a little this evening,” Murdock said, talking fast before the hands could get to work on him. “I called Blake so he could front for you, and all I told the police was that you had gone to Neely’s.”

  “Wait a minute.” Prentice spoke to the two guards, and their hands slackened slightly. “How did you know I went there?”

  “A little bird told me.”

  “Answer me,” Prentice snapped.

  “I had you followed from the moment you left Miss Sutton’s place. I know when you went to Neely’s, and I know you didn’t come out the way you went in.” He paused, thinking hard, concocting a story that, while not true in every respect, sounded convincing.

  “The guy I hired hasn’t told the police what he knows because I asked him not to. But when he reads about Neely in tomorrow’s paper he’s going to get in touch with me, and if I’m not around he’ll go to the homicide boys and tell what he knows.”

  Prentice had his hands on his hips, fanning out his camel’s-hair coat. He had his jaw out, and he was staring hard at Murdock but not seeing much because of the darkness. Finally he straightened and dropped his hands.

  “All right,” he said, addressing the two men. “Let him go.” He paused while they released Murdock, and then, with an audible expulsion of his breath, he said, “I guess that will be all for tonight. Thanks very much for coming in.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Prentice,” the take-it-easy-man said.

  “We’d be glad to hang around,” said the other.

  “Thanks, but it will be all right.” Prentice nodded to Murdock. “Do you want to try this trap for a drink?” He gestured back toward the night club. “Maybe we can talk there.”

  The Shantyboat was small, smoke-filled, and noisy. The waiters wore sailor pants and T-shirts, the walls were finished with old barn boards, and the smaller tables were constructed to represent capstans, though the drumheads were necessarily flat. A colored man was fooling with a piano at the far end of the room. He hit a few good chords, making a nice progression, and Murdock was interested and approving until the man started to play; then, his interest waning as he saw that the fellow was right-hand crazy, with a left that was orthodox and monotonous in its playing of octaves and no tenths, he followed Prentice and the headwaiter to a corner table that seemed a little more quiet than some.

  “It was very stupid of me,” Prentice said when they had ordered. “I apologize.”

  “For the company cops?”

  “For the whole silly business.”

  “Where were we supposed to go?”

  “Where you said we were. I guess I thought I could keep you away from the police for a day or two until I found out where I stood.”

  “That would have made it kidnaping,” Murdock said. “In a polite sort of way. They put people in jail for it.”

  “Yes.” Prentice rubbed a palm over his broad, tanned face and shook his head, his glance chagrined. “I know. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. As a matter of fact I haven’t had
what you could call a single rational idea since I walked into that sordid place this afternoon and found Neely.”

  He sat back while the waiter spilled the usual quota of liquor when he mixed their drinks, and Murdock studied him covertly, knowing he was going to get a story and wondering how much of it he was going to believe. He had been lied to by murderers before and had believed what they told him—at least for a while—and he knew how difficult it was to judge correctly the truth of any statement unless the speaker was clumsy and contradicted himself, or unless he made the mistake of discussing some matter about which his questioner was already informed. Now, studying Prentice’s face and remembering his background, he thought about the reports and knew how much they meant to the man.

  “He was dead when you went in, huh?”

  “Sprawled in a chair.” Prentice shuddered visibly, mouth twisting. “With blood on his shirt.”

  “When was that?”

  “I’m not sure actually. Sometime before six.”

  “You went from Miss Sutton’s to Mike Quimby’s office.”

  “Naturally. You said he was the one who had handled the investigation of Monica and me. I already had two copies, as you know. I hoped to buy the third one.”

  “And Mike said no.”

  “Emphatically.” Prentice finished his drink and signaled the waiter. “I could hardly tell him that I had the other reports, or how I got them. I was afraid if I said anything he might get in touch with Donald. I was in a spot. I lied all over the place and I guess he knew it. At any rate he said the investigation had been made confidentially for John Caldwell, and the reports had been turned in, and at the moment he was content to let the matter rest that way.”

  “Why did you go to Neely’s place?”

  Prentice had taken out a gold case and kept his glance averted as he offered a cigarette. Murdock took one, waited for a light.

  “I asked Quimby for Neely’s address,” Prentice said, still not looking at him. “He gave it to me.”

  “Did he ask you why you wanted it?”

  “No. I imagine, since Neely worked at the estate, that Quimby thought I had a right to know.”

  “Suppose he had asked you?”

  “I’d have had to think up some reason.” Prentice looked up now, his grin tentative. “I couldn’t very well tell him that I wanted Neely to steal the last copy of that report from Quimby’s files, could I?”

  “Oh!” Murdock still did not know if this was the truth, but he had to admit it was a good answer. “So that’s why you went calling on Neely?”

  “Why—yes. Why else would I go there?”

  Murdock said he didn’t know. He watched the waiter serve fresh drinks. “I guess you didn’t know that Neely quit his job this morning.”

  Prentice looked surprised. He put his drink down, his hand shaking slightly. It was a nice hand, long-fingered and strong-looking, the fine hairs on the back of it bleached lighter than the skin.

  “Did he?” he said finally. “No, I didn’t know. Maybe that’s why Quimby gave me the address without any argument.” He picked up his glass and gulped half of its contents. “You were at Neely’s when the police investigated. Mind telling me how you think I stand? Was Harvey Blake any help?”

  “I think he was. I think if you were just an ordinary sort of guy the police would have picked you up by now. As it is, I imagine they’ll want to question you in the morning; that is, the district attorney will.”

  Murdock put an elbow on the capstanlike table and leaned on it, twisting slightly in his chair. “You know, you could be the lad that started all this fuss.”

  Prentice gave a good performance at looking shocked. “Oh, come, now!” he said. “Really!”

  “Figure it out for yourself.”

  “But I understood that the state police chap—what’s his name? Alger? Captain Alger?—I understand he had a theory that John was killed to prevent him signing the will, and by someone who didn’t know he had signed it the night before.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “But the will did nothing to me.”

  Murdock started to say, “It cut your wife way down,” but he didn’t. He let the idea go.

  He said, “That’s Alger’s theory, but for you the reports would be motive enough. John Caldwell was going to tell his daughter on you and Monica, wasn’t he? I guess he told you so. And if he had, she probably would have divorced you. I understand she’s in Paris sort of thinking the idea over even now.”

  “You are probably right.”

  “If she divorced you, then where would you be?”

  “I should be rather at a loss, frankly.” Prentice had been making wet circles on the table with the bottom of his glass. He cocked his head slightly as he looked up, and there were traces of impatience in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll tell you exactly how it is,” he said, “and then we won’t have to bother discussing it again. That is, if you’re sure it won’t bore you?”

  Murdock noted the hint of sarcasm. He said it wouldn’t bore him.

  “Good!” Prentice said. “Then let’s start off by saying that I’ve never been too good at making money, at least in any sizable quantities. I haven’t what you might call a trade. I’ve sold things, bonds at first, and cars, and insurance—things like that, and mostly to my friends—but never long enough or successfully enough to cause any great rejoicing among my employers. At one time my father had some money, and I was taught expensive habits. The things I want to do cost money—the way I do them—and I’ve been lucky to have friends who humored me now and then along those lines. I’m handy around a boat, and I know horses. I ride well, and I do all right at squash and golf. They tell me I dance well and my manners are adequate. I make a reasonably good fourth at bridge, and I used to be very reliable at the business of being an extra man. I like women, and I’m happy to say that they seem to like me.”

  He finished his drink and said, “So much for background. Are we squared away on that? Then let’s go on to the present. I rather imagine that Mrs. Prentice will get a divorce even without knowing about the report. We’ve both known we weren’t hitting it off very well, and I’m sure it would only be a matter of time. As I say, I’ve known that, but I also know that Evelyn is a very generous person and I think she likes me and I rather counted on her making some sort of a settlement; I know she did with her other husbands. She had considerable money of her own as well as a rather huge income, and I should imagine she might well offer a couple of hundred thousand, quietly of course, for my co-operation and because she knows I haven’t anything of my own. With a friendly arrangement like that I might even stay on with the company.”

  “Even if you married Monica?”

  “Well—no.” Prentice beckoned the waiter and asked for the check. “I don’t know about Monica. I think if I got a settlement we might give it a try, anyway. But you see, if Evelyn found out about us through that report I don’t believe there would be any settlement, or any job, either. I don’t think she knows yet, and I have no intention of letting her know if I can help it.”

  Murdock found himself believing nearly everything Prentice had said. He understood what made the big man tick, but because of this he found the motive for murder even stronger than he had suspected. Yet there was no proof that Prentice had done anything more than steal the two reports, and had unwisely, and unluckily, walked in on Ross Neely at the wrong time.

  “But coining back to John Caldwell,” he said, “it made it quite convenient for you, didn’t it, his dying just when he did?”

  “Very convenient indeed, old man!” Prentice glanced at the check the waiter handed him, put a bill on it, and waved it away. “Since then I’ve been able to get all but one copy of that damned report. Of course, you’re in a position to do a bit of mild blackmailing in case you’re interested. I say mild, because I’m hardly ever very well supplied with cash, and I probably won’t be until, and unless, I get Evelyn’s settlement; and in that case you would no longer have
any information I would pay for.”

  He smiled and pushed back his chair. He said it was getting late and he should be getting along.

  “I’m glad you talked me out of going ahead with that silly kidnaping business,” he said as they walked out and left the din of conversation and piano-playing behind. “I must have been out of my mind. As a matter of fact I think I probably was. Can I drop you anywhere?”

  Murdock thanked him and said no. He said a taxi would do just as well, but as he started to enter one, Prentice stopped him.

  “I almost forgot,” he said. “What about this detective friend of yours? The one who followed me. Do you think he’ll go running to the police?”

  Murdock said he did not know but that he doubted if anything would be done before tomorrow afternoon, and only then if the police thought they had a good case against Prentice. He thanked the other for the drinks, said good night, and gave the driver his address.

  20

  KENT MURDOCK DID NOT SLEEP very well that night. He lay awake long after the lights were out, his mind active and clear as he re-examined the things that had happened in the past two days. Twice he got up to light cigarettes and walk about the room, and when he finally did drop off, his sleep was fitful and there were dreams that came and went, some of them wakening him to leave him staring into the darkness.

  Not all of them were unpleasant. One was about Eddie Kelsie. Eddie had his convertible, and it was a lemonyellow, and he wouldn’t put the top down because he was afraid he couldn’t get it up again. He dreamed of Ross Neely, too, but there was no reality in the pictures that unfolded and they were soon gone. Just before dawn, when sleep was soundest, the dream pattern be came clearest and most frightening. He was in a strange bed this time, awakening now from some pain in the arm, and Larkin was bending over him, a hypodermic needle in his hand, telling him he had been hiding in the closet and that the injection now coursing through Murdock’s veins would knock him unconscious in three minutes and kill him in ten. In the dream he struggled to rise, and Larkin was holding him, telling him why he must die, gloating over his suffering.